For All The Love In Paris Ch 02

Dear devoted and extremely valued readers,

This story does have erotica, though admittedly not as much as was probably wished for in this specific chapter. This chapter is primarily for background on the characters, and all things erotic will hopefully transcend in chapter three, which is currently underway. I do apologize for any confusion or distaste I may cause. I find I'm having a very difficult time merging an exciting storyline with promised erotic details. Please bear with me, and I truly appreciate all constructive, and civil, comments. Though I do love to get comments that just communicate how much I've managed, if I have, to please anyone.

Thanks.

******

"Damn it. Just...dammit. The one time I actually expend any effort at all into looking nice, and I have to get toothpaste in my eye?! How's that even possible?"

At this rate, I wouldn't be ready for another four days. When I got out of the shower I half expected Gabrielle, my landlady, to rush in and hit me with a torrent of well chosen French curse words for using up all the hot water. And honestly, I deserved it. Every time I thought about him my hands would start to shake and my jaw would clench. It was ridiculous. I had fallen hard before, but nothing like this.

For all I knew, he was straight. It was completely plausible, and yet my cock would spring to attention at the mere thought of his body, and I'd be stuck wherever I was waiting for my hard-on to collapse. Surely I had been given enough gaydar to predict another's sexuality just this one time. The week before last it had been pleasant, to realize my sex life might not have entirely dissipated had overjoyed me, but now it was just annoying.

I glanced meekly at the tiny dining table, wasting hope on the dusty countertops and unused oven. Wasting wishes on impossible things. I'd gotten up early, six o'clock, to give myself plenty of time to actually look presentable, and ended up making chocolate chip pancakes I unhappily found I couldn't eat. That had been the case all too often lately. I had no appetite, I couldn't sleep, and my mind went on hiatus so frequently I considered seeing a psychiatrist.

I resigned myself to the fact that I would be later than I initially planned, then proceeded to rip off my flimsy cardigan and shuck off my jeans. I rarely wore underwear anymore. There was no point when you'd shoot your load without a moment's notice. It was much more economical to go commando.

Still leaning over the sink to spit out the last of the toothpaste, my abs straining to support my posture, I found my semi flaccid cock with one hand and started to play with my ass with the other. It had been too long. I sighed contentedly as I fell into one of my favorite memories.

*******

It was eleven at night, and I was humming with pleasure. My then-fiancee, Vivienne, had left earlier in the day on business, which meant she was traveling with her team of ultra moody models, so I had taken it upon myself to hit the hottest gay bar in the city and make it home with plenty of willing company. When she walked in on us I had two fingers up Aidan's perfect ass and I was eagerly sucking Merritt's slender cock. If she had come in two minutes earlier she would've gotten a glimpse of my satiated face, and heard my moans as Aidan impaled me with his long rod. It didn't matter though. She didn't join in like I had always hoped she would...and I got a delivery two days later of everything of mine I'd kept at her loft, along with a simple sealed envelope containing the wedding band she'd had made for me. That didn't stop me from fucking the delivery man, who had dropped his straight claim when I dropped my pants, and it sure as hell didn't stop me from honeymooning in Paris, albeit alone.

I did miss her, but I missed what she represented more. Having Vivienne around meant convincing the world I wasn't gay, but after the first time we had sex I knew I wouldn't be strong enough to abstain from cock. She was beautiful, so beautiful, and rich, and I almost could convince myself to love the way her tits tasted when I sucked them, but she wasn't everything I needed. That very first time, when I only pushed my tongue in her mouth and felt her squirm, I knew I needed more.

So I made it routine to get all I needed, just more quietly. I fucked her senseless whenever she wanted, and I ate ass like there was no tomorrow on the side. It was a life I would gladly live, because I really did love her, and she really did need me. Until, that is, my little sexcapades were discovered. After that any desire that may have ever been dispensed in my direction was torched like the rest of our relationship.

When Vivienne found me out, she didn't tell anyone like I had thought she would.

When we were engaged, for that whole year, she drove me crazy with her incessant gossiping. I had always just assumed that, should I somehow manage to screw myself over, she'd squander no time in spreading the truth: her fiancée, the illustrious Greyson Forsythe, was gay.

