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Fortunately, by the time Aidan left the bar, the boys who had chased him had given up and disappeared, and after walking a few blocks he found a sign leading to the Avenue Bourguiba, a broad boulevard with thick stands of trees along one side. The presence of tall buildings and taxicabs was reassuring, and he walked the remaining blocks back to his apartment without incident.
The next morning, he awoke with an erection, and realized he’d been dreaming of the naked man showering behind the bar. He’d seen handsome men in Philadelphia, of course, and sometimes been physically attracted to them, particularly when it had been a while since he and Blake had made love.
But those men had never invaded his dreams, never engendered the sense of longing Aidan felt when he remembered that naked body under the cascade of water. As he went into the bathroom to relieve himself, he thought it was probably just a knee-jerk reaction to losing Blake. It was silly, but he needed to feel he could be attractive again.
Then why had his dick deflated the minute the Tunisian man had touched him? Was he only interested in the unavailable? The naked man had looked as straight as any Aidan had ever seen—from his short military-style haircut to his muscled body. None of the gay men he knew back in Philadelphia had physiques like that, even the ones who spent every available minute at the gym.
He sighed. He thought he’d gotten over longing for straight guys when he found Blake, who was tough and demanding, a football fan who disdained opera and ballet. In a way, Blake was a gay man’s fantasy—a straight-appearing guy who was willing to have sex with another man.
But the naked man behind the bar was another story. He was a show-off; why else shower in a quasi-public place? But there had been a “look, don’t touch” message from his body language.
Maybe that was what he found attractive, Aidan thought, as he fixed himself breakfast. A man who could satisfy his fantasies without any danger of emotional involvement. Sex without all the messiness of love. No more heartbreak. Just a little fun in an exotic location. Would his fantasy man, when dressed, wear one of the hooded white robes Aidan had seen on men in the medina? Did men wear anything under those robes?
He kept thinking of the naked man all morning, and at least to shut up his subconscious he retraced his steps to the place he discovered was called the Bar Mamounia. A pair of Tunisian men sat in one corner of the bar as he pushed through the beadwork curtain once again; he couldn’t tell if they were the same men who’d been there the day before. The same bald bartender was behind the bar, this time working on what looked like accounting, rows of numbers interspersed with sprawling Arabic script. He looked up at Aidan and said, “Salaam Alaikum.”
Aidan knew that meant hello, and that the proper response was “Alaikum Salaam.” But just so the bartender didn’t get the wrong idea, he said the only other Arabic phrase he knew, “Mish bakalum arabee,” which meant “I don’t speak Arabic.”
The bartender just looked at him. Aidan pointed at a bottle of Sidi Rais, which the guidebook had said was a dry white wine, and asked for a glass in his schoolboy French.
The bartender seemed to understand. Aidan asked, continuing in French, about the man he’d seen the day before.
“Monsieur Liam,” the bartender said, pronouncing it Lee-ahm. In French, he said, “Yes, he stays across the yard.” He pointed out the window to a small stucco one-story house, hemmed in on both sides by taller buildings. A faded off-white, it had rough walls and windows that were merely slits. Closer examination showed a cistern on the roof, with a hose that ran to the shower.
Aidan drank his wine while thinking how stupid he was to have come back this way. He had a picture of the sexy, naked man imprinted in his brain, and that would have to be enough for a while. He sipped from his glass and then a voice behind him said, “The white wine in this place tastes like horse piss. You’ve got to drink the red.”
He turned around and saw Liam there. He was even better-looking up close than he had been across the yard, sexier somehow in clothing than he had been naked. His sheer physicality was awesome—his height, his brawn. Aidan’s dick sprung to attention. “Have you tried it?” he asked. “Horse piss?”
Liam laughed. “You bet. Camel piss, too. Horse is saltier.” He beckoned to the bartender and said something in Arabic. Aidan caught the words Vieux Magon, which he assumed was the name of the wine.
Then Liam turned to Aidan. “Don’t get many Americans down this way. I’m always pleased to meet another.” He extended his hand. “Liam McCullough.”
