by Liam Livings
'Variety, it's the spice of life innit?'
Now, he was stripped to the waist, digging, pruning, raking, all the other -ings, I wasn't too familiar with. He'd soon made himself at home checking through my box of fresh garden tools in the shed. Every now and again I appeared in the garden with a tray of lemonade or hot drinks, enjoying the sight before me: sweat pouring off him, causing what little chest hair had grown back, to stick to him. He wiped his brow and the sight of his armpit sent me wild. 'Can't we just nip in for a quickie. Come on, I'm desperate here.'
He leant against the rake - I think it was a rake - and said there'd be time for that later, he just had to dig over, or under, that bed, and move some shrubs, or hardy something or others.
As he insisted on repeating this, I found myself listening, and really hearing when he explained why he'd moved that plant to that bed, or the difference between an annual and a bedding plant. All things which, when I'd tried before, had just slipped off me, nothing to catch onto.
As a thank you for helping me totally landscape the back garden and make it a place I could sit and enjoy the sun, I took him to the High Road for afternoon tea/coffee. He drank his tea and dug into the cake he'd chosen, squinting at the sun shining on the patio out the front of the café, next to the High Road.
He'd left his T-shirt off, as he normally would have done without me, but as a compromise he'd let me put sun cream on his body. That had been a fun way to end up in bed.
Now he sat opposite me, the sun making his chest glisten with sweat and sun cream. 'Will you use it to write in the summer?'
'The garden?'
'No, the bloody downstairs toilet, course the garden!'
I playfully slapped his arm. 'I'd like to, but the problem is I can't see my laptop screen sitting out in the sun. I suppose I could sit out for a break every now and again. A break from that little room with the laptop and the Post-It notes. I can do that now, unlike before. Thanks to you.'
He waved away the compliment. 'Aah, don't worry. I loved doing it. You kept me well supplied with fluids.'
'Of various kinds.' I smirked and looked around to see if anyone had heard me.
'Oh yes, I remember that afternoon.' He smirked back at me, and took a big mouthful of cake.
I looked at his beautiful lips. His beautiful lips, which had been all over my body, lips which I now knew were much more than blowjob lips.
We finished our afternoon, walked around the shops together, I laughed at how over-priced some of the designer Essex men's clothes emporiums were, and he salivated at their retro sections, debating whether to spend a hundred pounds on a vintage seventies jacket.
We ended up in my kitchen with him sitting on the work surface, and me standing, pushed against him, kissing and grabbing at one another.
The night we went to Vauxhall together had all started as a bit of a joke. We both realised we'd not been for a while, since before we'd met. And we both admitted we did miss it - even the sleazy, dirty side of it - was a bit of a turn on to both of us. We got that confession out of each other eventually.
Then Darren said, all light hearted, 'Let's go. Together.'
'I don't think that's the sort of place you go as a couple. It's more for single guys wanting to pick up. I should know.'
'C'm on, it'll be a right laugh.' His white teeth showed in a wonky row as he grinned right from ear to ear.
By now, I knew I was powerless to try and resist his c'm on right laugh reasoning. Completely powerless.
We had a few beers together at mine, to loosen up. I noticed butterflies in my stomach - odd since I'd been a regular at this club years before meeting Darren. He appeared from the bathroom in his everyday tracksuit, dark green with light green stripes. A bit grubby around the edges. Mine was yellow, as in it used to be yellow, but was now dark yellow, with grey lines which had once been white.
Darren looked me up and down. 'No point wearing my best, the night's called Squirt isn't it?'
'That's what it said on the website.'
'Not sure how I feel about this new Simon. This new look you've got going on.'
'Haven't you seen me like this before?'
'Why would I? You don't wear it to work, or round the house, so ... '
'Don't you like it?' I looked at him, a bit crestfallen.
'You know who I'm going home with at the end of the night, so stop that worrying.'
We sat on the clattery Tube train from our suburban bit of Essex into the bright lights of London. As we moved further into the city, the carriage filled up with people wearing their Saturday night finery. Some were sipping bottles of wine or vodka surreptitiously from bags, making sure no one at the platform caught them.
