I had been holidaying in Southern Spain, close to Gibraltar, and decided it would be a shame, being so close to North Africa, if I didn't take the ferry across from Algeciras in Spain to Tangier in Morocco.

This was in my hippy days, and I heard that the customs agents on both sides of the Strait of Gibraltar were very heavy on drugs, and if caught, I would be good for up to eight years in a Spanish prison. I had also heard that the full-body searches were brutal, but that they mostly searched hippy-looking types, so before leaving Algeciras I searched out a barber and had him cut my hair to respectable length, and put on my only pair of slacks rather than my frayed jeans, and a clean shirt with collar rather than a tie-dye t-shirt. I didn't relish the thought of an Arab or Spanish finger up my butt searching for drugs.

I did have some pot with me, but I stashed that in a locker at the Algeciras ferry terminal along with my main knapsack, and just took a small knapsack with a single change of clothes through customs with me. With my new, clean-cut look, I had no trouble at all getting through the customs inspection.

The ferry ride across was uneventful, apart from a bit of choppy sea and swell, which caused a number of passengers to get quite seasick. The crew were kept busy with mops and pails, cleaning up the mess.

I had taken the afternoon boat, so it was quite late in the day when we arrived at the ferry dock in Tangier. Foot-passengers were allowed off first, and there were plenty of Arab pedlars and shills there to greet us. A nice-looking Arab youth of about 16 or 17, dressed in typical Arab garb of loose, white cotton pants and a loose, white cotton tunic - not unlike a judo outfit - approached me. A red and white, knitted toque-like cap kept his dark hair in place. He had the most amazing long dark eyelashes accenting his luminous brown eyes. He asked me in broken English whether I wanted accommodation, saying that he would take me to a nice place, very close, for just a little baksheesh - that is, a small tip.

I had changed some Spanish pesos to Moroccan dirham on board the ferry. 8 Moroccan dirham was about the same as a U.S. Dollar. I had both notes and coin with me, so I agreed to follow him. He led me to a large, impressive building not far from the wharf - maybe 400 yards - and into the lobby of the Hotel Continental.

It was all stone and marble and arches and ceiling fans and Arabic-style decorations and wicker furnishings. I thought I would never be able to afford this place, and started to tell the boy so, but the boy rang a bell on the desk, and a desk clerk came out from a room behind it.

The two locals spoke rapidly in French. The clerk gave the boy a coin, obviously a tip for bringing me to the hotel, and then the boy held out his hand to me, asking for more baksheesh. I eyed, the clerk, and he nodded and said, "One dirham will be more than enough" I looked over the coins I had. I did not have a one dirham coin, so I gave the youth a five dirham coin. He was overjoyed, and departed.

"You over-tipped him," the clerk admonished me. "You won't be able to get rid of him now! Even fifty francs would have been plenty." Francs were, at that time, the subdivision of the Dirham with one hundred francs to the Dirham.

We turned to the discussion of room rates. I expected to have to go find somewhere cheaper, less elegant, but the rooms turned out to be less than five dollars a night, including a continental breakfast. I jumped at it.

Another Arab youth led me to my room on the first floor. It was small, with just a bed, a chair, a desk, and a sink, but had a ceiling fan for ventilation, large glass doors leading onto a small wrought-iron balcony, and a view of the ferry terminal and the bay beyond. The balcony ran right along the front of the hotel, and each room's balcony was separated from the next room's by a wrought-iron fence. There was a note on the glass doors to the balcony reminding guests to be sure to lock the doors when absent from the rooms.

I washed up in the sink in the room, used the toilet in the communal men's bathroom just down the hall, then went down stairs, where I had seen a restaurant/dining room just off the lobby. I was told that it didn't open until eight, the usual dining time in many Mediterranean countries, so I decided to fill time by taking a walk round the bay.

As soon as I stepped out the main door of the hotel, the youth from earlier was upon me, wanting to know where I wished to go, and could he escort me - for small baksheesh. When I declined his offer, saying I was just going for a walk. He tagged along anyway, telling me, in quite fluent English, that he was quitting work for the day anyway, so I would get his services, and his company, for free. I commented on his change from broken English to fluent, and he told me that he spoke 5 languages fluently - English, French, Spanish, Classic Arabic, and the local dialect. Tourists expected him to speak a broken patois, so that's what they got.

