An extract from my first novel
[The following text is an extract from my first novel, which was written between June 2021 and July 2023. I have never really written fiction before but the idea for this just came to me late one night when I was walking home from a night out and, for want of anything better to do, I set about writing it. I didn’t have a plan and I didn’t know what I was doing. I just wrote down the story that was in my head. It’s a sort of gay murder story loosely based on my experiences of living in Nottingham in the early part of the twenty-first century. It’s a commentary on the resilience of toxic relationships that are built on deceit and how white middle-class people can charm their way in to and out of anything. I don’t honestly think much will come of it, but you never know. It’s just one of those things that had to be written once the idea was there.
A brief summary of the plot goes like this: Nottingham, 2007, before the smoking ban and the finale of The Sopranos, Luke drops out of a philosophy degree, makes friends with his cocaine dealer, and gets a boyfriend. Everything’s going so well, at least until it starts going wrong. It all comes crashing down on the night of The Sopranos finale, when Luke commits his first murder and suddenly he’s on a mission to cleanse himself of his mistakes and to protect his relationship at any cost. He spirals into a world of chaos and his boyfriend, who has his own secret to protect, is oblivious to it all.
Contact me if you’d like to read more]
Dive Boy
Chapter 1
It’s ten-fifteen on a Saturday night and I’m standing in the corner of the club waiting for the hand in my pocket to cool down. How we got here’s a funny story, but no time for that now. There’s a pair of twinks making eyes at me. They’re idiots, both of them. But cute. And that’s why they work here. Cute but stupid is the only requirement for the job. In the last round of interviews, we had a pensioner who wanted to relive his long-gone youth, a postgrad with bad hair, and these two, so my hands were tied. We get through bar staff like a sauna gets through steam. These two have been here for a few months, and I’ve promised myself I won’t touch them. The dark-haired one – who’s called Kyle or Lyle or Kylan or something – is awkward and green, a green new shoot from the endless crop of twinky students that go to the other uni in town. They think they’re so clever, coming to the big city to study art or fashion or media, but they’re just young, dumb and full of cum. He’s slicing limes at the bar while his friend, Blondie-Ken-doll, files his nails. We open in fifteen minutes. I go over and tell them both to get on with it and they scurry away to the backroom to get the floats. As the dark-haired one minces past, I slap his arse and he looks back at me with his face full of something I can’t quite make out – lust, surprise, fear – I don’t know, let’s call it lust. At this point, I don’t know how I’m going to make it through the night. It gets rammed in here on Saturdays; heaving, sweaty bodies of all the gays in Nottingham thrusting up against each other, drinking, drugging, dancing, and I’m not in the mood. My heart’s beating like an express train, my palms are sweating. I shouldn’t have come to work, not after the night I’ve had, but what else could I do? Stay home and wait for Ben to come home and face the music? I’m better off here. At least there’s plenty to distract me from what I’ve done today, in the last month, in the last year. The club’s dead at the moment, but later it’ll be a mess. The pink and yellow lights are whirring about in their own silent disco, and I know this is the only peace I’m going to get this evening, so I get the baggie out my pocket and do a fat line off the bar. That’s better. Nothing to fret about now. Just get on with it. That first hit’s always the best, it rises quickly and explodes in a supernatural calm. Suddenly, I feel so horny I can’t stop myself, right there behind the bar. Then they’re back, Twinkie-dumb and Twinkie-dee. They load the tills, glancing at me for approval. I chuck a blue-roll at the dark-haired one and he collapses, smearing his hand through the gelatinous puddle on the floor. Blondie-Ken-doll puts out his hand and falls too. They roll and cackle like it’s the funniest thing that’s ever happened. These two. Idiots, both of them. I wobble down the narrow staircase that leads to the main bar, where the old the guys hang around by dancefloor. I call this the muscle bar. We keep the twinks upstairs in the pop room, but down here, in the main bar, we’ve the eye candy – fit lads with biceps, pecs and bulges. Not my type, to be honest, but they do the job. Aaron, Josh and Ryan already have their tops off; they’re restocking the bar. They’re all good workers – loyal, hard-working and know what’s expected – they’re all too aware of how ridiculously hot they are and that’s what the punters like. Aaron’s the fittest – massive bulge in his jeans – and arrogant. Punters love him and he shags them in the loos throughout the night and fleeces them for coke or whatever they’re on. By the end of the night, he’s high as a kite and all jizzed out. Josh is tall, more than six foot; his body’s fit, like, he works out, but he’s not huge. Tonight he’s wearing black Adidas trackies and he looks good, but I’m not in the mood to tell him so. Total bottom. I bet the other two have had a go on him. Ryan’s doing my head in with his constant singing – to its Madonna. I shake hands with all three of them and rack up four lines on the bar.
