1982 is quite an interesting year for me personally. It started off on the wrong foot but it's only just mid-summer and things couldn't be better—or more confusing. I think I'm discovering men. Well, no, obviously I knew men existed before now, I mean, it's pretty hard running around with a dick for twenty-eight years without having the slightest inkling that there's a difference between yourself and your mum, but I digress. It's the fucking other men bit I seem to be discovering at present.
I'd never given any thought to the matter—why should I have?—until I woke up this morning with another man's hand on my dick and another man's tongue in my mouth and, well, the rest is turning out to be one wild ride of panic as far as I can make out... look, perhaps I had better start at the beginning, yes?
I must begin by stating quite unequivocally that it is all my mate Rosie's fault. She had to up and leave and move to Manchester for some goddamn job with the Beeb early in June, leaving Nicky and me stuck without the third flatmate to make up the rent and without a resident cook. See, Rosie and us, we had this arrangement which basically added up to her drinking for free down at the Duke's Head so long as the management wasn't looking and in exchange she cooked for Nicky and me for three years. It was fan-fucking-tastic. We tried to bribe her into staying down in London, but between my pub gig and Nicky's dole-queue, well, let's just say we weren't in any position to offer substantial bribes, leastways none that were substantial enough to persuade Rosie to turn down a job with the Beeb. So we were stuck in our flat in Islington (Nicky will claim it's Clerkenwell, but it really isn't), in desperate need of a new flatmate, without a resident cook, and to top it all, I was sick as a dog.
I'd tried playing the sympathy card with Rosie, whining at length about how she couldn't possibly leave, what with me dying of pneumonia, but she'd just rolled her eyes, said it was the 'flu and would I stop being so melodramatic—her word, not mine. I'd had neither the strength nor the sanity to argue about the exact nature of my illness—'flu my arse!—and so she left, leaving me to fever-induced hallucinations.
Not that my pain and suffering stopped there, oh no! not with Nicky being a right bastard once he got back from the bookies. Barely through the front-door he started shouting: "I demand some grub, dammit!" while kicking his Docs into the nearest corner.
"Go to hell and cook yourself something, the stove is the hot-looking thing with the funny knobs in the far corner," I managed to mumble back.
"I can't open the fucking tin," came his response.
Moaning dramatically I rose from the sick-sofa and started the excruciating and painful journey into the kitchen. Ten minutes later, upon reaching the kitchen, I was ready to collapse. Nicky was deep in concentration trying to open a tin of ready-made spaghetti with an ancient tin-opener. This, of course, was Rosie's fault too. She had bluntly refused to learn how to use tin-openers manufactured after the Blitz and instead went to antiques shops to find those old tin-openers which operated on the extremely-sharp-and-pointed-thorn principle. Supposedly the thorn thing moved along the tin. Not that I believed that one for a second; the very idea was ludicrous.
The sight of the tin of spaghetti wasn't doing anything for my stomach either, so I hobbled off to the bathroom to dry-heave in peace. When I returned to the kitchen, Nicky was still grappling with the cursed tin and, very foolishly, I offered to help him. Relieved, he threw both tin and opener on the counter with a resounding thud and disappeared in the general direction of the telly with the words, "call me when tea is ready, Coronation Street's about to come on!"
I tried to hit the opener into the tin rather too professionally and the thorn bounced off the metal and straight into my hand, my beer-pumping hand, no less.
I yelled a few ancient and potent curses at the stream of blood leaving my hand and then the fever got the better of me—or maybe it was the blood loss—and I mercifully passed out.
I came around to Nicky's angry voice, "and what do you propose I eat for tea seeing as how you're unable to open a fucking tin?"
Nicky, it seemed, didn't give a toss that on top of dying of pneumonia I was now busy bleeding to death on the kitchen floor, all thanks to him of course, well, him and that treacherous trollop Rosie.
"Go get a doctor! I'm bleeding to death! I need stitches!" I yelled hysterically with the last of my strength, then I tried very hard to pass out again. I think he may have bought it.
Minutes later Nicky started shaking me brutally: "Get up! I can't reach the doctor, we'll have to go to the hospital instead and I do rather fancy some tea soon!"
"Call an ambulance," I mumbled and closed my eyes again. The next time I came around I found my hand wrapped in an extremely dirty tea towel and the thought of blood poisoning almost made me pass out for real. I started having visions of little bacteria bouncing with joy at the sight of the massive cut in my hand through which they could enter my bloodstream; but that might have had something to do with the pneumonia.
Nicky almost dislocated my shoulder pulling me onto a chair. He shoved some boots onto my feet, not bothering to tie the laces—of course not, I was already dying of pneumonia and bleeding to death, a little fall to break a few choice bones really wouldn't matter much at this stage—and then pulled me up and started dragging me out into the street and towards the tube station.
"Just one question," I managed to squeak, "why can't we take a cab?"
Nicky looked at me, disgust written all over his face. "You actually dare to suggest that I spend my hard-earned dosh on paying for a taxi when the tube will get us to the hospital just as well?"
"Nicky, you've been signing on for three fucking years, it's the old bag's money," I groaned.
"And god bless Mrs. Thatcher for ruining the infrastructure," Nicky remarked drily, continuing to pull me towards the tube station.
Once there, Nicky demanded money for my ticket. When I discovered that I had not a penny on me, he would have abandoned me there and then had I not drawn the attention of several employees of London Underground by blacking out once more. The next time I came around I was in the company of a male nurse. My hand was stitched up and properly bandaged and I had even been given a tetanus shot. Nicky was nowhere in sight.
"You're about ready to go," the nurse said cheerfully.
"What about my pneumonia?" I asked.
The nurse laughed. "You don't have pneumonia," he chuckled, "just a touch of the 'flu, go home, have plenty of clear fluids and you should be better in a day or two."
I groaned. "Can't go home, my mate's just gonna try and make me cook for him again and then we have those flatmate interviews that need doing and... can't you just keep me here for a few days?"
"Sorry," the nurse replied, "might be able to help with one of those problems though. Where's the flat and how much is the rent?"
"Islington and 30 quid a week," I answered.
"I'll take it, if it's alright with you and your flatmate," he said.
I grinned for the first time that day. "Depends, can you cook?"
"Pardon?" The nurse blinked.
"It's an easy enough question," I said. "Can you cook? Rob, by the way."
"Pardon?" The nurse blinked again. I was starting to think he wasn't the brightest candle in the chandelier.
"Name," I said impatiently, offering my hand. "My name's Rob. Not Bob or Robbie, but Rob."
"Er, right, Quinn," he said grabbing my hand and shaking it firmly, "and I can cook, well sort of, so long as you don't mind steak'n'chips or beans on toast. Nothing fancy, just grub really."
