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They save their marriage.

It was well worth the night of fucking. Even the barebacking-the glorious barebacking with a young, uncut man. I'd have myself checked, of course, but it was worth the risk.

As it turned out, I didn't have to begrudge him the jacket. The next day as I passed the door of the barbershop I'd gone to two days previously, one of the barbers came to the door and hailed me. He held my lost jacket, complete with cashmere scarf, in his hand.

Elated and feeling like celebrating, I planted a kiss on his lips that had him staggering and wide eyed and went directly from there to the caf__ where I'd met Jacques the previous day, hoping that I might find him there and ready for another fuck. He wasn't there, but sitting at a table-our table-and reading a book with a jacket I recognized-Thomas Mann's Der Tod in Venedig, Death in Venice, which I knew dealt with the subject of homosexuality-was a young blond man who was to die for. He was a muscular Nordic god with an impeccable sense of casual dress style. Draped on the back of his chair was a jacket almost identical to the one I had thought I'd lost but now was wearing. He looked up and smiled. He pointed to my jacket and then to his in recognition of the amusing coincidence that such a distinctive jacket could appear twice at any given time in a Paris street caf__.

I smiled back, gestured at the empty seat beside him, and gave him a quizzical look. He smiled and motioned for me to sit. The waiter appeared immediately, as if by magic, and soon we both had a fresh cup of coffee before us.

I gestured to the book and said, "Thomas Mann?"

"Ja," he answered. "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"

"Sorry, I'm American. I speak only English," I answered, not bothering to add that I spoke Arabic, Greek, and Farsi also, but knowing that had no application here. But, as he smiled and put a hand on my thigh, I figured that differing languages need not be a barrier between us.

We drank coffee and spent time trying to bridge the language gap with small talk, but it was clear that he didn't want to leave and that I didn't want to leave-both of us not wanting to leave because he wanted to fuck me and I wanted him to fuck me. He gave me a sexy look and said, "Ich bin Dieter. Du bist sehr sexy," he added, going right to the familiar form, and I didn't have the least problem understanding what "sexy" meant.

"I'm Ryan, and you are very sexy too, Dieter," I answered, putting my hand on the one he had on my thigh, moving them both slightly up my thigh. He closed the distance between there and my crotch on his own.

"Ich will dich ficken," he said, his voice almost pleading. "Sex mit mir? Ich will dich ficken."

Yes, you damn well can "ficken" me, I thought. And then, what the hell, I said it too.

I took him back to my apartment and he "fickened" me all afternoon . . . and he was damn good at it.

* * * *

Jacket Found

I was walking down the street from my apartment in Paris to the caf__ where I'd been twice lucky in getting laid. I was having a horny day, having taken the morning off from the international export firm where I'd recently been reassigned to Paris from the Mediterranean to attend a meeting of the models in a coming runway production. I'd come to Paris because I also was trying to make it as a male model and this was a center for that industry. I had a show coming up of swimwear, and we'd been shown and had tried on what we'd wear. What we'd wear was close to nothing, and all of us were horny from looking at each other before we left. Unfortunately, most of the male models were submissives, like I was, so I had to go shopping for relief, if I was going to get any.

I was hoping to pick up another young hunk at the caf__ for a dalliance this afternoon.

Instead, as I passed a barber shop, a strong hand reached out, clamped on my wrist, and pulled me inside the shop.

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