Kenitra smells of the sea and hot dust. It's not unpleasant—it's a persistent, underlying odor, the smell of a city that lives outdoors, that spills onto the sidewalks, that slowly cooks in its own juices. I arrived the previous evening by train from Casablanca, alone in a compartment that smelled of hot plastic and motor oil. Through the window, ochre fields, eucalyptus trees, and power lines passed by. Night fell quickly.
I came for Salma's wedding. Salma and I have known each other for seven years, since an exchange program in Lyon. She's returning to Kenitra, marrying a local guy, Youssef, tall and easygoing with a carpenter's hands. I was the only European there. That suited me just fine.
All the other guests were staying with family or in rented apartments we'd shared. I'd booked the Dawliz Hotel—the only slightly upscale place in town, by local standards. Air-conditioned room, large suite on the fourth floor, decent bedding. Compared to the rest of the neighborhood, it was almost indecent. The facade was white and clean on a street where the buildings had iron bars sticking out of the roofs like raised fingers—constructions frozen halfway through, projects suspended for ten years.
Two guards stood before the entrance. Neatly pressed black uniforms—jacket, trousers, white shirt. The kind of outfit that conveys a certain authority without actually being military. One was stocky, in his fifties, and unassuming. The other—Karim, I would learn his first name later—was tall, twenty-five or twenty-six, broad-shouldered, with very short black hair, thick eyebrows, and an immediate, toothy grin. He didn't wait for a conversation before engaging—he'd make eye contact, launch into a quip, and laugh at his own joke before anyone had a chance to reply.
The first time I walked through the door that morning, he said something to me in Darija that I didn't understand. I smiled. He smiled even more. That's how it started.
During the day, I went back and forth. Retrieving a forgotten gift, changing my shirt, uploading photos to my phone. Each time, Karim was there, standing in front of the entrance under the blazing two o'clock sun, always smiling, always ready. We ended up exchanging a few words—my approximate Moroccan French against his approximate school French, with gaps in the same areas, which created a strange and comfortable equality. He asked me what event I was there for. A wedding. A friend? Yes. French? No, Moroccan, from Kenitra. Ah, he might know the family. He knew everyone.
* * *
The party was held in a reception hall a ten-minute walk away—one of those large, windowless buildings whose interior explodes with light and sound. Burgundy carpet, white tablecloths, tables seating fifteen, a live band in the corner. The women wore gold-embroidered caftans. The men wore djellabas or Western-style suits—I was in the latter category, black suit, white shirt, no tie. Salma looked stunning. Youssef seemed not quite to realize how lucky he was, or perhaps he realized it too well, and that made him silent.
We ate mechoui, pastillas, and dishes I couldn't name but which I helped myself to seconds of. We drank pomegranate juice and sparkling water. People danced in waves—young people, old aunts, children who had wandered into the room. I danced too, clumsily, pulled along by a cousin of Salma's who didn't take no for an answer.
Around 11:45 a.m., I kissed them both, promised to send the photos, and left. My flight was taking off from Casablanca at 6:00 a.m. The taxi was booked for 4:30 a.m. I had about five hours left.
The walk back. The city at night had a different feel—slower, more honest. Groups of boys on scooters. Grocery stores still open with their white neon lights. The smell of frying food wafted from one of the stalls. Cats in shadowy corners. The main street ran alongside apartment buildings, a few closed shops, a 24-hour pharmacy with a flashing green cross.
In front of the hotel, there was only one guard. The other—the stocky man in his fifties—must have finished his shift. Karim was there, alone, in uniform, standing in the cold halo of light from the entrance. He saw me coming from afar.
"So, what about the wedding?"
"Good. Very good. Long evening."
He nodded with satisfaction, as if it were good personal news. He asked me if I'd eaten, if the people were nice, if the room was beautiful. He asked questions like someone who'd had no one to talk to for hours. Which was probably the case.
I replied to her. We talked for another two minutes. Then I said goodnight and went home.
* * *
In the suite, I draped my jacket over the back of the chair. I loosened my belt. The air conditioning hummed softly—the room was twenty degrees, almost cool, pleasant after the accumulated heat of the evening. The bed was large, white, made with slightly excessive care.
I should have slept. I had the time—five hours is short, but it's enough if you put your mind to it. But I wasn't sleepy. The wedding alcohol—there had been a little, discreetly, for those who wanted it—gave me that particular lightness that postpones sleep without eliminating it, that keeps the mind slightly lit with half-coherent thoughts.
