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Melting Pot
By Alp Mortal
Chapter One - Hungry or Hungary?
“Line up the eight pins and the four pegs and push together until they snap tight ... you’ve only got four thousand to do before five o’clock. Happy days!”
A supervisor with that kind of enthusiasm needs a medal ... or a lobotomy.
I am grateful beyond words, but no one, least of all me, would have envisaged yours truly working in a factory making widgets; needs must. Laura at the agency said it was going to be ‘okay’, and they pay above minimum with plenty of overtime on offer.
Things are looking up; I only found and killed seven cockroaches in the bedsit last night, and next door turned the music down at 1 a.m. If I don’t die of starvation, or asphyxiation - the supervisor’s BO could strip the rubber from insulated wire - or sleep deprivation, and if I am spared the horrors of working in Despatch and manage to escape Maureen’s clutches - she collects queers like some people collect teddy bears - I may just see this through to the bitter end and wake up one morning, knowing I can finally get at my pension - such as it is - and bugger off to Uruguay to teach English.
The path to enlightenment is long, winding. and pitted, and bears a striking resemblance to this conveyor belt.
“Align and snap!”
“Yes, Sharon! ... There were three thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine widgets on a wall, and if one widget should accidentally fall, there will be ...”
There is something strangely meditative about this process. Everyone else looks vacant too.
“Hungry ...”
The voice, which sounds like a chocolate éclair - comes from behind me. I dare not look round for fear of missing my snap. A widget without a snap is a reject report, and fifteen minutes in Sharon’s office, where even the cactus is wilting.
“Hungry?”
“No; H-u-n-g-a-r-y.”
“Never been there.”
“No; I am from Hungary.”
“Lovely ... Can’t turn round.”
“Daniel - in Despatch ... You school me English, yes? You post on staffroom board, yes?”
“Yes, I did. Uhm ... See you at lunchtime?”
“Okay cakey ... Bye!”
I did post an advert - why not? I asked first, and the woman in HR said that most of the migrant workers, especially the temporary staff, almost all fail the comprehension test. They get taken on anyway because no one else - except me - is prepared to work for three pence above minimum wage for the pleasure of getting a repetitive strain injury.
“FUCK!”
I snapped too hard - REJECT!
oOo
“Sorry, Sharon; it won’t happen again, Sharon.”
Gasp!
“Overtime if you want it-”
“I want!”
Please not in Despatch.
“Fine. Five to seven in Despatch.”
You fucking whore!
“Thank you; all my dreams came true.”
“You’re weird; fuck off.”
I head to lunch - well; the smoking den, and find Hungary, vaping.
“Got overtime tonight; what about tomorrow?”
“Okay. My name is Milan, like the city.”
“My name is Pyt - with a Y!”
“Can you do Starbuck’s in Newport tomorrow at ten o’clock for two hours?”
“Sure - ten pounds an hour; less if you book more.”
“Okay. I have done course but-”
“You need the practice?”
“Yes; no one at home speaks English if they do not have to do it.”
“All too common a mistake. Are you working tonight?”
“Yes; rush order. You drive?”
“Yes.”
“You give me lift when we through; last bus already gone; okay?”
“No worries ... Why did you move here?”
“The work is good and the pay is excellent.”
“Better than Hungary?”
“Long hours and small pay and expensive flat - I lived in capital. You know Budapest?”
“Never been. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Easy work; just packing and getting boxes ready for the morning ... See you later, okay?”
“Okey dokey ...”
oOo
I snapped and narrowly avoided another REJECT report, finishing up at five o’clock only then to be informed that overtime starts straightaway and I have no break.
“I fill boxes; you stack boxes, yes?”
“Whatever you say, Milan; I’m dogged tired and couldn’t actually give a flying fuck.”
It appears to be just us doing overtime here; everyone else has sensibly gone home. It’s Friday; the youngsters are out on the pull; those who’ve pulled are in with the telly and pizza, and those like me are working overtime.
Fortunately, Daniel is a worker, which means, he works and doesn’t faff or stop every five minutes to talk about some rubbish on the telly. The two hours actually fly.
“Where am I dropping you?” I ask as we grab our stuff from our lockers.
“Do you know old holiday park where they rent out the chalets?”
“Atherfield?”
“That’s it - there, please. I am very, very grateful.”
“No worries ... You still want a lesson tomorrow?”
“Yes; have to pass my tests ... You are teacher?”
“Only TEFL - I used to be a software trainer ... Why did you come to the island and not the mainland?”
A momentary hiccup and I wonder why he’s hesitating. Thinking he is attempting to find a word, I am surprised when he says, “I followed a boy from Budapest - this was going to be our thing, you know? But he left soon after we got here and by then I had the job and somewhere to stay ... I stay to forget him. I think he went back home.”
Nothing like an honest heartbreak to open up a few old scars - how many boys have I followed, hoping it was Shangri-La and not bust? It was always bust.
“I’m sorry ...”
Silence as our journey gets underway. It’s twenty-five minutes to the camp - tell me why I agreed to drive completely out of my way. I flick the radio on to ease the silence, which is companionable enough but I would prefer not to hear his heartstrings twanging.
Is there anything more painful than the break-up with the one?
“How old are you?”
Do not ask that question, you cunt!
“Me? ... Fifty-four ...”
I don’t wish to know how old he is - I am not that old but I am of a certain age, and I am feeling like a fish in a pool, that realises that the drought is nowhere near its end, and my sorry arse few inches are very soon going to have dried up before the rainy season.
“I am twenty-three ... I have a degree in mechanical engineering, and I pack - how you say widgets? - and live in a box smaller than my old bedroom.”
“Work hard, pass your tests, save your money and move on?”
“Yes; that is plan ... It is so tough! I am ungrateful, sorry.”
“Don’t be; sounds like you need to chill out.”
“Why are you not sorted?”
“Oh-”
“Sorry; I have a big mouth - my Anya says I ask too many questions.”
“A-n-y-a?”
“M-o-t-h-e-r ...”
“You miss her?”
“Yes ...”
“Why am I not sorted? Because I lost my job, and it’s hard to get another job - a good job in IT - at my age ... I have one year until I can retire. What about your father?”
“He died a long time ago ... I miss him. He was an engineer - like I want to be. He build houses - we say panelház ... like apartment buildings. I want to build turbines.”
“Panelház ... I know that word - I studied urban development at University. I wanted to build a new society ... I always was a dreamer.”
“You and my papa would make good team!”
We laugh but the underscore is painful - I missed the boat, the plane and the train. I never could - can - quite get the plan straight in my head before it is just seconds too late. Someone said go to Singapore after I graduated - I didn’t think there was anything there for me. Look at it now.
We draw up to the campsite.
“Ten o’clock tomorrow then, yeah?”
“Yes ... You want to come in for a drink?”
Do I? It’s seven-thirty and I’m famished. There will be no hot water for a shower by the time I get back. The kitchen will resemble a bombsite. The lounge will be full of stoned Bob Dylan wannabees. I swear I will shove that guitar up Seb’s arse before too much longer. The cockroaches will be readying themselves for another battle royale, and next door will no doubt be winding up the stereo to the max because it’s the weekend!!
“I could murder a cup of tea ...”
“Meaning?”
“I could literally kill for a cup of tea ... You’ll hear it a lot.”
“English is so weird ...”
I remember this camp. I don’t remember its heyday back in the 50s and 60s. A typical Butlins-style camp. These days, the entertainment centre has been demolished but I notice that the swimming pool is still in use. To be honest, I thought they had condemned this place years ago.
“I am lucky; I do not have to share. Sorry; you have coins for the meter? I have no coins.”
“Oh; sure ...” I hand over four, pound coins. “What about the fridge?”
“Not working. I use UHT milk - you want tea?”
“Yes, please ...”
The minuscule box is dominated by the bed, but at least there is a separate sofa. No TV. The kitchenette is no more fancy than a double base unit with a shelf over.
“I microwave leftover stew - bogrács, we say. It is beef - you eat meat?”
“Occasionally - uhm; thank you.”
“No problem - I am very, very hungry.”
“Starving - you could say starving or famished.”
“You teach me already!”
I have found in all my lives and travels that sharing food is the easiest and best way to get to know people.
Stew - more gristle than actual meat; bread - actually, lángos, and a continental beer. My mood, which was taking a nosedive, is suddenly on the up until I am asked, “You are alone, Pyt?”
“Do you mean single?”
“Yes ...”
“Yes ... I, like you, followed a boy, and sort of got lost ... Sorry; too poetic.”
“Boys are stupid.”
“Sometimes ... but you know other people here, yeah? And back home?”
“Friends, yes ... no one special - not like him. My friend, Agnes - she is a nurse and she make the stew - she says to forget him. I try. I am happier now.”
I am full and much happier than I was when the prospect of the evening ahead was no more enticing than clipping toenails and trimming nasal hair.
“Can I smoke?”
“Of course ... I try and quit but it is so hard. I have more beer or pálinka?”
“P-a-l-i-n-k-a?”
“Spirit - fruit brandy - very strong. I give you a little to try.”
POW!
“Holy fuck; that’s got a kick.”
“More?”
“No! I have to drive home.”
“You stay. No drive. Start lesson early after swim - sound good?”
What are you; a demon? No; a drug dealer, dealing in sound good.
