Page 7 of Torn
He moved back and stood, taking a step or two toward the door. His shorts were down, and there was his cock, at least eight inches, pointing heavenward. I lamented that I would not have time to attend to it.What a waste!
I grabbed some very rough, single-ply toilet paper and wiped away the few drops of “leche” he hadn’t managed to consume, then tossed it in the commode. I flushed.
He opened the door, and I figure he knew as well as I did there was no graceful way to exit. It’s not like I could hide somewhere. He was out and into the passageway almost as fast as I could blink.
Smiling in what I know was the very definition of sheepish, I followed, edging by the man outside the door, who eyed me, snickering.
It was a good thing he was dressed in a pair of black Spandex short shorts, combat boots, and a tank top that proclaimed, “I’m not queer, but twenty quid is twenty quid.”
He was cute, all blond hair, green eyes, and muscles. I tossed him a wink just for the hell of it, one that I hoped said, “I’ll catch up to you later.”
I hurried back to my seat, face burning, in spite of the positive outcome of our close call.
Boutros eyed me. “Mission accomplished? Did he drain you? Or did you drain him?”
I shook my head. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. We almost got caught! Thank God—” I stopped when I realized Boutros wasn’t listening. Nor was he looking at me.
He was looking at the guy across the aisle—my men’s room lover.
And the guy was looking back at Boutros and smiling very flirtatiously.
The nerve! What a fickle heart!
Well, I reasoned,I guess he didn’t get the chance to be satisfied.
I leaned back in my seat, telling myself I had no control over things. I certainly had no right to the jealousy I felt. I watched the same scene Boutros had watched only minutes ago occur—only this time, it was Boutros following the guy to the rear of the train.
Maybe the guy in the Spandex is still back there, and they’ll have a three-way! And then the nun will come in and get on her knees…. Get a grip, Ricky!
I shut my eyes and tried not to think about Boutros enjoying what I just had. There was something oddly incestuous about it, which made me a little queasy. I concentrated on the gentle rocking motion of the train.
And waited.
In what seemed like less than five minutes, Boutros stepped over me to get to his window seat.
“You have about you something of the cat that ate the canary.”
He gave me a look that was both mysterious and mischievous.
“He was good, wasn’t he?”
“Ohh….” Boutros drew out the word, then closed his eyes for a moment in what I assume was remembered bliss. “He’s a lovely kisser.”
Chapter 5
BOUTROS LEFTme to see if our room was ready at the bed and breakfast he’d booked. He’d stayed there before and was acquainted with the gay couple who owned it—an Englishman and an Egyptian, whom Boutros said were forever fighting. “They’re Martha and George—Brit style,” referring to Edward Albee’s dysfunctional couple at the center ofWho’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
I was soon to find out why they were so combative.
The place they ran was, Boutros claimed, a “dump.” “But it’s cheap and our room has a shower in it.” This was the only place we’d be staying where we’d actually have to pay for lodging.
“And a toilet and sink, too, I presume?”
“No. Those are down the hall. We share them with whatever other Eurotrash is staying there,” Boutros grinned. “Knowing you, you’ll be sitting in the loo all day, door unlocked, pants around your ankles, hoping to meet someone nice.”
“One never knows,” I’d shot back. “Wouldn’t that be a lovely how-did-you-meet story to tell our grandchildren one day? I can just picture them—all wide-eyed with a case of the warm fuzzies.” There was no use feigning propriety where Boutros was concerned.
I really didn’t expect the place to be a dump. I knew already how Boutros’s mind worked. He was merely lowering my expectations so I’d be thrilled when I saw the place, but I didn’t tell him that. Boutros was a contradiction—a gruff exterior barely concealing a soft heart. “I’m not romantic at all,” he was forever proclaiming. “I’m cold.”
