La Frégate This story is posted for the exclusive enjoyment of readers of the Nifty Archive. While you are free to make a personal copy, no copy of this manuscript may be published, copied, posted to another web-site, or otherwise disseminated without express permission from the author.
The contents of this story are fictional. Any resemblance of characters to living or lived persons is strictly coincidental. Certain characters engage in sexual acts which may or may not be legal in the state or country in which a reader may reside. Any reader with objections to graphic descriptions of sexual encounters between males who may not have reached the legal age of consent, or whose local, regional, state or national jurisprudence prohibits such descriptions, should not read further.
La Frégate
by: eastbayjag@aol.com
When I got out of the lobby of the little hotel, the sun had already long disappeared behind the horizon. The bateaux-mouches were skimming up and down, their lights making the buildings take on a romantic charm you didn't perceive in the full light of day.
I'd come over from London on the TGV, a swift two-hour trip from office to hotel, if you didn't count the bloody hour it took in the cab from King's Inn to Waterloo. Should have taken the damned Tube. Bloody nuisance. Oh, well, I got here in time for dinner. The ride from Gare du Nord had actually taken less than fifteen minutes - what it should have taken to Waterloo.
"Come on, Alan," I said to myself. "Get over it!" So, I did.
I walked to the little restaurant on the corner that I'd used for years, "La Frégate," and went into the bistro area rather than the resto, as it was Wednesday, and there were seldom many patrons at that time of year. Summer, yes, with all the tourists. Now, in the late autumn, it was calmer, more relaxed. There were but four or five regulars at table, another two at the tiny bar.
The waiter looked at me and nodded, as always. I could never decipher whether he recognized me or not, even after -- let's see, six years since we'd first discovered this place?
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Rhys and I met in London. We were both invited as "eligible singles," to the party thrown by my close acquaintance, Gerald in Hampstead Heath. Gerald and Roger had fairly large parties every May Day and every All Hallows Eve, and the May Day party was when they tried to fix all their single friends up for the summer.
I had actually met one nice chap at the 1991 edition: Chris, a bobby from down in Battersea. We'd had a little "flingette" until I found out he was dating a Catholic priest at the same time. I couldn't compete with the Eucharist, so I bowed out before the Queen's Birthday.
To shorten the telling, I met Rhys the following year. He was a window-dresser. Small and wiry, a ready smile, a beautiful bum and nice hands. His face would stop a truck. Mashed nose, bug eyes, floppy ears, weak chin. I remember first thinking "Oh. God, what a shame!" He looked like a clerk at the post office from the neck up, like a dancer at the Royal from the neck down. I determined to avoid him.
Naturally, I took him home that night to my cottage in Acton. We just seemed to get to talking, and there was so much more to talk about, and the party was almost over, so we went to my place. We talked everything. Art, Politics, Music, History (he knew the Lineage from Wodin to William) and more. He charmed my pants off. Yes, literally.
We slept together that night, and I wondered why it had taken so long for us to see each other. We fit together deliciously, his wiry legs wrapping around my waist like tentacles, absorbing, encouraging my thrusts as our mouths made love and spoke the language of lovers. We obviously had done this many times before, because we knew exactly what the other enjoyed, what he found less pleasurable, when he was near, when he was nigh. His small bum was the perfect size for my Wee Willie, only 6 and 1/8 inches long on a good day. His penis, on the other hand, was a perfect fit between us, extending far past his navel (and, truth be told, mine as well) while we were "in flagrante." He reached his climax just as I did most of the time, simply from the friction between our bellies as I pounded into him.
He was definitely a "keeper," so we decided to live together a few months later. Our "honeymoon" was here, in Paris, and we fell in love all over again. His French was impeccable, though spoken in a schoolbook manner, because he had -- until the day we got off the ferry at Calais -- never set foot outside Britain. Not Ireland, north or south, either. Scotland, but only because the chain he worked for had stores in Glasgow and Edinburgh, and for a brief time in Aberdeen.
We went everywhere in Paris there was to go. Sacre Coeur, Montparnasse, the Catacombs, Père Lachaise, and of course all the monuments and spires there were to mount. We stayed six days, and were either on foot exploring or in bed exploring. He made me feel the luckiest man alive.