*
Four more lines. We open in five minutes. I want these lads to be in the zone. Ryan watches himself in the mirrors at the back and to the side of the bar as he pours us shots of tequila. Has this himbo never heard of a dildo? He picks up the golden tequila and pours it into half pint high balls, the little shit. No way are those shots. We down them. Four more lines. I want these lads to be wired. Aaron’s teasing Josh about his chest hair, twirling it round his fingers. He’s the only one in this place with even a single hair on his perfect body. Josh runs a shaky hand from Aaron’s pecs to his abs, up and down, wiping a grainy residue of salt all over while Ryan pours more shots. Aaron gestures towards the faint glitter trail from bellybutton to nipple and Josh bends over, glass in one outstretched hand and steadying himself on the bar with the other and hoovers it up with the tip of his tongue before slamming his tequila. Josh is bent over double gasping with Ryan cramming a quarter of a lime between his lips. I leave them to it. Go back upstairs. I’m pretty high at this point. High enough to get turned on by the sight of the dark-haired one laid out on the long, mucky bench opposite the bar, propped up on his elbows, his bony legs, feet crossed, swinging back and forth. He’s wearing bottom shoes – white Superstars. Engrossed in his chunky laptop, the screen glowing in the darkness of the bar, he looks so pure. He carries that thing everywhere with him, says it’s for uni, but I never see him do anything but cruise boys on it. He doesn’t hear me come in. He’s on Gaydar. I can’t get over those shoes: such chunky weights at the ends of those twigs. I’m wearing Olympic-grade white Nike runners and the DJ’s already started so he doesn’t know I’m there until I’m laid on top of him. My ears ring as he screeches that hyena screech he does when just about anything happens. Stupid twink. I don’t put my full weight on him. I’m not a monster. He heaves himself up to rub his arse against my crotch. I crane my neck to look at the screen and say, Whatcha doin? all casual, like, as if we’re besties on a sleepover. He screeches and wriggles. I apply a bit more pressure. He twists his hips. The guy he’s chatting to looks like me. He starts telling me about how they’ve been chatting for a couple of days and they’re meeting tomorrow. His grating, southern accent ties one sentence to the next in an endless drawl. He’s excited. He tells me about this guy’s kinks. He tells me that his lives in Sneinton and how it’s awkward because he lives with his mum but she’s going to bingo tomorrow. He tells me the guy’s his type. He tells me he’s got a dog and he studies business. He’s still wiggling his arse against my dick while I’m saying stuff like, Yeah, Cool, Nice, Lucky boy, right in his ear. Even though he’s only a bit younger than me, I feel like I got stuff to teach this kid. He always shows me the guys he’s chatting to, like I care, seeking my worldly wisdom. He’s right to think I’m loads more experienced than him, but wrong to think I give a shit. But, yeah, I guess it’s a bit of a trip for me, so I play along. He tells me the guy’s hung and shows me his pics. Nice. Cool. Lucky boy. Not as big as me. I remember my rule and get off him. He stays put. I stand with my junk at eye level. He looks up. Eyebrows raised. Waiting. My move. I trace the outline of his full pink lips round and round. We’re open, I whisper. I lean in, fingertips under his chin, gently stretching his neck. We meet eyes. A yellow laser beam flashes across his face. My move. His eyes go empty and blank. Let’s get to work, I say.
