Date: Mon, 27 Dec 2010 19:06:01 +0800
From: Marten Weber <webmarten@gmail.com>
Subject: Public Procurement (Part 2)

t six in the evening I stood in my best suit, taking cover from the
pouring rain under a torn awning in front of a bakery, the smell of
bread and cake in my nostrils, temptingly sweet, my heart so low and my
knees so weak I didn't dare breathe or take another step.

The conference had gone on til four, and I had sat there, zombie-like,
thinking of nothing but his smile and the room number, mulling it over
in my head in a million commutations, to the point where I could not
remember the actual figures, the promising twelve fourteen, the
titillating sequence of digits, which, over presentation after
presentation, question after answer, I looked up on the Internet, to
learn how to say it in French, for no other reason than I wanted to be
only with him in spirit, and think only of him, and not of the dry and
boring technical subjects that rose on slide after slide on the screen
before me.

In my head swirled the voices of the speakers, somewhere far behind a
wall of keen anticipation, and I heard nothing, saw nothing, felt
nothing else but the wish to be with him and the pounding of my heart,
and the throbbing of my turgid cock, all afternoon, without reprieve.
The minutes dragged along in painful slowness, and when the last speaker
finished I was out the door, in a taxi, and back at my flat; undressed,
showered, jacked off---I have to before meeting anyone, otherwise I
climax too soon---had stood there for thirty minutes, the cold water
flowing over my body, my hands on my stomach, with the barest outline of
muscles. I felt soft and weak and ashamed, that now, with so much
promise of romance ahead, I had not been to the gym more often in the
last months, that I had clearly let myself go, in fact, and was now
entirely unprepared, for love and lust. And yet I toweled off, and found
a new shirt and suit, and was out the house and on my way to the hotel.

It had started to rain just before I arrived. Because a U-turn towards
Minquan Road would have taken too much time, I told the driver to drop
me across the street from the hotel. There I stood now, sheltered from
the worst of the downpour, but still feeling drenched from the
oppressing humidity in the air. I looked across the roofs of the honking
cars to the entrance: a taxi stopped and a well-dressed couple alighted.
The car drove off and was replaced by two black limousines; once more
people in fine evening dress emerged and hurried through the revolving
doors into the air-conditioned lobby. A sign proclaimed that probably a
wedding reception was in progress---I was too far away to make out the
characters, but the colors of the board told me as much.

Would he be home by now? Would he have returned to the safety and
privacy of the hotel room, after having been surrounded and assaulted by
his audience all afternoon? Or would he still be attending some
function---a dinner most likely? It was unthinkable, I realized, that
he, as an important conference guest, would not be busy tonight. In a
flash, and far too late, I noticed that I had come far too early. If he
was in, now, at six, he would be showering and dressing and on his way
out again. What a fool I was, standing here, without even an umbrella.
In this monsoon downpour, I couldn't even cross the street unscathed.

Water was everywhere, and the image of him showering in preparation for
his dinner suddenly stuck in my mind with exciting clarity. Not for the
first time that day, I imagined his naked body, his own hands over his
soft muscles. I stood at the curb, absentmindedly, until a man bumped
into me and cursed in Cantonese.
I took out my cell phone and called the hotel---the wrong one. Again I
had confused the Ambassador and the Intercontinental, whose Chinese
names sounded so similar. The rain increased. A passing car splattered
my shoes, and I stepped back as I rang for information. A computer voice
asked me to speak the name, I said it clearly and slowly, and the system
returned a beep. I hung up, and the number of the hotel flashed on my
phone screen with a button Dial Now beneath. I pressed it. A woman
answered at tedious length in three languages: Chinese, English,
Japanese. I tried in vain to cut in, but she finished unperturbed. I
asked for the room, the magic twelve fourteen, and she said,
---One moment, please.
I heard a ring tone. After seven rings, she was back, apologized,
explained that the answering system was broken, and asked whether I
wanted to leave a message. I said no, and was about to hang up, when she
added.
---I believe Mister Lavoisier has actually just left a second ago. I saw
him leave.
She pronounced the name something like 'Lafossen' and I cursed her for
it, that uncultured whore! How dare she! How can you mangle that noble
name, you ignorant cow, I thought, and then the 'a second ago' kicked
in, surfaced in my conscious mind with painful urgency. I looked
feverishly at the door, expecting to observe him get into a taxi, but
again, I saw only people arrive, not depart. There was no queue, no
hotel employee flagging down taxis. I stood motionless and looked up and
down the breadth of the building. No handsome French man ambling about,
lost on the Asian street. Again a woman rammed me. She was pulling a
small shopping trolley which contained a barking dog. From there, my
eyes wandered over the puddles on the pavement, until they met the
entrance of a Japanese beer house behind me. I entered swiftly, found
the place full of  diners.

