ENTRE NOUS: a gay erotic fantasy.

(explicit : recommended for adults only.)

CHAPTER ONE


It is a blustery March mid-morning in Oslo. Yet there is a slight preview of the upcoming Spring with the longer daylight hours and somewhat warmer temperature. However, it is not just the increased daylight which lifts my spirits. I have fallen in love with a good friend. We never planned on it happening, but our friendship took a sudden romantic turn recently. Alas, je suis amoureux – je suis foutu! (I am in love –– I am fucked!).

I had invited Rickard over for a taco dinner, with beer and tequila chasers a few weeks ago. We talked long into the night and I invited my buddy to sleep over instead of hassling with trying to find a taxi to drive him home on a Saturday night. I live in a one-bedroom apartment and have a couple of long sofas in the living room, one of which Rickard was quite content to be able to sleep on. However, I would have nothing of it. We were – after all – buddies, and had seen each other naked before in the showers at the swimming hall. He could, of course, share my double bed. But just to ease any potential reservations regarding crossing the boundaries between friends and sex partners, I jokingly added: “Just don’t try any funny stuff!” Rickard smiled and fired off a playful retort: “You wish!” As he showered, I changed the bed linen.

We were both fairly inebriated, and Rickard fell asleep rather promptly. I – as usual – was suffering from a bit of initial insomnia, and I was still awake two hours after Rickard had fallen asleep. It was quite warm in the bedroom and after Rickard had gotten up to urinate he returned to the bed and kicked off the down comforter. I took this as a clue to get up and turn off the space heater. It was then that I noticed that Rickard had a swelling inside his briefs. I was transfixed by his body: his muscular chest, shoulders and thighs, the tattoos on his arms, the pierced nipples and (of course) the wetness of excitement outlining the head of his swollen cock. I leaned in close to him to listen to his breathing. He was still asleep.

Unable to contain myself, I extended my arm towards his bulging crotch and carefully snaked his dick out of the opening of his underwear at the right thigh. I massaged his 22-centimeter long, thick and uncut cock shortly before I engulfed the beautiful dagger-shaped treasure into my mouth. First licking and sucking on its bulbous head and then engulfing as much of it as I could – deeply down my throat. Rickard began to moan and heave his thighs, and suddenly I felt his hands on my head – forcing me to devour even more of the delicious specimen of manhood. He was definitely awake now.

After about ten minutes of intense fellatio, Rickard’s entire body began to convulse – sending waves of hot, ropey jizz into my mouth and all over my face and chin. He then masturbated my prick allowing me to ejaculate my own thick load all over his still semi-hard cock. I went to the bathroom to fetch a towel and began wiping the cum off of his dick when I noticed that he was fully hard again. Rickard then told me he wanted to fuck me. It had been years since I had stopped getting fucked up the ass – it was usually I who did the fucking. However, his swollen cock was just too much to resist having again, and so it was that I let him screw me. It hurt like hell (being so out-of-practice) but the pleasure exceeded the pain factor. He fucked me, first doggy-style, and then on my back with my legs up in the air. I finally I sat on his dick and bounced up and down on it – easily taking the full length and girth. I came first, making a mess of the bed linen; and shortly afterwards Rickard ripped off his rubber, moved up towards my face and covered my face and chest with gooey love juice.

I was nervous the next morning – worried that we might feel awkward; but we ate breakfast together, were affectionate towards one another and Rickard left feeling happy. He told me he would call me the next day to say “hello”.

And that was the start of a new relationship for me. So much had happened in my life since I moved from Paris to Oslo last year. Rickard was my first real friend here. I had, however, kept up e-mail contact with my best friend in Paris: Bertrand. It is these e-mail communications that I had sent to him that I now am re-reading:

November 2, 1998

Mon cher Bertrand,

Mon Dieu!

I have been in Oslo for just two weeks, and already I seem to stumble into predicaments that I thought were more typical for Paris – or New York City, than a city like Oslo. I just have to tell you about an incident that happened to me last Saturday, but you must promise me that you will never tell a soul! I mean it!! 'Pas âme qui vive!'

I had been out with a few colleagues from work, and after a fairly decent meal at a sushi restaurant in the upper-class area called Majorstuen, two of us decided to go across the street and catch a film. I had had a few beers (you get a half-litre in most restaurants here, and the alcohol content is rather high) and began to feel the urge to relieve myself towards the end of the film. Well, before I knew it the film credits began to roll across the screen and people were queuing up to leave the theatre. Now, here in Oslo they apparently lock the entrances to the salon de cinéma once the film is over – forcing everyone to leave through the side exits, which take you directly out to the streets.

When I realised that I was suddenly outside, in the cold air, I began to panic. I politely said "ciao" to my colleague, and quickly ran back to the entrance of the cinema. Unfortunately, the film we saw was the last showing of the day and the front doors were already locked.

