Packing for this seven week trip was an interesting challenge. I knew I wanted to travel light. And I tended to avoid apparel that would brand me as a tourist, especially a clueless American tourist in blue jeans. [I can hardly believe the number of times I had to warn young (male) American tourists in Amsterdam on the tram or at the bus stop that if they continued to carry their passports sticking out of their rear pockets, such passports would disappear very rapidly.]
The travel outfit I settled on included a beautiful jacket made of long, flowing, silvery, off-white angora goat hair. Added to my long, flowing, golden Bear hair, I guess I was some kind of sight. I just remember feeling carefree and excited, starting out on an adventure to a place I knew next to nothing about.
Especially when flying internationally, it's good to allow lots of time, so I was at Schiphol way early. Through security, I had time to wander about looking at people and the sparkly duty-free shops. At one point, on a whim, I bought an ice cream cone. Lick, lick. Yum, yum.
Watching humanity come and go, leaning up against a big pillar near the base of the escalators, I got the feeling of being watched. Slowly my soft gaze passed over the pedestrians. And yes, someone across the large entrance hall was looking my way. I could feel his gaze from a distance. At least 6'4", blond and blue-eyed, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, and dressed in a blue uniform of the airport police, he held my gaze for five seconds. Then he began to walk towards me.
Surely I wasn't breaking any rules, standing there licking my ice cream cone? All the way across the broad, high, sunlit lobby he strode. Be still my heart. The tingle in the air between us became more and more palpable the closer he got. Really?
But then, he walked right past me, and I exhaled. He was riding the escalator on up. Three-quarters of the way up, as if in slow motion, this Major Hunk looked back over his shoulder, straight at me. Well, not that straight. Eye contact and the slightest smile beckoned me to follow. And follow I did.
Up the escalator, down a broad hallway, around a corner to a narrower hallway, his boots making crisp echoes along the stone floor. What was I doing? Had he really given me a look? Near the end of the corridor he stopped, taking keys from his pocket, and unlocked a door, going in. Okay. I proceeded. Approaching the door, adorned with a simple sign saying Private, doubting myself with every step, I suddenly realized that the Dreamboat was standing just inside, holding the door open a crack.
I went in and he slid the bolt on the door. He wanted me. He smelled good. We both felt good. There was some shedding of apparel. Lust ruled. In our precious twenty minutes together, the only words spoken were when he brought me in close and with a deep, quiet voice, said in my ear, "Go ahead. Just don't cum on my uniform." That ended up not being an issue. Bon voyage!