We boarded our mini-bus by 6 the next morning. My father and I had skipped breakfast, but I had made a quick detour to the restaurant to grab a cup of coffee. The rest of what would obviously be our group was leaving the room and I caught sight of the British couple gulping down their tea before following the small horde. The husband caught my eye, but betrayed no acknowledgement of the fleeting, strange moment we had shared the previous night.
The drive to Karnak Temple was short. The sky was crisp blue and the temperature had already reached at least 75. It would rise to the nineties quickly, as it would every day of the week. The low humidity made it somewhat bearable, but as soon as we got off the bus, I rushed to a shaded area while the guide was getting us organized, a quick dash for coolness I would replicate frequently and quite obsessively throughout our stay.
The site was astounding and I was quickly wrapped up in its sober majesty. The guide, a wonderful young Egyptian woman who spoke a flawless English, walked us through courts and vestibules, alluringly oppressive clusters of massive columns and wide sun-flooded open areas. My father was basking in the beauty of it all with the glee of a child. At 57, he was still a handsome man and took good care of himself, despite having apparently foregone any active interest in rebuilding a romantic life. A serious and successful lawyer, a dedicated and protective father, he was able to periodically let go of any inhibitions and give a free rein to his natural and spontaneous keenness for the small beauties of life. That morning, he was shifty and impatient, walking ahead or running behind, chatting with everyone in the group (regardless of people's actual willingness to be engaged so briskly), all the while managing not to miss a word of our guide's explanations (even if those were frequently followed by him whispering additional trivia for my benefit).
The only wall he metaphorically hit was in his attempt to chat with the British couple. I had been watching them closely and my surveillance had confirmed my initial impression of seething marital discord. They did exchange brief gestures of tenderness, but they seemed quick to become irritated by each other. She sighed when he was walking too slowly, he shushed her when he was trying to listen to the guide, she chided him for failing to bring his sunglasses, he snapped the camera off her hands when she struggled with adjusting the lens. My observing them didn't go completely unnoticed. While I was careful to be discreet when watching her, I took an odd pleasure at being quite obvious in my staring at him, a pleasure reinforced and fed by his blushing attempts to stare me down, to feebly quiz me on my intentions. Nothing in his attitude was hostile or reprehensive; he was puzzled, weakened, expectant, furtive. He looked shaken when my father started to address him and his wife (their marital status now confirmed by my noticing of their wedding bands). I don't remember what he told them but I think my father flinched when he was met by a taut and cold answer from her. Undeterred, he tried another approach, by introducing himself and, pointing at me as I was pretending, a few feet away, to be absorbed by some hieroglyphs, "my son Benjamin".
I heard a trite "I'm Siobhan, this is my husband Adam" and my father had barely the time to utter, in the most British way he could achieve, "pleased to meet you" before the stiff young woman moved on to catch up with the rest of the group.
When our guide had completed her two-hour tour, she gave us thirty minutes to wander at our own pace, before the bus was set to leave. My father wanted to rest a bit and sit in the shade; I told him I would walk around some more and take additional pictures. The whole site was quite tantalizing and you could actually find dispersed quiet and empty spots, as most of the tourists present were clustered in synchronized groups. Sometimes, the silence was so complete you could hear your feet scratch the sand with every step you made. It was splendid.
I spotted Siobhan, sitting alone on a big rock, protected from the sun by a big column against which she rested her back. She was studiously applying sun cream on her face. I watched her closely, intently searching for something attractive about her. Her breasts were eye-catching enough and what her capri pants revealed of her legs was equally pleasing. Yet her hat, shirt and pants were so ill-fitting and tawdry that it was hard to find her arousing, save from engaging in the mental visualization of her completely naked body. Her whole demeanor, however, seemed to preemptively strike against any such exercise. The way she was furiously rubbing the thick white sunblock all over her face made her look like she was angrily battling the sun itself and fending off any intruder who would similarly attempt to launch an assault on her body. I walked on, snapping pictures in the opposite direction, hoping that my stroll would take me along to where Siobhan's husband was taking a respite from her.
I walked around for fifteen minutes, playing hide-and-seek with the scorching sun and with the knots of tourists. As I stepped out distractedly from the Great Hypostyle Hall, I was suddenly blinded by a ray of sunshine slicing its way through two large columns. I instinctively and briskly raised my arm in front of my eyes and turned around, only to find, as my eyes reopened and readjusted to the light, Adam staring at me, a few feet away, standing straight and frozen, framed and dwarfed by two pillars on either side of him. He shuddered, then moved swiftly away, disappearing among the columns, the statues, the tourists.