Now since my apartment is just a 20-minute walk from the cinema, I began walking briskly towards my own neighbourhood. I crossed through the upper corner of Vigeland Park and suddenly spied a public toilet. There was almost no lighting inside but I did make out that there was a urinal, and several cubicles (without toilet seats). I had heard that this particular area was rather "gay-cruisy" and I feared that (perhaps) it might be occasionally patrolled by undercover cops hoping to catch persons having sex in public places ... as occurs in other cities in the Western world. Just as I had gotten up the nerve to use the urinal I heard a commotion outside: an altercation between several men – some of whose voices I feared might belong to policemen.

I quickly zipped up and "high-tailed" it out of there, of course, now needing to relieve myself more than ever. I only had about ten more minutes before I had reached my apartment house and the sweet comforts of my own bathroom when suddenly I slipped on the icy sidewalk and skidded a few feet (stomach-down) across the slippery pavement. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a brown pole, which I assumed was holding up a sign of some sort. Thinking I would steady myself, I quickly reached out my arm to grab hold of the pole, and immediately felt that something was amiss. The pole was soft, warm and fleshy. I raised my head and realised that I had grabbed the left leg of a drag queen who instantly turned to her friend and said: "Ooh la la, ma chérie. Look what I just caught!"

Other pedestrians hurried quickly past, snickering under their breath; and I muttered a gracious "I'm sorry. I mean 'thank you!'", and ran behind the closest tree and relieved myself. So you see, Oslo is not so very different than Paris. I will be sharing more of my exotic tales with you in future e-mails.

Je t'embrasse

William


November 13, 1998

Bertrand, my dear friend!

Oh, how I miss you – and Paris. I am quite “down” today – having just quit my job. I am sitting in my apartment, drinking French red wine and chain-smoking cigarettes – and feeling so damned sorry for myself (“pauvre de moi!”, “quel dommage!”). This self-pity is so disgusting! (et inutile).

Let me tell you what has happened:

You remember, of course, that when I signed the contract with this company I was promised a substantial pay raise after some months, depending on my performance and my Norwegian skills? And you know that I have attended Norwegian language classes both before coming to Norway, and recently in the evenings three days-a-week after work? Well, I have also been working overtime almost every weekend the past eight weeks and haven’t gotten paid anything extra for my effort – it’s true mon chér – because here overtime must be “forced upon you” officially by your boss in order to get the extra pay; otherwise you must eventually take the payment in the form of time off. When do I have time to take days off? À l'enfer avec eux! I am drowning in work, and these colleagues of mine do not take kindly to me showing the bosses how much more they can expect from (or get out of) employees.

Well, to make a long and boring story short – I asked my boss about the raise and referred to my diligence, my performance and the positive feedback from my clients (proudly using almost perfect Norwegian). He replied, with a wry and uncomfortable smile, that we would have to wait until after my “six-month review”. I protested, of course, but he just responded that that was company policy and that there was nothing to be done. Downtrodden, I headed for my office, but on the way I noticed that several of my male colleagues were gossiping with one another about something – apparently quite juicy. But when I approached them to be let in on the fun, they made excuses and ran off – one-by-one. So I returned to my office, hung up my suit jacket and went to the washroom to urinate and to wash my face.

I sat down in one of the stalls, and there I saw that someone had just recently adorned the walls with graffiti. There was a crude drawing of someone with a huge penis in his mouth – and under this drawing was written: “William suger pikk!” (“William sucks dick!”). Well, I was furious – both at my boss, then at my colleagues – and now at this final insult. I immediately went into the supply room and found a board marker pen, and returned to the restroom stall where I wrote underneath the crude graffiti (in English): “Yeah, and Dick loves it – just like you do!” In my anger and frustration, I had become just as crude as my co-workers.

Fuming, I went out for a 2-hour lunch, and returned to find the entire office again gossiping. I then marched into the office of my boss and told him that I was quitting the job immediately. He told me that I could not just quit on a moment’s notice, and that it would reflect upon my job reference. I then told him to take it to the top of his ass! (“pour le prendre au dessus de son âne!”), collected my personal belongings from my office and proudly walked out of the building – followed by about 20 pair of shocked eyes. My life is beginning to feel like a modern-day parody on Voltaire’s “Candide, ou l'Optimisme”.

So now I intend on doing something I haven’t done since I first arrived in this town: I am going to go out and get properly laid! And tomorrow I will look for and find a “proper job”. I so enjoy your e-mails, Bertrand! I will write again soon.

Bisous,

W.


December 19, 1998

Cher Bertrand,

I am soooo tired today! I am dog sitting for a friend who lives across town, and since I am not allowed to have pets in my own apartment building I have stayed in his apartment the last two nights. The first night (Friday) went quite well, as did yesterday (Saturday) day and afternoon. But last night was a "living cauchemar" – for both the dog and myself.

