I walked around the corner to my home in Berkeley Square just in time to see the post lady, Rita on her rounds.
"Well Master Brain, I do believe you've been expecting this, heh?" She delivered in her upbeat East Enders lilt as she held up a thick manila envelope. I could clearly see the seal of Newcastle University with its azure coat of arms and white cross teasing me for closer inspection.
"Go on now," Rita admonished this time with more animated urgency.
I ripped into the envelope unconsciously knowing that a thick letter was good. A thin one was a callous rejection letter, computer generated and dispatched with the diesel efficiency of a lorry.
"...so we welcome you to the class of 1979 and trust that your educational experience will continue to be a life time endeavor."
My roommate was a methodical soft spoken Iranian by the name of Harriti Nikahd. He was a neat freak, loved listening to Elvis, and had a fondness for Bass Ale.
Long limed and athletic, he was every gay mans heartthrob. His tightly wound body and explosive legs made him largely unstoppable on the soccer field. We got along well at first glance and I was exposed to someone of a different culture on a personal level.
"You can call me Harry," he said with a welcoming smile framed by heart melting dimples.
"Done," I said with a nod of approval.
Harry had a great ass and it filled out the back of his jeans in curvy provocative suggestions. There is a God, I thought being so lucky to have this Arabian stud as my roomie. I looked forward to seeing him a' la carte in the showers.
I kept my sexuality to myself. My dad was too absorbed in his work at the American Embassy to know his only son was a flaming homo. I think mom knew, however. One day, out of the blue, she held me in her arms and told me that we are all God's creatures and no matter who you are or what you do, be true to yourself and do your best. I cried that night thinking about how lucky I was.
Harry was a chemistry major and I dabbled in political science and linguistics. My view of international politics was limited and I viewed the United States as a benign superpower; protecting the world from tyranny much like we did in the 20th century.
Harry would politely listen and then pepper me with rhetorical and mind bending questions on how the US interfered in the internal affairs of other nation, compromised elections, bribed officials, and if that didn't work, would dispatch its agents mafioso style to break bones. Clearly, I had a lot of reading to do.
Politically aroused, passionate, and well groomed in the English language and culture, Harry should have been the political science major, and I the chemistry major as long as I didn't blow up the lab.
We arrived at an unspoken truce of politics as we had to live within a hot breath of each other in our runty dorm.
Harry was a whiz at math. It was in his DNA. I would stay up all night wrestling with calculus 101 terminally befuddled with an equation. Harry could see my pathetic scribblings upside down from his perspective and yet pinpoint my problem.
"What are you going to do with the derivative?" he would thoughtfully postulate.
"I'm going to throw the bitch out the window, that's what I'm going to do with this shit!"
We both collapsed in a compact of laughter on our beds. It was a Kodak moment. Harry would regress into a childlike giggle and his toes would curl up like the wicked witch of the west in the Wizard of Oz when Dorthy's house inconveniently compressed her stature.
So Harry taught me to think out my calculus problems. I got a respectable "C" on my midterm. I in turn, helped him with his term papers as I could agitate accepted dogma faster than a New York Times columnist. He got an "A".
There was little privacy at Newcastle for, well, you know, spanking the monkey. I had Harry's class schedule memorized and made sure I could pacify my rod when he was in class. I learned to lather that little roster up as quickly as possible and let her crow. I was always afraid that I would hear the telltale sound of a key in the door if Harry's schedule would change unexpectedly.
Boy, do I miss the halcyon days of living back in London with the whole house to myself, a closet full of gay porn magazines, videos, and an assortment of dildos and other anal toys. Not only was I relegated to the closet sexually but lived in one as well.
My final class of the day was a political science class, The New Russia and the West. My professor must have been a pensioned Politburo member; boring and dictatorial. You wouldn't even think of showing up late for class or ditching it all together. Professor Goremkin would dress you down naked before your abashed classmates who empathized with your dilemma but were thankful it wasn't them.
I settled in my seat with my classmates as the clock weaved it's way well past the start of lecture time. This was so unlike "The Gore" as we secretly liked to call him. It felt like eternity but we sat in class leaderless for about fifteen minutes before one of our compatriots lived up to his almost perfect SAT score and read the message left on the chalkboard. In articulate cursive, a class proctor wrote, "due to illness, Professor Goremkin's lecture on The New Russia is canceled for today."