*
Blondie-Ken-doll comes in with a bucket of ice. He’s got both hands round the handle and is swinging it between his legs. He’s shorter than the dark-haired one, about average height, but better built. Not muscly like the lads downstairs – not by a long shot – but his body’s athletic, defined, but still twinky… maybe he’s a twunk, actually. I’ve never really worked it out. Lovely mop of blond hair, styled messy, layered on top, fade underneath. Perfect skin. Golden. Blue eyes. These boys are too cute. But let’s face it, it’s not hard to be cute when you’re nineteen; it would be weirder if they weren’t cute. Blondie-Ken-doll’s also wearing bottom shoes. Two peas in a pod. But he always wears Levi’s and the dark-haired one wears Topman skinnies, too short, so you can always see his pink or yellow or baby blue socks. He heaves the bucket up to the counter and dumps the ice in the tray. The clattering of ice cubes goes right through me like someone’s walking on my grave. I’m still wearing my jacket, the left pocket weighed down and bulging. I could use some of that ice. The first punters of the night – the cheapskates – come in and Twinkie-dumb and Twinkie-dee stand to attention at their station. It’s happy hour while the night gets going. Only the students, soaked in their pre-lash of vodka and cranberry, come at this time. Tonight, it’s a gaggle of five of them. Identikit twinks in H&M T-shirts and New Balance – more bottom shoes – with a token gym bunny. Undergrads from the other uni. Showered, shaved and fresh from a day of missing lectures and wallowing in last night’s filth, they order the happy hour special: jugs of random juice with a splash of house vodka and enough straws to wipe out all the tuna in the ocean. The gym bunny stretches over the bar on the tiptoes of his Air Max 90s to kiss the dark-haired one lightly on the lips, his broad shoulders hiking his shirt up to reveal the small of his back. They babble and shriek as Blondie mixes the drinks. The other four dance like idiots in the middle of the dance floor. The dark haired one is stroking the gym bunny’s hair, who’s lapping it up like a dumb dog. We’ve got this new DJ and he’s playing all the wrong songs in the wrong order. A slow song comes on, Take That, ‘A Million Love Songs’, for Christ’s sake. It’s only ten-forty. The dark-haired one comes out from behind the bar and drapes himself over the gym bunny. They dance. Hands on arses, necks locked together. What’s the DJ playing at? The dark haired one grinds; the gym bunny rests his head on that bony chest. The music plays. The other boys sit at a small round table in the corner, sipping their cheapskate juice and cackling. They dance, wriggle against each other. I go behind the bar and pour myself half a lager. Down it. Pour another. The gym bunny’s fingers are inside the waistband of the dark-haired one’s jeans now. The dark-haired one is screeching again. The gym bunny is wriggling his hands in deeper. He’s palm deep now. I cut the end off a straw and stick it in the baggie. One deep breath. They’re standing still now under the glitter ball in the middle of the room. No one else is watching them. Now the DJ’s playing ‘Born Slippy’ – wrong song, wrong time again – so I stash the baggie, shove a handful of ice in my pocket, and go outside to the smoking area with ‘Dirty numb angel boy’ ringing in my ears. I need to think.
*
The thing is, I’ve no idea why any of this played out the way it did. Sometimes, things just run away with you. From you– things just run away from you. You get on to a good thing and get carried away. You’ll do anything – and I mean anything – to keep it going, even the worst of all things, if it matters that much to you. You think you’re having a good time, and you are, at least until you’re not. Then it’s too late. When I first met Ben, I just wanted to fuck him and move on with my life, but things just got out of hand. He was just a middle-aged dude looking for some young dick, so I gave it to him. I didn’t think he’d hang around, wanting more, and then more than that. But he did. And then something happened – we started hanging out; and then we started to hang out more, and then I realised I kind of liked it – I liked him and the way he made me feel and the way my life felt complete with him in it. And then, I just got in too deep and had to hold on to him, no matter what. So I did. Thinking about it now, standing in this smoking area – which, by the way, is the crowning achievement of my whole damn career – it just made sense to do what I did. But, yeah, sure, it came at a price. But, you know, I had to do it. Ben’s so precious, so pure. How could I let that go? Sure, at first, it was like that Morrissey song, ‘The more you ignore me, the closer I get’. I didn’t do anything to make him think it was a long-term thing. I just turned up and then disappeared when I felt like it. But things just, you know, got out of hand. I didn’t think he’d hang around. He wasn’t exactly desperate, but he was persistent. Anyway, he just kept moving closer. I kept moving closer. So, he’d come back, and I’d shag him – like, totally fuck his brains out – and he’d be all, ‘Wow. Thank you, that was awesome’. ‘You’re so big’, he’d moan, and then he’d want to take me for dinner or buy me clothes or book a spa weekend. Couldn’t believe his luck: my twenty-year-old dick in his middle-aged arse. And it felt good, I won’t lie, and kind of like I had a place in the world. So, I guess I could of just not fucked him; or, at least, I could of just not fucked him so good. Sure, I played hard to get, but he didn’t give up, and the more he came back, powered up and raring to go, the more I thought, Hey, maybe there’s something in this for me. And now, here I am: freezing my balls off with a very big fucking problem to solve.
Take a breath. Right. Now, where to start?
Chapter 2
A few things happened last February that you should know about before we get to it. A few things which, if nothing else had happened, wouldn’t be very interesting, but since everything went the way it did, it’s important to know where it started because I never planned any of it. One thing led to another and – bam! There we are.
It all started a year ago – almost exactly a year ago.
Last February, before the smoking ban and Blair’s resignation, before everything happened, you know, it was pretty cold. When I moved away for uni, Dad was convinced that Nottingham’s arctic compared to Oxfordshire, so he got me this Nike windbreaker that’s supremely thin but insulated at the same time; it does the job without making me look like the bloody Michelin man. That jacket’s seen some gross stuff, let me tell you. Anyway, around the time me and Ben met, I was wearing it all the time and when I look at it now, I just think of that February when all the spinning plates started shifting into some new, unchartered reality.
