Chronicles Of An Academic Predator - 6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

May 31, 1962

Princeton, NJ

All I had to do was open the letter from Northwestern University. Once I tore open the envelope and read what they had to say, all of my uncertainty would be at an end. And even though I knew that, for the first time in my life, I found myself so confounded I simply couldn't move. André had no such issues. He reached down and grabbed it back out of my hands and tore it open. “Come on, let's see what it says.” His boldness was a strange combination of annoying and refreshing. He started reading, while I just stood there, unable to think, unable to move. “Says here they want you to come work for them.” He got a huge smile on his face, even as my own face involuntarily broke out with the same expression. It seemed as if the fog cleared slowly, even though it probably wasn’t, and it broke through the mist of my mind that I’d actually landed the position at Northwestern. Before I could fully recover from my haze, André grabbed me in a big bear hug and lifted me up off the floor as he swirled us around. “You got it JP! You got the job!”

My daze turned to giddiness, and I started laughing hilariously. André put me down and I felt a brief flash of disappointment that I’d been so freaked out over this news, I hadn’t taken the time to truly enjoy the bear hug he’d just given me, but the giddiness reasserted itself. He handed me the letter and I read it once, scanning it to get an overview, then I read it again for clarity.

Dear Dr. Crampton,

We are pleased to offer you a position as Assistant Professor of History starting with the fall semester, 1962...”

It was quite a long letter, outlining expectations for performance, compensation, my specific start date, and a suggested schedule for me to meet to work out details with my department chair. All those details seemed reassuring, as if, in their own weird way, to welcome me as part of the team, part of the faculty at Northwestern. I'd let myself get introspective and analytical about the position, but once again, my internal glee reasserted itself. This was the amazing success I needed to cap off my stellar academic career thus far, and I’d achieved this goal on my own. I didn’t need Jack Crampton pulling strings, I earned my way onto the faculty at Northwestern on my own. And then I thought about the next piece of awesome news: I wouldn’t have to go back to Claremont and try to rejoin the daily life and routine there. Instead, I was going to Chicago, one of the most exciting cities in the country. I couldn't contain my joy. I jumped up and hugged André again, this time making sure I got to enjoy the embrace of his strong arms.

“I am so proud of you!” André said, as he hugged me, his deep voice resonating in my ear. He broke off our embrace and it was like I had infected him with my euphoria, and now he was the one who was so happy he was bouncing off the walls. “We have to celebrate!” That was André's answer to everything: have a party.

“Yes we do,” I said. Even as I uttered those words, the wheels in my mind were whirling, and an entirely new plan was forming.

“What do you want to do? Let’s go out and hit the town,” André suggested. Only that would end up being nothing more than a repetition of what we normally did, and I’d just end up hungover tomorrow, and still facing a long drive back to Claremont.

“When do you have to report for duty?” That got a strange look from him, but he gamely answered my question.

“I have to be there on June 11.”

“What were you planning to do between now and then?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I figured I'd hang out with you in Claremont, so I planned to just leave from Columbus.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at me suspiciously, sensing that I was dreaming up some wild-ass scheme. “Why? What are you thinking?”

“Let's go to Paris,” I said impulsively, throwing my crazy idea out there and totally blowing him away.

“Paris? As in France?” he asked, looking at me like I was crazy.

“No, like the Paris in Italy,” I said sarcastically.

“Yeah right. Paris. No really, what are you thinking?” He didn't believe me, which made total sense, since doing something like this was completely out of character for me. All that did was convince me even more that it was something we should do.

“I'm dead serious. Pack a bag, get your passport. Let's go.” I said that with an authoritative air, as if I expected him to just obey me and do what I said. I decided that was good training for the army, and that made me chuckle to myself. He didn’t laugh with me, he just stood there looking at me like I had three heads. It was incredibly pleasant to leave André speechless for once.

He puffed up his chest and took a deep breath, as if he were bracing himself to blow my plan out of the water. “There is no fucking way we can go. We've got all kinds of shit to do, and even if we didn’t, there’s no fucking way I can afford it.”

