Felix Frederichs stood in the shadows of the station shed in the Washington, D.C., suburb of Lorton, Virginia, on the last day of October, trench coat collar pulled up to cover his sallow cheeks, dark sunglasses on his face, directing the young Martin Mayer here and there in getting squared away for their overnight Amtrak Autotrain trip down the East Coast to Orlando, Florida. There apparently was some trouble about loading the limousine with the smoked windows onto the train—something about it requiring two berthing tickets rather than one. Martin would get that straightened out. It mattered not to Felix if they had to pay for two automobile slots. Money wasn't a worry for Felix.
Frederichs scanned the parking lot as cars continued to arrive to be loaded onto the train. One area was reserved for drop-offs—passengers going to Florida from the Washington, D.C., area but without cars. His attention riveted on a sports car, where an older Caucasian man was driving and a young, handsome black man was about to climb out of the passenger side. The two men kissed and then the black man exited the vehicle, deftly lifted a large backpack out of the cramped backseat area, and strode, moving like a dancer, toward the station building. Frederichs's eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared.
He was a large man, muscular but what you would call rangy, almost gaunt. Despite that he exuded a sense of size. He wasn't a handsome man. In fact, he was a bit grotesque of face, which would explain the high collar and sunglasses for anyone seeing him lurking in the shadows of the station house. No one was looking, however. Everyone was bustling about on their own time-sensitive needs to get on the train and get settled.
Felix could have been anywhere in his fifties or sixties. He had a European air about him and dressed elegantly, albeit the trench coat was a little out of place even on the last day of October in northern Virginia. The temperature was rather cool, but not seasonally cold. But perhaps the black man, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, looked more incongruous in this weather than Felix did.
Frederichs's man, Martin, also wore a jacket with the collar turned up and sunglasses, and he didn't spend any more time out in the sun than he had to either. He was a muscular blond, quite handsome, and appeared to be somewhere in his late twenties. Darting back to Felix's side now, the older man directed his attention to the young black man crossing the asphalt.
"Him," Felix said in a European accent.
"Do you think . . .?"
"He kissed an older man in a car just now. On the lips. The man drove away and left him. He doesn't appear to be meeting anyone here."
Martin darted off again, moving to where he was walking in the wake of the young black man as the young man entered the station house.
When Martin returned some fifteen minutes later, he said, "He's magnificent. He has a coach ticket—a single ticket. He smiled at me. I caused him to drop his ticket and I picked it up for him. He said he was on his way for what he said was a 'gig' in an Orlando club and then he would pick up a job as a waiter on a cruise ship berthed in Tampa. I told him I worked in films in Prague and he shared more. He's a dancer."
"He was quite chatty with you," Felix said.
"He was interested—and, I think, available. His eyes told me he did more—and that he'd do it for me. I'm sure he will do it. He said he'd love to be in films. I told him I was traveling with a famous European film director."
"Possible complications?"
"He said no one was meeting him in Sanford. I said I was going to Orlando and had transportation and he brought up the idea that I might drive him there. I said I'd be happy to. I suggested the possibility of having a drink with him in Orlando unless someone was meeting him there. He jumped at the opportunity. He said he'd be there alone—that he had never been to Orlando before."
"He said he'd go to bed with you in Orlando?"
"The idea was hanging there with both of us thinking it. He was making the hints. He says he drifts around taking dance and waiter jobs at clubs and on cruise ships. A loner. When I offered to drive him from Sanford, where the train stops, to Orlando, he didn't hesitate to accept. He said he'd like to show his appreciation for that but was, as he said it, 'pretty tapped out' at the moment. I said we'd think of something—that maybe we'd find each other on the train—and he just smiled. I could have had him there in the station men's room. I could tell that he was looking around for possibilities of privacy. So, no complications, no. But it's time to board. For now, we should get you on the train and in our compartment."
* * * *
"There you are. I hoped that I'd be able to see you again." Martin had scoured the train looking for the young black man. He'd found him in the last coach compartment, with only a baggage car beyond it. There was a sign on the baggage carriage that it was closed to passengers. They'd already turned off the overhead lighting for the night part of the run. The black guy couldn't have picked a better place to sit. He had an overhead light on, shining down on a couple of glossy magazines he'd been reading. Martin saw an exercise magazine on top, but under that, was that a men's skin magazine?
Yes, it was. The black guy pulled the other magazine off it for an ever-so-short time but also time enough for Martin to see it—and for the black guy to know Martin had seen it. No more signaling was needed. Indeed, there had been enough signaling already. The black guy was eager for it.
"Oh, I was just thinking about you—and about films," the young man said.
Martin leaned over the back of the empty aisle seat in the black guy's row, wondering if he could get the guy to rise up so their mouths could meet. It was clear the black guy wanted to do that. There was no one else for several rows back from them in the carriage. The nearest row had an old man who already was trying to make a bed out of his two seats. He was covered with a blue train blanket. His eyes were closed and his breathing was both noisy and regular.
