While My Wife's Away

by James Lear

  WHILE MY

  WIFE’S AWAY

  Copyright © 2017 by James Lear.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States by Cleis Press, an imprint of Start Midnight, LLC, 101 Hudson Street, Thirty-Seventh Floor, Suite 3705, Jersey City, NJ 07302.

  Printed in the United States.

  Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink

  Cover photograph: iStock

  Text design: Frank Wiedemann

  First Edition.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Trade paper ISBN: 978-1-62778-200-5

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-62778-201-2

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  1

  IT STARTED, AS I SUPPOSE MANY THESE STORIES DO, AT THE gym. I’ve been spending a lot of time there recently, and if anyone asks me why, I tell them it’s because I want to stay fit—I have to look after my heart now that I’m in my forties, and I’m reducing the burden on the health system. But what I’m really reducing is the amount of time I spend at home. Home is not a very happy place at the moment, and if I can get back a couple of hours later in the evening, then the stretch between dinner and bedtime doesn’t seem quite so unforgiving.

  It was the first week of January, a dismal time in most households, but particularly so in ours. Alex was back at school, Nicky had gone back up to Sheffield as soon as the trains were running again after New Year, and that left Angie and me in a big, quiet, house, the silence bursting with unspoken conversations. After all these years together—it would be our twenty-fourth anniversary this year—we’d run out of things to say. The jokes and memories that kept us going for so long just faded away, like a toy that had run out of batteries. As for sex—well, that hadn’t happened for a long time. Perhaps we used it all up in those first frantic years, banging away in halls of residence, crappy rented flats, on the floor at parties, in tents at festivals, on beaches, up mountains, even in our parents’ beds on family visits. Then the kids came along, and the opportunities decreased, the urgency and frequency abated, from twice a week to once a week, to once a month, to . . . never. Since my mid-thirties, my only sex life has been wanking. Thank God for the Internet.

  I should have seen it coming. The porn I was watching was a clue, the images that flashed behind my eyelids when I came. The time I spent in front of a mirror or with the camera on my phone, taking cockshots that nobody would ever see. I was looking at men—either myself or the guys who were banging the girls in the porn—more than women. It was obvious in hindsight, but I never thought about it. I’ve never really thought about anything. I was good at school, good at sports, happy with my parents, popular with other kids; I had gone to university, dated the best-looking girl in my year, and even when she got pregnant, it didn’t worry me. She had the baby—my daughter Nicola, Nicky, now studying physics at Sheffield, the age I was when she was born—and our parents rallied around with childcare and money. They enabled us to graduate and set up a proper family home and even have a second child, a boy Alex, before Angie went on the pill and I got a job. We used to joke that we’d done everything in reverse: we had the kids first, then found a home, got jobs and, last of all, got married, the kids walking up the aisle with us. Not how our parents did it, and certainly not how our grandparents did it, but nobody minded. We were the golden couple, the beautiful people with beautiful children and a cloudless future.

  And it was good for a long time. When children are young, you live through them—the intensity of their experience becomes yours. Angie and I were so wrapped up in the kids, marvelling over every stage of their development, that we lost sight of ourselves. It was wonderful at the time, but a bad investment for the future. Teenagers don’t need you in the same way, and all you have left is each other. The truth is that we’d fallen out of love. We were business partners; our work was raising the kids, and when that job was done we had nothing in common. We didn’t argue. There were no big scenes—nothing to upset the children. But then Nicky went to college and Alex spent all his time with his mates, and when he leaves home in October, that’s it, we’ll have nothing left. We’re still functioning as a family. We turn up to parties and weddings and so on, Angie’s arm through mine, and people say how good we look, which we do. Angie’s as beautiful in her forties as she was in her twenties: sleek brown hair, big green eyes, the kind of mouth that men can’t stop staring at, and if she shows any sign of age, it’s only made her more attractive. I’ve stopped counting the times people tell me how lucky I am. They say the same to her, I know—it was one of our best jokes. People used to hit on us, individually and even together. We had so many offers, we could have swung like a pendulum. But we were the faithful type. There was no gossip about Joe and Angie—we were devoted to each other, and everyone assumed that we had such great sex that we never even looked at anyone else.

