Date: Sun, 9 Mar 2014 09:34:28 -0700 (PDT)
From: Seth Kirkcauldy <seth-kirkcauldy@sbcglobal.net>
Subject: Single Malt (Revised)

Single Malt
copyright 2013 Seth Kirkcauldy
seth-kirkcauldy@sbcglobal.net

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This story is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or
dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are a
product of the author's imagination, or used fictitiously.  This story
contains erotic situations between consenting adults of the same sex.  If
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Colin McIntyre was freezing his arse off.  And it was his 'arse' and not
his 'ass' because he was hunched in the April cold of Edinburgh, Scotland
wearing a kilt.  The bitter wind was sticking its icy hand up his thighs to
answer for itself the age-old question of what exactly those crazy Scotsmen
wore under there.  Colin feared the inquiry might result in frostbite.

He was actually an American, but with a Scottish name wearing Scottish
formal dress in a Scottish city, having just attended a Scottish wedding
rehearsal.  And, by God, he was going to stop at a pub and get some true
Scottish whisky before he slid another step in the soggy muck of this city.
His prosthesis was having trouble getting traction and he was a mere step
or two away from ending upside down in the street showing the world his
naughty bits.

It was bad enough that the people stared at him openly as he slid down the
street wearing a kilt and his prosthetic blade leg; he needn't compound
that by kicking it over his ears like a Friday night whore.  So he grabbed
the door to the very first pub he came to on George Street, a green and
gilt affair that looked stately and presentable and - PLEASE God - warm,
yanked it open with a strong arm, and entered.

It was much smaller inside than it appeared on the street, as if it were
some sort of animal that puffed itself up to threaten off danger.  Ten
tables - if he was generous - were scattered around the dark interior, but
this left room for a billiard table and the ubiquitous dartboard.  The bar
itself was a monstrous thing, hewn from solid mahogany.  In fact, all the
wood in the pub was dark, as were the walls and the floor.  The lights were
muted by both the frugal nature of the proprietor (it seemed only about
half the fixtures had bulbs), and the dark shades that covered them.

It fell to the bartender, then, to light the room, and he did it almost
solely with his wild flame-red hair.  To look at him was to immediately
recall the legends of the northern highland barbarians.  He must have
weighed two hundred and fifty pounds - Colin had no idea how to convert
that to stone or to kilograms -and had green eyes the color of absinthe.
He was not handsome by any modern definition, but he was certainly
compelling in the way of mad dogs and berserkers.

"Welcome then, laddie.  What whisky wannae ye?"

Not "what can I get you?" noted Colin, but "what whisky wannae ye?"  This
was exactly the pub he wanted.

"I'm an American," Colin admitted, swiping the damp from his formal jacket
and kilt.  His horsehair sporran made him look as if he had a goatee on his
crotch, coated with hoarfrost.  He knocked some of the icy water off of it.
"I don't know my scotch, I'm afraid.  What do you recommend?"

The five men scattered around the bar who had watched his arrival with
interest seemed suddenly to find all their attention taken by the small
glasses of amber liquid in front of them.  Colin could feel their
embarrassment for him.

"Ye've but one leg, laddie!"  The bartender suddenly roared, as if he was
discovering something Colin did not know, and, as if, it somehow explained
why he knew nothing about the national drink.

"Yes," said Colin, at a loss.  He dropped upon a bar stool wearily.  God,
it had been a long day.  Wedding rehearsals were a punishment to all good,
godly men; and he wasn't even either one of those.

The bartender settled himself directly across from Colin and propped his
elbow upon the bar and his chin upon his palm, and looked at Colin
expectantly.  "Let's 'av it, then."

"Have what?"

"The tale of the one-legged American, o'course," the bartender looked at
him expectantly - and a bit pityingly - as if he were addled and had
trouble with language.

Colin felt his eyes harden and his back straighten.  He was not a man to be
pitied.  He owed the men in this bar nothing, yet he deigned to answer by
merely spitting out the word, "Afghanistan."

Everything changed.  The other men in the bar once again swung their gazes
to look at him, and the humor in the bartender's green eyes died down to
become something else entirely.  He nodded once, turned to the shelves
behind him and selected a bottle.

Colin thought he heard one of the other men gasp.

"This be Macallan Speymalt.  It's older than ye are," the bartender said
softly, pouring a gold liquid into a small, rounded glass.

"I'm 28," replied Colin.

The bartender met his eyes kindly, and pushed the glass toward him.  "It's
older than ye are," he said.

Colin picked up the glass and sniffed it self-consciously.  It wasn't wine;
he wasn't sure if he was supposed to smell it this way, but the bartender
seemed to be looking at him with approval.  He sniffed it again.  The
vapors of the alcohol were much mellower than he expected.  He'd had whisky
before, but that experiment ended in him hacking and coughing from the
choking effect of the alcohol burn.  This though, this didn't burn his nose
at all.  He thought that he smelled... no, he was sure that he smelled...

"Smoke," he said quietly.  And all the men in the bar sighed and murmured.

"Aye," said the bartender reverently.

Colin met his eye while he took his first sip; the light green of the
bartender's gaze seemed to go wide with expectation.  Colin rolled the
liquid on his tongue, felt it coat it lightly before he swallowed, leaving
a pleasant warm trail down his throat.  When he opened his mouth and let
the air in, his taste buds exploded with information.  First, he tasted a
green, mulchy flavor...