“Bullshit,” I said dismissively. “We don't have anything to do. We have to be out of here tomorrow anyway, and we're all packed up. We can leave this crappy furniture for the next victims, and pile the rest of our stuff in the Pontiac.” I’d learned about salesmanship from my father, and I knew that once André started delineating his objections, all I had to do was shoot them down one by one and I’d win this battle.

“Yeah, but it’s still going to be expensive as hell,” he grumbled.

“Don't worry about the money. My parents will pay for it. My mother would be thrilled that we're going to France. And you know what? Even if they don't, I'm a working man now, and I've got a real job.” I said that with a cocky grin.

“Mr. Working Man, huh?” he teased, snickering at me, then he got serious again. “Look, I don't want to take money from you or your parents. You guys do enough for me. I feel guilty enough as it is.” This had been a recurring theme for him every since we’d become good friends. I got his basic pride issue, and I appreciated that he didn’t want to feel like a mooch, but he just didn't get it.

“Look André, here's the deal,” I began, making sure I was using my firm and logical voice. “First of all, feeling guilty about money is bullshit. You know why? My parents consider you as part of our family. If I raised money as an issue over something like this, they’d be insulted, and if you did it to them, they'd feel the same way.” I really thought he’d understand that, but for some reason, that comment seemed to bother him a lot.

“It's not the same,” he objected lamely. I’d felt like I was about to win this battle, but talking about money and my parents had wigged him out.

“Fuck that,” I spat, being crude for emphasis, only as I continued talking my tone shifted to one that was more pleading, almost desperate. “Here’s the deal. I'm moving to Chicago, you're going into the army, and then they'll send you God knows where, and I don’t know when I’ll get to see you again. I'm really going to miss you. You're the best roommate, and the best friend I've ever had. So spend some time with me before life drags us in different directions.” I think I was as stunned as he was by that statement. I'd never expressed my feelings so openly. What the fuck was happening to me?

He stared at me, digesting what I’d said, then he smiled. “Wow JP. I love you too.” I rolled my eyes at him, getting a chuckle in return. “I'll go dig out my passport and pack.”

That spurred us into action. We both frenetically finished packing up, first the shit we'd need for our trip, and then the shit we were moving out of our place, and then we’d loaded it up, under my organized direction into the Pontiac. While André took care of making sure things were straightened up enough that we didn’t piss off our landlord, I called my mother and told her about my job. She ranted on about it, so happy for me, being almost as giddy about it as I’d been. I let her go on for a bit, then I changed the subject and told her that André and I were going to Paris. Her only real concern seemed to be that they’d get to see André before he shipped out, so I filled her in on our plans to get to Claremont before then and that placated her. She gave me a brief lecture on how I needed to take some time to go visit my relatives while I was there, and even though that wasn't in my plan, I decided not to argue about it. Instead, I’d just beg for forgiveness when I got home. As soon as I was able to get off the phone with her, I called the airlines and booked a flight out of New York tomorrow evening, and made another quick call to book a hotel room for tonight.

When that was done, André and I did a final tour of our apartment to make sure we’d gotten all of the important things out of there. This Just as we were about to walk out the front door, we turned around and paused, taking one last look at this place that had been our home for the past couple of years. “Some good memories here,” I said, trying to keep from getting choked up at closing the door on this chapter of our lives.

“There were,” André said, and put his arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go make some new ones.”

June 2, 1962

Paris, France

There are cities in the world that are homogeneous, and then there are those few, rare gems that are truly unique and special, cities like New York, San Francisco, London, and Rome. But the most unique and special of all of them, at least to me, is Paris. Part of that was the link I had due to my French heritage, or the affinity I felt with the country because it had been the focus of my research, but I felt that even without those factors, Paris would stand out above the others. Perhaps best of all, there is nothing quite as romantic as being in Paris with the one you love, even if that love isn't exactly returned.

