Smoing Hot

By the time I've plunged the coffee and made a pile of buttered toast, I'm a bit calmer. In control of myself enough that I

think

I can manage a silent cuppa rather than screaming 'fuck off and away out of my life', the moment I see him.

He's still glistening with water, hair in tiny wee wet spikes, with a towel tucked round his waist.

A hand towel. It just goes round him, all slender youthfulness, but it doesn't go down very far. I mean, technically, it makes him decent, by about half an inch. His legs appear to go on forever, those lean muscled thighs promising the world where they are about to meet.

Just as well I'm sitting down behind the counter, really.

"Good water pressure, you've got. That for me? Ta."

I let him take the toast, raising buttery fingers to his mouth. "Coffee's ready. Or do you prefer tea?"

"Actually, I'd love a tea, if you wouldn't mind?"

I nod, and make it happen. Gives me something to do rather than just melt into a wee puddle of lust at his feet. Or panicking and making him run away.

"Cheers." He's pulled his clothes back on.

I don't manage to say anything else. But I down two large mugs of the real coffee and some toast while he eats up, us silent on opposite sides of the kitchen counter.

I don't know if he's picked up on my fucked-up-ness or is just fulfilling his promise from last night, but he swallows the last corner of toast, swigs his remaining tea, and says, "Ta-ra, I'll push off, then. Get out of your hair. I could do coffee on Monday but I'm in the office the rest of the week. See ya. Maybe."

He exits, without looking back.

I feel like shit.

After sticking myself under the shower and thinking about Dan washing himself there earlier, I'm little better.

Time for a cycle ride. Doesn't matter where to. Blow all the cobwebs and grimy thoughts out my brain. I've taken myself past Greenwich into Woolwich before considering what to do with the day.

I pass the Royal Artillery Barracks and idly wonder if Dan was stationed there, though the place seems mostly ceremonial now, gearing up to become an Olympics venue. I find myself heading down towards the green spaces of Sidcup and Chislehurst. The North Weald is probably a bit ambitious, unless I get the train back. My bike's a hybrid, mainly for using round town, not a racer.

Then before I know it, only an hour later, I'm zooming under the M25. Get in! My breathing's easier than I'd expected.

I'm eating a ploughman's and enjoying a wee half in a rural pub before it dawns on me - I'm reaping the benefits of not smoking. My lungs are working better, already. I do a few miles round the glorious Weald, where hints of green are starting to fuzz over the landscape - they don't call Kent the Garden of England for nothing - and then decide to cycle all the way home, just taking it easy.

I end up coming up the A2, so I decide to pull in by Borough Market, to see what's on offer. The market itself is closed of course, being a Sunday, but there's wee shops and cafés open all around. Including a bakery.

Dan bought biscuits last week. It's my turn, isn't it, if I want to entice him for coffee tomorrow. 'Don't let opportunities go by you,' he said.

The lass behind the counter is well surprised when I request two chocolate brownies, two slices of carrot cake, and half a dozen cookies to go.

"You were expecting me to order a poncy green smoothie, weren't ye?"

She doesn't deny it. I'm a MAMIL, Middle Aged Man In Lycra, after all.

"No! I mean yes you have the bicycle clothes, but just because you are not very young does not make you middle-age, yet."

I love blunt Eastern Europeans. I drop some coins in her empty dead-hope tips dish, mostly to annoy the huffing arseholes behind me who tut at the very idea of paying a shop girl more than necessary. Where do I think we are, America?

I find another couple coins in my pocket, turn round so I can bump the corners of my cardboard boxes against their legs again, and leave them for the girl too, with a beaming smile. Then I drop a quid for the terrible busker outside the cheese shop, giving him a thumbs-up for pissing off the up-their-own-arses customers who think he's lowering the tone.

Another shower, another wank. Time for tea and cake and calling round to see if anyone's up for a drink, later. Or more - there's a couple guys I hang out with and fuck, sometimes. Pete and Paul. On a good day, I can remember which is which. They're both busy, though.

Everyone's needing early nights, but I end up having a chat with Gareth for the first time in a while.

He's planning to tell his parents he's gay. Thinks it would help him calm down and be more open to a relationship.

I don't tell him so, but I think he's mental. First off, if you, their only son, are a fine-looking dude and a decent man, with high standards of cleanliness and some dress sense, but despite pushing forty you've never once had a girlfriend, you don't need to be telling the folks. They

know

. And if they're not saying anything, it's because they don't want to know.

