Chapter 10 #2
“When did you know you were gay?” I ask, mostly to change the subject, but partly because I want him to think there’s more to me than a sounding board for his eye problems. And, according to Alaric who absolutely knows these things, this is the second-commonest question gay men ask each other on a not-date.
The first, as far as Neil is concerned, is none of my business.
“I’m bi, pan, whatever, actually, though I tend to have more sex with men. Don’t get me wrong. I love women, especially their boobs, but they worry me that they’re going to want a situationship.”
I roll my eyes. “Pretty sure plenty out there just want to get railed. Like plenty of men,” I add, as if I know anything about that. Whoever Neil has railed, of whichever gender, I’m bloody envious.
“Probably.” Neil’s grin is wicked. “But I’m not very good at working out which ones beforehand.” He shrugs. “Fortunately for me, I love cocks as much as I love boobs, and most people with cocks aren’t looking for that. Not from someone like me, anyhow.”
“So you’re not seeing anyone regularly?”
I’m confident I know the answer already.
Otherwise, he’d be fucking his way out of his misery instead of having an extremely civilised but probably slightly dull evening with a man trying to hide his anxiety issues while pretending conversations about who we like to fuck are totally within his wheelhouse.
“Can’t get it up, doc,” he answers, not the least bashful. “Not at the mo, anyhow. Both my heads are too fucking preoccupied with this pair of shysters.” He points to his beautiful eyes.
“Oh, okay.”
I’ve gone through a few low periods over the years, during which I haven’t sustained a decent erection, but I’m not about to compare notes. Neil's ability to freely discuss it is a measure of his sexual confidence. I envy that, too.
“Well…um, hopefully that side of things will improve soon.”
“Tell me about it. But no, I steer clear of situationships. Alaric’s the only guy I used to see on the regular. Ezra and me go back a bit too, but that’s well in the past.”
“So, you’ve never had anyone serious?”
“Nah.” He fidgets with his fork, twisting it over. “I did fall for a guy once, quite a few years ago now. A bloke called Tristan. Got bruised, and it kind of put me off.”
I’m curious. “Why didn’t it work out?”
Smiling, Neil gives a half-shrug. “Someone came along even more determined than me to have him and muscled me out, just as I was getting somewhere. I’d say this new guy’s massive trust fund was a factor, but Tristan’s not like that.
” He shrugs again. “C’est la vie. Now Tris spends half the year in sunny California and the other half in a Canary Wharf penthouse.
I’m totally over him, though it stung at the time.
What about you? You’re into guys, aren’t you? ”
I should tense up. I’m not hiding anything, but this is generally a loaded question, and I’m a tensing-up sort of person.
Especially as I have next to zero experience with a man.
Maybe the wine's making me garrulous but right now, admitting my inexperience to Neil feels more like a declaration than a confession.
“Yes, I am. At least, I think I like the idea of being with a man.”
Neil’s eyes narrow. “You think? Or you know?”
“I’ve had a couple of short-lived girlfriends in the past but neither worked out.
In retrospect, because I knew I wasn’t really into it.
And then I was busy with work, and I’ve never been the biggest extrovert anyhow.
I’d never have the nerve to do online dating or anything.
And then, a couple of years ago, I had my…
um… health problems. Since, I’ve not been… uh… sexually active.”
“Hey, that’s no crime. Nor am I, currently.”
The difference between us being that, if sexual encounters were airline points, Neil could fly three times around the world for free.
But two glasses of wine in, and my tongue thinks we’re playing truth or dare.
“Not because I’m asexual or don’t want it,” I tag on, “but I haven’t had the headspace to focus on anyone except myself.
And I’ve never admitted this properly to a single person until now. ”
“A couple of years without is nothing to be ashamed about.” Neil sips at his water, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Plenty of active volcanoes haven’t gone off in a century or more.”
In that moment, I make up my mind: as Ezra told me, Neil’s far kinder and more considerate than people give him credit.
“I know. It will happen. Or perhaps I should try harder to make it happen. But I’ve kind of got used to being on my own.”