A neighbour came home a little after midnight, just as I had turned off the television and gone to bed. There was a lot of loud laughing and music bouncing through the all-too-thin walls separating the two apartments, and after a while I noticed that the old recording of Donald O'Connor and Marilyn Monroe singing "A man chases a girl (until she catches him)" playing on the ancient phonograph was skipping and repeating; over and over. I punched my pillow, then tried to cover my ears with it until someone eventually turned the phonograph off. I then breathed a sigh of relief, got up and got a glass of water – and returned to the bedroom.

It was then that the nightmare really began. The couple went at it for what seemed like hours. I have never before heard so much commotion from a couple making love – moaning, screaming, thumping noises ... rocking the very foundation of the building; making the dog bark – and my own libido rise.

Finally, after three rounds, all fell quiet for about 45 minutes. I was just dropping off to sleep when I heard the neighbour growl "Kutt ut – jeg må sove!" ("Stop – I need to sleep!"). It was quiet for another 20 minutes, and then I heard the bed next door again creaking and banging against the wall separating our bedrooms. Suddenly the neighbour – now awake – furiously screams in Norwegian: "You f*@k#xg c*@t of a whore! I said I need to SLEEP! You are stealing my manhood! Get off me! Get out!!"

Minutes later I hear the neighbour's door slam, and "Ms. Hump and Jump" stomping down the stairwell in her high-heeled shoes; sounding like a horse clopping through the streets in the oldest part of Paris.

All was then quiet, but I couldn't sleep a wink – thinking about “stolen” manhood, the joys and trials of youthful libido and – of course – how I could approach the neighbour to ask him where he had found the vintage recording.

Yours truly,

William


December 28, 1998

Bertrand – mon ami,

Happy New Year!

Thank you for your e-mails. I am very happy that we are able to maintain contact after I moved to Oslo from Paris.

Do you remember the song entitled “Smile”? I believe it was originally from the Charlie Chaplin movie “Modern Times”. Well, I was leaving the metro station on my way to my new job when I heard the music from that beautiful song being played by an old man with a violin. Most people hurried past him, but even though I was running a bit late I just had to stop and listen for a couple of minutes.

The old man’s playing almost brought tears to my eyes. The beautiful tones rang through the air as clearly as church bells on a sunny Sunday morning. As the song ended I dropped a few coins into his violin case, and the old man replied “Tusen takk! (A thousand thanks!)” and then in broken English: “Happy day after the day after Christmas!”

I smiled and replied: “Thank you, sir! The same to you, as well.” Suddenly, I was feeling so happy – practically dancing towards the exit while whistling the last lines of the song to myself – just like in an old Hollywood musical.

And as I was about to walk out of the metro station the old man shouted out to me in Norwegian: “How the hell did you make it?”

I laughed to myself, and exclaimed to everyone in earshot: “Life is good – It is all good!”

Je t’embrasse,

William


January 3, 1999

Dear Bertrand,

You will never guess who just called me from Paris – and at 01:20 hours! Jean-P.! He was bitching about the "corrupt French legal system" and some stupid trouble he had gotten himself into.

It seems that he was out on the town two months ago, and had decided that it would be fun to compete with some "gentlemen of the night" for their johns. He apparently tried to pose as a man-whore, and offered to go home with the customers free-of-charge. This, of course, infuriated the working "girls", and he was beaten to a pulp. Well, as his story goes, the police were called and all parties were promptly carted down to the police station and fined for disturbing the peace.

True to his nature, Jean-P. became indignant and insisted on pressing charges against his aggressors. When the case finally came to court, the judge threw them all out – essentially calling it "just another stupid fag fight".

Jean-P. is still licking his wounds, and has not dared to go to any clubs or bars for the past two weeks.

I had a very difficult time trying to keep from laughing when he told me his tale of woe. If he were not such a fool, he would truly qualify as a tragic figure.

I must admit that hearing about his idiotic adventures made me a bit homesick for Paris. You must write and tell me some of the gossip you have heard recently. I know that you have not been going out much, but you have certainly heard some juicy "bavardage"!

Ciao,

William


January 14, 1999

Dear Bertrand,

You are all too kind – always rooting for the underdog. I also feel for JP but “she” really does get herself into some incredible situations. Do you remember the “fabulous” job she got a few years ago – working as a “fluffer” for a major film company? And do you remember how she boasted about meeting tons of celebrities, and all her name-dropping (that was always about people we had never heard of)?