"Peat," said the bartender knowingly.

And then sweet, golden flavors like honey...

"Mead," the bartender nodded, watching his face carefully.

And then, dear God...

"Everything else," the bartender grinned with glee.

Colin threw back his head and looked at the pressed-tin ceiling, mostly to
hide his gaze from the bartender.  He felt so vulnerable all the sudden,
and didn't like that everything was so easily read upon his face.  But the
scotch...

"That's amazing," he whispered to the ceiling, bizarrely aware that tears
were welling in his eyes.

"Aye," replied the bartender gruffly, "and so is a proper warrior,
Mr. McIntyre.  Ye enjoy the whisky."

Colin snapped his eyes back to the man, his forehead creased in confusion.
"How do you know my name?" He demanded.

"Tartan," the bartender replied respectfully, gesturing to the kilt Colin
wore.  "Ye wear yer family proud, laddie."

Colin nodded.  Of course, the tartan; how stupid to forget he was wearing
it and that some here would know what it meant.

"LEAVE 'IM BE!"  The bartender roared suddenly, and Colin jumped.  He now
saw that a man had come up beside him, but the gentleman quickly retreated
in the wake of the bartender's outburst.

Colin turned back to the barkeep to find him calmly wiping down the
mahogany top with a white rag.  He glanced up at Colin ruefully, his hair
wild and his gaze crazy.

"He were gonna offer ye a blowjob fer yer whisky."

"I..."  That was all Colin could say.  His mouth stayed open, but no other
words came out.  The bartender grinned at him.

"Dinnae think ye'd be interested.  But if ye are, any 'o the others would
do it gladly without yer whisky."

"I... oh."

The bartender chuckled warmly.  "Naught will bother ye now, laddie.  Drink
yer whisky, eh?"

The door opened and another man entered, bringing with him a wicked breeze
that shot straight up Colin's kilt and caressed his balls.  He hissed in
discomfort and resisted the temptation to cross his legs like a schoolgirl.
The bartender laughed knowingly and set an empty glass in front of the
stool next to Colin's and poured out a measure from another bottle.

"Ian," he said in welcome.  The slight man was bundled in a woolen black
overcoat, and he unbuttoned it with one hand while he reached for his drink
with the other.  It was only after he took an appreciative sip and rolled
it around his tongue that he sat on the stool and nodded to both the
barkeep and Colin.  Then he did a double take at Colin before forcing his
attention back to the bartender.

"Fergus," he said in greeting.

The bartender scowled.  "'Tis not 'Fergus', I keep tellin' ye."

"But you won't tell me what it is," said Ian reasonably, "so I shall call
you 'Fergus' until you do."

Colin grinned despite himself.  "You DO look like a Fergus," he said to the
bartender.

"That's racism," said the bartender grumpily.

"I wouldn't know anything about that," said Ian flatly.  He was clearly of
Pakistani descent, with handsome brown skin, dark eyes and glossy black
hair.  He spoke in a lilting British accent.

Colin wondered if the racism Ian faced was born of the fact that he was
Pakistani, or British.  He took another small sip of his whisky, aware that
every man but Ian was watching him drink.  Ian seemed to realize the same
thing, and brushed Colin with his elbow.

"Which is that?"

Colin shrugged.  "Macallan Speymalt.  I only know it's older than me."

Ian swiveled his head and looked at the man whose name was not Fergus.
"Bastard."

The bartender grinned and turned away to go fill up one of the glasses at a
table in a dark corner.

"It's not easy to gain Fergus' respect, especially for an American like
yourself.  Congratulations," Ian said to him.

Colin shrugged again.  "I don't really care if he respects me or not."

Ian's eyes widened and he grinned.  "Oh.  You are VERY American, aren't
you?"

They were silent then, each sipping his scotch slowly.

"Men in kilts are very popular in this bar," Ian suddenly said carefully.

"I've come to realize," Colin replied with a rueful grin.  He looked at Ian
out of the corner of his eye.

He found the man to be beautiful; there was no getting around that.  He
wondered if it was because he knew that he was likely a gay man, or if he
would have noticed it otherwise.  Ian didn't look feminine, even with the
long, curly black hair and his slight build; his dark, stubbled face and
sharp, angular body ensured a masculine edge to him.

"What puts an American into a kilt?"

Colin liked his voice too.  It was unexpectedly deep coming from a man of
that stature.  He probably stood at five feet seven, a good five or six
inches shorter than Colin, and everything Colin could see was in perfect
proportion to that size.  All except his eyes and his voice; they both
belonged on a giant.

"Family does.  A wedding.  What do you do?" Colin asked.

"Professor at the University of Edinburg.  I try to educate the Scots.
BLOODY HARD WORK," he purposefully said the last bit loud enough to be
heard by Fergus.  It earned him a rude gesture.  "And what about you, when
you're not out torturing gay men in the bars?"

Colin squirmed uneasily on his stool.  "Unemployed.  I just recently
finished my therapy for my leg, and I've not yet figured out what I want to
do."

"I can't imagine going through that again.  Wasn't it bad enough we had to
figure it out the first time through?"

