A Lifelong Love by Alp Mortal
Categories: Contemporary Romance | Gay
Word Count: 36,443 Heat Rating: 3 Price: $ .99 Available here:
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Alfie is thirty-five, obsessive, puritanical, compulsive and in dire need of love. He has spent the last ten years restoring his house and his Triumph sports car. Pol is twenty-eight, a road worker, a virgin and obsessed with the 1968 Lamborghini Miura. They meet and fall in love but Pol lives with his grandparents and there are some tests to pass before Alfie has their blessing.
A story of love and sports cars, taking a chance and introducing a virgin to the joys of gay sex. Above all a story of love that can last for a lifetime. I am always very happy to receive your feedback. If you wish to contact me directly, please email me at: [email protected]. Visit the website, alpmortal.weebly.com, for updates on the next gay romantic story or crime thriller which I am working on. Thank you, Alp Mortal |
Chapter One – Waiting is such sweet sorrow
It seemed inanely stupid but the contractor was trying to re-lay the surface of the car park whilst keeping part of it open and it was pandemonium. The car park in question was the one at the big superstore and it was Saturday; inanely stupid but probably the superstore had insisted so that it didn’t have to close. Alfie was sat in the queue waiting to enter. Not that he wanted to go into the superstore but he had a parking space allocated by virtue of working in the community centre opposite and they shared the car park; nor had he any expectations of getting into his space today for it was a free for all.
Time was ticking by and his class started in thirty minutes. He taught basic software skills to groups of ten at a time; mainly wannabee silver surfers. He liked it; the groups were generally very well behaved; he got paid a reasonable amount and he didn’t work in one place all the time. Today it was the community centre, Monday was the library, Wednesday was the college and Thursday was the prison; he had Friday, Sunday and Tuesday off. It made for a disjointed kind of life but he preferred the freedom. On the rare occasions when he did pop into the office at the town hall, for he worked for the Council but his post was funded by the EU, he saw just sad old lifers waiting for their pensions.
He knew at this rate he would be late for the class and so probably would the group. Instead of getting angry, he just put the music on and gazed idly across the car park at the massive lorries dumping their sticky black loads and the men and machines that were spreading it and levelling it before the roller came along; and another section was completed except for the line marking out. It was July and it was hot so he wound the windows down despite the noise and the smell.
He looked down to change the track of the CD and looked back up across the construction site; nothing in front of him had moved for minutes. It was at that point that he saw him.
There was a gang of men spreading the oozy black stuff out as the truck dumped it. One of the men, the youngest, stopped to remove his fluorescent yellow jacket which they all wore, stripped off his tee shirt and re-donned the loose-fitting short-sleeved jacket, taking the opportunity to light a cigarette, all within the space of time it took for the next load to be dumped and he was called upon to rake it level. It wasn’t any of this which captivated Alfie; no, it was the fact that the young man, perhaps in his early twenties, was absolutely perfect in every way.
Now there are cute guys by the truckload and there are exceptionally cute guys by the wheelbarrow load and there are perfect guys who pop up just once in years. Some guys have the perfect physique but are as ugly as dogs and those with the face of a Greek god but the body of a Greek housewife and there are those with perfect ears and the clearest blue eyes and hands that should be playing Chopin rather than digging trenches. This guy was perfect in every way; blonde and his eyes were the most perfect blue. Yet it seemed to Alfie that the chap was completely oblivious to his charms and if anything looked a little awkward and most definitely bored.
The queue moved an inch and then another and twenty-five minutes later, Alfie finally got into the car park. Just as he thought, his space was already being used so he fought like a Spartan for another and was exactly ten minutes late for the class.
He hopped to it and found the classroom empty and a sign on the door saying that due to the car park works opposite, the centre was closed except for walk-in enquiries and would shut at 3pm.
“Why the fuck didn’t they call me?” he bellowed as he stomped out. The young thing on reception had her iPod plugged in and didn’t even look up.
Alfie decided to pop into the superstore as he was there and pick up a few bits which might justify the forty minutes waiting to get parked, but probably not. He grabbed a trolley and despite deftly inserting a pound coin into the slot to release the trolley, the chain wouldn’t budge and he got progressively more irate and then a queue formed behind him. Someone said something.
“You fucking try if you’re so fucking clever!” he boomed, colouring up as red as a beetroot.
The ancient soul gave it a wiggle and the trolley came free.
“There you go, dear, mind how you go ...”
