Lashings of Sauce

Edited by UK MAT

Published by

JMS Books LLC

Visit

jms-books.com

for more information.

ISBN 9781611523386

Cover Credits: Alex Beecroft
All rights reserved.

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This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains

substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which
may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your
files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

The stories herein are copyrighted by and remain the sole

property of their respective authors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination
and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to
actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

* * * *

Lashings of Sauce

different strokes for our very different folks

Edited by UK MAT

Table of Contents

Introduction

Post Mortem by Jordan Castillo Price *

Dressing Down by Clare London ***

Et Tu, Fishies? by JL Merrow *

Zones by Elyan Smith ***

Sollicito by Charlie Cochrane *

A Few Days Away by Elin Gregory **

Vidi Velo Vici by Robbie Whyte *

Shelter From Storms by Sandra Lindsey **

10.

Faulty Genes by Rebecca Cohen *

11.

Lost in London by Tam Ames ***

12.

My Husband by Zahra Owens ***

13.

Waiting for a Spark by Lillian Francis *

14.

Social Whirl by Emily Moreton *

15.

School for Doms by Anne Brooke ***

16.

Dragon Dance by Josephine Myles *

17.

Reclaiming Territory by Becky Black *

18.

About the Authors

Heat levels:
* Lightly Seasoned
** Moderately Spicy
*** Lashings of Sauce

Introduction

The year 2012 is exciting for Britain, what with the

Queen’s Diamond Jubilee, hosting the Olympics, and most
importantly of all, the third annual UK GLBTQ Fiction Meet! To
celebrate this year’s event in Brighton, our charmingly decadent
south coast resort, we decided to ask the attending authors to
celebrate everything that makes Britain and mainland Europe a
great place for GLBTQ folk to live.

In Lashings of Sauce you’ll find seasoned writers rubbing

shoulders with the fresh talent on the scene. You’ll find stories
both saucy and sweet, along with many poignant and thought-
provoking contributions. Most stories are set in contemporary
times, but we also have tantalising touches of science fiction, the
paranormal and magical realism, along with intriguing journeys
into the recent and more distant past.

Not all of our writers are British. We have contributions

from American, Canadian and Belgian writers, as well as Britons
currently living in mainland Europe. What everyone’s stories
have in common, though, are gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender
and genderqueer characters enjoying what Britain and mainland
Europe have to offer. Our wonderfully diverse range of cultures
and landscapes, and our colourful and quirky people have
proved to be a fabulous inspiration for our muses.

I would like to thank all the authors for their generosity in

providing their superb stories for free, so that the profits from this
anthology can be used to help secure the future of the UK’s
premier convention for GLBTQ literature. If you enjoy their
contributions, please show your gratitude by going out and
buying some of their other work. I would also like to thank Alex
Beecroft, Charlie Cochrane, Clare London and JL Merrow for
volunteering to help me select and edit the stories, and to
everyone who kindly volunteered to help with proofreading.

I hope you enjoy the read—I know I did!

Josephine Myles, May 2012

Post Mortem by Jordan Castillo Price

Equals sum A1 through A1133, and why was the damn

cell throwing an error? Arthur Mubarek rubbed his eyes.
Normally, finessing a spreadsheet was as easy for him as falling
off a bicycle, but not now. He’d been out of sorts all week. On
Monday he missed his bus. On Tuesday he brought the wrong
container and ended up with nothing but gravy for lunch. By
Friday, it was a shock he’d even made it to work showered,
dressed and breathing. Usually Arthur had a mind like a steel
trap, but lately his attention had been diverted to the impending
disaster of his upcoming double date. Opposite his ex. Who’d
been the one to dump him, and now, evidently, presumed he
was so pathetic he needed to be set up with any gay man who
had a pulse.

A bit scrawny, but he’s a nice enough bloke. Since

everyone knows you’re a right royal prat, it’s not as if you can
have your pick of the lot, can you?

Arthur glanced at the clock. Nearly five. Too bad he

wasn’t authorized for overtime, like anyone with a job in the
private sector would be. Then he could call his condescending
ex and cancel the whole mortifying evening. But the Royal Mail
was as unlikely to approve overtime as they were to send Arthur
to an Excel workshop that actually taught him anything he could
bloody well use. While the overtime excuse would clearly be a
lie, maybe there would be a way to cancel the date without going
into too much detail. Maybe…if he texted his regrets.

He pulled out his mobile. Can’t tear myself away—go on

without me…

“Mr. Mubarek, sir?”
Was it that daft Federal Express carrier, the American with

the blindingly white teeth who was always getting lost? Again?
Arthur glanced up, and instead found a trainee in red dithering in
his office door. Too bad. The FedEx chap did pretty good justice
to a pair of navy shorts…even if he couldn’t figure out the lay of
the office building to save his life. “Well? What is it?”

The young man in red stammered. “It’s…there’s…”
“According to procedure, you’re to present your issues to

the manager.” Arthur turned away to finish his text. He sensed
the trainee lurking there and pondered how long it would take
him to go away.

The trainee was persistent. “But, sir, I am the manager.”
Arthur looked more closely at the lad he’d mistaken for a

trainee, since he appeared to be, how old—twelve? Arthur
glanced down at the text he’d been trying to compose and
sighed. It was far too curt. If only there were some way to bow
out gracefully—but unfortunately, if those words existed, Arthur
had no idea where to find them. When he looked up again, his
eyes fell on a name badge. “Mr. Pike, is it?” Arthur pocketed his
mobile, steepled his fingers, and adopted a tone of deliberate
patience. “What seems to be the problem?”

Pike’s cheeks coloured. “Well, it’s…um…no one can

make out the label. Return address, neither.”

“Then chuck it in with the other undeliverable post.”
When Arthur pulled out his mobile again, it wasn’t with

any intention of finishing his text. He did look in its direction,
though, as he waited to see if Pike would take a cue and leave
him alone with his date-dread. But Pike did not. He lingered
there in the thick silence, unwilling to let the matter drop. Arthur
humoured him a third time, and said, “Come on, then, out with it.
What’s the real problem?”

Pike’s cheeks blazed. “If you could just…have a look, sir.

Like, now.”

Arthur stood, muttering, “Bugger it,” under his breath. He

wasn’t sure if he meant the text, the spreadsheet, or the blind
date that promised to be perfectly ghastly. All of the above, he
supposed. He pocketed his phone yet again and followed Pike
out of the office. They were down the hall and about to turn
towards the sorting room when it occurred to Arthur that Pike
was still walking, directly past the sorting room door. Arthur
followed, all the way to the lifts in the lobby.

Something was definitely amiss. Maybe everyone had

realized they’d forgotten his forty-second birthday (just as they’d

missed his forty-first) and chipped in a week late for a pack of
party hats and a cake. Or maybe the dreaded blind date had
sent a mortifying bouquet of flowers to the workplace in an
attempt to come off as debonair. Arthur decided against asking
any questions that would make it obvious he was in the dark.
Although he was being led somewhere like a lamb to the
slaughter, he reasoned that if he kept his mouth shut, he’d be
able to act like whatever they were springing on him was no
surprise at all.

Down they went, passing the second floor, and the

mezzanine, until finally the lift settled, with a defeated lurch, in
the basement. The doors creaked open. Pike’s gaze flicked
toward Arthur, then slid away, and he forged intrepidly on. If
there was cake involved, the staff had damn well picked the least
appealing place in the building to have it. No one visited the
dank, dim level but the caretakers and the poor sods in
Heavyweight. If this was the floor Pike worked on, it was no
wonder Arthur didn’t recognize him.

Pike strode to the door marked Overflow, paused, and

swallowed nervously. “Right in here, sir.”

Arthur peeked through the door. There were no flowers,

no party hats or cake.

But there was a very large parcel in the centre of the room.
The crate rested on a pallet like a relic on its dais. The

atmosphere around it was hushed, and the lighting dim. Arthur
looked up towards the ceiling and saw a few lamps needed
changing, that was all. Still, the atmosphere in the dank little
room could hardly be called anything but reverent. “What’s the
problem?” Arthur asked, wondering if maybe he was just
disappointed now because on his way to the basement, he’d
sold himself on the idea of cake. “If it’s over the weight limit, you
need form 12-D.”

“Oh, it’s over limit,” Pike said. “But me and the boys, well, we

thought you’d want a closer look before we did something rash.”

“Me? What on earth for? I’m the Data Analyst.”
Pike stepped up to the huge parcel, glanced down at it, then

treated Arthur to a beseeching look. “If you would, sir. Please.”

It was all a bit far to go for a lark. Most of his co-workers

would find him too off-putting to go through all the effort of
cooking up such an elaborate ruse. And something about young
Pike’s eager reticence seemed a bit too sincere to be an act.
Against his better judgement, Arthur closed the gap between
himself and the crate, and he looked.

The bill of lading was, indeed, illegible. But the markings

all around it? Eye. Falcon. Waves. Ankh.

Of all the stupid…“You mark up a big box with this bizarre

attempt at hieroglyphics, and because I’m Egyptian, that’s
supposed to be funny?”

“We didn’t—”
“And you’re the manager? That’s what you do down here

in the basement? Draw on the big boxes and drag down people
from the executive floor to take the piss—”

“No, sir. I didn’t, sir. I’d never take the—”
Arthur brandished his mobile. “We’ll see what the district

supervisor thinks about the way you handle your time.”

“B-but the scan.”
Arthur paused with his finger hovering over the memory

dial. “Scan? What scan?”

Pike’s fair cheeks were scarlet now, his hands shaking as

he held out a clipboard. “We did a scan—on account of that
stolen Nazi art they found in Croydon and the raptor teeth them
other blokes tried to smuggle outta Germany…” He glanced
down at the hastily-scrawled hieroglyphics, then met Arthur’s
gaze again helplessly.

“Surely you’re not telling me there are mummified remains

in this parcel.”

Pike swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed.
Arthur decided no one was that good an actor. He

snapped the clipboard out of Pike’s trembling hands and glanced
over the printout. The X-ray was very grey and poorly focused,
but Arthur had to admit—the long thing did look an awful lot like
a femur, the jumble of stuff in the middle could be read as a
ribcage, and the round thing most certainly resembled a skull. He
let out a low whistle. Mummified or not, he was dealing with

human remains. It could be relic-smuggling, or a strange
accident, or even a murder. How exciting it would be to take part
in a genuine bust. He’d be interviewed for the local paper. Maybe
even the News at Ten.

He’d have a damn good excuse to skip the double date,

as well.

“Right. Well, it’s a good thing you set it aside. Paperwork

will be a nightmare, but then again, it always is. It’s form 77-R
you’ll want…or is it 76-R? I’ll print up a copy of each while you
open it up for inspection.”

“We…ahem, I…was hoping…”
Arthur looked up sharply from the clipboard. “What?”
Pike was wringing his hands so brutally Arthur worried he

might hurt himself. Pike’s gaze darted down, touched on the
hieroglyphics, then came up timidly to meet the stern look Arthur
was no doubt projecting. Pike’s mouth worked a few moments,
then finally he resigned himself to coming out with it. “But what
about…the curse?”

Arthur’s stomach sank. “The curse. Yes, of course.” The

first time anyone at the workplace had made any friendly
overtures towards him in months, and it turned out the bastard
was taking the piss after all. “Run along, Mr. Pike. I’ll handle it
from here myself.”

Pike continued his nervous act, stammering and shuffling

and glancing anxiously at the parcel, but Arthur would have none
of it. He planted his hands on his hips and gave the little twit his
darkest glare, scowling fiercely, until Pike stammered and
shuffled his way out of the room, and Arthur was alone.

So. What to do? This Pike idiot couldn’t have orchestrated

the prank by himself. It was nearly five, but it seemed a call to
District Supervisor Hobbes was in order after all.

Then again, a call this late on a Friday wouldn’t exactly

endear Arthur to Hobbes, either. Particularly since he really
didn’t have anything to report other than a large box with some
insulting doodles on top.

Besides, maybe Hobbes wouldn’t do a damn thing about

it, anyway. Maybe he’d think it was amusing.

At the very least, Pike and his crew were responsible for

horseplay during their shift…although they’d probably insist they
did it all on break. Fine. Misuse of Royal Mail property, then.
Packing tape didn’t grow on trees. Arthur had just filed the
benefit-cost analysis last week. He knew.

The caution labels were pricy too, and this thing was

covered in them. Fragile: Handle With Care. This Side Up.
Perishable. Urgent. Nothing about human remains, though
Arthur supposed there wouldn’t be much call for a label like that.
Besides, the purported scan was only part of the whole hoax.

What about the address label? It was covered in the same

illegible hand as the bill of lading—Ship To: scrawl scrawl scrawl.

Not “Post To,” Arthur realized. “Ship To.” Which meant it

was not domestic mail.

Well…that didn’t prove anything. There must have been a

stash of odd labels somewhere in Heavyweight. Maybe the other
shippers who were always hauling things in and out left behind a
stock of sundry stationery like serious boyfriends left
toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet after the fourth or fifth date.
If you were lucky.

Arthur picked at the corner of the Fragile sticker. It peeled

up, though a bit of cardboard fibre clung to its adhesive.

He checked his watch. He should have clocked off five

minutes ago.

He sighed.
While the thought of foiling whatever booby-trap the

tossers in Heavyweight had managed to rig was appealing, if he
ever again wanted to find a second toothbrush in his own
medicine cabinet, he supposed he would need to leave the
phone calls and paperwork until Monday morning and get on
with his dreadful date. It was with some regret that he turned out
the lights and pulled the door shut behind him.

“Hello?”
Arthur paused in the hall. The basement’s acoustics were

terrible.

“Hello?” Very muffled, but more panicked this time—and

definitely coming from the Overflow room.

If that didn’t take the biscuit. Those pathetic dogsbodies

had hidden one of their own inside the crate to pop out and
terrorize him. It would be sweet revenge indeed to leave the man
taped in a cardboard coffin all weekend—but with this new
development, there was no way Arthur was going to let the
matter slide now. He knew just the form—number 553-MC,
employee misconduct—and he planned on having at least two
names to write on it. He swept back into the room and turned on
the lights. Snatching a box cutter from a nearby shelf, he held
the blade aloft and prepared himself to gather a second oh-so-
satisfying name to accompany the unfortunate Mr. Pike’s.

“So,” Arthur lectured the crate as he bent over the carton

and slashed through the tape. “You’ve been found out—and
lucky for you. I could have left you here to rot and you’d be stuck
phoning your friends to come and uncrate you. Whoever you are,
I certainly hope you’re not dressed like a mummy.” He hauled
open the lid. “Because that would only embarrass us…both.”

There was, indeed, a man in the box, but he was not

dressed like a mummy. In fact, he was wearing a rumpled suit.
And a very chagrined expression.

Arthur attempted to place his face—of course it was one

of those beefy, blondish, handsome types playing him for a fool,
the sort of guy who everyone probably liked—vaguely familiar,
though no name came to mind.

The man in the box raised his eyebrows sheepishly. His

cheeks darkened slightly under his tan, but even his blush was
charming, nothing like the flood of shame exhibited by young Mr.
Pike.

Arthur glared.
The man levered up onto his elbow and said, “I can

explain.”

Arthur frowned. The man had an accent—an American

accent. Which would explain the label. “All right,” Arthur said,
“who put you up to this? Was it Phillips? I always knew he had a
problem with me.”

“I don’t know anyone named Philli—”
“Or the Customs liaison, Grifson, Gregson, whatever his

name is.” How many of Arthur’s co-workers might be in on this
humiliating scheme, anyway? “Unless you actually came through
Customs. You didn’t…did you?” What if it went even further than
the Royal Mail? What if multiple agencies were in on it? Arthur
had never gone out of his way to ingratiate himself to his
colleagues, but he’d never anticipated his lack of popularity to be
so widespread. The thought of so many people at so many
organizations going out of their way to humiliate him was enough
to make his stomach seize up. “Anyway, security can sort it out.
I’ve got better—”

“Wait.” The American sat up and reached towards Arthur,

then pulled back at the last moment, as if Arthur’s disdain had
singed him. “My name’s Beau…Beau Frazier. And I know this
probably looks…well, actually, I have no idea how it probably
looks. But before you bring in the big guns, please, hear me out.”

While Arthur was eager to put the whole ridiculous

debacle behind him and continue on to the second portion of the
day’s mortification, he supposed it would be prudent to
determine the key players responsible for setting him up. And
besides, now he wanted to hear what this “Beau” had to say for
himself. “Go on.”

“It was just so hard to figure out how to approach you,

y’know? You’re so striking and intense…actually, you always
seem like you’re in the middle of something important. And how
many excuses can I come up with to keep stalking around the
third floor?”

He smiled shyly, and his bright white teeth cut the gloom

of the half-lit basement storage room like a searchlight. Beau
was not just any American…he was the American. The one
who’d marched past the door of Arthur’s office so many times he
appeared to be training for a parade.

Beau went on. “Looking for the time, the bathroom, the

elevator, the right guy to sign off on the pallet delivery…heck, I
could’ve done all that on the ground level. But I figured if I ran
into you enough times, eventually we’d fall into a conversation.”

“And when we didn’t…you scrawled some hieroglyphics

on a box and sealed yourself inside.”

“Er…that was my manager’s idea. Sophie, over at the

Heathrow FedEx office. This is the first I’m seeing them—she
drew them on after she taped me in.” He bent a flap of the sliced-
open cardboard so he could see the designs. “Yikes, she’s no
artist. Anyway, we thought they would be more effective than the
stickers in keeping me relatively safe if the carriers here thought
they were hauling something valuable. If we put your name on it,
you might get in trouble, but since you were the only Egyptian
working here, we figured…” He turned his hands palm-up and
shrugged endearingly. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

So not only was this Beau person both gay and

available—but he was interested enough in Arthur to concoct
such an elaborate scheme as some sort of ice-breaker?

Bollocks.
In his chilliest voice, Arthur said, “You may inform your

friends, Mr. Frazier, that my gullible colleagues did indeed route
the mysterious parcel to me. Now that you’ve had your fun, I’ll
give you ten minutes to dispose of the crate in the incinerator—
that’s the last right at the end of the hall, if you possess a sense
of direction after all—and then see yourself out before I call
security.” He activated the stopwatch app on his mobile, and
added, “Starting…now.”

Beau stood and stepped out of the cardboard crate, a

shade taller than Arthur, and appealingly broad across the
shoulders. And, of course, his muscular calves would be rippling
beneath the legs of his trousers—Arthur could just picture them
flexing. But instead of using his ten-minute reprieve to gather up
the carton, Beau approached Arthur instead. And when a normal
man would have stopped and held his ground, Beau kept right on
walking, until the two of them were chest to chest. “I’ve got a
better idea,” he said. He was so close, Arthur could feel the words
playing across his lips. “I think I’ll use that ten minutes to convince
you the only thing I was trying to set you up for…was a date.”

Arthur’s heart pounded. “If you’re trying to intimidate me,

it’s not going to work.”

“That’s good.” Beau tilted his head, aligning his lips with

Arthur’s so they would fit together just so, but he didn’t close his

eyes. His gaze was profoundly knowing. “If you were intimidated,
I’d feel guilty as hell about trying to do this.”

The kiss was slow in landing, like all the time zones

between their circadian rhythms had contrived to stretch out their
moment of first contact. Or maybe like Beau was giving Arthur a
chance to slip away.

As if anyone could resist the pull of that gorgeous mouth.
Beau wet his lips right before he pressed them to Arthur’s.

His mouth was warm and soft, and it felt just as decadent as it
looked. It was a gentle kiss, but somehow firm, in that it was
unhurried to the point of languor. He teased first at Arthur’s upper
lip, and then his lower, with such deliberate delicacy that finally it
was Arthur who gave in, and raised the stakes to tongues.

Beau’s gasp, when he let Arthur’s tongue slip past his lips,

was small. Secret. Something meant to be shared only with
Arthur.

Perhaps even something…vulnerable.
It wasn’t with any intent to grope the man that Arthur

latched on to his shoulder—but what a shoulder it was, muscled
from all that hauling. And lifting. And squatting. Well, the
squatting probably didn’t affect his arms…it was just exciting to
imagine. Besides, Arthur had seen hard evidence of the effects
of manual labour while Beau strutted around in those tight navy
shorts. He ran his fingers over the chiselled curve of Beau’s
deltoid, and then lower, over the swell of his upper arm. And he
wondered exactly how many dates it would take before he’d get
to do the same thing skin-to-skin.

Or even better, with his tongue.
Fortified by Arthur’s obvious enjoyment of his

endowments, Beau slipped a hand around Arthur’s waist, and
with a fan of his fingers, sent an eager shiver down Arthur’s
spine. They’d pressed up against one another at some point
during all this kissing and moaning and fondling, and now Arthur
found himself straddling Beau’s muscular thigh. And since he
was ages away from being an impressionable lad who found
himself sporting a clothes-prop in the cinema from seeing a few
shirtless blokes in a film…as he finally came up for breath, Arthur

was pleasantly surprised to discover that this single (if rather
lavish) kiss had left him most definitely aroused.

Beau’s eyes, when he opened them, now seemed more

dazed than knowing. And his lips were ever so slightly swollen.
“Maybe it was a wacky idea,” he said, “but now you can see that
setting you up for some crazy practical joke was the farthest
thing from my mind. Right?”

“I’m not entirely convinced,” Arthur said, plunging forward

before he second-guessed himself, “though I suppose I could
hear you out…over dinner.”

They kissed again to seal this fragile deal, less urgently

now, but with the restraint borne of the anticipation of things yet
to come. When Arthur finally, regretfully stepped away from the
embrace, he realized he’d been holding his phone throughout
the entire encounter—and timing it. He glanced down and
thumbed off the stopwatch. Nearly twenty minutes…and he
could have kept going.

Was it mad to get involved with an American? No worse

than tearing open a potential box of human remains in an attempt
to catch co-workers out on a silly prank. Given the amount of
times Arthur had been treated to a fine view of a pair of tight navy
shorts in the past week alone, Beau could be found in London as
often as not. And there was plenty of space in Arthur’s medicine
cabinet for the toothbrush responsible for those blindingly white
teeth, should things eventually come to that.

Beau looked down at the phone and flashed those teeth in

a sunny smile. “Are my ten minutes up?”

“They are…but I suppose I might allow an extension.”

Security would sweep the basement level soon, and they should
probably phone in a reservation if they wanted a table anywhere
decent. Although takeaway might be the better option…

First, though, there was a certain something that needed

Arthur’s attention. He navigated to the text he’d been mulling
over, and rather than heaping on more apologies or excuses,
simply hit send. Was it curt? Indeed it was. But since “everyone
knew” he was such a prat, he might as well use public opinion to
his advantage.

Dressing Down by Clare London

“Happy birthday to me!” Chris threw open the door to us

with a cry of welcome and a flourish of a huge shepherd’s crook.

I gripped my gift bottle of wine very tightly and stared at

him. “Good God, what did you come as? Bo Peep?”

Chris’s baby-blue eyes narrowed. His frown created a

furrow above the bridge of his nose. Combined with the mess of
blond curls over his forehead and his petulant look, he was the
image of a cherub who—despite the pretty gift tag—had just
clambered out of a slightly-soiled Lucky Dip bran tub to hunt
down the person who put him there in the first place. He was
probably trying for an imperious look, but I wasn’t too sure he
pulled it off.

“Don’t take the name of my boss in vain,” he snapped,

and swept over his shoulder what looked like his mother’s
curtains, though rather more luridly decorated with tinfoil and
overcoat buttons sprayed gold. “I’m an archbishop, Joey. Can’t
you tell?”

I shook my head, trying to keep a straight face. “I thought

you said “Tarts and Vicars” for the party, Chris, not an open
choice of whatever member of church hierarchy takes your fancy.”

“It’s my bloody party.” Chris glowered, obviously already a

little the worse for his infamous rum punch. “I’ll wear whatever
damned denomination I choose.”

“Okay, okay, I get the gist.” We were still all clustered in

the doorway. I heard a throat being cleared discreetly behind me
but I didn’t turn around.

“Jackets and bags upstairs in the guest room at the back,

no one’s staying there tonight.” Chris waved the crook about in a
dangerous-looking fashion, then was momentarily distracted by
Bren’s hand on his shoulder.

Bren nodded at me, a tight look around his mouth. I didn’t

miss the firm grip he had on his boyfriend. “Had some trouble
persuading him not to impersonate God Almighty, Joey, so in my
opinion, an archbishop is a bloody good compromise. Think
yourself lucky.”

“Religious epiphany, or delusions of grandeur?” I handed

my jacket to another guest, already on his way upstairs with a
pile of them.

“Just Chris being Chris.” Bren rolled his eyes and winked

at me. I grinned.

“I see you made the supreme effort, Joey.” Chris ran his

eyes up and down my modest black evening jacket and a white
collar made from a strip of cereal packet. “It’s a fancy dress
party, you know.”

“Oh, really?” I saw Bren’s eyes start the rolling thing

again, so I smiled at Chris, not wanting to provoke an argument.
“Of course I know, but we were a bit short on funds this year.
And I’m not big on dressing up, you know that.”

Bren smirked. “No National Elf Service this year?”
“Definitely not.” Last year’s Trick or Treating expedition

dressed as Legolas with a quiver full of sticks of Brighton rock
hadn’t been my finest fashion hour. “If you feel the need to
mention that costume again, it’ll be the last thing you do tonight.”

“Yeah? Bring it on!” Bren squared his shoulders

instinctively, as if relishing the chance of a fight. Seemed like the
rum punch had been doing the rounds of all the guests. It was a
pretty odd stance for a man dressed as a Franciscan monk, as
Bren was. He and his boyfriend had apparently both interpreted
the “Vicars” rather loosely.

I raised my hands in surrender. Chris peered at us both,

suspicious of any trouble, but when he realized we were both
smiling, he grinned as well. And then hiccupped. It was an odd
combination but, from the fond way Bren was gazing at him, cute
if you liked that kind of thing.

“Yeah, tonight it’s make love, not war,” Bren murmured.

His head dipped to rest at Chris’s neck and his hand brushed
Chris’s hip under the heavy fabric of his cape. “I’m sure I read
online I’m meant to kiss his ring.”

I winced. “Too much information, guys. But bravo on the

costumes. Chris—very high church. And you look…monkish,
Bren.”

Bren preened, no other word for it. Another odd look on a

religious brother. “It was the only damned thing we could find
that’d fit my build.” Chris’s eyes ran over Bren’s stocky build as
his boyfriend spoke, nodding enthusiastically. He ran a hand
slowly down Bren’s arm, a very muscled limb under the
shapeless brown fabric. They glanced at each other. Chris
flushed even more.

Good God. I was way behind on the rum punch. “I’ll go

through to the drinks, shall I?” It was a rhetorical question,
apparently, because neither of them took a blind bit of notice of
me. Peering over Chris’s shoulder, I could see the open door of
the kitchen and party guests milling about, laughing, holding
glasses of punch. Many of them were young men, wearing
clerical white collars and dark suits, most of which looked far
more professional than mine. A fewer number of young women
were there too, in low-cut dresses and high heels. I raised a
hand, waving to some of the people I knew, and stepped into the
hallway.

Chris gave a sharp cry. His head snapped around like it

was on a spring, and he stared behind me.

“What the fuck?” That was Bren, never one to mince words.
I didn’t rise to the bait, but I smiled to myself. Obviously

the man who’d accompanied me tonight was now in full view.
Gaz, my boyfriend. He’d stepped forward out of the shadows
from the dim streetlight into the bright illumination of the hallway.

“Gaz?” came Chris’s strangled moan.
“Gaz?” I murmured, just checking he was okay. A touch

on my arm told me he was. I didn’t need anything more than that.

“Let’s get this party started,” I said, cheerily.

* * * *

It had been a tricky couple of minutes as I wriggled my

way through to the punch bowl and grabbed two glasses. It was
just about enough time for every pair of eyes to swivel towards
the door and gawp at the pair of us. But then heads turned away
again and voices rose in the hubbub of people enjoying
themselves, and especially with the luxury of someone else’s

drinks. I made my way back out of the kitchen, drinks in hand.
Move along, people, nothing to see here.

Chris was stumbling down the hallway towards us, nearly

tripping up on the hem of the curtain cloak. His eyes were very
wide, his colour high. “Gaz!”

“What?” Gaz said. He was standing beside me by now.

He met his host’s shocked gaze, and his voice was as quiet and
polite as always, but perfectly clear. “You’re staring, Chris.”

I touched his shoulder and grinned. “Maybe he wants to

convert you, Gaz.”

Chris’s gaze ran up and down Gaz’s body. “I don’t see

that happening, do you? Not if you can come out in public like…”

“Like?”
“Like…that.” Bren spluttered from behind Chris, hot on his

heels. Holding his arm high like he was denouncing unbelievers,
he stabbed a finger in Gaz’s direction. “Like that!”

I shrugged. This was an even better effect than Gaz and I

had envisioned. “So you want the name of Gaz’s dressmaker.
Whatever.” I turned to Gaz. “I hope the punch is okay for you?”

He looked into my face and smiled.
God. His smile still undid me, even after all these months

together. The twinkle of desire in his eyes, the dimple of mischief
in his left cheek. The cute way his hair never lay flat on the right
side of his head and curled around his ear so I could just reach
over and tuck it back…

How the hell did I ever think he was shy? That’s what

everyone said about Gaz when he first joined our group at the
local pub. A nice bloke, good-looking, yes, but unassuming.
Apparently clubbing wasn’t really his thing. Easy-going, but kept
himself to himself. No, not looking for a quick and easy shag, not
much of a drinker, not one to push himself forward, just looking
to make new friends.

Yeah, right.
Oh, we started as friends, which of course we still were,

but the unassuming thing had passed. Quite quickly, in fact. I
liked him from the first time we met, but I went really slowly in
case he wasn’t interested, or in case I made a fool of myself.

Then I realised he was the only one to laugh at my crappiest
jokes, the only one who seemed keen to sit through a marathon
Star Wars movie night with me, the only one to stay behind after
the gang came around for drinks at my place on a Saturday
night, ostensibly to help me clear up…

…When we actually ended up snogging on the couch for

an hour, then moving to the bedroom to experience our own
disturbance in the Force. Now we were “going steady”—in my
mother’s words—and Gaz had already moved a load of his stuff
into my flat. We shopped and cooked together, we argued over
whose turn it was to do the laundry, we went to Sunday lunches
with his grandparents. And we made out whenever we could: his
eyes would go dark and he’d chuckle when he reached for me,
and his hands were never still on my body, and when he pushed
me back down on our bed…

A party guest shrieked in my ear as they passed and my

attention was rudely returned to Chris’s house. Gaz was looking
at me, his eyes wide. He winked and blushed. Must have seen
something in my expression.

Bren was still ranting. “What’s my cousin Ginger going to

say? I only just came out to her parents. She nagged and
nagged to come to the party, but if she goes telling them what
kind of people I know…” He glared at us, particularly at Gaz.
“What they wear!”

“Thanks a lot, mate,” I said.
Gaz grasped my hand. “You know he doesn’t mean any

harm, Joey.”

“I do?”
Chris hushed Bren. “Hey, it’s okay. Vincenzo’s girlfriend is

looking after Ginger.”

Bren sucked in a breath. “Is that meant to reassure me?

From what I’ve seen, Lily’s costume takes Tart to a whole new
level.”

Chris’s gaze settled on Gaz, and he raised his perfectly

formed eyebrows. “No,” he said to Bren, out of the corner of his
mouth but loud enough so I could hear. “Lily is so last season, as
of now. I’ve seen the future and it’s in stockings and satin skirt.

Wearing a silk corset.”

“And it shaves of a morning,” Bren muttered.
I laughed, and Chris was obviously tempted to join in.

When Gaz tugged at my arm, I took a slurp of my punch and
followed him into the lounge. There were plenty of guests
grouped in there already, and the music was loud and heavy. A
few people were jigging up and down half-heartedly to the beat.
The costume of a cleric seemed to be a distinct inhibition when it
came to dancing. Gaz walked over to the table of snacks in the
corner of the room, but I paused in the doorway with Chris close
beside me. I had a marvellous view, and I didn’t mean of the
expensive interior decoration. The way that Gaz’s arse tightened
against his costume with every step he took…it made me feel
decidedly irreligious.

Chris gave a small whimper in my ear. He was looking in

the same direction.

Vincenzo walked up behind us, leaning over Chris’s

shoulder, also surveying the room. He was the oldest of our
group of friends, and was fond of playing the mature big brother
role. Tonight, he was wearing a cardinal’s cassock and a snug
silk-covered cap on his well-groomed hair. On Vincenzo, it
looked as urbane as his usual designer suit. Absentmindedly, he
adjusted the mitre on Chris’s blond head. I suspected it had
slipped with the shock.

“Too many Vicars, Chris,” he complained, cheerfully. “Not

enough Tarts. As I might have expected from your circle of
friends, pretty boy. You did put both on the invitations?”

“I did,” Chris said. “But I know more men than women.

And I’d expect them to prefer the clerical option.”

“Guess you should watch your political correctness,”

Vincenzo said. “For that’s most definitely a man over there, in
that scarlet corset and skirt. Wicked black stockings, too.”

“Well, Vincenzo, that’s…”
But Vincenzo had suddenly realised, with no time for the

news to be broken gently. His exclamation was in his native
Italian and was also—I’d learned plenty of vocabulary over the
years of being his friend—hideously coarse. His eyes, like

everyone else’s, widened and stared. “That’s Gaz!”

Chris closed his eyes in a fair impression of a long-

suffering religious martyr.

I just smiled.

* * * *

I nodded to the girls as I passed them: Vincenzo’s

girlfriend Lily and Bren’s younger cousin Ginger. I glanced at
Ginger’s glass and reassured myself it looked like cola. They
nodded back but they weren’t remotely interested in me. They
were propped up against the wall, their shoulders nudging like
good friends, their gaze glued to the snacks table and the man
who stood there. They were gossiping, too.

I knew all too well who was in the firing line. Despite the

murmur of voices around me, I heard every word as I walked
slowly towards Gaz.

“He looks damned good,” Lily muttered. Her hair was

worn up high with a complex collection of pins that a more
modest person might have thought better employed keeping her
shirt fastened across her push-up bra. “Obviously knows when to
keep heels below four inches. And let’s face it, ankle straps are
so thickening.”

Ginger stared fixedly at Gaz, as if she wanted to

memorise every detail. “Do you think they’re really silk
stockings? They look like it.”

“Not a single snag in them.” Lily took a too-large swig of

her drink and wriggled against the wall. “This leather mini skirt is
making me sweaty.”

Ginger blinked hard, but kept her eyes on Gaz. She

tugged nervously at the edges of her skimpy baby-doll nightie.
“He has really good skin. And look at the muscles across his
shoulders.”

“Not an inch of muffin-top fat,” Lily grumbled.
“Did you see the glint of jewellery as he passed? Above

the ribbons, just around the…”

“…nipple area?” Lily and Ginger’s eyes met. They were

both very flushed.

“Good accessorizing.” Ginger’s voice was wistful now.

“Light on the eye shadow, just a touch of lipstick. Matching nail
varnish.”

“And the skirt drapes just right, no hitching up between his

cheeks. Sarongs are so in at the moment.”

Ginger peered. “That corset could have been made for

him. And no visible panty line. Do you think he’s wearing…?”

Just at that moment, I reached Gaz’s side and slid my

hand around his waist. My wrist caught one side of his satin skirt
and hoisted it up to his hip. He put his arm around my shoulders
and turned his back to the rest of the room—and the girls.

“…a thong!” came the barely-hushed female chorus of

shocked outrage from behind us.

I rubbed my nose against Gaz’s and grinned. He looked a

little tense, but he was grinning, too. I touched my lips to his.

Lily gave a loud cough. Looking around, I saw the two of

them move away from the wall. Knowing Lily, I suspected she
was in search of more punch. Ginger was staring at Gaz’s upper
thigh and arse, still partially uncovered under the skirt. “Do you
think he waxes?” came the thin thread of her voice as Lily turned
her away and hustled them both out of the room.

* * * *

Vincenzo stepped up beside us. “Guys.” He didn’t seem

able to take his eyes off the black silk lacing up the front of Gaz’s
corset. Nor did he seem to have anything more in the way of
conversation.

Gaz’s hair was tousled, the fringe tickling at the corners of

his deep, dark eyes. There was a slight sheen of sweat on his
throat. I gave him my drink for a moment while I straightened my
collar and he stood there calmly, holding a drink in each hand. I’d
rarely seen anyone stand as confidently in black patent high heels.

Vincenzo cleared his throat. “Why did you…ah…choose

this particular costume, Gaz?” There was more than a hint of
admiration in his tone. “You could have come as a Vicar, too.”

Gaz’s eyes narrowed. “And you could have come as a

Tart, Vince.”

“I could,” Vincenzo said. “But…I didn’t. Should I have?”

He glanced down at his own glass of punch. Perhaps he was
wondering how heavy-handed Chris had been with the mix. Then
slowly, his gaze slid back up to settle on Gaz’s torso again. He
took his time, lingering over the groin and satin pouch area. A
light flush appeared, high on his angular cheekbones.

Bren staggered up beside him. Another guy who couldn’t

take his eyes off Gaz. Lucky I wasn’t the jealous type, eh? “Gaz.
Sorry…um, I was a bit of a prick before. You can wear whatever
you bloody well like, of course you can.”

“Thanks, Bren,” Gaz said. Maybe only I saw the glint of

amusement in his eye.

“You…er…ever done anything like…this, before? You

know. The clothes…”

Gaz just smiled back at him.
I retrieved my drink from Gaz’s steady hand. “Is there a

problem, Bren?” I asked, kindly.

“No. Of course not.”
Gaz seemed to take pity on Bren’s bluster. “It’s just for

tonight, Bren. For a laugh. After all, we’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

“For a laugh,” Bren repeated.
“Yes,” Gaz said. “That’s the purpose of fancy dress, isn’t it?”
He looked at me for confirmation. I wondered if I looked

as thrilled as I felt: hot with desire and swelled with pride. For
him. He stood there, calm and confident, the unassuming man
who’d just been waiting for his moment. Not a single sign of
nerves, and his hand still draped possessively across my
shoulders. My boyfriend.

Gaz’s gaze shifted, but he was still smiling. Apparently

casually, he rested his free hand on his waist and tilted his hips.
It pushed out his groin and made the silk of his stockings tighten
on his thighs.

My groin tightened, too.
It was Bren’s turn to whimper. I think the gargling noise

came from Vincenzo.

I took a deep breath and glanced once more around the

room. I wondered for how long I could enjoy the look of shocked
curiosity on Vincenzo’s face; the unadulterated envy on the faces
of our girl friends. Rather more unkindly, I wondered how long I
should torment the look of unbidden lust on Bren’s. Gaz was
right—it was, indeed, a laugh. I wasn’t sure when I’d last had
such fun.

“Fucking brave, is all I can say,” Bren muttered. His drink

lolled in his hand, dripping over the edge of the glass on to the
thick carpet.

“I don’t know about that.” Gaz pulled me closer.

“Sometimes bravery’s just trying something different. Playing a
different role.” He pressed his mouth to my ear. “An exciting one.”

I don’t think I was entirely in control of my reactions. I was

just a rather messy swirl of emotion and sensation. I cupped my
hand around the back of his neck, caressing the skin, and his
head pushed back against my fingers, nuzzling into the touch.
His eyes looked a little unfocused, but he smiled one last time at
Bren’s look of struggling incomprehension. “And, of course…I did
it because Joey asked me to.”

I made a soft sound of delight. My free hand ran down his

back, sliding over the soft, boned silk of the corset and under the
clinging satin of his skirt, until my palm nestled on the firm,
muscled bulge of his half-bared arse.

Vincenzo almost choked, then insisted he needed to go to

the kitchen to get a glass of water. Bren was speechless, but he
also left us, rather swiftly and—as far as I could tell—in the
direction of where we last saw Chris.

* * * *

I’ve always been pretty good at recognizing when a

party’s coming to its natural end. I’d been to get Gaz and me
another drink, but a lot of the visitors had already left, and the
ones that were left were flagging. Vincenzo was slumped in a
chair in the lounge, deeply asleep. Someone had put his cap into
his lap and filled it with what looked like strawberry jelly. I didn’t

want to be around when he woke up and put it back on his head.
Over on the couch, Lily and Ginger huddled together, giggling.
Lily’s pins had all fallen out of her hair, and she’d given up any
pretence of keeping her shirt buttoned. Ginger had spilt cherry
cola down her baby-doll and the fur trim was looking sticky. But
they looked happy enough. When I last talked to them, they’d
confessed neither had found the novelty of dancing with
clergymen particularly inspiring.

According to some of my other friends, the clergymen had

enjoyed the novelty of dancing with the Tarts, but that’d be
another story to tell in the morning.

No one had danced with Gaz except me. There appeared

to be an exclusion zone around us. Did I give off that possessive
aura? I wasn’t bothered if I did. I’d clung to him throughout the
evening and ignored the dropped jaws around us. No, that
wasn’t exactly true. I’d really enjoyed the effect and so, I think,
had Gaz. His hands had been on me all night, whether just
stroking my arm or hugging me to him.

I stepped carefully over the collapsed bodies in the

hallway. Someone had sat on Chris’s mitre, and it lay in a
squashed heap under the hall table. He’d drunk far too much
punch and passed out. He now lay huddled on the hallway floor,
snoring, his back against the wall. Bren had shed his cowl a long
time ago, and sat on the floor beside his boyfriend in shorts and
a T-shirt, eyes almost closed and humming something that
sounded like a bastardized version of Climb Every Mountain.

Gaz came out of the lounge and looked over. Our eyes

met. He flushed. I carefully put our glasses down on the hall
table and waited for him to join me at the foot of the stairs. “We’ll
get our jackets,” I said, though no one either listened or
answered.

We went upstairs and found the guest room. There

weren’t many coats or jackets left to collect now, just a small
heap in the middle of the bed. It was dark in the room, but I didn’t
turn on the light. Neither did I bother looking for our coats. I
picked up the whole pile and put them carefully outside the room
on the landing. Then I turned back to the bed and pulled the door

firmly shut behind me. An extra bonus was a key in the lock.

Playfully, I pushed Gaz down onto the bed, and he fell flat

with a curse and a laugh. One of his shoes twisted off his foot
and spun over onto the carpet by the window. I followed him,
tumbling with him on the mattress, kissing, nipping, my hands
groping up under the lace edging of his corset. He grunted, his
voice muffled against one of the thick pillows.

I banged my shin on the table beside the bed, and

something clunked on to the floor. I think it was either Gaz’s
other shoe or the bedside lamp. Gaz shifted and I yelped, my
finger caught and twisted under one of the corset bones. “Shit,
Gaz, how are you meant to get this thing off?”

There was an exasperated sigh, and his head emerged

from under a pile of cushions. In the dim light of moonlight
through the blinds, Gaz wriggled away from me and stood up on
the bed. The mattress bounced, and he spread his legs apart,
holding his balance with care.

“Gaz?” I sat up, panting, bemused and, let’s face it, very

horny.

Gaz reached a hand to his chest. The front of the corset

was fastened with thin, silky ribbon, albeit loosened and a little
sweaty after all the dancing. He caught the end of it between his
fingers, and tugged. There was a gentle, teasing creak from the
bones of the corset as it opened wider. “I can show you,” he
whispered. The garment started to peel away from his torso.

I nodded, dumbly. Then I wondered if he could see me in

the dim light. Then wondered if he was going to go ahead
anyway. My throat was very dry.

Gaz laughed softly. He slowly unlaced the rest of the

ribbon. The corset fell down onto the bed with a soft thump.
Gaz’s nipples were very prominent against his pale skin. His
nipple ring glistened. It looked like he’d run a wet finger over
himself, making the silver shine and the nubs of skin harden. The
thought of that made my throat even drier.

“Take off your shirt,” he said. Not exactly an order, but I

wriggled out of my shirt indecently quickly.

He bent forward, leaning down his leg. There was a sharp

snap, and I saw the shadow of a garter belt flapping out against
his tight thigh. Another snap, and another slim piece of laced
elastic swung loose.

I drew in a fast breath. It almost hurt. “How does it feel?” I

whispered.

Gaz’s limber body bent again at the waist, and his hands

started to roll something down his leg. I heard the soft whisper of
sheer silk. I saw the deeper shadows of muscle on his calf: the
shine of smooth, shaved flesh as it was slowly uncovered.
“Fabulous,” he whispered back. “Fun. Powerful. Beautiful.”

“Fuck,” I said, in some awe.
Gaz started to laugh, but bit it back. “If you don’t like this…?”
“Don’t stop!” My voice squeaked with almost-panic. “I

mean…” I swallowed, hard. I slipped the zip of my trousers
because things were getting way too uncomfortable down there.
“I just never thought you’d be so perfect in the part.”

“Hush,” Gaz said, throatily. “Go back to the ‘fuck’. And

let’s take it from there.” He unfastened the skirt and let it drop, a
creased bit of silk that was barely modest in the first place. Then
he slipped his hands inside the waist strip of his thong briefs, and
pushed them down. His cock sprang out free, thick and shining
at the tip. He stood there, his legs bobbing gently on the shifting
mattress, his costume just a small pile of fabric at his feet. His
body slim but muscled, the skin taut, everything very male: all
male. Naked. Stripped. Mine.

I gave up pretending to be discreet with my trousers. I

dropped back down on to the bed, tugging them over my hips, my
legs flailing in the air, my foot catching on the hem. I cursed a
couple of times, trying to keep my voice low. My cock was
thickening fast, straining to be set free, pressed so hard against
the seam of my briefs I thought it might be permanently disfigured.

Gaz dropped to his knees on the bed beside me, reaching

out to help. The mattress creaked. Someone flushed the toilet
downstairs; someone else slammed the front door behind them.
The party was over. No one was going to disturb us up here.

I sighed with immense satisfaction. “You are such a Tart,

Gaz.”

“You reckon?” He chuckled, but now his face was nestled

between my thighs and his breath tickled the skin under my
balls. “So you can leave the money on the table. That’s if you
can afford me.”

My answering laugh was deep and rich. “Aren’t I

supposed to be a Vicar?” Gaz was licking slowly over the front of
my briefs, warming my erection, mouthing the shape of it under
the cotton. I groaned. “Is this appropriate behaviour for a man of
the cloth?”

“It will be,” came the muffled, impatient reply. Gaz slid his

hand in under the cloth, pulled out my dick, and his mouth
ghosted over the swollen head. “You’re about to be well and truly
unfrocked!”

Et Tu, Fishies? by JL Merrow

“Right…keys are here, feel free to eat anything you find in

the kitchen, but my clothes are off limits—and don’t think I won’t
know if you borrow them.” The low, gravelled voice ceased its
heady rumble through my intoxicated ears, and Bill folded his
arms, trying to look stern. I wasn’t falling for it. He’s six-foot-four
of solid marshmallow masquerading (rather well, it must be said)
as beefcake.

“Sweetie…” I gave it my best Mae West drawl. “The only

reason I’d borrow any of your clothes is if I needed something to
camp out in for the weekend. Or perhaps a sail for that yacht I’ll
own one day.” I’m only two inches shorter, but around a hundred
pounds lighter, for my sins. Which are neither so many nor so
varied as I’d like them to be. And so very few of them involving
Bill, more’s the pity.

“Fair point. Oh, and if the weirdo upstairs asks you in for

a drink, for God’s sake don’t say yes.”

“Ooh, is he likely to murder me and bury me under the

floorboards?” I pantomimed a shiver.

“Worse—first he’ll ramble on about the future like

Nostradamus’s grandson, then he’ll either cackle insanely or
burst into tears and then he’ll pass out on the sofa. Been there,
done that.”

There was a sudden nip in the air. I arched an eyebrow.

“Literally?” I looked away, before my eyes could flash so green
even Bill, bless his little cotton brain, would notice. Not that he’s
dim, my Bill—there just tends to be something of a satellite delay
between eyes and intelligence.

“Uh, no. I do have some standards, thanks.”
“Oh? That’s news to me, dearie.” I was not being unkind—

that is simply the only possible response when you’re fed a line
like that.

He took it in good humour. “True, true—I did you, didn’t I?”
Ouch. I’d have preferred the bad humour. “But only the

once.” I pouted exaggeratedly. If you make a joke of these
things, people never, ever, see the ravaged, bleeding remnants

they’ve left of your poor, battered little heart.

Bill smiled. “But we’ve stayed friends, and that’s the

important thing, isn’t it? Trust me, when looking for a casual
shag, sanity is top of my list of desirable qualities. Right. I’ve got
to be off. Don’t break anything, and remember, the fish will be
fine just as long as you follow my instructions to the letter.” Stern
look again.

“Jawohl, mein Kommandant!” I gave him a snappy salute,

standing to attention. I even clicked my heels together, although
the effect may have been more Dorothy than military. “Don’t
worry, your finny friends are safe in my hands.” Oh, the things of
Bill’s I’d like to be safe in my hands. I willed him to read the
supplication in my eyes.

But he just laughed, and hugged me, and said goodbye.

My Bill: a total illiterate in the language of hopeless, unrequited
love. “Marty, you’re a star,” he told me as he left me. Couldn’t he
see my light had dimmed, sucked into the black hole of his
indifference?

