The Jacket

Jacket Lost

It was the first time I'd worn the jacket and I'd lost it. I had other jackets, but when I'd gone out the day before, I'd decided this one would be best to wear, and I was right. The temperature in Paris was changing, and there was a great variation between late morning and mid afternoon. It was too nice out to want to go to indoor cafés. The Parisian way was to settle in outdoor cafés, drink coffee, leisurely read the paper, and ogle women—or, in my case, men—as city life drifted by you.

I'd been transferred directly and unexpectedly from the Mediterranean, so most of the jackets I had with me before my goods arrived in Paris were lightweight. They weren't up to the slight chill in the Paris morning, and yet I didn't want to be the only one sitting inside a café for my morning break from my international export company job. I had sought out the Paris assignment because I also worked as a male model and Paris was the Eden of high fashion. I'd acquired a bit of a reputation for walking the runway, and Paris was a big opportunity for me.

The jacket had been just right for this weather. I'd had it for years and had only kept it for sentimental reasons, because most of those years I had been living in the tropics. The jacket was much too heavy for where I'd lived before now. It was a soft grayish-green wool, woven in an intricate pattern and with leather inserts of nearly identical color as side panels, elbow guards, and wrist bands. But it had come from my father, who had had it made in Oslo during his stint there as the military attaché at the U.S. embassy in Norway. It was much too nice to give to a charity organization in its nearly new condition. I knew my father must have carefully picked it out, as he was as style conscious as I was.

I always had assumed that someday I could put the jacket into service myself. I'd even bought an expensive cashmere neck scarf to go with it in a bazaar in New Delhi that was of a color I thought would match the coat and that, victoriously, had done so perfectly. I'm sure I could be considered overconcerned about style and clothing, but fashion was a major aspect of my life. I took great care with the grooming of my wardrobe and my body, and I'd always found it easy to fall in with men who appreciated the care I took with myself as well. I expected the same of them.

And now, after only one day of wearing the jacket around Paris to various offices and cafés in a flurry of activity in setting up my new life in the French capital, I somehow had lost the jacket. The day had warmed as it had progressed. There were any number of places I could have entered, wearing the jacket, and left, not feeling the need for a jacket. The worst part was that the jacket had had so little part of my life, other than sentimentality and being a timeless style, that I couldn't be sure I'd even recognize the jacket if I saw it somewhere other than in my closet or on the back of my chair.

Thus it was that, when I was walking past an outdoor café on a Paris street near my apartment late the next morning, I did a double take when I looked into the café and saw a jacket that very easily could be mine draped over the back of a chair. The young man seated in the chair caught my eye as I stood there, wondering and speculating, and gave me a smile. He was a beautiful young man—dark and sultry, with a day's stubble of beard that added to the sensuality of an athletic-frame European male, and with an infectious and teasing smile that went beyond his full-lipped mouth with dazzling white teeth and into his dark eyes. He was impeccably—and casually—dressed and could well have been a model himself.

I stood there, gawking at him—or, rather, at the jacket, although he obviously didn't understand that it was the jacket, not him, I was staring at—for a moment longer than needed for him to get the impression that I was interested in him. In hindsight, I could see that he was justified in thinking that I had been coming on to him from the beginning. In response, he turned in three-quarters profile to me in the chair, leaned back, and smiled again in a "what you see is what you get" fashion. And what I could see was very presentable indeed.

If I'd given him my full attention, I, of course, would have been interested in him. But my focus was on the jacket. Had I been in this café yesterday? Yes, I think I might have been. Had I sat at that table? Yes, possibly. Could I just have left the jacket on the back of the chair when I left and no one had taken it away? Unlikely—at least that no one would have noticed it as abandoned and taken it away—but not impossible, if the café, one that was open twenty-four-hours a day, remained as busy as it often did.

The smile on his face broadened and he gestured to me, inviting me to sit at the table. The gesture refocused my attention on him more fully, and a couple of parts of me took note—my heart gave an extra bleep, and another part of me noticeably hardened. He was a beautiful young man, fully masculine, but totally sensual. His clothes fit him like a glove, including across the bulge at his crotch. There was a type of man I melted to lay under. This was such a man. I mostly went with older men, but occasionally I preferred a younger one—when I was in the mood for vigor.

I accepted his invitation and sat at the table. In the blink of an eye, a waiter was at my elbow and I had ordered coffee. I would be there, with this dark and sultry hunk, at least as long as it took for me to finish my coffee. The young man's cup was refilled when my coffee arrived. He was willingly staying around too.

