Date: Mon, 8 Nov 2010 14:11:24 -0800 (PST)
From: Ron <warp8tobeach@yahoo.com>
Subject: "I'm afraid we lost Harry"

"I'M AFRAID WE LOST HARRY"
A somewhat fictional story by Jack Russell
warp8tobeach@yahoo.com


I walked around the corner to my home in Berkeley Square just in time to
see the post lady, Rita on her rounds.

"Well Master Brain, I do believe you've been expecting this, heh?" She
delivered in her upbeat East Enders lilt as she held up a thick manila
envelope. I could clearly see the seal of Newcastle University with its
azure coat of arms and white cross teasing me for closer inspection.

"Go on now," Rita admonished this time with more animated urgency.

I ripped into the envelope unconsciously knowing that a thick letter was
good. A thin one was a callous rejection letter, computer generated and
dispatched with the diesel efficiency of a lorry.

"...so we welcome you to the class of 1979 and trust that your educational
experience will continue to be a life time endeavor."

***

September 1975

My roommate was a methodical soft spoken Iranian by the name of Harriti
Nikahd. He was a neat freak, loved listening to Elvis, and had a fondness
for Bass Ale.

Long limed and athletic, he was every gay mans heartthrob. His tightly
wound body and explosive legs made him largely unstoppable on the soccer
field. We got along well at first glance and I was exposed to someone of a
different culture on a personal level.

"You can call me Harry," he said with a welcoming smile framed by heart
melting dimples.

"Done," I said with a nod of approval.

Harry had a great ass and it filled out the back of his jeans in curvy
provocative suggestions. There is a God, I thought being so lucky to have
this Arabian stud as my roomie. I looked forward to seeing him a' la carte
in the showers.

I kept my sexuality to myself. My dad was too absorbed in his work at the
American Embassy to know his only son was a flaming homo. I think mom knew,
however. One day, out of the blue, she held me in her arms and told me that
we are all God's creatures and no matter who you are or what you do, be
true to yourself and do your best. I cried that night thinking about how
lucky I was.

Harry was a chemistry major and I dabbled in political science and
linguistics. My view of international politics was limited and I viewed the
United States as a benign superpower; protecting the world from tyranny
much like we did in the 20th century.

Harry would politely listen and then pepper me with rhetorical and mind
bending questions on how the US interfered in the internal affairs of other
nation, compromised elections, bribed officials, and if that didn't work,
would dispatch its agents mafioso style to break bones. Clearly, I had a
lot of reading to do.

Politically aroused, passionate, and well groomed in the English language
and culture, Harry should have been the political science major, and I the
chemistry major as long as I didn't blow up the lab.

We arrived at an unspoken truce of politics as we had to live within a hot
breath of each other in our runty dorm.

Harry was a whiz at math. It was in his DNA. I would stay up all night
wrestling with calculus 101 terminally befuddled with an equation. Harry
could see my pathetic scribblings upside down from his perspective and yet
pinpoint my problem.

"What are you going to do with the derivative?" he would thoughtfully
postulate.

"I'm going to throw the bitch out the window, that's what I'm going to do
with this shit!"

We both collapsed in a compact of laughter on our beds. It was a Kodak
moment. Harry would regress into a childlike giggle and his toes would curl
up like the wicked witch of the west in the Wizard of Oz when Dorthy's
house inconveniently compressed her stature.

So Harry taught me to think out my calculus problems. I got a respectable
"C" on my midterm. I in turn, helped him with his term papers as I could
agitate accepted dogma faster than a New York Times columnist. He got an
"A".

***

There was little privacy at Newcastle for, well, you know, spanking the
monkey. I had Harry's class schedule memorized and made sure I could pacify
my rod when he was in class. I learned to lather that little roster up as
quickly as possible and let her crow. I was always afraid that I would hear
the telltale sound of a key in the door if Harry's schedule would change
unexpectedly.

Boy, do I miss the halcyon days of living back in London with the whole
house to myself, a closet full of gay porn magazines, videos, and an
assortment of dildos and other anal toys. Not only was I relegated to the
closet sexually but lived in one as well.

My final class of the day was a political science class, The New Russia and
the West. My professor must have been a pensioned Politburo member; boring
and dictatorial. You wouldn't even think of showing up late for class or
ditching it all together. Professor Goremkin would dress you down naked
before your abashed classmates who empathized with your dilemma but were
thankful it wasn't them.