“Don’t worry,” I told the fish, placing one hand against the

warm side of their tank. They tried their best to nibble my fingers
through the glass, but it was a poor substitute for nibbles from
Bill. “Daddy’s only going away for a week. Daddy has to do some
nasty work, yes, he does, but he loves you very very much and
he’ll be back soon.”

They flitted through the tank, blue-and-orange shivers of

agitation. I leaned in closer to reassure them with my presence,
and lowered my voice to a comforting whisper. “We’ll look after
each other while he’s gone. We won’t worry about him being
away at the conference with that tart from the office, no, we
won’t.” Iridescent tails flicked doubt at my words, and I sighed.
“Et tu, fishies?”

And then I vacuumed the whole flat to within an inch of its

eighty-percent wool shag pile life, because nothing heals a
broken heart like housework.

* * * *

One might suppose that Bill and I had a particularly close

friendship, given that he’d asked me to babysit his fish while he
swanned around at some conference in Hawaii, every hussy on
the island shaking her grass-skirted booty in his face. One
would, alas, suppose wrong. I am everyone’s house-sitter of
choice; something to do with being a clean-freak, I’m told.
People have been known to go away solely to get me to blitz
their house for them. At least, that’s what Bill told me, right
before he cautioned me not to let people take advantage, then in
the same breath asked me if I’d do him a teensy little favour.

After I’d got over the disappointment of learning his wee

favouretto had nothing whatsoever to do with the contents of his
rugged, manly trousers, I was ready enough to say yes. My own
little flat, while of course the very zenith of style, had seemed a
little lonely of late. Perhaps I should get some fishies of my own?
And Bill has, after all, very few dirty habits, and all of them ones I
approve of. Plus it gave me an excellent opportunity to live in his
flat, watch all his DVDs and sleep in his bed. What? I’d change
the sheets before he got back.

He favoured, I found, the gentler sort of porn, and his

sheets smelled warm and woodsy.

They smelled of something else after I’d been in them for

a night, but c’est la vie. I spring-cleaned his cupboards to atone
for any little stains I might have left on the mattress, and then I
set off to work. Another tiring day of hawking divine creations of
leather to the undeserving public and their ill-kempt feet.

It wasn’t until the third day that I had an encounter with

Bill’s neighbour. I was going up the stairs; so was he, but more
slowly, being weighed down with a carrier bag that clinked loudly
and enticingly.

Although the clothes, I was saddened to see, were

somewhat tragic—he looked as though he’d been dressed by a
mother with a penchant for particularly dimly lit Oxfam shops—
he was, I would have to admit, not bad looking. Attractive, even,
in a sort of fragile, androgynous, slightly tipsy way, if you like that
sort of thing. Which obviously, not everyone does. It’s a matter of
personal taste. I’ve even met people who claim not to like

chocolate. Or martinis, or tiramisu, which is just criminal.

“You’re the weirdo?” I blurted, then clapped both hands to

my mouth to stop any more little faux pas exploding out like farts
in a parfumier’s.

He stared at me with animé eyes—then started to laugh.
I stood there on the stairs, helpless in the face of his

hilarity. Also, more than somewhat miffed. Eventually he calmed
down enough to speak. “I suppose I am. Arthur Prefect.”

“That’s your name? That’s not a real name,” I added,

narrowing my eyes into eensy-weensy little slits. I don’t like being
made a fool of; after twenty-seven years the novelty’s completely
worn off.

“It is. It’s my name. It’s been my name for months now.

Ever since I got here.”

“So…what was it before that?”
He grinned. “Herbert Wells.”
I made a little moue of commiseration. “I can understand

why you changed it. Poor you. The only good herbs are the sort
one smokes, or uses in haute cuisine.”

“What would you choose?”
“To smoke?” Well, if he was offering…
“No, for your name.”
Darn it. “For my name?” I cocked my head to one side

and made a sort of tocking sound with my tongue as I thought
about it. My lips, I might add, were pursed, which is possibly—
only possibly, mind you—why he kissed me.

I spluttered.
Arthur-cum-Herbert stepped back, his hand going to his

mouth. Which, by the way, had tingled with the taste of vodka.
“That was wrong, wasn’t it? Not something I should have done.
Am I in trouble now?”

“Would you,” I asked with the utmost caution, “like to be?”
His smile flickered on and off like the neon sign on last

year’s bar du jour. “Will you come and have a drink with me?”

Was there a reason I shouldn’t go? I racked my brain.
Nope. Couldn’t think of one. Not a dickie-bird. Both Miss

Diddly and her great friend, Squat. “I’d be delighted. Hang on a

mo, and I’ll bring some nibbles. Ooh, and do you have mixers?”

“Mixers?”
“You know. Orange juice. Diet Coke. Tonic water.”
“I’ve got some wine.”
“Close enough. Lead on, Macduff!”
He looked at me sideways. “It’s Prefect.”
“No, it isn’t,” I reminded him and took his arm. “Are we off

to see the wizard?” I added gaily as we took the stairs in step.

“I don’t know any wizards. Do you?”
“Only Harry Potter. Or David Blaine. I’m not sure which

one’s worse. Take your pick: bespectacled little runt or smug
poseur.” I sighed. Who was I kidding? I’ve always been a sucker
for a man with a goatee. Did I mention Bill has a goatee?

“I’d rather take you,” he said. “You didn’t tell me your name.”
“Well, clearly, if you’re Arthur, then I must be Merlin,” I told

him, pleased with my ingenuity.

“Good…son of a dog, I can’t find my key. Will you look for it?”
“Where should I look?”
“In my pocket?”
I gave him a hard stare. Then I surrendered to inevitability

and thrust my hand inside his trouser pocket. “I don’t think it’s in
here.”

“Keep looking,” he urged, his eyes darkening. His hot

breath threatened to get me drunk all on its little lonesome, while
his pocket became noticeably smaller.

“I don’t think…Ah! Yes, here it is.” I opened the door.

Arthur pressed up behind me.

“Come in,” he said in my ear. “Come and sit down with me.”
I cast a critical eye about the place. There was a spanking

new computer set up in the corner, its screen showing a 3D
model of something frighteningly technical, but in other respects
the flat was sadly lacking. “You have no furniture,” I said
because I deemed it entirely possible he hadn’t yet noticed.

“There are plenty of cushions. Chairs make me dizzy.”
“Don’t spin round on them, then?” I suggested.
He laughed. “You’re funny.”
I nodded sadly. “It’s to hide the tears.”

We sat, cross-legged, on the cushions and drank vodka

from the bottle while I waited for my kneecaps to ping off like
buttons from a hastily ripped-off shirt. When I handed out the
nibbles, Arthur eschewed my cheesy balls, but devoured my nuts
rapaciously. “What do you cry about?” he asked.

“The unbearable lightness of being? Dancing on Ice?” I

crunched a snack or two. “My tragic love life, mostly.” I heaved a
sigh, to indicate he should ask me more.

He didn’t.
“You can ask me more,” I said pointedly.
Arthur looked up from my nuts. “Oh. What’s tragic about

your love life?”

“Well, since you ask…there was a man.” I left a pause for

him to chime in with Isn’t there always? but he failed to oblige. I
soldiered on regardless. “We shall call him, for the sake of this
conversation, Will.”

“Will?”
“Yes. It rhymes with Bill. Don’t interrupt.”
“Sorry.”
“We were like two ships that passed in the night. He was

a rufty-tufty pirate galleon, I was a sleek little luxury yacht. He
boarded me, defeated me with his mighty cannon, plundered all
my most secret treasures—then sailed away, leaving me adrift
upon a sea of broken dreams.”

“You…indulged your appetites together?” Arthur’s face

was screwed up in a frown. I felt compelled to clarify, if only to
save him from the wrinkles.

“Yes. A one night stand, which was delightful, but in the

morning it all went to hell in a particularly tawdry little hand-
basket.” I gazed at Arthur, hoping to see a sympathetic glint in
his (somewhat bleary) eyes, but all I got was blank
incomprehension and a hint of too many late nights. “I panicked,
told him it’d been fun and skedaddled.”

“Oh?” At last, Arthur’s interest was piqued. “Ske—what?

I’ve never done that. Is it good?”

“About as enjoyable as an ice-cold enema.” I shuddered.

Arthur did too. “But what about you?” I asked. “What drives you

into the intoxicating arms of Mr. Smirnov and his comrades?”

“My mistakes. One mistake.”
“What was it?” I put a comforting hand upon his knee. We

were old friends now; I’d been here at least half an hour.

He laughed. “Do you know what it’s going to be like in the

future?”

I raised the bottle. “A queer’s utopia! And God save the

queens.”

“You might think so, living now, but…no. Time…time is a

see-saw. Public attitudes, morality. It can swing either way.”

“Like Bill?” I asked, confused.
“Everyone. Everything. And it tipped—I mean, it will tip. Too

far. After the last Prime Minister was assassinated—it went too far.
Against the extremists. And then it tipped the other way. There was
a new fundamentalism. People being stoned in the streets.”

I shuddered. “You don’t mean stoned in a good way, do

you?”

“So we had to find a way out. Back. A way back.” He

grabbed the bottle. “My vodka. Can’t get it in the future, y’know.
Bad. Alcohol is bad.”

“No, no,” I said soothingly. “Alcohol is good.”
“Bad. Get thirty lashes.” He laughed. “This’ll get you fifty.”
“What will?” I asked, seconds before he kissed me again.
It was rather pleasant, so upon due consideration, I kissed

him back. Then I recoiled. “Do you do this with Bill?” I
demanded.

He blinked. “Bill is homosexual?”
“Bi, sweetie, bi. Bill is also kind to pussies.”
Arthur blinked some more. “Do you actually understand

plain English?” I asked, irritated.

“No. I don’t think I do. It’s very isolating.”
I nodded. “You, my dear, need a boyfriend.”
He took another gulp of vodka. “How do men get

boyfriends, here?”

“The internet, usually. Or you could go out and drink in an

actual bar, but that’s really rather passé.”

“No. Too risky. Always saying something wrong.”

I nodded. “Foot in mouth disease. I’m a fellow sufferer, but

do we get any help on the National Health Service? No, we do not.
So, what was this mistake of yours, anyway? You never did say.”

Arthur put down the bottle. Recognizing the solemnity of

the occasion, I refrained from snatching it for the moment. “I left
him behind.”

“Who?”
“My…My boyfriend.” He gave a shaky laugh. “I’ve never

said that before. He was—he will be—wonderful. He’s tall,
handsome, strong…”

“Does he have a goatee?” I interrupted, agog.
Arthur frowned. “He doesn’t keep any animals.”
“It’s a type of beard. Tres chic.”
“He has a beard, yes, of course. Had. Will have. He was

the creative one, not me. It was his idea, to use the research, to
take it in a new direction. Backwards. We worked together, you
see. In the Al-Biruni laboratory. We were at university together,
but of course we never dared, not then—but later, we were
working alone one evening, and he put his hand on mine, and
then I just knew he felt the same way I did. And it was
wonderful—working together, we didn’t have to make excuses to
meet.” He took a long swallow of vodka, and wiped his mouth
with his hand. “There were others, for both of us, before—but
they were nothing. Just—just a coming together in the dark. In
fear. But now—now we could really be together—could love one
another, not just take what quick relief we could find.”

I nodded sagely. “It was like that with me and Bill. One touch

of his big, manly hand upon Marty junior, and I was smitten.”

Arthur, I strongly suspected, wasn’t really listening. “And it

would have been enough, for me,” he carried on, his passion
undimmed. “It would have been. I never wanted much, never
expected to get even half what we had already—but he wanted
more. He said we should have escaped, before the borders were
closed. And then he got the idea. He said, if we can’t be free
now—then, I mean—we could be free in the past.” His blue eyes
sparkled with unshed tears, and he leaned forward to grip my
arm. “Merlin.”

“That was his name?”
Arthur frowned. “No. That’s you, isn’t it?”
“Sorry. I’d forgotten. Do go on.”
“You do believe me, don’t you? That I’m from the future?”
I considered the matter. The vodka was definitely helping,

and fortunately, I’ve always had something of a talent for
bending the truth. Amongst other things. “How could I doubt it?” I
asked, throwing my hands wide to indicate the extent of my
belief. “Sorry,” I added, having whacked poor Arthur in the face.

“It’s all right,” he reassured me, his voice slightly muffled

by the hand upon his nose. “Others have suffered worse.”

“So why did you leave him behind? By which I mean your

boyfriend. The one who isn’t called Merlin.”

His head dropped into his hands, pressed down by his

sorrow.

“I had to.”
“So why not go back for him?”
“I can’t. It’s not possible.”
“Burned your bridges, sweetie?” Like I’d done with Bill,

with all my cowardly protestations of it doesn’t mean anything
and we’re better off as just friends. I sighed, heavily, and wrested
the vodka from Arthur’s grasp.

Arthur didn’t appear to notice. “It’s the physics of it. You

can go back, but not forward.” He picked up one of my cheesy
balls. “It’s like one of these. You can eat it,” he said and popped
it into his mouth. “But you can’t get it back again.” He grimaced;
perhaps he’d forgotten he didn’t like them. “Not in any way you’d
actually want.”

I nodded, but something confused me. “So why doesn’t

your boyfriend just…eat a cheesy ball himself?”

“Because of me. I told him not to. We’d only just got it to

work—we had to work in secret, alone, it’s proscribed science—
and we didn’t know it was safe. We didn’t even know if it would
work.”

“But you volunteered? You were the human guinea pig,

the sacrificial lamb, the laboratory rodent of your choice?”

“It was different for me. I was dead in any case.”

“I feel bound to point out that you are not, in fact, dead.” I

put my hand back on his leg to make certain. Yes, still warm. In
fact, he appeared to be getting warmer all the time.

“I would have been dead, if I’d stayed. I was denounced.

An old—he was one of us, you understand? It wasn’t his fault.
The things they do to you…I would rather have died, you see,
and he thought so too.” A tear rolled down Arthur’s cheek.

“Who?” I asked, wiping his face with a corner of my shirt.
“Ford. That was going to be his name.”
“Why am I not surprised? But go on, tell me more.”
“There’s no more to tell. We knew…We knew we’d never

see each other again. I didn’t realize—I didn’t want to die. I didn’t
want him to die. I didn’t realize…”

“What? What didn’t you realize?” I knelt next to him,

enthralled by his story.

“That life without him is worse than death.” He laughed

bitterly. “And it’s all my fault I’m alone. I begged him not to come,
not to risk it. But here I am—safe, with a comfortable dwelling,
earning all the money we could want by pretending to design
future technology—and he doesn’t even know it.”

I sat back on my heels and ate a walnut; I’ve always

considered them brain food, in the same way that the butternut
squash is quite clearly nature’s Viagra. “The problem, as I see it,
is this: you and the man you love are separated not because of
lack of love, but because of lack of communication. If he—that is,
your sweetie—knew you were here, safe and pining for him, not
to mention destroying a perfectly good liver, he would be here in
a trice. No, sooner: a cicatrice.” I beamed. “Your course of action
is clear.”

“It is?”
“You communicate.”
“How? I can’t go back, how can I communicate with him?”
“You’ve never seen Back to the Future? No—wait, it was

the second one, I seem to recall. The one before he put on his
fetching little cowboy suit.”

Arthur blinked.
I sighed. “The one with the fringing?”

Very deliberately, Arthur reached over and took back the

bottle.

I no longer needed vodka; I was drunk on my sense of

purpose. “You need a solicitor. An old, established firm—no, on
second thoughts, make it a multi-national. Are there any multi-
national firms of solicitors? There must be. Make it an old,
established, multi-national, then. Wait a minute.” I Googled
quickly on my phone, tapping in big law firms. Actually, I tapped
in big large dicks, at the first attempt; auto-correct knows me far
too well. “Here we are,” I said at last, and frowned. “You’d better
not have finished that.”

Arthur squinted at the vodka bottle. “There’s still the wine.

And the people who work at the garage down the road are very
understanding. What have you found?”

“Mortar and Slay. And Spinkmaters. We could go with

both of them. Belt and braces, that’s what I always say. The old
two-condom trick, although somewhat safer in practice.”

Arthur stared. “You want to have sex and use two

condoms?”

I stared back until my contact lenses begged me to blink

again. “Actually, at this precise moment I was thinking more of
hiring some lawyers.”

“So we don’t get stoned?”
“Given how much vodka we’ve drunk, I don’t think getting

stoned would be wise. What time is it?”

“Oh-two-twenty-four.”
“Then we should probably wait before calling them.”
“Are we going to have sex while we wait?”
I considered the matter from all sides. “I think…I think not.

You see,” I explained, waving my nuts around and inadvertently
scattering them on the carpet, the cushions and Arthur himself,
“you’re in love with Buck Rogers from the twenty-fifth century.
Whereas I,” and here I found my eyes grow unaccountably
moist, “am in love with Bill.”

Arthur’s face softened. “He’s your boyfriend?”
“Haven’t you been listening?” I pouted and heaved a sigh

of abject despair. “We slept together once. Unfortunately, I was

the Cowardly Lion to his Tin Man, and I told him it meant nothing.
Lies, damned lies. Paper.”

“What?”
“I need paper. And a pen—a fountain pen for preference.

Do you have one? Damn it, a biro just isn’t the same. Never
mind. We’re going to draft your instructions to your lawyers.”

* * * *

I woke up the next morning with my head splitting, my

eyes burning and my face in Arthur’s crotch. Apparently we’d
forgotten the not-having-sex bit at some point last night. Ah well,
if you can’t remember it, it doesn’t count. I got up a little too
hastily and staggered to the bathroom.

Cheesy balls, red wine and vodka do not a happy barfer

make.

Arthur was snoring gently, the empty bottle of wine

gathered lovingly in his arms. I collected up the papers before he
could do something unspeakable on them, and left. Not, I might
add, to head straight for the London offices of Mortar and Slay. I
had other fish to feed, and after that I required several gallons of
mineral water and a lukewarm bath. And a nice, long lie down
without my contacts in, before calling in to work and explaining
sadly that the shoes would just have to sell themselves today.
No, I left those papers carefully stacked underneath a half-full
whisky bottle, on the principle that he’d be bound to see them
there. And, if he had any sense and was still suffering from his
inexplicable delusions, act upon them. Perhaps then he might
find some peace, poor soul, secure in the knowledge he had
Done All He Could.

I didn’t see Arthur for several days. It crossed my mind to

worry he might have succumbed to the drink; clearly he was
trying to make up for thirty years of abstinence in a regrettably
short time span. But then it also crossed my mind that we might
end up forgetting another form of abstinence once more, and I
found myself reluctant to risk it. When one is nursing a tragic,
unrequited love, it’s hard to retain credibility if one is constantly

shagging the neighbours.

Then, the very evening Bill was due home, Arthur

knocked on my door. Not, of course, knowing it was him, I
opened it without trepidation. He was radiant—this time with
happiness, instead of alcohol.

“It worked!” he cried. “Merlin, it worked! Mortar and Slay

delivered my instructions exactly as we planned. We
communicated!”

I blinked. Next to Arthur stood a tall, handsome, strong-

looking man, his appearance marred only by the slight redness
around his face, as if, say, he’d just shaved off a particularly
bushy beard.

“Oh,” Arthur rushed on excitedly. “This is Ford. Ford Dent.

My boyfriend.” He giggled happily, his recently depilated
companion chiming in with a tenor chuckle.

“That,” I told them sternly, “is also not a real name.”
They giggled some more. “We’re going upstairs now, to

commit acts of unnatural fornication.”

“How refreshingly blunt of you,” I told them and made to

close the door.

A low voice rumbled in protest, its pitch causing little

Marty to vibrate in pleasure. “Hey, what kind of a welcome home
is this?”

I opened the door wide once more. My Hitchhikers’ twain

had vanished, and Bill stood there, a Greek statue come to life
(only much better hung; what were those sculptors thinking of?)

“Bill,” I said breathily, to show I’d lost only 99% of my

capacity for rational thought at the precious, wonderful sight of him.

“Hey,” he said. His smile, I’ve always thought, should be

patented. Protected by copyright. But then again, should
something so good not be freely disseminated?

No, damn it. He should keep those smiles for me.
“Are you going to let me in? Seeing as it’s my flat, and all?”
I stood back mutely, doubting my current ability to walk

and talk at the same time. He entered. I blushed at the
connotations running through my mind.

“Fish okay?”

“Peachy.”
“You okay?”
“Likewise.”
“That weirdo from upstairs give you any bother?”
“Not particularly.” I didn’t think a few kisses and some

drunken sex counted as bother, precisely. Although possibly our
attempts to rearrange the fabric of the space-time continuum
might be considered as such.

“Good.” Bill spun around slowly. Maybe he was looking for

damage I might have inflicted on his flat while he was away.

Maybe he was just glad to be home. I clung to that

thought, much as I would have liked to cling to Bill. But that was
hopeless.

Was it?
Courage, mon enfant. “I wanted to talk to you. About, well,

things.” I swallowed. “I know you were getting quite close to, er,”
the evil witch who was trying to get her stuck-on talons into you,
“Cerys from work. I wondered if that had, er…?”

“What? Cerys? No, no, we’re just, er…” He scratched his

head. Bill had sad-face on. What did this mean? Was he sad
because the witch hadn’t put out?

“Good,” I said vehemently. “Ow!” Damn it, that had hurt,

I’d clapped my hands to my mouth so hard. “Sorry.”

Bill’s broad, honest brow creased in a frown. “You don’t

like Cerys?”

Well, no, but it was more that I wasn’t too keen on having

my fragile little heart smashed into a million pieces and then
stomped upon, while he— “That’s not what I meant. Bill,” I said,
my voice trembling in my chest. “Do you…” I broke off; took a
steadying breath. Panic attacks are seldom attractive. Although
on the other hand, hyper-ventilation might raise the delicious
prospect of Bill attempting mouth-to-mouth…No. I should stand
firm, and impress him with my manly resolution, not my ability to
ape a drooping damsel. “Do you ever think perhaps we should
have tried to make a go of it?”

“But…You said we’d be better off as friends.”
I had, hadn’t I? I made a mental note to cut out my tongue

at the earliest opportunity.

“And,” he continued, “you said you don’t go out with bi guys.”
Perhaps cutting out my tongue wouldn’t be enough.

Decapitation, that might do it.

It’d certainly bring a whole new dimension to my favourite

pastime of giving head.

“I know I did. But I’ve been thinking about you a lot, and I

thought maybe we could just try? See how it goes? I mean,” I
said, with a brave smile etched on my face like a Glasgow grin,
“we were good in bed, weren’t we? We’ve got that, at least.” I
basked for a moment in the warm glow of memory. “Actually, as I
recall it, we were even better on the sofa. Not to mention in the
shower.”

It could work, couldn’t it? If all else failed, I’d just make

sure I never let him out of the flat ever again. Darn it—if only I’d
thought to pack my handcuffs. The ones with the leopard print fur
lining would look super-cute on Bill’s manly wrists.

Bill sighed and turned away. “I don’t know…it took a hell

of a long time to get over you last time.”

My heart trembled and then swelled. “You had to get over

me? You did get over me?”

He scratched his head. “Not as well as I’d hoped, actually.”
“Good,” I said fervently. “Stop trying, and take me to bed.

There are acts of unnatural fornication to be committed.”

Bill smiled and enfolded me in his arms. “Promise this

time you won’t run away in the morning?”

“Cross my heart and hope to live in a future dystopia.

Oh—that reminds me. First thing tomorrow we need to ring
Number Ten. Get them to increase security. Assassination
threats are never a good thing—mmph!” Bill kissed me long and
hard, which, by coincidence, was also the condition of—focus, I
told myself sternly.

“You’ve been talking to the weirdo upstairs, haven’t you?”

Bill asked, one eyebrow raised just a smidge. “I thought I warned
you about him.”

I gave him my sternest glare. “Weirdo is as weirdo does.” I

considered that statement. “Which means yes. But there’s

nothing wrong with a little communication.”

He laughed and kissed me again.
I submitted. Little Marty raised his head and said a big

Hello, Sailor! to Bill junior. Bill junior said Hello right back, and
added how very pleased he was to see me. We stumbled to the
bedroom, where they could express their mutual delight more
fully, and unimpeded by clothing.

There are, after all, more forms of communication than

simply verbal.

Zones by Elyan Smith

We’ve got zones.
Right now I’m with the FIFA 12 and she’s on the phone to

the school, sorting out a sporting event or a singing event or
something. We’re good with the me-time and the don’t-touch-
there moments, her night-job and my days looking for something,
at least until life wriggles through the carefully constructed layers
and pins them together.

“You have to go in harder.” Romero is her youngest at six

and he sits in my lap as I play, then grabs for the controller and
puts the goal in himself. When he hands back the controller his
fingers fist the fabric of my skirt instead as he watches me,
entranced by the pixels on the screen while I focus more on his
weight on my lap than the players and the ball.

“Go United!” he shouts, spurring on the team I’m playing,

loud enough that the rest of the neighbourhood might come
knocking on our door any moment. Then he leans back against
me and uses my breasts as cushions.

“That’s sorted.” Katie drags her fingers through her hair,

only messing it up more as she hangs up the phone. Wearing
only panties and a bra, she leans in the doorway to the kitchen.
She’s gorgeous, sleepy-eyed but already going at ninety a
minute as she crams the rest of the toast into her mouth, then
checks the clock and curses. “You can take him round the park
later, can’t you? They’ll kill me if I show up late for work again.”

“No problem.” My heartbeat just about kills me as Romero

wriggles about to get at the controller again, but I manage the
nod and the smile with a bit of confidence, pushing down the fear
that settles at the idea of stepping out on the street. A six-year-
old black kid and someone like me tend to attract more than their
fair share of stares. Had someone stop a copper for me before,
as the rest of the street gawked on. The bloke gesticulated, red
in the face with outrage and spitting insults, the copper shrugged
apologetically, and Romero went mental about missing his
practice.

She’s sleep-warm still as she crouches down to kiss him,

then kisses me. Romero’s in control of the game so I have my
hands free to skirt them down her side to the line of her panties
as she deepens the kiss.

“It’ll be good, you’ll see,” she whispers against my lips,

kisses me again, and is up and getting dressed and out of the
flat a few minutes later. She knows my zones, knows how to
walk right through them as well, just before I start colouring only
within the lines.

A few shouts ring from outside, a group of lads going

round the neighbourhood looking for something to do. Katie
passes them on the way to the bus stop but they don’t harass
her, only huddle round the street corner looking for other kinds of
trouble. The last time I got up in their faces, even dressed up for
an interview as I was, probably scared the shit out of those little
punks. Afterwards, the adrenaline seeped away and I was left
with pure nerves, a bit of fear and an interview I botched with
nervous laughter.

Romero is making my players stand about listlessly,

whooping every time someone from the other team runs them
through.

“Looking forward to playing ball outside?”
He nods.
“Hungry?”
He shakes his head, lost to the world of video games for

the moment, and while he’s easy to be around, the silences in-
between still feel like I should fill them. I pick up around the flat,
sorting between Katie’s clothes and my clothes and the ones
we’ve taken to sharing. Romero’s getting into the game, and I
make up his bed in the living room, then sit behind him and
watch him play.

The door to the flat opens and Leron pushes inside,

tosses his backpack into the corner and walks through to the
kitchen, clattering about.

“Bad day?” I try, keeping it vague and non-committal as

Romero leans his whole body to the left in an attempt to get the
shot in on the screen.

Leron turns to me, school uniform shirt loose from his

trousers, tie askew, eyes boring into me, then just turns back
around to the cupboard while Romero jumps up, runs across and
hugs his arms around Leron’s middle.

“Fine.” Leron looks over his shoulder at me as he tussles

Romero’s hair. “Getting well strong, mate.” He wrestles with
Romero until Romero’s drawn back to the Playstation. “My
mum’s at work?”

“Yeah, work.”
He shrugs and disappears in his room with a pack of toast

and some cheese, door closed. Mark that one down for the first
careful contact in months. The minutes tick down as the lads
linger across the street and tick down further as I put on jeans
and a blouse, some make-up, but the lads don’t budge.

“Ready to go to the park?” I offer eventually, just to make

it to practice in time.

“I just want to play this.” Romero makes one of the players

run up along the flank before hitting a cross in.

“You love the training though.”
“No.”
The kid tries to lift the controller out of reach when I grab it

from him and then delivers a swift kick to the sofa in the briefest
of brief tantrums, but lets me put on his football kit without too
many protests.

“We’re going to the park.” My voice carries through the flat

but I doubt it makes it past the bass of the music Leron’s
listening to on ear-deafening loud. Romero is already out the
front door, kicking his ball against the side of the house with one
of the kids from next door.

The wind plays with my hair as I pull the door into the lock

behind me and first billows my blouse, then presses it tight
against my front. From one moment to the next I’m acutely
aware of the width of my shoulders, the cock tucked between my
legs and the weight of the make-up on my face. At least until
Romero takes my hand and drags me down the street, past the
lads, past the bus stop and towards the park. He chatters on,
oblivious to the looks people throw us, talking about the game
and the Man U versus Man City derby until the rest of the folks

on the street blend into shapes that don’t touch me as we banter
about the standings.

“I’ll be Rio when I grow up. We do what we want! We do

what we want! We’re Man United! We do what we want.”
Romero pumps his arm in the air and I’m not sure what Katie’s
done to him that he supports Man U. My reluctant Arsenal
pride—given the performance in the league this year—bristles,
but as he dribbles the ball on the sidewalk, kicking it to me until I
kick it back to him amidst other people, he’s happy, at least.

I catch glimpses of our reflections in shop windows and

hate the wind for exposing all my short-comings the pills don’t
seem to fix. My heart still thunders in my chest, no mistaking
that, but the alternative is to lock myself up in the flat. Done that
in Nottingham until Stef said he couldn’t do the invisible girlfriend
thing anymore and done that in Liverpool until I knew the
daytime television front to back. I wouldn’t start doing it down in
London as well, with Katie so unafraid of anything life’s tossing
her way and Romero grabbing for my hand without an ounce of
hesitation whenever we have to cross the road.

We met down in the pub, mother of two, sick of bullshit

blokes and, well, I, new to London and high off the Arsenal win that
night. We shared a few pints, and she didn’t look at me like she
wanted to hand out make-up tips or pat me on the head. She just
looked at me, and even tipsy and talking a bit too much about her
boys and her work and bloody Boris Johnson, she was amazing.

As soon as we’re in the park Romero’s off, joining the rest

of the kids as I settle on one of the benches on the sideline. The
dads stand around the side of the field, shouting
encouragements. The mums sit in groups with their babies,
talking away. I’m equidistant between them, watching the boys
and girls chase the ball towards the goals.

“You see that, Lisa?” Romero shouts from the field, his

voice carrying the thirty-odd yards to the bench.

“Nice goal!” My voice breaks halfway through, and while

the adults turn and I flush with heat, Romero and his mates just
do a little celebratory dance.

The blokes and the girls talk, and I’m working hard to

ignore them past the rush of blood in my head, working hard to
fight the instincts that kept me in my various flats, sleeping until I
was sick of sleep.

When the game breaks up and a horde of twenty six- and

seven-year-olds pant for air, I walk across to the field, brushing
past the dads.

“Is he your dad?” one of the girls on Romero’s team asks

in-between sucking water from her drink bottle.

“Her name’s Lisa.” Romero comes running to me and

jumps into my arms as I crouch down. “You see that? I ran
across to the left and then, then-then-then I…I…then the ball and
I kicked it right innnnn.” His words get broken up by giggles and
hard breathing and wild gesticulating.

“Saw it. Better than on FIFA 12, hm?”
“I’m much better than than…than Beckham!”
“Yes.” I reach for the towel from his bag and towel his hair

dry so he doesn’t catch a cold. He struggles out of my hold for
the celebratory team huddle again and I let him go, crouching at
the side of the field with the sweaty towel before I straighten.

“He’s good.” One of the mums holds her daughter’s shin

guards next to me and gestures out at the field.

Startled, it takes me a moment to catch on. “Oh, he enjoys

it.” My voice does the embarrassing trilly slip-and-slide through
the words.

“That’s obvious.” She smiles.
Around us some of the blokes are gawking, at least until

their kids come running to them, and Romero kneels in front of
me rummaging through the sports bag at my feet. He rifles
through it with irritation—all the while jabbering on about the
game—until he finds the snacks and puts two of them into his
mouth at once. The woman’s daughter eyes me suspiciously but
Romero is oblivious to it.

“You’ll have to tell Mum that I…”
“Swallow first.”
Romero swallows the chewy chocolaty mess in his mouth,

then starts again. “You’ll have to tell Mum that I put a goal in. I
was awesome.”

“You can tell her after school tomorrow.”
“I have to play Playstation after school.” He stuffs another

snack bar into his mouth and offers a fourth to one of the boys
from his team.

“Jack!” Boy’s dad is hot on his heels. “Don’t just…sorry,”

he says, looking at me then trying carefully not to look and
catalogue every single item about me he wants to file away
under weird or have-a-wank-to-later, until his kid takes another
snack. “Sorry, he’s not usually just taking other people’s food.”

“It’s okay. Romero offered.”
The dad offers another unsure smile as the mum and

daughter next to us say their goodbyes and Romero and the
young lad, Jack, run out on the field again to kick the ball back
and forth.

“He’s got good technique. Good eye for it,” the bloke

offers. “Darren, by the way.”

I shake his hand. For once I’m left catching up to the

world when usually the world’s too damn sluggish to keep up
with me. Funny when other people shift zones without me
noticing until they slip out from under my feet.

“He picks it up fast. Maybe video games are good for

something.” I laugh. “I used to play when I was younger.”

“Hm. Didn’t we all?” He laughs at his own joke and still

steals glances when he thinks I don’t notice them, but relaxes bit
by bit while I try to do the same and not shake out of my skin
with tension.

The sun disappears behind the treetops and he eventually

calls Jack to go home. Romero trots across to us after him and
holds his hand out for the towel until I hand it over.

“Lazy sod,” I say with a grin.
“Yup!” He grins back at me broadly.
I crouch and open my arms and he falls into them for a

hug. “Really well done today.”

“Yup!”
I laugh and ruffle his sweaty hair, then get him to pull on

his track suit at least. Jack and Darren pack up as well.

“See you next week.”

Darren nods and lifts his hand for a brief wave while the

boys chatter to each of us respectively, not much caring about
the social niceties and implications. I’m flying high as we stroll
our way back through the streets of the borough, Romero’s hand
in mine swinging idly back and forth as he retells the game in
painstaking detail and then moves on to the kites they built at
school and how he wants to draw his family for Katie’s birthday
in a month and asking whether she’d like that.

“Who will you draw?”
“Me,” he says. “And Leron and Mum and you.” He looks

up at me, squinting as he studies me. “You’ve got hair like Miss
Madison.” He shrugs. “And Rio.”

“Rio’s part of the family?”
“Yup.”
He tears loose from my hand as we turn into our street

and runs up to our building, hammering on the door to the flat
until Leron opens it and Romero nearly crashes face-first to the
floor mat, then is up and at the Playstation before I’ve even
made it inside.

“He’s well excited.”
“They won.”
Leron and I share a smile, realise we’re doing it and break

off awkwardly, both looking at opposite sides of the flat.

“Have you had tea?”
“I’m good.” He moves off towards his room and closes the

door behind him, the thrum of the bass from his music filling the
silence a moment later.

“Fish fingers and mash for tea?” I call out to the living room.
“Yup!”
I make the food and we both eat it as we play against

each other on the Playstation, getting the controllers greasy with
fat but neither of us caring. I win, barely, and have to deal with
his tantrum during my celebratory dance. Tears when I
announce it’s bedtime, more tears when I tell him he’ll have to
brush his teeth, but we’re both curled under the covers in his bed
at his insistence by eight. With Katie working nights, Katie and I
get the bedroom so she can sleep through the morning routine

and Romero gets to make promises about not turning the
television on at night for a bit of entertainment.

Romero reaches up and plays with my hair as he cuddles

close, head pressed to my chest and squishing into my breasts,
and I read his favourite story to him as he yawns near
continuously.

“The end,” I read eventually after the fairy princess got the

fairy prince and the pirate aarrrrrhhh’d a final time.

Romero’s fast asleep and I close my eyes for just a few

moments. I wake when Katie kisses me, chuckling against my lips.

“Long day, hm?” she whispers as she brushes through

Romero’s hair. She’s still in her work uniform, has only toed her
shoes off and is kneeling on the side of the sofa.

I struggle out from under the cover, careful not to wake

Romero but the kid could sleep through anything. “He’ll tell you
all about his amazing football match soon enough.”

She catches me around the waist as I stand in front of

her, crumpled blouse and all, then curls her arms around my
neck and pulls me down for a kiss. “It was good?”

She’s asking an entirely different question, eyes

searching, but I nod anyway. I keep Darren and the mum to
myself, not sure how to put into words that apparently not all
people are bastards, and just nod. She doesn’t push, only pulls
away to go into the bathroom, taking off her make-up and
brushing her teeth as she tells me about her day.

“…if you think about it, right? We just kept laughing

because it was ridiculous.”

I agree through toothpaste foam and try not to choke

myself on it. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, a bit of hair,
some of my lips and my cheek, before Katie draws me away and
into our bedroom, knowing better than me about things I
shouldn’t dwell on.

She slips out of her uniform, then her bra and panties until

she is naked in front of me, looking perfect.

“Like what you see?” she asks, flirting, and I laugh as I

lean in and brush my fingers down the slope of her breasts, to
the curve of her hips and the top of her thighs, her skin warm

under my touch. She’s fumbling with my clothes meanwhile,
makes me step out of my jeans and pushes the blouse off my
shoulders, slips off my bra.

“They’re nice.” She brushes her thumbs over the small

plump shapes of my breasts, my nipples hardening. “Do you
want to…”

“You want to fuck me?”
“Make love to you,” she says in exaggerated romcom

voice, and we both start laughing then shush each other as we
slip into bed.

She moves between my legs, one of her hands cupping

my breast, the other tangling into my hair as she kisses me,
pushing her crotch against my thigh. I drag my fingers down the
slope of her back, following the curve of her spine to her arse,
cup her and then slip my fingers lower and between her legs,
fingertips brushing through her wetness.

“You’re so slick for me,” I whisper into her ear, mouth at

her chin and her lips as she presses harder against me.

She leans down and mouths at my nipples, fingers on my

ribs exaggerating the dip of my waist and the width of my hips.

“Lie back, yeah?” I slip her off me and onto her back and

slide down between her legs. She spreads for me, hot and
unapologetic, and I press my lips to her clit and her lips, drag my
tongue along the length of her then pull her open for me.

She’s watching. I glance up just to see her watching me

as her thighs twitch. I lean in and suck her lips into my mouth,
then spread her with my fingers to tease my tongue around her
opening as I drag my thumb over her clit.

The sight of her—the way her body moves under my lips

and hands, breath puffing out and the moans she muffles into
the pillow amidst giggles—makes me grin as I slip two fingers
into her and suck on her clit. I drag my tongue around it, then go
back to sucking as her fingers clench into my hair, pressing me
close. She drags the tips of her fingers down the back of my
neck and to my shoulders, then brushes the hair from my face,
twirling strands around her finger.

“There, yeah.” She’s quiet but pushes her hips off the bed

and against my mouth as I suck harder and taste her slick,
fingers fucking into her. My own arousal pools somewhere
underneath my belly button, throbbing low when I try to push my
tongue into her alongside my fingers, and she clenches her
thighs around my head, thrusts up against my face.

I push my body against the bed, getting myself off in ways

I’ve not quite figured out enough but have nothing to do with my
taped back cock and all to do with the things I can give her. Her
wetness slicks over my lips and chin and cheeks as she grinds
her crotch against my face, then she stills, taut, and groans into
the pillow, hips jerking with each wave of her orgasm, her pussy
clenching around my fingers.

Katie lies back against the bed, her thighs relaxing, and I

crawl out from between her legs and rub the back of my hand
over my face. While she’s coming down, body still twitching, I
clean myself up a bit and peel back the tape from my cock and
balls before I crawl into bed with her, shifting up close. She curls
in closer immediately, pulling me in, fingers tracing the soft swell
of my breasts, kissing at my hard nipples.

“Not…that?”
I shake my head as she nods and just continues to caress

me as I hold her close, her hands shaping me as a woman with
every brush down my sides to my hips, with every drag of her
tongue around the curve of my breasts.

I get the kids up in the morning and let her sleep, pour

cornflakes and the rest of the skimmed milk Katie and the kids
have as I sip my tea. Dressed in trackie bottoms and a
sweatshirt, hair wild and awry, I’m not feeling very attractive but
am too tired to care as I nod along to Romero telling me his
dream in extraordinary detail.

“Have fun!” I call when Romero darts out of the flat mid-story

to catch his bus. Leron slinks after him, iPod buds in his ears.

I clean up and settle in front of the Playstation, loading up

the game, a cup of tea with my milk on the floor next to me. The
controllers are still sticky from last night but I play anyway, even
choosing Man U just to see how it goes.

The weekend’s looming: the park, for sure, and, since

Katie isn’t on shift, maybe a trip out into the countryside if she
can drag me and the boys away from video games long enough.
Zones are funny things, and as much as she can just step over
and through all of them with ease, I’m still trying to figure out
where mine end and start and how everyone else figures into it.

“No skimmed milk?” Katie says from the kitchen at some

point then walks towards me, frowning at her tea as she settles
on Romero’s bed behind me.

I pull a face before I turn back to the screen. “Who wants

skim…”

“…I do.”
I don’t need to see her to know she is rolling her eyes.

She starts playing with my hair as I try to get a goal in and I
shake her off, reinstating some priorities here, but she just grabs
the controller from my hand and turns me around.

“That shot’s gone wide,” I mutter against her lips.
“It hasn’t though, has it?” she replies, and it’s on me to roll

my eyes.

Sollicito by Charlie Cochrane

Sollicito
You think you’ve got problems? Well, maybe you have,

but you should try getting your head around mine.

I’m gay. Okay, that’s not such a big crisis these days. Not,

over here in the UK, anyway. I mean, we’ve got legislation and
civil partnerships and John Barrowman on the television, just
about every programme, just about every night. Actually, maybe
that last bit should go in the problems department.

I’m English, and I follow the lads at rugby. That seems to

vary from being a problem to being the best thing in the world,
usually depending on the state of Jonny’s shoulder. Or maybe
now that should be Owen’s cramp.

I haven’t got a bloke at the moment. That’s definitely a

problem, because I’m a red-blooded male and I’m not into one-
nighters or five-finger jobs any more. It’s like all the women at
work say, the ones who are getting desperate, “Why do you never
meet kind, handsome, single men? Because they’ve all got
boyfriends of their own.” Same applies this side of the fence, girls.

I’m not yet worried enough to go looking in the lonely

hearts ads. Okay, I do read them, but that’s like looking in the
baker’s window. You’re not necessarily going to go in and scoff
all the cakes, are you? Anyway, every twenty-something bloke in
the newspaper seems to be looking for sixty-something guys so
I’m too young by…by plenty.

I haven’t got a face like a mandrill’s arse, I’m house

trained, I’ve got a good job, and I definitely come in the “Good
sense of humour” category. So why haven’t I got some guy
hanging off my arm?

It’s the hair. And the teeth. Not that I’m bald, or have a

bad nineteen-eighties’ perm. Not even dentures. It’s just that I’m
a shapeshifter.

The bloody cinema has a lot to answer for, in terms of

getting our image skewed; you might think it’s really glamorous,
turning into a wild animal, but the truth’s a lot more prosaic.
Think about it—how can it be any fun when you’ve met this really

cute bloke and you’re just at the “standing outside the bar,
dangling your umbrella and wondering if he’s going to say, ‘Your
place or mine?’ stage,” and you realise you’re about to start
sprouting hair from unlikely places. The only thing you can do is
make your excuses and leave.

Now, it mightn’t be so bad if I was a lycanthrope, because

there’s something dead sexy about a wolf, but I’m not. They’re
ten a penny, frankly, while there are apparently only two of us
known of in the whole of Europe and barely a dozen worldwide.
Somebody explained it to me once; it’s about genetics. As I said,
lycanthropes are sexy and they have no problem reproducing
themselves—especially the night of the full moon when they’re at
it like dogs in heat. Which they would be.

It’s not as simple for us. You need to carry both recessive

genes and the correct markers on other chromosomes to
become a were-sloth. See, I told you my problems are worse
than yours, and when you stop laughing you might understand.

* * * *

Sollicitas
Got over the joke? Right.
The big change—it’s not predictable for us, like it is with

wolves. I mean, they’ve only got to look at the calendar and
Bob’s your uncle. Organise their social lives properly and no
one’s the wiser.

Nobody’s bothered about doing a lot of research into what

triggers the Xenanthropy—I’ve even had to make up a word for
changing into a sloth—because it’s not even sexy enough for
scientists to take an interest in. I’ve always thought the shifting
has got to be due to an environmental trigger, such as a chemical
in the atmosphere or a particular wavelength of light hitting me,
but I’ve got no way of knowing when it’s going to strike.

I usually get a sort of pre-warning aura, like you do with

migraine, so I can get myself home before I start wanting to
climb up the lampposts or along the phone wires. I suppose I
could just lock myself in one of the loos at work and then creep

out through the windows, but I don’t want to risk being caught
and carted off to the zoo. Again. Don’t ask.

I’ve got a blind date tonight. One of the guys I watch The

Exiles with of a Saturday met this bloke at a party and for some
reason—three pints of Guinness’s worth of reason, probably—
thinks we might “click”. So I’m putting on the best bib and tucker
in a minute. And giving my teeth an extra clean, just in case he
turns out to have a bit more allure than the last date had. He
would have made Martin Johnson look like Matthew Mitcham.
Excuse me while I fantasise.

I’m sorry if I’ve got you worrying now about whether

whatever it is kicks in tonight; it’s because I’m all of a divvy doo
dah and panic’s infectious. Imagine the scene for me, as I’m
trying hard not to. We’ve got past the brolly dangling stage and
we’re at my flat, looking out over the river and wondering how
long it’ll be before his tongue’s down my throat. Then “it” strikes
and I’m getting the urge to crawl along the picture rail. Not
pleasant.

Right, wish me luck as I wave you goodbye and I’ll report

back later. Roger (I wish) and out.

* * * *

Sollicitat
It went all right, the date. Surprisingly all right, in the,

“didn’t quite get to tongues down the throat but hugged and
agreed to meet again,” way. He—Graeme—isn’t a bad looking
guy at all. Blond, where I’m Titian (I know it’s Titian, it said so on
the box), and a couple of inches taller than me. Built like a
flanker whereas I’m more your centre type, and he has a brain.
Glory be. I mean, I’m as enthusiastic as the next man for a bit of
eye candy, but you want someone you can talk to over the
breakfast table, when it’s the next morning and you both look
distinctly worse for wear.

Well, maybe you don’t all want that. I do.
While Graeme and I never got as far as next morning,

because he’d been told only that afternoon that he had to fly up

to Manchester, crack of dawn the next day, I think he’d be the
sort of guy I wouldn’t be desperate to boot out of the flat and
then conveniently lose the number of. And accidently forget to
return any of his texts.

Maybe that flight to Manchester was a blessing in

disguise, because I’d not been home ten minutes and I got the
urge. Having no choice in the matter, it wasn’t long before I’m
was on top of the wardrobe and swinging from the chandelier,
but with none of the connotations your smutty minds are giving it.

Perhaps I’ve got that out of my system for a while and I’ll

be safe when I cook him dinner on Friday evening.

Graeme admitted he was a bit of a worrier—I suspect he’s

also a bad flyer as he seemed to be getting a bit agitato over the
Manchester trip. Maybe if we started seeing more of each other,
and yes, I do mean that in more ways than one, we could keep
each other company in the fretting stakes. Trouble shared is a
trouble halved and all that, although if we were both sharing and
halving our troubles we would end up with the same number we
started with. You do the maths because my head aches.

That’s one of the other problems with shifting; you get a

muzzy head the next day and the most peculiar feeling in your
stomach, like you’ve been eating something absolutely vile.
Please do not look up sloths on Wikipedia and see what
Linnaeus’s Two-toed sloth has allegedly been eating. I was
traumatised for days after reading that.

I do remember most of what goes on when I’m in slothly

mode, but I’m always concerned I’ve blanked out the less
savoury bits. And, to spawn a cliché, I won’t be blanking out any
part of our dinner date, because I don’t think Graeme has any
less savoury bits. I hope.

* * * *

Sollicitamus
Dinner last night was smashing. Yes, I know self-praise is

no recommendation, but Graeme says I can cook for him any
time, so I must have done something right. Nice beef casserole

with a rich sauce, mash on the side to soak up the juices, and
some green veg. Bottle of Chateau Cissac to wash it down and
we were happy bunnies.

I know what you want to ask, because I’ve sussed out by

now that you’re a prurient lot. Did we? Depends what you mean
by “did”.

He didn’t stay the night, because he has a rugby game up

in Oxford today—early kick off so they can watch the England
game afterwards—but we used the bed because it’s bigger and a
bit more civilised than the settee. Now, if you want to be figurative
and look at what happened on the bed in terms of the journey
from here to Oxford, we got to about Junction 6 of the M40.

