Date: Tue, 01 Feb 2011 03:18:34 +0800
From: Marten Weber <webmarten@gmail.com>
Subject: Public Procurement - Part 6

The dreams didn't last, and we had to part: the alarm clock woke us far
too early. It was I who picked up the phone for the morning call that
came, like a thunderbolt in a clear sky, like a drumbeat into our
twosome solitude.
He pulled me closer even as I spoke to the concierge, nodding and
confirming a car, for the airport, yes, waiting in twenty minutes.
He was hugging me. His cock was pressing hard into my lower back.
--You car will be ready in twenty minutes, I said, and could hear the
sadness.
I felt miserable.
--It's not fair! he said; anger in his coated voice.
--What? You booked your own flight...! Why did you take the early...
--No, I mean, we only hug and sleep for one hour!
I had to turn around to see who was speaking: had the horny monster and
the cool banker suddenly been replaced by a schoolboy? His eyes were
full of sleep still, half open only, but his lips were pursed and
waiting to be kissed.
--Do you think... he began, but did not finish.
He jumped up, ran to the bathroom where I heard him piss into the bowl,
then returned, straddling me on the wide bed, covering me in kisses from
forehead, over my sleepy eyes, over my nose, left, right, to my chin,
--Do you think, we can fuck one more time?
I looked at him and smiled.
--We've got twenty minutes.

In lieu of an answer, he felt behind himself, grabbed my boner, and
before I could begin to adjust my position, slid down on it, quick and deep.
--Oh yeah. My ass still open!
--I need to piss, too, I said, an awkward sensation spreading in my groin
as my hard cock was up his channel again.
--You can piss later. You fuck me first!
I lifted my hips.
He closed his eyes and sighed.
--Baby, you have the most amazing cock I ever feel inside me!
I thought of something to say, but the sensation of fucking and needing
to urinate completely numbed my senses.
--But that is not why I...
There he broke off as I thrust my prick up again. He yelped.
--Ouch! Ooooh!
I grabbed his waist and held him steady, then pounded away, listening as
he sang like the morning birds outside. It was barely light, and still
raining.
After only a little while, he screamed so loud anyone in the hallway
must have heard him.

The phone rang again. It was one of these things that happen in the
awkwardest moments, without any reason: I reached over, expecting him to
disengage, but quite the contrary: he kept bouncing up and down my
shaft, and did to as I spoke to a man who--again!--confirmed that Romain's
car was ready. I could not help feeling angry and hilarious at the same
time. I put the receiver to Romain's ear (when his head was down)--he
took it. Half gasping, half moaning, he said into the mouthpiece,
--Ah! Yes! Ah! I will be down, ah! Yes! In five minutes. Ah! Oh!

I took the receiver from him, increasing the pumping, thrusting up into
him, and before I could hang up completely, I came--shouted, screamed as
I did, emptying myself into Romain, the very second he shot his cum over
my chest and face.

We lay atop each other, glued together.
A voice from the receiver said,
--Hallo? Hallo? Sir? I something wrong?

Romain grabbed it and spoke--this time, no doubt with deliberate accent,
--No no, do not worry! I like your 'otel very much.
--Oh, thank you, Sir, said the concierge--or who ever it was.
--I just 'ave 'ad ze best sex ever!

We kissed, tongues fighting slowly, while his hand tried to find the
cradle.


That was all the fun I had, that was the end of it. I helped him pack,
quickly, while he showered, and he gave me his breakfast voucher. I
found only one sock, buttoned my shirt wrong, while he was all set to
go, standing by the door already while I was still on the bed, helpless,
lost. I didn't want him to leave. In the end, he told me not to go down
with him.
--The way you look, darling, zey vil think you are a prostitute. Go back
to bed.
He held the door open while he kissed me goodbye.

I watched him walk down the hallway and get into the elevator.
I stared at the room key in my hand.
I remember asking myself how long the key would work if he checked out
now. I better take all my stuff with me when I leave for breakfast, I
recall planning, in a stupor, dull and hazed and...

I found a hair in the bathroom and stared at it.
I found his underwear and kept it.
I picked up a glass from the nightstand--he had drunk from it.

I had nothing left of him but his smell on the sheets.

I grabbed all the pillows and the duvet, rolled them up into a human
form, and hugged it, and breathed it in, and touched it--and cried.

In all the rush to leave, in all the excitement, he had left nothing:
not a phone number, not a name card, not a...
Oh, I could get all that from the conference handouts. Somebody would
know--but that wasn't it.
He hadn't said anything.
He hadn't said `call me.'
He hadn't said `I'll come back in a month.'
He hadn't said `I really like you, it was great.'

He had only kissed me.
Kissed me goodbye.
On the cheek--not even on the mouth!
And now he was gone. In a black limousine on his way to his flight ... to
Hong Kong, France... I wasn't even sure. And I was alone again.


