Someone in the lounge on the first floor of the hotel is playing the piano. The tune is soft and gentle, lilting, not so much seductive as languid and gentle, as if it was meant for to accompany the afterglow of lovemaking and not the fevered appetizer to it. I wonder for a moment why the tune is so clear, and then remember that we left the window open. They must have a window open downstairs as well, and the sound carries on the breeze that sweeps into the room like a little nymph tidying up, ruffling the drapes, cooling some of the sweat on my skin.
I lie across the bed, limbs splayed like a starfish, or an explosion resonating from a single point. I wonder how I am to fit back into that point, that tiny box from which I unfolded like one of those flowers you see in time-lapse movies. They bloom so quickly, and everyone knows you can't fit them back inside the rosebud.
Oh, God in Heaven, what is he doing...
My arms and legs reach unthinkingly for the corners of the bed, this enormous bed in this enormous hotel suite in this enormous hotel. It's as if they could extend to all the four corners of the Earth if I stretched far enough, and that's how big I suddenly want to expand. There isn't enough room in this average-sized body of mine to handle all that's happening to me. The sensation is too great.
My tie is loosened and lies limply to one side. My white shirt is wilted from heat; my coat is draped neatly over a high-backed chair on the other side of the room. He placed it there. I had nowhere near the presence of mind at that point. I was already too far gone.
And my trousers? My trousers, my friend, are as open as the window is, and music is most definitely flowing through that portal. Oh, yes. And this tune is far more urgent than the one played by the man on the piano downstairs.
He's kneeling on the bed between my splayed legs, as calm and suave as if this life had been his for twenty years. For all I know, it has been. I know absolutely nothing of customs in the Balkan states, or Russia, for that matter. He's probably Russian. All the higher officials in those little Eastern-bloc countries are, aren't they?
Dear God in Heaven, I'm lying in a hotel room and there's a Russian man sucking me off. He's got his tongue on my penis and I'm hard and thrusting into his mouth without even thinking about it.
How many things am I betraying just by being here? My country? Well, it's not treason to just *sleep* with a communist, is it? It's not like I have any State secrets he could get out of me during a moment of weakness, no matter what happened with those UNCLE people last month. I'm just a pest control man trying to use my chemical engineering education to make the world's households a more comfortable place to live. I kill bugs. That's all.
I know I'm betraying Ann, but I guess something like this was bound to happen eventually. My best hope is to try my hardest to keep her from getting hurt. She thinks we're still at the party--she's probably even asleep. Sweet angel. If I'm the best possible husband to her while she's awake, maybe it won't count too much against me in the long run what I do while she's asleep.
I'm not going to think about betraying biology. If two men aren't supposed to be together like this, then why does it feel so damned good?
He's so attractive. A wave of exuberance washes over me as I pick my head up enough to watch him suck my dick. He's beautiful. Exotic Slavic features, high cheekbones, glossy dark hair so smooth... so beautiful. I throb. Everything throbs.
How did we wind up in this hotel room? Were we really just kissing like two sex-starved teenagers? His mouth tastes dark. It attacked mine and I fought back valiantly.
What will happen when he finishes sucking me off? I suspect that he was so quick to reach for me the way a carnival barker flatters an easy mark. He wants to hook me. By God, I think it worked. Already I can't wait to feel his meat against my skin, in my hand, in my mouth. Oh, God!
Oh, please don't stop, oh God, oh Ambassador Vladeck oh...