I’d just dropped out of uni, which was totally the right thing to do, and had become quite friendly with a lad called Brendan, who was the barman at the Staff Club bar on campus. Brendan’s one elegant motherfucker, all limbs and slicked back black hair like a ballroom dancer, a face so completely symmetrical, with high cheekbones and full lips, that he looks straight out of Hollywood. Always wears these black Gazelles with white stripes. Pure style. My kind of lad. His girlfriend’s brother, Callum, worked in the club and one night at the start of February, just after my birthday, I was bellyaching to him that my dealer had gone down and I didn’t know anyone else in town. So, he hooked me up with Brendan, but told me to keep schtum because his sister didn’t know he was dealing. With hindsight, that was probably the first sign of trouble.
Anyway, it was a Monday when I first went to see Brendan – I know this because it was also the day I went to campus to tell my tutor that I was dropping out. She tried to convince me, of course, but I wasn’t having any of it, partly because my mind was made up, and partly because I was itching to get some Charlie. She narrowed her blackbird eyes and said, This is a big decision; Maybe you want to think it over a bit more.
No, I said, It’s the right thing for me to do; It’s part of my journey. She sat back in her squeaky leather chair and folded her arms, pulling her forest green cardigan tight over her chest. My mind’s made up, I said.
I’d dressed for the occasion, too – she was a stuffy Oxbridge type, the type Dad had over for cocktail parties when I was a kid – so I wanted her to take me seriously. Also, and the main reason I dressed up, the Staff Club bar’s for staff only and their invited guests, so I reckoned I’d run into trouble if I rocked up in my usual joggers and T-shirt. So, that Monday I felt as if I was going to the Oscar’s, even though I was only wearing – for the first time in God knows how long – a pair of black Levi’s and a long sleeve shirt. I even wore underwear, although I don’t know what difference it made. For me, that’s dressed up to the nines. I mean, I was under no illusion – I didn’t look like I belonged there, but I didn’t look like a total skank either.
Strutting in all confident – shoulders back, chest out, eyes forward – I went straight to the bar and ordered a beer. Brendan was the only one working there. As he was walking off, I played at some clandestine gangster shit, like when some newbie sidles up to Tony in the strip club. I dropped my voice an octave, just short of a whisper: Callum said you could sort me out.
He didn’t bat an eyelid. He leaned in close enough that I could smell him – crisp, clinical-scented soap, but with a whiff of fresh sweat, which wasn’t all bad. Cool, he said, Drink your beer; I’ll be done at ten.
I pulled up a stool, watching as he wiped the bar down a thousand times, arranged and rearranged the glasses, bottles and napkins, waiting for someone to order a drink, but there was hardly anyone there. The way he moved was captivating, sort of half striding and half dancing, sweeping in wide pirouettes from one end of the bar to the other. And his arse was nice, too – straight boys don’t normally have nice arses because they’re lazy with their squat form, and it didn’t seem much use to Callum’s sister, so I reckoned I had a special right to ogle it as he worked.
Ten o’clock came and he led me behind the bar, through to a broom cupboard at the end, which he called ‘the office’. It was stacked so high with red and white archive boxes that it felt like a canyon on the streets of New York. The desk was littered with receipts and invoices and the yellow light buzzed. He pointed to a rickety brown swivel chair, while he perched on the edge of desk. Of course, he said, plucking a baggie out of his pocket and sprinkling some on the desk, Sir will want to test the product before he buys. His accent was northern, soft, theatrical, so what else could I do?
Of course, I said.
We did a couple of lines and chatted away. He’s easy to talk to, I thought. He led the conversation to loads of different places, but the main thing he spoke about was films and TV, about which he was passionate and lyrical. It was Brendan who got me into Darren Aronofsky. Then, after we’d done an especially fat line, about two thirds of the way through the bag, he said, So, how’d you know Callum?
He works for me- In the club, I said.
He eyed me like an antiques dealer might appraise a Ming vase: Oh. I thought you… you two were… you know. He’d already racked up another line, and then the unspoken hung in the air, dangling between us until the bag was gone and we were on our way out the door. He got on his bike and cycled off into the night, calling out, Come back when you run out.
We’d done a whole gram and smoked a cigarette between each line. Eyeballs and airwaves stifled by a windowless room, full of coke and smoke, I laid down on the damp grass and gazed up at the platinum stars in the blue-black sky until the next thing I knew I was in bed.
*
So, you see how it all started to go wrong – I had loads of free time on my hands and an endless supply of cocaine. No wonder, really, but at the time it seemed like harmless fun, and part of the fun was that I met Ben. The first thing I said to him was legendary: ‘I’m looking for someone to kiss tonight, and it’s your lucky night’. I went right up to him and said it, though he says he doesn’t remember, so what was the point? He was wearing grey New Balance, as if anyone wears New Balance to the club, so I should’ve known from the start, really. But there we are.
