Vouloir

by J. D. Chase

  ‘So if you want to leave, be my guest but, like I said last night, this is a one-time-only offer. Don’t think that you can come running back to me the next time you fuck a woman and she turns on you. I won’t be interested unless you can pay me. And I’m far from cheap. I’m not here to judge you for your past sexual experiences. I’m here to help your future fuckability. And to do that, you have to be brutally honest with me. The only person thinking about judgements and embarrassments is you. You need to shed that like a dead skin. Think of it as a means to an end. Of course, if you feel embarrassed talking about it, we could get physical. You could show me what the nature of your problem is. I don’t have your embarrassment. I’ll happily lie there and finish myself off when you’ve finished. I need to get to the bottom of your issues to help you fuck well in future. If that’s what you want then you’ve got to commit to seeing this through.’

  He shakes his head violently. I can read his thoughts. He wants to fuck me but he doesn’t want the shame of coming before I get warmed up.

  ‘No, nothing physical. I’m not ready for that,’ he says.

  Good answer.

  ‘So you want to continue as we are? For now? You do realise it’s going to get physical, don’t you?’

  His eyes widen momentarily at the prospect but then he nods. He seems to deflate before me. Time for some ego stroking.

  ‘Okay. That’s good, Dean. Real good. Because, do you know what? You are a handsome guy. With a tender heart. And your body. Mmmm, you’ve got it much easier than most men on that front. Your confidence has taken a bashing—understandably so. But those women did you a favour. Too many women fake it, just to stroke a guy’s ego. He gets on and bounces up and down. She makes all the right noises. And bingo! He grunts, spurts and thinks he’s a stud. She waits till he’s gone and takes her frustration out on her poor, abused clit. No harm, no foul—right?’

  He shrugs. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Wrong! Does she want to see him again? Does she fuck! Not if she knows what good fucking feels like. Not if she’s used to coming like an express train. No, the only reason she’d see him again and go through all that again is because she’s never had better. She doesn’t know what she’s cheating herself out of.’

  ‘But why do women fake it?’ he blurted, suddenly.

  ‘Some women,’ I clarify. ‘Women who aren’t doing themselves or their partners any favours . . . they’re the fakers. They’re to be pitied. You got lucky. You had a couple of women who knew better and were gutsy enough—or pissed enough—to be honest.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call that lucky. I’d rather they faked it.’

  I ignore him. ‘Now your one-night stand with your boss—fair enough, it was a drunken fumble—a first time so I can let her off. But the other one was your ex? A longstanding relationship, wasn’t it?’

  He’s frowning at me like I’ve lost my mind but he indulges me and nods. ‘Eighteen months.’

  ‘You’d been fucking her for eighteen months before she told you that you were shit?’

  His jaw muscles contract and he jerks his head in the affirmative.

  ‘Was that when she dumped you?’

  He nods again, and I notice a vein throbbing in his neck. I know I’m pushing him but the truth hurts and I don’t believe in sugar coating. I’m direct, brutally so. But that’s why I get such good results so quickly.

  ‘That’s right after she found out faking’s not how it’s supposed to be. She could have found that out by talking to girlfriends or reading a magazine article or by fucking someone behind your back. I suspect the latter since she wasn’t interested in hanging around and working on it with you.’

  I hear him gasp but I ignore him. ‘Now what she failed to realise is that she’s been bouncing up and down on your cock—you like that, right?’

  He nods.

  ‘Honey, as long as your cock was hard she should have been able to make herself come. If she fucked off with someone else, she did you a favour. She was no better in the sack than you. It’s not all the man’s responsibility, you know. It’s a two-way street. I hate that old fashioned bollocks. She could have told you what you were doing right and what you were doing wrong. And she could have told herself at the same time. Couples are often too scared to communicate, scared of upsetting the other. What they should be scared of is robbing themselves of a decent sex life. And don’t look so sad. So what if she fucked around before she fucked off? You’d been shooting your load every time. She hadn’t. Who do I feel sorry for? A clue . . . it’s not you!’

  He breaks out into a grin so I hold up my hand and he reaches out and high fives me. I want to leave him on a high so I’ll leave it there.