We walked along the promenade street between the city and the Mediterranean, with ornamental date palms scattered along, and music coming from bars along the way. The western influence of France and Spain was still large on the country and drinking of alcohol was not frowned upon so much as in many Arabic countries.

As the sun went down, I heard for the first time the Muslim call to prayer by the muezzin, which rang through the city in the warm summer air, broadcast via loudspeakers in the minarets. It was an eerie sound. I knew Muslims were supposed to kneel facing Mecca and pray at this time, but the youth walking with me completely ignored it, as did all the other Arabs walking this waterfront.

The youth, who I found was named Fayed, said that he was a faithful Muslim, but that he only prayed once a day - when he wasn't busy with worldly matters.

Back at the hotel, I bid Fayed goodbye, but he insisted he would be waiting for me right here in the morning, to show me his city - for just a little baksheesh.

It was at dinner in the hotel restaurant that I first met Arnold. He approached me just after I ordered the grilled lamb chops on a bed of savory rice. He was seated at the next table. There were so far only two or three other people in the restaurant.

"Excuse me," he called over. "I see you're alone, like me. Would you mind if I join you? I hate eating alone."

I looked over at the man who had spoken. He was maybe a couple of years older than myself, 35 at the most. He was tall, dark, and clean-cut. In fact, he looked like he might have stepped out of a Saturday Evening Post illustration of the clean-cut Ivy-league college boy including the cashmere cardigan, even though it was a warm night. His attire was topped off by a bow tie -sort of like Jimmy Olson without the plaid sports coat.

He looked harmless enough; in fact, he was quite attractive, so I said "Sure."

He. too, had already ordered, and while we waited for our food, we made small talk. He was Arnold Schwarz, from New York. He claimed to be on assignment from The Village Voice as a travel writer, but I'm pretty sure he was just a wanna-be journalist who might hope to sell freelance articles about his overseas holidays to the Voice.

I wasn't too impressed with the Voice, anyway. Although they were based in Greenwich Village, home of artist, hippies, and homosexuals, they had a decidedly anti-gay attitude at that time, often using words like faggots, queens, and homos when reporting of homosexual activities.

Apart from that, he was nice enough, although somewhat of a nerd, and quite insular if not bigoted, referring to the local Arabs as "the natives" and the French in Morocco as the "darned ex-patriate Frogs." He also spent much of the meal bemoaning the fact that he missed Big Macs and Kentucky Fried. When he suggested we spend the next day sight-seeing together, I mumbled some excuse. Nice though he seemed, he just wasn't my sort of company.

For starters, he was obviously straight as an arrow, as evidenced by his affiliation with The Village Voice, which was still resented in the gay community for its very negative coverage of the Stonewall Riots some years earlier. In case you haven't gathered, I am homosexual.

After a leisurely dinner, he followed me upstairs, and I thought he was following me to my room, but it turned out he had the room next to mine. We said a civil goodnight. I stood out on the balcony for a while, smoking a horrible "cigarett negro" - the strong, black (but cheap) cigarettes of Spain, watching the small boats in the dark bay, and the traffic along the waterfront, and listening to the weird, exotic-sounding late night call of the muezzin once more echoing across the city.

I hoped I would sneak out in the morning without meeting Arnold, but when I went down for the included breakfast of coffee, juice, croissants, and fruit, he was waiting for me, and waved me over to sit with him. I couldn't politely refuse.

Not could I tell him to get lost when he trailed along behind me as I left the hotel.

As he had promised the evening before, Fayed was waiting for me.

"You want guide, mister? Fayed good guide. Very cheap, too." I looked quizzically at him when he babbled in the broken English, and he tipped his head almost imperceptibly in Arnold's direction, then gave me a wink. Aha! Fayed considered Arnold a tourist, and me an associated, even though maybe a paying associate.

Arnold wanted to haggle with Fayed over what price we should pay him - he had heard you haggle over everything in Morocco - but I assured him I knew the young Arab, and was sure he would charge us a fair price at the end of the day.

That morning and afternoon, Fayed led us to do the tourist things. We went to the souks, the interconnecting market streets in the old city, and to the rocky heights above, the Ancien Medina, the old walled city-fortress.

Of course, we had to look for souvenirs in the souk which specialized in all sorts of hand-made goods from all over the Arab world, and exotic fruits, vegetables and meats from all over Morocco.