On the night we met, I’d gone out for a drink and ended up at work. Nottingham’s one and only gay club is a not too dingy place, but it stinks of sweat and dried up booze, and I ended up there because the midweek crowd in my usual watering hole, the Lord Roberts, was depressing that night. It’s usually a youngish crowd of misfits and crooks, with a smattering of older queens who go for the vintage theatre posters that are dotted all over the walls, but that night it was heaving with aging leather daddies, and I wasn’t feeling it.
If you’ve never been to Nottingham, I’ll paint a picture for you. If you have – well, you’ll know if I’m doing it justice. Nottingham’s a city that never settles or submits; it hums and buzzes just beneath the surface, where there’s always something going down. In the centre, it’s all faded glamour of an industrial past, wrought in neo-classical architecture, but out on the edges, its row upon row upon row of pokey terraced houses where poverty breeds discontent and violence. In the winter, it’s shrouded in grey, but in the summer, it shines and bubbles. It’s a city, landlocked in the middle of everywhere and nowhere, that rests on its heritage and stutters into the future; it’s a city that wears its sadness on its sleeve; it’s a city that sucks you in and spits you out. Well, it certainly did that to me, anyway.
A spikey wind blew in my face as I cycled through the dank streets. Since it was seven o’clock or something, and all the shops were closed, I cut through the Victoria Centre to get out of the wind for a minute. The squeaking of tyres on the freshly mopped white floor caused the cleaner to give me dagger but I still didn’t bother getting off the bike; like a boss, I cycled straight through from the entrance by the Hilton and out the main doors, down Parliament Street and up to the Lord Roberts. It was the damp tiles glittering in the glow of the luminous lights that first made think of going to the club.
Wednesday was my night off. It was indie night, which, theoretically, meant that for one night only we could lure in the little indie gays who normally go to Cookie Club or Rock City in the week. In practice, it meant that the students would come early for the cheap drinks, followed hot on their heels by the pervs and hangers-on – basically anyone who wanted to bag a twink for the night. I don’t even know what I was doing there that Wednesday. More to the point, what was he doing there? It just didn’t seem like his scene. In all the time since then, he’s only been there twice, both with me and while I was working, and he never once expressed any desire, nor has he ever talked about having been there before we met. But there you go – he was there, I was there, and we met. I guess it was fate, or something.
Everyone in the club was glazed like toffee apples. The heat had been cranked up more than usual in the muscle bar, which we normally keep warm so the lads are comfortable with their tops off, so Ryan looked as if he’d just emerged from the Med as he carried a bucket of ice in each hand up the stairs. At least up in the pop room the air-con was switched on, but the throng of dancers – an army of twinks dazed by booze and lust – jumping and juddering to 80s classics, generated an electricity that cancelled out the wafts of fresh air anyway.
I’d seen him around a bit that night but couldn’t work out if he was alone; sometimes he’d be chatting with guys around his age in the muscle bar, and then he’d drift off and drink alone in the pop room. Seemed to spend most of the night going up and down the stairs. It was after eleven, for sure, probably closer to midnight, when I saw him zonked on the bench upstairs. He was talking to the skinhead who gave me a blowjob in the loos a few weeks ago. ‘Tainted Love’ was playing, and the dancefloor was packed, so the view was pretty restricted most of the time, but sometimes the crowd swayed with the music, and I caught sight of Ben, engrossed in the skinhead’s patter. I don’t know his name, but he’s a regular. He’s a short, muscular lad who wears a leather jacket in all weathers; looks like a right nightmare, like he’d glass you if you so much as breathed, but he’s actually dead sweet. Works in finance, if you can believe it, but he’s a textbook example of how looks can be deceptive. He was really chewing Ben’s ear off, probably telling one of his tall stories about life on the rough side of the tracks in Glasgow, which he did to pretty much anyone who’d listen, and plenty of people did. He was kind of magnetic in his own way, but Ben looked bored, which I now know is just the way his face arranges itself when he’s not thinking about anything. The skinhead certainly wasn’t boring when he was sucking me off, but then again, everyone is interesting in that scenario.
Watching from the bar, smoking and half-listening to whatever Callum was drivelling on about, it didn’t look like it was going anywhere much, so I waited it out. Callum was still talking. He’d been there something like six months, which is pretty good going, and I’d had him in the storeroom in his second week. And he stayed, like they always do, wanting more. I’d resolved that, if I didn’t find anyone else, I’d have him again that night. Anyway, it didn’t come to that. Callum was a good worker, though. He always followed my three rules : one, always serve the hottest guy first, no matter who was first in the queue – This is a meritocracy, I told him, though I don’t think he knew what that meant; two, be good to the old guys – they tip well and drink loads without getting anything in return; three, dress the part – take your top off, wear jeans that show off your assets, wear short shorts in summer. He followed them all like a good boy.
