Forced Layover

I was leaning over the washbasin in the bathroom of Ari's small Tel Aviv apartment. The bathroom was clouded with steam as Ari had just turned off the water in the shower. I was watching him through the mirror above the basin, wiping it off periodically as it misted over. He had a great, hirsute body and swung low. He played a mean viola and a magnificent cock. I didn't think I'd ever had a man that hirsute—black curly hair covering a berry-brown body. I certainly hadn't had a violist who could fuck like that. He was still in the Israeli army and they were working his body hard. He was cut like a Roman gladiator.

He had worked my body hard too after bringing me back to his apartment after that final Tel Aviv orchestra concert I'd played in. I wanted him to fuck me from the moment I saw him warming up his viola at the concert and, boy, did he ever, fucking me in a sustained allegro staccato, with a cymbal-clashing, bombastic finish. In other words, he fucked me real good.

Tomorrow it was off to Frankfurt and to Max, to continue my summer gigs away from New York. I was playing in Alex North's

2001: A Space Odyssey

with the Hessian Radio Symphony at Frankfurt's Grosser Saal. Max, who I had met when he was doing a similar exchange program with the New York Philharmonic, had gotten me a gig in the violin section for this concert. He had said he wanted to be with me again when he'd gotten it set up. Our more recent phone conversations indicated that he'd cooled down—or maybe that he'd found another guy he wanted to fuck more than he wanted to fuck me. I realized I would feel more relief than disappointment about that. Max was in his mid-twenties, as I was, and I preferred older men—older men who were assertive. Max was a bit passive. But he had a big dick, and that was a fetish of mine.

I had only recently attained to an obsession with good fucking, but, for the moment, I thought about it almost as much as I concentrated on the musical notes floating through my brain, and I continually was equating a man's fingers stroking of my body to the rhythm of the thrusts of his cock inside me to my own finger play and bowing of my violin.

My plane was leaving at 6:10 in the morning. It already was past midnight here. There wasn't enough time to ride Ari's cock again before I had to leave for the airport—not if I wanted to get a couple of hours of sleep. But watching him shower had gotten me hot and bothered again. I'd worn my toothbrush out pretending I was here, at the sink, to brush my teeth.

Ari came out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist. He came in, close, behind me and wrapped his arms around me.

"Umm, that was nice," he murmured. "Let's do it again."

"Can't if I'm going to get any sleep before I have to be at the airport," I said. I'm sure he could hear the regret in my voice. One of his hands glided down my belly, his fingers ruffling up my reddish-blond pubic hair in passing and grasped my cock.

"You're hard again," he murmured.

"Yes," I answered.

"Sleep is overrated."

"Yes," I agreed.

"You want me again, playing your body like I play my viola, don't you?"

"Yes," I answered, breathlessly.

"You want me to play Wagner on your body."

"Yes."

"Widen your stance and lean into the wall for me, baby. One last ride with the Valkyries."

I heard his towel puddle down to the floor as I spread my legs and placed the palms of my hands, wide on the slick tile wall in front of me.

"Oh shit. Oh, fuck. Yes!" I cried out as he cupped my chin, arching my torso back, my shoulder blades pressed into his chest, slid up inside me—still open from when he'd fucked me, twice, on the bed—and began to pump. He was humming from Wagner's

Ring Cycle

, something with a strong beat to match his vigorous thrusts. This would be over in a matter of minutes. My cum was already rising as he stroked my cock. This wouldn't take long. I might get a bit of sleep after all.

* * * *

"Here, would you like me to put that in a compartment up front for you, sir?"

"No thank you, ma'am," I answered, as I found a spot for my violin case just above my business class seat. I'd been upgraded, and I hadn't asked why. I just took the ticket and smiled. El Al nonstop flight 357 to Frankfurt, Germany, wasn't crowded—at least not in business class. There was a burly middle-aged man sitting in the aisle seat I had to cross over to get to the window seat, but there was room and there were only two seats across. Still I felt his hand on my butt as I passed over him and, looking down at him, I could see that he was giving me "that look."

