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Toutes Bonnes
By Alp Mortal
“Kokey! Come on!”
“John; are you crazy? It’ll be fucking freezing.”
“Don’t be such a girl - come on!”
He runs off towards the surf, to stampede his way into the shallows before wading out a little further, already eyeing the wave that he’ll dive into while I ferret for my ear plugs, putting off the moment a little longer, hoping he won’t see my erection before I too am submerged. A whoop of joy accompanies his dive into the front of the big wave, which very nearly reaches my toes and I haven’t even left the towel. He’s under the water, then, surfacing ten metres out, he cries out in triumph, turning while treading water to wave madly and smile broadly, urging me to join him.
“Come on! It’s not that cold.”
“Seriously?”
“I promise.”
I run in, splashing as much as I can to mask my situation, stumbling and crashing around before finally launching myself forward to thrash my way over to him - I don’t swim very well.
“What did I tell you? Awesome, no?”
“Not bad.”
“Kokey; you really have to get some sun on your skin.”
“I burn easily.”
“Put the cream on then. Talking of red meat, I’ll cook tonight if you want.”
“I don’t mind - let’s light the barbeque.”
“I’ll do steaks and put some chips in the oven. This was such a good idea, wasn’t it?”
“It was. Can we go back and warm up? I’m going numb.”
“Sure ...”
This holiday was John’s idea - I all too easily agreed, albeit knowing that it would be purgatory but not as bad as being separated for two weeks.
“Lay down and I’ll put the cream on your back.”
We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember. I’m sure it was the first day at senior school. That was thirty or more years ago. Even then, I knew he was going to be my pal for life. Three years of absolute bliss as we spent every waking minute in each other’s pocket, doing everything together.
We hit fourteen. Puberty changed the rules.
His hands are like a pair of shark’s fins, effortlessly cutting through the water, hinting at the danger that lurks beneath. Despite the heat of the midday sun, I break out in goosebumps and shudder. He’s none too careful and his fingers stray over the edge of my trunks and skim the very tops of my buttocks.
“Do mine, would you?”
He hands me the bottle and throws himself face down on his towel.
“We could go to the smaller island tomorrow; Geoff said we could use the boat if we wanted to ... What do you think, Kokey?”
Having something to think about is very welcome as I spread the cream over his back, assiduously avoiding the margin of skin next to the waistband of his speedos.
“We could take food ... What about staying over and using the cabin?”
I’m playing with fire, hoping he agrees but sensing the tension already beginning to tighten around my chest, making it harder to breathe.
“Oh, yeah! Good idea. You missed a bit,” he suggests, reaching back to run his fingers over the dry patch next to his waistband, “I don’t want to burn.”
I swallow and force myself to apply the lotion, feeling the heat of his skin; the edge of his swimming costume feels like the edge of a kitchen knife. Tempting as it is to use it to castrate myself, I finish the job and lie down, taking the offered cigarette and one bud of his headphones so that we can both listen to the Evelinn Trouble album he downloaded just before we left the cottage.
With puberty came the usual soup of hormones and the no doubt about it realisation that I was gay. I’d fantasised about my Action Man figure long enough to know that my fixation with bulges was not a passing fancy. A fact reinforced one Friday afternoon after school in my bedroom while mum and dad were at the garden centre. We were sitting cross-legged on the bed, listening to some music on the radio. He says, “Do you think Wayne was telling the truth?”
“About what?” Knowing very well what he is referring to, feeling my skin redden slightly.
“About wanking ... making yourself cum.”
“Suppose; you didn’t try it yet?”
“No; did you?”
“No ...”
Without another word, he unzips himself and plucks out his meaty little todger, which is already swelling.
“I’m gonna try it, Kokey; you try too ...”
While he begins in earnest to beat himself off, I fumble and finally liberate my slimmer and longer schlong, which is as hard as a house brick.
“Bloody hell! Kokey; it’s amazing! Jesus Christ ...”
With my eyes fixed on the blur of his cock as it disappears and re-emerges from the confines of his fist, I beat off, feeling alternately hot and cold, woozy and six inches from bursting into a thousand pieces of glass.
“Oh, shit! I think I’m gonna cum,” he admits through gritted teeth.
“John; what’s happ-”
“Keep going! Oh, shit!”
Like someone had fired three bullets into his back, he spasmed and shot his first load - it was like a geyser. Struck by a few gobs of it on the cheek, it was enough to catapult me over the edge of all I knew to be real - I shot a huge load into the air, gulping like a fish out of water, feeling as if I was going to pass out.
And that fucking Wayne got there first!
Only the giggles saved me from certain death. But for all of the newness and animated dissection of the technique that came afterwards, I had only one true recurring thought - I’d wished it had been his hand wrapped around my cock. And it’s been like that ever since.
Oh, yeah ... one of those virgin, made it out of the gate gobs landed on my lips, and I licked it up without John seeing - he was so out of it, anyway - and that pretty much confirmed the I am gay hypothesis because one taste and all I wanted was to be fed by his dick for the rest of my life.
***
“This was such a good idea, Kokey. Did you pack the gas lamp?”
“Yeah. If it gets any warmer, we’ll be sleeping outside.”
“Got a call from Matthew’s ...”
“You got the job?”
The news I have been fearing. A job that will take him away for weeks at a time, and the possibility of a relocation to the far flung reaches of the Universe - may as well be.
“I did; but they won’t pay what I asked for so I turned it down.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah; I’ll use their offer to convince Bert to up my basic and put me forward for more training ... I didn’t really want to move anyway ...”
“Thank you, God, for listening to my prayers - I will be so good from now on.”
We moor at the small wooden jetty, which Geoff installed last year when he got the boat. It takes us half an hour to move our stuff to the cabin, which is at the back of the cove, framed by the eucalyptus trees and fronted by a wide, covered deck, to the side of which, is the fire pit. Not that we’ll need it because the temperature hasn’t dropped below 80 degrees day or night since we arrived.
Lugging our stuff brings on a sweat, and John strips off to his birthday suit, taking a quick plunge before opening up the cabin to air the place. Meantime, I collect water from the spring-fed cistern, and unpack the lamp, hanging it up under the awning, which protects the deck from the sun and the rain. It’s six o’clock and there are still a few hours before we lose the sun completely. John lights a single use barbeque and sorts out the fish that we bought in town before we left.
“Open the wine, Kokey, would you?”
“Sure ...”
He hasn’t put his shorts back on, and I wonder if he plans to remain in the buff for the entire time we are here - three days as it happens, to make the most of it.
I hand him a glass of the slightly warm, white Bordeaux; we chink and toast our amazing good luck and rude health.
“I think you’re right about sleeping outside, Kokey.”
Sitting side-by-side, watching as the sun slips down behind the edge of the headland, I have to use every trick in the book to blank out the heat and scents emanating from his body - years of practice brought into play. There is a cruelty in having a straight friend as tactile as John - always hugs me rather than shaking my hand, always throwing his arm around my shoulder, always patting me, frequently dabbing his finger on his tongue to wet it before capturing a stray eyelash that has landed on my cheek - I think it’s all his way of getting the reassurance that his dad never gave him. Such a cold, hard-hearted man - a widower, admittedly.
“I’ll set up the mozzie net then ... fish smells like it’s nearly done.”
We pig out and clear up before having to enclose the deck in the netting, which is absolutely essential once the gas lamp gets lit. Kicking back with an espresso, laced with rum, diluted by an ice cube, we share a cigarette.
“I brought my Kindle but I don’t feel like reading. What do you want to do tomorrow, John?”
“Go hiking? Geoff says that there’s a trail to the other side of the island where you can see the wreck ...”
“Okay; sounds great.”
“Jesus! It’s hot. Fancy a dip?”
“Now?”
“Why not? I’ll never get to sleep if I don’t cool down a bit ...”
He scrambles to his feet and slips out of the net. I watch him as he runs towards the water, and moments later, I hear his cries as he belly flops into the shallows. At a more sedate pace, I join him, confining myself to the surf just to get my legs wet up to my knees, not wanting to get my shorts wet.
“Oh my God! This is amazing ...”
In the gloom of dusk, I can still make out the perfect contours of his muscular body, which he hones through a strict diet and exercise regime. The dark patch of hair that sprouts out of his groin and the ruddy-hued fleshy stump that, in the relatively cooler water, has shrunk and looks like a fat, over-sized pearl, draws my eye despite promising myself not to look. I think he caught me sneaking a peek.
Strange; he never asks the awkward, searching questions about my love life. I might casually mention the name of someone - perhaps a new secretary at work - and I think he assumes that I date occasionally. He has the odd girlfriend who might last a few months before the thing fizzles out - I am never plagued by any woes or analysis. Whenever we go out - usually to the pub - I make sure that Geoff is with us so that, as happens from time to time, if John decides to chat someone up, I have a distraction - and Geoff is obsessed with his lovely wife Belinda and their twins, so it’s easy to submerge myself and ignore the courtship display taking place at the edge of my field of view. If things work out, I see John a little less, and when he starts coming around again more often, I know they’ve broken up.
Throughout our lives, he’s been my security blanket, never needing to worry about the bullies when we were at school, who just left me alone because John was my pal - and he never had to say a word or raise his fist. I wonder if people see me through the opaqueness of his aura and maybe assume I am just his shadow - I do struggle sometimes with the thought that I might not actually exist at all.
John is very real.
He splashes me, yanking me back into the present.
“Bastard!”
“Got ya!”
“My shorts are wet.”
“They’ll dry quickly enough ...”
Back on the deck, I slip my shorts off and find a pair of thin, cotton trousers to put on, hanging the shorts up to drip dry.
“I’m going to turn in soon, Kokey; I expect we’ll wake up early.”
“Okay ...”
He heads off to the standpipe to clean his teeth while I sort the airbeds and our thin sleeping bags - which we probably shouldn’t have bothered to bring but you never know. When he returns, I hop over to the spigot and clean my teeth and wash my face. By the time I get back, he’s tucked up.
Turning out the lamp, I crawl into my bag and wish him a goodnight.
“Goodnight, Kokey; sleep tight.”
***
At around three o’clock, the breeze coming in off the water is rather cool, and whereas we had both unzipped our bags not long after we’d said goodnight and had spent half an hour tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable, now, I really appreciate it and zip up, shivering uncontrollably, which I assume is as much to do with the chill as it is to the reaction to the slight sunburn I can feel on my back.
“Cold?”
“A bit,” I chattered through my teeth, convinced that I must also have a bit of sunstroke.
A muscular and incredibly warm body makes its way to my side; his hand finds my forehead.
“Yeah; a touch too much sun. Let me get you something to cool you down and a drink ...”
The gas lamp gets lit and I can see John ferreting in the cool box for the ice packs, after which he fills our pitcher and brings it all back, immediately insisting that I drain the jug, which I do in steady gulps. Once he’s placed the coldish packs on the back of my neck, he relaxes, suggesting that a dip might not be a bad idea to cool me down more quickly.
“I feel so cold!”
“Your body is struggling to adjust; you need more water.”
I feel a fraud and hardly at death’s door, but I appreciate his ministrations, and even take the dip suggested, after which he buffs me gently with a towel before giving me a couple of Nurofen and another jug of water, which I struggle to drain this time - finally, I feel able to lie back and close my eyes.
I think a moth made it through the net because I could swear I could feel it flutter next to my cheek just before I dropped off but I was too tired to swat it away.
***
The strong dawn light, albeit tempered by the voile, brings a number of things into very sharp focus - I feel better - though I have a slight headache, and I am wrapped up in John’s arms and legs like he’s an overgrown koala, clinging onto me. His gentle breathing is escaping from between his barely parted lips and fanning my chest, causing my nips to stand proud ... along with my morning wood. In focusing my attention on that, I immediately detect the blunt end of his wood poking me in the thigh.
“John ... John ...”
A grunt in response, and he grips me tighter and presses against me harder.
I should just throw his arms and legs off and dive out of the tent and run for the water, hoping that he doesn’t even realise that anything was amiss.
But I can’t because I want this so much that I am prepared to risk a very awkward moment when he wakes up - which he is bound to soon. I count the flips in my stomach and decide it’s ‘heads’ and not ‘tails’ - I’ve waited since that day we put Wayne’s instructions to the test.
“M-o-r-n-i-n-g ...”
“Morning, John ...”
I’m expecting a dawn of realisation, a hasty uncoupling, a garbled apology, a cough, a rapid withdrawal to a safe distance, the burning face of embarrassment and maybe even wild eyes. I was definitely not expecting to get a kiss on my cheek.
“How are you feeling?”
“Bbb ... better ... John; you just kissed me. Wh-”
“Have been wanting to do that for a very long time.”
“Yy ... you have?”
“You were mumbling and thrashing about - I thought maybe you were having a bad dream ... it felt so much better than I imagined it would and I couldn’t let go.”
“But ... but you’re not-”
“Gay? I have no idea. I don’t think this would have happened with anyone else.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that it - you - is special ... Does it have to have anything to do with being gay?”
“Nn ... no; but you didn’t know, did you?”
“That you were gay? Are you?”
“Yes; why haven’t you asked me before?”
“Because it didn’t matter; I’ve always loved you for who you were - are ...”
“Yyy ... you’ve always loved me? Did you know how I felt about you?”
“I think I did - maybe denied it for a time - I couldn’t tell you until I felt confident about how I felt - you were feeling poorly and I hated the thought that you were suffering, even just a little bit ... When I put my arms around you, it all clicked into place.”
“Fuck ...”
***
“I’m not going to go out in the sun today, John; I don’t need the sun cream.”
“I haven’t got anything else to use as lube.”
“You want to fuck me?”
“No - well, yes - but I want you to fuck me first ... make me whole, Kokey ...”
After everything had clicked into place, I’d rolled him off onto his back and sat up, turning to look down into his eyes, hoping all the answers would be found there. He’d held out his arms and I allowed myself to be dragged into his embrace, ending up lying full-length on top of him, propping my head on my hands, my elbows resting on his chest, which is like a kitchen counter and well able to support my weight.
“This is real?”
“You were a little delirious last night but I can assure you this is real.”
“After all this time, John - I never had the slightest inkling.”
“I guess as much as anything else, I was afraid of how I felt - you’re my best friend and I didn’t want to screw anything up between us.”
“That’s exactly how I felt ...”
I don’t know where to begin; he’s like a set of bedroom furniture - all hard surfaces and soft furnishings. A kiss can never be the wrong place to start. Until this moment, every time he spoke, I had to make myself concentrate on his eyes and not his lips ... and his beard hid his dimples, though when he did shave, I’d have to work twice as hard not to betray myself.
Now, I can savour those pin-cushion lips and use my nose to ferret for his dimples, making him smile, and in that moment of pure joy, I dive in with my tongue, feeling him instantly suck me in as his hands slip up my back to my neck, and as gentle as a lamb, he twists my curls about his fingers and grips a little tighter, moaning and visibly relaxing into the moment. My hands frame his face, until I need to breathe, when I pull back and place them palm down on his pecs, squishing his buds flat, tracing a line with my tongue between my hands, down through his fur to his sternum, which I kiss, before raising my eyes, begging the question.
“Suck me, Kokey ... please ...”
Nibbling my way across the deeply ridged plain that is covered by his silky, glossy pelt, I inch towards the base of his cock, which is itself trapped beneath my chest. Liberating his spring, I allow it to rise, and swipe it with my tongue as it arcs before coming to rest against his abdomen. He smells of shea butter and something a little tarter like the little orange fruits that I think are called physalis. I find the source of that and suck the very tip of his member, extracting a few drops, licking my lips, before gobbling him up until I can take no more, getting off on the mere fact that my lips are encircling his tool and his glans is pulsing against the roof of my mouth. With one fist wrapped around the base of his cock to steady it, and the other cupped under his plums, I suck his crown and tease his taint simultaneously, sensing his pelvis begin to corkscrew before he has no choice but to thrust a little, being careful not to push too deep - but for that, his lust is barely contained, judging by the breaths that sound like wheezy old bellows and the ever-increasingly pressure of his hands that have my head in their vice-like grip.
Fuck it! I push my hand between his thighs, parting his high-riding cheeks and find his furry well, pressing it to test the strength of his muscle, getting myself a throatful of cock as he bucks in response to my intrusion. The dam of control bursts and he can’t help himself, and he fucks my throat until the exquisite moment of release, when he’s held in stasis, though I can feel the base of his cock swell, readying itself to deliver an almighty load of jizz straight down my throat. And when it comes, I have to swallow hard and rapidly to keep pace or drown.
“FUCK!”
I’d let him feed me for eternity if I didn’t have to breathe, and back off slowly, slurping up the dregs, allowing the slick shaft to slip out of my mouth to a final exclamation.
“GOD!”
Drenched in sweat, we collapse side-by-side, panting heavily, with inane grins plastered across our faces.
“Kokey; damn! I never came so hard ... it - you - were - that was ... incredible ...”
Finding no ready reply, I lift my head and rest it on his chest to listen to his heartbeat, which is pounding like a bass drum.
“... tell me you are still gonna fuck me.”
In lieu of a nod, I slid my hand down over his abdomen, slipping in between his sack and thigh, rummaging to get a fingertip on his button. Lubricated with just sweat, I ease in past the tight ring and find the walnut-sized lump of wax of his prostate and gently probe it until his whimpers become pitiful.
“Turn over ...”
Wrenching himself out of my arms, he flips onto his stomach. Before anything else, I want my tongue in that furry crack. I lick until the hair is plastered against his skin; it all tastes of sea salt, sweat and after sun lotion. In the process, my fingertip has widened the entrance and I can get two fingers just inside to pull apart and get my tongue far enough in to experience the oyster shell smoothness. Instinctively, he tilts his pelvis to give me better access. Lapping at the thimble-sized divot gets me to a state of painful arousal - like my cock is expanding within a sleeve of steel. Dragging myself up, knowing I can go back after I’ve bred him, I take a few deep breaths, feel the rush and wiggle between his thighs until my meat is poised, resting it against the tender rosette, waiting for him to unclench and for his hole to tip me the wink.
“F-U-C-K ... go in slow, Kokey ... oh dear God ...”
He’s tight but yielding; my piston finds its sleeve, and, lubed on spit and sweat, we begin our journey. Very slowly at first, to ease him open all the way; it also gives me a chance to watch as his lips begin to slide more easily up and down my shaft, polishing it to a high shine. Reaching forward and curling my fingers over his shoulders, I pull him back and tilt and thrust to get buried to the hilt, where I stop and squirm until I feel ready to fuck all my wet dreams into reality.
He rocks as I thrust; our sweaty slap like a wave lapping the shore. He raises his upper back and arse, propping himself up on outstretched arms with his fists buried in the bunched up sleeping bag, aping the pose of a gorilla on the high reaches of some mountain top in Kenya - and I’m riding the brute who has a heart of gold and arse of silk. He throws his head back and I yearn to bit down on his shoulder - I kiss his neck instead and bury my nose in his loose curls that smell of his custard apple-scented shampoo.
Plateauing for a while, I am in danger of losing the edge, but recalling the thousand times I watched his tackle swinging between his thighs as he stepped out of the shower at the gym or the squash club and padded over to his spot on the bench to raise a leg and plant a foot on it to dry his toes, gets me back to the dead centre of the zone. I sense he might be boiling over, and slide my hands to his waist to steady him while I bang out a rapid, savage tattoo, grabbing the moment, when cumming is a certainty, to then slip my hands into his groin and grab his stalk with both fists, wanking him off as I surge to a climax, in fear of wearing his nub down to a shadow of its former self, hoping he cums with me.
“Kokey!”
Oh, yes; I want to see his seed splash against the satin fabric of the sleeping bag and his sweat spring from his brow as I breed him, wishing I could simultaneously feed him and seed him in both ends-
“Holy FUCK!”
I’m brimming over but it’s like trying to push a melon through the eye of needle until he reaches beneath himself, grabs my sack and pulls forward - the exquisite pain opens a channel and I pump in time to his grunts as he spills his own load over my fingers.
“JOHN!”
I’ve nailed it - him. Crucified all the robbers of my happiness. My cock is a rod of joy, finally free of the bindings of decades of subjugation, and running wild.
***
“What now, Kokey?”
“You mean back home?”
“Yeah ...”
“Up to us, John; I don’t want anything to change but I want everything to be different.”
“I think I know what you mean ... it’ll take a little while for everything to work out.”
“And we have to come out.”
“No ... we can just let everyone find out as and when - I don’t actually think too many people will be that surprised. Joanne always calls us an old married couple.”
“Can I say I love you?”
“Do you?”
“Since the day we turned fourteen ...”
“We’ve known each other for more than thirty years, Kokey.”
“Thirty ... that’s the pearl anniversary.”
“We had those-”
“Sleazy fucker!”
“Seriously; I prayed every day that I would get my shit together eventually and make my move, praying even harder that I didn’t lose you to someone else in the meantime - I’m so grateful for the chance to love you back.”
I’m never gonna pass up an invitation to kiss him on the mouth and grind my cock against his - and we’re gonna fuck every chance we get.
“Fuck me, John ...”
By Alp Mortal
“Kokey! Come on!”
“John; are you crazy? It’ll be fucking freezing.”
“Don’t be such a girl - come on!”
He runs off towards the surf, to stampede his way into the shallows before wading out a little further, already eyeing the wave that he’ll dive into while I ferret for my ear plugs, putting off the moment a little longer, hoping he won’t see my erection before I too am submerged. A whoop of joy accompanies his dive into the front of the big wave, which very nearly reaches my toes and I haven’t even left the towel. He’s under the water, then, surfacing ten metres out, he cries out in triumph, turning while treading water to wave madly and smile broadly, urging me to join him.
“Come on! It’s not that cold.”
“Seriously?”
“I promise.”
I run in, splashing as much as I can to mask my situation, stumbling and crashing around before finally launching myself forward to thrash my way over to him - I don’t swim very well.
“What did I tell you? Awesome, no?”
“Not bad.”
“Kokey; you really have to get some sun on your skin.”
“I burn easily.”
“Put the cream on then. Talking of red meat, I’ll cook tonight if you want.”
“I don’t mind - let’s light the barbeque.”
“I’ll do steaks and put some chips in the oven. This was such a good idea, wasn’t it?”
“It was. Can we go back and warm up? I’m going numb.”
“Sure ...”
This holiday was John’s idea - I all too easily agreed, albeit knowing that it would be purgatory but not as bad as being separated for two weeks.
“Lay down and I’ll put the cream on your back.”
We’ve been friends for as long as I can remember. I’m sure it was the first day at senior school. That was thirty or more years ago. Even then, I knew he was going to be my pal for life. Three years of absolute bliss as we spent every waking minute in each other’s pocket, doing everything together.
We hit fourteen. Puberty changed the rules.
His hands are like a pair of shark’s fins, effortlessly cutting through the water, hinting at the danger that lurks beneath. Despite the heat of the midday sun, I break out in goosebumps and shudder. He’s none too careful and his fingers stray over the edge of my trunks and skim the very tops of my buttocks.
“Do mine, would you?”
He hands me the bottle and throws himself face down on his towel.
“We could go to the smaller island tomorrow; Geoff said we could use the boat if we wanted to ... What do you think, Kokey?”
Having something to think about is very welcome as I spread the cream over his back, assiduously avoiding the margin of skin next to the waistband of his speedos.
“We could take food ... What about staying over and using the cabin?”
I’m playing with fire, hoping he agrees but sensing the tension already beginning to tighten around my chest, making it harder to breathe.
“Oh, yeah! Good idea. You missed a bit,” he suggests, reaching back to run his fingers over the dry patch next to his waistband, “I don’t want to burn.”
I swallow and force myself to apply the lotion, feeling the heat of his skin; the edge of his swimming costume feels like the edge of a kitchen knife. Tempting as it is to use it to castrate myself, I finish the job and lie down, taking the offered cigarette and one bud of his headphones so that we can both listen to the Evelinn Trouble album he downloaded just before we left the cottage.
With puberty came the usual soup of hormones and the no doubt about it realisation that I was gay. I’d fantasised about my Action Man figure long enough to know that my fixation with bulges was not a passing fancy. A fact reinforced one Friday afternoon after school in my bedroom while mum and dad were at the garden centre. We were sitting cross-legged on the bed, listening to some music on the radio. He says, “Do you think Wayne was telling the truth?”
“About what?” Knowing very well what he is referring to, feeling my skin redden slightly.
“About wanking ... making yourself cum.”
“Suppose; you didn’t try it yet?”
“No; did you?”
“No ...”
Without another word, he unzips himself and plucks out his meaty little todger, which is already swelling.
“I’m gonna try it, Kokey; you try too ...”
While he begins in earnest to beat himself off, I fumble and finally liberate my slimmer and longer schlong, which is as hard as a house brick.
“Bloody hell! Kokey; it’s amazing! Jesus Christ ...”
With my eyes fixed on the blur of his cock as it disappears and re-emerges from the confines of his fist, I beat off, feeling alternately hot and cold, woozy and six inches from bursting into a thousand pieces of glass.
“Oh, shit! I think I’m gonna cum,” he admits through gritted teeth.
“John; what’s happ-”
“Keep going! Oh, shit!”
Like someone had fired three bullets into his back, he spasmed and shot his first load - it was like a geyser. Struck by a few gobs of it on the cheek, it was enough to catapult me over the edge of all I knew to be real - I shot a huge load into the air, gulping like a fish out of water, feeling as if I was going to pass out.
And that fucking Wayne got there first!
Only the giggles saved me from certain death. But for all of the newness and animated dissection of the technique that came afterwards, I had only one true recurring thought - I’d wished it had been his hand wrapped around my cock. And it’s been like that ever since.
Oh, yeah ... one of those virgin, made it out of the gate gobs landed on my lips, and I licked it up without John seeing - he was so out of it, anyway - and that pretty much confirmed the I am gay hypothesis because one taste and all I wanted was to be fed by his dick for the rest of my life.
***
“This was such a good idea, Kokey. Did you pack the gas lamp?”
“Yeah. If it gets any warmer, we’ll be sleeping outside.”
“Got a call from Matthew’s ...”
“You got the job?”
The news I have been fearing. A job that will take him away for weeks at a time, and the possibility of a relocation to the far flung reaches of the Universe - may as well be.
“I did; but they won’t pay what I asked for so I turned it down.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah; I’ll use their offer to convince Bert to up my basic and put me forward for more training ... I didn’t really want to move anyway ...”
“Thank you, God, for listening to my prayers - I will be so good from now on.”
We moor at the small wooden jetty, which Geoff installed last year when he got the boat. It takes us half an hour to move our stuff to the cabin, which is at the back of the cove, framed by the eucalyptus trees and fronted by a wide, covered deck, to the side of which, is the fire pit. Not that we’ll need it because the temperature hasn’t dropped below 80 degrees day or night since we arrived.
Lugging our stuff brings on a sweat, and John strips off to his birthday suit, taking a quick plunge before opening up the cabin to air the place. Meantime, I collect water from the spring-fed cistern, and unpack the lamp, hanging it up under the awning, which protects the deck from the sun and the rain. It’s six o’clock and there are still a few hours before we lose the sun completely. John lights a single use barbeque and sorts out the fish that we bought in town before we left.
“Open the wine, Kokey, would you?”
“Sure ...”
He hasn’t put his shorts back on, and I wonder if he plans to remain in the buff for the entire time we are here - three days as it happens, to make the most of it.
I hand him a glass of the slightly warm, white Bordeaux; we chink and toast our amazing good luck and rude health.
“I think you’re right about sleeping outside, Kokey.”
Sitting side-by-side, watching as the sun slips down behind the edge of the headland, I have to use every trick in the book to blank out the heat and scents emanating from his body - years of practice brought into play. There is a cruelty in having a straight friend as tactile as John - always hugs me rather than shaking my hand, always throwing his arm around my shoulder, always patting me, frequently dabbing his finger on his tongue to wet it before capturing a stray eyelash that has landed on my cheek - I think it’s all his way of getting the reassurance that his dad never gave him. Such a cold, hard-hearted man - a widower, admittedly.
“I’ll set up the mozzie net then ... fish smells like it’s nearly done.”
We pig out and clear up before having to enclose the deck in the netting, which is absolutely essential once the gas lamp gets lit. Kicking back with an espresso, laced with rum, diluted by an ice cube, we share a cigarette.
“I brought my Kindle but I don’t feel like reading. What do you want to do tomorrow, John?”
“Go hiking? Geoff says that there’s a trail to the other side of the island where you can see the wreck ...”
“Okay; sounds great.”
“Jesus! It’s hot. Fancy a dip?”
“Now?”
“Why not? I’ll never get to sleep if I don’t cool down a bit ...”
He scrambles to his feet and slips out of the net. I watch him as he runs towards the water, and moments later, I hear his cries as he belly flops into the shallows. At a more sedate pace, I join him, confining myself to the surf just to get my legs wet up to my knees, not wanting to get my shorts wet.
“Oh my God! This is amazing ...”
In the gloom of dusk, I can still make out the perfect contours of his muscular body, which he hones through a strict diet and exercise regime. The dark patch of hair that sprouts out of his groin and the ruddy-hued fleshy stump that, in the relatively cooler water, has shrunk and looks like a fat, over-sized pearl, draws my eye despite promising myself not to look. I think he caught me sneaking a peek.
Strange; he never asks the awkward, searching questions about my love life. I might casually mention the name of someone - perhaps a new secretary at work - and I think he assumes that I date occasionally. He has the odd girlfriend who might last a few months before the thing fizzles out - I am never plagued by any woes or analysis. Whenever we go out - usually to the pub - I make sure that Geoff is with us so that, as happens from time to time, if John decides to chat someone up, I have a distraction - and Geoff is obsessed with his lovely wife Belinda and their twins, so it’s easy to submerge myself and ignore the courtship display taking place at the edge of my field of view. If things work out, I see John a little less, and when he starts coming around again more often, I know they’ve broken up.
Throughout our lives, he’s been my security blanket, never needing to worry about the bullies when we were at school, who just left me alone because John was my pal - and he never had to say a word or raise his fist. I wonder if people see me through the opaqueness of his aura and maybe assume I am just his shadow - I do struggle sometimes with the thought that I might not actually exist at all.
John is very real.
He splashes me, yanking me back into the present.
“Bastard!”
“Got ya!”
“My shorts are wet.”
“They’ll dry quickly enough ...”
Back on the deck, I slip my shorts off and find a pair of thin, cotton trousers to put on, hanging the shorts up to drip dry.
“I’m going to turn in soon, Kokey; I expect we’ll wake up early.”
“Okay ...”
He heads off to the standpipe to clean his teeth while I sort the airbeds and our thin sleeping bags - which we probably shouldn’t have bothered to bring but you never know. When he returns, I hop over to the spigot and clean my teeth and wash my face. By the time I get back, he’s tucked up.
Turning out the lamp, I crawl into my bag and wish him a goodnight.
“Goodnight, Kokey; sleep tight.”
***
At around three o’clock, the breeze coming in off the water is rather cool, and whereas we had both unzipped our bags not long after we’d said goodnight and had spent half an hour tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable, now, I really appreciate it and zip up, shivering uncontrollably, which I assume is as much to do with the chill as it is to the reaction to the slight sunburn I can feel on my back.
“Cold?”
“A bit,” I chattered through my teeth, convinced that I must also have a bit of sunstroke.
A muscular and incredibly warm body makes its way to my side; his hand finds my forehead.
“Yeah; a touch too much sun. Let me get you something to cool you down and a drink ...”
The gas lamp gets lit and I can see John ferreting in the cool box for the ice packs, after which he fills our pitcher and brings it all back, immediately insisting that I drain the jug, which I do in steady gulps. Once he’s placed the coldish packs on the back of my neck, he relaxes, suggesting that a dip might not be a bad idea to cool me down more quickly.
“I feel so cold!”
“Your body is struggling to adjust; you need more water.”
I feel a fraud and hardly at death’s door, but I appreciate his ministrations, and even take the dip suggested, after which he buffs me gently with a towel before giving me a couple of Nurofen and another jug of water, which I struggle to drain this time - finally, I feel able to lie back and close my eyes.
I think a moth made it through the net because I could swear I could feel it flutter next to my cheek just before I dropped off but I was too tired to swat it away.
***
The strong dawn light, albeit tempered by the voile, brings a number of things into very sharp focus - I feel better - though I have a slight headache, and I am wrapped up in John’s arms and legs like he’s an overgrown koala, clinging onto me. His gentle breathing is escaping from between his barely parted lips and fanning my chest, causing my nips to stand proud ... along with my morning wood. In focusing my attention on that, I immediately detect the blunt end of his wood poking me in the thigh.
“John ... John ...”
A grunt in response, and he grips me tighter and presses against me harder.
I should just throw his arms and legs off and dive out of the tent and run for the water, hoping that he doesn’t even realise that anything was amiss.
But I can’t because I want this so much that I am prepared to risk a very awkward moment when he wakes up - which he is bound to soon. I count the flips in my stomach and decide it’s ‘heads’ and not ‘tails’ - I’ve waited since that day we put Wayne’s instructions to the test.
“M-o-r-n-i-n-g ...”
“Morning, John ...”
I’m expecting a dawn of realisation, a hasty uncoupling, a garbled apology, a cough, a rapid withdrawal to a safe distance, the burning face of embarrassment and maybe even wild eyes. I was definitely not expecting to get a kiss on my cheek.
“How are you feeling?”
“Bbb ... better ... John; you just kissed me. Wh-”
“Have been wanting to do that for a very long time.”
“Yy ... you have?”
“You were mumbling and thrashing about - I thought maybe you were having a bad dream ... it felt so much better than I imagined it would and I couldn’t let go.”
“But ... but you’re not-”
“Gay? I have no idea. I don’t think this would have happened with anyone else.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that it - you - is special ... Does it have to have anything to do with being gay?”
“Nn ... no; but you didn’t know, did you?”
“That you were gay? Are you?”
“Yes; why haven’t you asked me before?”
“Because it didn’t matter; I’ve always loved you for who you were - are ...”
“Yyy ... you’ve always loved me? Did you know how I felt about you?”
“I think I did - maybe denied it for a time - I couldn’t tell you until I felt confident about how I felt - you were feeling poorly and I hated the thought that you were suffering, even just a little bit ... When I put my arms around you, it all clicked into place.”
“Fuck ...”
***
“I’m not going to go out in the sun today, John; I don’t need the sun cream.”
“I haven’t got anything else to use as lube.”
“You want to fuck me?”
“No - well, yes - but I want you to fuck me first ... make me whole, Kokey ...”
After everything had clicked into place, I’d rolled him off onto his back and sat up, turning to look down into his eyes, hoping all the answers would be found there. He’d held out his arms and I allowed myself to be dragged into his embrace, ending up lying full-length on top of him, propping my head on my hands, my elbows resting on his chest, which is like a kitchen counter and well able to support my weight.
“This is real?”
“You were a little delirious last night but I can assure you this is real.”
“After all this time, John - I never had the slightest inkling.”
“I guess as much as anything else, I was afraid of how I felt - you’re my best friend and I didn’t want to screw anything up between us.”
“That’s exactly how I felt ...”
I don’t know where to begin; he’s like a set of bedroom furniture - all hard surfaces and soft furnishings. A kiss can never be the wrong place to start. Until this moment, every time he spoke, I had to make myself concentrate on his eyes and not his lips ... and his beard hid his dimples, though when he did shave, I’d have to work twice as hard not to betray myself.
Now, I can savour those pin-cushion lips and use my nose to ferret for his dimples, making him smile, and in that moment of pure joy, I dive in with my tongue, feeling him instantly suck me in as his hands slip up my back to my neck, and as gentle as a lamb, he twists my curls about his fingers and grips a little tighter, moaning and visibly relaxing into the moment. My hands frame his face, until I need to breathe, when I pull back and place them palm down on his pecs, squishing his buds flat, tracing a line with my tongue between my hands, down through his fur to his sternum, which I kiss, before raising my eyes, begging the question.
“Suck me, Kokey ... please ...”
Nibbling my way across the deeply ridged plain that is covered by his silky, glossy pelt, I inch towards the base of his cock, which is itself trapped beneath my chest. Liberating his spring, I allow it to rise, and swipe it with my tongue as it arcs before coming to rest against his abdomen. He smells of shea butter and something a little tarter like the little orange fruits that I think are called physalis. I find the source of that and suck the very tip of his member, extracting a few drops, licking my lips, before gobbling him up until I can take no more, getting off on the mere fact that my lips are encircling his tool and his glans is pulsing against the roof of my mouth. With one fist wrapped around the base of his cock to steady it, and the other cupped under his plums, I suck his crown and tease his taint simultaneously, sensing his pelvis begin to corkscrew before he has no choice but to thrust a little, being careful not to push too deep - but for that, his lust is barely contained, judging by the breaths that sound like wheezy old bellows and the ever-increasingly pressure of his hands that have my head in their vice-like grip.
Fuck it! I push my hand between his thighs, parting his high-riding cheeks and find his furry well, pressing it to test the strength of his muscle, getting myself a throatful of cock as he bucks in response to my intrusion. The dam of control bursts and he can’t help himself, and he fucks my throat until the exquisite moment of release, when he’s held in stasis, though I can feel the base of his cock swell, readying itself to deliver an almighty load of jizz straight down my throat. And when it comes, I have to swallow hard and rapidly to keep pace or drown.
“FUCK!”
I’d let him feed me for eternity if I didn’t have to breathe, and back off slowly, slurping up the dregs, allowing the slick shaft to slip out of my mouth to a final exclamation.
“GOD!”
Drenched in sweat, we collapse side-by-side, panting heavily, with inane grins plastered across our faces.
“Kokey; damn! I never came so hard ... it - you - were - that was ... incredible ...”
Finding no ready reply, I lift my head and rest it on his chest to listen to his heartbeat, which is pounding like a bass drum.
“... tell me you are still gonna fuck me.”
In lieu of a nod, I slid my hand down over his abdomen, slipping in between his sack and thigh, rummaging to get a fingertip on his button. Lubricated with just sweat, I ease in past the tight ring and find the walnut-sized lump of wax of his prostate and gently probe it until his whimpers become pitiful.
“Turn over ...”
Wrenching himself out of my arms, he flips onto his stomach. Before anything else, I want my tongue in that furry crack. I lick until the hair is plastered against his skin; it all tastes of sea salt, sweat and after sun lotion. In the process, my fingertip has widened the entrance and I can get two fingers just inside to pull apart and get my tongue far enough in to experience the oyster shell smoothness. Instinctively, he tilts his pelvis to give me better access. Lapping at the thimble-sized divot gets me to a state of painful arousal - like my cock is expanding within a sleeve of steel. Dragging myself up, knowing I can go back after I’ve bred him, I take a few deep breaths, feel the rush and wiggle between his thighs until my meat is poised, resting it against the tender rosette, waiting for him to unclench and for his hole to tip me the wink.
“F-U-C-K ... go in slow, Kokey ... oh dear God ...”
He’s tight but yielding; my piston finds its sleeve, and, lubed on spit and sweat, we begin our journey. Very slowly at first, to ease him open all the way; it also gives me a chance to watch as his lips begin to slide more easily up and down my shaft, polishing it to a high shine. Reaching forward and curling my fingers over his shoulders, I pull him back and tilt and thrust to get buried to the hilt, where I stop and squirm until I feel ready to fuck all my wet dreams into reality.
He rocks as I thrust; our sweaty slap like a wave lapping the shore. He raises his upper back and arse, propping himself up on outstretched arms with his fists buried in the bunched up sleeping bag, aping the pose of a gorilla on the high reaches of some mountain top in Kenya - and I’m riding the brute who has a heart of gold and arse of silk. He throws his head back and I yearn to bit down on his shoulder - I kiss his neck instead and bury my nose in his loose curls that smell of his custard apple-scented shampoo.
Plateauing for a while, I am in danger of losing the edge, but recalling the thousand times I watched his tackle swinging between his thighs as he stepped out of the shower at the gym or the squash club and padded over to his spot on the bench to raise a leg and plant a foot on it to dry his toes, gets me back to the dead centre of the zone. I sense he might be boiling over, and slide my hands to his waist to steady him while I bang out a rapid, savage tattoo, grabbing the moment, when cumming is a certainty, to then slip my hands into his groin and grab his stalk with both fists, wanking him off as I surge to a climax, in fear of wearing his nub down to a shadow of its former self, hoping he cums with me.
“Kokey!”
Oh, yes; I want to see his seed splash against the satin fabric of the sleeping bag and his sweat spring from his brow as I breed him, wishing I could simultaneously feed him and seed him in both ends-
“Holy FUCK!”
I’m brimming over but it’s like trying to push a melon through the eye of needle until he reaches beneath himself, grabs my sack and pulls forward - the exquisite pain opens a channel and I pump in time to his grunts as he spills his own load over my fingers.
“JOHN!”
I’ve nailed it - him. Crucified all the robbers of my happiness. My cock is a rod of joy, finally free of the bindings of decades of subjugation, and running wild.
***
“What now, Kokey?”
“You mean back home?”
“Yeah ...”
“Up to us, John; I don’t want anything to change but I want everything to be different.”
“I think I know what you mean ... it’ll take a little while for everything to work out.”
“And we have to come out.”
“No ... we can just let everyone find out as and when - I don’t actually think too many people will be that surprised. Joanne always calls us an old married couple.”
“Can I say I love you?”
“Do you?”
“Since the day we turned fourteen ...”
“We’ve known each other for more than thirty years, Kokey.”
“Thirty ... that’s the pearl anniversary.”
“We had those-”
“Sleazy fucker!”
“Seriously; I prayed every day that I would get my shit together eventually and make my move, praying even harder that I didn’t lose you to someone else in the meantime - I’m so grateful for the chance to love you back.”
I’m never gonna pass up an invitation to kiss him on the mouth and grind my cock against his - and we’re gonna fuck every chance we get.
“Fuck me, John ...”
|
| ||||
The Locksmith
By Alp Mortal
PART ONE
“Are you absolutely sure about this?”
“Yes. It’s been driving me crazy for ages; look how thin it’s getting at the front, and I can never have it down while I’m working - so what’s the point?”
“You’ve had long hair all the time I’ve known you - for years.”
“Will you still love me?”
A quirk of the lips, in the reflection in the mirror, suggests that it was a dumber than dumb question.
Seated on the bar stool - the one we rescued from the skip, later finding it to be a Conran classic design from the 60s - in front of the bathroom mirror, my vulnerabilities were never more on show. Any lapse in the exercise and diet regime will quickly get me a membership card for the Dad Bod club - Rile has no such concerns; being a 23-year-old contemporary dancer with a leading London company keeps him on the lean and mean side. If I didn’t shave the chest and keep the pubes trimmed, the grey would already be centre stage; for now, it remains in the wings, offering the audience the odd soliloquy on the dangers of chasing the tail of my youth. Coincidentally, I have a tattoo of the tail-devouring snake on my left pec - the Ouroboros; whereas Rile has a phoenix on his right. A sort of homage to the idea that we are renewed after death. We got the tattoos on the occasion of his twenty-first birthday and my fiftieth birthday - our milestones falling in the same month - July.
Older for younger - yes; but that is a label or a slogan used by our detractors. Apparently, we defy the definition because we are in love - so says Rile. I hasten to agree with him on every occasion.
“I can do it myself but I’m sure to get the back all messed up.”
“No; I’ll do it if you’re absolutely positive it’s what you want.”
“It is; and if I resemble an ageing poster boy for the Neo-Nazis, I won’t blame you.”
“Plenty of guys have their heads shaved and don’t look like thugs ... keep the beard trimmed to the same length and you’ll look even sexier than you do already ...”
“I guess it will grow back a bit.”
“Do you want me to do it or not?”
“Do it! Now or never.”
“Relax ... and close your eyes.”
Using the electric razor with a size three comb, he begins the process of shearing off my locks, starting at the front and working backwards in tracks. Rather than shedding a tear, I spring a woody. Judging by the complete lack of a reaction, either he hasn’t seen it or he’s ignoring it. The feeling of each clump tumbling down my back is tantalising, to say the least. It’s very liberating.
“I never realised that you had such a beautifully-shaped head.”
“Michael shaved his and found that scar he never knew he had from the time when his brother pushed him so high on the swing that he fell out of the seat and cracked his head open - he only remembered the incident when he saw the scar ...”
“Yours is perfect - and you don’t have any horrible fat veins like Polo has; I can never take my eyes from the one on the side of his head that pulses whenever he gets angry.”
“Did he cast you in the lead role this time?”
“I’m waiting on a text - it’ll either be me or Rory ...”
“By rights, it should be you.”
“Nearly done; just gonna go round the edges with the blade and make it neat; I’ll shave your neck too.”
“Can I look yet?-”
“No! Be patient ...”
Patience. I have so little and have to work so hard to keep what I have got. Not so when Rile and I first met - then I was very patient - also transfixed by his performance on the stage that night. It was all Bryony’s doing.
Bryony. My half-sister. Mum and Dad divorced - a rarity for their generation compared to mine, and unique in their circle of Bridge playing Conservative Party members. After the dust had settled, Dad remarried; a younger woman - Chloe. Apparently, she’s from a long line of hippies. She’s an artist. They produced a sprog - Bryony, whom Dad dotes on and spoils rotten, and whom Chloe ignores, making Bryony all the wilder at times as she attempts - unsuccessfully - to win her mother’s attention and-or affection. I unofficially adopted her for the sake of some normality in her life. When she can be bothered to turn up, she’s training to be a locksmith - my apprentice - kind of Pygmalion in reverse.
One day she says, as she so often did, “Gui; got someone I want you to meet ...”
“A boyfriend?”
“Yes - for you!”
“Bryony; sweetheart, that’s really-”
“No; you have to meet him - Friday!”
Finding me a boyfriend was her pet project - I went along with it for the most part just to keep her quiet. One or two of her ‘finds’ did turn out to be nice young men; the vast majority couldn’t string two words together for the effects of the drugs they were taking - that didn’t stop me from fucking three of them. I’ve told her that if I ever catch her with drugs, I’m dragging her to the police station myself. It seems not to be her thing, thankfully.
“Who is he and what does he do?”
“His name is Rile and he’s a dancer.”
“How did you meet him?”
“At a party after one of his performances; he’s gorgeous.”
“And yet twenty?”
“Very nearly twenty-one.”
“Couldn’t you find me someone who is at least half my age?”
“Silly Gui - age is not important ... it’s all about love.”
“Very true, sweetheart ... Are you working today by chance?”
“Depends.”
“Got your pick and tension wrench? Got a call-out in Holland Park.”
“Oh, goody! A breaking and entering job!”
“You scare me ... Come on!”
***
“Can I open my eyes yet?”
“Just tidying up the back ...”
The sensation of his fingers on my freshly shaved skin has kept my cock erect; the cool tip suggests I’ve been leaking heavily.
“Now you can open your eyes ...”
While I gaze into the mirror, he uses a huge makeup powder dusting brush - the size of something you could sweep a chimney with - to clean the tiny clippings from my back and shoulders - the brush is an old one; I bought him a new set of brushes last Christmas, seeing as he has to provide his own for applying his stage makeup.
“What do you think?” Rile asks.
“Wow ... it’s amazing!”
I instinctively rub my hand over my scalp, feeling the tiny hairs as they prickle against my palm.
“Let me trim your beard and then you’ll get the full effect ...”
“What do you think?”
“I like it - love it ... a definite improvement.”
“It doesn’t make look old?”
“You look sexy; let me do your beard ...”
Moving around in front of me, he blocks my view of the mirror, consequently, I have no choice but to allow my eyes to rest on his face as he trims me up.
“You’d best take a shower after this to wash all the little hairs away ...”
“I’d best have something ...”
“So I noticed ... Stop grinning; I can’t get the sides even if you grin.”
“Sorry ...”
“There! The best-looking ageing poster boy for the Neo-Nazis that I have ever had the good fortune to fall in love with.”
The comment, however lame it might have sounded, brings tears to my eyes, which I blame on the hair flying about. He leans back, with his bum resting against the sink, arms folded across his chest and looks at me like he’s looking at a piece of modern art.
“I do love you, you know.”
“I know you do, and I love you.”
The performance to which Bryony dragged me - not exactly kicking and screaming because having to watch fit guys in tight clothing, bending and stretching in provocative ways can hardly be described as purgatory, can it? - was a performance of a contemporary ballet called Trilogie - three dances; each in a very different style. I was informed that Rile was dancing in the second piece - something between classic and modern - and it was a solo piece with just a violin to accompany him.
Now, here’s the coincidence that sets the ball rolling. My father repaired violins from an atelier in Brick Lane before Brick Lane became Mecca for the young and trendy - what happened to Carnaby Street? Anyways; he repaired violins - and other stringed instruments. The chap playing the violin had been one of Dad’s last customers - how strange. I recognised him. At the after party - I was never entirely sure how Bryony got us access to these things - I caught up with the chap and we had a bit of a chinwag. Bryony was impatient to introduce me to Rile - had it not been for the fact that the violinist needed to catch a bus, I am pretty certain that he and I would be married with three Chihuahuas by now.
“Gui!”
I caved and let Bryony introduce me. His first question was, “Gui? Is that short for Guillaume?”
“Yes, it is ... Rile?”
“No clue; my mother saw it on the side of a box of Chinese noodles ... could have been worse; my father was championing Severn ... which is my middle name but I never use it. Are you French?”
“My father is from Alsace; my mother is from Sissinghurst in Kent ... You dance beautifully.”
“Thank you ... Do you mind if we leave and grab an espresso somewhere?”
“The pleasure would be all mine.”
“Not entirely ...”
He was - and remains - so polite and just a little bit erudite.
My attention is grabbed by Rile dropping his towel.
“What were you thinking about?”
“The night we met ...”
“You were so patient as I insisted on taking off my makeup first ... Do you remember the look on the face of the waiter at the café where we had coffee?”
“Give the chap his due, you were half-naked and painted blue.”
“Which you’d have thought, in Soho, wouldn’t have turned a head.”
“I’ve never been with anyone who grabbed more attention than you.”
“P-u-l-e-a-s-e ... Are you going to fuck me before you have a shower?”
“Come here!”
He leaps onto my lap - bar stools are accommodating like that - and wraps his legs around my waist, slipping his hands behind my neck to stop himself from falling backwards. Before I can say another word, his lips are pressed to mine. My hands drop to his slender hips - his body is as beautiful as that violin - sublimely curved, finely balanced, honey-hued, and timbrous, I would say - yes; he resonates, like a reed or a spring - but he isn’t tense. There isn’t an ounce of spare meat on him but he doesn’t look like a crack whore - a musculature that is finely shrouded in perfect skin. When he moves, you can see exactly which muscles and tendons are working - an anatomist’s dream, I should think ... and then there is the perfection that we call Rocinante ... that probably needs an explanation.
The second piece I watched - with Rile performing with Rory - was an interpretation of Don Quixote. Rile played the part of Rocinante, the horse. Two hours of highly original and pretty cutting edge contemporary dance with the two guys dressed in just little snips of posing briefs - Polo’s budget for costumes obviously only stretched to a couple of face flannels. The guys were painted up as geometric shapes that harked back to or referenced - I think - Flatland by Edwin Abbott Abbott. Bryony gave me a running and comprehensive critique of the piece but I have to admit to being mesmerized by the pony with the pony-sized dong, which Rile had gallantly tried to get into the pouch - the audience didn’t care, and neither did I. I insisted that he wore the thong whenever we fucked for about a month thereafter ... until the string broke.