"I think that'll do. What say we knock ten pound of the rent each week if you cook for me and Nicky?"
"Do you think it would prevent you from trying to impale yourself on a hapless tin opener in the future?" Quinn asked with a smirk.
I laughed. "It'll prevent me from impaling Nicky on a broom stick next time he asks me to open one of those damned tins for him."
"No, we couldn't have that at all now, could we?" Quinn replied, a far-away look in his eyes. I wasn't quite sure I liked that look much; there was something predatory and lewd about it. On the other hand, it made Quinn's eyes go an interesting shade of green.
Oh God, I hadn't just thought that, had I? Well, that was all Rosie's fault too. Three years of sharing a flat with a chit who took delight in discussing the various attributes of the male population of London at large and a really, really long time since I'd actually gotten lucky were bound to have some undesirable side effects. Oh, and that was Rosie's fault as well, the not getting lucky in a really long time thing, I mean, because I kinda, sorta, maybe, don't-know-how-it-happened might have had the hots for Rosie herself for a year or two now. Not that she ever paid me any mind, but it would have been damned awkward bringing a girl home when I was spending all that time making puppy-eyes at Rosie; so I didn't.
There was one advantage to Rosie buggering off to Manchester after all: my self-imposed celibacy was about to come to an end. I started wondering just how many female nurses Quinn counted amongst his friends. Yes, come to think of it, having a nurse for the third flatmate didn't sound half bad. Plus, Quinn could move in pretty much immediately and there would be no messing with interviews and vetting applicants and arguing with Nicky over whether or not to give the room to the chit with the big tits and no brain.
I made an executive decision. "All right, you've got the room Quinn. When can you start cooking?"
So Rosie, the treacherous trollop, was replaced with little fanfare. The food was good too. Rosie'd been trying to get us to eat at least some veggies, even if it was only mushy peas, but Quinn was quite happy to serve up nosh that had seen only the chip pan or the grill. It was quite nice having another lad share the flat actually. Nicky and I could walk around in our drawers and spend lazy Saturdays watching footie and cricket on the telly and no chit was there to moan and winge about us not taking the rubbish out on collection day.
It's been about two weeks or so since Quinn moved in and last night we finally both had the night off—Nicky, being unemployed, had all nights off—so we decided to celebrate our new living arrangements in style and go on a proper pub crawl together. God only knows how many pints of Large later, we returned to the flat heavily leaning into each and dripping hot sauce from the kebabs down our shirts. It was really too good to last, so I wasn't at all surprised when things started going pear-shaped.
Nicky staggered off to bed, but Quinn, being more of a light-weight than either of us, chose to pass out right in the hallway between the front and the bathroom doors. I nudged him with my toes a few times, trying half-heartedly to get him to come to and move to his bedroom and then gave up when I realized that he wasn't going to budge for some hours. Not as if Nicky or I were planning to do much moving about in the hallway for a while at least, so off to bed I went too.
Er, yeah, about the pear-shaped. Well, I'm getting to that, aren't I? So I was all happy asleep in my bed dreaming of girls—what else does a healthy lad in his mid-to-late-twenties dream about?—with large green eyes and chests a little more muscular than you would think of for a girl and maybe even a nurses uniform and... hang on, what was that about muscular chests? Must have been the alcohol, does funny things to your head sometimes... anyway, as I was saying, I was lying in bed, happily dreaming about girls—yeah, girls—when I suddenly felt a warm body climbing in next to me. 'Course I was asleep, so it hardly registered. I dimly remember thinking that I couldn't remember having scored, but then a nice hot hand grabbed hold of my balls and who am I to argue with nice hot hands really? So I went back to sleep.
'Course when I woke up for the first time this morning that was another story entirely. In full command of my faculties—such as there were—I was only too aware that the hot, naked body pressing into me wasn't even remotely female and my mind went into overdrive. Naked? Did I say naked? Well, yes, I was rather certain about that after a minute or two because I could feel skin. I could also feel the evidence of the not-femaleness pressing into the small of my back.
Now Rob, my lad, don't panic, I chided myself and tried to rationalize the situation forthwith. Quinn was a wee bit on the wasted side last night and probably mistook my room for his, I figured. Could have happened to anyone. 'Course that'd mean that he'd also mistaken my dick for his own, if that nice, languid stroking motion was anything to go by and that led to a rather interesting question really, viz could you mistake somebody else's dick for your own?
It occurred to me at this point that right then might have been a good time to panic: to kick Quinn in the balls and back to his room, preferably fully dressed, except that hand was feeling awfully nice just then and it'd been ages since anyone except Mrs. Palm and her five sisters had gone anywhere close to where that hand was working its magic and maybe it wouldn't have been such a bad idea to pretend I was still asleep and just write all of it off to too much booze later on.
Quinn had other ideas though. "Want me to stop?" He mumbled into my hair. Fuckidy-fuck-fuck-fuck, I thought, the arsehole knew I hadn't kicked him across the room yet even though I was awake. I was going to be in so much deep shit within a few minute it'd take more than a shovel to dig me out again. Yes, say yes, stop! the sober part of my mind was screeching at me and the din was really not helping the hangover, which is really my only excuse for what happened next. Well, that and the sneaking suspicion that I may be as bent as a three-bob note; but if I am, it might take me a little longer to acknowledge that little detail—say a century or two.
"Shit no, don't stop!" is what actually came out of my mouth.
Hello Rob, this is another man tossing you off! You know, the kind of human being that comes with the same dangly bits as you do, I tried telling myself to a staggering lack of response from Mr. Brain. I interpreted that as evidence, if evidence were needed, that us blokes can't think with more than one head at a time. I'm pretty damn sure that if you'd had a look inside my head right then, you'd have seen a large cardboard sign saying 'room to let' because the mind had gone on holiday for the duration, figured all the blood was needed elsewhere, and who was I to argue with it anyway?
Yeah, go on, I know what you're going to say. You're going to ask what the hell was I thinking. Am I right? Well, you'll have to forgive me for having been ever so slightly distracted, because, shit, that hand—not my hand—really knew what it was doing. So I thought to myself, 'oh bugger it all to hell! Might as well lie back and enjoy the ride.'
Quinn really wasn't helping the situation any. "Like that, don't you," he whispered into my ear.
And all I could think was, 'give the man a cigar. Does it look like I'm not enjoying myself?'
'Course that wasn't what came out of my mouth. What came out of my mouth sounded a whole lot like 'guh!' and there may have been some drool involved. Christ, please tell me I wasn't drooling! That hand did feel rather nice though and that in turn led to my thinking to myself, 'Rob, now might be a good time to consider your sexual orientation, with particular reference to the turn it seems to have taken as of late.'
So that's where I am right now. Lying here, in my bed, a little the worse for wear after last night, with another bloke stroking my dick, and giving some serious thought to the entire concept of maybe possibly being into fucking men.