Well, Carlos Enrique told me that JP had asked him for help with his income taxes. It seems that he wanted to apply for tax deductions for a considerable number of kneepads and frequent visits to his chiropractor over an extended period of time. When Carlos Enrique asked him to explain these deductions to him so that he could account for them properly in the income tax statement, JP tried to talk around the issue. Carlos Enrique insisted on an explanation, and JP finally told him that he worked for a gay porn film company, and that his job was to “fluff” muscle-bound actors who needed help in maintaining their erections throughout the scenes that were being shot. (Apparently he spent all too much time on his knees and in a leather sling – and at his age, too.) Well, I guess to each his own – or as Carlos Enrique likes to say: “es triste, pero es cierto!”

By the way, I am enjoying my new job. I work as an international account manager for a major Scandinavian advertising firm. The people are very nice and the pay is good; especially since I get a commission on all accounts that I bring in. I am also planning to move into a new apartment soon. It is in the same neighbourhood where I live now, but nearer the park – and it is permitted for the residents to have a dog. I cannot decide whether to get a Bichon Frise or a Chinese Crested.

Anyway, take care –

Your friend,

William


February 7, 1999

Dear Bertrand,

I had an interesting experience last night that has affected me immensely. It was so surrealistic that the only way I can describe it is through verse:

THIS CRAZY VISION OF MINE.

I lie on the sofa – half-asleep in a wet dream,
My body lubricated with sweat and the
Room pungent with the imagined scent of
Dripping man-cunt and semen.
The ringing of the telephone disrupts my fisted dance
With an impudence that only can be described
In four- or five-letter words, and a disturbing
Feeling comes over me – somehow
I know that something is amiss –
This crazy vision of mine offers no
Humane release; there is no humanity
Anymore – only the immorality of
So-called ‘morality’ and idleness.
They say that idleness is the work of
The Devil, yet society binds us to
Television and global propaganda
Ranging from politics to advertising:
A sadomasochistic mind control.
Big Brother is not watching us –
We have become Him willingly,
Embracing uniformity and ratting
Out suspected dissidents – be they
Enemy or friend, neighbour or mother.
I pick up the receiver and before
I manage to grunt ‘hallo’ I hear
A husky breathing sound –
Not quite panting, but a
Relentless deep-seated
Emanation evolving from
The caller’s spleen.
After two minutes of mutual
Breathing into the receivers,
I excuse myself to go get
A cigarette, and we continue
Our duet – my caller singing
The baseline while I willingly
Exhale the melody.
When my suitor abruptly
Hangs up the telephone
I fall back onto the sofa,
Finally spent – and
Immediately depressed.
I cannot get the experience
Out of my mind, it is forever
Embedded in my libido and
I will never again be the same.
Yours truly,

W.


February 23, 1999

My dear friend Bertrand,

Thank you for opening up to me about your recent escapades.

Things are going very well at my job. There is talk about possibly sending me to New York City for a couple of weeks to establish business relationships with some new clients the firm is pursuing. It will be strange to be back in the City again since it has literally been years since I have been there.

I have a new friend here. He is actually Swedish and his name is Rickard. We met at a party and have struck it off. No – our friendship is only platonic, but it is good to finally find someone here locally that I can confide in and be myself with.

