A man, in his late teens or early twenties sauntered past him, looking him boldly in the eye. Jason had come to terms long ago with his sexuality – at the public school he attended in England, in fact. He knew he was pretty much at the gay end of the spectrum, though he’d had a couple of girlfriends, and not only had he been close to them, but he’d had good relationships with them, and a good sex life too. But if he was allowed to choose, if the religious bullies left him be, he would prefer a man. And (he supposed he was perhaps typical of his class) he preferred rough trade. A manly man. Like Brent had been, even though Brent could be as tender and as loving as anybody in private, yet when straights found out he was gay, they were always surprised. Jason was always wryly amused that they were less surprised when they found out that he was gay.
The chap – who was now negligently strolling back along the path, towards Jason – was far from manly. Every gesture, every movement, his whole attitude was almost . . . almost feminine. And he was stunningly beautiful. No other word would do.
Normally, Jason wouldn’t have found him the least bit interesting, but somehow he oozed sex and lust, and Jason felt himself respond, his whole skin suddenly electric with desire, his cock rigid in his boxers. So much for not wanting involvement!
Jason was too embarrassed to meet the other man’s eyes. He stared resolutely at the ground. But that didn’t deter his pick-up.
“Hello,” mumbled Jason, feeling himself colour, furious at the tell-tale blush already creeping up his neck and cheeks.
“Can I sit there?”
“Yeah. Of course.” Jason shifted over as far to the left as he could, still looking anywhere but at the other.
“Want a ciggie?” Ciggie? Jason felt his lip curl in disdain, then stamped down hard, very hard, on his homophobic snobbishness. Chris, one of his friends, not his best friend, but someone he really liked and respected, was a bit effeminate. And one day, they’d had a terrible row because Jason, repelled by some queeny intonation in his friend’s chatter, had said “Don’t be so gay!” White with rage, Chris had said, “You take it up the bum just like me, Jace. You give head just like me. You’re a fucking homo just like me, you fucking judgemental snooty cunt!” Jason had been so ashamed. Relationships between them had been permanently soured. Poor Chris, Jason thought. I treated him like shit. I screwed up with him just like I did with everyone else.
“Thank you, no, I don’t smoke.” Some inner demon prompted Jason to put on his best upper class accent, plummy and orotund.
But it didn’t drive away the other man. “Is it OK if I do?”
“Of course,” Jason said, embarrassed by his own embarrassment, and now as frigid as the Queen in the presence of an errant fart.
“You’re English aren’t you?”
Jason nodded, eyes averted.
The young man got up to leave. “I know you want it, you know. I saw the way you looked at me! I’m not blind!” His disdain was cutting.
This jolted Jason out of his funk. “Look, sorry, I was just, well, I was embarrassed, if you must know.”
The other man promptly sat down again, and drew hard on his “ciggie”. “You haven’t done it before, then?”
“No,” said Jason, lying through his teeth. He was extremely unwilling to explain. That would involve going down roads he never wanted to travel again. “I . . . It’s just . . . well, to be frank . . . .”
“Yeah, I can see your frank.” The man’s dark, liquid eyes were sparkling with lust and amusement and malice. His gaze was firmly fixed on Jason’s crotch.
Jason’s fatty was as hard as ever. He couldn’t explain why he found this man so hot. He was beautiful, beyond beautiful, as a man or a woman. Stunning. His eyes were dark, liquid, like wet olives, and his hair was glossy, of a brown so dark it was close to black, yet it didn’t seem dark because of its shine. His hair was long and gelled into spikes, with the colour shading paler towards the tips. It made him look like a character from a computer game. Against the dark accents of his hair and his eyebrows and his eyes, his skin was a pale cream. His body was slim, androgynous, without an ounce of surplus fat or muscle. His clothes were ostentatiously dandified: loose pale linen pants worn low, with the waistband and strap of his thong showing; exquisite and obviously expensive leather sandals, a perfectly tailored perfectly white shirt, sleeves rolled up to show heavy gold chain bracelets. The shirt was of such expensive cotton that Jason could clearly see the bar in one nipple and the ring in the other. The bottom button of the shirt was undone, and a belly-button in a firm swell of pale muscle haloed by a sprinkling of dark hair could be glimpsed through the gap.
