Chapter One: Mile-High Club
I had thought that no one could see us when Kwame pulled me into his body and kissed me behind a column at the San Francisco airport departure lounge, but then I saw the built black dude sitting almost alone in a bank of chairs in the adjacent departure lounge. He was staring directly at us. Coming out of the kiss, I buried my face in the hollow of Kwame's shoulder, as the Nigerian giant ran a hand down my chest and belly to cup my package and squeeze. I don't know, maybe I buried my face in his chest with the thought that, if I couldn't see anyone, they couldn't see me either.
I didn't stop him, though. I was so aroused I wanted to climb his hips right there in the crowded airport departure area. Kwame had opened a whole new world of pleasure for me. And now I was leaving him.
"You know what I'd like to do to you right here," Kwame murmured in my ear.
I did, in fact; our farewell—at least for the summer—last night had been quite athletic and filling. I felt like I wasn't walking straight today. Kwame squeezed my package again. I supposed the black hunk got a load of that too.
At that moment I didn't care. Kwame and I had only recently gotten into it heavy, and here I was, leaving for Bangkok for the summer. My dad had said it would be good for me to see some more of the world and that I hadn't seen my mother for some time and should visit her. He also said it would be good for me to earn some more of my freight between my freshman and sophomore years at Stanford by working in my mother's Bangkok bookstore for a couple of months.
Dad didn't know about Kwame. He knew how I swung—just as I knew how he swung—but he didn't know that I was letting a Stanford graduate student from Nigeria live for free in my apartment and eat out of my refrigerator for only the cost of covering me—frequently and totally—on the bed. I almost told him the last time we met, Dad having flown over from Honolulu to L.A. for a business meeting. I think I neglected to do so so as not to give him an "I told you so" moment. After years of suppressed feelings, my dad had, in the last year, taken on a man nearly as young as I was as a lover. Now he was urging me not to hold off on, as he said, "going for the gold," for as long as he did.
"Get out there and experience it all; find your level of satisfaction; enjoy life to the hilt," he'd said. I wanted Kwame, who was quite a step beyond for me, not only in his exotic race, but also in what I would do with him in bed, what I had risked in the size of his equipment, to be a step I took on my own, not one I was goaded into by my father. Maybe it
had
been my dad's challenging, but I'd let Kwame pick me up at a Stanford gay student union mixer and fuck me that first evening we'd met. I hadn't been that immediately open to any guy before that. Indeed, there had been few guys before that at all—certainly not guys that challenged me being open enough to accommodate them.
I'd never met anyone as tall as Kwame before—or anyone before who had nearly a foot-long cock. Life with Kwame, which had just begun, was a real education, and now I was already leaving for three months. He also was my first black man. I was sometimes taken for black myself, but I wasn't. My mother was French-Vietnamese and my father Hawaiian. That gave me a dusky tint, but refined features, thanks to the French and Vietnamese mix.
Kwame gone, I don't know what made me sit in the almost-deserted departure lounge next to the one I was leaving from, which was teaming with people because the gates were about to be opened. Maybe it was my sudden fascination with black men.
I sat down across from the black dude who had observed me with Kwame. He still was staring at me, with a slight smile on his face. He was one well-cut dude—more than well cut—bodybuilder muscular and good-looking, all shipshape, with a short crew cut. He looked military—in his mid-twenties, probably about five years older than I was. He certainly seemed self-assured. I wanted to talk to him, get him to stop looking so knowingly at me, but I couldn't think of anything to say—and I couldn't argue with him thinking he knew something about me. He'd seen me virtually making out with another black man, and I'd come in this almost-deserted seating section to sit across from him. I didn't consciously want him to think I was flirting—but unconsciously . . .
Truth time: Just coming over here and sitting near him in an otherwise deserted section told him he could have me if he wanted me.
I wanted him to say something, if only something as blatant as, "So, do you take black cock?" But he didn't. He undoubtedly already knew I took black cock.
He was wearing a T-shirt and shorts, with sockless sandals, just as I was, wanting to be comfortable for the near-full day of flights facing me, and it was the emblem on his T-shirt that was catching my attention. It was the emblem of the American Embassy in Bangkok.