“Stay?”
“Why not?”
“Uhm ... I don’t have a toothbrush or any clean clothes ...”
And for the first time, he looks like the fifty-four-year-old and I sound like that shy, twentysomething virgin I once was.
“I have spare brush, and I can give you a tee shirt - don’t go.”
Oh, dear god.
“Really?”
“Why not? ... Please.”
Chapter Two - Mission Impossible?
No angst. No worries. No frowns. No doubts. No issues. No fucking problem?!
There is no putting off the moment any longer. But, I am so tired. Maybe he will be too.
“Take shower if you want; I too tired.”
“Me too. I’ll just clean my teeth.”
“I get you brush ...”
The little bathroom - which is a newish extension, albeit, just a box - is surprisingly clean and modern. And a sanctuary for a few minutes.
The mirror never lies.
I was young once - this is undeniable. Maybe I was beautiful once too - this is the subject of conjecture. I used to have a body like his - honed through team sports like hockey, also running, and tennis. I had long hair that curled at the ends; highlighted of course. I had a cock that I wielded like Excalibur once someone - was it Derek? - had shown me how it worked.
These days, the edifice is sadly eroded - maybe not quite in the same league as a medieval gargoyle yet. The thatch is greying and only by virtue of keeping it trimmed are the silver threads somewhat camouflaged. The cock neither rises so high, nor stays as hard nor produces the volume that it once did.
Old habits die hard and I give everything a quick wash.
Confidence. You would think by now that I would have it in spades and be selling off the surplus. I used to be confident but the knockbacks take their toll. Then, this is just a fuck, and what could be simpler - nothing should be more enjoyable, should it?
Returning to the main room, I find him seated at the little table, texting.
“I have to say goodnight to Anya or she worries ... Okay!”
He looks up and smiles, robbing me of any last shred of confidence I thought I had. This is sordid. I am old enough to be his father - I am older than his mother!
“This is kinda weird, isn’t it?” I suggest, seeing as we met for the first time about nine hours ago. I used to fuck boys his age when I was his age, after getting tanked in a Soho pub. Rolling back to his or my bedsit, we had no qualms - we had no clue. We fucked because we could.
I think he will probably fuck me because my soldier point-blank refuses to stand to attention. He, on the other hand, is sporting impressive wood.
In stepping across the tiny space, he reaches out to enclose me in his arms, automatically tilting his head to invite a kiss on his lips.
“Why weird? It is nice ... Are you top or bottom?”
“Oh, fuck; I don’t know ... versatile?”
“Awesome. I wanna fuck you because I tried it once before and I liked it - Andris was a total top.”
“The boy you followed here?”
“Yeah ... Kiss me.”
The kiss is such a beautiful thing. More intimate than just screwing. But I assume he wants none of the preludes, none of the nuzzling or nibbling, and dive straight in with the big guns.
“More gentle; I like to kiss ... We lie down?”
Has it been that long that I have forgotten how to seduce?
I want this; I so want this. To be wanted - in the here and now and not in dreams. To be kissed and touched and groped and licked and sucked - and fucked. This shrinking from the light, from reality, is a malaise of our generation - so many hang-ups, so much baggage, and such lofty ideals - why does sex have to equate to love. Sex is not dirty or cheap or wrong - sex is good; sex is healthy, and sex is fun.
“Oh, yeah; finger me ... Andris always said I was too tight; I made him cum too fast. You not getting hard but that’s okay because I wanna fuck you ... Turn over ...”
His script is simple - barely a string of one-liners. My script is neatly typed and bound, with chapter headings and staging notes. My lines are highlighted. I can’t keep up. There is too much to process. I am swamped. I cannot get above or around this sensation. I do not know what to do with my hands ... until he guides them and invites me to fondle his arse.
“You are shaking.”
“I’m nervous ... It’s been a long time.”
“I will suck you ...”
When his head is bobbing between my legs, then and only then do I start to relax and feel present - no longer a balloon that someone has let slip from their fingers, which they watch as it climbs higher and higher, hoping it doesn’t pop.
“You suck me,” he demands, adding, “I am leaking - oh shit.”
Suddenly, the aches and pains are forgotten. My spine will pay for this tomorrow but for now, I will be that boy, who was chased. I will be the one. I contort myself to fulfil his needs - my needs.
Before I know it, my legs are in the air and he is buried to the hilt. You don’t need to be a translator to decipher the lingo. Instinctively, I am pulling him in - the need to be possessed, to be taken must be written in our DNA.
“I don’t want to cum yet ...”
He withdraws and before I can complain, I am flipped and he is lapping at my ring. When he moves to penetrate me again, I reach beneath myself and grab his beautiful balls.
“Oh, yeah!”
To be honest, I am in pain - the exquisite pain. His erect cock has a delicate curve to it; one that ensures that I feel every thrust and pulverizing impact. And yet still I can’t get hard but I am close to orgasming.
“I’m gonna cum!”
“Me too ... Baszik!”
Which I take to mean ‘fuck!’
And weirdly, even though my cock is flapping around like an octopus’ tentacle, I am producing the load of all motherloads.
When we are in recovery, and sweetly, in each other’s arms, he says something that I find both incredibly funny and very touching.
“Küldetés teljesítve ...”
“What does that mean?”
“ ... Mission accomplished ...”
Chapter Three - What is stopping you?
I cannot remember the last time I woke up in someone else’s bed, and that someone was still in it and pressed up against me. I hope I didn’t snore too loudly.
A warm body in my arms is a luxury like no other.
So often we ignore the little things in our quest to reach the prize, trampling to death those who would help us if we could but pay attention for five seconds.
One of my arms in buried beneath the pillow and has actually gone dead. The other is draped across his torso and my fingertips are grazing his side where the skin is supernaturally soft. Without an invitation - he’s asleep, judging by the soft hiss that is escaping from between his lips - I allow my hand to slide down so that it rests on his hip. He stirs and mumbles something but remains asleep. His cock is achingly close. It cannot be ignored. Risking waking him up, I cup him as best I can; his balls are hanging low and his cock is fat but not yet erect - more than a handful. Kneading the mass of his sex gently, I am rewarded when he begins to harden and leak, making my palm slick.
“... Popsi ...”
A term of endearment? Assuming so, I knead a little harder, readying myself to dive in.
“... B-a-s-z-i-k ...”
Obviously, I have found the spot.
“Fuck me ...”
Turning within my arms, he thrusts his arse up a little and opens his legs up a little wider.
Seriously?
I am hard, and before I can think about it, and wilt in the process, I lube up and shuffle into position. His peach of an arse is as inviting as anything I can imagine.
Here goes!
“You are careful - not like Andris ... F-u-c-k ...”
He’s as tight as a duck’s arse and I would have done better to have eased him open with my fingers first. I can’t believe this will last more than two minutes.
An unintelligible string of what I can only assume are expletives, issues from his mouth as one continuous stream of sound, rising and falling in pitch with my measured thrusts.
If I think about widgets, maybe I’ll last three or even four minutes.
“P-y-t ...”
He remembers my name.
“How’s that?”
“Fucking awesome - just bang away; I’m gonna cum.”
Bringing him off hands-free while pumping a load into his arse is so far from the usual story. A strangulated, mutual wank with a guy my own age, seated on a lumpy bed in a dingy bedsit is what this should have been.
The surge is quick when it comes; brought on by his twerking. I bang as hard as I can muster, relinquishing any control, focussing on my sole aim, which is to dump my load. The sound of my heart thumping in my ears is deafening.
“FUCK!”
Actually, that was him and not me; I release just as he tenses at the end of his climax - he clenched so hard, I was afraid that he was going clip me off at the root of my cock like it was a cigar.
oOo
I want to lie here in his bed, inhaling the smell of his sex for the rest of my life. The unmistakable and indescribable scent pervades everything. That mix of wine - a mellow red, nothing vinegary ... a warm herb like thyme but underpinned by lemon balm ... latex and talc ... tobacco ... coffee ... walnut ... Manuka ... wood and grass ... and yet, if you brought all those things together, you still wouldn’t quite have it.
I don’t want to wash my hands for fear of replacing it - certainly not with anything as astringent as soap. I licked his cock clean once I had withdrawn and caught my breath and he had flipped over, failing miserably to suppress a dirty big grin.
He’s making coffee - sauntering around naked, flashing me an eyeful of cock or bum as he turns this way and that.
He is beautiful, of that there is no mistake. Slim and toned; unashamedly sexy without really knowing it. His hair is mussed up - he wore it under a baseball cap at the factory; last night, he let it down - a mass of black springs. Now it looks like a nest of squawking, flapping ravens. The piercing, blue eyes are heavily lidded - the purple-ish smudges beneath his eyes tell a tale of too many late nights, playing hard.
“Here ... Careful; very hot.”
“Thank you ...”
“You are smiling ...”
I am - in fact, my cheeks ache because of it - from that and sucking cock and balls.
“... You want to swim? It costs nothing.”
“Maybe in a while ... Do you still want to have a lesson?”
“Yes ... We are wasting our time.”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you want to be a teacher, and I want to build turbines ... and we work in that factory, getting nowhere.”
“But we have our plans; things always take longer than you think but if they are right then they are worth waiting for.”
“You are right; I am impatient ...”
