While My Wife's Away

by James Lear

  I prepared my dick and lubed up, dismissing the thought that Yves would have let me fuck him without a condom. How many others had he taken? Is he that reckless and self-destructive? Taking G, barebacking, going with strangers for money, and he bears the scars of his recklessness, that jagged line cutting through the brown skin and silky fur, a harbinger of early death.

  I closed my eyes, shook my head, and dispersed the gloom, forcing out those warning voices, and when I rubbed a slippery finger around Yves’s tight hole, felt his arse lips kissing me, drawing me in, I knew that this was right, it was meant to be, nothing could go wrong if it felt so good, there was no danger because he was beautiful and I am beautiful and I can trust Graham, he knows what he’s doing, he wouldn’t put me at risk.

  I pushed my cock into him and everything disappeared but sensation, the smoothness, tightness, hardness, wetness, and I saw the slope of his young back, his face resting sideways on his hairy arm, eyes half-closed, lips open, the other arm beneath him, pumping his cock as he pushed back against me. My cock was like a steel bar, and I could go on forever, fucking him to eternity, that was all that mattered in my life, this moment, this contact of skin and tissue, the heat of the sun, the buzz, the scent, the here and now and nothing else ever.

  ‘Turn him over.’ Graham again, like a Roman emperor giving commands to his slave, the gladiator he’s bought to fuck his minions. I did as I was ordered. Yves was light, easy to lift, and for a while, I held him in my strong arms and kissed his mouth, then put him down, raised his knees, and entered him again. He gripped me with his legs, and I adopted a press-up position on hands and toes as I banged him as hard as I could.

  ‘Look at him taking it, the little slut. He wants more cock, doesn’t he? He needs something in the mouth. Jean-Pierre—use that big dick of yours for once. Stick it in the little whore’s mouth.’

  Jean-Pierre did as he was told, kneeling at Yves’s head, leaning forward until his huge floppy cock was against his lips. Yves stretched his head backward and took as much as he could between his lips. No, I thought, he’s mine, get off him, get that cock out of him, but then it seemed right that we should share him, give him all we had, and if Graham wanted to get into him as well, that would be even better.

  Yves’s cock remained hard, oozing pre-come into his dense bush. I kept fucking, and the thought crossed my mind that I should be coming by now, and yet I could go on fucking forever, a machine, hard and efficient like lubricated steel.

  How long did this go on? I have no idea. Time was collapsing, sucked into a black hole, meaningless, just like the rest of my life, as if England and London and my family and job were a dream from which I had awoken; this was reality, this eternity of cock and arse and mouth, brightness and heat, sweat and pine.

  A shadow fell across me, and I saw Graham standing by with his huge hard dick waving like a sceptre, demanding attendance. Of course I would suck him. I belonged to him just as Yves and Jean-Pierre belonged to him, just as the house and the pool and the cars did. We were his possessions. I kissed the wet head, licked the shaft, took him in my mouth and sucked, looking up at his silhouette, dark with the sun behind it, and I felt at that moment that I loved him and wanted to belong to him, please him, and worship him.

  ‘That’s it, Straight Boy. Suck it. Suck it like a bitch. Suck it like a pussy.’

  I’ve heard this kind of language in porn, and usually it’s a turn-off. It sounds stupid, it’s unnecessarily brutal, and it’s appallingly sexist. You’re probably rolling your eyes right now, thinking ‘oh yeah, Joe’s such a feminist, he’s been cheating on his wife with every Tom, Dick, and Harry, and who is he to object to the word bitch?’ Point taken. Anyway, I had no such objections now. Graham could call me a snivelling piece of shit if he wanted to, and I’d lap it up. He could do whatever he wanted. Use me. Just use me.

  Suck, fuck, suck, fuck, the slurping and moaning and breathing filled the air, the smell and taste of cock. Still no orgasm. Nothing. Nothing coming, just an eternal hardness with no release.

  Always winter and never Christmas.

  Random thoughts flashed across my mind, as if my memory was fragmenting, reformatting, wiping itself clean until all I knew was this.

  ‘You want to have a go at him?’ Graham asked, pointing toward Jean-Pierre. ‘He’s a nice little fuck.’