Why did they always know about me so quickly, I wondered. Max knew about me right off when he was at the New York Philharmonic. So did Ari just now in Tel Aviv. I didn't dress queer, and I certainly wasn't effeminate. Lots of guys had ear studs now, and even if my trousers were tight and I had bars in my nipples, none of that was out of the ordinary anymore for twenty-year-old guys following the fashions. I guess the bars could be discerned with the T-shirt I was wearing, but surely that wasn't enough to make assumptions right off the bat—even if they were correct assumptions. But then maybe he'd seen Ari give me a farewell kiss by a column near the departure area. It hadn't been a friendly peck on the cheek and it had come with a grope. Ari could help but be anything but high heat.

"Is that a violin case you put up there?" the man asked when I was settled in the seat. His accent was German, but his English was excellent.

"Yes," I answered. "I play for the New York Philharmonic. I'm on my way to Frankfurt to play in a concert there."

"Something pop or classical?" he asked.

"Something in between," I answered. "A movie soundtrack.

2001: A Space Odyssey

."

"Oh, At the Grosser Saal?"

"Yes. You know about the concert?"

"Certainly. I will be there. Perhaps we could meet afterward . . . for a drink . . . or something."

"Perhaps," I said, trying to make it noncommittal. But he was being polite, so I guess I should at least ask the minimal questions about him. I really had hoped to sleep on this flight. I hadn't gotten any at Ari's. The fuck in the bathroom had led to another fuck on the bed, and suddenly it was time to get to the airport. I didn't feel all that tired, though.

"I'll be at the concert alone," he said, conveying a signal. He was giving me that look again. I'm sure that he knew that, if I was a submissive to men, I knew what that look meant.

"So, you must live in Frankfurt," I said. It seemed to make sense if he already had a ticket to the concert I'd be playing in. "Are you connected with the theater?"

"Oh, no, not me," he said with a little laugh. "I'm a Philistine when it comes to music, but I know what I like to hear, and, as you said, this concert will be between pop and classical. I enjoyed the movie. No, I work in management with Mercedes—the car, you know."

"Yes, I know."

"And I know how to appreciate what I see that I like. I can pay for it."

The signal couldn't be more clear than that—and I can't say that I hadn't been paid for sex before.

"My name is Hans Brunner," he continued. "I get to drive all of the prototypes before they reach the market. Young men like to cruise around in the cars I drive. I don't think I ever disappoint them. I'll have a sleek racing car at that concert, a C-Class cabriolet. It's a convertible, you know."

"Yes, I know," I answered and gave him a smile. He was trying so hard to make me.

"We could go for a very nice ride."

Now if that wasn't a pickup line, I didn't know what was. He was looking for me to say I wanted to ride him. He didn't wait to see if I'd say so, though. And I'll have to admit I was assessing him as a sex partner. He was on the heavy side, but he was expensively dressed and was a handsome man—I didn't shy away from older men—and, as he said, he had access to all of the new Mercedes. I found myself looking at his crotch, assessing the bulge there, without any intention of going further with this—just out of curiosity. I liked big-cocked men. The man could be a bit pudgy, but if he had a good cock that was all I needed. With him, I couldn't tell. His suit was cut too well. But he'd volunteered that young men who went with him weren't disappointed. It could all be bluster, but . . .

"Perhaps you'd like to have my card," he said. "Even if we didn't rearrange an evening together, if you find yourself bored after the concert, you could call me on my cell. I know where there is a very nice, discreet bar near the Grosse Saal."

"Umm, OK, thanks," I said. "My name is Aiden Lanier," I added. He'd told me his name; it was only polite for me to do so as well, but of course he'd take it as expressing interest. As I took the card, we were being instructed to buckle up and told to give our attention to what we should do in an emergency. After we took off, I leaned my head against the bulkhead and dozed off. I swam back up into consciousness a couple of times and when I did so once I realized that Hans was feeling me up. I opened my eyes and gazed at him. I didn't stop him, though. I let my thighs come apart. I'd been daydreaming of Ari fucking me and I was both hard and in heat. I looked down at the hand on my crotch and then up into the man's face. He smiled, realizing I wasn't going to react against him groping me.

On the contrary, I turned a bit toward him in the seat and opened my stance more, letting him get a good feel of me and rewarded him by going hard.

