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I saw him on London's underground, looking tired. Sad. Alone. Sleepy gray eyes under honey-colored brows. Thick hair covering a classic skull and cropped close enough to see he had a couple of scars in his scalp. Aquiline nose. Taut lips. Strong neck under a clean chin. Smooth cheekbones. Mid-twenties. His shoulders broad. His chest full and round under a threadbare red hoodie. No gut to him, even sitting sloped over. He got on at Knightsbridge and grabbed a seat near the rear door of the carriage close to where I was standing, his focus on his cell phone -- excuse me, mobile phone -- the whole time. His dark cargo pants were smudged with white paint and his legs filled them just right. Smallish feet in basic tennis shoes splashed with more paint counterpointed by powerful hands. A workman's hands. All the complete opposite of what I like ... and of me.
I'm as Italian-American as they come -- with a Roman nose in good proportion to my face and chin, a wrestler's build that's stocky but tight thanks to running five miles a day, dark hair everywhere there should be, eyes so brown and wary they're close to black, clean-shaven but at least sporting a suit and tie instead of casuals. Very Brooklyn, even in London.
My preferred type was like this one man who entered just before my underground guy at the same station and stood right by the door -- tall, dark, handsome in a Jewish way. Either side of thirty, which put him about my age, and wearing a sleek suit of brushed wool -- a lot sharper than the one I got on sale at Macy's. Probably Savile Row. A neat goatee, trim body and no briefcase added to the sense he was someone whose life was perfectly organized. What was even better? I caught him giving my guy a low-key look of appraisal. The second I saw that I knew it wouldn’t have taken much to get him out of his suit, and under normal circumstances I'd have found a way to strike up a conversation with him, get him back to my hotel and spend a few hours in bed. But nothing was normal for me, right then, and I desperately needed a good solid fuck, one that went all night if that’s what it took to clear my head.
But for some reason the sad guy kept drawing my attention. I can’t explain it ... except I noticed he wasn’t happy about a text he got. He made a reply, waited for an answer and took a deep breath at what he read. The vague lines in his forehead drew deeper and his eyes darker. The news was obviously not good and I felt for him ... which was weird because, to be honest, fair-haired Englishmen never really interested me. But even Savile Row’s dark good-looks, perfect posture and calm control couldn’t drag me away from the little drama unfolding before me via text as my underground guy tensed and shifted and leaned back and scrunched and shifted upright, each movement increasing my awareness of his beauty.
We were on the Piccadilly line, westbound, and it was growing solid with evening commuters, every damn one of them the typical English sort. I was standing not three feet from him just a bit to his left, and I was flat out gazing upon him like some needy puppy seeking a treat or scratch behind the ears. He finally noticed as we pulled into Hammersmith, gave me a couple of quick confused glances then scrunched deeper into his seat. He shifted so I could see his left hand held a thick gold ring on his third finger, and he pulled up a photo of a woman and some children on the phone's screen. Then he got into another serious back and forth via text.
Him sending me a subtle hint that he's not into guys is no problem for me; I’ve had lots of straight guys. But I was way too impatient to take the time needed for a decent seduction, so I decided to adjust my gaze to Savile Row ... but then my underground guy leaned forward to rest his arms on his lovely thighs, still focused on his phone, and in his reflection in the window I noticed he had a tattoo of some Asian character on the elegant nape of his neck. Japanese, it looked like.
Beautiful.
Perfect.
I’d seen it before ... something like it ... and I got caught in one of those moments where you almost glimpse what the memory is but can’t quite grasp it. Then he leaned even farther in and the hoodie pulled lower to expose the frayed collar of a faded green t-shirt and the beginning of yet another Japanese character and --
My heart began pounding. My breath went soft and sharp. I totally forgot Savile Row, forgot the mess in my brain -- hell, damn near forgot that I was headed back to the States, tomorrow.
All that mattered was him.
He was my prey ... and it was all I could do to keep from reaching over just to ruffle his hair and let him know the chase was on, I was so overwhelmed by the idea of having him.
I snuck some photos on my cell phone, which only made him lovelier.
And lovelier.
And lovelier.
My focus became so intent he tightened even more. Oh, he knew I was interested ... hell, a blind fuckin’ poodle would’ve known. But he wasn’t acting like a man who’s freaked out by my attention; it was more like he was surprised. I wondered if he was wondering if this might be the way to make a bit of extra money. Let the fag suck him off for a quick fifty. Looked like he could use it.
I watched him work his texts. Work through confusion ... then wariness ... finally ending with a weary stubbornness over some decision he’d made. I figured it was marital trouble. Maybe telling the wife he’d be late for dinner and she was pissed. Which hurt him. Made him sadder. And more beautiful than anyone I had ever seen.
My heart pounded stronger. Son-of-a-bitch, I had to have him. Had to be with him. Completely. No matter what it took.
He glanced at Savile Row a few times. I almost thought my guy expected something to happen between them, but that man was too lost in his own contemplations, so he cast one more half-glance my way, sent a last text then put his phone in his hoodie pocket and, as we were pulling into Hounslow East, stood up.
I stopped breathing for a moment, because those legs flowed into what was promising to be the most perfect ass ever in existence. Then as he worked his way to the door he brushed against me -- his solid arm rubbing mine, almost like he was saying Here I am -- and I fell headlong into animal mode.
And followed him.
Okay, that was a stupid thing to do. Period. Like I said, not one real, honest, serious ping on my gaydar. The most I could even have hoped for was the cash-for-access scenario, and while the thought of making an offer did dance across my mind, it died quick ... because I wanted more than that would give me. A hell of a lot more. But getting a straight guy’s no problem for me; it all depends on how far you're willing to go.
And I’d learned a long time ago that I had no limit.
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