It was well past midnight on a Friday evening at the Boléro on the Wollestraat in Bruges’ Garenmarkt district. This was the third night in a row I’d occupied this small table in the shadows of the basement strip club bar, nursing my drinks, keeping my black cloak firmly wrapped about me, and searching for just the right one. I had assessed all of the club’s young strippers closely, but I always came back to the same one. I had picked him out on the first night—a lithe but well-muscled, dark Greek boy, displaying a mixture of danger and sassiness; much more into what he was doing than any of the other performers. His act was black leather. Studded-leather harness crisscrossing his chest, studded-leather wrist guards and cock ring, shiny black leather boots, and a leather captain’s cap pulled down close over his eyes, hiding his expression until he wanted to reveal it—a beautiful cock and heavy balls. He was young and virile, vital and full of life. Just what I needed.

By the second night, he had noticed me, boring my eyes into him, and by the third night he was mesmerized. He only had eyes for me; he wiggled his butt and penis only for me. I sat there, wrapped in my black cape, and he performed only for me. I had no doubts that tonight, on the third night, he would be mine—willingly.

And it must be tonight. Friday Belgium, Sunday the Aaah-Club in Marktgasse, and by the next Saturday the dream boys in that little club tucked away in the corner of Bangkok’s Patpong district. Insatiable needs and desires. I had to keep ahead of the chase; I couldn’t fall into a pattern. Uncounted years of running and hiding and fucking and feeding.

His last set was over. He disappeared beyond the beaded curtain behind the stage with a swish of his nicely rounded bare bottom and reappeared shortly thereafter, dressed in a white billowy cotton shirt over tight faded jeans. He walked directly to my table and stood there, gazing at me with hooded eyes through the fog of hours of cigarette smoke. I captured his eyes with mine and concentrated, willing him to give into me. After a mere moment, he gave me a little smile and glided toward the door. I threw more than enough euro dollars on the table for the waiters to forget I’d ever been there and followed the young man out into the night at a distance.

I followed him north on Schaarnstraat, across the canal at Predikherenrei and east down Ganzestraat to the city’s old cemetery. I kept to the darker shadows of an already-dark night, my enclosing cloak helping to make me invisible to anyone out on the street—anyone except the young Greek, who turned his gaze toward me from time to time to ensure that I was still there.

The young man walked through the cemetery gates and down a long row of raised tombs to a small hillock that was topped by a raised, table-sized marble tomb, more prominent and ornately decorated than the graves around it. When he reached the tomb, he turned and stripped off his shirt and jeans to reveal the leather harness, wrist bands, and boots of his club act. He turned to face me as I slowly ascended the hill, his eyes locked onto mine, a slight smile on his lips, and his well-muscled arms thrown out in invitation to me, his cock coming to attention.

As I moved up to the hill toward