Reluctantly, after a coffee, we head to the pool. I borrow a pair of shorts which, being two sizes too small, leave nothing to the imagination, especially when they get wet.
“You are really sexy ...”
Did he hit his head on the bottom; inhale too much chlorine?
“Seriously?”
“You are ... I want to do it again before you have to leave ...”
I have checked out of reality. Very soon, I will wake up and find that it was all a dream. I will be in my own, lumpy bed, which smells faintly of piss, in my box with its peeling wallpaper, and be welcomed by my intrusion of cockroaches - yes; they even have their own collective noun. The bathroom will resemble the deck of the Titanic before she slipped under the waves. The kitchen will have the appearance of a bomb site. Seb’s cohorts will be strewn throughout the lounge. The stench of booze, body odour, and dope will drive me out of the house, and I will spend the day mooching in second-hand book and charity shops. The early evening will be dominated by the choice of either pizza or burger and chips. The middle part of the evening will be spent watching a film on my laptop in my room. Somewhere around eleven o’clock, I will switch off the light, pop in my earplugs and hope that no one throws up outside my bedroom door.
“Pyt?”
“Sorry ...”
After a few more lengths, we head back to the chalet and bump into Agnes, Daniel’s friend, who is the nurse.
“Hi, Daniel!”
The tone says - who is this; did you sleep together; what the fuck?!
“Hello, Agnes ... Please let me introduce Pyt - he is a teacher.”
“Oh ... I need lessons - everyone needs lessons ...”
I am not known for my timing; opportunity knocks but usually, I am deaf to the call. However, this is one of those rare occasions when the gods stop frolicking and look down and smile, and when the planets align, and even the tectonic plates take a breather.
“Do they?”
“Everyone ...”
Half of the inmates of the camp work at the factory; the other work at the salad farm, getting roasted in the greenhouses as they pick tomatoes and lettuce. Most come from Poland; a handful from Hungary.
An endless supply of enthusiastic students, with brains like sponges, and possessing that all too rare commodity - motivation.
“... How much do you charge?”
“Oh ... ten pounds an hour - less if you book a block.”
“Would you do a small group?”
“Sure!”
“Fuck; I’m gonna be late for my shift - Daniel has my number - call me!”
“Okay ...”
Daniel sees the look on my face and asks, “What do you think?”
“Why go to Uruguay to teach when I could do it right here.”
oOo
Before any of that, there is the all-important task of getting hard enough to poke Daniel again, who is desperate, he says. Having taken the time to learn a little about what he likes, and finding myself more relaxed than I can remember, I take charge, first suggesting a massage.
“This stuff?” I query, picking a bottle up from the shelf in the bathroom as we dry off after our shower to rid ourselves of the smell of chlorine.
“Andris left it behind ... I used to massage him after a workout when we went to the gym ...”
“Why did he leave?”
“I do not know for sure ... I think he got scared; maybe he was homesick. His loss.”
I get the impression that Daniel doesn’t really want to talk about Andris. We pad through to the main room.
“Lie down ...”
I drop a little oil into my hands and massage his neck quite firmly as I get comfortable. Kneeling astride his thighs, I can’t help but feast my eyes on his physique - a quiet strength, encased in the softest, silkiest skin. This doesn’t feel very sexual; this is more a celebration of something - a meeting of minds and bodies? The shells may be different but we are the same species. I have been guilty of being that crab; a hard shell and sharp pincers, keeping all-comers at bay, not risking - especially in the last ten years - my soft parts. The harder the shell has become, the greater the disconnect.
“My back is sore ...”
“Too much lifting; and I don’t suppose you bend your knees like you should ...”
His reply comes in the form of a grunt and a long exhale.
“Just relax ...”
I’m no masseur but everyone can do a half-decent job. Pretty soon, he’s like Plasticine beneath my hands.
“That feels so good ...”
Skirting his peachy rump, I shuffle back and concentrate on the backs of his legs, all the way down to his knees, and then his calves. As a treat, I massage the in-steps of his feet, which are high like mine and probably sore because they always are if you’re on your feet all day and wear cheap trainers.
“Don’t stop ...”
As much as I want to carry on, I cannot ignore the perfect buttocks that are achingly close to my hands, my slicked up hands. Firm strokes up and down the backs of his legs bring about a more urgent request, “Pyt; fuck me!”
All in good time. Firstly, I knead the bubble-ish cheeks, prising them apart to feast on the button that is nestling deep within his cleft. I have to kiss it.
“P-y-t ... B-a-z-s-i-k - oh, dude!”
A gentle lapping gets him to the squirming stage. A firm fingering locks in the tension. It’s like winding up a clockwork toy.
Before he can say anything, I lever back, shuffle up and plant my cock within that valley, sliding it up and down to get myself nicely oiled. My balls are tightening and rising; my glans has turned to glass. It’s now or never.
“Say a-r-g-h ...”
“Dork ... A-a-r-r-g-g-h-h .... j-e-s-u-s-c-h-r-i-s-t ...”
Penetrating him is the work of a few seconds.
The issue will not be trying to last a little bit longer than last time. The issue is going to be stopping at all.
Chapter Four - Conveyor Belts
“These sheets stink - we stink!”
Unmistakable and indescribable. Worthy of a poem.
Somehow, it is Sunday afternoon.
“Are you hungry?”
“F-a-m-i-s-h-e-d ... Is that right?”
“Perfect. Let’s go out ...”
“What about a shower first?”
“As long as we fuck again later; I want your smell on my hands all night - and all day tomorrow.”
“You propose the plan to the lady in HR?”
“You bet. It’s brilliant ... C’mon!”
We slowly put ourselves together, extracting our limbs from the tangle of sheets - they reek.
Once showered, we head out and make for the pub up the road.
With a decent ale in our glasses, we toast the future.
“The plan!”
“The plan!”
It was sparked by a stray comment about rent. I pay four hundred a month all in. Daniel pays the same, except his doesn’t include electricity. I think he gets a better deal than me because he doesn’t have to share with the Addams Family - and said as much.
“Move here ...”
“What do you mean?”
“There are empty chalets - some have separate bedroom ...”
“But I’d be paying about the same - not that these aren’t better than the bedsit - and I’d have a longer drive ...”
“What if we share?”
“Share?”
“Get bigger chalet; share the rent. You have ready classes; I save for the course I want after I pass my I-E-L-T-S.”
“Share just the chalet?”
“We both have bed; we fuck whenever we want. No pressure; just fun.”
Does a fifty-four-year-old ex-IT consultant deserve that kind of fun?
Where’s the catch; there’s always a catch.
“Exclusive?”
“Maybe ... It won’t be forever, Pyt ...”
No; you will leave and I will be left behind but you were always destined to leave and I have my choices too ... even if it is just mutual wanks with retirees. However, I have learned something about myself over the last forty-eight hours; I’m desirable on some level. He is beautiful; I feel beautiful. It wells up inside me without warning, and I find myself smiling and I want to dance about - of course I’m fucking proud of myself!
There used to be a TV show called the Generation Game - how appropriate. At the end of the show, the winners got shown prizes, which would trundle past them on a conveyor belt. They took home all the prizes they could remember.
I only ever remembered the cuddly toy - something to hold and love.
If I can hold him and in my own way, love him, I will be a winner.
“Let’s do it. And I’ll teach you to drive.”
“Really? This is gonna be fucking awesome.”
Maybe I’m deluding myself. Perhaps this is downright sleazy. If his reputation can take it I pretty sure mine can too - who am I really trying to impress? No one, actually.
oOo
The site manager - a bored prick by the name of Darren - is clearly trying to find a rule that means that we can’t share. In failing, and in having to fill out forms, his face takes on the appearance of a slapped arse.
His final dig is when he informs us that, “I will need a further deposit and a month’s rent in advance.”
“Less the deposit you already hold and, presumably, it will be just the difference in the rent as Daniel has already paid, yeah?”
“I suppose so ... When will you and Daniel be moving in?”
“Now!”
With a key to a one bedroom chalet - which also has a patio - we saunter back to pack up Daniel’s few things.
“Did you see the look on his face?”
“I did; jealous as fuck, I’d say ... I’ll collect my stuff after work tomorrow; I can’t face it right now.”
“I wanna fuck ...”
Am I just the hole of convenience or can he really be interested in me?
Does anyone care, and in any event, in a hundred years - or more likely a hundred days, no one will remember anything anyway.
“Yeah ... me too.”
Chapter Five - All comes to he who waits
We share the chalet. We both have a bed but more often than not, we share that too. We fuck whenever we want - mostly each other but exclusivity is unrealistic. I don’t have the stamina or the repertoire. We fuck each other bareback but play safe with everyone else. And I have my other fuck buddy too - Christian - a driver for the salad firm, who is forty and more on my wavelength. He took lessons - 1:1 - and took me.
Daniel is readying himself for his tests - he’ll pass.
I am as busy as fuck with lessons all week. Occasionally, I do overtime in Despatch.
I’ve lost weight; due mainly to swimming every day ... and banging every night - who wouldn’t?
I’ve upgraded my paltry wardrobe.
I taught Daniel how to drive.
Will this last? No.
Do I care? No.
When the savings hit their target, I am off to Singapore.
Am I happy? Yes.