Rhys was the most beautiful man, full of cheer and goodwill for all, charitable to a fault (he once gave his coat -- the only one he had -- to a street kid at Piccadilly on the way home one night) and generous with his time. He did volunteer work at Charing Cross, and ran the local church bazaar benefit for orphans.
Every year, we returned to our little hotel on the Seine, across from the Louvre, and refreshed our love, revisiting the spots we so enjoyed, probing for new sights, cursing La Défense as it was built, but finally grateful that at least they had built it outside La Périphérique.
Then our luck ran out, and a third person entered the scene, his good friend Tobias, from Canterbury, a lad whose physical beauty was great, immense, but counterbalanced by a wickedness that knew no limits. Somehow, Tobias ended up in our marital bed one night, and by dawn all was lost.
I could never understand why we allowed it to happen, him in my lover's saddle, me bringing up the rear, riding into the abyss. I can't even remember how it happened. We'd not had that much to drink, there had never been any hint that we would share -- I don't think it ever crossed my mind that another man would be attractive to me.
Once the image was in my mind, of Tobias' big organ plunging down into my man, my man reaching his climax without me, Tobias roaring as he filled my man with his seed, even so drawing mine from me . . .
I had no need to bring things to a close. At breakfast, the three of us sitting around the table built for two, Rhys said simply: "well, we had a good run, old chap, didn't we?"
I was in shock for six months.
He moved out the next Saturday, into a flat with Tobias, but only temporarily, as Tobias was soon in Brixton for theft, something to do with his former employer. I telephoned Rhys after I heard, but the service had been discontinued, and when I called round, the sergeant said he left no forwarding address. His employers were not forthcoming at all as to his whereabouts, despite my pleas. I heard not long after from Gerald and Roger that Rhys had emigrated to Canada, but that they had not heard a word from him.
Coming here to Paris was probably a mistake. Everywhere I looked, I saw Rhys' face: at Gare du Nord, on the street as my taxi whizzed past the Carousel, across from the Hotel when I checked in, across from me at the table.
I ate in splendid isolation, emotional as well as physical, as the other diners left soon after I ordered. I had a pousse-café on top of the wine, and felt quite tipsy as I walked out of the corner door of the Bistro.
Rather than go directly back to the hotel, I decided to take a stroll down the Left Bank, and wound up going all the way to the bend in the river where the Eiffel Tower comes into splendid view. I remembered when Rhys and I had seen it lit for the first time, just at this spot, and how much in love we had been. I had to sit for a moment to calm my nerves, blow my nose to clear my nostrils of the dust of the city, dab a moment at my eyes, which were made to water by the fumes of the passing traffic.
A man came and sat on the next bench down. I paid little heed at first. He was hunched over, looking apparently at the gravel beneath the bench. I returned to my somber reflections, and immersed myself in the cloak of self-pity.
"Excuse me," said a voice in badly accented French. "Have you a light?"
I responded in English, as the bloke was evidently American or Irish, you cannot tell in French, as their accents are equally abysmal.
"I'm afraid I don't. I smoke, but left my fags and lighter at the hotel."
"London?" he queried.
"Yes," I said, looking at his face. It was a typically broad American farm-fresh face, utterly wholesome, kitted out with freckles and soft lips. "Know it?"
I do not like these too-handsome men, their freshness, their brashness, their overbearing self-confidence, their "take-charge" attitudes.
"Not at all," he said, sitting next to me. "I'm being transferred there from here next week, and . . . "
"Someone will not go with you?" I asked, seeing the obvious.
"There is no someone," he said. "I've been here two years, and I have never . . . "
"Alone?" I asked, a little more gently than before.
"I have only a couple of acquaintances from the office," he said, his voice husky and sounding like it might break at any moment. "My concierge is Turkish and says nothing to me, my neighbors are as aloof as stale bread, and I've only just begun to get enough French to feel . . . not comfortable, but not uncomfortable . . . in social situations."