We sipped our cans of beer from supermarket bags, taking big gulps each time to get it down quickly. I caught an outline of something I was now familiar with, inside his tracksuit bottoms, as he sat with his legs apart. He sat opposite me, not wanting to draw too much couple-y attention to ourselves.
We arrived at the club, under some railway arches behind Vauxhall station. The queue snaked its way under the arches and out the other side, backing onto a metal scrap yard filled with old washing machines and bits of random metal across the bare concrete.
'Should've brought a jacket. I'm cold.' I looked at Darren who stood against the breeze, not touched by it at all. 'All right for some, outdoorsy types. Not me.'
'What jacket would have gone with that lot?' He smiled, then rubbed my arms with his hands.
'None, I don't think a pea coat would work with this little lot.'
'Exactly.'
'Still cold though.' I looked at the ground and put my hands in my pocket.
'I'll have to give you a cuddle to warm things up, how's that for ya?' He put on a slightly babyish voice for the cuddle bit.
I tucked my hands further into my tracksuit top and pulled my collar up against the breeze. I felt him stood behind me, his arms wrapping around my chest, as he kissed my neck. I felt warm. Ish. And even if I didn't feel warm, I felt happier, with his arms around me, feeling him pressed against my back.
At the front of the queue a heavy-set, bald bouncer asked Darren to step forward and hold out his arms either side of his body. The bouncer then stuck his hands down Darren's underpants, feeling around inside. He stared into Darren's eyes, mid-grope. 'Nothing in there. Nothing illegal anyway.' He smiled and guided Darren through the airport-style scanner. Darren walked through it, and nothing beeped or flashed, so he waited at the entrance to the club, looking back to me.
I walked straight through the scanner thing, no frisking, no groping in my underpants, more's the pity. He grabbed my hand as we walked into the club together.
At first we sat together, sipping bottles of very expensive German beer, watching the parade of men in sportswear pass us. The air was filled with a smell of salty sweat, beer and cigarettes. I looked at Darren. 'Does it feel funny, being here with someone?'
He shrugged. 'I know who I'm going home with. No 'arm in looking, I say.' He smiled at me, that cheeky toothy grin I was by now very attached to.
He suggested we do a full circuit of the place, 'Might as well get our money's worth.'
We stood with the smokers in the patio area, filled with outdoor heaters and men smoking like their lives depended on it. I pulled Darren away from a heater, scared of the track suit's material going up in flames.
'Easy, tiger. I'm all right.' He smiled back at me, before lighting a cigarette.
We chatted to a guy in his late teens, wide-eyed with wonder and other substances. He begged Darren for a spare ciggie, and he obliged. 'You two together?'
We both nodded.
The teenager looked at us both in turn. 'Bit funny coming here together, don't ya think? I was told it's just somewhere to pick up.'
Darren squeezed my arm. 'Have you picked up tonight?' He looked at the young lad.
He raised his eyebrows and stared at Darren. 'Dunno, have I?'
'Us two? Come back to m
e when you're shaving.' He rubbed the teenager's smooth cheek and we left the patio area.
We had been dancing on the main dance floor, next to the DJ booth, which had a queue of people waiting to request the grumpy but sexy DJ their next song. Each time, he adjusted his white cap or wiped his bare chest with a towel in the booth, listened to the request and nodded or shook his head.
I was at that perfect stage of drunkenness, when you think everything is well with the world, everything is showered with a certain level of serenity, and you find yourself smiling at everyone and everything. One more drink and I would have been falling over drunk and that's not a good look in a night club.
Darren had gone to get us a bottle of water each and I continued waving my hands in the air in time with the music. I felt hands around my chest, and a warm body clamped itself against my back. I turned and it wasn't Darren. It very much wasn't Darren. I removed the hands from my chest and pulled away. He clamped himself back onto me. This time I turned around, shook my head, said I wasn't interested and removed his hands.