We couldn't communicate with each other in other than hand signals and the occasionally mutually understood word. He was French and I was American and had unexpectedly and on short notice been transferred to Paris. It would be months—possibly never—before I'd be able to converse in the language, although I did have a facility for learning languages and knew several. I'm pretty good at figuring the essential meaning of a word out when given in context of the situation.

We managed to maintain interest in each other and keep the interaction animated despite the language barrier, with some misunderstandings and, increasingly, at least one quite clear shared understanding—he wanted to fuck me and I was quite willing for him to do so.

He was a university student, making that evident by pointing to a pile of books on the table, and saying the words "Sorbonne" and "architecture," the latter word pronounced differently in French and English, but perfectly understandable to me when he said it in French. I got across that I very much liked the jacket hanging on the back of his chair, but not that I wondered if it was my jacket. In turn, he admired my Gucci polo shirt, saying "Gucci?" with a question mark, and I nodded and smiled and said "Oui," which was about the extent of my French vocabulary at that point. I wasn't sure—at least then—when he motioned, with a twinkle of his eye, the act of pulling the shirt over my head, that he was propositioning me. Not completely understanding, I smiled back at him and said "Oui."

That served as some sort of ice breaker and deal maker that I didn't immediately understand, but had no objection to when I did understand it. The conversation, such as it was, became more intimate, with touching, and lingering gazes, and him pointing to himself and saying "Jacques" and then pointing to me and waiting for me to say "Ryan."

This was followed with him smiling that million-dollar smile again, pointing up—which I only understood in reliving the moment as meaning he wanted us to go up to someplace private—and popping his tongue in the side of his mouth. I didn't fully understand that, but I was getting the message. His hand went to my thigh, above the knee, and he looked dreamily at me. I didn't try to remove his hand, which told him all he wanted to know.

What I did fully understand was when he folded over the fingers of one of his hands to form a sheath and pointed at me with a quizzical look and a "Oui?" and then showed me the middle finger of his other hand, declaring "Oui," inserted that finger in the sheath formed with the other hand, moved it vigorously in and out, and popped his tongue inside his cheek again. He wanted to ensure that I was a bottom and was declaring himself as a top. I now understood what the popping of a tongue in the cheek meant. I was to think about how I found out and smile, every time I saw a Frenchman do that when a sexy woman passed him on the street.

What could I do but answer with the only French word I'd mastered. I said "Oui," made a folded-fingers sheath with one of my hands, and pointed to myself and smiled. Just to be sure, he gave me the universal, underhanded, pumping of his fist that was understood anywhere as a jacking off sign, and I smiled again and said "Oui."

There was some confusion as we stood and each dropped coins on the top of the table and he reached back for the jacket, showing that he knew it was there and thought it was his, no matter how recently acquired. I knew then that he would fuck me and I wouldn't make a fuss about the jacket, but I realized that we hadn't established where this coupling would take place. I took my wallet out and extracted one of my personal calling cards, pointing to an address. He smiled and pointed in the direction where my apartment was, not more than two blocks from here, and I nodded in agreement.

I also extracted some euro notes half way from the wallet and gave him a questioning look. But he smiled at me, moved his hand back and forth in a "not needed" gesture and then diagrammed an hour-glass figure with both hands—denoting a woman's curvy figure, but getting across that he found me attractive enough to fuck me for free. I never had had to pay for it before, but he was beyond irresistible. I would have paid him for sex. His eagerness was enhanced by a thrust of his pelvis back and forward, a licentious smile, and another pop of his tongue in his cheek.

I don't know if any of the others at tables around us at the café observed and correctly interpreted his mime, but I didn't care. I laughed. At this point I was also hard as a rock and fairly panting for him.

He was a highly competent lover, his body beautifully proportioned, muscular, and slightly hirsute, with curly dark hair swirling on his chest and down into his trimmed pubes. His cock was thick and long in erection, his balls plump, and his technique straightforward, powerful, and vigorous. He was everything I could want in a fuck with a stranger, especially one that was unexpected and impromptu.

We needed no language. We kissed inside the door as we undressed each other and showed in gestures and groans that we both approved of the goods we'd gotten in the deal. Naked, but still standing inside the closed door to the apartment, we rocked against each other. Jacques frotted our cocks while we kissed. I too reached down and found him to be uncut. I was cut. I pushed the foreskin back off the bulb of his cock and fluttered my fingers over his sensitive cockhead, which made him groan. I worked his cock for a few moments, reveling in the feel of his loose skin gliding on the hard steel of his erection as I worked him.

In breathy French, he murmured something to me. All I recognized from what he said was his interjection in English of "fuck you" and "bed."