He has recently come out of a “doomed” relationship and is looking to rebuild his personal life. We talk together quite often, and exchange many funny stories about ourselves and situations we have experienced over the years. He fell in love with a young Polish man he had met at a gay bar about six months ago. The young man had apparently been a well-known child actor in Warsaw, and (now in his mid-twenties) works as a man whore. Rickard and the young man had thrown a New Year’s Eve party and his young friend (being the drama queen that he is) suddenly stumbled out of the kitchen with a butcher knife and began brandishing it threateningly at the guests, ordering everyone to “get the fuck out! The party is over.” It was late and time for the guests to leave, but Rickard was of course both shocked and enamoured by the young man’s passion. They had sex and fell asleep. In the morning Rickard woke up to an empty house – his young friend had left without waking him to say “goodbye”. Rickard decided to go out and buy some coffee and cinnamon rolls for breakfast, so he got dressed and went to the local 24-hour market. When he opened his wallet to take out his bankcard he noticed that it was not there. He searched everywhere at his apartment but still could not find it anywhere. He then called the bank account information services on the telephone and discovered that his account was totally without funds. He quickly surmised what had happened. He tried to call the telephone number of the older French woman his young friend had been staying with, but she had not seen him for several weeks. Rickard then went to the bar where he had met his friend but no one had seen him the past several days, so he called the French woman (Thérèse) again. The two of them were quite curious about each other (having just heard about each other from the young Polish man, but never met or really talked with each other before), so they agreed to meet. Rickard was shocked when he met this vivacious transvestite with dyed red hair, heavy make-up and a very thick French accent. “She” could not have been more than one and a quarter meter tall, and although she professed to be “37” was truly somewhere between 60 and 65 years old. Thérèse was a recently retired French teacher, having taught French at a lesser-known language school in Oslo for fifteen years. Anyway, to make a long story short Rickard and Thérèse became chums, and Rickard started taking French lessons from her. They had a lot of fun together. Thérèse would try to show Rickard how to pronounce French words and vowels properly – making fun and sexy grimaces – and then playfully trying to kiss him. Sometimes she would shock him with her childish antics. Once they were out walking in a residential area and she told him: “Look! My good friend Anna lives here. We must just stop for two seconds to say ‘hello’.” When she had rung the doorbell she suddenly turned to Rickard and screamed: “Run, you fool!” – laughing hysterically. She eventually told Rickard all she knew about Karol (the young Polish man) and showed Rickard some naive watercolours Karol had made and left at her apartment. They were not very good, but one resembled the paintings done by dogs or elephants, and had some nice colour combinations. Rickard asked if he could have it, and told Thérèse that he wished to surprise Karol by framing it and exhibiting it on a wall in his apartment. Thérèse thought this would be quite amusing as Karol had no idea that Rickard and she had gotten acquainted with each other. Rickard then asked Thérèse how to write “Asshole of a Polish man whore”, explaining that he wished to title the artwork. Thérèse taught him how to pronounce and write "enculé de putain polonaise!". They laughed heartily, and Rickard left her house and went straight to the framers. Once the painting was framed and in place on the entrance hall wall in Rickard’s apartment, Rickard went out on the town to find Karol. After three hours of looking and waiting, Karol came into the bar where Rickard was sitting. Rickard bought him a few drinks and convinced Karol to come home with him for the evening, assuring him that all was forgotten and forgiven. When the taxi arrived in front of Rickard’s apartment building Rickard jumped out of the taxi and commanded Karol to pay the taxi driver. Karol immediately replied that he was not about to pay the taxi fare. They stood there arguing and yelling at one another on the street for several minutes. The Pakistani taxi driver then finally got out of the taxi and asked them to please pay him, as he had to move on. Then both Rickard and Karol started yelling at the poor taxi driver who finally just drove off – glad to be rid of the two. They looked at each other, laughed and climbed the stairs to Rickard’s apartment. When they came inside the entrance hall Rickard proudly showed Karol his newly acquired work of art. Karol was shocked and humiliated, and Rickard felt that he had gotten compensation for his suffering and financial loss. They had “wild” sex together but when Rickard came out of the shower in the morning, Karol had left – this time leaving a short note explaining that he would soon return to Poland and that he was sorry, but that “everyone knows that no one should ever fall in love with a whore.” Rickard was sad, but considered himself lucky to have gotten out of the situation without more serious consequences.

I feel much empathy for all of these persons: Rickard, Karol and Thérèse. Love is not easy, and life is perhaps not so simple for any of them – or perhaps not for any of us.

Anyway, I hope to hear from you soon! I send hugs and kisses.

Yours truly,

Billy

Yeah, I thought – clicking out of my sent e-mail messages folder. I really must write to Bertrand and tell him about my new relationship. The company I work for is sending me to New York City for a couple of weeks. I will write Bertrand from NYC.


March 19, 1999

Dear Bertrand,

Greetings from The Big Apple! I have been here for a week, meeting potential new clients for the company I work for in Oslo. It is fantastic to be back here. It has been years since I was last here. I think the last time was when we took our weekend vacation together here in 1991. What a great time we had then, didn’t we?

I have been taking prospective clients out to dinner almost every weekday evening, but strike out on my own at night. I have been taking in many of the bars and clubs – not just around Christopher Street and in Chelsea, but also at my old stomping grounds: the East Village and the Upper East Side. It is too bad that it is too early in the year to visit Fire Island. I do miss Cherry Grove and The Pines.

However, my friend – there is something I have to tell you. I have fallen in love!

Incroyable mais vrai.

It all happened rather unexpectedly, but I have been dating my friend Rickard for a few weeks now. I am quite excited. We chat with each other over the Internet every other day while I am here in New York City. I think you will like him very much. If we are still together when I visit Paris in the autumn, I will try to bring him along so that you can meet each other.

Otherwise, all is going quite well with my job, my apartment and “Truffles”, my Bichon Frise.

How are things with you? How are things between you and Alain? And have you heard anything from (or about) our dear friend Jean-P. recently? I actually have been thinking about him much lately – especially after an experience I had a couple of days ago here in NYC, which normally only happens in porn flicks – or in the life of Jean-P.

