Date: Tue, 10 Aug 2004 04:08:20 -0700 (PDT)
From: Lance Kyle <lokiaga@prodigy.net>
Subject: The Voyeur and the Busboy

The view from the hotel window was of a parking lot just
below-the row of trash cans that lined the alley behind
it-the flat, asphalt top of the grimy, brown brick building
behind that-and a hazy collection of steeples and grey
office buildings farther on.  If Edward Nelson shifted to
his left he looked out on more of the same.  Shifting to his
right he saw the side street to his hotel, and across that
street the row of storefronts behind clouded display
windows.  A single doorway punctuated the line of failing
businesses, leading, he supposed, to the apartments behind
the windows on the second and third floors of those
buildings, all crammed together and leaning in on one
another.

A bell chimed the hour in a distant church; checking his
watch, Nelson clucked-the bell was at least a minute slow.
So, six o'clock.  Not too soon to go to dinner.  Not too
soon at all.  Much better that he told the people at the
school not to mind him, much better indeed.  He could choose
his own place to eat, didn't have to socialize.  Avoid the
awkwardness.

Checking his pockets carefully to make sure he had his keys,
his wallet containing just enough cash for dinner, his under-
the-shirt money belt with the rest of his funds, he stepped
into the hallway, yellow-lit from a bulb overhead, and
closed the dark wooden door to his room behind him.  He
carefully threw the deadbolt with his key, tested it, then
went to the stairs.  No sense wasting electricity to take
the elevator when he was just on the second floor.  Waiting.
nobody, no sounds, in the stairwell.  Walking down quickly,
holding the banister, then through the door into the small
lobby and out onto the street.

Well, not THAT way.. the wino on the sidewalk decided that
for him.  There was a cafe over to the right, in the row of
miserable little businesses, he'd go there.  Not too
expensive, clean, respectable.  Just the thing.  He pushed
in the glass door and entered, a quick survey noting that
the room was about two-thirds full-a good sign-mainly of an
older crowd.  Mainly singles.  He smiled weakly at the
waitress and followed her to a small booth by the big window
in the back.

The soup and tuna sandwich combination, that should do.  His
wife would have encouraged a salad, but she wasn't here, now
was she?  He'd live dangerously.  Giving back the menu,
Nelson looked out the window, just making out the edge of
his hotel.  He was at the end of the block of stores and
upper-floor apartments across the side street that could be
seen from his window.  If he stretched, he could make a good
guess as to which of those windows was his room.

Pulling his focus back to the glass, he could just make
himself out.  Thirty-ish, not bad looking, rather a jaunty
bow tie if he said so himself, a flop of dirty blonde hair,
small round glasses.  He shook his head and smiled
inwardly-he really did look like an accountant, as his wife
told him so often, no use denying it.

The couple in a booth near to him got up, hobbling out on
canes the both of them.  Nelson smiled again; would he and
Doris be like that in another forty years?  For a moment
that space stretched ahead of him like a desert, and then he
shook the treasonous thought from his mind.  There was so
much to be said for stability, comfort, the sure thing.
That's what he had.

These musings were interrupted by the approach of another
figure toward that booth.  Black pants, white dress shirt
opened at the collar, white apron:  the busboy.  Nelson saw
him in profile as he cleared the dishes from the table into
his tub.  Black. no, actually a dark tobacco brown, a short
skullcap of dense, jet black hair.. Very thin, about six
feet tall, but with a high, curved, bottom that seemed to
thrust out and upward, straining his black pants.  Maybe
twenty?  Certainly no older than that.  An oval face above a
long, thin neck.  Thick, full lips, reddish brown, almost as
high as they were wide, contoured like a fat almond.  A
large, pear-shaped nose, deeply dark eyes and high
cheekbones.  He looked. he looked African, original, as if
from the motherland.

Nelson realized he was staring just in time to shift his
eyes away. just before the busboy cocked his head slightly
and glanced over at Nelson.  Then he looked back at his
work, gave the table a good wipe with a clean cloth, and
carried the tub back to the kitchen.

The meal came and Nelson ate it dutifully.  Night began to
fall outside, even though it was turning spring.  There may
have been something about downtowns in these grimy Northern
industrial towns that trapped shadows.  Other diners
finished and drifted away singly or in pairs, never in
groups larger than two   Nelson's eyes followed the busboy
furtively as he bused each opening table.  Nelson finished
his meal.  He courteously refused an offer for coffee or
more water.  He asked for the check.  He paid it.  He sat
there, wondering why he didn't get up.  So he did get up,
and the busboy appeared in the aisle between the tables as
he began walking out.  Their eyes met for the briefest
contact as they passed by in the aisle, the busboy moving to
one side between the tables, the tiniest of nods between
them, and then Nelson was out on the sidewalk.