With him sat on my lap, our cocks standing to attention, side-by-side, I trace my tongue over the lines of the tattoo while he wanks us off together until I’m amply lubed with his precum and mine, and then he plants himself on my cock and eases himself back down, wrapping his legs around me again. I slip my hands under his buttocks and gently lift him up and down, seeing as I can’t thrust. His cock is trapped between us and slides over our slick stomachs, liberating the scent of wet HB pencils. His plums - that never seem to rise up and resemble a walnut like mine although look like a used tennis ball when relaxed - drum on the base of my cock, thumping out a regular beat that quickens once I reach my point of no return as I bounce him higher and faster despite the burning pain in my arm muscles - but it saves going to the gym.
“Fuck-FUCK-fuck ... RILE!”
When I cum, I hold him tight and force his buttocks down as hard against my groin as possible, barely able to maintain my balance, seeing stars and sucking in breath like one of Bryony’s bong-using pals. While I’m all flushed and swooning, he eases himself off my prong very, very slowly to then slip from my lap and grab my hand, pulling me up and guiding me to the shower, where he fucks me under the rose - twice - before scrubbing me thoroughly and rinsing me off to a triumphant, “There! You’re done!”
I am so done.
In bed.
“Te amo ...”
“Spanish?”
“Cast as the matador in Polo’s next piece - he texted; Rory pulled a hamstring.”
“Shit!”
“I get gored to death ...”
I snuffle and start to gently bite his shoulder.
“... Gored not chewed ...”
“My horn is weak though my mind is willing ...”
He slips down, pushing the duvet ahead of him, to latch on to Old Faithful, who needs a little coaxing but after a few minutes is hard enough to get inside his sweet, sweet buns - still slick and hot - and eventually, we make yet another unholy mess of the sheets.
When I’ve finished licking up the dregs from between his thighs, he wanks over my newly buzzed crown and then licks the cum off, concluding, “That look is so doing it for me.”
“I could buzz yours off too if you like ...”
“Tempting ... but for the sake of my art, I think I’ll pass for now.”
His locks fall in ringlets of chocolate brown - Jim Morrison-esque - and I would kill anyone who even thought about cutting them off.
We habitually sleep face-to-face, wrapped in our limbs like one fat and one thin stem of a corkscrew Hazel. After a kiss, we close our eyes.
***
“Can I speak to Mr. Rile Montgomery, please?”
“Speaking.”
“Mr. Montgomery; my name is Inspector Jacob Knight. This is a little difficult-”
“Is it Gui? Has something happened?”
“Can you confirm the nature of your relationship with Mr. Daval?”
“He’s my partner. What’s happened?”
“There was an incident and we are trying to contact his parents but so far, we’ve failed to do so. Your telephone number was one of those stored in his mobile phone-”
“What’s happened?
“It really would be better if-”
“What’s happened?”
“There was an incident; apparently, he was seen attempting to break in-”
“Break in!”
“We now know that he was attending a call-out, which is why what I am about to say is rather upsetting, to say the least ... his assailant believed that he was trying to break into the property, and accosted him - there was a scuffle.”
“Where is he? Is he alright?”
“No, Mr. Montgomery, he is not ... he died on the way to the hospital from his head injuries ...”
***
“Bryony; I’m so sorry-”
“Can you fucking believe it?! Thought he was a skinhead; that’s what the guy said ... thought he was a skinhead trying to break in, so he hit him over the head ... I can’t believe it; I just can’t believe it ...”
PART TWO
“David! Can you bring my jacket down with you when you come?”
“Okay ...”
A few minutes later, David appears at the bottom of stairs, holding out my jacket.
“Here you go.”
“Thank you. Bryony called to say that they’re running a few minutes late.”
“Only a few! Probably got time for a cuppa before we leave then.”
“Not for me, thanks.”
David disappears into the kitchen but I remain in the hall, studying the prints, which I have examined closely so many times - there are no answers to be found in the exquisitely rendered roses that Redouté painted for Marie-Antionette. They are really not my cup of tea but seeing as Bryony didn’t want them, I took them to save them from being sent to the charity shop. I have almost everything from the flat, which belonged to Gui - the barstool sits in our bathroom and is mainly used as a perch for dirty towels. I couldn’t stay in the flat; too many beautiful memories. Memories that were in danger of being turned into a kind of virtual reality. When, after three months, I still couldn’t bring myself to move the coaster, which he always used for his cup or glass, from the table beside the sofa, I knew I had to move on. I still have the sofa, the table, and the coaster - David uses them.
My reverie is broken by the toot of a car horn.
“David! They’re here!”
We’re off to the cemetery - Gui died five years ago today. We go every year, Bryony and I. I go much more often by myself, except I don’t tell anyone. Now, she is with Patrick - her husband - and I am with David - my boyfriend. It is only partly out of remembrance that we go - how could we ever forget him? We also give thanks - she and I both inherited a substantial amount of money from his will. We tidy the grave - I don’t do it too often when I am alone or I risk causing suspicion when we go together like today - as it is, I have to lie to her and say that the Council probably keeps the graves looking nice. We go mostly to talk. Bryony talks to him about the business - she kept it and, all due credit to her, she buckled down and is making a real go of things - Patrick is very supportive. I talk to him about everything going on in the world and what progress my students have made. I gave up dancing for the company when it was obvious that the front row of the audience was not so much there to see me dance, but just to point and say - that’s his boyfriend; you know, the fella who got beaten up because the lout thought he was trying to break in ... that’s his boyfriend.
I teach dance to a select group of young and talented boys and girls - most of whom are foreign and have no clue who Gui is - or was.
“Bryony!”
We haven’t seen each other for a few weeks, so our greetings are heartfelt.
“Rile! I’m so pleased to see you. Sorry we’re late - had an emergency call-out. Where’s David?”
“Just getting his shoes on.”
Patrick is waiting in the car.
“Lunch is our treat today - we have some news.”
“You’re-”
“Not before lunch!”
“Oh my God ... I’m so happy for you.”
“Shush; Patrick is dying to tell you himself so you must act surprised when he does.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem. Let me hurry up David ...”
By the time we reach the cemetery, it’s begun to rain. We wait in the car for the shower to pass, during which time, while Bryony is regaling us with Chloe’s exploits - of only passing interest to me - I watch as a young man, wearing what looks to be a pair of overalls, beneath an old Parka, scurries into the cemetery and disappears behind what I know to be the hut where they keep the lawnmower. If he plans to take refuge, he’s in luck, because the door is no more than a bit of plywood and I’m sure even I could pick the lock, it’s that cheap-looking.
Finally, the clouds move on and we’re able to make our way to the grave. David and Patrick stay for the regulation five minutes, and then wander off to watch the hockey match being played on the field next door. It’s a Sunday league match. David used to play before he injured his knee.
Standing either side of the grave in contemplative silence, we hold our conversations. No guesses for what Bryony’s opener will be this time. I give him a run-down of the students and their progress since we spoke last - about a week ago - and make sure to list the music I used in each lesson because, for all his typical, bloke-like ways, Gui was very interested in music. He was a bloke; he was my fella - I loved him with every cell in my body and if I could, I would slit the throat of the man who killed him and cheerfully watch as the cunt bled to death.
We had so many things to look forward to, so many places to visit, and so many things we wanted to do. The huge differences in our ages - 29 years - was a meaningless number to us - our love for each other had found a way to bypass that - even if we were constantly reminded of the fact by everyone else. He was young at heart - looking after Bryony helped in that regard, I am sure. I am a little old before my time - as they say - due partly to my father sending me to a conservatoire rather than to University ... and partly because I acted the part to make Gui’s friends feel less conscious of the difference, especially when we were out together. In any event, like he always said - and I remind myself - we are all of us recycled, and our souls are millions of years old. Hence the tattoos. David wants one but it seems crass in some respects - like he’s trying to compete with Gui. There’s no competition; I love David for a whole host of reasons, and none of them are because he is remotely like Gui.
A slight movement catches my eye and I can see that Bryony is finished having her tête à tête.
“You go on, Bry; I won’t be long.”
“If you’re sure; I wanted to see gramps and nonna too.”
“See you back at the car, sweetheart ...”
I appreciate the time I have alone with him; especially on a day like today. I have no issue with letting the tears fall from my eyes - yes; I have moved on - and, somewhat like my phoenix, I have been reborn but, there is a hole in my chest that nothing can fill ... not even a lake of tears.
Walking slowly back to the car, I put my head around the corner of the hut to see if the young man is there - the space is empty, and the door does not look like it has been forced. Maybe he was taking a shortcut to the tram station.
After I have re-joined the others, we leave for the restaurant and, once we are installed at our table and the champagne is served - which David and I query - we are officially informed of the happy event, and invited to be godfathers.
After our main course, David and Patrick take a coffee out onto the terrace to smoke a celebratory cigar, leaving me and Bryony at the table.
“We’re going to name him Guillaume if it’s a boy, or Guillaumette if it’s a girl ...”
“That’s beautiful, Bry ... really beautiful.”
“When are you and David going to get married and adopt?”
“If and when it feels right ... there’s no reason to rush into anything.”
“You’re so good together.”
“We are ... largely because we don’t put any undue stress on each other - and he’s probably going to be travelling with work for a while, which is another reason not to rush it ... We’ve already agreed to discuss it seriously once he gets back.”
“I have to be your best man, Rile.”
“Darling; there is absolutely no one else capable of filling those shoes - the job is yours.”
“I love you. I’m still so angry and sorry about what happened ...”
“Me too ... but it doesn’t do any good to dwell on that ... especially when we have your news to celebrate.”
“He’d be proud, wouldn’t he?”
She’s still chasing that spectre of parental affection - Chloe will never give it to her, and her father is next to useless. Gui was always so happy and proud of her that she really needn’t worry.
“So proud and so happy, Bry ...”
***
“Are you okay? You seem awfully quiet, Rile.”
“No; I’m fine ... just thinking.”
“About Gui?”
“No; actually, about the future, our future, our plans and the time when we will hopefully be announcing the arrival of our child.”
“I thought you didn’t want to discuss that until after I got back.”
“I don’t want to discuss the finer details ... but I do want you to understand that it is what I want - it is just a matter of when not if.”
“Really?”
“Yes; really.”
“Are you coming to bed?”
“I was just going to choose the music for this week’s lessons.”
“Let me rephrase the question ... Are you coming to bed?”
“Ah! In that case, the answer is yes ... give me five minutes.”
Gui made love like a rutting water bison - and as gently as a butterfly when the moment demanded a more delicate hand. I literally couldn’t get enough of him, and when I was buried in him or he was buried in me, there was nowhere on Earth I would rather have been. David is very different - he has to be - and there is nowhere on Earth I would rather be than with him ... except for that hole in my chest that sometimes sucks the moment dry, leaving me numb and unresponsive like a piece of wood. I don’t think it will be the case tonight.
He is dominant; an alpha male. I relish being taken like I am his first mate. That makes me sound feminine - and if I’m honest, he probably thinks of me that way. We met at the gym. I wasn’t there to train - dance keeps me fit and toned. Neither was he; he sells the equipment and he was overseeing the delivery of some new machines. I was there to meet Bryony after her aerobics class before we went to view the house, which she later bought with Gui’s money.
Coincidences; Gui used to say that they were the tiny clues to the existence of a past life; that they showed you the overlaying patterns of those lives, where normally, you’re so oblivious to them. The door to the back of the van was padlocked, and the driver had mislaid the key. David was making a call to the office to get someone to bring the spare out when Bryony emerged. I told her what I thought was going on. She walked straight up to David and offered to open the lock for him - she never leaves the house without her pick and tension wrench. Bewildered but grateful, he accepted, and in less than a minute, the door was swinging open - reputation saved - his not hers.
He said, “How can I thank you?”
“Go on a date with my brother ...”
I’m her brother - whereas Gui was her half-brother. I suppose she transferred something - a bit like keeping some framed prints or a coaster with a picture of Clovelly on it.
He looked at me, and back to her, and then back to me. I was just as shocked - though I shouldn’t have been because her gaydar was - and is - always one hundred percent accurate.
“Tomorrow, eight o’clock, Luciano’s?” he suggests, getting his composure back just before me.
“It’s a date!” she said, practically pushing me forward into his arms. We swapped numbers and, of all things, shook hands to her chorus of ‘that’s better; much better!’
I find him propped up in bed with the edge of the sheet seductively covering his prize water bison’s tackle - the only feature he shares with Gui. My mouth is already watering at the thought of being impaled by it - hopefully in both ends. I should have guessed at his dominant nature at the time of our first date - he picked me up, opened the car door for me, seated me at the restaurant table, ordered the food and wine, and paid the bill. He likes to be worshipped; I like to worship. With Gui, it was always a fifty-fifty approach to everything in life and love. Like I said; it has to be different.
He gazes at me like I’m his favourite food, being brought to him on a silver platter. His eyes travel up and down and then back up to my face - he’s imagining how his cock is going to look as it slides in and out of my mouth ... but first, he wants a kiss. I dance my way into his lap and sit astride his thighs; the anticipation of his hands snaking around my neck to draw me in is almost too much. Just before he plants his partly open lips on mine, he says, “I love you.”
I combed my fingers through his tidy locks but rather than clasp his neck, I drop them to his shoulders and then slowly rub his upper arms; the contours are so familiar to me now. He’s sucking on my tongue as gently as a hummingbird sips nectar ... until I tweak his proud little shell-like nips, causing him to gasp; the sucking becomes more ardent. When I back off, he doesn’t complain because he knows where I’m going. Flicking my eyes to his, I smirk, before kissing my way down his chest, planting an especially long one on his sternum, taking a moment to breathe in the subtle hint of Allure Homme before tracing a line with the tip of my tongue along his treasure trail, pausing to peel back the sheet, waiting for him to settle his thighs into a more relaxed pose, to then envelop my bison’s horn and get my nose filled with the bouquet of vanilla-scented wet wipes - he always cleans his cock with a wet wipe after taking a leak - and the keener tang of chlorine - he swam before coming home from work - and the sweet-sour top note of varnish - what else should wood smell of?
When he’s cum, I’ll tea bag each of his bullock-sized balls until he’s ready to fuck me; my hole is aching to be stretched and I’m hungry for the hot seed that’s as thick as wallpaper paste and tastes of party balloon rubber.
While I suck him off, I keep his balls gripped firmly in my hands, never letting them ride up - which they don’t much do anyway. The palms of his hands are pressed tightly against my cheeks and his fingertips are playing with the lobes of my ears. A succession of grunts signals the first volley is being loaded; simultaneously, he slides his hands to the back of my head and holds me firmly and begins to buck. The base of his cock swells and then fires a warning shot, before letting rip a salvo of hot gobs. And every time, I am reminded of the day that Gui and I blew up hundreds of balloons for a friend’s birthday party. If I’d known what was going to happen, I’d have saved one and I’d have sucked the air into my lungs in hopes that it might have filled the hole, which feels especially vacuous as I swallow.
He releases me as the shuddering aftershocks melt the tension out of his muscles, and he slumps; my cue to take each fat roma into my mouth, where I suck it and tease the looser skin with my teeth, recharging him. Having resurrected his arousal, I turn and present my rump to him, which he dutiful lubes for me so that I can plant myself, my back to him, readying myself to twerk a little to get his fat head into the right place to bring myself off while he holds my waist and jerks upwards. Once the rhythm is established, he grasps my cock with one hand and sleeves it and presses the other flat to my stomach - which I find comforting - until I can no longer hold back, dropping forward a little, giving him the space to thrust higher and faster. My bison-lover breeds me as I decorate my chest and neck with my own cum, which he will gather up on his thumb and allow me to lick off.
I am safely destroyed, as Lorca wrote. Which reminds me, I really must get round to choreographing the dance for the students’ end of term interpretation of il Mantello Rosso by Nono.
***
“Be careful; call me when you can.”
“I will; a month is not all that long.”
“I know ...”
Quotes, deals, and calls finally secured his trip to promote the equipment in three or four major new gym developments in the USA. A month is not very long.
On the day of his departure, I do nothing but housework. Once I hear from him that he has landed in New York, and is being entertained by Budge, his contact, I relax into the evening and read. Tomorrow, I plan to go to the cemetery first thing, and then buy flowers for the studio, and also choose new flooring.
At breakfast, I pick up a call from Bryony and feign overwork to put her off; she wants to meet for lunch and no doubt talk babies. Putting the phone down, I finish my breakfast and then get ready to leave, planning on taking the tram to avoid the extortionate parking charges.
By the time I get to the cemetery, the wind has gotten up and the first big splats of a heavy shower are exploding around me, forcing me to find shelter under the tiny roof above the door to the groundsman’s hut. I am not the only one seeking sanctuary.
“The heavens are just about to open, I think.”
“No umbrella?”
His voice is friendlier than his filthy Parka and stained and ripped overalls would have suggested.
“I have a pocket one; I suppose that might just keep the worst off us ...”
I ferret in my bag and find the umbrella, putting it up and offering to shield us.
“I’m Rile, by the way; I saw you on Sunday.”
“You were here with the couple and the other man ... Billy.”
“Do you live around here?”
“I live in a squat in Station Road; I come here to use the standpipe and clean my teeth ...”
And as if to reinforce the point, he slips his hand into the pocket of his coat and partly withdraws a toothbrush, which I wouldn’t have cleaned grouting with, and the gnarled up remains of a tube of toothpaste.
“... Water got cut off soon after I moved in; found a box of candles in the cupboard under the stairs ... You smell of lemons ...”
“Body wash - it was on offer.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you have the self-same dimples that my boyfriend had ... it’s his grave that I visit ... five years since he passed.”
“I’m sorry ...”
The gusts of wind are getting stronger, forcing us to pull the umbrella down over us, and in so doing, we have to get very close to each other. He smells unwashed, except for his breath, which smells of toothpaste. Gui’s brand - fennel flavoured - which I used to get for him from Holland and Barrett when I bought my Manuka honey.
Memories are beginning to ignite like the little intense blue flames around the edge of the big ring of the gas hob.
“Got any cigarettes?”
“Sorry; I don’t smoke ... Would you like a cup of tea? The café by the station isn’t too bad ...”
“They don’t like me in there; they call me a sponger - which ain’t true ... just down on my luck at the minute.”
“Why?”
“Lost my job and everything with it ... seriously fucking annoyed cos my boss owed me a month’s pay and holiday pay, which would come in dead handy right now.”
“On the other side of the cemetery, there’s the other café with the terrace outside. The rain looks to be easing off now.”
“Could we have a coffee?”
“Sure ... Where were you working?”
“The metal fabricators in Deal’s Yard - did some good work for him too.”
“Nothing else going?”
“Hard to get a job when you’re homeless - always the first fucking question they ask - address, please ... Gave me notice and didn’t pay me; couldn’t pay the rent and got tossed out by the landlord - who’s a git! ... I don’t know anyone round here cos I’m not from here.”
“Where are you from?”
“Dartmouth ... and I’d go back if anyone there was going to be pleased to see me - which they won’t be.”
The rain has, by now, stopped and I put the umbrella down, securing it with the Velcro strap, slipping it in the outer pocket of my bag.
“Shall we get a coffee?”
“Yeah; handsome ... What do you do?”
“I teach dance ...”
“I love music - you know Woodkid?”
“Vaguely ...”
“He wrote the soundtrack to Desierto - best film I ever seen.”
“I don’t know it; most of the music I listen to tends to be classical. Bryony would know it. My partner - the one who died - had a half-sister, and we still see each other a lot ...”
“Nice.”
“She’s just announced that she’s pregnant ...”
“Wow ...”
I can’t think of anything else to say without opening the floodgates and dumping the last seven years in his lap - I want him to have known Gui, and for us to reminisce - how bizarre is that?
“... You miss him ...”
I can’t work out if the question begs an answer or was just a statement - I nod.
On the way to the café, we pass a shop, into which I dive to buy him a packet of cigarettes. He doesn’t know what to say - neither do I, except, “It’s nice enough to sit outside now ...”
I order us a coffee and muffin.
“There you go; it’s banana nut and cinnamon ...”
“Cheers ... How did he die?”
“Oh ... he was attacked and beaten ... he died of his head injuries.”
“Fuck ...”
He looks to be genuinely moved - not just morbidly curious, which most people are - were; I don’t say much about it anymore.
“... Are you going to eat that muffin ...?”
“Uhm; no ... I’m not really hungry; you have it.”
“I don’t expect anything for nothing ...”
“What do you mean?”
“You know ... something in return ... a guy offered me a place to sleep in exchange for a fuck ... I told him to fuck off.”
“I don’t want anything in return ...”
“I found the squat ... he had disgusting, greasy hair - made me feel dirty!”
He laughs and displays perfect teeth - Gui had perfect teeth and very healthy gums - his dentist commented on it every time he had a check-up.
“Would you like to take a shower and wash your clothes?”
“I’d let you fuck me ...”
“I don’t want to fuck; I just wondered if you wanted to freshen up ...”
“Would be so good to shave - and I’m petrified that I’ve got lice.”
“Why not come back and get freshened up ... and maybe that film you like will be on Netflix ...”
Gui would have done exactly the same. Unfortunately, due to my conservatoire-style upbringing, prior to meeting Gui, I never really had a clue about what the world was really like. Whenever we met his friends - perhaps in the pub - he’d make sure he had a firm hold of my hand and he never let go - it gave me a lot of confidence to speak without worrying too much that everyone would think I was a pretentious prig. I still don’t have much of a clue, but I do understand how people are apt to judge your appearance - and the consequences of making the wrong judgement call.
“It’s about a border patrol guard in Texas, who takes the law into his own hands and starts shooting the poor bleedin’ Mexicans trying to make it across the border ...”
I guess that’s a yes then.
***
“I’ll fetch you some towels ... and some clean clothes to wear while yours are in the washing machine.”
“Thanks ... Who’s that in the picture?”
“Gui ... my partner ... the one who was killed ...”
His eyes flick to mine; I interpret that as ‘he was much older than you’.
“... He was much older than me - not that it mattered to us.”
“Who’s this?”
“That’s David; my boyfriend - he’s in the States on business at the moment.”
“He’s handsome.”
“Yes; he is ... He sells fitness equipment.”
“Was never one for the gym; I like running.”
“Let me get the towels and a new razor ...”
Billy trails after me, examining closely the Redouté prints and photographs as he walks along the hall and up the stairs. He stops in front of a photograph of me, performing in Polo’s Don Quixote.
“That’s you ... wow; you’re like a coiled up spring ... fucking beautiful.”
“That was a few years ago now ... I teach these days.”
I show Billy the bathroom, and while he noses about, I fetch the towels from the airing cupboard, which is in our bedroom.
“Here you go; there’s a box of new razors in the cupboard under the sink. What do you want to wear?”
“I’m not fussy. Where shall I put my clothes?”
“Oh; let me get you a spare set and when you’re done, bring yours down to the kitchen - the machine’s there.”
“Okay ...”
I quickly ferret for a pair of decent tracksuit bottoms, a rugby shirt, and clean underwear.
“I’ll leave you to it ... I’ll pop the kettle on and maybe make us a sandwich, yeah?”
“Lovely; ta ...”
It’s a relief to close the door and escape to the kitchen to regroup - I’m not feeling afraid of having allowed a perfect stranger into my home - it’s the hole in my chest that is bothering me ... it’s shrunk.
Making a nice pot of tea and cutting a few sandwiches keeps my mind occupied, especially when I hear Billy’s dulcet tones filtering down from the bathroom - I have no idea what song he is slaughtering - actually, his voice isn’t that bad.
“I cleaned the shower tray,” Billy announces as he appears at the kitchen door.
“You didn’t need to worry; thanks. I made some cheese and pickle sandwiches ... tea?”
“Thanks. Where shall I put these?”
His own clothes, which smell like a dead animal, hang limply from his hand.
“I’ll put them in the washing machine; what about your coat?”
“It’ll take forever to dry.”
“I’ve got a tumble dryer ... or I could lend you a jacket ...”
“It’s not worth washing - don’t suppose these are either ... pretty rank.”
“Up to you ... leave them in the conservatory and come through to the lounge and we’ll try and find that film ...”
I have to escape or betray my emotions - it’s as if his mere presence is sewing the hole back up. But being stitched by a novice, who is pulling too hard on the thread, making me catch my breath as the pain radiates out to the ends of my fingers and toes.
Flicking through Netflix allows me to meditate on my breathing.
“Love cheese and pickle ... reminds me of all the times I went fishing; always took cheese and pickle sandwiches and a flask of tea with me ... Did you find it?”
“The damn system is still loading ... What were you singing?”
“Shit! I wouldn’t call that singing exactly ... Do you know Ray LaMontagne?”
“I’ve heard the name but I don’t think I know any of his songs.”
“While It Still Beats ... from his latest album - Ouroboros ...”
“Ww ... what was the title?”
“Ouroboros ... came out in January - last album I bought.”
“What happened to all your stuff?”
“What could I do with it? Had no place to keep it and no one to look after it for me ... took it all to the charity shop. I kept a few clothes and had them in a rucksack but someone nicked it ...”
“Ouroboros ... the mythical snake that eats its own tail.”
“What does that mean?”
“Fundamentally, that all the universe, all the energy, and all existence keeps repeating for infinity - it’s more to do with seeing things as cycles ... there is a kind of contentment in achieving an acceptance of one’s fate - amor fati - a love of one’s fate ...”
“You know a lot about it.”
“Gui had the Ouroboros tattooed on his chest ... I have the phoenix tattooed on mine ...”
“Rising from the ashes ... I’ve got a griffin tattooed on my back - with vengeance and salvation in two scrolls under it - did you want to see it?”
“Uhm ... sure ...”
He turns and pulls his shirt up, displaying his back, upon which is a simple depiction of the griffin in black ink - more of an outline and not in-filled - beneath it are the two scrolls. The whole design fits snugly between his shoulder blades.
“Cool, huh?”
“Very ... Netflix is saying that the film is not found ... was there anything else you wanted to watch?”
“Not fussed really ... could do with a kip.”
“The spare room is made up if you wanted to go to sleep ...”
“Don’t get much sleep at the squat because I’m always afraid of someone getting in ... I don’t want to take any liberties.”
“It’s fine; I have work to do in any event.”
“Maybe I’ll just have a cigarette and then lie down for a bit ... this cheese ain’t your regular cheddar.”
“Wensleydale ... did you want more tea?”
“Handsome ...”
While I make the tea, Billy steps outside, through the conservatory door, and has a puff. I make a decision regarding the clothes or I can see that I’m going to have to fumigate the place.
“Billy; I’m going to put those clothes in a black sack.”
“Chuck um; they’re no better than rags ... if you’re sure about me keeping these.”
“No; it’s fine ...”
I bag up the clothes and lob the sack through the internal door into the garage, ready to be thrown out on collection day.
“Which was the spare room?”
“I’ll show you - well; it’s the door opposite the bathroom.”
“Wake me up whenever you want me to go.”
“Ssure ...”
It’s almost more than I can do to remain standing; the pain has subsided but has been replaced by a throbbing headache and a rolling boil sensation in my stomach. Choosing music is impossible and I collapse on the sofa in the conservatory - with the door open - and close my eyes, finding some relief in meditating and practising my alternate nostril breathing regime to clear my mind.
In the course of which, I dropped off and woke up an hour and a half later, desperate for the loo. I pad upstairs, hoping not to disturb Billy, who I can hear snoring through the partly open door of the spare room.
Returning to the conservatory, I realise that I haven’t turned my phone back on since this morning when I switched it off before going to the cemetery - it just feels appropriate to turn it off when I am with Gui.
“Shit!”
I find four missed calls, four messages and one text from David. I quickly text back, assuring him that I’m okay and just suffering from a migraine. His text was just before he boarded the plane to Chicago, so I am not expecting another call for a few hours. I’m surprised he didn’t call the landline. But then maybe he did because when I check, I find that I failed to turn the answer machine on when I left this morning. I decide that it would be a good idea if I had a lie down myself.
***
“Rile ... Rile; you okay?”
“W-h-a-t?”
“You were talking loudly in your sleep; I thought you were having a bad dream ...”
I come to my senses and find him sitting on the edge of my bed with his hand on my shoulder.
“I’ll fetch us a tea, shall I?”
“What time is it?”
“Nearly midnight.”
“Jesus; I was dead to the world.”
“Stay put; I’ll get us some tea ...”
When he opens the door wider, the light from the landing reveals that he is wearing just his underpants. I have the feeling of stepping out onto thin ice - for no apparent reason. I lie back and listen to the various noises of tea being made, and when I hear his footfalls on the stairs, I’m aware that my heart is pounding in my chest - I flick the bedside lamp on.
“Here we go!”
He pads into the room and places a mug of tea on the nightstand, returning to sit beside me.
“Your phone was ringing earlier ...”
“David checking in; he’s just arrived at his hotel in Chicago, I imagine ... Did you sleep well?”
“Like a log ... I wasn’t sure if I should go ...”
“It’s late ...”
“Makes no difference to me; not like I have to get up for work in the morning.”
“Take advantage ...”
“I really appreciate what you’ve done for me ... I was getting a bit desperate."
“Don’t worry; I’m happy to help as much as I can ...”
“If I could get a job, I’d be back on my feet in no time ...”
“Maybe we can think about that tomorrow.”
Silence descends for a moment, which is only punctuated by the sound of tea being sipped.
“How old are you, Rile?”
“Twenty-eight ... you?”
“Twenty-two ... You seem a lot older.”
“Old before my time, Gui always said ... studying for so long has rather warped my perspective of the world - and I never had much time for normal stuff.”
“What about David?”
“David has helped me enormously to get a little more grounded.”
Rather distractingly, Billy pulls at the hem of the legs of the trunk-style briefs I gave him, and absently rearranges himself to presumably make himself more comfortable. I had shucked my jeans and shirt before getting into bed and I’m wearing just my briefs and socks beneath the duvet.
In pulling myself up to lean more against the headboard, Billy sees the tattoo of the phoenix.
“Wow! That’s a work of art ...”
I peer down and gaze at it myself, recalling the pain of the needle.
“Hurt like hell ... but it was worth it.”
As I gaze down, remembering Gui’s reaction to it once the dressing had come off and the scabs had dropped away, I watch as Billy reaches out to touch it. His disconnected hand - surreal. His touch, which is as light as a feather - surprising. His fingertip tracing the lines - arousing. The swelling root that I am barely able to restrain by clamping it between my thighs - in danger of betraying me. The rose-tinted blush that paints my chest - inevitable. The tightening and hardening of my nipples - an invitation.
He takes the mug from my hand and places it, along with his own, on the bedside table, to then clamber over me and slip under the duvet, snuggling up with his arms encircling my chest.
“Been so long ...”
“Billy ...”
“Just want to hold you; can’t remember what it feels like.”
The sensible man would insist that he went back to his own bed, or left ... but I can’t do it, and I slip down, turning and slipping my arms around him, burying my nose into his neck to breathe in the scent of lemon mixed with his own smell that reminds me of old leather-bound music score folios.
***
I sleep better than on any night since Gui died. I wake up feeling relaxed and in the moment, whereas normally I spend so much of my time looking back, or looking forward to the day when none of this matters. Perpetually recycling through Time and Space to spend two years with the first man that I fell in love with - two years out of what ... eighty, maybe ninety? That seems like a poor average, despite the fact that those two years were the best I could remember before or since - amor fati - love of one’s fate. I might have loved it before I met Billy yesterday. Only now do I admit that meeting David did not have - has not had the same result. That’s perplexing.
Try as hard as I might, I cannot shake off the absolute certainty that when Billy wakes up, I am going to be unfaithful to David. Nothing happened after we snuggled up to go to sleep - we just slept like two babes in the wood. Now the two babes have wood. He remains asleep for the time being. His face is completely relaxed and it is as if he has shed five years. His lashes lay like feathers on his cheeks - a darker shade of the blond of his springy curls. When I saw him for the first time, I thought he had dreads - he didn’t as it happened, just longish spirals of gorgeous blond hair - which is now clean and smells of my nectarine-scented conditioner.
So often, we ignore a man’s lips - as if they are not really important. A woman can and often will draw attention to hers with lipstick. Some men hide theirs under a moustache. On stage, I have worn lipstick many times. The shape of a man’s lips is fascinating - and I don’t mean when they are stretched! Billy has full lips, which appear symmetrical but perhaps the bottom lip is a little fuller than the top - which is actually very common. A cupid’s bow with wide points ... and the colour of ... oh; so hard to describe - darker than pink but not as dark as true red - somewhere between maraschino cherry and coral? Kissable to say the least.
He has a strong, straight nose. I think he looks like the offspring - had there ever been one - of Kirk Douglas and Monica Bellucci.
I can feel his penis, which is rubbing up against mine through the layers of thin material. Will it be a quickie, after which, he’ll disappear? Will he be athletic, adventurous, amorous, sensational, dominant, versatile, or even sensuous? Will I regret it, lie to myself about it, lie to David about it, or should I get up now and avoid it?
Is the damage done? Have I eaten of the apple? Am I doomed? Am I saved?
“You grind your teeth when you sleep ...”
“Oh; I thought you were still asleep ... good morning.”
“Good morning ...”
He flicks his eyes open - two crystals of blue set into the delicate china teacup orbs. A betting man would say ‘doomed’.
“... yes; you grind your teeth ... and mumble.”
“Did I disturb you?”
“No; I felt safe ... I’ve never shared a bed with anyone before - I liked it.”
“Would you like some tea?” I ask as I make a half-hearted attempt to extricate myself from the bed and the situation that I feel could quickly escalate.
“Rile ... what are you afraid of?”
Good question.
“Doing something I will regret ...”
“Do you want me to go?”
His tattoo reads vengeance & salvation - how can inflicting punishment bring about salvation? And who is saved? He is altogether too oblique for me to read; music that is off-key; a dance with one too many or too few steps - I am unsteady - perhaps unnerved.
“I don’t know ... perhaps it would be better if-”
His maraschino-coral coloured, near-perfect cupid bow lips pressed to my own will inflict a terrible wound to my conscience, and in the process, I will be saved - no longer having to be the dutiful and slightly sad partner of a memory; no longer having to respect barely voiced and little remembered wishes to keep everything just as it was; no longer having to look beyond the man in my bed to the time when I will be reunited with the man I loved - still love.
A tender but confident stroke with the back of his hand across my cheek and down my chest, until, somewhere over my midriff, he turns his hand over and glides on to slip in under the waistband of my briefs, to grip me.
“I want you to fuck me ...” His voice is just this side of urgent; encouragement wrapped in wantonness.
Without waiting for a response, he turns in my arms, simultaneously pushing his briefs down to expose his buttocks. Being young and supple, he turns his upper body slightly and tips his head back to lay it against my shoulder, re-presenting his lips.
“Fuck me ...”
Wrapping his upper body in one arm, I use the other push my briefs down and grip myself, to work my cock into his crease, hoping pre-cum alone will be enough to get me inside his chute, already imagining the glory of sliding in and out of his young, tight arse, recalling how I always relished how Gui opened me up, making me gasp until his fingers, which tasted of 3-in-1, found their way into my mouth.
In juddering stages, I get to the gasping stage and force my tongue into his mouth, rocking my hips a little to thrust just enough to grease the piston sleeve before slamming in hard, holding the pose, pulling him in, slipping my free hand under his top leg to grip the hard stump of his cock. Stroking him as I pump brings us both to a quick and heady surge. Palming his load and rubbing it over his stomach gives me a frisson of pure and unadulterated pleasure - the same one I get when I steal the last chocolate from the box - usually a white chocolate with a fondant cherry centre ... if I’m lucky.
***
“I should get going ...”
“I don’t want you to go ...”
“But; you’re sorted ... Why would you fuck that up?”
“I already did ... but the fact that I don’t care is telling me that you have to stay.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I thought I knew myself ... seems I was wrong. I held onto the idea of me for so long but it wasn’t wholly true or complete ... please stay.”
“I can’t stay; I have no job, no money and you have a boyfriend-”
“We’ll make it work ...”
“I don’t think there’s much hope of that ...”
“I wouldn’t say that ... How does it go? ... for hope is always born at the same time as love[1] ...”
“Who said that?”
“A madman ...”
[1] Cervantes
By Alp Mortal
PART ONE
“Are you absolutely sure about this?”
“Yes. It’s been driving me crazy for ages; look how thin it’s getting at the front, and I can never have it down while I’m working - so what’s the point?”
“You’ve had long hair all the time I’ve known you - for years.”
“Will you still love me?”
A quirk of the lips, in the reflection in the mirror, suggests that it was a dumber than dumb question.
Seated on the bar stool - the one we rescued from the skip, later finding it to be a Conran classic design from the 60s - in front of the bathroom mirror, my vulnerabilities were never more on show. Any lapse in the exercise and diet regime will quickly get me a membership card for the Dad Bod club - Rile has no such concerns; being a 23-year-old contemporary dancer with a leading London company keeps him on the lean and mean side. If I didn’t shave the chest and keep the pubes trimmed, the grey would already be centre stage; for now, it remains in the wings, offering the audience the odd soliloquy on the dangers of chasing the tail of my youth. Coincidentally, I have a tattoo of the tail-devouring snake on my left pec - the Ouroboros; whereas Rile has a phoenix on his right. A sort of homage to the idea that we are renewed after death. We got the tattoos on the occasion of his twenty-first birthday and my fiftieth birthday - our milestones falling in the same month - July.
Older for younger - yes; but that is a label or a slogan used by our detractors. Apparently, we defy the definition because we are in love - so says Rile. I hasten to agree with him on every occasion.
“I can do it myself but I’m sure to get the back all messed up.”
“No; I’ll do it if you’re absolutely positive it’s what you want.”
“It is; and if I resemble an ageing poster boy for the Neo-Nazis, I won’t blame you.”
“Plenty of guys have their heads shaved and don’t look like thugs ... keep the beard trimmed to the same length and you’ll look even sexier than you do already ...”
“I guess it will grow back a bit.”
“Do you want me to do it or not?”
“Do it! Now or never.”
“Relax ... and close your eyes.”
Using the electric razor with a size three comb, he begins the process of shearing off my locks, starting at the front and working backwards in tracks. Rather than shedding a tear, I spring a woody. Judging by the complete lack of a reaction, either he hasn’t seen it or he’s ignoring it. The feeling of each clump tumbling down my back is tantalising, to say the least. It’s very liberating.
“I never realised that you had such a beautifully-shaped head.”
“Michael shaved his and found that scar he never knew he had from the time when his brother pushed him so high on the swing that he fell out of the seat and cracked his head open - he only remembered the incident when he saw the scar ...”
“Yours is perfect - and you don’t have any horrible fat veins like Polo has; I can never take my eyes from the one on the side of his head that pulses whenever he gets angry.”
“Did he cast you in the lead role this time?”
“I’m waiting on a text - it’ll either be me or Rory ...”
“By rights, it should be you.”
“Nearly done; just gonna go round the edges with the blade and make it neat; I’ll shave your neck too.”
“Can I look yet?-”
“No! Be patient ...”
Patience. I have so little and have to work so hard to keep what I have got. Not so when Rile and I first met - then I was very patient - also transfixed by his performance on the stage that night. It was all Bryony’s doing.
Bryony. My half-sister. Mum and Dad divorced - a rarity for their generation compared to mine, and unique in their circle of Bridge playing Conservative Party members. After the dust had settled, Dad remarried; a younger woman - Chloe. Apparently, she’s from a long line of hippies. She’s an artist. They produced a sprog - Bryony, whom Dad dotes on and spoils rotten, and whom Chloe ignores, making Bryony all the wilder at times as she attempts - unsuccessfully - to win her mother’s attention and-or affection. I unofficially adopted her for the sake of some normality in her life. When she can be bothered to turn up, she’s training to be a locksmith - my apprentice - kind of Pygmalion in reverse.
One day she says, as she so often did, “Gui; got someone I want you to meet ...”
“A boyfriend?”
“Yes - for you!”
“Bryony; sweetheart, that’s really-”
“No; you have to meet him - Friday!”
Finding me a boyfriend was her pet project - I went along with it for the most part just to keep her quiet. One or two of her ‘finds’ did turn out to be nice young men; the vast majority couldn’t string two words together for the effects of the drugs they were taking - that didn’t stop me from fucking three of them. I’ve told her that if I ever catch her with drugs, I’m dragging her to the police station myself. It seems not to be her thing, thankfully.
“Who is he and what does he do?”
“His name is Rile and he’s a dancer.”
“How did you meet him?”
“At a party after one of his performances; he’s gorgeous.”
“And yet twenty?”
“Very nearly twenty-one.”
“Couldn’t you find me someone who is at least half my age?”
“Silly Gui - age is not important ... it’s all about love.”
“Very true, sweetheart ... Are you working today by chance?”
“Depends.”
“Got your pick and tension wrench? Got a call-out in Holland Park.”
“Oh, goody! A breaking and entering job!”
“You scare me ... Come on!”
***
“Can I open my eyes yet?”
“Just tidying up the back ...”
The sensation of his fingers on my freshly shaved skin has kept my cock erect; the cool tip suggests I’ve been leaking heavily.
“Now you can open your eyes ...”
While I gaze into the mirror, he uses a huge makeup powder dusting brush - the size of something you could sweep a chimney with - to clean the tiny clippings from my back and shoulders - the brush is an old one; I bought him a new set of brushes last Christmas, seeing as he has to provide his own for applying his stage makeup.
“What do you think?” Rile asks.
“Wow ... it’s amazing!”
I instinctively rub my hand over my scalp, feeling the tiny hairs as they prickle against my palm.
“Let me trim your beard and then you’ll get the full effect ...”
“What do you think?”
“I like it - love it ... a definite improvement.”
“It doesn’t make look old?”
“You look sexy; let me do your beard ...”
Moving around in front of me, he blocks my view of the mirror, consequently, I have no choice but to allow my eyes to rest on his face as he trims me up.
“You’d best take a shower after this to wash all the little hairs away ...”
“I’d best have something ...”
“So I noticed ... Stop grinning; I can’t get the sides even if you grin.”
“Sorry ...”
“There! The best-looking ageing poster boy for the Neo-Nazis that I have ever had the good fortune to fall in love with.”
The comment, however lame it might have sounded, brings tears to my eyes, which I blame on the hair flying about. He leans back, with his bum resting against the sink, arms folded across his chest and looks at me like he’s looking at a piece of modern art.
“I do love you, you know.”
“I know you do, and I love you.”
The performance to which Bryony dragged me - not exactly kicking and screaming because having to watch fit guys in tight clothing, bending and stretching in provocative ways can hardly be described as purgatory, can it? - was a performance of a contemporary ballet called Trilogie - three dances; each in a very different style. I was informed that Rile was dancing in the second piece - something between classic and modern - and it was a solo piece with just a violin to accompany him.
Now, here’s the coincidence that sets the ball rolling. My father repaired violins from an atelier in Brick Lane before Brick Lane became Mecca for the young and trendy - what happened to Carnaby Street? Anyways; he repaired violins - and other stringed instruments. The chap playing the violin had been one of Dad’s last customers - how strange. I recognised him. At the after party - I was never entirely sure how Bryony got us access to these things - I caught up with the chap and we had a bit of a chinwag. Bryony was impatient to introduce me to Rile - had it not been for the fact that the violinist needed to catch a bus, I am pretty certain that he and I would be married with three Chihuahuas by now.
“Gui!”
I caved and let Bryony introduce me. His first question was, “Gui? Is that short for Guillaume?”
“Yes, it is ... Rile?”
“No clue; my mother saw it on the side of a box of Chinese noodles ... could have been worse; my father was championing Severn ... which is my middle name but I never use it. Are you French?”
“My father is from Alsace; my mother is from Sissinghurst in Kent ... You dance beautifully.”
“Thank you ... Do you mind if we leave and grab an espresso somewhere?”
“The pleasure would be all mine.”
“Not entirely ...”
He was - and remains - so polite and just a little bit erudite.
My attention is grabbed by Rile dropping his towel.
“What were you thinking about?”
“The night we met ...”
“You were so patient as I insisted on taking off my makeup first ... Do you remember the look on the face of the waiter at the café where we had coffee?”
“Give the chap his due, you were half-naked and painted blue.”
“Which you’d have thought, in Soho, wouldn’t have turned a head.”
“I’ve never been with anyone who grabbed more attention than you.”
“P-u-l-e-a-s-e ... Are you going to fuck me before you have a shower?”
“Come here!”
He leaps onto my lap - bar stools are accommodating like that - and wraps his legs around my waist, slipping his hands behind my neck to stop himself from falling backwards. Before I can say another word, his lips are pressed to mine. My hands drop to his slender hips - his body is as beautiful as that violin - sublimely curved, finely balanced, honey-hued, and timbrous, I would say - yes; he resonates, like a reed or a spring - but he isn’t tense. There isn’t an ounce of spare meat on him but he doesn’t look like a crack whore - a musculature that is finely shrouded in perfect skin. When he moves, you can see exactly which muscles and tendons are working - an anatomist’s dream, I should think ... and then there is the perfection that we call Rocinante ... that probably needs an explanation.
The second piece I watched - with Rile performing with Rory - was an interpretation of Don Quixote. Rile played the part of Rocinante, the horse. Two hours of highly original and pretty cutting edge contemporary dance with the two guys dressed in just little snips of posing briefs - Polo’s budget for costumes obviously only stretched to a couple of face flannels. The guys were painted up as geometric shapes that harked back to or referenced - I think - Flatland by Edwin Abbott Abbott. Bryony gave me a running and comprehensive critique of the piece but I have to admit to being mesmerized by the pony with the pony-sized dong, which Rile had gallantly tried to get into the pouch - the audience didn’t care, and neither did I. I insisted that he wore the thong whenever we fucked for about a month thereafter ... until the string broke.
With him sat on my lap, our cocks standing to attention, side-by-side, I trace my tongue over the lines of the tattoo while he wanks us off together until I’m amply lubed with his precum and mine, and then he plants himself on my cock and eases himself back down, wrapping his legs around me again. I slip my hands under his buttocks and gently lift him up and down, seeing as I can’t thrust. His cock is trapped between us and slides over our slick stomachs, liberating the scent of wet HB pencils. His plums - that never seem to rise up and resemble a walnut like mine although look like a used tennis ball when relaxed - drum on the base of my cock, thumping out a regular beat that quickens once I reach my point of no return as I bounce him higher and faster despite the burning pain in my arm muscles - but it saves going to the gym.
“Fuck-FUCK-fuck ... RILE!”
When I cum, I hold him tight and force his buttocks down as hard against my groin as possible, barely able to maintain my balance, seeing stars and sucking in breath like one of Bryony’s bong-using pals. While I’m all flushed and swooning, he eases himself off my prong very, very slowly to then slip from my lap and grab my hand, pulling me up and guiding me to the shower, where he fucks me under the rose - twice - before scrubbing me thoroughly and rinsing me off to a triumphant, “There! You’re done!”
I am so done.
In bed.
“Te amo ...”
“Spanish?”
“Cast as the matador in Polo’s next piece - he texted; Rory pulled a hamstring.”
“Shit!”
“I get gored to death ...”
I snuffle and start to gently bite his shoulder.
“... Gored not chewed ...”
“My horn is weak though my mind is willing ...”
He slips down, pushing the duvet ahead of him, to latch on to Old Faithful, who needs a little coaxing but after a few minutes is hard enough to get inside his sweet, sweet buns - still slick and hot - and eventually, we make yet another unholy mess of the sheets.
When I’ve finished licking up the dregs from between his thighs, he wanks over my newly buzzed crown and then licks the cum off, concluding, “That look is so doing it for me.”
“I could buzz yours off too if you like ...”
“Tempting ... but for the sake of my art, I think I’ll pass for now.”
His locks fall in ringlets of chocolate brown - Jim Morrison-esque - and I would kill anyone who even thought about cutting them off.
We habitually sleep face-to-face, wrapped in our limbs like one fat and one thin stem of a corkscrew Hazel. After a kiss, we close our eyes.
***
“Can I speak to Mr. Rile Montgomery, please?”
“Speaking.”
“Mr. Montgomery; my name is Inspector Jacob Knight. This is a little difficult-”
“Is it Gui? Has something happened?”
“Can you confirm the nature of your relationship with Mr. Daval?”
“He’s my partner. What’s happened?”
“There was an incident and we are trying to contact his parents but so far, we’ve failed to do so. Your telephone number was one of those stored in his mobile phone-”
“What’s happened?
“It really would be better if-”
“What’s happened?”
“There was an incident; apparently, he was seen attempting to break in-”
“Break in!”
“We now know that he was attending a call-out, which is why what I am about to say is rather upsetting, to say the least ... his assailant believed that he was trying to break into the property, and accosted him - there was a scuffle.”
“Where is he? Is he alright?”
“No, Mr. Montgomery, he is not ... he died on the way to the hospital from his head injuries ...”
***
“Bryony; I’m so sorry-”
“Can you fucking believe it?! Thought he was a skinhead; that’s what the guy said ... thought he was a skinhead trying to break in, so he hit him over the head ... I can’t believe it; I just can’t believe it ...”
PART TWO
“David! Can you bring my jacket down with you when you come?”
“Okay ...”
A few minutes later, David appears at the bottom of stairs, holding out my jacket.
“Here you go.”
“Thank you. Bryony called to say that they’re running a few minutes late.”
“Only a few! Probably got time for a cuppa before we leave then.”
“Not for me, thanks.”
David disappears into the kitchen but I remain in the hall, studying the prints, which I have examined closely so many times - there are no answers to be found in the exquisitely rendered roses that Redouté painted for Marie-Antionette. They are really not my cup of tea but seeing as Bryony didn’t want them, I took them to save them from being sent to the charity shop. I have almost everything from the flat, which belonged to Gui - the barstool sits in our bathroom and is mainly used as a perch for dirty towels. I couldn’t stay in the flat; too many beautiful memories. Memories that were in danger of being turned into a kind of virtual reality. When, after three months, I still couldn’t bring myself to move the coaster, which he always used for his cup or glass, from the table beside the sofa, I knew I had to move on. I still have the sofa, the table, and the coaster - David uses them.
My reverie is broken by the toot of a car horn.
“David! They’re here!”
We’re off to the cemetery - Gui died five years ago today. We go every year, Bryony and I. I go much more often by myself, except I don’t tell anyone. Now, she is with Patrick - her husband - and I am with David - my boyfriend. It is only partly out of remembrance that we go - how could we ever forget him? We also give thanks - she and I both inherited a substantial amount of money from his will. We tidy the grave - I don’t do it too often when I am alone or I risk causing suspicion when we go together like today - as it is, I have to lie to her and say that the Council probably keeps the graves looking nice. We go mostly to talk. Bryony talks to him about the business - she kept it and, all due credit to her, she buckled down and is making a real go of things - Patrick is very supportive. I talk to him about everything going on in the world and what progress my students have made. I gave up dancing for the company when it was obvious that the front row of the audience was not so much there to see me dance, but just to point and say - that’s his boyfriend; you know, the fella who got beaten up because the lout thought he was trying to break in ... that’s his boyfriend.
I teach dance to a select group of young and talented boys and girls - most of whom are foreign and have no clue who Gui is - or was.
“Bryony!”
