by Fabian Black
I opted for the full English repast, bacon, eggs, tomatoes beans and sausages followed by toast and plenty of tea to wash it down. It would set me up for the day with no need to break my activity to partake of lunch. After breakfasting I washed up my pots. Seeing as I was in the kitchen it seemed sensible to make it the first room to put right.
The previous owners of the apartment had decorated throughout in pleasingly simple style, choosing soft creams and fresh whites to paint the walls and woodwork. The floors were all wood laminate. Window blinds and curtains had all been included in the asking price. It suited me and meant there was little for me to do by way of decoration, at least for a while. They’d obviously freshened everything up to add to the apartment’s selling potential. It was clean and bright. All I had to do was fill space. In the kitchen I unpacked my pots and pans and general crockery, china and glassware and put them into drawers and cupboards.
Moving from room to room I arranged and rearranged furniture, hung my few pictures, posed lamps on small tables I’d made myself and lay down newly bought rugs on the floors. I wasn’t overly burdened with material possessions, but I had enough to make life comfortable.
By five-thirty in the afternoon the apartment was pretty much as I wanted it. Given the humidity I was soaked in sweat with my exertions, but happy with the result. All that was left to unpack lay in the boot of my car, the majority of my clothes and the general bric-a-brac you collect as you move through life.
I’d no sooner unloaded the boot, setting bags and boxes on the tarmac, than the thunder, which had been threatening all day, announced its presence with an explosive clap, making me start with fright. The sky darkened as if a light switch had been flicked off. The thunder boomed again, bursting a cloud. Large drops of rain as heavy as pebbles began to bombard the ground, and me.
“Shit!” Ramming my car keys into a pocket of my shorts I bent down and snatched up a large cardboard box of books on top of which was balanced a box of assorted DVD’S and CD’s. It made sense to get the stuff liable to water damage inside first. A voice made me jump, yelling above the tempest of the storm.
“Saw you from my window. Thought you might need a hand.”
The owner of the voice picked up a case and a holdall and dashed towards the bakery with them. I followed close on his heels. He dumped the bags in the rear lobby at the foot of the stairs and immediately launched back out into the rain to collect more of my things. I dumped my own load and hurried after him, shouting my thanks. The words were lost in another sonic boom of thunder.
There were two boxes left, plastic crates fortunately. If they’d been cardboard they would have disintegrated in the deluge. We grabbed one each and then made a run for it as the rain fell heavier still. Lightening ripped the sky, illuminating the raindrops making them sparkle like crystals.
“Thanks, thanks so much.” I breathlessly set my burden down on the floor and then swept my wet hair back from my face with my hands.
“No problem.” Dumping my box of chattels he shoved the lobby door closed on the vile weather and then turned towards me, giving me my first proper look at his face.
“Jesus!” I took a step back, startled, as a pair of luminous yellow amber eyes glowed at me. They were animal eyes, a tiger’s. “What are you, a shape shifter?”
“Contacts,” he laughed, obviously pleased with my reaction. “I’ve got some Dracula red ones too, lots of different colours in fact.”
Before I could make a reply he picked up the case and holdall again. “You must be the new resident of number seven. I live ground level in number one.” He tipped his head towards the fire doors sealing off the lower corridor from the lobby, shaking raindrops from his hair. “Just along there. Come on. I’ll help you take your stuff up.”
He made his way up the stairs leaving a trail of wet footprints. His feet, I suddenly noticed, were bare.
Picking up the stacked boxes of books and entertainment material I strode up the first set of stairs, catching a glimpse of my neighbour’s bottom as he rounded the corner to take the second set. I couldn’t help but notice he had a rather nice rear; two pert globes encased in tight denim cut offs. My cock twitched a response, a normal male reaction to pleasant visual stimulus. However, though normal, it was inappropriate and therefore in need of quelling.