Arnold had to haggle each merchant down to what he figured was a good price, and he came away from each session crowing about what a clever trader he was, how the natives could never put anything over on him. Fayed confided to me on the side that Arnold was getting ripped off anyway, that he would have been better to let Fayed get a good price for him.

Like all tourists, we stopped to marvel at the snake charmer in one of the open public squares near the souk. Know-it-all Arnold nearly got himself bitten when he insisted that it was all illusion, that the cobras were only clever puppets, and reached out to grasp one. Fayed pulled him back just in time as the cobra lunged. The snake-charmer cursed him noisily in Arabic, and Arnold backed away sheepishly.

At a stall, I bought barbecued goat meat skewers for Fayed and I, but Arnold declined my offer to get one for him, too. He wasn't sure whether goat was kosher or not. I insisted that if the Muslims ate it, the Jews probably did too, but he was not game to take a chance. After all, he reasoned, the goat is associated with the devil.

There was an attractive, but rather blandly named restaurant named "La Maison" on the heights above the bay. Fayed told us it was very popular with tourists with real Moroccan food and belly dancers, so we made reservations for two for the evening. Unlike the hotel, the restaurant opened for evening meals at six, so we reserved for 6:30.

By this time, the afternoon had become very hot, and having drunk several warm local pops purchased from street stalls, I need to piss. Fayed led us to an alley, off one of the market squares. There was a leftover from the French colonial days here: a pissoir, a public open-air urinal. Unlike the Parisian ones, which are at least semi-screened, this was basically just a trough against the alley wall. I needed to go so badly, I didn't mind the passers-by. Nor did Fayed, who had no fly in his pants, so he had to lift up his tunic and pull down the front of his trousers to take a piss. As I had guessed from the interesting wiggle in his crotch when walking, he wore no underpants. He just flopped out his cock and pissed. An impressive cock it was, too, for a young man of his age! I had a desire to touch it!

Arnold refused to piss in such a public place, stating he could hold it till we got back to the hotel. As the day had become too hot for sight-seeing, we had Fayed take us back there, where I gave Fayed the equivalent of about three U.S. dollars, and Arnold and I both went to our rooms for naps. I don't know where Fayed went, but I know I lay naked in my room, with the overhead fan cooling me, and jerked off, recalling the youth's inviting cock.

In the early evening, Arnold tapped on my door, ready to go, and we went downstairs to find Fayed waiting for us outside. He led us back though the casbah, as the medina was often called, to the restaurant at the top, and waited outside faithfully while we went in to dine.

We were seated on cushions at a low table, no more than about eight inches off the floor. It was an interesting meal, a bowl of lamb stew to be served ladled onto couscous - steamed wheat. It was accompanied by a platter of flat bread, to be used for scooping up the stew and couscous in your hand. There were no eating utensils. I told Arnold about the Muslim taboo of eating with your 'unclean' left hand, but he decided eating with out utensils was ridiculous, and made a stink about it until the waiter brought him a spoon to eat his meal with.

In the stew, the restaurant mixed seedless white grapes at the last minute before serving. These floated round in the stew as rather anonymous orbs. It was sort of a sop to tourists, many of whom had heard that this type of stew was served with the lamb's eyeballs in it. There were maybe a dozen floating in our bowl of stew

When Arnold commented on the pleasant taste, and asked me what I thought they were, I meanly told him that they were, indeed, lamb's eyeballs.

He rose and hurried to the washrooms, to be sick, I am sure.

When he came back, I told him the truth, and he smiled greenly and told me he knew that all along - that I hadn't fooled him. No?

Dessert was a rather overly sweet pastry with honey and almonds and vanilla sherbet, topped with more honey, followed by the thick, sweet, black syrupy coffee of the Arab world to wash it down. I ordered a large bottle of beer to wash the coffee down.

Fayed was waiting faithfully for us outside. Arnold wanted to see the European shopping area, even though all the stores would be closed at this time, close to sunset, so Fayed led us back down the hill to the streets behind the waterfront promenade. We might just have well be in the shopping areas of London or Paris. There were stores like Marks and Spenser for about three square blocks. There were few Europeans on the street now that the stores were closed, but most store doorways had robed Arab peddlars pushing something.

Arnold's ears pricked up when one of the peddlars offered us hashish. He had always wanted to try hash, he claimed. I tried to dissuade him, but he began haggling with the pedlar over price. The two were getting quite angry with each other until Fayed stepped in.