I took a seat at the bar, ordered a Kirin beer and the dinner kaiseki,
house style, and wished I still smoked, or did something irrational and
repetitive, like counting chopsticks in the stand, that would keep me
from being so nervous and hopelessly horny. The small bar stool
constrained my groin, and I tried arranging my cock without being too
obvious. My knees bored into the wood: I pressed harder to increase the
pain. I thought of my parents, and then of work, the report I had to
finish tomorrow: no matter what I tried, my hard-on throbbed in my
trousers like a wild animal. I considered jerking off again, in the
toilet of this pub, but there were women present in the room. For some
reason, masturbating and women never go together in my mind.

What was I doing here? Had he truly invited me this afternoon, at the
conference? Was there anything between us? Had there been a spark, an
understanding? Well, of course there had been: he had come back, all the
way into the conference room, just to tell me his phone number. That
could not be misinterpreted. He was expecting me to come this very
evening, only he had not said when. He must have thought it obvious that
I should come late. Come at all? Was he expecting me to come at all? Had
he given me the hotel name and room number merely so I could call him?
Surely he would have given me his mobile phone number instead. Or maybe
not, if it is a French phone. Too considerate, saving the cost of long
distance. So what? I thought as the beer was placed before me. Had I
come for nothing? Was he after a drawn-out romance, ten calls and
romantic dinners before we finally fucked? I had assumed he was after a
one-night stand: idiotic presumption really, based on too many years in
the gay world---we make our own cliches, and live by them. Gorgeous boy
with horny eyes, can only mean sex. Oh god, had I completely
misinterpreted his motives? Was he indeed looking for love? An Asian
boyfriend? A romantic meeting? Would he be offended, seeing I had come
to his hotel? Would he just put me down as another slut, another man
only good for fuck after fuck, and no emotional commitment? Me,
moi!---who was so desperate for romantic adventure himself? He would put
me down as another gay man obsessed with sex, and dislike me, and lower
his loving dark eyes and say, 'you only came for sex... I thought you
would be different.'

I took a mouthful of beer, warmed it up before swallowing, and realized
how utterly idiotic my inner monolog was. He had made eyes at me, he had
submitted to my stare, he had, after all, in front of four-hundred
people, asked me, 'have I satisfied you, Sir?' How could he be anything
else but a horny cock-whore, a little bottom, waiting to be spanked and
fucked---a little French banker-slut, ready to have his first adventure
with an Asian hunk? Me, a hunk. Yeah, sure.

The food arrived with the usual efficiency of such places, in less than
five minutes, and a wooden box with eight compartments was set before
me. I took up my chopsticks and wondered if I should eat all the rice;
there was so much of it. Surely it would fill me, and feeling bloated, I
wouldn't be any good for sex. I decided to eat only the tempura and
fish, and leave it at one beer. Alcohol makes me drowsy, and red in the
face. If he was a submissive bottom, I had to project authority, appear
in charge, not be sleepy, overfed, and glowing like a light bulb.

The television, hung high in the corner of the room, blared across the
eatery the sounds of a dumb Japanese game show, with contestants falling
into pools of water, and trying to cross an abyss by climbing
spider-like over an oily net. Behind me a woman sobbed, and accused her
dining partner of being insensitive, and caring only about money. I
watched the TV screen and finished my dinner, mercifully without being
too self-conscious, at least for a brief period.

