by J. S. Kuiken

Alex had been drinking wine, enough that the lines of his wine glass had gone fuzzy. But that man across the piazza remained clear and resplendent. Broad shouldered and sharp featured, long legs spooling out over the cobblestones. In fact, he was becoming more vivid, until he shone like a flame against the ochre of the buildings. With langor, Alex imagined having that man in bed, and tracing his hands over those masculine contours. 

But then, that man didn’t know Alex was trans. 

Light drained from those fantasies and the wine glass had hard, cold lines. 

It was for the best. Alex was used to picking up men, back home in the U.S.. But those men knew he was trans. Picking up a man who didn’t know could just end in being killed. 

So Alex ate and drank. The daylight waned. Lights strung from balconies and umbrellas glowed, their butter color winking back from the cobblestones. A band set up in the middle of the piazza and began to play, and the early gloaming had an air of enchantment to it which made Alex relax. He sank down into his bones and flesh, feeling every centimeter of who he had been, who he had become, and who he was, right now, drinking wine, having dinner in Florence, and watching a handsome stranger.

Maybe it was possible to have sex with him. Sucking his cock didn’t require Alex to take his own clothes off. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity to fuck a beautiful man in Italy. 

Another few gulps of wine and it was possible to approach said stranger and, very politely, very coyly, solicit him.

Alex paid his bill and began walking across the piazza. 

Originally published in Foglifter: Volume 5 Issue 2, 2020.

© 2011 – 2023 J. S. Kuiken