We haven’t seen each other for a few weeks, so our greetings are heartfelt.
“Rile! I’m so pleased to see you. Sorry we’re late - had an emergency call-out. Where’s David?”
“Just getting his shoes on.”
Patrick is waiting in the car.
“Lunch is our treat today - we have some news.”
“You’re-”
“Not before lunch!”
“Oh my God ... I’m so happy for you.”
“Shush; Patrick is dying to tell you himself so you must act surprised when he does.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem. Let me hurry up David ...”
By the time we reach the cemetery, it’s begun to rain. We wait in the car for the shower to pass, during which time, while Bryony is regaling us with Chloe’s exploits - of only passing interest to me - I watch as a young man, wearing what looks to be a pair of overalls, beneath an old Parka, scurries into the cemetery and disappears behind what I know to be the hut where they keep the lawnmower. If he plans to take refuge, he’s in luck, because the door is no more than a bit of plywood and I’m sure even I could pick the lock, it’s that cheap-looking.
Finally, the clouds move on and we’re able to make our way to the grave. David and Patrick stay for the regulation five minutes, and then wander off to watch the hockey match being played on the field next door. It’s a Sunday league match. David used to play before he injured his knee.
Standing either side of the grave in contemplative silence, we hold our conversations. No guesses for what Bryony’s opener will be this time. I give him a run-down of the students and their progress since we spoke last - about a week ago - and make sure to list the music I used in each lesson because, for all his typical, bloke-like ways, Gui was very interested in music. He was a bloke; he was my fella - I loved him with every cell in my body and if I could, I would slit the throat of the man who killed him and cheerfully watch as the cunt bled to death.
We had so many things to look forward to, so many places to visit, and so many things we wanted to do. The huge differences in our ages - 29 years - was a meaningless number to us - our love for each other had found a way to bypass that - even if we were constantly reminded of the fact by everyone else. He was young at heart - looking after Bryony helped in that regard, I am sure. I am a little old before my time - as they say - due partly to my father sending me to a conservatoire rather than to University ... and partly because I acted the part to make Gui’s friends feel less conscious of the difference, especially when we were out together. In any event, like he always said - and I remind myself - we are all of us recycled, and our souls are millions of years old. Hence the tattoos. David wants one but it seems crass in some respects - like he’s trying to compete with Gui. There’s no competition; I love David for a whole host of reasons, and none of them are because he is remotely like Gui.
A slight movement catches my eye and I can see that Bryony is finished having her tête à tête.
“You go on, Bry; I won’t be long.”
“If you’re sure; I wanted to see gramps and nonna too.”
“See you back at the car, sweetheart ...”
I appreciate the time I have alone with him; especially on a day like today. I have no issue with letting the tears fall from my eyes - yes; I have moved on - and, somewhat like my phoenix, I have been reborn but, there is a hole in my chest that nothing can fill ... not even a lake of tears.
Walking slowly back to the car, I put my head around the corner of the hut to see if the young man is there - the space is empty, and the door does not look like it has been forced. Maybe he was taking a shortcut to the tram station.
After I have re-joined the others, we leave for the restaurant and, once we are installed at our table and the champagne is served - which David and I query - we are officially informed of the happy event, and invited to be godfathers.
After our main course, David and Patrick take a coffee out onto the terrace to smoke a celebratory cigar, leaving me and Bryony at the table.
“We’re going to name him Guillaume if it’s a boy, or Guillaumette if it’s a girl ...”
“That’s beautiful, Bry ... really beautiful.”
“When are you and David going to get married and adopt?”
“If and when it feels right ... there’s no reason to rush into anything.”
“You’re so good together.”
“We are ... largely because we don’t put any undue stress on each other - and he’s probably going to be travelling with work for a while, which is another reason not to rush it ... We’ve already agreed to discuss it seriously once he gets back.”
“I have to be your best man, Rile.”
“Darling; there is absolutely no one else capable of filling those shoes - the job is yours.”
“I love you. I’m still so angry and sorry about what happened ...”
“Me too ... but it doesn’t do any good to dwell on that ... especially when we have your news to celebrate.”
“He’d be proud, wouldn’t he?”
She’s still chasing that spectre of parental affection - Chloe will never give it to her, and her father is next to useless. Gui was always so happy and proud of her that she really needn’t worry.
“So proud and so happy, Bry ...”
***
“Are you okay? You seem awfully quiet, Rile.”
“No; I’m fine ... just thinking.”
“About Gui?”
“No; actually, about the future, our future, our plans and the time when we will hopefully be announcing the arrival of our child.”
“I thought you didn’t want to discuss that until after I got back.”
“I don’t want to discuss the finer details ... but I do want you to understand that it is what I want - it is just a matter of when not if.”
“Really?”
“Yes; really.”
“Are you coming to bed?”
“I was just going to choose the music for this week’s lessons.”
“Let me rephrase the question ... Are you coming to bed?”
“Ah! In that case, the answer is yes ... give me five minutes.”
Gui made love like a rutting water bison - and as gently as a butterfly when the moment demanded a more delicate hand. I literally couldn’t get enough of him, and when I was buried in him or he was buried in me, there was nowhere on Earth I would rather have been. David is very different - he has to be - and there is nowhere on Earth I would rather be than with him ... except for that hole in my chest that sometimes sucks the moment dry, leaving me numb and unresponsive like a piece of wood. I don’t think it will be the case tonight.
He is dominant; an alpha male. I relish being taken like I am his first mate. That makes me sound feminine - and if I’m honest, he probably thinks of me that way. We met at the gym. I wasn’t there to train - dance keeps me fit and toned. Neither was he; he sells the equipment and he was overseeing the delivery of some new machines. I was there to meet Bryony after her aerobics class before we went to view the house, which she later bought with Gui’s money.
Coincidences; Gui used to say that they were the tiny clues to the existence of a past life; that they showed you the overlaying patterns of those lives, where normally, you’re so oblivious to them. The door to the back of the van was padlocked, and the driver had mislaid the key. David was making a call to the office to get someone to bring the spare out when Bryony emerged. I told her what I thought was going on. She walked straight up to David and offered to open the lock for him - she never leaves the house without her pick and tension wrench. Bewildered but grateful, he accepted, and in less than a minute, the door was swinging open - reputation saved - his not hers.
He said, “How can I thank you?”
“Go on a date with my brother ...”
I’m her brother - whereas Gui was her half-brother. I suppose she transferred something - a bit like keeping some framed prints or a coaster with a picture of Clovelly on it.
He looked at me, and back to her, and then back to me. I was just as shocked - though I shouldn’t have been because her gaydar was - and is - always one hundred percent accurate.
“Tomorrow, eight o’clock, Luciano’s?” he suggests, getting his composure back just before me.
“It’s a date!” she said, practically pushing me forward into his arms. We swapped numbers and, of all things, shook hands to her chorus of ‘that’s better; much better!’
I find him propped up in bed with the edge of the sheet seductively covering his prize water bison’s tackle - the only feature he shares with Gui. My mouth is already watering at the thought of being impaled by it - hopefully in both ends. I should have guessed at his dominant nature at the time of our first date - he picked me up, opened the car door for me, seated me at the restaurant table, ordered the food and wine, and paid the bill. He likes to be worshipped; I like to worship. With Gui, it was always a fifty-fifty approach to everything in life and love. Like I said; it has to be different.
He gazes at me like I’m his favourite food, being brought to him on a silver platter. His eyes travel up and down and then back up to my face - he’s imagining how his cock is going to look as it slides in and out of my mouth ... but first, he wants a kiss. I dance my way into his lap and sit astride his thighs; the anticipation of his hands snaking around my neck to draw me in is almost too much. Just before he plants his partly open lips on mine, he says, “I love you.”
I combed my fingers through his tidy locks but rather than clasp his neck, I drop them to his shoulders and then slowly rub his upper arms; the contours are so familiar to me now. He’s sucking on my tongue as gently as a hummingbird sips nectar ... until I tweak his proud little shell-like nips, causing him to gasp; the sucking becomes more ardent. When I back off, he doesn’t complain because he knows where I’m going. Flicking my eyes to his, I smirk, before kissing my way down his chest, planting an especially long one on his sternum, taking a moment to breathe in the subtle hint of Allure Homme before tracing a line with the tip of my tongue along his treasure trail, pausing to peel back the sheet, waiting for him to settle his thighs into a more relaxed pose, to then envelop my bison’s horn and get my nose filled with the bouquet of vanilla-scented wet wipes - he always cleans his cock with a wet wipe after taking a leak - and the keener tang of chlorine - he swam before coming home from work - and the sweet-sour top note of varnish - what else should wood smell of?
When he’s cum, I’ll tea bag each of his bullock-sized balls until he’s ready to fuck me; my hole is aching to be stretched and I’m hungry for the hot seed that’s as thick as wallpaper paste and tastes of party balloon rubber.
While I suck him off, I keep his balls gripped firmly in my hands, never letting them ride up - which they don’t much do anyway. The palms of his hands are pressed tightly against my cheeks and his fingertips are playing with the lobes of my ears. A succession of grunts signals the first volley is being loaded; simultaneously, he slides his hands to the back of my head and holds me firmly and begins to buck. The base of his cock swells and then fires a warning shot, before letting rip a salvo of hot gobs. And every time, I am reminded of the day that Gui and I blew up hundreds of balloons for a friend’s birthday party. If I’d known what was going to happen, I’d have saved one and I’d have sucked the air into my lungs in hopes that it might have filled the hole, which feels especially vacuous as I swallow.
He releases me as the shuddering aftershocks melt the tension out of his muscles, and he slumps; my cue to take each fat roma into my mouth, where I suck it and tease the looser skin with my teeth, recharging him. Having resurrected his arousal, I turn and present my rump to him, which he dutiful lubes for me so that I can plant myself, my back to him, readying myself to twerk a little to get his fat head into the right place to bring myself off while he holds my waist and jerks upwards. Once the rhythm is established, he grasps my cock with one hand and sleeves it and presses the other flat to my stomach - which I find comforting - until I can no longer hold back, dropping forward a little, giving him the space to thrust higher and faster. My bison-lover breeds me as I decorate my chest and neck with my own cum, which he will gather up on his thumb and allow me to lick off.
I am safely destroyed, as Lorca wrote. Which reminds me, I really must get round to choreographing the dance for the students’ end of term interpretation of il Mantello Rosso by Nono.
***
“Be careful; call me when you can.”
“I will; a month is not all that long.”
“I know ...”
Quotes, deals, and calls finally secured his trip to promote the equipment in three or four major new gym developments in the USA. A month is not very long.
On the day of his departure, I do nothing but housework. Once I hear from him that he has landed in New York, and is being entertained by Budge, his contact, I relax into the evening and read. Tomorrow, I plan to go to the cemetery first thing, and then buy flowers for the studio, and also choose new flooring.
At breakfast, I pick up a call from Bryony and feign overwork to put her off; she wants to meet for lunch and no doubt talk babies. Putting the phone down, I finish my breakfast and then get ready to leave, planning on taking the tram to avoid the extortionate parking charges.
By the time I get to the cemetery, the wind has gotten up and the first big splats of a heavy shower are exploding around me, forcing me to find shelter under the tiny roof above the door to the groundsman’s hut. I am not the only one seeking sanctuary.
“The heavens are just about to open, I think.”
“No umbrella?”
His voice is friendlier than his filthy Parka and stained and ripped overalls would have suggested.
“I have a pocket one; I suppose that might just keep the worst off us ...”
I ferret in my bag and find the umbrella, putting it up and offering to shield us.
“I’m Rile, by the way; I saw you on Sunday.”
“You were here with the couple and the other man ... Billy.”
“Do you live around here?”
“I live in a squat in Station Road; I come here to use the standpipe and clean my teeth ...”
And as if to reinforce the point, he slips his hand into the pocket of his coat and partly withdraws a toothbrush, which I wouldn’t have cleaned grouting with, and the gnarled up remains of a tube of toothpaste.
“... Water got cut off soon after I moved in; found a box of candles in the cupboard under the stairs ... You smell of lemons ...”
“Body wash - it was on offer.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you have the self-same dimples that my boyfriend had ... it’s his grave that I visit ... five years since he passed.”
“I’m sorry ...”
The gusts of wind are getting stronger, forcing us to pull the umbrella down over us, and in so doing, we have to get very close to each other. He smells unwashed, except for his breath, which smells of toothpaste. Gui’s brand - fennel flavoured - which I used to get for him from Holland and Barrett when I bought my Manuka honey.
Memories are beginning to ignite like the little intense blue flames around the edge of the big ring of the gas hob.
“Got any cigarettes?”
“Sorry; I don’t smoke ... Would you like a cup of tea? The café by the station isn’t too bad ...”
“They don’t like me in there; they call me a sponger - which ain’t true ... just down on my luck at the minute.”
“Why?”
“Lost my job and everything with it ... seriously fucking annoyed cos my boss owed me a month’s pay and holiday pay, which would come in dead handy right now.”
“On the other side of the cemetery, there’s the other café with the terrace outside. The rain looks to be easing off now.”
“Could we have a coffee?”
“Sure ... Where were you working?”
“The metal fabricators in Deal’s Yard - did some good work for him too.”
“Nothing else going?”
“Hard to get a job when you’re homeless - always the first fucking question they ask - address, please ... Gave me notice and didn’t pay me; couldn’t pay the rent and got tossed out by the landlord - who’s a git! ... I don’t know anyone round here cos I’m not from here.”
“Where are you from?”
“Dartmouth ... and I’d go back if anyone there was going to be pleased to see me - which they won’t be.”
The rain has, by now, stopped and I put the umbrella down, securing it with the Velcro strap, slipping it in the outer pocket of my bag.
“Shall we get a coffee?”
“Yeah; handsome ... What do you do?”
“I teach dance ...”
“I love music - you know Woodkid?”
“Vaguely ...”
“He wrote the soundtrack to Desierto - best film I ever seen.”
“I don’t know it; most of the music I listen to tends to be classical. Bryony would know it. My partner - the one who died - had a half-sister, and we still see each other a lot ...”
“Nice.”
“She’s just announced that she’s pregnant ...”
“Wow ...”
I can’t think of anything else to say without opening the floodgates and dumping the last seven years in his lap - I want him to have known Gui, and for us to reminisce - how bizarre is that?
“... You miss him ...”
I can’t work out if the question begs an answer or was just a statement - I nod.
On the way to the café, we pass a shop, into which I dive to buy him a packet of cigarettes. He doesn’t know what to say - neither do I, except, “It’s nice enough to sit outside now ...”
I order us a coffee and muffin.
“There you go; it’s banana nut and cinnamon ...”
“Cheers ... How did he die?”
“Oh ... he was attacked and beaten ... he died of his head injuries.”
“Fuck ...”
He looks to be genuinely moved - not just morbidly curious, which most people are - were; I don’t say much about it anymore.
“... Are you going to eat that muffin ...?”
“Uhm; no ... I’m not really hungry; you have it.”
“I don’t expect anything for nothing ...”
“What do you mean?”
“You know ... something in return ... a guy offered me a place to sleep in exchange for a fuck ... I told him to fuck off.”
“I don’t want anything in return ...”
“I found the squat ... he had disgusting, greasy hair - made me feel dirty!”
He laughs and displays perfect teeth - Gui had perfect teeth and very healthy gums - his dentist commented on it every time he had a check-up.
“Would you like to take a shower and wash your clothes?”
“I’d let you fuck me ...”
“I don’t want to fuck; I just wondered if you wanted to freshen up ...”
“Would be so good to shave - and I’m petrified that I’ve got lice.”
“Why not come back and get freshened up ... and maybe that film you like will be on Netflix ...”
Gui would have done exactly the same. Unfortunately, due to my conservatoire-style upbringing, prior to meeting Gui, I never really had a clue about what the world was really like. Whenever we met his friends - perhaps in the pub - he’d make sure he had a firm hold of my hand and he never let go - it gave me a lot of confidence to speak without worrying too much that everyone would think I was a pretentious prig. I still don’t have much of a clue, but I do understand how people are apt to judge your appearance - and the consequences of making the wrong judgement call.
“It’s about a border patrol guard in Texas, who takes the law into his own hands and starts shooting the poor bleedin’ Mexicans trying to make it across the border ...”
I guess that’s a yes then.
***
“I’ll fetch you some towels ... and some clean clothes to wear while yours are in the washing machine.”
“Thanks ... Who’s that in the picture?”
“Gui ... my partner ... the one who was killed ...”
His eyes flick to mine; I interpret that as ‘he was much older than you’.
“... He was much older than me - not that it mattered to us.”
“Who’s this?”
“That’s David; my boyfriend - he’s in the States on business at the moment.”
“He’s handsome.”
“Yes; he is ... He sells fitness equipment.”
“Was never one for the gym; I like running.”
“Let me get the towels and a new razor ...”
Billy trails after me, examining closely the Redouté prints and photographs as he walks along the hall and up the stairs. He stops in front of a photograph of me, performing in Polo’s Don Quixote.
“That’s you ... wow; you’re like a coiled up spring ... fucking beautiful.”
“That was a few years ago now ... I teach these days.”
I show Billy the bathroom, and while he noses about, I fetch the towels from the airing cupboard, which is in our bedroom.
“Here you go; there’s a box of new razors in the cupboard under the sink. What do you want to wear?”
“I’m not fussy. Where shall I put my clothes?”
“Oh; let me get you a spare set and when you’re done, bring yours down to the kitchen - the machine’s there.”
“Okay ...”
I quickly ferret for a pair of decent tracksuit bottoms, a rugby shirt, and clean underwear.
“I’ll leave you to it ... I’ll pop the kettle on and maybe make us a sandwich, yeah?”
“Lovely; ta ...”
It’s a relief to close the door and escape to the kitchen to regroup - I’m not feeling afraid of having allowed a perfect stranger into my home - it’s the hole in my chest that is bothering me ... it’s shrunk.
Making a nice pot of tea and cutting a few sandwiches keeps my mind occupied, especially when I hear Billy’s dulcet tones filtering down from the bathroom - I have no idea what song he is slaughtering - actually, his voice isn’t that bad.
“I cleaned the shower tray,” Billy announces as he appears at the kitchen door.
“You didn’t need to worry; thanks. I made some cheese and pickle sandwiches ... tea?”
“Thanks. Where shall I put these?”
His own clothes, which smell like a dead animal, hang limply from his hand.
“I’ll put them in the washing machine; what about your coat?”
“It’ll take forever to dry.”
“I’ve got a tumble dryer ... or I could lend you a jacket ...”
“It’s not worth washing - don’t suppose these are either ... pretty rank.”
“Up to you ... leave them in the conservatory and come through to the lounge and we’ll try and find that film ...”
I have to escape or betray my emotions - it’s as if his mere presence is sewing the hole back up. But being stitched by a novice, who is pulling too hard on the thread, making me catch my breath as the pain radiates out to the ends of my fingers and toes.
Flicking through Netflix allows me to meditate on my breathing.
“Love cheese and pickle ... reminds me of all the times I went fishing; always took cheese and pickle sandwiches and a flask of tea with me ... Did you find it?”
“The damn system is still loading ... What were you singing?”
“Shit! I wouldn’t call that singing exactly ... Do you know Ray LaMontagne?”
“I’ve heard the name but I don’t think I know any of his songs.”
“While It Still Beats ... from his latest album - Ouroboros ...”
“Ww ... what was the title?”
“Ouroboros ... came out in January - last album I bought.”
“What happened to all your stuff?”
“What could I do with it? Had no place to keep it and no one to look after it for me ... took it all to the charity shop. I kept a few clothes and had them in a rucksack but someone nicked it ...”
“Ouroboros ... the mythical snake that eats its own tail.”
“What does that mean?”
“Fundamentally, that all the universe, all the energy, and all existence keeps repeating for infinity - it’s more to do with seeing things as cycles ... there is a kind of contentment in achieving an acceptance of one’s fate - amor fati - a love of one’s fate ...”
“You know a lot about it.”
“Gui had the Ouroboros tattooed on his chest ... I have the phoenix tattooed on mine ...”
“Rising from the ashes ... I’ve got a griffin tattooed on my back - with vengeance and salvation in two scrolls under it - did you want to see it?”
“Uhm ... sure ...”
He turns and pulls his shirt up, displaying his back, upon which is a simple depiction of the griffin in black ink - more of an outline and not in-filled - beneath it are the two scrolls. The whole design fits snugly between his shoulder blades.
“Cool, huh?”
“Very ... Netflix is saying that the film is not found ... was there anything else you wanted to watch?”
“Not fussed really ... could do with a kip.”
“The spare room is made up if you wanted to go to sleep ...”
“Don’t get much sleep at the squat because I’m always afraid of someone getting in ... I don’t want to take any liberties.”
“It’s fine; I have work to do in any event.”
“Maybe I’ll just have a cigarette and then lie down for a bit ... this cheese ain’t your regular cheddar.”
“Wensleydale ... did you want more tea?”
“Handsome ...”
While I make the tea, Billy steps outside, through the conservatory door, and has a puff. I make a decision regarding the clothes or I can see that I’m going to have to fumigate the place.
“Billy; I’m going to put those clothes in a black sack.”
“Chuck um; they’re no better than rags ... if you’re sure about me keeping these.”
“No; it’s fine ...”
I bag up the clothes and lob the sack through the internal door into the garage, ready to be thrown out on collection day.
“Which was the spare room?”
“I’ll show you - well; it’s the door opposite the bathroom.”
“Wake me up whenever you want me to go.”
“Ssure ...”
It’s almost more than I can do to remain standing; the pain has subsided but has been replaced by a throbbing headache and a rolling boil sensation in my stomach. Choosing music is impossible and I collapse on the sofa in the conservatory - with the door open - and close my eyes, finding some relief in meditating and practising my alternate nostril breathing regime to clear my mind.
In the course of which, I dropped off and woke up an hour and a half later, desperate for the loo. I pad upstairs, hoping not to disturb Billy, who I can hear snoring through the partly open door of the spare room.
Returning to the conservatory, I realise that I haven’t turned my phone back on since this morning when I switched it off before going to the cemetery - it just feels appropriate to turn it off when I am with Gui.
“Shit!”
I find four missed calls, four messages and one text from David. I quickly text back, assuring him that I’m okay and just suffering from a migraine. His text was just before he boarded the plane to Chicago, so I am not expecting another call for a few hours. I’m surprised he didn’t call the landline. But then maybe he did because when I check, I find that I failed to turn the answer machine on when I left this morning. I decide that it would be a good idea if I had a lie down myself.
***
“Rile ... Rile; you okay?”
“W-h-a-t?”
“You were talking loudly in your sleep; I thought you were having a bad dream ...”
I come to my senses and find him sitting on the edge of my bed with his hand on my shoulder.
“I’ll fetch us a tea, shall I?”
“What time is it?”
“Nearly midnight.”
“Jesus; I was dead to the world.”
“Stay put; I’ll get us some tea ...”
When he opens the door wider, the light from the landing reveals that he is wearing just his underpants. I have the feeling of stepping out onto thin ice - for no apparent reason. I lie back and listen to the various noises of tea being made, and when I hear his footfalls on the stairs, I’m aware that my heart is pounding in my chest - I flick the bedside lamp on.
“Here we go!”
He pads into the room and places a mug of tea on the nightstand, returning to sit beside me.
“Your phone was ringing earlier ...”
“David checking in; he’s just arrived at his hotel in Chicago, I imagine ... Did you sleep well?”
“Like a log ... I wasn’t sure if I should go ...”
“It’s late ...”
“Makes no difference to me; not like I have to get up for work in the morning.”
“Take advantage ...”
“I really appreciate what you’ve done for me ... I was getting a bit desperate."
“Don’t worry; I’m happy to help as much as I can ...”
“If I could get a job, I’d be back on my feet in no time ...”
“Maybe we can think about that tomorrow.”
Silence descends for a moment, which is only punctuated by the sound of tea being sipped.
“How old are you, Rile?”
“Twenty-eight ... you?”
“Twenty-two ... You seem a lot older.”
“Old before my time, Gui always said ... studying for so long has rather warped my perspective of the world - and I never had much time for normal stuff.”
“What about David?”
“David has helped me enormously to get a little more grounded.”
Rather distractingly, Billy pulls at the hem of the legs of the trunk-style briefs I gave him, and absently rearranges himself to presumably make himself more comfortable. I had shucked my jeans and shirt before getting into bed and I’m wearing just my briefs and socks beneath the duvet.
In pulling myself up to lean more against the headboard, Billy sees the tattoo of the phoenix.
“Wow! That’s a work of art ...”
I peer down and gaze at it myself, recalling the pain of the needle.
“Hurt like hell ... but it was worth it.”
As I gaze down, remembering Gui’s reaction to it once the dressing had come off and the scabs had dropped away, I watch as Billy reaches out to touch it. His disconnected hand - surreal. His touch, which is as light as a feather - surprising. His fingertip tracing the lines - arousing. The swelling root that I am barely able to restrain by clamping it between my thighs - in danger of betraying me. The rose-tinted blush that paints my chest - inevitable. The tightening and hardening of my nipples - an invitation.
He takes the mug from my hand and places it, along with his own, on the bedside table, to then clamber over me and slip under the duvet, snuggling up with his arms encircling my chest.
“Been so long ...”
“Billy ...”
“Just want to hold you; can’t remember what it feels like.”
The sensible man would insist that he went back to his own bed, or left ... but I can’t do it, and I slip down, turning and slipping my arms around him, burying my nose into his neck to breathe in the scent of lemon mixed with his own smell that reminds me of old leather-bound music score folios.
***
I sleep better than on any night since Gui died. I wake up feeling relaxed and in the moment, whereas normally I spend so much of my time looking back, or looking forward to the day when none of this matters. Perpetually recycling through Time and Space to spend two years with the first man that I fell in love with - two years out of what ... eighty, maybe ninety? That seems like a poor average, despite the fact that those two years were the best I could remember before or since - amor fati - love of one’s fate. I might have loved it before I met Billy yesterday. Only now do I admit that meeting David did not have - has not had the same result. That’s perplexing.
Try as hard as I might, I cannot shake off the absolute certainty that when Billy wakes up, I am going to be unfaithful to David. Nothing happened after we snuggled up to go to sleep - we just slept like two babes in the wood. Now the two babes have wood. He remains asleep for the time being. His face is completely relaxed and it is as if he has shed five years. His lashes lay like feathers on his cheeks - a darker shade of the blond of his springy curls. When I saw him for the first time, I thought he had dreads - he didn’t as it happened, just longish spirals of gorgeous blond hair - which is now clean and smells of my nectarine-scented conditioner.
So often, we ignore a man’s lips - as if they are not really important. A woman can and often will draw attention to hers with lipstick. Some men hide theirs under a moustache. On stage, I have worn lipstick many times. The shape of a man’s lips is fascinating - and I don’t mean when they are stretched! Billy has full lips, which appear symmetrical but perhaps the bottom lip is a little fuller than the top - which is actually very common. A cupid’s bow with wide points ... and the colour of ... oh; so hard to describe - darker than pink but not as dark as true red - somewhere between maraschino cherry and coral? Kissable to say the least.
He has a strong, straight nose. I think he looks like the offspring - had there ever been one - of Kirk Douglas and Monica Bellucci.
I can feel his penis, which is rubbing up against mine through the layers of thin material. Will it be a quickie, after which, he’ll disappear? Will he be athletic, adventurous, amorous, sensational, dominant, versatile, or even sensuous? Will I regret it, lie to myself about it, lie to David about it, or should I get up now and avoid it?
Is the damage done? Have I eaten of the apple? Am I doomed? Am I saved?
“You grind your teeth when you sleep ...”
“Oh; I thought you were still asleep ... good morning.”
“Good morning ...”
He flicks his eyes open - two crystals of blue set into the delicate china teacup orbs. A betting man would say ‘doomed’.
“... yes; you grind your teeth ... and mumble.”
“Did I disturb you?”
“No; I felt safe ... I’ve never shared a bed with anyone before - I liked it.”
“Would you like some tea?” I ask as I make a half-hearted attempt to extricate myself from the bed and the situation that I feel could quickly escalate.
“Rile ... what are you afraid of?”
Good question.
“Doing something I will regret ...”
“Do you want me to go?”
His tattoo reads vengeance & salvation - how can inflicting punishment bring about salvation? And who is saved? He is altogether too oblique for me to read; music that is off-key; a dance with one too many or too few steps - I am unsteady - perhaps unnerved.
“I don’t know ... perhaps it would be better if-”
His maraschino-coral coloured, near-perfect cupid bow lips pressed to my own will inflict a terrible wound to my conscience, and in the process, I will be saved - no longer having to be the dutiful and slightly sad partner of a memory; no longer having to respect barely voiced and little remembered wishes to keep everything just as it was; no longer having to look beyond the man in my bed to the time when I will be reunited with the man I loved - still love.
A tender but confident stroke with the back of his hand across my cheek and down my chest, until, somewhere over my midriff, he turns his hand over and glides on to slip in under the waistband of my briefs, to grip me.
“I want you to fuck me ...” His voice is just this side of urgent; encouragement wrapped in wantonness.
Without waiting for a response, he turns in my arms, simultaneously pushing his briefs down to expose his buttocks. Being young and supple, he turns his upper body slightly and tips his head back to lay it against my shoulder, re-presenting his lips.
“Fuck me ...”
Wrapping his upper body in one arm, I use the other push my briefs down and grip myself, to work my cock into his crease, hoping pre-cum alone will be enough to get me inside his chute, already imagining the glory of sliding in and out of his young, tight arse, recalling how I always relished how Gui opened me up, making me gasp until his fingers, which tasted of 3-in-1, found their way into my mouth.
In juddering stages, I get to the gasping stage and force my tongue into his mouth, rocking my hips a little to thrust just enough to grease the piston sleeve before slamming in hard, holding the pose, pulling him in, slipping my free hand under his top leg to grip the hard stump of his cock. Stroking him as I pump brings us both to a quick and heady surge. Palming his load and rubbing it over his stomach gives me a frisson of pure and unadulterated pleasure - the same one I get when I steal the last chocolate from the box - usually a white chocolate with a fondant cherry centre ... if I’m lucky.
***
“I should get going ...”
“I don’t want you to go ...”
“But; you’re sorted ... Why would you fuck that up?”
“I already did ... but the fact that I don’t care is telling me that you have to stay.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I thought I knew myself ... seems I was wrong. I held onto the idea of me for so long but it wasn’t wholly true or complete ... please stay.”
“I can’t stay; I have no job, no money and you have a boyfriend-”
“We’ll make it work ...”
“I don’t think there’s much hope of that ...”
“I wouldn’t say that ... How does it go? ... for hope is always born at the same time as love[1] ...”
“Who said that?”
“A madman ...”
[1] Cervantes
|
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The Train Station
By Phetra H. Novak
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you? Keep you company? I really don’t mind.”
Johannes shook his head, smiling. “Nah, dad; go home and go back to bed and sleep for another couple hours. I’ll be fine.” Johannes patted his dad’s hand where it lay on the steering wheel, before slipping out of the car, stretching lazily, and letting out a silent yawn. Resting his arm on top of the car, he bent down to grab his large backpack.
“You have a little over an hour to kill; it’s an awfully long time with nothing to do,” his dad insisted.
“I’ll be fine, dad, really. I’ve got my reading tablet, my phone, headphones. I’m all set. Go home,” Johannes ordered with a wink. With music and books at hand, he was solid.
“Alright, alright. I won’t argue with you. There’s no point when you dig your heels in any way.”
“I’m glad, pops, that after twenty-two years, you finally learned,” he teased.
“Cheeky brat!” His dad smiled fondly. “Call when you are there, yes?”
Johannes rolled his eyes; his dad was such a mother hen. He was the one who always worried, calling that extra time just to make sure everything was alright; while his mother, the psychologist, was more of ‘a slap on the shoulder; good luck and love you, son’ kind of mom. He loved his parents both just the same.
“I will; promise! Don’t worry too much, huh? I’m a big boy; I’ll be fine.”
It was his dad’s turn to roll his eyes.
With a soft chuckle, Johannes said his good-byes and hefted his backpack up and over his shoulder. With a gentle hand, he slammed the door shut and tapped the roof. Once his dad had gone, he headed for the square located inside the train station to check on his train. After that, he’d decided to go to the nearest available coffee shop and dump his ass into one of those large comfy chairs, with a huge black coffee. He didn’t need to eat.
Being an elite sportsman, he’d learned a long time ago to eat when he needed, even early mornings because, when he was younger, a lot younger, he remembered getting up at five am every Saturday and Sunday to go hockey training at six am. It was how it was back then; the younger you were, the earlier you had to practice because ice time was scarce.
He caught his reflection in a window and wondered if his solid bulk and height would tempt those major NHL teams to draft for next season. It did all sound very promising.
Reaching the info board he found his train and was instantly disappointed.
“Shit!”
His train was going to be late - technical fault. What bullshit! He didn’t have to go by train that often but as sure as hell when he did, something always went wrong. It was the Swedish Railway System in a damn nutshell. Fuckers. The revised time was currently showing as seven-thirty instead of the original six-forty-two, giving him one and a half hours instead of just sixty minutes to wait. What a crock.
Running a hand through his hair, pondering his choices, he decided that he could either stay where he was or he could run by Adam’s. Did he call him lover yet? Sort of. They were more than fuck buddies, true … but lovers? Either way, the sex was, for the want of a better word … fucking awesome! Then there was the small fact that Johannes wasn’t out - not really. He wouldn’t deny anything if asked but he didn’t advertise the fact either. The sports world was still pretty macho and perpetuated the myth that ‘men don’t screw or love men’. Since there was no one special in his life, was there any point in getting on the barricades?
Pulling out his phone, Johannes scrolled down the screen until he found Adam’s number; with any luck, the man was just getting in from being out all night. If he was asleep, Johannes knew he’d be forgiven after dangling the lure of great sex.
“Hannes, sexy man! What a happy surprise?!”
“Sounds happy, and pretty alert too,” Johannes thought, grinning to himself.
“I thought you were going to Stockholm this weekend; something happened to change that?” Adam asked, sounding hopeful.
“Hey, yourself! I am still going but the damn train is almost two hours late.” He grumbled but he doubted that he sounded that upset; the prospect of some hot action had him excited, and hearing Adam’s smooth sexy voice had his body waking up and taking notice.
Adam had a voice that was a note lower than everyone else’s; sultry and suggestive, and that alone was as sexy as hell. Johannes had to agree that even though Adam was damn attractive, it was his confidence that made people look twice.
“Oh, really! And this made you think of me; how sweet. You want me to chat you up for a bit?” Adam teased, laughing quietly.
“Not so much talking … but you could be using your mouth.”
“Oh! Oh! Will I now? You got a lollipop in your pocket? You know I like salty caramel, right?”
Oh, fuck! The suggestion buried in those words went straight to his dick. He might even be leaking, and there he was, in the middle of the damn train station, with a possible wet spot on the front of his pants.
“I got a lollipop alright and more salt than you can handle.”
Adam let out a snort of laughter.
“Cocky bastard,” Adam coughed, recovering.
“Brat!” Johannes countered.
“Maybe you could suck me for once unless you’re worried about not being able to take all of me,” Adam snickered.
“Haven’t I proved to you that I am more than capable of handling your above-average-size dick? More than once.” Johannes spoke low into the phone. “Not the thickest but damn, the longest …”
“You’re the only one who’s taken it all. And damn, it feels good.”
“Fuck!”
“What?”
“I might just have come a little.” Johannes laughed. “My train has been delayed, giving me some time to kill. You feel like meeting up at your place?”
“I do. But I’m almost at the Train Station. I have an idea. Lose the bag, handsome.”
“Idea meaning what exactly?”
Adam’s ideas could be anything and everything, ranging from practical jokes to on the borderline getting arrested. He loved playing. End of. Foreplay many times consisted of chasing Adam around trying to catch him before he finally let himself be caught. There was never a dull moment with him around.
“Meaning, get rid of the bag and wait for me by the info boards; ok? Trust me.”
His phone went silent. Rolling his eyes but doing as Adam suggested, he walked to the nearest set of luggage boxes, dropping his bag inside the nearest one that was free.
Wasting time, figuring it would take Adam at least a few more minutes to get there, he shuffled along looking up into the cathedral-like space. However, the best sight of the morning was that his favorite coffee shop was starting to open, and if nothing else, he could treat Adam to breakfast and he’d have company for a while.
His phone vibrated in his pocket; pulling it out he saw a text from Adam.
“You got rid of the bag?”
He laughed softly, shaking his head. “What you got planned that makes it so important that I got rid of my bag? But yes, it is all locked away.” He hit send, turning in a full circle slowly to see if he could spot Adam coming in.
Adam knew how to make him laugh. They were great friends. They had been from the day they had met, and they’d always had this chilled no drama type relationship. Adam understood Hannes’ predicament in that he didn’t want to broadcast his sexual orientation … but when it came to the sex between them, it was fucking amazing.
“Hannes!”
On hearing his name, he spun around as Adam came jogging towards him; a wide grin spread across his lips.
“Hey, you!” He said when Adam came up, stopping just short of running right into him, and was immediately embraced by two long arms that wrapped themselves around his neck. He slid his own arms around him giving the man a hug back. Leaning back to look into his face and meeting Adam’s open and warm gaze, he asked, “You good?”
“Yeah, of course.” Adam leaned back slowly letting his arms slide away from around his neck, touching him as he went, purposely hitting his most sensitive spots. Even through the thin layer of his t-shirt, Johannes could feel the heat and intent of Adam’s touch. It was to tease and arouse and, if hearing his voice on the phone had gotten Johannes’ dick to take notice, having him there in the flesh, talking and touching, had the space in his pants shrinking by the second.
A noise that sounded very much like a growl escaped his lips; it wasn’t really intentional but it got Adam’s attention long enough that he looked up and their eyes met once more. A flash of desire mixed with the familiar glint burned in the pits of Adam’s eyes. With a soft almost devilish smile on his lips, Adam slipped his hand inside his shirt to tweak a nipple.
“Don’t start a game you can’t finish, Boy.”
A shiver instantly zipped through Adam’s body as Johannes said that one little word. Oh, yes; two could play at that game. Adam loved it when he called him Boy and ordered him around, at least in the bedroom - their lovemaking was usually on the rough side and before they’d met, neither had realized just how hot some of this stuff was. Hell; it was Adam who had introduced Johannes to handcuffs, cock rings of all kinds of kinks, and his personal favorite - orgasm denial. Lucky for him his current lover also loved being denied orgasms only to blow like a geyser when he was finally allowed to come.
“Oh; I plan to finish alright, and so will you if you just do as you are told …”
Everything went silent for about a second before both of them collapsed into a belly-hugging laugh because they both knew who the more sexually submissive one was, and it wasn’t Johannes. “Stop laughing, you douche!” Adam swatted at him playfully, stifling another eruption of laughter. “Just humor me.”
“Uh-huh; I’ll humor you.” Johannes kept laughing and Adam just rolled his eyes at him. So damn cute.
“Yeah, yeah… we all know you are a stud and fuck like a God, especially when you get all domineering and shit. Now listen.” He quirked a brow, giving Adam a playful glare but Adam didn’t get one bit intimidated - the cocky little shit - instead, he simply wagged his brows.
“Close your eyes and count to thirty.”
“Then what?”
“Then follow the yellow brick road and come find me.”
“And then what?”
Adam leaned in closer making sure that no one could hear him. “You get to fuck me like you really mean it, right here at the train station where anyone can accidently find us. My ass, your cock, a date, right now.” Screw him! Johannes could feel his eyes becoming as big as saucers. But Adam looked cool like a cucumber; he wasn’t kidding. The mischievous smile said it all and he was damned if his dick didn’t go rock hard at the idea.
“You’re serious.”
“Like a heart attack.”
“You know my predicament.”
“I do but no one will find us.”
“How do you know?”
“Because look at this place; it’s still ninety percent dead and where we are going, no man will follow… most likely.” It was the most likely that bothered him but, one look into Adam’s eyes, which were begging him to say yes, got him good. Fuck it! His dick was begging him to, and he knew he was lost.
Going against his better judgment, Johannes said, “OK.”
Adam lit up, eyes going wide and lips curving up into a huge grin. Taking a quick look around and, seeing there was no one in the immediate vicinity, Johannes gripped Adam’s chin, bringing his lips to his for a hard kiss. The second their lips met, heat exploded between them; Adam’s lips yielded the second his tongue started to push against his lover’s mouth, demanding entrance. Adam leaned hard against him and let out a soft whimper when Johannes ended the kiss.
“One,” he started to count, brushing his thumb over Adam’s lower lip before letting him go, “two; you better start running pretty boy; three, because when I get you, I’m going to devour you whole; four,” Adam blinked once and then again while Johannes continued to count, “five, six, seven …” and with a final grin, Adam took off, disappearing behind Johannes, who closed his eyes. He grinned, taking his time, “… eight … nine …”
When he was done, he took out his phone and texted.
“Ready or not here I come!”
There was no reply but he hadn’t expected one; instead, he turned around knowing for sure which way Adam had gone.
On his left, a little further up, the coffee shop had opened its doors and the girl working the shop was drying off the tables and putting out signs.
In a way, he couldn’t believe what he was about to do. As of yet, he hadn’t done a thing and he could still end it, but he wasn’t going to. No way. And that’s when he saw it, there on the back of a chair, a jacket, a very familiar leather jacket; one that he was pretty sure belonged to Adam. In grabbing it, the coffee girl spoke, “A guy dropped it there a minute ago, saying someone would be by to pick it up soon.” The girl said with a crooked smile. “You that guy?”
Johannes nodded. “Yes. That would be me. Thanks.”
“No problem. He might have dropped something else a little further up, I’m not sure; I haven’t been up to look yet.” She said, pointing straight ahead.
“I’ll check. Thanks. I appreciate the help.” He really did, the sooner he found Adam the sooner he’d be balls deep in the man’s ass.
A little further down, on the floor, right next to a large trashcan, he found Adam’s shirt. Was the man undressing? More than just his jacket and shirt? Was he getting naked? Johannes just about managed to stifle his groan when the coffee shop girl’s voice sounded right behind him.
“Why is he undressing…here of all places?” She didn’t sound offended; on the contrary, she knew that something was up and sounded more than a little curious.
“He’s an exhibitionist.” And that was no lie.
“And what; you’re his keeper?” She looked puzzled and Johannes was surprised that she actually seemed to believe him.
“Something of that…nature.” He had to strain himself to not start laughing but it was impossible for her to even imagine in her wildest fantasies that someone would play this sort of game in a public place like a train station. It was nuts, crazy, and absolutely a one-hundred percent turn on. He couldn’t believe it was turning him on as much as it was. The game itself was part of the excitement, and to see what else of Adam’s wardrobe he’d find next, and what the wild goose chase was leading up to, had his dick pushing hard against the zipper of his jeans.
He was just about to start walking again when his phone buzzed. This time, when he checked his messages, there was a short fifteen-second video of Adam stroking himself off. Johannes was stunned, mesmerized by the sight of that long fine dick and Adam’s hand moving slow and with a purpose to arouse him, to make him want him more than he already did. Like that was even possible.
Letting out a low needy groan, he texted with quick fingers.
“You better not come, and if you do, make sure you can get it up again before I get there. If not, I’ll be forced to spank you!” Snickering to himself, Johannes held the phone in his hand this time because he knew that would get a reaction out of his man.
In the meantime, he passed through the stone archways leading out from the old train station building into the much more recently built bus terminal.
“Sweetheart; that ain’t a good incentive to get me to quit playing with my cock. That shit will just push me over the edge.”
He laughed because that was pretty much as true as anything could get; he had known that it would get to Adam; he was such a little perv and loved dirty talking just as much as the actual doing. His phone pinged again.
“Also; are you getting here sometime today? I was promised a cock up my ass; yours if I was not mistaken and, dude all I have are my fingers.”
If there was one image better than the one Adam had sent him jacking off, it was the image of him opening himself up. Adam knew just how to drive him crazy.
The noise of the cleaning machine coming closer - only to thonk once before going silent - had him look up and see what had made it stop. The household technician had gone off to pick up a black and white sneaker.
“Excuse me!” Johannes called, jogging up to the man. “Yeah; sorry, that shoe belongs to my friend. He’s a little tipsy… and thinks he’s at home. Go figure.” Johannes smiled.
“You kids do the strangest things these days,” the man said, shaking his head, but there was a soft smile on his lips, “… skinny dipping in fountains, and getting undressed in train stations. When I was young - and mind you, it wasn’t THAT long ago - we settled for skinny dipping in the ocean. That was considered daring back then.” The old man sat back down on the seat of the cleaning machine.
“I’d say it still qualifies,” Johannes said with a smile; what was the harm in making the guy feel young and good about himself?
“If it is; what would you call what your friend is doing?” The man queried, giving him a curious look.
“Crazy. He’s a nutcase. A boy on the brink of losing his mind.” Johannes winked playfully, making the older man laugh.
“Don’t tell him you said that or he will think that you don’t love him.” The man winked back, and as he pushed the little button to get his machine going again, Johannes could only stand there, gawking at the older man. How’d he know?! With a raise of his hand and before Johannes could say anything else, he had gone back to work and out of earshot.
The shoe in his hand had been pointing in the direction of the underground garage; Johannes had parked there a time or two himself. He headed to the stairs, which were located a little off to one side, and no one really wandered there unless they were heading specifically to the garage, which for their purposes was a good thing. Following the clues and what he himself had figured out, he hadn’t reached the stairs before he saw Adam’s other shoe, sitting on the handrail.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Johannes stopped abruptly, mid-stride. In reaching for Adam’s other shoe, he caught a glimpse of something in the shadows.
He let his eyes adjust. The only light coming in was that from the large window, which was positioned some way higher up. When his eyes had gotten used to the gloom, he found Adam pressed up against the wall, with his briefs and jeans around his knees.
“Damn; look at you, boy.”
Bringing the shoe with him, he took a few steps, admiring the man before him for a few more seconds before bounding all the way to the bottom. Adam’s face was turned his way, lips slightly parted and eyelids at half-mast. Leaning heavily against the wall, his back arching and his ass pushed out with two of his fingers sliding in and out of his hole, his cock hard and leaking.
Johannes moaned, licking his lips. The smooth glide of the fingers disappearing into Adam’s hole over and over was the lure; he wanted in on the action. Hell, he wanted to feel for himself that hot sleeve gripping him tight and bringing him to a climax. Stopping next to Adam, Johannes smiled, tracing the guy’s lips with his index finger to get his full attention. Their gaze met, locking them together; their need jumping between them like an electric charge. Another moan from both of them, this time, echoing between the walls as Adam sucked Johannes’ finger into his mouth, immediately working it like it was a cock.
“Geez, Adam, you really know how to drive a man insane.” A bite to his finger made him jerk, the sting soothed by Adam’s tongue at the same time; his lover smiled and his eyes were sparkling. Little shit. Johannes' finger slipped out of Adam’s mouth with a pop.
“You gonna stand there and talk all day or you gonna get in on the action too?” Adam teased, but behind the teasing, there was a need to be taken and fucked quick and hard. Johannes knew what his lover liked and if there was one thing he liked more than playing games it was being mastered, bent over and fucked. He had told Johannes a long time ago how it made him fly … and add a little denial in there and the little shit would be putty in his hands.
“Eventually, maybe, if you stop being such a brat. I sort of like watching this right here; it’s like a private show… well, a private show that, as you said, could go public anytime.” Johannes trailed his fingers down Adam’s neck as he spoke, feather light touches designed to drive him mad; only to pinch his nipples really hard when he grazed over them. Adam moaned loudly, and his fingers stopped moving for a second.
“Did I say you could stop; keep going and open yourself up for me.” Johannes leaned in with his lips hovering over Adam’s, who pushed closer to press their lips together but was stopped by the hand curling around his neck. “Hand….fingers, get them moving.”
“You could help, you know.” Adam’s voice was rough and husky with need, a tad snappy.
“I could, but what would be the fun in that?” The second Adam’s fingers started to move in and out of his ass again, he let out an incoherent grunt as a shudder coursed through his body. Using that moment, Johannes closed in, taking Adam’s mouth in possession, pushing inside with his tongue.
What Johannes wasn’t prepared for was the eagerness with which Adam kissed him back. Hungry man. It was like being set on fire. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been hard before, but with his fingers touching Adam’s naked skin and tongue fucking his mouth, he knew if he didn’t get inside the man soon, he was going to combust inside his pants.
Pushing away from the wall to unzip his own jeans, Johannes growled as he was forced to end their kiss. A whimper escaped from both of them as they moved apart.
“Come on! Come on! Fuck me already.” Adam’s fingers slipped out of his ass at the same time as he handed Johannes a condom and planted both hands on the wall, literally vibrating with need.
“Pushy man.” Johannes took the condom and slapped Adam’s ass hard, first one side and then the other. Moaning, Adam pushed his ass back silently, begging for more. Grinning and shaking his head, Johannes rolled the condom on, slipping the sheath over his cock with one hand, spreading Adam’s cheeks with the other, rubbing the tip of his dick over his entrance. At the same time as Johannes started to push in, Adam pushed back, making him slide all the way to the root in one smooth, swift motion.
“Oh fuck!” and slapping a hand over Adam’s mouth, Johannes muffled his own groan by pressing his face into Adam’s neck. Then he started to move, finally! Sliding all the way out only to slam right back in. Everything around them became a blur. Not even if someone walked through the door behind them at that very second would he be able to stop; it was too damn good.
Fucking Adam with long, even, hard and fast strokes, he pressed up close to Adam’s back and let his hand fall to wrap it around Adam’s dick.
“Come on, Adam. Together, ok?”
Fuck; he was going to come like a freight train without breaks. Holding Adam’s dick in a firm grip, and jacking him to the rhythm of his hips moving, he reached the surge quickly. And just like that, with a final snap of his hips, he buried himself as deep as he could get and came so hard he swore could see stars.
“Uhn…. Oooh… fuck…” The sounds spilled out as Adam erupted, shooting all over Johannes' hand. Johannes grunted, rolling his hips as Adam convulsed around him, massaging out the last of his orgasm, making him quiver from head to foot.
Leaning heavily, his forehead on Adam’s shoulder, neither of them said a word; the only sound was their own heavy breathing. It wasn’t until the speaker came on with some departure announcement that they became aware of where they were.
With a low chuckle, Johannes slipped out and immediately took care of the condom, tying it off. Adam pulled out a couple of wet wipes from his pocket handing one to him.
“Damn; someone came prepared.”
“Yep! That’s me; a damn boy scout.” Adam winked, quickly cleaning himself up, holding up the wet wipe for Johannes to dispose of the condom in it before both started to sort themselves out. Adam got dressed and, with quick fingers, buttoned his shirt up as he shoved his feet in his sneakers.
“You know this was about as crazy as you can get,” Johannes said, zipping up before collecting their garbage and waiting for Adam to get caught up.
“Crazy fun you mean.” Adam wagged his brows, slipping his jacket on. “You’re welcome.”
Johannes laughed, leaning in to give Adam a quick peck.
“Come on, bratwurst, let me buy you breakfast. You make a man burn calories chasing you around.” Both of them laughed as they went up the stairs and, as they passed the cleaning technician, Johannes waved, getting a knowing smile in return.
And wasn’t it funny; he really didn’t care.