Not like a man, dying of thirst in the desert, who comes across an oasis; not that kind of happy. Not a lottery winner type of happy. There was no eureka moment; no splash. More like ... a veil was lifted - layers of gauze stripped away one by one. The emergent scene not unlike Shangri-La - as I imagine it. Quietly content; madly in lust with Daniel; possibly madly in love with Christian. Every day in class is satisfying - and very rewarding when a student passes their tests.
Being fifty-four and a half, I am relationship counsellor, guru, sometimes a dad, sometimes an angry dad, sometimes a clown, sometimes a teacher ... Mostly, I am a student. I thought there was nothing a twenty-four-year-old could teach me - I was so wrong. I don’t mean stuff like cooking beef stew or downloading apps onto my phone. I mean, who better to teach me how to live my life than someone who is living theirs? Someone who has goals, energy, honest fear, naivety, and an ever-questioning mind - the perfect foil to the crab I had become.
“Pyt!”
And someone who bursts through doors - when was the last time you burst through a door?
“Daniel ...”
“I have job - Noordoostpolder!”
“Oh my god ... OH MY GOD!!!!!”
Only one of the largest wind farms in the Netherlands - I helped him fill in the forms. I tried to forget about it. This sudden ache in my chest is proof enough that I am still alive.
“I go in four weeks ...”
“You’ll have to learn a little bit of Dutch but I expect they all speak English ...”
“Four weeks, Pyt ...”
“I heard you ... Plenty of time to get organised.”
“You are such a doofus!”
“What?”
“Four bloody weeks left with you!”
A hug and a kiss restore the balance; at least, partly.
“Gonna fucking miss you like crazy!”
“I’m going to miss you too ... but you won’t be a million miles away.”
“Singapore is ...”
“Dan-”
“No; I was the one who said this wouldn’t last forever ... Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me ... We’re even.”
“ ... Eighty-four fucks - three times a day for twenty-eight days equals eighty-four.”
“Twice as many on the weekend ...”
“So fucking gonna miss you!”
“Come here ...”
Over the course of the months that we have lived together, I have learned so much about him. He misses his dad terribly. He gets angry with his mum because she isn’t his dad although she tries to fill the void. He wishes he had a brother. He hates Andris for abandoning him when it was Andris’ idea to leave Budapest in the first place. He is so intelligent, I am left speechless. His wants the world to be powered by clean energy. Unlike me - and most people, actually - he plans to do something positive about it, and build wind farms. Finds the idea of finding the one, getting married, and settling down to have a family to be the most natural thing in the world. There will be two dogs in the picture. He believes being gay is like being dark-haired or Hungarian or a Sagittarius - it is just how you are. He would like everyone to love each other. He would particularly like Darius in Goods In to notice him. He hasn’t got a clue about anything pre-1995 unless it involves Star Wars or The Cure - we are in total agreement about the importance of both to civilisation.
He wasn’t the chick I found abandoned, rescued, and reared by hand, that I am about to set free - although, in some ways, we are setting each other free. I did not buy him like a puppy from the shop. He is that animal - a bird, maybe a squirrel, or a fox or a badger or a hedgehog, that comes into the garden and accepts the food I put down - wild but curious. I will always remember him as wild and curious.
For now, he is very much in my reality - not yet a memory, and it will be a bittersweet one. For now, I have to convince him that this is cool, we are okay, that it will work out just fine, just like it was destined to; that we are not sad, not even a little bit heartbroken and not in the slightest bit bothered that we will, in all likelihood, never see each other again.
For now, we need to make love.
His lips have never tasted sweeter; never felt so soft. His tongue was never so ardent - like an extension of his fingertips. His eyes are piercing blue but tonight they glisten rather than glint. His cheeks taste salty but I will ignore the cause, and grip his right ear lobe between my lips and massage it until I feel his toes curl. And as I nuzzle in behind that lobe, sensing his jaw slacken as a smile creeps across his face, I will, with one hand, grab a fistful of his hair and pull backwards to expose his throat, which I will kiss until the quickening of his pulse and the sharp intake of breath suggests we had better pretty soon get down to business.
Clothes get discarded without any hesitation - all those early and painful body comparisons and my performance anxiety have long since been banished. We fit together like a well-worn and trusted gadget - something you take camping - like a fold-out picnic set - that performs a vital but largely unnoticed function, which gets disassembled at the end of the trip and packed flat and pushed under the bed. He grabs me and I grab him - side-on and cock-to-cock, we establish our circuitry. Who will fuck first? I have an itch that only he can scratch. I want his weight on my back, I want his cock buried deep in my arse, and I want my hole set alight and for the exquisite pain never to end. I want the damp tips of his curls to graze my neck, and for the drops of sweat that roll off his brow to pool in the small of my back, and for his fingertips to leave marks on my shoulders where he gripped tightly.
I can now detect his scent - that noxious smell of cardboard on his hands partly eroded by his vape flavour of choice - apple-mint - encapsulated in a day-old bubble of cotton tee shirt, denim jeans, socks and trainers, and those pants that I wouldn’t use as a rag but which he loves - the crotch is always slightly damp from his sweat, and the pouch is a crucible of pre-cum and Lenor.
I picture him thrusting - quickly and cleanly - like some perpetual engine - and every in-bound thrust is teamed with a clenching of those peachy buttocks - firmer than ever, having propelled him up and down the pool forty times a day for the last six months. And every thrust and every clench is accompanied by a grunt - a tight, dry u-g-g ... occasionally, punctuated by a fulsome f-u-c-k or a languid j-e-s-u-s.
“Turn over ...”
Here it comes. I frantically grab for those pants, which I press to my nose so I can inhale the reek of his sex as he pumps out a load. That’s really just the start. Using his cum as lube, he sleeves me for a while, until I am really hard. Knowing I can’t last, he will shuffle forward, plant himself on my prong, and ride until I cum, at which point, I usually curl forward, embrace him and pull him down so we can kiss as we roll about in the surf of the post-fuck bliss, which will often end with a nap.
oOo
“Coffee?”
“Yeah; thanks.”
He always makes the coffee. So intent on the task that he forgets that he is naked. His junk sways about like an elephant’s trunk; one I will suck to a state of hardness and invite to penetrate me again.
I was afraid that it would become all-too competitive - or actually, routine ... I needn’t have worried because every fuck feels like the first. My nervousness doesn’t paralyze me any more - I still get nervous, an excited kind of nervousness, which makes my cock twitch and my ring throb. We take the coffee and smoke a cigarette at the dining room table, not really talking, maybe sharing a stray thought or two while we bring our pans of juices back to the boil.
Christian has no idea what lies in store for him once Daniel has left and we commence our explorations proper. I expect he’ll move in.
The fact that I can share this with Daniel, and the fact that he has no hesitation in relaying the dirty thoughts that run through his head as he imagines fucking Darius’ throat, who can, allegedly, deep throat a twelve-incher, tell me that our futures are secure. He says I am a slut but it’s a badge I will wear with pride.
“I won’t forget you, Pyt ...”
His tone is unnervingly serious, and one that doesn’t usually feature between rounds one and two.
“I won’t forget you either - and I promise to stay in touch ...”
“You can come and visit once I get sorted ...”
“And you can come and visit me in Singapore ...”
Both scenarios seem unlikely - and these are not the words I want to hear; they herald separation. You know that, if you apply a plaster to a cut, there is going to be that moment when you have to pull it off - who wants to think about that until it is absolutely necessary?
Our cuts have healed - pretty much. There is no value in keeping the plaster on if you don’t need it.
That said; new skin is more sensitive.
“... Let’s just make the most of the next month, yeah?”
“Absolutely!”
I want to say ‘Dude; chill. This was never gonna be anything else. It’s been fucking great but it’s time to get on with your life’... except, that feels a little hollow.
I deflect in asking, “Have you told, Anya?”
“I will tonight when I text her ...”
“She’s gonna be so happy for you ...” I know she will be; I would be if he was my son. “Your dad would have been so proud-”
Ah; the dam has finally burst. I should have known better than to think that it wouldn’t burst at some point.
“Shush ... It’s okay; just let it all out ...”
“I miss him so fucking much ...”
“I know ...”
I’ll hold him for as long as it takes; who else can? My dad wasn’t remotely interested in anything I planned to do - not after the big coming out. I’ve learned to make all my own decisions - not always the right ones ... but I have, and I have never looked for any reassurance, knowing none would be forthcoming. I was afraid it made me too distant - unemotional. I mean, the emotions were always there just never on display.
He wants his dad, and he wants his dad to be proud of what he’s achieved. As difficult as it is to admit, I want the same things too. Something else to throw into the melting pot.
“Dan-”
“I love you ...”
Oh, shit.
Epilogue
“How’d it go?”
“Finally got it installed ... How was class today?”
“Great as ever ... Plans tonight?”
“Cas and Pim are dropping by later for a drink.”
“Great ... Beer?”
“You bet ... Pyt ...”
“Yeah?”
“Love you ...”
I threw away the rule book. When Daniel left to take up his post, I followed, to man the school, teaching English to the crews working on the latest phase of the development of the farm. We share a house. We have friends. I have met his mother. There is one dog. I have ceased to be bothered by the sniggers or the snide comments that some people make behind their hands.
Okay; thirty years is thirty years - eat my shorts!
I fucking hate the Simpsons but he does have to endure Björk.
“Dan ...”
“Yeah?”
“Love you ...”