Woo-hoo! It's Friday and my last class is a bust! What's a freshman to do?
I made it quick time back to my dorm to unload my books and maybe catch up with Harry for a pickup basketball game before dusk. The maintenance man was vacuuming the hallway, his extension cord spilled over the hallway like a dead snake and the vacuum making a howling noise that must have been designed to scare away the dirt rather then suck it in.
I made a nearly silent turn of my dorm key and found Harry spread out on his bed, his pants discharged down to his shins, and his tight ass rocked skyward from which a heavy flange of dildo protruded from his hole as if shot from a cannon.
His face was buried in a pillow and his hands busily disciplining his aroused flank of cut meat while the other one choreographed frantic plunges of the dildo into his tender rubicund hole. He rocked back and forth in excited cadency; the bed springs snitching in protest and the presence of an interloper yet unnoticed.
I must of stood there for a total of five minutes dumbfounded in my rude arrival and yet intrigued on the masturbation habits of other men. My thoughts were juxtaposed between watching Harry thru clinical eyes and appreciating my voyeuristic moment or joining in the festivities.
He was beautiful and in his vulnerable pose looked years younger than a strapping college student. His bulbous ass was brushed in a bushel of coal like shoots of hair and since his bed was on the warm side of the room, beads of sweat radiated down the crevice of his back like a string of diamonds. His dark skin was resplendently bronzed and I was fascinated to be in the presence of this tempestuous stallion.
His physique was what every queer man would covet; not chemically muscled but genetically gifted and well proportioned with solid long legs, a corrugated core, and a protracted torso that showcased a trained six pack. An alluring treasure trail of black hair etched a road to his manhood. Oh mon Dieu!
Harry looked up and finally noticed me standing in the doorway; his facial expression uncorked in a cocktail of unpleasant emotions. There was embarrassment, anger, humiliation, and finally frustration as his body shook in the telltale forerunner of ejaculation.
He surged back like a serpent as his Gemini balls dismissed steady buckets of cum that formed milky goblets over his hand and bedsheets. He moaned and as his glutteral muscles involuntarily flexed jettisoning the dildo out of his anal cavity. It accelerated like an unguided missile on an abbreviated trajectory before landing behind his feet. Simply awesome!
Harry must be a greedy bottom with an insatiable appetite for cock since that dildo was generously sized in length as well as girth. I felt humbled realizing that I couldn't field or deliver that much firepower.
His moment of self pleasance ruined, I was left with only one option and I fled the room slamming the door behind me and almost inadvertently tackling the cleaning man as I escaped down the hallway.
Feeling guilty about my innocent gaffe, I hung out in the library until they closed and then headed over to Barney Pub where the venerable barkeep could remember your name if introduced once and then didn't return for a decade. Barney pulled me a pint of Ale and I absentmindedly nursed it while devoured in my devious thoughts. Upperclassmen were hooting it up over a televised soccer game.
It was almost Saturday morning until I had the courage to go home and I found Harry asleep and snoring. That used to bother me but now his nocturnal racket served as reinforcement that all is well in my corner of the world.
I slept soundly thanks to my spirits induced coma which put my speeding mind in neutral long enough to wake up refreshed. I took a shower,, brushed my teeth, and returned to my dorm room.
Harry was awake and busily organizing his wardrobe options for the day. We shared the single closet and it was obvious whose belonging were on the left side and whose were on the right. Even his sneaks were polished!
"Good morning," he said cheerfully. He acted as if nothing had happened but I couldn't stand how our relationship would change if I didn't use this as an opportunity to show him its all good and we fish off the same pier, sort to speak.
I opened my desk drawer and reached to the back where I hid my porno magazines. I pulled out a pile of them and tossed them with a free spirit flick on Harry's bed which was already made up as if room service had arrived.
Harry looked down at the glossy reflections of young bucks gallantly splayed in knots of homosexual banter; some captured in various states of discase while others frolicked with their uncorralled cocks or compatriots.
"What the fuck?" Harry asked feinting surprise.
I laughed and did a little victory pirouette. "We're both queer, dude! Don't sweat it, Harry. You're cool with me."
"But I'm not a homosexual," he said attempting to maintain his innocence.
"Yup, and the Queens not British," I challenged with seductive swings of my hips.