Colin grinned in appreciation.  "That's it exactly," he said, "I'm
twenty-eight and suddenly trying to figure out my fucking major."

Their conversation meandered comfortably from that starting point.  Colin
told Ian all about life in the military and Ian shared many stories
regarding the hazards of instructing Scotsmen.  Colin had to agree there
was considerably more peril involved in professorship than he realized.
Ian was particularly animated when telling of all the sheep that had been
locked in his office.

"Where did your students get all the sheep?"

"Scotland has over 3 sheep for every person.  They have so many, they dress
some of them up and make them tend bar."

"Feck ye!"  Fergus said without heat from across the bar.

"Sorry, Colin.  I'd forgotten that Fergus starts talking about fucking the
moment I mention sheep."

Ian smiled a lot, Colin noticed; and it made him realize that he had not
been around a truly happy person in a long time.

"Do you mind if I ask about your leg?  I'd entirely understand if you're
exhausted by the question."

Colin looked up to find Ian looking at him intently.  His eyes were dark,
raven pools; but they were warmed and softened by long, dark lashes.  The
expression on his face was open and friendly, clearly trying not to cause
offense.

Colin had been dealing with questions about his leg all day long; most of
them were from bored bridesmaids who were afraid they'd be paired with him
and expected to dance.  No one had asked with just a desire to hear his
story.  In fact, in the past two years, few people had looked at him the
way this man was looking at him now.

He shook his head.  "I don't mind," he surprised himself by saying.  In
fact, he felt somewhat grateful for the interest from someone who was not
worried how his tragedy was going to affect them.

"Marine Sergeant Colin McIntyre, 1st Battalion, 11th Marines, 1st Marine
Division out of Camp Pendleton, California," Colin said all in a long
breath.  He paused for a time after that.  The pub was completely silent;
everyone in it was listening to him again.  Fergus finished another refill
and returned behind the bar.

"Or, I was," Colin amended.  Then immediately: "I'm still a marine, of
course... because we always are...  but... well, obviously no longer
active."  He looked down at his drink.

He didn't say anything for so long that Ian finally nudged him gently.
With the movement, Colin smelled a calming scent like sandalwood or balsa.
It was probably Ian's soap.

"Was it an IED?"  The man prompted softly.

"No."  Colin rubbed his face with his hands, scrubbing a memory from it.
"No, it was not.  It was a grenade launcher."

He sipped his whisky again, but was now too preoccupied in his head to
taste it properly.

"On May 7, 2011 in the Battle of Kandahar, I was one of very few Americans
who were assisting the Afghan National Police against the Taliban
Insurgents."

"That was the week bin Laden was killed," Ian said.

Colin nodded.  "It was.  I was at the governor's office in Kandahar when it
was attacked by about a hundred Taliban soldiers with rocket propelled
grenades.  They were trying to avenge the killing of Osama bin Laden."

He took another sip of whisky, and then looked up to find those dark eyes
watching him.  It sounded so odd to hear his own voice reduce the biggest
drama of his life to a sound bite like that.  It lacked all the details of
sight and sound and... terror.

"I'm sorry," Ian said.

Colin shrugged.  "It was my job," he looked into his now-empty glass.  "It
was the loss of my wife that was harder, to be honest."

Fergus, on the other side of the bar, reacted to this comment by
straightening his spine and allowing his green eyes to settle on Colin,
"She left ye, did she?"

Colin sighed, "She was never really able to cope with it.  She never signed
up for that..."

"Fecking cunt!" Fergus grunted.

"No.  No..." Colin demurred.  "She married a whole man, and I..."

"Bitch," Ian agreed, watching Colin's face closely.  "I'll buy you another
Macallan if you'd like it," he offered quietly.

"I'll pitch in," said an old voice from the dark of the pub.

"Me too," joined another.

For the second time that evening, Colin felt the disorienting sting of
tears in his eyes.

"No," he said gruffly.  "No thank you.  I think I should be going now." He
looked around him to gather his things and realized he had nothing with
him.

He glanced at Fergus.  "H-h-how much do I owe you?"

Fergus glared at him, insulted.  "Get yer hero arse outta here, laddie."

Colin nodded.  "Well, thank you.  It was a pleasure."

He rooted through his sporran and pulled out some money which he left atop
the bar as a tip.  He pushed off his stool and walked to the door.

He glanced back with his hand on the door handle and found both Fergus and
Ian watching him closely.

Ian raised his hand.  "Good night."

Colin nodded again and left.

The miserable weather had continued unabated during his respite in the bar,
and it returned to its rude handling of Colin immediately.  He wrapped his
arms around his chest and made his way carefully through the remaining
three blocks to his hotel room, slipping occasionally when his prosthesis
failed to gain proper traction.

He pushed his way into the old lobby of his building, grunted a greeting to
the plain woman who ran the place, and climbed the three flights of stairs
to his cubicle.  Technically, it was a room; but unlike any hotel room he'd
ever rented in the States, this one was barely big enough for the bed that
was in it.  The door opened inward, and ran into the corner of the bed
prior to reaching the halfway point.  Colin had to squeeze his broad
shoulders through the narrowed opening and then sit immediately upon the
mattress; there was no room for him to stand.

