By Matt M.

I'm slowly winding my way back to my small hotel. It's about three or four in the morning. I've just been out clubbing, seeing what's going on in the gay clubs in the quatrième. What can I say? It's Paris. I danced and had a great time. You can't not.

I guess, though, that attitude's the one constant throughout the world. I guess I'm not the hottest number in the world. I'm basically a tall and skinny kid, unruly dark hair, glasses, a neatly trimmed goatee, a few earrings. I put on my one good outfit to go out tonight. I guess, on further reflection, the attitude wasn't worse than at Unity back home. Suffice it to say I didn't score.

The metros are closed, so as I said I'm walking, and I'm ruminating as I do so, navigating the streets which in the darkness are as glittering as the city's reputation. I did some research before I came, and I decide to check out a spot that's on my way.

I have heard about this spot, a small park on the tip of Ile St. Louis, and I make my way south towards it. I cross the pont Louis-Philippe and it comes into view. The park is closed and I see no one. Disappointed, I go to continue home.

I cross the bridge towards Ile de la Cité. There's a guy leaning against the rampart of the bridge, staring off beyond the cathedral into the water as he finishes a cigarette. Its hot glow and the cold light of the moon illuminate his face, young delicate features framed by flowing light hair - the darkness and the hues of the light make it hard for me to distinguish the colour. His long black coat flows down into the shadows.

As I walk past him, I meet his eyes. He crushes the cigarette and smiles secretively at me. I pass him, then turn around. He's still looking at me and smiling. Definitely cruising me. I walk back and lean beside him against the tree.

"Salut," he whispers. I answer the same.

"Tu fais quoi?" he asks, still with that smile on his face, like the famous painting hanging in a museum a kilometer away.

"Pas grande chose. Où tu vas a c't heure?" I ask in Québecois without thinking.

He's amused at my dialect. "J'étais juste en train de prendre l'air après avoir revisé mes cours. Bientot les examens. C'est quoi ton nom déjà?"

"Matt," I tell him. "Le tien?"

"Philippe," he tells me. "Cigarette?"

"Non, merci."

He reaches behind me, cupping my left buttock in his open hand, and pulls me towards him, at the same time walking backwards further into the darkness, taking refuge in the shadows.

His face darts forward and he kisses me. I put my hand on his ass and pull his body against mine, kissing him back, feeling his warmth full-length against the cool air from the river.

He breaks the kiss and looks up at me. "J'habite pas loin," he whispers. "On va chez moi?" I nod.

We cross the bridges over to Ile de la Cité and then onto the left bank, through narrow streets. At some point, his hand slips into mine. Doesn't mean anything except that body contact is nice.

"T'es pas d'ici, hein?" he asks. I shake my head no. "Tu viens d'ou?"

"Québec," I answer him. "Montréal."

His eyebrows rise. "C'est vrai? Cool. J'ai des amis là-bas."

"Cool," I assent.

At length we get to his place by the Place de la Contrescarpe. Like anything a student could possibly afford this close to the centre of the city, it's a tiny studio apartment, a one-and-a-half we'd call it in Montreal.

That being the case, there's nowhere to sit but the bed. So we do.

"Tu veux un joint?" he asks me. Why not? He has a pre-rolled one in his bedside drawer, which he pulls out and lights. He draws down, then passes it over to me. I put it to my lips and inhale deeply, hold the warm smoke in my lungs and blow it out my nose. The lovely spiced scent fills the room, and after a few drags I start to feel mellow.

He stubs out the joint, carefully putting the remainder away in the drawer, and looks languidly at me.

He seems to *flow* forward, crawling onto me, pushing me down onto the mattress, his physical presence overwhelming me and sinking down onto me, sandwiching me between the yielding firmness of the mattress and the fluid heat of his loose-jointed body. My head sinks backward into the mattress and I sigh contentedly.

