Here's a bit:
“Are all British novels so dreary?” I asked. Being an Anglophile and a lit grad student, I had sought out the only queer British professor in the Research Triangle, hunting him with the dogged determination of a safari guide in Kenya. No one could complain; he was at Duke and I worked at UNC.
“You have to live where the sun shines to be chipper.” He smiled at me, all the angles of his face rearranging themselves into something handsome. There were two kinds of good-looking British men, John would tell me. Mushy ones and sharp ones. He fell on the side of sharp, a little like a young Ralph Fiennes.
I stroked his belly, the skin pale, the muscles defined but not bulky. “I remember the sun going down at like, three in the afternoon when I went to London. Everything closed at sundown.”
John just nodded, smiling a little, his gray eyes flashing an evil mirth. “It’s a government conspiracy. That’s how all the museums stay free.”
He covered my hand with his and pushed it down past the black curls that bloomed below his navel, thickening to a heavy bush around the base of John’s cock. Nothing pale about that bit, rising hard and hot where I wrapped my fingers about it.
“It’s like in Dr. Who,” I murmured. “They make out like all English mothers are bitches.”
“Bah.” His hips rolled in a lazy arc, his dick pushing against my palm. “Stephen King has mommy issues, too.”
“He’s not an entire nation, lover.” I called him lover because I wished for it, for me to mean something to him that I didn’t. I wanted to be literary lovers; not star-crossed, just intensely set on one another.
John seemed more interested in the fucking.