70. Max
When the Dangerous Ds, as I’ve privately christened them, stayed over on Friday night, we tried falling asleep with Darcy in the middle first. While three adults in a bed may be achievable, it’s not necessarily comfortable, though my eight-footer helps.
But within a few minutes, she was complaining that she was overheating between the two of us, so I allowed her to swap places with Dex. I’d have tucked her in behind me, except Dex hadn’t yet known the distinct pleasure of waking up next to Darcy, with her hair spilling over the pillow and her tits spilling over the sheets.
So he took the middle spot in my bed, which struck me as symbolic. After all, he’d allowed Darcy and me to tug him into the epicentre of our erotic entanglement.
Sleeping with him, though, felt like the right way to close the circle of our intimacy this evening—and I mean right less as correct and more as the most visceral kind of righteous: good and true and just. He submitted to me in my home. He let me unravel him—willingly. He helped me to fuck Darcy, the woman who’s inveigled her way into my head with seemingly no effort on her part.
Really, he’d acquiesced so beautifully, so whole-heartedly all night, that it felt only natural that he should allow me to mould the full length of my body to his. To nestle my cock into the cleft of his arse, to bury my face in the crook of his neck. To feel the strength of his hamstrings against my quads, the firm, hairy shapeliness of his calves against my shins. To have his stomach rise and fall against the hollow of my palm.
That was the most perfect part, I think. Those quiet, even, somnolent breaths that filled his belly and warmed my hand. He even slept prettily. And I knew that, whatever demons and qualms still undoubtedly lingered in that intelligent, sensitive brain of his, sleep had allowed him to lay them aside, for a few hours, at least. His slumber was that of a man at peace with himself and his place in the world.
But the placeof a queer person in the world isn’t easy to find, even for someone like me who’s accepted his queerness from the start. For a man like Dex, whose worldview has been warped rather than shaped by loathsome forces—bigotry and fear and shame—that place will be all the harder to find. I’m under no illusions that our orgasm count alone is enough to slay his demons.
That’s why I’ve offered to go to his place this evening. Darcy’s dancing tonight, and I don’t want Dex having time alone to stew or spiral or spin himself any of the troublesome narratives I know he’s more than capable of.
Far better for him to have company. Far better to remind him of all the excellent reasons he’s taking these brave first steps.
His flat is on Poultry, which is an odd but historically relevant name for the wide, sweeping street that continues east from the former markets of Cheapside and which leads to the Bank of England. The flat itself is a smaller, less flashy version of mine, just as modern and soulless. That said, it has a decent view of Poultry, where modern buildings lie cheek by jowl with the kind of handsomely symmetrical sandstone constructions that always give the aesthete in me the best kind of ache.
At least my flat is in one of the best locations in London. Living in the heart of the financial district must be depressing during the week and downright eerie on the weekends. I privately resolve to employ my fine selection of carrots and sticks to induce him to spend more time on the west side of town from now on, either at mine or at Darcy’s. Gen’s former home is by far the most elegant and beautifully appointed of the three, but mine is currently the only one where three adults in one bed have a chance of a decent night’s sleep.
Aside from my concerns for Dex’s emotional and mental wellbeing, I couldn’t give a fuck what his flat is like, because the man standing in the hallway as I stride in is my only focus. He’s the kind of gently rumpled that twelve hours in the office will do for someone, his hair a little less perfect than it was this morning, his eyes screen-fatigued, his shirt rolled up at the sleeves and less creased than softened from its morning crispness.
Still, seeing him in his flat—or anywhere, in fact—is like chancing upon a Rodin sculpture in the middle of Ikea. He’s as astonishing as he was the first time I saw his photo, the first time I had the distinct pleasure of laying eyes on him in person. Dexter Scott was most certainly crafted by the very best of God’s celestial artisanal army. No attention, no expense was spared. His skin is lustrous; his bone structure suggests the angel in charge of his face was both a serious showoff and anal as fuck.
More than all that, more than the undeniable piece of angelic showmanship he represents, is the way he looks at me whenever he sees me. Like he’s equal parts terrified and delirious with longing at the thought of what I might do to him. Of how—what—I might make him feel.