  That was true—was.

  Now here I am, a forty-two-year-old father of two, senior ICT manager at a large London university, married but might as well be celibate, stressed out by a family Christmas, and so fucking horny that my own right hand isn’t enough anymore. All the tension is building up in my neck and shoulders and I’m sitting on the lat pull-down machine in the gym one evening, doing my third set, when something in my left shoulder goes crack-ping and I let go of the bar with a mighty clang and shout in agony.

  Gym etiquette is such that nobody rushed to my aid or expressed concern. The other guys on the machines watched, just in case I looked like I was about to die, in which case they might go and get someone from reception. The girls on the stairmasters and cross-trainers all had headphones on—they wouldn’t even hear a fire alarm, let alone another grunt from the boys’ side. But I was in serious pain, and I was either going to throw up or pass out. Actual tears were forming in my eyes. I would have looked around for help or signalled to someone, but I couldn’t actually move, my spine had turned to a column of concrete, and if I twisted it, it would shatter.

  I might have stayed there until closing time or until someone else wanted to use the machine, but fortunately help was at hand. One of the trainers working with a client heard my cry of pain and came to my assistance. I knew him, in the casual buddy way one knows other men at the gym, enough for hellos and goodbyes, a bit of banter, and the odd training tip. I’d noticed he was in amazing shape—when you’re serious about training, you pay attention to these things, right? He was in his thirties, but his body looked like a twenty-two-year-old’s, slim, strong, and smooth, skin pale and hairless, with a few random tattoos. He was Eastern European I guessed from his accent, and I knew his name was Adrian because he wore a nametag. I liked him. I looked forward to seeing him, because he always smiled at me and said hi. That was all, wasn’t it? He was friendly. So many men in gyms are terrified of making eye contact, let alone actually talking. But I have enough silence in my life.

  ‘You OK, man?’ He was at my side, one hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Yeah . . . no . . . I don’t know, something just went.’

  ‘Hold on. Stay there. Don’t move.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  He had a few words with his client, disappeared for a minute while I tried to ignore the pain that was shooting from my neck all the way down my back to my hips, thighs, and knees, and then returned with an icepack in his hand.

  ‘Here.’ He gently pried my fingers away and applied the soothing compress. The pain didn’t stop, but I sup
pose I must have relaxed. The panic subsided. ‘Can you stand?’

  ‘Yeah.’ With a bit of help, I got to my feet. I was dripping— sweat, tears, snot. Adrian pulled a length of paper towel from the dispenser and handed it to me. He guided me out of the weight room into the reception area.

  ‘Stay here. Don’t sit down. I’ll be back in one minute. I just need to get keys. OK? Don’t move.’

  He ran down the corridor, his white trainers squeaking on the lino, and disappeared through a door. The receptionist gave me a quizzical look. I grimaced, pointed at my neck, and wished I hadn’t. The pain was still there waiting to spring with any movement.

  ‘Adrian will sort you out,’ said the receptionist. ‘He’s brilliant.’

  Other members came and went—it’s a busy place, the university gym where I train; one of the perks of the job, cheap and well-equipped with excellent trainers and, as I was about to discover, a team of qualified physiotherapists.

  Adrian bounced back down the corridor in his black track pants and T-shirt with the gym logo on his chest. His short thinning blond hair gleamed under the fluorescent lights. He was jangling a bunch of keys. ‘Here. I’ve got a treatment room. Take it slow. That’s it.’

  With a lot of encouragement and support, I made it through the double doors, hobbling like an old man. The treatment room was small, with just room for a massage table and not much more. Adrian lowered me carefully into a chair.

