The Jacket

We drank coffee and spent time trying to bridge the language gap with small talk, but it was clear that he didn’t want to leave and that I didn’t want to leave—both of us not wanting to leave because he wanted to fuck me and I wanted him to fuck me. He gave me a sexy look and said, “Ich bin Dieter. Du bist sehr sexy,” he added, going right to the familiar form, and I didn’t have the least problem understanding what “sexy” meant.

“I’m Ryan, and you are very sexy too, Dieter,” I answered, putting my hand on the one he had on my thigh, moving them both slightly up my thigh. He closed the distance between there and my crotch on his own.

“Ich will dich ficken,” he said, his voice almost pleading. “Sex mit mir? Ich will dich ficken.”

Yes, you damn well can “ficken” me, I thought. And then, what the hell, I said it too.

I took him back to my apartment and he “fickened” me all afternoon . . . and he was damn good at it.

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