I took him into my bedroom and sank to my knees between his legs as he sat on the bed and sucked his cock, again pushing his foreskin back with my lips, where it stayed because of how hard he now was, as he guided my deep throating with moans and his hands on the back of my head. He knelt behind me, in turn, as I was bent over the bed, my arms outstretched in submissive supplication, as he ate out my ass and alternated pulling my dick through my legs and giving it suck. I writhed under him, moaning and groaning, as he covered me close from behind, entering me slowly and deeply. I struggled against him half-heartedly and ineffectually, until he was fully saddled, and then gave into him completely, letting him have his way with me as he wished. When I relaxed, I opened more to him, and we both realized and appreciated that I could take him deeper then. He took his victory in long, deep thrusts, and pumped me to his ejaculation. I had already come for him while he was working on opening me up with his tongue.

There had been a moment of awkwardness before I realized he hadn't come with protection and managed to gesture to him that there were condoms and lube in the drawer of my nightstand. He hesitated but did take out a disk and crowned himself.

He wasn't in a hurry to leave, and we spent time in each other's arms stretched out on the bed, kissing and fondling each other, and engaging in a mutual language lesson. He palmed my chest, flicking my nubs and said, "es nichons" and "les nibards," and, taking one of his nipples between my thumb and finger, I twisted and pinched it and said, "pectorals and nipple." He pointed to my cock and said "le pénis, la verge, La bite," and "la pine." I said "cock, dick, and shaft." He laughed, leaned over, and took my cock in his mouth. I moved around to where I could take his in my throat too and we sixty-nined. He moved a finger to my hole, penetrated me, and whispered, "l'anus," which I readily understood, but, with a low laugh, he added, "une coquille." I knew from his gesture that he was referring to a vagina, having used my ass as one would a woman's cunt. Panting and breathless, I murmured, "Male cunt. Hole. Yes, oh god yes," as he penetrated to the prostate with his index finger and rubbed.

He freed his hands and moved them to in front of my face, repeating the gesture from the café of folding the fingers of one hand into a sheath and thrusting the middle finger of the other hand into it. He growled, "coucher avec quelqu'un" and "copuler, s'accoupler" and then, in broken but clearly understandable English, smiled and said, "I fuck you again now." "Forniquer" and "niquer," he murmured, and added, in broken English, "You understand?" and, strangely enough, I did understand he was going to fuck me again. He also gave me a questioning, pleading look and murmured in English, "No rubber? OK now. Raw fuck? Is better, how you say, feel."

"Copulate, fuck. Yes, raw fuck. Fuck me now!" I cried out, lost to him to the point of risking it. He rolled over on top of me, stuffing a pillow under the small of my back, as I spread and bent my legs, placing my feet flat on the mattress, and rolling my pelvis up to receive the strong, deep thrust of his cock and prepared to thrust with him. I clutched, alternately, at his shoulder blades and his buttocks, as he plowed me deep and hard, vigorously and with abandon. Young, strong, virile, he took me harder, rougher, more insistently now, and I cried out in passion and ecstasy at the intensity of the fuck.

We needed no language to be lost to each other, to become one, smoothly undulating fucking machine. Him giving me all, taking it all from me. Me luxuriating in a thick, uncut cock, raw barebacking, velvety smooth and loose skin sliding along steel erection, caressing and rippling along my channel walls. Until, with explosive ejaculations and his cry of "Tirer un/son coup!" and my answer in a cry of unbridled passion, "Yes, shit. Fuck. Blast me with your cum!" we both came, together.

I had meant to take him in a civilized, pleasant fuck, the celebration of two beautiful bodies working on consort, but the feel of him moving inside me, unsheathed, raw, hard as steel, as thick as a club, and the intensity of his attack and ravishing of me drove me to distraction and completely undid me. Older men were more experienced, nuanced, but there was no beating the occasional raw vigor and virility of a younger man.

After resting, we fucked again, with abandon, like two rutting animals in heat, and I melted under him, orgasming again and again and again at the sensation of him exploding inside me, flooding me deep in my core. I thought he was going to stay here forever, fucking me forever. And I wanted him to.

He held me, both of us panting heavily, in a close embrace, as he went flaccid inside me, me clutching his buttocks to hold him inside me as long as possible. Young, virile, vital, he recovered yet again to be able to reengorge and fuck me in long, languid strokes, his cock sliding easily through the cum of his previous deposit, bringing me to another ejaculation as well, before we both collapsed in exhaustion. He whispered words and short phrases in my ear, obviously in French. I hoped they were dirty. I took them as such. We dozed off in each other's arms.

When he left me as twilight was stealing into the windows of the bedroom in my third-floor flat, I watched him put on the jacket—possibly my jacket—give me a smile and a salute, and then turn and leave without a word.

I didn't begrudge him the jacket. 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 café 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 café.

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."