André and I strolled along the Seine, saying nothing, just enjoying the sights and sounds of the people around us. I’d wanted to make this trip really memorable, so I'd blown financial caution to the wind and booked a room at the Ritz. Both of us knew that the smart thing to do when flying to Europe is to sleep on the plane, but we were both too wound up to do that, so by the time we arrived we were pretty exhausted. The Ritz put their excellent service into high gear, getting us checked into our room in no time, and that gave us time for a nice nap. We woke up in time to go out for the night. It's amazing how restorative a shower and clean clothes can be. We took the Metro over to the Left Bank and ate at a cool cafe for dinner, then our plan was to find a good dance club. We scrounged around for a while and couldn’t find anyplace interesting, so we decided to call it a night and walk back to the hotel.

Paris certainly was the City of Lights, but not in a flashy way as if to make it seem like daylight, but in a way to accent and bring out the hidden cultural treasures of the French Capital. We crossed onto the Ile de la Cite, and strolled past Notre Dame, the Conciergerie, and the Palais de Justice, before crossing another bridge over to the Right Bank. All of the grandeur and beauty, combined with the bottle of wine we’d drank at dinner, seemed to drive us into an introspective mood.

“So JP,” André asked me, “What do you see yourself doing in ten years?” I could have given him some trite answer, pretending that I had no idea, but he knew I was too organized not to have thought things at least that far out.

“Well, hopefully I'll have published enough papers to get tenure. Once I get tenure, it would be really hard for them to fire me. That's the real beauty of working at a university: job security.”

“So once you get tenure, you could just sit around and beat off all day?” he asked playfully.

“I guess I could, but most people don’t do that. It’s not so much that you can be lazy, it means that can’t fire you for what you work on. So if I do a paper that pisses off the government, or the church, or an institution like that, it’s tough for them to drum up a case to get rid of me,” I explained.

“Unless you get caught fucking around with one of the gorgeous dames in your class,” he said with a leer.

“Yeah, that would probably do it,” I said, even though there was no chance that would ever happen. I was uncomfortable enough with that topic to toss the question back at him. “What about you?”

We walked along quietly for a few minutes while he thought about it. “Well, I'd like to be married to someone that I really love, and who loves me back. And I want kids, lots of kids. I love kids. I don't know, beyond that, I want a job that makes me happy and pays the bills.” I was glad it was dark and he couldn't see my disappointment. I lived in a Pollyanna world where he would eventually decide that he loved me and we'd live happily ever after. But even if that dream came true, there was no way, barring a medical miracle, I could ever give him kids.

“You’ll be a great dad,” I said. It would really be a shame for André to give up fatherhood. He did love kids, and he had a way with them where he could bring them out of their shell. I thought about how well he did with my nephew, Richard, and contrasted that with how stiff and uncomfortable I was with him. At times like this, the real world crashed in on my fantasy and I had to struggle with the emotional carnage, only usually it happened to me when I was alone, not in the middle of a very personal conversation.

“You seem awfully quiet,” he said, since I’d spaced off into my internal hell. “You told me about your career, but what about a family?”

“Sorry, I was just thinking,” I said to stall for time. He was focused on relationships, and being happy, while I was focused on my career. Our answers reflected that, but he wanted me to address the personal side of things, so I did. “I don't know if the family thing is for me. I can't imagine anyone putting up with my moods and quirks for any length of time. And kids, well, I don't seem to do well with them until after they are at least teenagers.” That nonsense sounded a lot better than telling him I was a fag.

“I don't know about that. I managed to live with you for two years, two great years as a matter of fact.” He smiled down at me. “I think you did just fine.”

“You're right.” I abruptly stopped walking, and looked up at him. “André, will you marry me?” I asked, pretending to be dead serious, which to be honest, I’d be more than happy to marry him, but I’d intended it as a joke, and that’s how he interpreted it. We both started laughing pretty loudly.

“I don't know if that would go over too well in the army. You're not exactly the typical army wife.” That made us laugh even louder.