My tiger eyed helper looked to be in the same age range as some of the students I taught, those in the last furlong of their teenage years, heading for the twenties stretch. It was okay to look, it was hard not to sometimes, but one never touched. As a teacher, another reason I preferred older men was they were safer. Misjudging or ignoring a student’s age had cost many a teacher their career and their respectability.
Chapter Four
“Thank you, kind sir.” I offered a salute as he set the last box down on my living room floor. “It was good of you to help, especially in this weather. I appreciate it.”
“No bother.”
He suddenly shivered, wiping a hand down his wet face and rubbing one bare foot on top of the other. I felt a pang of guilt. “You must be cold. I know I am. The rain felt especially chilly after the heat of earlier. I’ll get us some towels. I unpacked a stack yesterday.”
Hurrying to the bathroom I lugged a couple of bath towels out of the airing cupboard. Taking them back to the living room I thrust one at him. “Here, dry off a bit.”
“Thanks.” Taking the towel he mopped his face and then rubbed it vigorously over his hair followed by his arms and legs. I did likewise.
“That’s better.” I draped my towel around my neck and held out my hand. “I’m Simon by the way, Simon Putney and you are?”
“Dee-Dee Walters.” He grasped my hand and shook it.
“Nice to meet you, DD. What are the caps short for if you don’t mind me asking?”
“They’re not short exactly, six letters, only one letter less than my full name. It’s spelled D double e dash D double e, not just two capital D’s.”
“Okay,” I acknowledged this clarification with a nod of my head before asking, “and your full name is?”
“Desmond.” He pulled a face. “I was named after my uncle. I liked him very well, but not his name so much.”
He shivered again. I pointed at his feet. “Where are your shoes?”
“Fuck knows,” he said cheerfully. “I think I left them outside somewhere yesterday. I’ll find them later.”
A memory suddenly clicked up from the day before, of the figure sitting cross-legged on the grass in front of the building.
“Was it you I saw yesterday as I drove in, sitting on the grass in the rain?” He nodded and I ventured to ask the question. “What were you doing?”
“Feeling the rain speak.” A faraway look passed over his face. “Sometimes I like feeling the rain speak. It soothes me.”
Oh boy, I thought, we’ve got a strange one here. I raised my eyebrows. “Rain speaks?”
“It does if you listen, not with your ears, but with the pores of your skin as it flows into you. It can be rather beautiful, like poetry.”
Oh yeah, he was a strange one all right.
Another loud roll of thunder made us both jump. The rain drummed aggressively against the windows. I grimaced. “I don’t think today’s rain is quoting poetry, not unless it’s angry poetry. How about I make you a coffee by way of thanks for pitching in, unless you’d prefer tea or a soft drink? I’ve got some cans of coke in the fridge.”
“Coffee would be nice, haven’t had one in a while.”
“Do you want to nip to your place and change out of those damp clothes first?”
“Nah,” he looked down at himself. “I’m fine. I haven’t got any clean stuff to change with. I’m behind with my laundry. I’ll soon dry off.”
“I’m going to change. I won’t be long, make yourself at home.” Picking up the suitcase I carried it into my bedroom. Opening it I pulled out a pair of jeans, a tee and a casual khaki shirt. When I’d changed I went to the kitchen to make coffee.
I reckoned my good neighbour deserved more than a mug of instant coffee and prepared a pot of fresh ground. Leaving it to brew I returned to the living room.
D double e dash D double e had taken me at my word and made himself at home. He was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the leather sofa busily going through my box of music and film discs. The DVD’s you buy tell other people a little bit about you as a person. Some of mine spoke volumes.
“You’re gay?” He looked up at me.
I nodded.
“Thought you had to be with stuff like this in your collection.”
He held up a DVD titled ‘LongTime Companion.’ James had given it to me, a touch ironic when you considered the NSA relationship we had shared and perhaps even more ironic was that he now had his own long time companion.
“Cried forever watching this, did you?”
“It’s a moving film, but it has lighter moments.” I looked at him with renewed interest. “You gay?”
“Yeah, well, ninety nine point nine percent.”