He must've loved her for the money, they'd whisper behind their hands. The pressure went to his head, they'd guess. And my darling Vivienne would sit innocently across the room, batting her fake eyelashes at all the right moments, and inconspicuously encourage them.

Vivienne came from a very wealthy family. Her father bought up stocks in nearly everything, but made his fortune on sick people. He owned an insurance company, one that specialized in medical care, and he was the definition of sadistic. I had no respect for him, but his wife was a lovely lady, and I had fallen for their only daughter like one falls for a new pair of Converse. She was shiny and fresh, and I knew I'd move on quickly if things didn't work out. That was until she bought herself the engagement ring, blathered to her mother I'd proposed, and sweet-talked me into marriage. The wedding was such a huge deal in such a short amount of time that I couldn't have reacted any differently. My parents were surprised, but very pleased, and we set the date a year away. But no matter how much lingerie she bought, no matter how many glasses of wine she poured in me, I was still gay.

I struggled accepting how it had happened. I had no despairing stories to cry through about my youth, no enormous soliloquy to dump on the nearest person. My childhood had been what I would consider common. My family was comfortable financially, but not rich. My parents were strict and insistent, but never doting. And my so called friends were oblivious to anything that didn't revolve around my eldest sister, Zelda, and her rumored innumerable conquests.

My father made his stance on homosexuality quite clear when I was fifteen, having been prompted by a neighbor kid that cheered his way out of the closet, and my mother was too spineless to speak her own mind. My siblings were all older than me, by at least seven years, so I grew up in a home without anything out of the ordinary. And although my father never raised a hand to me, he never told me he loved me either. I guess I was to just assume it, and return it as indirectly as he provided it.

My childhood passed in a quiet blur of normalcy, and I was content to let it.

When I got to college, a state university that accepted me on academic scholarship, I went wild. I partied every chance I got, then studied my ass off, and landed a respectable job at an investment firm far away from home. Vivienne was the secretary there, and, two years my senior, she took me under her wing. She fell hard, and I floated gracefully. After I graduated I was offered a partnership in the firm, and I found myself engaged to Vivienne three months later. My life was still speeding by. For my bachelor party our mutual friends took me to a gay bar as a prank, not knowing of my experiments in college, or of my taste for men. I kept my secret well however, and planned a honeymoon with my fiancée, this girl I barely knew. And now, a year later, here I am.

******

I was brought back to reality with a familiar tingle as I painted the bathroom wall with my cum. My cock stood at a limp angle, the head a faint purple. I usually did cum unknowingly when I dwelled on the past. A quick glance at the clock told me I had no time to clean it up. I strode out the bathroom door completely naked, still kneading my nipples, then sucked my forefinger clean in front of the largest window, silently willing someone to see. You never do have a voyeur when you want one.

I yanked a clean button up out of my embarrassingly crowded closet and dug around in the drawers for some jeans. The cardigan was too smart for me anyways. Grabbing the house keys off the rack, I stepped into my most impressive pair of dockers and shut the door behind me. Nothing could ruin my mood.

I leapt off the stoop and began the walk to the library, book in hand. It had been weeks since I'd last seen James, and I was eager to strike up a real, sober, conversation.

"Bon après-midi," I called happily, waving at a young mother with a cooing baby stroller.

The sky was overcast, but the silver undertone of the clouds didn't lend to any possibility of rain. I stopped when I felt a raindrop, mentally scolding myself for not bringing an umbrella. It could be falling a monsoon when I got done in the library. Sure, the sky was normal now, but the weather in Paris was as unpredictable as my love life. I was six blocks away from the library though; it was too late to turn back.

Other than the fact that I didn't want to rush into anything, and not to mention the fact that I was beyond hopeful I could somehow avoid starting things off on the wrong foot, I had several reasons for taking my time to return the library book. I wanted to give my mind enough time to come to a conclusion about pursuing another romance, and I wanted to impress James with my French. The first decision had taken all of five minutes to conclude and I was proud to say I had learned what most take months to learn in a period of two weeks. My accent was flawless, and I knew more than enough to partake in an everyday conversation.

