[Actually yes I did have a lot of time on my hands in the early 00s, thanks for asking. More fictionalized hotel room shenanigans.]

It was afternoon. Early afternoon, to be precise. I was taking some breakfast in liquid form in the lobby of our hotel when I was startled out of my thoughts by the voice of their subject. I looked up and there he was, everpresent smirk and invisible cloud of cigarette. I finished my drink during a tennis match of witty repartee and double entendres too French for the locale. It was me who suggested we "go somewhere", but it was he who accepted, which puts us equally at fault.

Germany is rife with the fattest of the fat, and all of them seem to stay in the same hotels that we do. I should start a video catalog of the beasts that waddle among us. We discussed this somewhat, when we found the breath to, on the way up. Once in my room it was easier to breathe, but every breath smelled of him. This was dangerous ground for a walk, and we had miles to go and all the time in the world. We planned a live nude deathscene for the bathroom, but I forgot where I left my straight razor. I forgot a lot of things when he pulled out that bag, my consciousness narrowed in on his fingers. One pill, two pill. Red pill, blue pill. Two true blue, to be precise but far less Seussian. He administered mine orally, passing it to me on the tip of his tongue. After a pause for distraction I dosed him as well, manually, pushing it between his teeth and keeping my fingers there until my mouth got jealous and I had to kiss him again. My hands felt natural wrapped tightly around his throat and I held him, breathless and bruised, until standing was impossible. He pushed me back on the bed, undressed me, did things with his tongue that left me liquid and puddled. He said that he had an idea. I had a few of my own, and none of them were mentionable in polite company.

He stripped down while I watched, and I remembered why I liked boys in boots with too much lacing. He ordered drinks, as my minibar was mysteriously empty. I had to content myself with merlot, as they only had Czech absinthe and I was unable to coax him into ordering either of my drinks with the verboten names. He entertained me with a trilingual stream of sexual come-ons. Our drinks arrived and after tipping the barboy with a splendid view of one of Sweden's finest exports, we were alone again. With alcohol this time, to wash down the narcotics. I'd forgotten how lush it is to be this out of my head, out of my mind, unapologetically slurred and relaxed. I don't like it often, I always end up missing something and I worry that it makes me vulnerable, but this was necessary this time. The conversation decayed slightly into pretty paid compliments, touching on the subject without touching. It was obvious. This was lip service. We orbited eachother, playing at feints and lunges, until our paths crossed, our mouths collided, and the conversation disintegrated almost entirely.

He was willing, I was ready. My fingers found places inside him that made his pale skin flush, his mouth fall open. I positioned myself and showed him the way out, if he wanted it. Last exit next 60 miles. He bypassed it with a curl of his lip, but I had some things to explain first. My timing isn't the best. My wording was less than perfect as well, as the message I'd intended became garbled on its way out, in such a way that it angered him. Words were exhanged. I was too close to him, he was burning me, and when he told me to take what I wanted, I did. His fury runs hot right under his skin. It was more evident from the inside what he wanted, what he needed. He taunted me, more with his face than his words, sufficient to goad me into anger of my own. I scratched him, pinched him, hit him across the face harder than I'd meant to. The blood he spit at me fueled my fire. I spit back. He laughed. I snarled. We assaulted eachother like this, sometimes more fighting than fucking, others more fucking than fighting, until things built to a velocity that didn't leave room for anything but the repeated, frenzied motion of our bodies crashing together. I can now see the secret nuances of the words "sexual assault".

Afterwards, we recovered in a sticky tangle, his head in my lap. I confessed him. He returned the favor. We sat up to gather ourselves, still a bit groggy from the drugs, when he noticed the time. After a few lines that looked far cleaner and straighter than we did at the time, we parted ways, he looking a bit worse for wear with the bruise coloring his cheek. Evidence? Not quite, not with the volatile nature of the local bars these days. Though it was an exceptionally fine performance, did you notice?