I asked him if he cared to have a drink in the lounge of the hotel and after a little persuasion we left the restaurant to find a quiet table in the hotel bar. Shahram was 42 years old, married and ex-military. I was 30 at the time, single and a confirmed homosexual. I had learned early on in life that I liked men. The more masculine, the better. Most people tell me I am intimidating and mean looking, with my buzzed hair, short beard and strong but large build. Shahram was very friendly once I got him talking and had lots of questions about life in the USA. He talked briefly about being married and having k**s and asked me where my wife was. I assured him that I was not the “marrying kind.” Then, every now and again, I felt his knee brush against mine sending shockwaves through my body. The first few times I moved away but after a couple of drinks I let my leg stay put. His hand found its way to my leg a couple of times in conversation as he too was getting more relaxed. My fingers wrapped tightly around the base of my cock, where all the veins twist together like the roots of a tree. I squeezed my balls, pinching them hard between my thumb and forefinger, like graapes ready to be popped and the juice druunk from them. One hand wrapped around my shaft and pulled upward toward the head, careful not to dislodge the tiny washcloth. The driver's door of the taxi opened but no one got out. I kept stroking, slowly, using the clear jel as lubricant. More veins sprouted along the length of my dick, stretching and pulsing hard against my fingers. When I squeezed each of my balls with my other hand, it hurt, until each ball would tug away from my fingers and pull up tight against my body. The spray from the shower framed me in a cloud of glittering water droplets, lit from behind by the sunrise. My muscles were taught, my body sculpted in light and shadow. My erection strained out into the air leaving only the last couple of inches to the imagination beneath.
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