The end of my cigarette glowed deep amber in the dark. As flecks of ash scattered onto the bar, Callum placed an ashtray in front of me with a sigh and said, What ya gonna do when the smoking ban comes in? I’d been agonising over this, on a personal and professional level, you understand, for some time. There was a general sense, among all the pubs and clubs in town, that it couldn’t possibly happen, so nobody really had a plan, but the idea obsessed me.
Dunno, I said, Its trash, taking our liberties like that; What’s the government on? He released his hand from the pump for a second and looked at me with those big brown eyes as if to say, That’s your problem, mate. I fixed my gaze on the target: they were still talking, but now Ben was nodding and chuckling, and the skinhead was waving his arms and learning forward, apparently saying something very bloody funny. I waited, smoked, ignored Callum, drank my beer.
As soon as the lad left, I was over there.
I don’t know what it was about Ben that night. He’s good looking, but not my type – not at all. But there was something about him. There had to be, really; I mean, there were plenty of other options that night. There’s always other options. The way he spent most of the night alone. The way he looked so bored. The way he concentrated super hard on his drink, holding the glass too tight, lifting it to his lips really deliberate, like, and savouring every sip. The way he didn’t take his jacket off all night. The way he didn’t just sit around with all the other middle-aged guys and leer at twinks. It just sort of added up to a of puzzle which was there to be solved. He didn’t look out of place, but he didn’t look like he belonged either – he just slotted in with the crowd, at the same time as floating slightly above it all.
So, I went over there and just plonked myself down next to him. He didn’t bat an eyelid. Up close, I liked him more. He’s a head taller than me and has an athlete’s figure, like a runner; his skin has a healthy sheen to it, for someone from Mansfield. And, most importantly, he wears clothes that suit him. That night, he was wearing dark blue jeans and a simple checked shirt. We couldn’t have been more different: I was wearing grey joggers and a black V-neck T-shirt with white Air Jordans. I leaned in close to his ear to discover that he smelt of Jean-Paul Gaultier, as every gay in town did at the time. And then I said it, that famous first line. He turned so our noses almost touched, smiled and nodded. Well, I thought, this isn’t going to be a tough nut to crack.
I’m Luke, I said.
Ben, he said, offering a hand, Pleased to meet you. This one’s wild, I thought.
Straight off the bat, he offered to buy me a drink. And a gentleman, too, I thought, as he stalked off to the bar, leaving me to think about being balls deep in that peachy arse later. Just like that. He pushed his way to the front and waved a twenty-pond note to get Callum’s attention, who looked beyond him and straight at me. After a while, he came weaving through the crowd, holding a beer in each hand, sloshing it all over the place because he was squeezing the flimsy plastic too hard. He didn’t ask me to pay, he said, I waited, but he never came back.
I know, I said, Because you’re drinking with me. I didn’t bother explaining any more. He just beamed at me like I was Brad Pitt.
I did most of the talking. Small talk. Getting to know you. I told him about how I’d just dropped out of uni and he told me about his job as a lecturer there, where he was up for a promotion, apparently. I told him about growing up in Oxfordshire and he told me about growing up in Mansfield and again we couldn’t be more different: he grew up poor and made the best of it because he’s clever and driven and I grew up, well, not rich, but very bloody comfortable, and squandered it all because I’m lazy.
When he asked why I dropped out of uni, I fed him some bullshit story about how my heart wasn’t in it and I only chose philosophy it to make Dad proud. Truth is, I never wanted to go to uni, I just wanted to get away from home and start a new life.
I want to become whoever I’m meant to be without The Man dictating what I should be, I said, sort of paraphrasing Nietzsche. He liked that. He sipped his beer while he chewed on that thought like a new cheese that had an unusual but not unpleasant flavour.
So, he began, You dropped out of a philosophy degree; That’s a shame.
I asked why, even though I didn’t want to hear the answer. The most unsexy thing that could happen at that moment is that the conversation morphed into a rehearsal for telling Dad the bad news.
Well, he said, I’m a philosopher.
Get out! I said, nudging his arm so that he almost spilt his beer again. Really going for it, I said, My Dad’s a philosopher, too. His face lit up like a Christmas tree.
Oh yeah? I probably know him.
Then I laid it on thick: My dad’s a bit of a big shot; All the undergrads read his first book, which is some kind of legendary set text in metaphysics. We drank our beers, that were by now soupy-warm like everything else in the place. I looked over at Callum, clicked my fingers and pointed at our glasses.
