Chapter 2
Callum:
I promise I’m only going out for one
Soumia:
You said that last night
21:03
Callum:
It’s not like I can get pissed, I’ve got a flight tomorrow
21:04
Soumia:
You said that last week
21:05
Callum:
I promised I’d meet a friend
21:05
Soumia:
How long have you known this friend, two minutes?
21:06
Callum:
I’ll be back by ten
21:06
Soumia:
You promised you’d help me revise.
21:07
Callum:
I still will, loads of time
21:08
Lying to Soumia doesn’t sit well with me.
I don’t have plans to meet anyone but I’m hopeful, and a night out on your own is better than a night in on your tod watching reruns of The Golden Girls.
The great thing about flying solo is you never know who you might meet, and you’re not restricted to doing what your friends or your fella wants to do.
I could jump on a train and go to Glasgow or get a ferry across the Irish sea for a night out with an Irish hunk.
I’m not doing neither of those things though.
I push open the familiar door of one of my favourite bars on Canal St, Brewers, and take the six steps up to the bar area to order an Aperol Spritz.
With two for one cocktails before ten, it would be rude not to order one.
I absolutely will be back home no later than ten-thirty.
Canal St is a haven for queers in every flavour of the rainbow.
On a summer’s day, it’s packed with happy gays drinking far too much alcohol and dancing to pop music, while drag queens keep the crowds entertained.
A safe space since before it was legal to love freely, the community spirit of the gay village is legendry as is the yearly pride parade.
The bar is comfortably busy, no one’s standing but most seats are full.
Three large booths have been reserved on the far side; one is dressed in balloons announcing a member of the party has reached the age of thirty – practically dead in gay years.
I assume it’s the male wearing a silver sash and a huge badge that reads Birthday Boy, Free Kisses.
Despite his offer, no one lines up. In another booth, a couple of actors from a daytime soap sit scanning the room, hoping that someone will approach them for a selfie to confirm their celebrity.
They’ll say things like, what with me, I’m just an actor, at the top of their voices whilst bathing in the flash of the camera.
I choose a high stool on the mezzanine away from the loudness of the main dancefloor and look out onto Canal Street below.
I love that people wear whatever they want here, no fucks given, as they strut along the cobbles underneath rainbow-coloured umbrellas that hang like bunting over the street.
My style isn’t as flamboyant, and my black t-shirt, whilst slimming, doesn’t hide my love handles.
I try to find a comfortable position whilst breathing in and pulling the back of my t-shirt down to cover my builder’s arse.
I’m not convinced there’s any alcohol in the first Aperol, it practically jumps down my throat. I slide the empty glass away and take a moment before I start the second drink.
There are other people in the bar on their own, you can tell who they are a mile off; phones glued in their hands with the orange of a certain app reflecting on their faces, all searching for companionship, or if they’re really honest, dick.
‘Callum?’
A stray piece of ice passes through my blue straw and goes down the wrong hole, making me cough as I’m greeted by the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.
The stranger puts a pint down on the shelf, freeing his hand to slap my back.
I wave to tell him I’m OK, then reach for my drink to soothe my throat.
I can feel my cheeks tingling as my eyes water. I wipe my damp nose with my sleeve.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Never better.’ I’m aware I’m looking like a hot mess as I continue to cough.
‘CallumSUB? We were chatting before.’
‘Shagman?’
‘Just call me Olly. Do you mind if I join you?’ He climbs onto a barstool next to me. His thigh muscles stretch the fabric of his jeans as he steps up.
‘I thought I’d scared you off.’ I move my eyes from his thighs to stop my mouth watering; they land on his biceps, which I imagine lifting me up and pinning me down over the drinks shelf.
‘Sorry, work stuff. It’s been a manic few days,’ he says.
I wipe my mouth just to make sure I’m not drooling.
Olly continues. ‘Can I get you another drink?’
‘Yes, please.’ Because you should never say no to a stranger as beautiful as this one. ‘Sex on the Beach.’
‘Callum, we’ve only just met.’ He gives me a wink.
‘HA HA HA.’ I could kick myself for being so uncool.
I admire his perfectly formed peach as he walks to the bar.
For a second, I imagine my face between his bum and taking a bite of those firm cheeks.
