Smoing Hot

This chapter is all Ade and Dan.

For reference, this story is 14 chapters in total, being posted every few days. Chapter 7 won't be in Gay Male for obvious reasons, ditto chapters 9 and 13, so Follow me if you usually just look at New GM stories and don't want to miss them.

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I give Laura a long kiss goodbye, and wave her off to get fucked properly at home. Ah well, I've waited twenty years; what's a few more weeks? Odd that she's up for anything except my cock in her sweet-smelling cunt. Maybe that's what she and Dave keep to themselves, maybe she's trying to get pregnant - though thirty-eight must be a bit late - but she's a year younger than me...

That was a real nice evening. I shouldn't have worried so much - the woman is a good friend and the whole fucking thing was her idea. She knows what she's doing. She's not that awkward geeky teenager, now. Sophisticated business woman, but still that filthy sense of humour that attracted me to her in the first place.

Seeing her arch her neck up to me when I held her hair down, all submissive and gagging for it - that's hot. I should have guessed Diane and her talked. Just glad Laura never talked about it to anyone else, except maybe to her Dave, which is the same thing; he never says much to anyone. Diane always was a good judge of character - she used to remind me I always said that, when I wondered what she saw in me.

I really should have known Laura was kinky as fuck - I'd always suspected, but hearing what she goes for, out of her own sweet mouth? Man!

Just thinking of her telling me she likes clamps on her wee nipples and it gets her wet... I don't have to be into such things myself to find that hot! It's a great thought to sustain me, along with a fine whisky in one hand and my dick in the other, followed by looking forward to Dan fucking me senseless the day after tomorrow.

Praise be to Laura, my life is suddenly looking pretty bloody good!

I don't want to worship her, though.

If anything, she is going to damn well worship me. Hell yeah!

I have good dreams, that night.

I awake remarkably well-rested. Nothing to do apart from the food shop. I'm not going to do work until tomorrow, I'm not. So I hit the shop - the crowds are annoying - and am back by lunchtime.

It occurs to me, Dan would look pushy if he contacted me today, but I could get away with it. Wonder if he'd be up for a bike ride? Or out to the flicks?

I text: 'you bored? Considering cycling to Kent or round Dulwich. Wanna come with?'

About ten minutes later I get a reply.

'Have you seen the weather?'

I look out. The heavens have opened and it's pissing it down, something fierce.

'Scratch that. Guess I'll be watching an old fillum. You?'

'Just got back from the gym downstairs.' There's a follow-up.

'You could help me make lot of noise playing Xbox to get Gem and Max to bugger off?'

'Into Max's room or out completely?'

'Don't care. Either...'

Then another text. 'I'd really appreciate it.'

Well, now. How can I refuse a damsel - damn fine ride - in distress? 'Sure thing. Up in a mo.'

I grab a large bag of crisps and a wee shoulder of Glenfiddich, and trot across the atrium to the other stairs, at his end. I don't like to say it, but the walkway in front of his flat gives me the fear.

Even if is is only two flights down. It's that temptation, to jump across to one of the metal palm trees and try to slide down to my floor below, like in a movie.

I give a knock, and he opens it immediately. He does the check to see if anyone's watching, then a quick peck on my cheek as I come in. Too fleeting for me to reciprocate, and I'm guessing from his look-see that he's not ready for Max and the wet lettuce to see us.

Which is kinda a relief, that he's not wanting to announce me as anything, not yet.

"You remember Adrian, from downstairs?"

I exchange greetings with Max, ignore his cling-on. Max flicks his eyes between us. He's wondering. Course, he's known Dan even younger than Laura and I have known each other, so he must have some sense of the guy.

Dan takes the crisps, props the open bag against the coffee table between us, and passes me a controller. "Formula One?"

"Good choice. I'll skin ya."

"No way! My Ferrari's gonna muller you!"

"Get in! My Maclaren always won the qualifying last time - I'll see you, big lad!"

We're shouting loudly on purpose, and indeed Max and Gem soon retreat to Max's room, Gemma slamming the door behind them.

"Result," Dan says.

He's leaning a bit towards me, now, and I copy him, our lips brushing for a moment before we get on with the game.

After I lose on the qualifying to him, I mention, "You know, there's other things we could have done to scare them off?"

He lines up his driver and changes the tyres. "I know. But Max doesn't want to see me actually doing them any more than I want to see him and Gem at it."

Fair point.