June 3, 1962

For me, to be in Paris and not to dive into the history of the place is the equivalent of a nasty form of medieval torture, so I’d rousted myself out of bed and gone over to the Louvre to browse around. To humor me, André kept me company. I didn’t really spend much time looking at the more popular pieces of art, like the Mona Lisa or the Venus de Milo, which was unfortunate, since that probably would have been more interesting to André. Instead, I was more focused on the palace itself. I spent a significant amount of time with the rooms at the far ends of the Louvre, rooms that had technically been part of the Tuileries Palace before it had been torched to the ground in the 1870’s. After a couple of hours, André had enough, and went back to the hotel, while I continued to explore for another few hours.

I got back and found him sound asleep, so I playfully decided to wake him up by jumping on him, scaring the shit out of him, and waking him up. “Fucker,” he yelled, even as he rolled over and pinned me down, then he did the thing that really drove me insane: he tickled me. I was laughing so hard I was crying before he finally answered my pleas and let me up. But my playful romp had woken him up and energized him. “Let's get some food and hit the town,”

We took a shower then went to a small café and had a fast meal, although a fast meal by Parisian standards still took a while. The hotel had recommended a dance club located near the infamous Pigalle area, and it turned out to be a good choice. We had a great time dancing with French beauties, primarily because we had three huge advantages. First of all, we were Americans, which gave us that foreign air that women seemed to find irresistible. Second, we spoke fluent French, so there was no language barrier and it had the additional benefit of making us seem cultured. Finally, compared to the other guys there, we were pretty damn handsome. I wondered where the handsome guys in Paris hung out. I wondered if there were bars or clubs where guys went to meet other guys. Did they beat queers up here like they do in the US? And if they had bars like that, were the guys there masculine guys like Peter, or Polari-speaking dudes like Georges? I could wonder all I wanted, because I'd probably never find out. I didn't see myself building up the courage to go to that kind of place, especially not in the US.

As usual, André was making good progress with a cute brunette named Isidore, who had beautiful light brown eyes that almost matched her hair. I had to grudgingly give André credit for having really good taste in women. In the meantime, I was politely flirting with several girls. I found that if I didn't dance with just one person, I didn't get stuck trying to ditch that girl later in the night. So we danced and danced, until I finally was so exhausted I had to sit down and take a break. I glanced at my watch and was pretty stunned to see that time had completely flown by, and that it was almost five in the morning. In the US, we’d have been kicked out a long time ago, but I’d forgotten that clubs stayed open later here in Paris. Seeing the time made me realize how dreadfully tired I was. I felt like the walking dead, which shouldn’t have been a big surprise since I’d had a really long day.

I went over to get André, bound and determined to go back to the hotel, but instead of agreeing with me, he pulled me aside in a vignette I was only too used to. “JP, Isidore wants to show us this great place to see the sunrise.” That meant that Isidore was going to take him somewhere to fuck him, and the “us” was purely figurative to make me feel included. This happened on so many of the nights we went out that it was an all-too-familiar game, and it was my job as his wingman to play along.

“I'm exhausted. You go. I'm going to head back to the hotel.”

“Are you sure? I mean, you don't mind being left alone?” He was probably remembering my maudlin statement about spending time with him, but even if he hadn’t, his response was also typical. I felt like I was playing a part in a play.

“No, really, I'm tired. You go. I'll see you later, and if I go out before you get back, I'll leave you a note.” Guilt was a currency I tried to avoid spending. He was having a good time, and there was no need to make him feel bad about it.

“Thanks JP. You're the best.” And with that, the three of us walked out of the club. They strolled, arm in arm, up to a cab and drove off, while I fought down pangs of jealousy, yet again, and grabbed a different cab back to the hotel.

June 4, 1962

I slept until noon, which sounded late until I reminded myself that I hadn’t gone to bed until 6am. Between my jet lag and my late night trip to the club, I wasn’t moving very fast. I indulged myself in room service, assuming that would end up being faster than a café, and managed to take a shower and get ready before my breakfast arrived. As I wolfed down my food, I glanced at André’s empty bed and tried not to let this absence annoy me. It was completely normal and expected that he’d meet a girl and a club and fuck her. It was no different that it was in New Jersey. Besides, I wanted to track down a professor at the Sorbonne, and that would bore André to tears. I figured I could do that and still be back in time to meet up with him for dinner. I wrote him a note letting him know what my plans were, then headed out.

