Amsterdam Express 2

He was young, nice-looking, sort of blond Spanish in appearance. Northern Spanish are often light-complected, slim and very European in looks, whereas the southerners are darker, more arabic. His English was perfect, even down to an American accent. His name tag said "Jon," which meant nothing to me at all about his nationality. Jonathan? Jonas? He looked no more than twenty. I did what everybody does on the trains while waiting to leave. I went out in the corridor and watched the platform, hanging out the window in the oppressive heat. There was another train on the other side of the platform, and the card said it was going to Amsterdam as well, but via Paris. That was the one I couldn't get on, because it was booked.

I looked longingly at it, thinking it would have been so nice to go directly to Paris then Calais, and get somewhere I could actually speak with people, understand what was being said, by tomorrow. My eyes wandered down the car, looking at all the people leaning out the windows of the car, imagining little stories about who they were, where they were going, and... My eyes locked on a guy directly across from me. He was, quite simply, gorgeous. Dark hair, a long face with generous nose, slim and dressed in a shirt that left not a single crease, it was so form-fitting. And the form was intoxicating.

A perfect "V" to a slim waist, the throat open to show a mat of dark hair. I tried to look away, but my eyes kept coming back to him, and before I knew it, he looked up, caught me looking, and gave me a smile that blinded me. I actually smiled back. I think I flushed, but I held the gaze, and my heart did a little dance in my throat. Wow! THAT never happened before! Don't get me wrong - I'm gay, and I was no virgin, thanks to my cousins in Waco, but I'd never done it except at Steam Works once when I was drunk, and the spring before with a guy from the Junior class, just before I graduated. Andrew liked my dick, no matter where I put it, and we screwed like bunnies until he went back to Iowa for the summer. It was just lust, though. He couldn't kiss for shit, and preferred doing it doggie-style. I got bored looking at his back, just watching my dick go in and out until he came all over the sheets.

The guy across the platform kept smiling, and I thought "what the hell, it doesn't hurt to flirt a little," so I did. Little smiles, posing a little, twisting my body to show how broad my shoulders were compared to my narrow hips and waist. All very innocent, of course. He gave a little wave at me, and I waved back. We knew we saw each other and enjoyed the view. The crowds scurried below and between us, and I saw only him. I had to move a few times for fellow passengers, and one time had to go back into my compartment to let a particularly big bag through, and when I went back to the window he was gone. I got a little panicky, of all things, looking in every window to see if he was there, had moved, but he was not to be seen.

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Another passenger wanted through, so I backed away, into the compartment doorway, and was back at the window the instant he was past. The vision was not there. "So, big deal, Jer (My name is Jeremiah, but I hated it and only went by "Jer." Nobody calls me Jeremiah, not even my Dad.), it's not like you could ever do anything about it," I preached to myself. I saw his shirt on the platform below. Directly below me. He was looking up at me with that big smile, and had a medium-sized leather bag in his hand, a leather jacket over his shoulder. "You are going to Amsterdam?" he said. His voice was husky, not as deep as my voice, breathy, heavy accent, intoxicating. How did he know I spoke only English? "Yes," I said, a huge grin on my face despite my effort to look sophisticated, cool. "You?"

"I, also, go there," he said, and just turned and walked up the platform. "What is he doing?" I thought, as I devoured the sight of his magnificent butt, encased in jeans, two half melons plastered on slim hips, long legs, slim and slightly bowed. My height made his shoulders seem three times as wide as his hips. His face was etched in my mind. Hazel eyes, long lashes, almost black moustache, full and trim. Hair that curled at the nape of his neck, forming tight ringlets on top, glinting with health.

He disappeared behind a big tourist-looking couple, the guy obviously American, broad and tall, his wife in a pink pantsuit that looked as at home here as it would on a cattle ranch back home. When the tourist finally got out of the way, my vision was gone. I stayed at the window, looking, but he didn't reappear. My spirits did not improve. There was a jolt on the train, I guess signaling that the engine was being attached up front. I looked up, and the train across the way started to move, slowly creeping forward, gradually accelerating towards the front.

I watched wistfully as it disappeared, the red lantern the last thing visible as it switched over to another track, far down the platform. "I am here," said the husky voice, and I almost lost it, turning to my left, looking down into his eyes. His lips are eminently kissable. He stood half a head shorter than me, perhaps five nine. I don't think we said anything at all. I just backed into the compartment. He closed the door behind him, and he was in my arms, my tongue in his mouth, my hands all over him. He squirmed against my body, and I could feel the hardness of his muscles, the bulge in his jeans. "I could not stay away," he said when we came up for a little air. "You are a dream." I didn't know what to say, so I just kissed him again, more tenderly. He is an unbelievably good kisser. "I am Giordano," he said on the next opportunity. "How are you called?"

"Jeremiah," I said automatically, not thinking. "You are the most attractive man I've seen in all of Italy." It was true. Maybe not to you, lover of Armani's pouty-lipped youths, or you, the admirer of the All-American look. But Giordano was real, captivating, exciting, sensual, gorgeous and very, very sexy. We sat in the compartment and talked, his leg possessively looped over mine, his hand on my arm, my leg, my shoulder, all the time. He would tell me a little about him, and his hands squeezed me as he made his points, and he'd ask me something, then listen to what I said with his lips on my shoulder, his hands fleeting on my legs, my stomach, my chest. "You are so strong," he said, feeling my muscles under my shirt, asking me to flex them for him. They aren't big -- kinda ropy, but they're hard as nails. I felt his, as well, and he flexed them for me, and they were almost as hard as mine. The train started moving, and we kissed deeply again, this time with passion building, and I was about to start unbuttoning his shirt, to see the glory of what my fingertips promised was there, but he said "I have to go."

"What!" I said. I think I whispered, out of frustration. "I have a couchette in the next car, and I can not stay here, they would not let me," he said getting up. He had a little damp spot at the end of a tube in the crotch of his jeans. "But I . . . " I got up as well, and looked down into his eyes, mesmerizing pools of honey and green. His lips met mine, and we stood like that for an eternity, my hormones totally out of control, my breath ragged. "I will be back after the tickets are controlled," he said, and was gone. I took a few minutes to calm down, just standing there in shock. I'd never felt like this before.

This guy pushed all my buttons, pulled all my rip-cords, rattled all the chains around my heart. Wow! I took off my suit pants and my tie, and threw on a pair of black jeans that were almost the right size. I'd had them washed by the hotel, so they shrank a little from the 32-38 they were when they were new last month. They were also starched and pressed. I never heard of jeans being starched and pressed. I still had too much fabric around my waist, but the butt wasn't too bad. The fabric wasn't tight, but at least it didn't hang in folds. There was a knock at the door, and the attendant, Jon, came in to control my ticket. "Will your friend stay here tonight?" he asked in his perfect English. "Want me to arrange it?"

"Can he?" I asked, not even thinking. This compartment only had one bed. If Giordano stayed, it meant . . . "But of course," he said, a little smile playing on his lips. "I'll arrange everything."

"How much will it cost?" I asked. What the hell did I care? My money? My watch? My soul? Whatever . . . "I'll leave that to you," he said. He is very attractive, isn't he?"

"I . . . I . . . yes." I could not believe how open this all was. "You'll make many babies tonight, I think," he said with a wink, and left. I just sat there, stunned, watching the Italian countryside appear, replacing the dreary buildings of Milan. It was beautiful. A few minutes later, there was a rap on the door, and the attendant opened it as I jumped to my feet. Me? Nervous? He had a small bottle of Chianti and two glasses on a tray in his hand, and when he pushed the door in, I saw Giordano's shoulder next to him.

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