"I like living with him. Don't know what I'll do if he wants to move Gem in. I don't want to be alone, couldn't afford it anyway, so it'd be the horrifying world of London house-shares..."

"Can be OK. You're not like a young student any more. More 'This Life' than 'The Young Ones'."

"I'm more scared of 'Friends', with the really annoying ones and the sexual tension. And the whole gay thing, like! I mean, when do you say?"

"Go for a gay flatshare? Lots of agencies and ads."

"I dunno. Maybe. But I don't want campness and musicals in my face, twenty-four seven, like."

"I don't think camp guys can keep it up - the camp - all the time. Surely, first thing in the morning with a hangover, no-one can mince about and trill?"

"Oh yes, they can. I've pulled enough of them," he adds, darkly.

Really? He's got a past of crap blokes, too. Same tone of self-loathing. I think it's schadenfreude I'm feeling; that I'm not alone.

He puts Alonso in pole, my Maclaren with Jenson just behind.

"I'd have thought you'd have more gym bunnies notching your bedpost."

He makes a good start, heading off my attempts to pass on the inside of turn two. "Often they're the same guys. One thing I like about the gym downstairs - it's peaceful. You use it?"

"Can't say I have, not since I helped John unpack all the gear and he forced me through his induction routine. Apart from cycling about, I try to do a long ride every couple weeks, but that's about it for me and exercise."

We're both thinking about how much exercise you get from sex. Mostly him. Well, if he will insist on being on top.

"I don't use it much, but it's out of the flat. I like playing football, much more than watching it."

"You don't support a team, then?"

"Well, I

say

I support Villa, if I'm asked, but that's mostly checking the scores on Sunday evening so I can make the right noises at work. I mean, you've got to to blend in with the guys, haven't you?"

"Aye, you do." Should. "Course, me being a right arsy sod, I swear complete ignorance of all imperialist sports except from rugby, which is basically Gaelic football with simpler rules..."

"Suppose that's

one

way to avoid Kevin in accounts telling you all about the footie at the weekend, thinking that he's bonding with you."

"Rugby fans do tend to be a wee bit brighter, if nothing else. You don't get the same 'my team beat your team, hur hur hur' that you get wi' soccer."

"Only for the Six Nations. No, you're right, even that's friendlier. My footie team's in an evening league, in the top group now. Some of the lads want to move up to a Sunday league - I wouldn't mind, myself, but some of the guys are dads and a Sunday wouldn't work so well."

"Football widows. They wouldn't like it."

"Mm. Mostly, we're in the middle of our group and no reason to upset the status quo, I reckon. And no-one's burning to up everyone's fitness and get us running and in the gym every day - I try a run three times a week and the gym once, but if nothing else, getting out the flat has got me fitter..."

I check the door's shut.

"And I reap the benefits!"

He grins. "I could get you down the gym, later. Core stomach muscles are very important for many things."

"Huh. I'm not saying no."

We carry on competing, though he's had more experience on the game so he's winning. I go for reckless moves to try to overtake. He gets out a beer and passes me a short glass.

Despite us getting more raucous, we can clearly hear squeals of passion from Max's room. Gemma is making the most revolting squeaky giggles.

"Oh, god. You can see why I don't do women."

"Nothin' wrong with women; with that, plenty!"

"Fair enough. You really do like both?"

I think of Laura's stocking-clad legs from last night. "Oh, yeah..."

They're clearly not even trying to be quiet. Gem isn't, anyway. Anyone would think they're trying to make us go away.

I suggest this to Dan.

"Max wouldn't. But you have a point." He thinks for a few moments, while rounding the last few corners of his lap and bombing down the final straight. "It'd be quieter in my room."

"That it would."

I follow him as he takes another couple beers and the crisps to his bedroom. He closes the door behind me and locks it. I've not been in before. It's untidy rather than skanky, bed unmade, some clothes hanging around, but no skivvies or socks on the floor, no minging old plates of food. It's a long room, mirror image of my office, the double bed at the end away from the window, the brighter half of the room made into his work space. He's got the biggest easel I've ever seen, with various printouts with ink annotations pinned on it, an IKEA desk with computer in front of the window, and two printers on the other side - one a huge narrow thing for poster-size printout.

"Whoa. Huge printer!"

"Those A0 blueprints don't print themselves," he says drily.

"Sure - just assumed people still needed huge office printers or trotted down the print shop."

"Ten printouts, might as well buy your own printer, given print shop prices. Course, the printer isn't that costly - it's the ink that's terrible. Like normal printers, only worse."