Er, no, scratch that. Not going to doubt my sexual orientation. This isn't all that different from school back when I was a lad and figuring out which bits were what with the help of a few of the other boys. Yeah, that's it. Just a little bit of mutual tossing off. No harm done. We'll be laughing about it later and... hang on, I think I missed something there, something important... did I say mutual? Oh God, I did, didn't I?
Concentrate Rob—yeah, I know it's hard to do with that very nice hand working your dick, but give it a try, this might be important—do you want this to be mutual? Let's consider the evidence, shall we? Somebody else's hand on your dick and somebody else's erection pressing into your back, how does that make you feel? Turned on? Yeah, OK, that's a pretty stupid question: you're a red-blooded male a few years short of thirty, a face flannel would probably turn you on... and what's with the sudden internal dialogue anyway, I though we were just going to lie back and enjoy the ride.
Uhm, Rob? Rob! I think you might have just lost control of your own hand there, mate, leastways that's the only explanation that seems likely under the circumstances, because your hand has sneakily wound up behind your back and, Jesus suffering fuck man! Don't touch that! Oh well, too late now. Does feel kind of interesting. Strange, but not bad, come to think of it. Still, you should try to get a grip lad. No! Not that kind of grip!
Quinn is making funny noises now—yes, well, so are you Rob—seems to like that though. Oh well, might as well go with it now that I've started.
That nice hand is still pulling my dick for all it's worth and I'm getting close. It's been a really long time since anyone else has touched me, it really has. Quinn's mumbling nonsense into my neck now. Pretty words that fall in with the rhythm of his hand. Oh shit, I'm gonna come. Nothing for it now, except possibly run with it and pull Quinn's own dick a little harder and hope that this isn't gonna come back to bite me in the arse later. It's just a bit of mutual masturbation after all. All boys do it—admittedly when they're about half my age, but we're not going to dwell on that, are we?—yeah, perfectly normal thing for two red-blooded males to do.
Then Quinn's panting and shuddering a little bit and suddenly my back's all hot and sticky and seconds later my front is too. That was... intense.
Quinn's pulling me closer and drawing the duvet up to our necks, one arm's wrapped tightly around my waist. He touches his lips to my neck. "'s early yet," he says. "Should go back to sleep for a few."
So I do. Well, it's either that or thinking about what just happened and it might be a good idea to go for the lesser of two evils here. 's kind of like voting really: you choose one pair of crooks over another because pretty much anything's gotta be better than that old bag and her cronies. So I curl into the warm body behind me—'cause it's cold, not because of anything else, mind you—and go back to sleep.
I wake up a few hours later and there's a hot body still pressed against me. Not a dream then. Bugger. I seem to have turned around while I was asleep though, because there's hot breath brushing across my chest and a couple of legs tangled with my own. At least one of my arms is lodged underneath the other body as well. We're not going to dwell too much on whose body it actually is and there is no way, no how, we're going to act on that sudden urge to kiss the mouth that belongs to said body. There's a difference between a little bit of wanking and snogging. At least I think there is. Might have to ask Nicky about that. What? No, not going to ask Nicky about that! Such questions would lead to all sorts of other questions that definitely shouldn't be asked!
Concentrate Rob. OK, let's assess the events of the night in the cold light of day. You got totally rat-arsed. Hmm, no news there then. You somehow ended up in bed with your flatmate. Not unheard of, is it? Your very male flatmate. Now that might be considered a tad unusual. Still, could write it all off to drunkenness. Except... except that mouth is looking awfully snoggable right now. Body seems to have other ideas as well. OK, Rob, time to think of showers. Hot shower with a nice hot body leaning into you and a mouth... no, no, no! Cold showers! Icy showers! Try again. Think of greens. Vegetables. Mushy peas. That seems to be working. Mushy peas, which, were they any less mushy, could be almost the same color as those eyes... eyes which are opening right now.
Quinn's looking at me all sleepy and rumpled. Doesn't look like he's about to deck me or bolt from the bed though, so it might not be as bad as it seems. Nice ruby-red lips just asking to be kissed... er, that's not what I meant, it really isn't and I definitely did not lick my lips just now, I really didn't.
Oh, he's smiling now. Probably not as bad as I thought it would be then. "Morning," he mumbles. "Want me to leave?"
Oh good Rob, here's the ticket out of this mess you've somehow gotten yourself into; say yes.
"Not unless you want to."
Great one mate! Did I really just say that? Please tell me I didn't just say that! Hello Brain, it'd be nice if you could start working again some time soon, like within the next few minutes if you please, before anything else happens. Please?
"Ta," he says and crawls up closer to me. Skin pressing against skin the entire length of my body. Then he raises his head slightly from my chest. Moist red lips just asking to be snogged mere inches from my mouth. Tongue darting out.
Next thing I know whatever part of my mind hadn't gone on holiday the previous night is handing in its notice and vacating the premises in a hurry because my own mouth is inching closer and closer to those nice ruby lips and then pressing against them. My arms are wrapping tighter around the shoulders in front of me and I sigh—I fucking sigh!—when a tongue brushes along my bottom lip.
I'm up the creek without a paddle now. There ain't no way in hell I'll be able to shrug this one off as a drunken misunderstanding. Oh shit. Oh God that feels nice!
Very talented tongue in my mouth. The first thing I notice aside from the odd feeling of stubble pressing against my chin—and let's face it, this seems to be a morning for all sorts of new revelations—is that Quinn kisses much more desperately than any chit I've ever known. His tongue is hard and demanding and—there is no other way to put this—virtually fucking my mouth. I never thought I could get so hard from a snog.
Usually I'm a tits and arse kind of bloke and there isn't much going on in the tits department here, if you catch my drift. Now in terms of arse, that's another matter entirely. Quinn's got quite the superior arse if I'm any judge. Uhm Rob, how the hell would you know about the superiority of Quinn's arse? Oh shit. Oh shitty-shitty-shit-shit. Hands on another bloke's arse. Not good. Getting into decidedly dangerous territory here.
Feels good though. Hard tongue in my mouth and my hands on an equally hard arse. Christ this is wrong, so wrong. I shouldn't really be moaning into that mouth. Was I moaning? I do believe I was. Trouble is, I really shouldn't be doing that. This is wrong on so many levels, because this is my flatmate Quinn and while the kissing and touching may be nice as anything, what with not having gotten any recently, he's still got those same dangly bits I've got and quite frankly the thought of actual sex, the kind that involves orifices, leaves me with a strange feeling in my belly. Best not to dwell on that feeling too much. Most of all, this is wrong because—and here's the kicker—I'm not queer.
Leastways I don't think I am. Am I? Damn, I seem to be undecided on that little issue just now and it really might be in my best interest to make up my mind about that pretty damn quickly, preferably yesterday.