  No. I want Yves. Yves is mine. But if you tell me to do it, I will do it.

  But I said nothing, carried on sucking the master’s cock like a good slave, waiting for my orders. Where do I stick it, sir? Yes, sir, in there, sir.

  ‘No, I can see you’re happy where you are. You carry on. I’ll take care of this one.’ He returned to his throne. ‘Sit on it, boy. Ride my cock.’ Jean-Pierre did as he was told, straddling Graham’s thick pole, bouncing up and down, the muscles working under his tattooed skin, his dick slapping against Graham’s stomach. And this, I remembered, was the one with the girlfriend. How many of us are there? The married men, the straight boys with girlfriends, all of us taking it up the arse and in the mouth.

  I must have stopped fucking Yves for a while, because he pulled himself up from the ground, brushing grit and dead leaves off his back.

  He was back at the bottle, tipping the fluid into the white plastic cap. ‘Want some more?’ Yes, it would be so easy, to drink it and forget, to keep on fucking forever, and then how long before the long ears sprout from my head and feet turn to hooves, and all that’s left is a donkey dick to fuck with through a life of slavery.

  ‘No, I’m fine thanks.’ Perhaps it was wearing off. I don’t know how long it had been since the last dose.

  Yves had no hesitation and knocked it back.

  Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.

  ‘Now you must fuck me again, but somewhere more comfortable, please.’ He looked at Jean-Pierre bouncing up and down on Graham’s dick, a stream of French coming from his mouth. I didn’t need a dictionary. I know what it feels like when Graham fucks you. You just want more, harder, further, deeper.

  ‘He is good,’ said Yves, ‘but you are better. Your body. I like it.’ He said it all with arrogant certainty, like a connoisseur evaluating wine. ‘You don’t just fuck. You make love.’

  ‘Just shut up and get on with it,’ said Graham, who apparently needed more entertainment than he was getting. A perfect young man with muscles, tattoos, and a huge cock obviously wasn’t enough. I had hoped for some privacy in which to finish my business with Yves; there were plenty of beds in the house where we could be together alone. But this was not permitted. ‘Put the cushion down there. I can watch you. Now fuck him, Joe. Make him come.’

  Yves stretched out on the long cushion, arms above his head, exposing the dense hair of his armpits. I lay on top of him, kissing his lips, his neck, down the line of his scar, sucking his tits, his cock, down to his balls, licking his perineum, his furry buttocks. He grabbed my head, pulling my hair and moaning loudly.

  And then I fucked him again, and this time I could feel the climax coming, it was real now, not a robot fucking a robot, but a man making love to another man, someone he cared about, and he felt the same, his brown fist wrapped round his cock, wanking away, and then he was coming, spurting over his matted stomach, his ring tightening around me like a hand, squeezing me until I too was shooting, screwing my eyes up so tight I saw colours blooming in the darkness, breathing hard to get oxygen in, emptying myself into Yves, filling him with light.

  I finished and opened my eyes. Yves was limp, eyelids lowered so I could only see a sliver of white, his breathing shallow.

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Graham. ‘He’s passed out. Get off, you idiot.’ He got up, spilling Jean-Pierre to the ground. ‘How much did he take? For fuck’s sake. I told him it mustn’t happen again. Wake him up. Do something! Don’t just lie there? Oh, Jesus.’ Graham picked up a towel and stormed into the house—to phone an ambulance, I assumed. Doors slammed. He did not reappear.

  ‘Is he OK?’

 
Jean-Pierre shrugged.

  ‘What should we do?’

  ‘I don’t know. He does this.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake.’ Yves could have been dying for all I knew. Graham was angry, Jean-Pierre was indifferent. Was I mad to be worried? Was this just one of those things, an occupational hazard? Perhaps he’d come around later with a sore head. Or did they die and get taken away, got rid of, covered up?

  What the fuck was this? Was I going mad? Yves’s body was cold. He was barely breathing. What should I do? Feel for a pulse? CPR? I knew enough basic first aid to put him in the recovery position and cover him with a towel to keep him warm. But what now? Supposing he died and the police came and I was incriminated, my DNA all over him, inside him, and Graham would say he knew nothing, it was all me, I found the boys, I brought them back, his word against mine, and then a nightmare of French police and jails and trials.