 I settled in my seat with my classmates as the clock weaved it's way well
past the start of lecture time. This was so unlike "The Gore" as we
secretly liked to call him. It felt like eternity but we sat in class
leaderless for about fifteen minutes before one of our compatriots lived up
to his almost perfect SAT score and read the message left on the
chalkboard. In articulate cursive, a class proctor wrote, "due to illness,
Professor Goremkin's lecture on The New Russia is canceled for today."

Woo-hoo! It's Friday and my last class is a bust! What's a freshman to do?

I made it quick time back to my dorm to unload my books and maybe catch up
with Harry for a pickup basketball game before dusk. The maintenance man
was vacuuming the hallway, his extension cord spilled over the hallway like
a dead snake and the vacuum making a howling noise that must have been
designed to scare away the dirt rather then suck it in.

I made a nearly silent turn of my dorm key and found Harry spread out on
his bed, his pants discharged down to his shins, and his tight ass rocked
skyward from which a heavy flange of dildo protruded from his hole as if
shot from a cannon.

His face was buried in a pillow and his hands busily disciplining his
aroused flank of cut meat while the other one choreographed frantic plunges
of the dildo into his tender rubicund hole. He rocked back and forth in
excited cadency; the bed springs snitching in protest and the presence of
an interloper yet unnoticed.

I must of stood there for a total of five minutes dumbfounded in my rude
arrival and yet intrigued on the masturbation habits of other men. My
thoughts were juxtaposed between watching Harry thru clinical eyes and
appreciating my voyeuristic moment or joining in the festivities.

He was beautiful and in his vulnerable pose looked years younger than a
strapping college student. His bulbous ass was brushed in a bushel of coal
like shoots of hair and since his bed was on the warm side of the room,
beads of sweat radiated down the crevice of his back like a string of
diamonds. His dark skin was resplendently bronzed and I was fascinated to
be in the presence of this tempestuous stallion.

His physique was what every queer man would covet; not chemically muscled
but genetically gifted and well proportioned with solid long legs, a
corrugated core, and a protracted torso that showcased a trained six
pack. An alluring treasure trail of black hair etched a road to his
manhood. Oh mon Dieu!

Harry looked up and finally noticed me standing in the doorway; his facial
expression uncorked in a cocktail of unpleasant emotions. There was
embarrassment, anger, humiliation, and finally frustration as his body
shook in the telltale forerunner of ejaculation.

He surged back like a serpent as his Gemini balls dismissed steady buckets
of cum that formed milky goblets over his hand and bedsheets. He moaned and
as his glutteral muscles involuntarily flexed jettisoning the dildo out of
his anal cavity. It accelerated like an unguided missile on an abbreviated
trajectory before landing behind his feet. Simply awesome!

Harry must be a greedy bottom with an insatiable appetite for cock since
that dildo was generously sized in length as well as girth. I felt humbled
realizing that I couldn't field or deliver that much firepower.

His moment of self pleasance ruined, I was left with only one option and I
fled the room slamming the door behind me and almost inadvertently tackling
the cleaning man as I escaped down the hallway.

Feeling guilty about my innocent gaffe, I hung out in the library until
they closed and then headed over to Barney Pub where the venerable barkeep
could remember your name if introduced once and then didn't return for a
decade. Barney pulled me a pint of Ale and I absentmindedly nursed it while
devoured in my devious thoughts. Upperclassmen were hooting it up over a
televised soccer game.

It was almost Saturday morning until I had the courage to go home and I
found Harry asleep and snoring. That used to bother me but now his
nocturnal racket served as reinforcement that all is well in my corner of
the world.

I slept soundly thanks to my spirits induced coma which put my speeding
mind in neutral long enough to wake up refreshed. I took a shower,, brushed
my teeth, and returned to my dorm room.

Harry was awake and busily organizing his wardrobe options for the day. We
shared the single closet and it was obvious whose belonging were on the
left side and whose were on the right. Even his sneaks were polished!

"Good morning," he said cheerfully. He acted as if nothing had happened but
I couldn't stand how our relationship would change if I didn't use this as
an opportunity to show him its all good and we fish off the same pier, sort
to speak.

I opened my desk drawer and reached to the back where I hid my porno
magazines. I pulled out a pile of them and tossed them with a free spirit
flick on Harry's bed which was already made up as if room service had
arrived.

Harry looked down at the glossy reflections of young bucks gallantly
splayed in knots of homosexual banter; some captured in various states of
discase while others frolicked with their uncorralled cocks or compatriots.

"What the fuck?" Harry asked feinting surprise.