"Two years, and no friends?" I asked, a little alarmed. "No . . . sex?" I dared broach the topic.
"Oh, there's plenty of that here," he said, moving his arm expansively out over bench, towards the area from whence I'd just come. "If I get . . . anxious, I can always go down there." He pointed down to the quay, and my eyes automatically followed. I saw figures walking slowly towards and away from the stairs that led from the roadway, but I saw no one mount or descend. Ah, yes. I had read of the action on the "Quais."
"And do you so often?" I wondered aloud. His comeliness would certainly be no barrier to quick gratification. Most people are enamoured of men such as he, with their chiseled good looks and slim but well-developed thighs and legs, their large bulges at the crutch, their wisps of hair at the throat promising wonderfully masculine chests and virile performance.
"Only twice," he whispered. "It's so -- degrading."
"Why?" I asked. "You have a need, as have they, and it is as you Americans say, a 'win-win' situation"
"But you know, sometimes I get so lonely it hurts, from my head to my toes, and other times, I've seen my . . . married . . . friends fighting so much that I thought, who needs this crap?"
I recoiled a little at the unfamiliar word, the intimacy of the confession.
"I wish there was some magical way to just go out, find "the one" and be happy for the rest of my life." He was "washing" his hands in frustration.
"It doesn't work that way, I fear. You go out, find 'one,' probe and parry, test and retest, and then you both agree to work like hell the rest of your lives to make sure the other one doesn't work harder than you do to keep love growing."
He looked at me in the eye, and I did not drop my gaze. His eyes were glistening, probably from the cold and the damp.
"Love at last sight is always stronger than love at first sight," I said from somewhere, more deeply inside me than I realized at first.
"Would you like a drink?" he said, shaking his head slightly. "I'll buy if you order"
"I thought you said you were more confident now in your French," I chuckled.
"I am," he said. "I'd just like you to order for me, to . . . take over for a while."
"Let's go," I said. "I really could use a fag."
"Think I'd do for a while?" he said quickly, slyly.
"I thought you'd never been to London," I said, after getting over the surprise of his quick wit.
"I haven't," he said. "But I've read so many English authors, so many pieces on London over the years that . . ."
We spoke for hours, long into the night, over Pastis and then over coffee, then a bottle of wine at my hotel. We were still talking when the sun tinged the sky behind Nôtre Dame in hues of vermilion, and we went to the window to watch the Master's latest oeuvre. His arm went naturally around my waist, and pulled him to me, and mine around his to keep him steady.
He called his office to say he would not be in, he had a close friend unexpectedly need his help, and I called my agent to tell him that I might not, after all, come in that afternoon to review the contracts, possibly postponing all until the morrow,
Daniel -- sorry, he liked me to call him Danny then -- took a shower in the tiny bath, and came out resplendent in a bath sheet wrapped around his hips. His chest was as I had thought, but it seemed far less off-putting now that I knew the heart of the man underneath a little better. It was, indeed, directly out of a model magazine, slim ropy muscles stretched under a skin as taut as a drum, over an abdomen as flat as an alpine lake, but with ripples of rope beneath the surface, bobbing up as he moved.
I disrobed in front of him, matter-of-factly. He either liked it or he did not, there was no point in being coy. He moved up to me and put his hand out, hesitating to touch me, wanting, I could see it in his eyes, staring into my own.
"May I?" he asked, in a voice so small I was taken aback. Danny was full of surprises.
"After my shower," I said. "Wait until I'm finished, and then pour us a last glass of wine. We have time."
He radiated "happy" and put his hand back, the anticipation building yet further. His manhood, which I had yet to see, pushed his bath sheet out in an encouraging way.
"Will you . . .make me yours? Tonight?"
"We'll see," I said. I had to move quickly into the bath, lest he see that I was getting aroused. I was damn well going to try!
I brushed my teeth and used the bidet carefully. It had already been used, so I knew he was prepared for me. I showered rather than bathed, not willing to trade the luxury of being with Danny for the luxe of the bath salts. Time is too fleeting.
