Chapter 20
Aiden
Georgia is very sweet. We had our first date yesterday.
A wander around the historical site of The Roman Baths because neither of us have ever been despite living in the city for a couple of years, and then we had a meal at the pub near the training grounds because one, it’s pretty fancy, and two, I go there all the time and know the menu by heart.
She’s funny, kind, and beautiful, and we get on well. On paper, Georgia’s ideal. She loves to travel and take photographs. She enjoys trying new things, new foods, meeting new people, and if I’d read all of this on a dating profile, I’d be swiping right.
It’s just . . .
Actually, I don’t know where my hesitancy comes from.
We have differences, obviously, and she’s definitely more adventurous than I am, but we are morally, politically, and ethically aligned, and that’s perhaps more important than the fact that her favourite pastime is watching live music.
Or that she hates sport—“It’s all sport, though, not just rugby.
” Or that she dismisses the entire genre of sci-fi as “snorrendous.” Or that she doesn’t have a favourite dinosaur.
I mean, maybe a twenty-three-year-old shouldn’t be asking another twenty-three-year-old what their favourite dinosaur is, but we were in a place of historic importance and the subject just sort of went there.
“What?” she had said, laughing. “Fuck knows. Is T. rex a dinosaur?”
“Of course,” I’d replied, gritting my teeth together to stop me from blurting, “How the fucking fuck do you not know that T. rex is a dinosaur?”
Is it a deal breaker?
Probably not. It’s probably a sign I need to grow up.
Otherwise, I had a great time. She smells incredible, she’s an amazing kisser and an attentive listener, and maybe I’m too hung up on this imaginary perfect person. But nobody’s perfect. Especially me. Life is a compromise, I guess.
I add my vintage ’90s Alan Grant and Ellie Sattler figurines to the box of Star Trek toys I’m planning on stashing in the attic, because even though they’re not dinosaurs, they might still inadvertently cock block me.
My phone buzzes from the bed, and I glance over to catch Georgia’s name flash up.
She’s been texting me all day, and with each new message an excited thrill vibrates up my spine.
We’ve made arrangements to meet next week after the match against Exeter, though this time we’ll be foregoing the cultural enrichment in favour of “just getting pissed instead.”
It’s fine, whatever. I can adapt. I’ve spent my entire life adapting. I’m an expert at it by this point.
Downstairs, the doorbell rings and my heartbeat goes into overdrive. I fix my hair, fix my mo, and open the door to Eggo. It’s dark and raining—obviously, it’s Britain—but Eggo’s hair is still pretty dry, so he must have legged it from his car.
“Alright, pard,” he says, pushing inside.
“Yeah, you?”
“Yeah, fucking ’ansum.” He brings his mouth to mine, grabbing the back of my thighs, lifting me and slamming me against the wall. “How was your date?” he says a few seconds later.
He pins me up with his hip as he shucks his jacket, kissing me again before the fabric grazes the floor behind him.
“It was . . . fine. Yeah, it . . . was good. She’s . . . really nice,” I reply between kisses and catching my breath.
“Good. I’m glad it went well.” Eggo rolls his hips, his brow furrowing when the friction hits that sweet spot on the head of his cock. “Right, princess, what’s on the menu today?” he says.
I assume he’s referring to our sex menu. I’ve practiced prep. I’ve tested out douching in the shower and I’m sure it’s one of those things that’ll get easier and less icky the more often I do it, but for now, I’m still not confident, so I haven’t done it for tonight.
But there is something I’m very keen to try out.
“Fuck my face,” I say.
Eggo nearly drops me. “I was really hoping you’d say that.” He kisses me again, deeply this time, as though he’s testing out how much space there is inside my mouth.
“I’ve been doing some research about how to give good BJs,” I say when he breaks for air. Why? Why did I tell him that? I palm my face.
Those were inside thoughts, Aiden. Inside thoughts.
His fingers close around my wrist and pull my hand away. He raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? What did it say?” He sets me down on the floor. “Where should we do this?”
“Couch. I’ll put Trekkie in the kitchen.” I move away from him and lock my dog behind a child gate, avoiding his first question.
But he’s not buying it. “Wait, what did your findings say? I’m genuinely curious. I’ve never done this before and like . . . I’ve had it done to me, so in theory I should know what to do, but . . .”
I find it easier to talk to him if I’m moving, so I walk through to the lounge and guide him towards the couch and onto his bum.
“It said to use lots of saliva.” I close the blinds.
“To keep teeth out of the mix.” I flick the softer lamp by the window on and turn the big light off.
