“Then you and Mrs Gregson can have a cosy love-in together in the back of the cab. But I’m not going to hook up. I promise. I’m not in the mood, I just want to have a drink and a Friday night dance, that’s all. And don’t tell me you don’t feel like dancing because it’s recently come to my attention that’s absolutely not true. And yes, I did manage to squeeze the song title of your routine into that sentence, so I’ll take all the pats on the back now, please, before I beat you to the shower and get myself all tarted up.”
Do I sashay away with a little extra sway in my walk? Well, yes I do. Those twin laser beams heating my rear have to find something to focus on.
Fuck me sideways, Gerald actually came. I hoped. I cajoled. I even put on my super favourite suede trews with the silver piping to tempt him (when he saw them, he nearly sacked the whole thing off). However, I didn’t think he’d actuallycomeuntil he held the door to Earth Bar open for me. I didn’t think I’d be so pleased about it either, or that I’d not only feel obligated to leech next to him all night, but actually want to.
I even persuade him to try one of the real ales. As a rule, I don’t push drinks on people, but otherwise he’s in for a really long fucking night. Neil’s company, for instance, is always much improved when one is three sheets to the wind. As promised, Luke pitches up. When him and Gerald shoot the breeze about changes in the national freehold laws for flat owners (hello, adulting), it’s my cue to slip outside and into the tiny beer garden for a crafty fag.
Neil, a perennial adolescent like myself, joins me. Turns out his favourite hot barman is as straight as a terrier’s path to a baby rabbit, which absolutely serves Neil right for leaving the staff interviews to Jess, his very straight and very female bar manager. When he finishes bitching about her, the barman, his bandmates, and Brentford F.C.’s dire showing in the FA Cup (the last part goes straight over my head), he takes a long drag of his roll up and changes the subject.
“That guy you brought along. Your new man. Is he a rescue?”
“He’s not my new man. He’s my housemate. And landlord.”
I ignore the snide barb. If anything, lately, it feels as if Gerald is rescuing me. I’m certainly sleeping better now I eat healthier regular meals and have his cosy extra duvet to snuggle into on the floor. “He’s Gerald, the guy I’m living with until I find somewhere better, closer to town. In Sutton Common.”
“Where the fuck’s Sutton Common?”
“Arse end of nowhere.”
Neil nods as if I’ve shared precise geographic coordinates. “Has he ever been out on a Friday night before? He looks like one of those life size cardboard cut-outs.”
Neil’s not perfect by any stretch of the imagination—who is? But, on balance, I like him a lot. As well as our regular rendezvousing in the bogs, we occasionally treat ourselves to a posh fuck in his flat upstairs and then go out for an early breakfast afterwards. Very civilised. But listening to him poking, prodding, and trying to raise a laugh at Gerald’s expense strikes a nerve I didn’t know I had. Normally, I’d fire back with snippy quips of my own, but this is Gerald he’s talking about: stiff as a cardboard box on the outside, but full of all sorts of unexpected goodies once opened up. His popping pecs and busting biceps, for instance, when he’s doing his thing down in Sutton Common Methodist Hall. His prawn stir fry and the way he leans in when I’m spouting my usual drivel like he doesn’t want to miss a word.
“He’s all right,” I return, “once you get to know him. And reserve judgement until you see him dance. You’ll revise that opinion.”
As I tug my cigarette papers from my pocket to roll us each a second, my lighter slips out. I bend to pick it up.
“While you’re down there, sweetlips,” Neil murmurs, predictably.
It’s tempting. The tarmac’s far cleaner out here than the floor of the bogs, and Neil is always eager to reciprocate. I also promised Gerald I’d one hundred percent be returning home in a cab with him later, not sloping away with some random. Blowing Neil now would fulfil my side of that dealandtake the edge off.
But take the edge off what? I emptied my sacks earlier with a very satisfying wank in the shower. Obviously, I’m always open to more (after all, it’s very good for my prostate), but I don’tneedanything.
With a heavy sigh, I close my eyes. Life was so much easier before I hit thirty. Before Stefan and Marcus ditched me, before Sutton Common. Knobbly tarmac digs into my knees, hopefully not marking my trousers. Above me, Neil casually stubs out his cigarette against the brick wall. From this angle he’s undeniably hot—from all angles he’s hot. I enjoy blowing him, and I’ve never, ever experienced the hollow revulsion afterwards that Gerald described.
Maybe Gerald has a point. Blowing Neil now would be nothing but the Friday night game. Physical validation that I’m sexually desirable. From the swollen bulge in his trousers, Neil certainly expects me to say yes.
But what if I say no? Surely a good-looking guy like him proposing something like this is enough ego stroking?
“I’d better get back inside,” I say. “It’s my round.”
Surveying the bar and the clientele, Gerald’s sipping a second beer. Our friends aren’t far away. Ez and Isaac are hanging with some musos I’ve met a couple of times, and Luke’s deep in conversation with the straight barman. Gerald sits in his own little pocket of peace, watching, sipping, letting it all move around him like waves buffeting a rock. His expression is impenetrable. Is he happy? Bored? Wishing he was back in Sutton Common, prepping for the next book club?
“Careful with that, I don’t want to have to carry you home,” I shout in his ear as I sidle up to him. Do I put an extra sexy sway in my walk? Again?
Maybe, a little.
His gaze lowers, assessing me in a slow, confident sweep, reminding me of the cool way he confirmed the sex-ranking dude put him at the top of the leaderboard. He holds his pint up to the light. “It’s not bad, actually,” he observes. “Served at theright temperature too. Good single-hop bitters should be served at?—“
“Twelve degrees, I know, and brewed by a bunch of troglodytes all called Dave. So, you’re glad you came out with me, then?”
“Are you?” he throws back, amused. “Glad I came out?” His gaze hardens, flicking to where Neil’s shifted his attentions to a pretty young guy currently oblivious to the silken web being spun around him. “Who’s the man you went outside with? Him, over there?”
“An old friend. Neil. We occasionally hook up. Why?”
“No reason.” Gerald shrugs, all casual shoulders, even though his jaw tenses. If looks could kill, Neil would be toast. Perhaps he fancied Neil’s latest find for himself. His dark eyes return to mine. “Am I cramping your style?”
There’s no live music tonight, but the house DJ started up a few minutes ago. All playlists have to pass under Ezra’s critical nose. This evening, he’s taking us back in time, blessing us with some good old-fashioned northern soul. Ezra’s out there leading the way, treating us to his emo, sinewy, hardly-there dance thing. It’s hot, and it’s good. But recently, I’ve been party to better moves.