He pushed the magazines away like a recovering heroin addict being tempted by a fresh hit; one eye captivated by the bait, the other struggling to resist what comes naturally.
I would have none of it and decided to prosecute my case when my quarry was at his weakest and my cock sporting morning wood.
Hovering over him, I regressed into my sappy imposture of Elvis and using a magic marker as a prop for a microphone, began to sing.
"Love me tender, love me sweet..."
I leaned over Harry and ours eyes met in an uncharacteristic pokey masculine embrace; his almond eyes squinting in harmony with his dimples following in hot pursuit. Harry's black eyebrows, disarmingly arched in surrender dared me to get closer.
"...Never let me go," I crooned as he playfully squatted me as if shooing away a mosquito.
It was too late since he's already been bitten. He just took a moment to itch.
We were nose to nose and I used my free hand against his shoulder for balance. "You have made my life compl..."
I was never able to finish the word as Harry pursed his lips and kissed me. I tossed the magic marker over my shoulder. It has done its job.
I fell or was pulled into Harry's arms and we were rendered horizontal on his bed lost in the brothels of delightful foreplay. This was a Saturday like no other as we frolicked on his bed rocking for dominant position. The bed springs squealed or was that just me.
Harry was an excellent kisser and he scavenged the plaque off my molars and sucked my tongue down his throat. I savaged the buttons of his freshly laundered shirt and the buttons cocked off like popcorn.
Harry postulated a disappointing frown. "You owe me a new shirt, Brian"
"Just wait till you see me demolish the rest of you," I warned.
"And then what? Harry persisted.
"We'll go over to Barneys Pub and settle our differences with a pint of Bass Ale". We rarely argued but when we did it was off to the pub to "settle our differences".
I hovered over him like a wrestler in the top position but he grabbed my elbow unlocking it in one smooth pull and I collapsed past him. I was now rendered subservient and hopelessly seduced by the exhaust of his blistering breath.
He bedeviled me with plucky licks of a hyperactive tongue juxtaposed between aggressive bites at my lips. Harry shoved his hand down my pants and met up with my cock; engorged and agitated.
His other hand followed the first but detoured around my torso and kneaded the rump of my ass as if it were moist pizza dough ready for the oven. With predatory speculation, he poked his finger in my ass and my butt hole puckered in appreciation.
Our chemistry for each other was incendiary. It reminded me of when we first met each other and our eyes locked in a retentive tangle; each squaring off like antagonists in a bar dispute.
I went limp allowing Harry to take the lead but that seemed to confuse him as I was meddling with his sexual compulsion. This awkward moment called for decisive action so I took hold of his cock which solved one problem but created another.
"Holy fuck!" I screamed in a tone of awe rather than fright like a preteen seeing a brawny Ford GTO coming around the corner for the first time.
"What's wrong?" Harry beamed.
"Your cock! It's like a fucking sewer pipe!"
Harry laughed. "Sunni genes on both sides."
I just wanted to yank my pants down and defer to this knight. My meat could sprout to an honest 6" especially if I refrained from jacking off for a week but Harry's slap of filet had me eclipsed.
I was fascinated by his size and it propelled my lust for him but I was hesitant in my ability to take in his whole rack orally or anally.
Harry loosened my pants down and my cock sprung out swaying up and down like a jack o lantern. He stroked it in impatient tugs and then shackled my cock to his and our foreskins merged in a lather of sweat and spits of precum.
My twin nuts hung low giving the optical illusion of size but his sexual organ was clearly superior. I reveled over the sight of his erect penis erupting like an active volcano from an rampant phalanx of furious pubic hair.
With renewed strength, I pushed him down on the bed, my hand brushing his eraser like nipples and my mouth opened wide.
I gagged. He groaned.
Harry arched his chest back as if being tossed about in a roller coaster and in a way, he was. I licked his shaft and was intoxicated by its gristly feel and burned by the hotness of his boisterous rivet shoved deep into my mouth.
I varied my assault on his cock; first swiping it over my lips and tempestuous flogs of my tongue followed by full barreled plunges down his shaft stopping only when his pubic hair vellicated my nostrils. It was an enjoyable moment abbreviated by Harry's request to go 69. I kicked my legs about and my foot almost caught him square in the nose. So much for my bedroom protocol.