He could have cheerfully throttled the old bint but he was drawing enough attention already. He moved to one side and calmed down, becoming aware that the gang of blokes had stopped to take it all in, including the perfect one, who was just chuckling, showing his perfectly straight teeth which were perfectly and naturally white.
Alfie composed himself and trundled across the car park into the store, looking straight ahead and masking his embarrassment by whistling.
In the store, he ferreted out every product that had the word organic, free range, fair trade, eco’ or green emblazoned across its packaging. No one’s trolley contents screamed quite so loudly that they were thirty-something, single, gay and sex-starved; even the check-out girl, Danielle, looked sorry for him. He paid and packed everything into plain paper bags which of course were one hundred percent biodegradable, and then left.
He exited and made his way to the car. It was less like pandemonium and more like Dante’s Inferno by now - being nearly three o’clock and the peak hour. Then tragedy struck. It wasn’t his fault to be fair. The gang had been none too careful near the very edge of the area where they were spreading and some of the sticky and now hardening surface material had spilled out into the area where they were not working. Alfie wasn’t especially looking where he was going, just heading in the general direction of the car, avoiding the Smart Cars and the Prius Hybrids. The front wheels of the trolley hit a lumpy patch of new asphalt causing the trolley to stop dead and turn, throwing him onto the tarmac along with the trolley which capsized. And there he was ... sprawled out on the sticky tarmac surrounded by his shopping, hands and knees grazed and a nasty little cut above one eye.
He sat up and was too stunned to do much else; unlike everyone else who was gawping, laughing or pointing.
Now you either believe in God or you don’t, hope that you will win the lottery every week or know that you won’t, see your beer glass as half full or half empty. Alfie believed in Universal Power, abhorred the lottery and was instantly sick to the pit of his stomach if he touched beer, in pint or half pint sized glasses; which means that he had absolutely no expectations whatsoever of anyone this side of the Atlantic giving him a hand.
For once he was wrong and a young male voice, possibly belonging to an angel asked, “You alright, fella’?”
Alfie looked up and straight into the face of the perfect one.
“I’m okay, just grazed ...”
“That cut above your eye looks nasty; better get that seen to. I’ll get the Super’,” with which he shot off.
Alfie started to reassemble his shopping and to be honest a few thirty-somethings did lend a hand and for some reason he apologized profusely to all of them. The perfect one arrived back with the Super’ who was carrying the first aid kit; obviously a badge of rank.
Now Alfie knew very well that the contractor was at fault and their negligence could be costly if he made the right kind of fuss but he didn’t want any fuss; only to get his shopping into the car and to get straight home. The Super’ tended to his wounds very expertly and helped him to his feet.
“Thank you,” Alfie said.
“Pol, give the guy a hand with his stuff and get that shit cleared up from the edge.”
Pol grabbed the bags, all of them, and with his perfectly clear blue eyes, asked, without speaking, if he was ready and could he indicate which car was his and could he fucking get on with it?
“It’s just here,” said Alfie, pointing to his immaculate red Triumph Spitfire.
The guy walked over; no, walk didn’t do it justice, a perfect swagger and Alfie was just ahead to get the boot open.
“Nice!”
“She’s perfect and not even ten thousand on the clock.”
“Love old sports cars.”
The boot was open and the young man carefully placed the bags in.
“I’d have the top down all the time,” he said.
“I’ve just washed her so I want her to dry out thoroughly. If I fold the roof away before it’s perfectly dry, it gets marked and starts to go mouldy ...”
Alfie was aware that he must have sounded like a complete twat except the perfect one was absolutely on his page.
“Keep her garaged then?”
“You bet!”
He was peering at everything now, tracing a perfect finger along the rear wing.
“So, Pol, what’s that short for?” asked Alfie, finding his nerve momentarily.
“Apollo.”
“Apollo?”
“Yeah; so, how does she run, can she hit a ton?”
“Ninety-six if you’re lucky but I never take her above seventy; she is thirty-five years old!”
“Looks like new.”
Alfie never chatted guys up, never knew what to say or trusted his bladder should they ever reply in the affirmative; today was perfectly different.
“Well, if you fancy a spin, give me a call and pop round.”
“Really? Love to ... what’s your number?” asked perfectly nonchalantly.
Alfie rummaged for a business card. He was allowed to have them, whereas most Council people didn’t but he was out and about and often the people on the courses which he was running would ask for one so that they could give his number to their friend Mary or Joan or Bill or Albert. He handed it to Pol.