  I started to panic, dashing from one side of the terrace to the other, saying fuck, fuck, fuck, over and over again, please, please, please, God, God, God.

  ‘It’s OK. He’s waking up.’

  Jean-Pierre sat cross-legged by Yves’s head, stroking his hair. I saw the hairy chest rise and fall, and life returning to the hands, fingers, and eyes.

  Oh thank you God, thank you, thank you, and I took the cold body in my arms and rocked him like a child.

  The boys left a couple of hours later in Graham’s car, driven back to wherever they came from as if nothing had happened, no sex, no drugs, no passing out. All in a day’s work, I suppose. Yves had been moody and uncommunicative when he woke up and would barely look at me. I was glad when he left.

  Graham never emerged from the house.

  I found some food and took it to my room. Sober now, I knew that I had to leave. I packed as I ate, folding my clothes carefully, quietly, wondering how to get back to Nice airport without making a scene. The dream was over, and I reviewed it now as one reviews a dream, laughing at the absurdity and shuddering at the horror. Graham, my benefactor, my master, my emperor, was nothing more than a fat fool with a bulging wallet and a pocket full of pills. He was good at fucking, he’d made me feel desirable and valued, but he didn’t care about anyone. He fucked them and discarded them, and even while he fucked them, he abused them.

  Oh Christ, it hit me with a horrible, sudden clarity. He didn’t even use a condom when he fucked Jean-Pierre. He just slid it into that beautiful marble arse, unprepared, unprotected, and if he fucked rented boys without a condom and fucked me, stuck his dick in my mouth, everything we had done, oh Christ, oh God, and I was panicking again, please God, please please please, not me, not this time, let it pass me by.

  My phone buzzed, and I almost jumped out of my skin. Hello, this is Death calling. Your time is up.

  No. It was Adrian.

  No photo, just a few words. You OK?

  No. I’m not fine. I’m freaking out. I’m dying. I need help. I need a friend.

  Yeah, fine. Sorry, got interrupted. Flying home tomorrow. Can I see you soon?

  Yes, please. Call me when you get home.

  That was enough. I couldn’t trust myself to say more, even by text. I finished packing and, lacking the courage to face Graham, lay down on the bed and fell into a deep abyss of sleep.

  I landed at Gatwick in pouring rain, the sort of summer weather that routinely ruins weddings, picnics, and sporting events. Nothing could have been more appropriate to my mood, and after the dry heat of the Riviera it was a relief, as if the falling water could wash away the sticky filth of what had happened there. Graham and I parted with barely a word; he shook my hand as the chauffeur loaded my luggage into the car, and turned away before I had even left the house. I tried to say something polite, but under the circumstances, the childhood formula of ‘thank you for having me’ seemed inappropriate.

  I’d only been away for four days, but I couldn’t have chosen a worse four days if I’d tried. Alex was in the thick of his exams and needed all the parental support he could get, a duty that I had unthinkingly shirked. Angie came home, got him up in the morning, delivered the pep talks before the exams and the sympathy afterward, and she provided food and clean clothes and cuddles, which apparently they still need at eighteen. Nicky came home for a few days as well; the term was over, the end of her second year at Sheffield, and before she disappeared for a summer of travelling and festivals, she paid the old folks a visit. I suppose I must have known about this—we have a family calendar on the kitchen wall, even though we hardly exist as a family any more—but I failed to consult it before running off to Sodom-sur-Mer. So it was not as a homecoming hero that I arrived at the house, but rather as a guilty embarrassment.

  Angie was in coping mode, her default position in times of stress, and I know her too well to expect anything to penetrate her toughened-steel, Teflon-coated surface. She said, ‘Hello, darling’ as I materialized in the doorway, travel-weary, gave me a peck on the cheek as she wiped her hands on a tea towel, then returned to the kitchen where she was cooking dinner. ‘How was your trip?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘Nicky’s here.’

  Oh shit, I thought, I should have known that. What has Angie told her? ‘Dad’s been called away on a business trip? Dad’s chasing cock in the south of France? I have no idea where your father is, but our marriage is over, kids?’