Jason wanted to pound him into the mattress, to take him face down, fast, and then more slowly face to face with his legs wrapped round his back. With Brent, Jason had on the whole preferred to bottom, with him and Brent facing each other, a cushion under his bum for comfort. Watching Brent’s face start to sheen with sweat, feeling the beat of his heart accelerate, and the deep steel thrusting within him always crowned and heightened his own pleasure in their love making. But sometimes, when Brent was drunk or feeling unloved, he was the one who wanted to be fucked, and he always lay face down on the bed, his head turned towards Jason as Jason ground into him, the mouths locked together so that Jason could taste the beer on his breath. Brent’s pleasure seemed as intense when they did this as when he was topping. Jason, however, preferred to take what somewhere, ridiculously, deep inside himself he called the woman’s role. He had wanted to be Brent’s woman, not as a woman, not in any effeminate way, but to be possessed by him, to belong to him, to be supremely and totally his. To give his body to him. To feel that Brent was in charge not just here in bed, but everywhere. To feel safe.
But with this guy, he wanted to do the possessing, to ride him till they both climaxed, to have him, to fuck him silly. Was it because he was thinking of this man as a woman? He was embarrassed by this politically incorrect sentiment. Was he some kind of 1950s troglodyte, unable to set aside the outdated and incorrect cultural patterns of that homophobic era? Was he deep down no different to the squeaky-clean pastors threatening homos with fire and brimstone while secretly lusting after the altar-boys? A little ashamed, he turned to the other man, and said, “My name’s Jason.”
The other gave him a sudden smile, accomplished but rather endearing anyway, and took another drag on his cigarette before saying, “Luigi.”
Jason smiled back at him, his shyness fading. His frank was as hard as ever.
“You want to come to my place?” asked Luigi, his whole bearing intimate and appealing.
Jason swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Jeez, it was almost as if this really was his first time. He nodded, unable to speak. Without being aware of it, he put a more masculine swagger into his step as they walked from the park.
Luigi wasted no time. As soon as they were through the front door of his flat, he turned to Jason and started kissing him hard. His body was pressed against Jason’s, and as he ground his hips against Jason’s, the firmness of his erection was manifest. Luigi moved his mouth from Jason’s and started kissing the line of his chin, on either side of his head. His tongue traced a line of heat up to his ear, and Jason felt a warm mouth and sharp teeth nibble his ear lobe. His own hard-on was by now supremely uncomfortable. He moved his hands from Luigi’s bum which he’d been squeezing, and twisted the bar in one of Luigi’s nipples, hard enough to hurt. Luigi gave a grunt, of pain or pleasure, or both, Jason didn’t know, and then he bit Jason’s earlobe. Jason laughed softly. It hurt, but that just increased his desire. He’d had a girlfriend once who done that, and the sudden sweet memory of their love filled his heart with a poignant warmth and an odd affection for the man he was about to fuck.
“Come on,” Luigi whispered in his ear, his breath hot, the promise and lust in his voice fuelling Jason’s own craving.
Jason was tempted to tear the expensive shirt off Luigi’s body. Instead, knowing how much it must have cost, he slowly unbuttoned it, and with each button he and Luigi kissed. Every few seconds, Jason’s hand strayed to one of Luigi’s nipples, and he rubbed or twisted the bar or the ring. Luigi’s hand slipped past the waistband of Jason’s jeans, warm against his stomach, and squeezed Jason’s junk.
“I want you to fuck me, straight boy.”
“Yeah!” Jason’s voice was gruff. At one level, he was amused by the rôle he was playing. But the awareness that it was a game, a piece of mutual fantasy both turned him on and made him feel closer to the other man. It suggested hidden vulnerabilities in Luigi, a whole history of encounters with straight blokes, where he never got the love he wanted, love which Jason was convinced everybody needed.
“Condom?” he asked.
In silence Luigi gave him one from the bedside drawer. After Jason had put it on, Luigi slicked it up with lube, and kissed Jason again, then turned over and lay face down on the bed. Jason slid softly into him, his gentle manner contrasting with the silky steel of his cock. It was a tenderness and gradualness that Luigi had not expected.
