‘Did that just happen?’
‘It happened.’
‘He gave me his number.’
‘He did.’
‘On a napkin.’
‘Femi. I was there.’
He stares at the napkin. Folds it. Puts it in the pocket over his heart. I want to take the piss so badly it nearly kills me, but the vulnerability stops me.
‘Follow him,’ I say. ‘Talk to him again. He’s at the bar.’
Femi looks at the bar, then at me, then at the bar. ‘What would I say?’
‘Literally anything. He already likes you. You could recite bus routes and he’d find it fascinating.’
He doesn’t go. He stays next to me, clutching the napkin pocket like it might evaporate, and watches Allan across the room. Just watches. The hope is naked, raw, all of him on display.
I finish my drink. Watch a girl near the speakers trip over nothing. Watch two lads argue about football. Watch Femi watch Allan.
I’ve never looked at anyone like that. My version is faster: see, want, take, leave. No napkins, no shirt pockets, no coffee dates.
The afterparty’s at some flat in Fallowfield. Someone’s kitchen, lights off, music too loud from a Bluetooth speaker that cost twelve quid. Vodka in plastic cups. Eighteen years old and adulthood still a rumour.
I clock him in the kitchen—blond, short hair.
Eye contact, hold it. Smile slightly, look away first, always.
He comes over, of course, he does.
‘You’re from London, yeah?’
‘How’d you guess.’
‘The way you stand. Like you think you’re better than everyone here.’
I nearly laugh. ‘Only most of them.’
His name doesn’t matter—third year, engineering, nice smile, hands that know where to go, five minutes of conversation on autopilot, same ending we both know.
The bathroom door shut. Lock that’s weak.
He pushes me against the wall, and I let him. Parameters. Normal.
‘Yeah?’ he says against my ear.
‘Yeah.’ I pull him closer. Not a question anymore.
His teeth on my neck. Good, he’s not gentle about it. Gentleness would ruin this. Velocity is what I want.
I get his jeans open, grip his cock, thick, curves right, already leaking. Angle right, twist at the top, and feel him groan into my shoulder. He fumbles with mine, gets there. His palm is rough and slightly too dry, but the friction works, the angle’s right.
He knows what to do, and it’s fast—his breath hot on my neck, mine caught somewhere between my teeth, my elbow cracking the soap dispenser, his knee between my legs pinning me harder against the tile.
Flash.
