by C F White
“You drink that stuff?” Mark asked over the background noise that drowned out any coherent conversation. “You don’t drink tea, but you’ll drink something that looks and smells like the contents of my grandfather’s colostomy bag?” Mark hovered his pint at his lips. “He’s dead now, poor sod.” He glanced heavenwards. “Or rather not actually. My grandmother was quite a difficult bee to live with. Think he popped his clogs first just to get a moment’s peace to read the broadsheets upstairs, until she came up to join him and chitchat about all the WI scandals he’d missed out on.”
Bradley breathed out an amused laugh. Mark curbed his flapping lips by curling them around the rim of his pint glass.
“Uh.” Bradley held up the glass of whisky mixed with Red Bull and took a sip. “Yeah. Can you ever ask a simple question?”
“Yes.” Mark swallowed, the rich and fruity bitterness of real ale sliding down his throat to rest nicely in his gut. “So, what brings you to old Blighty anyway?” He stopped. Bit his tongue. Dug his teeth in to the point that it actually hurt so as not to continue with an over-the-top waffle. Simple question.
Bradley didn’t answer straight away. He took his sweet time. Swirling his drink, taking a relaxed mouthful and swishing the liquid nitrogen around in his mouth. His eyes sparked.
“Oh, for goodness sake.” Mark rammed a hand into his jeans pocket. “I mean it’s not like we can compete with the Great Barrier Reef over here or, what’s that thing in the middle? Pictures make it look like a huge ant hill?”
Bradley snorted. “Uluru?”
“Bless you.”
Bradley shook his head. “I can’t believe you just compared one of the seven wonders of the world to an ant hill.”
“Like I say, I’ve only seen the pictures. And that was on a card of Top Trumps I was forced to play with the small child who drinks blackcurrant cordial like it’s going out of fashion.” Mark slurped his pint, the froth catching his stubble and clinging on.
Bradley ran a thumb along Mark’s top lip, wiping the white stuff away. Mark hadn’t intended on leaving it there, so why Bradley had to go all ‘mother with spit on a tissue’ on him felt somewhat rather abstruse.
“Was it ever in fashion?” Bradley asked, swiping his thumb on his board shorts.
“What?” Mark was losing the trail of the conversation. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Certainly not in a pub where the clientele needed a note to get out of PE the next morning.
“Blackcurrant.” Bradley took a slurp from his tumbler glass of preposterous concoction. “Was blackcurrant ever in fashion?”
“Wouldn’t know. Tea is my beverage of choice.”
Bradley smiled and pointed at the pint of ale Mark held. He arched one eyebrow and Mark stared at it trailing up Bradley’s forehead as if it had an argument with its neighbour the other side. Mark could never achieve that look with his own eyebrows. It was both or none.
“What’s that you’re drinking then?”
Mark held up the pint to his face, acknowledging the question with a clear display of mime.
“I have the distinct feeling you would have ridiculed me had I come in here and asked for a pot of tea for one.”
“You’re right about that, mate.”
Bradley swiftly moved his gaze from Mark and along the other patrons in the bar. Some of them glanced their way, nodding in brief greeting or recognition. Probably not for Mark. Even though he was relatively well-known in the small town, it wasn’t so much amongst this type of crowd. All the smiles were aimed at Bradley.
The guy did stand out some. Not only because of the bright pink, practically lycra T-shirt he wore and the garish shorts, with pink Havaianas on his perfect feet, but because he was such a flawless specimen of male. A teensy-tiny spark of pride fired over Mark that it was him, here, drinking with this man. His smug-mode was soon replaced by the more familiar insecurities questioning why that was. It would be what this tween crowd would be wondering anyway. Perhaps they thought Mark had paid him. Perhaps they thought this was some first-time internet dating hook-up and Mark must have put a different profile picture on his page to have bagged a man such as the god of all that is male.
Mark wriggled in his shirt as the sweats started up again. Mark knew what he looked like. He knew the picture of the two of them standing there together would look vastly like Mark was batting way out of his league. Possibly in a different sport altogether. He ran a finger inside the collar of his shirt and dragged it away from his perspiring neck. What he would give to throw that pint of Bishop’s Finger down his shirt right now just to alleviate some of the hot sweats. He chose not to, though. That would only add fuel to the fire of those around who considered him old and, therefore, senile.