His eyes flick down my body in a brief scan before innocently returning to my face, like he’s already imagined the rest. It’s a masterclass in how to deliver an appreciative, seductive glance without making the subject feel uncomfortable. “They should be queuing up.”
“Idiot,” I scoff. Yes, far kinder than he gets credit. As if a man like him would ever give a man like me a second glance. “If you think that, then your RP is worsening by the minute.”
After dinner, Neil helps me clear away. He even expresses interest in my decking and garden project, and we stand out there for a few minutes with a couple of torches as I outline my planting.
I don’t know how much he can see, and whether he’s simply being polite because I’ve fed him, but he says the right things.
He’s closing up the bar later tonight as Ezra is elsewhere, which means the time for him to leave comes too soon, catching me by surprise. The evening has flown by.
He even says as much as I walk him to the front door. “See you soon, yeah?”
Neil still smells great. My hallway feels tinier than ever. “Yeah.”
He loiters in the open doorway, hesitating. His striking, shimmery eyes shift to my hair. “Can I ask you something?”
For the first time this evening, I tense. “It’s about why I always keep my hood up, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.
I was just wondering what colour and style things were under here.
” Reaching out a finger, he very carefully touches it to my forehead.
“Whether you dye the front part this cool bronze shade and the rest is bright pink. Or if your scalp is covered in a massive gang tattoo.”
His fingers find the visible edge of my hairline, tracing the border from my forehead down to my temple.
I barely breathe. Even Alaric and Isaac have never broached my hairpulling. They know about it obviously, they used to see me doing it at work, before I had it mostly under control. But, even with them, it’s always felt far too personal a shame to ever talk about. With Neil, though…
“For years, I pulled out my hair when my…uh…anxiety and depression flared. I did it so much I damaged the follicles, so now it no longer grows back. Big clumps are missing. People stare or ask me if I’m having chemo. I prefer it if they don’t.”
“Have you ever shaved it all off?"
“Yes, but it looks even worse, like I’ve done a really bad job. And…” I’ve never admitted this to anyone. I barely admit it to myself. “If I shave it then I have nothing to pull out, and sometimes I...”
“You still do it.” A statement, not a question, his eyes steady on mine.
I hate that he makes me want to be honest. It’s ruining the impression of total sanity I’ve carefully cultivated all evening. “Hardly ever. But sometimes, yes.”
Neil neither flinches nor looks as if he’s scanning for an appropriate response. Instead, he pokes a few strands of my hair back off my forehead. “Can I hug you goodnight? Is that something you do?”
With very few people, but I’ll do it with Neil.
His arms slide around me until his chest is tight against mine, until I feel the warmth of his skin under his shirt.
I inhale his outdoorsy aftershave mixed with the smoky leather of his jacket.
His chin comes to rest on my shoulder, his breath a quiet rhythm near my ear.
There’s no performative squeezing, no pat-pat tenderness, just a full blown, unrushed, solid hug.
When my hood slips a bit, he feels me stiffen.
“It’s okay, I’d never do that to you.” He tucks it back in place, holding it securely with his hand on the back of my head. “You’ll show me some day, if you want to.” I don’t notice his other hand sliding down to my arse until he gives it a gentle tweak. “Mmm. Nice. Buns of steel, doc.”
I snuffle a laugh into his jacket. “I swim. A lot. Like, nearly every day.”
“Very tasty.” He tweaks it again, giving a low whistle. “Love me a swimmer’s body.”
“It’s not that great. It’s attached to me, for a start.”
My bum cheek gets a more thorough massage. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
He can probably feel me chubbing up against him, but the embrace is so unbelievably nice I can’t be bothered to be embarrassed.
“I told you already, Luke, you’re a low-key superhero. You treat sick people at work, you look after yourself, and you’re looking after me. That’s a hell of a lot of looking after, all on its own. You’re pretty special, rash whisperer. Don’t you forget it.”
Pretty special. No, I’m not. I’m ordinary and have several major mental health issues, my hair pulling merely the most visible.
But Neil’s response to me confessing them?
A solid hug – when did I last enjoy one of those?
– reassurance, and some gentle flirting.
Anyone who can pull off all those three and leave me standing here smiling is pretty special themselves.
If I was bolder, I’d tell him as much.