Chapter 22
GERALD
After audition number eight limps to a shaky, unfortunate close (rule number one of dog dancing: steer clear of the slow ballads), it’s mine and Elsa’s turn to trot out into the arena.
The applause is muted and polite except for a small section of the audience containing my own personal sunbeam, cheering me on loudly.
He’s promised to video me and take a million photos; he won’t disappoint.
I don’t need to search for him. His whoops and whistles reach me from the third row back.
My mum’s motivational speeches and a killer shirt aren’t my only source of power today.
Alaric’s unwavering support and steadfast belief fuel me with the strength of a thousand TED talks.
The next four minutes pass in a blur. A weightless calm I’ve felt since watching Alaric sleep, early this morning, carries through into the routine. The watchers feel surreally distant. I’ll be glad for the video; I’ll remember none of it afterwards.
From the second the thudding of the Scissor Sisters opening bars blasts around the sports hall, muscle memory takes the wheel.
As a part of me steps outside myself and lets the real Gerald fly, I show my simple appreciation of this clever dog who brings me so much pleasure.
I embrace my oddities, pay homage to my mother’s life and the abilities she passed down to me.
I flaunt my body in this ridiculous satin shirt, like I’m one of the Fabrizios.
I’m embodying a gigolo—me, who’s never more comfortable than when I’m nestled amongst the beige joys of a quiet suburban life.
This niche I’ve carved, Sutton Common, my solitary job, my dog dancing hobby, and my flat, make me happily who I am.
And no one understands. Except for perhaps the cute, irrepressible hobbit screaming and hollering from the third row back, loud enough to erode the enamel from my teeth.
We head into the final chorus. Elsa hasn’t put a paw wrong, and neither have I.
By now, the choreography is stitched into me like second nature.
My body makes the moves before I do. Is Elsa the same?
Somewhere, hidden deep within that obedient, eager-to-please doggy brain, does she sense we’re killing it?
Does she know the cacophonous applause as the final note fades is all for her? For us?
Head buzzing and chest heaving, we exit the dancefloor.
Elsa dances on, yipping around my feet as she spins mad circles, barking at nothing.
Ready to do it all over again. Sweat clings to my spine.
Someone pats my shoulder. Voices belonging to strangers shout lots of nice things, but the praise barely registers.
I’m floating on an adrenaline high, the crazy applause muffled by blood rushing through my ears.
Blindly, I search for the nearest exit sign.
A warm body careers into mine, almost knocking me off my feet. A body smelling like cut grass and strawberry bubble gum. Of lip gloss and Coco Pops.
“Slayerrrr!”
Scrawny arms wrap themselves around my neck.
Wet lips smack against my mouth as Alaric starts kissing me and kissing me and kissing me like he’s never going to stop.
Elsa’s all tangled up in our feet and I’m sweaty and shaky; my heart’s about to explode out from behind my rib cage.
The claps turn to wolf whistles as we stagger to a less public part of the hall.
Somewhere in the distance, music for the next act starts up.
Reluctantly, I pull away. Mostly because I need to catch my breath.
“You killed it out there, Big G! That was insane!”
Alaric’s still completely up in my space, tugging at my sleeve and beaming his gappy smile.
Somehow, he’s refastened the lead on Elsa.
Her snack bag dangles from his wrist. Slung over his back is his rucksack with mine and Alaric’s stuff mixed together in it.
It’s another boyfriend-cosplaying moment, like the ones we share at the supermarket planning the week’s meals, and every day in my kitchen, and when we bought the shirt. When his mouth was around my cock.
And every part of me wishes it was for real. I suck in a deep breath.
“We slayed it.” I smile back at him. If it can’t be real forever, at least I can carry on pretending for now.
Behind us, “Viva La Vida” starts up. (Rule number two of dog dancing: avoid Coldplay. Marmite in human form. The judges will be divided.) But at least our audience has moved on to watching the next act. Therefore, I’m perfectly happy to carry on being kissed by Alaric.
“Thanks for coming with me today,” I say around his mouth. “It’s far above and beyond the terms of your tenancy agreement.”
He wriggles his body closer. “So’s being kissed by and kissing my supposedly celibate landlord, but just this once I’m prepared to overlook it, seeing as he does it so well.”
“These are ‘caught up in the heat of the moment’ celebratory kisses,” I whisper. They’re the best kisses of my life. “For nailing the dance. They don’t count.”
Alaric presses a few more along my jaw. “Then we can pretend they didn’t happen.”
After all fifteen of the humans and their dogs have competed, we line up in the arena.
The head Kennel Club judge, a non-nonsense lady in tweed, peruses us carefully, like a general inspecting the troops.
Two rosettes are in her hand, one silver and one gold.
Waiting to hear her pronouncement feels like standing on the edge of a long drop, with the hope I’ll fly, not fall, coiled tightly inside me.
Reaching the end of the line, she nods, then stands back to give us a final onceover.