The End
If you liked this story about Johannes Alm, he will be one of the main MC of a full-length novel called “Love of the Game”. It will be out sometime in the beginning of 2017.
Visit Phetra's website here: http://www.phetranovak.com/
By Phetra H. Novak
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you? Keep you company? I really don’t mind.”
Johannes shook his head, smiling. “Nah, dad; go home and go back to bed and sleep for another couple hours. I’ll be fine.” Johannes patted his dad’s hand where it lay on the steering wheel, before slipping out of the car, stretching lazily, and letting out a silent yawn. Resting his arm on top of the car, he bent down to grab his large backpack.
“You have a little over an hour to kill; it’s an awfully long time with nothing to do,” his dad insisted.
“I’ll be fine, dad, really. I’ve got my reading tablet, my phone, headphones. I’m all set. Go home,” Johannes ordered with a wink. With music and books at hand, he was solid.
“Alright, alright. I won’t argue with you. There’s no point when you dig your heels in any way.”
“I’m glad, pops, that after twenty-two years, you finally learned,” he teased.
“Cheeky brat!” His dad smiled fondly. “Call when you are there, yes?”
Johannes rolled his eyes; his dad was such a mother hen. He was the one who always worried, calling that extra time just to make sure everything was alright; while his mother, the psychologist, was more of ‘a slap on the shoulder; good luck and love you, son’ kind of mom. He loved his parents both just the same.
“I will; promise! Don’t worry too much, huh? I’m a big boy; I’ll be fine.”
It was his dad’s turn to roll his eyes.
With a soft chuckle, Johannes said his good-byes and hefted his backpack up and over his shoulder. With a gentle hand, he slammed the door shut and tapped the roof. Once his dad had gone, he headed for the square located inside the train station to check on his train. After that, he’d decided to go to the nearest available coffee shop and dump his ass into one of those large comfy chairs, with a huge black coffee. He didn’t need to eat.
Being an elite sportsman, he’d learned a long time ago to eat when he needed, even early mornings because, when he was younger, a lot younger, he remembered getting up at five am every Saturday and Sunday to go hockey training at six am. It was how it was back then; the younger you were, the earlier you had to practice because ice time was scarce.
He caught his reflection in a window and wondered if his solid bulk and height would tempt those major NHL teams to draft for next season. It did all sound very promising.
Reaching the info board he found his train and was instantly disappointed.
“Shit!”
His train was going to be late - technical fault. What bullshit! He didn’t have to go by train that often but as sure as hell when he did, something always went wrong. It was the Swedish Railway System in a damn nutshell. Fuckers. The revised time was currently showing as seven-thirty instead of the original six-forty-two, giving him one and a half hours instead of just sixty minutes to wait. What a crock.
Running a hand through his hair, pondering his choices, he decided that he could either stay where he was or he could run by Adam’s. Did he call him lover yet? Sort of. They were more than fuck buddies, true … but lovers? Either way, the sex was, for the want of a better word … fucking awesome! Then there was the small fact that Johannes wasn’t out - not really. He wouldn’t deny anything if asked but he didn’t advertise the fact either. The sports world was still pretty macho and perpetuated the myth that ‘men don’t screw or love men’. Since there was no one special in his life, was there any point in getting on the barricades?
Pulling out his phone, Johannes scrolled down the screen until he found Adam’s number; with any luck, the man was just getting in from being out all night. If he was asleep, Johannes knew he’d be forgiven after dangling the lure of great sex.
“Hannes, sexy man! What a happy surprise?!”
“Sounds happy, and pretty alert too,” Johannes thought, grinning to himself.
“I thought you were going to Stockholm this weekend; something happened to change that?” Adam asked, sounding hopeful.
“Hey, yourself! I am still going but the damn train is almost two hours late.” He grumbled but he doubted that he sounded that upset; the prospect of some hot action had him excited, and hearing Adam’s smooth sexy voice had his body waking up and taking notice.
Adam had a voice that was a note lower than everyone else’s; sultry and suggestive, and that alone was as sexy as hell. Johannes had to agree that even though Adam was damn attractive, it was his confidence that made people look twice.
“Oh, really! And this made you think of me; how sweet. You want me to chat you up for a bit?” Adam teased, laughing quietly.
“Not so much talking … but you could be using your mouth.”
“Oh! Oh! Will I now? You got a lollipop in your pocket? You know I like salty caramel, right?”
Oh, fuck! The suggestion buried in those words went straight to his dick. He might even be leaking, and there he was, in the middle of the damn train station, with a possible wet spot on the front of his pants.
“I got a lollipop alright and more salt than you can handle.”
Adam let out a snort of laughter.
“Cocky bastard,” Adam coughed, recovering.
“Brat!” Johannes countered.
“Maybe you could suck me for once unless you’re worried about not being able to take all of me,” Adam snickered.
“Haven’t I proved to you that I am more than capable of handling your above-average-size dick? More than once.” Johannes spoke low into the phone. “Not the thickest but damn, the longest …”
“You’re the only one who’s taken it all. And damn, it feels good.”
“Fuck!”
“What?”
“I might just have come a little.” Johannes laughed. “My train has been delayed, giving me some time to kill. You feel like meeting up at your place?”
“I do. But I’m almost at the Train Station. I have an idea. Lose the bag, handsome.”
“Idea meaning what exactly?”
Adam’s ideas could be anything and everything, ranging from practical jokes to on the borderline getting arrested. He loved playing. End of. Foreplay many times consisted of chasing Adam around trying to catch him before he finally let himself be caught. There was never a dull moment with him around.
“Meaning, get rid of the bag and wait for me by the info boards; ok? Trust me.”
His phone went silent. Rolling his eyes but doing as Adam suggested, he walked to the nearest set of luggage boxes, dropping his bag inside the nearest one that was free.
Wasting time, figuring it would take Adam at least a few more minutes to get there, he shuffled along looking up into the cathedral-like space. However, the best sight of the morning was that his favorite coffee shop was starting to open, and if nothing else, he could treat Adam to breakfast and he’d have company for a while.
His phone vibrated in his pocket; pulling it out he saw a text from Adam.
“You got rid of the bag?”
He laughed softly, shaking his head. “What you got planned that makes it so important that I got rid of my bag? But yes, it is all locked away.” He hit send, turning in a full circle slowly to see if he could spot Adam coming in.
Adam knew how to make him laugh. They were great friends. They had been from the day they had met, and they’d always had this chilled no drama type relationship. Adam understood Hannes’ predicament in that he didn’t want to broadcast his sexual orientation … but when it came to the sex between them, it was fucking amazing.
“Hannes!”
On hearing his name, he spun around as Adam came jogging towards him; a wide grin spread across his lips.
“Hey, you!” He said when Adam came up, stopping just short of running right into him, and was immediately embraced by two long arms that wrapped themselves around his neck. He slid his own arms around him giving the man a hug back. Leaning back to look into his face and meeting Adam’s open and warm gaze, he asked, “You good?”
“Yeah, of course.” Adam leaned back slowly letting his arms slide away from around his neck, touching him as he went, purposely hitting his most sensitive spots. Even through the thin layer of his t-shirt, Johannes could feel the heat and intent of Adam’s touch. It was to tease and arouse and, if hearing his voice on the phone had gotten Johannes’ dick to take notice, having him there in the flesh, talking and touching, had the space in his pants shrinking by the second.
A noise that sounded very much like a growl escaped his lips; it wasn’t really intentional but it got Adam’s attention long enough that he looked up and their eyes met once more. A flash of desire mixed with the familiar glint burned in the pits of Adam’s eyes. With a soft almost devilish smile on his lips, Adam slipped his hand inside his shirt to tweak a nipple.
“Don’t start a game you can’t finish, Boy.”
A shiver instantly zipped through Adam’s body as Johannes said that one little word. Oh, yes; two could play at that game. Adam loved it when he called him Boy and ordered him around, at least in the bedroom - their lovemaking was usually on the rough side and before they’d met, neither had realized just how hot some of this stuff was. Hell; it was Adam who had introduced Johannes to handcuffs, cock rings of all kinds of kinks, and his personal favorite - orgasm denial. Lucky for him his current lover also loved being denied orgasms only to blow like a geyser when he was finally allowed to come.
“Oh; I plan to finish alright, and so will you if you just do as you are told …”
Everything went silent for about a second before both of them collapsed into a belly-hugging laugh because they both knew who the more sexually submissive one was, and it wasn’t Johannes. “Stop laughing, you douche!” Adam swatted at him playfully, stifling another eruption of laughter. “Just humor me.”
“Uh-huh; I’ll humor you.” Johannes kept laughing and Adam just rolled his eyes at him. So damn cute.
“Yeah, yeah… we all know you are a stud and fuck like a God, especially when you get all domineering and shit. Now listen.” He quirked a brow, giving Adam a playful glare but Adam didn’t get one bit intimidated - the cocky little shit - instead, he simply wagged his brows.
“Close your eyes and count to thirty.”
“Then what?”
“Then follow the yellow brick road and come find me.”
“And then what?”
Adam leaned in closer making sure that no one could hear him. “You get to fuck me like you really mean it, right here at the train station where anyone can accidently find us. My ass, your cock, a date, right now.” Screw him! Johannes could feel his eyes becoming as big as saucers. But Adam looked cool like a cucumber; he wasn’t kidding. The mischievous smile said it all and he was damned if his dick didn’t go rock hard at the idea.
“You’re serious.”
“Like a heart attack.”
“You know my predicament.”
“I do but no one will find us.”
“How do you know?”
“Because look at this place; it’s still ninety percent dead and where we are going, no man will follow… most likely.” It was the most likely that bothered him but, one look into Adam’s eyes, which were begging him to say yes, got him good. Fuck it! His dick was begging him to, and he knew he was lost.
Going against his better judgment, Johannes said, “OK.”
Adam lit up, eyes going wide and lips curving up into a huge grin. Taking a quick look around and, seeing there was no one in the immediate vicinity, Johannes gripped Adam’s chin, bringing his lips to his for a hard kiss. The second their lips met, heat exploded between them; Adam’s lips yielded the second his tongue started to push against his lover’s mouth, demanding entrance. Adam leaned hard against him and let out a soft whimper when Johannes ended the kiss.
“One,” he started to count, brushing his thumb over Adam’s lower lip before letting him go, “two; you better start running pretty boy; three, because when I get you, I’m going to devour you whole; four,” Adam blinked once and then again while Johannes continued to count, “five, six, seven …” and with a final grin, Adam took off, disappearing behind Johannes, who closed his eyes. He grinned, taking his time, “… eight … nine …”
When he was done, he took out his phone and texted.
“Ready or not here I come!”
There was no reply but he hadn’t expected one; instead, he turned around knowing for sure which way Adam had gone.
On his left, a little further up, the coffee shop had opened its doors and the girl working the shop was drying off the tables and putting out signs.
In a way, he couldn’t believe what he was about to do. As of yet, he hadn’t done a thing and he could still end it, but he wasn’t going to. No way. And that’s when he saw it, there on the back of a chair, a jacket, a very familiar leather jacket; one that he was pretty sure belonged to Adam. In grabbing it, the coffee girl spoke, “A guy dropped it there a minute ago, saying someone would be by to pick it up soon.” The girl said with a crooked smile. “You that guy?”
Johannes nodded. “Yes. That would be me. Thanks.”
“No problem. He might have dropped something else a little further up, I’m not sure; I haven’t been up to look yet.” She said, pointing straight ahead.
“I’ll check. Thanks. I appreciate the help.” He really did, the sooner he found Adam the sooner he’d be balls deep in the man’s ass.
A little further down, on the floor, right next to a large trashcan, he found Adam’s shirt. Was the man undressing? More than just his jacket and shirt? Was he getting naked? Johannes just about managed to stifle his groan when the coffee shop girl’s voice sounded right behind him.
“Why is he undressing…here of all places?” She didn’t sound offended; on the contrary, she knew that something was up and sounded more than a little curious.
“He’s an exhibitionist.” And that was no lie.
“And what; you’re his keeper?” She looked puzzled and Johannes was surprised that she actually seemed to believe him.
“Something of that…nature.” He had to strain himself to not start laughing but it was impossible for her to even imagine in her wildest fantasies that someone would play this sort of game in a public place like a train station. It was nuts, crazy, and absolutely a one-hundred percent turn on. He couldn’t believe it was turning him on as much as it was. The game itself was part of the excitement, and to see what else of Adam’s wardrobe he’d find next, and what the wild goose chase was leading up to, had his dick pushing hard against the zipper of his jeans.
He was just about to start walking again when his phone buzzed. This time, when he checked his messages, there was a short fifteen-second video of Adam stroking himself off. Johannes was stunned, mesmerized by the sight of that long fine dick and Adam’s hand moving slow and with a purpose to arouse him, to make him want him more than he already did. Like that was even possible.
Letting out a low needy groan, he texted with quick fingers.
“You better not come, and if you do, make sure you can get it up again before I get there. If not, I’ll be forced to spank you!” Snickering to himself, Johannes held the phone in his hand this time because he knew that would get a reaction out of his man.
In the meantime, he passed through the stone archways leading out from the old train station building into the much more recently built bus terminal.
“Sweetheart; that ain’t a good incentive to get me to quit playing with my cock. That shit will just push me over the edge.”
He laughed because that was pretty much as true as anything could get; he had known that it would get to Adam; he was such a little perv and loved dirty talking just as much as the actual doing. His phone pinged again.
“Also; are you getting here sometime today? I was promised a cock up my ass; yours if I was not mistaken and, dude all I have are my fingers.”
If there was one image better than the one Adam had sent him jacking off, it was the image of him opening himself up. Adam knew just how to drive him crazy.
The noise of the cleaning machine coming closer - only to thonk once before going silent - had him look up and see what had made it stop. The household technician had gone off to pick up a black and white sneaker.
“Excuse me!” Johannes called, jogging up to the man. “Yeah; sorry, that shoe belongs to my friend. He’s a little tipsy… and thinks he’s at home. Go figure.” Johannes smiled.
“You kids do the strangest things these days,” the man said, shaking his head, but there was a soft smile on his lips, “… skinny dipping in fountains, and getting undressed in train stations. When I was young - and mind you, it wasn’t THAT long ago - we settled for skinny dipping in the ocean. That was considered daring back then.” The old man sat back down on the seat of the cleaning machine.
“I’d say it still qualifies,” Johannes said with a smile; what was the harm in making the guy feel young and good about himself?
“If it is; what would you call what your friend is doing?” The man queried, giving him a curious look.
“Crazy. He’s a nutcase. A boy on the brink of losing his mind.” Johannes winked playfully, making the older man laugh.
“Don’t tell him you said that or he will think that you don’t love him.” The man winked back, and as he pushed the little button to get his machine going again, Johannes could only stand there, gawking at the older man. How’d he know?! With a raise of his hand and before Johannes could say anything else, he had gone back to work and out of earshot.
The shoe in his hand had been pointing in the direction of the underground garage; Johannes had parked there a time or two himself. He headed to the stairs, which were located a little off to one side, and no one really wandered there unless they were heading specifically to the garage, which for their purposes was a good thing. Following the clues and what he himself had figured out, he hadn’t reached the stairs before he saw Adam’s other shoe, sitting on the handrail.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Johannes stopped abruptly, mid-stride. In reaching for Adam’s other shoe, he caught a glimpse of something in the shadows.
He let his eyes adjust. The only light coming in was that from the large window, which was positioned some way higher up. When his eyes had gotten used to the gloom, he found Adam pressed up against the wall, with his briefs and jeans around his knees.
“Damn; look at you, boy.”
Bringing the shoe with him, he took a few steps, admiring the man before him for a few more seconds before bounding all the way to the bottom. Adam’s face was turned his way, lips slightly parted and eyelids at half-mast. Leaning heavily against the wall, his back arching and his ass pushed out with two of his fingers sliding in and out of his hole, his cock hard and leaking.
Johannes moaned, licking his lips. The smooth glide of the fingers disappearing into Adam’s hole over and over was the lure; he wanted in on the action. Hell, he wanted to feel for himself that hot sleeve gripping him tight and bringing him to a climax. Stopping next to Adam, Johannes smiled, tracing the guy’s lips with his index finger to get his full attention. Their gaze met, locking them together; their need jumping between them like an electric charge. Another moan from both of them, this time, echoing between the walls as Adam sucked Johannes’ finger into his mouth, immediately working it like it was a cock.
“Geez, Adam, you really know how to drive a man insane.” A bite to his finger made him jerk, the sting soothed by Adam’s tongue at the same time; his lover smiled and his eyes were sparkling. Little shit. Johannes' finger slipped out of Adam’s mouth with a pop.
“You gonna stand there and talk all day or you gonna get in on the action too?” Adam teased, but behind the teasing, there was a need to be taken and fucked quick and hard. Johannes knew what his lover liked and if there was one thing he liked more than playing games it was being mastered, bent over and fucked. He had told Johannes a long time ago how it made him fly … and add a little denial in there and the little shit would be putty in his hands.
“Eventually, maybe, if you stop being such a brat. I sort of like watching this right here; it’s like a private show… well, a private show that, as you said, could go public anytime.” Johannes trailed his fingers down Adam’s neck as he spoke, feather light touches designed to drive him mad; only to pinch his nipples really hard when he grazed over them. Adam moaned loudly, and his fingers stopped moving for a second.
“Did I say you could stop; keep going and open yourself up for me.” Johannes leaned in with his lips hovering over Adam’s, who pushed closer to press their lips together but was stopped by the hand curling around his neck. “Hand….fingers, get them moving.”
“You could help, you know.” Adam’s voice was rough and husky with need, a tad snappy.
“I could, but what would be the fun in that?” The second Adam’s fingers started to move in and out of his ass again, he let out an incoherent grunt as a shudder coursed through his body. Using that moment, Johannes closed in, taking Adam’s mouth in possession, pushing inside with his tongue.
What Johannes wasn’t prepared for was the eagerness with which Adam kissed him back. Hungry man. It was like being set on fire. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been hard before, but with his fingers touching Adam’s naked skin and tongue fucking his mouth, he knew if he didn’t get inside the man soon, he was going to combust inside his pants.
Pushing away from the wall to unzip his own jeans, Johannes growled as he was forced to end their kiss. A whimper escaped from both of them as they moved apart.
“Come on! Come on! Fuck me already.” Adam’s fingers slipped out of his ass at the same time as he handed Johannes a condom and planted both hands on the wall, literally vibrating with need.
“Pushy man.” Johannes took the condom and slapped Adam’s ass hard, first one side and then the other. Moaning, Adam pushed his ass back silently, begging for more. Grinning and shaking his head, Johannes rolled the condom on, slipping the sheath over his cock with one hand, spreading Adam’s cheeks with the other, rubbing the tip of his dick over his entrance. At the same time as Johannes started to push in, Adam pushed back, making him slide all the way to the root in one smooth, swift motion.
“Oh fuck!” and slapping a hand over Adam’s mouth, Johannes muffled his own groan by pressing his face into Adam’s neck. Then he started to move, finally! Sliding all the way out only to slam right back in. Everything around them became a blur. Not even if someone walked through the door behind them at that very second would he be able to stop; it was too damn good.
Fucking Adam with long, even, hard and fast strokes, he pressed up close to Adam’s back and let his hand fall to wrap it around Adam’s dick.
“Come on, Adam. Together, ok?”
Fuck; he was going to come like a freight train without breaks. Holding Adam’s dick in a firm grip, and jacking him to the rhythm of his hips moving, he reached the surge quickly. And just like that, with a final snap of his hips, he buried himself as deep as he could get and came so hard he swore could see stars.
“Uhn…. Oooh… fuck…” The sounds spilled out as Adam erupted, shooting all over Johannes' hand. Johannes grunted, rolling his hips as Adam convulsed around him, massaging out the last of his orgasm, making him quiver from head to foot.
Leaning heavily, his forehead on Adam’s shoulder, neither of them said a word; the only sound was their own heavy breathing. It wasn’t until the speaker came on with some departure announcement that they became aware of where they were.
With a low chuckle, Johannes slipped out and immediately took care of the condom, tying it off. Adam pulled out a couple of wet wipes from his pocket handing one to him.
“Damn; someone came prepared.”
“Yep! That’s me; a damn boy scout.” Adam winked, quickly cleaning himself up, holding up the wet wipe for Johannes to dispose of the condom in it before both started to sort themselves out. Adam got dressed and, with quick fingers, buttoned his shirt up as he shoved his feet in his sneakers.
“You know this was about as crazy as you can get,” Johannes said, zipping up before collecting their garbage and waiting for Adam to get caught up.
“Crazy fun you mean.” Adam wagged his brows, slipping his jacket on. “You’re welcome.”
Johannes laughed, leaning in to give Adam a quick peck.
“Come on, bratwurst, let me buy you breakfast. You make a man burn calories chasing you around.” Both of them laughed as they went up the stairs and, as they passed the cleaning technician, Johannes waved, getting a knowing smile in return.
And wasn’t it funny; he really didn’t care.
The End
If you liked this story about Johannes Alm, he will be one of the main MC of a full-length novel called “Love of the Game”. It will be out sometime in the beginning of 2017.
Visit Phetra's website here: http://www.phetranovak.com/
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Turning Over A New Leaf
By Morgan Starr
Restrained. Practised in the art of restraint. Yes; these words should appear on my epitaph - born on such and such a date, died recently, after a lifetime of restraint.
It all hails back to the time when my father caught me and my best friend - Jeremy - having a bit of a thing. I was positioned strategically between his thighs with his cock in my mouth. Father saw it as his life’s work to shame me into abandoning my debauchery and to conform to the family template for the ideal son, telling everyone, including my grandfather - the redoubtable Edgar Martin - what an ugly, debased coin he had minted. My mother had died a few years before, and I am grateful that she never had to hear the disgusting words that issued from his mouth.
Progressively, like a snail retreating into its shell, it was just easier for me to hide myself away in books. At first, it was a question of just study them to gain admittance to the most prestigious colleges around the globe. Then I found a placement with one such institution to translate reams of ancient Greek texts. Old, musty books - as far removed from my best friend’s fragrant pit as I could get. It also closed the shutters on my relationship with my father. Not so the relationship with my grandfather but, as he lived in France, it didn’t really matter too much. Our contact was limited to cards and presents on birthdays and at Christmas. I saw my maternal grandmother from time to time. She alone appeared to understand, but her efforts - as I define them now - to help me to find myself, were all in vain because the shell became so difficult to leave, and restraint was its own kind of release.
How I hate my father.
oOo
If he moves any closer, I don’t think I am going to be able to help myself and I am going to have to kiss his neck and bugger the consequences. He’s wearing a vest top because the sun is shining. Usually, he wears a standard tee shirt. His tan lines should be traced onto a canvas and hung in the Tate. I am reminded of that sculpture - The Dying Gaul. Altogether, too perfect, too real, and too tragic ... a text that I cannot translate.
He is not actually perfect - therein lies his perfection.
Perfection is unapproachable - like the sculpture - and best viewed from a safe distance; yet many of my neighbours find him extremely approachable, asking him to do all sorts of odd jobs and run errands. He has the rustic little cottage at the end of the lane. His name is Renard - which I know means fox. It could be his surname, of course. For a living, he climbs; mostly very tall pylons for the electricity company. I know him to be an experienced climber because he has a sticker in the back of his van that advertises a school somewhere down South. I have the little vineyard bequeathed to me by my grandfather that borders his property. Twenty hectares - not very big - but it has a proper chateau albeit in miniature. We grow Pinot noir grapes - a variety of grape that favours this soil and altitude, which is approximately one thousand metres. We produce a true red wine, which ages nicely and is best enjoyed after five years, and which will reach peak maturity after about fifteen.
The vineyard and the chateau have been here since before The Revolution. I suspect that the settlement was originally Stone Age. We are blessed with a very good spring, which feeds a river that we call locally La Fache, which also turns a wheel that once ground flour. These days, it generates electricity.
I say we but that is a royal we - I am on my own, being the inevitable consequence of restraint. I am sure that if I were to look, I would find that my cock has fossilised.
It’s Madame Eugene’s birthday and all of the neighbours are gathered in her orchard to wish her many happy returns. I am seated roughly halfway along one side of the long table that Maurice brought up this morning from the bar. Renard is seated next to me on my right. For now, his attention is being monopolised by that skinny little harlot who runs the terrible bistro, which is nothing more than a tourist trap because none of us frequents the place, preferring Maurice’s bar and his heartier fare. And for my part, he does buy a good deal of the wine that I produce - or rather I should say will produce, seeing as the grapes are not yet picked.
You can’t grow grapes unless you understand the soil, and you can’t produce wine unless you have the nose for it. I have neither, but I do have my grandfather’s journal, and his father’s, and his father’s father’s too, which dates back to before the Great War. I am determined not to be the Edgar Martin who let the side down. Actually, I wouldn’t be. My father has that distinction. He shunned the chance to take over the business, preferring to sail yachts. Grandfather held out for my father to change his mind - he didn’t. Grandfather died last year at the ripe old age of eighty-five. My father, then aged sixty-five, and in the process of retiring, evidently thought that he would inherit the chateau and vineyard. He didn’t. I did. I’m pretty sure he would have employed a manager and then sat back to enjoy the fruits of everyone else’s labours. I’m also pretty sure I would be better off if I employed a manager, but that feels like cheating. If this year gets too difficult, I will do what Grandfather said in his letter to me that was waiting for me when I arrived here last year - In the cave, you will find a thousand bottles that are unlabelled. The weather being what it is, it would not be the first time that I had to dip into the reserve. If you do, remember to replace it for the years ahead. Good luck, my boy.
I could have cashed in but it sounded altogether too romantic - a chateau and a vineyard - Chateau Martin.
Renard smokes - a fragrant blend, which, if I am not mistaken, is Drum. He carries his tobacco in a leather pouch so I can’t be sure. Would we say wolfish? His face is a little on the narrow and thin side - perhaps renard is more apt than I thought. But, unlike his woodland counterpart, he sports dirty blond hair which, as the summer has progressed, has turned wheaten in colour.
The fact that he is seated beside me is obviously Groiselle’s doing; she was given the task of making the seating plan. Do I thank her or curse her?
Oh, shit! He’s picked up his glass and, in the process, has turned so that I get the full effect of his profile. Unlike our neighbours, he does not hail from these parts - they are generally pugnacious, whereas he is Romanesque, and I believe I am correct in saying that he comes from Avignon. There is a slight flare to his nostrils, which could be construed as haughty. I doubt that he has a haughty bone in his body. Haughtiness, I think, is born out of insecurity - my father is haughty. Renard appears to be as comfortable in his skin as any man, and as secure as the foundations of our properties, which are anchored in granite.
I catch the tail-end of his reply to one of the harlot’s questions.
“Si tu veux ...”
If you want.
What can she have asked him?
It apparently signalled an end to their conversation. He takes a glug and replaces his glass on the table, after which, he ferrets for his pouch.
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
He has asked me a direct question. His eyes are the colour of my computer screen when it just decides, for no apparent reason, to hang. I am a bibliophile and a technophobe. For years, I thought Office was a product by a company called Microbe - seems I was not that wrong. I am beginning to feel like my computer screen but manage to stutter out a, “non; s’il te plait ...”
I take some solace in the fact that he didn’t ask the harlot if she minded. He asked the question in English because everyone knows that my language skills are on a par with my wine-making skills. Both will improve if I dedicate myself to this new life that Grandfather has bestowed upon me.
“If there is no rain next week, they say this year will be a vintage ...”
I have absolutely no idea what I am talking about but I heard something on the radio, and this is a rare chance to converse with him. My grandfather’s wine - Madame Eugene ordered a case for the party - is lubricating my tongue. I just hope my brain catches up with it before I make a complete arse of myself.
“I usually help at the harvest. Your grandfather was very often at my place to discuss the wine. I have to confess to knowing very little except that the wine you produce is a very good one ...”
He said ‘you’ - I’ve never picked a grape. Up until I moved here, I drank wine out of a box.
“I am trying to understand everything but it is very difficult.”
“For whatever reason, Bronté left after your grandfather died - he had a lot of knowledge but he was also a difficult character to get along with. Next weekend, the pickers will arrive, and they will work their way from one end of the valley to the other. Your vines are last - but also the best. Maurice is usually asked to provide the victuals.”
“I will speak to Maurice. I understand what should happen - in theory.”
“I can help - I have my vacances now.”
“Seriously?”
“It would be my pleasure. Shall we walk back together? I can show you where the pickers usually pitch their tents, and where the water standpipe is normally located.”
“Th-that would be awfully kind of you.”
“Maurice will soon give his little speech like he does every year; perhaps then, we can leave?”
“That suits me very well.”
I was engulfed by the tsunami but survived. He turns to say something to Groiselle. I feel like a piece of flotsam, flung high up the beach - safe if a little battered.
His voice sounds like smooth stones being tumbled in a velvet-lined barrel - the hard edges of his consonants are softened by his southern heritage. The locals here sound as if they are growling rather than talking. And to make matters worse, most speak a dialect that is heavily influenced by the Rhine communes that are barely a hundred kilometres away. Yes; in their case, sounding like stones being crushed by one of those giant machines that you sometimes see at the site of a road being dug up to be replaced.
Maurice delivers his natty little speech - he wears a bowtie; say no more - and we toast the old girl.
Renard and I are not the only ones planning to leave now; Groiselle is also gathering her belongings together. She gives the harlot a look that says in no uncertain terms - keep your grubby little mitts off of him or answer to me!
She links arms with both of us and allows us to escort her back to her place, where she weaves baskets with the help of her three sons. I ordered new baskets from her for the harvest this year - the old ones were in a very sorry state. I think the order may have earned me considerable credits points. Grandfather was a champion in so many ways but also a tight-fisted wad when it came to spending his hard-earned cash. It was no surprise to me to learn that it was he who installed the electricity generating equipment to avoid paying EDF’s invoices.
I ordered the baskets and a set of table linen - her daughter is an accomplished weaver and lace maker.
Once she has kissed both our cheeks, we head off in the direction of the chateau. However, as we pass the end of the lane that leads to his cottage, Renard invites me to take a coffee.
“I’d love one ...”
The maisonette is nothing more than a white-washed stone box under a slate roof - but it is perfect. Rustic, not manicured. Anything else simply wouldn’t work here anyway; we are - I am told - rustic folk. Maybe in the Loire, the terrain and the houses are just like the photographs you see in the magazines - stately chateaux, surrounded by their vines, which are arranged in rows like medieval archers, but here, we live simply.
Part of Madame Eugene’s orchard effectively cuts my terrain into two irregular sized pieces - the small corner, hidden from the chateau by the orchard, is closest to Renard’s place. There is a path leading from his garden, through that part of the vineyard, to the herb garden at the back of the grange. I live in the back of the chateau - my suite used to be the servants’ quarters and kitchen. The more modern, front part of the house is self-contained, and I rent it out for the holidays else there would be no income at all. Groiselle’s daughter, Marion, does the changeovers for me.
“You’ve installed a solar panel,” I exclaim, taken aback by the rudely modern equipment, which is bolted to the south-facing wall of his cottage.
“I have taken a leaf out of your grandfather’s book. I don’t really know how effective it will be in the autumn and winter.”
“You know, we can always hook up the cottage to the chateau - the turbine is generating enough power to run a small town.”
“Aren’t you selling it back to EDF?”
“Yes; but the prices are falling all the time. Think about it.”
He disappears inside his front door, which is unlocked just like everyone else’s, and returns a few minutes later - shirtless - bearing a small glass of a brew that I know to be his own eau de vie.
“While the coffee is making ...”
I accept the glass and offer a, “Tchin!” to which he replies, “Santé ...”
Shirtless. His pecs are regular in size and not as pillowy as I thought they would be - unlike his arms, which are very impressive. The space between his pecs is relatively wide, and within the valley, there nestles a coin on a chain.
“What is that?” I ask, genuinely interested, expecting him to be wearing a crucifix.
“A coin - a gulden - they were minted not far from here. I unearthed it while I was digging the garden ...”
He steps forward and plucks the coin from between his pecs and holds it out for me to examine more closely. The chain is not that long so I have to step quite close to him to get a decent look. He smells of leather and oil and Savon de Marseille - like the interior of Grandfather’s ancient automobile, which sits under a dust sheet in the grange.
“Exquisite ... is it gold?”
“Yes ...”
Mindful that if I were to take one step closer, I would be in range and in danger of sticking my tongue out and licking his satiny skin, I step back, and retreat to the table and chairs by his woodshed, stubbing my toe and spilling half the contents of the glass. He appears not to notice.
“Black?”
“A dash of milk if you have some, and a little sugar, please.”
While he fetches the coffee, I settle and sip the drink, finding it stronger than cognac but a good deal smoother on the palette, and without the burning sensation as it goes down.
He returns with the coffee and a platter, upon which there is some bread, a round of apple wood-smoked cheese - I recognise the colour of the rind - and a few slices of the local cured sausage.
“Still hungry?” I enquire, having stuffed my face at the party.
He looks a little embarrassed, and I have no idea why he should.
“I have a real problem eating in front of other people ... I just picked at the food.”
“Why? Sorry; that was rude of me.”
“No; I mentioned it. I was about twelve or thirteen and my parents got me fitted with braces to straighten my teeth ...”
His teeth are perfectly straight.
“... I hated them because when I ate my food, bits would get caught in the wires and I became very self-conscious about it ... it didn’t help that I was teased relentlessly at school.”
“But you have perfect teeth.”
“I did after the braces came off, but for two years, I was nicknamed Jaws, after that villain in the Bond movie.”
“I’m sorry ...”
“I was always a picky eater, and it just got worse. I managed to drink the soup today.”
Now that he comes to mention it, he didn’t take very much onto his plate and, although I saw him using his knife and fork, he must have just moved it around.
Poor bastard.
But it demands the obvious question - why is he comfortable eating in front of me? He attacks the platter with gusto, but not before offering me my share.
“No; I’m stuffed ... but thank you.”
“Your grandfather understood. We ate together often. He would always bring the wine and I would always roast a chicken basted in herb butter just the way he liked it.”
“Why did he understand?”
“Oh; because he had dentures and they didn’t fit very well, and food got stuck under his plate, he said.”
I let him eat in peace for a few minutes before asking, “So; next weekend, you say.”
“Yes; I know the foreman. He would no doubt have tried to fleece you on the day rate but once he sees me, he’ll charge you exactly what he should - what he always has. Maurice will supply the food, you, the wine, and everything will go smoothly like it always does. You ordered new baskets from Groiselle - that was a good plan.”
“The ones I found in the grange were fit only for the deschetterie.”
“It accounts for why she placed you next to me today.”
“What possible motive would she have for doing that?”
Yes; it is absolutely true what they say; I can be as dense as the granite of these hills at times.
“She likes you and she would like us to get to know each other better ...”
He lifts his eyes to mine and smiles broadly, displaying his perfect teeth.
I go bright red and then the blood drains from my head and rushes to my feet. I wobble.
“Edgar?”
“Sss-sorry. I could have sworn you said that she was matchmaking.”
“Pairing us up; is that what you mean?”
“Yes ...”
“I had an affaire with her son, Phillippe - very brief and tragic. He treated me rather shoddily, and ever since, she has seen it as her duty to get me a decent man ... one who she approves of.”
“So she approves of me?”
“Based on the evidence of today ... yes.”
“Do you?”
I must get my own supply of this liquor if it’s going to free my tongue like his brew has.
“I’ve had butterflies in my stomach since the day you arrived ...”
“Holy shit.”
“After your coffee, would you like to walk by the river?”
“Yyy-yes, I would ... very much ...”
I am stupefied - that is the best word to describe my overall emotional state.
“... Your grandfather told me that he had cancer long before he told anyone else.”
This sudden change in subject matter is very welcome if a little strange.
“He did?”
“Yes. We occasionally went to the thermal baths together - I was very happy to take him, especially if I had been staying in the back of the camion all week long while working on some poteaux for EDF in the middle of nowhere ...”
“I can imagine. Why did he tell you?”
“He had a lump in his groin - he showed me and asked me what I thought it was. I drove him to the physician’s, and to the hospital. He had left it too late.”
“He died of prostate cancer.”
“And it had spread ... they said it was all too common in men of his age to ignore the obvious signs and seek treatment.”
“He did not have many friends, as far as I can tell. You were as close to him as anyone, I think.”
“He was difficult at times but I just told him to lay off or he could hitch a ride to the baths the next time he wanted to go.”
“He always did like his own way; it’s why my father’s refusal to take over the reins hurt as much as I think it did.”
“He could have sold up but he left it to you - that says a lot.”
“Or he was mad - I know nothing about wine-making.”
“Neither did he until he was shown what to do.”
“But there must have been wine in his blood for him to have prospered like he did.”
“So there must be some in yours too ...”
There is altogether far too much wine in my blood right now and a walk by the river is probably a good antidote.
Once Renard has finished the platter and cleared away, we amble along the path towards the chateau and at the little bridge - which is no more elaborate than two planks - we make a turn and join the bank and walk side-by-side as much as the brambles will allow us.
“Groiselle and Marion will pick the berries and make jam,” he informs me.
“I think I remember that from last year.”
“It is a good life if you can find the rhythm. You do not seem at all pretentious, which I expected you to be after your grandfather informed me that you were a kind of celebrated academic. So I was expecting you to employ a manager and hide in the library like a mouse.”
“It’s true that I am - was - an academic. I specialise-d in the translation of rare manuscripts. I drank wine out of a box.”
“Putain!”
“Do you know what he sent me each birthday and Christmas?”
“No ...”
“A case of wine, and the card he sent had a freshly printed wine label on the front. I’ve kept them ever since I was ten years old.”
“He had belief in you.”
“At the time, I was miffed and wished he had sent me money so I could buy books.”
“Books are a lot easier to come by than belief - especially in oneself.”
We wander along the bank, and at some point, we reach out and hold hands. His big, square mitt engulfs my rather more slender one.
Where a little stream joins the river, there is a clearing - also a ruin of what I understand to be an ancient piggery - a porcherie. We stop to survey the digitalis purpurea, which grows everywhere here.
“Why did Phillippe treat you so badly?”
“I suppose you must ask him the reason why. I was often away at the time - less so now - he got bored waiting but feigned devotion, secretly fucking anything that took his fancy. I found out when he got a dose of the crabs. When Groiselle found out what he had been up to, she bagged up his clothes and took them to the bar he frequented in Ferdrupt, burning them in the street outside while he looked on, screaming ‘you filthy pig’. You never want to get on the wrong side of Groiselle ...”
“He still works with her, though ... doesn’t he?”
“He had no choice - he had no clothes.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Three or four years ago ... much has changed since then; Phillippe the most, but ...”
“You didn’t think he was worth a second chance?”
“When you open the bottle and find that the wine is corked, you don’t pour a glass ...”
By now, three-thirty in the afternoon, it is very hot, especially under the trees where the air is barely stirring. Madame Eugene begged us to eat earlier than usual so that she could avoid the worse of the sun. The river is incredibly tempting.
“Fancy a dip?” I ask innocently.
“In the river?”
“Of course ... it’ll cool us off nicely.”
“Not too much, I hope ...”
Oh, fuck.
My confidence evaporates when I sense a swelling and a throbbing in my groin - proving the existence of living fossils. Now I wish I had kept my trap shut.
“We have no towels; perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea.”
“Coward ...”
There must be a jot more of Grandfather’s blood in my veins than I realised - no Martin was ever accused of being that! My father sailed the globe single-handed for fuck’s sake.
Using a low-hanging branch as a clothes horse, I disrobe, neatly folding my trousers and shirt over the bow, and tucking my socks into my shoes ... and then I freeze with my fingers gripping the waistband of my underwear.
My heart stops when I sense the heat of his body on my back as he approaches from behind. If I turn, everything will change ... like grape juice turning into wine. I don’t get the chance because he slips his arms around me and pulls me back against his torso, at the same time, nuzzling in behind my ear to kiss my neck. I can smell his breath - garlic, wine and herbs. If you don’t need to pour a glass to prove that the wine is corked, what do you do when you find that the wine is very much to your liking?
oOo
“Are all bibliophiles as skinny as you? And do they play so mean?”
“I have a very high metabolism ... There isn’t an ounce of fat on you either ... and you splash like a girl.”
“I do not. Too bulky ...”
“Really? I would have said perfect ...”
Rather than feigning ignorance of the fact - he knows he is without equal, at least in this petit coin - he dips and sucks my nipple, eliciting a gasp as if I was stung by a bee. One of his big, flat palms is resting on my groin, kneading it gently. The other is cushioning my head as he lies beside me. I have never felt more like an insect being held between the points of the tweezers of some botanist - I can even imagine him saying, in that velvety voice of his, ‘what species are you?’
A new one. I am the academic who found a chink in his own armour - a trapdoor in the shell - and squeezed out through the gap and found a butterfly waiting for him to wrap him in the folds of his rainbow-coloured gossamer wings.
“R-e-n-a-r-d ...”
After flashing me a look with those deep, fathomless blue eyes, he glides down and, gripping me firmly, envelops me in his hot mouth, sucking in immediately. I won’t last. Releasing his grip, he slides his hand under my bollocks and pushes further, curling his fingers slightly to find the lip of the divot in which my hole hides like some cornered rodent. One, strong, square-tipped finger probes briefly, just enough to locate the tight-mouthed entrance. Lubricated on nothing more than my own sweat, his finger has some difficulty in making much progress, and I tense in the face of the intrusion. Sensing my discomfort, he withdraws his finger, and backs off, letting my cock slip from between his lips.
“Turn over ...”
Perhaps it is the thought of grinding my cock into the bare earth or the thought of his cock thrusting into me, but I flip without questioning him. No preface; just cool spittle that rolls down between my modest buns - I cycle to my workplace, so they are not pancake flat or squishy. Positioning himself like the dedicated worshiper at the altar, he presses down with both hands, splitting my buttes, and ravages my poor, tight hole until it gives up the final vestiges of any kind of restraint, and allows his tongue to dip in deep. It was that and not the sensation of grinding my prong into the earth that got me off the first time. Before I have reconnected with any real notion of what I have done, he is pushing in on a river of spit, and it makes me hard just thinking about the fluids he is fucking into me. Once inside, his hands grip my shoulders - vice-like. His knees are outside of my thighs, pressing them together. The effect of his cock rocking back and forth is amplified as the shaft rubs against my skin - which is a kind of preface to the regular sensation of his mighty crown burrowing into me. Under his weight, I struggle to rise up on my hands; succeeding, I throw my head back and he bites down on my neck, simultaneously doubling his speed. Flesh against wood; pressed like a grape, my juices are flowing. A grumble is vibrating in his throat, which is being transmitted through his lips and tongue to my skin, heralding a finale. Thrusts that feel and sound like the final turns of the screw of the press - a juddering, accompanied by a groaning and a kind of squeaking. He bites down harder and sucks strongly. I end up with a hickey that looks like the rosette that Groiselle was given for her jam at the harvest festival last year, which she wears on her lapel whenever she wants to rub the harlot’s nose in it.
He pops his cork and fills me to the brim.
Vintage.
oOo
I have never worked so hard, or been so tired, or ate and drank so much, or had so much fun. Even if everything goes tits up in the future, I will be able to say that I laid down three thousand bottles of Chateau Martin. I say I, and I mean we but I ultimately had to take responsibility for the process. I carried Grandfather’s journal with me throughout the whole thing - it lent me a kind of gravitas - apparently, the old fella did the same, making notes along the way, barking instructions and cuffing a few ears to boot. I didn’t do those things; I didn’t have to. The pickers were young and enthusiastic; mostly students on their gap years. It was a little sad to be told that the number of old Romany families that used to come every year had dwindled to almost nothing. The students all register via a very efficient service in Holland, I am told. Maurice fed them and I plied them with wine. Renard took care of the logistics, and together, we accomplished what I never dreamed possible.
One evening, well after the thing was over, I finished up the journal, copying the text from the previous year and simply changing the numbers. Every year, Grandfather signed off with the phrase - for the generations to come.
I struggle to write the words, knowing that there is no little Edgar Martin running about outside, oblivious to the heritage contained in those oak casks. A cold, cruel hand tugs at my sleeve, inviting me to crawl back into my shell.
“Why are you frowning, Edgar?”
Yes; why? I did the work. I did more than my father probably ever expected me to - and perhaps I was trying to impress him. I wasn’t really trying to impress Grandfather - I think he knew - knows - that growing grapes and making wine is a tough business and especially so for the complete novice. I hope he is pleased with the result. And I have plenty of time to worry about who I pass the journals on to.
“Bit of a headache,” I lie.
“Let me massage your shoulders ...”
I will send my father a newly printed label, stuck to a card, and inside I will write - FUCK YOU.
By Morgan Starr
Restrained. Practised in the art of restraint. Yes; these words should appear on my epitaph - born on such and such a date, died recently, after a lifetime of restraint.
It all hails back to the time when my father caught me and my best friend - Jeremy - having a bit of a thing. I was positioned strategically between his thighs with his cock in my mouth. Father saw it as his life’s work to shame me into abandoning my debauchery and to conform to the family template for the ideal son, telling everyone, including my grandfather - the redoubtable Edgar Martin - what an ugly, debased coin he had minted. My mother had died a few years before, and I am grateful that she never had to hear the disgusting words that issued from his mouth.
Progressively, like a snail retreating into its shell, it was just easier for me to hide myself away in books. At first, it was a question of just study them to gain admittance to the most prestigious colleges around the globe. Then I found a placement with one such institution to translate reams of ancient Greek texts. Old, musty books - as far removed from my best friend’s fragrant pit as I could get. It also closed the shutters on my relationship with my father. Not so the relationship with my grandfather but, as he lived in France, it didn’t really matter too much. Our contact was limited to cards and presents on birthdays and at Christmas. I saw my maternal grandmother from time to time. She alone appeared to understand, but her efforts - as I define them now - to help me to find myself, were all in vain because the shell became so difficult to leave, and restraint was its own kind of release.
How I hate my father.
oOo
If he moves any closer, I don’t think I am going to be able to help myself and I am going to have to kiss his neck and bugger the consequences. He’s wearing a vest top because the sun is shining. Usually, he wears a standard tee shirt. His tan lines should be traced onto a canvas and hung in the Tate. I am reminded of that sculpture - The Dying Gaul. Altogether, too perfect, too real, and too tragic ... a text that I cannot translate.
He is not actually perfect - therein lies his perfection.
Perfection is unapproachable - like the sculpture - and best viewed from a safe distance; yet many of my neighbours find him extremely approachable, asking him to do all sorts of odd jobs and run errands. He has the rustic little cottage at the end of the lane. His name is Renard - which I know means fox. It could be his surname, of course. For a living, he climbs; mostly very tall pylons for the electricity company. I know him to be an experienced climber because he has a sticker in the back of his van that advertises a school somewhere down South. I have the little vineyard bequeathed to me by my grandfather that borders his property. Twenty hectares - not very big - but it has a proper chateau albeit in miniature. We grow Pinot noir grapes - a variety of grape that favours this soil and altitude, which is approximately one thousand metres. We produce a true red wine, which ages nicely and is best enjoyed after five years, and which will reach peak maturity after about fifteen.
The vineyard and the chateau have been here since before The Revolution. I suspect that the settlement was originally Stone Age. We are blessed with a very good spring, which feeds a river that we call locally La Fache, which also turns a wheel that once ground flour. These days, it generates electricity.
I say we but that is a royal we - I am on my own, being the inevitable consequence of restraint. I am sure that if I were to look, I would find that my cock has fossilised.
It’s Madame Eugene’s birthday and all of the neighbours are gathered in her orchard to wish her many happy returns. I am seated roughly halfway along one side of the long table that Maurice brought up this morning from the bar. Renard is seated next to me on my right. For now, his attention is being monopolised by that skinny little harlot who runs the terrible bistro, which is nothing more than a tourist trap because none of us frequents the place, preferring Maurice’s bar and his heartier fare. And for my part, he does buy a good deal of the wine that I produce - or rather I should say will produce, seeing as the grapes are not yet picked.
You can’t grow grapes unless you understand the soil, and you can’t produce wine unless you have the nose for it. I have neither, but I do have my grandfather’s journal, and his father’s, and his father’s father’s too, which dates back to before the Great War. I am determined not to be the Edgar Martin who let the side down. Actually, I wouldn’t be. My father has that distinction. He shunned the chance to take over the business, preferring to sail yachts. Grandfather held out for my father to change his mind - he didn’t. Grandfather died last year at the ripe old age of eighty-five. My father, then aged sixty-five, and in the process of retiring, evidently thought that he would inherit the chateau and vineyard. He didn’t. I did. I’m pretty sure he would have employed a manager and then sat back to enjoy the fruits of everyone else’s labours. I’m also pretty sure I would be better off if I employed a manager, but that feels like cheating. If this year gets too difficult, I will do what Grandfather said in his letter to me that was waiting for me when I arrived here last year - In the cave, you will find a thousand bottles that are unlabelled. The weather being what it is, it would not be the first time that I had to dip into the reserve. If you do, remember to replace it for the years ahead. Good luck, my boy.
I could have cashed in but it sounded altogether too romantic - a chateau and a vineyard - Chateau Martin.
Renard smokes - a fragrant blend, which, if I am not mistaken, is Drum. He carries his tobacco in a leather pouch so I can’t be sure. Would we say wolfish? His face is a little on the narrow and thin side - perhaps renard is more apt than I thought. But, unlike his woodland counterpart, he sports dirty blond hair which, as the summer has progressed, has turned wheaten in colour.
The fact that he is seated beside me is obviously Groiselle’s doing; she was given the task of making the seating plan. Do I thank her or curse her?
Oh, shit! He’s picked up his glass and, in the process, has turned so that I get the full effect of his profile. Unlike our neighbours, he does not hail from these parts - they are generally pugnacious, whereas he is Romanesque, and I believe I am correct in saying that he comes from Avignon. There is a slight flare to his nostrils, which could be construed as haughty. I doubt that he has a haughty bone in his body. Haughtiness, I think, is born out of insecurity - my father is haughty. Renard appears to be as comfortable in his skin as any man, and as secure as the foundations of our properties, which are anchored in granite.
I catch the tail-end of his reply to one of the harlot’s questions.
“Si tu veux ...”
If you want.
What can she have asked him?
It apparently signalled an end to their conversation. He takes a glug and replaces his glass on the table, after which, he ferrets for his pouch.
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
He has asked me a direct question. His eyes are the colour of my computer screen when it just decides, for no apparent reason, to hang. I am a bibliophile and a technophobe. For years, I thought Office was a product by a company called Microbe - seems I was not that wrong. I am beginning to feel like my computer screen but manage to stutter out a, “non; s’il te plait ...”
I take some solace in the fact that he didn’t ask the harlot if she minded. He asked the question in English because everyone knows that my language skills are on a par with my wine-making skills. Both will improve if I dedicate myself to this new life that Grandfather has bestowed upon me.
“If there is no rain next week, they say this year will be a vintage ...”
I have absolutely no idea what I am talking about but I heard something on the radio, and this is a rare chance to converse with him. My grandfather’s wine - Madame Eugene ordered a case for the party - is lubricating my tongue. I just hope my brain catches up with it before I make a complete arse of myself.
“I usually help at the harvest. Your grandfather was very often at my place to discuss the wine. I have to confess to knowing very little except that the wine you produce is a very good one ...”