Being out and about in Paris reinvigorated me. I took the Metro over to the Left Bank and strolled by the Jardin du Luxembourg to the Sorbonne. The man I was looking for was Jacques Gireaux, who was probably the most renowned expert on Franco-Algeria relations and I had cited his research extensively in my papers. Normally I would have sent him a letter and lined up an appointment with him, assuming he even wanted to meet me in the first place, but this had been such an impromptu trip I hadn’t had that opportunity. As I wandered through the halls, trying to find his office, I wondered if he was even here, and if so, if he’d be willing to spend some time to chat with me. I smiled, thinking that such uncertainty would normally bother me, but now that I had my future relatively secure, I was more relaxed about details like that.

It took me almost an hour of searching and questioning people to find Professor. Gireaux's office. I thanked my lucky stars that I was fluent in French, otherwise this would have been an exercise in futility. That was even more important when I got to his office and found that a very diligent secretary protected him. I explained to her who I was, that I was here on vacation from America, and tried to throw out major charm when I apologized for not having an appointment. She was polite enough and told me to have a seat. I waited for well over half an hour, which would have been frustrating if there weren’t some fascinating reading material, in the form of articles the professor had written, on the table next to my chair.

Finally, after about 45 minutes, a stunningly handsome young man came out. He was tall, with dark brown hair that was messy in a sexy, studious kind of way. His long, oval face was dominated by a pronounced aquiline nose. I stared at him intently, trying to figure out which feature made him so appealing, and I decided in the end it was neither his face nor his hair, it was his neck. He had a large, muscular neck that curved out so the muscles into his shoulders at an angle, while his Adam's apple was prominent in just the perfect proportion.

“Professor Crampton?” he asked as he walked toward me. I stood and he held out his hand. “I am Marc Sievres. I am assistant to Professor Gireaux.” He spoke French, with a very strong Parisian accent.

“A pleasure to meet you Monsieur Sievres,” I responded in the same language. I put on my most charming smile as I shook his hand, trying to look as attractive as I could, even though I paled next to his beauty.

“Professor Gireaux has been absorbed in his studies,” he rolled his eyes and grinned slightly when he said that, “But we broke into his train of thought long enough to get his attention. If you will follow me, he would like to meet you.” He even had a smooth deep voice to go with his sexy neck.

He guided me past the secretary and into the inner sanctum of faculty offices. There was a desk outside his office, which turned out to be Marc's, who evidently served as an additional guard to protect their famous boss. He opened the door and held it for me motioning me in. As I walked by, with my hands at my side, my left hand brushed across the crotch of his pants. Even though the contact was completely inadvertent on my part, he responded in a very subtle way, by pushing his groin into my hand in a way that could almost be an accident. I smiled up at him and went in to meet this sage whose work had been invaluable to me.

Considering this was Paris, his office was quite large, but what could have been an impressive setting was marred by the clutter that was everywhere. There were papers everywhere, mostly in piles, and in the midst of them was a small, old man, probably in his late 60's, with spectacles balanced on his nose, poring over some article or paper. I heard the door shut behind me as Marc left us alone. Professor Gireaux left me standing there for what seemed to be an eternity, but if I could be calm and cool with Rosenberg, I sure as hell could be that way with this guy.

He finally looked up and studied me carefully. “So, you are Docteur Crampton? And you have come all the way from the United States just to visit me? What can I do for you?”

“Actually sir, I was here on vacation, but I have read as many of your papers as I could find, and I cited them extensively in my own research,” I said. Inside, I felt like a first-year graduate student meeting with his department chair, but I suppressed any sign of that. “I just wanted to meet such a distinguished scholar, and to thank you personally for the help your research provided me.” Flattery is the continental way, and I marveled that I’d only been in Paris for a few days and it was already rubbing off on me.

He looked at me with some consideration. “I have read your papers.” Inside, my nerves were boiling, but I kept them under control. It was an incredible compliment that he’d said that. While I had published articles, that those studies should make it to France and that he should take the time to read them was stunning.