“Work.” Bradley peered back to Mark in front of him.
“Pardon?”
“You asked why I’m here.” Bradley waved his drink. “In old Blighty,” he added in a ridiculous mocking British accent.
Mark pointed a finger from around his pint glass. “That won’t get you any friends around here, you know.”
Bradley laughed. “Maybe not. But I’ve got my tea-making to fall back on, right?”
“Ha! I hope you have other talents.” Mark instantly regretted every single word. Not just because the conversation could lead to things he really didn’t want to be wondering about whilst he was already in a hot and bothered stupor, but also because it made him blush. Which was quite the travesty as he couldn’t hide his reddening cheeks when standing directly under the spotlight that illuminated the bar area.
He had chosen the spot because being in dimmed lighting tended to make him look gaunt. So being under a direct light, whilst showing up every blemish and wrinkle, didn’t accentuate his too-thin cheekbones. He had spent a lot of time looking at himself in mirrors under various lights in order to know which one suited him more. He wasn’t vain. More…paranoid perhaps. With good reason.
Bradley chuckled. Not a small, light laugh paying lip service to a tickling statement, but an extra-long, deep and belly-full one that made his eyes brighten and twinkle in the spotlights. A knowing chuckle. One that said, I’ve noticed your blush and I raise it a sassy brazen titter and await your imminent squirm as you now backtrack your words. And whilst that could be rather a lot to give away in one simple chortle, Mark knew that was what Bradley was thinking. After all, Bradley had no doubt seen himself in the mirror once or twice.
“Like roof fixing.” Mark glugged his ale. The glass was nearing the dregs and Mark was getting agitated about it, as that would mean he either had to make his excuses to leave or do the dreaded would you like another drink question, only to be turned down in a humiliating act he was all-too-familiar with. “And climbing. You seem to be rather good at climbing.”
“Yeah.” Bradley nodded. “Did a bit of rock and wall climbing back home.” He downed the rest of his fizzy caffeinated whisky, slamming the glass on to the bar towel with a sunken pop. He glanced down at his feet and waggled those beautiful toes. “Tend not to usually do it in thongs, though.”
“Yes,” Mark replied. “I can see why that might not be recommended.”
“’Cause it gets right up your arse.” Bradley grinned.
Mark narrowed his eyes, confusion spreading across his gaunt cheekbones.
“You guys call those bumless knickers girls wear thongs, right?”
“We could do,” Mark replied. “If you mean we as in the British nation. But me, I’m rather debilitated when it comes to female undergarments. I’m afraid the last knickers I witnessed were the M&S cotton briefs my mother wore.” Mark took his final glug of beer, slapping it on the bar next to the tumbler, then shot an embarrassed glance Bradley’s way. “She probably still does wear them.”
He added quickly, “M&S do a fantastic range these days and she always takes the trip into Dover for the bigger stores. And I’m pretty certain the dementia hasn’t set in too much that she forgets her underwear.” He ran a hand along his forehead. “Woul
dn’t want you thinking my mother goes commando.”
“Wasn’t thinking about your mother at all.” Bradley winked. “Until now, that is.” He chuckled. “I guess, then, I’m more interested in whether you and your mum share that interest.”
“M&S underwear?”
“Going commando.”
Mark snorted. His hands perspired ferociously along with the rest of his body. He went to open his mouth and dispute the fact with something probably even more embarrassing along the lines of, my underwear is firmly under lock and key, which was why it was a good thing young Bradley stepped forward and whispered in his shell-like.
“’Cause I do.”
Mark coughed. He didn’t need to. His throat was amply clear. His sinuses were all in good working order considering it was no longer flu season and the hay fever pollen count was particularly low. He just had no other response. If he’d had a watch, he might have glanced at that too. But he didn’t. He made a note to go and buy one.
Bradley leaned against the bar, his hands clutching each arm folded across his chest and a smile forming.
“Well,” Mark finally said. “I guess that must make it easier.”
“For what?” Bradley nodded to the bartender over Mark’s shoulder.