Opening the camera on my phone, I toggle the view to selfie mode and check my appearance, making sure there’s no snot embedded in my beard.
I pat my hand on my stomach to make sure I’m still breathing in, then pull down the back of my t-shirt which I realise has risen slightly since my incident with the ice cube.
‘Don’t cover it up on my account, it’s a lovely view.’ Olly puts down the drinks as I pull my boxers up over my jeans to cover my bum crack.
I let the comment flow over my head. No one as handsome as Olly has said that to someone as chunky as me without it being turned into a Gif.
I take a sip. ‘What brings you out?’
A stray strobe light crosses his face, illuminating pale blue eyes that contrast his dark skin. He’s fit as fuck.
‘I needed a beer after work.’ He takes a sip then wipes away a foam moustache with the back of his hand. I’m tempted to offer to lick it off.
‘That bad?’
‘I’m up for redundancy; it’s looking more likely than not.’ He takes his phone out of his pocket and places it on the side.
‘Shit. Sorry to hear it.’
‘Something will turn up. Anyway, CallumSub, take my mind off it, tell me about you?’
‘That’s such a shit username, isn’t it? You must think I’m a right slag.’
‘I’m not judging. But just so you know, we’re compatible.’
A volt shocks me as his hand touches my knee before his attention turns to his flashing phone. He glances at it then picks it up.
‘I’m sorry, I need to respond to this.’
I take the opportunity to check my phone.
Soumia:
I thought you said you’d be back by ten
22:16
I pretend I haven’t seen the text and make a promise to myself to buy Soumia some of the chocolates she likes the next time I’m in New York to apologise.
Olly puts his phone down and turns back to me.
‘You’re really enjoying that cocktail.’ He smiles.
‘You can’t taste the alcohol. Want to try?’
I offer Olly the straw, he puts his mouth around it and exaggerates sucking on it. His face winces.
‘My god, that’s sweet.’ We both smile as he stretches his face back to normal. ‘Do you offer your drink to all the guys?’
I think he’s flirting. I consider winking but remember the last time I did so a guy asked me if I was having a seizure.
‘Only the really hot ones.’ I shuffle in my seat and pull my t-shirt down again. ‘Sorry, I can’t stop staring at your eyes.’
His phone buzzes again.
‘I’m really sorry, one second.’ He grabs it, fires off a quick response then turns back to me. ‘I have my mum to thank for that, she’s Swedish and my dad’s African American. He stuck around long enough to get my mum pregnant twice before he went off to find himself, we’ve not seen him since.’
He lifts the pint glass to his lips; his eyes stare ahead of him like he’s searching for answers. I’m taken aback by the unexpected look of sincerity that washes over him.
‘Do you want a cuddle?’ The words fall out of my mouth before I’ve had chance to stop and process them.
A cheeky grin spreads across his face. ‘I wouldn’t mind a kiss.’
‘Me? You want to kiss me?’
He stands up from his stool and puts his arms around me.
‘Stop pulling your t-shirt down, you’re beautiful.’
It’s a good job he’s got his arms around me as I think I’m about to fall off the chair.
I return the gesture and pull his waist into me.
I look at him ready for the best kiss of my life.
I run my tongue over my lips to moisten them for impact.
Tilting my head up, I close my eyes ready for his mouth to meet mine.
His phone rattles with a continuous vibrate.
‘Sorry, I’ve got to answer this. Two minutes, don’t move.’ He breaks away from me and turns to his phone.
Olly takes the stairs down from the mezzanine, then leaves the bar holding the phone to his ear.
I consider freezing like a statue so we can pick up exactly where we left off when he returns, but a camp wailing hits my ears, and I instinctively turn expecting a commotion.
Across the bar more Z-list celebrities have joined the booth of soap actors.
There’s lots of air kissing and choruses of Wow, you look amazing, with false smiles and foreheads that don’t move.
Olly’s back less than a minute later, his cheeky grin has been replaced with a look of fret.
‘I’m really sorry, I’ve got to go.’
‘Is everything OK?’ I want to tell him he’s not allowed to leave and that he owes me a kiss.
‘Can I walk you to a taxi?’ He’s got one foot pointing in the direction of the door.
‘No, it’s fine.’ Go on then, fuck off and leave like everyone else. I smile. ‘I’m just going to have one more.’