“I am flattered that you took the time to wade through my work.”

A slight grin flickered on his face. “You should not be. I read everything written about the struggle with Algeria, especially those things that cite my work.” I had no real response for that, since to my knowledge no one had yet cited anything I’d written, so I nodded my head at him in an abbreviated bow. “Your work was good. You are young and unseasoned, but you have potential. Next time, you must send me your articles so I do not have to wait for the publications.” I was floored. This was praise from the master himself.

“Thank you sir. I will certainly send you articles. Would you also permit me to correspond with you?” I looked at the mass of papers and figured that would be a waste of time, but it was worth trying.

“Mais oui.” he replied simply. After that, he relaxed considerably, as did I, and we spent our time chatting about recent developments in Algeria, including the dismemberment of the OAS and the execution of Edmond Jouhaud, and waxed philosophically about the prospects for a lasting peace. His prior comments about reading my work were flattering, but the fact that he listened to my hypotheses and conclusions and seemed to appreciate them was an even more tangible compliment. We were deep in a conversation about the immigration rules for Algerians when a knock at the door heralded the arrival of Marc Sievres.

“Pardon me Professors,” he said, then focused on Gireaux. “You must leave for your meeting with Chairman Calonne.”

“Of course, of course,” Gireaux said, even as he stood up. He took a second to rummage around for a folder and a pen. I was amazed the he could find it in this mess. He turned to me and extended his hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you Docteur Crampton.”

“The pleasure was mine, sir,” I replied, shaking his hand.

“Do not forget your promise to write me,” he asserted.

“I won’t,” I promised. He nodded curtly, and then dashed out of the office, shutting the door behind him. For an elderly man, he certainly moved quickly.

“He always keeps his door closed,” Marc explained. “That way no one knows if he is in here working or not.” Marc said with a smile. I chuckled with him, even though I was willing to bet he kept it closed more to hide the clutter than anything. Marc eyed me up and down in an obvious way, one that was so sexy it gave me the beginnings of an erection. “Have you seen his extensive library?”

“I have not,” I replied. I had the feeling that when I was with Gireaux, I was with a history sage. When I was with Marc, I was with an expert seducer, a true wolf. I followed him over to the bookshelves and stood next to him with my arms at my side. I had my arms at my side, and he moved close to me, not so close as to be considered rude, at least by French standards, but close enough to make contact. It seemed he was focusing his seductive skills, and I saw no reason not to encourage him.

“What is that book there,” I asked, pointing at one almost directly above me, but beyond my reach. He leaned into me and reached up for it, and now I felt his crotch rub against my right hand. I moved my hand slightly, and he pushed back slightly. He told me the title, but I didn't really care.

“Perhaps you would like to see this one?” he asked pointing to one a little to the left. I nodded and smiled at him. He had to lean into me even more, and this time I moved my hand more purposefully. I felt him press against my hand; only the thing pressing against me was no longer soft. He told me the title, and it was as memorable as the first one.

“And that one?” I asked, pointing to the book to the left of that. This time I turned my wrist around, so when he pressed into me, he pressed his crotch right into my palm. I could feel his hard cock in my hand, so I carefully closed my fingers around it. I pondered briefly that if someone would have told me this morning that I'd be in the office of one of the most esteemed academics in the world, playing with his assistant's dick through his pants, I'd have thought they were nuts.

He thrust into my hand and I began to stroke him. He moved his hands down, grabbing my own throbbing cock through my pants. I felt him go for my zipper and I did the same. In seconds we were standing in the corner of the office with our dicks protruding out of our pants.

He had a nice cock. It was long and thin, and it was uncut, something that was relatively unique for an American like me used to circumcised penises. I dropped to my knees and engulfed it in one swift movement. He moaned and pushed into me, trying to fuck my face, but I couldn’t handle his length without gagging, so I grabbed the base of his dick and used my hand to regulate his depth. He didn’t seem bothered by that at all, he simply picked up the pace. His movements got more intense, and in just a few minutes I felt a familiar salty taste in my mouth as he shot his load. I swallowed every drop like a champ.