I dried my legs and thighs, my hair and arms, but left my torso and yoke beaded with water. A comb ran quickly through my mop to tame it, and I walked out of the bath, nude. There was a sharp intake of his breath as I turned the little corner into the room. He had dutifully poured the wine, and stood there holding a glass out to me.
"You haven't dried completely," he said as I took the glass from him.
"No." I said. "First our toast. You will say it."
"I don't know how to say one," he said, lifting his glass to mine, his eyes, too.
"Say what's in your heart," I said. "Your heart knows."
"I will work every day to make you love me more, for as long as you will have me," he said in a strong, unquavering voice, looking directly into my eyes.
I was stunned. We had been together only a few hours, and he would say that? Me, now thirty-two years old, to his twenty-five, five foot ten to his six feet two, eleven stone to his what? Fourteen? Receding hairline forming widow's peaks already, five capped teeth and two crowns already? I didn't know to respond. He was too young, too beautiful, too new . . .
"Follow your heart, you stupid son of a bitch," I said to myself.
"As will I," I said, touching my glass to his. We sipped a little wine, and he put his glass on the tiny table, then leaned forward and down to touch my left nipple with his tongue, no longer needing to ask if he might, because I had told him already. It was better than I imagined, being tongue-dried.
I made him mine that lovely morning. I teased him, loved him, whispered things into his ear I felt and wanted for him, told him everything I was going to do to him, and made him wait for it to unfold. He entered me tenderly, but with force, and waited for me to signal him to start, let me control the speed and depth of his stroke. I held him on the brink of climax as long as I could, but he was tremendously excited that first time, and lasted no more than two minutes before he groaned into my mouth and shot into me every ounce of his semen. He is much bigger than I, and his first penetration of me was so deep that it hurt, but I would never let it show.
He tried to make me come, using his dick to massage my prostate, but he could not possible last long enough, and I had other plans for my first climax with my Daniel.
I was dripping by the time he had come out of me and we had rolled on the bed, kissing in a frenzy of desire and happiness.
He lifted his legs around my shoulders, offering himself to me without reservation. My entry into his body was as gentle as was his into mine, but he was tighter, smaller than I expected, and it took a while. I made sure it was without pain, moving into him so slowly my dick was screaming in protest, begging me to push the accelerator pedal. He looked into my eyes all the time, and there was tenderness, an innocence that captivated me.
We may have spoken. I don't remember. I see only his eyes, widening as I thrust into him again and again, my hand stroking his penis in time to each thrust, using only his own juices as lubrication. He whimpered, I remember, when he felt his second climax begin, and just as he came, his eyes rolled back in his head, his butt clamped around me, and I filled him with the love I'd stored in my body since that last time with Rhys. Rather, Tobias.
It never even occurred to me to use a condom. We didn't discuss that until late that afternoon, having told the maid that we wished not to be disturbed for the fourth or fifth time. We had had ourselves tested regularly, and I had been with no one for more than six months. Danny had only allowed his "dates" to suck out his frustration, and had not reciprocated, for more than two years.
I know how stupid that was. I would never have done that normally, but -- I was not in a normal frame, then. We were lucky.
The rest of the story is as sweet to me as the first part, but you would no doubt find it too tiring to hear in detail. Daniel moved into the Acton cottage with me, but we quickly outgrew it. We seemed always to need "just one more bedroom" for his visiting brothers, sisters, parents, aunts and uncles.
Last year we bought this old rattletrap here in Ealing Common, and we're gradually bringing order to chaos. Daniel is quite handy with tools, although I have to watch him whenever we go into a D.I.Y. shop, as he has a tendency to snap up power tools he'll never possibly use. He did find an interesting use for the compound router the other day, though. The old coal cellar he'stransformed into his workshop is chockablock with every electrical woodworking tool the Japanese seem to have been able to come up with.
Having no remaining relations of my own, I actually revel in my new extended family. They all know that we are a couple, and none seem to be bothered by it. They're all coming here for Christmas. Can you imagine? Twenty six American guests in this house in less than six weeks! Thank goodness his Mom and Sisters are good cooks and housekeepers . . .and his male relations are all good with their hands . . .Oh, Bloody Hell! You know what I mean!