Ben wouldn’t leave it alone: Go on then, who is he?
He’s my dad, I said, which I thought was pretty funny. Then I leaned in close and whispered, He’s at Oxford. Ben’s face contorted into a bramble.
Oh- interesting; Well, maybe I do know him, maybe I don’t.
He’s a bit before your time, I said, If you know what I mean.
I certainly didn’t know what I meant, but he laughed anyway and we fell into silence. As the music thumped on and we stared out into the crowd, searching for the next thing to say, I tried to picture how he looks when he’s getting fucked.
Hang on, he said, If you studied philosophy, how come we’ve not met before?
What do you mean? You think you know all the students in your department, like all ten thousand of them…
Well, he said, straightening up like a teacher, I’d like to think our students are our first priority.
I bet you do; Anyway, I said, Do I look like the kind of boy who went to lectures? He looked uncertain. Feel this, I said, clamping his hand around my bicep, This is not built in the lecture hall, is it?
Anyway, he said, releasing his grip, Probably better I don’t know him. Then, as if sent by the Gods Against Awkwardness, emerging hot and bothered from the crowd, Callum set two beers down on the table. I blew him a kiss, he pouted back.
After a half hour, we’d practically told each other our life stories. I didn’t even recognise myself – what was I doing talking for half an hour to a boy who’s not even my type? Then there was a lull in the conversation. Spandau Ballet’s ‘Gold’ was playing and I wanted a cigarette, but I decided to kiss him instead. I stretched out over the top of the bench, the hairs on my arms sticking to the grime that coats the club, and gripped his shoulder to turn him towards me. Something in me thought he’d resist, but he didn’t, which, in reality, I was glad about. I’ll admit that I was invested by that point and the rejection would’ve been too much. He kissed me back like I’ve never been kissed before: deep, sensual, fuck-me kisses. As his hand worked its way up my inner thigh, he edged closer, closing the gap between us, and we carried on like that for a few songs. It was funny how comfortable I felt with him straight out the gates, how we just slotted together, lip to lip, like it was always meant to be. After a while, suddenly conscious of his surroundings again, he broke off, glanced around and said, Let’s go to my place; It’s just up the road. He looked like he was expecting me to say no. As we stood up, I had to hold my jacket in front of me for a bit.
Out on the street, the wind bit our faces like shark’s teeth and the chaos of traffic and bar-hoppers drowned out whatever Ben was saying. To be honest, I didn’t much want to talk; I just wanted to get on with it. As I was putting my jacket on, it dawned on me that I hadn’t eaten since lunch time. My tummy rumbled underneath the layers of beer, but I ignored it as I zipped up my jacket and looked to him to lead the way. Ben was wearing a sensible suede jacket with sheepskin lining. Of course he was. It was already well after midnight, closer to one, I guess, and although I didn’t have anywhere to be in the morning, it felt like it was getting late. We walked in silence for a while, leaving only the sex lingering just out of reach.
On the way to his place, I smoked two cigarettes. He didn’t seem to mind, or at least it didn’t put him off trying to make out with me as we walked. He must’ve tried to kiss me twenty times on the walk up Lower Parliament Street, so just as we veered onto Huntingdon Street, where his building is, I dragged him into an alleyway behind the Shell garage, where you take boys for a blow job if you can’t be bothered with actually taking them home and talking to them. I kissed him up against the wall, pressing my semi into his leg. He lapped it up. After a while, I decided to cool it and lit another cigarette. You’re just… Something else, he panted. I said something corny, like, You ain’t seen nothing yet, and walked on ahead, blowing smoke into his path until he caught up.
We walked in silence again after that, which was when I noticed how pissed he was. I mean, he wasn’t wasted, but swaying, for sure. I suddenly felt protective of him, this guy I’d literally just met. It was busy with girls clack-clacking their way home, boys scrapping on the pavements, and cars careening off junctions without indicating. I kept an eye on him, making sure he didn’t fall into the traffic or a fight. I was tipsy, too, but I didn’t feel much; I just wanted to shoot my load and get some sleep.
When we got to the door, he fumbled with his keys, missing the lock loads of times until I took over. Here, let me, I said, Good job you’re a bottom, trying to be funny. I mean, at that point, I guess you could say I didn’t know he was a bottom, but he was taking me home so, yeah, he was a bottom. And he was wearing New Balance. We made out in the lift, which really put me in the mood. As the lift doors slid open with a breathy shuffle, I hoped to God that he didn’t want to talk when we got in.