He licks my earlobe, causing me to quiver. With his tongue he begins to trace the convolutions of my outer ear, pressing his tongue tip into the crevices and crannies. He invades my ear canal, setting off fireworks in its extremely sensitive skin. My cock, which has hardened slightly, fills with blood and starts to reach downwards, forced to bend by the weight of his body. I demonstrate my approval of his actions by sighing again. "Ah, oui…"

I reach around his body and grip his firm ass, the two wonderful globes seemingly perfectly sized for my hands. I pull his hips against mine, grinding his cock against my own, and it's his turn to sigh as he hardens further. We keep kissing, thirsty and passionate now, drinking each other's lust.

I roll over onto him, pushing his coat which he hadn't removed yet off his shoulders, helping him out of it. I unbutton his shirt slowly, working my way down, licking each exposed portion of his hairless chest. His head is lolling back now. "Mmmm…" he approves.

I get the whole shirt unbuttoned and push it off his shoulders too. As he struggles to get his arms out, I lay into his nipples, fresh deep-pink points crowning nicely-shaped pectoral muscles, not so defined as to be arrogant, but in line with the delicacy of the rest of his figure. I nibble delicately at the left tit; he groans, pulls my head down onto his chest with his hands running through my hair.

I reach up, begin to stimulate his other nipple with my fingers. I'm astride him now, my knees on either side of his hips, his shoulders against his headboard as I kneel to suck his tits. He gently pulls me off his chest. Then he grasps my ersatz-satin t-shirt (the one I wore to the club) and pulls it out of my jeans with a series of little sharp tugs. I grab it myself, my arms crossed over my stomach, peel it off my body with what I hope is a sinuous movement. It smells of cigarettes and marijuana and sweat. I toss it aside and shake out my hair. He caresses my chest, trailing his vibrating fingers down my exposed and sensitive skin. I shudder.

He looks at me with hunger in his eyes - only for a brief second, then he is fiddling with my belt and the button on my jeans. He unzips them, and my cock protrudes, painfully half-confined by my tight black boxer-briefs. These go unconsidered as he shoves my jeans down my ass. My cock barely jumps free before he is upon it, moistening the whole rod with his slick lips and tongue. I sigh again and put my hands on his shoulders, wordlessly begging to let it in further, deeper an infinite cock passing eternally through an infinite wet cavern of a mouth.

He will not respond, though; he must torture me. He grasps my cock at the base, pulls back my foreskin; then he sets about caressing the rim of my cockhead with the hard point of his tongue. He knows without being told that that's my most sensitive spot. My cock is now drooling.

He licks my cock some more, thrilling it, but this isn't the main event, I can tell. He's also caressing my tight hole. His cocksucking isn't perfunctory - gods know - but it's also not done to make me cum. He's saving that for later, playing me like a violin. His animated tongue dances downward; he bathes my balls, warming and softening the folded skin.

He moves down too far for him to continue, so I stand up, and he pulls my pants the rest of the way off. I surreptitiously shuck my socks off too. I think it was the guy who wrote the book Two Solitudes who said that a man looks silliest in just his socks. Or was it Robertson Davies?

I think about the strangest things at the most inconvenient times. Philippe swiftly brings my mind and body back to more important matters by closing his fingers around my thigh and pulling me gently back to him. I don't want to be the only naked guy at this party, so I undo his own belt and pull his jeans (and socks) off, along with his black briefs. He lifts up his hips to help me. The pants fall unheeded to the ground as I roll back into bed with him. His cock rises up, freed; it is of course uncut, and long, longer than mine, but thin. Mine's thick.

We begin to kiss again, first deeply, then little kisses trailed along a jawline or nibbled into an ear. Our hands fondle each other's torsos, drinking the warm soft skin. My chest hair grinds against his smoothness. Our legs intertwine under the covers. I grasp the curves of his ass again; he does mine. His cock dives between my legs, rubbing against my balls and the soft skin behind them. I moan.

"Philippe…" I breathe.

"Chut," he whispers, silencing me with a kiss.