There were if anything more bums on the sidewalk now,
sprawling, begging, than there had been before.  It was dark
and a strange city.  Nelson walked quickly across the street
and into his hotel lobby.  Checked out the stairwell, walked
up quickly to the second floor, down the hall, threw the
deadbolt and went into his room, deadbolting it behind him.
He called his wife on the cell phone to report the
highlights of the day.  An auditor for the state board of
education, he had made a good start on the books of one of
the local high schools. although he was intrigued by a
discrepancy or two in connection with the French department,
but he'd sort that out over the next few days.  Nelson asked
his wife to give their daughters a hug, gave her a long-
distance peck on the cheek, and hung up.

Another two hours passed watching public television; what a
good thing that was, always reliable and educational
programming in nearly every town.  Then a little reading.
Was he ready for bed yet?  Not quite.  Bored.  Bored.  He
walked to the window and looked back out on the scene.  The
neon sign for his own hotel, evidently near to but a little
above his own window, flashed on and off, now illuminating
the scene and now darkening it.  The alley below had more
bums in it than it had during daylight hours, but he knew
that already.  Lights in the storefronts across the street
were off.  Above the stores on the second floor..  Above the
stores most of the apartment windows had some kind of light
coming from them.  Most were covered with closed blinds, or
drapes.  But not one of them.  It appeared to have no
covering of any sort.  The window revealed what seemed to be
a very plain room, furnished with a dresser, maybe a table
and single chair, and a bed.  From the left of this frame
walked a figure toward a door next to the dresser, evidently
a closet, opened it, and went in.

Nelson's attention was suddenly hooked.  Was that...was it
the busboy?  Was that possible?  He stared intently at the
closet door.  The figure came out and closed the door behind
him.  Yes, it was!  He had evidently hung up his work
clothes carefully and was wearing only briefs.. skimpy
briefs, sort of a speedo style.  He disappeared out of the
left of the frame for a moment, then came back with a sack
which he put on the table.  Opening it he removed
something...evidently food, spread it on the table, then sat
down to eat.

What a coincidence!  But then Nelson reconsidered and
decided it was not so strange.  The busboy might well look
for housing near his place of employment.  Nelson had gone
to the nearest cafe, so whomever he found working there
might well be living nearby.

Nelson couldn't look away.  The young man at the table was
in profile, and not far from the window.  As he ate, he
looked out of the window from time to time.  Suddenly,
Nelson realized that he might be seen.  Moving back quickly,
he looked around.  First, he took from his suitcase a pair
of binoculars-so handy in case a good birdwatching
opportunity presented itself on one of his assignments.
Then he turned off all the lights in the room and stealthily
returned to the window.  Focusing the binoculars, the young
man at the table came into view.  So did the faded floral
pattern on the wallpaper, the utter simplicity of the room,
the thin spread on the bed by the wall.

Moving back to the man, Nelson saw that he was finishing his
meal.  He rose; his body was indeed thin, but not gaunt,
just skinny, and a deep tobacco brown all over.  His hard
bottom pushed the speedos out and up in the back.  The
busboy's figure moved out of the frame to the left again,
was gone for a moment.Nelson began to feel
disappointment.and then returned.  The busboy spread what
seemed to be books and paper on the table and sat down
again, working on them for what seemed like half an hour.
Nelson stood there the whole time, looking through the
binoculars, his imagination filling in the parts of the
scene he could not see.

Now the busboy closed the books and shuffled the papers into
a stack and rose.  Moving away from the table, he stood
right in the window looking out on the street.  Did he not
fear being seen, standing there in his skimpy briefs?  But
then it occurred to Nelson that his hotel did not appear to
have a high rate of occupancy, there were no other open
businesses in the block, the winos wouldn't care, and he. he
himself could not be seen, standing in the dark of his room.
The busboy stood at the window and looked out.  Nelson's
heart beat in time to the flashing of the hotel's neon sign
outside.  Then the busboy turned away again, disappeared for
a moment.  The room went dark; evidently he had flicked a
switch.  Nelson could just make out the movement of a dark
body in the dark, in the general direction of where the bed
stood.and then all was still.

