Gay Erotic Stories

1961 During my first academic year in France, I had a room in a small village outside the city. One night, when I had missed the last autorail going there, I had to walk for 12 kilometers. At the end of the second semester, a German student, Werner, informed me that he was coming to the end of his stay in France and that his room, situated in the old center of the city, would become available. The following day he presented me to the owner of the building, a retired notary, very deaf, who occupied the first floor of the building. He told me the monthly hire, which I thought I could afford, and he added, "But no women; definitely no women!" Werner screamed into the ear of the distinguished old man, "Don't worry about Paul: he studies law and is very well behaved. As he still has some difficulties, he is exclusively interested in his studies." I nodded vigorously, and that promise I have strictly respected! I helped Werner carry his luggage to the railway station and took possession of my new living place, a large room with a marble chimney. In the anteroom there were a wall closet, a cement hand basin and a primitive table where I could prepare simple meals on an electric cooker. The anteroom opened directly on the inner court, and that one, directly onto the street. The toilet was on the other side of the court, under the monumental stairs. Werner had given me all the useful information on the neighborhood, about the baker, the cheap restaurants, the answer I had to give to the mademoiselles who might ask for him and he also mentioned an Algerian who dropped in from time to time and whose name would sound funny if not pronounced correctly: Kámmel, like Kemal. "He's a decent and educated man, but unfortunately he is after my butt, and that's really not my dish. He always comes back, however, and is still rather obsessed, too, at least only by slight allusions. Do not give him my address in Cologne!" And off Werner went. I established myself in the room and continued my studies. At the same time I also had to work; I did translations, typing, and some occasional jobs in the early morning on the wholesale market. One evening, there were four distinct knocks on the door. A man was standing there, well dressed, with a moustache, like an Arab. "Bonjour, Monsieur, is Werner at home?" "Please come in first, it's raining outside. I'll explain it to you." So done, I offered him a chair, but he refused the glass of wine I had offered. He looked like a worker, well dressed with a tie, between thirty and forty years old, and very polite. "Werner returned to Germany last week, for good. You must be Kamel, yes? "Ooh, what did he tell you about me?" "Not much more than nothing. Just that you used to pass by to say hello." "Nothing else?" "Why, is there something else? Does he owe you some money?" "No, that's not it. Actually, that's an insignificant question between him and me, and I don't want to bother you with that. I'll let you continue your work." "As you wish. But promise me that you'll come back; we can have a glass of wine and talk about all kinds of topics. That would really help distract me from these tedious law studies. I’ll be waiting for you." "Maybe. But you have a lot of work and I really do not want to disturb you." "So, what day, what time?” I asked. "Well, if you insist. How about afternoon, Wednesday, at half past five, just as today." He was punctual, and we began to chat. Soon it was as if we had known each other a long time. He was a typesetter in a small printing company and rather well educated; he was polite and discreet. But there was always a ghost in the air; something unuttered. Obviously we both were too shy, him and me. Finally, I confess I started to get a little annoyed with these visits: they cost my time and then I badly wanted a big zeb, as the Arabs say, and not only good words. That's why I asked him one evening quite directly, "I finally have to ask you what was that open question you had with Werner? You made some mysterious allusions..." "No, there wasn't anything." "Listen, don't tell me fairy tales. Werner has told me exactly what you wanted from him, and that he refused but that you came back on the topic, discreetly but always. Every man has his own nature: Werner had his, you have yours, and I have mine. Anyhow, I am not Werner." Impossible to look more embarrassed than Kamel, who was unable to utter a word. "So, dammed, say what's really on! You wanted to fuck his butt, and he did not want to! Right, or what?" He breathed with difficulty and finally mumbled, "Yes, that's it." When he had somehow recovered from his violent emotion, he began to plead his case. "You see, we are foreign workers and we stay just for a determined length of time here in France. Our wives have remained there in Algeria. But our instincts, we have brought them with us. That's why we look for practical solutions. We are not homosexuals; that would be an awful disgrace and spoil our entire reputation. It's for that reason that you'll never find an Arab who allows you to sodomize him. He fears like hell his neighbors, his colleagues at his work place, and he fears for his personal equilibrium. The Europeans have a quite different mentality in this concern; they do not dramatize the affair. There are some students at this university who finance their studies like that, with the help of a protector or a Maecenas, if I may say so, who pays, for instance, the monthly hire of their room. That's no crime, no? The things being what they are, we are trying to get in contact with friendly Europeans, and in particular with students, who are mostly quite broad-minded. You understand that our salaries do not allow us to keep an adult student, and so we are looking for a man who is not so complicated, who is tolerant, who likes that too, and who grants us from time to time a little satisfaction..." "What does that mean?" I acted dumb. "Oh hell, now you exaggerate! Fuck a butt, damn it!" "I see, now I have understood." "Does this upset you?" he asked. "No, not at all. But the situation is, you wanted to have Werner, and Werner has gone. Now, you have paid me already three visits and I am very happy about these visits. But what do you want, just a glass of wine and some good talk?" "Listen, Sir, I like that glass of wine, I love your room with all these pictures and bullfight posters, and I love in particular your distinguished way of thinking and of talking. But I also would like to get my rocks off, and preferably with a decent guy. Do you feel insulted?" "No!" "So, you are ready?" I didn't answer. I just switched out the lights because there entered enough from the street outside. I lay down on my bed, unbuckled my belt and looked at him with a smile. Kamel heaved a deep sigh, folded his jacket and his trousers on the chair and lay down beside me. After a while, he wound