Much as he and I would love our mas and his da to do all the 'I'm so glad you could tell me' and 'I'll always love ye' and spouting rainbow kumbayahs, we both know that ain't never going to happen. Polite, tense-nosed disapproval is as good as it's going to get. We're kids of the 80s, they're of the 50s, love is conditional. It's how it is.

It's not like we've got any fine respectable role models to point to, either. The only times my ma's ever heard of anyone being gay, it's because they've died of AIDS. Or been lifted for doing something perverted, like sucking off a guy in a public toilet who turns out to be a cop. Ma's convinced all gay men just fuck around, can't keep it in their pants, attend orgies and never consider being faithful to one partner.

She's not wrong, 90% of the time, neither. Sums up my twenties pretty well, not that I'm telling her that, ever. Thing is, straight men are practically the same. But whereas they - and half the bi guys - started to settle down with a nice lass, the gays didn't settle down. They died.

Me and Gareth, I guess we're lucky we were just young enough to be scared off casual sex before we got any chance to do it, then we grew up using condoms and lube as a reflex action. The worst of the deaths hit before we left the safer lands of college, in London at least. Once AZT and PEP came out you got a bit less of a stigma - guys would actually admit they had it and you could be extra careful going down on them, not get fucked by them; at least I did. Add a huge dose of the luck of the Irish, and I'm still here and healthy today. I know a few guys my age and a bit older who are still on the websites and aren't just cheating husbands, but precious few. Most just... don't exist.

So, as Gareth says, he has no idea how to do a relationship. He's never had one for more than six months, and those were mainly guys he had sex with but let be in his band so they had something to talk about. Or maybe it was the other way around.

Add that whole question of whether you ought to aspire to a respectable monogamous relationship just to keep society happy - all the 'I-suppose-queers-are-OK-if-they-behave' mob; do you really care what they think, or do you call them out on their lack of acceptance and embarrass them, pointing out that tolerating poofs only if they do everything else like the straights isn't actually acceptance?

Or do you run with being queer as an excuse to live outside society's norms, and choose to go for open relationships, quick dirty fucks, trying all the kinks you can find, all to a backdrop of whatever pharmaceuticals float your boat? Why shouldn't I? What has society ever done for me?

Especially over here. The 'no dogs, no blacks, no Irish' signs weren't around any more by the time I came over, but the mentality was still pretty damn common. Irish: feckless criminals if not actual terrorists. One reason why I bought my first flat, avoiding that grief trying to find somewhere to rent. I'd met too many landladies who clearly resented having to make up excuses rather than just telling the Irish lad to bog off.

It got better after the IRA ceasefire in 1997 and then the Agreement. Then September 2001: anti-Irishness practically vanished overnight, when the world decided to blame the Muslims for everything instead. Poor Ali - the sudden change was tough on him.

Anyway, being gay. It's hard not to feel you're letting down one side or the other, at any given moment. And your family. I'm not hazarding any guess as to whether swinging both ways is easier or harder; different, that's all.

Gareth sighs. "I dunno. I just feel I'm kinda a failure as a gay man. Not out and proud to the folks," - he's always been out at work as long as I've known him, and coming out in the first term of college took a pile of balls I sure didn't have - "not in a relationship, not happy with just a pile of one night stands. Haven't even bothered with those, much, recently. Anyhow, how's yourself?"

Now there's a question.

"Trying to get back in the saddle." I tell him what I told Lindsey - two dates last week, one a total disaster.

"Uh-huh. The other one - you seeing him again?"

"How did you know it was a bloke?" Ignoring the question asked; just call me David fucking Cameron.

"Didn't, til you said. Just a guess. So you have seen him again, then. How did it go?"

No wonder the arsehole's a successful barrister. Brilliant at cross-examination, plus half the jurors lusting after him, of course. "None o' your beeswax."

"Oh, back in the Infants, are we? Hm. If it hadn't gone well, you'd have denied you were seeing him again, so it did but you're not telling." He pauses, probably for a sip of whatever he's on. "Oh god, you didn't have one of your panics, get roaring drunk, and do your usual - telling him you'd never be good enough, just fuck off out your life now, you're not worth it, and he was crap in bed anyway?"

I don't answer.

"Or did you?" I don't dignify this with an answer.

"Bonus points if you chundered on his clothes!"

