Hotter Than Hell & Other Stories

GLYPH


Antigua, Guatemala is a town entrapped, haunted by its own past, in the shadow of volcanoes, left desolate by catastrophe, surviving. I was staying at the best of the town’s cheap hotels. The man in the next room was exceptionally beautiful. From the moment
I first saw Ben, I longed to ask him two questions. First: how did it feel to be so handsome, to live behind a face that drew all eyes? And: what would it take for him to condescend to having sex with a man like me?

Even if these were questions that could have been spoken easily to a stranger, something about Ben’s aquiline features, a certain impassiveness, discouraged asking the questions of, in particular, him.

For two days, I watched him greedily as he sat in the hotel garden, writing postcards and drinking bottled water. When he went back to his room, I would retreat to the bathroom of my own. Our baths shared a common vent that readily transmitted sound. I’d sit on the toilet in the dark as the music of his pissing fi lled my ears. I stroked myself into a frenzy, imagining the sight of hot liquid coursing from the inner recesses of his body, jetting from the tip of a perfect cock. Better still, I could hear him shower, hear the subtle changes as water flowed over his muscled torso, between impressive thighs, down the wiry, tanned legs his shorts had revealed. I imagined the water swirling around his feet, myself face down on the floor of his shower, lapping up the liquid that had cleansed his fl awless body. I was lost in envy and desire.

The second night, Ben spoke to me, asked about a new restaurant in town, the only place in all Guatemala to get good Thai food. I cautiously suggested we go there for dinner. He accepted. Conversation, over spicy yum-na and local beer, was polite, safe. I could feel myself straining to maintain the right balance of formality and friendliness. Watching that face, hearing him speak to me, was a privilege and a gift. The slightest sign of the urgency of my desire might scare him off. All the while, I wanted to yell: You are one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen. I wanted to beg him to use me as he saw fit.

On the way back to the hotel, through cobblestone streets shadowed by the ruins of antique cathedrals, he stopped to buy some beer and invited me to his room for a drink. I followed him up the stairs, watching his muscles shifting beneath the thin shield of
his clothes. His open suitcase was on the room’s only chair. We both sat on the unmade bed. I could look past him, into the bathroom where he’d been naked. I caught my breath.

For several long minutes we sat wordlessly, drinking the slightly sour beer. He complained about the lingering heat of the day. Rising from the bed, he kicked off his sandals and, standing just feet away, unbuckled his belt and let his khaki shorts fall to his feet. Opening another beer, he sat cross-legged on the bed. His white boxer shorts gapped open at the fly. I had no choice; I stared at the thatch of black pubic hair, at a patch of smooth white flesh. He shifted slightly. The base of his cock came into view.

Ben reached over, put his hand under my chin, firmly raising my head until my gaze met his. His beautiful face gave nothing away. I stared into his eyes. He took my hand in his, pulled it over to him, to his crotch, to the gap in his boxers. To where he was warm and hard.