Harry chomped at my shaft like a chow hound that suffered from food loss anxiety. He single hand-idly gang rapped my cock while his hands massaged my torso and ass.
We filled our bedroom with sophomoric slurping sounds and rambunctious vocalizations peppered with nasty talk and perverse sexual demands; some in Virginian Beltway English while others in exacting Farsi.
"Finger me, Brian!" Harry entreated as he lifted his bubble but off the mattress exposing his puckered hole.
I was all to happy to oblige. Was I dreaming?
I slid my hand over his rump and savored his masculine feel; a tightly muscled ass born from lots of heavy lifting and toned from exhausting runs up and down the soccer field.
My middle finger entered first in an exploratory peek and then was joined by my second finger. They cautiously probed about like a pair of astronauts exploring the surface of the moon although this moon wasn't inert but live with wiggles and hurried requests that seemed to multiply exponentially.
"Go deep, Brian," he begged. "Oh, it feels so good!"
I was rabid for his hole and with raw determination, I bullied my fingers past his taunt sphincter muscle. I don't think Harry has ever been deflowered before. He was as tight as a coupon totting pensioner and I was conspiring on being the first to offer him 10% off everything in my store.
I drew my fingers in and out of his hole; each time relaxing him and allowing me to thread my way to his swollen prostate. It was paradise and I licked his ass and pestered it with provocative bites. He went ballistic when my middle finger hit its mark; a walnut hard organ oozing pleasure seeking nerve endings; a virtual incubator breeding endorphins.
Harry blurted out mysterious middle eastern dialect but I'm sure it translated to something palatable in English. I relentlessly pursued him with my full arsenal brought to bear. My mouth inhaled his ass and tree trunk ham strings and my fingers lashed his dilated hole into compliance. Harry burrowed his head in a pillow which was fine with me since I couldn't understand his dazed smudge of words anyhow.
He busied himself with masturbation and I joined my hand with his and we fumbled momentarily before synchronizing our efforts. In a moment, Harry's face was cherry red and I just knew that he was ready to blow a gusher. Encouraged, I drew my face down to the tip of his spear just in time for him to liberate his remaining confectionery treat over my nose and cheeks. I returned the favor with a spicy concoction that drenched him in gay bliss.
Our class graduated in 1979, the mercurial Shah of Iran was deposed; replaced by an feverous stew of Mullahs.
I never got the chance to say goodbye to Harry who unceremoniously vanished to his homeland one day after they slapped a diploma in his hands. We were caught up in an uncertain world of international politics that pitted our love of country against our love for each other. I suppose Harry couldn't bear the spectacle of saying goodbye let alone making peace with his sexuality. I will love him forever. Be well, Harry.
I retreated back to the United States with my parents since my dads assignment in London was concluded and immediately found employment with Founders Bank in Washington DC. The bank had a generous tuition reimbursement program and I found myself right back in school at Georgetown University dutifully listening to boring lectures and fulfilling my destiny as an academic scribe. I thought about Harry everyday.
After graduation, I must of thought I was hot shit and I became bored with work at Founders. I summarily quit but found my parents to be unusually supportive. I think they both understood that my 12 hour work days, weekends included, were putting me under a lot of stress but in reality, the grueling work schedule diverted my mind from a love lost and a shattered heart.
When the going gets tough, Americans travel so I trampled over the USA vagabond style staying with friends in New York's Village before ricocheting to the Northwest coast and finding digs on a houseboat in Seattle. I loved Seattle and remained there for almost two years; an eternity in my bipolar endeavor to find the real Brian K Schave and my place in the world.
The weather reminded me of my adopted home across the pond and friends helped me find a job as an editors assistant with the Seattle Times, a plucky newspaper that ran persistent articles on AIDS awareness. But all to soon I was airborne again landing in the halcyon days of LA and spending too much time in its gay badlands, smoking pot, and having persistent sex sans emotional fulfillment.
Needing something more wholesome, I went to Utah where I surprisingly found more queers like me, well educated, politically disturbed, and yet haunted by their gay shadows.
For me, the future is something that finds you in the present. My phone rang and it was mom calling. She was crying. The only other time I've heard her cry was when I graduated from Newcastle but this cry wasn't one of joy. This cry was more guttural, a raw shrill that filled a sail of gloom. My dad had died.