“Thanks; you okay then? ‘Cos I gotta get that shit cleared up before another punter goes arse over and unlike you kicks up a fuss and we have to pay compo ...”
“I’m fine, thank you; call me, so, okay, take it easy, be seeing you.”
“Cheers, Alfie,” Pol said, having quickly glanced at the card.
They parted and Pol headed back to start the edge clearing whilst Alfie drove out aware of Pol’s admiring glances.
He got home and had to wank off immediately; he shot his load in about thirty-five seconds.
It seemed inanely stupid but the contractor was trying to re-lay the surface of the car park whilst keeping part of it open and it was pandemonium. The car park in question was the one at the big superstore and it was Saturday; inanely stupid but probably the superstore had insisted so that it didn’t have to close. Alfie was sat in the queue waiting to enter. Not that he wanted to go into the superstore but he had a parking space allocated by virtue of working in the community centre opposite and they shared the car park; nor had he any expectations of getting into his space today for it was a free for all.
Time was ticking by and his class started in thirty minutes. He taught basic software skills to groups of ten at a time; mainly wannabee silver surfers. He liked it; the groups were generally very well behaved; he got paid a reasonable amount and he didn’t work in one place all the time. Today it was the community centre, Monday was the library, Wednesday was the college and Thursday was the prison; he had Friday, Sunday and Tuesday off. It made for a disjointed kind of life but he preferred the freedom. On the rare occasions when he did pop into the office at the town hall, for he worked for the Council but his post was funded by the EU, he saw just sad old lifers waiting for their pensions.
He knew at this rate he would be late for the class and so probably would the group. Instead of getting angry, he just put the music on and gazed idly across the car park at the massive lorries dumping their sticky black loads and the men and machines that were spreading it and levelling it before the roller came along; and another section was completed except for the line marking out. It was July and it was hot so he wound the windows down despite the noise and the smell.
He looked down to change the track of the CD and looked back up across the construction site; nothing in front of him had moved for minutes. It was at that point that he saw him.
There was a gang of men spreading the oozy black stuff out as the truck dumped it. One of the men, the youngest, stopped to remove his fluorescent yellow jacket which they all wore, stripped off his tee shirt and re-donned the loose-fitting short-sleeved jacket, taking the opportunity to light a cigarette, all within the space of time it took for the next load to be dumped and he was called upon to rake it level. It wasn’t any of this which captivated Alfie; no, it was the fact that the young man, perhaps in his early twenties, was absolutely perfect in every way.
Now there are cute guys by the truckload and there are exceptionally cute guys by the wheelbarrow load and there are perfect guys who pop up just once in years. Some guys have the perfect physique but are as ugly as dogs and those with the face of a Greek god but the body of a Greek housewife and there are those with perfect ears and the clearest blue eyes and hands that should be playing Chopin rather than digging trenches. This guy was perfect in every way; blonde and his eyes were the most perfect blue. Yet it seemed to Alfie that the chap was completely oblivious to his charms and if anything looked a little awkward and most definitely bored.
The queue moved an inch and then another and twenty-five minutes later, Alfie finally got into the car park. Just as he thought, his space was already being used so he fought like a Spartan for another and was exactly ten minutes late for the class.
He hopped to it and found the classroom empty and a sign on the door saying that due to the car park works opposite, the centre was closed except for walk-in enquiries and would shut at 3pm.
“Why the fuck didn’t they call me?” he bellowed as he stomped out. The young thing on reception had her iPod plugged in and didn’t even look up.
Alfie decided to pop into the superstore as he was there and pick up a few bits which might justify the forty minutes waiting to get parked, but probably not. He grabbed a trolley and despite deftly inserting a pound coin into the slot to release the trolley, the chain wouldn’t budge and he got progressively more irate and then a queue formed behind him. Someone said something.
“You fucking try if you’re so fucking clever!” he boomed, colouring up as red as a beetroot.
The ancient soul gave it a wiggle and the trolley came free.
“There you go, dear, mind how you go ...”
He could have cheerfully throttled the old bint but he was drawing enough attention already. He moved to one side and calmed down, becoming aware that the gang of blokes had stopped to take it all in, including the perfect one, who was just chuckling, showing his perfectly straight teeth which were perfectly and naturally white.
Alfie composed himself and trundled across the car park into the store, looking straight ahead and masking his embarrassment by whistling.