I sat on the edge of the bed. I stared at the ceiling. Through the half-open window, the street—distant voices, an engine. Kenitra asleep, but not quite.
The urge came from nowhere, or from everywhere at once. It wasn't a specific idea at first—more of a diffuse warmth, a physical readiness after a long, busy day. I started thinking about masturbating, simply, normally, before going to sleep.
And then—I don't know exactly how it happened—Karim appeared in my mind. His smile. His shoulders in the black uniform. The way he stood effortlessly, hands behind his back, like a guy who felt nothing. His age—twenty-five, maybe twenty-six, that moment when a body is fully formed but still fresh inside.
It was absurd. He was straight, it was obvious, you could see it from ten meters away. And besides, it was his job, his night shift. I obviously wasn't going to do anything.
But the idea had taken shape, and I didn't dismiss it. I let it settle for a few minutes, alone in the large, air-conditioned suite. Then I put my shirt back on, unbuttoned at the chest, and my suit trousers, which I had half-undone. And I went back downstairs.
* * *
I took my phone out onto the sidewalk in front of the entrance. I pretended to call someone—to check my messages, to type a reply. The little act of a guy who needs some air.
Karim was two meters away. He observed me for a moment, then:
"Can't sleep?"
" Not yet. "
He smiled. "It's a party. It takes a while to come down from the excitement."
We stayed there. He was standing, I was leaning against the wall next to the entrance. The street was almost deserted. A moped passed in the distance. The silence had that particular quality of provincial towns at night—thick, almost palpable.
He asked me if I had a girlfriend. The question came naturally, like he would ask any question to anyone. I found it amusing.
"No. Not right now."
He nodded knowingly, then without hesitation: "I have one. It's American."
He pulled out his phone. Not just one photo—an entire gallery. Selfies, vacation pictures, restaurant snapshots scrolled by. A smiling girl, blonde hair, round glasses. Him beside her, proud, slightly stiff like someone who isn't entirely comfortable in front of a camera but wants it to show.
"She's in Boston. We see each other when I can go there, or she comes here."
"Long distance."
"Yeah." He put the phone away. "It's complicated. But she's good."
I commented on the photos with the seriousness he expected. He was happy. He wanted someone to be happy with him.
We talked for a while longer — about Kenitra, about Casablanca where he had family, about France which he had never visited but which he wanted to see one day. He spoke with a somewhat restrained energy, like a guy who spends his nights pacing around a door and who misses talking.
Then he asked me what I was going to do. I told him I was going back upstairs.
" Sleep ? "
I paused. Shortly. "Not right now. I'm going to look at something on my computer. Relax."
He shrugged kindly.
And I say, "Actually, I'll probably just jerk off and go to sleep."
A silence. He frowned, unsure if he had understood correctly.
I repeated it. Not otherwise, not with a euphemism — the same. The direct word, placed there as if it were obvious.
He laughed. A short, surprised laugh, vaguely embarrassed but not shocked—the laugh of a guy who's taken aback and doesn't quite know how to react. He said something about how convenient it must be to have access to the sites, because in Morocco it complicated things. He positioned himself in the camp of the straight guy who understands the principle, who vaguely condones it, but isn't affected.
"I watch porn, I fall asleep. Perfect evening."
He's still laughing. More relaxed.
"Don't you want to come up for a beer?" I say this quietly, without insisting. "Just one. You worked hard tonight."
He shook his head. "I can't leave the station, man. If the chief comes by and I'm not there—"
"Does he often stay overnight?"
"No. But—"
"You've got an alarm on your phone. Twenty minutes, a beer, back again."
He thought about it. I didn't help him — I turned away as if I were going home, and let the silence do its work.
" Dude. "
I turned around.
He looked around him — left, right, the empty street. Then he said, "Okay. But quick. You're funny, we're having a good conversation. Twenty minutes max."
He probably didn't remember what I'd said about porn and masturbation. Or maybe he did—but he'd filed it away as an anecdote, a guy joke, something he'd forgotten. He was going upstairs to have a beer with a nice customer. That was all.
I wasn't thinking about what was going to happen. I didn't even know myself what was going to happen.