Ben’s flat’s in this swanky block just behind the Victoria Centre, where all the well-to-do gays live, at least the ones who can’t afford the Lace Market. It’s nice, not palatial, but modern and boxy and angular; grey MFI kitchen with an island, white walls, open plan, light and airy with a big balcony that has floor to ceiling glass doors from the living room. He’s got a few paintings on the walls and this old grey sofa and a black coffee table. It’s insanely tidy. Not a thing out of place. Like no one lives there. It looks more like a library than a home.
When we got in, he flicked on a couple of lamps and I slumped on the sofa, stretched my arms across the back, spread my legs wide apart stroked my balls through my joggers and thought till I got hard about banging him stupid, while he made a useless pair of gin and tonics. I wasn’t in the mood to drink, but I wasn’t in the mood to refuse either. What kind of music are you into? he called from the kitchen as if we hadn’t done enough getting to know you. I didn’t answer. He put the drinks down on the coffee table, slowly, deliberately. I didn’t say anything. I just beckoned with one finger. A cad move. There was a deep pause before he dropped to his knees, eye-level with the fabric of my joggers stretched over the contours of my legs, which I’d trained hard that morning and, without breaking eye contact, he reached out with both hands and pulled the waistband taught like a slingshot. He reached in and smiled as he realised I wasn’t wearing underwear. Well, that’s a nice surprise, he said.
He went down on me the best he could. Stroking his face and hair, I told him to take it easy, even though I didn’t mean it. Then I fucked him on the sofa, his knees sinking into the cushions, hands clenching the back with pink fingers and white knuckles. At first, I shoved it in pretty hard, without lube, but he didn’t complain. Then he was on his back on the coffee table, which creaked and shook on its stumpy wooden legs as I pounded away while he traced his fingers through the film of sweat that had formed on my abs. Let’s go to bed, he said, panting, sweating. He led me by the hand, and we rolled onto the bed, our bodies entwined, lighting a fire between us as I fucked him missionary. Then I flipped him over and pressed on the back of his head to hold him still as he gasped into the pillow. I went at it fast, and then slow, and then fast again. All the while he gasped and screamed and begged for more. Then his rapid, shallow breaths, stuttering into the darkness, signalled he was done, so I shot my load all over his chest, right up to his neck and chin, then scooped him up in my arms, covered us with the duvet, and we collapsed into a dreamless, satisfied sleep.
Chapter 3
Looking back, I guess there were definitely bad omens. Towards the end of July, I read Misery in a couple of days. It messed me up for weeks. The idea that an accident – a simple misstep that could happen to anyone – could be the catalyst for a whole series of life-changing events was chilling to the core. And then that accident could lead you to a person who holds your life in their hands. There could be an Annie Wilkes just around the next bend, and any of us could be her Paul Sheldon; any of us could suddenly find ourselves at the centre of a whirlwind that spirals out of control. The way she just gets in too deep, as if she doubles down out of panic, then it goes too far, and there’s no turning back. Then it can’t be undone, so you just keep ramping it up until fate steps in and wipes the slate clean.
*
That first morning, I slipped away early and thought nothing of it. I just wanted to avoid that let’s have breakfast/can I see you again nonsense, which always ruins a good one-night stand. So, I left him there, wrapped up in the duvet, slumbering in the comfort of his own bed, where, presumably, he woke up alone every other morning, so what difference did it make to him anyway?
Searching around for my clothes, I tripped on something, knocking an empty glass off the bedside table, but he didn’t wake up, and then I remembered that we were naked by the time we got to the bedroom. The sofa cushions were smeared with gummy patches of lube and our clothes were dispersed all around the room. I couldn’t find my jacket, so I just put on my joggers and T-shirt and left. On the way out, on the table by the front door, I noticed a business card, cream-coloured with the Nottingham University logo in deep blue, emblazoned with the name, Dr Benjamin Rush, in that tacky Verdana font they always use. I don’t know why, but I took it.
That morning it was baltic. The night before, I’d left my bike by the Broadway Cinema, which is a good ten-minute walk away, so I decided I’d collect it on the way to work. Hands plunged deep in my pockets, head down against the wind, I got on the first bus that was going up the Mansfield Road. The bus was suffocating. Full of poverty and bad breath. The windows were steamed up and whining kids ran their fingers through the condensation until they could see the grey streets outside through a film of mucky bubbles. It was Friday, which meant it was my first day at work for the week, but the sight of all those people, crammed on the bus on their way to work, made me heave – thank God I don’t have to do that, I thought. As the bus chugged along its way, I thought about how – as far as one-night stands go – that one was pretty hot. I mean, he’s a nice guy – really too nice, actually – and the sex was amazing (I guess older guys have experience on their side), but, as I said, not my type; not really at all. And anyway, why would I see him again? There’s loads of other boys, so I hardly gave it a second thought by the time I got home…
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