I got up ready to go when he stopped me and dropped to his knees to blow me. I hid my surprise, since in the US usually guys don't take the time to finish the other one off, at least not during quick anonymous encounters, but I wasn’t going to object if he wanted to suck my dick. He was good, really good, and it didn't take me long to flood his mouth. It had been a long time for me, and I came so hard my knees were weak afterwards.

He wiped his mouth with his hand, smiled at me. “It was fantastic to meet you.” He gave me a piece of paper. “Here is my phone number. Give me a call if you have any more spare time while you are in Paris.” And with that, he turned and left the office, holding the door for me as I followed him out. I took the metro back to the Right Bank, trying not to chuckle when I thought about how differently my afternoon had turned out than I’d thought it would when I started out.

I got back to the hotel a little later than I told André in my note, but it didn't matter, since he still wasn't back yet. That was pretty unusual for André. Usually if he got together with a woman at night, he was in a pretty big hurry to get back home, and presumably away from her, the next morning. I decided to take advantage of his absence to take a brief nap. I was sound asleep when I heard that unmistakable sound, the noise of a ringing phone, calling me back to the realm of the living. I picked it up and said “Hello,” not even trying to hide that I was groggy from just waking up.

“JP, it's me!” André said excitedly. He sounded giddy, like an idiot, and he was talking like one too. Like I didn’t recognize his voice on the phone.

“That's great,” I said unenthusiastically. “What time is it?” I looked at my watch and saw that it was already 8pm. I glanced at the window and could see that it was dark outside.

“It's 8. Look, I'm sorry I've been gone all day. I’ve been having an amazing time and I just kind of got caught up in things…” he said, doing this babbling thing that he did, that meant he was pretty nervous.

“It’s fine,” I said dismissively.

“I hope you're not mad,” he said, in a pleading way.

“André, I’m not mad,” I said firmly. “It's really no big deal. I spent most of the day at the Sorbonne. So where are you now?” I was finally awake.

“Um, well I'm kind of in the country.” Now he really sounded nervous.

“Which country?”

“France you moron. I’m in the country, you know, not the city.” He was joking now, obviously in good spirits, probably because he must have gotten laid. I beat back the green demon of jealousy even as I listened to him. “Isidore is from Brittany, so we drove out here to see the coast.” She took him home? How serious was this fling?

“So when do you plan to get back in?” I had the feeling that I was being set up for something, and I wished he'd just get to the point.

“Would you be too mad if I came home tomorrow night?” There it was. This is why he’d been nervous and excited on the phone. He’d been excited about spending time with Isidore, but he’d been nervous about my reaction. I didn’t really see that I had a whole lot of choice in the matter. I could get mad about him bailing on me, but what good would that do? Besides, I certainly could find things to do in Paris.

“That’s fine André. What time do you want to meet up tomorrow?” I could sense his relief.

“JP, you're the best. I'll be back in the room no later than 7pm tomorrow, so we can do a late dinner,” his normal euphoria had taken over now that he’d gotten what he wanted from me.

“Sounds great.” I said and hung up. “Just great,” I mumbled to myself grumpily, now that the phone was disconnected. I went back to bed and decided to wake up early and head out to Versailles for the day. I planned to do some research on Louis XV when I had some time, and so I figured I'd go out there and do some preliminary work.

June 5, 1962

Palace of Versailles, France

I’d gotten out here to this massive palace that had managed to survive a couple of revolutions and world wars, and found myself absorbed in its magnificence as I toured through it. This wasn’t the first time I’d been here, but this was the first time I’d had a private tour guide. I’d been able to charm the museum people enough that they’d appointed me with my own guide, an older, chubby man named Maurice. He’d led me through the public rooms, then led me into the private apartments. At that point, when I showed him that I was more knowledgeable about these surroundings than he was, he gave me his blessing to explore them on my own, without his unnecessary help.