The only other piece of furniture was a two drawer dresser; but the bottom
drawer could not be opened because it was blocked by the mattress.  Half of
Colin's belongings were stuffed into the top drawer, and the remainder in
the small suitcase perched atop the bureau.

The bathroom was down the hall and was shared by two other rooms on the
floor.  The best that could be said about his accommodations was that they
were affordable; something that was currently very important.

Colin sat for a long moment looking at the four, unadorned white walls.  He
had grown accustomed to the unabated melancholia over the past two years,
but this sense of restlessness within him was something new.  He knew it
was normal to still be in mourning over his losses; they were significant.
His leg, his career, his wife, his pride; they were all irretrievable and
he was supposed to replace them with other things.  A prosthetic career and
a prosthetic pride, he presumed.

He sighed and set about unlatching his leg and removing his stump from the
socket.  He had walked too much that day and it was chafing.  He fished the
lotion out of his open suitcase and rubbed it into the red, irritated skin.
He knew he was merely delaying the moment in which he would lay in the dark
and feel his leg and his wife still there, the phantom limbs that his body
could not forget.

It had been over two years since anyone had touched him, and his flesh was
starving for it.  As he rubbed his sore leg gently, his skin drank up the
lotion as if it was kindness.  In his mind's eye it was Ian's long, brown
fingers that he was picturing.  He was very attracted to the professor, and
he found that more amusing than dismaying.



The wedding the next day was very much like the weather: it may have been
the way of nature, but it made Colin miserable.  His cousin, Andrew, tried
to make Colin feel as welcome as possible, but he had other priorities that
day.  Andrew's bride, on the other hand, was cold and distant, just as she
had been during the rehearsal the prior evening.  Colin wasn't sure what he
might have done to offend her but suspected she resented the way he ruined
the pictures of the wedding party.

He briefly wondered how she'd feel if he drew his Sgian Dubh and plunged it
into his heart while she was saying her vows.

But in the end, the ceremony was grand, and the dinner authentic.

"She made me agree to the haggis," Andrew whispered confidentially to
Colin.  "Is all of married life doing things you hate so that you can get
laid?"

Colin winced at the cynicism.  Luckily, he knew his cousin well enough to
know he was truly in love; but then he would have to be to agree to haggis.

"I'm not sure I'm the one to ask about married life," he replied, trying
hard to not sound bitter.

Andrew clapped his shoulder in a manly dismissal and went to say shallow
things to other guests; so Colin wandered over to the bar and greeted the
bartender.  He ended up leaving empty-handed when he discovered there was
no scotch on offer.  He found it was the only thing that interested him
that day.

"He could have just declined," a bridesmaid was saying to someone as he was
passing behind her table.  "Obviously they asked him out of some sense of
family obligation.  The polite thing to do was just decline.  Anna doesn't
even know him that well, and he ruined the whole wedding by showing off his
wounds in that kilt.  Anna says he does it for attention."

"He's divorced?" The friend enquired.

"Yes, can you imagine his poor wife?  It all must have been very hard on
her."

Colin was glad he didn't have a glass of liquor in his hand, as it was
shaking so badly he was sure he would drop it.  He made his way to an empty
table so that he could sit in peace and watch all the people enjoying
themselves.  Their happiness seemed to go on forever.



"Here's tae us!"  Fergus was shouting as Colin pushed open the door.  The
bartender's hair was flying about his head in a scarlet nimbus, and one of
his massive hands was holding a dram of whisky high in the air.

"Wha's like us?"  The others in the bar roared back at him.

"Gey few, and they're a' deid," Fergus responded, and downed his drink in a
single gulp.  Then his wild viridian eyes caught sight of Colin.

"Sergeant McIntyre!"  He boomed with pleasure.  He grabbed a clean glass
and set it on the bar and then turned to the shelves behind him.

"I'm paying my own way tonight, Fergus!" Colin called to him.  "Something
affordable, please."

"Pffft," said Fergus in disappointment.  "As ye will.  And my name is no'
Fergus."

"What IS your name, then?"

The barkeep looked at him flatly.  "Fergus'll do, I s'pose."

He poured an amber liquid into Colin's glass and pushed it toward the
American as he took his seat.

Colin put his nose above the rim and tested the aroma carefully: more of
the peat and smoke, but stronger and less refined.

"Laphroaig," Fergus told him.  "Tis fine quality, but not an auld
Macallan."

"Thank you," Colin murmured, looking around the pub.

"He'll be in again.  Been in twice already to see if ye were here."

Colin felt his heart speed up.  "Oh?  What?  Who's that?"

The bartender smirked.  "The bonny Ian, o'course.  He damn near wept when
ye left yesterday.  Fecking Englishman."

The last bit seemed to be out of habit rather than conviction, but it was
really the thought of Ian that was tugging the corners of Colin's lips into
a smile.  He hadn't realized how much he hoped he might see him.

"A kilt again, laddie?  Yer pressin' yer luck in here.  I cannae hold 'em
back forever with you showin' off all yer bonny bits."

"Wedding," Colin replied in explanation.

"Och!  Who's the sap, eh?"

"My cousin, Andrew."

"Sorry 'e deid, then, laddie.  That's a sad, sad thing."

Colin coughed a laugh, and hid his smile while he wiped his lips.  Fergus
grinned unrepentantly and went to fill a glass, but then abruptly turned
and faced the door when it opened.

