A Night In Istanbul Years Ago

A Night in Istanbul

Buck Jones

Back in the day....

Randy and I arrived in Istanbul that evening from the base, anticipating yet another adventure into that venerable city. We were alone together, not taking a room, knowing we would meet Mehmet, our local connection, somewhere sometime. However, we searched in vain for Mehmet throughout that city with the softness of her tussling and jostling crossing Galotta Bridge or moving among the crowds up Istaklal to Taxim Square where Ataturk stands in rigid glory.

That night I was especially annoyed because I had dressed at the height of conservative European fashion in a navy blue six button Edwardian hand tailored suit and soft black squared toed leather shoes; I carried gloves and wore an overcoat of gray chevron twill. Randy dressed for noticeable effect, for a certain wispy carelessness, which was forever keeping him embroiled him in all sorts of problems, the least of which was his wife. He, with his bottled platinum hair, cut in the most lax military fashion, kept me busy trying to rein him in when his eyes were roaming every brass and silver vendor, jewelry salesman and clothing clerk.

In one last attempt to run into Mehmet, we adjourned to the Roof Top Bar at the Hilton, and had vodkas with lemon.

However, on that night, everything in so grand a city had dried up. Nobody was anywhere. Mehmet had vanished. Boredom, fatigue, and unfulfillment were settling in on us rapidly, and we feared the night to be "dead." The gods, the great and powerful gods of pleasure, had forsaken two inveterate worshipers. We had tried and we had failed. Nothing to do but return to the base... ugh!

That night we had to take a ferry from the European to the Asian side, then a cab to Kartal and then the car ferry from Kartal to Yalova, and from Yalova a cab to the base. Bleak prospect on a fairly cool night.

That is not the route we always took, but we didn't want to spend our last bit of mad money on a room. We finally got a cab to Kartal for about $3.00 although the 30 lira meant much more to the Turk. The taxi driver and the passenger kept passing a sweet cigarette back and forth between them while Randy puffed on Salem longs.

Later in the small seaside town of Kartal, we were waiting in an unheated dock building that served as a ticket office and waiting room. Outside, not too many yards away, was the entrance to the public restroom, where on this cold night Randy had gone. Among all these strange Turks, I was left alone dressed for an evening on the town, not a dock in a sleepy seaside village at 2:15 in the morning with men who traveled great distances to work and who rose early. I continued to sit alone, looking bored, glancing around, perhaps, in a rhetorical and indifferent manner.

Randy returned from his visit to the necessaries with a great deal more animation than when he had left. He had something momentous to relate, which he was bent on doing in an extremely agitated manner. We played our game of calming father and chirping mother to an interesting conclusion... a Turk with an endowment that comes straight from somewhere holy had exhibited himself to Randy in front of the line of urinals and bomb sites. Someone, somewhere, had thrown the marble into the wheel, and things were beginning to happen. The coffee water was getting hot.

The question now became how not to compromise our dignity and obtain the goal of some sweet desserts. We were to make no moves at all in the waiting room. Not even acknowledge with so much as a glance the Turk's return.

Our plan worked. Randy and I remained engaged in conversation upon the Turk's reentry and remained so until we took our seats in the upstairs open lounge room. We quieted into the ride to Yalova. Shortly after we were asea, the stifling smell of the Bafra cigarette smoke drove us out onto the upper ledge for some fresh air. With the strong breeze about us, we folded our arms. The stars twinkled on that clear night. Everything was in order, even down to the edginess of the wind.

The Turk appeared, beefier on a near appearance than I had imagined him to be. Not unattractive, and surprisingly, for his build, not menacing either. He stood squarely, of medium height, and dressed to hide his body. He looked clean in his loose fitting and comfortably worn camel-esque color suit coat. Darker trousers, with full pleats, fell in a withered fashion to the floor, revealing well worn, yet well polished shoes. His hat was soft and nondescript. Wide, thick eyebrows spread themselves leisurely across his brow. Deep set dark, mysterious yet direct eyes punctuated his face. His Caucasian nose rose out of broad cheeks. A sweeping, full, and in-need-of-a-trim mustache nearly covered his broad upper lip. A square jaw and a forceful chin completed the picture of a silently strong man. We greeted each other in short courteous Turkish phrases. In declaring his friendship, he grasped my hand firmly stating himself to be my friend. He brought his other hand forward in a non-threatening manner and gently took my right arm and eased it downward as he released his grasp from his right hand. He guided my hand to the front of his trousers, holding it there to position it correctly. He pushed the palm of my hand toward his left thigh and onto his enormity, hidden by our coats and the night. Eros had struck and with a sure shot. My fingers, at a somewhat awkward angle, were able to surround a lengthy cock with a sausage-like thickness. A brief moment and one touch said everything. He released my arm, smiling. The Turk motioned for us to follow; Randy looked at me; I looked at Randy; we followed the Turk.