Nelson realized that he was tense, sweat trickling from his
armpits-but why?  A man who was paid to find out answers to
mysteries of bookkeeping, he now analyzed himself.  Was
he.could he be attracted to the fellow?  There had been a
couple of experiences in his boyhood, that one drunken
debauch in college, but no really serious same-sex contacts,
nothing more than was normal, as he knew well from reading,
and yet-he couldn't deny the slight wetness against his
underwear that he now felt.  Horror warred with desire.  He
had always.well no, tell the truth, he had mainly been
faithful to his wife.  An accountant on the road is
subjected to so many temptations, and he had succumbed once
or twice to an alluring female principal.

Well, it was over now.  Shedding his clothing, going to the
bathroom once more, Nelson slipped into bed.  It had been a
long day, and soon he slept.

The next day's work was steady and satisfying.  The
discrepancy in the French department he had traced to the
French Club, but he thought it was likely a case of simple
mismanagement and not anything criminal.  So important to
maintain proper procedure, he'd be sure to offer some advice
on the matter when he left.  His local contact dropped him
off at the hotel-Nelson had passed on an offer to join some
of the high school staff for drinks.  Back in his room, the
door securely locked, Nelson found himself looking forward
to dinner.  It was ten till six when he clicked the lock in
the door behind him and padded down the threadbare hall
carpet toward the stairwell.  Down the stairs, down the
street, and back into the cafe at the end of the block.

He asked the waitress for a table at the back, so he could
have a good view of the whole restaurant.  This time he
ordered soup, sandwich, AND salad. it might take him a good
fifteen minutes longer to eat such a meal.  The early
diners, evidently all of them retirees, began finishing and
leaving even before his own food arrived.  As each finished,
the busboy came out with his tub.

Nelson planned his surveillance very carefully, turning his
head at an angle so that if discovered he could quickly
shift his eyes straight ahead and not appear to have been
looking at the youth.  The busboy's thin figure moved with a
kind of grace among the dirty dishes, the darkness of his
skin visible underneath the whiteness of his dress shirt.
It was clear he wore no undershirt.  Nelson, having seen
most of what was beneath the clothing, could now better
imagine the youth's muscular, slim body moving beneath the
fabric.

His meal arrived and the tables achieved a sort of
stability; nobody was finishing just yet.  Most of the
tables were full, of older people again.  A hunk of Nelson's
sandwich disintegrated onto his plate, diverting his
attention to scooping it back up.  When his eyes rose, there
was the busboy, coming toward him with a pitcher of water.

The youth smiled faintly and asked, "More water, sir?"  The
busboy had an accent, sort of a British Empire lilt.  Nelson
smiled back and nodded, saying "Yes, thank you."  A tobacco
brown hand moved the pitcher down to the glass in front of
him, allowing Nelson to observe it closely, seeing the
darker seams where the skin was creased or folded in the
knuckles, the lighter tan of the palms.  "Thank... thank
you," Nelson stammered and the busboy smiled again as he
moved off to fill other water glasses.

Nelson absently ate the rest of his meal and realized that
his heart was beating a little faster than usual.  He sipped
some water.  Then sipped some more, than drained the glass.
His eyes tracked the busboy's movements, now clearing off a
table.  When the waitress came, Nelson would have to ask for
the check.  But the busboy came first, back with water.
"More water, sir?" The accent was Oxford by way of.. where,
the Islands?  Kenya?  "Yes, please," said Nelson, passing
the glass to him.  Their fingers brushed as the busboy took
it from him, smiling, and Nelson's heart thumped.  Summoning
his courage, he spoke:  "A busy night tonight!"  The busboy
smiled again, "Yes, sir," put the water glass back down and
was off.  The waitress with the check appeared instantly,
and Nelson's departure could not reasonably be delayed.

Back in his hotel room, Nelson watched television in the
dark, going to the window every ten minutes to see if the
light in the apartment window across the side street had
come back on.  "This is pathetic," he told himself fiercely,
more than once, but he could not help it.  Looking into that
bare apartment had become like a drug to him.  Up and down,
checking, every ten minutes.  The trip to the window that
showed him the new rectangle of light across the street made
his heart thump.  Nelson rushed to turn off the television
and seize his binoculars.

In the frame of the window, the busboy moved from the left
again but this time with a towel wrapped around his waist;
had he been showering?  The youth carried another sack of
food which he spread out on the table and ate.  Like a wolf
of the air, Nelson stalked every move with his binoculars,
as the lightning flash of the neon sign lit up the forest of
the city in steady rhythm.  The youth finished his meal and
once again moved out of the frame to discard the food and
bring back books and paper.  More work on those items for
perhaps half an hour, and then the youth came to the window
and looked out.