"Ian!"  He greeted loudly, and he glanced at Colin with a smile.

"Hello Fergus!  Hello Colin."  He settled on the stool next to Colin,
removing his big overcoat while the bartender poured him an unordered
drink.  Ian was dressed in tight black slacks and a white shirt; they
hugged his small form beautifully.

"'Tis nice tae see ye fer the third time today," Fergus said
undiplomatically.

Ian blushed and quickly glanced away from Colin.  His discomfiture was
charming.

"I didn't think you'd come back," Ian suddenly said, turning back quickly
to the American, almost in accusation.

Colin gestured at his clothes.  "I had the wedding today.  It took
forever."

"Well, congratulations, then," Ian returned with a smile.  "Who's the lucky
girl?"

This time Colin blushed stupidly, and he found himself embarrassed that he
was embarrassed.  "Not my wedding; my cousin's."

"Ahh.  Good.  I had hoped."

Without saying more about that, Ian took a sip of his whisky.

"Hoped what?"

Ian carefully set down his glass and turned to face Colin squarely.  He
spoke like a man who had spent a full night regretting he hadn't spoken
before.  His voice was so soft that Colin had to lean toward him to catch
the words.

"I hoped you liked me.  I hoped you'd remember me and come back to get me."
He shrugged.  "I guess I hoped the handsome prince would invite me up to
his grand castle suite on the top of Arthur's Seat and fuck me until
morning."

All the air rushed out of Colin's lungs and he almost fell off his stool.
His prosthesis kicked the bar loudly.  He regained his balance awkwardly
and then looked falteringly into the dark-eyed gaze of his companion.

 "My 'suite' is about the size of a postage stamp," he muttered back.  "And
if 'Arthur's Seat' is the name of a ghetto, then yeah, that's where my
postage stamp is located."

Ian snorted and a grin lifted his full lips.  He was truly the most
beautiful man that Colin had ever seen.  "You're saying you don't want to
fuck me?"

Colin's teeth clacked nervously.  "I... I just...  I've never, you know -
with a man?  I guess I've known I might like it, but I haven't...  And
since my leg... I've just not...  I'm not sure what to do."

Ian looked at him appraisingly and quickly said, "I know what to do."  He
dropped some money on the bar, grabbed Colin's hand, and pulled him toward
the door.

"G'night, laddie!" Fergus said loudly, but his amused voice was cut off by
the noise of the busy street.

"Lead the way to the postage stamp?"  Ian requested, and Colin nodded once
and started off, head down against the wind.  He found himself sweating
even under the assault of the cold air.  He wasn't sure he'd ever been so
nervous.

It was only a quarter of an hour before they arrived, pushing into the
lobby.  Not even the proprietor was around this time.  Colin reached out
for Ian's hand and led him up the stairs.  The touch of fingers entwined
with his own was almost enough for the whole night.  Even if Ian fled,
Colin would remember this feeling of their fingers dancing together.

Ian laughed when he saw the room - laughed HARD - but it did not embarrass
Colin.  It was such honest humor that Colin looked at him sheepishly, but
was too busy watching the lines of happiness on the man's face to feel
badly.  They both settled onto the bed immediately, because there was no
other place for them to go.  Ian was still laughing.

"Is it too small for you?" Colin asked with a completely straight face, but
with all the innuendo he could muster.

Ian dissolved into laughter.  He snorted charmingly and pitched himself
back on the bed, covering his face.

Colin pulled his hands away, "I want to see you.  Please."

The laughter evaporated almost immediately.  "Take off your leg, Colin,
please.  I'll work on your clothes."  Ian immediately set to unbuttoning
the formal jacket above the kilt.

"My leg...?"

"Just you, Colin.  I just want you."

Colin went completely still and then rubbed the palms of his hands in his
eyes to stop the burn that those words put there.  He was momentarily
unsure what to do, but then realized he needed to do whatever the fuck he
was asked.  He sat up and started to take off his leg, his hands shaking.

He removed his stump carefully from the socket and then handed the
prosthesis off to Ian.

"Would you mind standing it in the corner?  It's the only place it'll fit
unless you want us to sleep with it."

Ian smiled at this and took the leg, propping it in the corner by the chest
of drawers.  Then he returned his attention to Colin who was sitting up and
removing his shirt and jacket.

"Wow," Ian whispered.

Colin's body was strongly muscled.  His chest and arms were well-developed
and kept fit.  His chest was lightly dusted in dark hairs that matched what
was on his head.  From the look in Ian's eye, he approved greatly.

"Could I touch you?"  Ian asked, his hand trembling slightly as it reached
toward him.

"God, yes," Colin replied, hungrily anticipating the touch of other skin
against his.

Ian brushed his fingers against Colin's nipple.

"Holy hell!"  Colin yelped, scaring them both so they jumped.  "Shit, I'm
sorry.  That's cold."

Ian sat looking at him startled for just a moment, and then started
laughing again.

"I'm sorry," he managed to say around his laughter.  "I should have
thought.  It's very cold out and I don't have gloves."

Colin had his eyes squeezed shut against the awkwardness he'd just created,
and then grabbed Ian's hand and put it back on his chest.  "Please.  Please
touch me."