Jason started slowly, giving Luigi time to stretch and take him easily, but he wanted so much to just ride Luigi hard, to thrust into the body which lay beneath him, its androgynous contours and muscles deliciously both male and female, appealing to both the gay and the het in him. He felt very strongly that he was the dominant one here, that he was the man. He knew somewhere inside that this was silly. But it was part of the fantasy.
His pleasure built with each thrust, his cock gripped by a warm, intimate sheath. Each push brought him closer to climax. He’d pulled his wire in the shower that morning, and he was glad he had, because he wanted to prolong these exquisite sensations. It felt so good, so right. His experience with Brent and other men had taught how to angle himself so that he could rub the other bloke’s prostate. Brent had loved it on the occasions when, after he’d fucked Jason, Jason had in turn done him, deep and slow and careful, bringing him to a hands-free climax. Jason was deliberate and unhurried about leading Luigi to slow orgasm despite his own urgent need to nail the other man to the sheets. He loved making his partner cum, whether he was fucking a man or a woman. His own pleasure was so much more intense when that happened.
He felt Luigi cum, as Luigi’s glutes tightened and his ring clamped round Jason’s cock. His own climax a moment or two later was intense, almost painful, and he groaned in ecstasy. Luigi had remained silent all the while he’d been face down while Jason drove into him. Even his cumming had been entirely silent. As Jason deflated and withdrew, Luigi turned away and faced the wall.
Jason was filled with the warm emotions which always happened to him when he came. Yet there was melancholy too, for this was just a casual encounter. What he wanted was Brent, Brent next to him laughing and smiling, tracing patterns on his skin with his finger, intimate and loving in his post-coital happiness, Brent spent and languid, the lines of age or worry which had recently started appearing on his forehead and round his mouth and eyes magically smoothed away, Brent relaxed and floppy like a cat in the sun.
For a moment or two, his own thoughts stopped him from realising that Luigi was ominously silent. Jason turned towards the other man, and cuddled up against his back, only to be shrugged off. Jason tried again, and was again repulsed.
“What?” he demanded, his bitter-sweet mood switching to anger.
“Just go.” Luigi’s voice was rough, with no trace of the come-hither tone he’d used earlier.
“What the fuck! What’d I do wrong?” Hurt increased Jason’s fury.
“Nothing.” Luigi still wouldn’t look at him.
Jason grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed Luigi’s body down so he could look at him. He was shocked to see the beautiful black eyes shiny with tears. The other man’s distress made him tear up too. “What?” he cried, his voice cracking. “What’d I do? Did I hurt you?”
“No, straight boy, you didn’t.” Luigi’s voice was hoarse. “Not yet anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“Straight guys break your heart. They get all lovey-dovey and close, then the next thing you see them they’ve got a wife and two toddlers in tow and they pretend not to know you.”
Jason was a bit pissed off. He hadn’t initiated this pick-up, and anyway everybody knew the rules. It was every man for himself. Now suddenly he was counsellor and friend and lover! They’d both wanted a fuck and they’d both got one. It had been good. Now it was over. That was the way it was.
Luigi turned back towards the wall.
Jason was suddenly struck by the vulnerability of that boyish body, of the ribs curving just under the skin, of the naked buttocks and their cleft. There was a terrible pathos to Luigi’s unguarded nudity; a tragic defencelessness about the thin neck and the so-carefully gelled and dyed hair, now tangled and dishevelled.
He remembered Brent’s muscular manliness, his strength, the way he’d felt safe in Brent’s arms, in Brent’s orbit. How wrong he had been! Brent had needed his protection and support and at a key time, Jason hadn’t been there for him.
He bent down again and gently kissed the back of Luigi’s neck, tears in his eyes. Luigi didn’t move or respond. Jason kissed each shoulder, and moved down the valley of Luigi’s spine, kissing all the way, butterfly kisses of comfort and love. When he reached the other man’s buttocks, he bit them each gently then raised one of Luigi’s legs and started to kiss and lick his inner thigh. He continued moving his mouth up Luigi’s taint, and then took him in his mouth. Cupping the other man’s buttocks with his hands, he settled down to give Luigi the best head he’d ever had.
