Chapter 19
ALARIC
Gerald travels to an optometry conference in Manchester for a couple of days.
On his return, I have a horribly inconvenient set of night shifts.
Perhaps it’s just as well. With the help of two pints of beer and a sultry soul number, I’ve totally screwed up the entire ethos upon which my landlord has meticulously calculated his future.
Hopefully, he’s using the time and space to reset his mental road map back to saving himself for Mr Boring and Longterm.
I’m spending it practicing not getting hard every time my mind replays him licking up my tears, then shoving my head back onto his cock.
To appease my internal chatterbox and divert myself from endless Gerald fantasies—him banging me in the shower, across the breakfast bar, bent over the kitchen sink with my face smooshed into his potted herbs (in every scenario I’m buck naked and he’s in his tartan jim-jams)—I sack off looking around a flat in north Fulham.
Instead, I invite myself over to Stefan’s.
Thankfully, Marcus is out. Two bottles of cherry Coke and a bag of Zingy Vinegar Blast Doritos sit on the sofa between us as we battle marauding bad guys on the PlayStation.
We’ve wasted hours of our lives like this, since Red Dead Redemption first came out, back when the sofa was at my folks’ house, Doritos were only sold in the big Co-op on Dagenham High Street and only in nacho cheese flavour, and the cherry Cokes were Asda own brand orangeade.
“You’re crazy. You should have checked that one out,” he scolds when I show him the flat spec on my phone. “It’s perfect. That’s a nice road, and you’d only have been one Tube stop away from here.”
“I know.” I zap a green blobby thing on the screen with my flame thrower.
“It even had a mini balcony off the bedroom.” My bedroom at Gerald’s has a window scarcely big enough to get my head through, never mind a glass door opening onto a mini balcony.
His flat boasts a tiny backyard, though, facing southwest. In the summer, Gerald says it catches the last bit of evening sun.
He has a doll-sized patio table and two deckchairs stashed away in the bin lockup.
He claims he eats dinner out there, if it’s warm enough.
“Sounds like a nice spot for a Sunday morning hangover,” Stefan observes. “We could still have a gander after this game, if you like. Text them now, tell them you were delayed at work with a sick patient or something.”
“Nah, can’t be arsed. There’ll be others.”
Moving out of Sutton Common is still number one on my job list, but feels like less of an imperative these days.
It’s on my mind, but no longer consuming my every waking moment.
Maybe I’m holding out for Marcus and Stefan to split up and Stef to invite me back.
The way they’re going, there’s every possibility.
Perhaps I’m noticing the extra cash in my pocket or using the commute wisely.
Normally, I’m useless at life admin, I tend to put it off and put it off until I’m scrabbling around at midnight, hunting for utility bills from 2022, or trapped in a never-ending labyrinth of forgotten passwords and verification codes, desperately ticking blurry reCAPTCHA images of motorbikes like my very next breath depends on it.
But since moving to Sutton Common, forty-five minutes on the train with a flat white and an actual seat and table is proving my most productive slot of the day.
“Where’s Marcus tonight?”
Stefan shrugs. “Somewhere. Went out for a drink with some guys from his office and then said he might go back to the office and finish a bunch of paperwork. Who knows? I’m not his keeper.”
I’m not sure he’s yours, either catches in the back of my throat, but I hold it in, casting my gaze around the flat instead, checking to see if much has changed.
Stefan’s place is far bigger than Gerald’s, although Gerald’s little sofa is much comfier.
Stefan’s gaming sofa has been flattened by a lot of sweaty gamers’ arses.
Gerald’s telly’s better too, even if he only seems to have it switched to educational channels.
“I kind of had some sexy times with…um… Gerald at the weekend.” I’ve been itching to tell someone—even my toes were getting fidgety.
I time my confession so Stefan’s volley of missiles misses an entire attacking army of alien Vikings, thus awarding me bonus points.
Little touches like that solidify a friendship, I find.
“Fuck you, Alaric. Fuck you.”
The thump and dead arm are so worth it. “Alas, not yet. Probably never. Casual’s not Gerald’s thing; I caught him at a weak moment.
Namely with two whole pints of Rock Export swilling in his veins and me in my Stüssy trousers, you know, the ones that turn my arse into a public service announcement. ”
“Even I’d consider doing you in those.”
“Exactly. And the sexing was…well…he’s…um…quite dominant.”
Stefan cocks a brow at me, one eye still on the screen in case I attempt any more subversive manoeuvres. “And you liked that, did you?”
“Yeah.” My dick twitches—again—at the memory.
Jabbing the controller hard, Stefan purses his lips. “I’m not surprised.”
“What?”
He shrugs. “You need telling what to do. Stops you overthinking stuff.”
Hmm. I sit with that. I didn’t think Stefan had the capacity to surprise me anymore.
It’s not only offering a new opinion; it also sounds awfully true.
I can still feel the imprint of Gerald’s hand covering my thigh in the Uber, preventing my leg from jiggling in time to my racing thoughts. It stilled my brain, too.
“This is the same Gerald we’re talking about, isn’t it?” he adds. “The guy you said has a well-thumbed book about the history of concrete on his bookcase? And told you not to use the kettle on alternate Thursdays, so he can descale it?”
“Yeah.” And also the one who told me to shush, and I fucking did. Instantly.
Judge less, Alaric. Or at least not so swiftly.
Yes, Gerald might have issued me an exceedingly thorough set of ground rules when I first met him, but Isaac and Luke were one hundred percent right all along.
When you get to know Gerald, he’s terrifyingly interesting.
Next time I watch him clean the oven door with a specialist spray he orders from a shop in The Netherlands and then wipes it down so I can literally see the tiny brown mole next to my cock in it, I’ll be wondering whether he’s using the time to plot his next sequence of dog dancing moves.
