“Horny,” Maurice says. “Horny used to be an American word. Like radio, or fuck, or sex as an argument of a verb phrase.”

So far, he has been sitting on the eastern edge of the mattress, but now he pivots sideways against the bedhead. He yanks the Blanket, pulls a corner over his shoulder as if feeling cold, and snuggles up to me.

I’m very shy, and unable to make a direct pass at anybody, let alone utter the words: “Let’s have sex.” And now—what am I doing here? I don’t even look at Maurice.

Should I? Conversely, should he let his hand wander under the blanket? Not quite, perhaps, but his arm is touching my side, and the palm of his right hand materializes on my tummy.

He’s not yet touching my junk, but his hand is on my thigh. I’m a bit ticklish—which is sometimes nice, especially now. His fingertips retract back up to my abdomen, then further to my pecs. He changes his mind and returns to the belly button.

This could be something of a beginner’s course in petting. I widen my legs a bit—not a particularly elegant thing to do, but then petting rarely is. He’s getting the message, and slowly he moves south again. I’m trying to suppress an erection, just for fun. Erections don’t lie; I’m still in one piece. His fingertips have touched the tip of my crown. He could clinch my Dick sideways, his palm folding around my shaft. Should I cast the blanket aside? Kiss, somehow? Rub? What? His dick? Should I tell him about the gasper sex with Alex? Nah. His fingertips (really titillating), slide down the shaft. And up again. We’re getting seduced.

Uhh, I hear myself saying. Uhh. I should marry Maurice and do something about the blanket. Him coming down on me, under the blanket? It has been done before. Or should I be stroking his dick? This can’t last long enough. There’s a big difference between arousal and rock-solid, especially when it comes to the touch, the voltage that flows from an engaging hand via your boner to your libido. The harder the better. Not the touch, your boner.

Maurice shouldn’t come down on me, this should be official sex, like Taylor was official sex. Let’s do something about the blanket. Slowly, or in one go? Easy does it, the blanket comes off. I’m naked, I realize, even though I tend to use pajamas when sleeping without alibi. Maurice is still in his bathrobe. The terry cloth will come off any moment.

We’re both versatile, ain’t we? Didn’t we say? No, we didn’t, but Maurice is versatile, sure he is. Advanced homosexuals of the 21st Century, come forward, we are versatile. Let him decide. No need for foreplay, we need something more meta. Him just stretching, discarding his bathrobe, spreading his legs? Or smiling? Saying ‘darling’ again? Do we need lube? There’s lube on the night table, I realize. (Who put it there? Oh, oh.) Maurice’s splayed out now, dick and all.

I remember his dick from the dunes, a very nice apparatus that he has there. And his balls, big balls in a tight sack. Where would I kiss him? His ear perhaps? Nuzzle his meatus?

Let’s keep this act together. I should top him, that’s what I should do, that’s what he wants. The water tower also wants it. We’ll need the lube, my precum is not enough. His precum is dripping already. Yes, cool, his milk, impressive. We need to do something with his body. With my tongue? Finger tips? Toes perhaps? Tongues have been used before. Never mind. The raspy touch of my taste muscle. It tickles. We don’t mean it. We mean it. I’ll swish down the side of his neck, skip past his pecs—his pecs a bit flatter now than a week ago, him missing exercise—swish past his abs—no, we can’t do that, we have to touch his dick, and my tongue teases the purple cheeks of his peephole. He’s uncut, his crown is more sensitive than the typical American one...