From Morocco to Paris

by Lydia Nyx

  Davey’s gleaming hair rested on his shoulders, and he’d shaved, his face clean and vibrant. Zane wondered if he’d turned into liquid, because someone must have poured him into his outfit. He wore black vinyl pants and a tight, black, button-down shirt with barely any buttons fastened — wide collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the bottom tucked into his pants. The fabric left little to the imagination, every curve and muscle lovingly defined. He wore one necklace and a watch. Davey didn’t pile on the jewelry the way Zane did.

  Zane didn’t want to interrupt him, so he simply hung out nearby, hoping to catch his eye. He wondered when he’d become such a schoolgirl, hanging on the fringe of the crowd waiting for a boy to notice him. When Davey did spot him, he left his group and walked over with a huge grin. His smell preceded him, musky and delicate.

  “Isn’t this something?” Davey asked. “Saul went all out. Have you tried the food?”

  “Not yet, I thought I’d get some alcohol in me first.” Zane smiled and took a drink of his beer. He glanced sideways at him. “You look good.”

  Davey looked down at himself, and then smiled and looked Zane over as well. “Not too shabby yourself.”

  Zane couldn’t hold the news in. He told Davey, who shouted gleefully and hugged him. When they parted, Zane’s cheeks were hot.

  “That’s fucking amazing, Zane! I knew if you got in Saul’s way enough, he would have to pay attention to you! See, there’s benefit in being a pest, that’s why I’m so good at it!”

  Zane chuckled. “I really need to thank Rory, he’s the one who made Saul pay attention to me. I feel like I should buy him a thank you gift or something.”

  Zane grinned and looked around the room, searching for him. His grin faded, however, when he saw Cristiano and Elliot. They looked as together as ever, thankfully. Zane had been avoiding Cristiano. Cristiano glanced their way, and Davey waved at him. He waved back, a tight smile on his lips. Zane looked down at his bottle.

  “You have to sort things out eventually, you know,” Davey said.

  “I know,” Zane said.

  “If Cristiano hasn’t told Elliot by now, he never will. I don’t think you have to worry.”

  Zane wasn’t so optimistic — Elliot might figure things out for himself, too.

  “You wanna meet me in my room in about an hour, Mr. Big Time Director?” Davey asked. He sounded hopeful instead of demanding, which he’d gotten much better about since Zane stopped being so resistant. They weren’t exactly an adoring couple yet, but they were learning the finer points of give and take.

  Zane contemplated the evening stretched out before him — more socializing and listening to people give speeches, or brilliant sex.

  “Sure.” Zane smiled. “I’m just gonna hit the food right now.”

  “Okay.” Davey winked.

  Zane had to untangle himself from the festivities well in advance of his planned departure, as he knew escape would be a slow process. Indeed, over an hour passed before he managed to leave the party. He assumed Davey would understand — he might not have gotten out either.

  Davey had a room on the tenth floor, and Zane took the elevator up, found the room, and rapped gently on the door. Davey opened the door dressed in his blue djellaba from Morocco — only his blue djellaba from Morocco.

  “Good thing it was me,” Zane quipped as he stepped inside. Davey closed the door behind him. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “I’m surprised you got here this early.”

  Davey breezed past, his scent gusting over Zane: shampoo, soap, a subtle hint of cologne.

  “Oh, the movie business,” Davey sighed. “Want a drink?” On a room service cart, a bottle of champagne chilled on ice, two glasses beside the bucket. “I thought a celebration was in order. Future director.”

  Zane smiled. “Thank you.” He sat down on the bed and watched Davey pop the cork and pour the champagne. “I’ll drink to getting out of this desert too,” Zane said.

  Davey walked over to the bed, the one hook on his djellaba he’d bothered to fasten doing nothing to hinder the sight of his bare stomach and the fine hairs at the top of his groin.

  “And that,” Zane murmured, taking a glass.

  Davey smirked. “You’re so goddamn sexy now that you have that stick out of your ass. I hope nobody trips over it. It was pretty fucking huge.”

  “Sometimes I think there’s still splinters.”

  “Splinters I can deal with.”