Maintaining his smile, and his hand rubbing my basket, he said, "I'm a man of means. I can pay well."

"We'll see," I answered. And we would. I was such a slut, but at least I acknowledged I was—at least to myself. I already was worried about arrangements in Frankfurt. When Max had set it all up, he'd been clear about staying with him—in his one bedroom, one bed apartment. I got the sense now that he was backpedaling on that. I hadn't set anything else up. If this guy lived alone . . . and there was the Mercedes . . . I didn't mind the idea of riding in a flash Mercedes. I didn't even mind all that much of riding a guy's cock in a flash Mercedes.

He took my hand and placed it on his crotch while continuing to touch the line of my engorging cock inside my trousers. He took the tab of my zipper between two fingers and pulled it down a couple of inches before I put my hand on his and stopped him. "Not here," I murmured. "It would get too public."

He gave me a questioning look but then smiled again when I returned my hand to his crotch. I traced the line of his cock down his thigh. He dressed left. And he was hard . . . and hung. Now I knew. "You afraid or are you interested? Are you a tease?" he murmured.

"I'm not afraid and I'm not into teasing. And we'll see how my schedule goes." I didn't take my hand away.

"A cock this size doesn't—?"

"No, it's not a problem."

He moved his hand to my chest to trace my nipple bars through the T-shirt material and whispered, "Nice. You are a beautiful young man," before he returned to cupping and squeezing my package. I was fully hard, which must have given him a thrill. I'm sure he thought it was for him, but it was as much in memory of me with Ari earlier in the morning. The man was just framing my thoughts in the channel of sex.

"Don't be afraid of it," he said. "I'll treat you right." He reached into his back pocket and took his wallet out. He extracted two one-hundred-euro bills and laid them on the console between us. His wallet was stuffed with them. He winked at me as he leaned into me in the effort to put his wallet back into his back pocket. I left the notes where they were.

No, I wasn't afraid then. It was much like any other pickup I'd been through. Very soon thereafter I was afraid, though. I wasn't the only one who felt the plane turning—and we weren't anywhere close to the Frankfurt holding pattern, I didn't think. I could sense others registering concern in the cabin, and very soon thereafter a stewardess came on and said something, first in German—which only added to my concern because it ruffled the German-speaking passengers, include Hans, who turned a bit white in the face. Then, in English, she informed us that, unfortunately, we would have to make an unscheduled stop. We were going to land in Rome. The stewardess's voice wavered a bit as she gave the announcement—I could feel the nerves more pronounced when she was speaking German and I couldn't understand precisely what she was saying. I could see that she'd given a fuller explanation in German than in English and the effect it had on some passengers, though.

As we were taxiing in to Rome's Fiumicino airport, on Italy's western coast, the captain came on the speaker system. His voice was calm, but what I could see on the outside of the plane wasn't reassuring. We weren't taxiing to the terminal. We were rolling out to the edge of the field, and trucks, sirens blazing, were racing toward us. We weren't the only plane gathering out here on the fringe. All the rest were the same airline as ours—El Al, the Israeli national carrier.

"Sorry for the diversion, folks," he said, in English. His accent was Israeli. "No need for panic, but we are facing a forced layover. As soon as we come to a stop, the doors will open and the chutes will unfurl. Take your shoes off, please, walk as carefully and orderly as possible to the doors, and as quickly, please. We have to evacuate the aircraft."

As I came out of the bank of seats behind Hans, I saw that the two banknotes had disappeared.

I clutched my violin case, containing my most precious possession, to my chest as I slid down the chute. I made it down OK, and so did the violin. I never saw Hans Brunner, the Mercedes man again, though.

Only when we got to the terminal, delivered in buses, and they were sorting us out, did we learn that two El Al transcontinental flights had been blasted out of the air while we were en route and they were bringing down the whole fleet. We would be accommodated on other flights to Frankfurt as they could be booked on other airlines.

* * * *

The terminal at Rome airport was a study in chaos and confusion, thanks to the sudden influx of forced layover passengers from the grounding of El Al aircraft in the region. This was exacerbated by the effects of a not-all-that-recent fire that had destroyed much of the terminal and hadn't been fully cleaned up yet. Angry, upset, and otherwise bleary-eyed passengers were roaming around looking for ticket agents, who had not been fully mobilized yet. When instructions started coming in on a loudspeaker, though, the situation began to calm down.