Mass was at St. Peters followed by a brunch at my parents home. We had a small family and they all were there in addition to many people whom I've never seen but seemed to know me regardless. The introductions all ran along the line of "...Oh, and you're Brian!" they would say in enthralled surprise as if discovering a new species. "...You look so much like your father. He was a wonderful person."
"...Your dad was so proud of you. A great man." followed by a communal nod of heads.
Everyone seemed eager to meet me in a echt attempt as not to be suspected of being a funeral crasher. One man stood out, however. He hovered by the staircase, chatted with no in particular although other guests acknowledged him with a wave or nod.
A bull of a man with a tight shirt and a wrestlers neck, he seemed to be observing me. I considered that he was cruising me and was annoyed at his apparent bad manners. The lid has just snapped shut on my dad, my moms mascara is smudged, and this guy thinks he's on a street corner in Dupont Circle.
I spoke with my Aunt Sally and Uncle Don. Haven't seen them in years but we chatted as if time nor miles had any bearing on our family connections.
My cousin, a snotty Princeton graduate, waved me over and introduced me to his leggy fiance. He was working on Wall Street making nothing of value and being paid generously for the privilege.
I was still being studied by the man with the neck. Our eyes brushed momentarily and I looked away. When I looked back up, he had disappeared.
I was relieved and hoped he had left. My mom introduced me to more of my dads business associates. It was nice of them to come. Usually, people you work with stay away unless there's money in it for them.
I needed a drink and retired to the kitchen and mixed some soda and vodka. I slammed it down and quickly made another. Closing the fridge door, I came to a jarring stand off with Mr. wrestlers neck
"Hope I didn't startle you." he said genuinely apologetic. His voice was gentle and higher pitched than I would expect from such an imposing man.
"No, you're fine." I said swirling my drink. "It's been a tough day." I said bitterly.
"I'm Gene Clark." We shook hands. He dropped his head down as if preparing to recite a prayer. "I worked with your dad in London. One of the finest people I've ever known. We lost a great American at a time when we needed his passion and professionalism most...a true patriot."
He handed me his business card. "I know it's an awkward time but your dad spoke so much about you."
He then closed the deal which would alter my life forever and allow the magic of serendipity to find what was assumed forever lost. "Your country's calling you, son."
I gazed outside the gold plated window of my office at CIA London station that offered a truncated view of the River Thames and a brisk London landscape. It was Thursday afternoon and I was preparing for our meeting the next day with our British hosts. We were working more closely than ever with MI6 since our mutual exposure to terrorism that impacted New York City and then the London transit system.
The special relationship we enjoyed with the Brits was finally consummated in a full scale marriage of cloak and subterfuge. Sometimes awkward and argumentative but overall beneficial, we equally pursued each other for our own sovereign interests; the Brits relied on our first rate electronic ease dropping capabilities and the United States was enamored by the audacity of British Intelligence to procure human intelligence with duplicity if necessary; civility if permitted.
I have been with CIA for over 20 years and still have the business card of my thick necked benefactor. I've come home in two ways. I'm not just doing a job but serving my country and making the world a better place. Yup, sounds corny but I've a patriot.
Secondly, life in London is like no other. Steeped in historical ambiance, this vibrant city once savaged by Luftwaffe bombers has survived peril with quiet British resolve but now faces new threats, some of which are home grown while others have come ashore on commercial flights and with less than honorable intentions. It was my job to stop it.
I logged on to my secure computer and quickly ran a safety program provided by the NSA that assured me a secure connection. An officer at NSA told me that the chances of our system being hacked was as remote as Oprah not getting fat again.
It was 1500 hrs and time for me to make contact with my Iranian agent that I was running remotely from London station. We called him "Seeker" and he first made contact with British Intelligence and I was assigned to run him for information. Seeker was a chemist that was employed at the Iranian nuclear research facility at Parchin, a mountainous region 30 kilometers southeast of Teheran. His information was verifiable allowing the US and UK a voyeuristic peek show into Iran's dalliances under the covers.
Sometimes sagely informative while at other times cryptic and despondent, Seeker tested my ability to build a relationship with someone whom I've never met and procure information. It was difficult to determine his motives for revealing state secrets. It couldn't have been financial since he asked for little but instead seemed to be an Iranian scientist yearning for something else yet to be determined.