He could taste the jism from Luigi’s previous orgasm. He could smell the slightly chemical strangeness of the lube, the rich odour of rectal mucus, the smells of a man’s body after sex. His tongue and mouth moved over Luigi’s cock. It was thicker and bigger than he’d expected, and once again, he felt shame at his assumption that Luigi was only half a man because he was so obviously gay. He’d unconsciously thought that a man with a big todger would be macho, even straight. Certainly not so gay as Luigi. He began to move his head up and down, trying to take the full length into his mouth. He gagged a bit as it swelled under his attentions. He manfully kept going. Luigi started to pant, and to make little inarticulate grunts and groans. Quicker than Jason had expected, he felt the sudden convulsive contractions in Luigi’s cock and a surge of cum in his mouth. He swallowed it all, and kept the head of the cock in his mouth, licking it.
“Unh!” Luigi pushed Jason’s mouth away. “Too tender. Stop!”
Jason pulled Luigi into his arms, and kissed him on the mouth. He smiled. “Did you enjoy that, gay-boy?” and he put on the special smile he had learned to use with his nanny, one which had always worked, a smile of rueful charm and wry acknowledgement that he was a scamp and a naughty boy but also said all too clearly ‘go on, nanny, you know you love me.’
Luigi smiled back, the confidence he’d had before replaced by a touching and rather pathetic hope and need.
Jason wasn’t quite sure what he was doing here. Oh, the superficial actions were obvious. But what sort of implicit promises was he making with his mouth and his hands and his body? He pushed the thoughts out of his mind. Luigi needed comfort now. It was simple. We all borrow from the future and find when the debts come to be paid that they are bigger than we remember. Such is life, no? Jason held Luigi close and kissed him gently on his forehead, his cheeks, his neck, his ears, but not on his lips. This had come to be about comfort and affection, not hot but loveless sex.
How beautiful and sexy he is! he thought, but he did not speak. He went on caressing the other man’s body.
Their faces were only a few centimetres apart.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Luigi asked, his face intent, his eyes never leaving Jason’s.
“No.” Jason had wanted to add, “not now”, but that was dishonest. He’d had girlfriends, but he probably wouldn’t have another, ever.
“Oh. Did you like your first time with a man?”
He meant this time, Jason realised. “No.” Before Luigi could reply, hurt or angry, thinking that Jason meant their sex, Jason kissed him on the mouth and said, “This wasn’t my first time. It was at boarding school. One of the sixth-formers took a fancy to me.”
He remembered it perfectly: the scent of cut grass; the dust and mould in the cricket pavilion change room; the mild discomfort during sex; the way he’d felt afterwards, that he had crossed the frontier of some new exotic country where he was and always would be a stranger and an exile, but that it was the only place which would have him. Stewart had calmly got dressed after, and arranged a meeting for the next week. Jason had hero-worshipped him, and at the time he’d taken that for love. When Stewart had never contacted him again after he’d gone up to Oxford, Jason had been horribly hurt.
“Wasn’t that paedophilia? I mean, a guy of his age having sex with a young lightie like you?”
“I never thought of it like that,” answered Jason. “I wasn’t so young. The age of consent in England is sixteen. And I was seventeen. He was only a year or so older than me. His dad bought him a car when he passed his driving licence when he turned eighteen. He would take me to pubs and I’d pretend to be old enough to drink.”
“What’s happened to him?”
“He’s married. Works in the city somewhere. I saw him at an old boys’ day and he’d lost all his looks. He was pudgy and had bags under his eyes. There was nothing there for either of us.”
Luigi sighed. “I never had anyone. I suppose, I was too gay for most of the guys at school. My first guy was a pick up I made at a pub. I pretended I was eighteen. He screwed me. It was . . . ” he hesitated, “ it was good to feel loved for a bit. At school everybody used to . . . . well, it wasn’t so good.”
