A French Reunion

It was when I entered the next room of the art gallery that I saw him. His hair was only slightly sandy, retaining much of the blonde that he had when he was younger. It was still tied up at the back of his head, a sign of most older men that they were trying, but failing, to retain their youth. On him, it didn't matter. He may have been a pound or two heavier but flecks of noticeable grey in his goatee gave him some degree of distinction. But the eyes. The eyes were unmistakably, unequivocally his. Green and piercing, that could look deep into you. I felt my gasp and quickly moved behind the wall, out of his sight. He was with a woman, possibly twenty years younger than him. A daughter? A wife?

I remembered him thirty years earlier. The summer of 1984 was a warm one and July unspeakably so. He was an exchange teacher from France who was at my school for a year. He arrived in January and was immediately popular, being closer in age to the pupils than most of the teachers. Still, there was a ten year difference between him and the boys in my class, who he taught European History to. He was also there to teach French and the girls in the co-ed lower school were always trying to get him to say something "sexy" in his accent.

It was about the March that I noticed that he was taking a special interest in me. Remarks on my work seemed to be more personal than anyone else's. He would mention my name in his notes "Exceptional work Steve. Really made me think", whereas everyone else just got "good work" or "excellent". In personal tutorials, he would let his hair down and take his tie off, but with others the hair remained up and the tie on. Noticeable brushes of his hand against mine and quick squeezes of the shoulder. I don't know what it was the he saw in me, but I couldn't help be drawn to him. I used to make excuses to stay behind in the library and he would sit next to me, talking all things History and France. Teachers could smoke in the library after school and he would always give me a couple. We would laugh and he would squeeze my arm, remarking that rugby was certainly developing me and I should consider going to France and watching the game there to see the difference. There was nothing peculiar about our developing friendship but it was moving beyond teacher pupil.

I was eighteen that month. On my birthday he gave out some work but kept mine back, saying that he wanted to discuss something about it. He gave me a look with those eyes that made me feel certain I had angered him with the work in some way. The class caught this, with the boy next to me stating that I was for it. I had heard that some boys had been the victim of his gallic temper after some shoddy work and, although I was definitely seen as one of his favourites, everyone thought it wouldn't excuse me from a tongue lashing.

The class filed out and he beckoned me forward with his index finger. He passed me the book silently, gathered up his work and walked out. Confused, I opened the workbook. Inside was an envelope, inside the envelope was a birthday card and inside that was an address with one word. "Come".

I hurried home with my mind whirling. What did "come" mean? I hadn't really thought house maybe? But I knew that he shared with another teacher from the school. I went to my room and took off my school attire, but on a white shirt and jeans and sat looking at the mirror for about thirty minutes, trying to decide what to do.

I had never thought of myself as being attracted to other men but I was certainly attracted to him. I was quite an open young man, never backing down from a challenge and wanted to experience everyhing that life had to offer. But was I overthinking this?

There was only one way to find out. Telling my parents that some friends had invited me for impromptu birthday drinks, which I guess was half true, I made my way to the address on the bus, having looked for it in my dad's A to Z. The quays on the major canal were in the beginnings of redevelopment and the school were paying for his accommodation, a two bed flat with the other teacher. I walked from the bus to the door number on the paper, gulped eight or nine times and knocked.

Thirty seconds passed and then the door opened. And if I had any doubts as to what he meant by "come" they disappeared as he stood there in his underwear, his manhood straining to be released from his tight boxers. He leant forward, grabbed my shirt and drew me toward him, shutting the door as I passed it. His mouth met mine and his cock hit mine. Our tongues met in a passion of mutual lust. I was three inches taller than him and I forced him back against the wall as his hands tried to undo my shirt buttons before giving up and forcing it open. My hands went into his shorts and grabbed his ass as he got to work on my belt as I kicked my trainers off. I stepped out of my jeans and he led me to his bedroom. We stumbled over to his bed and he fell on top of me, a melee of arms and legs, but never letting go of the passion of the kiss, my cock erect and poking out from my briefs. He broke away from the kiss and leant back on his knees. Here was when I noticed his body, his abs sculpted to a point of perfection, his chest sculpted with his nipples proud and covered in light, blonde hair.

His arms were muscled and with them he pulled down my briefs. My cock sprang to attention, directly pointing to the ceiling. I grabbed his boxers and with his help they came off. His own cock, a good eight inches and cut, brushed against mine, just as his hand had months before, and a jolt of electric went through my body. I released that we hadn't spoken at all since I knocked on the door and I made to speak, but he put his finger against my lips and shook his head. He manouevered down the bed and disappeared between my legs as his tongue went to work on my hole. This was something unexpected and I moaned loudly as he licked and probed before inserting a finger which made me pull the clip on his hair out, letting it fall onto my cock and balls.

He next moved onto my sack, taking each into my mouth and gently biting and sucking. I wrapped my legs around his back as he licked between my cock and hole before running a sole finger up my shaft. How this didn't make me explode I do not know but I could see the pre cum starting to wet my tip.

He made his way up my body, caressing every part of me and making sure that not single part of the front of my body didn't go unkissed or unbittten. My nipples were given particular attention, making sure that they stood to attention before moving onto my neck, tenderly kissing and licking before motioning for me to lie on my front. I complied and he moved back to my crack as I spread my legs wide for him to get access and burying my face in his pillow as he moved his tongue away and inserted first one, then two and finally three fingers to open me up.