The problem with having friends going back twenty years is they remember far too many of your embarrassing habits. Just because I did all that with him, at least twice that

I can recall... Being fair, though, he

was

crap in bed the first couple of times - nothing personal, we all were in our teens, to be sure.

"Ade, man? You didn't? Not again?"

Just because a man might have a weakness, this really isn't fair. So I enjoy telling him, "No, I didn't." Don't mention how close it was.

"Might see him again tomorrow, in fact. We went to the Braukeller the other night. Oh, yeah, and I've quit smoking!"

There's a pause on the line. Eventually I hear, "Yeah, right! Bollocks you have! I saw you lighting up at the meetup last weekend, before you went back home with Laura to introduce her to some new whisky or whatever your euphemism is..."

"Sure, I smoked at the meal, then I had a wee chat with Laura over a wee dram, that's a

chat

, thank you very much, and she convinced me I could give up if I tried. She's a convincing woman, as well you know! So here we are, a week later - eight days, now."

"Kin'ell. I never thought you would." Him and me both.

"Thought I was too fucked up to quit what's tougher than booze, benzos and smack? Least, without the love of a good woman?"

I'm exaggerating about the heroin. It's not actually that addictive, and I only did it a couple times. Still, not a high point in my life.

Gareth ignores all that anyway, just says, "No, just didn't think you'd ever bother trying. Unless..."

He doesn't say, but it's obvious he's wondering if I'm doing it for new chappie and if he's a new Diane.

"There's never gonna be a new Diane..."

"I know, I know. But there may be a somebody else."

"Says the guy telling me he's never gonna find anyone." Trying to turn the conversation back to him, because I don't want to think about it.

"Forget me this minute. Being honest, like, not being funny: you need to man up, and not tell this guy to get to fuck just cos you're too frit to be in a relationship!"

He knows me too well. Worse than bloody Laura, the bastard is. Not that her interfering has worked out so badly this week. "Eh, so far, so good. Used my words like a big boy, told him I was scared of a relationship. He asked if I might be able to cope with another one night stand."

"There you go, then! Just keep having one night stands with him."

"Same to you! You and me both, we gotta try not scaring people off. All we can do. Come on cowboy, you got to get back in the saddle too."

"Me, a cowboy? Actually, I was wondering about doing some Bon Jovi covers, maybe copy his look for a gig..."

"Eighties hair metal! Oh aye, you do you, mate! I'm buying a ticket! This, I

have

to see!" I'm laughing so much at the idea of Gareth being Jon Bon Jovi in his poodle days, I nearly choke.

"I

was

thinking of the Nineties version, with the short blond hair and highlights," Gareth says rather huffily, in his slightly pompous manner that would have had me ditching him rapidly even if I hadn't done my usual number on him.

"Eh, that could work, I suppose. What about Sting, or him off Duran Duran?"

"Le Bon? Maybe. Don't think I could do Sting's voice."

"Not as seductive as the others, true. Come on, can't you find yourself a groupie?"

He gives a genuine laugh. "For some reason, our fans are mostly middle-aged married women. Loads of 'em. Gay men just aren't much in evidence, more's the pity."

"You need to re-pitch your advertising, then. Also, speak out about your lack of a man on stage! You know women, they've all got gay male friends they want to set up with someone! Obviously check the woman out first, if she's mental then don't bother with her friend..."

"Oh, ye gods... That could go most terribly wrong, you know."

"Well, aye, but likely no worse than another dozen Gaydar hook-ups where the men are either young and too footloose, or older and married, right? Who's running your fan club now? That Millie, with the hair, still? We can put an appeal in your next newsletter you email out, I'll tell her..."

"Adrian Cullinane, you are one sick, evil bastard..."

"Made you laugh! Gotcha. Ah well, hope ya find some male fans. See you at the next gig."

I text Millie with the merest suggestion of a sentence for their next newsletter, not to mention where to skew the online advertising, and decide what to have a wee drink of tonight.

Glass of Ardbeg by my side, I draft a text to Dan.

Twenty minutes later I bite the bullet and send it.

'Was passing Borough Market on the bike today, got some cake. Fancy coming help me eat some with coffee tomorrow?'

Not too desperate, I hope?

I get a response a quarter-hour later, after I've brushed my teeth beyond spotless and flossed them all twice.

"11 as usual? OK."