  If Angie can pretend that nothing is wrong, so can I. I dropped my bags in the hall, and even though I felt like shit, exhausted from the travel, sick with apprehension about my health, I put on my best smile and prepared to greet my firstborn.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart.’ I hugged Nicky—the first human contact I’d had since Yves passed out on me. She is a beautiful young woman now, slim, athletic, and well dressed. Like her mother when we met. ‘I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. I got called away.’

  ‘I know,’ said Nicky, returning my embrace in a rather perfunctory fashion. ‘Mum explained.’

  I tried to catch Angie’s eye, looking for some clue as to what exactly she had explained, but she was busy at the stove.

  ‘It’s wonderful to see you. You look amazing.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad. So do you. Been somewhere sunny? You’re tanned.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Where’s Alex? How’s he been getting on?’

  Now Angie looked at me, with a cocked eyebrow that said quite clearly ‘as if you fucking care.’ Remember, Joe, she still doesn’t know. I’ve been away at a bad time, that’s all. She assumes I have another woman, which is fair enough because I know she has another man. And she’s been forced to come home and look after our kids while I had a few well-earned days off. Well tough, Angela. What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. I returned her look with a look of my own. Armed truce. Mutually assured destruction. We agreed, without saying a word, to keep things civil for the sake of the children (and probably because neither of us cared enough about the other to argue).

  ‘He’s upstairs.’

  ‘Revising?’

  ‘I doubt it. His last exam was yesterday.’

  ‘Of course it was. Sorry. Brain’s a bit scrambled.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Shall I go up and see him?’

  Angie turned to me with her sweetest, falsest smile. ‘Of course, darling. He’d love to see you.’ Which meant, of course, that Alex hates me, that I’ve betrayed him, let him down, sabotaged his exams, and basically ruined his life. Oh well. All teenage boys hate their fathers, don’t they? Part of the job description they don’t tell you about when you’re busy planning a family. Might as well go and face the music.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten the wedding on Saturday, have you, Dad?’ Nicky asked, as I left the room.

  I had.

  ‘Of course I haven’t. We’ve been planning it for months, haven’t we?’

  ‘Well, some of us have,’ said Nicky. ‘I’m chief bridesmaid.’

  ‘I know darling.’ Did I know? ‘And you’re going to do a great job.’ Of course�
�the bride-to-be is Holly, my niece, Nicky’s inseparable best friend during childhood, Angie’s sister’s beloved only child who lived streets away from us until they moved ten years ago down to Hampshire. And that’s where we’re all going for the weekend, to put on a united front for what may be our last public appearance as a family. Dear, sweet, spoiled Holly, a tubby little thing with thin blonde hair last time I saw her. I wondered what she’d look like squeezed into a bridal dress. Who was she marrying? Did I know him?

  Mother and daughter exchanged a glance. I thought it best to leave before the eye-rolling and sighing started.

  I tapped on Alex’s door and heard a grunt from within.

  ‘Hi, matey. How’s it going?’ He was sprawled on his bed, headphones half on.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Exams all done then?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  There was nowhere to sit; every chair was covered in clothes, books, crap. I could have joined him on the bed, like I used to when I read him a bedtime story, but the look on his face wasn’t encouraging.

  ‘How did they go?’

  He shrugged. I started to feel angry, but that doesn’t last long when you realize how badly you’ve let someone down. Your own son.

  ‘Well, I’d better unpack.’

  He turned to face the wall and adjusted his headphones—expensive DJ headphones I bought him for Christmas—so he couldn’t hear me.

  Another tie broken. Another relationship over.

  What the fuck have I done?

  I went to the bathroom, locked the door, and texted Adrian.

  Home at last. When can I see you?

  The answer came straight away: an emoji of a grinning face. Well, someone was pleased to see me.

  Then: Tonight?

  I had already typed the ‘YE’ of yes, when it occurred to me that perhaps I should have dinner with the family at least.

  Best to be honest for once. I’m seeing my family tonight. How about tomorrow?

  No reply for five minutes, then: I thought you’d left your wife ???

  What do you say to that? Am I that worst of all clichés, the married man who says he’s leaving his wife for a new lover but never gets around to it?