The bearded Asian man tried a little-boy-lost look on me.
It didn't work. It had been many a season since he'd been anything approximating a little boy lost. I could tell from his cheeky smirk and large blue tattoos running down each arm. 'Just a little kiss?' He cocked his head to one side. He leant towards me, his lips like rubber, trying to capture me.
Two bottles of water appeared between me and the Asian man's face.
Darren introduced us to him and it turned out little boy lost, the Asian man, was called Aamir. Aamir shook both of our hands. We danced and chatted and, without his hands all over me, he was actually quite charming. I noticed Darren manoeuvred himself so he could dance opposite him.
Aamir led us to a bench and table in another room, then reappeared with beers for us all. 'I'm a bad Muslim,' he said, taking a sip of his beer. 'So what do you two do?' His eyes lit up when Darren started talking about his plastering business. He leant forward, resting his chin on his hand, while Darren talked about the sort of jobs he did. 'What about you?' He looked at me.
At my, 'I'm a teacher' I could see him glazing over, so I kept it short. 'You?' I smiled, determined to be civil since I'd seen so much rudeness in this club, and since so far he'd not warranted anything else but my politeness.
'I work in an investment bank in the City of London. Spreadsheets, figures, shares, buying, selling. Things go up, things go down.'
Darren leant back against the bench, sipped a beer and put one arm behind his head, allowing his T shirt to ride up, revealing some dark hairs around his belly button.
I noticed Aamir's gaze moving to Darren's groin.
My stomach lurched.
Darren arched his back, stretching and yawning against the bench. 'So it's your fault we're in this recession is it? You bankers, messing about with stuff no-one understands, and buggering up the economy? You're one of them bankers are you?'
Aamir looked at Darren's stomach then leant towards him. 'It's not my fault. Not all my fault you understand. There were others too. I am a good banker. I don't work in the department which deals with the collateralised debt obligations. I have friends who do. No, I do corporate investments, investing money for big companies to be as tax efficient as possible.'
Darren nodded, then looked at me. 'Do you believe him, Si?'
Si? He never calls me that. Where's this Si come from? 'Err, yes, I do. I mean, no I don't. What you said.' I mumbled the last part.
Darren laughed.
Aamir laughed too - about what I wasn't quite sure. He put his hand on Darren's leg, stroking up and down on his thigh, I knew the sound the tracksuit would be making against his hand, if we were in a quiet room. I knew what that tracksuit felt like against Aamir's hand.
His hand moved further up Darren's thigh, inches from his groin. I was about to stand and object to the behaviour, but Darren grabbed the hand, placed it firmly back on Aamir's own thigh. Darren shook his head.
Aamir looked at Darren, then me, his little boy lost cocked-head-big-eyes routine on full display. It might have worked better if he didn't have an enormous thick black beard. 'Can't I come back to yours. I bet we'd have an amazing time.'
Darren looked at me, then him. 'What's wrong with your place? I bet your wife and kids wouldn't be too impressed eh?'
He pulled back and sat up to his full height, bristling. 'I don't have a wife, you know. Or children.'
'Boyfriend away for the weekend is he? Thought you'd have a bit of fun out on your own, did ya?'
'What's wrong with that. Come on. I've got these amazing little blue pills, you take one and you keep going all night. We can fuck each other's brains out. I promise you, I'll show you both an amazing time.' He looked first at Darren, then me, smiling at us both. 'You could spit roast me all night long with those little blue pills.'
Darren took my hand and kissed it. 'Fraid you're gonna have to go home with your little blue pills and have a wank, mate.' He looked at Aamir's tenting tracksuit bottoms. 'cause we're not coming with you. We don't do threesomes. Do we?' He looked at me, and I shook my head frantically. He kissed Aamir's cheek and we left the seating area. We remained composed until we were well out of earshot and in another room, then we allowed ourselves to dissolve into laughter.
I kissed him, pushing myself towards him, so I could feel him, gently rising in his tracksuit bottoms. 'You ready to go home?'