* * *
The suite was large for one man. A double bed, an L-shaped sofa, a coffee table, a kitchenette I hadn't used, a white-tiled bathroom with a walk-in shower. The air conditioning hummed. My things were scattered everywhere—my suit jacket on the back of the sofa, a spare shirt on the bed, and near the bathroom, on the floor, a pair of white boxer shorts I'd changed into that afternoon. Calvin Klein—the elastic waistband with the black lettering clearly visible.
Karim entered. He paused for a moment, looked around with the eyes of a guy who'd entered hotel suites with his eyes but never with his feet. He touched the armrest of the sofa as if to check that it was real.
"Damn, it's huge."
"It's the only luxurious thing in my life right now, so I might as well enjoy it."
He sat down on the sofa, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He was still wearing his uniform—the jacket, the white shirt, the neatly pressed black trousers. He looked clean and slightly formal in this setting that was temporarily mine.
I took two beers from the minibar. No glasses—straight from the cans. He took his, opened it, and took a long swig. He relaxed instantly, as if simply sitting with a can made the service unnecessary.
We talked. About the wedding, again—he wanted details about the venue, the caterer, how many guests. About working at the hotel—how much it paid, the hours, the boredom of nights without guests. He asked me questions about Paris, what I did for a living, if life there was really like in the TV shows. I answered him honestly. Neither of us was trying to impress the other. It was comfortable.
My laptop was on the coffee table. I opened it after a moment, mechanically, as if to show something. Then I said:
"Have you ever seen anything like this?"
I had opened an adult website. A video — a woman alone, lying on a bed, slowly caressing herself. Nothing violent, nothing bizarre. Just a woman's body, very well filmed, very real.
Karim froze. He stared at the screen. His eyes didn't move. His face did that peculiar thing — surprise that transforms into something else, animalistic, involuntary.
"Fuck," he said in a low voice.
He laughed nervously. He leaned slightly forward. He made a comment about the girl—her body, something specific I won't repeat here, but it was said with the direct candor of a guy talking to another guy and holding nothing back. He was captivated. He stared at the screen as if the rest of the room had ceased to exist.
I let it play.
After two or three minutes, I placed my hand flat on my fly. Not a forceful movement—a light, natural pressure, the gesture of someone noticing something. Karim saw it out of the corner of his eye. His own hand moved down toward his crotch, almost immediately, without calculation—like a mirror reflex.
He realized it a second later. He didn't remove his hand.
"We can make ourselves comfortable if you want," I said. Low, neutral voice. Not a disguised suggestion — just a logical observation.
He hesitated. He looked at the screen. He laughed again — that uncomfortable little laugh that is no longer really a refusal.
I undid my belt. Unbuttoned the top of my pants, letting the white shirt fall open on either side of my torso. I unzipped the fly. My white boxer shorts appeared—Calvin Klein, the same model as the ones on the floor near the bathroom, black elastic, taut fabric. I slipped my hand inside and began to touch myself casually.
Karim watched. He watched the screen and then this, alternately. He was still smiling, but differently—the smile had changed in nature, taken on a different meaning. He did the same thing. He undid the button of his safety pants, lowered the fly. His boxer shorts appeared—an unknown brand, blue and gray checkered print, a little big for him, the kind of thing you buy at the market in a pack of three. He touched himself through the fabric.
"It's hot," he said.
I said nothing. I took off my shirt. Dropped it behind the sofa. Karim looked at my torso for a second—not long, not with any particular intention, like you look at another guy's body in a locker room, to compare, to get a sense of scale. Then he did the same. He unbuttoned his uniform jacket, carefully placed it on the armrest—even then he folded it neatly, the reflex of an orderly guy. He unbuttoned his white shirt. Taken it off.
His torso appeared. Very muscular—not the gym muscle, but the muscle of someone who moves, who works, who plays sports outdoors. Well-defined abs, a light, dark fuzz on his sternum that ran in a thin line down to his navel. A tattoo on his left arm—something in Arabic, a phrase or a name, I didn't ask. His shoulders were rounded, full. His skin had that color that caught the warm light from the bedside lamp without reflecting it—it absorbed it.
He stood up to get a better look at the screen. As he stood, he pulled his pants down to his ankles. His boxer shorts appeared in the light—too big on the legs, his thick, muscular thighs straining them in the wrong place. He was erect. It was quite obvious.
He sat back down. We were side by side on the L-shaped sofa, at a right angle, our knees almost touching. The laptop screen was between us, the video continuing.