"Oh," Ian said, letting out all his breath with that word.  Colin pressed
Ian's hand against the muscular mound of his chest.  Together, they felt
his heart beating.  Colin slid Ian's hand slowly over his skin in a slow
discovery.  Their gazes crossed and caught, and they both noted the
immediate increase in Colin's heart rate.

 Ian smiled rather wistfully.  "Mine's doing that too," he said.  "Just so
you know."

"Show me," Colin demanded, eyes raking at Ian's clothes.

Ian nodded.  "You finish, too.  Can you get out of that kilt yourself?"

Colin deftly flipped something in the back at his waist and then unwound
the kilt slightly and slid it off.  It took him about five seconds to be
gloriously naked.  Ian's mouth dropped open for several reasons.

"I am so glad I didn't know you could do that back in the bar," he finally
said huskily.  "Fuck, look at you.  You're beautiful."

"What's left of me..."  Colin said, and then realized he sounded bitter and
shook his head to negate it.  "I'm sorry..."

"You're beautiful," Ian repeated wonderingly.  The expression on his face
left no doubt that he meant it.

"Strip, Man!"  Colin hissed, and Ian set immediately to obey.

Colin had seen many men undress; from locker rooms to military barracks, he
had been around a lot of naked men's bodies.  He'd always known he
appreciated the aesthetic, he'd wondered on occasion if he was bisexual;
but he'd always had relationships with women, and he was always faithful in
those relationships.  In his fantasies though, when he was alone and
stoking himself, his mind sometimes wandered to the male side of the
street.

He had never, however, seen a man undress specifically for him.  He had
never had a man staring openly at his sprawled body while he peeled off his
shirt and unzipped his pants.  Ian didn't tease Colin on purpose, but the
result of the slowly-bared skin was the same.  Colin couldn't wait to touch
him and was going crazy with need.

Ian was formed perfectly; his compact body was built of long, toned
muscles, the exact opposite of Colin's bulk.  His skin was the copper and
bronze tones of a deep, deep suntan.  His black silky hair was in long
ringlets that reached his shoulders, and Colin's fingers twitched to bury
themselves in it.  His chest was mostly smooth save for a dark trail that
started between his pectorals and ran straight to his pubes, bisecting him
perfectly.  The thatch between his legs was also so black it glistened, and
his cock poked straight out at Colin.  It was in proportion to the rest of
Ian, which made it considerably smaller than Colin's own.  Colin felt
himself smiling openly at the suddenly self-conscious and beautiful
university professor.

He met his eye, and then dropped his gaze slowly until it rested on his own
cock which was standing up in his lap and leaking precum.  He looked again
at Ian.  "I don't think this is going to be a problem," he said
confidently.

Ian laughed and then crawled over his sprawled limbs and lay on top of him,
all of his skin pressing against all of Colin's.  Colin groaned in relief,
and then Ian bent and kissed him.

Colin's mind went blank with shock.  He didn't retreat, nor did he fumble,
he just took a moment to get his bearings.  For some reason he had never,
not once, considered kissing a man.  He just hadn't thought about it, but
he found himself thinking about it now.

Ian's mouth was gentle and soft on his own, their lips touching hesitantly.
Then the tip of his tongue peeked out and Colin's mouth opened to accept
it.  He stopped thinking after that.  He groaned deeply, relishing all of
the warm skin against his own and the clever, wet mouth on his.  He sucked
Ian's tongue for just a moment before backing away to whisper, "you taste
like scotch."

"I'd rather taste like American," Ian whispered in his ear, nipping it
playfully and then capturing his mouth for another kiss.  Colin groaned
again.

Their bodies were aligned so that Ian's cock rubbed along Colin's as his
lithe body undulated on top of him.  Both of them provided plenty of
natural lubricant to aid that silky sliding of one against the other.  They
were moaning into each other's mouths when Colin let his hands dance along
Ian's spine until they cupped the perfect mounds of his ass.  He pulled him
tightly against him and ground their bodies together.

Colin suddenly released the pressure and stilled.

"Please!"  Ian hissed.  "Please do that again."

"I can't," Colin chuckled, embarrassed.  "It's been a very long time, Ian.
I can't last.  You feel too good.  I'll pop in a short second."

Ian pushed himself back from Colin, supporting himself with his arms on the
bed.  He looked at him shyly, but still in the eye.

"Can I stay the night?"  He asked.  "Do you mind if I stay here with you?"

"Of course.  There's plenty of room," Colin gestured expansively, making
Ian laugh again.  God that felt good against his body.  "I hoped you would
stay, actually.  I - I have to leave in the morning, though.  I have a
flight back home."

"Oh."

"I know," Colin whispered, closing his eyes against the look on Ian's face.
"I know."

Ian dipped and brushed Colin's lips with his own.  "But I can stay?"

"Yes."

"Then don't worry about going quickly.  Enjoy yourself.  If it's okay with
you, we'll do it twelve or fifteen more times before your flight leaves."

Colin laughed again but grabbed the back of Ian's head with one hand and
his ass with the other and then ground both his mouth and his crotch into
the man.  He devoured his lips while he thrust his cock hard and fast
against Ian's.

They smiled against each other, licking and nipping while their bodies
warmed to the point they started sweating and sliding.  It was bliss after
being so cold, for Colin to feel warmth that seeped right inside him.  His
breath was coming in short gasps, and when he did gulp down a sip of air,
it came directly from Ian's lungs.  He thought it amazing to be so close
with someone that they shared breath.