It seemed an odd equation. “How do you mean, ninety nine point nine percent?”
“I like the idea of taking a holiday every now and again, you know, sinking into the soft kind waves of a woman’s body.”
“So you’re bi?”
“No, not bi, just ninety nine point nine percent gay.”
“How many women have you holidayed with?”
“None to be honest.” A Snow White blush crept to his cheeks. He lowered his eyes. “I read the waves description in a book. It stayed in my head. It seemed a good opportunity to get it out. It gets crowded up there.” He gave a small shrug. “Truth is I had a best friend, Jenny Tate, knew her from being three years old in nursery school. She was funny and kind with violet eyes. She was killed by a hit and run driver on the day of her fifteenth birthday. After the funeral her mum gave me a notebook full of poems Jen had written. Most of them were love poems, about me. I had no idea she viewed me that way. I wasn’t out in those days, but I knew I was gay. By way of memorial I decided to make and keep a tiny part of me straight, just for her, so her love didn’t go unrequited.”
I wasn’t quite sure how to react. It was a crazy notion, sweet, but crazy, a reflection of youthful romanticism.
“I don’t know why I told you all that. I’ve never told anyone before.”
“I’m sorry your friend died,” I said gently. “Life isn’t fair sometimes.” I patted his shoulder. “I’ll go and get the coffee. Do you take milk? I’m afraid I have no sugar. I don’t use it.”
“White coffee without sugar is fine, Si, thanks.”
For some reason I didn’t mind him familiarly shortening my name. My college students called me Simon, as a sign they were more grown up than they had been at school and that their relationship with me was on a more equal footing. However, I did draw the line at them calling me ‘Si’ feeling it blurred the boundaries of respect between teacher and student a little too much.
Chapter Five
Returning to the living room I handed him a mug of hot aromatic coffee, noticing the rash of bluish goose pimples sprinkling his arms as I did so. “You’re perished. I’d put the gas fire on, but I’m still waiting for the supply to be reconnected. The electric was done before I moved in, but I’m still waiting for the gas board people. Here,” setting my coffee mug down on the hearth, I slipped off my over shirt and held it out. “Take off your damp t-shirt and put this on. I don’t want you catching a chill. You might sue me.”
He didn’t hesitate. Putting his coffee on the floor he stood up and peeled off his t-shirt, releasing a faint scent of sweat when he raised his arms and revealing a smooth hairless chest as he pulled the tee over his head. A comparison sprang to mind. James was as hairy as a bear.
Dropping the tee on the floor Dee-Dee took the shirt and shrugged it on, buttoning it up. It was a little big on him, but not inordinately so. I surveyed him. I reckoned I was maybe an inch or two taller and a few pounds heavier. He was slender, bordering on thin, which seemed to confirm my hypothesis about his age. A lot of young men tended not to broaden out until they hit their twenties. He looked like a sporty college boy, fresh-faced and clean-shaven, his face and chin almost as smooth as his chest. On impulse I asked him what colour his eyes were behind the startling lenses.
“Boring brown,” he said, sitting back down on the sofa and reaching for his coffee. He took a sip and hunched his shoulders in a display of pleasure. “Mmm, nice, real beans, tastes good.”
“I think I prefer brown eyes to yellow, less disconcerting.” I retrieved my mug of real beans from the hearth.
“Really?” Setting his mug back down so abruptly he almost upset the contents, he put his fingers up to his eyes, pulling at the corners, popping out the lenses. “There,” he blinked a few times and then gazed at me. What do you think, dull or what?”
“No, not at all,” I said truthfully, as his face came fully alive for the first time. You don’t really see a person until you look into their eyes properly. His were attractive with sensuous heavy lids and lush lashes. His lips were sensuously full too. My cock did its twitchy thing again. I ruthlessly suppressed it by changing the subject. “So, you live downstairs, with your parents?”