Not quite alone, as it turned out. I got dressed at eight, after a long
hot shower, and went to the breakfast room. It was a Saturday, the
dreaded weekend ahead of me. I made plans to go into the office to put
my mind off things. And there was Harvey. Clumsy, friendly, stumbling
Harvey, sitting alone by the window, now catching sight of me, and
waving his hand.

--Well good morning, stranger, he said, sounding like a queen from
Memphis. Did you have a good night?
I think he meant it like that, did you sleep well, but the moment he
said it, he realized what a night I would have had. So it came as an
embarrassed afterthought when he said,
--The...two of you?
I nodded.
Oh, I wanted to tell him everything, every detail! I wanted to shower
him in all the glorious emotions I had gone through, but over me settled
the silence of the sad--a weariness to speak, a painful reluctance to
show my feelings. I had, after all, just been abandoned, dumped,
unceremoniously, like a one-night stand. I thought of all the guys I had
left the same way: cold and smug.
--It was great. He is very nice. He had to leave for the airport at five.
I am going to get some orange juice.
--Why don't you join me here, said Harvey, when a girl with a pink
hairband took the voucher from me--I didn't want to let go, it was his
voucher after all--asking whether I wanted tea or coffee.
--Tea please.
I realized that Harvey's invitation was unnecessary. I had already made
up my mind to join him. I needed company. Oh what blessing it would be
to listen to the ramblings of a dull American businessman! I prayed he
would talk of his computer, modems, software, whatever it was he bought
or sold.
I returned with muesli and juice.
--Healthy, healthy! said Harvey, nodding his approval; then he looked
embarrassed at his own plate of three eggs, ham, bacon, mushrooms and a
large square of cheese.
--Wait until I finish this, I'll have a full English like you.
Harvey smiled.
--I didn't get beans, he said. I don't like beans. Do you?
--Love them.
I made myself a promise to eat as much as I could. Now that love was
gone again, what was the use in dieting? And he had liked me, even with
my love-handles! Gyms are overrated--and abs. Skinny freaks... bring on the
waffles!
--Excuse me?
--Nothing.
--I thought you said `bring me waffles' there for a minute.
--Oh no, sorry, just thinking aloud.
Why do people always say `for a minute,' when clearly, the thoughts last
barely seconds.
--You don't seem too happy.
--Well, I didn't get much sleep.
Harvey pondered, visibly strained, then he got it.
--Oh! I see!
I smirked.
--Is it the same, with men?
I didn't know what he meant.
--I mean, is it...the passion? I remember when I met my wife...we were at it
the whole night.
I shoved a big spoonful of Bircher into my mouth and replied,
--Iffmuffasame, a geff.
--?
--It's much the same I guess. We slept for an hour maybe.
--Oh!
How cute he was. Every time his mind faced the image of gay sex, his
cheeks turned red. I am sure he wanted to know what we did, but didn't
dare ask. The question came out as awkward as could be, as if he were
addressing his wife after their copulation:
--And was it good for you?
I laughed, almost spitting out my cereal. He realized what he had said.
--Oh. Gee, I am such a goof.
--Harvey, the question is, was it good for HIM.
Again Harvey took five seconds to process.
--Oh. I thought Asians were passive?
I couldn't help laughing again.
--Yes. Everybody tends to assume that. It's nonsense.
--Well, I guess, said Harvey, cutting his bacon in half, it takes all
kinds in this world.
I watched him eat. I liked him, suddenly. He seemed irreproachably innocent.
--Have you never--I mean, as a young man... have you never fooled around
with guys?
He shook his head vigorously. Then less vigorously. Then he took a piece
of cheese drenched in egg yolk, brought it to his lips--and lowered the
fork again.
--Well, I am not being honest. I did have a very special friend, for a
while. Nothing sexual. But...I felt very--he looked desperately for the
right word, took so long I almost got up for seconds, but at last it
came--tender towards him.
I tried out different replies--none fitted.
--We slept together once. Holding each other. On a fishing trip. In...I
forgot where. His father's cabin.
--But you didn't ...
--No, no, no ... I couldn't have.
--Couldn't have why?
--Oh, because I am Christian!
What an odd conviction crept from that one word; unapologetically.
--So?
--Well it's a sin!
I just couldn't help it. I switched into attack mode: pity and anger.
--Oh Harvey. Oh Harvey. Don't let that religious crap ruin your life,
please! Do me a favor and stop believing that rubbish. It's all made up
to fool people like you into submission.
--You think so?
--Think what?
--That it's all made up? I mean man-made?
--Of course it is, Harvey. People need to wake up and smell the
Nespresso. Start thinking for themselves. Not blame god and the fucking
bible or quran for all the shit in their lives.