  After the champagne came kissing, and kissing led to the bed. No urgency though. Zane spooned against Davey’s back, shirt off and feet bare, his arm draped over Davey’s side and face close to his hair. They talked for a while, a warmth low in Zane’s belly making his cock semi-hard but not fueling his arousal enough to make him single-minded. Davey traced patterns on the back of Zane’s hand with his fingertips.

  “Are you sad to be leaving Africa?” Davey asked.

  “No. All I did was suffer here.” He inhaled the scent of Davey’s shampoo through his rehabilitated nose. “I think I’ll be glad to leave it.”

  Davey turned over so he rested on his back, looking at Zane. Their faces were close, Davey’s breath on Zane’s cheek.

  “All you did was suffer here?” Davey asked.

  “Well,” Zane smiled, “this is nice.”

  “You’re not getting gooey on me, are you?”

  “No.” Zane took Davey’s hand and placed it on his crotch. “Things are getting pretty firm, actually.” He leaned in and drew a sucking kiss from Davey’s lips.

  When they broke apart, Davey drew back and gazed at him.

  “You wanna try what we were talking about?” Davey asked.

  Zane swallowed. They’d been discussing a certain situation for a week now — logistics, questions, reassurances, Davey’s building need for a concrete sign of intimacy and a pure sense of curiosity on Zane’s part. Zane realized he had come to the edge and had to make a decision if he wanted to leap or step back.

  “All right,” Zane finally said, though his voice held only tenuous conviction. “If you’re ready, I guess.”

  “I’m ready,” Davey said. “Are you?”

  “I think so.”

  Zane discarded the remainder of his clothes. The next time Davey spoke, his breath gusted warm against Zane’s inner thigh.

  “I’m glad you trust me.” His blue eyes, dusky in the amber light from the lamp next to the bed, fixed Zane in place. “I like you like this,” Davey said. He licked Zane’s thigh, slow and caressing.

  “I think I like me like this, too,” Zane said, his voice breathy and shaky.

  Zane had found something unexpected in letting go of his reservations: an appreciation of Davey’s masculinity. His deep-seated fear receded, at least enough to let him see past himself, making the feel and sight of Davey’s body a different experience. He was aroused by things he’d ignored before — the way Davey’s hips were solid and narrow instead of curvy like a woman’s, the firm flatness of his chest, the sleek muscles of his arms and legs. Zane realized being with a man turned him on, and while he still had a hard time swallowing the truth, when he didn’t question his desires things happened.

  Things like Davey’s breath warm on his spine, slick fingers where Zane had never felt fingers before, and Davey’s hair brushing across his shoulder.

  “Are you sure?” Davey whispered close to his ear.

  “Yes.” Zane curled his fingers around the edge of the pillow. “Just…take it easy.” His heart raced, but he tried to breathe and focus. Taking Davey’s cock would be less difficult if he relaxed.

  Still, Zane cried out against the pillowcase when Davey penetrated him. The intrusion hurt, burned, but not enough to be agonizing, not enough for him to yell ‘stop’ as Davey assured him he could.

  “Fuck, you didn’t tell me you were so big,” Zane grunted against the pillow.

  “You’ve seen it before, idiot. How did you not know?”

  Zane didn’t know how he would react if they
ever called each other something endearing during an intimate moment.

  Davey murmured, “Just wait, you’ll see.”

  Zane did see, once Davey pushed in fully — so deep inside, making Zane more vulnerable than he had ever been in his life, completely at someone else’s mercy, pinned and taken. But the sensation was also unlike anything he had ever experienced, in a good way. A deep, profound pleasure made him groan desperately and clutch harder at the pillow.

  “Told you,” Davey said. Zane felt his smile against the tight tendons of his neck. “That’s why I like it.”

  Zane forced himself to stay relaxed, when he just wanted to grab and cling to anything he could reach.

  Davey moved carefully. He started slow but gradually got faster, and Zane liked the building tempo. The discomfort helped justify his submission — if he could take the pain, however bad, and maintain his dignity, he wasn’t weak. The pain faded to be replaced by a maddening, pleasurable friction, and soon he realized the truth. The hard, quick thrusts became more about agonizing delight than a test of endurance, a symphony played with both their bodies, one note flat without the other.