It was a pretty good expedition, too, sticking to the slow

lane and taking turns doing the driving, if you get me. That’s as
far as I can go with the metaphors. Just take my word that it was
one of the best journeys I’ve ever taken.

Nothing of a slow-moving-mammal nature occurred while

he was here, which was a weight off my mind. Clearly, if we
carry on dating then at some point I’m going to have to confess
all and hope he doesn’t run screaming for the hills. I suppose the
Chilterns, which is where he comes from, count as hills.

Anyway, in the short term there’s nothing to be anxious

about. Except we’re both a bit nervous about today, because
neither of us want him getting his handsome head kicked in
when he’s in the middle of a ruck. And we’ve both got an awful
sinking feeling that the French are going to stuff the England
rugby team, out in Paris. Allez Angleterre!

* * * *

Sollicitatis
Graeme had me over for Sunday lunch today. I was a bit

concerned when I rang the doorbell and a woman answered, but
it was just his mum, popping in with his dad in tow, en route to
roast beef and Yorkshire pudding at the golf club. I didn’t think I’d
be meeting the “in-laws” (okay, I’m being presumptuous, but a
boy has to dream) this early. They seemed like a nice couple,

not overly concerned that I was a Danny rather than an Annie.

Graeme had a big grin all over his gob, partly, I hope,

because he was quite proud of showing me off to his folks and
partly because we—by which I mean England—stuffed Les
Bleus yesterday. We dissected the match, him, me and his dad,
while his mum stood by looking impatient. Dad got dragged off to
the club which left Graeme and me to have a pre-prandial snog
and discuss whether Morgan Parra is cuter than Vincent Clerc.
Jury’s out on that one. Need to consider the evidence further.

We were just finishing off a really nice piece of salmon

he’d done in a parmesan breadcrumb crust when I realised he
was looking at me a bit peculiar. Not in the, “Let’s skip dessert
and go straight up to bed,” sort of way, either. Sort of shock and
awe. For some reason I thought to look at my hands and they
were sprouting hair. Nails were inching longer and starting to
curl, as well.

Bugger. I’d not had any warning, no inkling that “the

change” was on the way.

I leapt out of my chair, grabbed my coat, and was out of

his front door like I had a firework up my backside. I think I said
something about food poisoning from a dodgy kebab I’d had the
night before, and how I didn’t want to have to inflict it on his
classic white toilet suite, but there wasn’t much time to say
anything, really.

The rate the hair was sprouting I needed to get my car

down some quiet country lane and just see it out. No good
driving when you’re a sloth—for one thing your reaction time’s
shot to pieces. Worse than when you’ve taken too much cough
medicine. Last thing I remember seeing of Graeme was through
my rear view mirror, him standing at the roadside and watching
me drive away. I didn’t look too long as it wasn’t the last memory
I wanted of him.

He hasn’t rung, which is no surprise given the fact that

I’ve had my mobile off ever since I started to change back earlier
this evening. I’m a coward, I know, but what else can I do? I
really thought there was a chance he’d be “the one”—yeah, I
realise we’ve barely known each other a handful of days, but if

you can believe in were-sloths you can believe in love at first
sight—and now it’s all screwed up. Big time. You do the worrying
for me this time because I’ve not got an ounce of strength left.
Bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, sod.

* * * *

Sollicitant
Graeme rang me at the office today—he must have got

the number off my mate. He was really concerned about me,
said he’d rung half a dozen times last night but decided I’d
turned the phone off. Said he’d have done the same, which was
an odd remark to make. He wants to meet tonight, straight after
work. Says we need to talk.

I suppose he wants an explanation and I suppose I owe

him one, running out like Cinderella when he’d gone to the
trouble of putting together such a cracking meal. Guess I’ll have
to bite the bullet, although whether I’ll stick to the food poisoning
story or make up some other cock and bull tale, I’m not sure.

He said he’d told his mum and dad what had happened—

oh joy—and they were worried about me, too. Apparently they’d
“clicked” with me straight off (click, click everywhere, I’m like a
pair of bloody knitting needles) and were looking forward to
inviting me round for dinner.

Anyway, at least when I see Graeme tonight I’ll be left

with a final memory of him that’s better than a fuzzy shot in a
rear view mirror. I need something to warm me in my lonely old
age. Yeah, I’m getting maudlin and can you blame me?

What a fucking mess.

* * * *

Gaudeamus
Well, here’s a turn up for the books. It’s three in the

morning—I’m going to be totally knackered for work today but I
don’t give a toss—and Graeme just left. Before you ask, “Did
we?” we did. And it was brilliant. I mean just mind-blowing, okay?

I had my story all ready—I’d been on the net and found

something called bacteraemia which really knocks you for six
and comes on in an instant then passes over and you’re fit as a
flea again. I was going to say I’d got it because of my root canal
treatment.

Only I never got to say any of it, because he dragged us

off to a quiet corner of the bar almost as soon as he saw me. I
should have known something was up by the way he was
so…unconcerned, if that’s the word. None of the awkwardness
I’d expected. He said I had to shut up and listen to him, which
was rich as I hadn’t even had the chance to say anything.

All he wanted was a simple answer—had I spent Sunday

afternoon moving very slowly and resisting the urge to climb up
telegraph poles? I must have managed to say yes, because he
hugged me and said that was brilliant and it proved there were at
least five of us in Europe and I was halfway into an argument
about how some bloke reckoned he’d categorically proven there
were only two were-sloths in the whole of the EC before I
realised the importance of what he was saying. Us.

I finally got it into my head to clarify that he, too, had

shifted shape on Sunday. When he said “yes” I almost kissed
him, even though it wasn’t a gay bar and we might have got our
heads kicked in.

We went straight home; didn’t even pass go, or stop at

either the off licence or the chippy. Home, bed, you can guess
the rest. Cheese on toast afterwards and a couple of bottles of
beer. Meeting again tomorrow and ad infinitum after that, with
any luck.

And do you know what? It was his mother who had

organised the whole thing, through my mate from the rugby. I’d
kill the pair of them if I wasn’t so happy.

She’d met my mother on a ladies golfing weekend and

when they’d both had a Dubonnet too many they started pouring
out their hearts. Lo and behold they discovered their little boys
(I’m twenty-seven and mum still thinks I’m eleven and a half)
shared a couple of secrets in common.

And I could have sworn she didn’t know about the sloth

bit. See, all that received wisdom was right. They’re the last
people we confess to and the first to know. I just hope she
doesn’t know what we did before the cheese on toast
“afterwards”…

A Few Days Away by Elin Gregory

The website for the White Horse in Weston Stanage

proclaimed that it was “the quintessential English Pub”, its
qualifications comprising a lovely view over the village green, a
proudly independent selection of superb real ales, simple well-
cooked food and quirky architecture. Including the exposed
beams in the ceiling of the publican’s bedroom, of which Hugh
had a sudden and unwanted view as Tom pushed himself up
and stared, appalled, at the bedroom door.

It closed with a thump, making the mirror above the

dresser rattle against the wall. “Sorry! Sorry, Tom, sorry, Hugh.
I—erm—I’ll see you later then.” Footsteps retreated along the
landing and rattled down the stairs.

“I thought,” Hugh hissed, “that you said your mum would

be out for the day? Going to see her sister, you said.”

“She said she wouldn’t be back ’til opening time. I thought

she meant this evening!” Tom groaned as he dropped his head
to Hugh’s shoulder.

Hugh didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Morning

surgery had finished earlier than expected and he had called
Tom more in hope than expectation.

“Yes!” Tom had said. “Mum’s gone out. Get your ever-

loving arse over here pronto!”

Hugh had been there in five minutes, unbuttoning his shirt

on the way, not wanting to waste a minute. And it had been
brilliant, he and Tom almost tumbling up the stairs in their haste,
scrambling out of clothes, pouncing on each other with glee. It
was a pity that neither had thought to lock the bedroom door but
he couldn’t regret that they’d been so intent on making the
bedsprings squeak that they hadn’t heard the squeaky boards in
the stairs as Mrs. Swan came up to offer her son some coffee.

As the sound of footsteps died away, Hugh put one hand

up to soothe Tom’s rigid neck muscles and the other down to
give his taut arse an encouraging squeeze. Being caught en
flagrante by one’s mother was every man’s nightmare, and he
was sure Tom was very upset, but the look on Mrs. Swan’s face

had been priceless. He bit his lip, stifling a snicker.

“Bastard,” Tom muttered and bit his shoulder.
“Since we’re here,” Hugh murmured, shifting his hips,

“and both clearly still up for it, it seems a shame to waste the
opportunity.”

Tom groaned again. “Pity,” his lips grazing Hugh’s ear made

Hugh shiver, “I was looking forward to having a good shout.”

Hugh could only agree. His rented house, a tiny new build

on an estate in Sutton Stanage, had paper thin walls and a gruff
neighbour who was inclined to come round to “have a word” if
Hugh even turned the radio up a bit. The pub was just as much a
problem. Opening hours cut deeply into the times they could be
together and when the pub wasn’t open Tom’s mum was usually
pottering about.

Over the past year Hugh and Tom had progressed from

opponents on the cricket field to casual but much appreciated fuck
buddies, through dating to something approaching commitment.
No words had been spoken, as such, but they had swapped
house keys a few months ago. Hugh’s mum and dad seemed as
pleased with Tom as Mrs. Swan was with Hugh, and Hugh had to
admit that a day with Tom in it was a cut above any without. Yet
for all that, the times they had been able to apply the same
unselfconscious gusto to their sex life as to the way they drank
their beer or played their cricket could be counted on the fingers of
one hand. Four of those occasions had occurred on one trip to
Lord’s when the cricket had been rained off and they had booked
into a motel for the day, instead. It was very frustrating and this—
well, it was the final straw. Something must be done but thinking
about it could wait until he’d cheered Tom up.

It was good, they both agreed, but would have been better

if they hadn’t felt they had to be as quiet as mice.

By the time they were both dressed and downstairs Hugh

had come to a decision.

“Mrs. Swan,” he said, “do you think I could borrow Tom for

a while? Maybe a week? I need a holiday and would really like it
if Tom could come too.”

Mrs. Swan raised her eyebrows as she put plates of

sandwiches in front of them. “Well, if he did, my sister could
come and stay and Tom wouldn’t have to sleep on the couch this
time. And she’d help out in the bar. She enjoys that. And Stuart
and Kitty have been asking for extra hours.”

“Don’t I get a say?” Tom lifted the top slice of bread off his

sandwich and applied mustard to the ham. “What about the beer
deliveries?”

“You can organise that before you go and Stuart will be

fine setting up the barrels. You showed him how.”

“Yeah, but this is the White Horse! Fine isn’t good enough!”
Hugh sat back and watched the Swans, mother and son,

bicker. True, the White Horse had a reputation to maintain but
Hugh was absolutely certain that the business wouldn’t go down
the pan in a week. A holiday—somewhere cosy and quiet,
somewhere secluded. He took his mobile from his pocket and
sent a quick text.

“But what about the village cricket championships?” Tom

was trying a new tack. “We can’t miss the fixtures.”

“So we go before the season starts.” Hugh grinned.

“Come on, Tom—a few days away. I know just the place—nice
and quiet, no neighbours.”

“No neighbours, huh?” Tom grinned at him. “Well, a

holiday would be nice.”

As Hugh took his leave he had a reply to his text. Tom

waited, leaning against the door of Hugh’s Volvo while he read it,
and grinned in reply to Hugh’s delighted “Yesss!”

“What?” Tom asked.
“My uncle says we can have his place in Brittany for a

week if we want it.” Hugh smiled. “I had lots of holidays there
when I was a kid.”

Tom stared at him. “I’m not going abroad!”
“You’re not…What do you mean you’re not going abroad?”
“Been there, done that, had the dysentery,” Tom said.

“Brian and the lads and I went to Magaluf on an 18-30 once. It
was horrible. They spent the whole week chasing girls and I
spent the first half of it in the bathroom and the second half off
my face on lager, covered in foam and wondering if there were

any gay bars. Not my idea of fun.”

“Yeah, but that was Magaluf!” Hugh shook his head.

“Jeez, Tom, there’s no comparison. This place is fabulous—right
on the coast but off the touristy routes. No neighbours, no
onlookers. No damn clothes if we don’t feel like it.”

Tom’s eyes took on that unfocussed look that Hugh knew

meant he was enjoying the mental images called up by the
phrase “no damn clothes.”

“Come on,” Hugh coaxed. “Sunbathing, seafood,

spectacular sunsets and sex, Tom, lots and lots of lovely noisy
shouty sex. There’ll be nobody to hear even when I make you
scream.”

Tom snorted, “As if,” but Hugh already knew that the

argument was won.

The next few weeks were busy for them both. Tom’s

barman had a refresher course on beer care. Hugh found a locum
and brought her up to speed on his patients. Tom failed to find his
passport and had to get another one. Both had lectures about
irresponsibility from the captains of their rival cricket teams.

Hugh allowed his captain, Parker, to complain for a while

before pointing out that Parker had the luxury of being able to
take Mrs. Parker on a three-week cruise in January while Hugh’s
practice was inundated with the victims of seasonal malaise.

“GPs have to fit in holidays where we can,” he said. “I’m

sorry, but there you go.” Parker, who valued Hugh’s contribution
to the health of the village and his superb batting average at
cricket while deploring his personal life, gave a grudging
agreement that, yes, a man deserved a break. They parted
without warmth.

Tom handled the Weston Stanage captain’s complaints a

bit differently. “Fuck off, Brian. Do you honestly think that I’m
going to get less exercise than normal? With any luck we’ll be
shagging like rabbits.”

“We will,” Hugh agreed, “but I’ll make sure he doesn’t pull

any muscles. Daily rub down, plenty of wintergreen…”

“Lalala.” Brian put his hands over his ears. “Don’t-want-to-

know. At the very least take some kit with you to practice. And

bring me back a mam’zelle. You know—one with a skirt up to
here and a stripy top.”

“And a beret?” Tom suggested.
“And a baguette and a poodle?” Hugh added.
“Yep, every cliché going. Meantime I’ll make do with a pint

of Old Growler.”

“On the house,” Tom said, reaching for a glass.
Hugh made sure to pack his cricket bat, a dozen tennis

balls and his box—no point in taking chances with something so
important.

He had it all planned. He picked Tom up from the pub

after the lunchtime rush, before enjoying a leisurely drive to
Portsmouth to take the overnight ferry crossing to St. Malo. A
good meal, a movie, a suitably nautical bonk then a few hours
sleep in their cabin were all on Hugh’s agenda. He was sure all
that would have happened—except for one small and
unforeseen detail.

The ship cleared the harbour and headed out onto the

open sea. Hugh and Tom stood on one of the observation decks
watching the coastline recede and enjoying the sharp chill of the
wind ruffling their hair and slight tilt of the deck under their feet
then they went to find their cabin to lock their bags away. Hugh
always enjoyed this part of the journey, the excitement, the
anticipation, but as they edged through the thronging corridors
he noticed that Tom had turned quiet.

“Whassup?” Hugh asked. “Have you just remembered

that you’ve forgotten something?”

“No.” Tom scowled, his hand braced against the wall.

“Does it always move like this?”

Hugh laughed. “Move? This is a cross channel ferry, it

hardly moves at all. Oh, Tom, you’re not feeling sea sick are you?”

“As if,” Tom said, paling as sweat broke on his brow. “No,

I’m fine.”

As if.
Tom made it to the cabin, but only just. As Hugh unlocked

the door he barged past, and dashed to the tiny bathroom,
making a noise like a strangled leopard most of the way. Hugh

kicked the cabin door shut and followed, though the bathroom
was barely big enough for one.

“Can I…?” he began but Tom cut him off with a gesture.
“Must be something I ate,” Tom muttered and heaved again.
Hugh had seen some things in his time but never anyone

quite as miserably sick as Tom. He couldn’t even hang on to the
sea sickness pills Hugh bought from the pharmacy. All Hugh
could do was provide drinks and make sympathetic noises.

Eventually Tom was empty and Hugh was able to get him

into bed. Tom slept, exhausted, and Hugh decided to turn in too,
just to doze—it wouldn’t do to go to sleep in case Tom needed
him. He was mortified when, roused by the alarm, he found Tom
slumped against the lavatory.

“Woke up about three. Didn’t want to disturb you. All I

want,” Tom groaned, “is to get off this damn ship.”

They were the first people down to the car deck, Tom

looking even worse by the harsh fluorescent light. Hugh passed
him one of the sick bags from the cabin and they sat counting
the minutes until they could go.

As the car bumped down the ramp Tom groaned. “And we

have to do this all over again to get home. Do you need me to
navigate?”

“No,” Hugh said. “I know the way. It’s about an hour. Why

don’t you get some rest?”

Tom muttered something that sounded like “Thank

Christ,” laid his head back, and closed his eyes. Hugh checked
that Tom’s seat belt was fastened and tossed a blanket over him
in case he was chilly, then drove on, ruthlessly squashing his
disappointment.

Tom slept soundly, even during the twenty minutes when

Hugh stopped to get supplies at the Intermarché. Hugh worried
that the sweet smell of the bread and the fruit might set him off
again but he slept on until Hugh pulled up outside the little
limewashed house he remembered so fondly from childhood and
teenaged holidays.

Ahead, just a hundred metres across the heath, the sea

murmured against the rocky coast. To the right, a lichen-spotted

menhir stood emphatic against tussocky pasture and surrounded
by sheep. To the left, the cottage’s garden gate hung invitingly
open.

Hugh opened the car door, wafting fresh cold air into the

car, and Tom stirred, turning his head to blink at Hugh. He
looked horrible, his stubble accentuating his pallor, his eyes red
rimmed, his black hair spiked with sweat.

“Morning,” he said. “Why’ve we stopped?”
“We’ve arrived.” Hugh patted Tom’s thigh and got out of

the car. “Come on. Fresh air, a fantastic view and some coffee?”

“Fresh air!”
Once on his feet, Tom leaned against the roof of the car

and looked around. “It really is in the middle of nowhere,” he
said. “Is that the sea over there?”

“Certainly is.” Hugh fished the key on its string out of the

water butt and unlocked the door. “Why don’t you go and explore
while I unload the car?”

Tom insisted on doing his share. As they carried their

bags, the carriers of food and the box of drink into the little
house, Hugh watched Tom closely. He wasn’t yet steady on his
feet and hunched a little as though his ribs hurt, which was only
to be expected after the workout he’d given them overnight, but
already he had a little more colour in his cheeks. Hugh was
confident that twenty-four hours would make all the difference
and decided that today should be a quiet day. Besides, he was
so pleased to be back in this familiar and much loved place that
he was happy to reacquaint himself with it.

He whistled to himself as he loaded up the fridge and Tom

called to him as he made discoveries—fishing gear, a dozen
pairs of Wellington boots in various sizes, a stack of paperbacks,
satellite TV. Hugh grinned as he heard footsteps upstairs, the
creak of a door then, “By heck, Hugh, have you seen the size of
this bed?”

He hurried upstairs, not with any particularly lustful intent

but just to share the moment and grinned again to find Tom
bouncing gently on the end of the enormous bed and looking out
through the low window in the eves.

“Brilliant, isn’t it?” Hugh sat beside him and bounced in

unison—not a squeak from the springs—while admiring the
sweep of coast and the sea shifting from pale green to slate grey
as cloud shadows blew across it.

“Yeah.” Tom stopped bouncing and turned his head to

look at him, a small, embarrassed smile tucking his mouth up at
one side. “I’m sorry,” he said. “And thanks—I mean, for being so
patient last night. If it wasn’t fun for me it can’t have been much
for you.”

“I was worried,” Hugh admitted. “Honestly, Tom, I’ve

never seen anyone that sick. You’ve got the record. I’ll print you
out a certificate when we get home.” He moved his hands to
illustrate the sweep of the words, “Champion Cross-Channel
Chunderer, 2012.”

“I’ll put it up in the bar,” Tom promised. He glanced at the

bed, still unmade, and sighed. “I feel like a badger shat in my
mouth,” he said, “or I’d roger you senseless right this minute.”

Hugh gave him a little push and got up. “Later,” he said.

“Right now I think I’ll make sure the heating is working, then get
us some lunch.”

Tom grimaced at the word lunch. “But then…?”
“Then we’ll go for a walk.” Hugh chuckled. “Just to work

up an appetite.”

“I’ll make the bed,” Tom offered and went to fetch the

bedding.

Hugh turned the radio on while he assembled bread,

cheese, cold cuts and mixed leaves. He could hear Tom moving
around for a while but by the time lunch was ready all was quiet.
He called, got no reply and went upstairs to investigate.

The bed was made and Tom was lying across it in a way

that would have been very inviting if he hadn’t been fast asleep.
Hugh draped a coverlet over him to keep the chill off and went
back downstairs again.

It was only to be expected, Hugh thought, as he ate his

salad alone. Tom hadn’t had much sleep.

Hugh took the path from the house across the heath, picking

his way through the tussocks, and paused to inspect the menhir’s

barely visible markings before finding the easiest way down to the
beach. It was just as he remembered it—rocky, wave-pounded and
exhilarating. He stood looking out at the sea, his lungs filling with air
so clean, and so much of it, that it made his head spin. He let out
the involuntary breath of windblown brine with a gasp and a laugh,
and hopped from rock to rock until he was just a few yards from the
sea. The waves broke with a hussssssh and white foam lapped at
the rocks. Hugh sighed, wishing Tom was there to see it, then
turned and followed the line of sea wrack north. It was a little while
before he realised he wasn’t alone.

The boat was painted a washed out terracotta that

blended with the reddish granite, and the man working on it was
kneeling doing something to the rudder. Hugh picked up his pace
a bit, wondering who it was. There had been a time when he had
known all the locals by name and the boat looked a little like the
Evnmor, owned by old man Guillou.

“Demat,” he called, when close enough to be heard, and

stopped in his tracks when the man turned and stood.
“Chrétien?”

The man stared at him, his short, mole black hair stirring in

the wind, then he smiled, teeth bright white in his wind burned face.

“Hugh!” Chrétien spread his arms in welcome. “How are

you, my old friend? It has been so long!”

Seated on the shingle with their backs to the boat, they

caught up on several years. Hugh’s medical practice in Sutton
Stanage, the cricket team, the robust health of his family.
Chrétien’s software company, currently operating at long
distance due to his grandmother having a mild stroke.

“Mamm-gozh will recover,” he said, “but Tad-kozh needed

someone to complain to, so it is good to be here. And it is good
to see you.”

Chrétien’s smile was warm, his eyes creasing at the

corners. He had always been attractive but age had lent him a
self confidence that Hugh found even more alluring.

“Are you here alone?” Chrétien was asking and Hugh

allowed himself a brief moment to imagine what might happen if
he was.

“No,” he said. “I’m here with a friend.”
“Friend?” Chrétien raised his eyebrows and Hugh

laughed.

“Yes, that kind of friend. Tom—he was horribly sea sick

on the crossing though, so he’s sleeping it off.”

Chrétien snickered. “How embarrassing for him,” he said.

“And a pity because, otherwise, I could have taken you both out
to Sept Isles. Unless he’d be happy for you to come alone?”

“I’ll ask,” Hugh promised. “But who knows? He might react

differently on a small boat.”

“Who knows?” Chrétien agreed. “I am curious to meet

him. Even if we don’t sail, we must meet for dinner.”

“We must.” Hugh smiled and added, “Are you here alone?”
“For the moment,” Chrétien grinned. “But who knows what

the day might bring? You, for instance—I was not expecting that.”

“Nor me,” Hugh got up, dusting stone chips and sand from

his jeans. “Same phone number? I’ll call.”

Chrétien grinned up at him, “I bet you say that to all the

boys.”

Hugh had a lot of happy memories invested in Chrétien—

not the least of which was his very first blowjob. On his way back
to the house he thought back to spring flings and summer idylls
and how much fun it had been. He’d never had any doubts about
his sexuality—girls were nice and he enjoyed their company but
even the perkiest breasts didn’t make his breath catch the way a
well filled package did. Maybe that certainty, combined with the
acceptance of his family, had given him the confidence that Tom
was lacking. Tom’s had been a different journey, one with many
more twists in the road, as he had tried to fit in and be what
everyone expected him to be. Hugh tried to imagine the courage
it had taken to come out knowing he’d have to face people like
the poisonous Parker every day.

Last year, that first day they met, it hadn’t taken Hugh long

to realise that there was more to Tom than well kept beer and
sneaky swing bowling, and he had been prepared to go slow, see
how things went. But later, in Tom’s own pub, Parker had dripped
a little of his venom, disguised as a friendly word of advice.

“I feel I should warn you about Swan,” Parker had

murmured. “Not the sort of person to be seen with, if you know
what I mean. It’s not obvious, of course. He does his best to hide
it, poor thing.”

Not obvious to you, Hugh had thought but said, “Mr.

Parker, as a newcomer to this lovely place, I really would like the
chance to pick my own friends, especially as we share so many
of the same interests.”

A few minutes later he had been out in Tom’s yard with a

double handful of Tom’s arse and Tom’s tongue down his throat.
In retrospect, that had been surprising—neither were normally so
aggressive—but it had saved so much time that it had been for
the best.

As he approached the house, he heard music and saw

that the car doors were open. A bucket with a chamois draped
over the rim of it stood by the bonnet. The body work gleamed.

“I thought you were asleep,” he called as Tom

straightened up.

“I woke up!” Tom laughed. His colour was back to normal

and his eyes were clear. He looked, Hugh thought, good enough
to eat. “Saw your note. Wasn’t sure which way you’d gone so I
thought I’d have a tidy. The car smelled of sick.”

“Yeah, it did a bit.” Hugh went to him and put his arm

around his waist. “I met an old friend on the beach. He offered us
a boat trip. Failing that, that we should meet for dinner.”

“Bleah to the boat trip,” Tom said. “But dinner would be

good. But for now, we have a clean car and it’s only three
o’clock. Shall we do something?”

“I can think of several things we can do,” Hugh said, “but

right now let’s go see some sights.”

Plougrescant was a big success, likewise the bar-tabac

where they stopped for coffee and a local newspaper. Tom was
quiet, taking in all the new sights and sounds, and surprised
Hugh, and the waiter, by saying “Trugarez” instead of “Merci”.

“Where did you learn that?” Hugh asked.
“Bought a phrasebook off of Amazon,” Tom grinned. “I left

it in my bag, though, and that’s the only bit I can remember.”

“Well, it’s a very important bit.”
“Indeed it is,” a laughing and familiar voice agreed.

Chrétien, sporting designer jeans and a leather jacket that
draped like silk, smiled at Tom and touched Hugh’s shoulder.
“May I join you, Hugh? And Tom, isn’t it?”

Tom’s mouth had opened but no words came out, so

Hugh gave the permission and moved along a bit so Chrétien
could draw up a chair. “Tom, this is Chrétien. I told you about
him. My old friend that I met on the beach?”

They studied each other—his old and new lovers—both

tall and broad shouldered, both dark haired and dark eyed, with
similar wary, appraising smiles.

“I am pleased to meet you.” Chrétien’s English was

excellent, barely accented. “And glad to see that you have made
such a fast recovery. Mal de mer is no joke.”

“No,” Tom scowled. “It isn’t. But I don’t have to worry

about it for another six days. I have no plans to go anywhere
near the sea between now and then.”

“No? Such a pity. Hugh and I were hoping to go out

tomorrow, but if you’re sure you don’t want to come?”

“Oh, I only said that it might be a possibility,” Hugh

interjected hastily. “Tom and I had discussed a trip to Carnac.”

“If you have seen one stone you have seen them all,”

Chrétien protested. “But the sea—now, that is different every time.”

Tom was looking both surly and uncomfortable as he

replied. “If Hugh wants to go with you that’s fine. I just don’t want
to chance losing another day to sickness. We’re here to enjoy
ourselves, after all.”

“Then that’s settled.” Chrétien smiled. “Hugh and I will

fish, and that evening you must both be my guests at dinner.
Specialities of the region.”

“That’s very kind, but…”
“Of course, Hugh will go with you,” Tom said. “I’ll go for a

hike along the coast. Or drive into Lannion to see if I can find that
brewery. You can give me a call when you’re on your way back
and I’ll come and meet you.”

“If you are sure you would prefer not to come.” Chrétien’s

smile was bright and he touched Hugh’s shoulder again. “There
would be room in the boat.”

“Yes, there would be,” Hugh said, “but it may not be

possible. Tom and I haven’t decided yet what to do tomorrow.”

“Oh, let me entertain you,” Chrétien turned the full blaze of

his smile on to Hugh. “It would bring back such happy memories
of old times. And after our meal we could play Boule Bretonne.
It’s quite a simple game, Tom. I’m sure you would have no
difficulty in picking it up.”

“Probably not,” Tom finished his drink and set the glass down.
“Warc’hoazh then,” Chrétien said, getting to his feet.

“Tomorrow. So nice to see you again, Hugh. Tom, a pleasure to
meet you.”

They said their farewells and watched Chrétien cross the

road and get into a top of the range Mercedes two-seater. The
engine started with a smug purr and it eased away into the thin
traffic, heading for Lannion.

Tom sighed and put his elbow on the table and his chin in

his hand. “So,” he said, “not exactly a simple fisherman type.”

“Er, no.” Hugh shrugged. “He’s something to do with the

type of software that engineers use to design bridges—stress
tolerances and stuff. Don’t ask me.”

Tom grunted. “Known him long?”
“Ages. Been coming here since I was eleven. My brother

and I used to play with the Guillou boys if they were here at the
same time and Dad used to go fishing with their grandpa. Nice
family.”

Tom grunted again and Hugh sighed. “You do know that I

had no intention of going out with him if you didn’t want to come
too?”

“Oh aye,” Tom sighed. “It’s just—when you said ‘old friend’

I didn’t expect him to be that young—or that kind of friend.”

“We both have our exes,” Hugh pointed out. “And that’s

grand because it means we didn’t have to mess about figuring
out what to do or what we liked. And—I like you.”

Tom’s taut mouth eased into a smile. “Yeah, me too.

Come on, shall we go back to the house? My stomach is

beginning to feel a bit more like food.”

The evening passed pleasantly, though Hugh felt that

Tom was still a little quiet. He wasn’t sure whether to put it down
to the lingering effects of his sickness or sulking because
Chrétien had been giving Hugh the eye, so he ignored it and was
cheerful enough for two. Dinner was crab salad, bought ready
prepared from the Intermarché, and afterwards they took a bag
with bottled beer down to the beach and walked along enjoying
the sunset until the bottles were empty. Clouds were massing to
the west, obscuring the brilliant layers of red gold with slatey
purple, but fugitive gleams gilded Tom’s face, which looked,
Hugh thought, as though it had been cast in bronze at a tense
and rather sad moment.

“Want some coffee?” he asked, wondering what had

brought that look to Tom’s face.

“Yeah, let’s go back.” Tom turned to him with a smile. “I’m

fucking freezing.”

The house was warm, the coffee mugs were large, and so

were the belts of cognac Hugh put in the coffee. Tom took a sip,
whistled his approval and went to put the empty bottles in the
recycling bag. “It looks like it’s going to rain tonight,” he said
when he came back. “The sky’s completely black. Not a trace of
the moon.”

“Pity,” Hugh said. “And I was going to suggest we stay up

all night star gazing.”

“Really?” Tom stared. “Hugh—have you forgotten one of

the most important reasons we came here?”

“No,” Hugh said and grinned. “But we might not have the

same priorities. You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

Tom’s lips tightened and he made a stifled sound that

rumbled through his chest like thunder and gave Hugh goose
bumps all up his spine. “Upstairs,” Tom ordered. “Or right here—
don’t much care which.”

Perhaps Tom felt he had something to prove? Or maybe he

was just feeling better—or enthused by the prospect of not being
overheard for once? Either way Hugh thoroughly approved of the
way Tom grabbed him as soon as the bedroom door was closed.

Their mouths met with bruising force and the wonderful

messy strenuous kiss continued with only minor breaks while
they got out of their upper clothes. Fleeces, shirts and T-shirts
discarded, Tom’s arms closed about Hugh and pushed him back
towards the bed.

“Off,” he said, plucking at the waistband of Hugh’s jeans.

When Hugh sat, Tom grabbed his ankles to lever off his trainers
and socks, tossing them into the corner as they came free. Hugh
couldn’t help laughing at Tom’s scowl as the second damp sock
flicked across his face. The sock flew across the room and by
the time Hugh looked back Tom had grabbed for the bottom
hems of Hugh’s jeans and peeled them off in one smooth
motion. Hugh stopped laughing. He was on his back, pretty
much naked with Tom glowering and holding his ankles at
shoulder level. It was one of the most exciting things he’d ever
seen and that wasn’t a laughing matter.

“Gotcha,” Tom said, his fingers tightening as Hugh tested

his grip. He took a step closer, denim rough against the backs of
Hugh’s thighs, and rubbed his stubbly cheek on his instep.

“Shit,” Hugh whispered, jerking his foot at the tickle.
“Shh,” Tom said and stepped between Hugh’s legs,

dropping to one knee.

Rough, stubbly kisses up the inside of Hugh’s thigh, softer

ones along the waistband of his boxers, then a bold, open-
mouthed suck at the bulge in the fabric.

“You need to take those off, too,” Tom said.
After that all Hugh could do was hang on tight to whatever

came to hand—the bed head, a pillow, Tom’s shoulders, his
hair—as he was thoroughly and deliciously blown.

“Yes—oh fuck, yes,” he urged. Then—“No, look, look—

the cloud’s breaking. We could star gaze after all!” Tom’s hand
cracked sharply across his arse and he let out a yowl of laughter
that turned to a yell as he came.

Before he could catch a breath Tom was on him, mouth

hard against his, erection pronging his belly. Hugh grabbed and
worked it, loving the heat of it against his palm and the feel of
Tom’s spine flexing under his other hand.

“You want in?” he asked. “Just gimme a moment or two.”
“Naaah, this is fine.” Tom kissed him again, rolling until

Hugh was on top and bucking up against Hugh’s fist. It wasn’t
long before his body tensed and hot spurts spattered them both
almost to the collarbones then he pulled Hugh down, burying his
face against his neck.

“Whoooo.” Hugh relaxed, his nose in the warmth behind

Tom’s ear. He spread sticky fingers and wiped them on Tom’s
belly. “Shower?” he suggested. “Once we’ve got our breath
back? Before we set?”

“Stuck together—doesn’t sound so bad,” Tom murmured,

and it was a long minute before he got moving.

The rain blew over during the night but the wind was still

brisk, driving great breakers onto the shore. Tom’s announcement
that he intended to come fishing with Hugh was stated with
determination, and would have been astonishing if Hugh hadn’t
understood exactly why it was being made. The first thing he had
noticed that morning in the bathroom had been a little purple stain
on his throat. Neither he nor Tom normally marked their territory
like that but he supposed Tom had felt the need.

“Good for you,” Hugh said as he passed him a pair of

wellies. “But, honestly, if you decide against it when we get there
I won’t think any the worse of you.”

He repeated that as they reached the beach and saw

plumes of white spume gusting across the rocks. “In fact, looking
at it, I’m not sure I want to go either. We could go back to bed?”

“No,” Tom said and jumped down onto the shingle,

offering Hugh his hand.

The Evnmor was where Hugh expected to find her, but

there was no sign of Chrétien. Instead Tad-kozh Guillou called a
greeting and came to meet them, offering Tom both hands.

“You came,” he said. “Chrétien thought you might. Welcome.”
“Where is Chrétien?” Hugh asked once greetings had

been exchanged.

The old man laughed. “He asked to be excused and told

me to give you this.” He pressed a fat paper bag into Tom’s hand.
“Now, help me with the boat. The sea will calm beyond the surf.”

Tom peered at a scrawl of writing on the bag and opened

it. He took out a rough chunk of something golden, crusted in
white, popped it into his mouth and began to chew then pocketed
the bag. His lips were slightly pursed, his frown thoughtful as he
and Hugh set their shoulders to the boat. The force of the waves
was broken by the headland but the wind was still fierce. The
polished shingle rolled under the Evnmor’s keel and she moved
easily down the steep beach to meet the sea. Her stern lifted
with the first wave and Guillou scrambled in over the gunwale.

“Again,” he called and they pushed, shouting in unison as

freezing water slopped over the tops of their wellies. Wet to the
knees, they joined Guillou in the boat, Evnmor swung to meet
the next wave with her prow and headed out to the West.

Hugh glanced at Tom, whose knuckles were white on the

gunwale. “All right?”

Tom nodded, still chewing. The boat tilted again, riding

over a swell, and Tom smiled. “Yes,” he said. “I think I am.”

Ginger, Tad-kohz Guillou explained, was a sovereign

remedy for sea sickness. As was keeping your eyes on the
horizon. “These huge boats.” He shook his head with a
dismissive sniff. “It is like being in a hotel, in an earthquake. Of
course your belly will hate it.”

Hugh sat back in the boat, untangling a fishing line, and

watched Tom chewing his ginger and beaming with delight as
Tad-kohz pointed out things on the shore. The sun came out.
There were seals and something that might have been a dolphin.
Tom wasn’t sick. It was just brilliant.

Later that evening, after a meal of freshly cooked

mackerel and Mamm-gohz’s amazing cider chicken, after several
cut throat games of Boule Brettone, which they had lost but not
embarrassingly badly, after much local wine and the much better
local beer, they walked home along the beach discussing the
best way to repay the Guillou’s kindness. Dinner, obviously.

“I wonder if they’d like to try cricket.” Hugh suggested.
“Tad-kohz would make a wicked swing bowler,” Tom

agreed. “And I can see Chrétien being pretty fast, he’s got the
height.”

Chrétien had been at dinner. He and Tom had got along

like a house on fire, competitive while playing boule but
otherwise friendly. Hugh took a deep breath and gave in to his
curiosity.

“What was on the bag?”
Tom grinned. “A note about how ginger helps mal de mer.”
“Oh, right.” Hugh had thought there would be more to it

than that and felt vaguely disappointed.

“Oh, go on then.” Tom laughed and passed him the

depleted bag.

Tilting it towards the quarter moon, Hugh waited for a

break in the cloud then read. “Ah,” he said. “I see.”

Congratulations, the note read. He is happy. You’re a

lucky man.

“He’s right,” Tom said, taking the bag and slipping it back

into his pocket. “I am a lucky man. Being here with you—well, it’s
worth vomiting for eight hours.”

“Jeez, Tom.” Hugh took a good grip on Tom’s collar

before he kissed him. “That’s one of the nicest things anyone’s
ever said to me.”

They kissed again until Tom groaned and took a step

back. “It’s cold and I don’t want grit in all my crevices, so let’s
take this home, eh?”

Home—Hugh imagined the bedroom under the eaves, the

bed turned down, Tom spread out, a feast for the eyes from
those nice, big, strongly arched feet to his lazy smile. “Yeah,” he
said, slinging his arm round Tom’s neck and turning him towards
the house. “Still going to try and make you scream.”

“Hmmmph, as if,” Tom said, then chuckled. “But you’re

welcome to try.”

Vidi Velo Vici by Robbie Whyte

Monday—08.38 A.M.
Evan tapped the steering wheel in time to the music. It was

true—there really ain’t no mountain high enough. Not that it
mattered. He had been crawling along in a traffic jam for the last
fifteen minutes and the freedom of mountains and space were
another world at that moment. Road works: oh bliss, oh joy, the
bane of the modern motorist. No, scratch that, the henchmen to
speed cameras. Now those were the bane of the modern motorist.

Movement flashed past his window as a cyclist weaved

through the traffic and lightly clipped the edge of Evan’s mirror
with his handlebars.

“Bloody hell,” he growled and slammed on the steering

wheel.

It wasn’t so much a clip as a brush but Evan was still

irked. He scanned the traffic ahead searching for the hit man,
and saw the dark-framed bike further along the road. The rider
threw a fleeting glance back and a hand pushed out in apology
for the collision, such that it was.

“Oh, that’s all right then, dick!” Then Evan saw the shorts

and shape. Tight, dark cycling shorts formed over pulsating,
bulbous buttocks in strong, fluid motion. Nice. Evan forgave the
transgression.

The cyclist was almost gone, twisting through the cars

and making headway along the vehicle littered artery. Evan had
a final distant gawk at the pistoning knees and exerting thighs.
Ah well, a pleasant interlude.

His sat-nav announced in its crisp Vader voice that it was

“sensing a disturbance in the force.” He couldn’t decide if that
was to do with his rising blood pressure at the cyclist or a portent
about the incoming call that flashed on the dashboard screen.
He pressed the accept button and muted the music. He loved his
gadgets; it made driving, also known as sitting stationary in
London traffic, so much more fun.

“Hola, Tia, wassup?”
“Where are you? Not like you to miss a bright and early start.”

Evan noted the sarcastic tone. “Well, according to Vader,

I’m two minutes away but he’s been telling me that for the last
fifteen or so. I’m just around the corner really, stuck in the
wondrous new traffic system they implemented over the
weekend.”

“Ah right, the roadworks. I think Claire mentioned them as

well. Only a few days though, so not too bad. Anyway, reason
I’m calling, the Anderson case. You still okay for the court
appearance next Thursday? Opposition are looking for a deal. If
not, I can submit for an adjournment.”

“Nope, client wouldn’t miss his day. He seems to think it

will be like Judge Judy, who am I to dissuade him? It’ll be more
boredom than bedlam.”

“And your lunch on Wednesday, this week, Antonio at

Bilbrini’s okay?”

Evan was sure she sounded amused at the prospect.

“Yes, fine. And no, we’re not hooking up again, not like that.”

“Okay, if you say so. But you do have history with those,

how shall I put it, of a foreign persuasion.”

“Well, you’re a shining example, my sassy senorita. What

can I say, I like accents.”

“Oh yes. You totally redefine ‘cruising the Med’.”
“Very funny, Tia. But Antonio and I are through, despite

that certain je ne se quoi thing he’s got going. He’s cute, but
really, who argues over custody of a dog? What was I thinking?
Anyway, I refuse to play second fiddle to a woman who uses
access to a shih-tzu as blackmail. Shannon is the real bitch here,
not the dog.”

“Actually that’s French, not Italian, Evan. And just so you

know, if the shih-tzu visits mean that much to Antonio, you were
effectively third choice, after the wife and the dog. Bye, boss.”

Tia hung up, leaving Evan unsettled. Her work was done.

* * * *

Tuesday—08.45 A.M.
His head bobbed as his croaky, half-squeak, half-strangle

voice filled the tiny space of his car, demanding to know, Do you
believe in life after love?

Evan wasn’t so sure but who was he to argue with Cher?

After all, she’s been there, done that, bought the T-shirt, sold the
records, lived the life, survived the eighties and still looked
fabulous. So maybe, just maybe.

He looked across mid-scream and noticed some children in

a people carrier staring intently at the mad man, the one so
obviously shouting in his car. He stopped singing immediately and
smiled sheepishly. Nope, they still had their mouths open. What the
hell, hadn’t they ever seen a suited man in a lip-sync meltdown? He
grinned inanely at them just as the wailing sound started.

The children looked away, obviously searching for the

source, and Evan did the same. He checked his mirrors to
ensure he wouldn’t have to try to manoeuvre to the gutter to let
the emergency vehicle through. It was bad enough doing that in
normal traffic never mind during gridlock. Nothing; he had no
idea which direction it was coming from.

Evan muted Cher, not something many can claim to have

done, and rechecked his mirror. No sign of the wailing banshee
but he did see the sexy cyclist approaching. Same bike, different
costume. This one clashed totally with the bike, being a striking
blood red, hardly subtle. Just how many outfits did this guy have?

The red avenger whizzed past and screamed to a halt two

cars ahead. His foot dropped to the tarmac as he stabilised the
bike and waited. Blue flashing lights appeared from the side
street, an ambulance making its way towards St. Stephens
hospital, a few streets away. Crimson dynamo held the bike
propped against his inner thigh, Lycra clad buttocks pert with
poise and definition. He must have been at least six foot, with
short-cropped, sandy hair just visible beneath the helmet. He
looked powerful, trim and delicious from the back. And just look
at those legs, taut and defined, the complete athlete whose
every contour just begged to be caressed.

Evan was pondering the possibility of taking up cycling to

work. Although there was no way he could look as impressive in
cycling shorts. Mind you, Adonis would look even better out of

them! Well, he could always give it a go, he thought, and the
cycling as well. Ba-boom!

He smirked at his joke and pulled in his stomach as he

imagined himself in tight, figure-hugging spandex, then gave up.
Too much effort. The stomach thing, not the thought of tight T-
shirts. He was fit enough he supposed, thanks to the footie he
played, albeit sporadically lately. Maybe he would do some small
practice runs, just in case. And probably best to actually buy a
bike first.

Phone alert noise, incoming call. “Damn.” He checked the

screen and hesitated. To answer or not to answer? That is the
question. No. To study the Adonis bum or not? Now that was the
question. Evan sighed and pressed the accept button. Duty,
conscience, what a croc.

“Hola, how goes it?” He continued to peruse his prey as

the siren faded into the distance and bike-boy remounted and
went on his way along the traffic queue.

“Hey, Evan.Still in traffic?”
“Yup.”
“Having fun?”
“You have no idea, Tia,” he said distractedly.
“Hmmm, sounds intriguing, I’ll expect a full report on your

arrival. Anyway, to business, boss.”

Evan switched to work mode and concentrated fully on

the call, “Okay, Tia. Shoot.”

* * * *

Wednesday—09.45 A.M.

“Oh come on, come on. Not today.” Evan tapped the

wheel, though today it was through impatience rather than
rhythm. Gone was the thumping dance music, replaced by a
stirring movement of the New World Symphony currently playing
on a low volume. What did Dvořák and Cher have in common?
They both had places in Evan’s music library, but then so did the
Buggles, ELO and Enigma, so what did that tell you?

He looked at the time and shook his head. He should

have been at work by now, this was not good. What a night.

“What the hell was I thinking?” He pressed the mute

button. “Call Tia!” The system made the call and a few moments
later he was connected to his assistant.

“Morning, Evan. Don’t worry, I’ve made your excuses.

They’re in the boardroom going through the settlement with
Claire at the moment. It’s all under control.”

He let out a sigh of relief.
“You are a doll. Thanks, Tia. I owe you one.”
“Oh, you owe me a lot more than that, but we’re fine. So,

what’s the beef? Bike boy back?”

Evan had told her about the cyclist the previous day, over

a girlie lunch chat. “No, no sign of him today, but that’s not the
problem, I’ve been an idiot.” Silence, no jibe. “Okay, more of an
idiot than usual, I mean.”

“It wasn’t more naked dancing at Pizza Express again,

was it? That cost you a free children’s party, a hefty donation to
charity and a promise to avoid the town centre at weekends,
remember?”

He cringed at the memory and then smiled slightly. It had

been a superb night and he had only been eighteen at the time
and just accepted to Oxford. He also had influential parents, by a
lucky accident.

“Worse. I spent the night with Antonio. Stupid, stupid,

what was I thinking?”

“Oooooh, not good, Evan. I see why it was a bad night.”
Evan edged the car forward marginally and rode the

clutch, no further movement so he took it out of gear and pulled
the handbrake on.

“Oh no, it wasn’t just bad, Tia, it was the worst, by far.

Worse even than Pizza Express. When I say I spent the night, it
wasn’t at my place. It was Antonio’s. Well, to start with, anyway.
He said Shannon the bitch was out of town so it was okay to
come over. I admit I was weak, I should have said no. It was a
moment of madness.” He paused. They say confession was
good for the soul and he and Tia had confessed much to each
other over the years. “We used the marital bed, not the spare

room he had been sleeping in. I think he got off on it, a power or
control thing over what they were going through, y’know. It
wasn’t pretty, Tia, really.”

“Evidently. Oooooh, double oooooh, oooooh yuck. Not

good, Evan. I assume it didn’t become a threesome with
Shannon, then.”

“Nor a foursome either—she wasn’t alone when she found

us. I never realised how noisy or vicious a shih-tzu actually is. It
went straight for the groin, his not mine, luckily. I’ve been in
casualty with Antonio all night. Do you realise how sexy swearing
in Italian sounds?”

He heard Tia giggling in the background; it was a full

minute before she composed herself enough to continue. “But if
you were in casualty at St. Stephens, why are you late in? That’s
just a few streets away.”

“I had to go back to collect the car, as we went by

ambulance. When I got there this morning, two of the tyres were
flat. At least she didn’t slash them; I had visions of screechy
music and her standing there with a butcher’s knife going all
Norman Bates on me.”

“Well, let’s not bring Master Bates into this, not under the

circumstances.” He heard the dig in her voice.

“Not funny, Tia, it was very traumatic.” He saw the

temporary lights ahead start to change.

“Shall I cancel lunch at Bilbrini’s then?” More laughter in

the office.

“Yeah, and you might as well start drawing up settlement

papers. Antonio’s moving out, he won’t be contesting now. Or
seeking access to that cock-munching dog anymore.”

The line went dead. Evan didn’t know if Tia had hung up

or was suffering an aneurism through laughing, either way he
didn’t call back. He’d have enough ridicule to contend with when
he got there. For once he was glad it was a traffic jam;
prolonging the journey was sometimes nice.

The traffic started moving and he slipped into gear. He

realised he had missed his chance with ‘shorty’ today—just his
luck.