Seeker was promising to forward me electronic data concerning a secretive shipment that would help us determine the advancement of their program. Sometimes gathering intelligence is oddly simple. For example, if your auto mechanic neighbor was receiving UPS deliveries of muscly hot rod engine components, you can be sure he's lying when he claims he's rebuilding a Yugo.
Today however, Seeker was opaque in his responses and typed in a stubborn wind of refractory prose. He spoke about how the Iranian revolution was a failure and he, a traitor to his birthplace and yet finding himself an alien to his own world. Underlying his missives was a grim unaddressed anger. I knew that something was seriously wrong with my source but unable to cure him with a session of cybernetic psychotherapy.
I attempted to get Seeker back on track and steered the conversation back to the promised data. It was 1520 hours and my secure link would be severed in 10 minutes but he was haunted by a ghost of unresolved issues and I was faced with the possibility of failing to get the promised holy grail of information.
There was something familiar on how Seeker composed his sentences; his written depositions that could elude passion and stimulate the senses one moment before retreating in a camillion like cocoon of displeasure and isolation.
It was all too familiar. As familiar as my writings. Odd. But I've been taught to follow my hunches so why stop now at something that has gotten me into so much trouble in the past?
I typed, "Your problem is like a mathematical derivative. What are you going to do with it?"
My screen flashed his impertinent response. "Throw it out the window."
I stroked my chin. I typed, "It's raining here. Wish I was at the pub."
He completed my thought. "A pint of Bass Ale, my friend.
I winced and just before I typed, he added a secret little code.
"...To settle our differences."
I gasped and excitedly looked up from my desk to see if anyone in the office was taking note of my heart murmurers.
I breezily typed, "Love me tender, love me sweet..."
He returned, "Never let me go...You have made my life compl..." Our connection was severed. It was 1530 hours but there was no doubt.
It was Harry.
I ran by my MI6 colleague Peter Comillion and suggested we go out for a walk. It was our way of letting each other know that something urgent and private had to be vetted outside the vestibules of the twin secret services.
I told Peter everything including the "special relationship" that Harry and I shared at Newcastle. He was both supportive and non judgmental. Peter had a gay brother. Luck be a lady. It all helped.
"You're sure?" Peter gently pried as we sauntered past Westminster.
"There's no doubt. Small world, huh?"
"And a dangerous one," Brian added forlornly.
We stopped for a cup of coffee just before the streets of London were lampooned in afternoon showers. Big Ben tolled. The baritone chime always took my breath away. I'm with you, Harry.
I was reading some electronic intelligence on the fluid political situation in Iran. It was hoped that this would culminate into a peaceful change of power as it did in Poland and East Germany; both of which our services were instrumental. We're the Amway of democracy, we would joke.
Peter hurriedly poked his head in my office pausing only a moment for me to look up from my computer. He was pale as if stricken with the flu.
"I'm afraid we lost Harry, Sir, he said in a deferent British clip.
"What!" I was a professional spook trained to be analytical and detached but under the circumstances, I was anything less than emotionally distraught as a mother would be after being told by the police that their child was abducted.
Peter, tall and thin with the reserve of an undertaker, pushed his hand through his thickset black hair now showing hints of espionage induced gray.
"Yesterday", he said. "The Israelis found out there were arrests at the Parchin facility as well as in Teheran. A lot of hard work is in the trash. Someones fucking with us, Brian."
I sat in my chair unable to move or speak as if my spinal cord had been severed by sharpshooters bullet..
"The old man is holding a meeting upstairs in 10 minutes", Peter pointed at the ceiling while making a scowling gesture. "Better grab your files and head up."
I went to the bathroom and splashed some icy tap water on my face. My reflection in the mirror startled me. The spy world has a corrosive effect on the human psyche that dissolves flesh from the inside out. My skin was ashen from the extensive hours at work and gloomy British winters. Under the rude florescent lights, the normally innocuous blotches of the skin were magnified and for the first time I noticed the bags under my eyes; a precursor to senior years.
I rushed upstairs and entered the secure conference room. The head of operations, studying me over his wire rimmed reading glasses, shot me an annoyed look. Everyone gave a brief synopsis of the latest breach of intelligence which was flimsy at best. We knew that our contacts in Iran were compromised but we had no idea why or how.