his arms around me, strongly. For a moment that seemed endless; I enjoyed his strength and the warmth of his hard body, but then he began to fondle in my clothes, dragged my clothes over my shoulders and over my feet. Finally, he turned my naked body on my belly and penetrated me, powerfully, slowly, tenderly. He pumped slowly, regularly, and deeply, taking all his time, a real man's fuck. When he was near his orgasm, his back tensed as a bow, he shivered and then he fell heavily on my back, the spasm released. "Saha," he whispered into my ear. We kept lying there, smiling, and after a small rest, we continued until near midnight. From then on, we met more or less every week, not on a determined schedule as for a newspaper subscription, nor during examinations or academic holidays. From then on, we jumped without long introductions in the bed, but the approach was always decent and manly. One day the course of our respective lives separated us. But I'll keep for all my days the dear memory of a respectful and a respectworthy Arab macho. Salif One certain evening I was waiting for Kamel and our usual hot chat. At the usual hour, somebody was knocking at my door, but when I opened, my smile fell on the ground. There was a younger man, rather skinny, in a yellow rain coat like a fisherman. He laughed; well, he laughed all the time he was there. I thought he must have drunk a bit. "Salut, I am Salif. Kamel sends me to tell you that he had to go to Paris early this morning and that he will see you on Friday afternoon. But may I enter for a moment? It's raining outside." I let him enter into the small anteroom and we had some trivial small-talk. I was sure that he wanted to say something, but he seemed not to find the words. So I invited him to my room, offered him a chair and a cigarette. He continued to turn around his idea but did not utter a word on it. "Kamel has told me so much about you,” that seemed an obvious lie, “and that you are very kind, in particular towards him. Me too: I am kind, and I'd be very happy if you'd be a bit kind with me, just as you are with Kamel." So that’s where the wind was coming from! "What kind of lies did that Kamel tell you exactly?" "You are right, mister, Kamel is a big liar. But you see, we the Algerian workers are far from our families, and then we feel very lonesome and nervous." "Well? And then?" "Well, we are very happy if we meet some kind French guy who understands our difficult situation and who grants us from time to time a little kindness." He giggled nervously; I kept a stony countenance. "You positively do not want to understand me and yet it is quite a simple affair," he said. "Well, speak then. If I do not like what you have to tell me, I'll throw you out, in all kindness." "I... I ... wanted... I must fuck a guy. Ouf, now it I’ve said it!" and again that nervous giggle. "So...?" "It's OK. But no trouble!" I warned. "Oh no. Never trouble, never a problem with me. I get my rocks off and I split." As Kamel was supposed to come, I had washed myself as well as I could. In those days showers were only in hotels and in upper class homes. (When a boy refused a rake's invitation to hop into bed, he had in many cases not the opportunity to wash his private parts.) I pulled my trousers down to my ankles and lay across the bed. That Salif man trembled with excitement and he did not succeed to get his tool out of his fly. "Don't complicate things,” I laughed. “Throw these pants onto the floor and avanti!" That's what he did. His action was not exactly the event of the year. His cock was rather small and cold or slippery. Nevertheless, he rode me with enthusiasm; much too fast for my taste. I consider the rabbit gallop as a sign of blind egoism or better, of stupidity. And then he started to twaddle frantically, "Oh, I love that hot cunt, that deep hole. Ooaouu, that's goodie goodie for me and I'll fuck you like a horse, whore, which you are, and you are going to pay me copiously, you disgusting pig...!” I jumped up, turned around and slapped him vigorously on his ears, left and right. This was the abrupt end of erotic fun, and his penis went hanging under his belly, flaccid and very sad, facing my proud erection. "Say, would you dare to talk like this to an Arab or a Kabyl who did such a thing just for friendship? I am not a whore, I am a man like you, and buttfucking is an affair between men. Men can fuck each other, but respectfully please, Monsieur! Do you understand that, stupid animal?" "Yes!" "Yes, who?" "Yes Sir." "And what else do you have to say?" "Excuse me, Sir." "Excuse me means you find excuses, you explain, so you feel you are right and just were misunderstood. What is the correct expression?" "Pardon me, Sir, please pardon me." "Well, this time, I pardon. But you spoke about paying. Let me see the color of that money!" He got his slip and trousers on, and then took two small bills from his pocket; in these days they were just good for a liter of nameless table wine. Another two slaps on his ears, left and right! "Who do you think I am? A toothless whore perhaps who is just good enough to suck the cock of some drunkards from the Foreign Legion in Sidi Bel-Abbès, for some cents? Take your money back if you are poor like that." "Pardon me, Sir, I always do headless things when I have drunk something. If you allow me to come back tomorrow I will pay you conveniently!" "Well, we are going to see that." Salif never came back. On Friday, Kamel came as ever for our intimate chat. Salif had not said a word about our encounter. I only hope that the lesson has helped him to behave, because you should not fuck off the guy you are fucking. By the way, I had not overheard the allusion Kamel had made about poor but obliging students and about generous gentlemen who helped them in financial difficulties. Opening my ears in the waiting files of the university cafeteria, there were sometimes gossip and mockeries about some comrade who was supposed to be queer because he had been seen entering the "Vie en Rose", that’s the place where these disgusting things are happening, you understand… I often had passed in front of that trivial facade without thinking of evil. Certain Saturday nights, I put on my best frock and tie, and pushed the door of the infamous gate to hell. In fact, it was an elegant, glittering queens' boudoir with soft lights and distinguished looking gentlemen. Some of them eyed me at first with defiance, then with an inquisitory gaze and finally, on my modest smile, with open sympathy. Actually, I had found what I had been searching for, and some time later I could forget the ordinary stress at month’s end. But that is another story. The events and the names of persons are authentic. The author would be glad to receive your comments or reports about similar experiences with Arabic, African or Turkish foreign workers, at moran_nl@yahoo.com.