Awkward in Love
Lily Adile Lamb
Copyright Text by Lily Adile Lamb © 2015
All rights reserved.
Edited by Brad Vance
Cover Art by Jay Aheer
Disclaimer: Any person depicted on the cover is a model used for illustrative purposes only.
WARNING:
This is a gay adult consensual story featuring explicit sex
between men.
Contents
Dedication
Australian Words and Slang:
CHAPTER ONE - John
CHAPTER TWO - Ilhan
CHAPTER THREE - John
CHAPTER FOUR - Ilhan
CHAPTER FIVE - John
CHAPTER SIX - Ilhan
CHAPTER SEVEN - John
CHAPTER EIGHT - Ilhan
CHAPTER NINE - John
CHAPTER TEN - Ilhan
CHAPTER ELEVEN - John
CHAPTER TWELVE - Ilhan
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - John
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Ilhan
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Elif
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Ilhan
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Ercan
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - John
EPILOGUE
Dedication
I cherish this African proverb, “It takes a village to raise a child,” because metaphorically speaking, I am that child, raised by an awesome mini community as a Turkish writer. For this reason, I thank you, Brina Brady, for helping me, encouraging me, teaching me, and guiding me. Thank you Shayla Mist, Meg Amor, Elizabeth Tabary-Collins and Pam Kay for being wonderfully patient with me…Without these beautiful people, I would never dare to hope to publish my stories.
I especially thank my wonderful editor and friend Brad Vance, because he helped me to tell my story in a way that anyone can pick up the story and read it without getting lost in my Turklish grammar. Without him, I couldn’t publish this story.
I would be tearing my hair out if Diane Nelson and Tidal Boyce did not listen to me talking and talking about my worries and hopes.
I thank my husband Michael who always stands by me, listens to my plots, and answers my questions. Without him, I would be lost.
I also thank you for reading my story…without you, none of my stories would exist, because I wanted to share alternative stories involving another culture and way of living.”
Australian Words and Slang:
Anzac soldier: Anzac is the acronym for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. It was a World War I army corps of the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force, that was formed in Egypt in 1915 and fought at Gallipoli.
Arse: ass
Block of flats: apartment block
Bugger: a mild swear word.
Bum: ass or butt
Convo: conversation
Cross: upset or angry, annoyed with someone or something.
Lift: elevator
Postie: postman
Turkish Slang Words and the rest *wink-wink*
Anne: Mum
Aslanim: my lion
Baba: father
Boreks: pastries
Buradayiz: we’re here
Cezve: a pot designed specifically to make Turkish coffee.
Canim kuzum: my dear lamb
Dede: Grandfather
Eşarp: a traditional head scarf for women that completely covers the hair, wrapped around the throat with a long piece at the back.
Evet: yes
Gel: come
Gözleme: a savoury traditional Turkish flatbread made of hand-rolled dough that is lightly brushed with butter and eggs, filled with various toppings, sealed, and cooked over a griddle.
Hayir: no
Hosgeldiniz: welcome
Hoşgeldin yar: welcome beloved
Kahvehane: coffee shop
Kanun: a type of zither board
Karim: wife
Kebap: kebab
Kemençe: bottle-shaped bowed lute
Köfte: Turkish meatballs
Kuzum: my lamb
Merhaba: hello
Oğlum: my son
Otur oglum: sit down
Patik: traditional woman’s hand-knitted, colourful booties shaped like low-cut athletic socks.
Revani: semolina cake
Salvar: baggy trousers
Tamam: okay
Tanbur: a long-necked string instrument, dated back to Sumerian times. One of the four classical instruments that make up Ottoman music, along with the kemençe.
Tülbent: traditional, thin cotton peasant style scarf.
CHAPTER ONE - John
At six-thirty in the morning, the clock radio went off and Justin Timberlake’s “Cry Me a River” filled the room. “You were my sun. You were my earth. But you didn't know all the ways I loved you, no...”
John rubbed his face as the lyrics of the song washed away the morning fog. He groaned, weakly punching the pillow as he slid it over his head. Damn, I hate that stupid alarm clock. It has such a cheap, tinny sound… Must look at replacing the darn thing.
He uttered a low, mournful sound of sheer desperation when the music grew louder, knowing that if he ignored it much longer, he’d never get the song out of his head. He sighed and turned off the radio. A few more minutes in the bed wouldn’t hurt. He gathered his thoughts as he buried his head under the pillow.
By the time he got himself up and into the kitchen for breakfast, he was wide-awake and mumbling under his breath. “Thank God it's Friday, cos I could do with some extra sleep.”
In the mornings, the kitchen was darker than it had been just weeks ago at the same hour. The changing seasons messed with his circadian rhythms, which made it harder for John to wake up. He loved the bright days of summer more than the dark winter.
Under the yellow light of his recently purchased cheap light bulb, John savored his toast and sipped his coffee as he thought about his finances. Not a happy thought; they were already in a poor state, and that was before the upcoming vehicle registration needed to be paid.
Once the results of his mental budget wrangling satisfied him, he leaned back in his chair and enjoyed the quiet of the morning. All he heard was the sound of an occasional car passing on the main road.