By Alp Mortal
Chapter One - Hungry or Hungary?
“Line up the eight pins and the four pegs and push together until they snap tight ... you’ve only got four thousand to do before five o’clock. Happy days!”
A supervisor with that kind of enthusiasm needs a medal ... or a lobotomy.
I am grateful beyond words, but no one, least of all me, would have envisaged yours truly working in a factory making widgets; needs must. Laura at the agency said it was going to be ‘okay’, and they pay above minimum with plenty of overtime on offer.
Things are looking up; I only found and killed seven cockroaches in the bedsit last night, and next door turned the music down at 1 a.m. If I don’t die of starvation, or asphyxiation - the supervisor’s BO could strip the rubber from insulated wire - or sleep deprivation, and if I am spared the horrors of working in Despatch and manage to escape Maureen’s clutches - she collects queers like some people collect teddy bears - I may just see this through to the bitter end and wake up one morning, knowing I can finally get at my pension - such as it is - and bugger off to Uruguay to teach English.
The path to enlightenment is long, winding. and pitted, and bears a striking resemblance to this conveyor belt.
“Align and snap!”
“Yes, Sharon! ... There were three thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine widgets on a wall, and if one widget should accidentally fall, there will be ...”
There is something strangely meditative about this process. Everyone else looks vacant too.
“Hungry ...”
The voice, which sounds like a chocolate éclair - comes from behind me. I dare not look round for fear of missing my snap. A widget without a snap is a reject report, and fifteen minutes in Sharon’s office, where even the cactus is wilting.
“Hungry?”
“No; H-u-n-g-a-r-y.”
“Never been there.”
“No; I am from Hungary.”
“Lovely ... Can’t turn round.”
“Daniel - in Despatch ... You school me English, yes? You post on staffroom board, yes?”
“Yes, I did. Uhm ... See you at lunchtime?”
“Okay cakey ... Bye!”
I did post an advert - why not? I asked first, and the woman in HR said that most of the migrant workers, especially the temporary staff, almost all fail the comprehension test. They get taken on anyway because no one else - except me - is prepared to work for three pence above minimum wage for the pleasure of getting a repetitive strain injury.
“FUCK!”
I snapped too hard - REJECT!
oOo
“Sorry, Sharon; it won’t happen again, Sharon.”
Gasp!
“Overtime if you want it-”
“I want!”
Please not in Despatch.
“Fine. Five to seven in Despatch.”
You fucking whore!
“Thank you; all my dreams came true.”
“You’re weird; fuck off.”
I head to lunch - well; the smoking den, and find Hungary, vaping.
“Got overtime tonight; what about tomorrow?”
“Okay. My name is Milan, like the city.”
“My name is Pyt - with a Y!”
“Can you do Starbuck’s in Newport tomorrow at ten o’clock for two hours?”
“Sure - ten pounds an hour; less if you book more.”
“Okay. I have done course but-”
“You need the practice?”
“Yes; no one at home speaks English if they do not have to do it.”
“All too common a mistake. Are you working tonight?”
“Yes; rush order. You drive?”
“Yes.”
“You give me lift when we through; last bus already gone; okay?”
“No worries ... Why did you move here?”
“The work is good and the pay is excellent.”
“Better than Hungary?”
“Long hours and small pay and expensive flat - I lived in capital. You know Budapest?”
“Never been. I’ll see you tonight.”
“Easy work; just packing and getting boxes ready for the morning ... See you later, okay?”
“Okey dokey ...”
oOo
I snapped and narrowly avoided another REJECT report, finishing up at five o’clock only then to be informed that overtime starts straightaway and I have no break.
“I fill boxes; you stack boxes, yes?”
“Whatever you say, Milan; I’m dogged tired and couldn’t actually give a flying fuck.”
It appears to be just us doing overtime here; everyone else has sensibly gone home. It’s Friday; the youngsters are out on the pull; those who’ve pulled are in with the telly and pizza, and those like me are working overtime.
Fortunately, Daniel is a worker, which means, he works and doesn’t faff or stop every five minutes to talk about some rubbish on the telly. The two hours actually fly.
“Where am I dropping you?” I ask as we grab our stuff from our lockers.
“Do you know old holiday park where they rent out the chalets?”
“Atherfield?”
“That’s it - there, please. I am very, very grateful.”
“No worries ... You still want a lesson tomorrow?”
“Yes; have to pass my tests ... You are teacher?”
“Only TEFL - I used to be a software trainer ... Why did you come to the island and not the mainland?”
A momentary hiccup and I wonder why he’s hesitating. Thinking he is attempting to find a word, I am surprised when he says, “I followed a boy from Budapest - this was going to be our thing, you know? But he left soon after we got here and by then I had the job and somewhere to stay ... I stay to forget him. I think he went back home.”
Nothing like an honest heartbreak to open up a few old scars - how many boys have I followed, hoping it was Shangri-La and not bust? It was always bust.
“I’m sorry ...”
Silence as our journey gets underway. It’s twenty-five minutes to the camp - tell me why I agreed to drive completely out of my way. I flick the radio on to ease the silence, which is companionable enough but I would prefer not to hear his heartstrings twanging.
Is there anything more painful than the break-up with the one?
“How old are you?”
Do not ask that question, you cunt!
“Me? ... Fifty-four ...”
I don’t wish to know how old he is - I am not that old but I am of a certain age, and I am feeling like a fish in a pool, that realises that the drought is nowhere near its end, and my sorry arse few inches are very soon going to have dried up before the rainy season.
“I am twenty-three ... I have a degree in mechanical engineering, and I pack - how you say widgets? - and live in a box smaller than my old bedroom.”
“Work hard, pass your tests, save your money and move on?”
“Yes; that is plan ... It is so tough! I am ungrateful, sorry.”
“Don’t be; sounds like you need to chill out.”
“Why are you not sorted?”
“Oh-”
“Sorry; I have a big mouth - my Anya says I ask too many questions.”
“A-n-y-a?”
“M-o-t-h-e-r ...”
“You miss her?”
“Yes ...”
“Why am I not sorted? Because I lost my job, and it’s hard to get another job - a good job in IT - at my age ... I have one year until I can retire. What about your father?”
“He died a long time ago ... I miss him. He was an engineer - like I want to be. He build houses - we say panelház ... like apartment buildings. I want to build turbines.”
“Panelház ... I know that word - I studied urban development at University. I wanted to build a new society ... I always was a dreamer.”
“You and my papa would make good team!”
We laugh but the underscore is painful - I missed the boat, the plane and the train. I never could - can - quite get the plan straight in my head before it is just seconds too late. Someone said go to Singapore after I graduated - I didn’t think there was anything there for me. Look at it now.
We draw up to the campsite.
“Ten o’clock tomorrow then, yeah?”
“Yes ... You want to come in for a drink?”
Do I? It’s seven-thirty and I’m famished. There will be no hot water for a shower by the time I get back. The kitchen will resemble a bombsite. The lounge will be full of stoned Bob Dylan wannabees. I swear I will shove that guitar up Seb’s arse before too much longer. The cockroaches will be readying themselves for another battle royale, and next door will no doubt be winding up the stereo to the max because it’s the weekend!!
“I could murder a cup of tea ...”
“Meaning?”
“I could literally kill for a cup of tea ... You’ll hear it a lot.”
“English is so weird ...”
I remember this camp. I don’t remember its heyday back in the 50s and 60s. A typical Butlins-style camp. These days, the entertainment centre has been demolished but I notice that the swimming pool is still in use. To be honest, I thought they had condemned this place years ago.
“I am lucky; I do not have to share. Sorry; you have coins for the meter? I have no coins.”
“Oh; sure ...” I hand over four, pound coins. “What about the fridge?”
“Not working. I use UHT milk - you want tea?”
“Yes, please ...”
The minuscule box is dominated by the bed, but at least there is a separate sofa. No TV. The kitchenette is no more fancy than a double base unit with a shelf over.
“I microwave leftover stew - bogrács, we say. It is beef - you eat meat?”
“Occasionally - uhm; thank you.”
“No problem - I am very, very hungry.”
“Starving - you could say starving or famished.”
“You teach me already!”
I have found in all my lives and travels that sharing food is the easiest and best way to get to know people.
Stew - more gristle than actual meat; bread - actually, lángos, and a continental beer. My mood, which was taking a nosedive, is suddenly on the up until I am asked, “You are alone, Pyt?”
“Do you mean single?”
“Yes ...”
“Yes ... I, like you, followed a boy, and sort of got lost ... Sorry; too poetic.”
“Boys are stupid.”
“Sometimes ... but you know other people here, yeah? And back home?”
“Friends, yes ... no one special - not like him. My friend, Agnes - she is a nurse and she make the stew - she says to forget him. I try. I am happier now.”
I am full and much happier than I was when the prospect of the evening ahead was no more enticing than clipping toenails and trimming nasal hair.
“Can I smoke?”
“Of course ... I try and quit but it is so hard. I have more beer or pálinka?”
“P-a-l-i-n-k-a?”
“Spirit - fruit brandy - very strong. I give you a little to try.”
POW!
“Holy fuck; that’s got a kick.”
“More?”
“No! I have to drive home.”
“You stay. No drive. Start lesson early after swim - sound good?”
What are you; a demon? No; a drug dealer, dealing in sound good.