OK, let's consider this calmly. Well, as calmly as practicable while somebody's got their tongue in your mouth and their hands stroking up and down your back. Do guys turn me on? Need a test-case, any test-case that doesn't come in a nurse's uniform with painfully green eyes and a very talented tongue. Paul Daniels. Think of Paul Daniels. No, doesn't do a thing for me. Can't be queer then.
Oh, alright, Paul Daniels probably isn't a valid test case. Does he turn anyone on? Try again. How about Joe Strummer. Picture Joe Strummer in tight leather pants, unruly hair slicked back by sweat and stagelights, working that guitar for all it's worth. Uh-oh, Houston we have a problem. Maybe it's the guitar. Some sort of strange fetishistic tendency. Try this again without the guitar. Right, Joe Strummer in tight leather pants with a smirk on his face. Now isn't it interesting how my dick jumped at that image?
Might be the right time for some discreet revisions to the sexual identity. I can cope with that. I can accept that there might be a possibility that I like blokes as well. Doesn't mean I've stopped liking girls all of a sudden—because I haven't—just means that the shagging pool's been doubled at the drop of a hat and that could be an advantage really, what with all the shagging I haven't been doing.
Hold on, shagging pool? Shagging pool?!? Rob my man, a minute ago you were worrying about that strange feeling in your belly you got while thinking about aforementioned shagging, what happened to that? Oh right, it's still there, except upon further reflection it's the kind of feeling that seems to coil directly into your balls. Oh. Not an entirely bad feeling then.
Oops, hand just acted of its own accord there. Seems to think now that I've admitted to myself that I could come to enjoy this—who am I kidding, I'm enjoying it already—it's gonna explore a little further. Stopped kneading that very superior arse and travelled around the front a bit to fondle some balls—not my own. Oh, Quinn's whimpering a little now. Must be doing something right there if the increased thrusts of his tongue into my mouth are any indication.
The hand's getting outright bold now, sneaking to places it's never been before, like that patch of skin just behind Quinn's balls. Well, he certainly liked that, I think. He's spreading his legs now and moaning. Oh. I think he might be trying to say something. There's an idea! Let's try that speech thing that sets us apart from highly-evolved monkeys.
"Huh?" Good going there Rob, erudite as ever.
Quinn grins at the befuddled look on my face—I probably would too—and repeats his question: "Wanna shag me?"
Not going to panic. Really not going to panic. Deep breaths, nice and easy, need to be calm about this and explain... what exactly? That although I am graciously acknowledging that the thought turns me on a little—alright, quite a bit, how's that?—I'm still getting used to the idea of actually being turned on by blokes and I might need a little bit of time to adjust to the concept. Yeah, that sounds good. Sounds real good inside my head. Now all I have to do is wrap my tongue around the words and actually say them.
Well, bugger me sideways—no actually, come to think of it, don't, under the circumstances—all that tongue-wrestling seems to have led to illusions of grandeur for the tongue in question, which has held its own Boston tea party by the sounds of it, because what I actually hear myself saying is, "oh hell yeah!"
Uhm, any chance of an act of God right about now? Nothing too fancy, really. Maybe being turned into a pillar of salt? No? How about that old favorite about the ground swallowing me up whole? No, that's not happening either. Christ, I must have done something to piss off the guy upstairs, because he's being no help whatsoever. Oh yeah, there's that issue of contemplating sodomy, doesn't go down well with the big guns, if my Sunday school teachers of old can be trusted. Might be safe to assume that I'll be going to hell in a hand-cart.
'Course, if I'm already going to hell I might as well go the whole nine yards, do what Quinn asks and die a happy man in the process. So it's in for a penny, in for a pound—as my grandmother was wont to say—and just to make sure we're on the same page I add, "oh yeah, want to fuck you."
Well, Quinn seems to like that idea a whole lot if the renewed assault of his tongue on my mouth is any indication. His hand leaves my back and I am almost mewling at the loss. Then I feel his hand brushing across my fingers and then something cold and wet is squeezed into my hand. Shit. Oh yeah, lotion, need that I suppose. Oh hell, time to feel woefully inadequate again. Just what exactly am I supposed to do with the stuff?
Yeah, OK, that's a pretty dumb question. I know at least in theory what I should be doing with it. Uhm, not as easy in practice though. Quinn senses my hesitancy, at least I think he does, because he's spreading the stuff across my fingers with sure, easy movements. Then he takes hold of my wrist and guides my hand to... to wherever it's supposed to be going.
Er, Rob, reality-check here. If you can't think that word, maybe it's time to make a graceful exit right about now, because you know, you're going to be doing a hell of a lot more than just thinking anatomy in a minute. Mind you, how much of a graceful exit you'd be able to make, what with the raging hard-on and the hand covered in lotion, remains to be seen. OK. Try again.
Quinn guides my hand to his, er... damn it all to hell! Here it goes: Quinn guides my hand to his arsehole, there I've thought it! Wasn't so bad—God, I hope I'm not blushing, am I blushing?—and then he let's go of my hand. I brush my fingers across it a few time, hesitantly. Feels odd, but not in a bad way and Quinn seems to like that a lot, because he's pushing down onto my fingers.
Time to take the plunge Rob, quite literally. So I push one finger in. Oh boy, that's hot and tight and Lord only knows how I'll ever fit my dick there. Quinn is enjoying himself quite a bit though, he's squirming and moaning and starting to rock his hips a little to drive my finger deeper into his body. Then he grabs hold of my dick and starts slathering it in lotion, pulling at it hard for good measure.
Oh lookee, my hand's gone on autopilot again. At this rate several parts of my body are going to declare independence before the day is out. A second finger's about to push into Quinn and who am I to argue with the nascent nationalist movement my extremities seem to be involved in? 'Course that hot hand on my dick isn't helping the situation much either.
Right. Second finger in. Sweet mother of god, that's tight! Why have I never thought of doing this before exactly? My hand starts moving of its own accord, thrusting fingers in and out of that oh-so-sweet arse and I do believe it's a superior arse inside as well as out. Quinn's hand is tugging on my dick quite desperately now. Wonder whether he's ready, because I don't think I can hold on too much longer.
As if he were reading my mind, he rolls over onto his back and pulls me with him so I'm half-lying across his body and he's raising his legs and spreading them wide and tucking my dick in the general direction of my hand. "Want you to fuck me, now!" He pants.
What can I say? I was brought up good and proper. Went to Sunday school and everything. Brought up to say 'yes, please' and 'thank you' and taught to be a good boy and do what is asked of me. So I pull my fingers out of that very superior arse and thank god Quinn is helping with the next bit, because I'm not at all sure I'd actually have the presence of mind to make a good go of it and if it weren't for his hand guiding me there's a considerable chance I would end up pounding the mattress into oblivion instead.