Aidan was too astonished to even tell the man his name. The fact that his fantasy had come to life, and was talking to him, was so surprising, so erotic, that all he could do was nod along. The bartender brought two balloon glasses of rich, ruby-colored wine, and Liam said, “Let’s take a table.”
He led Aidan across the room to the far corner and sat down, straddling the metal-backed wooden chair. He wore a vest of supple leather, which hung open, exposing his muscular chest, though Aidan noted that the two nipple rings were gone. Liam’s dun-colored cotton drawstring shorts reached just below his knees. On his feet, he wore a pair of brown leather sandals.
Up close, he smelled like lavender. Aidan could see that Liam’s hair was longer than he’d thought the day before, and a fuzz of light brown hair covered his chin, like a scruffy Hollywood movie star. Aidan took a sip of his wine. It tasted as rich as it looked, with notes of cherry and lemon. He’d taken a wine appreciation course back in Philadelphia, but he didn’t remember tasting anything like that.
“We’re going to be spending a lot of time together,” Liam said. He smiled, and Aidan’s heart did a quick flip-flop. “So let me spell out some ground rules. I have to know where you are all the time, and if I say you can’t go somewhere, you can’t go. You don’t know Tunisia like I do.”
He took a drink of wine. Aidan just stared at him. Who the hell did he think he was? And he’d thought Blake was controlling. Maybe he’d been wrong the day before. Suppose this handsome god of a man was gay, and he’d noticed Aidan staring at him. Or not—Blake had always said Aidan’s mannerisms gave him away as gay. The guy could have come into the bar and pegged Aidan for a quick fuck.
He had goose bumps up and down his arms at the thought of this man touching him, holding him, entering him, and he couldn’t help smiling back. It was gaydar, he thought. A straight man wouldn’t look you in the eyes, wouldn’t return a glance of interest.
Aidan’s dick, which had stiffened as soon as he laid eyes on Liam, was still jammed against the fabric of his shorts. He longed for some physical contact to confirm his feelings—perhaps just pressing his leg against the other man’s in passing, the casual touch of Liam’s fingers on Aidan’s shoulder.
They talked for a few minutes—what Aidan thought of Tunis, the sirocco wind, the taste of the wine. It had been a long time since a man flirted with him, and Aidan felt like one of the Roman ruins the guidebook said had been covered by centuries of sand, finally exposed by the desert wind. His heart beat faster and his dick pulsed in his shorts. The wine was going to his head, and he enjoyed the sense that he had no idea what was going to happen next.
Then Liam drank the last few ounces of his wine in a single gulp. “Let’s go,” he said. “I want to see your place.”
He stood up. Aidan couldn’t help it; he thought the guy was incredibly sexy. He’d always been attracted to take-charge men, though Liam was coming on stronger than any guy he’d ever met. But hey, he’d been out of the dating pool for eleven years, so maybe the rules had changed. He tossed down the rest of his wine and stood himself, unsteady on his feet.
The bartender called Liam over, and Aidan stepped out into the intense sunshine ahead of him, his eyes wincing at the brightness. It was earlier than when he’d visited the bar the day before, and there was a lot of activity on the street, young kids playing noisily, two women in head scarves and floral print dresses arguing, a motorcycle gunning just ahead.
Coming toward him, Aidan saw a man, obviously American, about his height, age and build. Looking at his face, Aidan felt a shock of recognition. It was almost like looking in a mirror, distorted a bit by age and coloring.
The man wore a dark suit, a white shirt and navy blue tie, and sweat dripped down his forehead. Tunis was hot, hotter than any place Aidan had ever been. He was sweating himself, and he was wearing a lightweight cotton T-shirt and shorts.
The man’s eyes darted left and right, as if he was scanning the street for danger, and Aidan wondered if that’s the way he looked, roaming around the streets of Tunis with only half an idea of what was going on. The traffic of the street eddied and swirled around the American, but there was an invisible barrier around him that no one wanted to cross.
The motorcycle Aidan had heard gunning came up close behind the American, and with horror Aidan watched as the cyclist raised a hand holding a gun. Three short bursts of noise blasted across the street, and the American fell to the street as the motorcycle sped away.