An announcer explained that they would get everyone on their way to their destinations with rewoven connections, which was met with sighs of relief, but when they added that they couldn't get it all done that day, the hubbub started again. Extra agents came into the part of the terminal we'd been herded to and people were forming around them before they could even get to wherever they were going to work their magic on flight connections. A voice came on again asking people to let the agents get to their stations—and asking them in Italian, Hebrew, English, French, German, so it was taking time to get the information across to everyone.

I latched into the English and heard them say that those having the need for fast connections to go the west end of the hall and those who were willing to take flight delays, with compensation, to go to the east end. There was considerable milling around, none of those who had been unexpectedly dropped on Rome knowing what was west and east in the hall, but eventually most of the surge was in one direction. The announcer was offering transportation into the city, the night at a designated hotel, with meals, and an additional 200 euros for passengers who would take next-day flights. Our luggage would be retrieved for us and booked again for free. I figured that few would take up this initial offer, assuming that the ante would go up from there, which told me which end of the hall that agent was positioned. I slung my violin case over my shoulder and moved against the thundering horde of the "right now" passengers. I had a two-day rest before the rehearsal for the concert in Frankfurt and I was increasingly nervous about the reception I could expect from Max. I'd never been to Rome. So, why not take the offer? I saw no reason to risk losing out in the game of "can I commit at the peak of the offering and get in on the deal?"

Two hours later, suitcase in hand—I traveled as light as I could—and violin case over my shoulder, I was on a train for what I was told would be a thirty-kilometer ride into the heart of Rome and I was holding directions to the UNA Hotel Rome, which I was assured was a good hotel and was close to the main Rome railroad station. Once in Rome, at the train station, I was spit out facing a park to the right in front of me and a parking and bus transfer lot to the left of me. The directions I had were to cross the Via Giovanni Giolitti at the station's entrance and into the Via Daniele Mannin and that the hotel would be just one block in to the right and down half a block. What looked like the major street around was in front of me, on the other side of the parking lot and park, so that's where I went. When I got there I saw a sign that said the street was the Via Solferino. I immediately was lost. I took out the city map I'd been given at the airport and kicked myself for not asking that the agent circle the train station and my hotel. I searched for the train station on the map.

"May I help you? Do you need directions?" The man was tall and slim and elegantly dressed—and extremely handsome, albeit old enough to be my father—or my grandfather. If I'd been told to describe a well-heeled Italian aristocrat, this would be the man. His auburn hair hadn't gone fully gray, but the temples had, which added to the "distinguished" look. He had a patrician bearing; a tanned, handsome face; dark, expressive eyes; and a "I can help you get where you want to go?" friendly smile. He also had an "I stopped because you are a gorgeous young man and that interests me" smile. How, I wondered, not for the first time, could men so quickly figure me out? For that matter, how had I so quickly figured him out? But I had. He had approached me with interest in me. I'm sure he didn't stop to help every confused-looking tourist in Rome. He wasn't invested in getting me where I needed to go; he would like to take me to where he would like me to be.

"Yes, please. Perhaps you can help me find my hotel. I was told at the airport it was just a block from the train station, but I can't figure out in which direction. I'm staying at the UNA Hotel Rome. Just the one night. A forced layover of my plane." Why was I telling him all of this? Maybe it was because I was captivated by his smile, his perfect age for what I liked, his elegantly slim body . . . or all of it together. Or because he had approached me. I was in "alone and confused" mode. Or maybe I'd told him about the plane delay and the hotel assignment because his eyes had dimmed a bit at the mention of the hotel, as if it wasn't in his league. And I was quite sure from the expensive look of his clothes and his bearing that the hotel probably wasn't in his league.

"Ah, yes, that hotel is across the street running beside the rail station over there, the Via Giovanni Giolitti. You just enter the Via Daniele Mannin, walk one block, turn in the street to your right, and the hotel is on your left."

Just like the directions I'd been given.

"Thank you. Thank you for stopping to help me."

"You caught my attention," the man said, his voice a rich baritone, his English impeccable and the Italian accent sexy.