I pulled my penis out of my boxers. He did the same—a second later, without looking at me, as if it were the logical next step. Mine was long, thin, still half-soft. His was slightly shorter but noticeably thick—dense, full, already fully erect. He was circumcised, his head clean-shaven, a dark burgundy that almost turned brown. His balls hung heavy in his hand, full, neatly shaved—a pristine cleanliness that contrasted with the dark down covering his abs. He began to masturbate with mechanical regularity, his eyes on the screen, his hand moving up and down with almost serious concentration.
"Damn, that one's good," he said in a low voice, without looking at me, his eyes still on the video.
" Yeah. "
"Do you have the same ones on your computer at home?"
"I have others. Better ones."
He chuckled softly. "I need to upgrade my VPN."
I took my pants off completely. My boxers too. I placed them both on the arm of the sofa. Naked from the waist down. He looked at me for half a second—not long, just enough time to take it all in, to compare—and then went back to the screen.
"You're not circumcised."
" No. "
"Does that change anything?"
"I don't know. I've never been the other one."
He chuckled. A real, low, manly laugh. He shook his head slightly as if it were the most idiotic and accurate response he'd heard in a long time.
Karim did the same with his trousers—but he'd forgotten his work boots, the laces tied tight, and the trousers got stuck at the ankles, caught on the polished black shoes. He wiggled his feet, tried for a second, then gave up—the trousers bunched up around his shoes, him half free, half entangled, and it didn't stop him.
"Damn, your shoes, man."
"I know." He lowered his eyes to the disaster, shrugged with utter fatalism, and continued masturbating. "I don't take my shoes off at work."
We laughed. A low, knowing laugh, the laugh of two guys doing something stupid together, knowing it, doing it anyway, and not caring because it's just the two of them and nobody else. That kind of laughter is rare. It happens once in a blue moon—with a stranger, in a large hotel suite in Kenitra, at one in the morning, two days before the end of the world for both of us.
"You've got a great physique," he said bluntly, looking at my abs. Not a compliment—an observation. Like in the locker room.
"You're well-built too."
"I play football three times a week." He looked at his own torso, his abs, with quiet satisfaction. "And I eat well. My mother cooks."
"It shows."
He smiled. A proud, simple smile, without calculation.
He masturbated frantically at one point—something in the video had hooked him, or perhaps it was simply the buildup, the pressure seeking an outlet. His left hand pressed flat against his abs, the muscles contracting in a sharp line beneath the dark skin. His breathing quickened. His head tilted back slightly. He was no longer looking at the screen; he was looking at the ceiling.
"I'll go myself," he said through gritted teeth. Almost to himself.
I held back a little, slowed down to let him go. He stood up—standing in front of the coffee table, legs slightly apart, shoes still on, trousers bunched up, his bare chest magnificent in the warm light of the bedside lamp—and he came in powerful spurts onto the surface of the coffee table. Four spurts, maybe five. Thick, white, full of pent-up fluid. They followed one another with a regularity that betrayed a pressure that had been building for a long time. His legs were trembling. He let out a short, compressed sound, held in his throat like someone who doesn't want to be heard through the walls.
He sat back down. He looked at the result on the coffee table with the slightly incredulous expression of a guy who hadn't expected so much. He breathed heavily.
"Fuck."
" Yeah. "
"I needed this."
I finished a few seconds later, on my abs. Three long, clear jets that ran down the side. Quieter than him, but no less so. We remained silent for a minute, each in our own breath as it descended.
"What exactly was it tonight?" he said. Not an anxious question—almost amused, as if he were looking for the right box to put it in.
"Two guys getting comfortable."
He thought for two seconds. "Okay." He nodded, convinced. "Yeah. That's it."
He laughs again — that little laugh of a sated, relaxed guy who has nothing left to prove tonight.
"Don't say anything at the hotel," he said. Firm but without tension—a request between friends, not a plea. "To no one."
"I promise."
"I trust you." He said it simply, as if it were obvious. And it was true — I felt that he truly trusted me, that something had been built there in two hours that had no name but was real.
I told him he could take a shower. He got up, finished taking off his trousers and shoes—this time carefully, laces untied, shoes put away—and crossed the room to the bathroom. He was naked. Completely naked in the suite's light. His back was broad, a deep V. His buttocks were round and firm, with dark, smooth skin. Dense black hair above his genitals, neatly trimmed, almost shaved, testicles. He stepped into the shower without closing the glass door, turned on the tap, and let the hot water run over his neck and shoulders.