He nodded while still kissing me, his hands caressing my head and bum.
After a taxi ride, where we could hardly keep our hands off one another - during which we both admitted the thought of Aamir wanting to sleep with us had turned us on, but that was as far as we wanted it to go - we fell into my house and rolled around on the living room floor for a bit, until agreeing it would be much more comfortable in the bedroom.
Afterwards, laying in bed together, I asked him how his Cocaine Anonymous group was going. Were they still talking to him, or had they all disowned him since he was 1) gay, and 2) going out with a pathological liar?
'Don't flatter yourself, Si. Trust me, there's been plenty of other stories, confessions and things to talk about since your little outburst.'
'Oh, really?'
'Yep. What about your little writers' group? When did you last go there?'
'Oh, only a month or so - not long. I've not been doing any proper writing for a while, not since.' I looked down at my hands, folded on top of the duvet. The women's' silence and shame at me actually giving Darren the writing exercise still stung.
'Every time I come round you're always sat at the laptop, tapping away.'
'I've got the school job, and the letters for the magazine. Actually, I've got another school job. Mr Farnham, the Head, said I'd done such a good job, could he recommend me to a friend of his who was in a bit of a fix about her social media and website for another school.'
'And?'
'Piece of piss. Same as before. I showed her what I'd been doing for my old school. Made some suggestions for how they could update their webpage content, and ideas for making their social media more social and interactive. It always surprises me when you say that to people and they're shocked. It's social media, it's about interacting, being social with your customers. Anyway, I'm doing one blog post a week for them for three months, and a refresh of all their web content, and a list of new pages she wants written. Anyway, it's very dull. You don't want to hear about all that?'
'It's not dull at all. It's amazing, what you've done. In this short time. You have a proper business, doing what you want to do, writing. Get us, the two independent business men?'
'I know, maybe we should ask for a business man's special breakfast and have a power breakfast!'
'Is that from something? One of your films you keep asking me to watch and failing?'
'Might be. So, I've not written much the group would be interested in. So I've just not gone.'
'That woman, Clara-Bell, she rang your house phone when I was round
last week. I let the machine get it. Posh isn't she?'
'I keep expecting her to ask me to go hunting with her.'
'Does she do that?'
'She's never mentioned it, but I wouldn't be surprised. What did her message say?' I vaguely remembered listening to it but doing nothing about it as it had slipped down my long to-do list.
'Something about a Christmas meal. Pheasant and rabbit, I think she said.' He smirked.
'She didn't say anything of the sort.' It was coming back to me now, it was something about the writers group's Christmas meal.
'Okay - but the meal bit, she did.'
Chapter 30
'I've given our orders, and here's the drinks.' I returned to the table the writers group had filled at the pub opposite the village hall where they normally met.
After leaving me stewing in my over-dramatic juices, to not attend for the last few months, Clara-Bell had persuaded me the awkward and the unwelcome to attend had been all in my mind, and the group were asking when I was coming back. I explained I felt such an idiot from sending the letter, when it had just been a writing exercise, and Clara-Bell said I was being 'terribly dramatic darling, just buck up and come back.' With the time and space from the group I eventually realised I was being a touch over-dramatic, with the solid gold twattery maybe only being gold plated. I shrugged at Clara-Bell and said, 'Being dramatic; it's just something I do.'
And she had told me to pull myself together and come back to the fold as everyone missed my tendency to over-dramatise, so I agreed to come with her for the writers group's Christmas dinner and drinks to ease myself back in gently.
Now, Clara-Bell took her large glass of red wine, her ruby and diamond rings glinting in the light. 'What are you doing for Christmas? I find it can be such a stressful time, with families and one thing and another. It's always whose family shall we spend it with. Once The Colonel and I had been married for a bit, we just drew up the drawbridge and stayed at home, no more in-laws at Christmas. It was bliss. A huge turkey between the two of us and the dogs, enough stuffing and pigs in blankets to sink a battleship is what he used to say.' She got a faraway look in her eyes.