"I know this man," he told me. "I will get you best value and best quality from him."

He talked with the pedlar for a few minutes, and finally the pedlar produced a foil-wrapped block from pockets inside his robes. He proffered it to Arnold.

"How do I know it's real?" demanded Arnold.

The Arab scraped a little off the edge with a fingernail, dropped the scrapings onto a sliver of aluminum foil, and applied flame from a lighter to the underside. A whiff of pungent smoke arose from the hash.

"It's real," I told Arnold.

Fayed told him, "The trader says his bottom price is eight dirham. Offer him seven."

"Does that sound like a fair price?" Arnold asked me. As the going price back home was about 20 dollars a gram at that time, and the Arab was offering us a chunk the size of a cigarette packet, maybe a hundred grams, I assured him that it was. So Arnold forked over seven dirham. I gave the vendor another dirham for a brass hash pipe.

Arnold wanted to try it then and there, but I assured him that even tough it was easy to buy the stuff, its use was still illegal.

So Fayed led us back to the hotel in the last rays of the sun, with the call to prayer sounding around the bay, and I gave him about 5 dollars for all his help. This was big money to the young man.

Fayed seemed a little reluctant to leave us. "You want anything more?" he asked. "You want girls, maybe?"

I told him no.

"You want boy maybe? You want me? You can both have me for just ten dollars. Or if you want, I will do you? Or both? I can come to your room. The hotel staff know me."

I presumed there was some sort of kickback system with the desk clerk, and I was very tempted with Fayed's offer.

Arnold, on the other hand, was incensed. "That's disgusting," he fumed, and righteously stormed off into the lobby.

Reluctantly, I bid Fayed farewell, telling him we were leaving on the morning ferry. Just as reluctantly, he left.

"Filthy Arabs," Arnold snorted when I joined him inside.

Knowing that if we smoked the hash we would be bound to get the munchies, I ordered a couple of bottles of beer and a plate of cheese, dates, and figs brought up to my room.

When we got there, I opened the balcony doors wide and turned up the ceiling fan. I didn't want the smell of hash wafting down the corridors. Arnold sat on my bed, still fuming about Fayed's offer.

"What does he think we are? Faggots?"

Once the snacks and drinks had arrived, I suggested we get comfortable, as it was quite hot in the room. I stripped down to my briefs, and a little hesitantly, Arnold did the same. He was wearing black boxers with hearts all over them. "My mother gave them to me," he advised me, seeing me smile.

I went through the ritual of scraping off some of the hash into the pipe, and heating it to ignition point with my butane light, then took the first puff, to show Arnold how to do it. That first taste told me it was strong stuff, and I had better be careful. Pot and hash both have a tendency to make me paranoid.

I handed the pipe to Arnold, and he promptly grasped it by the bowl, burning his hand, and dropping the bowl, sending hash embers all over the marble floor. I squashed them out with my shoe and prepared another pipe. This time Arnold knew better and held the pipe by the stem.

I think he expected immediate results, because he complained, "I think we got cheated. I don't feel a thing." But I knew better. I was already feeling a little buzz.

We passed the pipe a couple more times, with me reigniting it each time. Then I prepared and we smoked another pipe, by now both with the munchies and nibbling on the cheese and fruit and swigging the warm beer.

As hash often did, it was making me feel horny. I got quite a woody. And I could see Arnold had a woody, too, although he was trying to hide it. I wondered if Fayed was still outside.

I went out on the balcony to look, but there was no sign of him on the steps below. I don't know what I would have done if he had been there.

By now I was feeling quite the buzz, and stayed there, leaning on the railing, watching the lights from the small boats in the bay below. It was a magical warm evening and the hash was giving me a magical warm glow - and a hard-on.

I guess I must have stood there for quite a while, buzzing, because Arnold came out to see what I was up to. I don't know if he meant to do it or not, but his half-naked body brushed against mine, making me hornier, and harder, than ever. It didn't help that when I glanced sideways I saw his cock pop out of the slit in his boxers. He pushed it back in, but not before I got a good look. It was quite a large circumcised cock, far nicer than this wimp deserved!

Embarrassed, he hash-mumbled something and went back inside.