On Saturday I had decided to take the subway down to Greenwich Village. I wanted to do some shopping and cruising. I am infatuated with Rickard, but we have agreed to wait a while before we make an agreement about monogamy – being that he has just recently come out of an emotional relationship where he got burned. Anyway, I caught the train near my hotel in Chelsea and sat down on the half-full morning train. I was reading the Village Voice but out of the corner of my eye I noticed a cop walk past me and pause by the subway car doors to my left. I looked up and spied the hottest looking Latino cop I had ever seen. In fact, he was also the hottest cop and the sexiest Latino I had ever seen. My eyes started out at his size 46 shoes (I love a man in uniform and with big feet), and then my piercing gaze slowly moved upward, examining every curve of his ripped body under the tight uniform. By the time I reached his crotch my heart began racing, I started to sweat and I could feel my prick getting hard. I continued my slow cruise of his body, taking in the outline of his chest, shoulders, his bull-like neck which functioned as the perfect pedestal for his beautiful half male-model and half rugged sportsman face with dark steely eyes, and black curly hair. He met my gaze for a couple of seconds before I continued downward to his big strong hands, his billy club and finally came to rest again at his crotch, which clearly showed the outline of an impressive package. Suddenly I saw that the train had reached my destination. I quickly got up to leave the subway – but not without looking briefly back at the cop for one final mind’s eye image for my future jerk-off fantasies. I was just about to leave the subway station when I heard a deep voice behind me bark out: “Hey you! Stop up for a minute.” I abruptly turned around and was startled to see my sexy policeman two and a-half-feet behind me and quickly approaching. “What were you eyeballin’ back there?” “Excuse me?” I replied. “I said ‘what were you eyeballin’ back there, coño? You see somethin’ you like or are you up to somethin’ the law should know about?” I began to stammer some nonsense about not knowing what he was referring to, and that he must have the wrong person – I was scared shitless, but also quite turned on. The cop then asked me to show him some identification. I pulled out my credit cards and my Norwegian driver’s license. He looked at them briefly and asked if I was legally in the USA and what my business there was, and how long I had planned to be there and so on. I answered his questions politely, trying to show respect for his status and profession. He then asked to see my passport and return ticket. I explained that they were at my hotel, and that I do not usually carry them around with me. He then asked me where I was staying and I gave him the name and address of the gay hotel I was staying at in Chelsea. But this hot cop was not satisfied. I had apparently cruised the wrong cop because he then called for backup. When the two other policemen (one Black and one Caucasian) arrived in their cop car we all drove up to my hotel, and the three policemen followed me up to my suite. In all fairness, I did not look like a businessman that day. I was dressed in my gay cruising attire, wearing black boots, tight-fitting torn black Levi 501 button-fly jeans, a black tee shirt sporting the words “Fuck slut” and a black leather jacket. I was wearing no underwear and my cock was prominently displayed on the left side of my pants leg. And the gay hotel I was staying at was not exactly a four-star one. Once inside my hotel room I went into the bedroom to get my passport and my airline ticket. When I returned from the bedroom I saw two of the cops looking over a porn magazine I had left on the small sofa in front of the television. The Caucasian cop looked over my travel documents and the Latino asked me if I make a habit of cruising officers of the law when they were on duty. I replied “No sir, not really.” He then asked me if I took drugs, which I promptly denied. The Caucasian cop asked me to remove my jacket which he searched, and then to empty my jeans pockets. I pulled out my wallet, the loose change I had in my front right pocket, my cigarettes and lighter and a bottle of poppers. “What’s this?” the Black policeman asked me. “They are poppers, Sir. But I do not use any illegal substances.” Now I was really getting nervous. The Black cop then took a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket and asked me to drop my jeans and bend over. I looked at the three policemen in disbelief, and the Latino said: “He said drop your pants “Fuck slut” – and your underpants too!” I was freaking out now, but followed the orders I had been given and removed my jeans and underpants. “And now bend over” the Caucasian cop commanded. I was shaking like a leaf as I slowly bent over facing the crotch of the Latino. The Black hunk then ordered me to spread my cheeks and began probing my asshole looking for drugs. I soon felt his big middle finger deep inside my hole causing me to squirm and protest. “Relax and shut up,” he barked. My face was buried in the crotch of the Latino and the Caucasian cop had already unzipped his pants and was pulling on his dick while watching the unfolding events. Suddenly I felt a moist sensation in my asshole – the Black police officer was tonguing my fuck hole! I began to moan and the Caucasian cop urged the Latino to ‘shut me up’. The Latino then shoved his delicious oversized fuck rod into my mouth, allowing it to grow as he fucked my mouth – soon reaching the back of my throat. I thought I had died and gone to “pig heaven” but I didn’t really know what heaven was until I felt the Black cop’s hard cock ramming my man cunt. They each took turns slamming their juicy dicks into my ass and mouth until I thought I would pass out from the combination of pain and extreme pleasure. The Caucasian then ordered me to go into the bathroom and sit on the toilet seat. I was then told to jerk off while the three of them stood over me beating their meat. They came one after the other, covering me from head to thighs with hot jizz. I was beside myself with excitement and soon came, unloading my biggest cum shot since my youth. I smiled – grinning from ‘ear to ear’ – and thanked the officers, being certain to address them as “Sirs”. The Caucasian replied that they were not finished with me yet, and one by one they pissed all over me. I was in shock as they put their cocks away and zipped up. As they left the hotel suite the Latino smiled at me and advised me to try to stay out of trouble – adding: “you never know what to expect in the Big Apple.”

