A little composure returns to Marcello’s face and then a shy smile emerges. “Well, I was hoping I could put the letters in the postbox, if you know what I mean. I don’t think I’m ready to be…”
“A letterbox?” I offer and take a little bit of pleasure in watching Marcello turn as bright red a Royal Mail letterbox. He’s wearing a white cotton T-shirt and jeans that have worn thin at the knees. The T-shirt has a faded Italia 94 logo, telling me it’s older than possibly anything else in my flat, bar the items I still have from my parents. But it looks clean and fresh and I can’t wait to press my nose into the cotton and smell it, smell him.
Jesus. It’s been two days since I last saw Marcello – I couldn’t run with him yesterday as I had to work – and I’m already eager to pounce on him.
“Yeah, that.” Marcello looks down at his feet. “Is that okay? With you?”
“That’s okay with me, but still, I want to know if it’s really whatyouwant.”
Marcello’s shoulders sink and he places the lube on the countertop before leaning his weight against the marble. “I’ve done it before you know. Anal. Lots of times actually. With women, I mean. It really isn’t that big a deal for me.”
As his confession sinks in, I realise then that while it may not be a big deal for him, it is a very big deal for me.
“Good to know,” I say before swallowing.
“I mean, can it be that different? A butthole is a butthole, right?”
“Well, actually I believe there are some important differences, anatomically speaking.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Well, there’s the prostate, of course, which can make it more pleasurable for those with one. Not for all, of course, but some. And apparently biologically male… holes are tougher.”
“Tougher?” The whole left side of Marcello’s face gets pulled up with his eyebrow.
“Apparently so. More… durable.”
“So I can fuck you hard?” he asks as gently as I believe it’s possible for someone to make such a request and yet it almost hits me like a physical slap. Or maybe more of a spank, because it doesn’t feel bad, not at all.
“Let’s just start at the beginning,” I say and take another big swig of beer, suddenly very grateful I decided to have one.
“Which is where?”
“Well, first I need to check that I am ready to bottom right now.”
Marcello’s forehead breaks into a smile. “Ready?”
“Yeah, like…” I really shouldn’t be struggling so much with this conversation. What am I teaching Marcello if I can’t even talk about this frankly? “I need to check I can give you the all clear.”
I’m grateful when realisation very obviously dawns on Marcello. “Ah, okay. That makes sense.”
“And if we have the all clear, then I need to do a bit of preparation. And while I do, maybe you should really think about if this is what you want to do, or if it’s something you feel youhaveto do. Because not all queer men have intercourse.”
“They don’t?”
“No.” I finish my beer and put it in the sink, meaning that I step a little closer to Marcello. I inhale a whiff of his creamy, buttery warm scent and find my eyes closing, as if to savour it.
For fuck’s sake.
“Some queer men don’t like anal play so they stick to, well, whatever else they want to do. They’re called Sides.”
“That’s a strange name.”
“One of many,” I admit. “Although slightly better than letterbox. By the way, for that you would say Bottom. So today, I’ll be the bottom.”
“Bottom,” Marcello tries the word in his mouth. “That’s a bit obvious isn’t it?”
“Well, it’s actually paired with Top. You’re the top.”