I stayed on the sofa. I could hear the water. I looked at the ceiling. Outside, nothing — the street completely silent now, Kenitra truly asleep.
I walked into the bathroom halfway through my shower. Karim looked at me—not surprised, not embarrassed. I sat down under the showerhead next to him, the warm water on my head. We didn't speak. We just showered, separately but in the same space, our elbows sometimes brushing against each other. It was unceremonious, natural, as if it were the logical next step.
He went out first. He grabbed my towel without asking, dried his hair and shoulders.
He saw the clean boxer shorts I had laid out on the bed for the next day — Calvin Klein, white, black elastic with embossed lettering.
His gaze fell upon it. He recognized it immediately. "It's a Calvin Klein."
" Yeah. "
He took it in his hands. Turned it over. Run a thumb along the elastic. "I've never had one. I've seen them everywhere, in ads, on well-dressed guys." He chuckled. "Too expensive for me."
"Take it."
He looked up. "No, man—"
"I have more in the suitcase. Three. Take them."
He looked at the boxer shorts again. There was something simple in his eyes—the desire for something he'd long denied himself. Not shame, not embarrassment. Just that.
"Okay."
He put it on right there, in the bathroom. It fit him perfectly—narrow hips, thick, muscular thighs that stretched the fabric just right, the white standing out crisply against his dark skin. He looked at himself in the mirror. He turned his pelvis slightly from side to side. He nodded slowly with a deep, almost solemn satisfaction.
"There you go. That's it."
He laughed to himself. A satisfied, full laugh, the laugh of a guy who had just found something he had been looking for for a long time without knowing it.
He got dressed again. First, a white shirt, neatly tucked in. Buttoned uniform jacket. Trousers. Shoes laced up properly. He was ready in two minutes, impeccable. The guy who'd been sitting there on my sofa half-naked had vanished—he was back to being the Dawliz warden, clean, serious, on duty. But underneath, the white Calvin Klein.
I was still naked, standing in the bathroom doorway. He noticed when he turned around—and it didn't bother him for a second. He stepped forward. He held out his hand. I took it. He pulled me towards him, a firm, wide hand in the middle of my back, strong—a real man's hug, not the polite one from the start, the sincere one. We stood there a second too long. Him in his uniform, me stark naked. Neither of us seemed uncomfortable.
"Thank you for tonight."
He talked about the boxer shorts, the beer, the conversation, the laptop, the stuck shoes, the laughter, all of it together — about the fact that he had entered this suite with a stranger and was leaving with the feeling of having had a friend forever.
" It's me. "
He took a step back. He looked at me one last time—naked, him in uniform, Calvin Klein underneath—and he smiled. A full smile. Satisfied. The smile of a guy who's had a good night and he knows it.
"Have a good trip to Casablanca."
"Good night, Karim."
He went out. The door closed.
* * *
I went to bed after one o'clock. The sheets were cold, the air conditioning too strong, so I turned it off. In the silence that followed, I heard the city reassert itself — a dog in the distance, a scooter engine, then nothing more.
I thought of him. Not romantically—more with that particular clarity you get just before falling asleep, when images are sharp without being cluttered. His shoulders in the suite's light. His short laugh when his trousers got caught around his shoes. The way he'd neatly tucked his jacket onto the armrest even then, the reflex of a well-mannered man. The white boxer shorts that fit him so well.
I slept for three hours.
At 4:20 I went downstairs with my suitcase. The street was dark, the air cold, like before dawn. In front of the hotel—the other doorman, the stocky man in his fifties. He greeted me, called the taxi we had ordered the day before. Karim was no longer there. His shift had ended, or perhaps he was on his break, I don't know. I didn't ask.
The taxi arrived in five minutes. I got in. The driver didn't speak, which suited me perfectly. The road to Casablanca crossed flat countryside, olive groves, and signs in Arabic and French flashing in the headlights.
Kenitra disappeared in the rearview mirror.
I had a thought for him—brief, without any particular nostalgia, but real. The kind of encounter that only happens because you're far from home, alone in a large hotel suite, with just enough lightness to let things happen. I didn't have his number. He didn't have mine. We didn't even know each other's last names.
He had my boxer shorts. That was enough.
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