It was an incredible experience. One of the reasons I got into history was that I had an ability to visualize a place as it was, and I could spin that out so it was almost a movie in my mind. In this case I felt as if I was in the room with Louis XV and Madame de Pompadour. I spend a lot of time there, feeling the vibe, then I ended up having lunch with the museum director. After our lunch, he took me to explore some of the non-public, yet fascinating areas. After a visit to the Trianon, with its stately architecture, I headed back to the hotel. I managed to make it back by 6pm, so I showered and changed, then waited.

By the time 8pm rolled around, I was pissed. I left André a note and went out to get something to eat. If he was going to be late, he could have at least called. I was mad at him for making me plan my day around him. I was mad at him for being late. I was mad at him for not calling. I was mad at him for not wanting to hang out with me, and picking some chick instead. I was mad at him for not loving me.

I made the most of my misery with one of my classic pity parties. I boosted the effect by having a bottle of wine. By the time I left the restaurant I was pretty hammered, so I decided to stroll along the Seine and enjoy the beautiful evening. Plus, I reasoned, the extra exercise would sober me up a bit. It was a bit out of the way, but there was no reason for me to hurry back. If André got back and I wasn't there, so much the better. Let him wait for me for a change. As I was walking along the Seine, there was an area across from the Tuileries Gardens where a lot of guys seemed to be just wandering around. If this was the US, I would think it was a cruising area.

There was an underground passage that went from the river under the road, designed exclusively for pedestrians. I figured it would beat dodging traffic, so I went down the steps. The passage was dimly lit, and there were guys hanging around, some walking, some leaning against the walls. As I moved through the tunnel I felt the looks as I was undressed by their eyes, noticing some of the really handsome guys, avoiding the creepy ones. As I got farther into the tunnel, I felt a hand here and there touching my ass. At first, it freaked me out, but after a few minutes it was a real turn on. André may not appreciate me, but these guys did.

As I came to the middle of the tunnel there was a crowd of five or six guys standing in a semi-circle. As I approached them, one of the guys, a good-looking man who looked like he might be part Arab, moved aside to make room for me. All of them had their dicks out and were stroking, watching two guys in the center of the semi-circle. One guy, who was really young, probably about 16, was leaning against the wall, partially bent over. Behind him was another guy, a tall handsome guy, fucking the young kid's brains out. The tall guy turned to face me and I found myself staring right at Marc. At first he looked surprised, then he smiled, and started fucking the kid even harder. He reached his hand out, motioning me over to them, then moving it toward my hard dick. I took my cock out and let him stroke it while he fucked the young kid. Then he pulled the young kid away from the wall, pushed him onto all fours, and told him to suck my cock while he fucked him. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was Marc, I don't know, but I let him.

The kid slurped on my cock like a thirsty person swallows water. I felt my pants drop all the way, and soon there were several hands all over my body. There were hands playing with my nipples, hands stroking my balls and my thighs, hands grabbing my ass, fingers stroking my hole. The attention from all these guys was overwhelming, and watching Marc, across from me, fucking the kid, was indescribable. Marc emitted a sharp cry and pulled out of young guy’s ass. Another guy moved forward and dropped to his knees with an open mouth, and Marc sprayed his load all over the guys' face. That did it. I felt my orgasm boiling up and I blew my wad in the young guy's mouth.

After I finished, I opened my eyes and found that Marc had already left. I pushed the hands away from my body, hurriedly put my clothes back in order, and practically ran out of the tunnel. The whole encounter had left me confused. As intense as the sexual release had been, it seemed really dirty and sleazy. Hypocritical as that may seem to someone who'd had a lot of sex in bathrooms, somehow I felt I'd crossed a line into the realm of the really kinky. That I enjoyed it was disturbing, very disturbing.

Even more disturbing, when I got back to the room, was that André was still not back. My emotions moved from angry to worried, and I paced the room, hoping he would call or walk through the door. As I waited and worried, my anger disappeared. I didn't care that he wasn't back on time or that he'd been gone for two days. I just wanted him to come back safe and sound. I looked at the clock. 2am. I finally sat on the bed with my legs bent and my arms wrapped around my knees, silently praying to God, just in case there was one, that André would come home.