I was forced to remain dispassionate as they dissected the worth of Harry who by now had become as valuable as yesterdays crumpled newspaper left on a park bench. I cracked my knuckles; a permissible substitute for my urge to scream with a passion and fervor not normally found in company briefings. We lost Harry and nobody seemed to care or know why. So goes the spy business.
Peter nodded in my direction. We were in a heap of trouble and on our own.
Two weeks passed without any contact. I could only assume that Harry was dead or had checked into the Revolutionary Guards Hotel; in which case, you'd rather be dead.
The phone rang. It was a clerk from Langley in Virginia informing me rather hesitantly that my order of Elvis albums had arrived at their station.
I almost hit the ceiling. Harry, you wonderful bastard! I'm going to kiss you from head to toe and eat you all night when I get my hands on you again. And this time, I'll never let you go!
I met with Peter . He shooed his compatriots out of his office.
"Let's reopen the store, my friend. Harry's made contact!" I was, well, let's say radiant.
I had to shuttle from one WI-FI hot spot to another for security purposes and Peter provided me with some cheeky cryptic wares used by British Intelligence.
The pieces of the puzzle came together as Harry and I chatted on facebook and other social networking sites. It seems that Harry fancied the underground gay bar scene in Teheran and it was there that an abbreviated tryst blossomed with a gracious but ultimately dangerous bushy mustached individual by the name of Moqudam.
Unbeknown to Harry, when he brusquely dumped Moqudam for another man in the bar, he encouraged the wrath of a certain General Ali Moqu. I made some inquires with the Israelis and they were kind enough to send me an intimate dossier on the thuggish General. They were eager to help and would consider any plan to rescue Harry if it included a rendition of Moqu.
The vindictive General had Harry arrested on fictitious charges and then had him released with the intent of intimidating him. Harry was living with the General in the fashionable area of town blocks from the desecrated US Embassy. He was in grave danger.
We had to act fast. I kicked several scenarios around with Peter and we decided that retrieving Harry unscathed was of utmost importance but he was intrigued by my idea to capture our nasty bottom boy General as well.
Peter solaced his cheeks as if would ignite some brilliant idea in his head. "We gotta do something that would make Moqu want to defect" he quipped while making instructive motions with his hands.
"Let's out him" I said with an appetite for revenge.
"Perfect. Brian, you're fucking brilliant!"
We decided that a relatively simple plan of hacking the Generals computer with scandalous gay pictures and websites that would duly motivate him to skip town. We added some icing on the cake; two million dollars and a new zip code. The Israelis promised to be great hosts.
It took some help from amused but determined allies but by morning, the good General was surely choking on his Chai as he read my stern email. My instructions were clear as I reminded him that his President had previously announced to the world that "we do not have that phenomenon (gay men) here" and it would be in his best interest to visit the land of David.
I forwarded instructions to Harry and he and Moqu were soon on a Iran Air flight to Geneva. There, they departed company as Harry boarded a British Airways flight to Heathrow and Israeli agents escorted a defunct General Moqu to Tel Aviv.
It was a Top chief quickfire challenge hatched in London, cooked in Teheran, and scrambled by our Israeli friends in Geneva. The world is flat, indeed.
Peter contacted our affiliates at the airport and they were there to escort me ramp side to the Airbus A320 as it sliced through the steady rain and docked at the gate. An airline rep provided me with a yellow rain slicker with reflective strips and cap. Emblazoned on the port side of the Airbuses nose was the aircraft's name "Prince Harry". I shivered in the moist cool air partly from the dank weather but mostly from the anticipation in being reunited with my Prince.
An airport police officer accompanied an impeccably dressed man down the Jetway steps. He walked bedazed like a fugitive skipping out on a warrant. I was blinded by the ramp lighting reflection off the wet tarmac and could only see Harry in profile before he stepped on English soil for the first time in over 30 years.
"Welcome home, sir," I said with rubric efficiency in my official capacity as I handed him his newly minted British passport and shook his hand; an otiose attempt to camouflage the passionate arsenal accumulated by us in violation of official treaty.
"Valid for anywhere," I added with a postponed smirk.
He had aged like a Ferrari; his once satiny mane of jet black hair now oxidized with blusters of diplomatic gray but his dark eyes twinkled with life and promise.
"I'm exactly where I want to be," Harry said resolutely. He smiled and his signature dimples slipped out of the shadows. I felt my cock stir. I was an undergraduate again.