I laughed and did a little victory pirouette. "We're both queer, dude!
Don't sweat it, Harry. You're cool with me."

"But I'm not a homosexual," he said attempting to maintain his innocence.

"Yup, and the Queens not British," I challenged with seductive swings of my
hips.

He pushed the magazines away like a recovering heroin addict being tempted
by a fresh hit; one eye captivated by the bait, the other struggling to
resist what comes naturally.

I would have none of it and decided to prosecute my case when my quarry was
at his weakest and my cock sporting morning wood.

Hovering over him, I regressed into my sappy imposture of Elvis and using a
magic marker as a prop for a microphone, began to sing.

"Love me tender, love me sweet..."

I leaned over Harry and ours eyes met in an uncharacteristic pokey
masculine embrace; his almond eyes squinting in harmony with his dimples
following in hot pursuit. Harry's black eyebrows, disarmingly arched in
surrender dared me to get closer.

"...Never let me go," I crooned as he playfully squatted me as if shooing
away a mosquito.

It was too late since he's already been bitten. He just took a moment to
itch.

We were nose to nose and I used my free hand against his shoulder for
balance. "You have made my life compl..."

I was never able to finish the word as Harry pursed his lips and kissed
me. I tossed the magic marker over my shoulder. It has done its job.

I fell or was pulled into Harry's arms and we were rendered horizontal on
his bed lost in the brothels of delightful foreplay. This was a Saturday
like no other as we frolicked on his bed rocking for dominant position. The
bed springs squealed or was that just me.

Harry was an excellent kisser and he scavenged the plaque off my molars and
sucked my tongue down his throat. I savaged the buttons of his freshly
laundered shirt and the buttons cocked off like popcorn.

Harry postulated a disappointing frown. "You owe me a new shirt, Brian"

"Just wait till you see me demolish the rest of you," I warned.

"And then what? Harry persisted.

"We'll go over to Barneys Pub and settle our differences with a pint of
Bass Ale". We rarely argued but when we did it was off to the pub to
"settle our differences".

I hovered over him like a wrestler in the top position but he grabbed my
elbow unlocking it in one smooth pull and I collapsed past him. I was now
rendered subservient and hopelessly seduced by the exhaust of his
blistering breath.

He bedeviled me with plucky licks of a hyperactive tongue juxtaposed
between aggressive bites at my lips. Harry shoved his hand down my pants
and met up with my cock; engorged and agitated.

His other hand followed the first but detoured around my torso and kneaded
the rump of my ass as if it were moist pizza dough ready for the oven. With
predatory speculation, he poked his finger in my ass and my butt hole
puckered in appreciation.

Our chemistry for each other was incendiary. It reminded me of when we
first met each other and our eyes locked in a retentive tangle; each
squaring off like antagonists in a bar dispute.

I went limp allowing Harry to take the lead but that seemed to confuse him
as I was meddling with his sexual compulsion. This awkward moment called
for decisive action so I took hold of his cock which solved one problem but
created another.

"Holy fuck!" I screamed in a tone of awe rather than fright like a preteen
seeing a brawny Ford GTO coming around the corner for the first time.

"What's wrong?" Harry beamed.

"Your cock! It's like a fucking sewer pipe!"

Harry laughed. "Sunni genes on both sides."

I just wanted to yank my pants down and defer to this knight. My meat could
sprout to an honest 6" especially if I refrained from jacking off for a
week but Harry's slap of filet had me eclipsed.

I was fascinated by his size and it propelled my lust for him but I was
hesitant in my ability to take in his whole rack orally or anally.

Harry loosened my pants down and my cock sprung out swaying up and down
like a jack o lantern. He stroked it in impatient tugs and then shackled my
cock to his and our foreskins merged in a lather of sweat and spits of
precum.

My twin nuts hung low giving the optical illusion of size but his sexual
organ was clearly superior. I reveled over the sight of his erect penis
erupting like an active volcano from an rampant phalanx of furious pubic
hair.

With renewed strength, I pushed him down on the bed, my hand brushing his
eraser like nipples and my mouth opened wide.

I gagged. He groaned.

Harry arched his chest back as if being tossed about in a roller coaster
and in a way, he was. I licked his shaft and was intoxicated by its gristly
feel and burned by the hotness of his boisterous rivet shoved deep into my
mouth.

I varied my assault on his cock; first swiping it over my lips and
tempestuous flogs of my tongue followed by full barreled plunges down his
shaft stopping only when his pubic hair vellicated my nostrils. It was an
enjoyable moment abbreviated by Harry's request to go 69. I kicked my legs
about and my foot almost caught him square in the nose. So much for my
bedroom protocol.