He knows what he's doing though. He's probably done this before. Well, at least one of us knows how it all works. He lines my dick up with his arsehole and then, when I don't do anything for a few moments, he simply pushes back and... oh God, I think I might faint any second now. Hot and tight and oh Lord, I better do something quick or else this will be over before it's started.
Quick Rob, think of the most un-sexy, unappealing thing you can wrap your mind around. RIGHT NOW! If you please. Hot and tight and oh so very good and... think dammit! Something! Right, get with the program here. Have to think of something that's gonna stop me from coming before I've so much as a chance of fucking that arse. What to think about? Terry Wogan. Terry Wogan naked on my bed. Yeah, that seems to be working.
God, I really have to stop watching the telly so much, it's not good for me. Terry Wogan naked and spread-eagled on the bed wearing a tutu. Yeah, that did it. "Are you ready?" Quinn pants.
Can't really talk right now. I'm concentrating all my efforts on not coming in that sweet tight arse, so I guess I better show him. I pull out ever so slowly and then thrust back fast and hard.
I pull back again and this time he rocks his hips forward meeting my thrust and he's mewling and breathing hard and Jesus, this isn't going to last very long. It's been so long since I fucked anyone and girls have nothing on this. Don't know that I'll ever want to do girls again. I start thrusting hard and fast and there's very little rhythm to it. This isn't going to go down as one of the most impressive shags in the history of Rob, because frankly I'm too far gone already to make this anything but needy and desperate. Feels so good though.
Quinn wraps his legs tightly around my waist, meeting me thrust for thrust and using his legs to guide me somehow. God only knows how he can keep it together with the noises he's making. He's panting harder now. I've got sweat running down my face and stinging my eyes a little and there's no way in hell I can hold on much longer, not with the noises he's making and that hot tight arse all around me.
"Rob, please," Quinn pants. "Touch me."
Oh yeah, there is that, huh? I shift my weight to my left shoulder and take hold of his dick. I start tossing him off, trying desperately not to lose what little rhythm I have with my hips. This is a great deal more difficult than it looks. You know that thing you do when you're a kid, trying to pat your head and rub your belly at the same time? Remember how it was really difficult to do? Well, this is kind of like it.
Not that he's complaining in any way though, in fact, by the looks of him, head thrown back on the pillow, eyes rolling back in their sockets so only the whites are showing, and harsh, harsh breaths and pants escaping his lips, he's having a grand old time. Makes me wonder whether I want to try taking it up the arse, because he sure looks like he's enjoying himself there.
Oh shit. That was one visual to many. I can feel the orgasm starting at the base of my spine and I start pulling his dick harder, trying to get him off too before I come for the second time this morning. He's babbling now: weird nonsense words that don't make any sense. One more thrust and the orgasm shoots through me, making my body tingle from toes to fingertips, and I'm shaking and trying to suppress the urge to laugh out loud.
I vaguely notice his arse tightening around me as I'm trying to catch my breath and then there is hot stickiness all over me hand. Oh good, didn't screw that up completely then. I try not to collapse on top of Quinn, I really do, but my bones have been replaced with jellied eels as far as I am concerned. I sink onto his chest and I hope he doesn't want me to move, because I really don't see that happening any time soon.
I'm still trying to catch my breath and keep myself from giggling like a school-girl when I feel Quinn wrapping his arms around my chest and using one knee for leverage to roll us onto our sides. I really don't want to move. He doesn't let go of me though, keeps his arms around my chest, his other leg firmly entangled with mine and starts kissing the side of my face.
"Rob, you OK?" He asks.
"That was..." I begin and then stop because I am at a loss for words for possibly the first time in my life. "That was quite likely the best shag I've ever had," I finally say.
Quinn laughs, his hand stroking my arm and my shoulder, his mouth nibbling on my chin, "that was the appetizer, to take the edge off some. Just wait until we get really started," he chuckles.
I don't say anything for a minute. This technically would be the time when the self-recrimination followed by self-flagellation is scheduled to set in, except... except, there is very little happening in the recriminations department. Tanks of panic were emptied earlier today, it seems, and haven't been re-fuelled as of yet. I blame shoddy housekeeping. Doubts? Not happening right now. Could be the sudden drop in blood-pressure; that's bound to affect the mind, isn't it?
Still, I am more than a little surprised when that pesky body—and let's face it, it hasn't been too loyal to the brain for the better part of the morning—totally disregards any signals it should be receiving and snuggles up closer to Quinn. The treacherous mouth seems to have pledged allegiance to the body as well, because I hear myself saying, "I think I'd like that."
Uh oh, Houston, we've got a much bigger problem than previously reported.
"You know I'm not queer, yeah?" I ask. Ah good. Doubt and self-recrimination are commencing. There was just a little time delay after all.
"'Course you're not," Quinn replies. "Don't worry, I won't let the fact that you just screwed me into oblivion affect my opinion in any way."
"Good, because I'm really not," I say.
His hands stop stroking my back and shoulders for a moment. "Want me to leave then?"
"No, not really," I mumble into his neck and pull him closer for good measure.
He's lavishing kisses along my neck and face. "Want me to stop doing that?" He asks.
"Maybe in a bit," I say.
"But you're definitely not queer. Sure about that?" he chuckles.
"Positive," I say, or at least try to. Not that easy to say a big word like that when you've got a Quinn-tongue inside your mouth. Nice warm and wet Quinn-tongue.
"Well that's a relief then, that you're sure, I mean," he says before plunging that tongue back into my mouth.
Nice kissing. Nice hands on my back and shoulders. Nice Quinn-tongue and Quinn-hands.
"You know, we need to get up soon, 's getting late," he says pulling away a little bit.
"No," I say wrapping my arms tighter around his chest. "Wanna stay in bed all day, 's warm."
He laughs. "Anyone ever tell you you're kind of clingy after a good shag?"
"Might've," I mumble.
"Come on, time to get up. I'll even cook you breakfast. Some eggs and sausage..."
My stomach's rumbling at the mention of food. "Fried bread?" I ask.
He laughs again. "'Course, gonna do it proper like. You know they say there's two ways to a man's heart: blowjob or full English breakfast."
Did the room suddenly de-compress? I'm feeling light-headed all of a sudden. Oh, blood rushing south. That'd explain it. You'd think that thing would start losing interest some time soon—down boy! down!—or maybe not. I can feel Quinn grinning into my shoulder, probably because he can feel my hardening dick pressing into his hip.
"Fancy that," he says, slowly grinding his groin against my hard-on, "and I was so certain you'd go with the full English breakfast, what with not being queer an' all."
"Suppose I can't have both, huh?" I ask.