  ‘Right. I want you to meet me at Vouloir tonight. Say nine o’clock? One condition though. You need to be sober. Totally and utterly sober. I’ll have a drink with you when we meet but we drink responsibly. Deal?’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  I give him a wink. ‘We’re going to find out exactly what floats your boat.’

  His eyebrows leap. ‘We’re going to watch pornos?’

  I lick my lips with exaggerated slowness. I watch his eyes zone in and gloss over. ‘Porno schmorno. Honey, we’re going to watch a live show.’

  I watch his reaction. He doesn’t know whether to jump in excitement or crap his pants. I stand, signalling the end of our session and usher him out of the flat.

  I’m knackered. All I want to do is hit the sack. Alone. How sad is that?

  But I’m waiting for Bernie to call to let me know whether I can sneak in to see Dan again before he’s discharged. I know that when the call comes, I might have to dash. If his parents know what’s happened, I’ll probably not get a look in.

  Instead, I wander into the lounge and flop onto the sofa, putting my feet up and resting my eyes. I’m just drifting off when I feel my legs being lifted. Then I feel the cushion dip as The Kid sits, draping my legs across his. Then he does the most incredible thing. The nearest thing to an orgasm-inducing action that’s possible in a platonic sense. He massages my feet. I can’t stop the tear that squeezes out past my defences and rolls down my cheek. I drift off to sleep, begging for dreams of a world where kids are safe and life isn’t cruel.

  MY LUNGS BURN AS I fight the light-headedness but it’s no good, I have to stop. I jog to a bench in the park I was cutting through and reach out, gripping the backrest with my hands as I fight to catch my breath. I’m used to sweat dripping off my chin but fuck me, today it’s dripping off the ends of my hair. A combination of the length of my run and the past week’s alcohol consumption, I’ll wager. My fitness has taken a hit. Usually I run to control the frustration inside me. But, since the shame of my night with Isla, all I’ve done is drink. I guess self-loathing doesn’t have the same outlet as frustration.

  A couple of minutes later and I can breathe without feeling like I’m going to vomit. I turn and straighten up, pushing my wet hair off my face with a sweep of my hand. I lean back, resting the backs of my thighs and my hands on the bench. I turn my face up to the summer sunshine so it can dry the sweat. I close my eyes and enjoy the serene calm that follows a good run or workout.

  I’m interrupted by the giggly chatter of female voices. I let it wash over me until I hear one say, ‘Man candy. Ten o’clock.’

  Another voice says, ‘Oh dear Lord. Look at the sweat glistening on those muscles. I wouldn’t mind making him sweat like that.’

  The first voice says, ‘I wouldn’t mind licking it off.’

  They giggle and I can tell they’re coming closer. A part of me wants to open my eyes and give them the come on. I wish I was brave enough to give in to it. I’ve never been that confident. A greater part of me wants to run and hide. So I do nothing. I pretend I haven’t heard. That doesn’t stop me enjoying the attention though.

  ‘I do like a firm, muscular arse.’

  ‘All the better to fuck you with, my dear.’

  Giggles.

  ‘I’ll b
et he fucks like a stallion.’

  ‘Yeah, bet he can go all night.’

  And I freeze. Just like that. I freeze. My ego taking a nosedive into my shame. If only they knew. And despite my session with the sex therapist earlier on, I feel like screaming, ‘It’s all for show. Look but don’t touch. That way you won’t be disappointed.’

  Anger and frustration surges through my veins. I don’t hear what else they say; all I can hear is the blood whooshing in my ears. My fingers claw against the wooden bench and I grit my teeth. The need to bolt is excruciating. To run. Anywhere. To pound the pavements until the anger fades. But I can’t move until I’m sure I’ve given them enough time to pass by.

  I’ve always used running as a way of relieving tension. Okay, so a good old wank used to suffice but nowadays, my cock mocks me. I can’t even enjoy emptying my balls. Every time I’ve tried, the fact that I’m a failure makes my cock go limp. And when I’ve tried to persist, spitting repeatedly on my hand to lubricate it well, getting it nice and wet, just how I like it, it’s just made my cock sore. And my balls ache.

