Taste Test: Put Some English on It

by Syd McGinley

  He stares until I nod.

  "I don't take orders from anyone, well maybe my sisters. I don't like being on teams, but I do appreciate team players—especially ones who know their place."

  I smile hopefully at him. His hand's still on my wrist. He leads me to the bedroom, talking about his sisters to torment me.

  "School was a merciful release at least until my inclinations became obvious, but next holidays the girls were into horses, so I was off the hook at home. I always had one safe place."

  As we lie down, I blurt out, “you're English!” It's just sunk in; his faint accent isn't Canadian. I fall more for him when he doesn't laugh at my confusion.

  "Well Ryan, I've been here for fifteen years. Mum and dad are big on the whole primogeniture deal. They kept on breeding until I popped out, and they're far too keen on marrying me off. And yes, I'm out, so a spot of distance keeps us on speaking terms."

  I smile about the Atlantic qualifying as a “spot,” but squeeze his hand to acknowledge the underlying pain.

  "They're good parents. Boy, don't get me wrong, but they want grandchildren—from the hereditary loins.” He directs my mouth there. “It tears them up that I shed the family seed so unproductively. Poor sibs—their anklebiters don't count."

  I tease Hugh by stopping and starting my tongue work to imagine aloud a rural manor where lines of descent matter, little boys, no matter how valuable, are shipped off to school, and ladies play croquet and sip tea. Hugh guffaws so hard I can't keep blowing him.

  "Mum's all tweeds and dogs—dad's the tea-sipper—and croquet, boy, is a vicious game."

  "But you are posh,” I say feeling like a colonial rube.

  He stretches across the bed, and tosses me a condom. His prick's a flagpole. “Oh sure, look at me: born to administer a non-existent empire. Come here, boy, my manifest destiny is to claim that butt."

  It's only a joke, but I do feel conquered as I cling on underneath him while he lifts my hips. He's not a bear, but if he gets a belly he'll be one later. Dark hair trails from his broad chest down his stomach to unruly pubes. No manscaping here. His cock is perfect—a shade too fat as he enters, but once he's in, I wouldn't trade a millimeter from his circumference. Strong hips, and powerful thighs, even if his knees are bad. They audibly grind, but he's a fucking machine. I love slow shots, but tonight I'm more than ready for him to finish. We're both tired from practice, the wine, and coming earlier. The rubber's delaying him, too. He's moved me through a variety of positions without withdrawing. I'm on my hands and knees, resorting to a clichéd pillow bite as he pushes hard and deep. He rolls to his back and orders, “Ride me.” Although my ass is sore, I slide up and down his rod.

  "Beat off, boy. I'll come when you do."

  My ass is gloriously full, and I'm light headed. I shimmy on his prick as I come. My back arches and my ass clenches as I feel his hot come even through the rubber. I long to yell, “Oh, sir,” but I've got enough brainpower left to remember he's vetoed it. I fall forward on him and rest on his heaving chest.

  We snooze, but later I pluck up courage and ask, “What's wrong with ‘sir'?"

  "It's a crock, boy. It kills me seeing my sibs social climb. Amanda went to a Swiss finishing school instead of college so she could ambassador hunt, and Ellie and Ronnie argue about precedence. Ellie's older, but Ronnie married better. They do agree Kate is last because she's youngest and married a second son."

  Who am I fucking? I wheedle until he says: “Dad's a baronet. Bottom of the title heap. The house is from mum's dad—he made money in bathroom supply."

  Undaunted by the prosaic detail I persist. “So you will be...?"

  "Sir Hugh."

  "I really could call you ‘sir'?"

  He frowns, but I detect amusement. “Ryan, I'll appreciate an earned ‘sir’ more than any inherited one, but we're not there yet: neither earned nor inherited."

  I'm freaked though. I stumble out how I lost Eduardo. I look big-eyed at Hugh. “Will I lose you to breeding for your family?"

  He slaps my ass. “Don't play me, boy. No promises about you yet, but I won't get married. Amanda's son is my heir, or I'll consider a surrogate. I'll be a dad, but no wife."

  He pulls me closer. “What I want is to coach you to be my boy."

  I nod and squirm my sore ass back against him. Right now I'll settle for a good captain, but one day he'll be my sir.