He stood there for long minutes, looking out, seeming to
find something in the dark to occupy his attention.  Nelson
scanned the youth's torso above the towel, seeing (or
imagining when he could not see) thin but taut muscles on
his chest and abdomen.  Then the youth looked down and
seemed to pick at his towel, tugging at it.  With a single,
quick movement the youth undid it and refastened it, really
too quickly for Nelson to focus on anything but a flash of
dark tobacco skin behind the white of the towel.  The youth
then moved out of the frame of the window and the light went
out.  This time Nelson could track his movement to the bed,
as the white towel was faintly visible.  Then the towel
moved and fell, and a dark shape folded into the general
area of the bed.

It was over.  Nelson's heart was beating, and sweat again
trickled from his armpits but also in his groin and down his
thigh, mixing with a thin discharge of clear liquid from his
penis.  Unable to understand his own behavior, Nelson shook
his head to clear it, put the binoculars away, and retired
to his own bed as quickly as he could.

There was great progress the next day in the audit.  The
staff at the high school was cordial to Nelson, but had
ceased offering to entertain him in the evenings; it was
clear he wanted to be alone.  At the end of the day, Nelson
shuffled his papers back together into his valise and was
driven back to the hotel.  Up the stairs quickly to his
room, a quick washup, and down the stairs to the cafe by
five thirty.

The waitresses now recognized him by sight.  So did the
busboy, who nodded and smiled as he made his rounds; this
early he was not clearing away many tables but was refilling
water glasses instead.  Nelson drank like a camel at an
oasis.  He ordered what he had eaten the night before,
completely uninterested in what was put before him.  He was
there to track the busboy like a hawk.

The youth came by for a first water refill.  Knowing it
would mean a brushing of hands, Nelson handed him the glass
and as it was being refilled he pushed himself to ask,
"Where are you from?"  The busboy smiled politely and
replied.  "Congo. the Democratic Republic of the Congo, to
be exact, as it is now called."  He put the filled glass
back on the table and looked at Nelson to see whether there
would be any recognition in his face of that name.  "Used to
be Zaire," said Nelson.  The busboy broke into a huge smile
and nodded.  "Yes, not everyone knows that.  Yes, used to be
Zaire."  Nelson nodded and then asked, "Are you escaping the
war?"  The youth's smile faded a bit as his eyes shifted
into a focus on the middle distance.  "Yes," he said, then
flashed another smile and moved off on his duties.  Nelson's
hand shook a bit as he reached for the water.

He stretched his meal out as long as he could, punctuated by
the regular passes of the busboy with water or to clear
nearby tables.  When the time came to go, the youth was out
of sight in the kitchen, regrettably.  Nelson slipped out
and down the block to his hotel.

The evening dragged by as the sky darkened.  Nelson did not
look out the window as often; it was clear nobody would be
there until later.  About the time that the busboy might be
arriving, he began looking every five minutes, and again his
heart flipped when the window was illuminated across the
way.  Once again, Nelson scurried around to put out all his
own lights and to seize his binoculars.

The youth was wearing his towel again, and repeated the
pattern of the previous two evenings.  He finished with his
books and stacked them tidily with the papers.. but no, he
kept a piece or two of the paper.  The youth walked to the
window to look out, standing quietly surveying the scene.
Nelson monitored him through binoculars.  Then the young man
moved the two pieces of paper to the window and splayed them
out against the glass, holding them there with the palms of
his hands.  Nelson focused on the paper.  His heart froze.
The papers had two words on them:  COME OVER.

Nelson wheeled back out of sight, slamming himself against
the wall beside his window.  Was the message for him?  How
could the youth know?  What did it mean?  Slowly, slowly he
craned his head back around.  The busboy was still standing
there, holding up the sign.  Then he lowered the papers and
walked away from the window to sit at the table again.. to
sit there waiting.

His heart was beating rapidly, his forehead spotted in beads
of sweat, his breathing tight.what should he do?
Respectability, restraint, playing it safe on the one
hand..all that warred with strong desire, with an aching
sense of an opportunity that might come only once in a
lifetime.  Would it be safe?  Would he be assaulted?  The
busboy seemed so nice. it didn't seem as if anybody else
were in the apartment.  Nelson paced back and forth
frantically, stopping to stare out the window each time he
passed; the youth remained there, waiting.  But for how
long?