The lower level of the Kartal ferryboat contained the automotive storage. Three rows of tightly packed vehicles took up all but the merest walkway space among them. Into this maze of Mercedes trucks, Mini buses, and cars we wound ourselves until we were entering the back seat of a 1956 Chevrolet taxicab. Huge tall trucks, whose passengers were mostly already in the upper deck lounge, surrounded the taxicab. Again, darkness aided our plans. The taxi driver was stretched out asleep in the front seat. Another Turk was already in the back seat against the passenger side door, resting his head against the window. The engine was purring quietly. Our host opened the back left door, and Randy entered; I followed, and the Master of the evening scooted in beside me, closing the door behind him. He ran his hands under my arms, squeezed my chest and lifted me up on top of his lap. He reached around in front of me and unbuttoned my overcoat, my coat, and my shirt. His big powerful hands caressed my torso, squeezing me, showing me his physical power. His hips pushed upward ever so slightly as he felt me and stroked me. He ran his hands out from under my clothing and down my arms. His left hand took my left hand and brought it down behind my back and into his groin. Again, my hand grabbed through his pants that wrist thick member. Not worried that some stranger would see us in so intimate a position, I slowly massaged his dick, loosening the pants leg in such a way as to reach his manhood's base as well as its head, so I could absorb his manliness and feel his desire so well realized. As the air began to thicken, the Turks spoke briefly to one another and eventually conveyed to Randy and me that they were going to Bursa and the man I was with played for the Bursa Sportoto or, in other words, he was a professional soccer player. At that point my hand had only touched his hardened meat and his proffered hand during the handshake. My reaction was that this man may be hung, but the votes are out as to his being a professional soccer player.

The taxi driver was awakened by some of the conversation; he arose to reveal a classically attractive Turkish face -- slightly elongated into an elegant oval, dark eyes, a lean nose, the eternal mustache and well-balanced lips and sculpted chin. A favorite hat that had been worn beyond real use sat easily on his head. He looked about, saw the four of us in the backseat, spoke a few words in Turkish and lay back down. Then the revelation.

Randy eased himself over closer to his Turk, a man in his mid-thirties, also wearing a loose coat and shapeless trousers with soft dark leather shoes. Randy and his Turk hit it off beautifully. Now the aroma of Turkey filled the cab. Sweat began to activate those dry hidden scents that lurk in shirts, underwear, socks, shoes and on the skin, the scents of the city, of Bafra cigarettes, of limoncolonasi, of strong detergents, for if no other thing, the Turk is a ferociously clean person. The clothes may be well worn and the starch and sizing long gone, but they are clean. There is a sweetness about the clean Turk, an unrealized attractiveness.

With Randy and his Turk squeezed in amorous behavior on the other side of the backseat, I was able to turn and somewhat face the soccer player. My gloves were stuffed in my coat pockets and my hands were free to roam this thick body. My first discovery occurred when I lifted my left hand from his dick as I squirmed around to face him. I reached up under his coat, the butt of my hand landed on his rock hard pectorals and my fingers pushed into a set of lats that felt like rib eye steak meat. I was jolted instantaneously. I looked, gazed, and glued my eyes into his, both of us unflinching in the honesty of our desire. I brought my right hand around. His hands are rubbing up and down my back, touching the top of my ass cheeks. His fingers ease themselves down into my trousers at the waistband. I suck in my waist to allow his hand to push farther down over my tail. My hands are exploring this mountain of pure muscle covered by a fine layer of subcutaneous fat. Every muscle is defined. I couldn't help but ironically think how I had so misjudged his body and how he was sculpted like some anatomical illustration. His thighs were literally ungraspable. The muscle bundles were so thick and well developed, the most I could do was apply pressure to my fingers from my arms because I could not grasp any of his upper thigh... and he was sitting in a relaxed state. I was never able to imagine just how much tougher these legs would be if they were purposely taut. Our hands continued to roam each other's torsos. He indicated that I unbutton his pants and pull his cock out.