He said ‘you’ - I’ve never picked a grape. Up until I moved here, I drank wine out of a box.
“I am trying to understand everything but it is very difficult.”
“For whatever reason, Bronté left after your grandfather died - he had a lot of knowledge but he was also a difficult character to get along with. Next weekend, the pickers will arrive, and they will work their way from one end of the valley to the other. Your vines are last - but also the best. Maurice is usually asked to provide the victuals.”
“I will speak to Maurice. I understand what should happen - in theory.”
“I can help - I have my vacances now.”
“Seriously?”
“It would be my pleasure. Shall we walk back together? I can show you where the pickers usually pitch their tents, and where the water standpipe is normally located.”
“Th-that would be awfully kind of you.”
“Maurice will soon give his little speech like he does every year; perhaps then, we can leave?”
“That suits me very well.”
I was engulfed by the tsunami but survived. He turns to say something to Groiselle. I feel like a piece of flotsam, flung high up the beach - safe if a little battered.
His voice sounds like smooth stones being tumbled in a velvet-lined barrel - the hard edges of his consonants are softened by his southern heritage. The locals here sound as if they are growling rather than talking. And to make matters worse, most speak a dialect that is heavily influenced by the Rhine communes that are barely a hundred kilometres away. Yes; in their case, sounding like stones being crushed by one of those giant machines that you sometimes see at the site of a road being dug up to be replaced.
Maurice delivers his natty little speech - he wears a bowtie; say no more - and we toast the old girl.
Renard and I are not the only ones planning to leave now; Groiselle is also gathering her belongings together. She gives the harlot a look that says in no uncertain terms - keep your grubby little mitts off of him or answer to me!
She links arms with both of us and allows us to escort her back to her place, where she weaves baskets with the help of her three sons. I ordered new baskets from her for the harvest this year - the old ones were in a very sorry state. I think the order may have earned me considerable credits points. Grandfather was a champion in so many ways but also a tight-fisted wad when it came to spending his hard-earned cash. It was no surprise to me to learn that it was he who installed the electricity generating equipment to avoid paying EDF’s invoices.
I ordered the baskets and a set of table linen - her daughter is an accomplished weaver and lace maker.
Once she has kissed both our cheeks, we head off in the direction of the chateau. However, as we pass the end of the lane that leads to his cottage, Renard invites me to take a coffee.
“I’d love one ...”
The maisonette is nothing more than a white-washed stone box under a slate roof - but it is perfect. Rustic, not manicured. Anything else simply wouldn’t work here anyway; we are - I am told - rustic folk. Maybe in the Loire, the terrain and the houses are just like the photographs you see in the magazines - stately chateaux, surrounded by their vines, which are arranged in rows like medieval archers, but here, we live simply.
Part of Madame Eugene’s orchard effectively cuts my terrain into two irregular sized pieces - the small corner, hidden from the chateau by the orchard, is closest to Renard’s place. There is a path leading from his garden, through that part of the vineyard, to the herb garden at the back of the grange. I live in the back of the chateau - my suite used to be the servants’ quarters and kitchen. The more modern, front part of the house is self-contained, and I rent it out for the holidays else there would be no income at all. Groiselle’s daughter, Marion, does the changeovers for me.
“You’ve installed a solar panel,” I exclaim, taken aback by the rudely modern equipment, which is bolted to the south-facing wall of his cottage.
“I have taken a leaf out of your grandfather’s book. I don’t really know how effective it will be in the autumn and winter.”
“You know, we can always hook up the cottage to the chateau - the turbine is generating enough power to run a small town.”
“Aren’t you selling it back to EDF?”
“Yes; but the prices are falling all the time. Think about it.”
He disappears inside his front door, which is unlocked just like everyone else’s, and returns a few minutes later - shirtless - bearing a small glass of a brew that I know to be his own eau de vie.
“While the coffee is making ...”
I accept the glass and offer a, “Tchin!” to which he replies, “Santé ...”
Shirtless. His pecs are regular in size and not as pillowy as I thought they would be - unlike his arms, which are very impressive. The space between his pecs is relatively wide, and within the valley, there nestles a coin on a chain.
“What is that?” I ask, genuinely interested, expecting him to be wearing a crucifix.
“A coin - a gulden - they were minted not far from here. I unearthed it while I was digging the garden ...”
He steps forward and plucks the coin from between his pecs and holds it out for me to examine more closely. The chain is not that long so I have to step quite close to him to get a decent look. He smells of leather and oil and Savon de Marseille - like the interior of Grandfather’s ancient automobile, which sits under a dust sheet in the grange.
“Exquisite ... is it gold?”
“Yes ...”
Mindful that if I were to take one step closer, I would be in range and in danger of sticking my tongue out and licking his satiny skin, I step back, and retreat to the table and chairs by his woodshed, stubbing my toe and spilling half the contents of the glass. He appears not to notice.
“Black?”
“A dash of milk if you have some, and a little sugar, please.”
While he fetches the coffee, I settle and sip the drink, finding it stronger than cognac but a good deal smoother on the palette, and without the burning sensation as it goes down.
He returns with the coffee and a platter, upon which there is some bread, a round of apple wood-smoked cheese - I recognise the colour of the rind - and a few slices of the local cured sausage.
“Still hungry?” I enquire, having stuffed my face at the party.
He looks a little embarrassed, and I have no idea why he should.
“I have a real problem eating in front of other people ... I just picked at the food.”
“Why? Sorry; that was rude of me.”
“No; I mentioned it. I was about twelve or thirteen and my parents got me fitted with braces to straighten my teeth ...”
His teeth are perfectly straight.
“... I hated them because when I ate my food, bits would get caught in the wires and I became very self-conscious about it ... it didn’t help that I was teased relentlessly at school.”
“But you have perfect teeth.”
“I did after the braces came off, but for two years, I was nicknamed Jaws, after that villain in the Bond movie.”
“I’m sorry ...”
“I was always a picky eater, and it just got worse. I managed to drink the soup today.”
Now that he comes to mention it, he didn’t take very much onto his plate and, although I saw him using his knife and fork, he must have just moved it around.
Poor bastard.
But it demands the obvious question - why is he comfortable eating in front of me? He attacks the platter with gusto, but not before offering me my share.
“No; I’m stuffed ... but thank you.”
“Your grandfather understood. We ate together often. He would always bring the wine and I would always roast a chicken basted in herb butter just the way he liked it.”
“Why did he understand?”
“Oh; because he had dentures and they didn’t fit very well, and food got stuck under his plate, he said.”
I let him eat in peace for a few minutes before asking, “So; next weekend, you say.”
“Yes; I know the foreman. He would no doubt have tried to fleece you on the day rate but once he sees me, he’ll charge you exactly what he should - what he always has. Maurice will supply the food, you, the wine, and everything will go smoothly like it always does. You ordered new baskets from Groiselle - that was a good plan.”
“The ones I found in the grange were fit only for the deschetterie.”
“It accounts for why she placed you next to me today.”
“What possible motive would she have for doing that?”
Yes; it is absolutely true what they say; I can be as dense as the granite of these hills at times.
“She likes you and she would like us to get to know each other better ...”
He lifts his eyes to mine and smiles broadly, displaying his perfect teeth.
I go bright red and then the blood drains from my head and rushes to my feet. I wobble.
“Edgar?”
“Sss-sorry. I could have sworn you said that she was matchmaking.”
“Pairing us up; is that what you mean?”
“Yes ...”
“I had an affaire with her son, Phillippe - very brief and tragic. He treated me rather shoddily, and ever since, she has seen it as her duty to get me a decent man ... one who she approves of.”
“So she approves of me?”
“Based on the evidence of today ... yes.”
“Do you?”
I must get my own supply of this liquor if it’s going to free my tongue like his brew has.
“I’ve had butterflies in my stomach since the day you arrived ...”
“Holy shit.”
“After your coffee, would you like to walk by the river?”
“Yyy-yes, I would ... very much ...”
I am stupefied - that is the best word to describe my overall emotional state.
“... Your grandfather told me that he had cancer long before he told anyone else.”
This sudden change in subject matter is very welcome if a little strange.
“He did?”
“Yes. We occasionally went to the thermal baths together - I was very happy to take him, especially if I had been staying in the back of the camion all week long while working on some poteaux for EDF in the middle of nowhere ...”
“I can imagine. Why did he tell you?”
“He had a lump in his groin - he showed me and asked me what I thought it was. I drove him to the physician’s, and to the hospital. He had left it too late.”
“He died of prostate cancer.”
“And it had spread ... they said it was all too common in men of his age to ignore the obvious signs and seek treatment.”
“He did not have many friends, as far as I can tell. You were as close to him as anyone, I think.”
“He was difficult at times but I just told him to lay off or he could hitch a ride to the baths the next time he wanted to go.”
“He always did like his own way; it’s why my father’s refusal to take over the reins hurt as much as I think it did.”
“He could have sold up but he left it to you - that says a lot.”
“Or he was mad - I know nothing about wine-making.”
“Neither did he until he was shown what to do.”
“But there must have been wine in his blood for him to have prospered like he did.”
“So there must be some in yours too ...”
There is altogether far too much wine in my blood right now and a walk by the river is probably a good antidote.
Once Renard has finished the platter and cleared away, we amble along the path towards the chateau and at the little bridge - which is no more elaborate than two planks - we make a turn and join the bank and walk side-by-side as much as the brambles will allow us.
“Groiselle and Marion will pick the berries and make jam,” he informs me.
“I think I remember that from last year.”
“It is a good life if you can find the rhythm. You do not seem at all pretentious, which I expected you to be after your grandfather informed me that you were a kind of celebrated academic. So I was expecting you to employ a manager and hide in the library like a mouse.”
“It’s true that I am - was - an academic. I specialise-d in the translation of rare manuscripts. I drank wine out of a box.”
“Putain!”
“Do you know what he sent me each birthday and Christmas?”
“No ...”
“A case of wine, and the card he sent had a freshly printed wine label on the front. I’ve kept them ever since I was ten years old.”
“He had belief in you.”
“At the time, I was miffed and wished he had sent me money so I could buy books.”
“Books are a lot easier to come by than belief - especially in oneself.”
We wander along the bank, and at some point, we reach out and hold hands. His big, square mitt engulfs my rather more slender one.
Where a little stream joins the river, there is a clearing - also a ruin of what I understand to be an ancient piggery - a porcherie. We stop to survey the digitalis purpurea, which grows everywhere here.
“Why did Phillippe treat you so badly?”
“I suppose you must ask him the reason why. I was often away at the time - less so now - he got bored waiting but feigned devotion, secretly fucking anything that took his fancy. I found out when he got a dose of the crabs. When Groiselle found out what he had been up to, she bagged up his clothes and took them to the bar he frequented in Ferdrupt, burning them in the street outside while he looked on, screaming ‘you filthy pig’. You never want to get on the wrong side of Groiselle ...”
“He still works with her, though ... doesn’t he?”
“He had no choice - he had no clothes.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Three or four years ago ... much has changed since then; Phillippe the most, but ...”
“You didn’t think he was worth a second chance?”
“When you open the bottle and find that the wine is corked, you don’t pour a glass ...”
By now, three-thirty in the afternoon, it is very hot, especially under the trees where the air is barely stirring. Madame Eugene begged us to eat earlier than usual so that she could avoid the worse of the sun. The river is incredibly tempting.
“Fancy a dip?” I ask innocently.
“In the river?”
“Of course ... it’ll cool us off nicely.”
“Not too much, I hope ...”
Oh, fuck.
My confidence evaporates when I sense a swelling and a throbbing in my groin - proving the existence of living fossils. Now I wish I had kept my trap shut.
“We have no towels; perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea.”
“Coward ...”
There must be a jot more of Grandfather’s blood in my veins than I realised - no Martin was ever accused of being that! My father sailed the globe single-handed for fuck’s sake.
Using a low-hanging branch as a clothes horse, I disrobe, neatly folding my trousers and shirt over the bow, and tucking my socks into my shoes ... and then I freeze with my fingers gripping the waistband of my underwear.
My heart stops when I sense the heat of his body on my back as he approaches from behind. If I turn, everything will change ... like grape juice turning into wine. I don’t get the chance because he slips his arms around me and pulls me back against his torso, at the same time, nuzzling in behind my ear to kiss my neck. I can smell his breath - garlic, wine and herbs. If you don’t need to pour a glass to prove that the wine is corked, what do you do when you find that the wine is very much to your liking?
oOo
“Are all bibliophiles as skinny as you? And do they play so mean?”
“I have a very high metabolism ... There isn’t an ounce of fat on you either ... and you splash like a girl.”
“I do not. Too bulky ...”
“Really? I would have said perfect ...”
Rather than feigning ignorance of the fact - he knows he is without equal, at least in this petit coin - he dips and sucks my nipple, eliciting a gasp as if I was stung by a bee. One of his big, flat palms is resting on my groin, kneading it gently. The other is cushioning my head as he lies beside me. I have never felt more like an insect being held between the points of the tweezers of some botanist - I can even imagine him saying, in that velvety voice of his, ‘what species are you?’
A new one. I am the academic who found a chink in his own armour - a trapdoor in the shell - and squeezed out through the gap and found a butterfly waiting for him to wrap him in the folds of his rainbow-coloured gossamer wings.
“R-e-n-a-r-d ...”
After flashing me a look with those deep, fathomless blue eyes, he glides down and, gripping me firmly, envelops me in his hot mouth, sucking in immediately. I won’t last. Releasing his grip, he slides his hand under my bollocks and pushes further, curling his fingers slightly to find the lip of the divot in which my hole hides like some cornered rodent. One, strong, square-tipped finger probes briefly, just enough to locate the tight-mouthed entrance. Lubricated on nothing more than my own sweat, his finger has some difficulty in making much progress, and I tense in the face of the intrusion. Sensing my discomfort, he withdraws his finger, and backs off, letting my cock slip from between his lips.
“Turn over ...”
Perhaps it is the thought of grinding my cock into the bare earth or the thought of his cock thrusting into me, but I flip without questioning him. No preface; just cool spittle that rolls down between my modest buns - I cycle to my workplace, so they are not pancake flat or squishy. Positioning himself like the dedicated worshiper at the altar, he presses down with both hands, splitting my buttes, and ravages my poor, tight hole until it gives up the final vestiges of any kind of restraint, and allows his tongue to dip in deep. It was that and not the sensation of grinding my prong into the earth that got me off the first time. Before I have reconnected with any real notion of what I have done, he is pushing in on a river of spit, and it makes me hard just thinking about the fluids he is fucking into me. Once inside, his hands grip my shoulders - vice-like. His knees are outside of my thighs, pressing them together. The effect of his cock rocking back and forth is amplified as the shaft rubs against my skin - which is a kind of preface to the regular sensation of his mighty crown burrowing into me. Under his weight, I struggle to rise up on my hands; succeeding, I throw my head back and he bites down on my neck, simultaneously doubling his speed. Flesh against wood; pressed like a grape, my juices are flowing. A grumble is vibrating in his throat, which is being transmitted through his lips and tongue to my skin, heralding a finale. Thrusts that feel and sound like the final turns of the screw of the press - a juddering, accompanied by a groaning and a kind of squeaking. He bites down harder and sucks strongly. I end up with a hickey that looks like the rosette that Groiselle was given for her jam at the harvest festival last year, which she wears on her lapel whenever she wants to rub the harlot’s nose in it.
He pops his cork and fills me to the brim.
Vintage.
oOo
I have never worked so hard, or been so tired, or ate and drank so much, or had so much fun. Even if everything goes tits up in the future, I will be able to say that I laid down three thousand bottles of Chateau Martin. I say I, and I mean we but I ultimately had to take responsibility for the process. I carried Grandfather’s journal with me throughout the whole thing - it lent me a kind of gravitas - apparently, the old fella did the same, making notes along the way, barking instructions and cuffing a few ears to boot. I didn’t do those things; I didn’t have to. The pickers were young and enthusiastic; mostly students on their gap years. It was a little sad to be told that the number of old Romany families that used to come every year had dwindled to almost nothing. The students all register via a very efficient service in Holland, I am told. Maurice fed them and I plied them with wine. Renard took care of the logistics, and together, we accomplished what I never dreamed possible.
One evening, well after the thing was over, I finished up the journal, copying the text from the previous year and simply changing the numbers. Every year, Grandfather signed off with the phrase - for the generations to come.
I struggle to write the words, knowing that there is no little Edgar Martin running about outside, oblivious to the heritage contained in those oak casks. A cold, cruel hand tugs at my sleeve, inviting me to crawl back into my shell.
“Why are you frowning, Edgar?”
Yes; why? I did the work. I did more than my father probably ever expected me to - and perhaps I was trying to impress him. I wasn’t really trying to impress Grandfather - I think he knew - knows - that growing grapes and making wine is a tough business and especially so for the complete novice. I hope he is pleased with the result. And I have plenty of time to worry about who I pass the journals on to.
“Bit of a headache,” I lie.
“Let me massage your shoulders ...”
I will send my father a newly printed label, stuck to a card, and inside I will write - FUCK YOU.
|
| ||||
Say It Like You Mean It
By Chambers Mars
“Lucy; I don’t know if I can go through with this.”
“But you have to. Everyone wants to say thank you for what you’ve done. Saint Mark’s wouldn’t exist if it hadn’t been for you.”
“I raised some money; it was nothing very imaginative.”
“Ten million, Tom ... you’ve lived and breathed Saint Mark’s for the last five years. It’s time to celebrate ...”
Maybe I did, and maybe it is. But nothing is going to bring Brook back. It all came too late for him.
“... Shake hands, say a few words and enjoy yourself - and then move on, Tom.”
“Closure?”
“Of a sort. He’d be so proud.”
“He loved nothing more than getting up on the stage and making a complete fool of himself ... anything to make you laugh.”
“He was special - no mistake. It was damn cruel what happened but something good came out of it.”
“Saint Mark’s?”
“Not just that ... hope. Well; maybe not for everyone, but at least they’ll pass away in peace, knowing that it wasn’t for the want of trying.”
“I guess. Okay. And then I want to slip away quietly.”
“Fine. You need a tux.”
“I have a tux.”
“The one you got married in?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll need to get it altered ...”
We battled the cancer for five years until it finally overtook him and then it was all over before we had a chance to say everything that needed to be said. I didn’t believe it would win - we were stronger. And we were for the most part. The last six months were absolute purgatory - we never gave up hope, and we made a valiant effort. Denial was the strongest medicine, but it also meant that we didn’t face up to the reality until it was too late, and suddenly, I was putting him in the ground.
Just some advice on how to say goodbye would have been really useful. It was that which gave me the idea to raise the money to build the hospice. The doors opened three weeks ago. The gala to which Lucy is insisting that I go is in two weeks’ time.
I want to let go but I don’t know how. And who will Tom Chisholm be after all is said and done? When I needed to be up and out, hammering on doors and thumping on tables, I had a reason to drag my arse out of bed in the morning.
What the fuck am I meant to do now?
oOo
“It would probably be quicker and cheaper if you bought a new one, Mr Chisholm.”
“Please call me Tom. No; it has to be this suit. I don’t care what it costs, but it has to be ready by the 24th.”
“Two weeks ... I’m going to have to practically rip apart every seam and re-line the jacket ...”
Lucy told me about a new place that had opened in the precinct - A Stitch In Time.
“... I’ll need to take some measurements but I don’t do that here - this is really just a glorified counter. Could you come by the workroom?”
“Yes. When?”
“Tomorrow evening, say at around 6 o’clock?”
“Fine ...”
Winterbourne Aldercote. That’s the name on the sign. Neither young nor old; blessed with jet-black hair and green eyes - quite the Celtic Prince. Though there is nothing regal about him - a rather solid, quiet, mild-mannered, and handsome fellow. Brook was brash - but all heart. At the last event we went to before the diagnosis - Lucy’s littlun’s birthday - he was just as happy to play with the kids on the bouncy castle as he was to waltz her gran around the makeshift dance floor - he just had a quality. I wish I could have bottled it because I could seriously do with some of it now.
I spend the evening fruitlessly trying to write the speech that I have to give. Everything I write sounds either stuffy or crass. Brook would know exactly what to say. He could have you laughing one minute and crying the next, begging for more. Abandoning the task, I head to bed. I want to dream of Brook tonight - it’s the only place where I find him these days. My Brook, that is. Not the wasted, skeletal remains that I buried. The young, carefree, slightly dangerous, alluring and sexy musketeer who sold me some life assurance in the morning on the day we first met, and bedded me that evening.
Whenever there were two choices, he’d ask, “Heads or tails?”
“But you don’t have a coin.”
“Heads or tails?” he’d insist.
“Heads ...”
He’d flip the imaginary coin and call it heads every time.
“... You’re such an idiot ...”
Then he’d step up and snake his arms around my neck and press his lips against mine, murmuring, “but an adorable one ...” When he broke off, he’d trail his hands across my neck just beneath my ears, inviting me to come to bed while distracting me with the pound coin that he’d be holding between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.
“How-the-fuck?”
He never told me.
I collected ten million - I’d trade them all for the chance to see him do that trick again.
oOo
“Please come in ... Can I offer you a drink?”
“Oh; just some water, please.”
The address that he had written on the back of his business card was not easy to find. I know Compton but not this corner of it. The large Victorian house that I was brought to is mostly hidden from the road by the impressive display of rhododendrons. The neat driveway, which ends at the double garage, is bordered on both sides by laurel. Just where the driveway widens out, a sign, which simply says, ‘The Studio’, points to a path that goes around the corner of the garages and disappears into a conifer jungle. Having parked up and followed the sign, I am lead to a conservatory-style addition to the rear of the house. Another sign, identical to the first, informs me that I have arrived. I ring the quaint old bell and wait for someone to appear.
“Impressive,” I say, trailing him through the conservatory into a kind of day room, which is accessed by double French doors.
“Early Victorian ... I inherited it from my aunt. I would sell it had the batty old bird not written a protective covenant into her will that prevents me from parting with it, and on my death, the house shall be turned into an artists’ retreat ...”
Sharing such intimate personal details seems both odd and seductive at the same time.
“Must cost a fortune to maintain ...”
“She left an annuity for the sole purpose of maintaining the house. Rents being what they are in London, I decided to set up shop here ...”
I am handed a glass of water and invited to step into the studio, which is kitted out as one might expect a tailor’s studio to be, and three tailor’s dummies dominate the space - each is draped in a suit fabric of some kind or another. They look like old school teachers, and when he moves to their side of the big work table, I swear they step forward and peer over his shoulder, seconds away from pointing out the basic error in some algebraic equation.
“I am exceptionally busy right now but I am willing to take your job on and deliver by the 24th ... I realised who you were when you introduced yourself; I take it the suit is for the gala?”
“You know about that?”
“There has been a lot of coverage in the local newspaper ...”
“Yes; it’s for the gala ... I can’t say that I am looking forward to it very much.”
“That’s a pity ... but I think I would feel exactly the same way.”
“It was never about me - I can’t stand being the centre of attention.”
There’s an odd pause - ten seconds is a very long time when you find yourself with nothing to say and you feel as though you are being audited.
“What will you do now?”
The sixty-four trillion dollar question.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“What did you do before?”
“I worked in the Treasurer’s Department at the local council ... I definitely don’t want to go back there.”
I take a sip of the water, wondering if the old school teachers were not, in fact, checking my equation and not his.
“Shall we make a start? And if I’m going to basically take the whole thing apart, I could do whatever you want.”
“I hadn’t given it much thought; I just wanted it to fit properly.”
“Either way, I need your measurements; shall we begin there?”
“Yes, okay.”
“If you could take your jacket off for me ...”
I place the tumbler on the corner of the worktable and take off my jacket, handing it to Winterbourne, who places it on a hanger and pops it on a rail beside the table. His tape measure is strategically - and elegantly - draped around his neck.
“Are those your normal shoes? By that I mean, do the shoes you plan to wear have the same heel?”
“Uhm; about the same.”
“I want to get the break in the trousers just right ... Can you hold out your arms to the side for me, please?”
I was measured for the suit in the first place so I know the format. However, at that time, a crusty old tailor in Guildford measured me for it. Winterbourne is quicker, the pressure of his fingertips is firmer, his breath is sweeter and his shoulders are not heaped with dandruff.
“Just the inside leg-”
“Thirty-one ...”
I cannot contemplate the sensation of his fingers pressing the tip of the tape anywhere near that space. Brook had a way of massaging the zone to bring about a release that resembled champagne exploding from a well-shaken bottle - like those Formula 1 drivers on the podium after the race.
“Are you positive? It’s very important to get-”
“I’m positive ... thank you.”
Normally, Brook would be crouched over me, massaging the bulbs - his term - with his thumbs, his fingers laced together, forming a cradle for my sac, sucking on my crown hard, all the while, smiling with his eyes, occasionally quirking an eyebrow; and when the moment came - literally - he would close his eyes and moan loudly as he sucked me dry - it was as erotic as anything else he used to do to me.
Winterbourne retreats to the far side of the worktable.
“Any preference for the lining?”
Brook and I both had linings of silver grey silk embroidered all over with tiny black Fleur de Lys.
“Could I change it for something plainer?”
“Yes, of course ... I have literally every colour you can imagine ... may I suggest nothing too bright?”
“Why?” I had no plan for anything brighter than maybe oxblood or even a plain grey, but I’m curious as to why Winterbourne should have suggested it.
“An accent on, say, the cummerbund, would be infinitely more elegant ... You’ll forgive me, but a bright lining just reminds me of a poorly-dressed magician on some entertainment show on the television ...”
“I definitely don’t want to be mistaken for Paul Daniels - God rest his soul ... plain, and a cummerbund with some accent or other.”
“Oxblood lining, and I’ll do one of the pleats of the cummerbund in the same colour.”
“What about the bowtie?”
“Black - without question ... or you’ll look like a pretentious Oxford Don ...”
“God forbid ... Is that where you hail from?”
“Oxford? No; I was previously in business in Paris - in Rue Marbeuf ...”
“Is that like Saville Row?”
“A little. Men’s tailoring in Paris does not have the same prominence as it does in London.”
“Why did you leave?”
I’m expecting a complaint about rents, taxes or, based on the last comment, a lack of business. I am totally unprepared for his reply.
“My partner died.”
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, wondering if my presence - and the backstory - has made him recall something that he’d rather have kept to himself.
“No; well ... thank you. He was much older than me, and in poor health ... it was not such a shock when it happened.”
“How long had you been together?”
“Twenty years ... How long were you with yours?”
“Fifteen ... five before we got married, five in wedded bliss, and five in relative purgatory until he was taken from me, which was five years ago ... Actually, for the last five years - since he died - I have felt as if I have still been living with him ... I see his name and photographs everywhere.”
“The campaign to raise money for the hospice?”
“Yes ... the gala will - I hope - finally put him to rest and let me move on.”
Revelations being what they are, we retreat a little. Winterbourne busies himself with writing things down. I look through the swatches of silk for the exact shade of oxblood that I want.
“May I have this one?”
I chose a mid-range shade, one tending towards burgundy rather than maroon.
“Of course; a perfect choice ... I can make a shirt for you ...”
“Oh; I have a dress shirt ... but I expect it’s a little big on me now.”
“A slim-fitting shirt will do you better; anything that doesn’t fit well will simply highlight ...”
“What? Highlight what?”
“How much weight you’ve lost - I’m sorry; that was too personal of me.”
“No; it’s okay ... I have lost weight ... it doesn’t suit me, I know.”
“I wake up at two in the morning with a real craving for cookies - I can demolish a packet of Oreos with no trouble at all ... then I feel guilty and starve myself all day. Pierre was a diabetic; his blood sugar levels were hardly ever stable, and I began to hate the regime, but above all, the yo-yoing between cramming sweet stuff and injecting insulin - I don’t think I have gone out to dinner since he died without automatically looking for his meds to put in my bag.”
“It took me three years after Brook died to stop looking for the ashtray to empty ... he died of liver cancer, not lung cancer.”
“Does it matter?”
“It did to some who assumed because he smoked, that the cancer was self-inflicted and he only had himself to blame.”
“That sounds pretty callous.”
“People are - some people are.”
“So?”
“What?”
“Did you want me to make you a shirt?”
“Oh ... yes; why not?”
“In which case, can I measure your neck for the collar?”
“Sure ...”
Winterbourne grabs the tape measure and steps smartly to my side of the table.
As he slips the tape around my neck, he says, “The most comfortable fit will permit you to slip a finger under your collar without any difficulty ... a fifteen; just as I thought - and a point collar and French cuffs ... cufflinks add a certain maturity and ... well ... panache - that sounds rather pretentious, definitely antiquated ... perhaps I meant style ...”
“I have some cufflinks, the same ones that I - Brook - bought for the wedding ... simple black onyx studs.”
“Sometimes I think that I would have been better ... I mean ... it’s just hard to cope sometimes ...”
He is standing quite close and the tape measure is still around my neck. If he had a mind, he could tug - probably not that hard - and I’d have no choice but to fall against him and probably kiss his mouth. His breath betrays the fact that he had a cigarette about an hour ago, after which he drank a glass of wine - a heavy Bordeaux - and treated himself to a piece of chocolate - there’s a trace of it in the corner of his mouth - a little flake. A piece of mint chocolate, and if I am not mistaken, an Elizabeth Shaw’s mint crisp ... Brook’s favourite.
I see him so clearly. I was walking through the precinct on my way to work. He says, “Why the frown? Is life that bad?”
If it hadn’t been raining, I would have ducked out from under the arcade and scurried off. He approached confidently but not in a way that threatened my space.
“Let’s grab a coffee and I can show you some worked examples that will prove that you can afford a decent life assurance policy - fixed term with bonuses, which I guarantee will put a smile on those lips.” He’d guided me towards the coffee shop without touching me - like he was corralling an errant sheep. “A strong, flat white - am I right? I know how people take their coffee - it’s an instinct ... I’m Brook.”
“Tom-”
“Why don’t you grab a seat in the window and I’ll fetch the coffee ... You’re not going to regret this ...”
I was too far gone to back out at that point. I’d watched as he seduced the barista and the girl on the cash register. I’d found myself wondering all kinds of things as he grabbed sugar and topped off his own Americano with a dash of milk. I’d felt the knot in my stomach begin to unravel as he sat down and slipped a file out of his bag.
“... For little more than the price of a decent pizza a month, you can have complete peace of mind - do you eat pizza?”
“I ... I eat pizza.”
“Excellent! The new Italian in Braithwaite Street does a first rate pizza. No one wants to think about death, do they? We’re all far too young and busy getting on with the serious business of living our lives to worry about what will happen in fifty years’ time ... Do you have plans tonight?”
“Nnnno ... Why do you ask?”
“Well; there would be no point making a reservation for seven-thirty if you were already busy, would there?”
“I suppose not ...”
I was beginning to laugh inside, convinced he was a clown while getting hotter under my collar and tighter in the groin by the second.
“... I don’t know if I’m ready to make a commitment-”
“Fifteen pounds a month - and if you need to take a contribution break, we allow you to stop making the monthly payment for up to three months in each eighteen-month period, as long as you make the first six months’ payments ... no medical and no embarrassing questions - you’re guaranteed to be accepted. They also have an excellent selection of fresh pasta ...”
“What level of cover are you offering?”
“Fifty thousand pounds - and after five years, you can cancel the policy and get your premiums back subject to a small administration fee. However, you would also lose any accrued bonuses ... The tiramisu is to die for - I say that figuratively; I have yet to taste a tiramisu that was actually worth dying for but theirs comes pretty close ... All I need is a signature on this form and a completed direct debit mandate ... What do you say?”
He knew I was hooked. Even if I could suppress the smile, my eyes betrayed my lust.
“Can I think about it?”
“Of course! There’s a cooling off period of fourteen days. If you decide to go ahead, we’ll take the first payment on day fifteen, and monthly thereafter ... you will also receive a state of the art clock radio and a very handsome leather-bound week to view diary ... I don’t think it’s real leather ... It is - at least, I’m pretty sure - the only restaurant in town that serves a genuine Elizabeth Shaw mint crisp with the coffee ... I could throw in a rather attractive Parker fountain pen - in my experience, that usually clinches it.”
“Okay; I’ll go for it.”
“I’ll meet you in Rupert’s at seven ...”
I asked him later what he would have done had I ducked out and had avoided him. He said that he had never considered the possibility.
“Tom?”
“I’m sorry; I have to go.”
“I’ll call you in about a week to arrange the fitting.”
“Yes; fine ...”
I slipped out of the noose that he had around my neck, and escaped, bolting out of the door, and drove like a madman to get home as quickly as possible, only daring to breathe once I was inside and the door was locked.
oOo
“The oxblood worked much better than I had hoped. I think you’re going to really like the result ...”
“I’m sorry that I left rather abruptly last time ...”
“It’s fine.”
I spent the week in a constant state of turmoil. On the one hand, I tried so hard to conjuror up Brook to help me to write the speech, even recruiting Lucy for three consecutive nights to assist, but eventually ripping up the sheets of paper after she had left, confused and angry at not being able to find the words that expressed just what I wanted to say. But every time I tried to think of Brook, I thought of Winterbourne and felt so guilty for doing so. Crucified equally by lust and disloyalty; hot nails of need driven through my palms while thorns of sorrow and regret punctured my sides and brought me to my knees yet I could not stop myself from masturbating even though the pain choked me. I wanted to tear my mind into pieces, rip the heart out of my chest, castrate myself, penetrate myself with broken glass and drown my sorrows in my own blood and burst my lungs so the screams would be silent. I cried for one whole day. When I hurled the toaster through the TV screen, I seriously thought I was totally losing my grip. The doorbell rang. It was next door’s lad. They’re chavs but nice. Brook was on very friendly terms with Daryl, who serviced the car for us. Cindy is the organiser for a weight loss group locally, and yo-yos between roughly 80 and 200 pounds, depending on the season and if Daryl has been playing away from home.
“I think the puppy has crawled under your fence ...”
“What?”
“Derek; he’s crawled under your fence ...”
Ignoring me, the lad - name of Fiennes (criminally pretentious) - walked through to the back and opened the door to belt out the unforgettable, “Derek! Get your arse back home now!”
The baby, blue-coated Staffie had indeed crawled through, and he leapt out from under the shrubbery, looking mightily pleased with himself. Fiennes ripped into the poor little bleeder, who then crumpled in a pitiful heap.
“Gotta say it like you mean it else they’ll try it on every fucking chance they get - Derek; HOME!”
“Say-it-like-you-mean-it ... thank you, Fiennes!”
“Whatever. Mum says to keep the noise down or she’ll be round ...”
After Fiennes and Derek had left, I sat down at the laptop and began the speech afresh. “Good evening, everyone. My husband would know exactly what to say at times like this but unfortunately, he is otherwise engaged ... If you knew Brook, you would know that he was really just the sweetest man who had ever lived - Prince Charming in a clown’s suit ...”
I was off, flying, ready and willing to share the memories of the man I loved in the hopes of explaining why it was so important for me to honour his memory.
oOo
Winterbourne’s face betrays his concern, but it is mingled with something else, and I remember that look now, which I had forgotten for so long.
“I’m looking forward to trying it on ...”
“I’ve put it in the changing area, along with the shirt ... when you’re ready.”
There’s a curtained-off area in the corner of the workroom. I say curtained-off; it’s more like a theatre stage. The curtains are presently drawn and tied back with heavy gold braided cords.
“Kind of theatrical.”
“How often do we wear our best?”
“Not often enough as a rule ...”
Tactfully, Winterbourne lets the curtains down as I enter the space, which is lit from above by a cluster of LEDs. The shirt is hanging on a hanger, along with the suit on its own hanger, both of which are suspended from a short rail, which is affixed to the wall by two ornamental brackets.
I remembered to bring my dress shoes. Kicking off my loafers, I am treated to the sensation of inch-deep shag pile under my stockinged feet - not really stockings ... cashmere and cotton blend socks from M&S. While I’m slipping off my trousers and shirt, I hear Winterbourne moving around the studio and the pop of a cork.
“Wine?”
“Habit - probably a bad one, judging by the number of bottles that I put out for recycling ... I’m just going to iron the pleats in the cummerbund ...”
“Okay ...”
I reach for the shirt and find that it’s silk. I don’t know why, but I thought it would be cotton.
“Oh ...”
“Tom?”
“It’s silk ...”
No reply but I sense that he is smiling at my discovery, and the deep joy that it creates within me - I’ve never owned a silk shirt.
Buttoning the shirt, leaving the top one undone, I have to agree that the fit is perfect; anything baggier would just have highlighted the fact that, these days, I can afford to put on a little weight.
The colour of the lining of the suit is a little lighter than the swatch - but it could also be a function of the brighter lights above my head. It was a wise choice. I slip on the trousers first, finding the seat quite snug but not uncomfortable. There is now a black - yes, silk too - stripe covering both outer seams. The front of the trousers is flat - no pleats - and they taper just so, and once I slip my dress shoes on, break perfectly. It is going to be essential to wear the trunk-style briefs like I have on today to flatten the profile - a bulge is going to be unsightly. The jacket used to have a notch lapel - Winterbourne has changed it to a shawl-style one - the lapels are silk-faced in the same black silk as the seam cover. The jacket is fitted, and ventless like the best Italian suits. The pockets are jetted - classic; the cuff buttons, of which there are three, are stacked. Because the shawl lapel is quite narrow, there is no button hole. I wore a white rose on my wedding day - Brook wore a red one. I forbade him to wear one that squirted water like he threatened to.
I button the jacket and take advantage of the mirror to give myself the once over.
“Tom; everything okay?”
“I should say; I look like a movie star.”
“The cummerbund is ready - did you bring a bowtie?”
“Shit! I forgot.”
“No worries; I made one for you ... Let’s have a look at you then ...”
As I step through the curtains, he gasps ever so slightly, and his eyes - the tailor’s eyes - audit the overall effect. Seemingly, I - and the suit - pass some kind of test.
“Turn round for me; I went for ventless because the boxier look will give you depth ... Okay; let’s finish it off with the cummerbund and the tie ...”
He steps forward; in one hand, he holds the cummerbund. I unbutton the jacket and reach for the band, which is of the type that is tied, not clipped in place, like the old one.
“Take off the jacket; it’ll be easier, and I’ll do you up,” he says, slipping the ends of the band through his fingers as he waits for me to divest myself of the jacket, which I place on an adjacent chair. He steps behind me, encircling my waist with the band, pulling it up to tie off the ends. Once the ends are tied off, he adjusts how the band sits, fidgeting with it so that it lies flatter and is squared off.
“Before you put your jacket back on, I’ll get you to pop the tie on. Without insulting you, can you tie your own?”
“I have to admit to only ever having a clip-style one.”
“I can teach you how to tie it; it’s nothing like as complicated as people would lead you to believe ... stand in front of the mirror for me and relax your shoulders - could you do your top button up for me first?”
“Sure ...”
The collar is snug but I can slip a finger in under the collar and that feels comfortable. After doing up the top button, I turn to face the mirror and purposefully relax my shoulders. When he steps up behind me, my heart skips a beat. Like it used to when Brook would step up behind me when I was at the kitchen counter, making dinner. His hands would sneak around my waist, and before I could protest, his mitts would be inside my trousers and I’d be powerless to resist his guaranteed invasion - I don’t think we ever had dinner on time.
With fingers as slender as pencils, he lifts the collar of the shirt and drapes the tie around my neck, letting it hang, giving me a debonair, if not a slightly raunchy look to feast on for a few seconds before he picks up the ends and adjusts their relative position for the beginning of the lesson. His breath is hot against my neck but I am transfixed by his fingertips as they caress the silk.
“Right ... long end over short end ... pass long end back up behind the short end to form the basis of the knot. Fold the short end to form the first part of the bow, drop the long end back down over the centre, fold the end and pass through the loop that you have just made ... and square up ... easy!”
“Oh my God ... seriously?”
“You try ...”
He pulls it apart before I can stop him.
“Okay ...”
After seven attempts, it still looks like a seven year old did it.
“Maybe I should just wear the old one ...”
“I have a better idea ... I’ll dress you on the night ...”
Throughout the seven attempts, he remained behind me, looking over my shoulder, eyes fixed on my hands, rarely straying to my face, and when they did, they smiled in a sort of benign way, but maybe there was also a pleading in those emerald green pools. Had they been blue, they would have been a little off-putting; brown, too sad.
I seek out those eyes in the mirror; they are downcast.
“Would you ... would you consider being my guest?”
By Chambers Mars
“Lucy; I don’t know if I can go through with this.”
“But you have to. Everyone wants to say thank you for what you’ve done. Saint Mark’s wouldn’t exist if it hadn’t been for you.”
“I raised some money; it was nothing very imaginative.”
“Ten million, Tom ... you’ve lived and breathed Saint Mark’s for the last five years. It’s time to celebrate ...”
Maybe I did, and maybe it is. But nothing is going to bring Brook back. It all came too late for him.
“... Shake hands, say a few words and enjoy yourself - and then move on, Tom.”
“Closure?”
“Of a sort. He’d be so proud.”
“He loved nothing more than getting up on the stage and making a complete fool of himself ... anything to make you laugh.”
“He was special - no mistake. It was damn cruel what happened but something good came out of it.”
“Saint Mark’s?”
“Not just that ... hope. Well; maybe not for everyone, but at least they’ll pass away in peace, knowing that it wasn’t for the want of trying.”
“I guess. Okay. And then I want to slip away quietly.”
“Fine. You need a tux.”
“I have a tux.”
“The one you got married in?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll need to get it altered ...”
We battled the cancer for five years until it finally overtook him and then it was all over before we had a chance to say everything that needed to be said. I didn’t believe it would win - we were stronger. And we were for the most part. The last six months were absolute purgatory - we never gave up hope, and we made a valiant effort. Denial was the strongest medicine, but it also meant that we didn’t face up to the reality until it was too late, and suddenly, I was putting him in the ground.
Just some advice on how to say goodbye would have been really useful. It was that which gave me the idea to raise the money to build the hospice. The doors opened three weeks ago. The gala to which Lucy is insisting that I go is in two weeks’ time.
I want to let go but I don’t know how. And who will Tom Chisholm be after all is said and done? When I needed to be up and out, hammering on doors and thumping on tables, I had a reason to drag my arse out of bed in the morning.
What the fuck am I meant to do now?
oOo
“It would probably be quicker and cheaper if you bought a new one, Mr Chisholm.”
“Please call me Tom. No; it has to be this suit. I don’t care what it costs, but it has to be ready by the 24th.”
“Two weeks ... I’m going to have to practically rip apart every seam and re-line the jacket ...”
Lucy told me about a new place that had opened in the precinct - A Stitch In Time.
“... I’ll need to take some measurements but I don’t do that here - this is really just a glorified counter. Could you come by the workroom?”
“Yes. When?”
“Tomorrow evening, say at around 6 o’clock?”
“Fine ...”
Winterbourne Aldercote. That’s the name on the sign. Neither young nor old; blessed with jet-black hair and green eyes - quite the Celtic Prince. Though there is nothing regal about him - a rather solid, quiet, mild-mannered, and handsome fellow. Brook was brash - but all heart. At the last event we went to before the diagnosis - Lucy’s littlun’s birthday - he was just as happy to play with the kids on the bouncy castle as he was to waltz her gran around the makeshift dance floor - he just had a quality. I wish I could have bottled it because I could seriously do with some of it now.
I spend the evening fruitlessly trying to write the speech that I have to give. Everything I write sounds either stuffy or crass. Brook would know exactly what to say. He could have you laughing one minute and crying the next, begging for more. Abandoning the task, I head to bed. I want to dream of Brook tonight - it’s the only place where I find him these days. My Brook, that is. Not the wasted, skeletal remains that I buried. The young, carefree, slightly dangerous, alluring and sexy musketeer who sold me some life assurance in the morning on the day we first met, and bedded me that evening.
Whenever there were two choices, he’d ask, “Heads or tails?”
“But you don’t have a coin.”
“Heads or tails?” he’d insist.
“Heads ...”
He’d flip the imaginary coin and call it heads every time.
“... You’re such an idiot ...”
Then he’d step up and snake his arms around my neck and press his lips against mine, murmuring, “but an adorable one ...” When he broke off, he’d trail his hands across my neck just beneath my ears, inviting me to come to bed while distracting me with the pound coin that he’d be holding between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.
“How-the-fuck?”
He never told me.
I collected ten million - I’d trade them all for the chance to see him do that trick again.
oOo
“Please come in ... Can I offer you a drink?”
“Oh; just some water, please.”
The address that he had written on the back of his business card was not easy to find. I know Compton but not this corner of it. The large Victorian house that I was brought to is mostly hidden from the road by the impressive display of rhododendrons. The neat driveway, which ends at the double garage, is bordered on both sides by laurel. Just where the driveway widens out, a sign, which simply says, ‘The Studio’, points to a path that goes around the corner of the garages and disappears into a conifer jungle. Having parked up and followed the sign, I am lead to a conservatory-style addition to the rear of the house. Another sign, identical to the first, informs me that I have arrived. I ring the quaint old bell and wait for someone to appear.
“Impressive,” I say, trailing him through the conservatory into a kind of day room, which is accessed by double French doors.
“Early Victorian ... I inherited it from my aunt. I would sell it had the batty old bird not written a protective covenant into her will that prevents me from parting with it, and on my death, the house shall be turned into an artists’ retreat ...”
Sharing such intimate personal details seems both odd and seductive at the same time.
“Must cost a fortune to maintain ...”
“She left an annuity for the sole purpose of maintaining the house. Rents being what they are in London, I decided to set up shop here ...”
I am handed a glass of water and invited to step into the studio, which is kitted out as one might expect a tailor’s studio to be, and three tailor’s dummies dominate the space - each is draped in a suit fabric of some kind or another. They look like old school teachers, and when he moves to their side of the big work table, I swear they step forward and peer over his shoulder, seconds away from pointing out the basic error in some algebraic equation.
“I am exceptionally busy right now but I am willing to take your job on and deliver by the 24th ... I realised who you were when you introduced yourself; I take it the suit is for the gala?”
“You know about that?”
“There has been a lot of coverage in the local newspaper ...”
“Yes; it’s for the gala ... I can’t say that I am looking forward to it very much.”
“That’s a pity ... but I think I would feel exactly the same way.”
“It was never about me - I can’t stand being the centre of attention.”
There’s an odd pause - ten seconds is a very long time when you find yourself with nothing to say and you feel as though you are being audited.
“What will you do now?”
The sixty-four trillion dollar question.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“What did you do before?”
“I worked in the Treasurer’s Department at the local council ... I definitely don’t want to go back there.”
I take a sip of the water, wondering if the old school teachers were not, in fact, checking my equation and not his.
“Shall we make a start? And if I’m going to basically take the whole thing apart, I could do whatever you want.”
“I hadn’t given it much thought; I just wanted it to fit properly.”
“Either way, I need your measurements; shall we begin there?”
“Yes, okay.”
“If you could take your jacket off for me ...”
I place the tumbler on the corner of the worktable and take off my jacket, handing it to Winterbourne, who places it on a hanger and pops it on a rail beside the table. His tape measure is strategically - and elegantly - draped around his neck.
“Are those your normal shoes? By that I mean, do the shoes you plan to wear have the same heel?”
“Uhm; about the same.”
“I want to get the break in the trousers just right ... Can you hold out your arms to the side for me, please?”
I was measured for the suit in the first place so I know the format. However, at that time, a crusty old tailor in Guildford measured me for it. Winterbourne is quicker, the pressure of his fingertips is firmer, his breath is sweeter and his shoulders are not heaped with dandruff.
“Just the inside leg-”
“Thirty-one ...”
I cannot contemplate the sensation of his fingers pressing the tip of the tape anywhere near that space. Brook had a way of massaging the zone to bring about a release that resembled champagne exploding from a well-shaken bottle - like those Formula 1 drivers on the podium after the race.
“Are you positive? It’s very important to get-”
“I’m positive ... thank you.”
Normally, Brook would be crouched over me, massaging the bulbs - his term - with his thumbs, his fingers laced together, forming a cradle for my sac, sucking on my crown hard, all the while, smiling with his eyes, occasionally quirking an eyebrow; and when the moment came - literally - he would close his eyes and moan loudly as he sucked me dry - it was as erotic as anything else he used to do to me.
Winterbourne retreats to the far side of the worktable.
“Any preference for the lining?”
Brook and I both had linings of silver grey silk embroidered all over with tiny black Fleur de Lys.
“Could I change it for something plainer?”
“Yes, of course ... I have literally every colour you can imagine ... may I suggest nothing too bright?”
“Why?” I had no plan for anything brighter than maybe oxblood or even a plain grey, but I’m curious as to why Winterbourne should have suggested it.
“An accent on, say, the cummerbund, would be infinitely more elegant ... You’ll forgive me, but a bright lining just reminds me of a poorly-dressed magician on some entertainment show on the television ...”
“I definitely don’t want to be mistaken for Paul Daniels - God rest his soul ... plain, and a cummerbund with some accent or other.”
“Oxblood lining, and I’ll do one of the pleats of the cummerbund in the same colour.”
“What about the bowtie?”
“Black - without question ... or you’ll look like a pretentious Oxford Don ...”
“God forbid ... Is that where you hail from?”
“Oxford? No; I was previously in business in Paris - in Rue Marbeuf ...”
“Is that like Saville Row?”
“A little. Men’s tailoring in Paris does not have the same prominence as it does in London.”
“Why did you leave?”
I’m expecting a complaint about rents, taxes or, based on the last comment, a lack of business. I am totally unprepared for his reply.
“My partner died.”
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, wondering if my presence - and the backstory - has made him recall something that he’d rather have kept to himself.
“No; well ... thank you. He was much older than me, and in poor health ... it was not such a shock when it happened.”
“How long had you been together?”
“Twenty years ... How long were you with yours?”
“Fifteen ... five before we got married, five in wedded bliss, and five in relative purgatory until he was taken from me, which was five years ago ... Actually, for the last five years - since he died - I have felt as if I have still been living with him ... I see his name and photographs everywhere.”
“The campaign to raise money for the hospice?”
“Yes ... the gala will - I hope - finally put him to rest and let me move on.”
Revelations being what they are, we retreat a little. Winterbourne busies himself with writing things down. I look through the swatches of silk for the exact shade of oxblood that I want.
“May I have this one?”
I chose a mid-range shade, one tending towards burgundy rather than maroon.
“Of course; a perfect choice ... I can make a shirt for you ...”
“Oh; I have a dress shirt ... but I expect it’s a little big on me now.”
“A slim-fitting shirt will do you better; anything that doesn’t fit well will simply highlight ...”
“What? Highlight what?”
“How much weight you’ve lost - I’m sorry; that was too personal of me.”
“No; it’s okay ... I have lost weight ... it doesn’t suit me, I know.”
“I wake up at two in the morning with a real craving for cookies - I can demolish a packet of Oreos with no trouble at all ... then I feel guilty and starve myself all day. Pierre was a diabetic; his blood sugar levels were hardly ever stable, and I began to hate the regime, but above all, the yo-yoing between cramming sweet stuff and injecting insulin - I don’t think I have gone out to dinner since he died without automatically looking for his meds to put in my bag.”
“It took me three years after Brook died to stop looking for the ashtray to empty ... he died of liver cancer, not lung cancer.”
“Does it matter?”
