Swipe the mag card. Door buzzes in the dingy motel off the highway near Bourg-en-Bresse. My stopover crash pad for this temp teaching gig. Room’s a shithole: wobbly bar with compact hi-fi, sagging sofa, pirate chest, cardboard coffee table. Faded wallpaper under lame posters. Window overlooks dim city lights and distant woods. Anonymity hits hard—nobody knows me here, plane out tomorrow.
Dump suitcase, toss jacket and satchel. Last class dragged. These ZEP kids’ futures? Grim. Pour Jack Daniels in a grimy glass. Hit play: Lou Reed’s raspy ‘Walk on the Wild Side’ loops. Friday night alone. Wife Nina’s house 50km away, pool waiting. But no—Sylvain dumped me. Quit it all for his cock. Now solo.
The Layover
Bath time. Sink into hot tub, eyes shut. Memories flood: Sylvain’s lips sucking my tits, hand on balls, stroking my soft dick, then ramming my ass. Fingers probe my hole— one, two, three. Jerk my hardening cock. Imagine him pounding, cumming inside. Pinch nipples. Violent ass-fuck fantasy. Cum spurts into water. Empty release, tears sting.
Shower cold. Skin raw. Black jeans no underwear—no belt, loose fit. Dark tee, sweater. Mirror: slimmer post-breakup, curly brown hair, tormented gray eyes. Poet look. Boots on. Condoms pocketed. Out into corridor hum, elevator ding.
Park at Noirefontaine lot, Seillon forest edge. Sunset fades. Cars multiply. Heart pounds. Piss urge hits. Through fence gap via planks into moonlit woods. Stream pisses long—three McDo beers. Shadow approaches. Stares at my flaccid cock. ‘Nature short-changed you, but nice ass.’ Humiliated, dick shrinks. Shake, zip.
Clearing ahead: ‘she’ on all fours, skirt up, fireman plowing her ass. Grabs another cock, sucks. Voyeurs jerk. New guy fingers her huge flaccid dick—tranny. Hand grabs my crotch. Same piss-guy. ‘Harder now, slut.’ Pushes me into light. Grabs his thick cock, make me stroke. Pulls jeans down, fingers my greased hole from bath. ‘No rubber? Raw like them.’ Fireman’s bare cock pulls out huge. Tranny’s face: despairing wreck, cum-smeared.
Fuck that. Shove him off, flee laughing insults. Car peels out, park roadside. Sob. That’s my future? No, Sylvain. Over.
The Transit and Departure
Bar on Republic Street, gay haunt. Park under prefecture. Cognac, scrub hands of cock-stink. Corner table. Door clangs. Fortyish guy: slim, long blonde hair, linen pants, open shirt, smooth chest. Fine features, black eyes. Our stares lock. Sits. ‘Rough night? Boyfriend dump?’ Spot on. Vincent. Chat flows: books, films, Tom Robbins. Confess all. ‘Crash at mine—no sex, just company.’ Why not?
His countryside pad: lush salon, thick carpet, bar, dim lights. Coffee, cognac on sofa. Inches close. Soft kiss—gentle tongue, not Sylvain’s battle. Hands under shirt, spine tingles. His skin silky, waxed. Mine gropes smooth pecs. Bulge strains. Bedroom.
Shower solo, scrub Seillon filth. Towel-wrap. Him nude on bed, tiny hard cock, feminine curves, pert tits. Embrace. His mouth worships my dick, deepthroats. Fingers his ass. Rim him deep. He rolls condom on. Mounts slow, eyes locked. Rides, I jerk his clit-dick. He cums buckets on my chest. Flip missionary, fuck ‘Nina’ illusion. Cum hard.
Bubble bath cuddle. Confess femme vibe. He blows me teasing. Second round: doggy in tub, slow deep thrusts, hand on his softie. Quiet orgasms. Sleep entwined.
Dawn. ‘You revived me.’ Me too. Kiss. Drive back motel. Check-out swipe. Bag in trunk. Highway hums. Her face haunts, but Vincent’s tenderness lingers. Plane waits. One-night fix—wild side walked, survived.