In the store, he ferreted out every product that had the word organic, free range, fair trade, eco’ or green emblazoned across its packaging. No one’s trolley contents screamed quite so loudly that they were thirty-something, single, gay and sex-starved; even the check-out girl, Danielle, looked sorry for him. He paid and packed everything into plain paper bags which of course were one hundred percent biodegradable, and then left.
He exited and made his way to the car. It was less like pandemonium and more like Dante’s Inferno by now - being nearly three o’clock and the peak hour. Then tragedy struck. It wasn’t his fault to be fair. The gang had been none too careful near the very edge of the area where they were spreading and some of the sticky and now hardening surface material had spilled out into the area where they were not working. Alfie wasn’t especially looking where he was going, just heading in the general direction of the car, avoiding the Smart Cars and the Prius Hybrids. The front wheels of the trolley hit a lumpy patch of new asphalt causing the trolley to stop dead and turn, throwing him onto the tarmac along with the trolley which capsized. And there he was ... sprawled out on the sticky tarmac surrounded by his shopping, hands and knees grazed and a nasty little cut above one eye.
He sat up and was too stunned to do much else; unlike everyone else who was gawping, laughing or pointing.
Now you either believe in God or you don’t, hope that you will win the lottery every week or know that you won’t, see your beer glass as half full or half empty. Alfie believed in Universal Power, abhorred the lottery and was instantly sick to the pit of his stomach if he touched beer, in pint or half pint sized glasses; which means that he had absolutely no expectations whatsoever of anyone this side of the Atlantic giving him a hand.
For once he was wrong and a young male voice, possibly belonging to an angel asked, “You alright, fella’?”
Alfie looked up and straight into the face of the perfect one.
“I’m okay, just grazed ...”
“That cut above your eye looks nasty; better get that seen to. I’ll get the Super’,” with which he shot off.
Alfie started to reassemble his shopping and to be honest a few thirty-somethings did lend a hand and for some reason he apologized profusely to all of them. The perfect one arrived back with the Super’ who was carrying the first aid kit; obviously a badge of rank.
Now Alfie knew very well that the contractor was at fault and their negligence could be costly if he made the right kind of fuss but he didn’t want any fuss; only to get his shopping into the car and to get straight home. The Super’ tended to his wounds very expertly and helped him to his feet.
“Thank you,” Alfie said.
“Pol, give the guy a hand with his stuff and get that shit cleared up from the edge.”
Pol grabbed the bags, all of them, and with his perfectly clear blue eyes, asked, without speaking, if he was ready and could he indicate which car was his and could he fucking get on with it?
“It’s just here,” said Alfie, pointing to his immaculate red Triumph Spitfire.
The guy walked over; no, walk didn’t do it justice, a perfect swagger and Alfie was just ahead to get the boot open.
“Nice!”
“She’s perfect and not even ten thousand on the clock.”
“Love old sports cars.”
The boot was open and the young man carefully placed the bags in.
“I’d have the top down all the time,” he said.
“I’ve just washed her so I want her to dry out thoroughly. If I fold the roof away before it’s perfectly dry, it gets marked and starts to go mouldy ...”
Alfie was aware that he must have sounded like a complete twat except the perfect one was absolutely on his page.
“Keep her garaged then?”
“You bet!”
He was peering at everything now, tracing a perfect finger along the rear wing.
“So, Pol, what’s that short for?” asked Alfie, finding his nerve momentarily.
“Apollo.”
“Apollo?”
“Yeah; so, how does she run, can she hit a ton?”
“Ninety-six if you’re lucky but I never take her above seventy; she is thirty-five years old!”
“Looks like new.”
Alfie never chatted guys up, never knew what to say or trusted his bladder should they ever reply in the affirmative; today was perfectly different.
“Well, if you fancy a spin, give me a call and pop round.”
“Really? Love to ... what’s your number?” asked perfectly nonchalantly.
Alfie rummaged for a business card. He was allowed to have them, whereas most Council people didn’t but he was out and about and often the people on the courses which he was running would ask for one so that they could give his number to their friend Mary or Joan or Bill or Albert. He handed it to Pol.
“Thanks; you okay then? ‘Cos I gotta get that shit cleared up before another punter goes arse over and unlike you kicks up a fuss and we have to pay compo ...”
“I’m fine, thank you; call me, so, okay, take it easy, be seeing you.”
“Cheers, Alfie,” Pol said, having quickly glanced at the card.
They parted and Pol headed back to start the edge clearing whilst Alfie drove out aware of Pol’s admiring glances.
He got home and had to wank off immediately; he shot his load in about thirty-five seconds.
