I returned to my room. Just as I sat on the bed, wondering where I had put my Houston bar guide, there was a dim light from the hallway and the sound of feet descending the upper stairs. It was the blond man, leaving in such a hurry that I couldn’t even get another glimpse of his face.

A few minutes later, the trapdoor opened again. The game was about to pay off.

I had been waiting all week for a good look at him, remembering his naked shoulders, his beautiful long black hair. The night was warm. I was horny. My cock was hard. It showed as a thick ridge in my jeans. My chest was covered with a thin sheen of sweat. I rose from the bed and stepped into the hallway just as Michael did.

His black hair was unbound and hung straight, parted in the middle. It was sleek and thick like combed silk.

He had one of those paradoxical faces that look more masculine with long hair than short. His eyes were dark brown, with long lashes and straight black eyebrows. He had a wide mouth and full lips that looked red and moist against his pale cheeks. He looked like he was barely into his early twenties. He had to be older than that, I thought, to own his own house.

His body was even better than I had thought. Huge, square-muscled shoulders. Hard, round biceps with a pale blue vein running down each arm. His pectorals rose slablike above his rib cage, sleek and hairless, with nipples the size of half dollars. His stomach was an expanse of gentle ridges that funneled down to narrow, muscle-flat hips. The twin arcs of his pelvis were as deep and defined as Michelangelo’s David.

He was wearing nothing but a pair of white nylon briefs, so sheer that his big flaccid cock and balls nestled visibly inside. Below, his legs were fluid pillars of muscle, like white marble. In the light reflected from the bare wood, he seemed to shine with a pale amber glow.

He smiled faintly. “You must be the new guy.” His voice sounded almost artificially deep.

“Yeah,” I said, extending my arm. He caught my hand in his and we shook fingers-up, head-style, the way hippies and bikers used to. “I’m Bill Gray.”

“Michael Black. Black and Gray, huh? That’s cute.” There was not a trace of humor in his voice.

Our hands stayed locked together as I looked into his deep brown eyes. He lowered his gaze, taking in my body as I had taken in his.

Then he broke the handshake. “Be seeing you,” he said, and walked to the bathroom. The long black hair fanned over his wide shoulders. His ass, small and round with muscle, seemed to shimmer inside the nylon briefs. I noticed for the first time just how large his legs were. My two hands wouldn’t have met around his calves.