Suddenly disturbed from my thinking, I looked up to see a sky full of threatening, dark clouds, and a sign over the library door I didn't know I had arrived at that said:

'Fermé pour la fête du travail.'

What? How had I not realized today was May 1st? Even the public bathrooms in France were closed on Labor day. Now I would have to wait days to see him. May was notorious in France for being full of holidays. I laid my head gently across the locked glass door and closed my eyes, temples throbbing.

"Looking for someone?"

"No, I'm just moping because I brilliantly forgot today was the first of May."

It occurred to me that, according to the etiquette my mother paid to have instilled in me, I should at least make eye contact with whomever was speaking, but as I thought this, another thought broke through. This voice was familiar. Light and melodious...

"James?"

I instantly became aware of how I sounded, my voice tinny with excitement, and felt my blood rush to my cheeks as I blushed gracefully in response to my embarrassment.

"Yes, I thought that was you, though I can't think of many others so desperate to return an overdue book."

"I'm not desperate. I'm...overdue? You said whenever."

"That was when I had deceived myself into thinking you would actually return."

I kept my head down at his words, immediately made aware of what my absence must have insinuated. It was ironic that I had filled all my time with the fickle French language, and now James didn't seem at all willing to speak to me. In French or English. At that point I probably could've rattled off an apology in Swahili and he wouldn't have cared. Not that I blamed him.

"Warring with yourself does not get me anywhere. Perhaps return it tomorrow, after my shift has ended. That is, Greyson, if you have any manners at all."

And then he turned and stalked silently down the cold stone steps.

I hadn't really realized it was pouring, or that James was wearing a raincoat and carrying an umbrella due to the downpour. I had been under the overhang, and as I ran down the stairs I shoved the thought of the likelihood of hypothermia in May to the back of my mind.

"Wait, please, don't go. I didn't mean to avoid you, I was waiting for you!" I cried out in impeccable French.

I was rewarded with the sight of James spinning on his heels to walk back to me. I slowed my pace, determined to resolve matters, and stood up at straight as possible. I may have been a drenched fool, but I was a handsome fool nonetheless. I stepped slightly closer and towered over him, mentally debated the possible merits of kissing him. His eyes burned bright blue, an almost unnatural hue, leading me to wonder briefly if he wore contacts. I resolutely shook the irrelevant thoughts from my head, and with a resigned sigh I decided it would have to wait. We owed each other too many explanations. Instead I found myself leaking words that seemed more than capable of making amends.

"Hey, James, can I buy you a coffee?"

******

We ended up at my place. The coffee invitation had been sincere, completely, but James begrudgingly pointed out the date, and so we agreed to have tea together instead. I wasn't really caught up on his preference of tea over coffee, probably because I was mortified that he was about to see my home. I was still moving in, he would be appalled, why had I suggested that?!

"You're awfully quiet."

"Just thinking. Again. About the book," I volunteered quickly. That was him in that drawing, I was sure of it.

I struggled to dredge up topics of small talk, questions about his apparent fascination with all things homoerotic, what meteor his cat was named after, anything. I snapped my mouth shut each time something stupid offered to come slithering out.

As if to prove my attempts completely vain, we reached my stoop with an atmosphere that must have been creeping with disdain and seeping silence. It was one of the most uncomfortable moments I could commit to memory. Worse, much, than the time Vivienne publicly scolded me for inquiring about the possibility of a blowjob at the opera. I had been horny, she was entranced, I didn't think anything of it. Now was hardly comparable.

I unlocked the door while chewing on my lower lip, a terrible habit, and gestured for him to enter. He raised a perfectly arched eyebrow and turned away. He stepped in and glanced around, then waltzed directly to my hideously overstuffed couch and sat down with a frustrated expression on his beautiful face. I hadn't really expected him to be so straightforward. I took one last despairing look towards the storm outside then closed the door nervously behind me.

I veered toward the kitchen with the promise of chamomile on my mind. Then, on a whim, I ducked into the bathroom and produced two towels.

"Oh, thank you," he said politely as I handed him the towel. "Now please, sit. Let me explain."