We found our Jaguar waiting and I hurriedly navigated thru the busy streets of London to my flat in Chelsea. The formality of the airport reunion now a distant memory, we were finally able to hold hands and allow our curious fingers to dwell in interlaced contentment.
I seized on the good fortune of a laggard traffic light and urged Harry's face towards mine and enjoyed a subtle kiss once denied by politics and geography. We rediscovered our passion for foreplay; the rain sloshed windscreen ran scrimmage with the wipers, and the motorist behind us signaled the traffic light change with a civilized report from his horn.
Engrossed in our rabid rout of lust we found ourselves tearing off each others clothes just as my apartment door slammed shut. You would of thought that they were doused with a erosive chemical gnawing at the fabric and threatening to dissolve skin.
Harry cornered me in an enchanting dance and snacked at my neck with the same sharp bicuspids I had never forgot to appreciate; his tongue lunged assertively down my throat while his brawny thighs locked me up in an inescapable pin. I licked his bronzed chest and suckled at his eraser sized nipples.
His cock was in a state of panic and I bore down on his bulbous shaft. Harry withered deliriously in response to my dogged attack of oral mayhem.
I pulled at his balls that had the size and firmness of pea tomatoes and shoveled them into my mouth like a cherub surreptitiously pinching M&M's from the bin of a candy store.
Harry always like it when I licked the under side of his nuts and I thoughtfully complied but juxtaposed that with playful pricks that sent my beau into spasmodic seizures.
The once jet black hair that dogged his underarms was now spent charcoal brickets gray but the aroma had a uniqueness that I could identify even if blindfolded; an elusive Calvin Klein fragrance test. I've waited so long for this moment. Was it worth it? Hoo-Rah!
Harry flipped me over on my back and victoriously mounted me. He pumped the cleavage of my ass with his cock and then dilated my hole with curious curving motions of his fingers. He enjoyed his molestation of me and I was pretty much ready to dump my load that moment into my Harrods sheets but Harry circumvented that with a well timed grasp of my cock. His "do it yourself" plumbers fix worked for now but was only temporary. The pressure was building and this rig was on its way to a gusher.
Pressed for time, he lifted my ass up and out and rammed his cock deep inside me.
"Aughh!" I protested in pain but it was a pain that just felt so damn good.
Harry sang softly in my ear, "...love me tender, love me sweet..."
I had my face buried in the pillow so my response was muffled and desperate. I was too busy enjoying the intense pain and listening to the sound of Harry's cock jack hammering my pavement. His cadence varied like Morse code; first excruciating plunges followed by amateurish forays into my rectum before considering a hasty retreat.
He then rested. Oh, it was so predictable and that's what made Harry's lovemaking so much like effective torture. He made it so his victims could anticipate the next assault and instill fear even before it was brought to bear. Harry taunted me with stingy strokes feinting tiredness.
He plowed into me again, this time with the undisciplined fervor of someone smacking a scorpion to death using a hurriedly rolled up newspaper as a weapon. His mushroom head, pudgy, moist and blistering, tore thru me and swayed my prostate towards nirvana. I wrapped my legs around his torso and weathered his volcanic tantrums.
I felt like a tossed overboard sailor battered by a disorderly sea as my life was spared by a gulp of air only to be submerged by a flush of seawater that spilled into my lungs and threatened to extinguish life.
I whispered into Harry's ear using my college learned Farsi. He laughed and discontinued his explosive pushes for only a moment. I thought I said, "I'm going to cum!" but perhaps it got mistranslated into "I've got the runs"!
His strokes got deeper and speed-bag quick and then shot a gallon of his rich portage.. The pressure inside of me blew as well and I cooked off like popcorn and loosened my sludge over the sheets and our abs. My organism was so intense, I thought I'd need seizure medicine to recover.
I knew Harry had more confectionery for me and we retired to the classic 69 position and I persuaded his cock to reveal another push of sweets for my taste buds meander in. He didn't disappoint and we simultaneously cross pollinated our nectar into each others mouth.
October 5, 2010
I submitted my resignation at CIA.
Harry brought a trove of computer memory sticks with him that provided the allies with the digital footprint of Iran's nuclear ambitions.
The Israelis burped General Moqu with nanny like efficiency and as rumor has it, he's living a rather pleasant life on a kibbutz.