"Breakfast first, then shower," Quinn says decisively. "Maybe if you're good we can talk about the blowjob later."
Breakfast is good. Sort of. A little odd too. Quinn's happily tucking away at his own food and acting like nothing's happened. How can he act like that after the most amazing shag in, well, in a pretty long time, maybe ever. Why should I care? 's not as if I'm queer. I just wish... oh alright, I wish he'd be touching me again. Satisfied?
Then Nicky comes into the kitchen, showered and shaven, wearing clean jeans. "Hey, full English breakfast," he says. "Wicked! What's the occasion?"
He knows. Fuck he knows. There's no way he couldn't have heard us this morning. We weren't exactly quiet. He must know. There's no way he can't know. Full-blown panic-mode now. I'm blushing—I know I am—and starting to hyperventilate a little.
Quinn quirks an eyebrow at me. "You alright there Rob? Did I put too much chilli sauce on those eggs?" Then he turns to Nicky. "Nothing like a good fry-up after a night of heavy drinking, I always say. Want some?"
"Hell yeah," Nicky says and then he's tucking into a plate of egg and sausage and fried bread.
I don't say anything much, still trying to get things straight in my head, but Nicky and Quinn are chit-chatting about this and that and generally having a grand old time of it. Finally, Nicky pushes his plate away and says, "that was lovely. Think I'll be heading out for a while though. You know, people to see, dole checks to queue up for..."
Quinn nods and starts clearing away the plates and I don't think I can cope with being in the same room right now although my body's still screaming to be touched again, so I head for the shower.
Time to regroup, I think, as the hot water hits me and washes away all evidence of this morning. In a strange way I don't want it to; wash away the evidence, I mean. Christ, what am I thinking? So I get lucky for the first time since—don't laugh—the seventies, and my brain is so fried by the entire experience I never want to wash again? Yeah, that'd really make Quinn want to repeat the experience.
Hold on. Who said a word about repeating anything? Do I want a repeat performance? Yeah, let's be truthful, I do, if my reaction to that blowjob comment was anything to go by. Except... except if I start thinking about repeat performances then I'll have to start thinking about some other shit too, like maybe I'm queer after all. 'Course, once we start getting into the whole encore territory, there might be some other topics to consider, like how often do you reckon Quinn'll spread his legs before he'll ask me to return the favor?
Strange, all of a sudden that thought doesn't make me squirm as much. I do believe I'm starting to get used to the entire idea. Doesn't mean I've stopped panicking yet though. I sigh and towel off and throw some clothes on. When I get back to the sitting room, Quinn is just lacing up his boots.
"Oh, you're going out?" I ask trying to hide the disappointment.
"Yeah, think I had better, for a while at least," he replies.
I guess I must be sporting that kicked-puppy look that Nicky claims I've turned into an art form because he sighs, "look, I'm not running out on you... well, I guess I am, but only for a couple of hours. Give you time to get things sorted in your head..."
"I thought I'd gotten it all sorted," I pout and, blushing, I add, "you did mention a blowjob earlier on. Think I'd like that."
"I've no doubt you would," Quinn says. "The question isn't so much whether you'd like to be blown or not, the question is whether you'd be willing to return the favor, what with not being queer an' all."
Can't really respond to that other than blushing ten different shades of crimson, so Quinn goes back to lacing up his boots. Then he brushes his lips across my mouth—no tongue action though—and says, "I'll be back in an hour or two. Try to at least think about it, alright?"
I wait only a few seconds after he's left the flat before starting to scramble wildly about the place. I really need to talk to someone, help me get things straightened out in my head. Maybe Nicky, we talk about everything... no, can't ask Nicky about this one, not without telling him all sorts of shit. Crap, there must be someone.
Rosie! Somewhere around here there's a piece of paper with Rosie's new work number. A number I swore I'd never call after she just up and left, but desperate times... there we go, Rosie's work number. I wrangle my way through a couple of receptionists, all the while trying to work out the exact phrasing of what I'm going to say. Never works like that though, does it?
When Rosie finally gets on the line, I blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind: "Rosie, do you think I'm queer?"
"I beg your pardon!" Rosie yells down the line, complete with choking sounds.
"You know, do you think I bat for the boys, play hide the sausage with blokes-"
"Alright, I get it," she interrupts before I can come up with any more godawful metaphors. "Rob, just because you haven't gotten laid since 1979 doesn't mean you're queer."
"I did get laid. Sort of. I did the laying..." I'm really not making myself too clear here.
"Congratulation, I take it you're over me then. Only took you three weeks too. Didn't know you were such a fickle little bastard," Rosie mutters.
Shit. Wouldn't give me the time of day for three years and now she's complaining that I went and found someone else. Better stop her before she really starts ranting.
"Uhm yeah, Rosie, before you fly off the handle, it wasn't a chit," I say.
"Oh. Oh?"
It's quite impressive how many nuances of meaning Rosie can imbue on a single vowel. It's even more impressive because this is the first time in the many years I've known her—and not for want of trying on my part, I might add—that I've said something that left her completely and utterly speechless. Not for long though.
"So, tell me about it," she says rather flippantly, as though the revelation that I engaged in some sort of sexual activity with another man is nothing out of the ordinary.
"Not much to tell," I mutter. "I got shit-faced and wound up in bed with another bloke."
"Could have guessed that," she sigh. "I mean, how was it?"
Love that woman, not least because she always gets straight to the point; no pussy-footing around with her. "It was good," I say. "Better than good. It was fan-fucking-tastic. Best sex I've ever had."
"So what're you calling me for. Sounds like you've got your answer right there," she snaps.
Should tell her the big but I suppose. "I'm not queer though."
"Yeah, neither is Cliff Richard," she laughs.
"Rosie, try to take this seriously, would you? I'm having a crisis here," I whine. "It wasn't as if... I mean, I did the actual screwing bit."
"Was it good?" She asks.
"Already told you it was," I reply.
"Do you want to do it again?"
"Yeah, think I do," I say without hesitation. Huh? Guess I do.
"Worried about being the one who gets screwed?" She asks.
Shit. What kind of question is that? 'Course I'm fucking worried. Worried doesn't even come close to describing it. I'm petrified and also a little bit turned on. Hang on? I'm turned on? Guess I am.
"Sort of," I grudgingly admit.
"It's quite good if you do it right, you know," she offers. "Just make sure you've got plenty of lube."
"How the fuck would you know?" I ask.
"Thought that'd be self-evident," she snaps. "Do I need to spell it out for you?"
Penny dropping. "Oh."
"Yeah, oh," she says. "You want my professional opinion? You're queer. Now go and find your boyfriend and catch up on all you've been missing for the past twenty-eight years. It'll be alright, really."