"Do you mind if I sit with you for a while? I would enjoy some conversation and . . ." Martin didn't expound on the "and."
"Please do; I would enjoy that." The beautiful black guy was almost perceptively trembling. His all-white-teeth shone in the dark corner of the dimly lit train carriage. Both the swaying of the carriage and the sounds of the wheels clacking on the rails underneath subdued the atmosphere, making it monotonous and a bit mesmerizing. The black man would be slow to respond. Martin's stance, on the other hand, was all scheming attention.
Of course the young black guy had done some scheming of his own on where he'd chosen to sit and what signal he had thrown up when, as he hoped, the muscular and great-looking white guy with the funny, rich accent had found him.
Martin returned the smile. He didn't sit in the high-backed seat beside the young man immediately, though. He did some signaling of his own. He reached into the open bin over the row of seats and brought down a blue Amtrak blanket. Then he produced two white handkerchiefs from his pocket and unfolded them.
The young black man looked on quizzically and with interest. He obviously wanted to ask about those.
"I think—I hope—we'll want the blanket a little later. The handkerchiefs as well." Martin said, not providing further explanation. Then he reached under the shelf over the seats, turned off the reading light, propelling the two of them into near darkness, punctuated only by the lights along the side of the rails flashing by as a train going the other way passed them at high speed. As he went down into the seat, Martin snaked his arm around the neck and shoulders of the other man, who had leaned slightly forward and toward the aisle. The black man gave no indication of balking at this. Martin cupped the closely cropped head of the other guy in his hand and brought the man's head forward, close to where his face ended up as he slid into the seat.
"Can I have a taste of you?" he asked. "Or have I read you wrong?"
"No, you haven't read me wrong," the young black man said, his voice breathy, "but a taste of me?"
"Kiss you. I didn't mean suck you off, but that could come later."
Sam sucked in his breath and Martin took his moment of confusion to bring their lips together. They kissed, merely exploratory at first, but then again, hungrily.
The black man spread his legs, relieving the sudden pressure on his basket inside his tight trousers. There was no question that Martin could fuck him any time he wished.
"After talking with you at the station in Lorton I kept thinking about you," Martin said as he sat back in his seat. The blanket sat, folded, on his lap. The handkerchiefs lay, also folded, on top of that. Martin fished two rubber bands out of his pocket and laid them on top of the handkerchiefs.
"Thinking about me?" The young black guy showed every sign of being pleased. "My name is Sam, by the way. Sam Saunders."
"They call me Bertoldt," Martin answered. Strangely enough, that was his given name. He was traveling as Martin, but he got a little extra arousal of using his real name with young men he picked up, like Sam—knowing the use of the name would go no farther. "I was thinking of how handsome you are and the grace with which you move—and that you say you are an entertainer. You would do well in the count's films."
"The count?" Sam still obviously was pleased. Martin wasn't the only one who had been thinking of their encounter in the station house and Martin mentioning that he was involved in making films.
"Count Frederichs. I told you I was traveling with a famous European film producer. He's Czech, and he makes all kinds of films. Sam doesn't make much of an impact as a film name. I see you with the name Jet."
"Because I'm black?"
"People would remember you by that name. There's nothing wrong with you being remembered as black. You're a beautiful young man."
"In Czech films? A black man in Czech films? There probably wouldn't be too many roles that a black actor could—"
"You would be a real standout in one form of film the count makes," Martin said. "You'd be really memorable and therefore saleable. The pay would be very good. If, of course . . ."
"If of course what?" Sam was following along closely. He was getting it now, of course, but that didn't mean he'd lost interest.
"There's an expectation about black men," was all that Martin said. It was all that he need to say.
"You mean that all black men are hung?" Sam said. He said it with a bit of teasing humor, as he quite clearly was on Martin's wavelength.
"Yes, you are so good looking that you would be a sensation in the right kind of Czech film, if, of course, you fulfill a viewer's expectations. But, in addition to that, it would help if there was something about you that went counter to stereotype as well. The films I'm thinking of, by the way, would be interaction films between men. Could you be interested in doing those?"
"Yes," Sam answered, his voice low and hoarse. "But the counter to stereotype . . . what do you mean by that?"
"You aren't the usual sort of black men in films of this nature, Jet." It wasn't lost on Sam that the handsome, muscular blond was using the stage name he'd already proposed. It was like Sam already had a job offer. "Most black men are thought of as dominating studs. There are Czech men who would be interested in seeing films of a Czech dominating a black man, especially a well-endowed one. I've watched you move and you are a slim man. And you've said you are a dancer. My thought of you in a film is as . . ."
"A submissive?" Sam filled in the sentence. "Yes, I am gay and a submissive," he declared. "And you want to know if I'm hung too."