Maybe he should knock him down one morning. Only a

slight prang, nothing major, just to get talking and exchange
numbers. Who was he kidding, like he didn’t have enough
problems. Why go looking for any more?

Vader told him to keep on the road he was travelling and

provided some unhelpful advice to “stay on course” as the
Emperor was waiting, which was accompanied by some whoosh-
roaring Tie-fighter sounds.

“Oh bliss, oh joy, like queens aren’t enough trouble!”

* * * *

Thursday—08.40 A.M.
The Sound of Silence, well, not exactly. It wasn’t Simon

and Garfunkel, and there was plenty of noise outside, just no
music in the car today. Evan wasn’t in the mood. He was
thinking, brooding more like.

He checked the time. He should have left earlier today, he

knew that. Was he subconsciously delaying his arrival times
these days just in the hope of a cheap few seconds thrill with the
bumiliscious boy? This was getting beyond a joke. No, he
thought, dismayed, it was nothing to do with that. He had
screwed up over Antonio. Maybe he should just swear off guys
for a bit, have some downtime.

Yes, time for a detox. Concentrate on work. Eat better.

Get fitter. He’d play in that footie game with the lads on
Saturday. He had missed the last few weeks, time to get back to
it. Cliff said they had a couple of new players, med students,
which might help. They needed new blood, younger guys.

“Christ, now I’m starting to feel old.” He waited for some

ill-timed smart remark from Vader but the force must have
definitely been with him, as the sat-nav stayed silent.

The traffic moved and he matched the speed; more than a

crawl, less than walking pace. Slight acceleration, up the gears,
yes, he’d get through, no, no, noooo. “Damn.” He hauled the hand
brake on and sat, stationary, first in line at the lights. “So close.”

And then there was something else that was close, right

by his window, close enough to see, touch and smell. Oh boy.
He cursed and praised the existence of car windows, protective
and revealing at the same time.

The sight was lovely, shaven, sinewy, muscular legs,

perfectly defined. There was a slight bruise just above the right
knee. Maybe he had a tumble at some stage, Evan wondered.
The cyclist stepped a foot down and held the bike steady between
his legs, then edged away from the car slightly. Evan couldn’t see
his face despite being only a few tantalising metres distant. He
was close enough to see ripples in the fabric of the sparkling
green jersey that spelled promise of a six-pack and abs to die for.
Those beautifully sculpted shoulders and arms; it was infuriating
to not see facial features or the front, Oh God, the front.

“Just turn round, just once.” Evan realised he was doing

the looking and not looking thing, sideways glances mixed with
downright salivation.

He considered pressing the button to drop the glass shield

which separated them, maybe make a comment, but what?
Once again the thought of nudging him with the car came to
mind; if he had been on the driver’s side he may even have
opened the door. “Oh, sorry about that, didn’t see you there, are
you all right, let me help you.” Ha! As if.

Evan frowned. Why was he on that side anyway? Usually

it was this side. He thought back to his twanged wing mirror
earlier in the week. Then he peered at the athlete and turned
away again, not wanting to be caught staring. Was that a look?
Had he been caught perving? No. Cyclists never notice car
drivers, do they?

Bike-boy remounted and shifted in his seat, the perfectly

balanced buns encased in shimmering green shifted and
squirmed looking for optimum situation and comfort as he
pushed off. Evan saw the arms and legs strain and muscles
tighten as purchase was gained, slowly and then a burst of
acceleration.

As Evan looked forward the lights were already green and

he was treated to a sharp toot of impatience from behind. He
held up a hand in contrition.

Now irritated himself, Evan reached for the gear stick.

Maybe he could catch up? No chance. The cyclist was already in
the single channel passing the roadworks and would be off
before Evan could get close. He sighed, disengaged the hand
brake and moved off. He was sure there had been a glance
back, from further ahead. Maybe it was to see who had pressed
the horn, but maybe not. Perhaps he had merely imagined it
completely and was now becoming obsessive?

* * * *

Friday—08.31 A.M.
I’m going slightly mad. No wrong sort of vibe. Evan

pressed the control and skipped a few of the tracks. Bicycle,
bicycle, I want to ride my— He— flipped again, definitely not!
Flash, Ah-Ah, Saviour— He turned it off.

“No queens today, no siree.”
“Turn right. The force is strong; do not fail me this time.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Vader. And here we are again, back in the

queue. I thought this thing was only meant to be a couple of
days; it’s been the whole week. Does everything run over budget
and time in this country now?”

Vader kept quiet on the issue but kindly informed him of

the incoming call from Tia, which he duly accepted.

“Hola, Tia. And a wonderful Friday it is. I am so looking

forward to the end of this week.”

“Morning, boss, you might well be but it’s about to become

one of those days. Sitting comfortably?”

This sounded ominous. “As comfortably as I can be in my

semi-spacious yet overly expensive car. Go on, drop it on me, I
can take it.” He edged the car forward a bit until the traffic stalled
again for the next instalment.

“So I’ve heard. Anyway, I’ve opened the post. Antonio’s

fired you.”

Evan burst out laughing, a mixture of mirth, shock and

indignation. “He’s what?”

“Want the official wording or the shorthand, Evan?”

“Just overview it.”
“Well, he’s not divorcing shih-tzu Shannon, he’s back with

her. Says that his relationship was placed under undue pressure
because of his infatuation with you. You’ve been a bad boy.”

“So it seems. But I can tell by the gleeful tone there’s

more and you’ve saved the best ’til last. Cruel, Tia, kick a man
when he’s down.”

“Oh, I’m not just kicking, boss. This is a full stamp on head

moment. Evan, the letter says that your behaviour was
unprofessional, unethical and Antonio will be seeking a return of
all fees paid to date, no further costs incurred. He’ll also be
looking for reimbursement of costs incurred by Shannon with her
solicitor, and piece de resistance, he’s even included a claim for
laundry reimbursement. To replace the blood covered sheets
ruined in genital-gate the other night.”

“It was his own bloody dog, the little shih-tzu.” Evan blew

out a breath. “Totally screwed, huh. In more ways than one!”

“If it’s any help, boss, they deserve each other, those two.

And maybe you’ll take a lesson from it . . . but somehow I doubt
it,” she laughed.

Evan grinned. “Oh, Tia, always keeping me right, eh?” He

sighed. “Fine, no problem, just send the usual rebuttal letter, see
how far they want to push it, but we’ll swallow if we have to.
Saves any more embarrassment, I suppose.”

“Bad choice of words again, Evan.”
“Well, on that theme, I need to blow some steam. You up for

a night out tonight, get some people together, make it a good one?”

“What happened to the detox?”
“This is my way of detoxing. I need to get Antonio out of

my system. C’mon, it’ll be fun.” A fleeting glimpse out of the
corner of his eye and sex-on-wheels drew level then stopped,
one car ahead on the passenger side. “And speaking of which,
heeeee’sss heeeeeeeeree.”

“Bloody hell, Evan, don’t you ever get tired of chasing men?”
“I just want to find a nice guy to settle down with?”
“Well, you certainly tried enough of them, boss. All right,

I’ll go tonight. Just leave the poor cyclist alone, you’ve done

enough damage to the male population this week. I’ll see you
shortly.” The tone sounded her departure and Evan switched off.

Evan stared at bike-boy and wondered why he had

stopped there. He could have gone further up the traffic queue,
right up to the lights as he had done yesterday. And surely he
should have been on the outside for overtaking? He watched as
the heavenly body dismounted and stood the bike upright
against the kerb. Perhaps there was a technical problem.

Ah, no, more like a physical one. The Adonis reached up

and stretched, pushing first towards the sky, and then he bent
over and touched the ground, supplely clearing muscle kinks.

What a view, pert and firm glutes, drawn muscles. The

guy was a god. And what was he wearing today, that wasn’t the
usual attire? If anything it was even more sheer and tight, almost
like a leotard. The all in one white costume crept right over every
fissure and sinew, making it appear like his rear was on display.
That was exactly what he was doing, Evan realised. Posing,
showing off.

No, he was projecting his own desires on bike-boy, surely;

the guy couldn’t possibly be doing that, not in the street? It had
to be innocent muscle cramp or something.

“C’mon, baby, turn around, let me see everything.” Evan

knew that in such an outfit absolutely nothing would be left to the
imagination and as much as he wanted to see the guy’s face, the
rest of him would be something to behold as well.

Even the thought of exertion sweat wasn’t enough to

dampen Evan’s enthusiasm. Usually he went for clean, fully
pampered guys, as unpleasant aromas were a definite turn-off
but here, now, the possibility just added to the appeal.

“Come on, show me.” He actually hit the steering wheel in

frustration and sat forward in his seat willing Mr. Show-off to turn
around.

“No, aw please, no, that’s not fair.”
Routine complete, the bike was retrieved and remounted.

A conscientious quick check behind followed. It was the only
glimpse of a face that Evan got and limited by the mirrored
glasses the guy wore. It was over so fast. But, for a fleeting

second, Evan was sure there was a smile. Or then again, he
may have totally imagined it.

Off the biker went, leaving a very frustrated Evan stuck in

traffic, hot and bothered.

“This is ridiculous.” He sighed, but Monday couldn’t come

fast enough now!

* * * *

Saturday—10.54 A.M.
“Sorry, Cliff, I know, I know, cutting it fine. But I’m here

now.” Evan rushed on the field and started stretching, trying to
ward off the slight breeze that whispered coolness on his
exposed limbs. He knew a few minutes of running around the
pitch would soon dispel it.

“You look knackered, Evan. A late one was it?”
“Oh yeah, more like an early one, went on ’til about three.

Don’t worry though, I’m up for it. Besides, the new guys can
carry me, can’t they? Med students you said, so they’ll be young
and fit. Which ones are they?”

Cliff gestured to the centre of the pitch, “Midfielder,

Sammy, nice lad but a bit over-aggressive at times, keep him
calm. And that’s Cameron in goal. Just as well, as Dave’s being
transferred for work, so we need a replacement.”

Evan turned to check the goal area just as the shout for a

heads up came in. If he hadn’t turned, it may well have been a
dead leg. As it was . . .

“Fuck, uuuurghhg, shit.” Evan writhed in excruciating

agony. The ground was cold and hard but nothing to the dull
aching pain he was in as he cupped his genitals. The missile ball
that had nuked his nether region bounced off his head as he
rolled over the grass trying to gain some relief from the
onslaught.

The others were starting to gather, a mixture of sympathy

and sniggers, typical footballers. “Sorry, Evan,” a voice came
from the group, somewhere, Evan wasn’t sure who and didn’t
really care at that point. Pain tended to demand focus.

Through the hazy water that had gathered in his eyes he

squinted and saw legs that looked very familiar, although under
the circumstances he may well have been hallucinating.

A strong hand pressed down on his chest, trying to get

him to stop moving. “Okay, okay, It’ll subside in a bit, just work
your way through the pain, maybe sit up and rock back a little,
you might find it helps.” The gentle Scottish brogue was low,
calm and reassuring. “C’mon guys, give him some room. Get
back to your warm up. We’ve still got a game to play.” The fun
part obviously over, the others started to mill away and Evan
murmured his appreciation.

“I really didn’t fancy that bunch of voyeurs hanging around

watching me inspect my jewels,” he grunted through clenched
teeth.

“Well, you’ve been leering at my arse in traffic all week, so

it’s only fair I get to ogle your bits now.” Cameron winked and
formed the most perfectly playful smile.

Busted. Evan went beetroot and groaned, only partly

through the pain which was beginning to subside, slowly. “Oh,
great. This is payback isn’t it, karma. I knew it, a perfect end to
this week. Sorry, I hope you’re not offended.”

“Nah, it’s cool. We get all sorts at the hospital. I was just a

bit shocked when I saw you arrive. I never realised you played
for this team. I thought I was going to have to crash the bike into
you at some stage, just to get to talk.”

“Crash into me, that’s going to extremes, isn’t it?” Evan

was glad the pain could be blamed for how red he was going.

“Maybe you’re right.” He raised an eyebrow at Evan and a

wicked grin crept across Cameron the bike-boy’s lips. “Anyway,
let’s check you out. Trust me, I’m a goalie, handling balls is my
speciality.”

Shelter From Storms by Sandra Lindsey

At last. Louis breathed a prayer of thanks for the snow he’d

cursed all day. Against the white fields, the brick mansion showed
vivid red. Mature trees surrounded the house, their branches
bending with the snow settled on them. He remembered the day
the saplings were planted; the weather then had been normal for
April: wet, with a spring chill lingering in the air. Had today’s
weather been mild like the previous fortnight, or wet like eighteen
years before, he’d not have seen the house. The white of the
ground brought contrast to the view, and the effort of travel forced
his pause before climbing the next slope.

The ever-present wind, with a dazzle of snowflakes, bit

through his tattered coat and torn shirt, stealing away yet more of
the warmth he cradled to himself. Crossing his arms and
bunching rag-wrapped fists into his armpits, he focused again on
shuffling aching feet through the wearyingly soft snow.

“Benighted country!” he cursed as he slipped and the icy

ground numbed his out-flung hand. “Bloody English with their
English bloody weather. No wonder they kept hold of Gascony
so long! Same bloody contrary, uncivilised—” He stopped
himself, lean frame stilled, and joined schoolroom learning to
memories of recent days. “Not in England any more, am I? Pays-
de-Galles. That’s why those folk stared at me and jibber-
jabbered in their foreign tongue yesterday.” The puzzle solved,
awareness returned of his exposed situation halfway up a snowy
hillside and he forced himself on with laboured breath.

* * * *

The butler’s nostrils flared when he opened the door to

Louis’s tugging on the bell-rope, and his eyes lit with displeasure
above hearth-warmed cheeks. “Kitchen door, beggar! We’ll find
you scraps and shelter in this weather, but get away!”

The servant’s venom burst the dam of patience holding

Louis’s last reserve of strength. Instinct, bred since before he
could walk, shifted his stance such that without changing an inch

in height he now towered over the man on the step above him.
Blue-tipped fingers dipped into a threadbare pocket and
withdrew a single calling card he’d kept as a talisman. Its thick
paper and golden script, proclaiming his father’s title and the
Christian name they’d shared, had been a memento of former
prosperous times. Hiding his true feelings, he tossed it carelessly
in the direction of the butler and stepped past before the man
knew he’d given way. Louis waited, tapping his poorly-shod foot
and inspecting his fingernails as the butler scrambled for the
fallen card.

“I will inform Mr. Elcott. Do not move,” the butler growled

at the clearly unwelcome occupant of his master’s hallway, and,
“Gwylim! Ensure he stays put!” before disappearing through one
of the many panelled oak doors.

Louis had no intention of moving. It took all his effort

merely to stand still. He felt capable only of moving vertically
downwards and had no intention of giving the stuffy butler the
satisfaction of returning to find him collapsed in a swoon.

From the corner of his eye, he watched the young footman

eye him nervously. That would be Gwylim, trying to work out how
a rag-and-bone wraith successfully challenged the stout butler.
Maybe, pondered Louis, this was such a backwards place that the
young folk still believed in magic? He smiled to himself at that
which, he was pleased to note, increased Gwylim’s agitation. He
smoothed his expression to impassivity as the door behind him
opened. Swift footsteps pattered on the parquet floor as he turned
and strong hands clasped his upper arms.

“Louis!” Swift kisses to his cheeks and a blessed, radiant,

well-remembered smile. Daniel. “Louis! It is you! My God,
you’re…Come! Come into my study. Gwylim! Tell Cook there’s a
guest for dinner.”

* * * *

Daniel settled his unexpected guest into a sumptuous

armchair near the fire in his study before pouring brandy into two
glasses and drawing a second chair close.

“How…? What…? I thought…” Daniel, glowing with health

but clearly befuddled by a torrent of queries and half-formed
thoughts, paused long enough to hear Louis answer in a voice
scratched dry by thirst.

“You thought the worst. Blasted…” Louis ran out of words

and sipped the brandy he’d been offered. “Blasted folk. They got
Father. Mother died last year. Before…We thought her death a
curse but proves to be a blessing from the Lord for she never
saw the hell they’ve made of France.” He fell to silence, unused
to company after his solitary struggle north.

“And you?” probed Daniel, “How came you here? Why—?”

He broke off as Louis’s gaze turned on him.

“How? I don’t quite know. I evaded them, though memory

of that time escapes me now, and found my way to a boat with a
captain who hid me for remembrance of my grandfather; he took
me as far as he dared, to the very shores of England though it’ll
cost his life and all his family’s if any of his crew lets on why the
voyage took so long. Once there I thought: of all the men I’ve
called ‘friend’, you’re the only one who’ll recognise me without
wig or powder.” Louis slung back a large swig of brandy and
gagged as it hit the back of his throat. Painfully, he forced
himself to swallow but blanched as it churned up his insides.

Daniel was on his knees beside him in an instant. “Louis!

Louis, what’s wrong?”

“Naught,” Louis gasped, waving a hand in dismissal. “I

should remember not to drink on an empty stomach.”

Daniel flew to the bell-pull and within moments Gwylim

joined them. “My friend is ill. Send someone for Dr. Jenkins,” he
ordered.

“No.” Louis’s thin protest stopped both men. Were he able

to muster the effort, he would have wept from joy at this proof
that Daniel still cared enough to send for a doctor on his behalf.
“Do not trouble your neighbours in this weather. Food and a
warm bed will make me well swifter than a doctor’s
machinations.”

“I think you mean ‘ministrations’,” corrected Daniel.
“Perhaps.”

In the silence of Louis’s not-quite-agreement Gwylim left.

Daniel frowned, and Louis silently cursed the misfortune that had
sapped his strength. As Daniel sat and drank in silence opposite
him, Louis watched the flames dancing through logs on the
hearth. For days—weeks—his thoughts had focused on
journeying here. With that goal now achieved he found his
thoughts disintegrating like apple blossom at the tail of spring. In
place of the emotional reunion he had once envisaged he merely
sat and awaited the call to dinner.

* * * *

A young lady, neatly dressed and her hair fetchingly

curled , met them at the dining room door. She smiled politely at
Louis but rested her gaze on Daniel with a slight raise of a dark
eyebrow.

“Harriet!” Daniel clasped her hand in his free one—his

right arm supported Louis who, having rested a short while now
felt more fully the effect of his exertion, “this is Louis, Baron
d’Alloncy, a good friend from my youth. Louis, my wife.”

“Enchanté.” Louis gathered his strength to smile warmly,

bow, and kiss her delicate fingers. Only his training in courtly
behaviour enabled him to hide the surprise and sudden jealousy
he felt at discovering his former lover had not held true to their
boyish promises. “Daniel has exquisite taste,” he complimented.
She blushed and he straightened, continuing, “Although he is
quite mistaken, my lady, and you must not let him lead you
astray. I am no more the Baron d’Alloncy than you are. No such
title exists in the new country being carved from the remnants of
France.”

“Baron or not,” she replied with a soft smile and genuine

warmth, “you are my husband’s friend, sir, and welcome in our
house whenever you please.”

* * * *

While Daniel and his wife worked their way through a

three course meal, Louis partook of a single bowl of soup and
two slices of home-baked bread. Refusing their urgings, he
begged of them not to take it as meaning anything against their
cook’s excellent fare. “For as my eyes and nose, and the longing
in my heart, tell me your meal is of the highest rate, but I hold
now to the advice given me by my soldier-uncle when I was a
boy. He saw many campaigns and survived as many a siege,
and one day between wars his tales took a sombre turn in
response to my boyish giddiness. ‘If ever you are in the grip of
hunger, as we were at Pondicherry, when food comes your way
take it steady and slow, for the quicker you shove it down your
gullet, the swifter it’ll come back up,’—if you’ll pardon my
phrasing, my lady. An old soldier thinks naught of speaking so
plain, and I have not wits enough about me to avoid directly
quoting him at the dinner table. Sincerest…”

Harriet waved him to silence. “I’ve cousins myself who

serve in war, and I’ve always known their advice to be forthright
but good. Eat and drink as you see fit, sir. Our cook is as thrifty
as she is fine and the meat we leave tonight will not be wasted—
we shall have pie later this week and be all the more glad for
having not eaten it all at one sitting.”

Despite his best efforts and the fortification of his meal,

Louis’s drooping eyelids betrayed his need for rest and Daniel
offered his arm once more to aid his way to the guest room
prepared for him. “Sleep well, my friend,” Daniel wished him at
the door, holding him close before parting with a kiss on his
sunken cheek. “Until morning.”

* * * *

Leaving his room for breakfast next morning, Daniel

almost collided with Gwylim. He frowned as the servant skidded
to a halt on the polished floor.

“You must not run, Gwylim,” Daniel chastised him.
“Sir, I’m sorry, sir,” The boy looked truly contrite. “But it’s

your guest, sir. He won’t wake, and I’ve been sent to tell you. ‘As
soon as possible,’ Mr. Rowlands told me, sir! I’m sorry, sir, I

100

won’t…” Gwylim trailed off and disappeared as Daniel waved
him away.

Louis wouldn’t wake? Daniel felt fear pool in his heart and

all thoughts of breakfasting vanished as he hurried through the
corridors to Louis’s room.

“…gracious Lord, heal him who suffers now after

wandering alone.” Daniel heard the end of his butler’s prayer as
he dropped to his knees beside Louis’s bed and clasped his
friend’s hand between his own. “You’ve sent for Dr. Jenkins?”

“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you. Bring him here directly he arrives.”
Rowlands retreated, leaving Daniel alone with his

unconscious friend. He felt more lonely even than he had as a
child, wandering the rooms of this house, wishing for siblings
with whom to squabble and share his time. He also prayed as he
bent over Louis’s hand and swathed it in kisses, though his
invocation was convoluted, pleading, and broken by gasps as he
fought the tears a gentleman should never be seen to shed.

After an age, a polite knock sounded at the door. Daniel

drew a breath, kissed the hand one last time and stood.

“Dr. Jenkins, sir.”
“My guest,” Daniel explained to the doctor, “an old friend,

recently escaped from France. He arrived yesterday, weak but
alert.”

“He ate with you?” the doctor asked as he examined his

patient.

“Yes—but plain food only, nothing rich.”
The doctor nodded sagely and completed his checks. “I

cannot say for certain what is ill with him or when—if—he may
recover. He is feverish, but that is not unknown with extreme
cases of exhaustion such as he may have suffered, if, as you
say, he comes from France. On the other hand, I cannot rule out
the chance that it may be some fever which is yet to show its
distinctive mark. Mrs. Elcott and the children are at home?”
Daniel nodded, echoed by the doctor. “I would advise they keep
away from this room. Minimise the contact your guest has with
the members of your household until he is past the worst or we

101

know what we are dealing with.” Another nod. In the background
of the room, the butler set Gwylim flying off down the hallway
again. “If he worsens, or recovers; in short, if his condition alters,
I may be able to advise you further. In the meantime, Mr. Elcott, I
am breakfasting today with Reverend Edwards. Shall I ask him
to call on you?”

“Yes, please.” It sounded like his usual voice, though

Daniel felt numb and hoarse within. “My thanks, Doctor, for
attending so swiftly at this early hour.”

“My carriage was ready to convey me to the Vicarage; it

was but a short diversion to visit here first.” Shaking hands, the
doctor departed.

Daniel turned to face the butler. “I will remain with my

friend. Please convey my apologies to Mrs. Elcott. I know you and
she are used to running the house without me when I am in town,
so imagine me there, if you can spare Gwylim to attend us.”

“Indeed, sir, I anticipated you would wish it so. I’ll show

the Reverend up when he arrives.”

* * * *

The days dragged. Little changed. At times Louis cried out

from fevered dreams: sometimes in English, other times in French,
always garbled. On occasion he’d wake and Gwylim or Daniel
would feed him broth spooned from a pot kept warm by the fire.
Every few days brought a visit from Revd Edwards or the doctor,
and Daniel encouraged the household in prayer and the hope that
their efforts were enough to bring the Frenchman back to life.

Eight days after his arrival, Louis seemed no better. The

sun streamed mockingly through the window panes, and Daniel
found himself discreetly abandoned as tears of frustration and
grief ran down his cheeks. Feeling Louis’s skin and finding it
cool—almost frigid compared to its temperature an hour before—
he gave up fighting his desire and climbed atop the bed to lie
side-by-side with his friend. Tracing with his fingertips the lines
that creased Louis’s face, he wondered how many were brought
by his current condition; was this the only misfortune to have

102

befallen his former lover since they’d been torn apart? Or was it
simply that they both grew older? Louis had but two years’
advantage over him; it seemed too little to cause the disparity
between the face before him and his own.

“My friend, my love, my Louis,” he murmured, kissing him

on the lips.

The sick man’s out-flung arm contracted, curled around

his friend’s shoulders, and his eyelids fluttered open. “Daniel,”
breathed Louis, nudging him down to return the kiss, “I’m here.
What day is this? I feel I’ve been ill a while.”

Daniel suppressed a joyous shout which would have

brought the servants running in, and did a quick calculation while
he savoured Louis’s embrace and gazed into his slate-blue eyes.
“The twentieth of April, seventeen hundred and ninety-four. It’s
Easter Sunday, Louis! Trust you to steal the thunder from the
Lord himself.”

Louis smiled. “I’m not the Christ, but I do intend to rise, if

you’ll allow. It seems I lack the strength to throw you off the bed
myself.”

Daniel rolled away, calling for Gwylim as he stood. Flinging

open the door, he shouted for water and called for his wife.

“Sir?” asked Gwylim, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he

entered the room, then “Sir! Oh, sir!” he cried, seeing Louis
struggle to sit and running to his aid.

A maid entered with a fresh ewer of water for the

washstand.

“Mrs. Elcott is at church, sir, but I shall inform her of the

good news on her return.”

“Church?” queried Daniel, his thoughts in a whirlwind of

joy and thanks. “Church! I must dress! Louis, I leave you in
capable hands.”

* * * *

The village overlooked by the Elcott’s house was not the

sort of place where one expected commotion and excitability
from the gentry. Revd Edwards frowned as hoof beats thundered

103

to a halt outside the church in the midst of his Easter
Communion service. When the door was flung open, revealing
Daniel Elcott, his sermon stuttered to a halt in the midst of a
sentence. Apparently oblivious to the attention he drew, Daniel
bowed to the altar then hurried down the aisle to his family pew,
his face radiant. “Praise the Lord!” he cried, failing to explain
himself but kissing his wife on both cheeks, before turning to
face the pulpit. “Praise the Lord, my friend is well!” Daniel kissed
his wife again, boldly on the lips, before taking his place and
dropping to his knees in prayer.

Revd Edwards was the first to recover, able to send his

voice booming out once more before the chattering started.
“Good news indeed on this most glorious of Holy days! Christ is
risen, and through his power and that of the Holy Spirit, a man is
rescued from the very brink of death. May the Lord be as
merciful on us all, and shelter and protect all those who follow in
His way. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see
your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” It
was a good piece of improvisation, he assured himself as he
descended the pulpit steps, and the congregation seemed
buoyed by Mr. Elcott’s infectious joy. Although the Dean would
be disappointed he’d cut the reminder to pay their tithes, the
Revd comforted himself that hands appeared to dip more eagerly
than usual into pockets as the collection plate passed up and
down the pews. If the collection plate did not exactly overflow, he
still had a bottle or three of the Dean’s favourite wine in his cellar
to appease him on the morrow’s visit.

* * * *

The four Elcott children shot glances of question and

alarm between themselves as they blithely ignored the rest of the
service: was this really their father who sat with them in their
pew? They knew him only as a stern figure, whose main
occupations were shushing them for speaking out of turn, doling
out punishment and lecturing them on expectations. The sight of
him smiling—nay, grinning—was surprising enough, but that he’d

104

interrupted the vicar’s dull ramblings, shouted in a way that
echoed to the rafters and brought a cascade of disapproving
looks their way? Either he’d been replaced by an imposter set on
destroying the family’s good name, or their father was in truth an
utterly different man to the one they had known thus far. Either
way, the eldest children realised they had ammunition to last
them the rest of their lives against his lectures on respectability.

* * * *

Daniel’s mood sobered on exiting the church. He realised

that in his joyful haste he’d neglected his horse. Contritely, he
removed some of the gear, handing the lighter items to his elder
sons to carry home, and loosened the girth before rubbing the
beast’s nose, feeding him a treat found by providence in his
pocket, and leading him home at a gentle walk. Harriet took her
husband’s free arm and the children followed in a gaggle with
their nurse bringing up the rear.

“I am glad your friend is well,” Harriet spoke for the first

time since Daniel’s sudden arrival in church. “We must do our
best to prevent his over-exerting himself again.”

“As much as he allows us to molly-coddle him, we shall.”
She laughed affectionately and squeezed his arm.
Daniel laughed in return, and, hearing the children

whispering behind, paused and crouched down, his arm
comically still aloft holding the lead-rein of his mount. The
children fell silent and shrank back slightly. “Today is the best
Easter I’ve ever known. Later we’ll have a feast and games in
the garden!” They grinned at that, giggling and chattering as they
followed behind him.

* * * *

It was another week before Dr. Jenkins would allow Louis

to leave his room. Seven days of boredom punctuated by
frustratingly inconsequential conversations with Daniel. Once
freed from the room, Louis spent a fortnight spent building his

105

strength, initially calling on Gwylim for physical and navigational
aid as he explored the house and then venturing alone to the
gardens, wandering the paths as he convinced himself of the
necessity of leaving before desire betrayed him and Daniel cast
him from the house in shame.

Sharing a drink before dinner as the sun splashed through

the windows, Louis forced himself to comment on the dramatic
improvement of the weather since the day he’d arrived. “As
summer seems now firmly on its way, and my strength increases
daily, I will not impose myself much longer on your company, my
friend.” Louis concluded his speech, concealing his heart’s true
desire behind an expression of polite regard.

“You have an engagement elsewhere? Have we delayed

you? Is it the country life which you dislike?” Daniel’s queries
tumbled in a scatter as concern etched his brow.

Louis pulled his borrowed jacket close about him, hating

himself for hoping, even now, that he could find his home with
Daniel “Nay, ’tis naught like that, my friend. I feel I’ve imposed
too long. Not just with illness, but…I did not think, when I made
my way to you, that I would find you thus: with wife and children.”
He paused and drew a breath to quell his rising fear. “Yet I see it
suits you and brings you much joy. I do not wish, dear friend, to
bring scandal on your name. There are those about, in town,
who knew us as we were.”

“Gossips be damned! I’ll not have them drive you from my

home.” Daniel leaned forward and placed his hand over his
friend’s. “Have you another place to go? Another friend?”
Overwhelmed by the warm promise of Daniel’s touch, Louis
could only shake his head in reply. “Then stay. I would not hold
you back, if you wished to be elsewhere, but the joy you see in
me? Full half of it’s for you: your unlooked-for arrival, your
miraculous recovery and the pleasure I always found in your
being near.”

Louis looked away, blinking rapidly, not trusting his voice

to hold if he spoke.

“As for scandal, there is no need for concern. Harriet,” no

sooner had his wife stepped inside the room than she was called

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on for support, “the boys grow ever older, and run about like
pups. Would not our dear friend here make a most excellent tutor
for them? Might we ask him to tame the savage beasts?”

“I think that a most excellent idea, though I would not

inflict them on him yet; another month, perhaps, you might keep
his company to yourself before sharing his attention with our
offspring.”

Louis crossed the room and bowed low over Harriet’s

hand, “Madame, your generosity is without bounds. I thank you
from the bottom of my heart, and pray that I never bring you
cause to regret such kindness.”

“Dear Louis,” she said, raising him up and kissing him on

the cheek, “your presence brings pleasure to our lives.” She
smoothed his jacket straighter, where it fell awkwardly from too-
thin shoulders across bony ribs, “And now that your staying is
settled, Daniel must write his tailor to make you some fitter
clothes.”

* * * *

The two men stayed up talking late into the night,

reminiscing about past mis-deeds and escapades. The thought
of Daniel’s wife still heavy on his mind, Louis skirted around the
questions he most desired to ask. The mantel clock struck one
and Louis’s eyes began to droop. Daniel damped down the fire,
leaving it safe for morning, and offered an arm to his friend.

Their tread upon the stair, down the polished hall,

sounded loud in the sleeping house. Taking advantage of their
being alone, Louis leaned in to wish his friend a tender good
night, but Daniel grasped him, holding him against the door in a
rough embrace and pressing his advantage through lips parted
in surprise. Shocked by the sudden turn in his friend’s
demeanour, Louis thrust him back with a force that surprised
even himself. Hurt flared through his mind as he stared flatly at
his former lover.

“Is this the fee that I am charged for living here?” he asked.
“No!”

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“Then what? What is it, Daniel? Three weeks we’ve

skirted around, avoided the past, and the moment I accept your
offer of a place in your household you launch yourself at me? Am
I now your plaything, to be seized and discarded as you wish?”

“No! Not…I…”
“Good night, Daniel. I hope it is simply too much brandy

made you foolish.”

Louis took their single candle from Daniel’s suddenly

unresisting hand, and closed the door between them. A moment
later, he changed his mind, opened the door, and Daniel tumbled
backwards into the room, crouched with his head buried in his
hands.

“Toujours femme, Anglais!” Louis rolled his eyes. “Come in.”
“Tell me I’m wrong, Louis. Tell me it wasn’t our past

brought you here when you had need,” Daniel pleaded.

Louis sighed, flopped onto the bed, and patted the

coverlet by his side. Daniel sat by him, and Louis pulled him
close, Daniel’s back to Louis’s chest, Daniel’s arse in Louis’s
crotch, just as Louis had been fantasising since the day he left
France. “C’est vrai, mon cher,” he whispered, hoping honesty
would quell the feeling of guilt rising in his breast. “With Father
gone, the vineyards, house and all else seized, I had but my life
and memories left so I set out to find the love I lost so long
ago…I had forgot the turmoil had not spread; that life for you was
far from upside-down; had no thoughts of finding you with wife
and little ones…I judged you by myself, knew I had stayed alone,
could never live a lie. But now I find you here, with your
conventional life, and I fear I’ll tear you down. One may forgive a
young man his folly as long as he’s contrite, but a man of
substance and influence? It would be worse than Paris, my love.
I’d tempt you through the gates of Hell itself if you let me; you
ought not allow me near.”

Daniel unpeeled Louis’s hand from his shoulder, kissed

the knuckles, then the palm, then slowly, each in turn, wrapped
his tongue around the fingers and drew them between his lips.
Louis’s pulse quickened and his grip become more firm. His
body, no longer fully in his control, shuddered with grief held

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back too long.

“Parisian rumours never reached Montgomeryshire ears,”

Daniel murmured. “I married not from shame nor to hide a sin, but
for duty and for love. I loved you first,” he gripped the hand he
kissed between his thoughts, “and I love you still. My friend—mon
cher—I say this not to hurt you but to lay things plain. But I am
selfish; I think only of myself, of my great fortune in having both my
loves in one house, and the chance to be with you as well as her.”

Louis shifted, rolled away and Daniel turned so they lay

face-to-face. The candle, perched above, cast both their faces in
half-shadow, just revealing a wary flickering smile on each. “A
half-year ago I would have been selfish too,” agreed Louis. “I
would have demanded all of you or none and been on my way to
pastures new, but now I am grateful to be alive; thankful to have
found you; I will take whatever’s offered for the chance to be
your friend once more.”

“And more than friend, I hope?” Daniel kissed him on the

lips, was pressed away by a finger.

“It’s not just us. What of Harriet?”
“She…We…” Daniel shook his head and grimaced. “In

eight years of marriage, she has borne seven children. Four
survive, three we’ve lost. On her last visit, the midwife told me
bluntly: I’ll leave my children motherless if I don’t keep from
Harriet’s bed.”

“Poor Daniel.” Louis smiled softly. “All strong and virile

with no furrow to plough. But what of Harriet? Does she consent
to being deprived of your attentions? Does she not fear you’ll
stray to find another outlet for your desires?”

There was a pause before Daniel replied. “She is the best

of women.” His gaze sank to the coverlet. “We love each other
dearly, and she told me plain: she wishes to see her children
grow. She suggested I may take a lover, provided all is discreet,
and she begged me to leave the maidservants alone, for it
seems honest staff are hard to come by.”

Louis’s hold on Daniel’s waist remained steady as his

mind raced with possibilities suggested by Daniel’s revelation. As
he sought to form his thoughts into words, Daniel brought his

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gaze back up to search his friend’s face.

“That’s not why I’m asking you to stay, Louis,” he urged.

“Having known you again, these past few weeks, I wish you to
stay as my friend—and tutor to my sons—for I could never find a
better man to fit the role. Should you return my affection and
consent to deeper intimacy, my joy will truly be unbounded.”

“We must not repeat the mistakes of youth.”
“Indeed.” A shudder ran through Daniel; Louis pulled him

close and breathed the scent of his hair, remembering Paris and
the rooms they’d shared, the secrets they’d kept and the betrayal
by one they’d thought a friend.

“No one must suspect we are more than friends,” Louis

whispered, breaking the silence of shared memory, “We must
not allow…”

“Paid â phoeni,” broke in Daniel.
“Don’t swear!”
“I’m not! It’s…”
Louis stopped him with a lingering kiss. “I remember what

it means, my love. I’ll try not to worry. Your father will be turning
in his grave, hearing his only son speak in a peasant tongue!”

Daniel laughed and returned Louis’s kiss with fervent

passion. “I intend to do far more that would discomfit my father
than just speak Welsh.”

“Oh really?” Louis felt Daniel’s hands exploring his body,

caressing his back and his arse. He hooked his leg over Daniel’s
hips and rubbed himself against Daniel’s eager shaft, the fabric
of their breeches providing both a barricade and a pleasant
friction. “We must not let Gwylim discover you in the wrong bed
come morning.”

“I’ll leave before dawn,” promised Daniel.
“Make sure you do.” Louis’s final reservations fell away as

Daniel’s fingers slid inside his breeches and encircled his willing
cock.

Above them the candle guttered, throwing Daniel’s face

into shadow, but Louis closed his eyes to the play of light and
allowed the cares and worries of his recent past to drown in the
pleasure of the stroke and embrace of his friend.

110

Faulty Genes by Rebecca Cohen

Extract from Vivian Miller’s journal, 2

June:

All of us are products of our genes. My frizzy hair and

myopic vision give me away as my father’s daughter. Another
twist of the double helix gave me my maternal grandmother’s
nose. And let’s not forget the bad joints and fiery tempers that all
of us Millers suffer from.

But it was my mother’s genetics that damned me with this

thing from which I can’t escape, against which I will always have
to struggle. I understand now what she went through. I can
sympathise, but I don’t think I’ll ever really forgive her for how
she acted when we were children. And now I’m older, though
arguably no wiser, I doubt that I’ll fare any better than she did.
Some days are just too long, too lonely and too dark to carry on.

* * * *

The wind whips viciously around the headland, buffeting

me as I stand on the edge of the cliff. I can see for miles out to
sea from this spot, where the white-tipped waves chop and dart
in the winter swell and boats battle against the elements to try to
reach the nearest port. Closer to the shore, jets of foam crash
over the jagged rocks, a spray of watery ice raining down with
every successive charge. The days are drawing in. It’s mid-
afternoon and already the daylight is slipping away, the sky
heavy with voluminous clouds that wrap the world in a grey
blanket that affords no warmth or comfort.

I stare out across the bay, lost in the rhythmic pounding of

the Atlantic Ocean. There’s no cleansing of my thoughts. The
maelstrom out there is no sweet parody of what’s in my mind. If
only the darkness that sits upon my shoulders could be blown
away by a great storm like the one brewing on the horizon. If
only I could steal a fraction of its energy to help me fight my own
internal battles.

I burrow further into my coat, not wanting to move from

this spot, my surroundings achingly familiar. A few metres away

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on the right there’s a path down to the beach, brittle underfoot
and crumbling, with only the clumps of marram grass holding it
together. Countless tourists, my family included, have worn it
away over the years, it being the only safe route down the cliff
from the car park that avoided a sheer drop or treacherous
rocks. I remember as a small girl, running gleefully down it,
pigtails and ribbons flying behind me, racing after my older
brother, desperate to build sandcastles and paddle in the sea.

And I can still hear the near-screech of my mother. “Slow

down before you break your bloody neck!”

Even by that age I recognised the tone and I slowed down

instantly, knowing not to argue, not wanting for her to get upset.
She took my hand and half dragged, half pulled me with her.

“Leave off the lass, Maggie,” my father said, following

close behind, my little sister in one arm, a deckchair tucked
under the other. “She’s just playing. Let her be.”

“Playing? Won’t be much fun when we have to spend the

afternoon in A&E because the little sod has broken her arm.”

He didn’t rebuke her further, just as wary of her as we were

when she was in one of her moods. Instead, once we were settled,
he helped us kids build a sandcastle, keeping us quiet while Mum
sat in a deckchair and spent the afternoon staring out to sea.

As a child it was confusing. Mum would start the day all

smiles, willing to accede to our demands of storytelling or visits
to the park, but she could change so quickly. Without warning
she could become short-tempered and unapproachable. It was
like she was two people, and we could never tell which one
would come downstairs for breakfast in the morning.

I tuck a wayward strand of blonde hair behind my ear,

tethering it away from the wind. This place is like an open wound
to me, infected with bad memories that weep out uninvited, but I
never learnt to stay away, never let the wound heal. Years ago,
my second therapist told me that the only way to live for today
was to face the past. Over the years I have screamed myself
hoarse on the top of this cliff, raged both inwardly and outwardly
at anything that set my mood spiralling, but here I am still staring
out to sea just like she used to do.

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We came here one autumn, later in the year than usual, to

celebrate my brother’s engagement; he’d insisted that he wanted
to be somewhere special to welcome Kelly into the family. I must
have been in my early teens, obsessed by girl bands and my
head filled with the ridiculous notion that I was destined to be the
next poet laureate. And a burgeoning crush on the captain of the
netball team that I had no intension of telling anyone about. The
sea had been colder than normal and after a few brave attempts
we’d retreated to a picnic on the beach, sitting around a large fire
Dad had built from dried-out driftwood.

Dad was in his element, manning the fire and telling

stories of his fishing days, and of some of the strange things that
had been dragged up from the seabed, caught in the trawler’s
nets. The way he talked, you’d have thought he’d been the
captain, not a deckhand, but no one, not even Mum, wanted to
belittle his starring role.

The evening had an ever-present soundtrack of the

clacking of knitting needles, beating out a tattoo of knit one, purl
one. Mum had taken up the hobby earlier in the year when she’d
stopped smoking, and had replaced her addiction for nicotine
with a desire to create ill-fitting cardigans.

The sunset had been glorious though, more red and

purple than the burnt oranges of summer. Mum had even
stopped knitting. I had turned to say something, a snide
comment asking what momentous event had occurred to halt the
march of the woollen tide, but what I saw silenced me. She’d
always been pretty, my mum, but as the firelight danced across
her features I thought she was beautiful. She was smiling, and if
it hadn’t been for the silver tracks running down her cheeks I
might have been convinced she was happy.

“Mum?” I whispered, not wanting to alert the others.
She looked towards me and slowly shook her head.

Turning away, back to the sea, she picked up her needles again.

A few loose pieces of shale crumble beneath my feet and

bounce away as I peer over the edge. The scree has collected at
the bottom of the cliff like a rather large but unattractive rockery.
There was once a time when I’d have never stood here, my fear

113

of heights preventing it. Oddly, it doesn’t bother me now.

A pair of seagulls squawk, fighting over something, I can’t

tell what. They wail at each other, expressing their displeasure at
the each other’s guile until the larger of the pair wins the battle
and flies away, over the bay.

I track its progress, heading east, seeming unbothered by

the wind. There’s a pub in the rough direction it’s travelling but I
can’t see it from here. I drove past The Clipper’s End earlier, a
banner announcing it was still open, even if it was ‘under new
management’. I didn’t stop, and it’s been some time since I’ve
been in it, but the pub was as much part of our summer holidays
as the beach or the cottage. As we got older we graduated from
the room at the back, where the younger kids played, to the family
area, where we were mindful of the strict instructions to behave.

One time we’d ended up in The Clipper’s End was after a

day at a local fairground. Dad had needed to find solace after what
he’d considered a long and tiring day, but he’d wanted company so
had bought me a pint of cider. And even though I was still a few
months from eighteen, he’d waved aside any concerns.

“Didn’t hurt me when I was your age,” he said, up-ending

a box of dominoes, each one clattering loudly against the table
and its neighbour. “And you’d better make it last—you won’t be
getting more than two.”

Mum wasn’t there. She’d feigned a headache and

announced her preference to stay behind and watch Saturday
night television on a black-and-white portable at the cottage. I’d
been relieved, since we’d had one of our regular spats that
afternoon—a comment had been taken the wrong way and both
of us had blown it out of proportion, resulting in a fairly
impressive display of mutual sulking.

As Dad shuffled the dominoes, face down, scuffing the

surface of the table, I watched him. His hands, gnarled by all the
years at sea, were softer now he was retired, but his fingers
were still bony and misaligned by old breaks that had never
healed straight. He selected seven of the black tiles, scooped
them up, and examined them carefully, their spots hidden from
my view.

114

“You playing or what?” he asked.
“Yeah, yeah.” I selected my own dominoes and tried not

to smirk at his expression of concentration as he chose which
one to lead with.

I noticed the grey hair at his temples and the heavy crow’s

feet around his eyes, his skin tanned but rough. Gone was the
young man I always thought of when I pictured my father. When
did he get old?

He threw down his first domino and took a long drink from

his pint of bitter, licking away the froth from his top lip. I followed,
not really paying attention to the game. I’m not sure how long we
played for. Measured in drinks, he was on his third pint, me my
second, when he muttered something about whether Mum would
be asleep yet.

“I hope so,” had been my terse reply.
“You should go easy on your mum,” he said, eyes still

focused on his dominoes. “You know what she’s like.”

“Me? What about her going easy on me?”
He sighed and stared at me, his hazel eyes dull. “I’ll never

understand why you two just can’t get along.”

Snatching up my own pint glass, I swallowed down a few

mouthfuls of cider, each gulp repressing the urge to bite back, to
demand he ask the same of her, knowing full well he never
would. The argument was not worth starting.

“She can’t accept me for who I am. I can’t be someone I’m

not to please her.”

Dad sighed and sat back in his chair. “She’ll come

round—she’s a little shocked by it all.”

“You don’t seem to have a problem with me liking girls, so

why should she?”

“There’s not many things that shock me, love. And all I’ve

ever wanted for my kids is for them to be happy. Your mum just
needs some time. She’s not seen the world like I have.”

It is raining now, only drizzle, but enough to cling against

my skin, like the memories of this place. I’ve always thought we
were opposites, me and my mother, with little in common. We
were never close, never took the time to get to know each other,

115

but I see now we aren’t so different. Both stubborn and
opinionated, never backing down during our frequent battle of
wills, posturing at every opportunity. And God knows, neither of
us reached out to each other to try and make peace. Maybe that
was my fault, hasty to leave home, and once I’d left I always
found an excuse not to visit. It is easy to drift away when the
anchor’s not weighted down. Perhaps if I’d stayed, been there to
help, then it wouldn’t have happened.

I dash away a stray tear that if anyone was to ask would

be due to the cold air. No point crying over something that can’t
be changed. I sniff noisily and, as I do, I catch the sweet smell of
heather in the air. Immediately, I’m transported back to a
summer’s morning, bright skies and warm sun. Held aloft, carried
on my father’s shoulders as he ran across the coastal path. I
giggled, a sprig of heather clutched tightly in my hand, and I
called out for him to run faster.

I can’t help but smile at the thought, and although there is

no improvement in the weather, everything feels a little brighter.
The yapping of a small dog from the beach below distracts me.
Two small children are decked out in wellington boots and
waterproofs, playing tag with the incoming sea. A few metres
behind, a young couple cling to each other but keep an eye on
the boys as they play.

It will always be difficult to stand and watch everyday life

continue here, but I want to like never before. Two years, six
months and four days ago my beautiful baby sister Vivian walked
to the edge of this cliff and didn’t stop. We are all products of our
faulty genes, new versions of preceding generations. Some of us
can live with that, some of us can’t.

I take a deep breath and two large steps away from the

edge. An arm wraps around my middle and I don’t need to turn
to know that it’s Cassie.

“How’d you find me?” I ask.
“I followed you.” She moves my hair to expose my neck

and places a gentle kiss on my skin. “I was worried. You were in
such a state this morning…I wanted to make sure you didn’t do
something you’d regret.”

116

I turn around and see the concern in her pale blue eyes, and

her dark hair is whipping around like a tangled halo. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologise for.”
I lean up to brush my lips against hers. I’ve always liked it

that she was taller than me. She strokes my arm and pulls me
close. “Promise me, Ella, that you won’t follow Vivian.”

Cassie had been there when I’d received the news. She’d

seen me crumble, held me as I cried, and has never left, despite
the countless times I’d lashed out and my frequent mood swings.
“I promise,” I mumble into the front of her coat.

She kisses the top of my head and takes my hand. “Come

on, let’s go down to the beach—make you some happy
memories.”

Cassie leads me away from the edge and down the

narrow path, and not caring about the drizzle or the wind she
starts to skip and I laugh at her childlike antics. As I’m pulled
along by her enthusiasm, my mood is lifted by the love of a
woman who has seen me at my worst and never left. I laugh and
we skip along together, passing an elderly man walking his dog,
who chuckles and waves us on our way while trying to stop his
very wet Westie from chasing after us.

Once on the sand she lets go of my hand. She kicks off her

red pumps and rolls up the legs of her jeans. “You too,” she orders.

I obey, knowing that she’ll only do it for me if I don’t. The

wet sand is squidgy between my toes, and although cold is it
wonderfully freeing, just like being a child again.

She grabs my hand and starts to steer me towards the

sea. At first I pull back, but she shoots me one of her most
dazzling smiles, the one that makes her eyes sparkle and my
stomach flip. And I give in—as always—and let her let her pull
me towards the icy water.

I shriek as the first of the freezing waves breaks over my feet.
“You big baby!” She laughs and kicks through the water,

deliberating trying to get me wet.

There is no way I’m going to stand for that and I

immediately retaliate. I scoop down and using my hands I splash
her with water, her cries of indignation only spurring me on. We

117

descend into a fit of giggles and splashes, the water soaking our
jeans and neither of us caring about the cold water or the biting
wind. She breaks away and is running through the dying waves,
her winter coat long enough to slow her down, but she’s still
faster than me. I race after her, and she stops abruptly and
tackles me into a hug. Her hair clings to her face, the rain has
smudged her makeup, but she looks so beautiful and alive.

She kisses me and the last of the darkness in my mind is

gone, chased away by her soft lips and gentle sigh. “We should
get back to your car and dry off before you get a cold,” she says,
moving my hair away from my face where it was plastered
across my cheek.

We trek back up the beach, hand in hand, arms swinging.

She stops a minute and, spotting something in the sand, picks
up a shell which she hands to me. It’s nothing special, half a
bivalve with a swirling pattern on the top. It’s the type found on
every beach in Cornwall, but I don’t care and I stroke its surface
with my thumb before sliding it carefully into my pocket. Cassie
taps her cheek with a finger, her sign that she wants a kiss as a
reward. And I am more than willing to bestow my thanks.

Leaving the beach behind, we walk arm in arm. I can’t

pretend that everything is now forgotten in the past—there will still
be bad days—but I do believe that there are now more good days
beckoning me in my future. Cassie is a bright light in my darkness,
my anchor in any storm, and I know I am the same to her. There’s
nothing faulty in my genes, nothing that I’ll allow to dictate my life.
I take one last look out across the sea. The waves crash, their
rhythm a constant in an uncertain world, and I smile.

118

Lost in London by Tam Ames

Kevin heaved a sigh, leaned against the wall of a shop

with a window full of tutus, and dropped his backpack at his feet.
He gazed around at the intersection trying to find some indication
of the street name. Was it really so damn difficult for the British
to label their streets properly? He finally caught sight of a sign:
Drury Lane. Oh well, whoop-dee-doo, maybe he could find the
freaking muffin man who could tell him where the hell he was.

He felt like pulling out his hair, although the closer he got to

thirty the more paranoid he was about going bald. Not that he was
going bald, thank God. He didn’t need one more strike against
him in the dating scene. Most guys only wanted to know your gym
routine and how much money you made. His answer was “Gym?”
and “I’m a student, so I’m about a half-step above the homeless.”
To say he hadn’t a date in months was putting it mildly.

Well, he had to be honest. Until he’d moved to London,

he’d had a pretty good job with the city of Calgary in the planning
department. But he still hadn’t dated that much. Now he had a
chance to start fresh, in a new city, getting his PhD at the
London School of Economics. Surely there would be hundreds of
gay guys he could date, or hook up with at the very least. Okay,
maybe dozens, well, at least six? A couple? So far all he’d run
into were Goth dudes and emo eighteen-year-olds. Nearly
seventy percent of his classmates were women, and he was
pretty sure the rest were straight, given the massive amount of
tweed they wore.

He bent and dug the battered map out of his backpack.

He tipped it to the left, and then tipped it to the right; maybe it
would be better upside down? Surely there had to be some
damn logic to the city. He couldn’t believe anyone in London
could teach urban planning. There was no freaking planning to
the city. Maybe it used to be goat trails or something, because
there was no way humans came up with this damn mass of
spaghetti that passed for a road map.

In a pique, he balled the map up, flung it to the ground,

and was in the process of stomping it flat—which was actually

119

quite a rewarding feeling—when he noticed a young guy looking
at him with his head tipped to the side like a curious puppy.
Kevin stopped short, looked down at the squished map, then
back at the guy who was still staring at him. He picked up the
map, cleared his throat, and shoved it in his bag, his face red.

“You okay, mate?” The guy took two steps closer.
Kevin ran his hands though his hair one more time, still

resisting the urge to yank out a handful. “Um, oh yeah, I’m fine.”
He cleared his throat again.

“Hey, you’re not local, are you?”
Kevin finally took a good look at the guy. Young; well,

younger than Kevin. Maybe early twenties, light brown hair in
kind of a faux hawk and with blue-grey eyes. He had a crooked
smile that went up more on the left side than the right. Cute.

“Heh. No. It shows?” Kevin blushed again. He hated that

his fair skin made it so obvious.

“Well, yeah. It’s okay. American?”
His eyes wide, Kevin snorted. “Um. No?” He gave a mock

shudder.

“Oops. Sorry. Canadian then?”
“No problem. I think I have to get used to it. Maybe I’ll get

a maple leaf tattoo on my forehead. Make it easier for people to
figure it out.”

The guy laughed and pushed up his shirt sleeve showing a

stylized giraffe on his forearm. “Well, if you ever need a
recommendation, I can introduce you to a guy who knows his shit.”

Kevin raised an eyebrow. “A giraffe?”
“Got it after I came back from South Africa.”
“That’s cool.” Wow, the guy was young and he’d been to

South Africa. Kevin had been to Vancouver. This was his first
time out of the country and it probably showed. He couldn’t read
a stupid map, he’d lost his passport, or maybe it had been
stolen, his one bag never did show up, and he damn near got
run over by a car the first day he stepped out of his ‘flat’. He still
got the giggles when he said that.

“So. The map?” The young guy was staring at his bag.
“Oh, well, it seems map reading is not really my thing.

120

Well, not in London anyway.” He felt his shoulders slump in
defeat. He looked up and down the street. Maybe he could catch
a cab. He couldn’t be that far from the High Commission. Surely
it wouldn’t cost that much money, and maybe he could find some
ramen noodles for dinner. They had those in the UK, didn’t they?
“Maybe I can, uh, just grab a taxi.”

“Well, where are you going?”
“Grosvenor Square? They said it wasn’t far from my

apartment, but obviously it’s really far, or I’m totally screwed and
walking in circles.”

The guy waved his hand as if it was no big deal. “It’s not

far. You just go down Drury Lane,” he waved to the right, “then
turn left onto High Holborn, follow it around to Oxford Street and
take another left. Walk straight ahead until you hit Great Chapel
Street. It’s faster to go left there and then right again onto Great
Marlborough Street. I think it’s Great Marlborough Street there?
Well, it’s just a bit off Oxford Street, you turn right and keep
going way down, you’ll cross Regent Street and it turns into
something else. Grosvenor Street maybe? Anyway, just keep
going and before you know it, you’ll be there.”

Kevin was pretty sure his eyes had glazed over around

the second left in the instructions. The young guy grimaced. “Too
much, huh?”

“Uh. Yeah. I’ll just try and find a cab. It can’t be that

expensive, right?” The fact that he would have to pay to have the
passport replaced wasn’t helping his plans to stick to a strict
budget and avoid dipping into his savings.

The guy shrugged. “Not too bad, but come on. I’ll walk

with you. I haven’t got anything better to do. It’s not far, really.”

“I don’t, I don’t want to put you out.”
“Aw, you Canadians are so polite.” Kevin blushed again.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to tease.” The man held out his hand.
“Benjamin White. Ben.”

Kevin took his hand. The guy’s palm seemed unusually

soft. “Kevin Larton.”

“Well, Kev, let’s go.” Ben started off down the street.

Kevin grabbed his backpack and jogged a bit to catch up. “Well

121

then, what’s at Grosvenor Square?”

“I, uh, need to replace my passport.”
“Ah. Old one run out?”
Oh God, how embarrassing was this. “No, I kinda lost it,

or it was stolen. Well, it’s gone.”

“Bummer.” As Ben crossed the street, dashing between

cars, Kevin attempted to keep up and not get run down. His
parents would kill him if they got a call saying he was dead. Ben
just kept up the chatter. “So how long you been in London?”

“Two, two and half weeks.”
Ben stopped short—thankfully, not in the middle of the

street—and turned to stare at him. “Seriously? And you already
lost your passport?”

Kevin rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”
With a shrug Ben turned and started walking again. “Oh

well, shit happens, right?”

“I guess.”
They turned again. Kevin was already lost. Ben turned to

look at him. “Are you here on holiday?”

“No, I’m going to school. LSE.” Jeez, Ben must have long

legs or something because Kevin kept falling behind, although at
least that let him watch Ben’s ass in a pair of baggy jeans. He
could see a pair of greenish-blue boxers sticking out the top. He
had no clue if the guy was gay or not, but he could enjoy the
view. At least he wasn’t a baby Goth or wearing tweed.

“London School of Economics? You a numbers guy then?”
“Actually I’m getting my PhD in urban planning.”
“At the LSE?” Ben looked genuinely confused as he

wrinkled his nose.

Kevin shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Huh. So a guy who’s getting a PhD in urban planning,

can’t read a map?”

Kevin blushed yet again as he saw Ben’s lips twitch in

amusement. He really had to get past the blushing thing. “I can
read a map. For a normal city. Whoever the hell planned this one
was drunk and high.”

Ben burst out laughing. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t have

122

much concept of planning back when London was built.”

“No shit,” Kevin muttered. He took a few more jogging

steps to keep up. “Uh, you’re really a local?”

“Yep, born and bred. Well, not in this area, but in London.

I live in Chelsea, grew up further out though.”

“You’re almost the first person I’ve met who has an

English accent.”

“Huh?”
“I swear, everyone I meet is from somewhere else. My

landlady is Italian, the women in the office at the LSE are Polish,
the guy who runs the corner store near my apartment is from
somewhere in the Caribbean; it’s weird.”

Ben shrugged and kept on walking. “Yeah, I suppose.

Kind of a mecca for people from other countries here. We’re still
around though, the locals.” He barely seemed to pause for
breath. “So, what made you decide to come to London for your
PhD?” Ben’s expression was genuinely open and curious.

Kevin shrugged a bit self-consciously. So many people

had asked him the same thing, usually with a turned up nose as
if he were insane. “I was getting bored with a go-nowhere job. I
found the info online, took a chance to apply, and actually got a
scholarship. And here I am.”

“Huh. That’s cool. You don’t have to worry about cash then.”
Kevin huffed out a laugh. “Oh, I definitely have to worry.

Since I’m a foreign student, the scholarship just covers the
tuition, more or less. I have to pay for my rent and food and
everything myself. But it’s not so bad. Without the scholarship I
could never have made it.” Well, the scholarship, and his Great-
Aunt Barb, who was actually subsidising his life in London. “Do
you, uh, go to school?”

“You mean uni? Or did you think I was under age?” Ben’s

grin was wide and he gave Kevin a wink. “Nah. I’m done with
that. I have a real job now.”

Kevin wasn’t sure how nosey he should be, but Ben didn’t

seem to have any compunction about asking him questions. “So,
what do you do?”

“Stripper.”

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Kevin stopped in his tracks, his mouth hanging open.
Ben bent over double laughing. “Bloody hell, you should

see your face. That was fucking brilliant.” He wiped tears from
his eyes. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” He drew a deep breath. “That
was the best thing that’s happened to me all week. Ahhh.” Ben
stood up and tried to catch his breath.

Kevin wasn’t sure whether to be pissed off or amused.

Ben clapped his hand on Kevin’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t
resist. I don’t get an opportunity to use that line very often.” He
took another deep breath. “Wow, I feel great now. Really, I’m a
graphic designer. I work for the South London Press, putting
together ads and promos and stuff.”

“Sounds interesting.” They started walking again, and

Kevin was sharply conscious of Ben’s hand still on him, warm
and heavy through his light hoodie. He wasn’t sure if it was a
“move” or if the guy was just touchy feely, although everything
he’d read said the Brits were not the touchy feely type. Kevin
wasn’t about to pull away though. It was kind of nice to have
another guy touch him, even if it turned out to be innocent.
When, a block or so later, Ben let his hand drop away, Kevin felt
the urge to pout.

“Where are you from in Canada? It’s a big place, right?”

Ben looked over at Kevin as they walked.

“Alberta.”
“That’s cool. Rocky Mountains, right? Did you grow up on

a farm?”

Kevin smiled at the common questions he got about his

home. Everyone knew the Rockies, farms and Toronto. “Actually,
I did. Well, a feedlot, not exactly a farm I guess.”

Ben’s nose wrinkled. “Feedlot?”
Kevin thought for a second. “It’s like a farm where you

raise beef for slaughter. They live in big pens, not roaming out in
the fields of grass like in the movies.” He swallowed. Just the
word manure conjured up a gag reflex as his mind was flooded
with memories of the smell.

“So, it’s like battery chickens, only cows?” Ben looked

confused. “You just feed them?”

124

“Yeah. It’s not that pretty.”
“Huh. You still have family there?”
“Yeah, I have three sisters, two older, one younger.

They’re all married with kids, and my dad and my uncle
technically own the farm, but my grandmother still runs things
with an iron fist.” He knew he sounded bitter, but his
grandmother was not his biggest fan. “What about you? Family?”

“Just my sister, she’s married. Well, my parents of course.”
“Oh.” They walked along in silence for a short while.
“So,” Kevin eventually spoke. “Can you explain cricket to

me?” Ben laughed, and the rest of the walk was taken up with a
detailed explanation. Kevin still wasn’t sure he got it, but it wasn’t
quite such a confusing mess in his head anymore.

Kevin realized he hadn’t been this happy since he’d left

home. He’d been a bit lost, literally and figuratively. He felt out of
place at school where everyone seemed to be from London, or
at least Britain, his landlady was about 140 and gave him the evil
eye every time she saw him, and the other students in his
building all looked about eighteen. It was nice to have a normal
conversation with someone. Someone hot, and maybe gay since
he’d seemed so at ease touching Kevin.

They finally reached Grosvenor Square, and the

rectangular brick building that housed the High Commission.
Impressive it was not, unless big red brick rectangles were your
thing. He stopped at the entrance and Ben stuck his hands in his
pockets. “Here you go.”

“Yeah. Thanks. I appreciate this. I’d have still been

wandering around a week from now if you hadn’t rescued me.”

Ben’s crooked grin kicked up and Kevin couldn’t stop staring

at it. “Hey, if you ever get lost, give me a call.” Kevin just cocked his
head. Did that mean “call me if you’re lost” or “call me”?

Ben pulled his hand out of his pocket and wiggled his

fingers in Kevin’s direction. “Give me your mobile.”

Kevin’s eyebrows drew down for a minute. Mobile? Oh, cell

phone. He really had to get the lingo down here. He dug his
phone out of his backpack and handed it to Ben. For a brief
moment he wondered if he was being mugged. Okay, that was

125

just paranoid. Ben fiddled around with the phone, punched in
some numbers, then handed it back. “There, your own built-in tour
guide.” The crooked smile was back. He turned and pointed to the
far end of the street. “Just walk that way, don’t stop and you’ll
come to Oxford Street. Turn right and you’ll get to Bond Street
tube. You can get home from there, can’t you?” Ben smiled.

“Yes.” Kevin shook his head in mock consternation. “I’m

not that helpless. And I have my map.” Ben snorted. “Hush.” But
Kevin couldn’t help smiling himself.

“So.” They both stood there awkwardly. “I better go in.”

Kevin waved to the door. “They said there might be a wait
depending on how busy it is.”

“Yeah. Take care and good luck with that PhD.”
“Thanks.” Kevin watched Ben stroll off across the street and

into the park, the Square he supposed. What did you call it? Both?

He looked down at the phone in his hand and turned to

the entrance. Huh. A number, he had a guy’s number. Not that
he’d likely use it. There was another reason he hadn’t had any
dates lately, one he couldn’t blame on being a poor student or
not going to the gym. Making the first move was just not his
thing. Growing up gay in a small town in Western Canada, you
learned not to approach someone first, unless getting your face
smashed in worked for you. Old habits died hard, and the fear
still lingered more than ten years later.

At least for an hour he hadn’t felt quite so like a fish out of

water.

* * * *

Three weeks later, Kevin looked around the dimly lit

Chelsea street. Everything looked the same. All the houses were
the same brick or white stuff. He squinted, trying to see if there
were any house numbers. When he tilted his head he had to
grasp a gate to keep from falling face first into the street. Classy.
Canadian found in drunken stupor in gutter. The street to the
subway, oh wait, ‘tube’, was somewhere nearby. It was a big
street with stores. As something scurried across the sidewalk in

126

front of him, Kevin screeched and jumped into the street. “Holy
fuck!” Had that been a rat? He shuddered and crossed to the
other side of the street.

London sucked. His classmates who’d abandoned him at

the house party sucked. The ancient landlady sucked, his
professors sucked, the damn squirrely layout of the city sucked,
well, gin didn’t suck. Why had he never tried gin before? That
was a genius invention. He wondered if he went back to the
house if they’d give him more gin. Although now he didn’t know
which house it was since they all looked the same. Why was
everything identical in London?

There was very nearly a case of gutter sprawling when he

tripped over an uneven paving stone. He banged his knee on a
brick garden wall and cursed. Oh, why had he ever agreed to
come here? Maybe his grandmother had been right. He could
always slink home to the farm with his tail between his legs and
shovel shit for a living. His gag reflex kicked in again just at the
thought.

Crap. The street was a dead end. He turned around to

walk back, stumbled as he stepped down off the curb, but
recovered before landing on his ass. Okay, maybe gin was not
so great.

When he came upon a small garden wall, he sat and

pulled out his phone. Maybe he had GPS? He wasn’t sure he’d
paid for data service. The numbers were all blurry anyway. A
name popped up, suddenly not so blurry. ‘Ben—Tour Guide’.
He’d spent the last three weeks looking at that number, but
never had the guts to call. But hey, he was lost now. Ben said if
he was lost he should call.

He pushed the button, a drunken grin plastered to his face.
“‘Lo?”
“Hey, Ben.”
“Who is this?” Kevin frowned. Ben sounded annoyed.
“You said I could call you if I was lost.”
“Kevin?” There was a pause. “It’s three fifteen.”
“Uh huh. I’m lost.”
“You’re pissed.”

127

“And lost.”
Ben heaved a sigh. “Do you know where you are at all?

Can’t you call a cab?”

“I’m in Chelsea. I’m close to you.”
“Where in Chelsea?”
“Um. By houses, brick houses. Lots and lots of them. Why

are they all joined together?”

“Kevin.” Ben stopped. “Okay, do you know what street

you’re on?”

“Nope. But I saw a rat. It was gross.”
Ben huffed out a chuckle. “Yeah. That doesn’t really help.

Can you find a street corner?”

“Maybe. Will you come and be my tour guide?”
“We’ll see. Walk towards a corner, okay?”
“Okay.” Kevin walked back in the general direction from

which he’d come, avoiding the rat side of the street. He gave a
shudder.

“What were you doing exactly?”
“Drinking gin. Did you know gin is great? It’s apparently

your national drink or something. It’s amazing.”

Ben laughed again. “Yeah, that stuff’ll kill you.”
“Mmm. Probably. Especially if I fall in the gutter and the

rats get me.”

“Christ, get off the rat thing. Are you to a corner yet?”
“Yeah. Maybe this is the big street. Oh, wait,” Kevin

walked up to the plate glass window and looked at the sign. “Oh
my God, Ben. It’s a funeral parlour. Do you think there are dead
people inside? What if there are zombies?”

Kevin could hear the rustling of clothes over the phone.

“There are no zombies.”

“How do you know?” He looked at the empty street. “It’s

completely empty here, there’s no cars. It’s like that movie. 28
Days. What if everyone’s dead or a zombie, what if I’m the only
one left alive?”

“Kevin!” Ben’s voice stopped him short. “Everyone is not

dead. I’m obviously not dead or a zombie. Now can you find the
name of the street?”

128

He wandered down the block a bit and found a street

name. “Munster Road. Oh my God. It’s like the TV show, or the
cheese. I’m starving. There’s a grocery store but it’s closed.
Where can I get some cheese?”

Ben was laughing now. “Should I call you a cab?”
“I want you to give me a tour. I’ll buy you cheese. Look out

for zombies though.”

“You’re a hilarious drunk.”
“‘M not.”
“Yes, you are. Okay, I need you to go back to the

undertaker’s—”

“Zombies!”
“Kevin. Go back to the undertaker’s and wait by the door.

There are no zombies. Promise. I’ll be there in about fifteen
minutes. Can you do that? Don’t wander off.”

“Okay, but if they eat my brain it’s your fault.”
“I’ll take the blame. Go and sit on the steps or something.”
“There are no steps.”
“Then just sit on the pavement.”
“In the street? Isn’t that dangerous?”
Ben spluttered for a minute. “No, the, the, part you walk on.”
“Sidewalk.”
“Yes, sit on the sidewalk. Wait for me.”
“Okay.”
Kevin parked himself as far from the door of the funeral

home as he could get. There was a small wrought iron fence that
came up just past his knees marking the property divide with the
beauty parlour next door. He slid around until he was on the
safer side of the fence. He was still technically next to the funeral
parlour so he didn’t think Ben would mind. And maybe the fence
would stop any zombies. He pulled his knees up so his feet
weren’t sticking out past the end of it, leaned his head back, and
closed his eyes. He was so tired. Maybe gin wasn’t so great. It
made you sleepy. His classmates still sucked, though. They
abandoned him in a strange neighbourhood. That was mean.

* * * *

129

The next thing he knew, a hand was shaking him awake.

Kevin blinked his eyes open and looked up to see Ben’s face.
“Ben!” He smiled. The guy was still cute.

“I thought maybe you were dead, that the zombies had

got you.”

Kevin grabbed the hand Ben held out, smirking, to heave

him to his feet. He staggered a bit and then righted himself.

“Well, they could have.”
“Uh huh.” He nodded down the street. “Come on.” After a

block or so, Ben looked at Kevin. “Are you still pissed?”

Kevin blushed. “I wasn’t pissed.”
Ben laughed out loud this time. “Oh, you so were. Rats,

zombies. You’re a bit paranoid, mate.”

He shrugged. His head was still kind of buzzy, but

everything wasn’t quite as spinny as when he’d been on the
phone with Ben. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. You make me laugh. That’s a good thing.”
The blush deepened but Kevin couldn’t help smiling.

“Where are we going?” He staggered slightly and bumped into
Ben. Ben’s arm snaked around his waist keeping him steady. He
didn’t let go and Kevin couldn’t resist snuggling a little closer. He
figured he could blame it on the alcohol and apologise if Ben
freaked. He’d never noticed that Ben was taller. That was nice.

“My place is probably closer. Well, I don’t know where you

live, but the tube and buses aren’t running until morning, so
unless you have to be home tonight, best to come home with me.”

“‘Kay.”
They walked along in silence for a bit. Ben never removed

his arm. “What were you doing in Chelsea?” Ben gave him a
squeeze. “Besides drinking gin.”

Kevin was glad it was dark so Ben couldn’t see how red

his face was. “It was a house party. Some of the people from my
class invited me.”

“Then why didn’t you stay with them?”
He frowned and looked up at Ben. “They left me.”
“They just left you?”
“I guess. I don’t know. I was having fun, talking to some

130

woman from Spain—Why is no one ever from here?—and then it
was time to go and someone told me they’d left. I said I could
find my way but…” He sighed. “I had to phone you to rescue me.
Again.”

“I’m glad you did. I’d hate for the zombies to have got you.”
Kevin nudged him with his hip. “You smell good.” Oops.

He hadn’t meant to say that.

Ben laughed. “You smell like gin.”
“I think someone spilled their drink on me.”
“Either that or you missed your mouth a time or two when

you were knocking back the gin.” They turned down yet another
residential street with more brick and white houses. About
halfway down the block they turned up the short walk of one of
the houses, and Ben unlocked the door.

“You own a house?”
Ben shook his head and put a finger to his lips. Inside

there was another door, which Ben opened, and he led Kevin up
two flights of stairs by the hand. “Don’t fall,” he whispered.

“Why are we whispering?”
“Because my sister and her husband will kill me if I wake

them up. It’s their house—they live downstairs.”

“Ahh.” Kevin knew about nasty sisters. He had three who

were kind of like his grandmother. Scary.

At the top of the stairs there was another door. Once

through, Ben locked it and unzipped his sweater. “There, now we
can talk.”

“Okay.” Kevin blinked and looked around. There was a

tiny space which seemed to be living room, dining room and
kitchen all in one. He could see the doorway to the bedroom and
bath at the back.

“This is nice. Better than my place.” He only had one

room, but at least he didn’t have to share a bathroom.

“It’s okay. The rent’s right.” Ben grinned that lovely

crooked grin. Kevin realized he was just standing there staring at
the guy. He unzipped his own hoodie.

“Do you want a drink?”
Kevin’s stomach heaved. “Um, no.”

131

Ben laughed. “I meant water.”
“Oh, okay. Yeah.”
“Sit.” Ben got him a glass of water from the tap and

flopped down on the small couch. Kevin tried to keep his
balance, but Ben’s weight caused Kevin to fall over against him.
After handing him the glass, Ben wrapped his arm around
Kevin’s shoulders. He gave up struggling and just relaxed into
Ben’s grip and drank his water. After draining nearly half, he
closed his eyes and let his head flop onto Ben’s shoulder.

“I’m too old for this shit.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine. Nearly thirty. Ancient.”
Ben squeezed him. “Not ancient.”
“How old are you. Twenty-one?”
“Twenty-three.”
“See, you’re a baby. Who thinks gin will kill you.”
That got a laugh. “So, how are you liking London?”
“I hate it.”
Ben pulled back a bit so he could look Kevin in the eye.

“How come?”

Kevin sighed. “I don’t know. My landlady hates me. My

classmates are mostly kind of snotty and younger than me…and
they abandon me at parties. I still get lost all the time. Your beer
tastes funny. I hate tea, and I have no friends.” He sighed again.

The arm around his shoulders tightened. Kevin couldn’t

help but move closer. He half turned so his arm was around
Ben’s waist. “I’m sure your landlady doesn’t hate you.”

“Yes, she does.”
“How do you know?”
“Because last week she stood in the hallway and

screamed, ‘I hate all you bloody kids.’ At least that’s what my
neighbour said she was screaming. It was mostly in Italian.”

“Okay, so it’s not you personally.”
“No, she hates everyone.”
“I’ll be your friend.”
Kevin barely heard the quiet voice. He was getting warm

and sleepy again. He turned some more to sling his leg over

132

Ben’s lap and wriggled to get comfortable. “‘Kay. I’d like that.”

“I don’t think this is good.”
“Hmm? Why? I’m warm.” Kevin nuzzled his head into

Ben’s neck. Ben smelled really good. Like spices and maybe
apples. Spiced apple, that was it. Kevin inhaled deeply.

“Because I’m going to get a cramp.” Ben patted Kevin’s

leg. “Come on. Up. Bedtime.”

Kevin let Ben drag him to his feet. “It’s almost morning.”
“Yes. Time for bed.”
Ben led him by the hand into a small bedroom that was

mostly all bed. Kevin peeled off his shirt, slid down his jeans and
kicked them off with his shoes and socks. He barely noticed Ben
doing the same. He crawled into bed, his eyes already closed,
and flipped around. As soon as Ben was under the covers, Kevin
slid up behind him and inhaled again. “Apples.”

“What?”
“You smell like apples.”
“I think you’re still drunk, go to sleep.”
“‘M not.” He slid his arm around Ben’s waist and felt Ben

lace their fingers together just before he fell asleep.

* * * *

When Kevin woke up, he was hot, boiling hot. There was

someone draped over his chest. He cracked an eye open and
saw Ben’s head on his shoulder, his arm across his chest and a
leg slung over him. He closed his eyes for a minute to just enjoy
the feel of having someone pressed up against him, but he had
to take a piss, bad. And it felt like his mouth was full of cotton.

Kevin managed to wiggle out from under Ben, who just

flopped back down and rolled over. He climbed off the end of the
bed and quietly closed the bathroom door. After taking a leak, he
used his finger and some of the toothpaste Ben had next to the
sink to get rid of the cotton mouth feeling. Kevin looked in the
mirror. There were bags under his eyes, and his dark hair was
sticking up on one side of his head. No amount of water would
smooth it down so he gave up.

133

It was still early and Kevin wondered if he should just put

on his clothes and leave. He couldn’t have made a good
impression, dragging Ben out of bed in the middle of the night to
rescue him. He blushed just thinking about what a drunken
whiney idiot he’d been. If he left now, he wouldn’t have to face
Ben when he woke up.

Then again, he didn’t have a clue where he was. That

would be even more embarrassing—to have to phone Ben to
rescue him after he left his own house. Should he just sit on the
couch and wait? Go back to bed? When he went back into the
bedroom, he found Ben had kicked the comforter off and was
sprawled on his stomach. His spine was a smooth slope leading
to a divine ass covered in baby blue briefs.

Kevin couldn’t resist. He climbed back into the bed from

the bottom, propped himself up on his elbow, and looked his fill.
There were three small brown spots on Ben’s back forming a
triangle. He gently slid his finger along Ben’s skin connecting the
three. When Ben didn’t move he continued his exploration. There
was a flat, wide scar to the left of Ben’s lower back. Kevin
smoothed his fingers over it. Then he ran his hand down Ben’s
back, letting his fingertips gently slide over each nub of his spine.

When he reached the elastic of Ben’s underwear, he

didn’t stop, just slid his hand down further to cover one tight,
round ass cheek. He gently squeezed and massaged the firm
muscle under his hand. When Ben lifted his ass up into Kevin’s
grasp he froze. “Don’t stop.” Ben’s voice was muffled by the
pillow. He turned his head and blinked one eye open to look at
Kevin. “That’s the kind of wake-up call I enjoy.” A lazy smile
spread over his face.

Kevin couldn’t resist that lopsided grin. He slid his hand

further down to where the briefs met Ben’s thigh and gently
slipped his hand under the edge so he could rub the pads of his
fingers over the flesh of Ben’s ass. Ben made a little contented
humming noise and closed his eyes. He continued to push up
into Kevin’s touch.

He leaned forward and kissed Ben’s shoulder, giving it a

small nip as he wormed his hand further under the edge of Ben’s

134

briefs. Ben turned his face up for a kiss and Kevin leaned in. Soft
and lazy, they explored, lips tugging, teeth nibbling. Kevin
groaned, the sound coming from deep in his chest. It had been
too long, far too long since he’d done this. Just touching, kissing,
exploring.

Eventually Ben wriggled over until he was on his back,

then kicked off his underwear. He reached up to wrap his hand
around the back of Kevin’s neck, but Kevin shook his head and
pulled back. Ben frowned, but Kevin smiled. “I wanna look.”

Ben just grinned and lay back. “Look away.”
Kevin ran his hand down the centre of Ben’s chest to his

navel and then back up. Ben had a light dusting of hair on his
chest and around his nipples. Kevin traced circles around each
tight bud. Glancing up, he saw Ben watching him. They just gave
each other goofy smiles. No words seemed necessary.

He went back to exploring and traced the treasure trail of

hair down to a deliciously thick uncut cock. Kevin had been
looking forward to this when he’d decided to come to England. It
was about a 50-50 chance at home he’d find an uncut guy. It
was like the best toy ever. He wrapped his hand around Ben’s
prick and gently stroked up and down twice, watching in
fascination as the head poked out of the foreskin. He leaned
down and swiped his tongue over the slit, savouring the sharp
flavour. Maybe a hint of apples and spice. Ben’s mouth was
slightly open and he was panting, staring down at Kevin, those
blue-grey eyes wide. Kevin smiled and lowered his mouth over
Ben’s cock. Kevin closed his eyes and moaned. It was so good;
smooth, hard and warm, sliding over his tongue, into the back of
his throat. He focussed on not gagging and then pulled up,
enjoying the feel of the foreskin loose against his tongue. He slid
a hand down to cup Ben’s balls and gently roll them, enjoying the
sound of Ben’s gasps above him.

Kevin shifted to adjust himself. His own hard-on was

caught between his underwear and his stomach. Ben tugged at
his hair. Kevin looked up, never taking his mouth off Ben as he
continued to play with the foreskin with his tongue. Ben gasped
and swallowed as if he was having trouble speaking. “You too. I

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want to taste you.”

It took Kevin a minute to figure out what Ben meant, and

then he sat up to quickly strip his own underwear off. Ben slid
further down the large bed, then pulled Kevin’s head towards him
for a kiss. They spent another few minutes with tongues tangled,
and their hands roamed over each other’s bodies, exploring the
shapes and textures. When Ben’s hand wrapped around his
prick, it was Kevin’s turn to start panting. “Okay, now.” They both
nodded and Kevin shifted around in the bed so that they could
each reach the other’s cock, lying on their sides with one leg
propped up for better access.

They both moved forward at the exact same time, mouths

working in a weird kind of synchronicity. It had never been like this
before. Kevin gave up trying to figure it out and decided to just
enjoy it. All of it, the flavour, the sensations, the stretch of his lips
around Ben’s thick cock, was perfect. The suction around his own
prick, the way Ben seemed to know exactly when to tug on his
balls, made it hard to focus on pleasing Ben, but he didn’t give up.

Ben groaned around Kevin’s cock as Kevin took a deep

breath and took him deep. He held him there, swallowing to
massage the head of his cock. As he pulled up, he moved his
fingers back further behind Ben’s balls, rubbing on the smooth
skin of his taint. Ben’s hips snapped forward suddenly and the
salty bitter taste of his spunk filled Kevin’s mouth. As he groaned
and swallowed, Ben moved two of his fingers back to massage
Kevin’s hole. Kevin pulled off Ben’s still twitching cock, swore and
came, his head resting against Ben as he gasped through the
orgasm. That was a thousand times better than his own hand.

Both men lay panting for a few minutes, too limp to change

positions. Finally Kevin moved, pushing and shoving at Ben until
they were back on the pillows. Ben wrapped his arms around him,
pulled Kevin close, and kissed him on the forehead. “Wow.”

“Uh huh.”
“I wish every morning started that way.”
“Hell yeah.”
They continued to lie there, hands gently stroking and

touching, exploring the texture of skin, finding the bumps and

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dents of childhood scars and birth marks. Ben cleared his throat.
Kevin’s eyebrows drew down as the panic hit. This would be the
“this was fun, but I got plans” brush-off.

Before Kevin could say or do anything, Ben spoke. “You

know how you said you have no friends here?”

“Yeah.” Kevin really didn’t know where this was going.
“Maybe, maybe you could get a boyfriend. You know, one

that comes with a few built-in mates. Ones who wouldn’t
abandon you at parties.”

Kevin smiled into Ben’s shoulder and let out the breath

he’d been holding, the tension leaving his shoulders. “And do
you have any advice on where a lonely Canadian could find a
boyfriend in a big city like London?”

“Well.” The laughter was back in Ben’s voice. “You might

find one in Chelsea. I hear there’s this good-looking bloke who
knows how to read maps and is great at rescuing lost
Canadians.”

“And do you think this hot guy might be interested in a

permanent position?” Kevin snuggled closer.

“I think he could handle that.”
Kevin stretched up and gave Ben a kiss. They lay there,

stroking and softly kissing, until Kevin’s stomach grumbled
loudly, making them both laugh.

“I guess feeding you is part of this deal too, huh?”
Kevin thought for a second. “Hey. Do you have any

cheese? I never did get any last night.”

Ben pulled him tight and Kevin felt the laughter vibrating

through his chest. “No Canadian stuff, but I’ve got some good
British Cheddar. Might even rustle up a slice of Hovis to go with it.”

The smile Kevin gave him stretched a mile wide. “You

can’t fool me with your exotic foreign words. I know Hovis is
bread. You know, I think I like London a lot better now.”

Ben grinned back, that crooked smile pulling up more on

one corner than the other. “Me too, Kev. Me too.”

137

My Husband by Zahra Owens

“No, we’ll do fine in the one bed. After all, we’ve been

sharing one for the last ten years. Sam’s my husband,” Sean
said with his biggest possible smile and his thumb casually
pointing at me. He always could charm the pants—or skirt—off
anyone, including the receptionist at the quaint little hotel in the
centre of Antwerp, where we were playing tourist for Pride
weekend.

It still felt strange to hear him say it. Husband. As if it was

just that and nothing else. And it felt so right. He sounded
content and happy and his words in no way spoke about the
struggle the last ten years had been.

It said nothing about how I’d been his wife for the first six

of those, and then three years of neither one nor the other.
During those three years we stayed together, but it was a little
hard to say what I was after I’d dropped the bombshell I felt I was
born into the wrong body.

* * * *

I couldn’t be prouder of my husband. After all, his world had

toppled every bit as much as mine. He’d had to adjust his sights
and hadn’t had his entire life to work up to it. He had never signed
up for this, yet, every time he looked at me, I still saw his love.

For some reason it had never mattered to him that I only

wore skirts or dresses under duress; or that I never wore make-up
or diverted from my pixie haircut, even before it was fashionable.
In fact he told me the day of our wedding that he liked it that I
never wore high-heeled shoes, because he was only an inch or
two taller than me and I’d end up bigger than him. He’d always
been my rock, even before the emotional earthquake.

* * * *

When I met him for the first time, at sixth form college, I

was in what was one of my many phases of “trying to be a

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woman”. That’s what my mother called it.

“Make an effort, love. Wear a little blush, some lipstick.

Wear a dress now it’s nice and sunny out.”

I could still hear her voice. I hated all those things, but she

was sick, breast cancer, and I wanted to make that effort for her.
Sean didn’t look at me twice, but we hung out with the same
crowd so we got to spend some time together and I had a crush
on him. Like everything else personal, I managed to hide it very
well, so when we went to different universities, we didn’t even
say goodbye.

Years later, I bumped into him again at, of all places,

Brighton Pride—and he didn’t recognise me. I wasn’t there only
for the fun, since I’d started a job working for a group of charities
and Brighton Pride was one of them, but it wasn’t exactly your
dreary office job either. I got to hang out in a fundraising booth
with The Peacocks, my all-gay, all-male office troop, for the
entire week and the money they brought in with their antics, I
recorded in the books. Someone had to keep their head on
‘straight’.

“Why aren’t you out there with the boys?” an amused

voice asked.

“Someone has to mind the money,” I replied before

looking up into the kindest, softest, deer-brown eyes I’d ever
seen. And then I realised it wasn’t my first time seeing them after
all. “Sean Arbus.”

“You have me at a disadvantage,” he said. “Why don’t I

know you when you obviously know me?”

I held out my hand. “Sam Forbes.” He took my hand and I

gripped it tightly, then gave it a brisk shake. You can tell a lot
from how people greet you and Sean’s handshake was certainly
not of the limp variety.

“Little Sammy Forbes, of the flowery, see-through dresses

and the perpetual blush?”

I smiled wryly. “She’s long gone.”
“I can see that!” There was no malice in his voice, just

surprise. “So, what brings you here?”

My smiled turned a little warmer. “I work for Brighton

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Pride. Book-keeping mostly.”

“I bet you a fiver it’s the most fun you’ve ever had book-

keeping, right?”

“You can say that again.”
“I bet you a fiver,” he started and then slapped me on the

shoulder—hard—before starting off a fit of laughter that
unashamedly turned into giggles. I figured he was drunk—not a
bad guess since he was holding a pint of lager—but it turned out
it was his first and he was just…gregarious. By last call we
ended up in a pub after I’d deposited our earnings at the office,
and despite the noise, we managed to find a reasonably quiet
corner where we finished a pair of coffees and they had to throw
us out because we wouldn’t stop talking.

Sean walked me home and for some reason he made me

feel safe, which made me come to the conclusion that he was
gay. Wasn’t this the feeling I always got with the gay ones?

* * * *

I’d always had a love/hate relationship with women. Most

of them thought I was weird. Some of them tried to turn me into a
“real woman”, my mother first and foremost. Most of the time I
just couldn’t connect to their world of jewellery, make-up, shoes
and clothes. And I certainly didn’t share their maternal instinct.

Men were difficult in an entirely different way. If they

wanted to seduce me, I either didn’t get it, or pushed them away
before they’d really got started. Others seemed to find my flat
chest less than appealing, as if they were annoyed at not having
anything to stare at. They ignored me, like Sean had in college.

It wasn’t until I met my first gay friend that I realised I

could actually feel comfortable around another human being, and
it was no surprise this human being was male. Alistair—but don’t
you dare ever call him that—wasn’t a flaming queen. He could
easily pass for straight if he put some effort into it, but he rarely
did. He wore fairly ordinary, albeit slightly eccentric clothes, often
second hand, which would now be considered vintage, but then
they were just his way to dress smartly on a student’s budget. Ali

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made me fall in love with waistcoats, fancy trousers and men’s
shirts, which, given my lack of bosom, fit me quite comfortably.
He would put gel in my hair, dress me up in what were probably
very male clothes and take me to men-only gay clubs, so I
suppose he was to blame for making me realise I felt good being
mistaken for a guy.

Thanks to him, I tumbled into a world of men who

accepted me for what I was (sexually ambivalent); called me
darling without making it sound feminine (or condescending);
men who showed me affection, even physically, without me
having to fear they’d drag me into their beds.

Ali was very open with me. He’d tell me about the guys

he’d take home from the club some nights, gush about what they
did to each other after they’d closed the door behind them, and
cry when one of them had stolen his heart, but hadn’t bothered
to show up for the second date. I lived vicariously through him.

We rented a tiny flat together, so more often than not, on

a Sunday he’d crawl into my bed before dawn, after his man of
the hour had left him, to either praise him or tell me how
foolish—or drunk—he’d been to take that one home.

It was one such morning, after too few hours of sleep, that

I let slip something I’d never told him before. “I’d treat you better,
Ali. I’d make you see stars, then let you fall asleep in my arms
and make you breakfast when we got hungry in the morning.”

Ali snuggled closer to me, nuzzled my neck and grunted.

“If only you had a cock, darling.”

If only.

* * * *

Sean turned out to be straight as an arrow. He was in

Brighton with his baby brother Callum, who was anything but
straight, and basically had promised his mother he’d make sure
nothing happened to her youngest.

My biggest surprise was how comfortable Sean was

around gay men. And not just any gay men. Gay men during
Pride were horny and in-your-face and had just one item on the

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agenda: getting laid. Sean flirted with them, smiled while his
bottom was being pinched, allowed them to put their arms
around his not-overly-broad shoulders, and had a dirty mouth
that could make any sailor blush. On top of everything he
managed to let them down gently. I thought it just looked like he
was playing hard to get.

At one point I was watching him in action when Ali came

to stand next to me. “Isn’t that what’s-his-name from college?”

“Sean Arbus,” I provided.
“Thought I recognised him from that dog-eared picture

you carry around with you.” I threw Ali the death stare, but he
pretended not to notice. “He grew up nicely.”

“He’s straight, Ali.”
“No bloody way,” Ali shouted, making his way across the

room. He grabbed the back of Sean’s neck with one hand and
his waist with the other, pulled him into what looked like a
searing kiss and then let him go with a contented smile.

“You’re right,” Ali said with a smirk on his face once he’d

returned to sitting next to me. He grabbed his drink from me,
nudged me with his shoulder and took a big swig.

“How—”
“Limp like overcooked pasta, my dear.”
I snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself, Ali. Not every guy is

turned on by you. Even if he is gay.”

Ali rolled his eyes. “Then again, how many straight guys

do you know that will let me do that to them?”

I couldn’t fault Ali on that.
I wasn’t drunk but felt daring. There was my college crush,

looking even more delicious than when he was still going home
to Mummy, and he was letting himself be kissed. Ali’s gaydar
was flawless, so if he wasn’t gay…I pushed myself away from
the bar and confidently—only outwardly, trust me—strode over to
Sean. I did exactly as Ali had done and kissed Sean, taking
charge and making him bend to my will. Even at twenty-four, I’d
only ever kissed gay men, and never seriously. The way Sean let
me kiss him sparked a flame I’d never felt before. I felt strong
and powerful as he startled a little, then returned the kiss and

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tried to take the upper hand.

That’s when I felt heat against my back.
“Who would have known, my brother having it on with a

bloke.”

I pulled back and looked over my shoulder to see a

younger version of Sean, his hands on my hips and a delicious
smirk on his face.

“She’s not a bloke, Cal.”
Callum’s hands travelled to my groin, copping a feel that

made me jump. “Bloody hell, you’re right.” Cal stepped back. “My
apologies, m'lady.” He winked at Sean.

Sean put his arm around my shoulders. “Sam, this is my

brother Callum. Cal, this is Sam, who used to be in college with
me. She works for Brighton Pride.”

Callum had every bit of Sean’s charm, and even more

bravado. “Nice to meet you, Sam. I’m sorry I thought you were a
bloke. No offence.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I told Callum, when all I really

wanted to tell him was “Please do.” On the inside I was floating
and a little voice was telling me “He thought I was a guy!”

* * * *

After Pride, Sean and I stayed in touch. He worked in the

City of London and I travelled between Brighton and London for
work so we got to see quite a bit of each other. My renewed
crush turned to love when I realized he made time for me, but he
was infinitely patient. After our first kiss at the Pride party, we did
little more than kiss good night for several dates, but he kept
calling me for another date. I knew I was stalling because I was
afraid of what he’d think of a twenty-four-year-old virgin who was
so unsure of her own body, she froze every time his hands were
on her. What was wrong with me?

I’d taken him to see my mother in between hospital visits

and Mum was overjoyed with me finding a boyfriend. I knew she
was dreaming of grandkids, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her
this would never happen. I could circumnavigate the subject with

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my mother, but I couldn’t with Sean. If it ever came up, I’d have
to be straight with him, but I didn’t dare bring it up myself. What if
it was a deal breaker? Where would I be then?

I decided to take it one step at a time. I invited myself to

his flat with a promise of a home cooked meal and told him I
would sleep over. He looked like he’d just won the National
Lottery. I was crushed by his expectations.

I put on a dress and a little make-up and spent three

hours in his kitchen cooking him a roast, peas and carrots and
potatoes. He looked smashing when he walked in the door in his
work suit. Like a good housewife, I greeted him at the door and
was rewarded with a hug. He then pushed me to arm’s length
and looked at me. “You look nice, but you’re not comfortable this
way, are you?”

I swallowed away the lump in my throat and shook my head.
“Did you bring other clothes?”
I nodded in the direction of my overnight bag, which was

still in the hallway.

He gestured toward his bedroom. “Go put them on while I

check what smells so amazing.”

I didn’t stop the flow of tears when I changed into my

black jeans and white shirt. He understood how I felt, even if he
didn’t know the whole story. I washed the makeup off my face
and walked into the kitchen where he was sitting crouched in
front of the oven.

“This looks amazing.” He got up and hugged me again.

“And a lot more comfortable.”

“Thanks,” I managed to murmur against the collar of his

suit after he hugged me again. “You look pretty spiffy too.”

“But I can’t wait to get out of this suit either. Just wanted

to give you the privacy to change first.”

By the time he returned in a T-shirt and jeans, dinner was

on the table and eating together felt oddly domestic, as if we did
this all the time. Sean complimented me on the food and kept
touching my hand and looking me in the eye. We even did the
dishes together. I wanted the evening to last forever. Part of that
was that I was dreading going to bed. I’d promised I’d spend the

144

night, but I was still afraid of his expectations. Sitting on the
couch, his arm around my shoulders and his breath ghosting my
hair as we watched a movie was a good feeling. Even kissing a
little after the movie was over was more or less in my comfort
zone, since this was nothing new, but then he yawned and I
knew he had to be tired.

He ruffled my hair. “You can have my bed. I changed the

sheets this morning. I can sleep in my office if you want.” He
seemed uncharacteristically unsure of himself. Was he just shy
or afraid of rejection?

I shook my head before thinking. I so didn’t want to

disappoint him. “You don’t need to do that. We can share your
bed. Don’t know if I’ll be able to do more than sleep, but you
don’t need to make up the extra bed.”

Sean sighed and I thought he looked relieved. “Did you

bring pyjamas?” I nodded. “I’ll change in the ensuite so you can
have the bedroom.”

I swear I was sweating bricks as I changed into my PJ’s

quickly so he wouldn’t catch me naked. He took forever to return
from the bathroom and when he did, he looked adorable in his
plaid boxers and matching T-shirt. And still so terribly unsure of
himself. I couldn’t stop looking at his hairy legs and wondering if
his chest was hairy too.

With a few giggles and a lot of tension we decided on who

took which side of the bed and then took our time until I was
lying in his arms. We talked some more, about our work week
and what we were going to do over the weekend. I relaxed as I
realised nothing much was going to happen, but couldn’t stop the
feelings of guilt for not putting out. Again. I didn’t fall asleep until I
was sure he was firmly in dreamland.