Bit brusque. But agreeing! Maybe he was busy. Or maybe I've managed to hurt him like I usually do with good men? Ah well, let's see if he can be won over with fine cake.

I'm glad urgent deadlines make me concentrate on my work from eight in the morning until nigh on eleven. I clear out my inbox a bit, and reheat some coffee.

Cake and the cookies are all out of the fridge, warming up, and smelling so good I'm going to scran the lot if he doesn't turn up soon.

I'm sweeping crumbs from one choc-chip cookie from my lips when he knocks on my door.

He comes in, no kiss or anything, settles at the counter. It's kinda awkward, but then he goes, "Hey, wow!" at the cake, and I go "Tea as usual?" and it's OK.

Well, until we're nearly finished our mugs and he's had two slices of cake, at which point we're both looking at each other. I think we're both wanting it but not sure the other does.

He finally manages a laconic, "Usual, then?" just as I come out with "Extra cream with the coffee, eh?"

He rolls his eyes. "Even my dad would be embarrassed to make a joke that bad!"

"Yeah, well, that's what you get for doing an old man."

"You're not that old. Thirty-eight? OK, not young, but not like middle-aged, y'know?"

"Will be, in eighteen months." Everyone knows forty is middle age.

"And I'll be thirty then. Sorry, not quite young enough to be your toy-boy." He pouts his lips and blows a tiny sarcastic kiss.

"No?"

"Gotta be half your age plus seven, or less, to be a toy-boy."

'Paedo or allowed?', was what we called that calculation at school. Forty halved is twenty, add seven: twenty-seven. "Darn. Too late with you." I switch on my best bass voice dripping with smooth Irish sleaze. "D'you wanna pretend?"

He flutters his eyelashes - he'd look amazing with make-up, but bet he never would - and goes to me, all cutesey, "I think I need more practice with your cock."

"That ye do, lad, that you do."

Back in his normal voice, Dan goes, "Or we could toss for it? Got a coin?"

Ignoring the double entendre, I trounce his suggestion with a much better one. "Sixty-nine. Now."

He doesn't even finish his tea, just plonks the mug down and runs to my bedroom. I plan to give him a mo to undo his boots, but then realise he's wandered down here barefoot.

Just khaki combats and a tight black T-shirt. It shows off his body well. Though not as well as how he's now lying on my bed, trousers by his knees, nothing underneath them, rubbing himself and grinning at me as I enter the room.

"Come on, then," he says.

I ditch my jeans and socks - that marble floor looks mint and is easy to clean, but hellish cold on the footsies of a morning - and leap onto the bed, head on his thigh, my crotch up near his face.

Oh, yeah. This is perking me up way more than a second coffee. Scent of his dick against my nose, early in the day, still more soap smell than piss, but proper man, like, and his tentative fingers moving fabric aside to unveil my cock, so slow, gentle, and teasing - probably partly on purpose, the bastard.

There's a grunt. He heaves his body round so he's lying as comfortably as I am, my thigh's a headrest just as his is for me, and I set the example, finishing shifting his foreskin down, and getting my mouth round him.

Home, sweet home. If God hadn't meant men to have their cocks sucked, he wouldn't have made them the perfect size and shape to go in your mouth.

He's finally putting his lips on me. I'm in heaven, drawing him in and slurping, nibbling loose skin, swallowing over his head, feeling the same sensations that I'm giving on my own prick.

He's copying me.

Every move I make on him, he does the same. Running my tongue under his velvet foreskin; he copies. I put my lips over my teeth and rub them over the base of his head, my favourite thing, and yes! Up and down, and now all I want in life is my head swallowed - best be careful here. I nudge downwards, all gentle on the lad, and bless him, he's doing it too. I open my mouth and drop him so as to take a huge, exaggerated breath. He does, too, but I can feel that tension rising under my ear. "Can ye gargle? Soon as you feel something touching the back of your mouth, make like you're garglin' it."

I take another exaggerated deep breath for him to copy, and get stuck in. I remember to do a bit of the gargling thing for him to know when, try to stay still myself, but then I feel him valiantly hauling my cock into his wee throat, a vibrating and an opening, and it's not me, it's him pulling me past his tonsils into his neck.

There's no man on earth could resist. My come bursts out of me, and the poor lad has to cough like mad, but I reach out and shake his hand.

"Fucking belter, that was! You OK, there?" He accepts water and sips gratefully, coughs dying down.

"Yeah. Was that all right?"