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It wasn't a typical New York scene. The loud, congested bustle of Times Square was much the same as usual. However, as I walked north on Broadway I stopped dead in my tracks. On the corner was a large group of foreign sailors. They were awfully darned cute in their navy blue uniforms and white hats. I took advantage of the red light although I usually cross against it anyway, if my life isn't in immediate peril to look them over. They each had a band around the brim of their hats that read "Jeanne D'Arc." Joan of Arc. Obviously their ship was in. Noticing one particularly handsome sailor in his early twenties who flashed me a shy smile, I wondered if my ship had come in, too.
They were crowded together studying a map. I asked them in my very basic French if they needed directions. They all suddenly brightened at hearing a stranger speak their native tongue and ignored the map and crowded around me. I don't know about you, but, having a dozen very humpy twenty-year-old French sailors some on them with baskets the size of the proverbial loaf of French bread squeezing closer to me from every side suddenly made me a very friendly New Yorker.
The one I had already made a mental note of was the closest. He had close cropped brown hair, handsome regular features, a dark tan and a pair of green eyes that made my heart melt. He also had arms that strained the fabric of his tunic to the bursting point, and a French loaf dressed down the front of his thigh that looked like it could feed a family of six with leftovers.
I asked them where they wanted to go. Twenty-four shoulders and a dozen lower lips raised themselves into elaborate shrugs. They were easy. They just wanted to have some fun. They had come to the right place. New York is fun. And I'm easy.
My favorite emerald eyes introduced himself as Philippe (it sounded like "Fleep"). He told me that he heard that Greenwich Village was fun. I told him that it could be. The gang had a vociferous, gesticulating vote. Half decided they wanted to go to the Village. The other half, the less cute half, I might add, sour grapes or not wanted to go into one of the porn theaters.
There was one small problem. I was on my way to meet my friend, Linda. She was just about to finish work. We were supposed to see a movie, but, how could I relinquish my new-found calling as unofficial New York Ambassador to see some stupid film? Especially since Philippe was leaning the entire weight of his loaf against my thigh?
I came up with an idea. (No mean feat considering the fact that the blood normally apportioned for use in my brain had engorged a more southerly region.) We were standing right beside a pay phone. I waved good-bye to the half dozen deserters who straggled into a dingy theater to see a movie that featured the word "muffs" prominently in its title. Miracle of miracles, it was a pay phone in working order. I reached my hand into my pocket coming into brief contact with the blood that had momentarily abandoned my brain and dug out a quarter. I dialed Linda's number.
"Linda Metzler," she cooed in her That Girl voice. "The Count of Monte Crisco," I joked. Linda enjoyed an occasional snappy comeback.
"David, you're not calling to cancel on me, are you?" she admonished. I could picture her pulling off her earring and readying herself for battle.
"Now, Linda, keep an open mind..."
"David, the movie finishes tonight. It closes. It will cease to play in a theater near you."
"It'll be out on video before you know it," I offered weakly.
"I don't wanna see it on video!" she snapped. "I want the big screen. I want the Dolby sound. I want that bad, grease-soaked movie popcorn!" Linda is a gal who wants it all.
"I'll make it up to you," I replied, forcing myself not to whine. "You haven't the equipment!" she snickered. (I knew it was just a matter of time before she let out a zinger.)
"But, something's come up!" I explained. "Something irresistible." "Knowing you, the only thing that's come up is your little piece of turkey gristle!" she fumed. Calling Linda a ball breaker would be like calling Acme Wrecking a housecleaning service.
"But, I want to include you in my change of plans," I fudged. "And what might that be?" she asked with more than a hint of disbelief.
"I don't suppose you'd consider giving up the chance of sitting in a darkened theater with someone who really didn't want to be there for the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of spending an evening in the Village, wining and dining a half-dozen incredibly sexy young French sailors? On me." I crossed my fingers for luck. There was silence at the other end of the line.
"Linda? Are you there?" "Well, I'll have to go home and change my clothes first."
"Because I want to wear something a little more casual. Something that shows a little cleavage. I'm gonna give you a run for your money, honey!"
"Fine. Wear whatever you like. Just meet us at The Riviera when you're ready. We'll be there. Okay?"
"Okay, Davy. But, remember, just because I'm being so goddamn nice about this change of plans does not mean you don't owe me." "Don't worry. The thought never crossed my mind."