I stayed out there a few more minutes. When I went back in, Arnold was lying on my bed, now naked, masturbating. He grinned at me foolishly, a stoner grin.

"I got horny," he mumbled, still grinning broadly. "You've got a woody, too," he accused, slurring his words. It came out more like "yougotterwoodertoo."

"Can I she it?" he slurred again. He patted the bed, indicating for me to sit beside him.

It was hard to believe that only about 45minutes before this man had been most offended at the suggestion he might indulge in homosexual activities.

I sat beside him on my bed. Without any warning at all, he bent his head to my crotch and my hard cock, opened his mouth, and began to suck me. He was quite expert in what he was doing. He certainly wasn't a first timer.

In his hash-babble, Arnold explained to me, "I had a friend at bar mitzvah classes. We used to suck each other off in the washroom." What he said didn't sound much like that. He was too far gone. But that was the gist of it.

I didn't mind. At least I was getting my dick sucked, even if I wasn't getting to fuck Fayed or be fucked by Fayed.

Arnold went at my cock like a mad thing. I was afraid he would scratch my cock-head with his teeth if he kept it up. But all of a sudden he stopped, flopped back on the bed, stuck his r legs up in the air, and cried "Fuck me! I've never been fucked!"

Incredulous, but eyeing his tidy little hole staring at me, I asked "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I want to know what it's like."

I had a tube of crotch-rot ointment in my bag, and from experience finger-fucking myself with it, I knew it was a good lubricant. Arnold stayed in that position, mumbling "Fuck me. Please fuck me," again and again while I greased up my dick and his hole with it. Then I kneeled on the bed between his legs, put his ankles on my shoulders, spread his cheeks, guided my piston to his cylinder, and without hesitation shoved it into him. It sank straight to the hilt immediately.

Arnold first let out a muffled scream, then mumbled, "Ah, thash sho goo ..." so I set up a fucking rhythm, slowly and steadily, building myself up to cum inside him.

But then he twisted away from me, pulling my cock out of his ass. He turned face down on the bed, and murmured "So tired, so tired," closed his eyes, and seemed to go to sleep. I was left sitting there with a raging hard-on. What a cock teaser. He wasn't going to get away with this!

Still not sure whether he was really asleep or just feigning, I forced his legs apart, kneeled between then and lowered myself onto him, feeling with my hand for his asshole and guiding my cock to it. I pushed in into him. Loosened by my recent penetration it went in easily, and Arnold didn't stir at all. I lay full length upon him , and proceeded to give him a nice, leisurely fucking, eventually spilling a massive load of cum into the inert man's ass.

Finished, I sat in the lone rattan chair in the room and pondered. I couldn't sleep in this chair, and Arnold was hogging my whole bed. I pulled on my jeans and went out onto the balcony. I looked at the view once more. Then I looked to the left, towards Arnold's room. His balcony doors were wide open. He must have left them that way when we went out that evening. I climbed over the railing dividing my balcony from his, went into his room, pissed in his sink, and went to sleep on his bed.

I was awoken by his key in the lock as he entered the room in the morning. He was fully dressed in the clothes he was wearing the night before. He had a towel round his neck, and had obviously been to the bathroom already.

"Ah, that's where you got to," he exclaimed. "I woke up and you were gone. I hope you don't mind that I've borrowed your towel. You can use mine if you like!"

He was very chipper and perky as he began folding his belongings and packing them prior to our sailing on the ferry later in the morning.

"I didn't think much of that hash last night," he confided. "I think maybe we got ripped off. I didn't feel a thing."

I grinned inwardly to myself: yes, right, you didn't feel my thing inside you.

"I guess I was so tired from the days sight-seeing I dozed off after a couple of swigs of that warm beer," he added. I didn't know whether he really didn't remember, or whether he just chose not to remember. I didn't disillusion him, anyway.

"And I think that Arab food last night might have been off," he added. "When I took a poop in the bathroom just now, a runny liquid came out, and my bumhole was all slimy and sore. Think I'll go to the American Embassy clinic when I get back to Madrid!"

Later that motning, as we walked down the wharf to the ferry ticket booth and customs, I threw the hash-pipe and the hundred gram chunk of hash into the ocean. I didn't want to chance eight years in a Spanish or Moroccan prison. What a waste! But at least it did get me a stone, a blow-job, and a good fuck!

Like the story? I really appreciate feedback. Add Your Comments Here: