Chapter 17 #2
Neil, a perennial adolescent like myself, joins me.
Turns out his favourite hot barman is as straight as a terrier’s path to a baby rabbit, which absolutely serves Neil right for leaving the staff interviews to Jess, his very straight and very female bar manager.
When he finishes bitching about her, the barman, his bandmates, and Brentford F.C.
’s dire showing in the FA Cup (the last part goes straight over my head), he takes a long drag of his roll up and changes the subject.
“That guy you brought along. Your new man. Is he a rescue?”
“He’s not my new man. He’s my housemate. And landlord.”
I ignore the snide barb. If anything, lately, it feels as if Gerald is rescuing me.
I’m certainly sleeping better now I eat healthier regular meals and have his cosy extra duvet to snuggle into on the floor.
“He’s Gerald, the guy I’m living with until I find somewhere better, closer to town. In Sutton Common.”
“Where the fuck’s Sutton Common?”
“Arse end of nowhere.”
Neil nods as if I’ve shared precise geographic coordinates. “Has he ever been out on a Friday night before? He looks like one of those life size cardboard cut-outs.”
Neil’s not perfect by any stretch of the imagination—who is?
But, on balance, I like him a lot. As well as our regular rendezvousing in the bogs, we occasionally treat ourselves to a posh fuck in his flat upstairs and then go out for an early breakfast afterwards.
Very civilised. But listening to him poking, prodding, and trying to raise a laugh at Gerald’s expense strikes a nerve I didn’t know I had.
Normally, I’d fire back with snippy quips of my own, but this is Gerald he’s talking about: stiff as a cardboard box on the outside, but full of all sorts of unexpected goodies once opened up.
His popping pecs and busting biceps, for instance, when he’s doing his thing down in Sutton Common Methodist Hall.
His prawn stir fry and the way he leans in when I’m spouting my usual drivel like he doesn’t want to miss a word.
“He’s all right,” I return, “once you get to know him. And reserve judgement until you see him dance. You’ll revise that opinion.”
As I tug my cigarette papers from my pocket to roll us each a second, my lighter slips out. I bend to pick it up.
“While you’re down there, sweetlips,” Neil murmurs, predictably.
It’s tempting. The tarmac’s far cleaner out here than the floor of the bogs, and Neil is always eager to reciprocate.
I also promised Gerald I’d one hundred percent be returning home in a cab with him later, not sloping away with some random.
Blowing Neil now would fulfil my side of that deal and take the edge off.
But take the edge off what? I emptied my sacks earlier with a very satisfying wank in the shower. Obviously, I’m always open to more (after all, it’s very good for my prostate), but I don’t need anything.
With a heavy sigh, I close my eyes. Life was so much easier before I hit thirty.
Before Stefan and Marcus ditched me, before Sutton Common.
Knobbly tarmac digs into my knees, hopefully not marking my trousers.
Above me, Neil casually stubs out his cigarette against the brick wall.
From this angle he’s undeniably hot—from all angles he’s hot.
I enjoy blowing him, and I’ve never, ever experienced the hollow revulsion afterwards that Gerald described.
Maybe Gerald has a point. Blowing Neil now would be nothing but the Friday night game. Physical validation that I’m sexually desirable. From the swollen bulge in his trousers, Neil certainly expects me to say yes.
But what if I say no? Surely a good-looking guy like him proposing something like this is enough ego stroking?
“I’d better get back inside,” I say. “It’s my round.”
Surveying the bar and the clientele, Gerald’s sipping a second beer.
Our friends aren’t far away. Ez and Isaac are hanging with some musos I’ve met a couple of times, and Luke’s deep in conversation with the straight barman.
Gerald sits in his own little pocket of peace, watching, sipping, letting it all move around him like waves buffeting a rock.
His expression is impenetrable. Is he happy?
Bored? Wishing he was back in Sutton Common, prepping for the next book club?
“Careful with that, I don’t want to have to carry you home,” I shout in his ear as I sidle up to him. Do I put an extra sexy sway in my walk? Again?
Maybe, a little.
His gaze lowers, assessing me in a slow, confident sweep, reminding me of the cool way he confirmed the sex-ranking dude put him at the top of the leaderboard.