While I spoke, I realized that I was so angry from having been dumped,
after having been deserted by Romain, so early in the day, after so
little affection, after just one night, just another one-night stand, I
was in danger of preaching--proselytizing my own creed of resistance to
dogma--and annoying my American friend. But he was cool. I stood up, got
myself three eggs, four slices of bacon, lots of mushrooms, and a
mountain of beans, two rolls of bread, and returned to the table. Maybe
I got all the food as a peace offering, for offending him. I had no
intention of eating it all.
--I've often thought that, you know?
He started shoveling bacon and eggs again; then chewed loudly.
--Thought what?
--That it's all nonsense. All that bible-preaching. It's all so full of
hatred! I think that in church sometimes--we have a firebrand preacher.
All smoke and brimstone.
--Exactly. It makes the world worse. It creates walls and boundaries and
drives people to suicide. Religion is shit, period. There is nothing to
defend it, nothing reasonable. Except what you call `faith'--which is
just surrender to laziness.
--Well. I am not quite there, I am ... I do believe.
--In what?
--God.
--For what?
He looked at me, helpless like a little child.
--I don't know. I guess I am just used to it. Brought up that way.
--You see, you could have had so much fun with your buddy when you were
twelve.
--Eighteen.
--You slept naked with a guy when you were eighteen?
--Seventeen, actually.
--Oh Harvey! You don't know what you missed!
We laughed together, broke the ice for good, and really enjoyed our
breakfast. To my surprise, I was suddenly ravenous.

--Most people, I said, much later, when we had coffee and a Danish--I
really pigged out--don't take the time to examine their beliefs. They
accept blindly what others tell them. Any one really thinking
objectively about faith and religion, or reading the bible, must be
disgusted by it. It's all about suffering, blood, violence, exclusion
and hate. It's ancient and tribal and really not suited to a modern
world. To a better world, and a global world. You'll be so much happier,
Harvey, if you stop believing all those childish stories.
He glanced at me, half fearful, half excited. American are used to
having their believes re-enforced, not challenged, especially not by
strangers. It's an immigrant country: people are always newcomers,
always have to be polite all the time, to get along; not call each other
morons. It's a country of tolerance. Isn't it?

--Are you happier then?
--Happier than who?
--Happier than...straight people. Normal people--I guess what I mean is, are
you happier than me? Us normal, churchgoing everyday folk?
--Oh Harvey, there is no such thing as normal churchgoing folk. It's an
illusion, that whole majority and mainstream thing. Everybody believes
they are in the majority, especially fascists. Everybody tunes into
their own news channels, magazines, websites, and blocks out all the
other views. Mainstream is a dream, dreamt by media executives. It
doesn't exist.
--I get that, but... I mean you are open and gay...
--Not that open...
--Well you seem pretty open to me. You are what in my neck of the woods
they'd call `an alternative lifestyle.'
--You see that's an insult. Alternative to what?
--Oh, yes...I see.
--Good. I am sorry, Harvey, we shouldn't have this discussion, I sound so
belligerent.
I wanted to be even more conciliatory, so I added,
—I really like you!
We chewed our pastries. I wanted to have a nice chat with him, not
lecture him on my non-beliefs.
--You haven't answered my question, he said, suddenly, putting down his
coffee cup.
--Which one was that?
And then he said with all the emphasis, as if he really meant it--unlike
the bulk of his compatriots every day,
--Are you happy? Really happy, being different?
I thought for a moment, licking my fingers. There was custard cream
sticking to it. The image of licking Romain's cum flashed in my head,
and I shook it off, physically trembling. Involuntarily, I emitted a
strange sound.
--You alright?
--Yes, yes.
--So? Are you happy?
--Give me a moment.
I had two choices: tell him that yes, I was liberated and religion-free,
without the ballast that makes life hell for so many. I made my own
rules and my own moral decisions, I chose my partners without concerns
of class or money or image, and I wanted--so desperately--that people
without religion could be happy and free.
The other choice was to tell him the truth. The truth I had realized
last night, this morning: that I was desperate for love, attention,
affection. That I had waited the last years for someone to come along
and hold me, touch me, wake up with me each morning with bad breath;
someone to love me as I am, and not as I act, someone I could call my
own, and who would do the same for me, for in this world, on this earth,
the only thing that counts is binding yourself to another human, and
giving up--unselfishly--all demands and pretenses.
I couldn't possibly get into all that.
--When's your flight? I asked.
--Oh ... not until this evening. I am flying on to Hong Kong. Going to
China, visiting suppliers there.
Shit.
A whole day to spend with Harvey, explaining why I was happy--or why I
was not.
—I mean, you are a very good-looking fellow.
It sounded dishonest, as if he really couldn't judge, but needed to say
it to cajole into honesty.
I looked at him, entreating him to let me off. Not to make him tell me
of my loneliness. Of my remorse--that I had for far too long gone from
bar to bar, from club to club, from gay dating website to website,
looking for sex and pleasure, pleasing the flesh and letting my heart
wither away. That I envied straight people and their presumably more
orderly lives, their stronger commitments. Everything in the gay world
seemed so selfish to me, so...like Romain. The bastard. He'd seduced me,
lured me into his embrace, toyed with me for a night, and then dumped
me. At five in the morning! To catch a flight!