He takes my hips in hand, maneuvring me into a sixty-nine position. But he doesn't start sucking my dick; he goes down on my asshole instead, his dancing tongue probing my opening. I need to reciprocate - he's done all the work so far - so I engulf his cock, which is standing in front of my face. I like the way he tastes, as I replicate his earlier ministrations on my own prick. But with the thrill of his tongue buried in my ass, it's difficult to concentrate.

At length, he stops rimming me, then has me advance on the bed. My asshole feels soft and relaxed to me. He drapes himself over me, licks my ear. "Je veux t'enculer," he whispers. "Tu veux?"

My cock hardens further at the thought, and my asshole twitches. "Oui, j'en ai envie," I murmur back. "As-tu un condom?"

"Bien sûr," he smirks, as though mildly annoyed I thought he might forget. He grabs it, opens the package, dons the thing. From the same unseen place he retrieves a bottle of lubricant, smears it on his now-waterproof prick, and begins to work the lube into my asshole. He skillfully opens me up, his practiced fingers stretching my muscles and stimulating the inside of my ass. My brain is lost in the fog somewhere. I'm absurdly irritated at him: why doesn't he just put it in? Can't he see I'm hungry for it?

And then he's poised at the gate, and now he's sliding in, and I'm dilating to receive him, and the feeling of stretching and fullness and warmth and delicious pain is so wonderful I gasp.

He stops. "Ça va?" he asks, concerned.

I nod weakly, with a vague smile on my face. "Oui, c'est correct." Oops, I did it again - Québécois. He laughs, then starts to fuck me. His turgid cock penetrates me, fills me, completes me, then its egress empties me, cleans me out. Then the cycle begins again. He pistons rhythmically into my yielding moist flesh, my ass tightening silkily around his amorous cock. His thrusts are touching my G-spot; my cock twitches in my hand, clenched between the motion and the warmth of his covering body. Between his cock below and his body above and my hand surrounding, my cock is painfully rigid. I'm jacking myself in time to Philippe's powerful thrusts, slowly and tangibly building.

His breath on my shoulders is ragged now; he's getting close and so am I. He continues to fuck me, still at a measured pace, but fuller strokes. I feel the rim of his cock head leaving my ass with each stroke, leaving just the tip inside my portal, expanding it with each ingress. He's not trying to hide how hot he is. I see a sexual flush spread up from his groin, up his chest to his face. Just as it fully flowers and reddens his face, I feel him give a last long groan, and then a visible gasp of released pressure as the condom fills inside me.

At the same time, I've reached that tantalizing plateau of sexual energy, just where you wish you could stay like that forever - the glorious point of inevitability, that time when I know that my orgasm is inevitable, that point that is as close to objective joy as can be approached. And then it gives a leap to the summit, and with the precision of a whipcrack I'm thrown off, my seed flying out onto my chest as suddenly as a sneeze or a cloudburst of rejoicing tears. Philippe falls on me, his cock softening within me. I grab him and we hold each other to ourselves, as we float the rest of the way down.

I am the first to get up. My whole body is tingling and my chest is covered in my own cum. As I rise, his resting manhood falls out of my stretched hole, still in its protective wrapping. He rolls over and smiles lazily up at me. I put my hand out to him. "On prend une douche?"

"OK," he agrees carelessly, and gets up with me, heading into the tiny bathroom. He turns the water on and we step into the ancient shower. We wash ourselves and each other off, taking the time and the luxury of hot water late at night to exchange lingering kisses and caresses. Dripping wet and clean, we step out of the shower, turn off the water, towel each other off.

"Tu veux finir la nuit ici?" he offers.

"Oui, j'aimerais ça," I say, suddenly realizing how sleepy I am. Tomorrow will be a busy day. We roll into bed and turn out the light, he holding me against his naked body in a comforting embrace.

As I sink into the pillows and his arms, I am sleepily planning my itinerary. I have to stop by my hotel and pick up my stuff, then check out, in time to get across town to the Gare du Nord. Tomorrow afternoon I am leaving for Amsterdam.


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