  ‘It’s Joe, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, Joe Heath.’

  ‘I’m supposed to fill out some forms before we start, but we’ll do that later.’ London vowels overlaid his native accent; he must have lived here for some time. I like to chat with people—barbers, dentists, taxi drivers. I can find out their life stories within five minutes, and usually I’d have been asking Adrian the usual questions about his origins, but I was in so much pain, all I could manage was a breathless ‘OK.’

  ‘Put your arms down by your side, slowly.’

  It felt like rusty iron cogs were grinding against each other. I winced sharply, but I made it. My head felt fuzzy, and my stomach was still heaving.

  ‘Now I’m going to touch your neck, very gently. Alright?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  He stood behind me, close enough that I could hear the rustle of his clothes. Cool fingertips rested lightly on my shoulders. Always checking that I was OK, he started pressing and rubbing, working up my neck to the base of my skull, down the trapezius muscle to the top of my arm, his touch light but confident.

  ‘Ever done this before?’

  ‘Yes, years ago, but never as bad as this.’

  ‘You’ve trapped a nerve in your upper vertebrae. Just around here.’ He pressed the pads of his fingers on the left of my neck, behind the ear. ‘I can feel the muscles in spasm.’

  ‘Can you do anything?’

  ‘Yes. I can stop the pain, at least for now. But you need to be careful and do special exercises, and come back to see me for more treatment. Don’t worry. It’s cheap.’

  ‘I don’t care what it costs,’ I said—pain, like lust, makes you reckless. ‘Just do it.’

  He continued pressing on my neck, his thumb jumping over what felt like a hazelnut embedded in the muscle, hard and tight. Gradually, the pain subsided.

  ‘Take a few deep breaths.’

  I did as I was told. I realized that I’d been holding my whole body rigid and started to let go.

  ‘That’s good. Breathe out again. Let your core relax. Good.’ His hands were working harder on me now—if he had done this two minutes ago I’d have screamed the house down. ‘Now, raise your shoulders . . . hold it . . . and lower them. Raise them . . . hold it . . . and lower them.’

  The pain was ebbing away, from kitchen-knife-in-the-back to severe-beating-with-a-stick to nasty-bruise-after-a-rugby-game. That I could deal with. ‘Oh, thank God,’ I said. ‘You’re a bloody genius.’

  ‘Have you got ten minutes?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We’re going to get you on the table.’

  I stood up unassisted, and without the desire to puke.

  ‘Take your shirt off.’

  I grabbed the bottom hem and started to lift—but I never got beyond my navel. The pain sprang back with a vengeance. ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Stop, stop! It’s OK. We’ll manage. Lie down on your front. Take it slow. That’s it. You’re there. Now just let your arms hang down.’

  Adrian stood beside me, supporting me and making sure I didn’t fall. Then, slowly and carefully, he lifted my shirt, pulling it up from under my stomach, until the whole thing was bunched up around my armpits. He applied oil to his hands and started working from the base of my spine upward. Everything seemed to sink into the padded surface of the table. The pressure was firm and even, and as I started to feel more relaxed, I nearly dozed off. The only sounds were our breathing, the whooshing of his hands over my skin, and the wet click of the oil.

  Time passed.

  ‘Can you turn over?’

  I found, to my surprise, that I could. I also found that I had a hard-on, which my gym shorts did nothing to conceal. Oh well, I thought. He’s a professional. He’s seen it before. It doesn’t mean anything; if we ignore it, it will go away.

  It occurred to me as Adrian stood behind my head and started massaging my chest and arms, that this was the first time another person had touched me while I had an erection in many years. That didn’t help matters. But he didn’t say anything and neither did I, so for a few more minutes, he worked on my neck, shoulders, and torso while my dick throbbed in its mesh pouch. I was pretty sure there was a visible wet patch.

  ‘How do you feel now?’

  Apart from being very close to orgasm, you mean? ‘Fine. Much better. Thank you.’