Harvey stared at me.
He wouldn't let me off the hook.
--Well, ARE YOU HAPPY?

Why is it so important to you, straight half-believing American computer
dealer, whether I, Asian muscle top and unsuccessful banker, am happy?
Should I tell you I yearn to live with a Caucasian bottom, with whom the
attraction of races--that weird, inexplicable game of light versus dark,
smooth versus hairy, where opposite attract--could reach their full
potential? Should I tell you that most foreigners like passive Asians,
indeed, and most of my Asian friends want a hunky white guy who fucks
them twice a day and treats them like a woman? Should I burden you with
all that nonsense--that unimportant image stuff that makes relationships
hell and doesn't count at all, in the end, because two people, two men,
are just that--two lonely souls, helplessly drifting, glued together by
raw and violent passion? That sex doesn't mean ANYTHING, that the only
thing that counts is who you hold and hug each night, and smell in your
sheets.
Should I tell you, Harvey, that I am tired of being gay and alone, that
all my friends, my good Asian friends, are all married, and have
children, and families, and that I alone am the odd one out, that I am
not out and proud, that I have to lie to them, lie to them at every
opportunity, tell them that I still haven't found the right girl, let
them take me out on a night on the town, let them introduce me to their
sisters and colleagues...? Should I tell you, you miserably innocent, you
faithfully deluded American, that sometimes I think I am the loneliest
person on the planet?
Should I tell you, Harvey that I am so fucking lonely, so desperate for
human contact, that I will dream of Romain for the rest of the year, and
every time I cling to my duvet at home, will wish I was in his arms
again? Should I tell you,honestly, that before your eyes, last night, I
have fallen head over heels in love with a French banker who has taken
my breath away? Seduced me with his mannerism, his speech, his laughter,
and his smile? That I was sure I would never see him again, that I would
be lonely, again, and for god knows how long--and would pick up more guys
for meaningless sex, tie them up, make them beg for my big cock, say it,
bottom-boy, say, please Sir can I have your cock, and then, at first
light, they would leave, or I them, and return to my flat--and be alone,
in cold sheets, day after day, morning after morning, with nobody to
talk to even? Do you really, really, want to know all that? The depth of
my despair?

--Are you crying? I heard him ask, somewhere out there.
I looked up.
I was crying, indeed. I sobbed: it was impossible to speak. And for the
first time in my life, I didn't care if anybody noticed.

And then I saw him.

He stood in the door of the breakfast room.
He had his suitcase by his side.
He was looking around, searching.
I raise my hand, timidly, and stood up.
He saw me, came running across the room, bumping into a lady and her
cheese platter, knocking over a child, yogurt tumbling to the floor, and
he ran and stopped and stood before me, and threw his arms around me and
hugged me so hard the breath was pushed from my lungs with one big
immersive groan. I felt warmth flow into every fiber of my body.
He whispered into my ear.
--I cannot leave. I change my flight. Is Saturday, you know?
I could think of nothing, nothing in the world to say, but to look into
his eyes, and then kiss him. In front of all these stupid staring
people, standing right next to Harvey--mouth open, pastry flakes all over
his chin; drooling slightly.

Romain hugged me again, and again he whispered.
--I am starving. I will have breakfast, here, OK?
I nodded.
I sat down, and watched him stow his suitcase, and walk towards the buffet.

Harvey said,
--I thought he...?
I shrugged my shoulders. I had tears in my eyes, lots of them--I felt
them running down my cheeks. I looked at him, my French lover. Slowly,
very slowly, I realized what had happened: he had gone to the airport,
and returned--for me. H had postponed, put his life on hold, to be with
me. I felt the blood flush through my cheeks, my cock rise, my legs
shake and my lips quaver.
I opened my eyes, then wiped my face with both hands. I became acutely
aware of my public shame--everyone was looking at me sobbing. For an
Asian that's...death. Yet I felt strangely alive.

--Oh, Harvey?
I looked at the obese American. His face was one big question mark.
--Yes?
--In answer to your question ...
--Huh?
--Your question...
--Oh, yes?

--I am perfectly happy.

THE END.
Copyright 2011 by Marten Weber.
Visit www.martenweber.com if you want to read more, or check the nifty
archives. All your feedback and criticism much appreciated. My editor is
still on vacation, so if you do find typos and errors, please drop me a
line. webmarten@gmail.com