I Met A Man

I recognized the American immediately. Layla had said he claimed to be seriously ill. I couldn’t tell that from his build. He was a handsome, athletic blond, straight out of the pages of the American men’s fashion magazines that Nazim liked to buy up in Nicosia to jack off to. But there was a drawn look about his face, a look of defeat and utter sadness.

Layla had told me that it was a look that I would want to fuck away—and, in an instant, I understood exactly what she had meant.
“Hello, American,” I said as I eased myself down in the chair beside him at the table. He was looking at my bare chest, and I knew that look. I knew he was a man who would take a cock. Layla had told me that as well. Layla didn’t like renting the Durrell villa to a man who didn’t take a cock, and she had an uncanny awareness of just who to rent to.

“Yes, I’m an American,” he said, a bit flustered. “. . . but how . . . ?”

“And your name is Clifford,” I said, and then I grinned.

“Now you do have me at a disadvantage,” he replied. He was smiling, but there was confusion in his smile. And I felt he was becoming more reserved.

“I hope that will be the case,” I said. But then I rushed on. “The woman who rented you the villa. Layla. She told me to come here for you.”

“Layla? Come here for me?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not that good with English. And sometimes I am too, what do you say, straightforward.”

“Your English is fine,” the American said. “Quite fine,” he repeated. But I somehow thought, from the trembling of his hand, that he was talking about something other than my language skills. He was tense, nervous, and fidgety, like a thoroughbred horse. His nostrils were flaring. I knew he was interested—that he wanted me. But I also knew that he was struggling with himself.

“Layla told me that you needed a companion, someone who could help you at the villa,” I said.

“I told Ms. Ergun that I wanted someone a couple of days a week, and she convinced me I didn’t need anyone,” he said frowning. “But . . . ,” he hesitated, not wanting to make waves. Yes, he was very high strung, I thought. Stretched tight as violin strings. Needing to be loosened up—set free of something, something I could not name yet.

“Layla is responsible for the villa,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral and composed, trying to calm down this thoroughbred. Layla had told me that he might be worth the effort, and I could see that he was. My cock was already throbbing at the anticipation of him. “She wants your stay to be pleasant, and she wants the villa to be well taken care of. Surely you can understand that.”

“Yes, yes, I guess I can,” he conceded with a sigh. “So, do you know of someone who can clean the house for me?”

“Yes. Yes, I do,” I answered. “Layla says that it will cost you 200 lira a week.”

“That sounds quite reasonable,” the American said.

“And that I will live in.”

“Live in?” he asked.

“Yes, live in. I will be keeping house for you, so I will live in,” I said.

“You?” he said, just now having caught that nuance in what I had said. “But . . .”

“Yes,” and then, while he was still silent but wide eyed. “And I will be tending to your every need. Your every need.”

I expected an explosion at that point, but he merely lowered his eyes to where he was looking at the table top, not at me. But he had to hold one hand in the other on top of the table to keep them from trembling uncontrollably.

“Come, we go to the villa now,” I said, as I stood, the hardness of me inside the crotch of my jeans at his eye level, unavoidably evident when he turned his head in that direction, which he did. “We go home now.”

I took his hand in mine and guided him up from the table with the other hand in the small of his back. He seemed so fragile now, his manner belied by his athletic build. Whatever he thought was consuming him must be doing so quickly from the inside, because, if I had not been told and if I had not seen it in his eyes, I would have thought he was in the prime of health.

When we had walked beyond the reach of the fairy lights in the spreading branches of the Tree of Idleness and up the narrow cobblestoned street—more of a worn path than a street—to the Durrell villa, Bitter Lemons, perched on the mountainside overlooking the Mediterranean coast of northern Cyprus, he moved about the few rooms in the villa, showing me this and that, avoiding eye contact with me as best he could.

“You need not show me more,” I said, as we stood on the terrace beside the small pool and gazed down into the lights of the Kyrenia castle harbor town. “I have serviced men here before.”

“Serviced?” he asked, suddenly shaking with chill although the breeze coming up from the sea was quite warm.

“I have lived with men here before.” I answered. “I’m sorry. I said I was straightforward. But I can’t help that. I fuck men. And I’m told I do it well. The men who have lived in this villa before have wanted to be fucked. Does that repel you?”

A long silence, and then I just barely heard the “No. No, it doesn’t repel me.”

“It’s late,” I said, overriding him—but with a whisper rather than a shout. “I think it’s time we turned in, don’t you?”

“Yes.”