  “You all right?” Davey spoke in a hitched voice, punctuated by the light slapping of flesh on flesh.

  Zane couldn’t speak, only nod, eyes closed and mouth open, his breath pulled in sharply with each thrust.

  “Get up on your knees a bit.” Davey tugged at his hips. “I’ll get you off.”

  On his knees, Zane felt completely helpless and overcome, but the pleasure was so intense he didn’t care. Davey stroked him, the sensation secondary to the feeling inside him. Davey slowed, changed the angle of his hips, and started thrusting deeper. Zane felt the head of Davey’s cock graze something deep inside his body and a white-hot bolt of pleasure shot up his spine.

  “God!” Zane panted, his cock twitching in Davey’s hand. “Was that — “

  “Your prostate.” Davey emitted a breathy laugh. His thighs pressed against the back of Zane’s, slick with sweat and tense as he held himself steady. “The single greatest argument for gay sex.”

  Davey found the spot again after a few experimental thrusts, and Zane yelped.

  “If you keep doing that, I’ll come!” Zane declared, head hanging between his arms. The air beneath him smelled like sex.

  “That’s what you do during sex.” Davey stroked up the length of Zane’s cock, fingers squeezing. “Let it go.”

  Zane did, not long after, crying out, digging his fingers into the pillow. He clenched painfully hard around Davey’s cock, never having had an orgasm with something lodged in that particular part of his body. Davey moved his hand quickly, working out every drop. Some of the fluid spurted on Zane’s stomach and chest, but most splattered the blanket beneath him.

  “Oh my God,” Zane panted against the pillow, hot and trembling.

  Davey leaned over his back, his hair brushing Zane’s arm, tickling his armpit as he kissed his shoulder.

  “That was hot,” Davey whispered.

  He started thrusting faster. After a minute of deep, hard thrusts, nearly unbearable in Zane’s heightened state, Davey gasped. “Do you want me to come in your ass? Or would you rather I pull out?”

  Zane knew he didn’t have long to think. Davey’s thrusts became erratic. Zane still had his face pressed into the pillow and he moaned, sharp little aftershocks going through him as Davey filled him over and over.

  “I’ve come this far,” Zane said, “might as well do it inside.”

  Davey coming inside him felt strange, the throbbing he usually experienced in his hand or mouth, followed by the sensation of warmth. Davey moaned, raking his nails down Zane’s sides.

  He dropped his cheek against Zane’s shoulder and sighed. “Fuck, Zane.”

  In the aftermath, Zane’s body buzzing and twitching, he found himself alarmed at the idea of Davey pulling out — panicked at what the withdrawal would feel like, what he would feel after, if what had just been pumped into him would come back out.

  Nothing came out of him, not really, and lying on his back staring at the ceiling, he simply felt stretched and odd. Davey flopped down at his side, his softening cock drooping against his sweaty thigh. They were both quiet for a long time, and then Davey finally rolled over and looked into Zane’s eyes.

  “You all right?”

  Zane nodded. After a moment he found his voice as well. “It was nice. Didn’t hurt as bad as I thought it would.”

  Davey chewed his lower lip, studying his face. “My first virgin.” He poked Zane’s side. “Nice and tight.”

  “It’s good to know after all this time I can still say that about some part of myself. Well, could.”

  Davey propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at him. “You’re a hell of a guy,” he said softly.

  “I’ve been told.”

  Later, in the darkness, Zane listened to Davey’s breath against his shoulder. He skimmed his fingers over Davey’s forearm, the fine hairs tickling his fingertips. He thought about Paris. The last leg of a very long race. The conclusion. The end.

  Zane tilted his face downward. Davey appeared as a shadow in the darkness, the faint light from the window picking out the tips of his eyelashes and gleaming on his hair. Zane touched his face and traced the smooth line of his jaw.

  “Zane?” Davey whispered.

  “Yes,” Zane whispered back, “I know.”