I hung up and turned around to see my entourage waiting expectantly. They looked so adorable, with the red pompoms on top of their white hats and the 'V' of horizontal stripes across their chests, that I hated to share them with Linda. She would be what you'd call a straight female version of a chicken hawk. Well, I'd take my chances. But, if I caught her so much as smiling at Philippe, I'd pluck her.
We started our march south. Heaven was smiling on me. Philippe spoke English the best of the bunch. Coincidentally, I suddenly forgot what little French I knew. He had to stick close. To translate.
The sailors found me riveting. You can't really blame them.
Besides being New York's only Goodwill Ambassador, I'm not that hard to look at. I'm thirty. (Okay, thirty-two.) Tall and naturally slim. (Okay, so I starve myself to fit into last year's jeans.) And a natural blond. (Okay, so I'm naturally a shade darker. That doesn't mean I'm not a blond.) Suffice to say that I've never been referred to as a troll, although I'll admit to having been called willowy once or twice, which I'm not. I belong to a gym. (Okay, so it went bankrupt four years ago if it ever reopens, I'm sure they'll honor my membership.)
Our march was not without a few forced halts. One was at Macy's. The platoon wanted to buy some jeans. It was exhilarating. The salesperson an older guy in a rather good rug and I couldn't have been more helpful. We commandeered the changing rooms and watched, breathless, as one after the other squeezed themselves in and out of countless pairs of jeans.
Philippe was shy. I nobly volunteered to curtain myself into a cubicle with him. His shyness was soon explained. He hadn't worn any underwear. His tunic had to come off in one piece, leaving him wearing nothing but his socks and a bit of foreskin. His cock hung heavily between his legs. It was as big soft as a respectable one would be hard. I had purposely selected a couple of pairs of jeans that I thought would be a little on the small side. (They only knew their European sizes.) Crammed into the tiny enclosure I could see his round white ass squirm and wriggle in the mirror behind him as he pulled the jeans over his muscular thighs. He was about to give up, but I told him that it was the fashion again to wear them tight. (So I lied sue me!)
He managed to get them pulled up over his ass, but cramming his cock and very sizable balls inside was a tricky maneuver. He had to squeeze his balls down one leg and his cock down the other. I told him the fabric would stretch and indicated that he should lift his arms over his head and hold his breath. He obeyed. I knelt in front of him and tackled the fly. They were button fronts. (Pure coincidence!) As I struggled with the metal buttons and the stiff denim, I naturally huffed and puffed a little as I strained to do them up. At that point, I'm sure my breath felt as hot as a blow dryer set on full-power.
One of my fingers strayed teasingly down the leg that held his cock. It wasn't only the denim that was stiff! Throwing caution to the wind, I grabbed the waistband at the back and yanked down for all I was worth.
What a reward! His cock was semi-hard. The dark pink head was peeking out from his receded foreskin. I wrapped one hand around the thick base and in an instant it leapt to attention. I peered up and saw that Philippe had leaned back against the mirror and closed his eyes. That was invitation enough.
I scooped the skin backwards and slid the glistening pink head into my mouth. He tasted like paradise. I knew that time was of the essence, so I quickly jerked him as I sucked. With the other hand I played with his smooth, heavy balls and sent a finger to scout the unknown territory of his tightly puckered ass.
Just as my mission was about to be accomplished, we were cruelly interrupted by voices outside the cubicle telling us they were ready to go. We had no choice. We had to abandon ship.
I quickly helped Philippe out of the jeans and back into his tunic. We had a bit of trouble lowering his periscope, but, somehow managed to stuff it in. We exchanged a quick kiss and joined the others. They didn't notice how sheepish we looked, they were so busy comparing their purchases. The salesman also looked flustered. His face was bright red and his rug was askew. And when he asked us to be sure to come back soon, I could tell he really meant it.
The boys and I meandered through Chelsea and into the Village.
Linda was already waiting for us at The Riviera. She had appropriated two outdoor tables and was guarding them with her life.
She was really dolled up for the occasion. On a good day she could look like a dark-haired Jodie Foster. On a bad day, she could look like the Wicked Witch of the West. It was a good day. Her hair tumbled fluffily onto her shoulders, her make-up was perfect and her tits provocatively pert above a low-cut turquoise blouse looked good enough to eat. (Although 1, personally, would have to be pretty damned hungry...)
I took a glance around to see how my crew was reacting. They were all drooling over Linda's cleavage except Philippe. He narrowed his beautiful green eyes, as if gauging whether or not she was competition. I leaned over to him and murmured that we were just friends. The smile he flashed me made me practically pass out.
We squeezed into the chairs and ordered drinks. Linda was on my left and Philippe on my right.
"What kept you?" she asked. "I was beginning to think you'd dumped me again."
"They all wanted to stop and try on jeans at Macy's. It was a madhouse."
"And I can guess who was the happiest lunatic. You look like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth."
"You're wrong there, Linda. It would melt in a second," I chided. From then on, Linda turned her attention to the tallest, beefiest of the bunch, who was sitting on her other side. She had managed to squeeze a couple of years, at a Swiss finishing school, out of her parents. She could hold her own quite well in French. She thought she sounded just like Brigitte Bardot, but, with Linda's rasping voice it was more like Maurice Chevalier.
Philippe and I got on together like a house on fire. Our thighs never parted under the table, keeping us both in a constant state of semi- erection. (I know I checked every now and then.)
Military service is compulsory in France, so he chose the navy to see something of the world. He was from a town near Avignon, called St. Remy. When his service was completed he told me he wanted to continue his studies and become an architect.
Now, there was a coincidence! Not only did we both have raging hard-ons, but we were both into architecture. I told him about the building I was submitting a proposal on in Tribeca. I didn't bother letting him know that most of my living came from designing suburban shopping plazas. He'd find that out for himself.
After cocktails at The Riviera, we ate at a pizzeria the boys' choice and then hit a jazz club. It was early, so we easily got seats. By that time, Linda and The Beefcake were obviously getting hot under the collar. Her hand was constantly massaging a suspicious looking lump on his thigh and his hand was so far up her skirt it looked like it was lost forever.
A little before midnight, four of the sailors suddenly struggled to their feet and announced that they had to be back aboard ship. I gasped and looked toward Philippe and The Beef. They smiled and shook their heads.
Being the ambassador, I took the four outside and put them into a cab. The cabby who was kinda cute raised an eyebrow at me and asked if there were any more where they came from. I told him that there was a whole shipful, but they had to be on board in a half hour. I've never seen a cab pull away from the curb so fast.
When I got back inside, Linda and her new pal were just getting up to leave. Philippe explained that he had invented an aunt in Manhattan, and on the strength of that had wangled a weekend pass for him and his buddy.
I asked Philippe what he wanted to do. Thank god he said he wanted to go back to my place. I couldn't bear the thought of having to drag him around bars and watching everyone drool.
I've got a loft in Soho. (Okay, so it's in Noho.) It was a beautiful night for walking. We took a cab. Just call me Mr. Impatient!
I was so excited that I felt like carrying him over the threshold. We headed straight for the bedroom. (Bed area.) In about fifteen seconds, we had both ripped off our clothes. After all the hours of what amounted to foreplay, our cocks were both instantly at full mast.
We fell onto the bed. He heaved himself on top of me and our tongues thrashed together while the blood in our cocks beat in unison. I grabbed two handfuls of his unbelievable ass and pulled him even closer. He then pulled himself down between my legs and took my cock in his mouth. He wasn't an expert cock sucker, but I gave him an A for enthusiasm.
Then it was my turn. I reached down and wrapped my hands around his ridiculously slim hips. As my cock slapped wetly out of his mouth and onto my stomach, I pulled him forward until he was on his hands and knees above me. He fucked my face something fierce. I managed to wrench a finger into his hole. Eureka! He started to buck. I pulled myself away before he came. I had other things in mind. I coaxed him onto his back and balanced his ankles on my shoulders. With one hand I rubbed my cock back and forth along his balls and crack. With the other I searched frantically in the handy compartment in my headboard for lubricant and safes.
Philippe kept shaking his head "no." But his body was arching and saying "yes." I put a dollop of lube in the tip of the condom and then unrolled it down my cock. I squeezed more lube onto my hand and introduced a finger into his hole. That was all it took. His "yes" became a verbal one and I positioned the head of my cock and slowly shoved it in to the hilt.
From then on, I could do no wrong. Philippe started pumping his own cock as I pushed in and out. His ass felt incredible, my own snug harbor. I grabbed the sides of his ass and really started to pump.
As Philippe started spurting over his chest, I plowed in deeper. I came in waves as I leaned forward and our lips met again. I pulled out of his ass and we lay together, our breath heaving.
Suffice to say, it was a hell of a weekend. Occasionally we dragged ourselves out of bed long enough to have a meal with Linda and her Beef or to run to the drugstore for more condoms. Philippe and I have kept in touch. His military service is over soon. I'm trying to persuade him to attend architecture school on this side of the ocean. I won that bid in Tribeca and am in dire need of an assistant.
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