“It did to some who assumed because he smoked, that the cancer was self-inflicted and he only had himself to blame.”
“That sounds pretty callous.”
“People are - some people are.”
“So?”
“What?”
“Did you want me to make you a shirt?”
“Oh ... yes; why not?”
“In which case, can I measure your neck for the collar?”
“Sure ...”
Winterbourne grabs the tape measure and steps smartly to my side of the table.
As he slips the tape around my neck, he says, “The most comfortable fit will permit you to slip a finger under your collar without any difficulty ... a fifteen; just as I thought - and a point collar and French cuffs ... cufflinks add a certain maturity and ... well ... panache - that sounds rather pretentious, definitely antiquated ... perhaps I meant style ...”
“I have some cufflinks, the same ones that I - Brook - bought for the wedding ... simple black onyx studs.”
“Sometimes I think that I would have been better ... I mean ... it’s just hard to cope sometimes ...”
He is standing quite close and the tape measure is still around my neck. If he had a mind, he could tug - probably not that hard - and I’d have no choice but to fall against him and probably kiss his mouth. His breath betrays the fact that he had a cigarette about an hour ago, after which he drank a glass of wine - a heavy Bordeaux - and treated himself to a piece of chocolate - there’s a trace of it in the corner of his mouth - a little flake. A piece of mint chocolate, and if I am not mistaken, an Elizabeth Shaw’s mint crisp ... Brook’s favourite.
I see him so clearly. I was walking through the precinct on my way to work. He says, “Why the frown? Is life that bad?”
If it hadn’t been raining, I would have ducked out from under the arcade and scurried off. He approached confidently but not in a way that threatened my space.
“Let’s grab a coffee and I can show you some worked examples that will prove that you can afford a decent life assurance policy - fixed term with bonuses, which I guarantee will put a smile on those lips.” He’d guided me towards the coffee shop without touching me - like he was corralling an errant sheep. “A strong, flat white - am I right? I know how people take their coffee - it’s an instinct ... I’m Brook.”
“Tom-”
“Why don’t you grab a seat in the window and I’ll fetch the coffee ... You’re not going to regret this ...”
I was too far gone to back out at that point. I’d watched as he seduced the barista and the girl on the cash register. I’d found myself wondering all kinds of things as he grabbed sugar and topped off his own Americano with a dash of milk. I’d felt the knot in my stomach begin to unravel as he sat down and slipped a file out of his bag.
“... For little more than the price of a decent pizza a month, you can have complete peace of mind - do you eat pizza?”
“I ... I eat pizza.”
“Excellent! The new Italian in Braithwaite Street does a first rate pizza. No one wants to think about death, do they? We’re all far too young and busy getting on with the serious business of living our lives to worry about what will happen in fifty years’ time ... Do you have plans tonight?”
“Nnnno ... Why do you ask?”
“Well; there would be no point making a reservation for seven-thirty if you were already busy, would there?”
“I suppose not ...”
I was beginning to laugh inside, convinced he was a clown while getting hotter under my collar and tighter in the groin by the second.
“... I don’t know if I’m ready to make a commitment-”
“Fifteen pounds a month - and if you need to take a contribution break, we allow you to stop making the monthly payment for up to three months in each eighteen-month period, as long as you make the first six months’ payments ... no medical and no embarrassing questions - you’re guaranteed to be accepted. They also have an excellent selection of fresh pasta ...”
“What level of cover are you offering?”
“Fifty thousand pounds - and after five years, you can cancel the policy and get your premiums back subject to a small administration fee. However, you would also lose any accrued bonuses ... The tiramisu is to die for - I say that figuratively; I have yet to taste a tiramisu that was actually worth dying for but theirs comes pretty close ... All I need is a signature on this form and a completed direct debit mandate ... What do you say?”
He knew I was hooked. Even if I could suppress the smile, my eyes betrayed my lust.
“Can I think about it?”
“Of course! There’s a cooling off period of fourteen days. If you decide to go ahead, we’ll take the first payment on day fifteen, and monthly thereafter ... you will also receive a state of the art clock radio and a very handsome leather-bound week to view diary ... I don’t think it’s real leather ... It is - at least, I’m pretty sure - the only restaurant in town that serves a genuine Elizabeth Shaw mint crisp with the coffee ... I could throw in a rather attractive Parker fountain pen - in my experience, that usually clinches it.”
“Okay; I’ll go for it.”
“I’ll meet you in Rupert’s at seven ...”
I asked him later what he would have done had I ducked out and had avoided him. He said that he had never considered the possibility.
“Tom?”
“I’m sorry; I have to go.”
“I’ll call you in about a week to arrange the fitting.”
“Yes; fine ...”
I slipped out of the noose that he had around my neck, and escaped, bolting out of the door, and drove like a madman to get home as quickly as possible, only daring to breathe once I was inside and the door was locked.
oOo
“The oxblood worked much better than I had hoped. I think you’re going to really like the result ...”
“I’m sorry that I left rather abruptly last time ...”
“It’s fine.”
I spent the week in a constant state of turmoil. On the one hand, I tried so hard to conjuror up Brook to help me to write the speech, even recruiting Lucy for three consecutive nights to assist, but eventually ripping up the sheets of paper after she had left, confused and angry at not being able to find the words that expressed just what I wanted to say. But every time I tried to think of Brook, I thought of Winterbourne and felt so guilty for doing so. Crucified equally by lust and disloyalty; hot nails of need driven through my palms while thorns of sorrow and regret punctured my sides and brought me to my knees yet I could not stop myself from masturbating even though the pain choked me. I wanted to tear my mind into pieces, rip the heart out of my chest, castrate myself, penetrate myself with broken glass and drown my sorrows in my own blood and burst my lungs so the screams would be silent. I cried for one whole day. When I hurled the toaster through the TV screen, I seriously thought I was totally losing my grip. The doorbell rang. It was next door’s lad. They’re chavs but nice. Brook was on very friendly terms with Daryl, who serviced the car for us. Cindy is the organiser for a weight loss group locally, and yo-yos between roughly 80 and 200 pounds, depending on the season and if Daryl has been playing away from home.
“I think the puppy has crawled under your fence ...”
“What?”
“Derek; he’s crawled under your fence ...”
Ignoring me, the lad - name of Fiennes (criminally pretentious) - walked through to the back and opened the door to belt out the unforgettable, “Derek! Get your arse back home now!”
The baby, blue-coated Staffie had indeed crawled through, and he leapt out from under the shrubbery, looking mightily pleased with himself. Fiennes ripped into the poor little bleeder, who then crumpled in a pitiful heap.
“Gotta say it like you mean it else they’ll try it on every fucking chance they get - Derek; HOME!”
“Say-it-like-you-mean-it ... thank you, Fiennes!”
“Whatever. Mum says to keep the noise down or she’ll be round ...”
After Fiennes and Derek had left, I sat down at the laptop and began the speech afresh. “Good evening, everyone. My husband would know exactly what to say at times like this but unfortunately, he is otherwise engaged ... If you knew Brook, you would know that he was really just the sweetest man who had ever lived - Prince Charming in a clown’s suit ...”
I was off, flying, ready and willing to share the memories of the man I loved in the hopes of explaining why it was so important for me to honour his memory.
oOo
Winterbourne’s face betrays his concern, but it is mingled with something else, and I remember that look now, which I had forgotten for so long.
“I’m looking forward to trying it on ...”
“I’ve put it in the changing area, along with the shirt ... when you’re ready.”
There’s a curtained-off area in the corner of the workroom. I say curtained-off; it’s more like a theatre stage. The curtains are presently drawn and tied back with heavy gold braided cords.
“Kind of theatrical.”
“How often do we wear our best?”
“Not often enough as a rule ...”
Tactfully, Winterbourne lets the curtains down as I enter the space, which is lit from above by a cluster of LEDs. The shirt is hanging on a hanger, along with the suit on its own hanger, both of which are suspended from a short rail, which is affixed to the wall by two ornamental brackets.
I remembered to bring my dress shoes. Kicking off my loafers, I am treated to the sensation of inch-deep shag pile under my stockinged feet - not really stockings ... cashmere and cotton blend socks from M&S. While I’m slipping off my trousers and shirt, I hear Winterbourne moving around the studio and the pop of a cork.
“Wine?”
“Habit - probably a bad one, judging by the number of bottles that I put out for recycling ... I’m just going to iron the pleats in the cummerbund ...”
“Okay ...”
I reach for the shirt and find that it’s silk. I don’t know why, but I thought it would be cotton.
“Oh ...”
“Tom?”
“It’s silk ...”
No reply but I sense that he is smiling at my discovery, and the deep joy that it creates within me - I’ve never owned a silk shirt.
Buttoning the shirt, leaving the top one undone, I have to agree that the fit is perfect; anything baggier would just have highlighted the fact that, these days, I can afford to put on a little weight.
The colour of the lining of the suit is a little lighter than the swatch - but it could also be a function of the brighter lights above my head. It was a wise choice. I slip on the trousers first, finding the seat quite snug but not uncomfortable. There is now a black - yes, silk too - stripe covering both outer seams. The front of the trousers is flat - no pleats - and they taper just so, and once I slip my dress shoes on, break perfectly. It is going to be essential to wear the trunk-style briefs like I have on today to flatten the profile - a bulge is going to be unsightly. The jacket used to have a notch lapel - Winterbourne has changed it to a shawl-style one - the lapels are silk-faced in the same black silk as the seam cover. The jacket is fitted, and ventless like the best Italian suits. The pockets are jetted - classic; the cuff buttons, of which there are three, are stacked. Because the shawl lapel is quite narrow, there is no button hole. I wore a white rose on my wedding day - Brook wore a red one. I forbade him to wear one that squirted water like he threatened to.
I button the jacket and take advantage of the mirror to give myself the once over.
“Tom; everything okay?”
“I should say; I look like a movie star.”
“The cummerbund is ready - did you bring a bowtie?”
“Shit! I forgot.”
“No worries; I made one for you ... Let’s have a look at you then ...”
As I step through the curtains, he gasps ever so slightly, and his eyes - the tailor’s eyes - audit the overall effect. Seemingly, I - and the suit - pass some kind of test.
“Turn round for me; I went for ventless because the boxier look will give you depth ... Okay; let’s finish it off with the cummerbund and the tie ...”
He steps forward; in one hand, he holds the cummerbund. I unbutton the jacket and reach for the band, which is of the type that is tied, not clipped in place, like the old one.
“Take off the jacket; it’ll be easier, and I’ll do you up,” he says, slipping the ends of the band through his fingers as he waits for me to divest myself of the jacket, which I place on an adjacent chair. He steps behind me, encircling my waist with the band, pulling it up to tie off the ends. Once the ends are tied off, he adjusts how the band sits, fidgeting with it so that it lies flatter and is squared off.
“Before you put your jacket back on, I’ll get you to pop the tie on. Without insulting you, can you tie your own?”
“I have to admit to only ever having a clip-style one.”
“I can teach you how to tie it; it’s nothing like as complicated as people would lead you to believe ... stand in front of the mirror for me and relax your shoulders - could you do your top button up for me first?”
“Sure ...”
The collar is snug but I can slip a finger in under the collar and that feels comfortable. After doing up the top button, I turn to face the mirror and purposefully relax my shoulders. When he steps up behind me, my heart skips a beat. Like it used to when Brook would step up behind me when I was at the kitchen counter, making dinner. His hands would sneak around my waist, and before I could protest, his mitts would be inside my trousers and I’d be powerless to resist his guaranteed invasion - I don’t think we ever had dinner on time.
With fingers as slender as pencils, he lifts the collar of the shirt and drapes the tie around my neck, letting it hang, giving me a debonair, if not a slightly raunchy look to feast on for a few seconds before he picks up the ends and adjusts their relative position for the beginning of the lesson. His breath is hot against my neck but I am transfixed by his fingertips as they caress the silk.
“Right ... long end over short end ... pass long end back up behind the short end to form the basis of the knot. Fold the short end to form the first part of the bow, drop the long end back down over the centre, fold the end and pass through the loop that you have just made ... and square up ... easy!”
“Oh my God ... seriously?”
“You try ...”
He pulls it apart before I can stop him.
“Okay ...”
After seven attempts, it still looks like a seven year old did it.
“Maybe I should just wear the old one ...”
“I have a better idea ... I’ll dress you on the night ...”
Throughout the seven attempts, he remained behind me, looking over my shoulder, eyes fixed on my hands, rarely straying to my face, and when they did, they smiled in a sort of benign way, but maybe there was also a pleading in those emerald green pools. Had they been blue, they would have been a little off-putting; brown, too sad.
I seek out those eyes in the mirror; they are downcast.
“Would you ... would you consider being my guest?”
|
| ||||
The Ride to Noble
By Erin O'Quinn
Chase sat staring into his computer screen. He brought up a new document from his iMac “Pages” icon and set the title to boldface, centered.
He sensed Brew behind him, then felt his warm breath just behind his right ear. Without acknowledging the sudden stirring of his crotch, he began to write the words that had kept him awake half the night.
By Erin O'Quinn
Chase sat staring into his computer screen. He brought up a new document from his iMac “Pages” icon and set the title to boldface, centered.
He sensed Brew behind him, then felt his warm breath just behind his right ear. Without acknowledging the sudden stirring of his crotch, he began to write the words that had kept him awake half the night.
|
Buffalo Ryder
Crane Ryder felt a deep exhaustion between his shoulder blades, a pain that increased with every step of his horse. It finally curled in his lower back like a rattler, nestled on his raw nerves. The figure in front of him walked with a stiff back that belied his own fatigue. Ryder knew the half-breed Indian was at least as shit-ridden with pain as he was, because his prisoner had walked a few steps ahead of his horse, hands lashed behind his back, the last two days.
He pushed his tattered Stetson forward to shield his eyes from the desert wind and the merciless sun. His horse, tired of carrying his weight, moved slowly through the cakes of shale and caliche. The town of Noble, Nevada, seat of Sloane County, lay another day ahead. He’d been there before, tracked it over the lizard-back stretch of the Paiute Range to the southwest, eighteen more hours of dust in his eyes and dirt in his mouth. And balls that cried for relief. Between them hung a stiff rope, held by one man and biting into the flesh of the other man’s wrists. An hour ago, when he’d stopped to squat before a fire, eating a half-grown jackrabbit, the ’breed had stood defiantly apart, rejecting the scrawny half-cooked haunch he’d offered on the tip of his Bowie knife. “Think I give a fuck?” He’d eaten it himself, then buried the bones. Now, almost sunset, he spotted a copse of root-sharing mesquite trees, huddled like thin outlaws somehow clinging to the rocks. He dismounted. Reeling from desire to sleep, he drank deep of the ’skin that was strung across his belly, under his thin shirt. His captive stood watching the sky, as though calling a scowling cloud to his rescue, or asking his gods to let him die. Ryder walked to the Indian and held out the ’skin. The man jerked his head away, not meeting his eyes, moving his legs a fraction. As he moved, Ryder caught a glimpse of his prick, heavy as a hatchet under the rag that clung to his loins. Shit. He turned and walked ten feet away, readjusting his crotch as he strode to the back side of a gnarled stand of mesquite. He thought about his prisoner. The man was tall, muscled, quiet. His eyes sought only the horizon, never his. His mouth seemed set in a line that never once moved—not in disgust, not in pain, not in supplication. Ryder hadn’t had release for days. He thought about tying the sonofabitch with his feet and hands together in front, taking his ass in a torrent of greed. No. He might have ways of cutting my cock in half while I’m in him. Goddamn Indians, can’t trust a one of ’em. Even as he thought about it, then rejected it, Ryder’s cock began to weigh on him, a taut and heavy rope of flesh with nothing to snag and reel in. Standing hidden from the captive’s sight, he stroked himself with callus-roughened hands until his seed spat into the thin dirt. Then he walked back through the slender-leaved trees. Did he need to secure his prisoner even tighter so his captor could sleep tonight? He wondered again whether the bounty money was worth this pain and aggravation. |
“Where you going with this, Chase?”
Chase turned his face to capture Brew’s mouth, biting down a little on his lower lip.
“Not sure. Ryder’s almost crazy with desire.”
“And yet he holds back.”
Chase turned back to the computer screen. “Yes.”
“Think you’ll put them in a bondage scene?”
“I never gave it that much thought.”
“Well, it’s heading that way. White man over red. Submission, punishment. Is that what you want?”
“No, not one race over another.”
Brew’s breath blew closer, lips thrust almost into his ear. “But you have him in ropes.”
“He has to be, Brew. He’s being taken to justice.”
“Whose justice? Some flea-bitten white sheriff?”
“It’s the wild west, man. Not much choice here.”
“Yeah, there is. For instance, the Indian could be the one taking in the bounty hunter. Ever thought of that? Make Ryder the bad guy, not a freaking kemo sabe.”
Chase turned all the way around in the swivel chair to face his lover, his large thighs open. The naked Brew, like a heedless jackrabbit, stepped into the trap. In a second, Brew’s taut ass was squirming between his knees as he bore the man lower with the strength of his legs, toward the floor.
Brew was laughing and struggling. “Come off it, man. We’ve got to get dressed and join your dad in Quad Three. Goddamn you—”
“Don’t question my motives. Ryder has to take in the Indian.”
“I say you have bondage issues.”
“I’ll show you bondage.” In a flash, Chase was on top of the smaller man, holding his shoulders into the thin Navaho rug that lay between the bed and the computer desk.
He could fuck this man six ways from Sunday every night, and still want to ream his ass the next morning. So Brew’s struggling served only to stiffen his resolve to take him right there, on the goddamn floor. He saw an abandoned neck scarf near the bed leg, the one he’d been wearing last night before he and Brew had tumbled into their king sized bed.
In two quick motions, Chase had the scarf around his wrists, then wrapped around the stout wooden bed leg. He was straddling the man, sitting on his groin, looking down into coal black eyes and an unshaven face. He could feel Brew’s long cock nestled next to his crack, and he settled back to catch it between his own butt cheeks.
The former tight end for Sloane County High sat admiring the one he’d tackled. He was not really skinny, but Brew Lloyd was a lover, not a fighter. Chase Grayson knew the other man was not muscled enough to get loose, but he had the spirit of a maverick. Even now, he struggled in the makeshift manacles, daring Chase to eat into the hour they both knew should be spent on the ranch.
Chase had never taken a lover, nor even been fucked. Not until a few months ago when the experienced Brew had outright seduced him, right here in his own large bedroom. Since then, he’d let his inner sense of his own athlete’s body rule his actions. Their lovemaking, to him, was abandoned, daring, forbidden. Even Brew, experienced in the ways of men, swore he’d never been fucked by a man with his towering imagination. Not to mention size.
Not Brew, nor any man, had known that Chase was a writer. It was something he’d kept hidden for years, even from Pa. He’d finally confessed to Brew, the man he’d like to keep in his bed forever.
Grinning, Chase leaned into Brew’s chin. “Bondage issues, you say, Brew?”
“Hey, dammit. Let me go. I never bargained for this shit.”
He turned Brew belly down, twisting his wrists in the makeshift handcuffs.
Not for the first time, his eyes devoured slender buttocks and long thigh muscles. He sank to his knees and bent into Brew’s ass, sliding his fingers through the crack, then spitting on them and working them into his anus. Nice and slow. He watched his own fingers pull out of the soft flesh, the way Brew’s skin seemed to close around them, like a tender mouth on a nipple, as he withdrew.
His tongue found the rosebud. Suddenly his prick was twice as big as before, demanding entrance. Denying himself, he began to lap Brew’s anus with slow, wet strokes. He could feel his rigid cock beginning to leak, a soft weeping for satisfaction.
“Stop it, damn you.”
“Okay. I think I’ll let you lie right here while I finish my story.”
Deliberately, he stood with his legs on each side of Brew’s body. He was lying outstretched, with his hands bound over his head, his legs splayed. To Chase, his hip movements were the ebb and flow of a rip tide.
“I demand to be released, asshole.”
“Fuck you, Brew. Just lie there till I’m ready for you.”
He returned to the chair and bent again over the keyboard. This time he was wearing a massive hardon.
Chase turned his face to capture Brew’s mouth, biting down a little on his lower lip.
“Not sure. Ryder’s almost crazy with desire.”
“And yet he holds back.”
Chase turned back to the computer screen. “Yes.”
“Think you’ll put them in a bondage scene?”
“I never gave it that much thought.”
“Well, it’s heading that way. White man over red. Submission, punishment. Is that what you want?”
“No, not one race over another.”
Brew’s breath blew closer, lips thrust almost into his ear. “But you have him in ropes.”
“He has to be, Brew. He’s being taken to justice.”
“Whose justice? Some flea-bitten white sheriff?”
“It’s the wild west, man. Not much choice here.”
“Yeah, there is. For instance, the Indian could be the one taking in the bounty hunter. Ever thought of that? Make Ryder the bad guy, not a freaking kemo sabe.”
Chase turned all the way around in the swivel chair to face his lover, his large thighs open. The naked Brew, like a heedless jackrabbit, stepped into the trap. In a second, Brew’s taut ass was squirming between his knees as he bore the man lower with the strength of his legs, toward the floor.
Brew was laughing and struggling. “Come off it, man. We’ve got to get dressed and join your dad in Quad Three. Goddamn you—”
“Don’t question my motives. Ryder has to take in the Indian.”
“I say you have bondage issues.”
“I’ll show you bondage.” In a flash, Chase was on top of the smaller man, holding his shoulders into the thin Navaho rug that lay between the bed and the computer desk.
He could fuck this man six ways from Sunday every night, and still want to ream his ass the next morning. So Brew’s struggling served only to stiffen his resolve to take him right there, on the goddamn floor. He saw an abandoned neck scarf near the bed leg, the one he’d been wearing last night before he and Brew had tumbled into their king sized bed.
In two quick motions, Chase had the scarf around his wrists, then wrapped around the stout wooden bed leg. He was straddling the man, sitting on his groin, looking down into coal black eyes and an unshaven face. He could feel Brew’s long cock nestled next to his crack, and he settled back to catch it between his own butt cheeks.
The former tight end for Sloane County High sat admiring the one he’d tackled. He was not really skinny, but Brew Lloyd was a lover, not a fighter. Chase Grayson knew the other man was not muscled enough to get loose, but he had the spirit of a maverick. Even now, he struggled in the makeshift manacles, daring Chase to eat into the hour they both knew should be spent on the ranch.
Chase had never taken a lover, nor even been fucked. Not until a few months ago when the experienced Brew had outright seduced him, right here in his own large bedroom. Since then, he’d let his inner sense of his own athlete’s body rule his actions. Their lovemaking, to him, was abandoned, daring, forbidden. Even Brew, experienced in the ways of men, swore he’d never been fucked by a man with his towering imagination. Not to mention size.
Not Brew, nor any man, had known that Chase was a writer. It was something he’d kept hidden for years, even from Pa. He’d finally confessed to Brew, the man he’d like to keep in his bed forever.
Grinning, Chase leaned into Brew’s chin. “Bondage issues, you say, Brew?”
“Hey, dammit. Let me go. I never bargained for this shit.”
He turned Brew belly down, twisting his wrists in the makeshift handcuffs.
Not for the first time, his eyes devoured slender buttocks and long thigh muscles. He sank to his knees and bent into Brew’s ass, sliding his fingers through the crack, then spitting on them and working them into his anus. Nice and slow. He watched his own fingers pull out of the soft flesh, the way Brew’s skin seemed to close around them, like a tender mouth on a nipple, as he withdrew.
His tongue found the rosebud. Suddenly his prick was twice as big as before, demanding entrance. Denying himself, he began to lap Brew’s anus with slow, wet strokes. He could feel his rigid cock beginning to leak, a soft weeping for satisfaction.
“Stop it, damn you.”
“Okay. I think I’ll let you lie right here while I finish my story.”
Deliberately, he stood with his legs on each side of Brew’s body. He was lying outstretched, with his hands bound over his head, his legs splayed. To Chase, his hip movements were the ebb and flow of a rip tide.
“I demand to be released, asshole.”
“Fuck you, Brew. Just lie there till I’m ready for you.”
He returned to the chair and bent again over the keyboard. This time he was wearing a massive hardon.
|
Ryder tried to sleep. The Mexican saddle under his head was hard, the night was cold. He lay curled away from his prisoner, listening for the man’s breath, a sound he began to crave. What if the bastard ups and dies on me? Just half the bounty money for a dead Indian.
He mentally retraced his own moves an hour ago, the way he’d bound his prisoner to a mesquite trunk, hands and legs both. He knew the man would take the first opportunity to get loose, then slit his throat. Both within a split second. If he was alive. Had he slipped to the happy hunting ground while Ryder lay fingering his own freaking cock? Or was he even now sliding out the hidden knife, slicing through his bonds, creeping toward his back? Somehow the danger of it all made him hard again. His hand began to find a rhythm. The more he stroked himself, the more he knew he had to hammer the man he’d bound to the fragrant desert tree, rip away that goddamn loincloth and savage him, like |
Chase felt his own rodeo rope around his chest, then his arms, and Brew was lashing him to the freaking swivel chair.
“I say the Indian takes in the bounty hunter.” Brew was kneeling in front of him, prying his knees apart, then measuring his rearing prick with hands suddenly gentle.
Chase laughed. “All right, Brew. That’s enough, okay? How’d you get loose, anyway?”
“The same way the Indian did, Chase. You are a dead man.”
Brew leaned into him, and his long, resilient fingers moved behind his balls, testing his asshole. “I can get ’em all in, Mr. Buffalo Ryder. And if you don’t hold still, I’ll ride your prick and then your back all the way to Noble.”
Chase let his head loll onto the back of the chair, allowing the wet heat of Brew’s mouth to devour him. The fingers in his ass seemed to reach past his rectum, into his very gut, and he started to jump and toss.
“Let me go.”
“I—ride—buffalo.”
“Ah, God, Brew.” The sucking and thrusting, combined with his inability to move his arms and torso, brought Chase to a new high. He closed his eyes and imagined Buffalo Ryder being taken by his prisoner.
“I say the Indian takes in the bounty hunter.” Brew was kneeling in front of him, prying his knees apart, then measuring his rearing prick with hands suddenly gentle.
Chase laughed. “All right, Brew. That’s enough, okay? How’d you get loose, anyway?”
“The same way the Indian did, Chase. You are a dead man.”
Brew leaned into him, and his long, resilient fingers moved behind his balls, testing his asshole. “I can get ’em all in, Mr. Buffalo Ryder. And if you don’t hold still, I’ll ride your prick and then your back all the way to Noble.”
Chase let his head loll onto the back of the chair, allowing the wet heat of Brew’s mouth to devour him. The fingers in his ass seemed to reach past his rectum, into his very gut, and he started to jump and toss.
“Let me go.”
“I—ride—buffalo.”
“Ah, God, Brew.” The sucking and thrusting, combined with his inability to move his arms and torso, brought Chase to a new high. He closed his eyes and imagined Buffalo Ryder being taken by his prisoner.
|
“Never your captive. Now you will know ways of the red man.”
The Indian pushed him upright against the mesquite trunk and lashed him tight. His exposed ass felt the bite of the wind sweeping from the Paiute Range. “Spread legs. We ride all night. |
He rode Brew’s hungry mouth, bucking and thrusting, feeling the cum travel from his balls to the slit while his ass exploded and the story wrote itself.
The End
Noble Dimensions: A Nevada Gay Action Series
The story you just read features two young guys who take center stage in a novel called The Chase.
Here’s a little information about the series, along with a few links. They are listed in logical—and chronological—order. All three were abandoned by a failed publisher, and I re-issued them in 2016. All reviews disappeared along with the publisher.
These young guys have smokin pistols in their pockets, without a firearm in sight. They’re part of the still-wilderness I call my home state of Nevada, in a series called “Noble Dimensions,” contemporary gay romance-action.
Noble, Nevada: A drifter with a shrouded past…a hometown boy, awkward and naive with his first man. What happens to make one run while the other sits behind bars? Love hurts. Let it also heal.
Kindle USA: http://amzn.to/2aA7vYi
Kindle UK: http://amzn.to/2aGJn87
ARe/OmniLit: http://bit.ly/1O8QL7E (pdf and epub formats)
An ARe Bestseller
The Chase: A smart-ass gay and a shy rancher’s son meet again after a long absence. On the way to passionate fulfillment, they also face a homophobic father and a crooked federal agent. Mending fences, chasing dreams.
Kindle US http://amzn.to/1O6jvDg
Kindle UK http://amzn.to/1q5TBEe
ARe/OmniLit http://bit.ly/1Wb81Rq epub and pdf formats
ARe Bestseller in 2 categories!
12 reviews reprinted here http://amzn.to/1T3RwDg
A Hard Place (novella): In the rugged Paiute Mountain range some fifty miles from Noble, a game warden encounters two poachers. One is a falconer with feral eyes who’s out to seduce him. The other is out to kill him.
Kindle US: http://amzn.to/269sJo2
Kindle UK: http://amzn.to/1WzJIM7
ARe/OmniLit: http://bit.ly/1VuXeB7 (pdf and epub formats)
The story you just read features two young guys who take center stage in a novel called The Chase.
Here’s a little information about the series, along with a few links. They are listed in logical—and chronological—order. All three were abandoned by a failed publisher, and I re-issued them in 2016. All reviews disappeared along with the publisher.
These young guys have smokin pistols in their pockets, without a firearm in sight. They’re part of the still-wilderness I call my home state of Nevada, in a series called “Noble Dimensions,” contemporary gay romance-action.
Noble, Nevada: A drifter with a shrouded past…a hometown boy, awkward and naive with his first man. What happens to make one run while the other sits behind bars? Love hurts. Let it also heal.
Kindle USA: http://amzn.to/2aA7vYi
Kindle UK: http://amzn.to/2aGJn87
ARe/OmniLit: http://bit.ly/1O8QL7E (pdf and epub formats)
An ARe Bestseller
The Chase: A smart-ass gay and a shy rancher’s son meet again after a long absence. On the way to passionate fulfillment, they also face a homophobic father and a crooked federal agent. Mending fences, chasing dreams.
Kindle US http://amzn.to/1O6jvDg
Kindle UK http://amzn.to/1q5TBEe
ARe/OmniLit http://bit.ly/1Wb81Rq epub and pdf formats
ARe Bestseller in 2 categories!
12 reviews reprinted here http://amzn.to/1T3RwDg
A Hard Place (novella): In the rugged Paiute Mountain range some fifty miles from Noble, a game warden encounters two poachers. One is a falconer with feral eyes who’s out to seduce him. The other is out to kill him.
Kindle US: http://amzn.to/269sJo2
Kindle UK: http://amzn.to/1WzJIM7
ARe/OmniLit: http://bit.ly/1VuXeB7 (pdf and epub formats)
|
| ||||
Motorbiking
By Michelle Abbott
TOBY
I hear the rumble of his motorbike before I see him. I check my watch. He’s late today. Not that I’ve been stalking him. Well, only for a week, and today is the day that I pluck up the courage to talk to him. He pulls up outside the coffee shop. I’m getting a stiffy just looking at his long legs draped over his powerful bike. His honey coloured hair is short these days. Back when we were at school he had thick curls and I used to love tangling my fingers in his hair. He strides into the coffee shop. I wait for a minute and then follow behind him. He places his order for a caramel latte. Good choice, I order the same. He pulls out his credit card. His hands are much bigger than they used to be back when he was eight. He still has beautiful long fingers and I can’t help noticing that his fingernails are short and neat. I sneak a sideways glance at him. I wonder how many boyfriends he’s had over the years. I wonder if he’s dating seriously now and I selfishly hope he isn’t.
I’ve never quite got over Daniel Grey. Crush, infatuation, call it what you want but he rocked my world when I was a kid. He was the only other gay kid I knew at school. Looking at him now he wouldn’t so much rock my world, he’d shake it to death. He’s grown up, and out. About two hundred pound of solid muscle, I’m guessing, plus an eyebrow piercing and arms covered with colourful ink, and that’s just the parts that I can see. I can’t think about the parts of him I can’t see, not here in the queue, I’ll save that for fantasy fodder for when I’m alone.
He takes a seat over by the window. There’s an empty table next to his. I will the barista to hurry with my drink so I can grab the empty table before someone else does. When my coffee arrives I almost spill it in my hurry to get to the vacant table. I plonk myself down and glance at him. Shall I be subtle? Or just outright ask him out? It’s not like we’re strangers. Okay, it has been fourteen years since we last saw each other. Fourteen years since he left school suddenly. But still, we’re far from strangers. I’m over thinking this. He’s opened a book. “What are you reading?”
His gaze darts to me, and then returns to his page. “A thriller.”
A smile spreads across my lips. “And there was me thinking you might be reading a gay romance.”
“What?”
He has a scowl on his face, which is actually kind of cute on him. Perhaps he doesn’t recognise me, I guess I have changed a little over the years. I hold out my hand, although really I’d much rather rest it on his thigh. “I’m Toby, remember me?”
He ignores my hand. “No.”
“We were in the same class at Merton Primary school.”
His gaze returns to his book. “Never heard of it.”
I’d know Daniel Grey anywhere, I’d never forget his face. Besides, I just feel it. I can feel it’s him. “Let’s try again. I’m Toby,” I hold out my hand once more, “and you are?”
“Leaving.”
He stands, knocks back his drink and strides out of the shop, leaving me wondering what the hell just happened.
DANIEL
FUCK! I shouldn’t have drunk that coffee so fast, it was way too hot and it’s burnt my throat but I had to get out of there. I pull on my helmet and get on my bike. Of all the people to bump into, it had to be Tobias Sparks. He’s a lot taller, but he still has that slim build and those puppy dog eyes of his. He’s even more beautiful than I remember. Damn him. I kick the throttle on my bike. Nothing. I try again. Zilch. Fuck. It’s not petrol because the tank is half full. I try again, and again, nothing.
“Can I help?”
I stare into Toby’s baby blue eyes. No, no, no, this isn’t happening. “Fucking start,” I shout at my bike. I try again to get the engine going. Gripping the handlebars I let my shoulders slump and close my eyes. I’m trapped.
“My car is parked around the corner if you need a lift.”
I climb off my bike and make a call to my boss. “My bike won’t start; I’m not going to get back this afternoon.”
“I’ve got no one to cover for you. Get public transport. Get a cab if you have to. I’ll see you in thirty minutes.” He hangs up without giving me chance to reply.
“By the look on your face I take it your boss wasn’t very understanding. I can give you a lift to work.”
Why the hell is he still here? The universe hates me today. I glare at him. “I’ll get a bus.”
He grimaces. “Err...bus strike.”
“What?”
He slips his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. He shrugs and his t-shirt rides up, giving me a glimpse of his flat stomach. “No buses running, there’s a strike.”
It’s official, the universe hates me. “Thanks for your offer, but I’ll get a cab.”
I hear the sound of him sucking air through his teeth. He always used to do that at school when he was about to give me some bad news.
“You’ll have a long wait for a cab. They’ll be in demand what with the buses not running.”
I watch his lips as he speaks and a memory enters my mind of his soft lips pressed against mine. I couldn’t get enough of him back then. We would sneak behind the toilets in the playground for a forbidden kiss. We weren’t sneaky enough though because someone saw us and reported us to the headmaster and our parents were called in. Everything went to shit after that, at least it did for me.
“Earth to Danny.”
I meet his eyes, and scowl. “My name isn’t Danny.”
Little lines form at the corners of his eyes as he grins. “Okay, mystery man, I’ll play along if you let me give you a lift.”
I gaze longingly at my bike. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Work to go to?”
“I’m self-employed.”
Dammit, now I’m curious. This isn’t good. “What do you do?”
“I’m a writer.” He shrugs, as if it’s nothing special. He always was the intelligent one.
“Do you write books?”
He gazes down at his feet. “I do, but my main income is from writing articles for newspapers and magazines.”
Try as I might I can’t keep the smile off my face. “That’s pretty cool.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What do you do? Apart from looking fuckable on a bike.”
My muscles stiffen. I glare at him. “I’m not gay. If you hit on me while we’re in your car you’re going to get a smack in the mouth.”
He grins. “Oh good, I take it you’re accepting my offer of a lift.”
“I don’t have a choice,” I grumble.
He’s walking too close to me, way too close. I take a sideways step away from him. He pulls a set of keys from his pocket and opens the door of a silver car. As I get in, I notice his back seats are littered with magazines and notebooks and his ashtray is overflowing with sweet wrappers. He always was messy. It was one of the things I liked about him, he was carefree. My stuff was always ordered and tidy. Still is. He turns the key in the ignition and unlike my bike, his car starts first time. I’m going to put my heap of shit bike up for sale when I get home. He glances across at me. “So where are we heading?”
“Tune In, it’s a music shop on Preston Street.”
He nods. “Cool. You always did like music.” He pulls out into the traffic. “Do you play an instrument?”
I stare at the road and avoid looking at him. “Guitar, a little.”
“Awesome, I’d love to hear you play.”
I reach to turn on his radio, mostly to avoid further conversation. It doesn’t matter if he thinks I’m rude, in fact it would be a good thing. I close my eyes and lose myself in the music.
“Is this it, Danny?”
My eyes flick open and I see we are approaching Tune In. “Yes, this is it.”
He laughs and I glare at him. What the fuck is he laughing at?
He turns his sparkling eyes to me and punches me gently on the arm. “I knew it.” He sits up straighter in his seat. “I knew it was you. Why are you pretending to be someone else?”
My breath pauses. I answered to Danny didn’t I? Shit. I reach for the door handle. “Thanks for the lift.”
As I’m closing the door he leans across the seat. “If you leave your bike keys with me I’ll get someone to look at it for you.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. I’ll take a look at it later.”
“Okay. What time do you finish? I’ll come pick you up.”
I frown at him. “No need for that.”
“Well how else will you get home? Bus strike, remember.”
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my keys. “Fine. Get someone to look at my bike.”
His fingers brush against mine as he takes the keys from my hand. Electricity crawls across my skin. Snatching my hand away, I head into the shop, deliberately not looking back at him.
If I thought work would distract me from thinking of him, it hasn’t. I’ve been sitting here for forty five minutes and not a single customer. I pick up one of the guitars and start playing to amuse myself. I remember when I first met him. I was sat next to him in class, trying to sneakily copy his work. He noticed and slid his book over towards me. That wasn’t the only thing he noticed. He knew I was gay and he knew I liked him, I don’t know how but he knew. I shake my head. Focus on the chords. Forget him. Hmm fat chance. His eyes, his lips, his smile, his kind heart, I fell in love with him right then. It was the best time of my life, until someone saw us.
I put down the guitar. No point in playing as I can’t focus. I sit down beside the cash register. The last time I saw him we were sitting in the headmaster’s office with our parents. My dad had a face like thunder; you could almost see the black cloud above his head. My mum just looked awkward. I recall the headmaster saying that our behaviour wasn’t appropriate in school. Toby’s parents were relaxed. Just kids experimenting they said, not a big deal. My mum assured the head that it wouldn’t happen again. My dad didn’t say a damn word. He didn’t need to because his posture and his face spoke loud and clear. When we got home he found his voice. Told me how disgusted he was, how I wasn’t “normal” and that he didn’t want a son who was a fucking Nancy. Told me if I didn’t start behaving like a man he was disowning me. A man, I was eight for fuck sake. They took me out of Merton and enrolled me at a different school. Dad didn’t speak to me for a month, but he left porno mags on my bed, trying to encourage me I guess. I was just a kid and I wanted to be loved so I started being the son he wanted me to be. I pretended to be interested in girls, started supporting my dad’s football team and going to matches with him, began working out. I huff out a breath. I’ve worked damn hard to create this persona, I won’t let Toby wreck everything.
The bell above the door jingles and in he strolls, wearing a leather jacket and carrying a crash helmet and looking as sexy as fuck. I push those thoughts from my mind and frown. “Did you ride my bike here?”
He smiles that easy smile of his. “No. A breakdown truck has dropped your bike off outside. It should run just fine now.”
I reach for my wallet. “How much do I owe you?”
He puts his helmet down and shrugs. “We’ll sort that out later.” He picks up one of the guitars and begins to strum. I cringe. He’s forming the chords all wrong and playing out of tune. It sounds bloody awful.
“Try this.” I stand behind him and move his fingers to form a chord. “Try strumming it now.” He’s so close. I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of him. He leans in, his back pressed to my chest. I should move but I don’t want to, so instead I show him a few more chords. I gaze down at his neck and feel a strong urge to kiss his skin. Instead I force myself to move away. “I have to close up the shop.”
“Can you give me a lift home?” He holds up his crash helmet. “Don’t tell me no because I bought the helmet and jacket especially for the occasion.” He twirls like he’s on a bloody catwalk.
I stare at him. “Are you telling me you bought them today, just for a ride home?”
He grins. “It’s illegal to ride a bike without a helmet.” Like that answers everything. He pulls the helmet onto his head and lifts the visor. “Do they suit me?”
Way too much. My stomach tightens. “I’ll give you a ride home and pay you back for the bike repair. After that we’re done.”
I lock up the shop and climb onto my bike. It starts first time. I glance at Toby, who is standing on the kerb looking adorable. “Hop on.”
The moment he’s sat behind me he slides his arms around my waist and presses his chest into my back. I let him because I don’t want him to fall off, at least that’s what I tell myself. He shouts out directions and in no time we are outside a two story house. He puts his lips to my ear, which makes me shiver, in a good way. “I live on the second floor. Come inside and we can sort out payment for your bike.”
Inside his flat, he points to his sofa. “Sit down and I’ll fix us a coffee.” He disappears to the kitchen.
I don’t sit because I don’t intend staying. I can’t stay. I frown as I notice two guitars over in the corner, an acoustic and an electric. “Does your boyfriend play?” I ask, as he comes back into the room.
“They’re mine, and I don’t have a boyfriend at the moment.”
He picks up the acoustic and starts to play a song from one of my favourite bands. I watch his fingers as they move expertly across the strings. “I thought you couldn’t play, in the shop you...”
“I might have been pretending.” He has the decency to blush. “But admit it, you enjoyed helping me.” He breaks into a grin.
The bastard. I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet. “How much do I owe you?”
His blue eyes lock with mine. “Do you remember when we were kids, we said we were going to live together when we were grown-ups and get a huge chocolate cake to celebrate our first anniversary.”
I laugh at the memory. “Yeah, I think we were going to decorate it with chocolate buttons.”
He disappears back into the kitchen and reappears a moment later carrying a huge chocolate cake. He cocks his head to the side and gives me crooked grin. “It’s not our anniversary, but it could be the start of something.”
I clutch my wallet. I need to get out of here. “How much do I owe you?”
He puts the cake down on a table behind him and cuts a slice. “How much do you have?”
I count my notes. “Fifty quid.”
He sucks air through his teeth. “That’s not enough.”
I slide my wallet into my pocket and back away towards the door. “Fine, I’ll go to a cash machine. How much do I need?”
He slips off his jacket and I can’t help but notice how his grey t-shirt clings to his body. He’s not big, but he’s toned. “You could go to a cash machine, or,” he tugs off his t-shirt to reveal a flat stomach and perfectly formed abs, “you can pay me in kind.”
I bite my tongue to distract myself. “I don’t date men.”
“I’m not asking for a date.”
“I don’t fuck men.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Do you fuck women?”
I want to lie but my mouth seems to have a mind of its own. “No.”
“You asexual?”
I shake my head.
He leans back against the table. “You can leave if you want, I’m not keeping you prisoner, but you’re not a little boy anymore. You can’t live your life for someone else and expect to be happy.” He gives me a sad smile. “And you deserve to be happy, but,” he grins, “if you want to stay in the closet, I’ve got a nice big one in my bedroom. I’ll put a mattress in there for you.”
I take a step towards him, and then another. I watch his eyes widen. “What I want,” standing toe to toe with him, I lean forward, “is a piece of this cake.” I take a big bite of the cake, then I dip my finger in the frosting and smear it across his nose. I lick the chocolate from my lips. It’s delicious. Running my fingers through his hair, I cup the back of his head. “Be careful what you wish for.” I press my lips against his.
By Michelle Abbott
TOBY
I hear the rumble of his motorbike before I see him. I check my watch. He’s late today. Not that I’ve been stalking him. Well, only for a week, and today is the day that I pluck up the courage to talk to him. He pulls up outside the coffee shop. I’m getting a stiffy just looking at his long legs draped over his powerful bike. His honey coloured hair is short these days. Back when we were at school he had thick curls and I used to love tangling my fingers in his hair. He strides into the coffee shop. I wait for a minute and then follow behind him. He places his order for a caramel latte. Good choice, I order the same. He pulls out his credit card. His hands are much bigger than they used to be back when he was eight. He still has beautiful long fingers and I can’t help noticing that his fingernails are short and neat. I sneak a sideways glance at him. I wonder how many boyfriends he’s had over the years. I wonder if he’s dating seriously now and I selfishly hope he isn’t.
I’ve never quite got over Daniel Grey. Crush, infatuation, call it what you want but he rocked my world when I was a kid. He was the only other gay kid I knew at school. Looking at him now he wouldn’t so much rock my world, he’d shake it to death. He’s grown up, and out. About two hundred pound of solid muscle, I’m guessing, plus an eyebrow piercing and arms covered with colourful ink, and that’s just the parts that I can see. I can’t think about the parts of him I can’t see, not here in the queue, I’ll save that for fantasy fodder for when I’m alone.
He takes a seat over by the window. There’s an empty table next to his. I will the barista to hurry with my drink so I can grab the empty table before someone else does. When my coffee arrives I almost spill it in my hurry to get to the vacant table. I plonk myself down and glance at him. Shall I be subtle? Or just outright ask him out? It’s not like we’re strangers. Okay, it has been fourteen years since we last saw each other. Fourteen years since he left school suddenly. But still, we’re far from strangers. I’m over thinking this. He’s opened a book. “What are you reading?”
His gaze darts to me, and then returns to his page. “A thriller.”
A smile spreads across my lips. “And there was me thinking you might be reading a gay romance.”
“What?”
He has a scowl on his face, which is actually kind of cute on him. Perhaps he doesn’t recognise me, I guess I have changed a little over the years. I hold out my hand, although really I’d much rather rest it on his thigh. “I’m Toby, remember me?”
He ignores my hand. “No.”
“We were in the same class at Merton Primary school.”
His gaze returns to his book. “Never heard of it.”
I’d know Daniel Grey anywhere, I’d never forget his face. Besides, I just feel it. I can feel it’s him. “Let’s try again. I’m Toby,” I hold out my hand once more, “and you are?”
“Leaving.”
He stands, knocks back his drink and strides out of the shop, leaving me wondering what the hell just happened.
DANIEL
FUCK! I shouldn’t have drunk that coffee so fast, it was way too hot and it’s burnt my throat but I had to get out of there. I pull on my helmet and get on my bike. Of all the people to bump into, it had to be Tobias Sparks. He’s a lot taller, but he still has that slim build and those puppy dog eyes of his. He’s even more beautiful than I remember. Damn him. I kick the throttle on my bike. Nothing. I try again. Zilch. Fuck. It’s not petrol because the tank is half full. I try again, and again, nothing.
“Can I help?”
I stare into Toby’s baby blue eyes. No, no, no, this isn’t happening. “Fucking start,” I shout at my bike. I try again to get the engine going. Gripping the handlebars I let my shoulders slump and close my eyes. I’m trapped.
“My car is parked around the corner if you need a lift.”
I climb off my bike and make a call to my boss. “My bike won’t start; I’m not going to get back this afternoon.”
“I’ve got no one to cover for you. Get public transport. Get a cab if you have to. I’ll see you in thirty minutes.” He hangs up without giving me chance to reply.
“By the look on your face I take it your boss wasn’t very understanding. I can give you a lift to work.”
Why the hell is he still here? The universe hates me today. I glare at him. “I’ll get a bus.”
He grimaces. “Err...bus strike.”
“What?”
He slips his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. He shrugs and his t-shirt rides up, giving me a glimpse of his flat stomach. “No buses running, there’s a strike.”
It’s official, the universe hates me. “Thanks for your offer, but I’ll get a cab.”
I hear the sound of him sucking air through his teeth. He always used to do that at school when he was about to give me some bad news.
“You’ll have a long wait for a cab. They’ll be in demand what with the buses not running.”
I watch his lips as he speaks and a memory enters my mind of his soft lips pressed against mine. I couldn’t get enough of him back then. We would sneak behind the toilets in the playground for a forbidden kiss. We weren’t sneaky enough though because someone saw us and reported us to the headmaster and our parents were called in. Everything went to shit after that, at least it did for me.
“Earth to Danny.”
I meet his eyes, and scowl. “My name isn’t Danny.”
Little lines form at the corners of his eyes as he grins. “Okay, mystery man, I’ll play along if you let me give you a lift.”
I gaze longingly at my bike. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Work to go to?”
“I’m self-employed.”
Dammit, now I’m curious. This isn’t good. “What do you do?”
“I’m a writer.” He shrugs, as if it’s nothing special. He always was the intelligent one.
“Do you write books?”
He gazes down at his feet. “I do, but my main income is from writing articles for newspapers and magazines.”
Try as I might I can’t keep the smile off my face. “That’s pretty cool.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What do you do? Apart from looking fuckable on a bike.”
My muscles stiffen. I glare at him. “I’m not gay. If you hit on me while we’re in your car you’re going to get a smack in the mouth.”
He grins. “Oh good, I take it you’re accepting my offer of a lift.”
“I don’t have a choice,” I grumble.
He’s walking too close to me, way too close. I take a sideways step away from him. He pulls a set of keys from his pocket and opens the door of a silver car. As I get in, I notice his back seats are littered with magazines and notebooks and his ashtray is overflowing with sweet wrappers. He always was messy. It was one of the things I liked about him, he was carefree. My stuff was always ordered and tidy. Still is. He turns the key in the ignition and unlike my bike, his car starts first time. I’m going to put my heap of shit bike up for sale when I get home. He glances across at me. “So where are we heading?”
“Tune In, it’s a music shop on Preston Street.”
He nods. “Cool. You always did like music.” He pulls out into the traffic. “Do you play an instrument?”
I stare at the road and avoid looking at him. “Guitar, a little.”
“Awesome, I’d love to hear you play.”
I reach to turn on his radio, mostly to avoid further conversation. It doesn’t matter if he thinks I’m rude, in fact it would be a good thing. I close my eyes and lose myself in the music.
“Is this it, Danny?”
My eyes flick open and I see we are approaching Tune In. “Yes, this is it.”
He laughs and I glare at him. What the fuck is he laughing at?
He turns his sparkling eyes to me and punches me gently on the arm. “I knew it.” He sits up straighter in his seat. “I knew it was you. Why are you pretending to be someone else?”
My breath pauses. I answered to Danny didn’t I? Shit. I reach for the door handle. “Thanks for the lift.”
As I’m closing the door he leans across the seat. “If you leave your bike keys with me I’ll get someone to look at it for you.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. I’ll take a look at it later.”
“Okay. What time do you finish? I’ll come pick you up.”
I frown at him. “No need for that.”
“Well how else will you get home? Bus strike, remember.”
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my keys. “Fine. Get someone to look at my bike.”
His fingers brush against mine as he takes the keys from my hand. Electricity crawls across my skin. Snatching my hand away, I head into the shop, deliberately not looking back at him.