Then she hangs up. The bint just hangs up on me. Guess that tells you something about where her priorities lie. 'Course I knew that when she ran off to Manchester. I am so royally screwed now. I hope Quinn gets back soon.
He's true to his word; comes back a couple of hours later and by that time I'm wound up so tight you could sell me for clockwork. He barely has time to get into the flat and close the door before I've got him pinned against the wall in the hallway.
"Watch it mate, Nicky could come in any second," he laughs.
"Don't give a shit," I reply running my tongue along his neck. I kind of do though. It's fine for Rosie to tell me I'm queer, I could even get used to the idea given time, but I'm not quite ready for Nicky to walk in on this. Want Quinn though. Want him a lot. Want his hands on my body, his tongue in my mouth and his dick in my arse... huh? WHAT? Tell me I didn't just think that. Please tell me I didn't. Right, I know when to throw in the towel. I really do. Not going to win this one. So I'm queer. I can deal with that so long as there's plenty of Quinn to go with it.
"Made up your mind then, have you?" He asks.
"Yes. The answer is yes," I say just before plunging my tongue into his mouth.
"Yes what?" He asks when I finally let him come up for air.
"Yes I can blow you too. Well, actually I'm not sure that I can on account of never having done that before, but I'm willing to try," I say quickly, just to make sure I actually get it out before my brain kicks in and tries to stop me. "Hell, what am I saying, I want to try. Want to try a lot of things. Can we go back to bed please?"
He doesn't even try to answer that. Just starts kissing me again, while unbuttoning my shirt with one hand and using the other to push me towards my room.
The short trip to my room is almost enough to make me panic again. What? Remember how nervous you were the night you lost your virginity? With a girl who was just as clueless as you were? Well, this is a bloke and he's not clueless, nowhere near as clueless as I am at any rate. This is scary shit. Have I mentioned that it's all Rosie's fault? Right. Not going to panic. Doing me damndest not to panic over here.
I've got Quinn-tongue in my mouth and Quinn-hands sliding my shirt off my shoulders and then there are Quinn-nails scratching down my chest. Hang on. Quinn-nails? I hazard a look and shit, guess I know what he got up to while he was out. His nails have been filed into points. Still short, manly nails, but filed into points. A kink. Christ I don't think I can cope with a kink on top of the blokey sex.
'Course my body has entirely different ideas. No surprise there then. My body leans into Quinn's nails which are lightly scratching my chest and my shoulders and my back. Somewhere along the line his shirt comes off too and our trousers are unbuttoned, all while our tongues are still entwined like a couple of snakes. Shit, did I just come up with a simile worthy of Barbara Cartland herself? Bad Rob. No biscuit for you.
Quinn's slowly pushing me towards the bed nudging my trousers past my hips. I sit down and take care of my own socks. There really isn't any sexy way of taking off your socks, is there? By the time the socks are off, Quinn is starkers too. He's really hot. Yeah, I knew he was good-looking before, but I've never really looked at him up close and naked before. Didn't really get a chance to this morning, what with the tangle of sheets and the duvet and the general confusion and all.
He's standing a little bit away from me now and he's grinning. "Like what you see?" He asks.
"A lot," I reply, swallowing hard. Yeah, I like it a lot. Should I worry about that?
"You're not too shabby yourself," he smiles and steps between my legs, edging forward slowly until I start lying down on the bed. "Kind of cute in an utterly panicked way," he continues, kissing his way up my chest, "like a blushing virgin."
Oh, news flash there. "Probably because I am," I say, my indignation somewhat muffled by the renewed attack of Quinn's tongue on my mouth.
He's running his hands up and down my body and kissing me for all he's worth and then he rolls over and lies back on the bed smirking. "Show me how much you want me then."
Ah, that'd be my cue. Line please? Come on now Rob, you can do this. Not so very different from going down on a girl, is it? Not so very different at all. Start kissing your way down his neck and then onto his chest. Nipples there. Wonder how he likes having his nipples sucked. Well, pretty damn well I should say, judging by the sounds he is making and the way he is squirming beneath me.
Only so much time you can spend sucking nipples though, even if you are being very thorough. So tongue trailing down the belly, meeting a thin line of hair and following that line and then... fuck that's big! No way that'll ever fit into my mouth and I don't even want to think about fitting it anywhere else. So not going to fit. OK, pause here for a second, rest head on nice, pillowy belly and take a few deep breaths.
It's not as if I don't want to do this—I really do—but I'm still nervous as hell. It's OK to be scared shitless, right? I mean, what if I'm no good? What if I'm so fucking appalling he'll never want to sleep with me again? Where did that sleep-with-me-again bit come from? It's really very big. I'm not panicking. Really. I'm not.
"Hey, you're not going to sleep down there, are you?" Quinn chuckles.
"No, just thinking," I reply. "I don't have to... I mean, I can spit, right?"
"What a hopeless romantic you are," Quinn laughs. "No, you don't have to swallow, not unless you want to. Try spitting away from the body though. Don't want to get all sticky again."
Right Rob. See? You don't even have to swallow. Come on, this isn't rocket science. Can't be that hard. Oh, hard, how quaint. It's now or never, so get a move on already!
I raise my head and start trailing my tongue down along that thin line of hair again and this time I don't stop. Lick all the way down and then up that impressively hard dick. It jumps a little under my tongue and Quinn moans. I shuffle around a bit, so I'm kneeling between his spread thighs, and tentatively take the tip of his dick in my mouth, running my tongue around it. He likes that. He's making weird panting noises and babbling encouragement.
He's pressing his body into the mattress hard; grasping the sheet in his fists so tightly, his knuckles are turning white. Trying to make this easier for me. Trying not to move. Trying not to thrust. So I start alternating between running my tongue up the underside of his dick—because I like that when it's done to me—and taking him in my mouth; as far as I dare to at any rate.
I come up for air—how do girls do this?—and in a moment of brilliant thinking, spit into my own hand. Might not be able to take all of him into my mouth, but I can put one of my hands to good use. So I start sucking in earnest and using my spit-covered hand to stroke the base of his dick and he's mewling now. That sounds incredibly hot. Must be doing something right here.
Without even noticing, my other hand, the one that isn't wrapped around his dick, travels down to my own hard-on and I start tossing myself off. Can't wait for my turn. He's starting to pant now.
"Rob, I'm going to come any second now," he moans.
Before I have a chance to consider whether to get my mouth to a safe distance and finish him off with my hand, he groans loudly and starts to shake. Then hot wet something-or-other—not thinking about what it is, really not thinking about that—hits the roof of mouth and I'm not gagging—well, not much—I'm too busy coming myself.
Doesn't taste that bad actually. Kind of salty and alien, but not really all that bad. Still, I think we'll leave the swallowing for some other time.