I stopped in my tracks and couldn't move for a few seconds. I felt, slowly surging within me, a clear sense of elation and arousal, and a murkier feeling of vindication, of power. I couldn't help thinking he had been following me, or at the very least, had been resolutely watching me when his path crossed mine. I went after him, trying to locate him, but couldn't find him anywhere before it was time to rejoin the rest of the group in the bus.
Adam and Siobhan were already seated inside, as was my father. We drove to a museum, full of artifacts, statues, mummies. I wasn't fully able at first to concentrate on our guide's explanations, distracted as I was by my attempts to read and understand Adam's complete oblivion. He never looked at me, but he actually never seemed to be looking at anything or anyone, not really, not with the attention and involvement one would normally notice. He was vacant, even if faintly struggling to concentrate on our guide, on the objects, on the panels with printed accompanying texts. At some point, I saw him leaning towards one such panel and studiously reading about the adjacent chariot; it was only after a few long seconds that he shuddered, blushed and looked away: he had been facing the French translation.
* * *
When we got back to the hotel in the early afternoon, I hurried through lunch, impatient to get to the pool. I quickly changed into my swimming trunks and headed back down. The British couple had evidently skipped lunch and were lounging in the exact same chairs as the ones in which I had first seen them the day before. Siobhan was lying on her stomach, her t-shirt covering her back, as a likely protection from the sun. Adam was resting on his elbows, glimmering with sweat or sun oil, wearing black speedos. I noticed him noticing me.
The pool wasn't crowded and plenty of chaises were available. I purposefully, yet in an apparent casual way, chose two directly opposite from theirs. I turned them slightly, so that they faced the sun and the Nile, and laid the towels, books and bags I had brought. I found myself moving slowly, almost languorously, lifting my t-shirt and dropping my cargo shorts as might have done a cheap stripper. I felt Adam's eyes on me throughout and I relished capturing his attention.
I dove into the pool, just as much for cooling off as for parading my athletic skills – I had become quite a good swimmer and diver in the last few years, and I knew, from pictures taken by my proud brother, that I could dive all muscles tensed and stretched and cut in the water with some forceful grace and without much of a splash. I swam under water all the way to Adam's side of the pool, made a swift turn and swam the way back, coming up for air when I reached my starting point. I shook my head briskly, sending circles of water drops all around me. I slowly turned around and looked at Adam: he had been watching me the whole time. I lifted myself swiftly out of the water and grabbed a towel to dry my face. I looked again, he was still watching.
He was, however, briskly snapped out of his staring by a movement of Siobhan's, and by some words she mumbled without my being able to understand them. Adam answered, in a similarly inaudible way. She appeared satisfied, though, as she resumed her dozing position. Adam sat up straight, turned around slightly and began to stare at the view. My eyes were fixed on him and I could detect, and rejoice from, his sideways glances towards me.
I manipulated my chaise so that I could sit up a little, my legs straightened in front of me. I spread them slightly and made an obvious gesture of readjusting my cock. My body was soaked from my dive in the pool, but quickly drying with the sun. I reached for the sun cream in my bag and started to lather myself up. I did so as slowly and as suggestively as I had just recently undressed. Adam was now clearly staring at me, his sideways glances now intended for checking whether his wife was stirring from her nap.
Even with the distance that separated us, I could feel the intensity of Adam's transfixed gawking. I then noticed some movement, someone walking towards the pool from the lobby. It was my father, who was finally joining me.
I panicked briefly, suddenly awake to the fact that I was sporting half an erection in the middle of this pool area which, even if it wasn't crowded, was still populated by at least a dozen people. I pulled my knees towards my chest and gently waved at my father. He sternly reprimanded me for being in the sun in the middle of day, reminded me (as he is prone to do) of the number of people who died of cancer on his side of the family, and asked a member of the staff, with verbose politeness, if an umbrella could be brought to us. When he caught Adam's watching us, he mistook his fascination for a wish for a similar favor. "Do you want an umbrella too, Adam?" he called, waking Siobhan in the process. Adam shook his head, without giving the gesture any clear meaning. My father decided for him and, turning back towards the middle-aged Egyptian pool attendant, asked "Would it be a terrible bother for you to bring one for this nice couple over there as well? They don't seem too comfortable under this scorching sun."
My father started to read his book but quickly dozed off. His arrival and the following animation caused by three staff members ineptly trying to correctly install the umbrellas on both sides of the pool had disrupted the general peace of the atmosphere, stirred Siobhan back into grumpy wakefulness, and dislodged Adam from our sensual enthralling bubble.
I was fighting off sleep myself, as the jetlag seemed to pull me down on my chaise and numb my movements. I was still glancing at Adam and hoping to catch his eyes, but my assiduity had to be tempered by a weariness of becoming too obvious, both to Adam who, I instinctively felt, needed to be teased rather than convinced, and to Siobhan, who was scanning the guests, hiding behind her sunglasses what was probably a disapproving, bored or malicious gaze.
I rearranged my body again, trying in different ways to assume what I thought might be the sexiest pose, the most subtly suggestive attitude. I'd often caress my chest, my crotch or my legs, with candid yet lascivious detachment. I'd spread my legs or cross them. I'd turn around on my stomach, lifting my ass just so slightly. I constantly readjusted my cock. I was most likely being ridiculous, but the obvious longing I had seen and felt radiating from Adam in the last twenty-four hours was both a bolster to my cockiness and a mild antidote against self-consciousness.
And if and when I'd ever doubt that I'd become too pathetically recognizable in my seduction game, I'd only have to look at Adam: more often than not, he was watching me.
The whole atmosphere became heavy. The heat was now weighing down on my body heavily. The near complete silence around the pool was disturbed only by occasional shouts coming from feluccas on the Nile, Arabic harangues that sounded full of anger or hilarity and that felt like projectiles launched over a metaphorical fence, behind which brimmed real life, dirt, small transactions, things to see and things to do, danger, History, poverty, and the Nile.
I decided to get some iced tea from the pool bar: I was parched and the short walk would take me right past Adam. I moved carefully as not to wake my father, stood up and lowered my trunks by an inch or two, displaying the upper patch of my pubic hair. I walked slowly, having taken notice of both Siobhan's dozing and Adam's apparent alertness to all my movements. As I approached him, I averted his eyes and looked at the rest of him, using this first opportunity I had to study from up close his mostly naked body. I couldn't help but first notice he was reading (albeit distractedly) a John Grisham novel. It registered briefly that I had wished him to be edgier and more selective in his tastes. John Irving would have been fine, Zweig, Mann, Pynchon or Kerouac would have been perfect.
He tanned better than his wife. His skin had moved from the light pink I had observed from afar the previous day to a golden light brown. His color and the pearls of sweat that covered his torso made his chest glisten attractively and the little hair he had looked soft and silky. He did not have an ounce of fat on him, he was even too thin here and there. His clavicles were protruding, but his biceps had a nice bulge. Both his hands rested on the hips of his speedos trunks, as if framing his penis, distinctly bunched sideways between the fabric and his shrunken balls. He obviously didn't wear speedos whenever outside, as a tan line separated his very white upper thighs from healthier and sexier-looking thin and hairy legs. I had already passed him, despite my slow pace, before I could get a look at his feet. I had seen enough. He was beautiful.
Waiting for the barman to fix my drink and to bring me a glass of water, I did wonder whether I could have actually found him anything but attractive. Hadn't our flirtation taken me past any reservation, turn-offs, even indifference? Would I have noticed him and been attracted to him if he hadn't given all these intense, blushing signals? Would I be looking at this stranger's crotch if the clientele in the hotel had had more than three people under the age of fifty? Would I be caressing myself out in the open for his benefit if a young, hot waitress had had her shift this afternoon? If one of the two young, hot women I was currently involved with back in Philly had joined me on this trip?
I gulped down the glass of water at once, before heading back. Adam looked up from his book, his eyes squinting a little. I looked straight back at him and gave him a serious, warm stare, which he reciprocated, his mouth opening slightly, his breathing seemingly halted. I had only a few steps left before I'd pass him again, he'd become a figure behind me, he'd go back to his book, and I'd only have a distant view, missing the details and nuances and expressions he might decide to exhibit.
I had to hold his stare, which was suddenly so intense that I felt weakened and flushed. I had to hold his stare, because I had had the upper hand, I had strong-armed him into infatuation. I had to hold his stare, because he had to see, understand and fully absorb the brutality of my resolve, the reckless doggedness of my youth. I was coming after him. I knew that, I absolutely knew that, and he had to know it too.
He didn't stare down. He didn't blush. His eyes were fixated on me, displaying something I didn't recognize at first, an expression I hadn't really seen before on his face. I felt my body quivering a bit as I walked around the pool and reached my chair, eager to lie down. I closed my eyes. For the first time since our little game of cat-and-mouse had started, his gaze had been devoid of embarrassment, puzzlement, curiosity or eagerness; it was now a magnetic, sustained stare of pure, animal lust.
I had never been the conscious (and willing) recipient of such a torrent of raw sexual avidness coming from a man. I usually avoided the heavy flirting of strangers, something that occurs frequently when you're a young man living in a city. And Jason's heavy breathing or husky arousal had always felt directed at my cock, at the movement of our hands jerking each other off, or at our ejaculations; but it never really felt directed at me, as a person, as a living body.
I also realized that Adam's attention made me feel actually beautiful and sexy. I had never been very self-conscious, either way, about my body. It had changed a lot in the previous years, as I had been forewarned tediously and repeatedly in awkward sex-ed classes. But they had never told us when your new body would be ready, done, completed. I had noticed my feet had stopped growing; they were now wide, a little hairy, and looked manly enough. My legs had firmed up, thanks to hours of soccer practice. I wasn't sure about my arms, but my pectorals were coming along nicely, mostly due to the push-ups I had disciplined myself into performing every morning. My nose had a weird shape, but my blue eyes seemed to be appreciated. I had started to shave, but had little hair on my chest. I was taller and had broader shoulders than my dad and my two brothers, but I still had the occasional pimples. And Jason had voiced the reassurance I needed when it came to my dick.
But each of these body parts had seemed to have a life on their own; that is, I had let them grow and morph at their own pace and separately, with the vague idea that, one day, the sum of these parts will be complete and the whole, bigger or not, will reveal itself. In the meantime, I had no problems attracting girls and I was apparently athletic and attractive enough to compensate for my general guardedness.
But Adam's increasingly hungry eyes were tending a mirror in which I had never looked at myself. Like these rumored glasses that undress people, I saw myself naked and heavily sexualized. My arms, my legs, my dick felt bigger and stronger than I remembered or presumed them to be. My age had become irrelevant; I saw myself clearly and lucidly as a young man who was actually taller and stronger than this British guy in his late twenties, someone who would actually overpower him if it came to that, someone with whom he badly wanted to fuck. The sexual tension that I now felt dripping between us the way the Egyptian sun was soaking my forehead with sweat, did project intentions and possibilities that were wholly and grippingly adult. He didn't want me the way Jason and I had fooled around together, the way my girlfriend and I had after-school sex in my bedroom, not even the way the young woman from the community college and I were fucking like rabbits in her small room while her roommate was out.
Adam's eyes were full of a lust I hadn't quite encountered yet and were igniting within my groin and within my blurring brain sparks I wasn't quite able to tame. But I knew then, I really knew then, that our moment, his stare, my sudden appropriation of my completed body, had jostled me briskly into a stage of adulthood I had only glimpsed from a distance. Incidentally, dimly, I also felt myself sliding open a heavy door behind which two men could want each other so brazenly, without a trace of obfuscating ambiguity or orderly restraint.
I felt an erection growing in my trunks. I rubbed it slowly, shaping its bulge through the fabric. I opened my eyes and was disappointed to find Adam asleep.
I stared for a while at what then looked like a rather desolate view: Adam and Siobhan, two lumps of flesh slumbering in the shade. I stood up and briskly walked to my room, hampered by my erection. I lay on the floor, quickly released myself and, when done and drenched and panting, stared at the ceiling for what seemed like a very long time.
* * *
I had convinced my father to have dinner early, pretexting great appetite and a wish to have an early night and vanquish jetlag once and for all. My hunger lay somewhere else, however, as I longed to see Adam again and have him see me. I also wished for a longer opportunity to sit just a few feet away from him and for more run-ins at the various buffets. We were indeed better synchronized that night; Adam and Siobhan seemed to have just seated at their table when we arrived and I beat my father to the chair he had previously occupied. I was now facing Adam and experienced what an alcoholic felt when watching a sommelier uncork one of his best bottles.
Adam's reaction was immediate. He blushed nervously, with a hint of disapproval, as if my blunt attitude was an affront not only to propriety, but to his own intended caution as to how to handle the forthcoming evening. I was however relentless in my flirting assaults, mixing detachment and conspicuousness, oblivion and recklessness, with an instinctive sharpness that surprised me. I timed my trips to the buffet, my glances, the light touches of our arms as I'd walk past him; I was circling a prey, scaring it, taming it, softening it, and readying it for a yet amorphous outcome.