“For the stripping,” Mark replied in the most stoic and deadpan way he could. He couldn’t be entirely sure he’d pulled it off, but he darn well had a good go at showing the man that he knew what he did for a living and he wasn’t in the least bit bothered by it. He tried to clear his mind of thinking about it. Because that would lead to something a bit more in your face. Or in Bradley’s face. Snort.
“True.” Bradley waved a finger above the two glasses.
The barman nodded, taking the empties and setting off to go get another round. Amazing how Bradley did that so effortlessly without even worrying about the whole asking and rejection thing. Mark might have wanted to go home.
“But.” Bradley stood straighter. “The ladies do like a tease. So you have to be covered at some point, right? Otherwise it’s not really stripping as in walking on stage in your undies.”
Mark had to think about that. Really hard. He did so by nodding in agreement and doing his best to not allow his gaze to involuntarily trail down the body standing in front of him. He was pretty sure he pulled it off. He usually did.
“You’re thinking about my undies.” Bradley smirked and waggled his finger.
“I most certainly am not,” Mark protested, loud and clear. He adjusted his shirt collar once again and ran a hand through his mound of thick dark hair. It stuck due to the increased humidity and sweat from his fingertips. “Anyway, didn’t you just tell me that you forgo underwear?”
“Ah, yes.”
A full pint of ale and another tumbler of whisky-slash-Red Bull concoction slammed down in front of them both. The barman hung his forearms over the draft handles and waved his palm. After rooting around in his pocket, Bradley handed over a scrunched-up twenty. The barman held it up to the light, grimacing, then had to accept the currency was legit and scuttled off to ram it into a till.
“So you’re thinking about me minus my undies.” Bradley smirked. “Tut, tut, Mark. Thought you were a gentleman.”
“Well, I am afraid that if you say underwear and stripping in the same conversation, my mind is going to start wondering down under.” Mark lifted the pint. “That’s down there.” He pointed to Bradley’s groin. “And not down where Uhura is.”
“Uluru.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you said the name of that chick who has a thing for Spock.”
Mark shut his eyes, savouring the fruity hops to calm his sudden irritation. Then huffed. He would just have to address it. “She does not have a thing for Spock.”
“Lemme guess.” Bradley chuckled. “No one can replace Shatner as the main man?”
“Well, obviously.” Mark shook his head. “But truth be known, I’m not that old.” That statement didn’t have that much clout in these surroundings.
“No?” Bradley widened his eyes. “How old exactly then? I mean, are we talking Next Generation or Deep Space Nine?”
“You know your Star Trek,” Mark noted. “That could be considered terribly geeky, you know.”
Bradley laughed. Then, leaning forward, he brushed his lips to Mark’s ear. “Just don’t tell anyone.”
The hairs on Mark’s arms stood on end and, considering he had rather long dark hair, he was glad he had a shirt on to cover them up, or the other bar patrons might think Mark had just put his finger in some electric socket. The hair irritated the cotton sleeves of his shirt and Mark wriggled to calm the little fellows down. He was glad it was just his hair that had reacted in such an upright fashion, because he wasn’t ready to go into his bank of ugly thoughts to calm any other parts of him down. He’d had enough of thinking about his mother’s underwear already.
“A stripper who appreciates Star Trek.” Mark cleared his throat. “That’s quite an unusual combination.”
“Not really. Actually use it a bit in my act.”
“Your act?” Mark coughed. “You have an act? Isn’t it just stand on stage and slowly peel your clothes off to I’m Sexy and I Know It?”
“Right, so you can’t be that old. You know LMFAO.”
“Of course.” Mark agreed. “That I do. Down with the kids. Exactly. Good band.” Please don’t ask, please don’t ask, please don’t ask.
Bradley raised that one darn eyebrow. Maybe the other one is just lazy?
“What does it stand for?”
He bloody asked.
Mark glazed over, swishing the contents in his pint glass. “Well, if it were an abbreviation for people my age, it’s got to be Let Me Find An Orderly.”
Bradley laughed, his pectoral muscles wobbling through his painted-on top. Even the man’s chuckles sounded Australian. He made such a racket that the rest of the bar seemed to stop to glance over at them.
“All right, all right.” Mark tutted.