The image of a certain resident popped into his mind. A man who’d moved into the complex a year ago. Warmth seeped into John's body whenever he thought of the young Turk. His desire for the man was difficult to ignore, to the point where he felt the familiar tingling of his arousal.
John rubbed his inner thigh, shifting his lower body. It allowed more space for his hands to caress his growing erection. The rush of blood hardened his cock, stretching the buttons of his boxers almost to bursting. With a deep sigh of resignation, he brought his hand closer to his crotch, his fingers playing on his fly. They grazed the skin beneath the fabric, and sent a tantalizing sensation through his groin. The pleasure was subtle.
John closed his eyes and opened his thighs wider to squeeze himself, to touch the aching flesh between his legs. As he breathed out, he felt his sweet torture become too much. He pushed his chair back, cutting his breakfast short to take a leisurely shower.
The shower gel bottle was upside down, standing like a drunken sailor by the wall, reminding him that he’d forgotten to get a new one. He made a mental note to pick up more at the market to avoid using the bar of soap from the sink. John was particular about the type of shower gel he used. He was partial to herbal extracts because they smelt earthier, and the eucalyptus, and citrus oils always grabbed him.
Happy, fuzzy feelings flooded him as he inhaled the scented, thick liquid. The smell of citrus reminds me of spring. When I was sixteen, I used to sit in the garden under the lemon tree. I had my first kiss under that tree… Yeah… Kissing Bradley that day made me a
lmost come in my pants. A smile stole across his face.
He squeezed a generous dollop into his palm and rubbed his hands together, basking in the slippery sensation. Between the warm shower and scented gel, John’s excitement coursed through him. God, I love jacking off in the shower. To be free with his fantasies—well, with himself—apart from his playtime in bed at night.
The strong beat of his heart fueled his arousal, and his body tingled as his skin became hypersensitive. Every delicate graze of his fingertips sent his pulse racing faster. When he rubbed the gel into his furry chest, his nipples puckered to hard peaks of arousal. John drew a deep, slow breath as he imagined his hands were those of a lover. His fantasy man’s fingers traced the lather across his skin. As soon as he closed his eyes, the hands had a face with beautiful blue eyes. The face of someone he saw almost every day.
“Nope. I refuse to think of him,” John muttered. He shook his head to dispel that particular fantasy from his mind.
His breath came in husky gasps as he stroked his dick harder. He imagined those blue eyes staring at John’s body, before he dropped to his knees before John. John groaned when he thought of the young Turk taking him in his mouth. If he only was here with me.
“Oh, that's it baby. I'm about to come,” John whispered, and moments later he shot into his hand. In his mind, he had buried himself deep inside the sexy tenant with the bubble butt before he’d come. As he let out a moan, John even felt his tight, wet heat surrounding his cock. Fuuuck, I got all weak in the knees.
John smiled, enjoying the post-orgasmic glow as he rested his head against the wall. He thought of those blue eyes and the sunny personality that shined for everyone but John. They were formal with each other in reality, but that never stopped John from having the hottest fantasies about the man when he was alone.
John leisurely rinsed his body and shut off the cascade of warm water. Towel-dried and ready to face the day, he donned his black work clothes. Seven-thirty sharp, as usual.
“Yup. I could make any drill sergeant proud of me,” he joked, feeling fresh and invigorated. He brushed his hair with his fingers while he whistled the song he’d woken up to, and took one last look in the mirror before leaving. His home was situated on the ground floor of the block of flats because he served as the caretaker and managed the grounds.
He walked to the letterboxes hanging on the wall and checked his email on his smartphone. He looked up and his gaze wandered over the immaculate condition of the garden.
“Oh, John. I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Mrs. Tomlinson said in her lyrical Irish accent. “I love what you did with the garden. I don’t know how you keep it so green. I surely love strolling through it, though, especially around the roses.”
John turned and grinned at his fellow tenant. “Aww. Thank you, Mrs. Tomlinson. I’m glad you like it. I’m also fond of those roses.”
“You have a green thumb, young man. It's not just the roses that thrive under your care. Just look at those bottlebrush trees. They look happier than the ones in the park,” she chirped as she left the building.
“Have a good day!”
John waved at her, but his eyes were on the native trees that she’d mentioned. The garden had looked awful when he started working here a few years ago, with patchy grass, and no color anywhere. When he’d spoken with the apartment manager about his plans for the garden, he’d been happy to let John plant the trees of his choice. He’d bought saplings from a Sunday boot sale and brought them home. The next day, he’d planted them by the wall in the front to create some privacy for the residents. A week later, in his youthful enthusiasm, he’d planted an olive tree in the corner of the back garden, to create a small courtyard where everyone could sit and relax.
Looking back, he realized he’d tried to recreate the garden he and his mum had when she was alive, many moons ago.
Two years later, he’d planted some roses in the back garden near a small pond he’d built as well. He wasn’t the only tenant who loved that corner because John often saw Ilhan sitting by the rose bushes, reading quietly. The man always came with his hot drink, his neck wrapped in an incredibly long scarf. He’d sit at the garden table to read. He looked so content sitting there.