  I’d hoped that the therapist was going to fuck me, showing me what to do—I thought that’s what sex therapy was. But she opened the door looking like Mary Freaking Poppins. Well okay, not exactly. Maybe more Maggie Gyllenhaal at the start of that film . . . what’s it called . . . Secretary, that’s the one. I picture scenes further on in the film where her boss gets to spank her and restrain her. Then I picture the sex therapist in the club . . . and all the other sexual goings on I’d witnessed there. And I’m going there. Tonight. To find out what gets me off. My cock lurches wildly and I feel it start to expand. I realise I’m only wearing flimsy running shorts and hastily turn around, pressing my groin into the back of the bench.

  Well, that was unexpected.

  I feel the pressure of the wood against my semi-hard cock, the slippery fabric of my running shorts in between. I roll my hips a little. It feels good. How fucking typical is that? I’m in a public place, wearing skimpy shorts and I get a hard-on for the first time in days. And the worst thing? It doesn’t want to go fucking down. My balls feel heavy and I want, more than anything, to shove my hands down my shorts and stroke my cock.

  I look around furtively. It seems that I’m alone for the moment. Caution screams in the back of my mind. What if someone approaches when I’m just about to shoot my load? What if I’m seen? But my balls feel like iron weights hanging from the base of my still hardening cock. It lurches, pressing against the back of the bench as if to persuade me. Before I can even register what I’m doing, I’m pulling my running vest over my head and draping it over the back of the slatted bench. I part my feet a little and bend at the knees, just to make sure my groin is below the top of the bench. A quick look . . . left . . . right . . . behind . . . ahead. The coast’s clear. And my hand’s around my cock before you can say ‘masturbate.’

  I pump my cock for all I’m worth, petrified that it’ll go soft again. It doesn’t. It takes seconds. Or so it seems. I feel my balls tighten as the base of my spine tingles. I feel my arse cheeks tense uncontrollably . . . once . . . twice . . . three times and I can’t contain the ragged grunt when the magical moment happens and white string spurts up, all over my stomach.

  I can feel the breeze blowing against the hypersensitive head of my cock. Man, it feels good. I gently stroke my cock a couple of times more, just to milk it dry. I feel like dropping to my knees as I recover. As I hastily grab my vest and mop up the mess on my abs and my hand, I realise that I’m panting and sweating almost as much as I was when I got here—after ten miles of punishing exercise.

  I turn, suddenly wanting to get out of here and find myself coming almost face to face with a girl. From her face, I’d say she’s around twenty or so. From her sly grin, I’d say she knows exactly what I’ve just done.

  Fuck! I look away as I feel my cheeks burn. I manage not to trip as I begin to run. My knees still feel weak and I half expect to go flying but I don’t. I run and run, not stopping until I’ve run the couple of miles to my home. I feel elated. And I don’t think it’s just because I’ve emptied my balls—it’s more the how and where that are making me grin.

  I head into the kitchen, desperate for a drink of water.

  ‘Hey Mum,’ I say, reaching to give her a squeeze before realising that my scrunched up, come-covered vest is in my hand.

  I needn’t have worried. She bats me away with a frown. ‘Dean Rogers, where are your manners? You were raised to be a gentleman. Now go and clean yourself up before you come near me.’

  She shudders theatrically as she gives me one of those looks. It’s a look I’m used to. One that conveys just how disappointed she is in me.

  ‘Sorry, Mum. I’m on my way to the shower.’

  ‘I should think so,’ she mutters as she turns her attention back to the dish she’s preparing for dinner.

  My mum may be old school, and that may drive me to distraction at times, but she’s one hell of a cook. A hot, cooked meal is on the table every night. Usually, I’m at work, behind the bar of the hotel so I have to reheat mine when I get in. But even so, it’s always gorgeous.

  Growing up she’d always been more like my mates’ grandmothers. She was almost the same age as them for a start, having had me in her mid-thirties. And in some ways, she was more like their great-grandparents. She was set in her ways and raised me according to her rigid principles . . . all two million of them. When we’d learned about wartime Britain at school, I was struck by how much my mum reminded me of the ladies from that time. Darning socks, cooking roast dinners and then making soups from leftovers (takeaways were unheard of in my house), being strict and prudish . . . the list went on and on. My mum wouldn’t know anything about modern fashion or music if her life depended upon it. She is stuck in the past.