Over the weekend and the following weekends as well, I

was floored by Sean’s endless patience with me. We did
everything I’d always seen my parents do. We walked hand in
hand through the park. We talked for hours. We kissed, chastely,
in front of complete strangers. We went to the pub with Callum
and his new boyfriend, and Sean kept putting his hand on my
knee or thigh, and kept taking my hand in his and looking at me

145

lovingly. It wasn’t that he only did it in front of Callum or his other
friends. He’d look at me like that when we were alone too. And I
was going crazy with guilt for holding out on him. He was a
normal, healthy, twenty-five year-old man. He should be ripping
my clothes off and having his way with me. But I was eternally
grateful he hadn’t done that.

* * * *

The weekend we went back to Brighton for Pride was our

one year anniversary. I finally decided I had to reward Sean’s
patience. One of the things I thought about was buying lingerie,
but I knew Sean would see I wouldn’t be comfortable, just like
with the dress. I was going to have to seduce him from inside my
flannels. I poured myself some liquid courage and knowing he
wouldn’t be entirely sober either after a night of partying, I
decided to help him get out of his PJ’s once we were in bed.
We’d got to the point where we could change into our night gear
in the same room before crawling under the covers and then I’d
snuggle into his arms. That night I was going to put my hand
under his shirt and not just caress his chest, which I’d done on
one or two occasion before, but let my hand wander south.

To my surprise, he let me until I dipped under the

drawstring of his trousers. Suddenly he jumped up as if he’d
been stung. I felt strangely rejected.

“What are you doing?” he asked, confusion in his face.
“I…I wanted to reward you for your patience.”
“You’re drunk.”
“No, I’m not. I’m a little buzzed, but I’m not drunk.”
“Well, I’m drunk. And I don’t want our first time to be like that.”
I lay back, giving him the space to lie next to me without

having to touch me. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head without looking at me. “Don’t be. I just

want it to be right.”

* * * *

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The next morning he kissed me and we had sex for the first

time. It was memorable because it was the first time he’d been
inside me, and because it was so awkward and unsexy we never
talked about it again. He held me when it was over and we were
silent for a long time. I thought he was never going to want to see
me again, but the next day at the park he asked me if I’d like to go
looking for a flat for the two of us. I couldn’t believe my ears and
I’m sure he saw me stare at him for long minutes, mouth slightly
open and eyes wide, before my brain kicked in again. I was still
sharing with Ali and Sean’s place was too small for the two of us,
so I said yes. He picked me up, twirled me around and we both
ended up in the grass, giggling like school children.

* * * *

Our first night in our new flat, walls still bare and half our

stuff still in boxes, Sean flopped down on our new couch and
spread out his arms. “Come here. Need a cuddle.”

I thought he looked adorable and dead sexy in dirty

dungarees and a T-shirt with paint stains.

“You smell of latex paint,” he said, nuzzling my neck and

blowing a raspberry.

I felt daring and strangely turned on. Now we were living

together, the strain to repay Sean for his patience only got bigger
and I kept thinking of what Ali told me numerous times: that the
best gift you could give your man was one hell of a blowjob. I
only knew what to do in theory and thanked my lucky stars that
Ali had a potty mouth where sexual prowess was concerned. I
could do this. And it would be better if I could stay in charge.
Sean was half asleep and made small moaning sounds as I
caressed his chest and undid the top of his dungarees. As I let
my hand wander down, I knew I needed to warn him. “Don’t
jump, okay?”

“Mmmh, ‘kay,” Sean murmured, his eyes still closed.
My hand encountered the elastic of Sean’s boxer briefs

and I decided not to dip under it. I’d seen his boxers tented
before when he was asleep in bed next to me, but now his bulge

147

was almost non-existent. Until I put my hand over it. He moaned
a little louder and opened his eyes. I threw him a defiant look and
he didn’t protest as I continued to massage the contents of his
briefs. He filled under my hand. It made me feel strong and in
control of Sean’s pleasure. He looked a little unsure, afraid
maybe, but I gently continued my ministrations, until I could feel
his erection rigid under the cotton of his briefs.

“I want to take it out. I want to see it.”
Sean nodded, still a little unsure, but he was clearly giving

me permission. Without getting up from the couch, he got rid of
his dungarees. I pulled down his soft cotton boxer briefs and saw
his hard cock lying in the crook of his hip. I thought it looked
absolutely gorgeous, so I gently took it in my hand and started
moving. I was mesmerized by how I could pull the skin over the
head and then retract it again, and feel it grow even more rigid,
with a small pearl of liquid appearing at the slit. I had no idea
where those feelings came from, but I wanted to taste him. Ali
had warned me it would be an acquired taste, but I didn’t care.
As I slowly moved down to lick it off, I expected Sean to stop me
but he didn’t.

“Oh Sam,” he mumbled, “Sammy, Sam, Sam, Sammy,”

his voice growing from a mere whisper to speaking pitch. I wasn’t
sure if he wanted to ask me to stop, but I figured both of his
hands were free if he wanted to pull me away, so I continued and
managed to lick the bead of liquid off, eliciting a pleading moan
from him. He tasted salty, a little tangy and bitter too, but I didn’t
mind. This was Sean. My Sean. And judging from his hand softly
caressing my back, he liked what I was doing.

Sean continued to moan with every move I made.

Sometimes the moans were interspersed with my name.
“Sammy. Sam,” as if he was incapable of forming any other
coherent words.

I was becoming more daring, taking him into my mouth

while I continued to stroke him up and down. I was starting to
enjoy his taste, the velvety feel of his foreskin and the
smoothness of his head. And his soft, encouraging caresses
were turning me on. I shifted a little so I could insert my free

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hand between my legs, adding pressure where I felt the ache. I
closed my eyes, and found it was much easier now to imagine
myself not just rubbing my clit, but stroking my cock.

Sean’s moans were becoming more urgent and his taste

more pronounced. He grabbed my head as he thrust up into my
mouth and I pulled away just in time to see him shoot all over my
hand and his thighs. I changed hands, still caressing him as he
kept convulsing, so I could turn to kiss him. He was panting,
having a hard time kissing me back, and then he pulled me into a
very tight hug.

“Sammy, Sammy, so good,” Sean kept whispering in my ear.
I felt like I could fly.

* * * *

I loved living together with Sean. It wasn’t all smooth

sailing, but we talked a lot and always seemed to work around
our differences. Our sex life was evolving too, albeit at a snail’s
pace. I loved giving Sean blowjobs, and felt I’d become quite
good at them. Sean didn’t seem to mind being passive, but
looked guilty afterwards when I wouldn’t let him return the favour.
I didn’t know if he believed me when I said I was satisfied with
what we were doing.

One evening, as we were snuggling on the couch in our

now very lived in apartment, I asked Sean to marry me.

“Of course, I’ll marry you,” he said matter-of-factly.
I couldn’t stifle a sigh of relief.
He pushed me a little further away so he could look at me.

“Why wouldn’t I want to marry you?”

I shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter to me, but they’re

sending Mum home because there’s nothing they can do for her
anymore. She’s always had this dream of seeing me get married
so I want to do it for her.”

“Oh,” Sean replied.
I rubbed his stomach. “I love you, you know that, right?

But I’m dreading the clothes and everything that comes with big
weddings. I just know Mum is dying to see me in a wedding

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dress and I want to give her that.”

Sean smiled. “We could get married in matching

dungarees. I’m sure they sell them in white.”

And for that, I punched him in the ribs.
We got married on a dreary November Saturday at the

registrar’s office in town, with Sean in a smart charcoal suit and
me in an off-white short dress and flat shoes I knew I’d never
wear again, but Mum was beaming. Most of our guests were gay
men, which surely brightened up the day, and Mum had a ball.
She died in her sleep two weeks later and I knew she was happy
in the end because she wouldn’t stop talking about Sean and my
wedding.

I liked calling Sean my husband, but Sean rarely called

me his wife. I was always “the love of his life” or “my better half”
and that suited me just fine.

* * * *

Our happy life didn’t implode until five years later when, in

the midst of a discussion about whether or not to have children, I
told him I didn’t feel comfortable in my body and never had. It
had taken me six years to be able to tell him that in my fantasies,
sexual or otherwise, I always had a man’s body, with even less
bosom than I already had and “boy parts” and that the only time I
came while I was satisfying him, was when I could totally indulge
in that fantasy.

I knew Sean’s silence after that was because he simply

didn’t know how to respond. I had to believe our love would
survive this. The problem was that he dove headfirst into work
and would rarely let me touch him as we slept in our bed at night.

* * * *

Rescue came in the form of Callum, who was over at our

house for dinner one night and couldn’t stand the tension.

“Are you guys having a fight? Would you rather I leave?”
“No, Callum,” Sean said. “Sit and eat. Sam made

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her…Sam made roast beef and it’s good.”

Callum looked at me and then his brother and then back

at me. I knew he could usually read me like a book, but tonight
he was at a loss. I didn’t say anything and silently asked for his
plate so I could scoop him up some vegetables. Needless to say
it was a very tense dinner.

Afterwards, Sean had some calls to make for work and

Callum helped me do the dishes. I knew Callum was dying to ask
me what was wrong, and I was pretty sure he’d be the one
person who would understand. After all, he was the one who’d
walked the last two Pride marches in drag.

“Cal, I’m seeing a psychiatrist.”
Callum put down the roasting tin he was drying and

looked at me with such an intense gaze I had to avert my eyes.
“What’s wrong?”

“I’m…” Christ, this was hard. “I’m applying for a sex

change.”

Callum’s mouth dropped open. He didn’t speak for what

felt like forever and I took the roasting tin out of his hands just to
give myself something to do.

“You wanna be a bloke?” he asked eventually. “Since

when?”

“I don’t know, Cal. Since pretty much always, I suppose.”
Callum chuckled, then giggled. I saw his mind working.

Then he turned serious as if he’d only just grasped the
consequences. “Sean knows, right? Are you getting a divorce?
Because if you don’t that would make Sean gay and he’s
probably the straightest guy I know.”

I had to smile at his reasoning, but I had no real answer for

him. “Of course Sean knows. And we haven’t talked about us yet.”

“Sean doesn’t want to, right? That’s why he’s on the

phone with clients instead of here with us. I’ll talk to him.”

“Cal, no, please,” I pleaded, but he’d already left the

kitchen and I felt dread build in my stomach.

More than an hour later the dining room was all cleared

up and the kitchen was absolutely spotless. I knew Callum was
talking to his big brother and I had all sorts of scenarios running

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through my head from Sean walking out of our bedroom with his
suitcases to him asking me for a divorce. When Sean walked
into the kitchen I was so tense you could have broken me into a
million pieces with one well-aimed punch.

“You told Cal.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” I replied, although it wasn’t really needed.
“He told me you’re still the same person. You’re still the

Sam I had a crush on in college and the Sam I fell in love with at
Brighton Pride.”

“You had a crush on me in college?”
Sean nodded, a tiny smile appearing on his face. “You

didn’t even know I existed.”

“You didn’t recognise me at Pride!” I rebutted.
“You were so different from the person I’d met in college.”
“And I’m even more different now,” I admitted.
“Yeah, but you’ve grown into yourself. You’re not the girl

you used to be anymore.”

I chuckled. “You can say that again.”
“You’re not the g—” He stopped, snorting. “The pronouns

make it hard, you know. What am I gonna call you?”

“I don’t know,” I answered softly.
To my surprise, Sean pulled me into his arms and

squeezed me tightly. “I need time to get used to it, Sammy.” He
then pushed me to arm’s length. “Are you going to start liking
girls now?”

“Hell, no!” I replied.
“We’ll get through this then,” he said as he pulled me back

into his arms.

“I know,” I said against his neck.
“It’s not just you who will be different, it’s me too.”
I looked up at him. “I know.”
“Cal welcomed me to the world of gay men.”
“Trust him to say the right thing.”
Sean smiled again. “Please be patient with me?”
“As long as we start communicating again, Sean. I miss

us talking about everything.”

Sean kissed me and I melted into his arms.

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* * * *

It took us three years to find our feet again and come to a

place where we were both comfortable.

I had several run-ins with my psychiatrist because he felt I

wasn’t fully committed. I didn’t want surgery to remove my womb
and ovaries, since starting the testosterone shots had stopped my
period coming through, but I did have my breast tissue removed.
My mother’s illness had made me afraid of developing breast
cancer, so that didn’t feel like surgery just for the sake of it.

The T had lowered my voice just a bit, but growing a

beard was out of the question. I let the facial hair grow for a
while, but it came in patches and made me look like a vagrant,
so I shaved it off. The rest of my body hair didn’t grow like I
wanted it either, but at least I didn’t need to shave my legs
anymore. So what if I was a twink? I saw it as a compliment,
since I was growing a bit old to fall into that category, but I
certainly had the build for it.

I didn’t see the need to change my name since I’d been

going by Sam since I was old enough to protest against people
calling me Samantha and I liked the androgyny of it. For some
strange reason my doctor saw a problem with me remaining
married to my pretty much straight husband. I also didn’t want a
penile implant. In short, my doctor felt I hadn’t changed enough
for his liking.

Not that it mattered all that much. The only thing that still

rubbed me the wrong way was that I had to choose between my
marriage and legally changing my gender. If I changed the
gender on my birth certificate to male, my marriage to Sean had
to be dissolved. I’d need to marry him again, but then it would be
a civil partnership and although Sean simply saw it as an excuse
for a party, I didn’t want my ten-year marriage to Sean to be
annulled as if it had never existed.

We agreed to wait until we could stay married despite the

gender change, but I silently hoped it would be sooner rather
than later.

153

* * * *

The real change was inside, though. I’d told the Peacock

Gang and they took it all in stride. Hadn’t I always been one of
the boys? For some strange reason I didn’t mind talking clothes
with them, something I’d always hated with the girls I was friends
with in school, although I was still less of a clothes horse than
they were, or Sean for that matter. But they did make me feel like
one of the guys and when one of the Peacocks left for greener
pastures—or in his case, a better paying job closer to his own
civil partner—I cried like a girl.

Sean was my rock. It had taken some time for us to adjust

to the new me, but Callum would take us out to his favourite
clubs and Sean became the guy I fell in love with again. He
flirted with the guys coming on to him, but when they became too
insistent, he’d point at me and tell them he was into twinks, and
one twink in particular. Me. There was never a doubt in my mind
that he’d always come home with me.

When Sean switched companies at work because he got

an offer from a much more gay-friendly company, he even came
out as gay to his colleagues. He didn’t feel the need to tell them I
was trans and I figured time would tell whether I would ever tell
them. He just beamed that he’d been “with Sam for a decade
and counting.”

What Sean and I got up to in the bedroom changed too.

The testosterone made me a lot more sexual and adventurous
and although my shrink called it too heterosexual for a
transsexual, Sean and I had what could be considered a pretty
normal sex life. His fascination for my clit, which had turned into
a miniature penis that would grow a little when I was aroused,
finally made me accept my body for what it was. The first time he
told me he wanted to suck my cock, I almost came before he’d
touched me.

The only thing physically missing, really, was that I

couldn’t pee standing up.

* * * *

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Walking hand in hand with Sean around Antwerp during

Pride weekend, with rainbow flags everywhere, everything felt right.
A lot of people smiled at us, and I felt accepted for who I was.

And when some guy yelled “Homos!” at us when Sean

kissed me on an overpass near the river, all I could do was laugh.

Sean did one better. He yelled back at the guy, his arms

still firmly around my shoulders. “You’re just jealous, because I
get to suck his dick!”

And so he did, in our tiny Antwerp hotel room, with music

booming outside from all the Pride street parties still going on.

155

Waiting for a Spark by Lillian Francis

The sudden jolt of the bus caused Jerome to sway wildly,

almost losing his balance. He’d chosen this indolent lounging
stance against the side of the vehicle partly to look cool, but
mainly because it gave him an unhindered view of the gorgeous
guy with the striking blue eyes and mouth-watering cheekbones
sitting further down the aisle.

Shuffling his feet, Jerome widened his stance in an

attempt to stay vertical. Satisfied he wasn’t going to fall flat on
his arse and embarrass himself in front of a whole bus load of
commuters and school kids, Jerome looked up, determined to
continue his silent flirtation with Gorgeous.

At least he hoped Gorgeous was flirting back. He’d caught

the other man watching him over the last few weeks. Just a quick
glance, here and there. Glances that lingered longer when
Jerome wasn’t looking directly at him, but had the perfect angle
to watch Gorgeous’s reflection in the window. More recently
there had definitely been some intentional eye contact and a
couple of tentative smiles.

Yesterday, Gorgeous had looked over his shoulder, his

clear gaze homing in directly on Jerome, before he stepped off
the bus. Then he’d turned and waited, watching the bus pull
away, his blue eyes never once leaving Jerome’s.

Damn! A horde of school kids had left their seats and

were congregated around the exit, blocking his view of the first
row of the back half of the bus where Gorgeous was sitting. He
slid along the side of the bus a fraction, determined to resume
his people—or should that be person?—watching.

“Jer?”
He was aware that his friend Naveen had been carrying

on a conversation with some guy called Peter who worked in the
print unit of the newspaper where they worked. Nav liked the
print unit; it paid good money—unlike Jerome’s job—but Jerome
would have been happy to carry out research and proof read
copy for nothing if it one day gave him the chance to get his own
stories in the paper.

156

“Hmm?”
“It’s crap, innit?”
Ah, there he was. Gorgeous’s paper had been discarded

and he appeared to be searching for something—dare Jerome
hope someone—through a gap in the gaggle of blazers and fat
knotted red-and-black striped ties. Their eyes met and it was too
late to make it appear that he hadn’t been doing the same thing.
Instead, Jerome just grinned and watched Gorgeous’s blue eyes
turn a darker shade as his pupils dilated.

As a trainee journalist, Jerome was teaching himself how to

read people. Dilation of the pupils could denote interest or
excitement, even arousal. Unfortunately, in this case it was more
likely to be the adrenalin rush of embarrassment at getting caught.

The thought of arousal, when the object of Jerome’s

recent daydreams was still in his line of sight, caused Jerome’s
heart to beat just that little bit faster in his chest. He swallowed
thickly. An image of Gorgeous throwing his paper down into the
seat before stalking across the bus toward him flooded his mind.
The sea of children parting just for them.

“Peter’s brother lost his job on the dust the other day,”

Nav continued.

“Yeah?” Jerome muttered distractedly. Peter’s brother had

been working on a temporary basis for the refuse collection
service at the local council. Yet by his own brother’s account he
was a lazy bastard who regularly called in sick—normally on a
Monday when he’d had a skin full at the weekend. What did
Jerome care? He had more important things taking up his time.

In his fantasy, Gorgeous was close enough to touch.

Jerome could reach out and trail his fingers over those prominent
cheekbones or rub his thumb over the full lower lip, dragging the
soft flesh until it was wet with saliva.

The volume level on the bus rose as the doors hissed

open and the children all started talking at once. They stepped
out into the street, half heading toward the local comprehensive
and half to the sweet shop on the corner.

Blood pounded in his ears, adding to the cacophony of

sounds in his head, as he imagined tasting Gorgeous’s lips for

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the first time and threading his fingers into short-cropped, sand-
coloured hair.

Across the bus, Gorgeous smiled encouragingly and his

tongue flicked out to wet his lower lip. Could he read Jerome’s
mind? Or was the fact he wanted to push the guy to his knees
and urge those moist lips to his cock written all over his face?

Nav’s voice was loud in the space left by the school kids’

chatter. “Yeah, they gave the job to a fuckin’ Pole. It’s a fuckin’
outrage, innit?”

There was a spare seat next to Gorgeous now. What

would he do if Jerome just walked over there and sat down? Just
started talking as if they weren’t complete strangers.

“It’s fuckin’ not on. Jer? Is it?”
“Yeah.” Jerome nodded, only vaguely aware of his friend’s

rant. Did he have the bollocks to go up to a total stranger on the
bus and ask for his number?

The smile slipped from Gorgeous’s face. He frowned and

reached for the abandoned paper in his lap.

“You should write an article about it for the paper,” Nav

urged, on a roll now.

“Maybe,” Jerome agreed. Had he done something wrong?

Taken too much time thinking about it or just misread the
situation completely.

“How they’ve come over here stealing our jobs and our

women. Taking benefits intended for British people. Yeah.” Nav
nudged Jerome with an elbow, drawing his attention with the
sharp jab of bone into his ribs. “Fuckin’ immigrants.”

“What?” Jerome snapped, suddenly aware of the nature

of his friend’s tirade.

“It’d make a great piece to get you noticed by the editors.”
Yeah, if the paper was owned by the BNP. His sarcastic

retort remained on the tip of his tongue, though. There were
several people on the bus muttering their accord at Nav’s little
speech; none seemed particularly bothered that this
impassioned crap was coming from the mouth of a skinny Asian
lad. Even Nav, the first generation of his family to be born and
bred in England, didn’t seem aware of the irony. The elderly

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woman nodding along in agreement had probably said the same
thing about Nav’s own parents when they first arrived on British
soil from India.

Others watched their small group with cautious eyes,

narrowed in concern or suspicion. A pleasant, fantasy-fuelled
bus ride had suddenly become a powder keg waiting for a spark.
Jerome pondered whether a declaration about his grandmother
being a Jewish immigrant who had escaped Nazi Germany as a
teenager would make things better or worse.

No…sometimes it was better just to say nothing.
Jerome glared at his so-called friend and resisted the urge

to slap the wide-eyed look of innocence off his face.

The bus pulled into another stop. The movement and a

new influx of fresh passengers seemed to dissipate the volatile
mood a little.

In the kerfuffle Nav had caused, Jerome had lost track of

his journey. He glanced over in time to see Gorgeous rise from
his seat and move toward the door.

This time when he stepped off the bus, Gorgeous never

once looked back. His long, sure stride carried him away down
the street, away from Jerome.

He was out of sight before the bus moved off again.

* * * *

Damn and bloody bugger! Tesco was shut and the off-

license had no milk until their delivery tomorrow. Jerome cursed
the lethargy that had resulted in him lazing around the flat
watching a sci-fi marathon when he knew he needed milk.

Across the road the lights of an open shop spilled

welcomingly onto the pavement—the last open shop, unless he
was going to take a mile hike up to the local petrol station.

Warily, Jerome eyed the sign above the shop canopy.

Polskie Delikatesy. Polish Deli. The deli had been open for about
six months but Jerome had never used it, had never needed to
before now. He hadn’t even peered curiously in the window. It
wasn’t a place he would consider going into, and that had nothing

159

to do with Nav’s ridiculous spoutings the other day either.

It was a Polish deli for Polish people to buy Polish wares

they couldn’t get in the regular supermarkets. Just like the Indian
mini-markets with their weird shaped vegetables and pungent
aromas. He only ever shopped in those when he wanted to make
a curry from scratch—Nav’s mum had taught him how to mix the
spices, eager to pass her wisdom on to somebody when her son
had shown no interest, even if it was only her son’s white friend.
The first few times he had gone there alone he had felt awkward
and out of place but now he could squeeze the okra and sniff the
fenugreek and curry leaves with the best of them.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to go into a Polish deli, he

told himself as he eyed the sign uncertainly. It was more that
he’d had no need to go into one. Until now. Now he needed milk
for tea and cereal because there was no way he could function in
the morning without it. Not that he was looking forward to the
journey into work tomorrow. After Nav’s performance on Friday
he was seriously considering catching a later bus.

There was no doubt about it, he needed this shop now,

and the way his luck was going, he would spend so much time
faffing about outside that they would be shut by the time he
gathered the wherewithal to go inside.

The bell above the door chimed quietly as he stepped into

the shop. To his right, a slim young woman stood behind the
counter. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail that highlighted
the sharp definition of her cheekbones and drew attention to her
bright blue eyes. Talking rapidly, a fast stream of
incomprehensible words that seemed to trip over themselves,
she barely paused to flash him a smile before returning to the
customer she was serving.

A row of chiller cabinets just like the ones in Tesco caught

his eye and Jerome headed toward them. Cheeses, spreads,
and meats were neatly laid out on the shelves, the labels clearly
marked up with words containing too many K’s and Z’s. Jerome
didn’t recognize much of it but some looked quite tasty,
especially the salami-style sausages.

On the bottom shelf of the chiller were a row of plastic

160

bottles of milk…at least he assumed it was milk. It was white and
in litre bottles, it had to be milk.

Didn’t it?
He reached for the nearest bottle—it had a blue cap—and

twisted it all the way around so he could view the entire label. He
couldn’t recognize any of the words and there weren’t any
pictures on it. No helpful drawings of cows.

Shit. Did they even drink cows’ milk in Poland? Could this

be goats’ milk? Or yak?

“Need any help?”
A voice at his shoulder made Jerome jerk in surprise and

he lost his grip on the bottle that had been held loosely in his
fingers. It plummeted back into the chiller cabinet, jolting the
surrounding bottles so that they all wobbled precariously.

Jerome was about to claim to be fine, milk was milk and

anything would do until tomorrow. He twisted to look over his
shoulder and then blinked as blue eyes regarded him with
amusement. The rebuttal died on his tongue.

It was Gorgeous and he was mere inches away. No

longer were there several passengers and eight feet of bus
between them. Gorgeous glanced curiously over Jerome’s
shoulder at the contents of the cabinet and a silent sigh of relief
escaped from between Jerome’s lips. Perhaps he had run out of
milk too. They were kindred spirits. A grin started to tease the
corner of Jerome’s mouth.

Cocking his head to one side, Gorgeous suddenly looked

uncertain and Jerome’s rush of euphoria slipped away as he
remembered the circumstances behind Gorgeous’s departure
from the bus the other morning.

Maybe this was his chance to make amends for whatever

bus-flirting, eye-fucking faux pas he had committed.

“Possibly. Do you know which milk is which?”
“Sure. The colours of the caps are the opposite way round

to what you normally get.”

“Eh?”
Gorgeous pointed to the cluster of bottles with a red top,

his extended arm brushing against Jerome’s side. The

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movement brought them so close together Jerome could feel the
heat from the other man’s torso through his thin T-shirt. Goose
bumps sprung up on his exposed skin and Jerome doubted it
had anything to do with cool air from the chiller cabinets.

It appeared Gorgeous was still waxing lyrical about milk.

“…and red top is full fat.”

Gorgeous swayed back and Jerome regretted the loss of

warmth instantly. A sudden shudder swept over him. What sort
of idiot came out in the middle of March with no jacket on?

“Thanks.”
“No problem.” Gorgeous smiled now, and it was friendly

with no reservations.

Jerome swept his gaze over the shop, suddenly realising

how silent it had become. The girl behind the counter had
disappeared. It was just them. There was no way Jerome could let
Gorgeous walk away when he was smiling at him like that. He
needed to say something to keep the other man in the shop,
something to stop him from reaching for his own milk and leaving.

I’ve seen you on the bus. But that awkward atmosphere

on the bus on Friday was the last thing he wanted to remind
Gorgeous about. Grasping for anything to say, Jerome leaned in
and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“It is cows’ milk, d’you think?”
An explosive laugh burst from Gorgeous, his mouth

dropping open to display a line of straight white teeth and
sending a puff of exhaled air over Jerome’s cheek. The laughter
lit up his eyes, causing silver to dance amongst the blue and
making his cheekbones even more pronounced.

“Of course. What did you think it was? Yaks’ milk?”
Shrugging, Jerome let his gaze drop to the floor. He could

feel the blush threatening his cheeks and he didn’t want
Gorgeous to see how stupid he felt.

“You did,” Gorgeous declared with a tremor of delight in

his voice, but it didn’t sound like he was laughing…Well, not at
Jerome at any rate. He muttered something to himself—which
Jerome was certain sounded like adorable, but figured he must
have been mistaken—and then confirmed, “It’s cows’ milk.”

162

“Thanks,” Jerome mumbled to the floor and turned back to

the chiller cabinet to reach for one of the red-topped bottles. The
comforting warmth of the other man, which had kept the
unfamiliarity of the shop at bay, disappeared as Gorgeous
stepped away.

Not that Jerome could blame him.
He’d made a complete fool of himself. What had

possessed him to ask the question about cows?

No wonder Gorgeous had made a hasty getaway. And

without his own milk too.

Despondent, and still more than a little embarrassed,

Jerome made his way to the counter, dragging his feet the entire
way and refusing to raise his gaze. He’d let himself down again
where Gorgeous was concerned and he doubted he would be
able to return the cheerful smile of the girl behind the till with
anything better than a fake grimace.

“Hi again.”
At the sound of the masculine timbre, Jerome’s head

jerked up so quickly he feared he’d given himself whiplash.

“That’ll be eighty-nine pence, please.” Gorgeous made no

attempt to hide the grin that split his face. Probably because
Jerome was doing a passable impression of a goldfish.

“You work here?” It wasn’t possible. Gorgeous caught the

bus with him every morning. They travelled miles from this small
shop. True, some days Gorgeous was dressed in a suit and
other times he wore sturdy canvas trousers and work boots, but
he always got off at the same stop.

“It belongs to my Uncle. I’m just helping out,” Gorgeous

said. His tone was light but his eyes watched Jerome carefully.

“Ah,” Jerome acknowledged. That explained things.

Oh…Shit. No wonder Gorgeous had left the bus and never
looked back on Friday. If his uncle owned a Polish deli
then…“You’re—”

“One of those fuckin’ Poles, innit.” Gorgeous mimicked

Nav almost perfectly. Then he sighed. “Yeah.”

Shit, shit and bollocks. Would the “my gran’s an

immigrant” story be too little too late? Why had he just not called

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Nav on his stupidity on the bloody bus?

“I don’t think like that.” The argument sounded weak even

to his own ears, and Jerome wasn’t surprised that the other man
rode roughshod over his response.

“But don’t worry. You can tell your friend I’ve already got a

job and there’s no chance of me stealing your women. Or any
woman for that matter.” Tilting his head slightly to one side, his
eyes softened. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“I hoped.” Jerome shook his head. “Doesn’t matter now.

Just so you know, I don’t agree with a single word Nav said.”

“You did look uncomfortable, when you finally realised

what he was talking about. In fact, you appeared slightly
distracted for most of the conversation.”

Gorgeous’s smile was intimate and forgiving, but Jerome

wasn’t ready to let himself off the hook quite so easily.

“It’s not what you say sometimes but what you don’t.

Nav’s parents. My grandmother. They were all immigrants in
their time. I should have said something.”

“Say something now.”
“It’s not enough. I should have said something then.”

Jerome ran a hand through his hair in despair. “I am sorry though.”

“That’s not quite what I meant. You must realise I’ve

been…watching you sounds kind of creepy. I’ve been hoping to
catch your attention.”

“But why?” Jerome asked in confusion. He was too

skinny, with an arse that disappeared to nothing. His dark hair
made his skin appear even paler than it was, especially in the
winter. No matter how he styled his hair, he always looked like
he had been dragged through a hedge backward and his ears
stuck out. His skin still bore the scars of crippling teenage acne,
as did his confidence.

Gorgeous blinked in surprise. “Do you even look in the

mirror before you leave for work? Those skinny trousers you
wear…Do you pour yourself into them? ’Cos, well, they look
really good on you.”

His eyes flicked down the length of Jerome’s body, over

the tight hug of an old Spiderman T-shirt to where his low slung

164

joggers exposed the wide elastic of his boxer briefs. “Not that I’m
complaining about this outfit.”

“Bu-ut,” Jerome stuttered. “You are so out of my league.”
He hadn’t picked the moniker Gorgeous without reason.

The sparkling blue eyes and prominent cheekbones gave him a
face both masculine and beautiful. He was several inches taller
than Jerome and the breadth in his shoulders and chest implied
muscle rather than bulk. There was no trace of fat at his stomach
and his arse was pert and full. Jerome should know; he
concentrated all his efforts on memorising those curves every
time Gorgeous stepped off the bus.

“You were watching me too?” Gorgeous’s statement

hovered on the edge of being a question.

“Of course I was…Until I let you believe I was an

intolerant prat.”

“I don’t believe that. So I wasn’t imagining it…” Gorgeous

paused and smiled. “You were flirting back.”

“Yeah.” Jerome sighed. “Look, can we start again? I’m

Jerome.”

“Hi. Tomak, but you can call me Tom.”
“Tomak.” Jerome rolled the unfamiliar name around on his

tongue, stretching the vowels more than necessary. He
transferred the name to the man in front of him, replacing
gorgeous as a noun and assigning it purely as an adjective. “I
like it, unless you’d rather be called Tom.”

“No, my family all call me Tomak. Sometimes I’ll meet

someone on site and they call me Tom, I don’t mind.”

“On site?” Maybe he’d finally get an answer to the

differing work clothes which had him flummoxed.

“I’m a trainee architect. Sometimes I have to go out on site.”
“Wow. Looks and brains too.”
“Hardly.” Tomak rolled his eyes. “It’s just a glorified

builder. I’m another Polish stereotype.”

“Bollocks. You don’t strike me as being a stereotypical

anything. I wouldn’t even’ve pegged you as gay if you hadn’t
been eye-fucking me on the bus.”

Tomak chuckled.

165

“You’re not the best shopkeeper though. You haven’t

even taken the money for my milk yet.” Jerome nudged the
pound coin, which he had placed on the counter earlier in his
goldfish-like daze, pushing it across the spotless Formica toward
Tomak.

Effortlessly, Tomak rang up the purchase, plucked the

pound from the counter top and scooped out his change.

“Look,” Jerome began in earnest, suddenly aware their

time together was coming to an end. At any moment they could
be interrupted by another customer or the pretty girl who had
been on the till before. Then he faltered, unsure of where he’d
been planning to go with that sentence.

Tomak paused, the change gathered in a loose fist, and

waited expectantly.

“Erm,” Jerome could feel the pressure to say something

funny or profound building within him, but he had nothing. “You
can keep the change if I can have your phone number.”

“My phone number…”
Tomak paused and opened his hand. He stared at the

contents, giving Jerome the chance to see the lone silver coin
and tiny brass penny. Already Jerome could see his mistake,
could feel his heart plummeting to his feet and a blush rising on
his cheeks.

Tomak continued, “My phone number is worth eleven

pence to you.”

His voice betrayed no humour, but there was a hint of

mischief in the way flecks of silver sparkled in the blue depths
and small lines appeared at the edges of his almond shaped
eyes. Jerome couldn’t look away despite his embarrassment, nor
could he stop the flush from spreading further, if the warmth on
his throat was any indication.

“Shit.” Jerome groaned, holding out his hand for the

change. “I’m crap at this.”

“Yeah,” Tomak agreed, amusement tingeing his voice and

bringing the slight trace of an accent, soft and lyrical, “but I can
live with it when it makes you blush like that.”

Jerome felt the heat deepen, down under the neck of his

166

T-shirt, up to the tips of his ears. Warm fingers slipped under his
still extended hand, cradling it from beneath, and the loose
change dropped into his palm with the briefest graze of fingertips
against his skin. It made his nerve endings tingle, the fire
creeping up his arm and out over his body. Suddenly, he was
flushing for a whole different reason.

“You don’t mind being marked?”
“Eh?” Jerome’s brain tried to catch up with the

conversation. Had he missed something in the fog of lust which
had momentarily clouded his mind?

With one finger Tomak traced the outline of the tattoo on

the inside of Jerome’s wrist—a quill dripping ink. Normally it was
more or less covered by his watch strap but not today. Today,
his watch lay on his dresser at home.

“The tattoo. You don’t mind marking your skin.”
“Nah. Everyone’s got them.” Jerome shrugged. At least

his meant something to him—a permanent reminder of his
dream to be a writer no matter how mundane the daily grind of
his trainee journalist job became. It wasn’t just a fashion
statement.

“Good.”
Tomak closed Jerome’s fingers over the loose coins in his

palm and twisted his hand over. Grabbing a biro from next to the
till, he paused almost imperceptibly with the nib of the pen just
millimetres from the skin of Jerome’s forearm. When Jerome
stayed silent, Tomak proceeded to print his name and number
on Jerome’s flesh, slow and precise.

Jerome watched transfixed by the path of the ink, black on

his pale skin, like a permanent tattoo. He continued to ponder it
long after Tomak had finished and released his hand.

When he finally looked up Tomak was staring at him in

earnest. “You don’t mind?”

“No.” He had Gorgeous’s—Tomak’s—telephone number.

Why would he mind how it had been delivered?

“Good.” Tomak took a deep breath. “Come for a drink with

me.”

“Now?”

167

“You’ve probably got things to do.” Tomak’s smile was

tentative, more like the ones that he had graced Jerome with on
the bus.

Could Tomak possibly think Jerome didn’t want to go out

with him?

Jerome shook his head. “Nothing important.”
White teeth flashed as Tomak’s smile widened. “Sure you

don’t need to get your yaks’ milk in the fridge.”

Jerome grinned and blushed at the same time. He was

being teased but it was good-natured and, dare Jerome think it,
fond. “It’ll keep. But you’re working.”

“We shut in ten minutes.” Tomak twisted toward the back of

the shop and called out something in what Jerome could only
assume was Polish. There was an answering shout and then the
girl from earlier reappeared from behind a shelf of bread and cakes.

“Go.” She waved her hands in their direction, urging them

from the shop. In heavily accented English she proclaimed,
“Your flirting was driving me crazy, cousin. Go and give me back
my till.”

Jerome glanced over at Tomak and asked, “Don’t you

have to wait ‘til the end of your shift?”

“Shift?” The girl spluttered with laughter.
“Maria,” Tomak said with a warning note in his voice, and

a flush rose up his cheeks.

“He only comes in here to drink my coffee and eat my

paczki. Occasionally he’ll heft a few boxes around for me, but
don’t confuse that with work. He spends most of his Sunday
afternoons staring out—”

“Maria!”
“…of the window at the bus stop where an attractive

twinkle gets on the bus.”

“Twink,” Tomak growled through gritted teeth. “The word

is twink.”

“Hanging out here, hoping to catch a glimpse of him even

though it’s Sunday. He’s been doing it for weeks. I’m guessing
you’re the Twink.” She stressed the last word with a flick of her
eyes in her cousin’s direction before settling her gaze and

168

attention back on Jerome.

“I’m twenty-three. Hardly a twink.”
“It was the build rather than the age,” Tomak muttered

apologetically, his face scarlet.

Maria ignored them both, obviously enjoying Tomak’s

discomfort in the way that only siblings or close family can.

She bustled behind the counter, shooing her cousin out of

the way. “A kysz!” She gave Tomak a gentle nudge and then
urged him away with more frenzied hand waving. Satisfied her
cousin was leaving what was obviously her domain, she turned
her attention back to Jerome almost gleefully.

“He almost wet himself when you stood outside the shop.

Then when you headed for the door, he ran away and hid.”

“I wasn’t hiding. I was…regrouping.”
“Making sure there were no crumbs on your face more

like.” Maria grinned. “Iść. Go. Enjoy yourselves.”

Tomak turned to Jerome his blush already receding.

“Ready?” Then he leaned in closer. “I haven’t got crumbs on my
face, have I?”

Jerome stared intently at Tomak’s face. Now he was

looking, there was something slightly shiny and sticky in the
crease at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe…”

“Where?”
Jerome reached up and traced the corner of Tomak’s

mouth with his thumb.

“It’s just jam or icing or something,” Jerome mumbled as

Tomak turned his face into the touch and his lips brushed the
pad of Jerome’s thumb.

“Wanna taste?” Tomak asked, stepping closer and tilting

Jerome’s chin up.

Jerome might be crap at the chatting up part of things but

he was hardly going to turn down the opportunity for a kiss.

Easing up onto his tiptoes, he met Tomak halfway. The

press of their lips was soft and warm and Tomak tasted faintly of
sugar. They kept the kiss chaste—it was their first after all and,
more to the point, they were in company—until Jerome licked at
that small patch of sticky at the corner of Tomak’s mouth. The

169

taller man groaned against Jerome’s lips and opened his mouth
eagerly, arms coming round to engulf Jerome’s slight frame.

“Cousin, dość! Enough!” Maria shrieked, but she was

laughing. “Boże! You can be seen through the window.”

Reluctantly, they pulled apart, Tomak’s hands dropping

from Jerome’s waist. “Ready?” Tomak asked again.

“More than,” Jerome agreed.
They stepped out of the shop, the door swinging shut

behind them. Before it closed completely, Maria’s words were
heard quite clearly.

“Jezusie kochany. Lovesick puppy.”
There it was again, that abundance of Z’s and K’s, the

words and their meaning alien to him. Maria’s speech had been
littered with Polish; words dropped instinctively into the parts of
the conversation directed at Tomak. It was a reminder of
Tomak’s heritage and, caught up in the joy of being noticed,
Jerome hadn’t considered the complications that might arise
when he finally introduced Tomak to Nav.

Jerome shrugged off his apprehension. There would be

time to worry later, if the evening went well…and if it didn’t, then
it wouldn’t matter. He lengthened his stride to catch up with his
date, bumping shoulders when they drew level.

The warmth of Tomak’s answering smile swept away his

concerns.

* * * *

“Damn!” Jerome panted, the cold night air searing his

lungs as he drew in a heaving breath. He peered after the tail
lights of the bus, watching as it sailed through the green light at
the junction. “Couldn’t catch it.”

Behind him Tomak’s sneakers pounded the pavement,

then a hand landed lightly on his hip.

“S’all right,” Tomak mumbled. His breath was warm on the

side of Jerome’s neck and brought with it the yeasty scent of beer.

Squinting at the timetable, Jerome sighed. “That was the

last one.”

170

They’d gone for drinks at the local pub, where they’d

talked about everything and anything until closing time. And
beyond. They’d been all but thrown out, which was how Tomak
had ended up missing the last bus back to his part of town.

“Hmm.” Tomak agreed, the sound vibrating right down

into Jerome’s bones. “I’ll get a cab. Come on.”

Without warning, Tomak grabbed his hand and, setting off at

a run, hauled Jerome across the road. They fell through the door of
the cab office, breathless and laughing for no apparent reason.

The cab office smelled of vomit and disinfectant. A dour

man, severely lacking a sense of humour, confirmed that the
next taxi would be available in about thirty minutes. After two
minutes of the man staring belligerently at their still joined hands,
Tomak tugged Jerome out into the cool night air.

“You don’t have to wait with me,” Tomak said with no hint

of reproach.

“I know. I want to.”
It’d been a really good evening and Jerome wasn’t quite

ready for it to end. Even if he was bloody freezing in nothing
more than a T-shirt. He’d happily wrap himself around the bulk
and warmth that he knew Tomak could provide, but he could still
feel the weight of the dispatcher’s glare through the window. His
natural response in the face of such antagonism would be to
drop Tomak’s hand and put some distance between them, but
his companion was having none of it. Jerome’s fingers were held
in a firm but not controlling grip which he found himself taking
comfort from.

As they waited, the temperature seemed to drop another

couple of degrees and a shiver he couldn’t disguise wracked
Jerome’s body. Tomak dropped his hand, leaving Jerome
momentarily confused and bereft.

“Here.” Tomak pulled his sweatshirt over his head,

revealing a broad chest covered by the tight stretch of a long-
sleeved cotton T-shirt. “Put this on before you freeze.”

Before Jerome could protest that the top would be way

too big for him, Tomak was already easing it over his head.
Jerome tussled with the material as he tried to slide his arms into

171

the sleeves, while Tomak pulled the hem down over his slight
torso. Several inches difference in their height meant that the
sweatshirt finished just at the crease where arse met leg.

“Better,” Tomak muttered. “Don’t want you to catch a chill

and not be on the bus tomorrow. My journey wouldn’t be the
same without you to look at.”

At that very moment Jerome wanted nothing more than to

kiss Tomak again. That wasn’t recommended, though, not late at
night in an outer London suburb. Not unless you wanted to risk a
kicking.

Jerome sighed. They hadn’t done so much as touch in the

pub for the same reason. Well, apart from the press of their knees
beneath the table, and Tomak’s steadying hand on his elbow
when Jerome had stumbled while getting up to go for a slash.

“I only live two minutes round the corner. Come back to

mine to wait for the cab.”

“You sure?” Tomak asked.
Jerome barely got the word “yeah” out before Tomak

disappeared into the cab office. Of course, he had to come back
out to get Jerome’s address, but five minutes later they were
stepping through the door of Jerome’s flat with at least a quarter
of an hour to kill before the cab was due.

A quarter of an hour to indulge his urge to kiss Tomak

senseless.

“D’you want coffee?” It seemed only polite to offer before

he pressed Tomak against the nearest flat surface.

“Sure.”
Jerome wandered into the kitchen, leaving his guest

thumbing through his shelves of DVDs in the living room. He set
the kettle on to boil, took two mugs from the cupboard above his
head and spooned in the coffee. Resting his hands on the
counter, he let his head fall forward, all the while cursing his
ingrained good manners which were currently preventing him
from kissing and being kissed.

Strong arms snaked around his waist.
Lips pressed against the nape of his neck.
Jerome let out a low moan as teeth were added into the

172

equation, scraping over his skin before Tomak’s lips soothed the
area once more.

“I don’t really want coffee,” Tomak admitted, stepping

back sufficiently to allow Jerome to turn in the circle of his arms.

He couldn’t wait much longer for a kiss, but Jerome had a

confession to make first.

“That’s good. Because I left the milk on the counter in

your Uncle’s deli.”

Your Uncle’s Polish deli, innit. Jerome quashed his inner

voice that sounded just like his best friend.

Nav’s opinion was the last thing he needed to focus on

right now.

Better for all concerned if he concentrated on other things.
Like mapping the contours of Tomak’s mouth with his tongue.
Or finding some way of getting them over to the sofa

without breaking the brain-melting friction Tomak’s thigh was
providing.

* * * *

Peering into the distance, Jerome could see the distinctive

red bulk of the bus trundling up the road.

Thankfully, the bus was late. He’d not been at the bus

stop for more than a few minutes himself.

It had been a late one last night. He had indulged in many

long, drawn-out kisses with Tomak, but little else—at least that
he was prepared to tell his mother about. Although the bump and
grind of some excruciatingly slow frottage hinted at the promise
of things to come. That Jerome’s virtue was still intact had more
to do with the cabbie’s insistent ring on his doorbell than any
restraint on Jerome’s part.

Yawning, Jerome shifted from foot to foot as the bus

came closer.

Please let Tomak be on the bus.
They had arranged to meet for dinner and a movie

tomorrow, but that was a whole day away and Jerome didn’t
think he could wait that long to see Tomak again.

173

Damn, but he had it bad.
He was tempted to text and see if Tomak was on the

approaching vehicle. He even had his phone in his hand before
dismissing the idea as too needy.

The bus pulled up to the kerb just as his phone beeped.

Jerome checked his message.

Saving you a seat.
He glanced up. Blue eyes peered out of the window, the

corners crinkling as Tomak smiled. Jerome grinned back and
then moved toward the doors. They opened with a swish of
pressurised air.

Barely acknowledging the driver, he scanned his Oyster

card and headed into the seating area, his eyes automatically
searching out Tomak. As he approached, Tomak moved his
messenger bag from the spare seat next to him.

A school girl with the shortest skirt imaginable eyed both

the seat and Tomak appreciatively.

That skirt won’t do you any good, love. He likes cock.
Putting on a burst of speed, Jerome grabbed the bar in

front of the rear seating and swung into the empty space.

“Hi.”
“Hi.” Jerome panted, slightly breathless from his rush

down the bus.

“Desperate to see me?” Tomak asked with an amused smile.
“Always. And I didn’t want to lose my seat.” Jerome

glanced pointedly over his shoulder. The girl was pouting in their
direction. That’s my boyfriend, bitch.

“Me too,” Tomak agreed as Jerome turned back to face him.
Me too, what? But Jerome didn’t have too much time to

consider this because Tomak was leaning in and pressing their
lips together in a quick chaste kiss.

The volume level in their area of the bus rose in a quick

murmur of surprise and then receded just as rapidly.

Jerome resisted the urge to turn back to the girl and gloat.

See, he’s mine and he doesn’t care who knows it.

“You okay?” Tomak asked, his eyes filled with concern. “I

should have asked you first.”

174

“Don’t be stupid. It’s just I’ve never been kissed on a bus

before.”

Worry seeped out of the blue to be replaced by sparkling

mischief.

“Hmm, have to rectify that. D’you know the 181 night bus

has stretches where it’s completely empty except for the driver?”

“Really?” Jerome croaked. Damn, he could drown in that

azure sparkle and the experiences it promised.

Caught up in the images Tomak had put in his head,

Jerome barely noticed the pressure of a hand banging on the
side of the vehicle. The bus, which had just started pulling away,
jerked to a stop, making the standing passengers wobble like ten
pins. The doors opened with a hiss and Jerome automatically
glanced toward the front of the bus.

Nav jumped onto the bus with a wave of his Oyster card

and a “thanks, man” to the driver. His stomach falling, Jerome
watched as his friend scanned the bus, noticing him and then
heading in his direction. Nav was his friend, but he had really
hoped when Nav hadn’t been at the stop this morning that he’d
caught the earlier bus.

“Jer.” Nav jerked his head to where they normally stood.

“Over here.”

Jerome shook his head and Nav stepped closer, grasping

hold of the bar next to their seat as the bus pulled away once more.

“What’s the matter, man?”
“Nothing. I’m sitting here today, with—”
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” Nav interrupted,

narrowing his eyes and studying Tomak closely.