Just as that moment was about to occur, we heard the knocking of the stick of the ticket taker a few vehicles away, heading in our direction. We again regained a modicum of composure, so we were able to pass the tickets out through the window. The driver was even sitting up when the official came by. When the ticket taker was well gone, and the last impediment to our pleasure, the driver of the tall truck to our front left, went upstairs to the lounge, we were truly left alone to darkness and ourselves. The driver had had a long day. He again lay back down, disappearing to us behind the front seat.

The clothes, already loosened, became even looser. Soccer unbuckled me and then began the long elaborate unbuttoning of a man's trousers in Turkey. With the last button of my fly open, Soccer took both his hands and scooped my trousers off my tail, which he began to massage with his firm hands and determined fingers. Then he turned me around again so I was facing him. He placed his right hand behind my head and brought my face to his. His pouting, deep red lips moved forward to my own. The hairs of his mustache skimmed my upper lip as he pressed the blessedness of his sensitivity and the strength radiating from his mouth to mine. I wished I had been drunk or intoxicated, for I could then blame my response upon some alien concoction in my bl**d. But I was cold sober when the magic of his desire transported me into another world. Although male, I was experiencing a man for the first time, a man who had come out of nowhere and who had penetrated my being so deeply with a simple kiss. I was so shaken by the gentle violence of his kiss that I would not kiss him again. In his kiss was a power that lay beyond sex and I didn't know if my being could be taken there a second time, knowing in the sobriety of the moment I would never be kissed like this again. And in the three decades that have passed, I haven't, at least not in this world. I was overcome by a decidedly feminine streak that dissuaded me from lingering in the world of his lips, for what reason I'll never know. I didn't mind giving him my body as he was giving me his, but the kiss, that kiss that has remained with me, was not to be repeated.

His hands pressed my rib cage as I turned my mouth from his -- not from pleasure, but from too much pleasure, too much soul. I must have felt tender and young and vulnerable to him, him of the strong hands and slightly roughened palms. I was feeling the salt of the earth; I was feeling an ideal of nature, pure masculinity, primitive, willful man. And he had come out of nowhere. Randy and I had sought the excitement of strangers in the city with a fervor that had seemed to go unrewarded... and now, from nowhere, I was experiencing a dream in the backseat of a '56 Chevy, afloat a car ferry in the middle of the Marmara Sea at now 3:00 in the morning surrounded by walls of vacant vehicles on a starry night.

We nuzzled and I kissed his neck and placed the side of my face against his as our hands massaged our cocks and caressed our bodies. At an odd angle and probably interfering with Randy and his Turk, Soccer and I elongated ourselves as best we could and pressed our bodies into each other. We both knew and conveyed to each other that our bodies had derived the deepest pleasures of lovemaking when we chose to make love. No novices we and yet there was the freshness of a first time experience with someone each of us had really wanted to experience. That phantom, that ideal, that image of a man that leaves a lasting impression. We knew exactly the rarity of the moment, of the coming together of so many forces that were totally well balanced... that moment, like love, that cannot be purchased, except perhaps with the recognition of the fragility of the human heart and the sweep of time upon all things. Time hurls us forward into different realms, some of which cannot be sought, but which are bestowed by the Universe in what the religious would call Grace. That danger of loss that breeds a sad penetrating sweetness, lifting the moment of the experience into an almost mystical realm.

The soccer god beside me touched me with such tenderness and delight I shivered. Yes, I shook and held no whimper back at the unexpected rushes of pleasure his touch produced throughout my body. There came a time when, overwhelmed by my submission to the moment and to him, I contrived to kneel before him as best as I could. If my memory serves me right, somewhere in the midst of all this madness, my Turk got the driver to move the front seat forward as far as it would go. I had some room in which to find a comfortable but contorted arrangement of limbs and placed before my eyes one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen.

Before my tongue made contact with the godhead, before the penitent received the host, I looked up into his eyes. They gazed upon mine in an eternal knowingness of the secretiveness, the rarity, and the perfection of the moment. His gentle, brutal face was unique and all men at the same time. I was the boy and he was the man. I was the son and he was the father.

