Alien

It was in the U-bahn that Paine first noticed the pale young beauty with the piercing blue eyes, jet black hair, and muscular physique well displayed, even under the brocade coat.

“The movie lacked the intense mood of the book, and I’d have reversed the casting for Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise,” Michael said. They’d found a seat after a wrinkled old prune of a hausfrau had gotten off at Sendlingertor, and Michael launched into critique of the movie. And the hunky actors.

All while Paine responded to Michael’s review of Neil Jordan’s film, which they’d seen at Munich’s English language theatre, with “how interesting” and “I didn’t realize that” remarks, Paine was focused on the black-haired gentleman staring at me. And Paine stared back, feeling the familiar excitement that came with the allure and seduction, the fantasy of just what would happen between them. When the brocade coat would come off and Paine would see the man’s milky smooth skin, the contours of his muscles, and those eyes ... those eyes.

“Paine, you’re not listening to a word I’ve said,” Michael added. “What’s with you tonight?”

“Don’t look now, Michael,” Paine replied, deciding he could confide in his best girlfriend, “but there’s a young man on the other side –“

“That one,” Michael said, laughing. “He’s been eyeing me ever since we got on the subway. Boy, what I’d like to do with him when I take him home –“

“I saw him first.”

“No, he’s mine.”

“No, he wants me.”

“What if we share him?”

“A three-way? That would be gross.”

The piercing eyes never left Paine’s face. Paine was sure the man was for him.