John tried hard not to notice him, but he couldn’t resist. The guy often lifted his face to greet the winter sun with his eyes closed. He found the tenant’s posture endearing. John often prayed for sun on the weekends so he could sneak a peek. He wanted the young guy to enjoy the last remnants of the warm weather. Thank God for the mild winters in Perth, because the roses were still green leafed and abloom with flowers. I’m glad everyone likes what I did in the garden, he thought as he put his hand into the letterbox.
“Well. Could someone kick my arse, if this isn’t from the douchebag twink?” John murmured under his breath when he picked up the note. He felt his blood boil; he recognized the writing.
“You little shit,” he whispered, as he forced himself to read what was written. No. It’s not cute to put a smiley face next to your signature. It doesn't make your demands look any less annoying.
He scrunched up the note in disgust and turned in haste without looking where he was going. John almost ran into his neighbor, Alison.
“Off to pick up Ilhan's rubbish again, eh?”
“”Alison was wearing bright pink sports clothes, with a bottle of water in her hand. She still ran, much to her husband Peter’s displeasure. She patted his arm sympathetically and trotted off before John could reply.
John nearly jumped out of his skin when Peter’s voice sounded in his ear. He was muttering and talking rapidly while he walked toward him. “Yeah. Yeah. While you run after that young man upstairs, I run after her. I keep telling her, I’m an old man, nearing seventy, but she insists on dragging me behind her. Yesterday, she told me that she was five years older than me, so I shouldn’t complain. Look at me, John. I run like a crippled grasshopper. Why can't we walk like normal people our age, instead of running around? We could sit somewhere pleasant and talk, instead of breathing so hard that talking is impossible! And what's with the bottle of water, huh? She never drinks it, just carries the bottle. It must be a new fashion trend.”
John rested his hand on his thundering heart in total wonder that the senior couple always managed to startle him. “How do you two sneak up on me so regularly?”
“Well, young man, that’s something you need to figure out, because it’s not my place to explain certain matters,” Peter replied. As a retired therapist, he still believed in people “exploring their issues to find their own answers.”
Consequently, John knew he’d get nothing out of the gentle soul. He shook his head in amusement at the way Peter caught up with Alison, reminding him of a young horse who trotted after his mare.
“I thought you said you ran like a crippled grasshopper?” he called out after Peter, who waved his hand without looking back.
He grinned as he walked into the garden to relax for a bit, before going up to collect the sexy but egotistical man's rubbish. He took his time because he didn't like being bossed around by the likes of Ilhan. He walked around the garden and made a mental note to trim the passion fruit vine near the table and chairs.
When John went upstairs, it was eight o'clock, which secretly pleased him, since he’d made the tenant upstairs wait extra-long.
When the lift doors opened, his eyes automatically went to number six, and the small grocery bag filled with bottles sitting outside the door. “Well. Fuck you, too, Mr. Avci–Hunter,” he cursed quietly, stomping to the man's door.
I can't stand him! John bent to pick up the bag. He deliberately ignored the recollection of envisioning Ilhan on his knees only an hour before, sucking him off in the shower. To add insult to injury—like a wounded soldier—one of the empty wine bottles lay on the floor by Ilhan’s door. It knocked into John’s foot when he lifted the grocery bag.
“Why aren’t these bottles in the recycling bin? I don’t want to keep coming up to
the fourth floor to pick up after him!” John muttered to himself. Okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration because I used the lift, but this guy is so annoying!
As caretaker, one of John's duties was collecting bagged rubbish once a week from outside the residents’ doors. He agreed to do this because he was paid extra for the service. Until Ilhan Avci moved in, John never had a problem with collecting the bags. Everyone else who lived in the flats put theirs out as instructed.
The little shit knows my routine, but he still leaves a message for me to collect his rubbish at the most inconvenient times of the day. Fuck the extra cash! Fuck his entitled ways, cos this is getting on my nerves, now! How many times do I have to leave a note in his letterbox to remind him that I pick up rubbish on bloody Monday mornings by 8:00 a.m.? Fuck! I just can't understand how such a skinny little runt could fill up so many bags of rubbish this often! John snatched up the bag, fuming with anger.
While he waited for the lift to come up, he turned back to Ilhan's door because he was sure he heard a snort-like giggle from behind the brat’s door.
Is that little shit watching me through the peephole? John clenched his jaw and free hand. His pride stung at the possibility that Ilhan might be playing games with him. Does he find this funny?
John had a busy routine, so he resented Ilhan’s entitled attitude and pleasure-seeking lifestyle. The guy looked to be in his twenties and was living out of his daddy's pocket. Oh, yes, I heard all about the brat, cos the other residents always want to talk about him. They find him so sweet. What the fuck? If he’s so nice, then why is he being such a dick to me? Does he think I’m too far beneath him or something?
John’s felt his face flame red and he bowed his head in embarrassment that Ilhan might look down on him. He'd had no formal education past high school, and no family to turn to for financial handouts. He’d spent his childhood helping his disabled mother, who passed away soon after he turned seventeen.
“Not all of us were born into a family with money, you douchebag,” he grumbled, trying to relax through deep breathing.
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