“Stay?”
“Why not?”
“Uhm ... I don’t have a toothbrush or any clean clothes ...”
And for the first time, he looks like the fifty-four-year-old and I sound like that shy, twentysomething virgin I once was.
“I have spare brush, and I can give you a tee shirt - don’t go.”
Oh, dear god.
“Really?”
“Why not? ... Please.”
Chapter Two - Mission Impossible?
No angst. No worries. No frowns. No doubts. No issues. No fucking problem?!
There is no putting off the moment any longer. But, I am so tired. Maybe he will be too.
“Take shower if you want; I too tired.”
“Me too. I’ll just clean my teeth.”
“I get you brush ...”
The little bathroom - which is a newish extension, albeit, just a box - is surprisingly clean and modern. And a sanctuary for a few minutes.
The mirror never lies.
I was young once - this is undeniable. Maybe I was beautiful once too - this is the subject of conjecture. I used to have a body like his - honed through team sports like hockey, also running, and tennis. I had long hair that curled at the ends; highlighted of course. I had a cock that I wielded like Excalibur once someone - was it Derek? - had shown me how it worked.
These days, the edifice is sadly eroded - maybe not quite in the same league as a medieval gargoyle yet. The thatch is greying and only by virtue of keeping it trimmed are the silver threads somewhat camouflaged. The cock neither rises so high, nor stays as hard nor produces the volume that it once did.
Old habits die hard and I give everything a quick wash.
Confidence. You would think by now that I would have it in spades and be selling off the surplus. I used to be confident but the knockbacks take their toll. Then, this is just a fuck, and what could be simpler - nothing should be more enjoyable, should it?
Returning to the main room, I find him seated at the little table, texting.
“I have to say goodnight to Anya or she worries ... Okay!”
He looks up and smiles, robbing me of any last shred of confidence I thought I had. This is sordid. I am old enough to be his father - I am older than his mother!
“This is kinda weird, isn’t it?” I suggest, seeing as we met for the first time about nine hours ago. I used to fuck boys his age when I was his age, after getting tanked in a Soho pub. Rolling back to his or my bedsit, we had no qualms - we had no clue. We fucked because we could.
I think he will probably fuck me because my soldier point-blank refuses to stand to attention. He, on the other hand, is sporting impressive wood.
In stepping across the tiny space, he reaches out to enclose me in his arms, automatically tilting his head to invite a kiss on his lips.
“Why weird? It is nice ... Are you top or bottom?”
“Oh, fuck; I don’t know ... versatile?”
“Awesome. I wanna fuck you because I tried it once before and I liked it - Andris was a total top.”
“The boy you followed here?”
“Yeah ... Kiss me.”
The kiss is such a beautiful thing. More intimate than just screwing. But I assume he wants none of the preludes, none of the nuzzling or nibbling, and dive straight in with the big guns.
“More gentle; I like to kiss ... We lie down?”
Has it been that long that I have forgotten how to seduce?
I want this; I so want this. To be wanted - in the here and now and not in dreams. To be kissed and touched and groped and licked and sucked - and fucked. This shrinking from the light, from reality, is a malaise of our generation - so many hang-ups, so much baggage, and such lofty ideals - why does sex have to equate to love. Sex is not dirty or cheap or wrong - sex is good; sex is healthy, and sex is fun.
“Oh, yeah; finger me ... Andris always said I was too tight; I made him cum too fast. You not getting hard but that’s okay because I wanna fuck you ... Turn over ...”
His script is simple - barely a string of one-liners. My script is neatly typed and bound, with chapter headings and staging notes. My lines are highlighted. I can’t keep up. There is too much to process. I am swamped. I cannot get above or around this sensation. I do not know what to do with my hands ... until he guides them and invites me to fondle his arse.
“You are shaking.”
“I’m nervous ... It’s been a long time.”
“I will suck you ...”
When his head is bobbing between my legs, then and only then do I start to relax and feel present - no longer a balloon that someone has let slip from their fingers, which they watch as it climbs higher and higher, hoping it doesn’t pop.
“You suck me,” he demands, adding, “I am leaking - oh shit.”
Suddenly, the aches and pains are forgotten. My spine will pay for this tomorrow but for now, I will be that boy, who was chased. I will be the one. I contort myself to fulfil his needs - my needs.
Before I know it, my legs are in the air and he is buried to the hilt. You don’t need to be a translator to decipher the lingo. Instinctively, I am pulling him in - the need to be possessed, to be taken must be written in our DNA.
“I don’t want to cum yet ...”
He withdraws and before I can complain, I am flipped and he is lapping at my ring. When he moves to penetrate me again, I reach beneath myself and grab his beautiful balls.
“Oh, yeah!”
To be honest, I am in pain - the exquisite pain. His erect cock has a delicate curve to it; one that ensures that I feel every thrust and pulverizing impact. And yet still I can’t get hard but I am close to orgasming.
“I’m gonna cum!”
“Me too ... Baszik!”
Which I take to mean ‘fuck!’
And weirdly, even though my cock is flapping around like an octopus’ tentacle, I am producing the load of all motherloads.
When we are in recovery, and sweetly, in each other’s arms, he says something that I find both incredibly funny and very touching.
“Küldetés teljesítve ...”
“What does that mean?”
“ ... Mission accomplished ...”
Chapter Three - What is stopping you?
I cannot remember the last time I woke up in someone else’s bed, and that someone was still in it and pressed up against me. I hope I didn’t snore too loudly.
A warm body in my arms is a luxury like no other.
So often we ignore the little things in our quest to reach the prize, trampling to death those who would help us if we could but pay attention for five seconds.
One of my arms in buried beneath the pillow and has actually gone dead. The other is draped across his torso and my fingertips are grazing his side where the skin is supernaturally soft. Without an invitation - he’s asleep, judging by the soft hiss that is escaping from between his lips - I allow my hand to slide down so that it rests on his hip. He stirs and mumbles something but remains asleep. His cock is achingly close. It cannot be ignored. Risking waking him up, I cup him as best I can; his balls are hanging low and his cock is fat but not yet erect - more than a handful. Kneading the mass of his sex gently, I am rewarded when he begins to harden and leak, making my palm slick.
“... Popsi ...”
A term of endearment? Assuming so, I knead a little harder, readying myself to dive in.
“... B-a-s-z-i-k ...”
Obviously, I have found the spot.
“Fuck me ...”
Turning within my arms, he thrusts his arse up a little and opens his legs up a little wider.
Seriously?
I am hard, and before I can think about it, and wilt in the process, I lube up and shuffle into position. His peach of an arse is as inviting as anything I can imagine.
Here goes!
“You are careful - not like Andris ... F-u-c-k ...”
He’s as tight as a duck’s arse and I would have done better to have eased him open with my fingers first. I can’t believe this will last more than two minutes.
An unintelligible string of what I can only assume are expletives, issues from his mouth as one continuous stream of sound, rising and falling in pitch with my measured thrusts.
If I think about widgets, maybe I’ll last three or even four minutes.
“P-y-t ...”
He remembers my name.
“How’s that?”
“Fucking awesome - just bang away; I’m gonna cum.”
Bringing him off hands-free while pumping a load into his arse is so far from the usual story. A strangulated, mutual wank with a guy my own age, seated on a lumpy bed in a dingy bedsit is what this should have been.
The surge is quick when it comes; brought on by his twerking. I bang as hard as I can muster, relinquishing any control, focussing on my sole aim, which is to dump my load. The sound of my heart thumping in my ears is deafening.
“FUCK!”
Actually, that was him and not me; I release just as he tenses at the end of his climax - he clenched so hard, I was afraid that he was going clip me off at the root of my cock like it was a cigar.
oOo
I want to lie here in his bed, inhaling the smell of his sex for the rest of my life. The unmistakable and indescribable scent pervades everything. That mix of wine - a mellow red, nothing vinegary ... a warm herb like thyme but underpinned by lemon balm ... latex and talc ... tobacco ... coffee ... walnut ... Manuka ... wood and grass ... and yet, if you brought all those things together, you still wouldn’t quite have it.
I don’t want to wash my hands for fear of replacing it - certainly not with anything as astringent as soap. I licked his cock clean once I had withdrawn and caught my breath and he had flipped over, failing miserably to suppress a dirty big grin.
He’s making coffee - sauntering around naked, flashing me an eyeful of cock or bum as he turns this way and that.
He is beautiful, of that there is no mistake. Slim and toned; unashamedly sexy without really knowing it. His hair is mussed up - he wore it under a baseball cap at the factory; last night, he let it down - a mass of black springs. Now it looks like a nest of squawking, flapping ravens. The piercing, blue eyes are heavily lidded - the purple-ish smudges beneath his eyes tell a tale of too many late nights, playing hard.
“Here ... Careful; very hot.”
“Thank you ...”
“You are smiling ...”
I am - in fact, my cheeks ache because of it - from that and sucking cock and balls.
“... You want to swim? It costs nothing.”
“Maybe in a while ... Do you still want to have a lesson?”
“Yes ... We are wasting our time.”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you want to be a teacher, and I want to build turbines ... and we work in that factory, getting nowhere.”
“But we have our plans; things always take longer than you think but if they are right then they are worth waiting for.”
“You are right; I am impatient ...”
