![]() That’s how I felt about the whole thing … until that last morning, when I saw him in the window, sloshing his hot chocolate and wrapped in a white towel after we’d showered together. He cried out in a most satisfying way, and cummed as soon as I touched him there. To be totally honest with myself, his Frenchiness probably made me fuck him as hard as I did. I don’t like fucking Euros, generally speaking, though if he’d been from Quebec, I would have fucked him even harder. I’m not either, truth be told–I’m from Alberta–but I wasn’t looking to share myself in any meaningful way that weekend, and so when he made an assumption, I just ran with it. “Why?” I don’t know, I said, so he could have family, and all that? He just grinned. I asked him if he’d ever be with a woman in the future, and he shrugged. I asked him if he’d ever been with a girl, and he’d said yes (”Oui, oui”), but he preferred the feel of a man on him. But when in Rome (or in this case, Brussels), do as Romans do. Get that boy in a buzz cut and a flannel, a beer in one hand and a rifle in another, and I’d have taken him home with me. Honestly, he was a bit too European for me, with his long curls and fine voice and love of hot chocolate.
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