Jason was saddened by Luigi’s life. He’d never really understood what it must be like to be such an outsider, to believe that a casual pick up was better than being lonely. He’d never felt that. There’d always been friends, and he’d never done the random pick-up routine. Not if you didn’t count guys he’d met at parties. He’d met Brent at a drink-up after cricket one blessed Saturday summer afternoon. Brent had been a star bowler in the other team, a demon with a cricket ball, with a devilish spin. The other side had won mostly because of his aggressive bowling skill. The memory of that afternoon would stay with Jason always: the sleepy heat, the smell of beer and sweaty men, the scent of the wisteria over the pavilion, Queen Anne’s Lace a creamy froth of white and apple-green choking the lanes, the click of ball against willow, and Brent watching him, his eyes full of expectation.
He didn’t know what to say to Luigi. He hadn’t known what to say to Brent, either. So he said, “You’re beautiful.” He didn’t smile when he said it. He was too shy to look directly at him, so he looked at his perfectly flat stomach instead.
“More beautiful than your girlfriend?” Luigi’s tone was mocking but when Jason looked at him his eyes were watchful. And sad. Very sad.
“Yes.” Jason didn’t waver. “You’re incredibly sexy, you know that?” This time he did smile. And it was true. Already he was starting to get a bit of a stiffie thinking about doing it again.
The watchfulness of Luigi’s eyes lessened but the sadness remained.
“So,” Jason said, throwing caution to the winds, “can I see you again?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Luigi looked away. His voice wasn’t angry or bitter, just resigned and sad.
“You sporting blokes, you jocks, you want men like yourself. If you even want a man at all. You don’t want someone like me.” Unsaid was the thought I’ll just get hurt.
This was so close to what Jason had been thinking that he coloured. “Yes, maybe,” he agreed, “but, I don’t know, Luigi, you’re special.” He looked away, oddly embarrassed. How absurd that was! They had been as physically intimate as it’s possible to be. “If you must know,” he said addressing the ceiling, “I want to do it again. Now.”
“Oh, straight boy,” sighed Luigi. “Don’t play games. You can go back to your straight-boy world, you can get yourself a wife and kids. I can’t. This is always going to be my place.”
Jason had nothing to say to that. He was obliged to continue the deception. He couldn’t now admit what he was. He could only express his sympathy and empathy with his body. He hugged Luigi, and kissed him on his forehead. But it didn’t help the unhappiness in either of their hearts.
“I understand,” said Jason. “But I would like to see you again, even if just as friends.” The words sounded hollow. He’d heard them himself when he was dumped by a girlfriend or boyfriend. He kissed Luigi again. “Thank you, Luigi. That was the best sex I’ve had for a long time. Will you give me your number?”
Luigi just shook his head.
Jason simply looked at him, and something of what he was feeling must have shown in his face, for Luigi reached out his hand and stroked Jason’s cheek.
“You’ll survive, straight boy. Your kind always do.”
Jason leaned his head into Luigi’s surprisingly firm and muscular hand, and rubbed his face against it. He could hear the muffled scritch of his beard stubble against the smooth, soft skin of the other man’s palm.
“If you change your mind, beautiful, I work at The Lord Grey.”
Luigi pulled his hand away. “But that’s a gay pub,” he said, surprised.
“So I discovered,” replied Jason with a wink.
At the door Jason kissed Luigi again, with full tongue, and hugged him close in a bone-crushing embrace. He started to sport wood again. Luigi pushed him away, with a smile, a melancholy one. He put his hand on Jason’s chest and gently pushed.
“Go,” he whispered.
“The Lord Grey!” urged Jason. “I’ll be there from six tonight.”
Luigi shut his eyes and shook his head. Then he quietly pushed the door closed in Jason’s face.
As Jason walked away, his mood darkened. He’d felt so good right after they’d fucked, his body flooded with oxytocin, his lust sated, warmth and affection filling him. Yet afterwards, Luigi’s heartache had reminded him of his own loss. He would never see Brent again. Or his family. Or his friends. He missed his sister especially. She’d always been one of his favourite people, funny, clever, accepting. She took Jason’s revelation that he was gay with instant understanding and acceptance. She loved him for what he was. He would never see his grandmother again, and he adored her and she him.