Here’s a excerpt from my novel “Moon Over Berlin, Sun Over Santorini.” To set the scene, American Ian and Russian Dima are in a cheap Greek island hotel fleeing Soviet agents who are trying to kidnap him after he fled East Germany. Ian and Dima have been flirting for months, and have made out a little, but have never had sex. In this passage, they finally take the plunge. I worked hard to stay on the right line of erotica vs. pornography without being prudish or purple. I hope I succeeded.

Dima smiled. “Stand up, you.”

Ian obeyed, not taking his eyes off Dima, trying to see all of him at once, from his purple slavic eyes and silky hair to the swell of hard but supple muscle defining his slim chest and shoulders.

“Oh!” he said as Dima reached over to unsnap his shorts. He edged closer to give him easier access.

Dima laughed, soft and low, as he worked the zip and plunged his hand inside. “Silly Capitalist. Do you know how long I’ve been dreaming of his?”

Ian couldn’t answer, all of him subsumed by a wave of pleasure as Dima stroked and squeezed. He never felt or saw his shorts and boxers slip to the floor.

When he opened his eyes, Dima was standing, stepping out of his shorts, stepping into Ian, pushing in chest to chest, groin to groin, pulsing hardness into pulsing hardness.

Dima let out a guttural thrum as his lover’s fragrant warmth enveloped him. His pulse began to mount as their hands roamed and explored, tracing sinuous curves of silky skin as fingers found fingers to intertwine and squeeze.

“Turn around,” he whispered, willing Ian to rest his back against his chest, rest his weight against him. Dima squeezed Ian’s hips, pulling him in, pelvis thrusting into silky skin, pleasure mounting as he slid up and down.

He let his hands find Ian’s chest, brush against hard nipples, pull a gasp of pleasure from Ian’s throat. His fingers circled lower to caress vellum stretched tight over vodka bottle abs. His head lowered on its own, nostrils flaring, seeking the source of the aroma drifting up in hot waves. His lips parted and he tasted salt on the curve of Ian’s neck — salt and something else, something sweet and mysterious that stung his tongue.

“Dimka!” gasped Ian as hands and tongue drove stunning jolts through his body. As Dima’s fingers roamed lower then brushed against his erection, Ian’s body spasmed, forcing him on onto his toes, calves arched, back arched, butt clenching as Dima thrust and moaned.

“No, stop!” Ian growled from deep in this throat. “Not yet.”

He sank to his knees and grabbed Dima by the thighs, pulling him around. He didn’t decide to engulf Dima; his mouth moved on its own as his fingers encircled the base of a shaft that felt much larger than he remembered from their casual fumbling in Berlin.

He sucked Dima in — smelling, tasting, feeling, pulsing, bobbing, choking, then opening his throat and finding a rhythm, a rhythm Dima matched with a rasping whine from low in his throat, more animal than human.

Dima curled his toes and gasped, bouncing up and down as his arches flexed and contracted. He reached out for Ian’s hair, circled his ears with his fingers, cupped his smooth cheeks, thrilled to the rasp of his unshaven chin.

Pleasure mounted until it threatened to become pain. His hands pushed on the back of Ian’s head, pushed until he was as far inside Ian as he could get. “Oh my God,” he shouted as spasm after spasm shook him, stole the light from the room, stole the air from his lungs, stole the thoughts from his head.

When he came to, he was collapsed on the bed, lying on his back, staring into Ian’s emerald eyes.

The rest of the chapter is here:



James Finn is a columnist for the LA Blade, a former Air Force intelligence analyst, an alumnus of Act Up NY, and an agented but unpublished novelist.

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