If he wasn't in by eight, I could always go home. I could call him and
pretend I was home. I could ask him, if the conversation went well, if
indeed he wanted me to come round. I could try to... then it hit me like
a bolt of lightning: the truth about myself. For years, since returning
back to Asia, I myself had rejected the sordid routine of the gay dating
circuit. The fucking around, the endless one-night stands. I wanted
romance, for crying out loud! I wanted to fall in love. And yet, all I
had done since first hearing his melodious voice in the conference room,
was imagine dominating him; he, naked on his knees, chocking on my large
prick. I was so proud of my looks and my big cock, the pride suffocated
all my sensitive feelings, my romantic personality. I am, I thought,
putting down my chopsticks, really, no better than my fellow
homosexuals, defined by their desires, controlled by their cocks. There
is no gay lifestyle, I thought, no gay culture, just gay sex. Lots of
it. Everywhere.

And what had I done, when opportunity knocked?

It is not usual for Asians to be as tall, as athletic and as
well-endowed as I am. All my friends feel inferior to Caucasians:
weaker, paler, thinner, shorter. It isn't just perceptions of course, it
is true: there is a genetic difference, we are frailer and smaller and
its not easy for an Asian boy to be dominant and demanding. In my case,
I blame a Dutch great-grandfather for an injection of stature, a little
hair on the chest, much on my bum and legs, and a surprisingly large
appendage. My predilection for Caucasians, psychologically, may be the
same racist theme: I don't just prefer Caucasians because their
stronger, harder, hairier bodies turn me on far more than a girlish
Asian frame. It is also a thrill to make the people who have ruled the
world for so long---big and fat and obnoxious whites---squirm on the bed
and beg on their knees. Sex is all about power: personal, private,
public, racial, historical; playful of course, but power nonetheless. As
much as some Asians submitted voluntarily to a hirsute, towering master
race, I longed to vanquish it. I am Asian, but I am not your servant. I
am your master. Like predators in the Kalahari; in bed and youth, we
train for war.

Such nonsense of racial eroticism whirled in my brain and I rose from my
thoughts when the game show was over and a news program started. I had
looked at the screen for half an hour without taking in anything. A
woman finally removed the empty dinner box and asked if I wanted another
beer. I said no, asked for the bill, and couldn't get out of the stuffy
little restaurant fast enough. It was 7.10 pm. The rain had stopped.

The alcohol in my blood made me conscious of my beating heart. I took
out the phone and wanted to call the hotel again, but what was the
point? Surely, he couldn't be back if he had just left an hour ago. I
walked up to the traffic light and crossed the street, then entered the
building and found a seat by the window, in a deep and comfortable
lounge chair. Immediately, the bar waitress was at my side, smiling, and
I ordered water and a coke. The bar was empty except for a fat American
with a whiskey in his hand, sitting at the far end, across three empty
tables and a bouquet of fake flowers. No---they were real. In this
smokey darkness? He smiled at me, then raised his glass. I quickly
looked away, out into the street, trying not to encourage him. With
Americans, who are easy to identify as such in Asian cities, one can
never be sure. Used to traveling in their own vast country, meeting only
like-minded folks and not regarding their fellow nationals as strangers
at all, they often talk to people, even very intimately, without any
obvious aim or overt sexual undertone. On any other night, I would maybe
have smiled back and he would have come over, and we would have spent an
hour talking about computers and solar power, and the rise of China, and
he would have thanked me for my company, and trundled back to his room
alone.

But not tonight. My heart was in a welter, and my cock was still
throbbing. I tried to remember the last time the sight of a man like
Romain had turned me on so much: never. I was looking for romance, I
told myself as my drink arrived, not another one-night stand. If there
was any chance for love, I would grab it. But unlatched from my
stereotypical role as a dominating top, I felt weak and lost at sea. The
ease with which gay men meet for sex makes us entirely unprepared for
real romance. We don't recognize it, even if it...is sucking our dicks.
Almost instinctively, I called the waitress and asked for a whiskey. Sod
it! I wasn't here to play master and slave with Frenchie, I was here to
fall in love with him... no, past tense. I was here, really, because
throughout the afternoon, in that conference hall, in front of all these
people, I had already fallen in love with him. In my erotic mind, I was
already lost in his soft embrace and his caring eyes. Yes, that was it.
Not here for a sex date, not at all. Here to meet the man of my dreams,
the man who himself has loved and desired me for already one
afternoon---longer than most sex adventures between gay men last. I was
on a date! A romantic date. Still alone with my whiskey, but on the
right track nonetheless.

Soon, Romain my lover, would return in a taxi, wearing his fine suit of
the afternoon, the black one with the thin blue stripes. Surely he
wouldn't have brought a second one a business trip this short. He would
espy me in the bar, smile, yes, he would smile already then, with the
first glance; then would come over to me. I would sit here in my gray
Armani and my favorite tie---tie? was I wearing a---my hand found my
neck and my open shirt---no, no tie, I had two buttons of the shirt
open, showing off the little chest hair I had, a tuft of black straining
to emerge from the baby blue shirt I had bought in London, which made me
look---according to the judgment of all the girls at my
employer---incredibly sexy.

---I know you won't marry me, had Ay-ling said when I had worn it first
to work, but at least give me a child! A child that will be as handsome
as you! And then, she had added, as if to hide her shame about her
unusual forthrightness,
---at least in that shirt.

Yes, Romain my French paramour, would find me here, and wearing my best
shirt, in this sofa chair, he would find me even more attractive than
during the conference this afternoon. What had I worn then? Yes, you
see, what an improvement.
My eyes caught the American's  across the room. He was still staring at
me. No casual chat in a hotel lounge. He was looking for love. Not
tonight, not with you, chubby. I am sorry. I am not striking you from my
list, just because you are a little too old and a little too heavy. On
the contrary. I have a thing for heavy-set men, if they squeal under the
onslaught of my cock, like little girls. I like them even better on the
floor, on all floors, when I can study their hairy backs. But that is
just sex. And you must see that I can't take care of you tonight. I am
waiting for my lover. From France. Handsome, wavy-haired,
sonorous-voiced Romain Lavoisier, and again I let the vowels melt on my
tongue, and the consonants prickle.

Any moment now, he will walk across the room and stand before me, then,
after drinking in my beauty, and maybe already the bulge in my pants---I
adjusted by cock, having pulled it out of the briefs and aligned it on
my thigh---he would be baffled, speechless, and bend down, and kiss me
on the mouth, pull me up, embrace me and say---
---I am sorry, you wouldn't care for some company? Only I saw you
looking at me across...
The American ogre stood before me.
Tall, and with oily hair, his belly stuck out and into my flushed face.
I stared at his crotch: there was a stain on the left side; the zipper
wasn't done up completely (probably broken) and a button was missing on
the shirt. Oh god! How to tell him politely to piss off and leave me
alone? What did he mean, I had been looking at him. He'd been staring at
me all this time. I had studied the flower.
---I am sorry, but I am waiting for someone.
For a far-too-long and drawn-out moment, the gregarious Yankee gawked at
me, maybe deliberating if he should believe me or not. He decided
perhaps that it did not matter, either way, I was not interested in him,
and said, at length,
---Fair enough.
There was an awkward pause. He didn't move.
---If you change your m---
---I won't. Thank you.
He nodded, then turned and walked away off. At the back, the shirt
wasn't tucked in properly. He looked sloppy and helpless and comical.
His arse was enormous.

A minute later, as I tried to return to my daydream, some people arrived
and  occupied the chairs beside me. Intent on drowning out the noise, I
peered out the window, where the rain had returned with even stronger
force. I wondered if Romain would get wet. I wondered what his hair
would look like, wet.

Romain Lavoisier, handsome presenter of public procurement policies and
financial thingamajigs---I tried to remember what his presentation had
been about, but to no avail---will return to his hotel and find me
sitting here. He will come across the room walking straight towards
me---well, now he will have to make a detour around the newly arrived
table of six noisy Japanese, and come over to the window. I wouldn't
stay seated, of course. If my cock would just go down a bit, I would
stand up, and open my arms, and hug him, and kiss him, and he would
take---no, not in public. I wouldn't kiss a man in public, not in my
city, in my country. In San Francisco maybe, where people are free, or
in London, or Paris, in Paris certainly, but not here. I would embrace
him, feel his strong chest, smell the masculine scent---what sort of
perfume would he be wearing? What kind of scent suited him? Something
fresh and light, something submissive and lightly feminine. Nothing
sweat-and-musk like, for sure: only working-class straight men wear
that, and wallow in  its repulsiveness. No, refined, and elegant, and
just a little lemony. Or none at all. Yes, that's it. None at all. Just
the smell of his hair and muscles. A day at the conference in an
expensive suit: a tangy hint of leather, from the shoes of belt, but the
rest, as plain as this: male flesh, seasoned, confident. I'd did my nose
into his armpits and breathe in.

Yes, we would hug, and maybe pat each other on the back, buddy-buddy,
and then I would ask him if he wanted a drink, that's how it will
happen, I thought, and ordered another whiskey when the waitress asked
me. We would have one drink here, by the window, and speak of France,
and the bank, and air travel. Somehow, with business visitor, one always
ends up speaking of airlines. Of course, with him, the conversation
would be about the merits of different first class suites. Not the
difference in Y fare buckets, and the size of the screen. Non, not
Monsieur Lavoisier. He wouldn't watch movies inflight. He'd read: Camus?
No...he's modern, international. Something English. And not a dull
bestseller. Something unknown, and recently discovered, known only to
the cognoscenti. Or better yet: old and rare: Pessoa. That's it. That
would go with his dark hair, and the heavy brow: The Book of Disquiet.
He would even be able to quote from it, later, when we live together, in
our house in the Camargue.
Sooner or later, I would tell him that I worked for his employer, that I
knew people who knew him, maybe, and that I wanted to be his friend...
on Facebook, admitting, in the same breath, that I had looked up his
profile online already, and he would say,
---you looked me up, when?
And I would say,
---While you gave your presentation, in the conference hall, and...
Would he feel embarrassed? Angry? Flattered? No idea. I pondered the
question for a moment. How impolite is it to google people and find out
their background before talking to them? How stupid is it, really, not
to let yourself be surprised by the revelations voluntarily offered by a
stranger, and instead rely on the spurious untruths on web pages. What
can be learned about a person from the Internet?---nothing really.
Absolutely nothing. Not even the birthrate is true, usually. The picture
certainly isn't. Or at least ten years younger.

After another drink, maybe, yes, a second one, we would at last retire
to his room. No, we wouldn't. We would talk until midnight and arrange
to meet again, like couples in romance novels. Wishful thinking. It
couldn't be, he would have a flight to catch, and be gone by the morrow.
Yes by the morrow. That's the sort of person my French banker is. But we
wouldn't just kiss and agree to another date. We are men, after all, of
flesh and blood and cock and arse: we would have to fuck. I would catch
a glimpse of the bulge in his trousers, and I would ask him ... quoi? ah
oui ... if he wanted me as much as I desired him. Corny, but effective.
He would then pay, insist on signing the bill, rather than letting me
pay, charging the drinks---all of them, including the juice and I
whiskey I had drunk waiting for him, and then we would walk away, out of
the bar. If the fat American was still here, I would put my arm around
Romain's shoulder, or back, or even on his ass, to show the oily git
what I had been waiting for. A real man, a beautiful, young, sleek,
handsome French banker. Not some slob from Miami who can't tuck in his
shirt properly.
I felt the whiskey buzz accelerate. My legs were twitching; shaking in a
life of their own. But my cock was still there: straining to get out.
Hard and proud and leaking with every thought of Romain, with whom, very
soon, I would then take the elevator up to his room, on the twelfth
floor. He wouldn't kiss me in the elevator---too corny! But he would
touch my hand, lightly. Not the whole hand. Just the fingers. Three of
his fingers would reach for mine, hold them briefly, then play on them:
tap out a rhythm. A Chopin waltz my lover will tap on the back of my
hand... then speak to me, softly, nudging maybe my ear. 'I am really
glad I met you.' And his fingers would keep on tapping and caressing and
pressing and dancing up my wrist and down to the tips again: I am
looking forward to falling in love with you, that's what his fingers
would say, and I would return the sentiment by looking into his deep
eyes. I would slowly raise my left arm, and make him believe my hand was
aiming for his mouth, then I would move up higher, and push a dark lock
of hair from his forehead---that elegant, manly, slanted brow. No,
nonsense, really. His hair was much shorter! I tried to picture him as
he was, had been this afternoon at the conference, rather than let my
fantasy ran amok.

The group of boisterous Japanese next to me started to get on my nerves.
In the fifteen minutes since their arrival, they had each polished off a
beer, and were now ordering Brandy. They smoked, and made lecherous
comments about the waitresses at a restaurant where they had just eaten
cheap but bad food. That's the extent to which I understood their heavy
accent, but even so, their hoarse  conversation intruded on my thoughts,
the fantasies I was spinning, bar, whiskey in hand, waiting for my
boyfriend. Yes, soon he would be that: not just a casual lover.  A
full-fledged boyfriend. One more Johnny Walker, and he'll be my husband.

With a 'pling' we will arrive at the twelfth floor, and as the doors
swing apart, he will say, 'after you,' for he is polite, and will insist
I leave the elevator first. He will pat my bum when I  do, and make sure
with that simple gesture that we are even-keeled lovers, equals, not
master and slave, not engaged in some preposterous role play. He will
put his arm around my shoulders when we walk down the aisle,---down the
aisle, ha!---and when he inserts the key into the lock, no, the key card
into the slot, he will pause, waiting for the light on the panel to turn
green. There he will pause and turn to me, and kiss me, quickly, shyly,
submissively, just to make sure that even though he was in for a
romantic date, he was still the bottom, and wanted me to take him and
conquer him. Yes. That's how it will be, I decided, and gulped down the
whiskey, staring at the empty glass in my hand.

Just then, in the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a man passing
by in the lobby. A man in dark suit, with almost imperceptibly thin blue
stripes. A man with black hair, not curly, but more than wavy. A man
with the smile of a god,   open and winning, and so full of promise.

With the sudden shock of recognition, I sat upright, and was wide awake.
Showtime.
What to do? Run after him? Too desperate, out of the question. He
shouldn't see me here. I sank deeper into the chair and thanked the
spirits for sending me the boisterous Japanese, waving their brandies
about, blocking the view with their cigarette smoke.
Wait here, quietly, then call his room. Yes. Reach him in his room. Call
now... leave a message. Tell him what to do. Leave my number. No, just
go up, knock on his door. Too direct.

Romance. Romance! I need romance! I want to fall in love with him, not a
shag in the bathroom and a slap on the bum. Not a one-night stand and a
brutal good-bye. He was out long, it's past eight. Give him half an
hour. He needs to settle down, change, pour a drink. Was he the type to
drink alone in his room? Would he think of me, want me, long for me? Had
he already hoped, in the car back here, that I would be here, waiting.
Had he spent the dinner wondering if I would call? Had he regretted not
getting my number too, dashing off too quickly. Or had he all but
forgotten me. Call me now, yes, before he reaches the room. Leave a
message, tell him to call after nine. That way, if he calls back sooner,
you know he is keen. And will love you until the end of time. Rubbish.
I got out my phone and redialed the hotel number. Another female voice
put me through to his room. From where I was sitting, I could see her
stand at the front desk and speak. It rang. No answer. Too late I
remembered that their voice mail system was broken, but there it was: a
computer voice picked up. This is room number 1214. Please leave a
message after the tone. So not broken after all, it just hadn't picked
up the last time I called.

I spoke with a measured voice, trying not to betray the emotion in my
heart, my nervousness. Never been more nervous in my life.
---Hi, Romain, I stated, regretting the casual approach.
I should have called him by his last name, and... no time. Recording
running.
---We met today at the public procurement conference. You---theatrical
pause, to stress the fact I wasn't calling him uninvited; a short 'ah'
and a sigh---gave me your hotel name and room number---another pause,
just in case he had forgotten me. How dared he. No, he'd been waiting
for this call all day. I could sense it---I am free after nine pm. if
you want to give me a call, the number is...well probably showing on
your display if it's a modern machine. Just in case it isn't...

Oh, now I am really on edge. Can't think straight. How long... I hang
up, sit down again, after realizing the American is staring at my groin.
My fat hard cock is still glued to my thigh, and my trousers are tight
enough to show it off. There... he calls for the waitress. But now he
gets up. Not again. He saw my cock, now he's going for a second try.
He's nervous, I can see the sweat on his brow.
---You been stood up?
I quickly shake my head, and suppress an urge to wipe the sweat from my
forehead.
---No, I say, with emphasis, and look him directly in the eye. Then I
add, just to hurt him even more, and punish him for trying twice to pick
me up, he, fat and old and oily, unworthy of a young and gorgeous thing
like me, on the make, ready to...
---My boyfriend will be here at nine.

He takes it in. Still waiting for date, and calls it a boyfriend. So he
can't feel rejected because I am straight, but has to blame himself for
not being attractive enough. I want him to hurt. I want him to know he
is old and ugly and stupid and fat and American and nothing like my
suave French banker. I want him to know that I have been chosen by
Romain Lavoisier, Vice President of something or other at BNP --- public
procurement something. Everyone is a vice president these days, of
course, but not everybody is handsome and French and gave me his number
at lunch.
My ploy backfires, and with a vengeance I am punished for my arrogance.
Mr. Midwest America sits down, and smiles broadly, so broad and openly I
am guessing he knows my deepest secrets and will now blackmail me.
Before I can do anything, he has beckoned the waitress over and told her
to bring his drink here. Brash and unusually agitated. What's it to him
now...why isn't he going away?
He tells me his name and stretches out his chubby paw---he hasn't even
heard what I said. I don't take it, and glare at him.
---I'd prefer to be alone.
He pretends not to hear me. The worst of the gregarious kind.
---I live in Seattle and there are quite a lot of Asians. I come here
for business, computer stuff... are you in computers?
He goes on and on and on there is no stopping him. I can't listen to him
now. Can't pollute my ears, my brain, with his story. I must
concentrate. I just sit there, staring at him in utter disbelief, at the
way he is thrusting his ample self at me, insinuating himself into my
life with barbaric directness.
My mind races: I don't want you here, go away. I need to be alone and
prepare for love.

I am saved by the phone ringing. It's barely eight thirty.
---Hello?
I sound so eager, the American shuts up immediately. Then he is
straining to overhear the conversation. I lean away from him, cupping my
hand over the phone.
---This is Romain Lavoisier. You left a message on my phone.
His name: the way he says it---I am in heaven.
My cock twitches briefly. I think the American notices it. His eyes
flash for a second, and then he licks his ugly, tiny, pouting lips. I
see only now that he has a little mustache. That does it. A mangy gray
mustache.
---Oh yes, I say, and get up, and walk away from the obnoxious
Washingtonian. I keep a head over my mouth in an ineffectual attempt to
make my conservation more private, and overcome the noise of the raucous
Japanese. He'll know I am already here in the hotel. How embarrassing.
Romain speaks slowly, and with a thick accent. His evening voice. He says,
---I just got back from a dinner. I apologize for missing your call.
Oh he is a bottom alright. I am the alpha male here. Top guys don't
apologize for missing a call.
I will fuck him, and hard.
---I should have told you I am only free later. In fact, I should
have... ah well. And you said nine, but I realized ...
While he speaks the last sentence, he becomes himself aware that calling
so early makes him sound rather desperate. I don't tell him I only left
the message minutes earlier. I don't answer immediately. Feigned
disinterest. Make him doubt  that the fish has swallowed the bait. I am
not on his hook. He's on mine. At last I say,
---I can meet you now if you want. Don't have to wait until nine.
And before I finish, it hits me: he hasn't said anything about meeting
up. I brought it up, and told him, in so many words, I don't want to
wait until nine. Now who is sounding desperate? Marvelous. I recognize
my own impatience, and feel my throbbing cock, and my face glow red. I
am giddy and elated. I want to laugh and cry out.
---Can you come?
Of course I can come. I want to come. I want to go to your hotel and
hold you and kiss you. Change of scenario: we won't be meeting in the
bar, you won't swipe me off my feet and take me to your room, and play
with my fingers in the elevator, and kiss me while you wait for the card
to unlock the door. It will be different. Quite how different, I can't
know yet. I lie to him,
---I don't live far. I can be there in---quick pause, how quickly is
sounding not too desperate. I want to say twenty minutes, but my cock
speaks for me---ten minutes.
---Ten minutes!
I can feel the joy in his voice.
---I'll be ready for you. Just come to my room.
I want to say No! and shout at him, 'No! Not in the room, let's meet
somewhere else, we are strangers, we have just met, if we want to fall
in love, we mustn't meet in your room, we must meet in the street, the
lobby, the bar, you must take me out, to a club, dancing, drinking, we
must watch the moon and the stars, and slowly, inexorably, deeply, fall
for each other. We can't do that in a room.

But he's hung up. He's expecting me in ten minutes. Over and out.

Now, really, showtime.
I walk up to the counter and ask for the bill, which is ready in two
minutes. Tapping my fingers, then signing the credit card slip, I strain
to ignore the American, and leave the bar without even looking at him. I
walk into the toilets just across from the elevators, hide in a stall. I
pull down my pants and underwear, sit down, hold my face in my hands.
Ten minutes.

I'll be in his room in ten minutes. I have wanted him for how many hours
now? More than...six. For six hours I have been horny as hell, and
unable to function. Impossible to get his face out of my mind. I have
beaten him, flogged him, spanked him, tortured his cock and fucked his
French ass for every hour of the afternoon, in my mind, and fallen in
love with him, in my heart, and caressed his nape, slowly undressed
him---yes, that is what I will do. This is what is going to happen:

I will knock on the door. He will answer, standing there in his
immaculate suit. He will hold two glasses, pretending to have just
poured the champagne. It won't be a normal hotel room, it will be a
suite. He will hand me one glass and we will sit and chat for an hour,
about finance, and the bank, and his life, and slowly, we will reach the
subject of men, and his preferences, and his ex-boyfriends, and how he
is looking for love, and how he adores Asian men. And when he gets up to
refill the champagne, I will be there to meet his mouth, and kiss him
tenderly, and embrace him, and hug him, and we will sit on the bed, and
kiss longingly, until I ask him if he really wants a boyfriend, and
love, and tenderness, and he will say yes, he craves it, no more
one-night stands and no more meaningless sex acts, but love, a real
relationship, and I will offer him another date. I will ask him, 'how
long are you here, and shall I leave now? We can meet tomorrow, for
breakfast,' and he will say that I should come to Hong Kong, and we will
have a series of romantic meetings, and a vacation together, in Macao,
he will say, and with his eyes,
---I will woo you, my Asian hunk.
And I, with my cold and empty eyes (for I think they are expressionless)
I will say,
---And I will love you!
That's how it's going to happen.
That's how it's going to be!

I pull up my trousers, and arrange my shirt. I step out of the cubicle
and look in the mirror. Curiously, now, after so many hours of horny
anticipation, after jerking off in the shower, now, finally, minutes
before meeting face to face, body to body, the man I desire, my cock has
finally given up.
It is limp and exhausted. I am nervous as hell, so excited and agitated,
I find it hard to breathe.
I check my face: young, slim, chiseled. There is a tiny red spot under
my eye--- a pimple in the making?
I check my pulse: it is racing. I can feel the blood in my ears.
I arrange my hair, the shirt collar.
I look good. Too thin, I think, not enough bulk, but elegant, suave,
hot. I am confident, for the two minutes I see myself in the mirror.
Then, as I leave the restroom, all the confidence evaporates in an
instant. I am butter again, and wobble like a teenager after his first
drink, as the elevator carries me up the twelve floors.

The doors open.

A sign to the left, 1201-1216, a sign to the left 1217-1228. I turn
left, realizing my error. I am so nervous, I can't read numbers. A
deliberate trick of my unconscious, trying to avoid the unavoidable. I
will stammer. I will look weak and feeble. He will not be attracted to
me: clearly he wants a dominant man. How can I be that man, my knees
giving in as I walk down. I feel the sweat on my brow, on my wrists: I
rub them.

Two more doors.

The next one is ajar, just an inch.

I look down: a sock has been wedged in to keep it open.

Curious.

I step up, about to knock, but clearly, the sock is meant to give access
without the formality of knocking. It has been put there on purpose, to
keep the door slightly ajar.  Maybe the doorbell is broken. I reach up
with my hand to push the door; my fingers are trembling. I lower the
hand again, trying to regain my composure.
Be yourself.
Be strong.
Be forceful and manly. He wants a man to take care of him, not a timid
wuss. I lower my voice as deep as I can, and say,
---Hello?
Then I push open the door, noting the 'Do Not Disturb' sign already
hanging on the knob. It is dark inside, but the light of the aisle is
enough to illuminate the scene before me.

Romain is kneeling on the floor, stark naked.
He has his hands behind his back.
His mouth is half open.
His eyes are closed.

I take it in, and after the initial surprise, I smile at him.
My cock twitches; four, five times.
I pick up the sock, and let the door fall shut behind me.

-----------------------------
Let me know if you find errors. webmarten@gmail.com
Part 3 is coming up.
For more of Marten Weber, go to www.martenweber.com


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