  She listens to Radio Four. Her idea of a soap is The Archers. We didn’t have a TV until I was about fifteen and she bought a portable thing, second-hand—probably just to shut me up. Not long after, all my friends were getting flat screens and then they moved on to large screen TVs. We still had that portable. When I started work, I bought myself a large monitor and a home computer that had a TV tuner inside. She still disapproves of it. And the house is so quiet that I have to wear headphones when I want to watch anything; her complaints and wisecracks just aren’t worth the hassle.

  I think back to the sex therapist asking me if I watched porn . . . yeah, like that would happen. My mum still hasn’t got the hang of knocking when she walks in my room and when I’d raised the question of putting a lock on my door, you’d think I was asking to open a crack den in there.

  Ten minutes later and I’m showered, dried and changed. The aroma of liver and onions reaches my room. I picture it with a heap of creamy mash; just what I need to replace all the calories I burned this afternoon.

  The second I set foot back downstairs, she says, ‘Where are your dirty running clothes?’

  I frown. ‘In the laundry basket.’ Where else does she think they’d be?

  She gives me a withering look and I know I’ve ballsed up. ‘Your sweaty, stinking running clothes are infecting everything else in that basket. Go and get them at once, you stupid boy.’

  I feel like telling her that there’s only one of my tee-shirts in there to ‘infect’ but I know it’s futile.

  ‘How many times do you need telling?’ I hear her mutter as I head back upstairs. I roll my eyes. Yes, I usually put them straight in the washing machine, at her insistence, but that’s because I usually run in the mornings, when she does the laundry. But because I had my appointment with the sex therapist (not that she needs to know about that) this morning, I’d not gone for a run until after lunch. So, I assumed my running gear would be best left in the laundry basket. Apparently not.

  I grab it and head back downstairs. I ignore her disapproving look as I throw my clothes into the washing machine. Since my mother’s illness—well, illnesses, it’s one thing after another lat
ely—she’s even more snappy and irritable than ever. Some days I feel so suffocated, like I can’t do right for doing wrong and I get tempted to move out. I know I won’t though. On the few occasions I’ve mentioned moving out, she’s either burst into tears or fled the room. I can’t do that to her. I’m all she has, so she says. I’ve been the man of the house (her words) since I was seven years old.

  She’s been mother and father to me for twenty years, raising me single-handedly. I owe her. Big time. And she isn’t ready for me to leave home. Not just yet. And when she puts my plate down in front of me, heaped to heaven and smelling like it too, I’m down with that. She always says the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I think she might be right.

  ‘OH, FUCKING HELL! THANKS a lot, you rancid, little cock-wart!’ I shout, jumping back from the wall of water that’s attempting to soak me.

  My usual private hire cabbie has just dropped me at the back of the club but some moron has come racing down the alleyway before I could cross it.

  I look down at my patent boots. They’re wet. I groan before I remember where I am, then I shrug. I’m at Vouloir. I’m sure I can find a nice sub who’s at a loose end. I haven’t had my boots licked for ages.

  So, with a spring in my step, I head into the club. I have just under an hour before I meet up with Dean. I’m in need of a distraction. I got the call but my second visit with Dan didn’t go so well. His parents had found out where he was and were attempting to force his early discharge. Of course, the kid’s seventeen—they can’t force him to do anything. Not in legal terms. But he’s vulnerable. Their relationship is fraught with tension and he has nowhere else to go when he is discharged.

  Don’t get me wrong, they’re not uncaring. They honestly believe they’re doing the right thing. Their only crime is their ignorance and their unwillingness to adapt to the fact that their son is a masochistic homosexual. They can’t accept that their little boy likes grown men to hurt him, that it arouses him. So much so that he begs them to bugger him stupid after they’ve turned his flesh a deep shade of red. I tell you, kids born to liberal, open-minded parents don’t know how lucky they are. If all kids had such parents, I doubt that I’d have many calls from Bernie—if any.