  Sea Change

  Col's driven me to distraction from London to Devon, but I resisted throwing him off the train as it crossed the Tamar River to Cornwall. He was gawping at naval frigates and missed my sigh. Now he's scrawling pink marker around every “baby, we must see this” until the guidebook blushes. It's not his dream holiday, but it's all we can afford. We'd lost our Marbella trip's deposit, but our vacation time was locked in. My Aunt Sal took pity. She didn't comment on Col's Easter-depression spending spree, but said, “Prep the cottage for tourist season, and you can stay free."

  When I told Col, he whined, “Countryside, Bri? And England?"

  But he'd caught that sigh, and he's dutifully enthused about Cornwall. He does want to see Loe Bar, “Excalibur, Bri!” He sang Abba at Waterloo station. I couldn't rebuke him. I imagined his crushed look and his chastened whisper, “Sorry Brian. I'm trying to enjoy our holiday. You said I should". Sometimes it's tearing off butterfly wings to top him. I do love him, but often fight the temptation to slap him. Col's a forensic accountant, but he's a ninny. He makes good money, but it's gone by mid-month. “Why should I be good with a budget?” he asked wide-eyed. “Analyzing corporate books has nothing to do with my willpower.” He giggled. “You always rescue me."

  "I won't have my credit ruined. Don't you want us to be a couple?” I undermined my argument by paying his share of the lunch bill. I'd hoped my recent stand about the holiday would help. When Col couldn't pay his share, I forfeited my deposit and cancelled. Col had a hissy fit. If I loved him I'd pay his share. I'd yelled back, “I could take Mike, but I'm not. I'd never leave you behind. But it's time you put something into this relationship.” There was a long silence during which I'm sure Col remembered he'd “borrowed” his deposit from me, and how prudent, handsome Mike stares at me.

  "Bri? Don't be mad. You're so grounded, and I'm so..."

  "Oh don't start that ‘I'm a frivolous fag and I can't help myself’ crap. Just don't, Col. I want you around, but I hate being treated like a sugar daddy. You make more than I do."

  "How do you always have what money you need?"

  "Need,” I repeated. “I buy what I need before what I want."

  "You're so responsible."

  "Don't make it sound like an insult. It's not a bad thing."

  I am sensible. I'm quiet, too. Silence doesn't make me nervous; Col starts to twitch after thirty seconds. It would be all right except he wants me to listen.

  I turn my attention back to the here and now Col babbling about the red-stained cliffs and china-clay moonscapes. He's anxious away from London. He's working hard to find it romantic and charming, but once his pecuniary guilt wears off, I'll be the bad guy unless I forestall it with sex and trinkets. I took this trip every summer until dad disowned me. Aunt Sal will leave the cottage to me, but for now, she depends on the rentals to stretch her pension. She lets me stay free in the winter. I prefer the coast in its private, primal desolation. In summer, the real land is still there under swarming city grubs, but the true inhabitants retreat until the heaving crowds go. But, if you take cliff paths beyond the tourists, the summer coast has charms, and the Atlantic water is bearable if you keep moving. I've never taken anyone with me until Col.

  The train pulls into Penzance. Literally the end of the line: the sea is a few hundred yards from the tracks. Dark heads bob in the water. I point, but Col's packing his I-Pod—the only tangible item from his spree.

  "Careful boys,” says the conductor. He's flirted with Col when he thought I wasn't looking. “This isn't the big city."

  Col pouts. He's so
obvious and oblivious. Better or worse though, he's my boy. To avoid a bus tantrum, I splurge on a taxi to take us to the village. Col had wanted a rental car, and sulked when I asked if his credit card would cover it. He's only made the minimum payments since Easter. Besides, we're on holiday to hike. Most of his pink-circled attractions are beyond a walk. I'll break that to him later. I want him to love the cliffs as I do, but I know better.

  He curls his lip at the modest cottage. I have an urge to spank him. Hard. No sex after. But he's picked up my mood and is all accommodation. He volunteers to buy groceries while I start the maintenance. He spoils it by waiting expectantly. I hand him a twenty.

  "Bri!"

  "Bread, milk, tea, sugar, butter, marmalade."

  "Bri..."

  "Breakfast. I'll buy dinners and picnic lunches."