Or, more recently, if he’s contemplating banging me against it.
I take a sip of cherry Coke. “Same Gerald.”
The cherry Coke’s okay, but I prefer drinking it at Gerald’s.
He always insists I have it in a glass because he says it tastes better.
If I look at him all wide-eyed and helpless, he’ll even get up off the sofa, retrieve a glass from the kitchen, and pour it for me too.
“I don’t make a habit of collecting Geralds.
I invited him to Earth, seeing as we’d had a mini tiff, and I want to stay friends with him after I move out, ‘cos he’s nice.
Anyway, we danced and… it sort of just happened. ”
“But he doesn’t want you to corrupt him again.”
“No, it goes against his principles. He doesn’t do casual sex. More’s the pity.”
Stefan glances over at me. “Maybe for him it’s not casual.”
“OMG, it definitely was.” I recall the pained regret on Gerald’s features as he turned away from where I lay in a heap on my bed, damp and naked and thoroughly used.
We should consider this something we did and won’t do again were his stern parting words.
“He even told me so himself. He’s kind of all serious and intellectual.
He’d not had sex for four years, I wiggled my hips and, for a short moment in time, those Stüssy trousers made him re-evaluate his whole existence. And now, sadly, he’s back on track.”
There’s leftover lasagne in the fridge. Needs water sprinkling on the top, then four minutes in the microwave on the second setting. Gone to church hall with Elsa.
As messages go, it’s bland, instructional, and very Gerald.
Perhaps that’s why it does something to me.
I eat the lasagne in the kitchen, at the mini breakfast bar.
Gerald would approve. He’s a decent cook, not flashy, but decent.
Afterwards, I rinse my plate and stack it in the dishwasher.
Then check the time. If I leave now, I’ll catch most of his practice.
Only one week left until the regional finals.
When I slip into the church hall, they’re rehearsing the tricky midsection.
Gerald has the song broken up into four loops to concentrate on different parts at a time.
Not wanting Elsa to lose focus, I lean against a wall near the door, watching.
All tight muscles and quiet strength, Gerald spins in place with his arms stretched high above his head—gorgeously, I may add.
Meanwhile, Elsa performs looping circles around him in the opposite direction.
It’s a move 50% grace, 50% trust, and, the way Gerald performs, 100% sex.
To be honest, Elsa could be coiling out a turd at this point, and no one in the audience would notice or give a stuff.
Throwing me a wave and Elsa a titbit, he moves into the next sequence. He’s wearing one of his navy sweatpants, loose T-shirt combos. A cute, satiny scarf drapes around Elsa’s neck in the same colour.
“It’s to get her used to wearing it,” Gerald informs me when he reaches the end. He’s slightly out of breath, his hair damp where it touches his scalp. “For when she does the actual performance.”
“What are you going to wear?”
Gerald shrugs. “I haven’t given it much thought yet. It’s only the regionals. Maybe I’ll stick to plain black trousers and a black shirt? I have a pair of old black ballet trousers that look like normal bootleg-type trousers but with more stretch.”
“What do people normally wear?”
He shrugs again. “Anything, there’s no strict code.
The fabulous Fabrizios of this world dress in glittery gold with pooch neckerchiefs to match.
Whatever works for you, I guess, though I do think the people who put more effort into their outfits stand out a bit more.
Like all dances, we’re telling a story with the song, and the right outfit complements that.
As does a bit of acting, you know, facial expressions. ”
“You’re good at those, actually.” Another revelation. “Have you done much acting?”
Gerald gives a soft, amused laugh. “I acted like I was straight for sixteen years—does that count?” He feeds Elsa another dainty morsel. “But no, not much acting. Only as a kid in school plays and the odd bit of musical theatre my mum persuaded me to audition for.”
I let my gaze roam across him (no hardship), trying to picture him and Elsa taking up their starting pose in the middle of that massive Crufts arena.
The Scissor Sisters lyrics tell the story all on their own—a guy (and his dog) dragged out to dance against his will, stealing the show when he gets there.
Very Gerald, and, I suspect, exactly how the regionals will play out.
He’ll cut a good figure in black as he relates that simple story, sleek and sharp.
Good, but not outstanding. And after all the effort he’s put in, my boy and his dog need to stand out.
“Have you considered any other colours?”
Gerald pulls a face. “Clothing isn’t my forte. You’ve probably guessed. And I’m moderately red/green colour blind, so black is always a safe bet.”
“What? How the fuck are you an optometrist?”
He smiles. “It’s fine. Depth perception is way more important than colours. I didn’t even realise I had it until I began training.”
“I bet that was a bolt from the yellow.”
I like making Gerald laugh. There’s an unguarded sweetness to it, it’s almost shy. Everything his forceful, dominant sexing isn’t.
“My optometry jokes are getting cornea and cornea,” I tag on. As he laughs again, our eyes briefly lock. The curtains over the hall windows are drawn. If he wasn’t so set on sticking to his resolutions, I’d suggest a forceful little something right now.
Lifting the hem of his T-shirt, Gerald wipes the perspiration from his face.
His belly skin stretches taut over the edges of his muscles, like a well-fitting suit.
No way should this man’s body be draped in plain, boring black.
Even Elsa’s wearing a bold satin scarf. They should match, shouldn’t they?
Clothing might not be Gerald’s strength, but after talking and sex, it’s basically my favourite hobby.
A satiny fabric would best show off those abs.
If that’s not enough, “I Don’t Feel Like Dancin’’ has a very seventies, satiny disco vibe.
Gerald shakes down his T-shirt again, glugs some water, then calls Elsa back over. They take up their positions in the centre of the hall.
“Hey,” I call, just before he presses play. “Fancy a shopping trip tomorrow?”