Friday in Belgium

By the second night, he had noticed me, boring my eyes into him, and by the third night he was mesmerized. He only had eyes for me; he wiggled his butt and penis only for me. I sat there, wrapped in my black cape, and he performed only for me. I had no doubts that tonight, on the third night, he would be mine—willingly.

And it must be tonight. Friday Belgium, Sunday Zurich’s Aaah-Club in Marktgasse, and by the next Saturday the dream boys in that little club tucked away in the corner of Bangkok’s Patpong district. Insatiable needs and desires. I had to keep ahead of the chase; I couldn’t fall into a pattern. Uncounted years of running and hiding and fucking and feeding.

His last set was over. He disappeared beyond the beaded curtain behind the stage with a swish of his nicely rounded bare bottom and reappeared shortly thereafter, dressed in a white billowy cotton shirt over tight faded jeans. He walked directly to my table and stood there, gazing at me with hooded eyes through the fog of hours of cigarette smoke. I captured his eyes with mine and concentrated, willing him to give into me. After a mere moment, he gave me a little smile and glided toward the door. I threw more than enough euro dollars on the table for the waiters to forget I’d ever been there and followed the young man out into the night at a distance.