If I thought work would distract me from thinking of him, it hasn’t. I’ve been sitting here for forty five minutes and not a single customer. I pick up one of the guitars and start playing to amuse myself. I remember when I first met him. I was sat next to him in class, trying to sneakily copy his work. He noticed and slid his book over towards me. That wasn’t the only thing he noticed. He knew I was gay and he knew I liked him, I don’t know how but he knew. I shake my head. Focus on the chords. Forget him. Hmm fat chance. His eyes, his lips, his smile, his kind heart, I fell in love with him right then. It was the best time of my life, until someone saw us.
I put down the guitar. No point in playing as I can’t focus. I sit down beside the cash register. The last time I saw him we were sitting in the headmaster’s office with our parents. My dad had a face like thunder; you could almost see the black cloud above his head. My mum just looked awkward. I recall the headmaster saying that our behaviour wasn’t appropriate in school. Toby’s parents were relaxed. Just kids experimenting they said, not a big deal. My mum assured the head that it wouldn’t happen again. My dad didn’t say a damn word. He didn’t need to because his posture and his face spoke loud and clear. When we got home he found his voice. Told me how disgusted he was, how I wasn’t “normal” and that he didn’t want a son who was a fucking Nancy. Told me if I didn’t start behaving like a man he was disowning me. A man, I was eight for fuck sake. They took me out of Merton and enrolled me at a different school. Dad didn’t speak to me for a month, but he left porno mags on my bed, trying to encourage me I guess. I was just a kid and I wanted to be loved so I started being the son he wanted me to be. I pretended to be interested in girls, started supporting my dad’s football team and going to matches with him, began working out. I huff out a breath. I’ve worked damn hard to create this persona, I won’t let Toby wreck everything.
The bell above the door jingles and in he strolls, wearing a leather jacket and carrying a crash helmet and looking as sexy as fuck. I push those thoughts from my mind and frown. “Did you ride my bike here?”
He smiles that easy smile of his. “No. A breakdown truck has dropped your bike off outside. It should run just fine now.”
I reach for my wallet. “How much do I owe you?”
He puts his helmet down and shrugs. “We’ll sort that out later.” He picks up one of the guitars and begins to strum. I cringe. He’s forming the chords all wrong and playing out of tune. It sounds bloody awful.
“Try this.” I stand behind him and move his fingers to form a chord. “Try strumming it now.” He’s so close. I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of him. He leans in, his back pressed to my chest. I should move but I don’t want to, so instead I show him a few more chords. I gaze down at his neck and feel a strong urge to kiss his skin. Instead I force myself to move away. “I have to close up the shop.”
“Can you give me a lift home?” He holds up his crash helmet. “Don’t tell me no because I bought the helmet and jacket especially for the occasion.” He twirls like he’s on a bloody catwalk.
I stare at him. “Are you telling me you bought them today, just for a ride home?”
He grins. “It’s illegal to ride a bike without a helmet.” Like that answers everything. He pulls the helmet onto his head and lifts the visor. “Do they suit me?”
Way too much. My stomach tightens. “I’ll give you a ride home and pay you back for the bike repair. After that we’re done.”
I lock up the shop and climb onto my bike. It starts first time. I glance at Toby, who is standing on the kerb looking adorable. “Hop on.”
The moment he’s sat behind me he slides his arms around my waist and presses his chest into my back. I let him because I don’t want him to fall off, at least that’s what I tell myself. He shouts out directions and in no time we are outside a two story house. He puts his lips to my ear, which makes me shiver, in a good way. “I live on the second floor. Come inside and we can sort out payment for your bike.”
Inside his flat, he points to his sofa. “Sit down and I’ll fix us a coffee.” He disappears to the kitchen.
I don’t sit because I don’t intend staying. I can’t stay. I frown as I notice two guitars over in the corner, an acoustic and an electric. “Does your boyfriend play?” I ask, as he comes back into the room.
“They’re mine, and I don’t have a boyfriend at the moment.”
He picks up the acoustic and starts to play a song from one of my favourite bands. I watch his fingers as they move expertly across the strings. “I thought you couldn’t play, in the shop you...”
“I might have been pretending.” He has the decency to blush. “But admit it, you enjoyed helping me.” He breaks into a grin.
The bastard. I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet. “How much do I owe you?”
His blue eyes lock with mine. “Do you remember when we were kids, we said we were going to live together when we were grown-ups and get a huge chocolate cake to celebrate our first anniversary.”
I laugh at the memory. “Yeah, I think we were going to decorate it with chocolate buttons.”
He disappears back into the kitchen and reappears a moment later carrying a huge chocolate cake. He cocks his head to the side and gives me crooked grin. “It’s not our anniversary, but it could be the start of something.”
I clutch my wallet. I need to get out of here. “How much do I owe you?”
He puts the cake down on a table behind him and cuts a slice. “How much do you have?”
I count my notes. “Fifty quid.”
He sucks air through his teeth. “That’s not enough.”
I slide my wallet into my pocket and back away towards the door. “Fine, I’ll go to a cash machine. How much do I need?”
He slips off his jacket and I can’t help but notice how his grey t-shirt clings to his body. He’s not big, but he’s toned. “You could go to a cash machine, or,” he tugs off his t-shirt to reveal a flat stomach and perfectly formed abs, “you can pay me in kind.”
I bite my tongue to distract myself. “I don’t date men.”
“I’m not asking for a date.”
“I don’t fuck men.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Do you fuck women?”
I want to lie but my mouth seems to have a mind of its own. “No.”
“You asexual?”
I shake my head.
He leans back against the table. “You can leave if you want, I’m not keeping you prisoner, but you’re not a little boy anymore. You can’t live your life for someone else and expect to be happy.” He gives me a sad smile. “And you deserve to be happy, but,” he grins, “if you want to stay in the closet, I’ve got a nice big one in my bedroom. I’ll put a mattress in there for you.”
I take a step towards him, and then another. I watch his eyes widen. “What I want,” standing toe to toe with him, I lean forward, “is a piece of this cake.” I take a big bite of the cake, then I dip my finger in the frosting and smear it across his nose. I lick the chocolate from my lips. It’s delicious. Running my fingers through his hair, I cup the back of his head. “Be careful what you wish for.” I press my lips against his.
Michelle Abbott lives in the UK and hates describing herself in 3rd person. She's a self-published author of new adult romance, and likes to write about heroes who begin as the underdog and are protective of their girl. She's an avid reader of romance, is addicted to coffee and loves wine and chocolate, so yeah, not the most healthy eating and drinking habits :-) She spends way too much time on-line when she should be writing. She collects teddy bears and occasionally knits a couple of rows on a sweater she started years ago, which she may eventually finish in time to wear for her funeral :-)
Books by Michelle:
Books by Michelle:
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Michelle can be found in the following places:
Website: http://www.michelleabbott.com
Blog: http://michelle-abbott.weebly.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/MichelleAbbott4
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MichelleAbbottRomanceAuthor
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Reflections
By Alp Mortal
Succeeding for the most part in avoiding the dust that could have marred the shine of his shoes, which had taken more than an hour to polish to a mirror finish, he stepped confidently along the main drag towards the place of the planned rendezvous - the fountain. Stopping to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the window of the shop where he worked, which although risky was worth it for a quick peek, he checked his tie. His eyes struggled to focus on his reflection as they were drawn to the myriad lampshades and the constellations of dazzling bulbs - it was as if he were looking inside the cosmos itself.
Beyond the window display, through a gap in the arrangement, he had the slimmest and briefest of views of the man who rode up and down the ladder all day to dust the shades and change the bulbs. Suddenly and uncomfortably aware of the man’s gaze, which seemed both angry and yet coy at the same time, he dropped his eyes to the bouquet of the tulips that he held in his hand, willing them to swallow him up and save him from his present embarrassment. They didn’t and he hurried away, struggling on against the feeling that he had probably ruined his chances. He made his way to the Square.
In finding Benjamin at the fountain, his heart sank like a stone, especially when he saw Marie’s familiar silhouette over Benjamin’s shoulder as she too made her way towards the fountain. What cruelty was this that he had to witness a young couple in love play out the scene for what felt like his benefit alone? Was it not enough that he had spent weeks practising asking the question so that it would sound as ordinary and as familiar as if he were enquiring after the time or the way to the station? There could be no witnesses; the plot called for no witnesses!
She reached him first, kissed his cheek and removed a stray, perhaps an imaginary hair from his lapel before slipping her arm in his and allowed him to guide her towards the cinema. Walking through the airspace, he could still detect the faint traces of cologne and the woody vapours of Benjamin’s hand-blended tobacco mix. Her cheap perfume provided the loudest of exclamation points. Stop! Yes; he had no strength to walk further than the bench, where he sat down, to wilt in the heat much like the tulips. He tossed them in the fountain, hoping to save something out of the experience. Confidence was such a transitory thing; like a kite made of tissue paper - one strong gust of wind and the thing lay in tatters.
For want of better employment, he examined the toes of his shoes and noticed a fresh scratch.
“Damn!”
“Sorry?”
He looked up to find the man from the shop, standing a little way off, staring at him.
“I’ve scratched my shoe.”
Letting his eyes fall to the shoes, the man asked, “Who were the flowers for?”
“No one; I was just carrying them because they looked especially pretty.”
He could not admit to the truth; even just the sight of the man’s freshly scrubbed hands robbed him of his resolve.
“Do you like jazz? There’s a new quartet playing at Nymphaea tonight.”
He knew it. Patience and observation had provided the information - always a drink at a bar after work if there was live jazz.
“I love jazz ...” he lied, hoping it wasn’t too modern.
Lifting his head, the man said, “My name’s Simon.”
“I know; we used to attend the same school. I’m Clamence ...”
“I see you sometimes ... Shall we go then?”
“Yes ... Do you like stars?”
“Yes ...”
“Is that why you work in the lighting shop?”
“No; my father expects me to carry on the business after he is gone. What does your father expect?”
“The same ... repairing shoes is in our soul ... Sorry; one of my father’s pathetic jokes.”
“So the scratch will soon be just a memory ...”
“He used to make me wear a sandwich board and walk up and down the street to attract business ...”
“I remember. The boys used to throw stones at you and try and hit the board while your back was turned ...”
“I remember that ...” He moved his collar to one side and exhibited a scar on his neck, adding, “... he ceased to make me do it after that ... My mother was angrier that my shirt was ruined ...”
They walked to the bar. Simon guided them as it was one that Clamence did not know very well.
On the approach, he remembered the one. It was the one with the counter that was covered in zinc. The edge reflected the red stop lights of the cars in the street and resembled an odd kind of thermometer, which in a way it was. And the bar, if the newspaper article could be believed, where a man, a young man, was sat drinking in an effort to forget the fact that he had married the wrong girl; a girl he had gotten pregnant. The story went that he got drunk and the proprietor threw him out when he insulted a prostitute. He stumbled outside and into the path of a bus and was killed instantly. It was the same bus that bore his wife who was in the throes of labour; she was, apparently, attempting to reach the hospital to give birth to their first child, having waited for her husband to return but having panicked when her waters broke. When she saw his dead face staring up at her through the window, she collapsed and aborted the child. A doctor, who had lately come from a long operation to replace a great politician’s heart, was on hand and delivered the child and breathed life into its fragile lungs. He married the woman and adopted the child.
No one was entirely convinced that the story was true because the papers printed such bizarre rubbish nowadays.
Taking seats near the little stage, they arranged their cigarettes and lighters on the table like battleships and, once the waiter had brought a pichet of the decent red, they raised a toast to their good health.
He found the music melancholy unlike Simon who thought it ‘just the thing’. Leaving the bar, a little inebriated it was true, they linked arms for the walk back. Just past the fountain, they encountered Benjamin and Marie, also walking together but straight-backed and barely touching. From the snatches of their conversation, it was clear that she was upset and angry. Apparently, Benjamin had flirted with the usherette.
“He threw the stone that cut your neck ...”
“I always thought it had to be Pierre because he always avoided me from that time on.”
“I think it was because he loved you.”
“Which seems like a poor reason to avoid someone.”
“Really?”
Clamence blushed, wondering if his ruse had been as easy to see through as tissue paper.
At the street door of his appartement, garnering all of his forces, he kissed Simon sweetly on the cheek and bade him goodnight but not before extracting a promise that they would do lunch the following day.
“Shall we rebel and take the afternoon off?”
Clamence was slow to reply and Simon added, “Only if you want to of course ...”
“Be careful; once I have the measure of the rebel inside me, there is no end to the rebellion that I may cause on the outside of me.”
“From that, I gather you read Camus?”
“Devour Camus would be more accurate. Do you read?”
“Nothing or anyone so profound ... “
In perhaps an act of rebellion, possibly as a trial run, Clamence stepped up and kissed Simon on the mouth; only to be enveloped in the other man’s arms and crushed to his chest while their lips were pressed together.
“The appartement is empty; my father has gone to Avignon to see my aunt,” Clamence announced once they broke off.
“This rebellion could lead to an outright revolt!”
Clamence let them in.
“Why did you feign ignorance of who I was when you saw me by the fountain?”
“I thought you would remember me, the incident, and I thought perhaps you had always believed that it was I who had lobbed the stone.”
“I never believed it was you.”
“It could never have been me ...”
“But you were there.”
“I mean; I was not capable. Sure; I ranted like the rest and ran away with the others but only because I did not want Benjamin to think that I was a ninny.”
“What will he think of you now?”
“I honestly don’t care ...”
Inside the appartement, they rapidly undressed and slid in under the blankets, immediately launching into an oral attack and counter-attack until they were breathless and heady.
Simon manoeuvred Clamence into position, wanting to fuck first.
“What are those ridges across the lower part of your back?”
“My father whipped me that day because I cried.”
“That sounds pretty savage.”
“Not half as savage as I hope you fuck me ...”
It was a spirited attempt but marred by the alcohol.
“I can always try again later ... if you want me to stay.”
“Won’t your father wonder where you are?”
“If he follows the usual pattern for the evening, by now, he will be slumped over his workbench, having spent hours soldering wires. He hardly notices if I am there or not.”
“What about your mother?”
“She suffers a malady that confines her to her bed for the best part of the day and night.”
“What kind of malady?”
“A kind of mental fatigue ... I suppose one says depression these days but the very word makes me depressed.”
“Lie on your stomach and open your legs ...”
Simon complied, albeit feeling tense at the prospect of being speared by the healthy member that Clamence seemed, in his opinion, to be perfectly ignorant of despite the fact that it was at least eight inches long and as fat as his wrist.
“Lube up well; you’re liable to do me an injury otherwise.”
“What are those marks across your lower back?”
“Benjamin and Pierre beat me when I refused to take a piss against the board while it was resting against the wall outside the shop.”
“So your fear of being called a ninny did ultimately disappear then?”
“I realised that being called a ninny was nothing like as hurtful as knowing that you had been mean.”
“But for the sake of a piss, you got beaten and scarred ...”
“Does that sound absurd?”
“No ... noble and possibly rebellious.”
“I always wondered if I had it in me. FUCK!”
“Wonder no more ...”
The rhythmic thwack of bare flesh on bare flesh was like a metronome. Sweet music escaped through the open window and gave the neighbours little chance of sleep until the clock struck two a.m.
“Clamence; you are possessed!”
“I believe I have exorcised that demon rebel.”
“And so much brimstone!”
“I do not believe that the fire in these loins will ever be extinguished.”
“Who were the flowers for? I believe you have been stoking those fires for some considerable time.”
“... Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ ...”
“Shakespeare?”
“Yes; Othello ...”
“Meaning?”
“A jealous man finds any reason and points to every shred of evidence to justify the feeling.”
“If you had a date, they must surely be wondering what happened to you.”
“I didn’t; like I said, I thought they were pretty.”
“Was it Benjamin?”
“Benjamin? I am a fool but not a complete idiot.”
“He swings both ways; I’ve sucked his cock.”
“When?”
“When we were fifteen and we went camping ... we shared a tent.”
“I do not remember that trip.”
“I do not remember you coming ...”
“Maybe it was at the time of my mother’s illness. And you sucked his cock ... What was it like?”
“Turbulent! Like grappling with an electric eel.”
“Did he suck yours?”
“No ... but he fucked me in the arse.”
“One of that sort ... It was not Benjamin.”
“Who then?”
“You don’t know him. He was always the shy one at school.”
“So they really were for you.”
“Like I said ... Were you hoping that they were for you?”
“I saw you looking in the window.”
“You looked angry.”
“I was on duty and both dusty and sweating ...”
“I was checking my tie, however, I caught a glimpse of you through the gap between the Tiffany-style lamps ...”
“They sell very well ... I might have hoped that they were for me.”
“Then let us say that they were not for anyone until the moment of truth became manifest ...”
“So chance?”
“Fate ... Do you believe in Fate, Simon?”
“I believe in luck.”
“Luck is absurd.”
“Fate is an abandonment of reason.”
“Love is abandonment.”
“Love is a miracle.”
“We can agree on that ... Do you want to try again?”
“Yes ...”
oOo
“I made you some coffee, Simon.”
“What time is it?”
“It is 7.30 and I must get ready for work soon.”
“As must I ... but what about the idea of taking off this afternoon? I am positive Father will agree.”
“The shop closes early today - at noon. Meet me at Folie’s.”
“Champion idea. Afterwards, we could go swimming.”
“Where?”
“The Lido?”
“I think I would enjoy that - excellent!”
Simon leant back against the headboard and sipped his coffee while Clamence got ready for work. He was amazed at the tightest, hardness and roundness of Clamence’s buttocks, who was at that moment, selecting clean underwear from his chest of drawers.
“You have amazing buttocks ...”
Clamence threw a glance over his shoulder, unable to keep the wicked grin off his face.
“I cycle whenever I have the opportunity. You climb ladders all day; small wonder that yours are like rock cakes.”
“I don’t like my calves; they seem overly developed ...”
“I would like to build up my arms a little,” Clamence admitted, turning and stepping into the underwear, adding as he pulled them up with a swift tug and a snap of the waistband, “I was thinking of doing some weight training ...”
“Perhaps rowing; that would develop the abdominals too.”
“Shall we try it on Sunday?”
“Yes; let’s do that ...”
“I have to leave soon, Simon ... by all means take a shower. If you could leave by the rear stairs that would avoid any embarrassing questions from my neighbour who keeps his eye on the street door all day.”
“No problem ... I will see you at noon.”
Clamence quickly donned his shirt and trousers before pulling on a pair of Chelsea-style boots. He approached the side of the bed.
“Four hours - ah! I almost forgot my swimming trunks.”
“That reminds me to fetch mine too ... We’ll hire towels, shall we?”
“Yes. See you later.”
He leant in for a kiss and found it hard to resist the temptation to get straight back into bed. However, the prospect of seeing Simon in his trunks and dripping wet gave him the push he needed to leave ... only then did he wish that he had worn looser shorts.
Watching him leave, Simon downed the dregs of the coffee and turned over to cuddle the pillow and grab a fistful of sheet and blanket to press to his face to breathe in the mix of sex and sweat. He only got up to shower once he had masturbated again.
oOo
“How was work this morning?” Clamence enquired as Simon sat down at the table.
“Some attractive sales to some unattractive women ... men do not buy lamps. And you?”
“There is nothing vaguely attractive about stitching new soles onto old shoes ... However, I see more men, and some of them are quite handsome ... but usually, they work in the fields or for the office of the Mairie and their boots stink of either manure or rubbish.”
“What would you do if you did not work for your father?”
“I would like to be a draughtsman - actually, I would like to design motorcars, specifically the engines of motorcars ...”
“You have surprised me ... but you do not have a car, do you?”
“I do. I am restoring an old sports car. I wondered if you had connections that could possibly source the bulbs I need for the headlamps.”
“I’m sure we have connections ...”
“That would be sterling ... What would you do?”
“Design clothes, especially clothes for the theatre.”
“Why do we do it? Why do we allow our futures to be corralled and fettered?”
“Familial obligations ... and then there is the no small issue of money.”
“I earn a pittance but, that said, I want for nothing ...”
“Likewise ... But I agree. Perhaps we should stage a revolution.”
“I promised my mother before she died that I would look after my father ...”
“Yes; and Father cannot manage Mother by himself ... Birds locked up in a cage; that is what we are.”
“Well-fed birds with an afternoon off ... What do you fancy for lunch?”
“The soup, I think. Nothing heavy before swimming.”
“Agreed.”
They ate their lunch and drank water rather than wine. After a small, black coffee, they left the café and sauntered to the swimming baths, which had, in their heydey, been a draw for the crowds for miles around, being one of the finest examples of Art Deco architecture. Nowadays, the crowds preferred the modern baths that had been built on the site of the old china factory.
They made their way through the cathedral-like atrium and along the gracious, albeit somewhat dilapidated, blue glazed tile clad corridors to the male changing room. They selected separate changing compartments, all of which had their own exit onto the poolside.
Leaving their clothes, together with their towels, hung up on the hooks in the changing cabinets, and sporting swimming trunks that had also been fashionable in the 1920s - and not since - they exited onto the poolside and dived in. Save for three elderly women, wearing daisy-encrusted rubber skull caps, swimming lengths like so many manatees, and two elderly gentlemen, sitting in the glass-enclosed portion of the terrace, reading newspapers, they had the pool to themselves. After their initial dunking and wishing to impress each other, they headed for the diving pool. Simon was competent but Clamence lacked a little form. It didn’t stop them from repeatedly scaling the ten-metre board and flinging themselves off the edge.
After frolicking for half an hour, they retired to the outdoor terrace to bathe in the sunshine and dry off.
“You are an excellent diver,” Clamence announced.
“I have no patience for swimming lengths; diving is exhilarating.”
“You have no trouble with climbing the ladder ...”
“I could feel your breath on the small of my back ...”
“Safety first; had you slipped-”
“You would have been there to catch me.”
“Exactly!”
Half an hour on the terrace dried them off and it was beginning to bring a flush to their skins.
“I feel I might be burning, Simon ...”
“Me too. More diving?”
“After a few lengths.”
“I want to practise my swallow dive so I’ll see you in a bit ...”
Albeit having to avoid the old-timers, who were all standing and talking in the shallow end, Clamence swam a good few lengths. On each alternate length, he waited and watched Simon dive off the board, likening him to a kingfisher.
Reaching his limit of one thousand metres, Clamence got out of the pool and headed for the steam room, having gestured to Simon to join him. Being first, he nabbed the highest slated bench seat and stretched out full length to let the heat and steam work out the remaining knots in his shoulders and lower back.
“Ahoy!” Simon bellowed as he entered the room.
“Fool!”
“You must have done twenty lengths.”
“It was twenty ... Do you have any preference for dinner tonight?”
“None whatsoever ... Did you?”
“I could cook ... My father is back on Sunday and I suggest we make hay while the sun shines.”
“I would need to make sure that Mother is okay first.”
“Fine ...”
“Eight o’clock?”
“Perfect ... What time is it now, Simon?”
“About three o’clock ...”
“Half an hour to let my shoulders and back recover and I propose some tea.”
Simon took one of the other bench seats and lay down.
“I meant to ask you, Simon; did your father question you over your failure to return home last night?”
“No. I sneaked in and successfully avoided him seeing me so that when he called me, it was as if I had been asleep in my own bed all night.”
“Do you think he would have been angry if he had known that you had stayed out?”
“Probably not angry ... more surprised.”
“Pleasantly surprised?”
“That would depend on who he thought I was with.”
“I take it that he doesn’t know then.”
“No ... Does yours?”
“I would say on the basis that he never mentions anything that he knows but chooses to say nothing for fear of embarrassment.”
“We have a tacit agreement that neither of us does anything to upset Mother ...”
“Understandable.”
“But not very fair.”
“Will you be able to stay over again tonight?”
“I see no reason why not.”
Basking in the prospect, neither was wholly aware of the fact that several other people had just come into the steam room. That was until one of the men spoke and asked his companion a question. Then it was apparent that it was Benjamin and Pierre who had walked in. Simon raised his head and caught their attention.
“Simon?”
“Yes; it is me, Pierre.”
“An afternoon off?”
“Yes; Clamence and I decided we needed a break.”
“Clamence? ... Clamence Ardennes?” Benjamin queried.
“Yes ...”
“I didn’t realise that you knew each other that well,” questioned Benjamin, adding, “He has a fine arse on him.”
“Do I?” Clamence queried without even raising his head.
Embarrassed silence descended; a silence only broken by the occasional knocking of the hot water pipes.
“Clamence; have you had enough? I need to get back.”
“Yes ...”
Simon got up from his bench and took a few steps towards the exit. Clamence stepped down from his perch.
“I need some shoes repaired, Clamence ...”
“Bring them in tomorrow, Benjamin, and I’ll take a look.”
With that, Clamence and Simon escaped and, after a plunge in the cold pool, returned to the changing cabinets to grab their towels before heading to the shower room.
“A fine arse indeed!” Simon announced, mimicking Benjamin’s accent, flicking his towel at the pair of naked mounds as they jostled in front of him, which he thought resembled perfect, pink sugar frosted meringues.
“Stop it! He was trying to rile you.”
“He damned near succeeded ... I had a good mind to tell him the score.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should never be said in the heat of the moment; we always say things we regret in the heat of the moment.”
“I don’t know that I would regret that.”
“If that is true then tell your parents first.”
“Humpf ... Yes; but he said it to rile me.”
“Then the next opportunity you get, knock his block off ...”
After showering side-by-side, getting as close as they dared, they towelled off and got dressed just as Benjamin and Pierre entered the changing area, carrying their towels over their shoulders, displaying their ample equipment for all to see.
“Is my arse not as fine as his, Simon?” quipped Benjamin, clearing intent on causing a scene of some kind.
“At least as fine, I’m sure ... and with the added advantage that you can speak out of yours-”
“Watch it!”
Benjamin stepped forward threateningly and it was only Pierre’s timely intervention that prevented a scuffle.
Clamence and Simon left the changing room, followed by a flock of insults, all of which were designed to rile Simon.
“Damn him!”
“Simon; stay calm. What is he to you?”
“He is nothing to me.”
“Then ignore him.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“If we’re not careful, he’s going to have ruined the afternoon, which was no doubt his objective ... Let’s have some tea and talk about the weekend.”
“I don’t feel like tea now - in any event, Father will need my help to close up. I’ll be seeing you, Clamence.”
“Simon!”
By it did no good and Simon stomped off, leaving Clamence alone outside the baths, wondering whether or not he should run after him.
“Damn that imbecile!”
Meaning Benjamin, not Simon but he had to question why Simon had reacted quite so badly. He went home and, having some rare free time, he changed his clothes and went to the garage at the back of the shop to do some work on the car.
The car - a Jaguar XK120 - was disassembled to the point of unrecognizability; only the chassis gave the game away. For the next hour, he ground valve seats and then gave his attention to the sanding and polishing of the ash wood frame that was on the jig ahead of the delivery of the newly painted body tub which was coming from Duval’s within the next month.
Only once the light in the workshop was too dim to see to do anything properly did Clamence shut up shop and go back to the appartement, only then remembering that he had promised to cook dinner. By then, it was gone nine o’clock.
Presuming that Simon had arrived and then left when he had received no answer or hadn’t bothered at all, Clamence was surprised when he heard a rap on the rear door.
“Simon!”
“I’m sorry; I was very rude and I came to apologise ...”
“Come in then! I forgot all about dinner; are you hungry?”
“The furthest from hungry but I could murder a cup of tea and a slice of cheese on toast.”
“Sit down. I was working on the car and lost all track of time.”
“It took longer than usual to settle Mother ... I’m sorry for leaving you like that.”
“I understand ... but you can’t let him get to you.”
“What if he had said the same to you?”
“Knowing he was just trying to rile me, I would have ignored him.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Then why not come clean?”
“As I said before, I have agreed to do nothing to upset Mother ...”
“And do you think she would be upset?”
“Almost certainly ... I do not know how Father would react - not well, I am sure of that.”
Clamence busied himself with the tea and the cheese on toast. When he handed over the tea, he said, “I would be prepared to say something to my father if you wanted to come clean ...”
“You would?”
“Yes. Hang it! I hate not being able to be honest about who I am and how I feel towards you.”
“But we only made our own feelings known yesterday, Clam.”
“Be that as it may ...”
Did he admit to harbouring such desires and hopes for at least six months? Having repressed his attraction - in fact, everything - for almost ten years, he had to agree with himself; Simon was like a pebble dropped into a pond. The ripples were fairly well undoing his seams.
“I can’t risk it. If Mother has a relapse, the doctor says there is nothing more he can do.”
“Then I suppose we have to suck it up and make the best of it.”
“It’s so unfair!”
They ate in silence.
“Can you stay tonight?” Clamence asked.
“Yes, if you want me to.”
“I do ... My father is back at the weekend and then our opportunities will be severely limited.”
“Best we make the most of it then ... My mood is frayed.”
“Let me make you feel better ...”
Abandoning the kitchen, Clamence led Simon to his room, where he undressed him slowly, peppering his skin with a thousand tiny butterfly wing soft kisses as he did so, reserving the longest and sweetest until last when he tugged Simon’s underwear down to his feet, promptly enveloping the proud ramrod, sucking hard until Simon melted and crawled onto the bed with welcoming arms. Clamence hoisted his legs and feasted on the twin mounds that held between them a gem of a hole, which he licked and probed until Simon was clawing at his shoulders and groaning like a man suffering all manner of tortures.
“Clam!”
“Did you like it?”
“Never ... never have I felt so utterly consumed and at the mercy of my senses ... my ring is throbbing - take me!”
Well-lubed, Clamence speared his quarry and thrust like a Spartan, never once slowing, and all the while, pinching Simon’s pale little buds until they looked like bright red rosettes pinned to the proud chest of a Lipizzano.
“Clam! I’m cumming,” announced Simon as he beat off in time with the thrusts.
“Hold on; I’m almost there - God in Heaven! Here it comes!”
They both clenched; held in stasis as if they were frozen, painting a portrait of some mythical beast in its death throes; the hero with his sword poised for the fatal blow; mouths agape and eyes rolling.
Simon felt his cock swell and his balls contract before the stream of hot spunk flew from the end of his dick in all directions, splattering them both. Clam was a heartbeat behind, and then he too pumped out his load, crumbling with each spasm until he could not bear his own weight on his arms and collapsed into Simon’s embrace. Their mouths locked on and they kissed long and deep.
oOo
Clamence was waiting for Simon to return from the bathroom. Looking up at the ceiling, he was trying to imagine a life together if only they could summon up the courage to come clean and out themselves.
“A penny for them ...”
“Maybe one day it will all be different and we can be together and live our lives just like everyone else ...”
“You strike me as a patient man but I think even you would give up.”
“Snatched kisses and fucks in dark corners ... that would kill me now.”
“Perhaps it is better that we don’t see each other then ...”
“Seriously?”
“It will be torment, knowing how close you are but unable to do a thing about it.”
“It would kill me but I am prepared to try.”
“I don’t think I can ...”
Unwilling to discuss it, Clamence turned out the bedside light and snuggled up.
“Goodnight, Simon ...”
“Goodnight ...”
Of course, neither could sleep.
“Are you awake, Clam?”
“Yes ...”
“I’m sorry ...”
“Don’t apologise ... neither of us is to blame.”
Turning onto his side and propping his head up on his arm, Simon looked down on Clamence, who still had his eyes closed, and twirled the wild chestnut brown locks about his fingers, teasing out individual curls, pulling them like springs to let them go and watch them bounce.
“You have beautiful hair ...”
“I like yours better ...”
“I have to go to church before we can go rowing on Sunday ...”
“My father is back at about five o’clock ...”
“Tomorrow is Thursday ...”
“And?”
“I was just reminding myself ... What will you say to Benjamin when he comes in tomorrow?”
“Nothing in particular ... It rather depends on what he says to me. If he bad-mouths you, I will defend you of course.”
“Without giving the game away.”
“Yes, despite the fact that the other night you said that you didn’t care what he thought ... You said that you had sucked his cock; maybe he remembers.”
“It was ten years ago.”
“Hardly the sort of thing that someone is going to forget.”
“Do you think he feels guilty or is it possible that in some strange way, he was trying to say something?”
“Bravado to mask his true feelings ... hardly original but it could have been.”
“Perhaps to put Pierre off the scent ...”
“He doesn’t strike me as the naïve sort.”
“Even more reason for Benjamin to be careful ... and he had the date with Marie.”
“Who he has no respect for ...”
“He doesn’t suspect you, Clam; that much is obvious.”
“He has no ammunition so he’s firing blanks ...”
It started as a smirk, which grew into a chuckle, and ended in a fit of laughter that brought tears to their eyes.
“Unlike us!” Clamence finally announced.
Flicking his eyes to the clock, which told him that it was nearly one a.m., Clamence spooned up and planted a kiss between Simon’s shoulders. “Go to sleep ...”
Folding Clamence’s arms across his chest, Simon settled. “Goodnight ...”
Half asleep and half awake, Clamence was vaguely aware of Simon’s hand gripping him and guiding him into his still slick hole. With some shuffling about, he found himself buried to the hilt in Simon’s arse.
When it was clear that Simon was not going to say anything, Clamence hugged him tighter and buried his face into the back of his neck, stealing one more kiss before he finally dropped off.
oOo
“Where is your father, Clamence?”
“In Avignon, visiting my aunt ... Were those the shoes?”
“Yes ... the heels are terribly worn down and the soles need patching ... Can you do them today?”
“I should be able to; call back just before I close up.”
“You ought to be careful about hanging around Simon ...”
“Why? He’s a decent sort and pays his way.”
“He works hard ... I didn’t mean that.”
“What did you mean?”
“Do I really need to spell it out?”
“Well; it’s obvious from what you said at the baths that you think he’s queer.”
“I believe he is ... I saw you two the other night, coming from the bar. He had his arm though yours ...”
“We were drunk, Benjamin ... hardly a crime.”
“Whose idea was it to go swimming?”
“His from memory ... Do I take that to mean that you think he invited me so that he could sneak a peek?”
“Well; didn’t he?”
“Probably ... just as you and Pierre did no doubt ... and you had no problem with remaining uncovered in the steam room or in the changing room.”
“If he had laid a finger on me, I would have dashed his brains out.”
“Why are you concerned, Benjamin? I am well able to look after myself.”
“All I am saying is ... be careful.”
With which, Benjamin left, leaving Clamence convinced that Benjamin was trying to put everyone off the scent. And perhaps, having seen them together, he was worried that Simon might have mentioned the camping trip and all of this was the product of his paranoia.
“The amount of time he spends with Pierre, and the shocking way he treats his girlfriends, one would have to wonder ...”
Such thoughts, but mostly the prospect of showing Simon the car that evening, carried him along for the most part. At four o’clock, with all of the orders completed and bagged up ready for collection, he spent an hour in the rear workroom at his makeshift design table, working on a design of a new kind of engine.
He did not hear Benjamin come in at five o’clock nor his shout of, “Shop!”
Benjamin’s appearance at the door to the room startled him.
“I did call out.”
“Sorry; you startled me.”
“What are you working on?”
“A design for a new type of engine - well; not so much the engine but a forced induction system to increase power and torque.”
“May I see?”
“Of course ...”
Benjamin stepped up to the back of Clamence’s chair and leant over.
“A traditional supercharger takes energy from the engine to produce energy; contrast that with a turbocharger which uses exhaust gases but suffers lag ... this twincharger attempts to overcome the weaknesses of both ... I am having some issues with the design of the diverter valve ...”
“I never realised that you were so mechanically minded.”
“I hope to build a prototype and fit it to the Jaguar ... Your shoes are ready.”
“Thank you ...”
Clamence pushed back from the desk and stood up. However, Benjamin remained close, forcing Clamence to move awkwardly to avoid touching him.
“Simon is using you; you realise that, don’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“He’s a predator ... I’ve seen him do it before.”
Skirting around the other man, Clamence tried to edge towards the doorway. Benjamin moved slightly to one side, effectively blocking his path.
“Simon is a friend of mine - nothing more.”
“I could tell you some things-”
“Please, Benjamin ... I have to lock up now.”
“If you’re afraid of him, I could have words ...”
“Benjamin; Simon is perfectly civil and amiable towards me. If anyone is frightening me, it’s you by not letting me pass. Please take your shoes and leave.”
Benjamin took another step forward. Clamence could smell the alcohol on his breath and was overtaken by the sensation of all his blood rushing to his stomach. Cold beads of sweat formed and ran down his back, making him shudder despite his efforts to remain calm.
“I like you, Clamence-”
“Benj-”
Benjamin lunged and grabbed Clamence by the lapels, pulling him close enough that their lips were barely an inch apart.
“Say the word and I’ll deal with him ... and anytime you want the company of a real man, just let me know ... Ciao!”
Pushing Clamence back, Benjamin left smartly. He threw some coins on the counter and grabbed his shoes on the way out, slamming the door.
Clamence could not move for a few minutes; not until his heart had stopped thumping in his chest and he could breathe calmly. Straightening up, he moved quickly to the shop door, turned the key and flipped the sign, immediately pressing his back up against the cool glass.
“What in the Devil’s name?”
When his legs and hands had stopped shaking, he went to the washroom at the back of the shop and bathed his face in cold water.
A rap at the door made his heart stop.
It was Simon.
“I am so glad you are here ...” and Clamence went on to recount the incident.
“What demon torments him? And only on my way here, Pierre stopped me and asked me if I had seen him.”
“He had been drinking ... his eyes were wild and I was truly afraid.”
“If he had touched a hair-”
“Simon ... can we not speak of violence ... just hold me ...”
He did for a good long while.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
Simon kissed him and straightened his tie.
“Did you still want to show me the car? I perfectly understand if you just want to go home.”
“No; I would like to show you the car ...”
They exited the rear of the shop and crossed the courtyard.
“I hope you’re not too disappointed; it is currently just a pile of bits.”
“I have never seen a car dismantled ...”
Clamence flipped the light switch.
“I have a lot of work to do ... Duval’s delivers the body back by the end of the month, they say. By then, I would like to have reassembled the chassis, the framing and the drivetrain. My father has offered to help with the reupholstering ...”
“I asked Father to speak to one of the salesmen to see if we can’t get the bulbs for you; he assures me that it should be fairly easy.”
“By the end of the summer, when my father closes for a week and takes his vacation proper, I would like to have her ready and drive down to the coast ...”
“Was that an invitation?”
Clamence stole a glance, grinning boyishly.
“Would you? I mean; could you get the time off?”
“I could ask ...”
The remaining clouds were driven away by the feeling that welled up between them.
“What about dinner tonight, Clam?”
“I would prefer to cook at home. I really don’t want to bump into Benjamin this evening.”
“Agreed. Was there work on the car that you wished to do tonight? I am willing to help.”
“Well; if you don’t mind. I would like to finish the sanding of the ash frame if you could start painting the chassis.”
“Lead on!”
They worked for about three hours; in the process, getting filthy dirty.
“Thank you!”
“Don’t mention it.”
“You can have a bath at my place.”
“Was that an invitation?”
“Yes; to get clean, Simon ... if only to get dirty all over again ...”
They quickly tidied up and strode back to the appartement.
“One of my customers gave me a small chicken in exchange for mending his boots. I propose to roast it while we take a bath. How does that sound?”
“If you plan to stuff it with sage and onion and baste it with butter, I would say I was in seventh Heaven.”
“They do say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach ...”
“Get the bird in the oven and I’ll show you a quicker way ...”
Blushing madly and smiling broadly, Clamence prepared the bird as Simon drew a bath.
“One hour ... I threw some spuds in the pan too.”
“Yorkshire pudding?”
“No, but I do have some red wine gravy ...”
“Even better ... Lean forward and I will wash your back ...”
Clamence could not remember the last time anyone had bathed him - probably his mother when he was a boy. He found it amazingly relaxing.
“Did Pierre say anything else to you, Simon?”
“He apologised for his and Benjamin’s behaviour at the baths ...”
“Really? I wonder he hangs around with him.”
“I think he borrows his confidence from Benjamin ... it was just the same at school.”
“Ten years on?”
“Maybe he’s frightened to let go ...”
“I can understand that ... I’ve buried myself in the shop and tinkered with the car for much the same reason.”
“Me too ... but not now.”
“Do I give you confidence?”
“Yes ...”
Clamence quirked his mouth. No one had ever said that before. He was about to ask how when Simon dumped a pitcher of water over his head to wash away the suds, and he got a mouthful of soap.
“Rotter!”
“Pah!”
When their skins began to prune and the soap scum had formed a tide mark around the bath an inch wide, they got out to towel off.
“I’m starving!” Simon announced.
“Me too; I skipped lunch to finish all of the repairs by four to give myself an hour at the design table.”
“Maybe you could go to an evening class ...”
“There are classes but you need a University degree to really get on.”
“What about working for an engineer to get the training?”
“I would have to work for practically nothing ...”
“I see the issue ... I don’t need a degree to work in fashion but I need something I simply do not know how to get.”
“What?
“A CV ... no one is going to take me seriously until I have some credentials.”
“Seems that neither of us can have what we want unless we are prepared to starve to death, and even then, there is no guarantee.”
“Canaries in a cage whom no one listens to ...”
“Come on! Let’s not get maudlin. And I can smell the roast ...”
They dined royally and in the process, dispelled the gloom that threatened to eclipse the prospects of the night ahead and the following two nights plus the trip to the river.
oOo
“You smell of amber ...”
“You smell of need, Simon.”
“I have never leaked so much!”
“Stick it in me!”
“I won’t need any lube tonight; my bird is self-basting!”
“Fool!”
In having watched Clamence sand the frame and in so doing, get all hot and sweaty, and in sneakily enjoying the spectacle of him removing his shirt, leaving his vest on but oh what delights that had whispered of as the sweat and grime had painted the pale canvas with arrows, marking the treasure troves, Simon was tortured by the feelings of lust that did not ever seem to now go away. Even as they ate, he had blatantly feasted on the sight of the juices running down Clamence’s chin - juices he had licked up, needing no invitation or encouragement. Cleaving those firm, buttery mounds with his hot knife, he feared he would not last more than a few minutes. The prospect of shooting his seed deep into the furrow made him even harder than usual. He bit down on Clamence’s shoulder and banged away, trying to delay the onset of his release but it proved useless. He pumped out his load in under five minutes.
“I wish I could have lasted forever ...”
“I couldn’t have taken it; I feel ready to explode. I am seeing stars and they are rushing away from me.”
“I am in Heaven ...”
They flung themselves down onto their backs, side-by-side, still catching their breath.
“I do not know how I meant to go back to the way it was before ... When I felt the urge, perhaps catching the whiff of some road worker’s sweat, I would hammer the nails in the shoes that much harder. Many a blood blister I have had, I can tell you,” admitted Clamence.
“I would go to the top of the big ladder and close my eyes, hoping fear would eclipse the feelings. Once I toppled and pulled a chandelier down with me ... Father was not very amused, to say the least.”
“After my father comes back, I must see you every day ... You could help with the car; my father leaves the garage well alone for fear of kicking something over or upsetting the jig.”
“I will fit new lights ... Yes; every day ... Even for a minute will be better than nothing.”
“And Sunday afternoons on the river ... and swimming once a week.”
“I suppose we will manage ...”
“We will ... until things are different. I can wait if I know that you are waiting for me.”
“And a holiday to boot!”
The future then did not seem so bleak and they curled up together after whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ear before turning out the light.
oOo
Clamence got up early, kicked Simon out, and cleaned the house, knowing that there would be precious little chance over the course of the weekend. He bundled up the laundry and took it to the place that he and his father always used - apparently, the old woman who ran the place used to be his mother’s ex-music teacher, who, having fallen on hard times, washed clothes and darned socks.
When he got to the shop, keys jangling in his hand, Simon was waiting.
“Simon?”
“Something terrible has happened.”
“What? You look like you have seen a ghost.”
“Let’s go in; I hope you have some brandy.”
Once inside, keeping the door locked and the ‘closed’ sign up, Clamence fetched a small brandy for Simon, who was seated at the counter.
“Whatever is the matter, Simon?”
“Benjamin killed Pierre ... in the Square ... knifed him in the guts ... there is blood all over the pavement.”
“When did this happen?”
“Not half an hour ago. Father sent me to get the baguettes for the weekend. I turned the corner and found the Square in chaos.”
“Who told you what happened?”
“Frederick; he saw it all and Pierre being carried off by the ambulance and the police taking Benjamin away in a black van.”
“Whatever possessed him?”
“Some demon ... Pierre toppled into the fountain, Frederick said, and the water turned pink and looked like the soda machine at Franelli’s ... it’s just horrible to think about. After he threw the knife in after him, Benjamin just sank to the ground, howling until the police arrived.”
Comforting Simon, Clamence had some dreadful thoughts about what might have been, and he took a swig of the brandy himself.
“D-do y-you think he had the knife on him when he came yesterday?”
“Don’t even think about it, Clam ... But why? Pierre was his best friend ...”
Several customers tried the door and, finding it locked, walked away.
“I have to open up, Simon. Sit in the back if you want.”
“No; thank you. I will go home and tell Father ... No doubt he will speak to Michael at lunchtime.”
“Michael the magistrate?”
“Yes; they are friends ...”
“Come by later, yes?”
“Yes, I will. I suppose we should be grateful that it wasn’t either you or I. How terrible for Pierre’s mother and father.”
“Try not to dwell on it, Simon ...”
Simon left, still shaken but with colour in his cheeks. Clamence opened the shop and waited for the first customer, knowing that the news would have spread like wildfire and he’d hear of it repeatedly throughout the day.
He did, and he was also inundated with questions from those who assumed that he knew Benjamin and Pierre well.
By lunchtime, he wondered if he shouldn’t go to the police station and tell them about Benjamin’s visit the previous evening. Resolved to do so, he closed up but bumped into Simon outside.
“I think I ought to tell the police that Benjamin came here yesterday and was threating to harm you.”
“But what if they ask why? Someone may jump to the wrong conclusion.”
“Damn; I didn’t think of that. And they may wonder why I waited ... and we do not know what Benjamin himself has said.”
“Do nothing and say nothing. No one could have predicted what he was going to do.”
“What if I had said something last night? Perhaps Pierre would still be alive-”
“Don’t say that; you couldn’t possibly have known what he was going to do, and certainly not to Pierre.”
“This is just terrible.”
“Close the shop. Father has closed up.”
“It’s true that most of the customers this morning only wanted to gossip.”
Clamence closed the shop and they went to the appartement by way of the launderette.
Marie was in the back, being comforted by her mother who worked the afternoon shift.
The old woman, whose name was Geraldine, said on the quiet, “Benjamin accused her of seeing Pierre behind his back ... she denied it of course but, seemingly, he didn’t believe her.”
The men left and hurried back to the flat.
“Will that be the end of it, Simon?”
“In a way, I hope so - poor Marie.”
“And Pierre barely a man and only just starting out on life’s journey ... and Benjamin will be sent away for the rest of his life ... it’s truly tragic.”
Neither could settle and in the end, they went to the river for a walk under the willows, taking the radio with them so that they could sit and listen to the orchestral music hour.
oOo
When the programme had finished, Clamence got ready to get up. Simon placed his hand on Clamence’s arm.
“I have come to a decision, Clamence ...”
“Yes?”
“I am going to tell Father and Mother how things stand between us ... as long as you agree ...”
“But ... but why the change of heart?”
“What if he had knifed you or me ... I should have never had the chance to say all the things that my heart is practising even as we sit here ... I cannot, absolutely cannot, bear the thought of not sharing everything with you before it is too late ... One never knows what is going to happen ...”
“Simon ... Are you absolutely sure? What about your mother?”
“I will tell Father first and he can perhaps work out the best way of breaking the news. We may have to be discrete for a while longer for her sake ... but I want it to be known that you are mine ... that is ... if I am yours.”
“Yours? Forever and always, Simon ...”
“I could cry ...”
“Me too ...”
“Let’s go back ...”
oOo
“Some strategy is called for when it comes to our fathers, Simon.”
“Agreed. Father is terribly dour as a rule - a real dry old stick. I don’t know how to approach him.”
“Perhaps, given that mine is a little more jovial, especially after he has enjoyed his sister’s hospitality, I will tell him and ask him to speak to yours ... That might work.”
“What if he flies into a rage or kicks you out?”
“I don’t think he will. Since my mother died, we have been everything to each other - he says that I remind him of her too much sometimes ... he is a good man ... not that it won’t be a shock but one he will get over, I am sure of it ...”
“Let’s hope so and let’s hope he agrees to talk to Father. What he tells Mother, God alone knows.”
“When, Simon?”
“Next week, I suppose ... but there will no doubt be the funeral next week ... that’ll put the mockers on it for a few days ... The following week, on the Wednesday, when you close for the half-day.”
“Agreed ... Are we sure?”
“I am positive ... But what if it goes badly?”
“We’ll pack our bags, take the money out of our accounts and go to Marseille to look for digs and find jobs, even if it’s cleaning the streets or gutting fish on the quayside.”
“You make it sound so exciting and romantic.”
“I would rather stay here but that is what I will do.”
“If it comes to it, I’ll do it ... together!”
“Together ... Now get into bed, Simon ...”
oOo
Saturday was the busiest day of the week for both shops, and the men did not see each after they parted company at breakfast. As they had parted in the morning, they had agreed to meet at seven o’clock at the theatre bar for a drink and some tapas before watching a play - Le Malentendu by Camus - that involved a friend of Simon’s, who had given him a couple of complimentary tickets when Simon had told him how much Clamence admired the author’s work.
After a shower, and an agonising half hour over the decision as to what to wear, they both headed out and met up at the bar. Clamence was slightly ahead and had already grabbed a table and ordered some wine.
“Sorry I’m late, Clam.”
“I haven’t been here long.”
“Father always insists on reorganising the window display on a Saturday - granted, we had an exceptionally profitable day ... How about you?”
“Nothing exceptional - that said, I was grateful for the fact that very few of the patrons felt the need to discuss recent events ... Every time I think about it, a cold tongue licks my spine.”
“Well; a warm one later will hopefully make things right-”
“Shush! Cheers by the way.”
“Cheers!”
They grabbed the waiter and ordered a selection of tapas with bread and olives, busying themselves with the plans the following day to go rowing.
“I have to go to church first, Clam.”
“Me too given the circumstances ... Can you skip lunch and be at the rowing club by one o’clock?”
“Yes. What should we wear?”
“Something you don’t mind getting wet!”
“I have no intention of falling in ... but you’re sensible to recommend it.”
“I have to be home by four-thirty, in time to make the tea for my father and answer a thousand questions on the business - you would think we were stock brokers.”
Mention of ‘father’ reminded them both of the plan.
“Are we still resolved, Clam?”
“Yes. It sounds ridiculous but I wonder why we have waited so long ... Why should it have taken something like a death to bring us to our senses?”
“I agree with you ... It is still a daunting prospect.”
“I meant to ask you, Simon; did your father meet with Michael, and if he did, what did he say?”
“I know they met because Michael came by the shop at lunchtime and picked him up ... If they discussed it, Father is obviously keeping schtum ... and he asked me nothing but then Frederick was the one who saw everything.”
“I cannot imagine going to prison ... He must be terrified.”
“La Santé ... the very name makes my blood go cold.”
They both took a few minutes of quiet reflection before digging into the food. With just enough time for a coffee before the bell rang, they took a café serre and treated themselves to a cigarillo before making their way into the theatre and finding their seats.
Simon’s friend had secured them seats in the second row.