Shaking his head-sure it was a mistake-Nelson grabbed his
keys, leaving his wallet behind cautiously, in case he were
being set up.  Out the door, a trembling hand turning the
deadbolt lock, then flying down the stairs (no checking to
make sure it was empty) and out onto the night street.
Looking up he saw the window, still a shining rectangle
against the dark front of the building.  Where was the door?
Here, it must be this one.  He tried the handle and it
opened onto a tiny square of cracked tile floor with
mailboxes in the wall, and an inner glass door.  He tried
that handle and it opened as well-no security system
here!-onto a flight of old, worn, wooden steps that went
straight up to hallway barely illuminated by a single, low
wattage bulb in the ceiling.  The stairwell smelled of
cooked cabbage.  His courage faltered for a moment-he could
end this all now, never go back to that restaurant-but he
willed his legs to move, and up the steps he went.

At the top.it must be to the right.  It must be this very
door.  What if it were the wrong one?  He'd say he had been
looking for someone, invent some false name.  His hand came
up, then back down, then formed a fist and back up to knock,
then back down again.  And then the door opened a crack.  An
eye peered through the slit.  It closed, the sound of a
chain rattling, and the door opened again.  "Come in," said
the youth, who was standing mostly out of sight behind the
door.

Trembling, Nelson entered and fought down a moment of panic
when the door closed behind him.  There stood the busboy, a
towel still wrapped around him, hands on hips, head cocked
to one side, smiling at him.  His body was very slim, thin
pads of muscle on his dark brown chest, just a hint of a six-
pack on his abdomen.  A few pearls of water from his shower
still shone in his close-cropped kinky hair.  Words and
action failed Nelson altogether.

"I saw you.  I saw you looking.  All three nights, man!" the
youth said in his soft, British lilt.  Nelson hung his head.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, really I...how did you see me?"
he asked, in wonder.

"Come," said the youth, and stepped to the window.  Nelson
followed and stood there with him, looking across the street
at the second floor of the hotel where, every time the neon
light flashed, the interior of a darkened room was
illuminated.  Nelson blushed scarlet, knowing that he had
been fully visible during those flashes.  "I--I am really
very sorry, it was rude.  I...should I leave now,"  he said.

"Why, you just got here!" said the youth, laughing softly.
Nelson hung his head again, utterly at a loss as to what to
do.  "My name is Mukube," said the youth, extending his
hand.  Nelson looked at it, at Mukube, and then took the
hand, shaking it.  "Edward," he said.  They held the
connection between their two hands.

"So, Mr. Edward, what are you doing in the hotel over there,
in this city?"

"I am an auditor.I am auditing the books of the high
school," he said.  Mukube nodded.  "Wh--What are you doing
here?" Nelson asked-it sounded stupid, like party chatter,
but he had no idea what else to say.

"I am going to school at the university, just finishing my
freshman year.  I am, as you said in the cafe, escaping the
war.  I got a special visa.  If I go back, I get killed," he
said starkly.  This hard truth penetrated through Nelson's
confusion and worry; concern for the youth's wellbeing took
its place.  But then Mukube asked the key question:  "So,
Mr. Edward...why were you looking at me?"

Nelson blushed scarlet and let Mukube's hand go.  A dozen
excuses flashed through his mind, each more preposterous
than the one before.  In despair, he told the truth:  "I--I
liked looking at you.  I found you attractive."  There was a
pause.  "I think I've made a mistake, I'd better go."  He
turned toward the door, but Mukube was there before him and
put a hand on the scarred wooden panels.

"Don't go," he said.  "Thank you.for saying that.  It has
been hard to meet people here, for me.  To meet
men...safely."  Now Mukube seemed to hesitate.  In a very
small voice he asked, "Do you.do you want to stay here a
while?"  He raised his other hand to Nelson's shoulder, then
slid it up his neck to place it gently on the side of his
face.  Nelson simply melted inside, leaned slightly into
Mukube's cupped palm, closed his eyes and nodded his head,
swallowing hard.  Mukube moved his hand from the door to the
light switch and turned it off.  "Come," he said, taking
Nelson's hand in his and leading him toward the bed.

His eyes adjusted to the dark in the few steps it took to
reach the side of the bed, and Nelson could see that a fair
bit of light came into the curtainless room from the street
lamps and the moon.  Mukube stopped and reached for Nelson's
other hand, holding both of them for a moment, looking into
the eyes of the white man.  Then he leaned forward and
kissed him lightly.  He might just as well have hit Nelson
with a baseball bat, for that was all it took.  In two
heartbeats Nelson sighed heavily, then slid his hands up
from Mukube's grasp to wrap them gently around the black
man's smooth, hard back, feeling the soft, silky warm skin
and the thin but firm muscles beneath.  The two men pulled
each other in, lips meeting.  Nelson was lost in the passion
of the moment, sucking first one and then another of
Mukube's full, luscious lips, his own lips being pulled in
turn into the black man's mouth, tongues sliding against
each other.