“To experiment and be responsive to your partner’s subtle cues.
” I switch the TV to Spotify and play my randomised but highly curated “mood-enhancing” playlist.
“Well, duh. I already know all of that. That’s just common BJ sense.”
“Right. It also said to encourage your partner to be vocal and tell you what they do and don’t like.”
“Oh, I can be vocal.” He smiles. “I can be so fucking vocal, princess.”
It’s something that I’m going to struggle with when it’s my turn, but I’ll deal with that problem when I get there. I kneel at his feet.
“Oh, fuck.”
Pull my hoodie and T-shirt off.
“Fuck, Pi. This is really happening, oh my god.” He leans forward and tugs his sweatshirt off, tossing it to the other end of the sofa.
I reach over, undo his belt, and unzip his fly. He lifts his bum off the seat so I can tug his jeans off. There’s already a tiny patch of moisture seeping through his marl-grey jocks.
“Okay, move closer to me,” I say, guiding him forwards a little. I lean over and lay a gentle kiss right under his belly button, then I trace the line of hairs down to the waistband of his undies with my tongue.
He tastes the way he smells. Like washing powder, and some kind of lightly spiced shower gel, and of his clean, lived-in skin.
It’s fucking hot. I hook my fingers either side of his jocks and work the waistband down over his cock.
He tucks the elastic under his balls and bends his arm behind his head to use as a pillow.
And there he his, spread out in front of me in all his very hairy, very nearly naked glory.
“Okay,” I say, and mime stretching out the muscles in my neck and arms. He laughs, but joke’s on him because I’ve already spent twenty-five minutes stretching and limbering up before he arrived.
“You got this, princess. I’m a simple creature with simple needs, and I’m extremely easy to please. I don’t think you can go far wrong.”
Here goes nothing.
I wrap my fingers around his cock and lift it away from his stomach, then I lick the precum from his slit. He flinches.
“Oh, shit, sorry,” I say. “Did that hurt?”
“No, it just took me by surprise for some reason. Keep going.”
I don’t tell him that precum tastes weird. I guess he’ll find that out for himself in approximately ten to thirty minutes, depending on how quickly I can get the hang of this.
I try to be more gentle, kissing softly up his shaft, always thinking about where my teeth are and how much saliva I’m involving.
“Spit on it,” he says. So I do, and he whines and calls me “princess.”
It takes a while for me to find a rhythm. I try licking it like a lollipop. I try winding my tongue around it like I’m cleaning up a dripping ice cream cone. I try sucking on the end, and taking the entire thing into my mouth until it hits the back of my throat.
There are a few hairy moments when I go in heavier than my capabilities allow and end up gagging, and I’m also aware of two or three times when my teeth knock against his flesh. I thought I’d have to concentrate on his cues, but exactly as he promised he’d be, Eggo is very vocal.
“Oh, fuck. Yes, like that. Literally like that. Oh, god,” he says when I focus my sucking on the tip. “Oh my fuck, that feels unreal. You look unreal. Oh, Jesus, that’s . . . so good. Holy fucking fuckballs this is intense.”
My jaw is aching, the muscles at the back of my neck are cramping, and my right foot has gone to sleep.
I want him to climax so I can take a break and it’ll be my turn, but also, watching him fall to pieces in front of me, knowing it’s all because of me, must be one of life’s key happiness secrets.
His stomach muscles spasm, his facial expressions flit between surprise and agony, and his moans fill my living room, and I’m doing that. I’m making that happen.
“Wait, wait,” he says, placing a hand on my forehead. I stop. “Are you gonna swallow, or spit, or do you want me to finish on myself?”
I release him, and he fills his hand with his cock, stroking it as he watches me.
“Oh, god. I don’t know,” I say. Not gonna lie, cum tastes wrong. Bitter and salty and like it should never be in someone’s mouth, but I very much need to walk him over that peak. “I’ll spit.”
“Good, because I’m fucking close. Are you ready?”
I nod and resume sucking him the way I know he likes it. Less than two minutes later he’s whining, rocking his hips, gasping for breath, and then he’s coming into my mouth.
“Keep going. Slowly,” he says, because I’d stopped to watch him.
After I pull off him, I look around for a glass to spit the cum into, but by the time I’ve stood up, moved over to the coffee table, picked up a cup, and hawk-tuahed his jizz out, the essence of it is all through my mouth.
It coats my palate and tongue and every single tastebud I possess, including some extra tastebuds I didn’t know existed until right now.
Even the glands below my ears are cramping in protest at the bitterness.