  He has the grace to look chagrined. Once he's gone, I relish the solitude. He's a feather-brained motor mouth. How can I love him so much? The closed-up house smell is being scoured away by the sea breeze, the curtains flap, and I sing as I inventory tasks. Col's added grapes and wine, but stacks my change on the counter to show he paid for his purchases.

  Col's usually out until four a.m. on Saturdays, but he acquiesces to a quiet walk for fish-and-chips. Sitting on a train all day was exhausting. We turn at the crest of the hill. I sense the water contained but prowling in the harbor below.

  "It's so dark, Bri."

  "You've never been in the countryside before?"

  "Parks are it. No sea."

  "Poor city boy. You don't know anything except buildings and traffic."

  "Clubs and bright lights,” mutters Col. He should be dancing in Marbella tonight. I take his wrist. His pulse feels strong and alien in this ancient place where Phoenicians and Celts traded.

  Col presses against me, then says, “Food's getting cold. Since I'm stuck here, at least let me have cod while it's hot."

  We cuddle on the lumpy couch until Col sulks about no TV. I slap his ass, put him over my shoulder, and march up the narrow stairs.

  We go to the tourist beach the next three days. It's sterile. No driftwood, just an occasional lump of tar or dead crab. I swim a lot. The surf's weak and I'm beyond the breakers with a few strokes. City life feels amputated; here, legs kicking to keep me upright, I'm whole. Col's stretched out, listening to his baby-pink I-Pod, feet waggling. He'll vegetate for a few days, but once he's restless, I'll persuade him to see my Cornwall.

  A wave form passes through me. I dive down, eyes open. Col's facing away from the water so he won't notice. He thought I'd drowned yesterday and was plucking up courage to make it through the breakers when I surfaced. We pretended his tears were spray. I take another stroke down deeper. Where the seabed shelves away, I see something moving. Something larger than me. I surface fast, ride in on the wave, and scramble up before the backwash catches me. Col squeals at the cold drips, but only leers at my wet thighs. He's been good on this family beach; I'll give him that.

  He's fed up with sand-garnished box lunches so I treat him to an over-priced lunch in a twee bistro. He'd rather have sushi in a city, but Col's too pleased to be suspicious. He does look askance when I agree to spend the afternoon in the harbor-side shops. I've said no every day.

  Many shopkeepers are familiar to me from childhood, but I'm still an emmet to them. It's not enough to be born here. Your great-grandparents must be natives and no one can have left. Then you're local. I get abrupt nods, but not addressed by name. Col doesn't care. He swallows every tourist tale in his determination to not say Marbella.

  Col has a book of Cornish legends—no TV he says when I raise my eyebrows—and inspects a tea towel. It's linen, but has that damn prayer on it. Col chants it aloud. “Listen, Bri. From Ghoulies and Ghosties / And long-legged beasties / And things that go bump in the night, May the good Lord protect us."

  "You should worry more about your credit card going bump."

  His face crumples. I feel terrible, but more worried about a scene. Aunt Sal's forfeited her native status, but still gets a “morning, Miss P."

  "Shit. I'm sorry."

  "I'm not a child, Bri. I'm on holiday. Having fun. Give it a try sometime."

  To my relief, he'd whispered. On Monday he'd needed sunglasses, camped it up in a gift shop, and flirted with clerk who told him ‘piskie’ is Cornish for pixie. I'd been sharp later. “Out is one thing, Col, but this isn't London.” His chastened, downcast eyes had been infinitely moving and sexy. I'd wanted to take him home and scold him more. Today, he's the picture of injured dignity, and, since shopping is softening him up for tomorrow, I dangle a tacky piskie key chain at him.

  "He looks like you. Give me your stuff. I'll get it. The cottage is free, we've got return train tickets—our entire budget can be fun."

  Col examines the piskie. It's a gimcrack thing, but does look like Col when he's trying not to laugh.

  "Thanks."

  I say nothing when he picks up a tour brochure, and he bites his lip when I pick up scuba info. There are bumps in the night, but they're all explained by the headboard hitting the wall. Next day, Col whistles in the shower. His smile barely dims when I say, “Let's skip the beach, and hike along the cliffs."