“I do hope you enjoy this,” whispered Simon.
“I have read the play ... it is rather dark and disturbing.”
“Maybe not the best choice in the circumstances.”
“We can leave at the interval if it gets too much ...”
The performance began. Clamence, more than Simon, was spellbound, having precious few opportunities to go to the theatre, especially to see Camus’ work.
At the interval between acts one and two, they exited for a soda.
“I thought it was a little absurd that neither the man’s mother nor his sister recognised him, even after twenty years,” Simon suggested.
“Perhaps ... but assuming he was much changed, it is an interesting idea ... to observe those we knew after such a long time to see how they really tick.”
“Cold-blooded murderers - brrr!”
“Is it the idea of murder or that they are women?”
“Probably both ...”
They re-took their seats once the bell sounded.
“I want to shout out ‘They’re going to kill you, you fool!’ ...”
“Resist the urge, Simon ... I want to see how they deal with the revelation ...”
The performance resumed and Clamence was transfixed by the scenes as they unfolded. With no interval between acts two and three, it wasn’t until after the play had ended that they had a chance to discuss it.
“His mother was so cold when she found out that she’d murdered her son - so cold!”
“The sister grieves for her mother, who committed suicide, but shows no grief for having killed her own brother ... and just for the money. I could understand if it was for love ...”
They sauntered home, oddly elated at having indulged in some culture for a change, but also oddly quiet. It wasn’t until they were getting ready for bed that Simon said, “I suppose Benjamin killed for love ...”
“Did he?”
“You heard what the woman said ...”
“If it was for love then it seems like the wrong kind of love ... more like he was treating Marie as a possession.”
“Do you believe he did it because Pierre and she went behind his back?” Simon asked.
“I don’t know ... I suppose so ... What other reason could there be?”
“He was tormented but I have to say I don’t think it was that.”
“What then?”
“Maybe he made an advance on Pierre and Pierre rejected him ... or even threatened to out him.”
“Or Pierre made the advance and Benjamin reacted badly, probably through fear ...”
“Perhaps we’ll never know ...”
Clamence climbed into bed while Simon went to clean his teeth. When he returned, Clamence said, “If he killed Pierre because he was afraid either way, I do not want to be afraid.”
“How do we stop ourselves from being afraid?”
“We have to have faith ...”
“And where do we find faith?”
“In loving and being loved ...”
Epilogue
“What did they say?”
“They said they would employ me for one season to see how it went ... Oh, Clam! One season at L’Opera ... Can you imagine?”
“I am so happy for you.”
“We must celebrate tonight. A champagne supper at Folie’s, yes?”
“Yes ... I have news too-”
“What? Did the letter come? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Slow down! It came by the second post after you had left ... I have an interview with Haricourt’s next week.”
“Whoa!”
“Yes ...”
“Oh my God ...”
“And that’s not the best of it.”
“What else?”
“The American wants to see the car ... in Nice ...”
“Nice!!”
“In two weeks’ time ... just time to buy a new bathing costume ...”
“I can make us new suits ...”
“Make them tuxedos because we are staying at the Westminster ... at his expense.”
“Oh, Clam ... Have you told your father?”
“I told him straightaway-”
“What did he say?”
“He said he was very proud of me ... and he mentioned something to do with making some changes to our living arrangements ...”
“Seriously?”
“He hinted that he could make the studio over the shop habitable again ...”
“It would beat sleeping on the floor of the garage ...”
“They will come round, Simon ... just give them time.”
By Alp Mortal
Succeeding for the most part in avoiding the dust that could have marred the shine of his shoes, which had taken more than an hour to polish to a mirror finish, he stepped confidently along the main drag towards the place of the planned rendezvous - the fountain. Stopping to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the window of the shop where he worked, which although risky was worth it for a quick peek, he checked his tie. His eyes struggled to focus on his reflection as they were drawn to the myriad lampshades and the constellations of dazzling bulbs - it was as if he were looking inside the cosmos itself.
Beyond the window display, through a gap in the arrangement, he had the slimmest and briefest of views of the man who rode up and down the ladder all day to dust the shades and change the bulbs. Suddenly and uncomfortably aware of the man’s gaze, which seemed both angry and yet coy at the same time, he dropped his eyes to the bouquet of the tulips that he held in his hand, willing them to swallow him up and save him from his present embarrassment. They didn’t and he hurried away, struggling on against the feeling that he had probably ruined his chances. He made his way to the Square.
In finding Benjamin at the fountain, his heart sank like a stone, especially when he saw Marie’s familiar silhouette over Benjamin’s shoulder as she too made her way towards the fountain. What cruelty was this that he had to witness a young couple in love play out the scene for what felt like his benefit alone? Was it not enough that he had spent weeks practising asking the question so that it would sound as ordinary and as familiar as if he were enquiring after the time or the way to the station? There could be no witnesses; the plot called for no witnesses!
She reached him first, kissed his cheek and removed a stray, perhaps an imaginary hair from his lapel before slipping her arm in his and allowed him to guide her towards the cinema. Walking through the airspace, he could still detect the faint traces of cologne and the woody vapours of Benjamin’s hand-blended tobacco mix. Her cheap perfume provided the loudest of exclamation points. Stop! Yes; he had no strength to walk further than the bench, where he sat down, to wilt in the heat much like the tulips. He tossed them in the fountain, hoping to save something out of the experience. Confidence was such a transitory thing; like a kite made of tissue paper - one strong gust of wind and the thing lay in tatters.
For want of better employment, he examined the toes of his shoes and noticed a fresh scratch.
“Damn!”
“Sorry?”
He looked up to find the man from the shop, standing a little way off, staring at him.
“I’ve scratched my shoe.”
Letting his eyes fall to the shoes, the man asked, “Who were the flowers for?”
“No one; I was just carrying them because they looked especially pretty.”
He could not admit to the truth; even just the sight of the man’s freshly scrubbed hands robbed him of his resolve.
“Do you like jazz? There’s a new quartet playing at Nymphaea tonight.”
He knew it. Patience and observation had provided the information - always a drink at a bar after work if there was live jazz.
“I love jazz ...” he lied, hoping it wasn’t too modern.
Lifting his head, the man said, “My name’s Simon.”
“I know; we used to attend the same school. I’m Clamence ...”
“I see you sometimes ... Shall we go then?”
“Yes ... Do you like stars?”
“Yes ...”
“Is that why you work in the lighting shop?”
“No; my father expects me to carry on the business after he is gone. What does your father expect?”
“The same ... repairing shoes is in our soul ... Sorry; one of my father’s pathetic jokes.”
“So the scratch will soon be just a memory ...”
“He used to make me wear a sandwich board and walk up and down the street to attract business ...”
“I remember. The boys used to throw stones at you and try and hit the board while your back was turned ...”
“I remember that ...” He moved his collar to one side and exhibited a scar on his neck, adding, “... he ceased to make me do it after that ... My mother was angrier that my shirt was ruined ...”
They walked to the bar. Simon guided them as it was one that Clamence did not know very well.
On the approach, he remembered the one. It was the one with the counter that was covered in zinc. The edge reflected the red stop lights of the cars in the street and resembled an odd kind of thermometer, which in a way it was. And the bar, if the newspaper article could be believed, where a man, a young man, was sat drinking in an effort to forget the fact that he had married the wrong girl; a girl he had gotten pregnant. The story went that he got drunk and the proprietor threw him out when he insulted a prostitute. He stumbled outside and into the path of a bus and was killed instantly. It was the same bus that bore his wife who was in the throes of labour; she was, apparently, attempting to reach the hospital to give birth to their first child, having waited for her husband to return but having panicked when her waters broke. When she saw his dead face staring up at her through the window, she collapsed and aborted the child. A doctor, who had lately come from a long operation to replace a great politician’s heart, was on hand and delivered the child and breathed life into its fragile lungs. He married the woman and adopted the child.
No one was entirely convinced that the story was true because the papers printed such bizarre rubbish nowadays.
Taking seats near the little stage, they arranged their cigarettes and lighters on the table like battleships and, once the waiter had brought a pichet of the decent red, they raised a toast to their good health.
He found the music melancholy unlike Simon who thought it ‘just the thing’. Leaving the bar, a little inebriated it was true, they linked arms for the walk back. Just past the fountain, they encountered Benjamin and Marie, also walking together but straight-backed and barely touching. From the snatches of their conversation, it was clear that she was upset and angry. Apparently, Benjamin had flirted with the usherette.
“He threw the stone that cut your neck ...”
“I always thought it had to be Pierre because he always avoided me from that time on.”
“I think it was because he loved you.”
“Which seems like a poor reason to avoid someone.”
“Really?”
Clamence blushed, wondering if his ruse had been as easy to see through as tissue paper.
At the street door of his appartement, garnering all of his forces, he kissed Simon sweetly on the cheek and bade him goodnight but not before extracting a promise that they would do lunch the following day.
“Shall we rebel and take the afternoon off?”
Clamence was slow to reply and Simon added, “Only if you want to of course ...”
“Be careful; once I have the measure of the rebel inside me, there is no end to the rebellion that I may cause on the outside of me.”
“From that, I gather you read Camus?”
“Devour Camus would be more accurate. Do you read?”
“Nothing or anyone so profound ... “
In perhaps an act of rebellion, possibly as a trial run, Clamence stepped up and kissed Simon on the mouth; only to be enveloped in the other man’s arms and crushed to his chest while their lips were pressed together.
“The appartement is empty; my father has gone to Avignon to see my aunt,” Clamence announced once they broke off.
“This rebellion could lead to an outright revolt!”
Clamence let them in.
“Why did you feign ignorance of who I was when you saw me by the fountain?”
“I thought you would remember me, the incident, and I thought perhaps you had always believed that it was I who had lobbed the stone.”
“I never believed it was you.”
“It could never have been me ...”
“But you were there.”
“I mean; I was not capable. Sure; I ranted like the rest and ran away with the others but only because I did not want Benjamin to think that I was a ninny.”
“What will he think of you now?”
“I honestly don’t care ...”
Inside the appartement, they rapidly undressed and slid in under the blankets, immediately launching into an oral attack and counter-attack until they were breathless and heady.
Simon manoeuvred Clamence into position, wanting to fuck first.
“What are those ridges across the lower part of your back?”
“My father whipped me that day because I cried.”
“That sounds pretty savage.”
“Not half as savage as I hope you fuck me ...”
It was a spirited attempt but marred by the alcohol.
“I can always try again later ... if you want me to stay.”
“Won’t your father wonder where you are?”
“If he follows the usual pattern for the evening, by now, he will be slumped over his workbench, having spent hours soldering wires. He hardly notices if I am there or not.”
“What about your mother?”
“She suffers a malady that confines her to her bed for the best part of the day and night.”
“What kind of malady?”
“A kind of mental fatigue ... I suppose one says depression these days but the very word makes me depressed.”
“Lie on your stomach and open your legs ...”
Simon complied, albeit feeling tense at the prospect of being speared by the healthy member that Clamence seemed, in his opinion, to be perfectly ignorant of despite the fact that it was at least eight inches long and as fat as his wrist.
“Lube up well; you’re liable to do me an injury otherwise.”
“What are those marks across your lower back?”
“Benjamin and Pierre beat me when I refused to take a piss against the board while it was resting against the wall outside the shop.”
“So your fear of being called a ninny did ultimately disappear then?”
“I realised that being called a ninny was nothing like as hurtful as knowing that you had been mean.”
“But for the sake of a piss, you got beaten and scarred ...”
“Does that sound absurd?”
“No ... noble and possibly rebellious.”
“I always wondered if I had it in me. FUCK!”
“Wonder no more ...”
The rhythmic thwack of bare flesh on bare flesh was like a metronome. Sweet music escaped through the open window and gave the neighbours little chance of sleep until the clock struck two a.m.
“Clamence; you are possessed!”
“I believe I have exorcised that demon rebel.”
“And so much brimstone!”
“I do not believe that the fire in these loins will ever be extinguished.”
“Who were the flowers for? I believe you have been stoking those fires for some considerable time.”
“... Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ ...”
“Shakespeare?”
“Yes; Othello ...”
“Meaning?”
“A jealous man finds any reason and points to every shred of evidence to justify the feeling.”
“If you had a date, they must surely be wondering what happened to you.”
“I didn’t; like I said, I thought they were pretty.”
“Was it Benjamin?”
“Benjamin? I am a fool but not a complete idiot.”
“He swings both ways; I’ve sucked his cock.”
“When?”
“When we were fifteen and we went camping ... we shared a tent.”
“I do not remember that trip.”
“I do not remember you coming ...”
“Maybe it was at the time of my mother’s illness. And you sucked his cock ... What was it like?”
“Turbulent! Like grappling with an electric eel.”
“Did he suck yours?”
“No ... but he fucked me in the arse.”
“One of that sort ... It was not Benjamin.”
“Who then?”
“You don’t know him. He was always the shy one at school.”
“So they really were for you.”
“Like I said ... Were you hoping that they were for you?”
“I saw you looking in the window.”
“You looked angry.”
“I was on duty and both dusty and sweating ...”
“I was checking my tie, however, I caught a glimpse of you through the gap between the Tiffany-style lamps ...”
“They sell very well ... I might have hoped that they were for me.”
“Then let us say that they were not for anyone until the moment of truth became manifest ...”
“So chance?”
“Fate ... Do you believe in Fate, Simon?”
“I believe in luck.”
“Luck is absurd.”
“Fate is an abandonment of reason.”
“Love is abandonment.”
“Love is a miracle.”
“We can agree on that ... Do you want to try again?”
“Yes ...”
oOo
“I made you some coffee, Simon.”
“What time is it?”
“It is 7.30 and I must get ready for work soon.”
“As must I ... but what about the idea of taking off this afternoon? I am positive Father will agree.”
“The shop closes early today - at noon. Meet me at Folie’s.”
“Champion idea. Afterwards, we could go swimming.”
“Where?”
“The Lido?”
“I think I would enjoy that - excellent!”
Simon leant back against the headboard and sipped his coffee while Clamence got ready for work. He was amazed at the tightest, hardness and roundness of Clamence’s buttocks, who was at that moment, selecting clean underwear from his chest of drawers.
“You have amazing buttocks ...”
Clamence threw a glance over his shoulder, unable to keep the wicked grin off his face.
“I cycle whenever I have the opportunity. You climb ladders all day; small wonder that yours are like rock cakes.”
“I don’t like my calves; they seem overly developed ...”
“I would like to build up my arms a little,” Clamence admitted, turning and stepping into the underwear, adding as he pulled them up with a swift tug and a snap of the waistband, “I was thinking of doing some weight training ...”
“Perhaps rowing; that would develop the abdominals too.”
“Shall we try it on Sunday?”
“Yes; let’s do that ...”
“I have to leave soon, Simon ... by all means take a shower. If you could leave by the rear stairs that would avoid any embarrassing questions from my neighbour who keeps his eye on the street door all day.”
“No problem ... I will see you at noon.”
Clamence quickly donned his shirt and trousers before pulling on a pair of Chelsea-style boots. He approached the side of the bed.
“Four hours - ah! I almost forgot my swimming trunks.”
“That reminds me to fetch mine too ... We’ll hire towels, shall we?”
“Yes. See you later.”
He leant in for a kiss and found it hard to resist the temptation to get straight back into bed. However, the prospect of seeing Simon in his trunks and dripping wet gave him the push he needed to leave ... only then did he wish that he had worn looser shorts.
Watching him leave, Simon downed the dregs of the coffee and turned over to cuddle the pillow and grab a fistful of sheet and blanket to press to his face to breathe in the mix of sex and sweat. He only got up to shower once he had masturbated again.
oOo
“How was work this morning?” Clamence enquired as Simon sat down at the table.
“Some attractive sales to some unattractive women ... men do not buy lamps. And you?”
“There is nothing vaguely attractive about stitching new soles onto old shoes ... However, I see more men, and some of them are quite handsome ... but usually, they work in the fields or for the office of the Mairie and their boots stink of either manure or rubbish.”
“What would you do if you did not work for your father?”
“I would like to be a draughtsman - actually, I would like to design motorcars, specifically the engines of motorcars ...”
“You have surprised me ... but you do not have a car, do you?”
“I do. I am restoring an old sports car. I wondered if you had connections that could possibly source the bulbs I need for the headlamps.”
“I’m sure we have connections ...”
“That would be sterling ... What would you do?”
“Design clothes, especially clothes for the theatre.”
“Why do we do it? Why do we allow our futures to be corralled and fettered?”
“Familial obligations ... and then there is the no small issue of money.”
“I earn a pittance but, that said, I want for nothing ...”
“Likewise ... But I agree. Perhaps we should stage a revolution.”
“I promised my mother before she died that I would look after my father ...”
“Yes; and Father cannot manage Mother by himself ... Birds locked up in a cage; that is what we are.”
“Well-fed birds with an afternoon off ... What do you fancy for lunch?”
“The soup, I think. Nothing heavy before swimming.”
“Agreed.”
They ate their lunch and drank water rather than wine. After a small, black coffee, they left the café and sauntered to the swimming baths, which had, in their heydey, been a draw for the crowds for miles around, being one of the finest examples of Art Deco architecture. Nowadays, the crowds preferred the modern baths that had been built on the site of the old china factory.
They made their way through the cathedral-like atrium and along the gracious, albeit somewhat dilapidated, blue glazed tile clad corridors to the male changing room. They selected separate changing compartments, all of which had their own exit onto the poolside.
Leaving their clothes, together with their towels, hung up on the hooks in the changing cabinets, and sporting swimming trunks that had also been fashionable in the 1920s - and not since - they exited onto the poolside and dived in. Save for three elderly women, wearing daisy-encrusted rubber skull caps, swimming lengths like so many manatees, and two elderly gentlemen, sitting in the glass-enclosed portion of the terrace, reading newspapers, they had the pool to themselves. After their initial dunking and wishing to impress each other, they headed for the diving pool. Simon was competent but Clamence lacked a little form. It didn’t stop them from repeatedly scaling the ten-metre board and flinging themselves off the edge.
After frolicking for half an hour, they retired to the outdoor terrace to bathe in the sunshine and dry off.
“You are an excellent diver,” Clamence announced.
“I have no patience for swimming lengths; diving is exhilarating.”
“You have no trouble with climbing the ladder ...”
“I could feel your breath on the small of my back ...”
“Safety first; had you slipped-”
“You would have been there to catch me.”
“Exactly!”
Half an hour on the terrace dried them off and it was beginning to bring a flush to their skins.
“I feel I might be burning, Simon ...”
“Me too. More diving?”
“After a few lengths.”
“I want to practise my swallow dive so I’ll see you in a bit ...”
Albeit having to avoid the old-timers, who were all standing and talking in the shallow end, Clamence swam a good few lengths. On each alternate length, he waited and watched Simon dive off the board, likening him to a kingfisher.
Reaching his limit of one thousand metres, Clamence got out of the pool and headed for the steam room, having gestured to Simon to join him. Being first, he nabbed the highest slated bench seat and stretched out full length to let the heat and steam work out the remaining knots in his shoulders and lower back.
“Ahoy!” Simon bellowed as he entered the room.
“Fool!”
“You must have done twenty lengths.”
“It was twenty ... Do you have any preference for dinner tonight?”
“None whatsoever ... Did you?”
“I could cook ... My father is back on Sunday and I suggest we make hay while the sun shines.”
“I would need to make sure that Mother is okay first.”
“Fine ...”
“Eight o’clock?”
“Perfect ... What time is it now, Simon?”
“About three o’clock ...”
“Half an hour to let my shoulders and back recover and I propose some tea.”
Simon took one of the other bench seats and lay down.
“I meant to ask you, Simon; did your father question you over your failure to return home last night?”
“No. I sneaked in and successfully avoided him seeing me so that when he called me, it was as if I had been asleep in my own bed all night.”
“Do you think he would have been angry if he had known that you had stayed out?”
“Probably not angry ... more surprised.”
“Pleasantly surprised?”
“That would depend on who he thought I was with.”
“I take it that he doesn’t know then.”
“No ... Does yours?”
“I would say on the basis that he never mentions anything that he knows but chooses to say nothing for fear of embarrassment.”
“We have a tacit agreement that neither of us does anything to upset Mother ...”
“Understandable.”
“But not very fair.”
“Will you be able to stay over again tonight?”
“I see no reason why not.”
Basking in the prospect, neither was wholly aware of the fact that several other people had just come into the steam room. That was until one of the men spoke and asked his companion a question. Then it was apparent that it was Benjamin and Pierre who had walked in. Simon raised his head and caught their attention.
“Simon?”
“Yes; it is me, Pierre.”
“An afternoon off?”
“Yes; Clamence and I decided we needed a break.”
“Clamence? ... Clamence Ardennes?” Benjamin queried.
“Yes ...”
“I didn’t realise that you knew each other that well,” questioned Benjamin, adding, “He has a fine arse on him.”
“Do I?” Clamence queried without even raising his head.
Embarrassed silence descended; a silence only broken by the occasional knocking of the hot water pipes.
“Clamence; have you had enough? I need to get back.”
“Yes ...”
Simon got up from his bench and took a few steps towards the exit. Clamence stepped down from his perch.
“I need some shoes repaired, Clamence ...”
“Bring them in tomorrow, Benjamin, and I’ll take a look.”
With that, Clamence and Simon escaped and, after a plunge in the cold pool, returned to the changing cabinets to grab their towels before heading to the shower room.
“A fine arse indeed!” Simon announced, mimicking Benjamin’s accent, flicking his towel at the pair of naked mounds as they jostled in front of him, which he thought resembled perfect, pink sugar frosted meringues.
“Stop it! He was trying to rile you.”
“He damned near succeeded ... I had a good mind to tell him the score.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should never be said in the heat of the moment; we always say things we regret in the heat of the moment.”
“I don’t know that I would regret that.”
“If that is true then tell your parents first.”
“Humpf ... Yes; but he said it to rile me.”
“Then the next opportunity you get, knock his block off ...”
After showering side-by-side, getting as close as they dared, they towelled off and got dressed just as Benjamin and Pierre entered the changing area, carrying their towels over their shoulders, displaying their ample equipment for all to see.
“Is my arse not as fine as his, Simon?” quipped Benjamin, clearing intent on causing a scene of some kind.
“At least as fine, I’m sure ... and with the added advantage that you can speak out of yours-”
“Watch it!”
Benjamin stepped forward threateningly and it was only Pierre’s timely intervention that prevented a scuffle.
Clamence and Simon left the changing room, followed by a flock of insults, all of which were designed to rile Simon.
“Damn him!”
“Simon; stay calm. What is he to you?”
“He is nothing to me.”
“Then ignore him.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“If we’re not careful, he’s going to have ruined the afternoon, which was no doubt his objective ... Let’s have some tea and talk about the weekend.”
“I don’t feel like tea now - in any event, Father will need my help to close up. I’ll be seeing you, Clamence.”
“Simon!”
By it did no good and Simon stomped off, leaving Clamence alone outside the baths, wondering whether or not he should run after him.
“Damn that imbecile!”
Meaning Benjamin, not Simon but he had to question why Simon had reacted quite so badly. He went home and, having some rare free time, he changed his clothes and went to the garage at the back of the shop to do some work on the car.
The car - a Jaguar XK120 - was disassembled to the point of unrecognizability; only the chassis gave the game away. For the next hour, he ground valve seats and then gave his attention to the sanding and polishing of the ash wood frame that was on the jig ahead of the delivery of the newly painted body tub which was coming from Duval’s within the next month.
Only once the light in the workshop was too dim to see to do anything properly did Clamence shut up shop and go back to the appartement, only then remembering that he had promised to cook dinner. By then, it was gone nine o’clock.
Presuming that Simon had arrived and then left when he had received no answer or hadn’t bothered at all, Clamence was surprised when he heard a rap on the rear door.
“Simon!”
“I’m sorry; I was very rude and I came to apologise ...”
“Come in then! I forgot all about dinner; are you hungry?”
“The furthest from hungry but I could murder a cup of tea and a slice of cheese on toast.”
“Sit down. I was working on the car and lost all track of time.”
“It took longer than usual to settle Mother ... I’m sorry for leaving you like that.”
“I understand ... but you can’t let him get to you.”
“What if he had said the same to you?”
“Knowing he was just trying to rile me, I would have ignored him.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Then why not come clean?”
“As I said before, I have agreed to do nothing to upset Mother ...”
“And do you think she would be upset?”
“Almost certainly ... I do not know how Father would react - not well, I am sure of that.”
Clamence busied himself with the tea and the cheese on toast. When he handed over the tea, he said, “I would be prepared to say something to my father if you wanted to come clean ...”
“You would?”
“Yes. Hang it! I hate not being able to be honest about who I am and how I feel towards you.”
“But we only made our own feelings known yesterday, Clam.”
“Be that as it may ...”
Did he admit to harbouring such desires and hopes for at least six months? Having repressed his attraction - in fact, everything - for almost ten years, he had to agree with himself; Simon was like a pebble dropped into a pond. The ripples were fairly well undoing his seams.
“I can’t risk it. If Mother has a relapse, the doctor says there is nothing more he can do.”
“Then I suppose we have to suck it up and make the best of it.”
“It’s so unfair!”
They ate in silence.
“Can you stay tonight?” Clamence asked.
“Yes, if you want me to.”
“I do ... My father is back at the weekend and then our opportunities will be severely limited.”
“Best we make the most of it then ... My mood is frayed.”
“Let me make you feel better ...”
Abandoning the kitchen, Clamence led Simon to his room, where he undressed him slowly, peppering his skin with a thousand tiny butterfly wing soft kisses as he did so, reserving the longest and sweetest until last when he tugged Simon’s underwear down to his feet, promptly enveloping the proud ramrod, sucking hard until Simon melted and crawled onto the bed with welcoming arms. Clamence hoisted his legs and feasted on the twin mounds that held between them a gem of a hole, which he licked and probed until Simon was clawing at his shoulders and groaning like a man suffering all manner of tortures.
“Clam!”
“Did you like it?”
“Never ... never have I felt so utterly consumed and at the mercy of my senses ... my ring is throbbing - take me!”
Well-lubed, Clamence speared his quarry and thrust like a Spartan, never once slowing, and all the while, pinching Simon’s pale little buds until they looked like bright red rosettes pinned to the proud chest of a Lipizzano.
“Clam! I’m cumming,” announced Simon as he beat off in time with the thrusts.
“Hold on; I’m almost there - God in Heaven! Here it comes!”
They both clenched; held in stasis as if they were frozen, painting a portrait of some mythical beast in its death throes; the hero with his sword poised for the fatal blow; mouths agape and eyes rolling.
Simon felt his cock swell and his balls contract before the stream of hot spunk flew from the end of his dick in all directions, splattering them both. Clam was a heartbeat behind, and then he too pumped out his load, crumbling with each spasm until he could not bear his own weight on his arms and collapsed into Simon’s embrace. Their mouths locked on and they kissed long and deep.
oOo
Clamence was waiting for Simon to return from the bathroom. Looking up at the ceiling, he was trying to imagine a life together if only they could summon up the courage to come clean and out themselves.
“A penny for them ...”
“Maybe one day it will all be different and we can be together and live our lives just like everyone else ...”
“You strike me as a patient man but I think even you would give up.”
“Snatched kisses and fucks in dark corners ... that would kill me now.”
“Perhaps it is better that we don’t see each other then ...”
“Seriously?”
“It will be torment, knowing how close you are but unable to do a thing about it.”
“It would kill me but I am prepared to try.”
“I don’t think I can ...”
Unwilling to discuss it, Clamence turned out the bedside light and snuggled up.
“Goodnight, Simon ...”
“Goodnight ...”
Of course, neither could sleep.
“Are you awake, Clam?”
“Yes ...”
“I’m sorry ...”
“Don’t apologise ... neither of us is to blame.”
Turning onto his side and propping his head up on his arm, Simon looked down on Clamence, who still had his eyes closed, and twirled the wild chestnut brown locks about his fingers, teasing out individual curls, pulling them like springs to let them go and watch them bounce.
“You have beautiful hair ...”
“I like yours better ...”
“I have to go to church before we can go rowing on Sunday ...”
“My father is back at about five o’clock ...”
“Tomorrow is Thursday ...”
“And?”
“I was just reminding myself ... What will you say to Benjamin when he comes in tomorrow?”
“Nothing in particular ... It rather depends on what he says to me. If he bad-mouths you, I will defend you of course.”
“Without giving the game away.”
“Yes, despite the fact that the other night you said that you didn’t care what he thought ... You said that you had sucked his cock; maybe he remembers.”
“It was ten years ago.”
“Hardly the sort of thing that someone is going to forget.”
“Do you think he feels guilty or is it possible that in some strange way, he was trying to say something?”
“Bravado to mask his true feelings ... hardly original but it could have been.”
“Perhaps to put Pierre off the scent ...”
“He doesn’t strike me as the naïve sort.”
“Even more reason for Benjamin to be careful ... and he had the date with Marie.”
“Who he has no respect for ...”
“He doesn’t suspect you, Clam; that much is obvious.”
“He has no ammunition so he’s firing blanks ...”
It started as a smirk, which grew into a chuckle, and ended in a fit of laughter that brought tears to their eyes.
“Unlike us!” Clamence finally announced.
Flicking his eyes to the clock, which told him that it was nearly one a.m., Clamence spooned up and planted a kiss between Simon’s shoulders. “Go to sleep ...”
Folding Clamence’s arms across his chest, Simon settled. “Goodnight ...”
Half asleep and half awake, Clamence was vaguely aware of Simon’s hand gripping him and guiding him into his still slick hole. With some shuffling about, he found himself buried to the hilt in Simon’s arse.
When it was clear that Simon was not going to say anything, Clamence hugged him tighter and buried his face into the back of his neck, stealing one more kiss before he finally dropped off.
oOo
“Where is your father, Clamence?”
“In Avignon, visiting my aunt ... Were those the shoes?”
“Yes ... the heels are terribly worn down and the soles need patching ... Can you do them today?”
“I should be able to; call back just before I close up.”
“You ought to be careful about hanging around Simon ...”
“Why? He’s a decent sort and pays his way.”
“He works hard ... I didn’t mean that.”
“What did you mean?”
“Do I really need to spell it out?”
“Well; it’s obvious from what you said at the baths that you think he’s queer.”
“I believe he is ... I saw you two the other night, coming from the bar. He had his arm though yours ...”
“We were drunk, Benjamin ... hardly a crime.”
“Whose idea was it to go swimming?”
“His from memory ... Do I take that to mean that you think he invited me so that he could sneak a peek?”
“Well; didn’t he?”
“Probably ... just as you and Pierre did no doubt ... and you had no problem with remaining uncovered in the steam room or in the changing room.”
“If he had laid a finger on me, I would have dashed his brains out.”
“Why are you concerned, Benjamin? I am well able to look after myself.”
“All I am saying is ... be careful.”
With which, Benjamin left, leaving Clamence convinced that Benjamin was trying to put everyone off the scent. And perhaps, having seen them together, he was worried that Simon might have mentioned the camping trip and all of this was the product of his paranoia.
“The amount of time he spends with Pierre, and the shocking way he treats his girlfriends, one would have to wonder ...”
Such thoughts, but mostly the prospect of showing Simon the car that evening, carried him along for the most part. At four o’clock, with all of the orders completed and bagged up ready for collection, he spent an hour in the rear workroom at his makeshift design table, working on a design of a new kind of engine.
He did not hear Benjamin come in at five o’clock nor his shout of, “Shop!”
Benjamin’s appearance at the door to the room startled him.
“I did call out.”
“Sorry; you startled me.”
“What are you working on?”
“A design for a new type of engine - well; not so much the engine but a forced induction system to increase power and torque.”
“May I see?”
“Of course ...”
Benjamin stepped up to the back of Clamence’s chair and leant over.
“A traditional supercharger takes energy from the engine to produce energy; contrast that with a turbocharger which uses exhaust gases but suffers lag ... this twincharger attempts to overcome the weaknesses of both ... I am having some issues with the design of the diverter valve ...”
“I never realised that you were so mechanically minded.”
“I hope to build a prototype and fit it to the Jaguar ... Your shoes are ready.”
“Thank you ...”
Clamence pushed back from the desk and stood up. However, Benjamin remained close, forcing Clamence to move awkwardly to avoid touching him.
“Simon is using you; you realise that, don’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“He’s a predator ... I’ve seen him do it before.”
Skirting around the other man, Clamence tried to edge towards the doorway. Benjamin moved slightly to one side, effectively blocking his path.
“Simon is a friend of mine - nothing more.”
“I could tell you some things-”
“Please, Benjamin ... I have to lock up now.”
“If you’re afraid of him, I could have words ...”
“Benjamin; Simon is perfectly civil and amiable towards me. If anyone is frightening me, it’s you by not letting me pass. Please take your shoes and leave.”
Benjamin took another step forward. Clamence could smell the alcohol on his breath and was overtaken by the sensation of all his blood rushing to his stomach. Cold beads of sweat formed and ran down his back, making him shudder despite his efforts to remain calm.
“I like you, Clamence-”
“Benj-”
Benjamin lunged and grabbed Clamence by the lapels, pulling him close enough that their lips were barely an inch apart.
“Say the word and I’ll deal with him ... and anytime you want the company of a real man, just let me know ... Ciao!”
Pushing Clamence back, Benjamin left smartly. He threw some coins on the counter and grabbed his shoes on the way out, slamming the door.
Clamence could not move for a few minutes; not until his heart had stopped thumping in his chest and he could breathe calmly. Straightening up, he moved quickly to the shop door, turned the key and flipped the sign, immediately pressing his back up against the cool glass.
“What in the Devil’s name?”
When his legs and hands had stopped shaking, he went to the washroom at the back of the shop and bathed his face in cold water.
A rap at the door made his heart stop.
It was Simon.
“I am so glad you are here ...” and Clamence went on to recount the incident.
“What demon torments him? And only on my way here, Pierre stopped me and asked me if I had seen him.”
“He had been drinking ... his eyes were wild and I was truly afraid.”
“If he had touched a hair-”
“Simon ... can we not speak of violence ... just hold me ...”
He did for a good long while.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
Simon kissed him and straightened his tie.
“Did you still want to show me the car? I perfectly understand if you just want to go home.”
“No; I would like to show you the car ...”
They exited the rear of the shop and crossed the courtyard.
“I hope you’re not too disappointed; it is currently just a pile of bits.”
“I have never seen a car dismantled ...”
Clamence flipped the light switch.
“I have a lot of work to do ... Duval’s delivers the body back by the end of the month, they say. By then, I would like to have reassembled the chassis, the framing and the drivetrain. My father has offered to help with the reupholstering ...”
“I asked Father to speak to one of the salesmen to see if we can’t get the bulbs for you; he assures me that it should be fairly easy.”
“By the end of the summer, when my father closes for a week and takes his vacation proper, I would like to have her ready and drive down to the coast ...”
“Was that an invitation?”
Clamence stole a glance, grinning boyishly.
“Would you? I mean; could you get the time off?”
“I could ask ...”
The remaining clouds were driven away by the feeling that welled up between them.
“What about dinner tonight, Clam?”
“I would prefer to cook at home. I really don’t want to bump into Benjamin this evening.”
“Agreed. Was there work on the car that you wished to do tonight? I am willing to help.”
“Well; if you don’t mind. I would like to finish the sanding of the ash frame if you could start painting the chassis.”
“Lead on!”
They worked for about three hours; in the process, getting filthy dirty.
“Thank you!”
“Don’t mention it.”
“You can have a bath at my place.”
“Was that an invitation?”
“Yes; to get clean, Simon ... if only to get dirty all over again ...”
They quickly tidied up and strode back to the appartement.
“One of my customers gave me a small chicken in exchange for mending his boots. I propose to roast it while we take a bath. How does that sound?”
“If you plan to stuff it with sage and onion and baste it with butter, I would say I was in seventh Heaven.”
“They do say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach ...”
“Get the bird in the oven and I’ll show you a quicker way ...”
Blushing madly and smiling broadly, Clamence prepared the bird as Simon drew a bath.
“One hour ... I threw some spuds in the pan too.”
“Yorkshire pudding?”
“No, but I do have some red wine gravy ...”
“Even better ... Lean forward and I will wash your back ...”
Clamence could not remember the last time anyone had bathed him - probably his mother when he was a boy. He found it amazingly relaxing.
“Did Pierre say anything else to you, Simon?”
“He apologised for his and Benjamin’s behaviour at the baths ...”
“Really? I wonder he hangs around with him.”
“I think he borrows his confidence from Benjamin ... it was just the same at school.”
“Ten years on?”
“Maybe he’s frightened to let go ...”
“I can understand that ... I’ve buried myself in the shop and tinkered with the car for much the same reason.”
“Me too ... but not now.”
“Do I give you confidence?”
“Yes ...”
Clamence quirked his mouth. No one had ever said that before. He was about to ask how when Simon dumped a pitcher of water over his head to wash away the suds, and he got a mouthful of soap.
“Rotter!”
“Pah!”
When their skins began to prune and the soap scum had formed a tide mark around the bath an inch wide, they got out to towel off.
“I’m starving!” Simon announced.
“Me too; I skipped lunch to finish all of the repairs by four to give myself an hour at the design table.”
“Maybe you could go to an evening class ...”
“There are classes but you need a University degree to really get on.”
“What about working for an engineer to get the training?”
“I would have to work for practically nothing ...”
“I see the issue ... I don’t need a degree to work in fashion but I need something I simply do not know how to get.”
“What?
“A CV ... no one is going to take me seriously until I have some credentials.”
“Seems that neither of us can have what we want unless we are prepared to starve to death, and even then, there is no guarantee.”
“Canaries in a cage whom no one listens to ...”
“Come on! Let’s not get maudlin. And I can smell the roast ...”
They dined royally and in the process, dispelled the gloom that threatened to eclipse the prospects of the night ahead and the following two nights plus the trip to the river.
oOo
“You smell of amber ...”
“You smell of need, Simon.”
“I have never leaked so much!”
“Stick it in me!”
“I won’t need any lube tonight; my bird is self-basting!”
“Fool!”
In having watched Clamence sand the frame and in so doing, get all hot and sweaty, and in sneakily enjoying the spectacle of him removing his shirt, leaving his vest on but oh what delights that had whispered of as the sweat and grime had painted the pale canvas with arrows, marking the treasure troves, Simon was tortured by the feelings of lust that did not ever seem to now go away. Even as they ate, he had blatantly feasted on the sight of the juices running down Clamence’s chin - juices he had licked up, needing no invitation or encouragement. Cleaving those firm, buttery mounds with his hot knife, he feared he would not last more than a few minutes. The prospect of shooting his seed deep into the furrow made him even harder than usual. He bit down on Clamence’s shoulder and banged away, trying to delay the onset of his release but it proved useless. He pumped out his load in under five minutes.
“I wish I could have lasted forever ...”
“I couldn’t have taken it; I feel ready to explode. I am seeing stars and they are rushing away from me.”
“I am in Heaven ...”
They flung themselves down onto their backs, side-by-side, still catching their breath.
“I do not know how I meant to go back to the way it was before ... When I felt the urge, perhaps catching the whiff of some road worker’s sweat, I would hammer the nails in the shoes that much harder. Many a blood blister I have had, I can tell you,” admitted Clamence.
“I would go to the top of the big ladder and close my eyes, hoping fear would eclipse the feelings. Once I toppled and pulled a chandelier down with me ... Father was not very amused, to say the least.”
“After my father comes back, I must see you every day ... You could help with the car; my father leaves the garage well alone for fear of kicking something over or upsetting the jig.”
“I will fit new lights ... Yes; every day ... Even for a minute will be better than nothing.”
“And Sunday afternoons on the river ... and swimming once a week.”
“I suppose we will manage ...”
“We will ... until things are different. I can wait if I know that you are waiting for me.”
“And a holiday to boot!”
The future then did not seem so bleak and they curled up together after whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ear before turning out the light.
oOo
Clamence got up early, kicked Simon out, and cleaned the house, knowing that there would be precious little chance over the course of the weekend. He bundled up the laundry and took it to the place that he and his father always used - apparently, the old woman who ran the place used to be his mother’s ex-music teacher, who, having fallen on hard times, washed clothes and darned socks.
When he got to the shop, keys jangling in his hand, Simon was waiting.
“Simon?”
“Something terrible has happened.”
“What? You look like you have seen a ghost.”
“Let’s go in; I hope you have some brandy.”
Once inside, keeping the door locked and the ‘closed’ sign up, Clamence fetched a small brandy for Simon, who was seated at the counter.
“Whatever is the matter, Simon?”
“Benjamin killed Pierre ... in the Square ... knifed him in the guts ... there is blood all over the pavement.”
“When did this happen?”
“Not half an hour ago. Father sent me to get the baguettes for the weekend. I turned the corner and found the Square in chaos.”
“Who told you what happened?”
“Frederick; he saw it all and Pierre being carried off by the ambulance and the police taking Benjamin away in a black van.”
“Whatever possessed him?”
“Some demon ... Pierre toppled into the fountain, Frederick said, and the water turned pink and looked like the soda machine at Franelli’s ... it’s just horrible to think about. After he threw the knife in after him, Benjamin just sank to the ground, howling until the police arrived.”
Comforting Simon, Clamence had some dreadful thoughts about what might have been, and he took a swig of the brandy himself.
“D-do y-you think he had the knife on him when he came yesterday?”
“Don’t even think about it, Clam ... But why? Pierre was his best friend ...”
Several customers tried the door and, finding it locked, walked away.
“I have to open up, Simon. Sit in the back if you want.”
“No; thank you. I will go home and tell Father ... No doubt he will speak to Michael at lunchtime.”
“Michael the magistrate?”
“Yes; they are friends ...”
“Come by later, yes?”
“Yes, I will. I suppose we should be grateful that it wasn’t either you or I. How terrible for Pierre’s mother and father.”
“Try not to dwell on it, Simon ...”
Simon left, still shaken but with colour in his cheeks. Clamence opened the shop and waited for the first customer, knowing that the news would have spread like wildfire and he’d hear of it repeatedly throughout the day.
He did, and he was also inundated with questions from those who assumed that he knew Benjamin and Pierre well.
By lunchtime, he wondered if he shouldn’t go to the police station and tell them about Benjamin’s visit the previous evening. Resolved to do so, he closed up but bumped into Simon outside.
“I think I ought to tell the police that Benjamin came here yesterday and was threating to harm you.”
“But what if they ask why? Someone may jump to the wrong conclusion.”
“Damn; I didn’t think of that. And they may wonder why I waited ... and we do not know what Benjamin himself has said.”
“Do nothing and say nothing. No one could have predicted what he was going to do.”
“What if I had said something last night? Perhaps Pierre would still be alive-”
“Don’t say that; you couldn’t possibly have known what he was going to do, and certainly not to Pierre.”
“This is just terrible.”
“Close the shop. Father has closed up.”
“It’s true that most of the customers this morning only wanted to gossip.”
Clamence closed the shop and they went to the appartement by way of the launderette.
Marie was in the back, being comforted by her mother who worked the afternoon shift.
The old woman, whose name was Geraldine, said on the quiet, “Benjamin accused her of seeing Pierre behind his back ... she denied it of course but, seemingly, he didn’t believe her.”
The men left and hurried back to the flat.
“Will that be the end of it, Simon?”
“In a way, I hope so - poor Marie.”
“And Pierre barely a man and only just starting out on life’s journey ... and Benjamin will be sent away for the rest of his life ... it’s truly tragic.”
Neither could settle and in the end, they went to the river for a walk under the willows, taking the radio with them so that they could sit and listen to the orchestral music hour.
oOo
When the programme had finished, Clamence got ready to get up. Simon placed his hand on Clamence’s arm.
“I have come to a decision, Clamence ...”
“Yes?”
“I am going to tell Father and Mother how things stand between us ... as long as you agree ...”
“But ... but why the change of heart?”
“What if he had knifed you or me ... I should have never had the chance to say all the things that my heart is practising even as we sit here ... I cannot, absolutely cannot, bear the thought of not sharing everything with you before it is too late ... One never knows what is going to happen ...”
“Simon ... Are you absolutely sure? What about your mother?”
“I will tell Father first and he can perhaps work out the best way of breaking the news. We may have to be discrete for a while longer for her sake ... but I want it to be known that you are mine ... that is ... if I am yours.”
“Yours? Forever and always, Simon ...”
“I could cry ...”
“Me too ...”
“Let’s go back ...”
oOo
“Some strategy is called for when it comes to our fathers, Simon.”
“Agreed. Father is terribly dour as a rule - a real dry old stick. I don’t know how to approach him.”
“Perhaps, given that mine is a little more jovial, especially after he has enjoyed his sister’s hospitality, I will tell him and ask him to speak to yours ... That might work.”
“What if he flies into a rage or kicks you out?”
“I don’t think he will. Since my mother died, we have been everything to each other - he says that I remind him of her too much sometimes ... he is a good man ... not that it won’t be a shock but one he will get over, I am sure of it ...”
“Let’s hope so and let’s hope he agrees to talk to Father. What he tells Mother, God alone knows.”
“When, Simon?”
“Next week, I suppose ... but there will no doubt be the funeral next week ... that’ll put the mockers on it for a few days ... The following week, on the Wednesday, when you close for the half-day.”
“Agreed ... Are we sure?”
“I am positive ... But what if it goes badly?”
“We’ll pack our bags, take the money out of our accounts and go to Marseille to look for digs and find jobs, even if it’s cleaning the streets or gutting fish on the quayside.”
“You make it sound so exciting and romantic.”
“I would rather stay here but that is what I will do.”
“If it comes to it, I’ll do it ... together!”
“Together ... Now get into bed, Simon ...”
oOo
Saturday was the busiest day of the week for both shops, and the men did not see each after they parted company at breakfast. As they had parted in the morning, they had agreed to meet at seven o’clock at the theatre bar for a drink and some tapas before watching a play - Le Malentendu by Camus - that involved a friend of Simon’s, who had given him a couple of complimentary tickets when Simon had told him how much Clamence admired the author’s work.
After a shower, and an agonising half hour over the decision as to what to wear, they both headed out and met up at the bar. Clamence was slightly ahead and had already grabbed a table and ordered some wine.
“Sorry I’m late, Clam.”
“I haven’t been here long.”
“Father always insists on reorganising the window display on a Saturday - granted, we had an exceptionally profitable day ... How about you?”
“Nothing exceptional - that said, I was grateful for the fact that very few of the patrons felt the need to discuss recent events ... Every time I think about it, a cold tongue licks my spine.”
“Well; a warm one later will hopefully make things right-”
“Shush! Cheers by the way.”
“Cheers!”
They grabbed the waiter and ordered a selection of tapas with bread and olives, busying themselves with the plans the following day to go rowing.
“I have to go to church first, Clam.”
“Me too given the circumstances ... Can you skip lunch and be at the rowing club by one o’clock?”
“Yes. What should we wear?”
“Something you don’t mind getting wet!”
“I have no intention of falling in ... but you’re sensible to recommend it.”
“I have to be home by four-thirty, in time to make the tea for my father and answer a thousand questions on the business - you would think we were stock brokers.”
Mention of ‘father’ reminded them both of the plan.
“Are we still resolved, Clam?”
“Yes. It sounds ridiculous but I wonder why we have waited so long ... Why should it have taken something like a death to bring us to our senses?”
“I agree with you ... It is still a daunting prospect.”
“I meant to ask you, Simon; did your father meet with Michael, and if he did, what did he say?”
“I know they met because Michael came by the shop at lunchtime and picked him up ... If they discussed it, Father is obviously keeping schtum ... and he asked me nothing but then Frederick was the one who saw everything.”
“I cannot imagine going to prison ... He must be terrified.”
“La Santé ... the very name makes my blood go cold.”
They both took a few minutes of quiet reflection before digging into the food. With just enough time for a coffee before the bell rang, they took a café serre and treated themselves to a cigarillo before making their way into the theatre and finding their seats.
Simon’s friend had secured them seats in the second row.
“I do hope you enjoy this,” whispered Simon.
“I have read the play ... it is rather dark and disturbing.”
“Maybe not the best choice in the circumstances.”
“We can leave at the interval if it gets too much ...”
The performance began. Clamence, more than Simon, was spellbound, having precious few opportunities to go to the theatre, especially to see Camus’ work.
At the interval between acts one and two, they exited for a soda.
“I thought it was a little absurd that neither the man’s mother nor his sister recognised him, even after twenty years,” Simon suggested.
“Perhaps ... but assuming he was much changed, it is an interesting idea ... to observe those we knew after such a long time to see how they really tick.”
“Cold-blooded murderers - brrr!”
“Is it the idea of murder or that they are women?”
“Probably both ...”
They re-took their seats once the bell sounded.
“I want to shout out ‘They’re going to kill you, you fool!’ ...”
“Resist the urge, Simon ... I want to see how they deal with the revelation ...”
The performance resumed and Clamence was transfixed by the scenes as they unfolded. With no interval between acts two and three, it wasn’t until after the play had ended that they had a chance to discuss it.
“His mother was so cold when she found out that she’d murdered her son - so cold!”
“The sister grieves for her mother, who committed suicide, but shows no grief for having killed her own brother ... and just for the money. I could understand if it was for love ...”
They sauntered home, oddly elated at having indulged in some culture for a change, but also oddly quiet. It wasn’t until they were getting ready for bed that Simon said, “I suppose Benjamin killed for love ...”
“Did he?”
“You heard what the woman said ...”
“If it was for love then it seems like the wrong kind of love ... more like he was treating Marie as a possession.”
“Do you believe he did it because Pierre and she went behind his back?” Simon asked.
“I don’t know ... I suppose so ... What other reason could there be?”
“He was tormented but I have to say I don’t think it was that.”
“What then?”
“Maybe he made an advance on Pierre and Pierre rejected him ... or even threatened to out him.”
“Or Pierre made the advance and Benjamin reacted badly, probably through fear ...”
“Perhaps we’ll never know ...”
Clamence climbed into bed while Simon went to clean his teeth. When he returned, Clamence said, “If he killed Pierre because he was afraid either way, I do not want to be afraid.”
“How do we stop ourselves from being afraid?”
“We have to have faith ...”
“And where do we find faith?”
“In loving and being loved ...”
Epilogue
“What did they say?”
“They said they would employ me for one season to see how it went ... Oh, Clam! One season at L’Opera ... Can you imagine?”
“I am so happy for you.”
“We must celebrate tonight. A champagne supper at Folie’s, yes?”
“Yes ... I have news too-”
“What? Did the letter come? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Slow down! It came by the second post after you had left ... I have an interview with Haricourt’s next week.”
“Whoa!”
“Yes ...”
“Oh my God ...”
“And that’s not the best of it.”
“What else?”
“The American wants to see the car ... in Nice ...”
“Nice!!”
“In two weeks’ time ... just time to buy a new bathing costume ...”
“I can make us new suits ...”
“Make them tuxedos because we are staying at the Westminster ... at his expense.”
“Oh, Clam ... Have you told your father?”
“I told him straightaway-”
“What did he say?”
“He said he was very proud of me ... and he mentioned something to do with making some changes to our living arrangements ...”
“Seriously?”
“He hinted that he could make the studio over the shop habitable again ...”
“It would beat sleeping on the floor of the garage ...”
“They will come round, Simon ... just give them time.”