With her first step back towards us, a silver rosette dangling from her outstretched hand, my heart paces ahead of itself.
Smiling cheerily, she approaches dancer number three.
This chatty woman from Basingstoke saluted and marched her way through Abba’s ‘Waterloo’ with a bouncy retriever as first mate.
They shake hands, the crowd cheers. Dancer number three punches the air, then smothers her dog in kisses before almost running to take her place on the winners’ dais. They’re off to Crufts.
And… so am I. Ten seconds later, my hand is firmly shaken, my back patted, and the gold rosette is mine. From the crowd behind me bursts a sound—part dolphin, part banshee, and all joy, sharp, exuberant and utterly uncontainable.
I’m going to Crufts. I’m going to Crufts. I’m going to Crufts.
On shaky legs, I wobble over to the dais, flooded by a warm, electric disbelief.
My face does a weird cry-laugh-smile combo as I take my place on the top step.
Thank fuck for dogs. I pick Elsa up and twirl her around so I can bury my tears in her fur.
From somewhere nearby comes another shriek.
This time, it’s a pterodactyl being mauled by a pack of starving Fabrizios and their pampered pugs. I don’t need to turn around.
We’re going to Crufts.
“So, to make things clear. This is nothing but celebratory sex, okay, Big G? It’s what comes naturally after ‘caught in the moment’ celebratory kisses.”
Urgently, I devour Alaric’s mouth as his agile fingers make short work of my satin shirt buttons.
All four of them. “Don’t think of it as breaking your resolutions.
Just think of it as the only celebratory thing left on the menu for gays who don’t drink or smoke or eat to excess or go clubbing or run down the Mall naked. ”
The shirt lands on the floor. My lips land at his throat. I push Alaric backwards until he falls onto the bed. His trousers and briefs go the same way as the shirt. Mine follow, and then I straddle him. Naked skin hits naked skin. Our cocks rub and thrust gloriously against each other.
And still, he’s bloody talking.
“What I’m saying,” Alaric pants around my teasing sucks and bites, “is that this doesn’t count towards the whole abstinence-waiting-for-my-soulmate-not-my-housemate thing. It’s a totally, utterly meaningless release of that pent-up angst and adrenaline.”
Fuck, he’s beautiful. His voice is beautiful too, but I wish he’d shut the fuck up. He thinks I don’t already know this? That he’s only a temporary gift?
“Nothing more.” Savagely, I suck on a nipple.
“So there’s no need to beat myself up.” Viciously, I pinch the other.
“Like that! Yes! Yes! Celebrate the fuck out of me, baby!”
He’s still hairless, totally fucking hairless. Everywhere. I swear I could come merely from looking at him. I could come listening to him talk, even when he spouts more of the shit I never want to hear.
“Celebration makes me so horny,” he gasps.
“Everything makes you horny.”
“Yeah, but when I passed my final surgical exams, I drank three mai-tais and half a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, then went down to a bar in Soho, found a really hot Irish guy with massive gang tattoos all over his scrotum, and—“
I clamp a hand over his mouth. “Your previous celebratory partners can go to fuck. You’ve got me now. And this bare skin’s getting cold again.”
Still muzzling him, I lick my way down to his pretty, pretty cock, warm as toast. I bury my nose into the pale flesh surrounding it, filling my lungs with his perfect scent.
I nuzzle into his pretty balls, too, and press my lips against the silky inside of his thigh.
When I moisten my finger and slip the tip inside him, he swears—volubly, continually, and with considerable breadth. He arches up.
“I should be doing this to you,” he garbles around my palm as I hit his prostate. “We’re celebrating you, not me.”
I pin him back down. My other hand easily spans his hips.
He doesn’t get it—he probably never will.
This is celebrating me. Having him gagged, underneath me and helpless, pleasuring him until he writhes and squeals and begs for more makes me feel full, complete and celebrated in a way no climax ever could.
“So good, G, so good.” His running commentary is interrupted by a half moan, half broken laugh.
Two fingers are in; Alaric’s opening up like a flower for me.
I take my hand away from his mouth. It wasn’t shutting him up anyhow, and I need it on myself.
I give my dick a hard squeeze. I want to fuck him so bad it hurts.
But if I do, it will be so much more than a simple fucking.
I’m not sure I’ll survive the painful memory when he’s gone.
“You’re hitting the G spot, my G man.” His lips part; I want to feed my dick into his mouth and fuck between those glossy red-pink lips too. “Yes, just there, G, so good, so good.”
Precum drips from his dick, running onto his flat belly as he fucks himself on my fingers. And still he’s bloody talking. “I like celebrating with you,” he moans. “We should do it more often. Find lots of things to celebrate. Would you like that, Big G?”
“Shhh.” Let me worship you.
“We could celebrate breakfast in the morning, Big G? Would you like that?”
I’ve tried gagging him, I’ve tried kissing him, I’ve tried finger fucking him, and still words splintering my resolve spill from him. So I shut him up the only way I haven’t tried yet: by swallowing him down.