"Ink's a terror, sure. I got a laser, to get round that."

"Good idea. I'll come to yours next time I've got huge docs to print."

"You do that."

He glances at me - he hadn't been serious, I realise. And then he gives a wee smile at the corner of his mouth.

"Thanks. Anyway, welcome to my humble abode." He's made the bed while I was looking out the window, and put some screwed-up bits of paper in the bin. There's a couple Escher posters, a tall thin rack of CDs, a few dozen books. When I look back from the window, I can see various magazine pictures of semi-clothed men on the side of his filing cabinet and the bookcase. Tasteful, yet definitely queer as fuck. Sums him up, really.

"So, yeah - what d'you want to do now?"

I get the impression he wants an answer that isn't the obvious. I light upon his bookcase where various thrillers and audiobooks are piled up against lots of magazine holders and folders. There's one of those wooden posable statues on top of a sketchbook, and a couple packs of playing cards.

"Card games? What do you play?"

"Rummy or canasta - better with more people. Blackjack or poker..."

"Ditto."

"Yeah. Hey, have you ever played Racing Demon?"

"Not since my gran died when I was about nine. It's the fearsome violent one, isn't it?"

"Violent? Only a little! OK - back to the big table. Trial run?"

It comes back to me. By the second game, I'm slapping his hands out the way and walloping his knuckles like a pro. He's doing the same.

On the third, we make up a new rule, that you need to down a shot when you demolish your demon. By the fifth, having taken sips upon completing each suit, we're having a right whale of a time.

A couple rounds later my gran would be proud of me, leading Dan by at least one game, though we're not keeping score and are shouting and swearing at each other in a way Nan would not have approved of in the least.

Eventually Gem comes out in a dressing gown that must be Max's, and whines, "D'you think you could keep the noise down?"

I stay quiet.

Dan tells her, "Yes, I think we could."

As she retreats, he calls out, "Don't think we will, though!"

He's had a little whisky as well as his beers. We carry on as we were before.

About half an hour later Max heads into the bathroom and Gem appears again.

"I think you were being really inconsiderate," she starts.

Some tension in his throat tells me Dan's reaching the end of his tether. And then he spits out,"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. Do you live here? No. You don't, I do. So if Max has a problem with me, I'll gladly discuss it with him. Him, what lives here. A'right?"

She's trying a flounce, as she goes, "Well! Be like that then!"

I'm guessing she's a bird who all the boys liked in school cos she was blonde and had tits, she got into simpering round them so that knobhead teenage boys didn't get their egos pricked, they doted on her because she was a good accessory and an easy ride, and now she's hitting thirty, her looks are fading, and she's simply a right pain.

"Whinging cow," Dan mutters, probably loud enough to hear, as she makes drinks for her and Max. She doesn't offer me one. That's just rude.

She's heard. I'm thinking it's time to get out of here.

"Come downstairs, mate - I've got a flyer for discount pizza delivery. Don't worry about the cards, I've got plenty." I've ushered him as far as the stairs before he realises he doesn't know why he's there.

"What, why?"

I don't answer until he's safely in my flat.

"You were starting to lose it, that's what. Not saying you were wrong to lose it, but you were losing it."

I'm not sure why it's got to him so badly. He must have borne ten times more joshing on the streets of Derry. Normally, he seems pretty laid back.

He sighs, says nothing til he's safe on my sofa, sighs again. "It just gets to me, tension in the house. "

"Like before your big breakup with...?"

"Louise. Yeah, that wasn't good. But that wasn't her being the pain, it was all me. This... It's like at my parents' when I was a teenager and I'd not want to go home, feeling I didn't belong anywhere, have anywhere, and now what I have is that flat, all my savings are in it. I'd think about moving out, only I'd need a deposit and a month's rent and I can't save that kind of money fast enough, I need another three or four months..."

I'd offer to lend him, if it wouldn't both offend him and make me look like a patronising bastard sugar daddy.

"Eh, three months. Only twelve weeks. It'll be Spring, you can be outside more. Work late, enjoy all the freebies London has to offer. Pop down here occasionally, even."

He's no more convinced three months is a short time than I was when Laura suggested I quit the fags.

He takes a deep breath. "Yeah. You're right. That's a plan, then, moving out... Joy. Least I don't have much stuff, now."

"Could her and Max cover your half of the mortgage?"