Write me when you can. I return to Oslo in a little less than one week.

Bisous,

William


I did not need to go out cruising that day or the next, and my remaining days in New York were relatively uneventful. However, I did take the subway everywhere from that day on – but I never saw my Latino again. The evening before my return flight to Oslo Rickard called me. We spoke for about ten minutes, and I told him about the successful business meetings I had had. Towards the end of the conversation Rickard asked me if I had found time to have some personal fun while on my business trip. I replied “a little – but nothing too exciting.” I greedily wanted to savour and keep my NYC cop experience for myself – at least for the time being.

On the day of my arrival back in Oslo, Rickard met me at the airport and drove me back to my apartment. I was tired from the journey, but glad to see him again. Although I had only been away for a couple of weeks and we had been in touch with each other constantly during my absence, it felt great to see him again. He told me that he had planned a belated birthday celebration for me later that evening since I had been away on the actual date of my birthday. I asked him what he had planned but he just smiled and said: “We will start out with dinner at a new French restaurant called ‘L'Etoile de Norvège’ and then I thought we could go back to your place so you can open your present.” I was not used to getting presents (let alone people remembering my birthday), so I was both flattered and intrigued. He then changed the subject and spent the rest of the drive into the city ranting about Dieter Wolfe’s new book “Narcissus”, which propounds that homosexuality is a supreme form of narcissism. Apparently, it had created quite a commotion in the gay communities in Berlin and Amsterdam and is currently also a hot topic of discussion amongst gays in Norway. Rickard meant that the book is a “gift” to the conservative Christians and neo-Nazis who would like nothing better than to see the gay partnership law repealed, and who are against gay culture and expression in every way and form. He was particularly annoyed with the book’s so-called examples from gay culture in Berlin, which supposedly supported the author’s “outlandish” thesis. I listened carefully, but was most impressed by the intensity of Rickard’s impassionate tirade. Even though I myself dislike to be told that I am sexy when I am angry, I must admit that Rickard’s “engagement” was a definite turn-on. He recounted the author’s premise that gays live largely in a narcissistic fantasy world – living out their dreams and compensating for social inadequacies through sexual role-play. According to the author, this was a superficial sub-world mainly concerned with image, fantasy, pretentiousness and costume, rather than real attraction based upon who potential partners really are as people. The author had apparently interviewed several gays in Berlin regarding their fantasies, the type of men they were most attracted to, and who they tried to emulate (ranging from the highly effeminate to the muscle-bound, butch studs and masculine role models such as porn stars, firemen, soldiers, marines, cops etc.). Dieter Wolfe found several gays who had told him that they have intentionally experimented with dressing up in different costumes and assuming specific roles while frequenting the same sequence of gay bars and clubs on successive nights, noting that different potential partners were attracted to them according to the fantasy presented – even though the visitors to these bars and clubs were essentially the same from night to night. One interviewee told him an amusing story about how one night he suddenly discovered that he had picked up the same man several times previously without knowing so. It turned out that the “trick's” wig had fallen off during sex, revealing a full head of hair underneath – and – of course – the true identity of the playful impostor. Ironically, the interviewee told Wolfe that his response was to throw the rogue out instead of continuing his erotic tryst with the “character” that had attracted him. I snickered to myself, thinking about my own recent experience with the cops in Manhattan. I wondered if I had been equally attracted to gay men dressed up as “would be” cops as I had been to the “real thing.” However, I mentioned none of that experience to Rickard but rather coyly asked him: “Don’t you think the guy was lucky to have found a sex partner who was so versatile and convincing in terms of his repertoire that he even manages to fool him (the interviewee) time after time? It sounds to me as if he has found the perfect long-term partner!” We had just come to a stop at a red traffic light, and Rickard turned to look at me. He had a surprised look on his face for a second or two, and then started to laugh. He leaned over to kiss me, saying: “You’re going to love your birthday present!”

It was about 1430 hours when we arrived in front of my apartment. Rickard told me he would pick me up at 2030 and told me that I did not need to dress up with a suit and tie for the restaurant – jeans with a dress shirt and blazer or suit jacket would do. We kissed and fondled each other for a few minutes and Rickard drove off. I put my bags inside the apartment and then rang the door buzzer of my neighbour to get “Truffles” my dog. Truffles had been staying with my neighbour Jens while I had been away. After a short walk in the park with the dog, I fell asleep on the sofa and woke up four and a half hours later in a panic. I had just about thirty minutes to walk and feed the dog, shower, shave and get dressed. Luckily, Rickard called to say that he would be about 15 minutes late.