Reluctantly, after a coffee, we head to the pool. I borrow a pair of shorts which, being two sizes too small, leave nothing to the imagination, especially when they get wet.
“You are really sexy ...”
Did he hit his head on the bottom; inhale too much chlorine?
“Seriously?”
“You are ... I want to do it again before you have to leave ...”
I have checked out of reality. Very soon, I will wake up and find that it was all a dream. I will be in my own, lumpy bed, which smells faintly of piss, in my box with its peeling wallpaper, and be welcomed by my intrusion of cockroaches - yes; they even have their own collective noun. The bathroom will resemble the deck of the Titanic before she slipped under the waves. The kitchen will have the appearance of a bomb site. Seb’s cohorts will be strewn throughout the lounge. The stench of booze, body odour, and dope will drive me out of the house, and I will spend the day mooching in second-hand book and charity shops. The early evening will be dominated by the choice of either pizza or burger and chips. The middle part of the evening will be spent watching a film on my laptop in my room. Somewhere around eleven o’clock, I will switch off the light, pop in my earplugs and hope that no one throws up outside my bedroom door.
“Pyt?”
“Sorry ...”
After a few more lengths, we head back to the chalet and bump into Agnes, Daniel’s friend, who is the nurse.
“Hi, Daniel!”
The tone says - who is this; did you sleep together; what the fuck?!
“Hello, Agnes ... Please let me introduce Pyt - he is a teacher.”
“Oh ... I need lessons - everyone needs lessons ...”
I am not known for my timing; opportunity knocks but usually, I am deaf to the call. However, this is one of those rare occasions when the gods stop frolicking and look down and smile, and when the planets align, and even the tectonic plates take a breather.
“Do they?”
“Everyone ...”
Half of the inmates of the camp work at the factory; the other work at the salad farm, getting roasted in the greenhouses as they pick tomatoes and lettuce. Most come from Poland; a handful from Hungary.
An endless supply of enthusiastic students, with brains like sponges, and possessing that all too rare commodity - motivation.
“... How much do you charge?”
“Oh ... ten pounds an hour - less if you book a block.”
“Would you do a small group?”
“Sure!”
“Fuck; I’m gonna be late for my shift - Daniel has my number - call me!”
“Okay ...”
Daniel sees the look on my face and asks, “What do you think?”
“Why go to Uruguay to teach when I could do it right here.”
oOo
Before any of that, there is the all-important task of getting hard enough to poke Daniel again, who is desperate, he says. Having taken the time to learn a little about what he likes, and finding myself more relaxed than I can remember, I take charge, first suggesting a massage.
“This stuff?” I query, picking a bottle up from the shelf in the bathroom as we dry off after our shower to rid ourselves of the smell of chlorine.
“Andris left it behind ... I used to massage him after a workout when we went to the gym ...”
“Why did he leave?”
“I do not know for sure ... I think he got scared; maybe he was homesick. His loss.”
I get the impression that Daniel doesn’t really want to talk about Andris. We pad through to the main room.
“Lie down ...”
I drop a little oil into my hands and massage his neck quite firmly as I get comfortable. Kneeling astride his thighs, I can’t help but feast my eyes on his physique - a quiet strength, encased in the softest, silkiest skin. This doesn’t feel very sexual; this is more a celebration of something - a meeting of minds and bodies? The shells may be different but we are the same species. I have been guilty of being that crab; a hard shell and sharp pincers, keeping all-comers at bay, not risking - especially in the last ten years - my soft parts. The harder the shell has become, the greater the disconnect.
“My back is sore ...”
“Too much lifting; and I don’t suppose you bend your knees like you should ...”
His reply comes in the form of a grunt and a long exhale.
“Just relax ...”
I’m no masseur but everyone can do a half-decent job. Pretty soon, he’s like Plasticine beneath my hands.
“That feels so good ...”
Skirting his peachy rump, I shuffle back and concentrate on the backs of his legs, all the way down to his knees, and then his calves. As a treat, I massage the in-steps of his feet, which are high like mine and probably sore because they always are if you’re on your feet all day and wear cheap trainers.
“Don’t stop ...”
As much as I want to carry on, I cannot ignore the perfect buttocks that are achingly close to my hands, my slicked up hands. Firm strokes up and down the backs of his legs bring about a more urgent request, “Pyt; fuck me!”
All in good time. Firstly, I knead the bubble-ish cheeks, prising them apart to feast on the button that is nestling deep within his cleft. I have to kiss it.
“P-y-t ... B-a-z-s-i-k - oh, dude!”
A gentle lapping gets him to the squirming stage. A firm fingering locks in the tension. It’s like winding up a clockwork toy.
Before he can say anything, I lever back, shuffle up and plant my cock within that valley, sliding it up and down to get myself nicely oiled. My balls are tightening and rising; my glans has turned to glass. It’s now or never.
“Say a-r-g-h ...”
“Dork ... A-a-r-r-g-g-h-h .... j-e-s-u-s-c-h-r-i-s-t ...”
Penetrating him is the work of a few seconds.
The issue will not be trying to last a little bit longer than last time. The issue is going to be stopping at all.
Chapter Four - Conveyor Belts
“These sheets stink - we stink!”
Unmistakable and indescribable. Worthy of a poem.
Somehow, it is Sunday afternoon.
“Are you hungry?”
“F-a-m-i-s-h-e-d ... Is that right?”
“Perfect. Let’s go out ...”
“What about a shower first?”
“As long as we fuck again later; I want your smell on my hands all night - and all day tomorrow.”
“You propose the plan to the lady in HR?”
“You bet. It’s brilliant ... C’mon!”
We slowly put ourselves together, extracting our limbs from the tangle of sheets - they reek.
Once showered, we head out and make for the pub up the road.
With a decent ale in our glasses, we toast the future.
“The plan!”
“The plan!”
It was sparked by a stray comment about rent. I pay four hundred a month all in. Daniel pays the same, except his doesn’t include electricity. I think he gets a better deal than me because he doesn’t have to share with the Addams Family - and said as much.
“Move here ...”
“What do you mean?”
“There are empty chalets - some have separate bedroom ...”
“But I’d be paying about the same - not that these aren’t better than the bedsit - and I’d have a longer drive ...”
“What if we share?”
“Share?”
“Get bigger chalet; share the rent. You have ready classes; I save for the course I want after I pass my I-E-L-T-S.”
“Share just the chalet?”
“We both have bed; we fuck whenever we want. No pressure; just fun.”
Does a fifty-four-year-old ex-IT consultant deserve that kind of fun?
Where’s the catch; there’s always a catch.
“Exclusive?”
“Maybe ... It won’t be forever, Pyt ...”
No; you will leave and I will be left behind but you were always destined to leave and I have my choices too ... even if it is just mutual wanks with retirees. However, I have learned something about myself over the last forty-eight hours; I’m desirable on some level. He is beautiful; I feel beautiful. It wells up inside me without warning, and I find myself smiling and I want to dance about - of course I’m fucking proud of myself!
There used to be a TV show called the Generation Game - how appropriate. At the end of the show, the winners got shown prizes, which would trundle past them on a conveyor belt. They took home all the prizes they could remember.
I only ever remembered the cuddly toy - something to hold and love.
If I can hold him and in my own way, love him, I will be a winner.
“Let’s do it. And I’ll teach you to drive.”
“Really? This is gonna be fucking awesome.”
Maybe I’m deluding myself. Perhaps this is downright sleazy. If his reputation can take it I pretty sure mine can too - who am I really trying to impress? No one, actually.
oOo
The site manager - a bored prick by the name of Darren - is clearly trying to find a rule that means that we can’t share. In failing, and in having to fill out forms, his face takes on the appearance of a slapped arse.
His final dig is when he informs us that, “I will need a further deposit and a month’s rent in advance.”
“Less the deposit you already hold and, presumably, it will be just the difference in the rent as Daniel has already paid, yeah?”
“I suppose so ... When will you and Daniel be moving in?”
“Now!”
With a key to a one bedroom chalet - which also has a patio - we saunter back to pack up Daniel’s few things.
“Did you see the look on his face?”
“I did; jealous as fuck, I’d say ... I’ll collect my stuff after work tomorrow; I can’t face it right now.”
“I wanna fuck ...”
Am I just the hole of convenience or can he really be interested in me?
Does anyone care, and in any event, in a hundred years - or more likely a hundred days, no one will remember anything anyway.
“Yeah ... me too.”
Chapter Five - All comes to he who waits
We share the chalet. We both have a bed but more often than not, we share that too. We fuck whenever we want - mostly each other but exclusivity is unrealistic. I don’t have the stamina or the repertoire. We fuck each other bareback but play safe with everyone else. And I have my other fuck buddy too - Christian - a driver for the salad firm, who is forty and more on my wavelength. He took lessons - 1:1 - and took me.
Daniel is readying himself for his tests - he’ll pass.
I am as busy as fuck with lessons all week. Occasionally, I do overtime in Despatch.
I’ve lost weight; due mainly to swimming every day ... and banging every night - who wouldn’t?
I’ve upgraded my paltry wardrobe.
I taught Daniel how to drive.
Will this last? No.
Do I care? No.
When the savings hit their target, I am off to Singapore.
Am I happy? Yes.