Ian was grunting along with him, refusing to be left behind, and when
Colin's muscles all contracted in the painful ecstasy of relief, Ian was
only a few thrusts behind him before his own semen was jetting between
their bodies.  They continued to squirm against each other, fighting to get
closer while their bodies wracked with spasms of pleasure.  Their kisses
turned to slow, leisurely open-mouthed affairs that seemed more like an
intimate conversation of moans and grunts.

Colin finally pulled back to hold Ian's face and touch their foreheads.
"Thank you, thank you, ohmyfuckinggod thank you."  He kissed him.  He
kissed him again.  "I've never kissed a man before in my life."

Ian smiled in pleasure.  "You're very good at it."

"Do you need food?"  Colin suddenly asked him.  "I ate at the wedding, but
I never thought..."

"I'm fine.  Please.  You leave in the morning; I don't want to move from
this spot."

Colin slid their bodies together again and sighed.  "Guy sex is messy,
isn't it?"

"It really, really, is," Ian laughed, closing his long eyelashes.

Colin reached over and grabbed his discarded kilt and started to mop them
up.

"Uhg!  That was a bad choice," he said in disgust.  "A wool cum rag; God,
that's gross."

Ian shook with laughter.  "I can't remember when I've enjoyed someone so
much," he said.  "You're sure you have to go back to the States?  I thought
you said you have no job yet."

"I have to go," he said morosely.  "I can't really afford to pay the fees
to change my ticket; and besides, I have to go back and find a job; it's
becoming a priority."

"I won't mention it again," Ian said softly.  "I just wanted you to know
that I'd like it.  If you stayed."

Colin nodded and kissed him again.  "You know any other guy tricks?  I
liked that first one."

Ian laughed again and dove between Colin's legs, using his tongue to clean
some remaining semen from the hairs there.  Then he dipped his head and
lazily licked at Colin's heavy scrotum.  He twisted his tongue around the
sac and lapped at it very slowly and sensuously.  Colin's soft, satisfied
cock lay upon his cheek while he licked leisurely at his American friend.

"Ahhhh, God, that feels nice, Ian."  Colin finally did what he'd wanted to
do for two days and buried both his hands into that luxurious black hair.
It was as soft and silky as he expected.

They lay there together like that, licking and petting slowly for long
comfortable minutes while their bodies recovered from the first round of
pleasure.  Ian let the warm, soft cock slide off his cheek and lifted
himself and patted Colin's thigh.

"Roll over."

"What?"

"Guy trick," he winked.  Colin swallowed his sudden nervousness and rolled
onto his stomach.

Ian's fluttering tongue actually started on the back of his balls, right
where it had been a few moments before.  Colin sighed into his pillow at
the taunting touch.  Ian's hands were lightly rubbing the globes of his ass
while his tongue slowly traveled the trail up from his balls to his hole,
swirling and teasing the entire way.  Colin groaned aloud at the first
touch of tongue on his asshole; it almost tickled, but in the most amazing
way he'd ever felt.  It was just the gentlest of flutters, a caress.  Then
it was Ian's lips pressed there, brushing against him in a kiss; and the
image of that in Colin's mind is what hardened his cock beneath him.

The kiss turned to very gentle suction, and Ian's tongue plunged deep
inside him.

"Holy Hell!" Colin gasped, arching his back off the bed.  The movement
pulled him away from Ian's face, and so he immediately pushed back again
anxiously, "Ian, please do that again."

Ian chuckled while his tongue snaked back inside, and the vibration caused
a spasm of pleasure to arc across the vibrating muscles in Colin's lower
back.  He had never felt anything like this before.  This was a very, very
good guy trick.

"Awwwwwww," he groaned in a long exhalation.  Ian's tongue was slowly
wriggling in and out of his body.  It was mind-blowing how good that felt.
He'd had no idea at all.  He was unconsciously thrusting his hips, grinding
his cock into the sheets, and then grinding his ass back against Ian's
chin.  It was amazing.

He forced himself to stop and twisted himself over on his back again.  Ian
looked up at him with a cocked eyebrow and Colin slung an arm over his eyes
in embarrassment.

"I feel like a teenager, Ian.  I swear to God I'm going to cum again if you
keep doing that.  I'm sorry."

"I could do that to you forever, Colin.  Even after you've gone off.  I'm
not going anywhere; I'll pleasure you as long as you like."

Colin's chest tightened at that, and he was about to turn back over when he
felt a gentle lick on the head of his cock.  Then another.

"Oh," he managed to say.  And Ian proceeded to demonstrate his skill in
bringing pleasure without tipping Colin over the edge.  Using just his
tongue, he licked the shaft until it was shiny with saliva, causing Colin's
thigh muscles to quiver.  Even his shortened leg was bunching and releasing
with knotted muscles.  Occasionally that talented mouth would brush the
sensitive head, causing Colin to jerk and groan, but then it would be back
on the shaft only, teasing him relentlessly.

Finally, after edging Colin for what seemed forever, Ian slipped his lips
over the head and descended slowly, not stopping until his lips were buried
in Colin's short, curly hairs.  He stayed there for a long moment squeezing
but not moving.

