Chapter 4 Dexter
DEXTER
Dexter woke up feeling like death. What the fuck had happened last night?
He didn’t even remember getting home. He looked to his left; the other side of the bed was empty.
That was something at least. The last thing he wanted was an awkward morning-after conversation with someone whose name he couldn’t remember. Been there and done that.
As he reached for his phone, the room spun. Thankfully, he’d been conscious enough to put it on charge. The screen lit up like the sun, making him recoil and drop it on his face.
Fuck! That hurt.
His throat was drier than a nun’s whatchamacallit, so he opened his eyes slowly and saw a bottle of water by his bed.
When he reached for it, he heard his back crack.
What the hell had he done last night? His hands were shaking as he unscrewed the bottle lid.
Putting it to his lips, he swallowed, and was aware of pain in his throat. Was he getting sick or something?
Once the bottle was drained, he tried to clear his throat, and it didn’t have that cold or flu phlegmy feeling to it.
Based on previous experience, there were only two things that could make his throat feel like this outside of a virus.
He’d either been singing, or he’d had his throat fucked.
Dexter wasn’t sure which was worse. At least the chances of the throat fucking being caught on film were limited.
Not impossible, but smaller odds. The other had a far higher chance of video evidence, as singing required an audience.
Well, it didn’t, but when he was very drunk he thought he was Adele’s long lost brother, so liked an audience for some unknown reason.
Unfortunately, his friends liked to film his humiliation and play it back to him when he was sober enough to remember that he couldn’t actually sing.
His throat was still dry, so he needed to get to the kitchen, but that involved his body and brain working together, which was a tall order this morning.
Thinking the best thing to do was to just leap out of bed, he regretted it instantly when the head rush almost made him pass out before he was hit with nausea and had to grab the bin in his room and throw his guts up.
The bin was made of wicker, so that would have to be thrown out.
Once his stomach stopped contracting, he could stop heaving and just focus on breathing.
This was one of those moments when, despite being almost forty years old, he wanted his mum to look after him.
She had many faults, but looking after him when he was sick was not one of them.
Dexter was never the best patient, whether or not the illness was self-inflicted.
Taking it slowly this time, he stood up and shuffled out of his bedroom.
He dropped the puke-filled bin in the bath, he wasn’t sure why, but he’d deal with it later.
First, he needed to drink something. Stumbling into the kitchen, he turned on the tap, letting it run cold as he grabbed a pint glass.
Once it was full, he downed it all, leaving him gasping for breath.
How much had he drunk last night? He couldn’t remember feeling this bad since he’d been at university.
His mouth still tasted like vomit, so he opened the fridge and spotted the fresh orange juice.
With all dignity gone, he put the bottle to his lips and drank the entire litre.
He’d spilled something on his chest and looked down, which was when he realised he’d fallen asleep in the boxers he’d been wearing last night. He usually changed into pyjamas.
Dexter looked around his flat. The kitchen, diner, and living room were all open plan, with his bedroom and bathroom off the hallway.
He had a big hallway, with a handy nook that he used as a home office.
There was no natural light there, but it meant his work didn’t invade his personal space.
The place was tidy, and there was no evidence of his having entertained a guest. That was something at least. So, if he’d sucked someone’s cock, where did he do it?
Flashback to being on his knees in the toilet at Mickey’s and some guy fucking his face and unloading down his throat.
That would do it. He tried to picture the guy, but it was all a blur.
Going back to his bedroom, he picked up his phone to see if there’d been any numbers exchanged that would give him a clue, but there was nothing.
His phone pinged with a message, which made his heart leap into his throat.
Why wasn’t his phone on silent like it always was?
Gabriel: Are you alive?
He looked at the keyboard to reply, but everything was still blurry and sending a simple reply felt like the most difficult thing in the world, so he hit the call button.
“Good morning, sunshine,” said Gabriel, sounding far too cheerful.
“What time did we . . .”
He sounded as if he’d smoked a hundred cigarettes. After clearing his throat, he tried again.
“What time did we leave?”
“No idea about you. I tried to get you to leave with me at ten o’clock, but you were determined to find an older man to fuck.”