I stared at the huge cock before me. I squeezed it. I took my hand from his dick and squeezed my wrist. They were the same thickness. The head was full and inflamed, purplish blue along the outer flaring ridge. Pre-cum oozed sweetly from within him. I began by taking the pre-cum on the end of my tongue and covering the head with pre-cum and saliva. I did not surround the head but touched it. Licked it, swiped it in long movements. He pushed himself forward toward me and widened the spread of his legs. His hairless balls, enormous eggs, emitted a scent of confined desire. They were free for me to roll them in my fingers, lick them, suck them into my mouth and roll them around on my tongue, so totally a part of the picture that my pleasure became his pleasure and his pleasure mine. If someone were looking at us or if we were to become a statue, a static memory, and cast in bronze or carved in marble, one truly would not be able to say where his skin ended and mine began. Where we touched one another, we became one, such was the flow of energy, the raw sex, and primal urges. I was totally conscious of his consciousness, of how much he was in love with the moment. His triumph of pleasure became my triumph of pleasure. Two as one.

I withdrew my tongue and felt the slick remnants of his pre-cum within my mouth. I put my lips together and touched his piss slit. I eventually kissed the head of his cock as I had kissed him on the lips. In kissing his cock I gave and received pleasure. My soul was touched but was not taken over and burnt to a crisp as it had been when I kissed his lips. I kissed his dick for a long time, forestalling the moment when I should part my jaws and welcome the cockhead into my mouth. As I kissed the very end of the head, I sent my tongue out to lick in an ever-outward spiraling motion as my lips reached farther and farther towards the edge of the glans. He involuntarily shook. The completely lubricated head contained more than enough liquid to cover the shaft of his dick. My hand slickened his shaft and moved in a milking fashion up and down its length. My lips regained their position. When he placed his hands, his massive, powerful hands on the back of my closely shaved neck and rubbed his fingers up and down, I surrounded his total cockhead, the only part of his massiveness I was able to ingest with my mouth and began to suck his sweetness.

After quickly fleeing moments worshiping the wonderment before me and the head of his cock, his hands moved from the back of my neck, cupped my ears and raised my head so we were once again looking into each other's eyes. Total involvement radiated from his eyes. The eternal desire, the infernal desire of nature's repetitious strength lay in his stare, his glance, and his look. I drank as deeply from his eyes as I drank from his cock. The boldness of our looks transported us. We were alone in the aura of our world. We were the universe experiencing itself in the backseat of that old Chevy, that primitive, that primal, that basic. The best sex is the expression of divinity, the holiness and mystery of the universe. It is the most seductive aspect of Maya, to be overcome in the total consciousness of submission to that desire. Love that desire with such abandonment that caution, will, and even survival are thrown to the winds. That is when one tastes the divinity of tantra, the sacredness of mystery filtered through desire and a devotion to its power.

When our moment of looking and communion was over, I again turned my head and my mouth to the gift that was in my hands. Like the child who finds total peace and comfort nursing at its mother's breast, I contentedly and overwhelmingly devoured his strength, his size, and his juices. I opened my jaws to reach, of course, as far down onto the shaft as I was able, but the girth of his cockhead was such that my attempts ended with my jaw distended almost to contortion and I still had only a little more than the head in my mouth. I was able to extend my tongue down a little farther on the underside of his shaft. Again, a shudder and again a shutter through my body in response to his. I held on as gently as I could, working his shaft and containing his head within my mouth, taunting every bit of surface with my tongue and lips. I sucked. I worshiped. I adored.

Again, the hands bring my eyes to his. This time, however, while we are looking into each other's eyes in a stare of brutal honesty, he slips his hands under my arms and pulls me up on top of him. Without kissing, we snuggle as he covers my naked body with his hands. He caresses me, he strokes me, he fondles me. I wrap my hands behind his broad muscular back. His hands drop to my tail. He squeezes me and rubs me, kneading my thighs, and then back to my tail. He reaches around and rubs his hand all over his saliva-covered balls. His finger then turns gently to beneath my balls and feels its way up to my anus. While pulling my head toward his shoulder with his left hand, he fingers my hole, teasing it, moistening it. I involuntarily push down on his finger. He again moistens the tip of his fingers on his balls and slides his finger to the very opening of my anus. It puckers at his touch; he shakes. He pushes ever so slightly, so softly, so gently. Not only is he a man among men, he is the true lover, the one who gives pleasure with absurdity and care. I welcomed him. I succumbed to his penetration. I could offer no resistance.