Harry chomped at my shaft like a chow hound that suffered from food loss
anxiety. He single hand-idly gang rapped my cock while his hands massaged
my torso and ass.

We filled our bedroom with sophomoric slurping sounds and rambunctious
vocalizations peppered with nasty talk and perverse sexual demands; some in
Virginian Beltway English while others in exacting Farsi.

"Finger me, Brian!" Harry entreated as he lifted his bubble but off the
mattress exposing his puckered hole.

I was all to happy to oblige. Was I dreaming?

I slid my hand over his rump and savored his masculine feel; a tightly
muscled ass born from lots of heavy lifting and toned from exhausting runs
up and down the soccer field.

My middle finger entered first in an exploratory peek and then was joined
by my second finger. They cautiously probed about like a pair of astronauts
exploring the surface of the moon although this moon wasn't inert but live
with wiggles and hurried requests that seemed to multiply exponentially.

"Go deep, Brian," he begged. "Oh, it feels so good!"

I was rabid for his hole and with raw determination, I bullied my fingers
past his taunt sphincter muscle. I don't think Harry has ever been
deflowered before. He was as tight as a coupon totting pensioner and I was
conspiring on being the first to offer him 10% off everything in my store.

I drew my fingers in and out of his hole; each time relaxing him and
allowing me to thread my way to his swollen prostate. It was paradise and I
licked his ass and pestered it with provocative bites. He went ballistic
when my middle finger hit its mark; a walnut hard organ oozing pleasure
seeking nerve endings; a virtual incubator breeding endorphins.

Harry blurted out mysterious middle eastern dialect but I'm sure it
translated to something palatable in English. I relentlessly pursued him
with my full arsenal brought to bear. My mouth inhaled his ass and tree
trunk ham strings and my fingers lashed his dilated hole into
compliance. Harry burrowed his head in a pillow which was fine with me
since I couldn't understand his dazed smudge of words anyhow.

He busied himself with masturbation and I joined my hand with his and we
fumbled momentarily before synchronizing our efforts. In a moment, Harry's
face was cherry red and I just knew that he was ready to blow a
gusher. Encouraged, I drew my face down to the tip of his spear just in
time for him to liberate his remaining confectionery treat over my nose and
cheeks. I returned the favor with a spicy concoction that drenched him in
gay bliss.


***


Our class graduated in 1979, the mercurial Shah of Iran was deposed;
replaced by an feverous stew of Mullahs.

 I never got the chance to say goodbye to Harry who unceremoniously
vanished to his homeland one day after they slapped a diploma in his
hands. We were caught up in an uncertain world of international politics
that pitted our love of country against our love for each other. I suppose
Harry couldn't bear the spectacle of saying goodbye let alone making peace
with his sexuality. I will love him forever. Be well, Harry.

I retreated back to the United States with my parents since my dads
assignment in London was concluded and immediately found employment with
Founders Bank in Washington DC. The bank had a generous tuition
reimbursement program and I found myself right back in school at Georgetown
University dutifully listening to boring lectures and fulfilling my destiny
as an academic scribe. I thought about Harry everyday.

After graduation, I must of thought I was hot shit and I became bored with
work at Founders. I summarily quit but found my parents to be unusually
supportive. I think they both understood that my 12 hour work days,
weekends included, were putting me under a lot of stress but in reality,
the grueling work schedule diverted my mind from a love lost and a
shattered heart.

When the going gets tough, Americans travel so I trampled over the USA
vagabond style staying with friends in New York's Village before
ricocheting to the Northwest coast and finding digs on a houseboat in
Seattle. I loved Seattle and remained there for almost two years; an
eternity in my bipolar endeavor to find the real Brian K Schave and my
place in the world.

 The weather reminded me of my adopted home across the pond and friends
helped me find a job as an editors assistant with the Seattle Times, a
plucky newspaper that ran persistent articles on AIDS awareness. But all to
soon I was airborne again landing in the halcyon days of LA and spending
too much time in its gay badlands, smoking pot, and having persistent sex
sans emotional fulfillment.

Needing something more wholesome, I went to Utah where I surprisingly found
more queers like me, well educated, politically disturbed, and yet haunted
by their gay shadows.

For me, the future is something that finds you in the present. My phone
rang and it was mom calling. She was crying. The only other time I've heard
her cry was when I graduated from Newcastle but this cry wasn't one of
joy. This cry was more guttural, a raw shrill that filled a sail of
gloom. My dad had died.

***

March 1985

Mass was at St. Peters followed by a brunch at my parents home. We had a
small family and they all were there in addition to many people whom I've
never seen but seemed to know me regardless. The introductions all ran
along the line of "...Oh, and you're Brian!"  they would say in enthralled
surprise as if discovering a new species. "...You look so much like your
father. He was a wonderful person."

"...Your dad was so proud of you. A great man." followed by a communal nod
of heads.

Everyone seemed eager to meet me in a echt attempt as not to be suspected
of being a funeral crasher. One man stood out, however. He hovered by the
staircase, chatted with no in particular although other guests acknowledged
him with a wave or nod.

A bull of a man with a tight shirt and a wrestlers neck, he seemed to be
observing me. I considered that he was cruising me and was annoyed at his
apparent bad manners. The lid has just snapped shut on my dad, my moms
mascara is smudged, and this guy thinks he's on a street corner in Dupont
Circle.

I spoke with my Aunt Sally and Uncle Don. Haven't seen them in years but we
chatted as if time nor miles had any bearing on our family connections.

My cousin, a snotty Princeton graduate, waved me over and introduced me to
his leggy fiance. He was working on Wall Street making nothing of value and
being paid generously for the privilege.

I was still being studied by the man with the neck. Our eyes brushed
momentarily and I looked away. When I looked back up, he had disappeared.

I was relieved and hoped he had left. My mom introduced me to more of my
dads business associates. It was nice of them to come. Usually, people you
work with stay away unless there's money in it for them.

I needed a drink and retired to the kitchen and mixed some soda and
vodka. I slammed it down and quickly made another. Closing the fridge door,
I came to a jarring stand off with Mr. wrestlers neck

"Hope I didn't startle you." he said genuinely apologetic. His voice was
gentle and higher pitched than I would expect from such an imposing man.

"No, you're fine." I said swirling my drink. "It's been a tough day." I
said bitterly.

"I'm Gene Clark." We shook hands. He dropped his head down as if preparing
to recite a prayer. "I worked with your dad in London. One of the finest
people I've ever known. We lost a great American at a time when we needed
his passion and professionalism most...a true patriot."

He handed me his business card. "I know it's an awkward time but your dad
spoke so much about you."

He then closed the deal which would alter my life forever and allow the
magic of serendipity to find what was assumed forever lost. "Your country's
calling you, son."

***

February 2010

I gazed outside the gold plated window of my office at CIA London station
that offered a truncated view of the River Thames and a brisk London
landscape. It was Thursday afternoon and I was preparing for our meeting
the next day with our British hosts. We were working more closely than ever
with MI6 since our mutual exposure to terrorism that impacted New York City
and then the London transit system.

The special relationship we enjoyed with the Brits was finally consummated
in a full scale marriage of cloak and subterfuge. Sometimes awkward and
argumentative but overall beneficial, we equally pursued each other for our
own sovereign interests; the Brits relied on our first rate electronic ease
dropping capabilities and the United States was enamored by the audacity of
British Intelligence to procure human intelligence with duplicity if
necessary; civility if permitted.

I have been with CIA for over 20 years and still have the business card of
my thick necked benefactor. I've come home in two ways. I'm not just doing
a job but serving my country and making the world a better place. Yup,
sounds corny but I've a patriot.

Secondly, life in London is like no other. Steeped in historical ambiance,
this vibrant city once savaged by Luftwaffe bombers has survived peril with
quiet British resolve but now faces new threats, some of which are home
grown while others have come ashore on commercial flights and with less
than honorable intentions. It was my job to stop it.

I logged on to my secure computer and quickly ran a safety program provided
by the NSA that assured me a secure connection. An officer at NSA told me
that the chances of our system being hacked was as remote as Oprah not
getting fat again.

It was 1500 hrs and time for me to make contact with my Iranian agent that
I was running remotely from London station. We called him "Seeker" and he
first made contact with British Intelligence and I was assigned to run him
for information. Seeker was a chemist that was employed at the Iranian
nuclear research facility at Parchin, a mountainous region 30 kilometers
southeast of Teheran. His information was verifiable allowing the US and UK
a voyeuristic peek show into Iran's dalliances under the covers.

Sometimes sagely informative while at other times cryptic and despondent,
Seeker tested my ability to build a relationship with someone whom I've
never met and procure information. It was difficult to determine his
motives for revealing state secrets. It couldn't have been financial since
he asked for little but instead seemed to be an Iranian scientist yearning
for something else yet to be determined.

Seeker was promising to forward me electronic data concerning a secretive
shipment that would help us determine the advancement of their
program. Sometimes gathering intelligence is oddly simple. For example, if
your auto mechanic neighbor was receiving UPS deliveries of muscly hot rod
engine components, you can be sure he's lying when he claims he's
rebuilding a Yugo.

Today however, Seeker was opaque in his responses and typed in a stubborn
wind of refractory prose. He spoke about how the Iranian revolution was a
failure and he, a traitor to his birthplace and yet finding himself an
alien to his own world. Underlying his missives was a grim unaddressed
anger. I knew that something was seriously wrong with my source but unable
to cure him with a session of cybernetic psychotherapy.

I attempted to get Seeker back on track and steered the conversation back
to the promised data. It was 1520 hours and my secure link would be severed
in 10 minutes but he was haunted by a ghost of unresolved issues and I was
faced with the possibility of failing to get the promised holy grail of
information.

There was something familiar on how Seeker composed his sentences; his
written depositions that could elude passion and stimulate the senses one
moment before retreating in a camillion like cocoon of displeasure and
isolation.

It was all too familiar. As familiar as my writings. Odd. But I've been
taught to follow my hunches so why stop now at something that has gotten me
into so much trouble in the past?

I typed, "Your problem is like a mathematical derivative. What are you
going to do with it?"

My screen flashed his impertinent response. "Throw it out the window."

I stroked my chin. I typed, "It's raining here. Wish I was at the pub."

He completed my thought. "A pint of Bass Ale, my friend.

I winced and just before I typed, he added a secret little code.

"...To settle our differences."

I gasped and excitedly looked up from my desk to see if anyone in the
office was taking note of my heart murmurers.

I breezily typed, "Love me tender, love me sweet..."

He returned, "Never let me go...You have made my life compl..." Our
connection was severed. It was 1530 hours but there was no doubt.

It was Harry.


***

I ran by my MI6 colleague Peter Comillion and suggested we go out for a
walk. It was our way of letting each other know that something urgent and
private had to be vetted outside the vestibules of the twin secret
services.

I told Peter everything including the "special relationship" that Harry and
I shared at Newcastle. He was both supportive and non judgmental. Peter had
a gay brother. Luck be a lady. It all helped.

"You're sure?" Peter gently pried as we sauntered past Westminster.

"There's no doubt. Small world, huh?"

"And a dangerous one," Brian added forlornly.

We stopped for a cup of coffee just before the streets of London were
lampooned in afternoon showers. Big Ben tolled. The baritone chime always
took my breath away. I'm with you, Harry.


***

I was reading some electronic intelligence on the fluid political situation
in Iran. It was hoped that this would culminate into a peaceful change of
power as it did in Poland and East Germany; both of which our services were
instrumental. We're the Amway of democracy, we would joke.

Peter hurriedly poked his head in my office pausing only a moment for me to
look up from my computer. He was pale as if stricken with the flu.

"I'm afraid we lost Harry, Sir, he said in a deferent British clip.

"What!" I was a professional spook trained to be analytical and detached
but under the circumstances, I was anything less than emotionally
distraught as a mother would be after being told by the police that their
child was abducted.

Peter, tall and thin with the reserve of an undertaker, pushed his hand
through his thickset black hair now showing hints of espionage induced
gray.

"Yesterday", he said. "The Israelis found out there were arrests at the
Parchin facility as well as in Teheran. A lot of hard work is in the
trash. Someones fucking with us, Brian."

I sat in my chair unable to move or speak as if my spinal cord had been
severed by sharpshooters bullet..

"The old man is holding a meeting upstairs in 10 minutes", Peter pointed at
the ceiling while making a scowling gesture. "Better grab your files and
head up."

I went to the bathroom and splashed some icy tap water on my face. My
reflection in the mirror startled me. The spy world has a corrosive effect
on the human psyche that dissolves flesh from the inside out. My skin was
ashen from the extensive hours at work and gloomy British winters. Under
the rude florescent lights, the normally innocuous blotches of the skin
were magnified and for the first time I noticed the bags under my eyes; a
precursor to senior years.

I rushed upstairs and entered the secure conference room. The head of
operations, studying me over his wire rimmed reading glasses, shot me an
annoyed look. Everyone gave a brief synopsis of the latest breach of
intelligence which was flimsy at best. We knew that our contacts in Iran
were compromised but we had no idea why or how.

I was forced to remain dispassionate as they dissected the worth of Harry
who by now had become as valuable as yesterdays crumpled newspaper left on
a park bench. I cracked my knuckles; a permissible substitute for my urge
to scream with a passion and fervor not normally found in company
briefings. We lost Harry and nobody seemed to care or know why. So goes the
spy business.

Peter nodded in my direction. We were in a heap of trouble and on our own.

***

Two weeks passed without any contact. I could only assume that Harry was
dead or had checked into the Revolutionary Guards Hotel; in which case,
you'd rather be dead.

The phone rang. It was a clerk from Langley in Virginia informing me rather
hesitantly that my order of Elvis albums had arrived at their station.

I almost hit the ceiling. Harry, you wonderful bastard! I'm going to kiss
you from head to toe and eat you all night when I get my hands on you
again. And this time, I'll never let you go!

I met with Peter . He shooed his compatriots out of his office.

"Let's reopen the store, my friend. Harry's made contact!" I was, well,
let's say radiant.

I had to shuttle from one WI-FI hot spot to another for security purposes
and Peter provided me with some cheeky cryptic wares used by British
Intelligence.

The pieces of the puzzle came together as Harry and I chatted on facebook
and other social networking sites. It seems that Harry fancied the
underground gay bar scene in Teheran and it was there that an abbreviated
tryst blossomed with a gracious but ultimately dangerous bushy mustached
individual by the name of Moqudam.

Unbeknown to Harry, when he brusquely dumped Moqudam for another man in the
bar, he encouraged the wrath of a certain General Ali Moqu. I made some
inquires with the Israelis and they were kind enough to send me an intimate
dossier on the thuggish General.  They were eager to help and would
consider any plan to rescue Harry if it included a rendition of Moqu.

The vindictive General had Harry arrested on fictitious charges and then
had him released with the intent of intimidating him. Harry was living with
the General in the fashionable area of town blocks from the desecrated US
Embassy. He was in grave danger.

We had to act fast. I kicked several scenarios around with Peter and we
decided that retrieving Harry unscathed was of utmost importance but he was
intrigued by my idea to capture our nasty bottom boy General as well.

Peter solaced his cheeks as if would ignite some brilliant idea in his
head. "We gotta do something that would make Moqu want to defect" he
quipped while making instructive motions with his hands.

"Let's out him" I said with an appetite for revenge.

"Perfect. Brian, you're fucking brilliant!"

We decided that a relatively simple plan of hacking the Generals computer
with scandalous gay pictures and websites that would duly motivate him to
skip town. We added some icing on the cake; two million dollars and a new
zip code. The Israelis promised to be great hosts.

It took some help from amused but determined allies but by morning, the
good General was surely choking on his Chai as he read my stern email. My
instructions were clear as I reminded him that his President had previously
announced to the world that "we do not have that phenomenon (gay men) here"
and it would be in his best interest to visit the land of David.

I forwarded instructions to Harry and he and Moqu were soon on a Iran Air
flight to Geneva. There, they departed company as Harry boarded a British
Airways flight to Heathrow and Israeli agents escorted a defunct General
Moqu to Tel Aviv.

It was a Top chief quickfire challenge hatched in London, cooked in
Teheran, and scrambled by our Israeli friends in Geneva. The world is flat,
indeed.


***

Peter contacted our affiliates at the airport and they were there to escort
me ramp side to the Airbus A320 as it sliced through the steady rain and
docked at the gate. An airline rep provided me with a yellow rain slicker
with reflective strips and cap. Emblazoned on the port side of the Airbuses
nose was the aircraft's name "Prince Harry". I shivered in the moist cool
air partly from the dank weather but mostly from the anticipation in being
reunited with my Prince.

An airport police officer accompanied an impeccably dressed man down the
Jetway steps. He walked bedazed like a fugitive skipping out on a
warrant. I was blinded by the ramp lighting reflection off the wet tarmac
and could only see Harry in profile before he stepped on English soil for
the first time in over 30 years.

"Welcome home, sir," I said with rubric efficiency in my official capacity
as I handed him his newly minted British passport and shook his hand; an
otiose attempt to camouflage the passionate arsenal accumulated by us in
violation of official treaty.

"Valid for anywhere," I added with a postponed smirk.

He had aged like a Ferrari; his once satiny mane of jet black hair now
oxidized with blusters of diplomatic gray but his dark eyes twinkled with
life and promise.

"I'm exactly where I want to be," Harry said resolutely. He smiled and his
signature dimples slipped out of the shadows. I felt my cock stir. I was an
undergraduate again.