  ‘Stand up, and I’ll show you some exercises. You need to do these at least three times a day.’

  If I stand up, I thought, it will stick out a mile. Does it matter? We’re men, we’re in a gym; this kind of thing is a natural everyday occurrence.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said, laughing. ‘It happens to everyone. Just rearrange yourself if you need to.’ He turned his back and wiped his hands. I moved my cock so that it was pressed against my body as much as possible. It happens to everyone, he said. Nothing unusual here. Goes with the territory. What a nice man! So understanding. And with such good hands. My cock wasn’t going down.

  ‘Now then, Joe, this shouldn’t be happening to you.’ I must have looked puzzled, because he added, ‘The neck, I mean. You’re carrying way too much tension up there. So every day, you do this.’

  He guided me through a series of stretches—all the things that gym users know they should do but never actually do. ‘Take some ibuprofen and paracetamol when you get back to your desk. Don’t come to the gym for at least three days. Make an appointment to see me in a week. Yes? Good.’

  I nodded and thanked him, and couldn’t stop feeling his hands on my body, my cock still pulsing in my shorts . . . .

  ‘And now,’ he said, ‘I’m already late for another client. I’m sorry.’ He opened the door. ‘See you later, Joe.’

  I managed to thank him, tripping over my words, and headed for the changing room.

  Now, I don’t know if something happened to my brain as a result of that neck injury, or if Adrian’s hands on my body triggered some long-pent-up desires, but even with the lingering pain, I couldn’t stop feeling horny. I had to carry my towel in front of me, in case I frightened the other members and got blacklisted from the gym. My locker was at the back, as far as possible from the showers, so by turning to face the wall, I was able to undress without anyone seeing my obvious arousal. It wasn’t sticking straight out any more, but it was twice its normal size and certainly not hanging down. I wrapped the towel round my waist, checked myself in the mirror— it was visible, but not too obvious—and headed for the shower.

  The university gym must be one of the few places left in London with old-fashioned open shower
s, just a walk-in wet area with eight spigots sticking out of the wall. No cubicles, no frosted glass dividers, just water, tiles, and pipes. It’s a flasher’s paradise. I had seen other guys looking at me, of course—we’re all in a gym, we check out each other’s bodies; it goes with the territory. Sometimes there might be a bit more to it than simple competitiveness, and I’ve been aware on occasion that some men look a little longer than others. Gay friends have told me that it’s one of the great perks of going to the gym, which I understand: I’ve always said that if I could shower with women, I’d be there 24/7. After work, when I train, the changing rooms are usually full, but this evening, delayed by my session with Adrian, the commuter crowd had washed and dressed and was gone, and there was just one other man in the showers. I knew him well enough to say hello—we’d done circuit training together and exchanged the usual gym small talk. He’s older than me, in his mid-fifties, but holding together well; I won’t be too disappointed if I’m in similar shape at his age. He’s bald, but I’m catching up fast in that department; the thick, glossy brown hair that I used to be able to wear in a quiff is thinning fast, and I have to wear it short these days to avoid looking as though I’ve got a comb-over.

  ‘Alright, mate?’ he asked, catching my eye and nodding.

  ‘Yeah, alright.’ I pointed to my neck. ‘Pinched a nerve.’

  ‘Ouch. You OK?’

  ‘I’ll survive.’

  We were facing each other; he was naked under the shower, his hairy body covered in soap. I still had my towel on. I could turn my back on him, of course, but he’d seen me naked so many times that it would seem odd. Better to carry on as if nothing was wrong. And it wasn’t, was it? I had a bit of a semi. It happens to everyone. I unwrapped the towel, hung it on a hook, and hit the shower button. I tried not to look down at my cock, but I was conscious that it was swinging around more than usual and not going down, just the opposite, if anything. Oh well. Nobody screamed or ran away. Hot water splashed on my head and ran down my back, rinsing off the oil that Adrian had applied.