"Should think so. She does something in PR, certainly seems to spend more cash than me!" I pass him a beer. "Suppose I'd better have words with Max about the future - does he want the bint to move in or not." He changes the subject. "You were saying, pizza?"

"We could. Or what about curry? Better for you."

"You're on. Shit, I don't have my wallet..."

"No worries. What d'you like?"

I call the Raj; it'll be half an hour, forty-five minutes. I down my Glenmorangie I poured in lieu of a smoke. Then we hit a bit of a silence.

I offer to get the cards out. He demurs. He's not his usual chilled self, for sure.

"How's it cutting? What's up?"

"Eh, dunno. Just, everyone wants a home, right? Too old and gay to feel at home with the folks, feeling pushed out here... It's my home, y'know? I can deal with anything for work. Like the army, when it's my job to take stick, I do it. Out and about, I get grief, I defuse it, put a smile on. I can do all that, because I can chill out at home. Or could. If I

don't

have a home to chill out in..."

Bless the lad. If I were even more stupid than I am, I'd ask him to move in. Like there's space.

Still, I give him a big hug, cos us gayers can do that without worrying about our masculinity. We're sat on the sofa and it's warm and nice, his body leaning over mine, all firm over his ribs. And then he kisses me.

Not like he has before, those passionate snogs on the stairs as a prelude to sex, or the little friendly pecks. This is soft yet strong, holding my head so he doesn't lose me, and keeps going. My legs part involuntarily, and he falls between them. It's powerful sexy stuff, and I let him keep on doing it.

Not just let - I put my hand on his head too, and do the same things to him. It's just a kiss, but it feels like he's touching me deeper than when he was fucking my brains out on Friday.

Running my tongue over the inside of his lips, slow and deliberate, feeling his tickling the roof of my mouth, all tingly, it's gentle and enjoyable and... caring?

I care about him.

How did I let that happen?

How much of a buck eejit can I be? Don't answer that, it's a fucking rhetorical question.

Thank fuck I'm half-cut already. I'll probably freak when I sober up.

Tomorrow's Monday. Pile of work. I'll get stuck in early and stay stuck in.

My musings and his mouth keep me going for the next twenty minutes or so, when the doorbell rings.

He jumps off me so I can buzz the curry guy in, and gets out plates and glasses of water by the time I've unpacked naans, rices, sides and mains, lassi for me, Cobra for him, plus of course the complimentary poppadoms and pickles.

"I've never actually seen anyone eat the lime pickle before," he remarks, slathering his second poppadom in mango chutney, the better to hold on a mass of onion salad, which he then dribbles the yoghurt one on top of.

"It's sour and shocking. You know you've eaten something when it hits ya."

"Doesn't just slide down? S'pose. Bit like a really spicy curry. Try this lamb Ceylon and pass us the veg."

I swap him the saag paneer. "Mm, that's good! Aye it's fierce hot, but actually you can taste the flavour in it..." I take a gulp of my salt lassi to cool my mouth down.

He hardly seems affected. Dan sees I'm impressed. "The footie lads go out for a curry every week. Max likes it, too, cooks for us a lot. Builds your tolerance. Or keeps it, rather, after the balti houses at home. Naan breads the size of your table, huge bowl of balti for a fiver..."

"Mm." I stick to my prawn rogan, wiping up sauce with my garlic naan. We manage about half of it all.

Dan sends a couple texts, looks annoyed at the response. I'm guessing Max still has his girl round. Or has told him to fuck off. Something.

"Wotcha want to do now?" I ask his absent face. "Distracting me from that mountain of work facing me tomorrow would be dead nice of you, if you could see yourself to oblige..."

He's not concentrating, then thinks and realises what I said.

"Sorry... Just want to work off some aggression..."

The words sound seductive, the tone is the opposite.

"What did you have in mind?"

"A punchbag? A run?"

"It's still raining something fierce."

"There's the gym downstairs. Wanna come?"

"I'm no weight-lifter!"

"They've got no free weights. You do cycling, come on, let's try a few things." The idea seems to be cheering him up, at least.

The boy wheedles me into trackies and trainers, and leads me into the part of the basement that isn't car park. One guy is lying on a bench in the corner doing some lifting thing, who nods at Dan as we enter. No windows, of course, but it's white and cheerful enough.

"Warm up on a treadmill?" He's got a program set up; I just turn up the pace until I'm doing a slow run rather than brisk walk. I stick to figuring out the functions and running across a virtual hilly landscape while Dan does a bunch of repetitions on various machines, the iron blocks clunking.