Before I know it Quinn is handing me a wad of tissues and I take it gratefully. Spit the surplus of come in my mouth into it in the most graceful manner I can manage and then throw it across the room. I crawl up his body a little bit and settle down next to him, my head resting on that nice, pillowy belly.
Quinn's stroking my hair. "Thank you," he says. Probably didn't think I'd go through with it. Well, that showed him, didn't it? I don't say anything though, much too comfy on that nice, pillowy belly to start talking. Besides, I'm enjoying the view. Don't often get the chance to see a dick up close and personal, well, not like that at least.
I'm watching it start to grow flaccid, with one or two pearls of come dripping down into Quinn's pubes and it looks kind of nice even when it isn't hard and ready to play. There's a blue lacework of veins running just underneath the skin and it's still twitching occasionally with the aftershocks of his orgasm and I do believe I could come to like that dick; quite a lot, given time.
Quinn's hands are stroking my shoulders now. "Hey," he says softly, "want to come up here so I can take care of you?"
"Couldn't wait," I mumble, "'s been sorted already."
"Wanna come up and give us a kiss then?" He asks.
I run a finger lightly across the underside of his now flaccid dick and shake my head minutely, never actually raising it from his belly. "No, think I'll stay down here for a while. Comfy. Nice soft belly." As an afterthought I add, "anybody ever try going to sleep with a soft dick in his mouth?"
Quinn's body starts shaking beneath me. It takes me a minute to realize he's trying hard to suppress his laughter. Doesn't quite manage though, because eventually he chokes out, "Rob, anyone ever tell you there's a fine line between clingy and psychotic?"
I don't say anything to that, just lie there for a while, watching Quinn's dick while he is playing with my hair. It's not a bad place to be.
"I've got to go to work soon," I say after a while.
Quinn stops petting my head and sighs, "yeah, I know."
I finally lift my head up from his belly. It's a short crawl up his body and then we are face to face and I rest my head on his shoulder. Never want to move again from there. Is that wrong? Probably is. I'm pretty sure the reason Rosie never paid me any mind was that she saw me with a girl or two before I fell hopelessly in love with her. I get attached. Very attached. Don't ever want to move again once I've found some arms to throw myself at. Never ends so well, that does.
'Course right now it doesn't matter all that much because Quinn's wrapping his arms around my back and kissing my face softly. Who cares that it'll all go pear-shaped—even more pear-shaped—before too long? Right now I've got 13 stone of not-too-shabby Quinn pressed into my bones and warm hands rubbing up and down my back. Christ, I'm half-hard again. Don't have time for that now.
"You could come down the pub later," I whisper.
Quinn stiffens a little bit, not much, but enough to notice. Here we go with the pear-shaped then. You're a nice distraction Rob, good shag when I haven't had one in a while, but on the whole I'd rather stick to guys who know what they're doing and don't panic every five seconds. That's what he's about to say, isn't it?
"Think that's a good idea?" He asks.
I'm scrambling. "Not to go out or anything," I stutter, "but, you know, you can shoot some pool, have a couple of drinks on the house when the landlord isn't looking..."
"Can't drink, early shift tomorrow morning," he says. I guess I must have the kicked-puppy look on my face though, because he quickly adds, "but I'll come down and see if there's a proper darts game going on. You can even slip me some non-alcoholic shandy when the landlord isn't paying attention."
"Non-alcoholic shandy?" I ask.
He winks. "Yeah, that's lemonade for the posh folk," he grins and then he's kissing me again and I do believe we have avoided pear-shaped for the time being. Still going to happen sooner or later, I've no doubt, and what the hell am I doing anyway? I just invited Quinn to my place of employment. Might as well paint a big bull's eye on my back with the legend 'sodomite' emblazoned above it. See how long I'll last in an East-End-ish pub once they work out Quinn and I are shagging, what with all the blackshirts crawling around the place on Saturday nights. Still want him there for as long as he'll stay, not that I think he'll be staying long.
He does come down about an hour before closing time. It isn't a busy night and we talk some, about footie and what's on the telly and other such manly things. He hangs about the bar as we close up for the night and then we catch the bus back to King's Cross. We walk from there, taking the back streets.
He's keeping a respectable distance though there's nobody out this late on a weeknight. I wonder whether it's wrong to want him closer to me. If he were a girl I'd be holding his hand right now. Doesn't really work like that for blokes, does it? Would it be really wrong if I tried to hold his hand?
I guess he notices me slowing down, because he stops to look at me and asks, "something wrong?"
"Kiss me?" I reply before I can wrap my mind around what I am saying. Then there's hot hands in my hair, a firm body pushing me against the alley wall and an even hotter tongue in my mouth. He's snogging me good and proper, not desperately like before, but still hard; never lets his hands wander further down than my neck either and soon—much too soon—he pulls away from me and starts walking towards home again.
Well sod it! Who cares about behaving like a chit after being kissed like that? I catch up with him quickly and then slowly, hesitantly, reach out for his hand. He doesn't pull back this time, gently brushes his thumb against my palm while we're walking down the dark alley. He doesn't let go of my hand again until we reach the high street.
We let ourselves into the flat and Nicky is sitting there, nodding off in front of the telly. I don't stop to say hello, just start heading straight for my room and I know that Quinn is right behind me. When we reach my door he pauses for a second, looks at me sideways, then he shrugs and starts stalking down the hall towards his own room.
Shit. Should say something—anything—before he disappears into that room and closes the door. This is a test, isn't it? He's giving me an out. Won't come in unless I ask him to. Trouble is, I'm not quite sure how to ask. Not something I do every day after all. Have to think fast now. Only a few more steps and he'll be by his own door and I'll be alone in my bed which suddenly looks far too big and lonely for just one person.
"Quinn," I say and he turns back to me. Don't really know how to phrase the request. Well, yeah, I'm an idiot, of course I know how to say it, something like 'spend the night?' Can't say it out loud though and not only because Nicky is in the next room. Because this isn't really about shagging at this point, it's about not wanting to be alone in that bed. It's about wanting a warm body pressed against mine and strong arms wrapped around my chest. It's about wanting to be close. Don't know how to ask for that, so I just gesture vaguely at my own door, hoping it is enough.
He tilts his head to the side for a second, looks like he's pondering the unvoiced question and then he nods ever so slightly. I sigh with relief and push open the door and he follows me inside wordlessly. Once the door is shut tightly he starts undressing just as quietly, right down to his drawers, and then he gets into bed while I hurriedly rid myself of my own clothes.
"You'd best set the alarm for five," he says as I climb into bed next to him.
I set the alarm and switch off the light before turning towards him. He shifts slightly to make space for me and then his arms wrap around my shoulders, our legs are all in a tangle, my face is pressed to his chest, his chin is resting on top of my head, and I'm feeling a lot happier than I have in weeks.
© KJB 2002-2003.