  PART THREE

  Paris: City of Love

  Paris was a damp, chilly contrast to months spent in the desert. When Zane got there, he remembered with a surreal shock that autumn had descended. He felt as though he’d been away for years, not even on the same planet.

  “It’s not Cairo, is it?” Ian asked, buttoning his long black coat as they stepped out of the terminal of Charles De Gaulle airport. He’d called Zane the day before to tell him he’d arrived in Paris and would pick them up to eliminate the need for a driver. “And how are you, darling?” Ian slipped an arm around Davey’s shoulders. Elliot had traveled with them as well.

  Davey looked pale and listless, huddled in his own bulky suede coat; they’d had the sense to remember the calendar said October and dress accordingly, even if the season wasn’t real until they touched down. Davey had been sick on the plane, and Zane hoped he hadn’t received a parting shot from Africa, being sent off with a nice case of food poisoning or a virus.

  “Not so good,” Davey said and smiled weakly. “Air sick.”

  “Ugh,” Ian said. “I usually have to take something before I fly, myself.”

  Crossing to the lot where Ian had parked his car, something else reminded Zane he had left the barren, lifeless desert.

  “Christ, where did they come from?” Elliot asked.

  Ian released Davey and hurried to the car. He opened the passenger front door for Elliot as several photographers started clicking away. Before Elliot could get in though, three young women ran over, bouncy and gasping in the chilly air.

  “Are you Elliot Butler?” one asked in a charming French accent, her blue eyes wide with hope. Her friends, huddled around her in knit caps and scarves, looked at him expectantly.

  “Yes,” Elliot said. He shot Zane a sly smile.

  Zane rolled his eyes and went around the other side of the car but didn’t get in, in case Elliot needed him to intervene. The girls tittered, quickly delving into their handbags. They produced pens and pieces of paper.

  Elliot signed autographs and answered their gushing questions, telling them yes, he would be in Paris for a while, and no, he couldn’t tell them his hotel. One ran her hand through his hair and proclaimed it “beautiful.” Elliot gave each of the girls a hug and got in the car. Zane got in as well, in the back with Davey. The photographers still hovered near the terminal, snapping pictures from across the road.

  “They spring up out of the ground,” Ian said as he drove them through the parking lot. “I’ve hung out with enough famous people to know the pattern. You don’t even see them until they
pop up.”

  “I think you’re just jealous of Elliot’s glamorous life,” Zane said.

  Elliot snorted.

  Zane looked over at Davey. “You all right?” he asked softly.

  Davey nodded, still rather pale, the stark light enhancing his pallor.

  “I’ll be fine,” Davey said. “I don’t think there’s anything left to throw up.”

  Zane patted his knee with a smirk. “You know, that’s the first time I’ve actually seen someone use an air sickness bag.”

  “Now you have something to tell your grandkids.”

  “Hey,” Ian said and looked up at the rearview mirror. “Are you sure he’s not knocked up, Zane?”

  Zane shot him a withering look, and Ian grinned.

  Paris was just as historically rich and culturally steeped as any city they had visited so far. Old and new mixed as in Marrakech and Cairo, the atmosphere modern and vibrant one minute, classical and majestic the next. They drove along the Seine toward their hotel near Notre Dame, and Zane gazed out the window, taking in the vast splendor of the city rising above the waterway.

  “You ever been to Paris?” Zane asked Davey. “I never even bothered to ask, did I?”

  “No, I’ve never been here,” Davey said, staring out his window. “I predict lots of sightseeing in our future.”

  “I’ve been here a couple times,” Ian piped up. “I’ll be the tour guide!”

  “Intimate knowledge of every bar in the Oberkampf district doesn’t count,” Zane told his brother.

  Hotel Britannique, where they were staying, bore a white stone façade and red awnings, a quaint and charming low-rise nestled among several other similar buildings and a wealth of autumn-splashed trees.

  “We can walk to the Louvre from here, according to the guide book I read,” Zane said as they entered the lobby, a room with a white tile floor and a bevy of plants, colorful paintings, and lavish furniture. “We’ll get lots of culture while we’re here.”

  Davey plodded in beside Zane, lugging his suitcases.