We found our Jaguar waiting and I hurriedly navigated thru the busy streets
of London to my flat in Chelsea. The formality of the airport reunion now a
distant memory, we were finally able to hold hands and allow our curious
fingers to dwell in interlaced contentment.

I seized on the good fortune of a laggard traffic light and urged Harry's
face towards mine and enjoyed a subtle kiss once denied by politics and
geography. We rediscovered our passion for foreplay; the rain sloshed
windscreen ran scrimmage with the wipers, and the motorist behind us
signaled the traffic light change with a civilized report from his horn.

Engrossed in our rabid rout of lust we found ourselves tearing off each
others clothes just as my apartment door slammed shut. You would of thought
that they were doused with a erosive chemical gnawing at the fabric and
threatening to dissolve skin.

Harry cornered me in an enchanting dance and snacked at my neck with the
same sharp bicuspids I had never forgot to appreciate; his tongue lunged
assertively down my throat while his brawny thighs locked me up in an
inescapable pin. I licked his bronzed chest and suckled at his eraser sized
nipples.

His cock was in a state of panic and I bore down on his bulbous
shaft. Harry withered deliriously in response to my dogged attack of oral
mayhem.

I pulled at his balls that had the size and firmness of pea tomatoes and
shoveled them into my mouth like a cherub surreptitiously pinching M&M's
from the bin of a candy store.

Harry always like it when I licked the under side of his nuts and I
thoughtfully complied but juxtaposed that with playful pricks that sent my
beau into spasmodic seizures.

The once jet black hair that dogged his underarms was now spent charcoal
brickets gray but the aroma had a uniqueness that I could identify even if
blindfolded; an elusive Calvin Klein fragrance test.  I've waited so long
for this moment. Was it worth it? Hoo-Rah!

Harry flipped me over on my back and victoriously mounted me. He pumped the
cleavage of my ass with his cock and then dilated my hole with curious
curving motions of his fingers. He enjoyed his molestation of me and I was
pretty much ready to dump my load that moment into my Harrods sheets but
Harry circumvented that with a well timed grasp of my cock. His "do it
yourself" plumbers fix worked for now but was only temporary. The pressure
was building and this rig was on its way to a gusher.

Pressed for time, he lifted my ass up and out and rammed his cock deep
inside me.

"Aughh!" I protested in pain but it was a pain that just felt so damn good.

Harry sang softly in my ear, "...love me tender, love me sweet..."

I had my face buried in the pillow so my response was muffled and
desperate. I was too busy enjoying the intense pain and listening to the
sound of Harry's cock jack hammering my pavement. His cadence varied like
Morse code; first excruciating plunges followed by amateurish forays into
my rectum before considering a hasty retreat.

He then rested. Oh, it was so predictable and that's what made Harry's
lovemaking so much like effective torture. He made it so his victims could
anticipate the next assault and instill fear even before it was brought to
bear. Harry taunted me with stingy strokes feinting tiredness.

He plowed into me again, this time with the undisciplined fervor of someone
smacking a scorpion to death using a hurriedly rolled up newspaper as a
weapon. His mushroom head, pudgy, moist and blistering, tore thru me and
swayed my prostate towards nirvana. I wrapped my legs around his torso and
weathered his volcanic tantrums.

I felt like a tossed overboard sailor battered by a disorderly sea as my
life was spared by a gulp of air only to be submerged by a flush of
seawater that spilled into my lungs and threatened to extinguish life.

I whispered into Harry's ear using my college learned Farsi. He laughed and
discontinued his explosive pushes for only a moment. I thought I said, "I'm
going to cum!" but perhaps it got mistranslated into "I've got the runs"!

His strokes got deeper and speed-bag quick and then shot a gallon of his
rich portage.. The pressure inside of me blew as well and I cooked off like
popcorn and loosened my sludge over the sheets and our abs. My organism was
so intense, I thought I'd need seizure medicine to recover.

I knew Harry had more confectionery for me and we retired to the classic 69
position and I persuaded his cock to reveal another push of sweets for my
taste buds meander in. He didn't disappoint and we simultaneously cross
pollinated our nectar into each others mouth.

***

October 5, 2010

I submitted my resignation at CIA.

Harry brought a trove of computer memory sticks with him that provided the
allies with the digital footprint of Iran's nuclear ambitions.

The Israelis burped General Moqu with nanny like efficiency and as rumor
has it, he's living a rather pleasant life on a kibbutz.

Harry and I live quietly in London. Gotta run, here comes the bus.

THE END