“Did I say that?”
“Yes,” he chuckled. “You were pretty emphatic about it, and loud. It got our table a few looks.”
“Oh, God. Maybe it’s best if you don’t tell me anything else.”
“You asked. So, did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Find an older man to fuck?”
“There is no evidence to suggest something of that nature happened.”
“That wasn’t a no.”
“Because . . .”
“Memory blank?”
“Yeah. I have a recollection of being on my knees in the toilets, though.”
Gabriel cracked up laughing. Dexter couldn’t help but laugh with him.
“Did I sing at all last night?” he asked.
“What? Sing? Not while I was there.”
“I’ve got a sore throat and thought it might be from that.”
“Ah. I think your dalliance in the toilet is probably the culprit. Or it could be both.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, your singing is pretty atrocious, so he might have used his dick to shut you up.”
“I hate you!”
They both ended up laughing at that.
“I literally have no recollection of the guy I blew.”
“That might be a good thing. There wasn’t much talent around last night.”
“Thanks for that.”
“At least you’ve made your charity contribution for the year.”
“Get fucked,” he laughed.
“Chance would be a fine thing.”
Dexter recalled their conversation last night before alcohol blurred reality.
Gabriel had it bad for his latest unattainable crush.
Until he got them out of his system, he couldn’t consider any other guys.
He wanted a big, all-consuming love, and he could have it with the right guy.
Gabriel just picked the ones who were straight and not even a little curious.
He had a fantasy of the perfect jock in his head.
It was a shame, because he was handsome with a kind heart.
Dexter had lost count of the number of times he and Jason had tried to persuade him otherwise, but he was just perpetually nursing a broken heart when nothing happened.
“You’ve gone quiet,” said Gabriel.
“I was thinking.”
“I don’t recommend it.”
Dexter snorted. “What are you doing today?”
“Shopping, life admin, and all the other crap we do on Saturdays. How about you?”
“Going back to bed and then spending all of my Sunday doing what you’re doing today.”
“Let me know if you remember anything about your mystery throat scratcher.”
He laughed. “Based on what you’ve said, I’d rather not remember.”
“Fair.”
“I’m hanging up now before you say anything more that’ll make me want to die of embarrassment.”
“Again, fair.”
They both laughed before agreeing to catch up soon for lunch.
Dexter needed to eat something now, but couldn’t be bothered to go to the effort of making it himself.
He opened the delivery app on his phone and over-ordered McDonald’s breakfast before sitting on the sofa and turning the TV on.
It’d be here in twenty minutes, so it would be best if he didn’t lie down until after his belly was full of greasy food.
Then he could sleep it off and just put last night down to a forgotten memory.
Sunday had been a write-off as well. It had been a long time since Dexter had been completely wasted, so he’d forgotten that two-day hangovers were the norm now.
Sunday had involved vegetating on the sofa and rewatching season six of Drag Race, which was the best, and he’d fight anyone who said otherwise.
He’d also ordered in every meal, which was money he shouldn’t really be spending, but the new job was practically locked down, so he could afford to treat himself.
He still didn’t know who the guy was he’d sucked off on Friday night.
Dexter asked for an extra shot in his Monday morning coffee. He rarely minded being in the office on Mondays, but he would have preferred to work from home today. If it weren’t for Simon’s nine o’clock team meeting, he would have taken the risk of working at home on their team anchor day.
Walking into the meeting room they used every week, Simon wasn’t there, which was unusual. He was normally in the room ten minutes before they started and was a stickler for timekeeping. It was bang on nine o’clock, and still no sign of him.
“Have you seen Simon this morning?” he asked.
“Yeah. He was in when I got here at eight,” said Harriet. “Maybe he’s run over with a previous meeting.”
Before Dexter could respond, the door opened and Simon walked in, looking polished as always in his suit.
It was annoying how well he scrubbed up.
Dexter wondered what he’d look like with that suit crumpled on the floor, naked and with his ankles over his head, begging to be fucked.
He needed to stop that train of thought straightaway.
There was probably still some alcohol in his system.
“Apologies for being late,” said Simon. “Harriet, can you kick us off?”