Not like a man, dying of thirst in the desert, who comes across an oasis; not that kind of happy. Not a lottery winner type of happy. There was no eureka moment; no splash. More like ... a veil was lifted - layers of gauze stripped away one by one. The emergent scene not unlike Shangri-La - as I imagine it. Quietly content; madly in lust with Daniel; possibly madly in love with Christian. Every day in class is satisfying - and very rewarding when a student passes their tests.
Being fifty-four and a half, I am relationship counsellor, guru, sometimes a dad, sometimes an angry dad, sometimes a clown, sometimes a teacher ... Mostly, I am a student. I thought there was nothing a twenty-four-year-old could teach me - I was so wrong. I don’t mean stuff like cooking beef stew or downloading apps onto my phone. I mean, who better to teach me how to live my life than someone who is living theirs? Someone who has goals, energy, honest fear, naivety, and an ever-questioning mind - the perfect foil to the crab I had become.
“Pyt!”
And someone who bursts through doors - when was the last time you burst through a door?
“Daniel ...”
“I have job - Noordoostpolder!”
“Oh my god ... OH MY GOD!!!!!”
Only one of the largest wind farms in the Netherlands - I helped him fill in the forms. I tried to forget about it. This sudden ache in my chest is proof enough that I am still alive.
“I go in four weeks ...”
“You’ll have to learn a little bit of Dutch but I expect they all speak English ...”
“Four weeks, Pyt ...”
“I heard you ... Plenty of time to get organised.”
“You are such a doofus!”
“What?”
“Four bloody weeks left with you!”
A hug and a kiss restore the balance; at least, partly.
“Gonna fucking miss you like crazy!”
“I’m going to miss you too ... but you won’t be a million miles away.”
“Singapore is ...”
“Dan-”
“No; I was the one who said this wouldn’t last forever ... Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me ... We’re even.”
“ ... Eighty-four fucks - three times a day for twenty-eight days equals eighty-four.”
“Twice as many on the weekend ...”
“So fucking gonna miss you!”
“Come here ...”
Over the course of the months that we have lived together, I have learned so much about him. He misses his dad terribly. He gets angry with his mum because she isn’t his dad although she tries to fill the void. He wishes he had a brother. He hates Andris for abandoning him when it was Andris’ idea to leave Budapest in the first place. He is so intelligent, I am left speechless. His wants the world to be powered by clean energy. Unlike me - and most people, actually - he plans to do something positive about it, and build wind farms. Finds the idea of finding the one, getting married, and settling down to have a family to be the most natural thing in the world. There will be two dogs in the picture. He believes being gay is like being dark-haired or Hungarian or a Sagittarius - it is just how you are. He would like everyone to love each other. He would particularly like Darius in Goods In to notice him. He hasn’t got a clue about anything pre-1995 unless it involves Star Wars or The Cure - we are in total agreement about the importance of both to civilisation.
He wasn’t the chick I found abandoned, rescued, and reared by hand, that I am about to set free - although, in some ways, we are setting each other free. I did not buy him like a puppy from the shop. He is that animal - a bird, maybe a squirrel, or a fox or a badger or a hedgehog, that comes into the garden and accepts the food I put down - wild but curious. I will always remember him as wild and curious.
For now, he is very much in my reality - not yet a memory, and it will be a bittersweet one. For now, I have to convince him that this is cool, we are okay, that it will work out just fine, just like it was destined to; that we are not sad, not even a little bit heartbroken and not in the slightest bit bothered that we will, in all likelihood, never see each other again.
For now, we need to make love.
His lips have never tasted sweeter; never felt so soft. His tongue was never so ardent - like an extension of his fingertips. His eyes are piercing blue but tonight they glisten rather than glint. His cheeks taste salty but I will ignore the cause, and grip his right ear lobe between my lips and massage it until I feel his toes curl. And as I nuzzle in behind that lobe, sensing his jaw slacken as a smile creeps across his face, I will, with one hand, grab a fistful of his hair and pull backwards to expose his throat, which I will kiss until the quickening of his pulse and the sharp intake of breath suggests we had better pretty soon get down to business.
Clothes get discarded without any hesitation - all those early and painful body comparisons and my performance anxiety have long since been banished. We fit together like a well-worn and trusted gadget - something you take camping - like a fold-out picnic set - that performs a vital but largely unnoticed function, which gets disassembled at the end of the trip and packed flat and pushed under the bed. He grabs me and I grab him - side-on and cock-to-cock, we establish our circuitry. Who will fuck first? I have an itch that only he can scratch. I want his weight on my back, I want his cock buried deep in my arse, and I want my hole set alight and for the exquisite pain never to end. I want the damp tips of his curls to graze my neck, and for the drops of sweat that roll off his brow to pool in the small of my back, and for his fingertips to leave marks on my shoulders where he gripped tightly.
I can now detect his scent - that noxious smell of cardboard on his hands partly eroded by his vape flavour of choice - apple-mint - encapsulated in a day-old bubble of cotton tee shirt, denim jeans, socks and trainers, and those pants that I wouldn’t use as a rag but which he loves - the crotch is always slightly damp from his sweat, and the pouch is a crucible of pre-cum and Lenor.
I picture him thrusting - quickly and cleanly - like some perpetual engine - and every in-bound thrust is teamed with a clenching of those peachy buttocks - firmer than ever, having propelled him up and down the pool forty times a day for the last six months. And every thrust and every clench is accompanied by a grunt - a tight, dry u-g-g ... occasionally, punctuated by a fulsome f-u-c-k or a languid j-e-s-u-s.
“Turn over ...”
Here it comes. I frantically grab for those pants, which I press to my nose so I can inhale the reek of his sex as he pumps out a load. That’s really just the start. Using his cum as lube, he sleeves me for a while, until I am really hard. Knowing I can’t last, he will shuffle forward, plant himself on my prong, and ride until I cum, at which point, I usually curl forward, embrace him and pull him down so we can kiss as we roll about in the surf of the post-fuck bliss, which will often end with a nap.
oOo
“Coffee?”
“Yeah; thanks.”
He always makes the coffee. So intent on the task that he forgets that he is naked. His junk sways about like an elephant’s trunk; one I will suck to a state of hardness and invite to penetrate me again.
I was afraid that it would become all-too competitive - or actually, routine ... I needn’t have worried because every fuck feels like the first. My nervousness doesn’t paralyze me any more - I still get nervous, an excited kind of nervousness, which makes my cock twitch and my ring throb. We take the coffee and smoke a cigarette at the dining room table, not really talking, maybe sharing a stray thought or two while we bring our pans of juices back to the boil.
Christian has no idea what lies in store for him once Daniel has left and we commence our explorations proper. I expect he’ll move in.
The fact that I can share this with Daniel, and the fact that he has no hesitation in relaying the dirty thoughts that run through his head as he imagines fucking Darius’ throat, who can, allegedly, deep throat a twelve-incher, tell me that our futures are secure. He says I am a slut but it’s a badge I will wear with pride.
“I won’t forget you, Pyt ...”
His tone is unnervingly serious, and one that doesn’t usually feature between rounds one and two.
“I won’t forget you either - and I promise to stay in touch ...”
“You can come and visit once I get sorted ...”
“And you can come and visit me in Singapore ...”
Both scenarios seem unlikely - and these are not the words I want to hear; they herald separation. You know that, if you apply a plaster to a cut, there is going to be that moment when you have to pull it off - who wants to think about that until it is absolutely necessary?
Our cuts have healed - pretty much. There is no value in keeping the plaster on if you don’t need it.
That said; new skin is more sensitive.
“... Let’s just make the most of the next month, yeah?”
“Absolutely!”
I want to say ‘Dude; chill. This was never gonna be anything else. It’s been fucking great but it’s time to get on with your life’... except, that feels a little hollow.
I deflect in asking, “Have you told, Anya?”
“I will tonight when I text her ...”
“She’s gonna be so happy for you ...” I know she will be; I would be if he was my son. “Your dad would have been so proud-”
Ah; the dam has finally burst. I should have known better than to think that it wouldn’t burst at some point.
“Shush ... It’s okay; just let it all out ...”
“I miss him so fucking much ...”
“I know ...”
I’ll hold him for as long as it takes; who else can? My dad wasn’t remotely interested in anything I planned to do - not after the big coming out. I’ve learned to make all my own decisions - not always the right ones ... but I have, and I have never looked for any reassurance, knowing none would be forthcoming. I was afraid it made me too distant - unemotional. I mean, the emotions were always there just never on display.
He wants his dad, and he wants his dad to be proud of what he’s achieved. As difficult as it is to admit, I want the same things too. Something else to throw into the melting pot.
“Dan-”
“I love you ...”
Oh, shit.
Epilogue
“How’d it go?”
“Finally got it installed ... How was class today?”
“Great as ever ... Plans tonight?”
“Cas and Pim are dropping by later for a drink.”
“Great ... Beer?”
“You bet ... Pyt ...”
“Yeah?”
“Love you ...”
I threw away the rule book. When Daniel left to take up his post, I followed, to man the school, teaching English to the crews working on the latest phase of the development of the farm. We share a house. We have friends. I have met his mother. There is one dog. I have ceased to be bothered by the sniggers or the snide comments that some people make behind their hands.
Okay; thirty years is thirty years - eat my shorts!
I fucking hate the Simpsons but he does have to endure Björk.
“Dan ...”
“Yeah?”
“Love you ...”