“I catch this bus every day.” Tomak shrugged. “But other

than that I doubt it.”

A light of recognition flared in Nav’s brown eyes. “You

were one of the dudes that came round to look at the plans for
Dad’s rebuild of the shop.”

Jerome didn’t realise how tight his chest had been until he

felt the pressure uncoil.

“Nav, this is…” Could he risk introducing Tomak by his full

name or should he fall back on the shortened version to appease

175

his friend? Fuck it, had he learned nothing from recent
experiences? “…Tomak.”

“Tomak?” Nav spluttered. “Where d’you live? Wimbledon

Common. You a fuckin’ Womble or what?”

“That was Tomsk, you dickhead.” Jerome corrected his

friend, relieved when he heard Tomak chuckle beside him.
Obviously they had watched the same children’s television.

“Tomak is…” Jerome glanced at the man who sat flush

against him from shoulder to knee and smiled. His gaze was
greeted by curious blue eyes. Their hands were close, resting on
their thighs and Jerome reached out the last few inches and laid
his hand over Tomak’s.

There was only one way to introduce Tomak. The only

way that mattered.

“He’s my boyfriend.”

176

Social Whirl by Emily Moreton

2012 is the year of the wedding. Actually, the year of the

weddings, very much plural. Something about turning thirty,
maybe, don’t ask me what, but it’s like everyone woke up on
New Year’s Day, looked at their lives and decided, yep, what I
need is a big party with all of my friends, and the love of my life
standing next to me, promising that we’ll love each other forever.

Put like that, it sounds pretty good, to me at least.
What sounds less good is an outdoor wedding in January.

Which isn’t to say that the snow (and I wish I knew how Jenny
managed to time her wedding for actual snow rather than two-
day old sludge, which I know is what I’d get in her place) doesn’t
look beautiful, because it does. Or that the hundreds of candles
lighting up the arbour in the dusk don’t make the whole thing
almost painfully like a fairy tale, because they definitely do. It’s
just that the bride is paler than her dress, and, call me old-
fashioned, but I don’t think the honeymoon will be much
improved by her being hospitalised with pneumonia. I’d bet
anything that Tom’s wearing at least a T-shirt, and possibly a
jumper as well, under his dress shirt. There’s no other
explanation for how he can look so warm and happy while the
rest of us are shivering.

“Please tell me I’m not the only one who wants to go offer

her my shawl,” Hannah says very quietly against my ear, leaning
in. Up front, the vicar’s talking about love and friendship and
faithfulness (or possibly faith, it’s a little hard to hear with the
wind blowing his words away), and looking as chilled as the rest
of us. Even Hannah, wrapped in a dark grey, woollen shawl over
her red dress, looks like she’s about to start shivering.

“If you think I’m going to share my jacket with you…” I tell

her, keeping my eyes on the happy couple. This is the last time I
let my best mate Alex talk me into going clothes shopping with
her, because my ankle-length grey dress may quite possibly be
the most gorgeous piece of clothing I’ve ever owned, but even
with the embroidered jacket she picked out, it’s going to take me
a good hour to warm up when we get to the reception.

177

“Some girlfriend you are,” Hannah says, wrapping her

shawl more tightly round herself. “You’d rather let me freeze to
death than share.”

“Because it’ll be so romantic if we freeze to death

together, with half a jacket each,” I say, and wish, again, that I
wasn’t so cowed by Alex, up front as a bridesmaid, as to be
unable to put on my gloves because they’re red and white stripes
and don’t go with the embroidery on my jacket.

* * * *

“Jen looks pretty in that dress,” Hannah says a couple of

hours later, when everyone’s had a chance to warm up, eat
something, and have a couple of glasses of wine, and most
people are dancing.

“It’s her wedding dress, isn’t that a pre-requisite?” I ask,

though she’s right, Jenny does look good, hair pinned up with
tiny white clips, a couple of curls loose over her bare shoulders.

“You look pretty in yours as well,” I add, since Hannah

likes to be complimented, and it’s even odds whether she’s
angling for me to compliment her or for me to get jealous that
she’s looking at another woman. Since she broke up with the
woman she’s looking at six years ago, the latter’s probably not
going to happen.

Hannah smiles—score one for me—and puts her arm

round my waist.

We watch the dancers for a while, moving with mixed

levels of success to the DJ’s classic 90’s wedding selection. It’s
very hard to look cool while dancing to Boyzone. “Do you want
this, one day?” I ask, not looking at Hannah. We’ve been
together two years, halfway to living together, and it’s weird to
realise that this is the first time I’ve asked.

Hannah leans slightly away from me. “I’d have to find a

husband first,” she says. She’s trying for light, but not quite
making it.

“A civil partnership ceremony, then.” It sounds so

unwieldy, and not that romantic. It’s hard to imagine going down

178

one knee and saying, Would you do me the honour of becoming
my civil partner? On the other hand, at least it exists, so I’m not
complaining too loudly.

“Why?” Hannah asks, sounding genuinely curious.
A server in black and white slips round my side, takes

both our empty glasses and offers fresh champagne flutes.
“Ladies?”

Hannah smiles automatically, and takes two, handing one

to me. “Thanks,” she tells the server, who smiles at both of us
before gliding away. She has nice eyes, which I won’t be
mentioning to Hannah.

“Why not?” I ask. “Jenny and Tom look like they’re having

fun.”

They do, pressed close together, her head bent to

whisper something in his ear.

“Of course,” Hannah says dismissively. “This is where their

relationship is supposed to be going. Marriage, house, kids.”

“And ours isn’t?” I’ve never really given all that much

thought to where we’re going in the long-term, but it’s weirdly sad
to think that Hannah doesn’t want this for us.

“Jodie, come on,” Hannah says. She steps away from me,

frowning. “You really think my ex’s wedding is the place to be
discussing our future?”

I want to point out that it’s as good a place as any, and at

least no one’s listening to us, but one thing I do know about
Hannah is that if she doesn’t want to talk about something, she
won’t. “No, I guess not,” I concede.

Hannah smiles. “Thanks. I’m going to see if I can find Jamie,

okay? I’m sure I saw him earlier, I wouldn’t mind catching up.”

“Sure,” I say. Hannah probably gets on with Jenny’s

brother better than she gets on with Jenny. “I’ll be around.”

It takes me less than two minutes to decide that standing

watching the dancers by myself looks a little creepy. Since I
really don’t know anyone here, apart from Alex, who’s busy
dancing with all the men over sixty so they won’t feel unwanted
(Alex has some weird ideas about charity), I end up leaning on
the end of the bar, wondering if that makes me look like an

179

alcoholic creep.

“Hey there,” someone says, and when I turn, it’s the

server with the nice eyes. “Lost your girlfriend?” I know she
means it as a joke, means lost like misplaced, but it cuts a little
too close after our conversation. She winces. “Sorry. Forget I
spoke. What can I get you?”

“Vodka and Coke,” I say, figuring it’s a wedding, I can

slide back to my student drinking days for one night.

She turns away, reaching for a glass with one hand and a

measure with the other. “Friend of the bride or the groom?” she
asks over her shoulder.

“My girlfriend used to date the bride,” I tell her in a burst of

honesty. It makes her laugh, which is probably not a good
reason to have told her something that Hannah will throttle me
for mentioning to a total stranger.

She adds a straw and a small black umbrella to my drink

and passes it over. “That must be awkward,” she says, still smiling.
She has a nice smile as well, and curls. I’ve always been a sucker
for a girl with curly hair, Hannah and her ruler straight bob being the
exception to the rule. I can’t help smiling back at her.

“Not as much as you’d think,” I tell her, reaching for my tiny

handbag, just big enough for our room key and a very small purse.

She waves her hand at me, frowning slightly. “On the

house,” she says.

“Um,” I say stupidly, which is exactly what I’ve been

saying to people offering to buy my drinks for the last twelve
years. Apparently being smooth while being flirted with isn’t a
skill that comes with age, as much as I used to hope it was.

“Relax,” she says. “I saw you with your girlfriend,

remember? Just—consider it a bribe to stay here and talk to me
for five minutes.” She leans close across the bar. “Most of the
people working for me are students, and there’s only so much
interest I can fake in who shagged who after Top Banana last
Monday.”

I laugh, sympathetic. We’ve got student volunteers in

doing a massive paint job on my community centre this week,
and I now know far more than I ever wanted to about the sex

180

lives of a group of people I’ve never met. “Jodie,” I offer.

She grins. “Imogen. Nice to meet you.”
She goes back to work before Hannah wanders over

again, which is probably for the best.

* * * *

Two months later, we’re sitting in the second row back of

a community hall, people still filing in. Given that it’s March and
we’re in England, most people have hedged their bets and are
wearing darker colours, warmer materials, which means we all
look a little unmatched to the glorious, warm day outside. I can’t
help wishing we could have switched the venue for this
ceremony with the venue for Jenny and Tom’s. At least then
we’d have been warm.

“I don’t see why we have to come to this,” Hannah says

quietly.

“Because Becky and I lived next door to each other in

halls, and she asked me.”

“I get why you have to come, that doesn’t explain why I’m

here. I’ve got a deadline.”

I take the deepest breath I can manage—it’s possible I

should have tried on my dress again before the day of the
wedding—instead of rolling my eyes. “You’re here because
you’re my girlfriend. You might remember that you slept over at
my place last night?”

“Yes,” Hannah says, offering an insincere smile. “I do in

fact recall that we’re together. I also recall that I have a deadline,
that I’ve never met Becky, and that I could be working right now
if you hadn’t made me come to this.”

“I didn’t make you come.” I take another deep breath and

force myself not to yell. “I asked you, you said yes, I replied to
Becky that I was bringing a plus one, and you can’t just—”

“Excuse me.” We both stop as the woman in front of us—

oh, hell, Becky’s mother, that’s Becky’s mum—turns and gives
us a sharp glare. “Is it possible that you might consider taking
this argument somewhere other than my daughter’s wedding?”

181

“Sorry, Mrs. Palmer.” I elbow Hannah, who nods. “We’ll

just…”

“Sit quietly,” Mrs. Palmer offers. “And wait for my about-to-

be-daughter-in-law to walk into the room and shock my mother-
in-law.”

“Mrs. Palmer senior’s going to be shocked that Becky’s

marrying another woman?” I ask. Hannah groans quietly, but
fortunately Mrs. Palmer smiles.

“I believe she was, and let me tell you, she’s going to be a

lot more shocked when she sees that Terri’s pregnant.”

“Terri’s pregnant?” Mrs. Palmer nods. “That’s great,

congratulations.”

“Thank you. Now, sit quietly unless you can sit civilly.”
“Yes, Mum,” Hannah says softly, but only after Mrs.

Palmer’s turned back and the music’s started up.

* * * *

“Misplaced your girlfriend again?” a voice at my shoulder

asks, and when I start, a hand on my arm steadies me. “Sorry.”

I turn, and find myself looking at a familiar woman I can’t

quite place. She’s service staff of some kind, dressed in black
and white, a drinks tray with a single glass balanced on her right
hand. “Sorry…”

She smiles, and her name comes right back to me at the

same moment she says, “Imogen, I tended bar at your
girlfriend’s ex’s wedding in January.”

“Sure, sorry. I’m crap with names.”
“No problem.” She smiles again. She’s got the prettiest

smile, and she sought me out, which is more than can be said for
Hannah, who disappeared with her cell the moment dinner was
over. “I guess I didn’t make that much of an impression.”

“No, you did, it’s my fault.” I sound like an idiot, and take a

moment to stop myself from sounding like even more of an idiot.
“It’s good to see you again.”

She offers me the tray. “Vodka and Coke, right?”
“No umbrella this time?”

182

“No umbrellas here full stop, not even for the cocktails.”
“You guys do cocktails?” Now I’m paying proper attention,

I notice the discreet company logo stitched into her shirt. That,
and the small rainbow pin on her collar.

It’s probably just for the event, to show how not bothered

the company is about working a gay ceremony. And even if it’s
not, just because she remembered my drink and brought it
over—she’s a bartender, she’s probably angling for a tip.

None of which should matter, because I’m here with

Hannah, even if Hannah doesn’t want to be here.

“I did four weeks at the London Bar School. I can make

any cocktail you can name.” She cocks an eyebrow in obvious
challenge.

“Tequila sunrise?”
“Orange juice, tequila, grenadine over ice. Trick is to add

the grenadine to the inside of the glass so it sinks.”

“As opposed to most cocktails, where you’d pour it down

the outside of the glass?”

Imogen wrinkles her nose at me, which is really just

ridiculously cute. “Down the inner side of the glass, rather than
into the middle of the glass,” she corrects, precisely.

“Black Russian?”
“Vodka and coffee liqueur.”
“Really, that’s it? No cream?”
“That’s a White Russian.” Imogen smiles at me, spins the

tray once on her index finger. “You can’t catch me out, I know all
my cocktails.”

“I don’t actually drink that many cocktails,” I confess.
She tips her head to the side, looking at me for a long

moment. It should feel uncomfortable, all these people watching
me with her, but it doesn’t. It feels like I’m the one who’s special
right now, instead of Becky and Terri.

“You should let me make you something,” she says finally.

“I’m good at figuring out what people like.”

“What would I like?” My voice drops low on the question,

and I’m not surprised when she leans in slightly.

“I’m tempted to say a Bosom Caresser,” she says, then

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ruins it completely by making a face. “But honestly, egg yolks
just don’t belong in cocktails.”

I can’t help mimicking her expression. “That’s—” I don’t

even want to think about how an egg yolk cocktail got that name.
“Not so much.”

“You put Coke in your vodka, so I think you’d like

something sweet.” She tilts her head to one side, her eyes dark
as she drawls the recipe. “Midori, apple juice, cream, Frangelio.
Most people make it with passion fruit, but I prefer pineapple.
Sweet, and it lingers. On the tongue.”

I can’t even remember where I am. “What, er, what’s that

called?”

“Wet Spot. I used to make it for girls in Rainbows all the

time.”

“And now?”
“Now I just—”
“Jodie.” There’s a hand on my arm, and it’s not Imogen’s.

Too pale, soft pink nail polish…

“Hannah, hi.” I stop myself from taking a step away from

Imogen, knowing that will just make me look guilty. Which I
should look—I’m pretty sure flirting with the hot bartender over
cocktail names doesn’t count as doing nothing wrong.

“Come and dance with me,” Hannah says with a

dismissive nod to Imogen. “They’re playing our song.”

They are, when I pay enough attention to the sound system

to pick out the tune as more than just noise, and it’s comfortable,
familiar, to settle into Hannah’s arms and let it wash over us.

“I saw you talking to the waitress,” Hannah says into my hair.
“She was at Jenny and Tom’s, she was saying hi.”
“Took her a while.” Hannah’s voice doesn’t change, but

we’ve been together for two and a half years. I’m pretty attuned
to her moods.

“Maybe she took pity on me, all alone at a wedding.”
“Or thought you looked like an easy pick-up for the night.”
“Hey!” I sound too sharp, too offended for what Hannah

will no doubt pass off as a joke, but in my head, I’m back in that
moment, leaning in to Imogen while she seduced me with

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cocktail names that aren’t even that sexy, and I don’t know what
would have happened next if Hannah hadn’t turned up.

“You are easy,” Hannah says, the smile back in her voice.

“Bet I don’t even need to buy you a drink.”

* * * *

In May, I miss Julie and Margaret’s wedding. I send a card

and a gift, and I get a nice thank you note back from Margaret,
saying that she understands why I couldn’t come, and that she
hopes this doesn’t mean I won’t visit when she and Julie get
back from their honeymoon.

I hope it doesn’t mean that either, but Hannah and I

divided up our coupled-up friends, and she got Julie and
Margaret, on account of her knowing Julie since university, and
me only knowing Margaret since we met in a book club, right
before I started seeing Hannah.

This is one of the things they don’t tell you about being

gay: that your social circle is small to begin with, and that it just
feels smaller when you break up. And that all the six-degrees-of-
separation jokes about lesbian hook-ups start feeling true when
you’re invited to a party, and the first thing you ask is whether
your ex got there first.

* * * *

In October, my mum’s best friend’s son gets married to a

woman I’ve met once. I’m not expecting the invitation, but it turns
up, and trust me, there are very few excuses that work on my
mother when it comes to family obligation.

“You ought to bring someone,” she says. “Look, the

invitation says and partner.”

“I don’t have a partner. It’s fine, this way I can sleep with

the bridesmaids.”

“Jodie,” Mum says, but she’s smiling, so I can’t have

scandalised her that much, more’s the pity—she’ll probably try to
set me up with one.

185

* * * *

October turns out to be unseasonably warm, though for

once I’m dressed appropriately for the weather, so I don’t much
mind. Plus, the sides of the marquee roll up, so there’s a nice
enough breeze blowing through the reception.

It’s a little weird to be there without Hannah—it’s not like I

didn’t see the break-up coming, or like it was a bad thing, but
still—and Mum’s a little bit right that I feel like a spare part, since
I only know a handful of people there.

I do my social duty, circulating around the people I know

and being introduced to a few I don’t, ducking my mother.

And maybe, a little, looking out for Imogen. Sue me: the

company she works for is catering this event, and it would be
rude not to say hello. Of course, my luck being what it is, now
that I’m a free woman, she’s nowhere to be seen.

The reception’s in the grounds of a hotel surrounded by a

country park, so when the noise and the people get to be too
much, I wander out into the darkness. The hotel’s near enough
that I can see the lights reflecting in the fountains out front, and
somewhere further away I can hear some sort of bird call and
answer. The breeze is just warm enough to feel good on my
skin, rather than chilling. For a moment, it’s peaceful, easy to
lose the phantom sense of Hannah that I haven’t quite managed
to shake since the break-up.

Maybe I’ll just stay out here for the rest of the evening.
“Excuse me.”
Or not. I half-turn, but in the darkness, the lights of the

marquee behind her, I can’t make out who the woman calling me is.

She comes a little closer. “Are you all right? You probably

shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“What, in case the rabbits—” And then my brain kicks in

for real, puts a name to the voice. “Imogen?”

“Yes?” She’s close enough now that we don’t have to

raise our voices to be heard, close enough that I can pick out her
features. She’s wearing a knee length green dress, and I
remember her from the ceremony, a few rows in front of me.

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“Jodie?”

“Hi,” I say, feeling stupid, and then, “I was looking for you,

before.”

“Can’t have done too good a job of it,” she says, her smile

flashing to take the sting out. “Good thing I’m better at it.”

“You were looking for—I don’t even know, random

vulnerable women or something, not me.”

Imogen makes a face. “I wasn’t looking the way you just

made it sound.” She shrugs. “Lisa asked me to keep an eye out for
anyone who looked like they might be thinking of wandering off.”

“You’re a friend of Lisa’s?”
“Cousin,” Imogen corrects. “Our mothers are sisters. You?”
“Family friend on the groom’s side.” I lean back against

the fence, and after a moment, Imogen leans next to me, both of
us looking at the marquee. “Nice to be waited on instead of
working?”

“Honestly? I keep expecting someone to hand me a tray

of drinks anyway. Not that relaxing.”

“I guess.”
Silence falls, thick and awkward. I’ve never been very good

at flirting, and now I’m not sure whether Imogen was flirting for
real, or doing it for a tip, knowing Hannah was there to shield her.

“I didn’t see your girlfriend,” Imogen says as though my

own thoughts prompted her. She sounds casual, maybe too
casual, but when I look across at her, she’s looking away and I
can’t read her face.

“We broke up, a few months ago.”
“I’m sorry.” I can feel Imogen looking at me, and it’s my

turn to look away with a shrug.

“It was a long time coming. For the best. Insert

appropriate cliché here.” I smile, and catch Imogen smiling back.

“Plenty more fish in the sea?” she offers.
“The right person will come along,” I agree.
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
“Best to get back on the horse.” I’m surprised to hear

myself saying the words, and by the way Imogen starts, I’m not
the only one.

187

Somehow, her hand, warm on my wrist, isn’t the shock it

probably should be. “Are you?” she asks, voice low. “Thinking
about getting back on the horse?”

I shiver, and I’m pretty sure it’s not from the wind.

“Depends on whether there’s a horse offering. And who she is.”

“If I was the—” Imogen breaks off, shakes her head.

“Sorry, but I refuse to be a horse in this.”

I laugh, startled into it, pleased when she joins in. “I’ve

been thinking,” I say, made bold by her hand still on my wrist,
“About getting under a cocktail waitress.”

“You go for bartenders?”
“Just one, really.” I reach for her, rest a hand on her waist,

her dress scratchy under my palm. “She seduced me with
cocktails, and I’ve always liked women who know what they’re
doing.”

“Really?” Imogen’s hand tightens. “What am I doing right

now?”

“Getting ready to kiss me,” I say and lean in the last inch.
She tastes sweet, her mouth opening against mine, her

arm sliding around my waist, pulling me closer, and if our
courtship has been a slow burn over the better part of a year, I’m
pretty sure the consummation of it will be the opposite,
explosive, brilliant heat.

“I’ve got a room at the hotel,” she says, the words warm

against my skin. “Lisa won’t miss me.”

“You’re not going to make some pun on Wet Spot?”
Imogen laughs. “On reflection, that may not have been the

best choice of cocktail for putting the moves on you.”

I tighten my hand on her waist and kiss her again.

“Worked anyway.”

“Yeah,” she says, pressing closer for another kiss. “Yeah,

it did.”

188

School for Doms by Anne Brooke

The first time I really notice Master Whatley is during

Lesson Three of my Getting Started for Doms course when I’m
kneeling on the floor of my best training room, stark naked and
with a rose (no thorns) nestling between my cheeks. The cock of
one of the more promising Dom pupils in my class is currently
stuffed down my throat as far as he can get it. Yes, I know this
isn’t the way you’d expect Doms to be taught, but I’ve always
found trainee Doms get less angsty when the teacher’s a sub.
Plus, I’m totally brilliant at topping from the bottom, so hey, it
works for me as well as them.

A few seconds later said pupil comes in my mouth with a

groan and a final thrust that all but takes my tonsils out. God, I
love the taste of spunk. I swallow it down and hold on to him until
he’s ready to let go, and then watch as he steps back to rejoin
his classmates.

“Thank you, Christopher,” he says, just as I taught him to.

“You’ve performed well for me.”

Then he sits down. I bow my head. We’re still in scene

until I say the word. I remain kneeling for a couple of minutes,
head still bowed. I can feel the tension in the classroom begin to
mount; the class has only been going for three weeks and
they’re pretty green.

“Manningtree,” I say, and the release of pressure amongst

my ten trainee Doms is so palpable you could probably bottle it
and sell it to unsuspecting tourists in the park. Manningtree is
where I was born and brought up, if you’re wondering. A
pleasant little town on the eastern English coastline where
nothing memorable has happened in the last two hundred years.
I like to remain true to my roots.

“Okay,” I continue, removing the rose before standing up.

At the grand age of forty-three years, you can’t be too careful.
“Thank you for taking part in that, Mr. Hollingsworth. The rose
was a nice touch. Now, masters, can anyone tell me which parts
of that scene you felt went well?”

The answers come thick and fast. Much like Mr.

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Hollingsworth’s cock. Odd how in ten years of running my School
for Doms, nobody has ever raised their hand to be allowed to
answer a question, whereas in my cousin’s School for Subs
down in south London he has to virtually whip them to a pulp
before they have enough courage to speak at all. Lucky them. I
used to be like them too, but a lifetime of true submission is one
of the most empowering things I know and I like to think I’ve
come a long way since then.

“He was very confident in the way he handled you.”
“He let you have time to adjust to the rose.”
“He gave you very precise instructions as to what you

should do, and he told you what he was going to do to you too,
so you had time to prepare.”

A few more comments saying almost the same thing

come my way before the buzz of responses fades.

“Okay,” I say. “That’s good. Now, what about things you

thought could be improved, bearing in mind the key principles
you’ve heard so far?”

First rule of teaching in a high-class Doms’ School is

never use the word learn; Doms don’t like it, no matter where
they are on their journey of self-discovery. They’re proud men
and women, that’s for sure. The requirement to substitute this in
lessons with hear or listen or understand is paramount. This
evening as usual it does the trick.

“After the rose went in, he got too excited and finished off

very fast.”

“He didn’t confirm your safe word or gesture with you.”
“He didn’t explain what was going to happen after he

came in your mouth.”

More is said along those lines and I continue to nod.

“Thank you, masters. Is there anything else before we move on?”

I walk slowly, still naked and erect, across the classroom

to give them more time to consider. Some things, like a strong
cheese, a fine wine and a good Dom, are best not rushed. Then
an unfamiliar voice rumbles across the room and caresses my
ears like honey against the skin.

“He didn’t give you any aftercare,” says the voice. “He

190

walked away and didn’t attend to your needs. Such as dealing
with the rose, making sure you were comfortable, or deciding
what to do about your hard-on.”

I blink. It’s Master Whatley. He’s been attending the class

from Week One but until now hasn’t said a word, though I’ve got
the impression he’s been listening intently to everything I say
and sifting everything in that mysterious head of his. He’s a tall
man, imposing but not particularly muscular, although I wouldn’t
bet against him in a fight. His black hair is sleek against his skull
in a way that accentuates his cheekbones and gives him a
wolfish look, and his eyes are dark blue. He’s about ten years
younger than me, I reckon, and he’s the most beautiful man I’ve
ever seen. Have I mentioned that already? Anyway, it’s good to
hear him say something at last, as I was starting to wonder if he
might be mute, and if I needed to research other ways for him to
communicate during a scene.

I cough. “Yes, that’s right. Well done on those

observations, Master Whatley. It’s vitally important to provide
first-class care for your sub at all times, especially after a scene.
So, if you will, I’d love to know what you would have done.”

I expect him to share his answer with the class. He

doesn’t. Instead he gets up, slowly, all the time keeping his gaze
firmly fixed on me.

I can’t help myself and my prick hardens further. Though,

actually, it’s a lot more than that. I was at half-mast a second
ago, but now my cock is jumping up and down, smiling and
dancing the light fandango. Thank God there isn’t any music.
When Master Whatley is standing up, as indeed am I, in more
than one sense, he begins to walk towards me. Every head in
the class, all nine of them, swivels around to stare at him and
then just as quickly swivels back to stare at me.

I take two or three steps backwards before telling myself

to get a grip. By the time he arrives in front of me, I’m standing
still, head bowed, but gazing upwards at him through my lashes.

For a long moment he says absolutely nothing and the

whole room is utterly silent.

Then he speaks. “Do you want to know what I would do?”

191

“Yes, indeed, Master.” My voice is higher than I would

like, but what with one thing and another, it can’t be helped.

“I would do this,” he whispers, almost as if meant only for

me. “I would remove the rose, gently so you wouldn’t be hurt. But
firmly enough for you to know it was me.”

As he speaks, Master Whatley leans forward and his hand

drifts over my arse, fingers barely touching my skin but somehow
leaving a trail of heat in their wake as if he’s scalding me. I gasp
but remain as motionless as possible, the beating of my heart
filling my head with noise.

“I’d run the petals over your buttocks and up over your

belly, allowing you a few seconds of being touched but without
the pleasure of physical contact with me,” he continues, and all
the time his fingers follow the path of his words. He’s so close I
swear if I breathe out I’d be able to touch him. But the moment
vanishes and I’m left almost panting.

“Then,” he says, “I’d thank you for the pleasure you’d

given me and I’d kiss you on the lips. I wouldn’t put my tongue in
your mouth, as I don’t like the taste of my own semen.”

And at last I feel the warmth of his lips on mine, but the

kiss is so fleeting I barely have time to return it before he steps
away.

“Finally,” he says and now his voice is hoarse. “Finally, I’d

wrap my hand around your cock and ask you to come for me.”

He reaches for my cock but his hand pauses. He’s

trembling. I want to beg him to grip me but God knows what
would happen if I did. He blinks and a drop of my juice falls onto
his fingers. He steps back. Then with a look as if he’s surprising
himself as well as me, he raises his hand to his mouth and licks
his skin clean. I shut my eyes and take a slow, deep breath.

When I open my eyes again, Master Whatley is back at

his desk, scribbling in his notebook. His hands are still shaking.
I’m not sure how much the others have seen as his body
shielded most of what was happening from them. At least I hope
that’s the case.

I glance at the clock, wait until it swims into vision, and

see there’s only five more minutes to go of the lesson. I need to

192

get rid of all of my pupils as fast as possible. Nearly all of them.

“That’s well observed, Master Whatley,” I manage to

croak through my suddenly dry lips. “I think we’ll finish early
tonight. Next week I’ll be looking at whips and how to use them.
I’ll see you then, masters.”

As the scraping of chairs commences, I go into a kneeling

position as my class of Doms leaves the room. Some of them
say goodbye to me with a brief word, whilst others stroke my hair
or pat my shoulder.

I count nine good night gestures before the classroom

door closes and there is silence. With my head bowed, I daren’t
look up as I wonder if Master Whatley has left without any
acknowledgement or if he’s still in the room with me. The thought
he might be makes my cock perk up even more.

“I’m still here.”
Master Whatley’s voice is rough and uncertain, but at

once I feel more relaxed. It’s as if I’ve been longing to hear him
speak and now I have, everything is okay. I haven’t experienced
such a sense of sanctuary for nearly two years.

“Yes, sir.”
He doesn’t comment. I hear the sound of a chair scraping

on lino and the slow approach of footsteps. When his shadow
looms over me, I breathe in the faint hint of spices. Something
rich and masculine.

“Do you want to know why I’m still here?” he asks. He’s

having trouble catching his breath and I realise, whatever the hell
is happening, it’s up to me to calm him.

“Yes, Master Whatley, I do.”
He doesn’t reply, and I risk a glance upwards. His eyes

are closed, and his lips tightly pursed. He looks as if he might
suddenly change his mind, swing round and walk out of the
classroom. It’s the last thing I want to happen.

“Master Whatley…?”
“Yes.” He opens his eyes and I lower my head again. He

takes a deep breath. Then another. Then he speaks quickly, as if
he’s uttering the first thing that enters his head and doesn’t quite
know what it will be. “I’m no expert, but most of the books I’ve

193

read tell me when a sub is kneeling, the natural position for the
hands is behind the back. Is that true?”

At once, I move my hands into the correct position. What

the hell can I be thinking? “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,
believe me.”

“I do believe you. Do you know, the blush on your skin

makes me want to touch you, to see for myself how hot you are.
God, I…”

He’s out of control and tumbling fast. Whatever he’s

started here has taken inordinate courage in such an
inexperienced man and I need to help him rather than fall at his
feet and beg. So, as he hisses between his teeth and grips his
hands into fists, I steady myself before replying.

“Yes, please. I’d love you to touch me. Once you’re ready

to play this scene.”

When he next speaks, his voice is slightly stronger, but

his words take us in a different direction from what I’d
anticipated. “Good. Yes, that’s good. But there are some things
we need to negotiate first.”

Are there? Frankly, I don’t give a monkey’s proverbial if

any obstacles stand between my body and his fingers; I’d leap
over all of them right now without so much as drawing breath if it
meant he got to touch me. However, I know he’s right. “Yes, sir.”

He draws up a chair in front of me and sits down. He

needs the support as his legs are shaking. His shoes are black
leather and stylish, and I wonder if his feet are as beautiful as the
rest of him.

“You don’t have a current master, do you?” he asks me.

“That’s what your receptionist said when I asked her earlier. Is it
true? And, if it is, how long have you been without one?”

The intimacy of the question is like a punch in the gut.

Now he’s recovered, he’s not as predictable as I’d thought.

“Yes, it’s true,” I reply, my brain working double-time and

making a mental note to have a word with Lucy about
confidentiality issues. “It’s been nearly two years since I last
belonged to anyone.”

“Why is that?”

194

Punch to the gut followed by a swift right hook to the jaw.

I’d best be careful with this one. My answer takes me a while to
consider though Master Whatley doesn’t seem to object to
waiting. Perhaps we both need a pause. The truth is after my last
master, I’ve haven’t sought another; at the time, the
circumstances felt too raw and since then I’ve wondered if I’m
not in the end too old for that kind of relationship. Submission
can be intense. The man in front of me is certainly too young for
me but he’s brave; he’s asked for the truth and that’s what I’m
going to give him.

“Because I’m afraid, and I don’t want what seems at the

time to be perfect to come to nothing again. I also think I’m too
old to try for another relationship and, after a while, not being
owned becomes a habit.”

There it is. My life in two sentences. Bloody bloody hell,

this is harder than I’d thought.

“It-it must be lonely.”
I blow out a deep breath, feel the rapid beat of my heart.

“Yes, sir. It is. But I have my work here and my classes which…”

“Hush,” he says, and I stop speaking at once. He leaves a

fraction of a second before continuing and I’m glad it’s so brief; I
need to hear him speak. “I didn’t ask you about the ways you try
to make your isolation more bearable, Christopher. I asked you
the reasons for it.”

“Yes. I was forgetting myself. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
“Yes of course,” he whispers. “You’re forgiven.”
I know it’s too soon and far too untested to feel this way at

all, but the relief of his words is as if someone has given me a
refreshing glass of water on a hot summer day. I can’t even
begin to deny it.

“You don’t have to worry about ruining perfection or

having it ruined for you,” he goes on. “Don’t we do that for
ourselves anyway? We can’t do it for others. And I’m far from
perfect. God, you can see that right here, can’t you? I don’t even
know what I’m doing. Not really. I’ve never been with a real sub
before. I…”

Once more he breaks off and I feel the ground open out

195

beneath us for a second time. I want so much for him to stay and
I need to bring him back. Make it all right for both of us, in spite
of the way he’s floored me just now.

“That doesn’t matter, sir. Every fresh encounter is strange,

so it doesn’t matter who’s experienced and who isn’t. It will be
unfamiliar to everyone involved.”

Not much of a helping hand, but it seems to work. “Yes, of

course. You’re right. In a fashion.”

Then he touches me. Not on my leaking cock, where I

most want it. No, Master Whatley touches me on the face, lifting
my chin and then drawing his finger down my cheek, across my
jaw and up the other side. I swear he’s burning me up again. I
wonder if he might touch my mouth if my cock is out of the
question, but he doesn’t. I’m gazing at him, taking in his whole
appearance in a way I haven’t before, not like this.

Close up, his eyes are kinder than I expected, though

they’re still as dark a blue as a storm on the sea. There are crinkles
round them too, but then again he’s not in his twenties, though
definitely closer to them than I am. I like how the hair around his
temples curls slightly and isn’t as entirely smoothed down as I’d
thought. He has the beginnings of a definite five o’clock shadow,
and I find I like that too. I wonder how it would feel.

When he stops touching me, it’s a significant loss, but I

don’t have time to dwell on it as Master Whatley is already
asking something else.

“Before we go any further,” he says, his voice again more

than a little rough, “I need to know your safe word.”

“It’s ‘Manningtree’, sir.”
“No, no.” He shakes his head. “You don’t understand.

That’s the word you use in class. It can’t be the word we use
now. I want you to choose something new.”

Still gazing at him, I search his eyes to try to discover his

intentions. My heart is beating fast and my throat feels dry. “May
I ask a question first?”

“Yes.”
“Is this…?” My voice fails and I have to clear my throat.

“Are you considering trying me out, Master Whatley?”

196

He shifts in his chair and frowns. “I don’t know. I might be.”
“Why?”
He rubs his hands over his face and up through his hair.

Somehow the gesture turns me on even more.
“Because…because I like the way you treat us in class. And I’ve
never met anyone so fucking kind. But, God, Christopher, there’s
nothing I’d love better than to push myself inside you as deep as
I can go. It’s what I’ve been thinking about all night and hell, I
can’t stop thinking about it.”

When he stops speaking, his eyes widen and he stares at

me more deeply. I moan and my tempted-beyond-reason prick
lets fall another drop of pre-come onto the floor. He leans
towards me. I open my mouth, praying for a kiss, but he stops
short of reaching my face.

“Please,” I pant, “please.”
“Would you like that?” he whispers. “Would you like me to

turn you round, push you onto the floor, unzip myself and fuck
you now? Is that what you’d like me to do?”

“Yes, sir, please yes, I’d love you to do that, please.”
“God, you’re so beautiful when you beg. I never thought it

would be like this, I never…” He swallows and I can see the
effort he’s making to keep control and hold himself together. I so
much don’t want to fall from the flight he’s allowing me to take.

“If you think I’m beautiful when I beg,” I manage to say,

holding his eyes, willing him to listen, “then I will beg for you
whenever you want it. Always.”

A moment or two flicks by and his gaze steadies. He half-

smiles. “I-I may allow it in certain circumstances, but it will
depend on my decision alone.”

“Yes, sir, of course.”
This time, his smile is wider and a whole lot more

confident. He’s found his rhythm again. The strength of it holds
me in place, allows me to soar. “So, yes, I do want to try you out.
Unless you have any objections, that’s what we’ll do. What do
you say?”

“Thank you, sir. But there is one thing you need to

consider—” I break off, not quite knowing what to say next.

197

He sits back on the chair, still staring at me.
“And that is…?” He raises one eyebrow and I’m reminded

how much I love men who can do that.

I shut my eyes. “I’m forty-three years old and you can’t be

more than early thirties at the most. I want this, please believe
me, I do. But, in all honesty, I must tell you it would be better for
you to practise with a sub of your own age, or younger. Yes,
younger is better. That way, you can learn together.”

Silence follows and I wait for his response, feeling the sudden

lurch of emptiness inside. I swear to God, his brand of quietness is
worth more than all the words I’ve ever heard in my life.

“Christopher,” he whispers at last when I’ve almost given

up hope he’ll ever talk to me again. “What if I don’t want a boy?
What if I want a man? What if the man I want to try with is you?”

My response is instant. “Then, Master, you must have

whatever it is you want, and I give myself to you willingly for that
purpose. If you’ll have me.”

I all but pant the words, desperate for him to touch me,

and he laughs. “Agreed. But you have to tell me what your new
safe word is. When you’ve done that, I’ll fuck you. Then, after I’m
satisfied, I’ll let you come, but you must wait for me to give you
permission. Do you understand?”

By the way he looks at me, I realise he’s not only asking

for my acceptance, but he’s also asking whether this is the right
way to go about things. Frantically, I nod. I don’t really care if it
isn’t the right way. I want his cock deep inside me as soon as he
can shove it in.

“Yes. Yes, Master, I understand. My safe word is

‘classroom’. Is that acceptable?”

“It is.” Then, thank God, he snaps to business and the

waiting time, the longing time, is over. “Turn round and get on all
fours, Christopher. I want to see you like that, ready for me.”

I obey as gracefully as I can. As I do so, I hear a packet

being torn and the sound of him opening the oil bottle. I leave
one on every desk during lessons, just in case. He’s taking good
care of me and it makes me fall closer to the edge.

“God,” he says. “You’re so bloody beautiful.”

198

The next moment, the tip of his sheathed slicked-up cock

is at my entrance. My heart is beating so fast I think I might
explode, and I whimper.

Slowly, he pushes himself inside. He doesn’t have the

widest cock I’ve experienced, but it’s long. He takes his time,
giving me the chance to get used to him though, really, there’s
no need. I’m not exactly chaste, not in my job. Still, I treasure
every moment of this for later. Every groan, every thrust. The
slap of his balls against me, the heat of his body against mine,
the glorious smell of his skin. I don’t know how many teaching
codes I’m breaking and, frankly, I don’t much care. I’m
thoroughly enjoying every hot, mad second of it and I’m going to
make damn sure Master Whatley enjoys it too.

I push back against him with a vengeance as my cock

drips its juices all over the lino, impaling myself on him. Briefly I
wonder if there’ll be anything left inside me for coming at all, but
something tells me not to worry, ten years older or not. At this
rate, if it’s permitted, the difficulty might be stopping coming.

When he climaxes, he’s quiet but he grips my shoulders

so hard I’ll have the marks on my skin in the morning. Then he
puts one hand on my cock and starts to pump me. At the same
time, he whispers, the words so faint they barely make sense,
“All right, come for me. Do it, Christopher.”

And I’m already letting go. I’m laughing and crying and

shaking, a wave of fire swallowing me up until I don’t know
where he ends and I begin. God, but it’s bloody fantastic. I never
knew I had it in me—though I certainly don’t now.

After I’ve finished shaking, we lie down on the floor

together, just breathing, for a while. Then he eases himself out of
my body, turns me round and kisses me. I hold on to him, not
quite able to face reality just yet. When he finally stands up and
adjusts his clothing, I allow myself one glance at his still half-
erect cock before gazing into his face again. He smiles.

“Like what you see?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Good. So, what would you say to seeing more of each

other for a while?”

199

In response, I kneel in front of him once more, correct

position, everything as it should be. “I think your ideas simply
can’t be faulted, Master.”

He laughs, and his eyes crinkle at me. Then he kisses me

goodbye, and his lips feel warm and safe on mine. God, but this
has been the best Doms’ class ever, in my opinion. More than
that, I have a sneaking suspicion this term is going to be great, in
oh so many ways. And, as the beautiful, rather inexperienced but
utterly sexy frame of Master Joseph Whatley disappears through
the door, I’m smiling in the knowledge the School for Doms has
somehow also become a school for one particular sub. Me.

200

Dragon Dance by Josephine Myles

“D’you really reckon they’re going to get it finished in

time?” Gan asked.

Archie looked up from where their toes were almost

touching on the bedspread. Almost, but not quite. He couldn’t
bring himself to nudge that little bit closer, didn’t trust his cheeks
not to flame if their toes made contact, even through layers of
thick socks. He moved his foot further away, bumping into the
abandoned chemistry textbook instead.

“Hmm?”
“Wake up, mate. The dragon? You think they’ll get it done

in time for us to practice with it?”

“If your mum’s in charge? Yep, I think so. Either that or

she’ll make us do it using the practice kit.” The Year of the
Dragon was looming, and for the first time in their lives they were
going to be part of a traditional Chinese New Year parade. Well,
the Somerset version of it, anyway. Their tiny village wouldn’t
know what had hit it. Either that or it would piss it down with rain
and only the five families that made up Rode’s Chinese
community would bother coming outside to watch.

Their dragon dance practice had been a weekly fixture

after kung fu for the last two months, but the dragon itself was
taking a long time for Archie and Gan’s mothers to finish. They’d
been put through their paces using a practice kit consisted of
seven broomsticks joined together by a length of rope. Gan held
the pearl the dragon chased in its spiralling dance. Well, they
called it a pearl, but for now it was nothing more than a tent pole
stuck into an old foam football, gradually disintegrating as the
weeks went past. Performing with it would be a joke.

Gan rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I wouldn’t put it past her. She

had a right strop on at me yesterday, told me I wasn’t properly
respectful to my heritage as a British Chinese person. And this
was only coz I said I wasn’t going to eat my rice with chopsticks
when there was a perfectly good fork available.”

They both snorted. Friends since they were toddlers, Gan

and Archie had been brought up by two fiercely competitive

201

women, but this sudden enthusiasm for Chinese culture was a
shock after a lifetime of their mothers trying to be as British as
they could.

Lily-May, Archie’s mum, had been raised by Chinese

parents but she’d married a local and when they hadn’t been
able to have children of her own, had adopted a white baby. Not
just white, but pale as tofu with a shock of soft blond hair Archie
could only tame into a quiff with handfuls of gel. Archie’s dad had
left her four years before, but that hadn’t made any difference to
Lily-May’s preference for stodgy British food and high street
clothing. Jen, Gan’s mum, had always had a chip on her
shoulder about her race and the fact her husband owned the
village’s Chinese takeaway-cum-chippie, and had wanted to call
her son Gary. Archie thanked the stars Mr. Lee was even more
stubborn than his wife, because he couldn’t imagine his best
mate as a Gary.

Couldn’t imagine whispering Gary when he touched

himself under his sheets at night.

He had to stop thinking about that. What the hell would

Gan think if he started getting a stiffie while sitting next to him? It
wasn’t like he could blame it on the chemistry revision they’d
been half-heartedly making a stab at. It would be different if it
were the other way around, as Gan was bold as you like and
didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of him. But Archie was
different. Archie had only ever wanted to fit in and not be noticed.

No, Gan would be grossed out. He had a girlfriend and

wasn’t going to be happy if his best mate suddenly confessed to
having a hard-on for him.

To being gay.
Because that’s what Archie was, he’d realised. He used to

think the “liking girls” thing would kick in as he got older, used to
think his interest in watching martial arts was purely to see the
technique. Used to ignore those wet dreams with the slim, flat-
chested person sucking him off. The one who had Gan’s dark,
almond-shaped eyes, silky black hair and smooth, tan skin.

But since he’d turned eighteen Archie had decided to stop

lying to himself. He was gay. Get over it, the slogan went. Tricky

202

that, when you lived out in the sticks with no out-and-proud role
models. He’d got over it, finally, but would anyone else? How the
hell was he going to come out when he had no idea how the
village would take it? Safer to wait until starting uni in the
autumn. Just another ten months of pretending to be someone
he wasn’t. He could hack it. Of course he could. He had his
dragon to help.

Of course, if he didn’t get into Manchester with Gan, he

should probably just come out now anyway. Life was going to be
dismal without him, so he might as well get used to that now.

Now Gan was getting up and taking out the earbud they

were sharing from Archie’s MP3 player, and Archie wanted to
drag him back down again so he could feel that body heat so
tantalisingly close to his own.

“I’m gonna go see where they’ve got to. Coming?”
“Yep.” I’d come with you anywhere.

* * * *

Gan’s living room was a riot of colour. Tinsel decorations

left over from Christmas still covered the ceiling, and below them
the floor and every piece of furniture were strewn with lengths of
scarlet parachute silk to make the dragon. The Lee family’s
Chinese New Year budget didn’t stretch to more than a recycled
parachute bought off eBay. It was red, though, so not only would
it look good, but it was a very auspicious colour. So his mum had
announced after checking Wikipedia, anyway. She’d become a
walking trove of knowledge about Chinese tradition recently, and
was often on the phone to Master Zhang, the Dragon parade
expert, asking him all sorts of searching questions.

Archie wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, but he’d been

utterly seduced by the dragon myths. These weren’t the fire-
breathing, gold-hoarding sorts of dragons he’d learnt about at his
Church of England primary school, but creatures of light and air,
bringing good luck. He could do with a bit of that himself, not just
for the approaching exams, but to survive this next year of living
in the closet. He’d begun to picture himself a dragon companion,

203

pearly scaled and invisible to everyone but him. It was stupid, he
knew, but he could swear thinking about it flying near him helped
him to remember his revision.

It would be damn near perfect as a good luck charm, if

only it would stop talking to him.

While Jen frowned over her sewing machine with a

mouthful of pins, in the corner Archie’s mum was putting what
looked like the finishing touches on the giant papier-mâché
dragon head.

“That thing looks proper sick, Mrs. Phillips,” Gan said.

“Like he’s gonna take a chomp out of my pearl if he catches it.”

“Thank you, Gan.” Archie’s mum beamed at him. “I wish I’d

had a daughter, you know. You’d make such a sweet son-in-law.”

“Me too,” Jen butted in. “Then Archie could marry her and

we’d all be one big, happy family.”

Both women sighed in unison. That little performance had

been acted out so many times during their lives that Archie and
Gan were used to it, but lately it had been making Archie flush.
What would they think if Archie and Gan became a couple? Not
that that would ever happen. Not in a million years. No matter
what that damn dragon of his whispered to him in his sleep.

His mum turned from Gan to Archie. “Hope you’ve been

working out, son. It’s heavier than I expected.”

Archie had been, not for the dragon head carrying task in

particular. More out of a newfound consciousness of how good
muscles looked on other men, and therefore how attractive they’d
be on him. Being a good six inches taller than all the others in his
kung fu class had meant he’d been the only choice to hold the
dragon’s head, so now he got to run around chasing after Gan
every week. It wasn’t quite as much fun as sparring with him in the
lesson beforehand, but he got a certain thrill out of it.

If only he could catch him, tumble him to the ground, and

then…and then…He’d need his luck dragon to help him be bold.

“Archie? I asked if you boys were going out to the pub

later?” Jen’s shrill tones cut through Archie’s daydreams like a
cheese wire, leaving them in pathetic, limp slices.

“Yeah, you’re coming, aren’t you, mate? Don’t leave me

204

with the girls.”

Another night of watching Gan’s girlfriend slobber all over

him while her best mate did her awkward best to flirt with a tongue-
tied Archie? It wasn’t exactly appealing, but then again, if he got to
spend more time in Gan’s presence, how could he say no?

“Yeah, I’m coming.”
Even if it did break his pathetic little heart every time

Becca touched his man.

* * * *

The next couple of weeks were a whirl of revision, early

exams and late practices. The echoing, chilly village hall was
starting to feel like a second home to Archie, the twelve others in
his kung fu class his brothers and sisters. Master Zhang had not
only been scheduling extra practice sessions, but he’d been
gradually cutting their regular kung fu class shorter and shorter
to expand the dragon dance section, looking more and more
stressed as the weeks passed. As stressed as someone who
seemed blessed with perpetual tranquillity could be, anyhow.
Archie was sure he’d seen a frown line appear in the shifu’s brow
this last week, and he’d taken up twirling his long goatee beard
around his finger. “Practice makes perfect,” Master Zhang would
announce every time they screwed up one of the moves, but
every time it sounded a little less serene.