Mukube pushed Nelson back half a step and began rapidly
unbuttoning his shirt; the white man could see that the dark
fingers were trembling and so he assisted the process, but
his own hands were hardly less steady.  Nelson tugged down
his own trousers, kicking them to the side, his loafers
following, as the shirt came off through Mukube's efforts.
The two now embraced each other again, Mukube running his
palms over Nelson's back, sliding them up to his shoulders
and down his biceps, while Nelson slid his fingers under the
towel to dig his nails into the tight, high bottom.  That
made the towel fall off and Nelson could feel a thick, heavy
organ slap against his thigh.  Pulling down his own
underwear he mashed his groin forward.  Standing, pushing
into each other with the force of their legs, the two men
fought a war of passion.  Then Nelson stepped back, his
rigid penis springing up from beneath a bush of dirty blonde
hair.

Mukube's own pendulous organ was heavier and longer than
Nelson's, but not comic-book huge.  The white man grasped
the organ, purple black in the dim light of the room, and
slid his hand up and down it.  Mukube threw his head back
and moaned loudly, a sound of release as much as ecstasy.
He slid his dark brown hand down around the white man's
ballsack, then around it and onto the rigid, red shaft.  The
two stood there for a moment like that, manipulating each
other's rigid cocks, the dickheads becoming coated with a
slick film of precum.  Then Mukube slid down to the bed,
stretching himself out, and pulling Nelson down onto him.

Stretching out on top of the dark body, Nelson cupped the
man's thick skullcap of dense, kinky hair with both hands.
He could have done that all night, so delicious was the feel
of the crisp hair.  They kissed again, kissed noses and
eyes, mouths nibbled ears and gently bit necks.  All the
while Nelson humped the man beneath him, sliding his penis
up and down on the slick brown belly while Mukube pushed
upward with his hips, sliding his rigid cock up between the
upper thighs of Nelson and following a rhythm of passion up
and down, up and down, the reddish brown head of his dick
poking up and down above the back of the white man's thighs.
Mukube clasped his dark arms and hands around Nelson's back,
while the white man fondled the rounded muscles of Mukube's
shoulders and biceps.

Two passions merged together, born of loneliness and denial
and restraint.  Humping, sliding, kissing, a convulsion was
born deep in the gut of each man, and quickly moved toward
an explosion.  Pulling his lips away from Mukube's mouth,
Nelson roared, clenching and bucking frantically, his rigid
penis shooting ropes of semen between their bellies as he
slid back and forth on the black man beneath him.  At nearly
the same time Mukube's torso curled and tightened and his
hips pushed upward.  His dickhead poked up between the white
man's thighs and shot a fountain of semen up and onto his
bottom and back.  Crying, gasping, clutching, the two men
struggled together in that way until the storm passed.
Nelson collapsed on top of Mukube, who enveloped him in his
arms, clutching him tightly.

Long minutes later, Nelson rolled off to one side on the
narrow bed and Mukube turned on his side with his back to
the white man's belly to lie like spoons.  Nelson held him
tightly, out of passion but also to keep him from rolling
off the bed, his arm clasping the semen-slick chest and
belly, his own penis--wilting but still full--pressed
between the ass checks of the prominent black butt.  The two
breathed more normally, and in a shared rhythm.

"Was it good?" whispered Mukube.

"It was very good.  It was...it was the best.  And you?"
Mukube laughed deep in his throat and covered the white
man's hands with his own.  "It was that good also," he said.

A few more minutes of cuddling passed.  Mukube spoke.  "How
much longer will you be in town?"

Nelson chuckled.  "A while longer.  I think....I think there
will be some discrepancies that I will need to look into."
Mukube laughed softly.

Then Nelson spoke.  "You are at the university?  What are
you studying?"

"Mathematics."

"Really?  Mathematics!  what branch?"  The white man's heart
beat a little faster.

"Calculus."

"Calculus," repeated Nelson, stretching the word out
luxuriously.  "Calculus!"  Not for the first time that
night, and not for the last, a look of lust came into
Nelson's eyes.  "Mukube," he said, "I think you and I are
going to be great good friends."