I wanted him. I wanted him inside me. I didn't care about the consequences of the time, I wanted to feel him fill me up. I groaned loudly and whispered "please". He moved me onto my back and reached for lube, giving a generous supply to my passage. He then reached for a condom, but I held his hand back. He looked at my quizzically and shook his head, but I bit my lip and looked at him imploringly, once again whispering "please".

He relented and proceeded to lube himself up before lifing my legs above his shoulders and positioning his tip against me. My own cock was now wet with pre cum and he leant forward and gave it a lick before starting to enter me. My virginity did not lose itself easily and on this hot, sticky night, with two bodies becoming attached, we both sweat, his glistening body straining to get his manhood into me. I grabbed the head rest of the bed and attempted to push back, but my cherry wasn't coming easy. I felt his tip enter me and the pain and ecstasy hit me. I now bit my lip harder and tears came to my eyes and he proceeded to move into me, millimetre by millimetre. Then, as if my hole body relented all at once, he was in and sliding down toward me until he got deep enough for me to feel his balls on me. He looked at me again with this eyes and withdrew to the tip again before this time ramming his whole manhood into me. I gasped and it felt like all the air in my body had been expelled. I struggled to breathe properly as he pounded in and out of me and I moved my legs from around his shoulders to wrap them around his back. Our two bodies, my lithe teenage one and his more mature, conjoined. Both knowing what this meant. His gaze never left me as he took my body and made me his lover. That night he took my virginity and he stole my heart.

When he came, I felt him tense inside me as sweat dripped from his foreheard onto the cum that had already been expunged from my spent cock which was by now reawakening. I tried to pull him further into me as he erupted, shouting something in French that I had never learned in class. I felt him flood my canal with stream after stream before collapsing on top of me, kissing my neck and face before we settled into another lengthy kissing session before he pulled out of me. He offered me his cock and I cleaned him up, savouring the taste before he returned the favour with the sperm on my stomach before turning me over and cleaning up my ass.

We made love like that all night and in the morning I awoke to find his mouth around my morning erection. I grabbed his head and fucked his mouth until he took in everything that I could give him before sharing my own load with me. He showered and I gave him my first blow job, copying what he had done to me before he cleaned me up and gave me a hand job. It was a very long shower.

The two weeks that were left of term followed the same pattern. His housemate stayed at his girlfriends most nights but on the nights that he did stay at home he either pretended not to notice or not to care. He knew it was me but I would only be at the school for two more weeks, so what was the problem. My parents just thought I was studying hard, which I was in a way, or out with friends. At school we maintained the same relationship, except one evening when we stayed late, went to one of the outer buildings and I straddled him as he sat on a toilet.

He went back to France for a week at the end of the term but when he returned I effectively moved in with him for the rest of the year. I was eighteen and told my parents that I was staying with a friend. When they came to visit, he sat in a bar nearby and one of my friends, who was fully aware of what was going on, pretended that he was my housemate. I had taken a year off before going to university and had taken an internship at a local paper as I wanted to be a journalist, whilst my friends parents were well off which explained how we could afford the flat.

We made love every night. As the months passed we both professed our love for each other, knowing what would come at the end of the year. At Christmas, just before he left, we gave each other a token to remind the other of, and said we would keep in constant contact. I said I would look to do a course that meant I could live in France for a while and he said that he would actively look for another job in England. On the night before he departed, we booked into the cities best hotel, ate and drank, reminisced about the past six months and then fucked until it was time to check out.

At the airport we held hands as we walked to departures and kissed passionately before he had to leave my sight. I walked to the viewing platform and watched the plane carrying the love of my life take off. As I left the airport, a security guard called me a fucking fag. I blew him a kiss.

Letters were passed almost daily between us. He would write in French sometimes in case my parents, who I moved back in with, opened my letters. I wasn't fluent but had learnt enough in my time with him to get an idea what he was talking about. Which was mostly my cock and ass.

Then, without warning, the letters stopped. I wrote every day, but nothing came back. I turned frantic. What if something had happened to him? I was eighteen and a half, I couldn't go to France to search for him. My mind thought of all the worst things that could have happened to him. Had he been with someone else and caught something. Had he been outed and beaten up. I spent nights crying at the injustice of it. Why wasn't he writing?

Then, six weeks after his letters stopped, one of mine was returned with "n'habite plus à l'adresse indiquée" stamped on it. I knew immediately what the translation meant. He'd moved. Moved on. My heart broke.

July 2014. My wife and I were in Paris with our son and his boyfriend. Yes, the irony of having an openly gay child has never been lost on me. We had decided to have a family holiday before I went off to do some research for an article I was writing for the national newspaper I worked at as their European Correspondent in general. It was a good job and gave us a good life. We were on our last day before my family went home and I went onto Marseille to write about French gang culture. We had decided to visit the Louvre as our son had always spoke of the Mona Lisa since he was a child but he wanted it to be the last place we visited. I'd seen it many times before, so gave it a cursory glance before walking on.

It was when I entered the next room of the art gallery that I saw him. His hair was only slightly sandy, retaining much of the blonde that he had when he was younger. It was still tied up at the back of his head, a sign of most older men that they were trying, but failing, to retain their youth. On him, it didn't matter. He may have been a pound or two heavier but flecks of noticeable grey in his goatee gave him some degree of distinction. But the eyes. The eyes were unmistakably, unequivocably his. Green and piercing, that could look deep into you. I felt my gasp and quickly moved behind the wall, out of his sight. He was with a woman, possibly twenty years younger than him. A daughter? A wife?

What was I going to do?