My father did notice my distraction (as Siobhan may have registered Adam's own), but his worry seemed limited to my enjoyment of the evening and, perhaps, by the kind of proxy some people are wont to establish, of the trip as a whole. I reassured him profusely on both accounts; my sincerity soothed him enough to let the evening run its course cordially – though he did twice turn around to ascertain the object of my twitching glances.
Adam and Siobhan ate rather quickly, coasting through dinner with a stilted conversation, leaving long silences between each of their questions and answers, rather like one of those language tapes where two people speak slowly, stretching blanks between them and overacting slightly their tediously asinine lines. Adam seemed to seize any opportunity given by his wife's meticulous attention to her plate and its content and by her own sporadic, bored scanning of the room to glance, stare, blink, glower much throughout the evening. I let him win some of our stare-downs, to give him a sense of control, to draw him in the comfort of reciprocity. He became gradually less fidgety, managed to suppress his blushing, and seemed to conjure up again the proper and operational tools of flirting, as if using them for the first time after a long period of neglect. By the end of the evening, he seemed pleased with himself, basking in the immodest attention with which I bombarded him. He also seemed more attractive, his poise and grasp finally showcasing without obstruction his masculinity and his hunger.
When they got up to leave, Adam's hand tenderly grazed the small of her back, nudging her away from the restaurant, from me, from the uncertainty and danger we had kneaded all evening, from his own returning discomfort. He didn't look at me, but his avoidance was so resolute and his awareness of my watching so obvious that he seemed to breathe out capitulation and retreat.
I swiftly finished my glass of wine, a gesture my yawning father seemed to welcome and seized to call it a night. Our walk back to our rooms was brisk. I was stirred by anticipation, drunk with red wine and narcissism. Yet I felt a certain dread too: within a few minutes, I could very well be alone in my room and find across the way an empty balcony, drawn curtains, and foreclosing darkness in Adam's room. I briefly questioned my cockiness, my assertive claim on Adam's attention and mind activity, my sequestration of his lust, and my vanquishing of his qualms, uncertainties, or fears. As I climbed the stairs behind my uncharacteristically slow father, I realized that the sexual tension was overpowering me, my horniness making everything possible, urgent, yearning. I gave a distracted hug goodnight to my dad and closed the door of my room slowly, trying to catch my breath, to cool my head and to prepare myself for an anti-climactic disappointment. I went to the bathroom and splashed my face with cold water. But I couldn't help notice the quickening of my pace as I made my way to the balcony.
I glimpsed quickly at Adam's room. It was dark and the balcony was empty. But as I opened the sliding door, I saw Adam by the pool, assuming the same vacant, lonely position and seated on the exact same chaise as he had the previous night. My movement caught his attention and his head tilted upwards towards me, slowly, as if he had been waiting for this moment, with patience or resignation. It was too dark to decipher anything more than the direction of his stare. I wouldn't have been able to tell anger from lust, dismissal from begging. But he didn't move and kept his eyes fixed on me, which told me enough.
I was stunned for a few seconds, for I realized that whatever the next step was, it was mine to make. I had fantasized something happening with him and it had to do with sex. Clutching his flesh, touching his face, squeezing his chest and his ass. It had a lot to do with him feasting on my body somehow too, him taking the initiative and showing me what he had in mind, showing me what two men do when they're both hardened by a raw and crude shared attraction. When Alicia, the woman from the community college, had stripped me naked in her room for the first time, she had dived on my cock and given me the kind of blowjob I didn't know existed; she had relentlessly maneuvered me to fuck her in more positions than I had once imagined. I knew I wanted something similar from Adam, even though I couldn't quite conceive what it would be, look and feel like and even though, more importantly at that stage, I didn't know how we would journey to that point, separated as we were by stairs, doors, silence, nightfall.
I stepped back inside, while making sure he could still see me. I slowly stripped down to my boxers and t-shirt, staring at him. I went to fetch a beer from the mini-bar and came back out. I turned the wicker chair in his direction and sat down. I took a couple of sips from the can and I spread my legs wider, sluggishly. My naked feet felt nice on the warm tiles and a slight breeze was caressing the hair on my legs. I looked up and around, the whole hotel seemed quiet, all the rooms but a distant one on the ground floor were dark. I switched my beer to my left hand and used the right one to grab my cock and fondled it out of the opening of my boxers. I started to stroke it slowly, my watching him only interrupted every few seconds to check for any light or movement in the rooms facing me. I put my left foot against the railing. I spat on my hand and resumed my indolent jerking.