He holds his pint up to the light. “It’s not bad, actually,” he observes.
“Served at the right temperature too. Good single-hop bitters should be served at—“
“Twelve degrees, I know, and brewed by a bunch of troglodytes all called Dave. So, you’re glad you came out with me, then?”
“Are you?” he throws back, amused. “Glad I came out?” His gaze hardens, flicking to where Neil’s shifted his attentions to a pretty young guy currently oblivious to the silken web being spun around him. “Who’s the man you went outside with? Him, over there?”
“An old friend. Neil. We occasionally hook up. Why?”
“No reason.” Gerald shrugs, all casual shoulders, even though his jaw tenses. If looks could kill, Neil would be toast. Perhaps he fancied Neil’s latest find for himself. His dark eyes return to mine. “Am I cramping your style?”
There’s no live music tonight, but the house DJ started up a few minutes ago.
All playlists have to pass under Ezra’s critical nose.
This evening, he’s taking us back in time, blessing us with some good old-fashioned northern soul.
Ezra’s out there leading the way, treating us to his emo, sinewy, hardly-there dance thing.
It’s hot, and it’s good. But recently, I’ve been party to better moves.
Swiping away Gerald’s pint, I grab him by the wrist. “No, but let me cramp yours. Come on, Big G. Pretend I’ve got four legs and a waggy tail.”
He gives me some serious side eye but doesn’t pull away. “Pretty sure I could probably find you a discreet club in this part of London catering to that.”
Because I’m a dick and he’s funny, I pretend to claw the air, more catlike than doglike, but his lips still quirk. “Woof.”
He pats my head. “Good boy.” His big paw is warm, firm, and deliberate, lingering maybe a little longer than it should. Elsa is one very lucky doggy.
The dancefloor is Friday-busy. A steamy haze of heat floats above lots of bodies packed tight.
As we squeeze into the middle, the wild, loose, and messy track bringing everyone onto the floor switches into something moodier.
Something making me feel warm in all the right places.
Or maybe that’s Gerald, filling the few square inches of space in front of me, shielding me from the drunk twat swaying erratically next to us who’s hellbent on dislocating my jaw with one of his elbows.
The strobe washes over my hunky dance partner, painting his face in blue and gold as he translates the syncopated rhythm into fluid motion.
When the lights hit the white of his shirt, the fabric catches fire—blinding, electric, alive.
A hypnotic bass vibrates through my chest. Sultry female vocals fold around us like a velvet blanket.
That fizzy, just-poured vibe, full of possibility and promise, so lacking recently? I’ve found it.
A few minutes in, Gerald’s giant hand finds my waist. Steadying me, which is considerate, to stop me being pushed over by the dickhead to his left.
I assume he’s about to lean in and say something sweary.
But instead, he just stays close, hips swinging in that loose and easy—expert—way.
I catch his eye and my pulse flips as his brown, knowing gaze licks up my body, coming to rest at my mouth.
His thumb sweeps suggestive little circles against my hip bone.
His own hips sexily gyrate. What the fuck?
The air between us pulls tight. I absolutely did not see this coming, and I’m even more unsure about where it’s going.
More people squeeze onto the dancefloor, hemming us even closer together.
Gerald’s chest brushes mine and stays there.
His lower body stays there too; both solid hands settle at my hips.
My landlord can seriously dance. His bump and grind would tempt even the straightest of barmen, let alone little old me, treated to my own personal floorshow.
My dick, not showing a flicker of interest at Neil’s earlier proposition, decides it wants to bump and grind back.
Gerald pulls me into him. Electricity arcs across the sliver of space between us.
His crooked, downright filthy smile tells me he’s fully aware of my cock performing its own little dance moves against his unyielding thigh.
His thumb at my hip tightens, burning a hole through the fabric and arrowing in on my cock.
As tension, delicious and dangerous, hums between us, my breath catches.
“You okay?” I mouth.
Is real ale that strong? I’m not complaining, no sir, unquestionably fucking not. But…this guy with only a couple of layers of thin material separating his bulging dick from my achy throbbing one is my housemate, my landlord. Gerald.