‘So it went okay, then?’ I demand, brushing my lips against his and wasting no time in tugging off my tie. I’m merely making myself comfortable on a horribly muggy day, but his eyes widen at my audacity. His French doors are open, the oppressive humidity so palpable in the room that surely it must break soon. I walk past him and chuck my tie on his sofa, noting the open laptop. He’s been working since he got home. Tut tut. This boy needs to learn how to have fun.
‘It was absolutely fine,’ he says, which is precisely what he told me via text message earlier.
‘Glad to hear it.’ I help myself to one of the two open beer bottles on the island, their brown glass sweating temptingly. ‘So Thum didn’t threaten to stone you to death and bury you next to Oscar Wilde?’
His mouth drops open. ‘You can’t say things like that.’
‘I just did.’ I shrug and take my first sip of beer, the cold bubbles hitting the back of my throat like the most perfectly pitched song.
‘If you think that’s funny, it’s not. It’s incredibly distasteful.’
‘I agree. I’ve been an openly queer man for two-and-a-half decades now. You think I don’t rail every fucking day against the fact that people who’ve had the shitty luck of being born under the wrong regime face not only prejudice but persecution and the fucking death penalty?’
He’s staring at me as though I’m such a loose cannon that he has no clue which way I’ll go.
‘I don’t know,’ is what he says, crossing to the island and grabbing the other beer. ‘You always make it seem like you’ve had this charmed experience where you’ve glided through life, full of self-certainty and self-confidence and unwavering support, and everyone’s just waved their rainbow flags and cheered you on as you forge a path as probably the most successful queer person in British industry.’
That gives me pause. I can see why he might feel blindsided by my apparently sudden giving of fucks.
The first truth is that, in my interactions with him, I’ve deliberately downplayed the abiding web of prejudice I’ve endured in all its vast array of forms, be they insidious or unthinking or fear-driven or verbal or physical or career-threatening or downright dangerous.
The second truth is that none of these moments or these people or these risks could ever, ever have scared me away from living a life where I’m true to myself and my desires or my feelings. On the contrary, succumbing to them would have felt like the worst, most hateful crime of all.
Which is why I’ve gone gung-ho with Dex. Painted a strictly rosy picture. Steamrolled him, even. Because fuck knows, the guy doesn’t need a single additional datapoint for why he should subjugate his true self another day.
I set down my bottle and turn to face him. ‘The self-certainty stuff is true,’ I tell him, forcing my voice to sound more measured, less impassioned, than I feel, ‘and I have my family to thank for that. I know you don’t, and I know you haven’t had sexual autonomy modelled for you, and I’m truly sorry for that.
‘But none of the rest is true. I’ve had my fair share of support, but like most other queer people of my generation, I could write a book on all the fucking indignities and hatred and bullying and shitty, shitty stuff I’ve faced. And I’ve reacted to it as best I could, but I have never, ever let it stop me from living my life.’
I raise an eyebrow to underline that last message, and sure, it’s harsher than it needs to be, but for fuck’s sake. I’m far angrier on Dex’s behalf that he’s denied his reality and denied his needs for so long, and I want to provoke him. I want him to be pissed off at someone, even if that someone is me, because his being pissed off is far better than him taking it on the fucking chin and finding the world benign and blameless, like the good pseudo-Catholic boy he is.
‘Wow,’ he says. ‘That was a lot of judgement from someone I thought was on my side.’
‘I am on your side,’ I say, and I take a step towards him, gripping the back of his neck so I can pierce him with the honesty in my eyes. I hope he can see it; I hope he can hear the sincerity ringing in my words. ‘Honestly, sometimes it feels like Darcy and I are the only ones who are. But my form of being on your side isn’t sitting with you and braiding your hair while you list all the ways you could get hurt by taking these steps. It’s showing you that taking them, and allowing yourself to be with me, will be worth it. I promise it’ll be worth it.’
He blinks. I know he wants reassurances and praise and back-slapping today, but he’s come to the wrong person. That’s not how I roll. What he’ll realise in a few minutes is that the way I roll will feel so fucking otherworldly that it’ll light a fire under that scared, tremulous, and sometimes pretty fucking hard to find backbone of his.
It will gird his loins far more effectively than any silly, patronising words of praise ever could.