“Sorry, mate. I was just, you know, laughing my fucking arse off.”
“Glad I can be of amusement to you. It is my life’s work to be of joy to others.”
“No.” Bradley smiled. “LMFAO. Laughing. My. Fucking. Arse. Off.” He shrugged. “That’s what it means.”
“I see,” Mark lied. He didn’t see. “Clever.”
“So how old are you then?”
“Too old.”
“For what exactly.”
“To hear about how you dress as a Star Fleet captain then rip it all off.”
“Actually.” Bradley’s eyes sparkled. “I come on dressed as a nerd. You know, anorak, hair slicked down, broken glasses, buck teeth, Thermos.”
“Sounds delightfully sexy,” Mark mocked.
“Wait for it.” Bradley waggled a finger. “Told you, the ladies like a tease. So I do these clumsy things around the stage. Try to open my tea flask but it spills over my top, have to take it off, don’t I? Then I try to pick up something from the floor, trousers rip. Oops, they gotta go.”
“This sounds awfully like most of my days.” Mark shrugged. “Except people tend to tell me to keep the blasted things on.”
“I doubt that.” Bradley winked. “Anyway, I’m sure you’re catching the drift. My glasses snap, so they come off. I get thrown some water from the stage which sorts the hair. Then—”
“Please don’t say you soil yourself in order for the underwear to come off.” Mark grimaced, holding up a hand to stave off whatever was going to tumble out of Bradley’s mouth next.
“No.” Bradley cocked his head in contemplation. “Although, that might work better.”
“Better than what?”
“Setting them alight.”
Mark spat his drink back into the pint glass, the fizzing spraying up from the sides. All gazes darted to him and he had a sudden urge to tell them all to get back to their textbooks before he gave them detention. He didn’t, though. He was too focused on ima
gining Bradley’s boxers on fire. “You what?”
“It’s all safe.” Bradley waved his glass. “Pyrotechnics. Stuff they use in the movies.”
“Right, well,” Mark stuttered. “That definitely sounds like it’s worth a watch.”
“You can if you like.”
Mark hesitated, which was rather surprising considering the first thought that entered his head. He managed to not ask if Bradley had meant at a private showing. Now.
“I’m performing this weekend. Load of hen parties. Drag queen comedy then me and a couple other strippers. Come along.”
Mark shook his head. “Now that, there, is most certainly something I am far too old for.”
Bradley downed the rest of his drink and slammed it on the bar top. He wiped a hand over his lips and narrowed his eyes. Folding his arms across his chest, he sized Mark up. “Come on, tell me. How old?”
“Oh, goodness.” Mark finished off the rest of his pint. “Thirty-nine.”
Bradley gawked at Mark. “No way!” He slapped a palm to his chest. “I had no idea. Shit. We better get you home, granddad.”
Mark cocked his head. “LMFAO.”
Bradley grinned. Then ordered another round.
Chapter Five
NSFW
“Bugger!”
Mark fell from the edge of his bed and thumped down onto his bedroom floor. Thank heavens it was carpeted. He had wanted to rip the thing up and replace it with the most designer of sparkling wood flooring—like a disco floor—but had run out of money after the bathroom debacle and so had stuck with the garish red and orange shag pile that had been there when he’d inherited the place. Ironic, really, it being called a shag pile. Every day it openly mocked him that the floor would forever be shagged, but Mark sadly lacked that verb in his own life.
He wasn’t quite sure how he had fallen out of his bed. He hadn’t done that in, well, never. Clutching his head that banged to a beat out of sync with his heart rate, he rather wished he could have a sip of Bradley’s Red Bull to give him the wings to get him up off the floor.
The Australian Adonis had clearly not been deterred by Mark’s revelation of his age and had managed to persuade him that all Mark had needed to recapture his youth was a decent night out on the town. On a bloody Monday. He and Bradley had continued to drink, crawling the pubs that stretched along the seafront, until last orders were called. Why Mark had chosen to partake in one of Bradley’s sickening concoctions of the lethal death energy liquid mixed with the strongest fire whisky would forever remain one of those mysteries and regrets in Mark’s life. He could only assume that Bradley had flashed his white smile and Mark had had one too many ales by that point.