“Parents?” Tilting his head back he gave a throaty little laugh. “Nah, just me.” He slipped the yellow eye lenses into the breast pocket of my shirt.
I was surprised. He looked too young to be able to afford a mortgage on a place like this. He elaborated without prompting.
“I lived with my uncle, until he passed. He was quite old. He left the apartment to me, bought and paid for. I’d probably be on the streets otherwise.”
“The same uncle whose name you don’t like much?”
He nodded and then imparted a nugget of information that almost made me choke on the swig of coffee I’d just taken.
“He died eight years ago after a sudden massive stroke. I was nineteen, been on my own ever since.”
My mind made a rapid calculation. “Twenty-seven!” I spluttered. “You’re twenty-seven?”
“Yeah, just gone, a week ago, how old did you think I was?”
“Not twenty-seven that’s for sure. You look younger, a lot younger. I thought you were about nineteen maybe twenty.”
“I wish. How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Really?” He stared at me solemnly for a moment, appraising me. “You look older, thirty maybe, in a nice way, a young thirty. I like your ears. They’re pointed, like an elf’s.”
“Cheers,” I said, raising my coffee mug, amused by the comment.
“Age is irrelevant. It’s a state of mind not the numbers of years lived. It depends on what’s inside you. I’ve met old young people and young old people.”
“I suppose.” I sat down on an easy chair. Leaning back I took another sip of coffee. “How come you lived with your uncle? What happened to your parents, are they still alive?” My bald curiosity was rewarded, or perhaps punished, with startling candour.
“Anne is, my mother. She lives the high life in New York. I haven’t seen her since my uncle’s funeral. She isn’t exactly the maternal type, never was. I don’t know my father, so I couldn’t tell you if he’s alive or dead. I’m the result of a double whammy, a missed pill and a condom that failed in its duty during a torrid sex session in a BDSM dungeon. Just call me the gang-bang kid.”
If he was trying to shock me, he’d succeeded. I swallowed hard and stared at him. “You’re fucking winding me up, right?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Anne was into the scene in a big way. She still is.”
“And she told you about it?” He nodded and I rubbed a hand over the stubble on my chin, murmuring, “wow.”
“It’s the way she’s wired, the way she was born. She’s shacked with a couple of blokes who are into the scene too. She met one of them at a BDSM party in London. Anne’s a writer and he’s a publisher, so it seemed like a match made in hea
ven. She returned to New York with him and set up house along with another,” raising his hands he made quotation marks with his fingers, ‘Master.’ One man has never been enough for Anne. When she isn’t writing she helps her second bloke run a couple of fashionable fetish themed nightclubs. They’re pretty successful I think. They host dungeon parties too, high class affairs with an exclusive clientele.”
“Do you miss her?”
He shrugged. “You can’t miss someone who was never really there. She pursued what she wanted and motherhood wasn’t part of it. She reckoned her obligations to me were fulfilled in simply giving me life. She could easily have aborted me, but she didn’t.”
“Did she tell you that too?”
“Yes. She always spoke to me as if I was an adult. She didn’t do kiddie talk, or activities. The only toys she was interested in were sex toys.”
“Fuck!” I didn’t know what else to say. I mean there was a lot to be said for telling kids the truth, but jeez, there were surely some things kids didn’t need to know, ever, or at least until they found out for themselves at an appropriate age.
“She couldn’t do the mum thing, Si. It made her uneasy. She’s purely a sexual being. She needs to pursue her desires, and I get that, I suppose. I think people should pursue their desires otherwise what’s the point of living. I spent a lot of time with my uncle Desmond when I was little, well her uncle really, my great uncle. I moved in with him permanently when I was eleven.”
“While your mother went off to New York to live a polyamorous life of whips and leather?”
“Exactly,” he smiled.
“You said she’s a writer, what does she write?”
“She’s the queen of hardcore bondage erotica with wet cunts, throbbing cocks and an orgasm on every page.”
“Did your uncle know about,” I licked my lips, “er, what she, you know, um, her interests?”