This flight was just going to Tokyo, where I was going to spend a few days before going on to Bangkok. I was studying landscape design, so taking photos and drawings of some of the public gardens in Tokyo would put me ahead on a study project next semester. But it looked like maybe he was going to Bangkok, just as I ultimately was.
"So, are you going on to Bangkok?" I asked, using his shirt as a prompt. "The emblem on your shirt. The American Embassy there."
"Yes," he answered. A man of few words apparently. I expected him to ask me where I was headed, but he didn't. He didn't stop looking at me, though. And he flexed his chest and bicep muscles, as if I couldn't readily see that he was built, opened the stance of his thighs, and let a beefy hand drop to his basket. His quizzical look to me was as good as having asked, "So, will you take this black cock?"
I gave him a small smile and an incline of my head—and opened my own leg stance. I didn't really expect anything to come of this, but I'd just been lifted in arousal by one black man, Kwame, with no chance of immediate satisfaction. I guess flirting with another black hunk helped me come down easy from being with Kwame rather than drop precipitously into the reality of a long series of airplane flights into the arms of my flighty mother, who I'd managed to mostly avoid since she failed to move back to the States with my father and me nearly fifteen years earlier.
The dalliance went no further there, because they were announcing the flight and opening it to business class. I stood, gave the black hunk a little shrug, and went off to claim my seat.
Once on the airplane, I was seated in business class, next to an aging hippy who seemed to be some sort of rock star from yesteryear. As the economy class people came streaming down the aisle, I watched for the black hunk from the departure lounge. He seemed to have been looking for me too when he entered the cabin. He gave me a leery sort of smile and turned his pelvis toward me as he passed. He was in enough of an erection that I could follow the line of a thick cock in his shorts.
Too bad there'd be no opportunity, I thought, but it was helping to weather the separation from Kwame to fall immediately into flirting with another black hunk.
The day on the plane moved on into the evening, with drinks and snacks followed by dinner, the dimming of the lights, and the start of the movies. The old hippy sitting next to me had drunk himself into a stupor and was leaning against the window wall, his mouth wide open, and snoring.
A passing stewardess who was passing saw that he was asleep and bent down and asked me, in an excited whisper, if I knew who he was. I didn't. She told me—a member of some rock band from before I was born. I wasn't any more impressed with him after she told me that, but I tried to act sufficiently gratified. After she passed on, I got up in the darkness and went to the head. No one around me even looked up; they were all busy reading or were glued to their TV consoles. As I was coming back to my seat, there he was—the black hunk—leaning up against the pillar between economy and business class sections, beefy arms folded over his torso, and giving me the eye. He nodded his head back toward economy class and then unfolded himself, turned, and walked away.
Sometime during dinner, I must admit, I'd forgotten about him. I told myself that it had just been a flirtation as I was coming down from having to say good-bye to Kwame. But now he suddenly was front and center in my attention again as I watched his bulbous buttocks roll in the dancer's steps he was taking in retreating from me down the aisle into the depths of the darkened economy section. My cock was stirring.
Thoughts entered my mind of my father goading me not to pass up the opportunities presented when another man stirred my cock.
I looked down at the snoring and aging-by-the-minute rock musician and then around for what the stewardesses were doing. They weren't in evidence—taking a break, no doubt, with all of the well-fed passengers supposedly absorbed in their choice of movies. I turned and walked into the economy section. The black hunk was already all the way in the back of the plane, where seat occupancy was sparse. This, gloriously, wasn't a packed flight.
The black guy was looking around at the banks of seating in the rear as I approached. Everyone back here who I passed had their faces buried in their TV consoles. The rows before the one he stood by and across the aisle from it were deserted. No stewardesses were on the move.
"In here," he growled, pointing toward an empty row of three seats. He had a hand in the bin overhead, pulling out a blanket. He gave me a little shove as I moved past him into the bank of seats and landed on the middle seat on my hip and nearly hit my head on the window wall.
He remained a man of few words. "Yes?" he asked in a low, hoarse whisper as he looked down at me. I took that as shorthand for "Do you take black cock?"