"Holy Hell," Colin murmured.  "I can't believe you can do that.  Oh, holy
hell, that feels incredible."

He expected Ian to start sliding up and down on the top half of it; that's
the way all blowjobs he'd had to date had gone.  And maybe with his hand
massaging his balls and base of the shaft; that always felt nice.

But that's not what Ian did.  With Colin's large cock embedded fully in his
throat, he slowly twisted his head back and forth and used his swallowing
muscles to constrict and release him rhythmically.  Colin realized
immediately that this was the end for him; he couldn't last ten more
seconds.

The pleasure of this movement tightened his balls so that they felt like
they were being squeezed in a vice.  His muscles grew taut, clenching and
releasing; and his hands started flailing against the sheets while his head
tossed around with eyes closed.  He shoved his hips upward in a final
attempt to get even deeper, and gasped out a warning to Ian.

The warning caused Ian to start swiveling his tongue all around the captive
flesh while squeezing even harder.

Colin erupted deep into Ian's throat, blasting his load to paint his lower
esophagus.  Ian never let him pull out the slightest, but kept his head
down and his throat muscles milking his cock.  Colin yelled aloud with the
force of his climax, his whole body pulsating with orgasmic convulsions.
Ian slid upwards for a gasp of air, and then quickly returned down to his
deep hold on Colin's cock.

And once again he stayed there, constricting slowly while Colin's body
shivered beneath him.

Colin's panting filled the small room, and his broad chest rose and fell,
beads of sweat rolling down his abdomen.  Ian finally came up for another
breath.  He released the turgid cock from his lips, but held it gently in
his hands and placed kisses on the circumcised head.  It flexed in
response.

"I think he likes you," Colin panted.  "You are amazing.  That was...  I'm
going to sound like an idiot, but that was the most incredible thing anyone
has ever done to me."

"I'm a 'guy trick' ninja," Ian said softly, kissing the tip of Colin's cock
again.

"Can I hold you?" Colin asked suddenly.  "Would that be all right?"

Ian considered him with an inscrutable look in his dark, liquid eyes before
sliding up his body and entwining himself around Colin.  He kissed him
gently and put his head on his shoulder; Colin's arms wrapped around him
tightly.

"If we could just stay like this for a while, I'd appreciate it," Colin
said softly, his voice shaking.


So they did stay like that, for over an hour, murmuring softly to one
another.  They spoke of where they'd grown up, where they'd gone to school,
and their families.  They talked about their favorite foods, and Colin
discovered that Ian liked to cook.  He also found out that Ian had a pet
sheep when he grew up.

"If you tell Fergus, I'll kill you," Ian said severely.

Colin sighed.  "I don't imagine I'll see him again," he said.

It wasn't long after that Ian twisted around on the bed and showed off his
cocksucking skills again, bringing Colin's dick fully erect.  He touched it
gently with his fingers, with a kind of reverence before twisting around to
retrieve a few things from his pants.

He proceeded to show Colin his final trick for that night, sliding a condom
down that big cock and then lowering his ass upon it.  Colin's body had
finally been satiated enough that he could go slowly, and he learned the
delights of fucking a man as beautiful as Ian.  It was certainly different
than with women, and he found he liked the hard muscles, the scrape of
stubble, and the scent of sweat.  And he loved the tight grasp of being
fully sheathed inside the other man.  He loved watching Ian above him,
impaling himself over and over with the naked lust glowing in his narrowed
eyes, and his body rippling with need.  He loved to watch Ian reach his
pinnacle, the proof of his pleasure raining down upon him.

They slept fitfully, neither used to the heat of having their limbs
entwined with someone else, and they awoke at dawn and fucked a final time.
Ian rode Colin's cock again while Colin lay on his back and watched him.
He was breathtaking, with his head thrown back and the cords in his throat
pulsing with life.

They showered together in the bathroom down the hall, Colin using his leg
to get there, and then taking it right back off to stand in the shower,
leaning against the wall beneath the warm spray and warmer hands.  It only
took Colin about five minutes to pack up his things while Ian sat in the
center of the bed and watched him.  They traded phone numbers and
addresses, and then they walked solemnly down the stairs, not even holding
hands like they had the night before; Colin held his suitcase in one and
his other needed the rail for balance.

Out on the street they looked bleakly at one another before Colin leaned
forward and pulled Ian into a hug.  And then he was getting in a cab and
telling the driver to go to the airport; his taxi door slammed closed and
Ian was gone, just an image on the street with his hand slightly raised.

Colin no longer felt the disquiet that had been haunting him for the past
months.  As he looked out the taxi window at the cold, wet morning, he
could once again picture a future for himself that included love and
companionship.  He knew now that it was possible; that he could be loved as
he was.  He turned his mind to what waited him at home: the bills, the
empty apartment, the job search.

And scotch.  He would buy a bottle of scotch at the airport to take home
with him.  He vowed silently to have a dram every night, a promise to
himself to not forget what he had learned.


* I appreciate hearing from people who are reading my stories.  Send me an
email and let me know what you think.  Your feedback is the only way I know
you're reading and whether or not it makes sense to continue.

I have other stories, too.  Look up Seth Kirkcauldy in the author's
section.

seth-kirkcauldy@sbcglobal.net