L'Etoile de Norvège was an intimate and trendy bistro in the neighbourhood called St. Hanshaugen. It was quite full when we arrived, but fortunately we did not have to wait very long for seating since Rickard had made reservations beforehand. I ordered coq au vin, with snails as an appetizer and a fantastic chocolate creation for dessert. Rickard had the lamb, a shrimp cocktail as an appetizer and cognac and espresso for dessert. We managed to drink an entire bottle of French red wine and finished with a bottle of expensive champagne. When Rickard asked for the check, I excused myself to go to the toilet. While standing in front of the urinal, the door to the stall in back of me suddenly swung open and out came someone I recognised. It was the young man I had sex with back in November – when I had gone out to “get laid” after the incident at my previous job. I did not even know his name. I had walked into a local gay bar downtown, saw the guy standing by himself, approached him, asked if he was “ready to blow this scene” and walked out with him. We then took a cab back to my place where I fucked him as hard as I could and then he left, and I had not seen him again since – until this very moment. He looked at me (I still holding my cock in my fist), licked his lips suggestively and smiled, washed his hands and then walked out of the restroom.

When I got back to the table, Rickard had a strange look on his face. I asked him if everything was okay, and he replied: “Sure. It’s nothing really.” I said: “It doesn’t feel like ‘nothing’ to me, Rickard.” He then said: “You’re right! I just saw Karol leaving the toilet. You must have seen him while you were in there!” I replied that I had seen a young man there but did not know any Karol. “Shit!” I thought to myself. “So that is the ‘famous’ Karol!!” I could not tell Rickard that I had previously tricked with the guy from the toilet – especially if he is Karol – and definitely not tonight as it would spoil our evening together. Rickard perked up and began to tease my curiosity by making hints about my “present” which I did not understand. While I went to get our coats from the coat-check Rickard made a short telephone call from his cell phone.

When our taxi arrived at my apartment I went into the kitchen to get a couple of glasses and a bottle of Scotch whiskey. I came out of the kitchen, put on some music, dimmed the track lighting and was just about to sit down when the outside buzzer rang. Rickard told me that he would get it, and shortly afterwards there was a knock on the front door. Rickard opened the door and called out to me: “It’s for you – a delivery of some kind.”

When I went to the entrance hall I was shocked to find an attractive young man standing there. He was totally nude except for a black leather jock strap, a black ribbon tied in a bow around his waist, and he had the most beautiful and sexy smile I had seen for a long time. He was holding a box containing a dozen Calla lilies, which he handed to me. I was speechless but Rickard came to my rescue saying: “Happy Birthday, Billy! You might want to get an extra glass from the kitchen for our delivery boy.” The delivery “boy” (blond, slender and with a swimmer’s build) was truly in his mid-twenties. He promptly said: “Let me help you with that.” I looked at him and then at Rickard who was smiling, and the delivery boy (called ‘Truls’) quickly added: “... help you with your box – I mean the flowers, that is.” He followed me into the kitchen, and while I reached for the crystal vase on top of the cabinet Truls began preparing the stems of the Calla lilies for arrangement in the vase. He was standing in front of the sink, so I stood behind him and extended my arm around him to turn on the faucet so I could fill the vase. Truls then began to grind his buttocks into my crotch. Rickard had been watching from the living room and called out: “Truls, I am putting your bag with your clothes in the bedroom.” I stroked the palms of my hands over Truls’ pecs, rubbed his abs and finally groped his crotch, all the while licking and kissing his neck and pressing my tongue into his delicious mouth.

We returned to the living room, where I poured out three healthy shots of whiskey into the glasses and called out to Rickard. Rickard shouted back: “I’m in the bedroom. Can the two of you come in here and help me with something?” We took the three glasses and went into the bedroom, and found Rickard standing beside the king-sized bed – in full S&M regalia. Within minutes he had Truls spread-eagled on the bed with his beautiful ass on full display. Rickard had tied Truls’ hands and feet to the bed frame and turned to me and said: “Happy Birthday, baby! Let me get this prepared for you!” He then gave Truls’ juicy fuck hole a long and deep tongue bath, making Truls moan and quiver. After about seven minutes of ass licking and tongue fucking and me salivating while watching, all the while stroking my own cock, Truls said “Værsågod!” (“It’s all yours!”). I did not hesitate, but eagerly plunged my now throbbing cock into Truls’ man cunt. Rickard knelt on the bed besides Truls stuffing his fat cock down his throat, all the while admonishing him to “Choke on it! Show me you really love it!” We switched positions a few times – finally exploding all over Truls’ crack, his back and his face, before we untied him and we both knelt before him sucking him to an intense orgasm.

After Rickard saw Truls to the door and paid him for his services, we continued our own lovemaking all night long. It was the best birthday surprise I had ever received. I slept curled up in a foetal position down by Rickard’s cock and balls – ever ready to service his eventual needs.

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(Art photography on this page by Adam Donaldson Powell.)