But all thoughts of the dragon dance faded as Archie

concentrated on his opponent. They were working on the Shaolin
Five Animals this year and had already made their way through
Dragon, Panther, Tiger and Crane, so were now onto the Snake.
Gan stood in the ready position, looking far more chilled than any
man who was about to be attacked by someone taller and
broader than him had any right to be. Did he think Archie wasn’t
a worthy opponent?

“Come on, Arch, I’m waiting. Do your worst.”
His worst? Archie concentrated on his breathing, trying to

channel that qi energy that Master Zhang was always banging
on about. He thought he felt it, a warm tingling in his belly. Then

205

again, maybe that was just from checking out Gan in his black
wushu suit. Archie knew he looked like he was in his pyjamas in
his, all bony knees and a skeleton he hadn’t grown into yet, but
Gan looked good enough to eat, his lean body filling it out in all
the right places. His black eyes sparkling.

Bugger. This wasn’t helping Archie find his peaceful

place. He pictured his dragon instead. There, that was better.
The dragon seemed lit from within, not by the green-tinged
fluorescent strip lights of their makeshift dojo. He felt it fly past
with a gentle waft of air.

Archie punched with his left fist, Gan dodged and blocked.

Pain exploded up Archie’s arm like a ribbon of fire. Gan grinned
as he bounced back up again, and Archie gave him a reluctant
smile. “Great block.”

“Come on. Gimme some more. You can go harder than that.”
Archie flushed at the unintended double entendre, but

gave as good as he could, launching a volley of kicks and
punches, a few of which connected but most of which Gan
blocked or dodged. It ended with them both breathing heavily,
Gan holding Archie down on the floor. Damn. Archie had been a
hell of a lot better at the Dragon technique they’d been practicing
before Christmas. His heart hammered wildly as his body
reacted to all the points of contact between them, Gan’s weight
pinning him down. Shit. He was not about to get a hard-on during
practice. He desperately called up his chemistry revision. Noble
gases. That would do. Helium—

“Got you where I want you,” Gan panted, and Archie

suppressed a moan. If only!

Helium, neon, argon, krypton, xenon, radon, err, what was

that last one he could never remember? Archie ran out of noble
gases, and Gan was looking at him oddly.

“You all right, mate?”
“Would be if you got your fat arse off me,” Archie said,

which was better than will be if you kiss me, which the dragon
had whispered to him as it swooshed past. He’d save that for his
fantasies later.

“Sorry, Arch. But you’ve got to admit, I done you good and

206

proper that time.”

“Stand down,” Master Zhang called, and Gan held out a

hand to help Archie up.

“Great session,” Gan said, the touch of his warm, dry

palm far too brief for Archie, yet long enough to set his skin
burning.

“Ah! Our Dragon is ready at last,” Master Zhang said,

looking through the glass doors of the village hall. Their mothers
had pulled up in the small car park and were carefully unloading
the acres of red parachute silk from the back of Jen’s Fiat Punto.

And so fifteen minutes later Archie stood with the dragon’s

head held above him on its pole. Still a broomstick, but this one
had been painted gold, the glossy surface slippery under his
fingers. Even the fabric body had been painted with gold scales.
Behind him Alex, Tai, Jennifer, Ryan, Shen and Sue stood in a
line of descending height. They’d all reached red belt or above,
earning them a place on the team. The students who were on
the lower belt levels sat at the edges of the hall, looking on
wistfully. Ahead, Gan stood in a casual stance, his brightly
painted and fringed papier-mâché “pearl” on a gold stick looking
an awful lot better than the old foam football on a tent pole.

“Right then, team. Let’s show these lovely ladies what we

can do,” Master Zhang called, his eyes gleaming with something
that looked suspiciously like flirtation as he looked over in Lily-
May’s direction. Dear God, Archie hoped his shifu wasn’t angling
for his mum. The two of them together would be…weird. No, he
wasn’t going to go there.

“Remember, pearl, you lead the dance. Now get spinning!”
Gan shifted into a bow and arrow stance, feet wide and

one knee bent, setting the pearl spinning on the end of its stick
so that the fringe spun out. Archie watched for his cue. He
absolutely wasn’t about to get distracted by how good Gan
looked with his legs spread wide. He wasn’t.

But then Gan began to swing the pearl from side to side in

a graceful arc, and Archie moved to follow, the unfamiliar weight
of the dragon head meaning he needed all his concentration in
order not to screw it all up. The movements they’d practiced

207

began slowly, the head sweeping from side to side. He had to
trust the others behind him would follow the pace he and Gan set.

The dragon began to dance.

* * * *

Lily-May and Jen stuck around for a while, filming on their

phones, but left before the end saying they had lanterns to get
ready now they’d finished the dragon.

“No Becca tonight?” Archie asked as they walked out into

the frigid air after practice. His blood still sang with the thrill of
dancing with the real dragon, of chasing Gan around the room.

“Nah, not likely. She dumped me.”
Archie shot him a quick glance and somehow managed to

stop himself from pumping a fist into the air while shouting “YES!”

“When’d that happen? You don’t seem all that bothered.”
Gan shrugged. “I’m not, really. I’d been thinking about

ending it for ages but didn’t know how to tell her without her
going mental. Turns out she was having second thoughts too, so
that’s all right.”

It was more than all right. It was fucking fantastic. Archie

wiped the smile from his face, though. “Thought you two got on
really well.”

Now Gan looked shifty. He began kicking a discarded can

in front of them as they walked, the clanging noise unnaturally
loud in the cold air. “I like her. Don’t get me wrong. She’s really
nice an’ all, but…I dunno. I don’t want to spend all my time
listening to her wittering on about Glee and Beyoncé and crap
like that.”

“What about the other stuff you did together?” Archie

couldn’t help himself asking, not that he wanted intimate details.
Gan hadn’t told him anything beyond broad hints.

Now Gan looked even more shifty, if that were possible.

He pulled his hood up and mumbled. “What stuff?”

Interesting. “You know. Sex stuff.”
Gan’s body became one giant shrug. “Okay, I suppose.

Not as good as I’d expected.”

208

Fascinating. Gan’s obvious discomfort made Archie bold.

“Maybe she’s not the right type for you. Too…too girly and
sweet.”

“Are you saying I’d be better off with someone blokey and

rough? Thanks, mate,” Gan retorted as he kicked the can
savagely, but his voice sounded strange. Shit, was he
homophobic? Or just scared? But why the hell would he be
scared, unless…Archie’s dragon whispered suggestions in his
ear, but he crushed down the false hope.

However, by the time they reached Archie’s house, Gan

seemed to have returned to his usual humour, turning to him and
smiling. “Practice was pretty sweet, wasn’t it? Can’t wait to get
back to it tomorrow. Beats exams, for sure.” Over the weekend
they’d be putting in a whole two afternoon’s practice before the
parade on Monday afternoon.

“Yeah, I reckon. Shame we’re not sparring, though. I owe

you a pasting.”

“You’ll have to be quick to catch me out,” Gan said with a

grin over his shoulder, already walking away.

He wants you to catch him, Archie’s luck dragon

whispered to him.

“That’s bollocks,” Archie replied, before flushing with the

realisation he was now talking back to his imaginary friend. Way
to go, Arch. Now you’re really cracking up.

* * * *

“And again!” Master Zhang called out, sounding as close

to exasperation as Archie had ever heard him. “Archie, are you
even awake today?”

Archie flushed from his toes to the roots of his hair. “Sorry,

Shifu.” He wasn’t that awake really, reality suffused with the
remnants of his broken dreams. Dreams that were growing ever
more intense and explicit, weaving together the stolen glimpses of
Gan’s body, the scent of his hair putty and that underlying spicy
musk that was pure Gan. Would Gan be able to tell what Archie
had been fantasising about? His face must be broadcasting the

209

way he felt every time Gan looked his way, surely?

And Gan had been looking at him an awful lot today, even

if he looked away every time Archie made eye contact. Gan had
to keep an eye on the dragon anyway and spent most of the
dance moving backwards, but Archie was sure he didn’t usually
get furtive glances from Gan in their rest breaks.

Archie raised his eyes and found that jet gaze fastened on

him again, before Gan suddenly became fascinated with the end
of his belt. If only that darting gaze meant what he wanted it to.

“Come on then, from the start again, dragon. Gan, see if

you can keep our head from falling asleep, please. I want you to
electrify him with your dance. Watch him closely and hypnotise
him with your gaze.”

“Okay,” Gan said. “Sure.” He didn’t sound sure, but Archie

was buggered if he could tell what that strange tone to his voice
meant.

Gan struck his bow and arrow starting stance. Their eyes

met. Energy flowed, bolting through Archie’s body and settling
just below his navel. This time Gan held his gaze as he began
spinning the pearl. Gan’s body moved sinuously, gracefully, and
Archie followed. The charge between them made him bold,
smiling as he swept the head down almost to the floor to chase
Gan’s pearl, all the time still holding Gan’s gaze.

Yes, it was easier like this. Years of sparring together had

attuned their bodies.

Archie channelled his luck dragon and danced after his man.

* * * *

The January wind blew freezing drizzle into their faces as

they left the village hall, but Archie glowed warmly inside
because Gan wasn’t being weird anymore. The dragon dance
seemed to have cured whatever had been bugging him.

“Fancy coming round to play Skyrim?” Gan asked. “The

folks have gone to visit my aunt today. Won’t be back till
tomorrow lunchtime. You could crash over, if you want.”

Archie’s head shot up.

210

“How come you didn’t go?” Gan loved visiting his cousins,

who had a huge house in the Brecon Beacons with lots of great
climbing nearby.

Gan shrugged. “Told Mum I needed to revise, didn’t I?”
“For Chemistry? Thought you had it all down already.”
“Yeah, well, she doesn’t need to know that. Besides,

Mum’s going mental with all these bloody lanterns she wants
making. She’s planning on setting everyone to work doing that.
Trust me, I’m better off out of it. And I couldn’t exactly walk out
on practice, could I?” Gan had gone back to that not-meeting-
Archie’s-eyes thing again, but at least they were walking side by
side. Heading towards Gan’s house and a night of Archie
sleeping on the floor of his room. Not as good as an invite into
Gan’s bed, but it was better than nothing.

By the time they reached the house, Gan’s chatter

sounded strange. Overly bright and forced, like someone else
was using his friend’s body as a puppet. And Gan wouldn’t even
look at him. It carried on while they were grabbing drinks and
snacks, and while Gan set up the Playstation in the living room.
Then Gan joined him on the sofa, but instead of his relaxed
sprawl, he sat on the edge of the seat, body tense and alert.

“Are you going to play your Orc again?” Gan babbled. “I

was thinking of creating a new character this time. Maybe a
Khajiit? I dunno. What do you think? Or maybe I should just stick
to what I know.”

What had happened to his bright, confident friend? Ask

him, his dragon whispered, a hiss of scales swooshing past his
ear. Fuck it. What was the worst that could happen?

“What’s up?” Archie asked.
“What d’you mean? Nothing’s up.” Gan’s gaze darted

away again. There was no way he was that fascinated by the
god-awful painting of leopards over the electric fireplace.

“You’re acting weird. Have been all day.”
“I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are.” Archie shifted onto the edge of the seat

himself and decided to be bold, like his dragon. He laid his hand
on Gan’s forearm. Just a gentle touch. Brotherly.

211

Yeah, right.
“Whatever it is, you know you can tell me.”
“Can I?” Gan asked, his voice thin and choked. He stared

at Archie’s hand, but made no motion to shrug it off.

“Course you can. I’m a mate, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, but you’re not going to want to be if I tell you this,”

Gan muttered.

“What, murdered someone, have you? Chopped them up

and buried them under the patio?”

“Don’t be a twat,” Gan said, and Archie was pleased to

see a glint of humour in his eyes again.

“Seriously, mate. You’ve got me worried here.” Archie

squeezed Gan’s arm, not wanting to let go. Not until Gan made him.

“I just…I’ve been thinking really weird things just lately.”
“Such as?”
“Um…” Gan turned right away. “If I tell you what, you’ve

gotta promise not to kick my head in. And not to tell anyone else.”

“Why the fuck would I want to kick your head in? I love

your head.” Oh, he had not meant to say that. Was his dragon
putting words into his mouth?

“You do?” Gan snapped his head back to look at Archie.

That same charge crackled between them as Archie had felt
during the practice, like that time he’d decided to take the telly
apart to see how it worked, and ended up getting an electric
shock instead.

“’Course I do,” Archie said, his voice coming out hoarse

and broken. “Whatever you say, mate, seriously, it isn’t going to
stop me loving that crazy head of yours.”

Gan smiled then, a small, cautious smile, but it made

Archie’s heart swell painfully inside his ribcage. When Gan
looked down at Archie’s hand again, he realised he was stroking
patterns onto Gan’s skin. Patterns like dragon’s scales.

“I think I might be…” Gan began.
“Yes?” Archie’s hand squeezed Gan’s arm tight, and his

whole body broke out in a sweat. He watched Gan’s Adam’s
apple working as he searched for the next words.

“I, um, well, you know I said I wasn’t all that into Becca.

212

You know. The sex and stuff.”

Archie made a noise in his dry throat that seemed to

satisfy Gan as a reply.

“Yeah, well, I think I figured out why. I think I’m just not

into girls.” Gan’s eyelids fluttered as he glanced up at Archie.

Lightning struck. “So you mean you’re…you’re gay?”
“I think so.”
“Me too,” Archie whispered as his heart soared into the sky.
“No way!”
“Yes way. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed me checking

you out, like, every chance I get.”

“What, you mean…you fancy me?”
“Duh! Earth to Gan, are you receiving this signal? ’Course

I fancy you. I fucking love you, idiot.” A horrible thought blasted
through his relief. Just because Gan was gay too, didn’t mean
he’d fancy Archie. His stomach clenched into a tiny ball and tried
to climb up his throat. “Oh my God. I’m just…I’m sorr—”

Gan’s lips mashed against his, smothering his words. The

shock froze Archie solid, but as Gan pulled away, his face
stricken, Archie pulled him back again, wrapping his arms tight
so Gan would never be able to get away.

Gan tasted sweet and sour, a blend of salt and vinegar

crisps and Coca-Cola. His jaw rasped against Archie’s with just a
hint of stubble. Archie licked eagerly into his mouth. He was
probably making a mess of things, like an overeager puppy, but
he didn’t care because this was Gan, the boy he’d been lusting
after forever.

When their teeth clashed painfully, Gan took hold of

Archie’s hair and forced him to slow down. Gan’s confident lips
and tongue taught Archie what to do, how he liked it. How they
both liked it. He kissed Archie in a way that made his toes
wriggle and his dick swell.

Archie groaned as Gan sucked his way off his lower lip.

“Oh fuck. That was amazing.”

“It was good, but I think we’d better get more practice,”

Gan said. “Lots of practice.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Archie said, mimicking Master

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Zhang’s stern delivery and twiddling his finger in an imaginary
beard.

Gan snorted, then rested his forehead against Archie’s.

“So you realise you’re my boyfriend now, right?”

The sound of those words lit up Archie’s heart like a

lantern. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Archie could see Gan’s brain working away as he

frowned. “Wonder what everyone’s going to think?”

“They don’t have to think anything. It’s none of their

business.”

“Yeah, but they’re going to. When they see us together.”
“You mean you want to come out to everyone?”
Gan pulled back, his eyes flashing obsidian. “Of course I

do. I’m not hiding the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Best thing?”
“You of course, dumb-arse.” Gan’s hand circling on his

thigh, moving higher, took the sting out of the insult. “Are you
going to be brave with me, Arch?”

Archie closed his eyes, and pictured his dragon soaring

high and bold. He nodded. He heard a sharp exhale and opened
his eyes to Gan’s radiant expression.

“In that case, I’m going to do something really brave, right

now.”

Gan’s hands moved down Archie’s body, inside his

clothes, touching and teasing and driving him wild. And when
Gan’s mouth followed up on his promise, licking him to a bone-
shattering climax, he could swear he heard a swish as his luck
dragon flew past.

* * * *

They’d sat up for hours planning how they were going to

announce it to their parents, before tumbling into Gan’s bed for a
sleepless night of getting to know every last inch of each other’s
bodies.

Turned out they needn’t have worried. A combination of

them sleeping late, and Gan’s parents coming home early,

214

meant they were awakened by Jen bursting in the room to open
Gan’s curtains.

“Come on, sleepyhead. You’re meant to be at pract—Oh!”
Archie dived under the covers. Oh shit! Had she just seen

him…Yes, he mentally replayed waking up with his head
pillowed on Gan’s naked chest.

“Christ! Er, Mum. Me and Arch have got something to tell

you,” Gan said, his voice still tinged with deliciously sated sleep.

“Yes, I can see that. Hmm. You boys get yourself decent. I’ll

call Lily-May. She should hear this too.” Archie peeked out to watch
Jen leave, but at the door she turned back, a smirk on her face.
“And for God’s sake open the window. It stinks of sex in here.”

Archie’s body blazed with the heat of a thousand blushes.

If he stayed under the duvet he’d surely set the bed on fire, and
not in a good way.

“Mu-um!” Gan groaned. Archie heard the unmistakable

wumpf of a pillow hitting the closing door.

* * * *

Chinese New Year started with a light drizzle, but by the

time the parade was due to start the clouds had turned ragged,
letting through watery beams of sunlight.

It could have been tipping it down and Archie would still

have been wearing his face-splitting grin. The villagers had
turned out in force, including all the children at the local primary
school, and Gan’s mother had organised them all with pots and
pans and a few drums she’d begged and borrowed. Gan moved
sinuously to the improvised music, his eyes dancing with a joy
that mirrored Archie’s own.

As the dance ended and Archie caught the pearl, the

crowd clapped and cheered.

Now, Archie’s dragon whispered.
Okay, Archie whispered back.
“Gan, come here and kiss me.”
Gan raised his eyebrows and Archie beckoned with his

finger. Gan’s face lit up with a grin to rival Archie’s, and he

215

stepped closer.

They kissed in the middle of the High Street. Just a brief

brush of lips, like the swish of a flying dragon’s scales.

High above them, Archie’s dragon looped-the-loop.

216

Reclaiming Territory by Becky Black

Jim climbed out of the sidecar and straightened up with a

groan.

“Bloody hell. I don’t remember riding in that being so

bumpy twenty-five years ago. God, my back’s killing me.”

Andy took his helmet off and smirked at him. “Don’t be

such a jessy.”

“I’m not a jessy. I’m just—”
“Getting old?”
“Not as young as I used to be.”
Neither of them were, their hair greying, laugh lines

turning to wrinkles. But Andy’s smirk was as cheeky as ever,
enticing Jim by turns to either kiss it or smack it.

“It’s okay for you riding the bike,” Jim said. “You’re not

crammed into a breadbox with your arse three inches off the road.”

“You never used to complain.” Andy stripped off his

leather jacket, dropping it in the sidecar before taking a comb
from his pocket and tidying up his hair, flattened by the helmet.

“Aye, well, I was eighteen then.” And too distracted by the

prospect of what awaited him when they reached Whitby. And he
didn’t mean the abbey.

Back then Andy had insisted they should visit places and

not spend the entire weekend in bed in the guest house, as Jim
wanted. He kept talking about Dracula, St Hilda, and Captain
Cook and other things Jim knew little about. But he knew he
loved to hear Andy talk about them.

“Come on,” Andy said, swinging a still-shapely leg off the

bike. He locked up the sidecar and gestured at the abbey. His
carefully combed hair was already being mussed up by the wind.
“Let’s check out the old place then get some lunch.”

“Hang on.” Jim said, checking his phone for anything he’d

missed while crammed into the sidecar.

“Oh, put that thing away.”
“That’s not what you said last night. Got a text off Caitlyn,

asking if we got here safely.”

“Tell her we’re in Whitby, not Kabul. Did she think we’d be

217

attacked by bandits en route?”

“Well, when she found out there’s no Starbucks here,

then, yeah, she probably did. Plus, you haven’t driven a
motorbike since 1998.” Jim tapped a quick message into the
phone, then slipped it away into his pocket and followed Andy,
who’d started walking from the car park to the ruins of the abbey,
perched high above the town. The wind blew in off the sea, a
chilly north-easterly, just like that first weekend they came here.

* * * *

1987

“Can we go back to the B and B now? It’s bloody freezing.”
“No,” Andy said. “What do you think that landlord will think

we’re doing in our room in the middle of a sunny day?”

“He’ll think we’re shagging.” Jim grinned, but then

sobered, looking around warily. Nobody in earshot. Early in the
season, barely a tourist around yet. Ideal for a couple of young
lads on a dirty weekend. Of course everyone back home thought
they were on the tap for lasses. If they knew the truth…Jim didn’t
like to dwell on the thought. It was why they’d come down to
Whitby. Too far away to run into anyone they knew, or to be
easily contacted. And something about Dracula, according to
Andy, who would keep talking about people out of books like
they were real. As if he expected to find a bit of graffiti on the
abbey walls: Dracula woz ere.

Jim strode over to Andy, who was reading a guidebook,

its pages whipping about in the strong wind. He looked cold, his
nose and eyes reddened by the wind, and Jim wanted to pull him
close to warm him up.

“You should have a better coat,” he said, giving Andy’s

denim jacket a dirty look. “But you had to spend all your money
on that stupid bike and sidecar.”

Andy shrugged. “Better than getting the train.”
Jim wasn’t sure about that. That bloody sidecar had

rattled him helplessly all the way from Shields. He snuggled
himself deeper into his coat, or rather his Dad’s coat, the donkey

218

jacket he used to wear in the winter when heading out on dark
cold mornings to start his shift at the pit. Didn’t need it any more.
Jim wondered if he could get away with giving the coat to Andy.
Would his dad miss it? Would Andy even accept it?

No, stupid idea. It was too big for one thing and Andy

could buy a decent coat if he wanted. He had that job he’d been
doing after school the last two years. Saved his money up and
bought an old Triumph—which didn’t work. He’d had to spend six
months repairing it. And Jim happened to be pretty handy with a
spanner himself, so he got to spend all that time with Andy and
nobody could question it.

Andy was left school now, waiting to go to university in the

autumn. Going away. Jim didn’t want to think about that either. If
their plans didn’t work out, Andy would be gone.

“Bet your mam told you to buy a decent coat and not that

bike. And all them books.”

Andy shrugged. “Mam knows what I’m like.”
Jim snorted. “Aye. Crackers.”
Andy smiled at him. “Aye,” he said softly. “Crackers.”
Jim gulped. God, when he smiled like that…What was a

man supposed to do? He wasn’t made of stone. Okay, he
decided. If Andy wouldn’t come back to the guest house right
now and let Jim shag him from now till Sunday tea time, they
might as well take care of some other physical needs.

“Let’s get out of this wind and get some fish and chips.”

* * * *

2012

Jim checked his phone again when they settled into the

coffee shop for lunch. No more missed calls. Good. Everyone
was leaving them alone. He put the phone away in his pocket.
Andy fiddled with his a bit longer.

“Get off Facebook,” Jim said, “Nobody cares about your

latte.”

“Just sending some photos to Caitlyn so she knows

Whitby is in fact safe from highwaymen and footpads. That it

219

even has Wi-Fi.” He put the phone away and started eating his
panini. “She looked lovely yesterday, didn’t she?”

Jim smiled. Beamed. He’d never stop being grateful Andy

got along with Caitlyn. He could have understood if Andy had
resented her as a constant reminder of the years they’d spent
apart. A reminder of Jim’s cowardice. And he could have
understood if Caitlyn hadn’t accepted Andy. But she was too
good a lass to blame Andy for Jim’s mistakes. His daughter was
the best thing to come out of the long time Jim had spent being a
total fool. And yes, she’d looked lovely yesterday.

“When do we check in to the guest house?” Jim asked.

Andy rolled his eyes.

“You’re still as impatient as ever. Can’t wait to get your

hands on me, eh?”

“Always.”
“We’ve got plenty of time.” He leaned back in his chair.

Sunlight through the window bathed him in a soft glow and his
hair looked golden again, as it had all those years ago.

* * * *

1987

Jim ran a hand through Andy’s too-long, blond hair, pulled

his head closer, lips meeting for a kiss. He’d finally persuaded
Andy back to the guest house and locked and bolted the door to
their room. When he took his shirt off he hung it on the door
handle to cover the keyhole. They lay together on one of the two
narrow single beds, naked and chilly in the unheated room. The
mean bastard landlord must have turned the heating off as soon
as the first snowdrop poked its head out of the frozen ground.

“Can we get under the covers?” Jim said. “My knob’s

gonna freeze off in a minute.”

“Let me heat it up for you.”
He used his hand, and his mouth, and how careful they

were, thinking of all those stories in the papers about the AIDS.
They weren’t quite sure if they needed the condoms they used.
Neither had ever done this with another lad. A few fumblings, but

220

never all the things they did together. Things Jim hadn’t even
thought of, but Andy had, of course. He read books.

Andy had bought the condoms for them. Jim had tried a

couple of times; gone into Boots and come out with a comb and a
tub of foot powder. Andy was less easily embarrassed, though Jim
doubted he’d want anyone to know who he was using them with.

But it’s better to be safe than sorry, Jim’s mam used to

say. Sometimes she said it when Andy was around, and gave
Andy a meaningful look. Jim knew some of the locals thought
Andy’s mam had reason to be sorry, since she wasn’t married to
Andy’s dad. But Jim could never condemn her. He’d never be
sorry to have Andy around.

They shouldn’t have been friends really. Andy always

reading, studying, staying on for sixth-form. Jim spent more time
playing footy than studying. He’d left school at sixteen—had to,
with his dad out of work since the pit closed. Someone had to put
bread on the table. No, they should never have been friends. But
one look at Andy’s shaggy mop of golden hair and Jim had been
as smitten as the girls who trailed him.

None of those girls ever got anywhere with Andy. But Jim

got to Whitby with him. Andy—always thinking—suggested it,
that they take his bike and sidecar and have a weekend away.
Let everyone else think they were on the beer and the pull. Then
they could really enjoy time alone together, not the usual furtive
and fearful encounters they had at each other’s houses, always
afraid someone would come home unexpectedly.

Best idea anyone ever had, Jim thought as he dozed in

Andy’s arms, head full of an imagined future. What if they could
be together like this all the time? Andy was going away to
Lancaster for university and they’d talked about how Jim could
follow him there, find work, send money back home. They could
even live together, like they were housemates. Students did that,
didn’t they? Their grants were never big enough. Nobody back
home had to know anything else was going on.

It was a dream. A wonderful dream. They could have a

double bed, not the narrow little singles they’d had to use so far,
where one of them always ended up with his arse freezing cold,

221

as the covers wouldn’t stretch over the two of them. A double
bed and a life together. Jim was a man of simple tastes. That
was all he could ever want.

* * * *

2012

“Do you want a lucky duck?” Andy asked.
“What, here? In public?” Jim grinned at Andy’s

exasperated look.

“Fine. No getting lucky for you then.”
“Sorry. Yes, of course I want a lucky duck. Can’t come to

Whitby without getting a lucky duck.”

They strolled to the glass shop to buy the famous

souvenirs, in no hurry, still eating ice creams. Jim had honey and
pecan flavour, while Andy licked a pineapple sorbet ice in a way
Jim couldn’t look at if he didn’t want to end up being embarrassed
in the trouser region. They finished their ice creams as they
arrived at the shop, and paused for a moment to look at the
window display, the lucky ducks, small glass ducks of every colour
of the rainbow and more besides, taking pride of place.

“What happened to your old duck?” Andy asked. Jim

tensed at the question. Andy had never asked him before about
the ducks they’d exchanged that last weekend they spent in
Whitby. He’d seen Andy’s at his home, on a bookshelf. He’d kept
it all these years. Despite everything.

“It got broken,” Jim said. “In a bar fight in Port Said.”
Andy looked at him for a long moment. “So you took

it…away with you?”

“Yes.”
“Bring you much luck?”
Now that was a loaded question. “Well, that night it

deflected a knife, so, I’d say yes.” When Jim had taken the
broken remains out of his pocket after that fight, he’d had to find
a place to be alone so he could weep. It happened a year after
he left and it felt like the final break with Andy. Like he could
never go back now. However much he regretted what he’d done,

222

he’d lost Andy forever.

“Is that true?” Andy asked, looking at him with a dubious

expression. “Or is it another tall tale?”

“What? You’re suggesting I’m lying?”
“One or two of your stories of naval life have proved

difficult to believe.”

“Like what?”
“The one about Lord Lucan working as a street sweeper

in Mumbai for one.”

“Absolutely true. I swear on Bobby Robson’s grave.”
“Pics, or it didn’t happen, is what I believe Caitlyn would

say. And please don’t take Sir Bobby’s name in vain.”

* * * *

1987

Sunday came much too soon. They could spend the rest

of the day in Whitby, but they had to check out of the guest
house by ten in the morning. They cut it fine, spending a bit too
long in bed and landing up in the front hall with just a couple of
minutes to go.

“Sorry, sir,” Andy said to the scowling landlord. Andy was

grinning like a man who—well frankly, like a man who only thirty
minutes earlier had been hanging on to the headboard, trying to
muffle yells of ecstasy as they made the most of the last of their
precious time alone this weekend.

Jim handed over the money for the room to the landlord,

who counted it carefully and put it into his pocket.

“Don’t come back,” he said.
“Thanks, we’ll—” Andy stopped, looking uncertain, as if

unsure he’d heard right. Jim, knew he’d heard right. It took Andy
by surprise, but not Jim.

“Let’s go,” he said quietly.
“I’m sorry,” Andy said to the landlord, “but what did you say?”
God, no, Jim thought. Don’t make him explain. You know

what he said, you know why he said it. Let’s just go!

“You heard,” the landlord said. “You think I don’t know

223

what you’ve been getting up to? This is a respectable house. I
don’t want your sort here.”

“You think we want to come back to this shithole?”
“Andy, let’s go,” Jim almost begged, taking his arm. The

landlord glared at the touch, looking disgusted.

“The only thing worse than the rooms is the food,” Andy

went on, face flushing. “I don’t know which had more mould on it,
the walls or the bread. And here’s a tip—try turning the hot water
on for longer than ten fucking minutes at five A.M.”

Jim had never seen him so angry and upset. He was

terrified Andy was going to punch the guy. Then the police would
come and it would be in court and in the papers and they’d find
out back home. They’d know.

“Come on, we have to go.” He pulled at Andy’s arm.
“No.” Andy pulled his arm away. “We don’t have to put up

with being spoken to like this. We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

“Should get the police on you,” the landlord said. “Should

put the bloody lot of you in jail. Spreading disease…”

Jim grabbed the protesting and yelling Andy and dragged

him away. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!

“Everything all right, Alf?” A woman scrubbing the step of

the guest house next door straightened up as the landlord
followed Jim and Andy out.

Jim grabbed the bike helmet. He practically threw Andy in

the sidecar. He couldn’t let him drive the bike in the state he was
in. He’d smear the pair of them all over the A19.

“Just seeing off a couple of poofs,” the landlord said.
Jim shoved Andy back down as he tried to rise.
“Oh, I could never be doing with having that sort in my

place,” the woman said. “All going to hell and good riddance.”

Jamming the helmet down over his ears cut off their

words. Jim fired up the bike and roared away. Never come back,
he thought. Never come back to this fucking town.

They made it as far as the Scotch Corner Services when

Jim decided he’d better let Andy out before he spontaneously
combusted. But Andy seemed calm when he got out of the
sidecar and stretched.

224

“You all right, like?” Jim asked. “You’re not still upset?”
Andy shrugged. “He took me off guard. But there’s no

point in yelling at people like him. Their time’s over.”

Jim shook his head. Andy kept saying things would

change for their sort. But Jim couldn’t see it. Not back home they
wouldn’t. Not for a long time.

“What are we doing, Andy?” he said. “I mean, do we really

think this can…work?”

Andy shrugged. “It’s not going to be easy. But what is? It

can work. We just have to stick together.” He smiled. “Still
thinking of coming with me to Lancaster?”

“Aye. Of course.”
Two days later, Jim joined the Merchant Navy.

* * * *

2012

The motorbike stopped in front of the guest house. The

same guest house. New curtains at least, Jim thought. How the
hell did he know that? How the hell did he remember what the
curtains looked like twenty-five years ago? He remembered. Like
he remembered Andy’s golden hair, and his denim jacket, and
every inch of that old Triumph, long since scrapped. Every detail
of that weekend in ‘87 was etched in his mind.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked.
“Yes. We have to reclaim the territory.”
“That’s one way of looking at it. Think he’s still there? The

old landlord from hell?”

“He can’t be. He must have been a hundred and four back

then.”

Jim chuckled. “He was probably only fifty-odd. We were

eighteen. Anyone over thirty was old.”

“True. Okay.” Andy squared his shoulders, straightened

his back, ready to go over the top. “Charge!”

“Crackers,” Jim muttered as they walked to the door.

* * * *

225

2009

Jim couldn’t claim they met by accident. Their families still

lived in the same street. Jim went round to see his mam every
couple of days, took her out shopping once a week, and took her
to Dad’s grave most Sundays. Andy lived further away, but Jim
had been told he still came to visit his mam every Sunday.

So one Sunday morning in the summer they happened to

arrive at the same time. Jim tried to convince himself it was by
pure coincidence. As if he hadn’t carefully questioned a couple of
people about what time Andy normally showed up.

Andy stared at him like he’d risen from the grave. Jim

ventured a nervous smile.

“Hello. Er, your mam all right these days?”
“She’s…okay. You’re back home then? Permanently?”
“Aye.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Can we have a

chat?”

Andy stared. “A chat? After twenty-odd years, you want a

chat?”

No. Jim wanted Andy. He’d never stopped wanting him,

even when he ran away from him. Even when he married a
woman who eventually got fed up with a man who was absent
even when he was home. Even when he tried to forget Andy in
the arms of other men. He never forgot the golden hair and the
cheeky smile.

No shaggy mop of golden hair now, just neatly trimmed

and turning grey. Still a slim and fit man though. Still handsome.
Still his Andy.

“Please?”
Andy snorted and said, “Follow me.” He led Jim down the

street and along the narrow cut between a couple of houses that
led to what had once been the working men’s club. It was long
gone, a small park there now. Andy sat on a bench and thrust his
hands into the pockets of his jacket. Jim sat beside him.

“I knew you were back,” Andy said. “And I knew you were

asking about me. My mother never misses anything going on in
that street.”

“Oh. You, um, seeing anyone just now?” He berated

226

himself for the clumsiness of the question. But he had to establish
it first. If Andy had a partner, then Jim had to back off. If Andy was
happy Jim had no right to come along and try to mess it up.

“Why? You think if I’m not that I’m going to fall back into

your arms? After what you did?”

“I’m sorry.”
“You’re going to have to do a lot better than that. You

shredded me, Jim. I loved you and you just disappeared.”

“It wasn’t only about us. There was no work here. I had to

support the family. Dad had stopped even looking for work.”
Stopped going out. Stopped eating. Jim had run out on that too,
too scared to see his once strong father fade away and become
a shell.

“No, Jim, it was about us.”
Jim sighed and rubbed his forehead. “That bastard

landlord in Whitby. What he said went round and round in my
head, and all I could hear was my dad or mam saying it. Or any
of them round here. I couldn’t face it.”

“You couldn’t have come and told me that yourself, at least?”
“I wasn’t strong enough,” Jim admitted. Andy had always

been the stronger one. “I knew you’d be able to talk me out of it. I
wrote you a letter. Did you get it?”

“I got it.”
They sat in silence for a while, Andy staring out across the

park, Jim looking at him sidelong, trying not to stare. Andy. His
Andy. All those dreams over the years, wondering how he looked
now, wanting to see that cheeky smirk again, on the changed face.

“You, ah, fancy going for a pint or something?” Jim asked.

“Tonight maybe, if you’re…”

Andy stood and Jim rose quickly, frightened if he let Andy

go now he’d never see him again.

“Just to talk,” he said. “Please?”
“What do you want, Jim? Do you think we can get back

together? Do you really think that can happen?”

“I don’t know. But, I want to try.” Might as well be honest

with him. He deserved that after all this time. Andy looked at him
for a long time, then shook his head.

227

“I thought about you for a long time, Jim. And I admit, I still

think about you. But if you expect me to ever trust you again,
you’ve got a lot of work ahead of you.”

* * * *

Jim worked. My God, he worked. For two years he worked

not at seducing Andy, but becoming his friend again. At being
reliable and trustworthy. The test had come when Andy’s mam
got ill.

It came on sudden; a stroke. And it was Jim who Andy

called from the hospital. Jim helped him deal with it all—the
news the doctors gave that she’d never get better, the move into
the hospice. And then a few weeks later, the funeral.

It was well attended, the funeral, and Jim had to wonder if

so many would have turned up if she’d died back when they
were kids. When the street thought of her as no better than she
ought to be, that lass with a bairn and no husband. But times had
changed. Jim had changed. He sat in the front pew of the church
with Andy, an arm around him when he cried for her.

When they gathered around the grave, he took Andy’s

hand. He didn’t care what anyone thought. Caitlyn was there, but
he’d already explained to her about him and Andy, and the truth
behind why he’d divorced. A few of the old folks looked at them
askance. But the world had changed, and though it hadn’t
become paradise most people didn’t take even a second look.

That evening, after they cleared away after all the

mourners and were making coffee, Andy kissed him.

* * * *

2012

“We have a reservation,” Andy said to the smiling woman

who greeted them at the guest house. “Names of Keel and
Richardson.”

“Oh yes, come on in.” She flicked through the reservations

book on a desk in the hall. Jim glanced around. New carpet, well-

228

decorated, and the smell of boiled cabbage and dry rot long gone.

“Double room, en-suite for two nights, bed and

breakfast?” the landlady said, writing in the book.

“Yes,” Andy said. “With a double bed.”
“Oh, it’s not a double bed.”
Andy gripped Jim’s hand suddenly, rather too hard, and

Jim spoke because he would otherwise have shouted with pain.

“We specified a double bed in the booking.”
The landlady looked back over her shoulder. “I know. But

a Caitlyn Richardson called me earlier.”

“Caitlyn called you? What did she—”
“She asked me to change you to a king-size.” The

landlady broke into a grin almost as cheeky as Andy’s. “After all,
you are on your honeymoon.”

229

About the Authors

Author and artist JORDAN CASTILLO PRICE is the

owner of JCP Books LLC. She writes paranormal, horror and
thriller novels from her isolated and occasionally creepy home in
rural Wisconsin. Jordan is best known as the author of the
PsyCop series, an unfolding tale of quirky paranormal mystery
and suspense starring Victor Bayne, a gay medium who’s
plagued by ghostly visitations. Also check out her new series,
Mnevermind, where memories are made…one client at a time.

Website:

jordancastilloprice.com

JCP News, monthly newsletter:

psycop.com/newsletter.html

Facebook:

facebook.com/pages/Jordan-Castillo-Price/257078438055

PsyCop fanpage:

facebook.com/JCP.PsyCop

Blog:

jordan-c-price.livejournal.com

* * * *

CLARE LONDON took her pen name from the city where

she lives, loves and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic,
testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with the
weekly wash, waiting for the far distant day when she can afford
to give up her day job as an accountant. She’s written in many
genres and across many settings, with novels and short stories
published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in
her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both
theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work
features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of
physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about
strong, sympathetic and sexy characters.

Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky

chapter 3 stage and plenty of other projects in mind…she just
has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-
fuelled family home.

Website:

clarelondon.co.uk

230

Blog:

clarelondon.livejournal.com

Facebook:

facebook.com/clarelondon

MySpace:

myspace.com/clarelondon

Twitter:

twitter.com/clare_london

Good Reads:

goodreads.com/clarelondon

GLBT Wiki:

bookworld.editme.com/clarelondonbooks

* * * *

JL MERROW is that rare beast, an English person who

refuses to drink tea. She read Natural Sciences at Cambridge,
where she learned many things, chief amongst which was that
she never wanted to see the inside of a lab ever again. Her one
regret is that she never mastered the ability of punting one-
handed whilst holding a glass of champagne.

She writes across genres, with a preference for

contemporary gay romance and the paranormal, and is
frequently accused of humour.

Website:

jlmerrow.com

* * * *

ELYAN SMITH lives in the southwest of England. He

works in research and spends most of his free time writing. He is
currently publishing with Riptide Publishing.

Website:

elyansmith.com

Twitter:

twitter.com/ElyanSmith

* * * *

As CHARLIE COCHRANE couldn’t be trusted to do any of

her jobs of choice—like managing a rugby team—she writes. Her
favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical
romances/mysteries. She lives near Romsey but has yet to use
that as a setting for her stories, choosing to write about
Cambridge, Bath, London and the Channel Islands.

231

Charlie’s Cambridge Fellows Series, set in Edwardian

England, was instrumental in her being named Author of the
Year 2009 by the review site Speak Its Name. She’s a member
of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Mystery People and
International Thriller Writers Inc.

Website:

charliecochrane.co.uk

Blog:

charliecochrane.livejournal.com

* * * *

ELIN GREGORY lives in South Wales (the old one) and

can usually be found surrounded by books either at home or at
her work in a museum. If she’s not writing, she’s reading or
drawing and has an enthusiasm for notebooks and pens that
borders on a fetish. Most of her stories start off on paper
because that’s the way she’s always done it.

Her nodding acquaintance with the 21

century is wary

and she wonders if “antisocial” media would be more appropriate
for her, but she can be found on Facebook, Twitter, Live Journal
and Wordpress, details on her website.

Website:

elingregory.com

* * * *

ROBBIE WHYTE has been writing for a few years across

various genres. Having worked previously in office administration
he completed a degree through the Open University and is now
fortunate enough to be able to write full-time. He lives with his
partner of ten years in the south of England. No children, no
pets, no stress, unless you count each other!

Away from the keyboard he enjoys watching and

occasionally participating in sport: he’s getting older and slower
though but he keeps trying.

Robbie also likes games, television, films and theatre—

and books. Most writers like books, he says. It’s one of those

232

things; you have to read to write, it goes hand in hand. Quite
apart from always learning—and seeing what the competition is
up to—writers read a lot.

Website:

robbiewhyte.com

* * * *

SANDRA LINDSEY lives in the mountains of Mid-Wales

and draws inspiration from the gorgeous surroundings, rich
history, and everyday quirks of modern rural life.

Blog:

sandra-lindsey.livejournal.com

* * * *

REBECCA COHEN is a Brit abroad. Having swapped the

Thames for the Rhine, she has left London behind and now lives
with her husband in Basel, Switzerland. She can often be found
with a pen in one hand and a cocktail in the other. Rebecca is
currently published by Dreamspinner Press.

Blog:

rebecca-cohen.livejournal.com

* * * *

TAM AMES is a single mom to a teenage daughter who

lives in Ontario, Canada. It was the encouragement and dares of
some friends that inspired her to start writing m/m romance.
Travelling as much as possible with her daughter, reading, writing
and playing around online keep her busy, in addition to her day job.

Blog:

cdntam.com

Twitter:

twitter.com/Cdn_Tam

Goodreads:

goodreads.com/Cdn_Tam

* * * *

233

ZAHRA OWENS is a multi-lingual globetrotter who loves

big cities, but also has a weak spot for the wide-open spaces
that are so rare where she lives.

She likes her men either tough on the outside but with a

huge soft centre, or strong, silent and damaged. She makes it
her personal goal to find them their happy-ever-after, the road
there often leading via hospital beds, villas with gorgeous vistas,
or ranges full of horses.

Zahra is a proud member of the Rainbow Romance

Writers, the Romance Writers of America, and is also a member
of RWA’s Professional Author’s Network.

If Zahra had her wish, a day would have at least 36 hours,

because how else would she find the time to finish all the novels
still inside her head?

Website:

zahraowens.com

* * * *

An avid reader, LILLIAN FRANCIS was always

determined she wanted to write, but a “proper” job and raising a
family distracted her for over a decade. Over the years and
thanks to the charms of the Internet, Lillian realized she’d been
writing at least one of her characters in the wrong gender. Ever
since, she’s been happily letting her “boys” run her writing life.

Lillian divides her time between family, a job and numerous

men in her head all clamouring for “their” stories to be told.

Lillian lives in an imposing castle on a wind-swept

desolate moor or in an elaborate “shack” on the edge of a beach
somewhere depending on her mood, with the heroes of her
stories either chained up in the dungeon or wandering the shack
serving drinks in nothing but skimpy barista aprons.

She would love to own a camper van and to live by the sea.

Blog:

lillianfrancis.blogspot.co.uk

Goodreads:

goodreads.com/author/show/5608334.Lillian_Francis

234

* * * *

EMILY MORETON published her first short story in 2007,

for a charity anthology in aid of victims of Hurricane Katrina. Since
then, she has continued to publish erotic short fiction regularly
with a number of American publishers, including Torquere Press
and Circlet Press. She has recently had a story accepted into the
2011 anthology of best speculative lesbian fiction.

Emily lives in Bristol, UK, with her cat, where she works a

number of jobs, studies towards her PhD, and runs a queer
women’s writing group.

Facebook:

facebook.com/emilyj.moreton

Blog:

purple-pen.dreamwidth.org

* * * *

ANNE BROOKE’s fiction has been shortlisted for the

Harry Bowling Novel Award, the Royal Literary Fund Awards and
the Asham Award for Women Writers.

She is the author of six published novels, including her

fantasy series, The Gathandrian Trilogy, published by Bluewood
Publishing and featuring gay scribe Simon Hartstongue. The first
of these novels is The Gifting. In addition, her gay and literary
short stories are regularly published by Riptide Publishing,
Amber Allure Press and Untreed Reads. All her gay fiction can
be found at Gay Reads UK.

Anne has a secret passion for theatre and chocolate,

preferably at the same time, and is currently working on a gay
fantasy novella, The Taming of the Hawk. She has a website, a
Facebook page, a blog and is also at Twitter. All visitors
welcome and virtual cake guaranteed!

Website:

annebrooke.com

Facebook:

facebook.com/annebrooke

Blog:

annebrooke.blogspot.com

Twitter:

twitter.com/AnneBrooke

235

* * * *

English through and through, JOSEPHINE MYLES is

addicted to tea and busy cultivating a reputation for eccentricity.
She writes gay erotica and romance, but finds the erotica keeps
cuddling up to the romance, and the romance keeps corrupting
the erotica. Jo blames her rebellious muse but he never listens
to her anyway, no matter how much she threatens him with a big
stick. She’s beginning to suspect he enjoys it.

Jo is a member of the Romantic Novelists Association and

has been published by Samhain, Amber Allure, Cleis Press,
Dreamspinner Press, Xcite Books, Circlet Press, and Torquere
Press. She has also been known to edit anthologies and self-
publish on occasion.

Email:

josephine.myles5@gmail.com

Website and blog:

josephinemyles.com

* * * *

A long time science fiction fan, BECKY BLACK thinks

there are few story ideas that can’t be improved by the addition
of the words “in space”. If the story also includes two gorgeous
men unable to keep their hands off each other then so much the
better. She’d happily go into space herself, but being English
would insist on there being a reliable supply of tea available. She
likes nothing more than trapping her characters in tricky no-win
situations and watching them figure a way out. When not chasing
her characters up trees and throwing rocks at them Becky can
be found working in an office—where she’s usually thinking
about the next rock to throw.

Email:

beckyblackbooks@gmail.com

Website:

beckyblack.wordpress.com

Twitter:

twitter.com/beckyblackbooks

Blog:

becky-black.livejournal.com

ABOUT UK MAT

UK MAT is the acronym for the UK Meet Acquisitions

Team, a group of authors and editors who seek to promote and
share some of the very best of LGBTQ fiction. The members
attend and support the UK Meet, now in its second year,
providing a fun and rewarding environment for authors, readers
and allies in the LGBTQ fiction community. Maybe you'll join us
there some time! Find out more at

ukglbtfictionmeet.co.uk

UK MAT, the real people? We are

Josephine Myles

Alex

Beecroft

Charlie Cochrane

Clare London

, and

J.L. Merrow

. We

all publish in our own right, and wholeheartedly love our genre.
Please visit our websites and look at our other work, both
published and free fiction.

ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC

Founded in 2010, JMS Books LLC is owned and operated

by author J.M. Snyder. We publish a variety of genres, including
gay erotic romance, fantasy, young adult, poetry, and nonfiction.
Short stories and novellas are available as e-books and
compiled into single-author print anthologies, while any story
over 30k in length is available in both print and e-book formats.
Visit us at

jms-books.com

for our latest releases and submission

guidelines!

Document Outline

Table of Contents
Introduction
Post Mortem by Jordan Castillo Price
Dressing Down by Clare London
Et Tu, Fishies? by JL Merrow
Zones by Elyan Smith
Sollicito by Charlie Cochrane
A Few Days Away by Elin Gregory
Vidi Velo Vici by Robbie Whyte
Shelter From Storms by Sandra Lindsey
Faulty Genes by Rebecca Cohen
Lost in London by Tam Ames
My Husband by Zahra Owens
Waiting for a Spark by Lillian Francis
Social Whirl by Emily Moreton
School for Doms by Anne Brooke
Dragon Dance by Josephine Myles
Reclaiming Territory by Becky Black
About the Authors

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