  He dutifully packs supplies; I remove his I-Pod, but leave his book. This is my domain, unbruised by holidaymakers, calling me back. If Col hates it, we won't last. There are tide-pools two miles from town. Col's patient when I detour into the scuba center. He's a timid sea swimmer, but does use pools. He's paddled a bit, but made me laugh by saying the ocean's unnatural. On our first day, I induced him into the waves, but he'd tripped, and panicked when the backwash pulled him along. He's alarmed when I buy two sets of flippers, masks, and snorkels.

  "Oh Bri, I can't, the waves..."

  I risk a public endearment. “It's okay, little piskie. We'll be in a pool.” Whoops, wrong word. I see from his face he's imagining a chlorinated, heated pool with tanned muscled bodies to watch. Like in Marbella. “Tide-pool,” I amend. He nods, and we walk along in silence for a bit until we reach the cliffs. The village is behind a hillcrest. The ocean's to our left and there's a sweep of moor to our right. I'm no botanist except here, and I point out gorse, thrift, and pinks. He nods politely. A Londoner his whole life, it's all new to him.

  "The ground is bouncy,” he says.

  "Weird, isn't it? It's the type of grass and the salt."

  "I might spring off the cliff,” he says morbidly.

  The path is perilous. Tripping could send you over. “I'd catch you.” No one's around, so I pull him close and kiss him before pointing to a small depression up ahead. “Steps."

  Col squeals all the way down the rough treads cut between ledges on a low part of the cliff. The cove is almost deserted even in emmet season. A family's camped out at one end. I lead Col off in the opposite direction. There's an eerie beauty to the cove's rock slabs, gullies, and caverns. The surf crashing against gray boulders and seagull cries are the only sounds. The tide's out. I warn Col that being away from the steps after the tide comes in means being trapped at the cliff base at best.

  "We've got hours yet. I won't let anything happen."

  We set up camp on a quartz-shot rock slab. Col reaches for his book. I take it away.

  "Swim first."

  He pouts, but gets into the sun-warmed, waist-deep pool, and we splash around. I show him how to float face down with the mask and snorkel. He's grumpy about losing his hair gel with no mirrors around to repair the damage. He does look funny with his hair flopped forward. He dutifully tugs on limpets, and sticks his fingers in cervix-like anemones. Col's fascinated by brine shrimp and hermit crabs, but won't agree to come into a deep channel running from the ocean to the cliff.

  "Seaweed. Big bits. And it goes under the cliff, and I can't see the bottom. You know I need to be able to stand up. And the water's moving."

  I argue that the seaweed's like grass; he doesn't have to swim into the cave; and, I'll be beside him. He's adamant and has a c
loudy look brewing. Today's going better than I'd hoped, so I don't assert my nominal authority. I divert him with lunch: baguettes, runny brie, and nectarines. After a nap, I put on my flippers and slide into the dark water. It's cold in the cliff shadow, but I keep moving. I won't try the cave without scuba gear so I work on regaining my skill with a snorkel. My eyes adjust to the underwater dimness, and I reach for a perfect razor shell.

  A rainbow-scaled tail-fluke bigger than my flippered-feet.

  This time, I'm more in control, but my biceps tremble as I haul myself out. I lie there a moment, beached. I pick my way back over barnacles to Col. He's still asleep. I read his book for a bit, then I lie and say, “Tide's turning."

  Next day, it rains. Col smothers his dismay.

  "Here—playing cards. You've got your book and I-Pod for later. I'll get chores done.” Col's clumsy as well as chatterbox. He gives a chipper smile, and lays out an elaborate solitaire game. He's soon absorbed. It looks childish, but he explains rules to me, and I realize his job appraisals aren't hyperbole. When he's focused, he's sharp. We have a companionable domestic morning. It's good to look up from a repair, and see my boy engrossed.

  We venture out in the afternoon under a golf umbrella. Col's gleeful that the rain gives us license to walk close.

  "Aren't you worried that we look together?"

  I growl, but let him buy saffron cake while I pick out cheap steak, potatoes and onions. Col's aghast at my groceries, but I add a gossip magazine—I want him occupied while I make dinner. He tries to peek in the kitchen. I know he thinks it's going to be nasty.

  "Out of my kitchen, boy. I bought you that trash to read. I don't want you laughing at me with flour on my nose."

  He pokes out his tongue, but returns to reading about Posh and Becks. I don't like cooking, but making pasties is in my genes. Col won't accept the scraggy meat I chose is the succulent flesh he's devouring.