Your move, I thought. This is fine for me, this feels great: reckless, dangerous, subversive, daring, violently erotic. This is my last missile blasted on you; now you watch, you leave or you join.
He stood up. Looked around him, nervously. Glanced up at me. I couldn't tell whether he was seeking a further sign of consent on my part, or a final clearance from his own conscience. He looked towards the lobby and the stairs leading to the floors, took a last glimpse of my ongoing jacking, and made a start, not looking back.
I went to my door and opened it ajar. I went to sit on the edge of the bed, ready for him. I was oddly calm. I had done my part: I had reached into my own limits of boldness, I had set things in motion. All I had to do was to wait and accept whatever I had made him ready to offer. I heard footsteps approaching, slowing down, my cock throbbing expectantly. The backlit shade of Adam appeared in the slight door frame. He pushed it open slowly, stepped carefully into my room, then shut it briskly behind. My eyes and his adjusted to the dim light; he was gradually taking shape just as I was materializing to him. The silence was so overpowering I could hear his breathing and feel the beating of my heart.
"I can't stay", he muttered, without making clear whether this was a warning, an admonishment, a sorrow, or an urging for self-discipline on his own part. "It's okay", I said, answering at once all his potential meanings. I resumed my stroking, he gaped a little and moved towards me. He pushed me on my back and started to kiss me on my neck, grabbing my biceps. He lifted up my t-shirt and regaining his immobilizing grasp, his mouth licked, sucked, kissed me all over my chest, stomach, armpits. His eyes kept darting up towards me, but he wasn't seeking permission. The hunger and intensity in his look were like an inhalation of me, of the moment, of our lust. He ravenously took my cock in his mouth, using one hand to grip at its shaft, the other to seize my balls. He hurt me a little and the discomfort I felt from his sucking came as a disappointment in comparison to men's alleged skills at blowjobs. But as he eased his clutch and slowed down his rhythm, the sensation slowly morphed into something more familiar, more blissful. I grabbed his head with both hands, enjoying the feel of his short hair around my fingers, and sending him the reactions and signals needed to adjust the pace and movement of his bobbing face.
It then felt amazing. He released my hands from his head, to gain better access to my body for his own. He rubbed my stomach, my nipples, my arms, my hips. I couldn't keep my eyes off him and every time he looked up towards me, his mouth full of my cock or his lips slurping noisily on my foreskin, a jolt of sexual electricity flushed me.
He undid his buckle, pushed his khakis and underwear down, just enough to release his own cock. I couldn't quite see it, his position, the darkness and the rapid strokes of his arm dimming the view. He was on his knees, facing me, between my dangling legs. He started to lick and kiss my balls. With his free hand, he grasped and massaged one of my legs, then the other, licking the muscles of my thighs, the sweaty part behind the knee, the hair on my calves, the bones of my ankles.
He came back up towards my groin and resumed his blowing, stroking me with one hand while furiously jerking himself off with the other. I was reaching orgasm pretty fast and breathed "Watch out...". He seemed to take a couple of seconds to understand my meaning and he lifted his mouth just as I was spurting the first jet of an expectedly copious orgasm. A couple of drops hit his upper lip and nose, before I corrected my aim towards my chest. He buried his face on my balls and scrotum, muffling his grunting and smearing my semen. I felt him cum, though I didn't see it. He exhaled loudly between my legs.
He looked up at me. Within a couple of seconds, his face expressed amusement, terror, relief, pleasure, unease, in a sequence I can't quite recall today. I thought about smiling, about caressing his flushed cheeks, about saying something coarse and sexy, but I stayed silent and rather expressionless. He stood up, lifted and readjusted his pants, tucking his shirt back in. I sat up straight and took his hand in mine. I squeezed it, looking up towards him. The widest, most luminous smile I had ever seen him with accompanied his own squeezing back my hand. He lifted it and kissed it. He blushed, suddenly aware of the oddness of the gesture. He dropped it and made his quick way towards the door.
"Good night, Adam", I said softly.
"Yes, good night".
"See you tomorrow", I added, just in time before the door was delicately shut.
I stood up and headed towards the bathroom. But I felt dizzy, lightheaded. I sat on the floor, cross-legged, against the deck. I took a deep breath and looked at my room, at my balcony, at my bed. It happened. It just happened. I glanced at the spot where Adam had kneeled down, just a few minutes ago. He had cum on the front side of the bed, splattering the bedcover. His cum was dripping slowly to the carpeted floor, forming a small white puddle. I watched this intently and, just for a fleeting moment, it was the most fascinating thing I had ever seen.