Spanking Dee-Dee

by Fabian Black

  “He’s twenty-seven.”

  “You’re kidding?” Her eyes grew round.

  “God’s truth, so even if I was dating him it would be him doing the cradle snatching, not me. However, I’m not dating him. He’s just a friend.”

  “That’s what you said about James. Thank God you’re over him,” she paused, touching my arm. “You are over him, aren’t you?”

  I shrugged. “There was nothing for me to get over, Jo, no relationship. He never had feelings for me.” It was the closest she was going to get to an admission from me.

  “Unrequited love is the worst kind.” She gave me a fierce sisterly hug. “He could have given you something, a tiny piece of himself, instead of just using you and chucking you aside. I hated him for making you unhappy.”

  “Don’t blame him, Jo. It wasn’t like that, and anyway it doesn’t matter now.”

  “You’ll find someone. One day.”

  I tapped the end of her nose, grinning. “I ain’t looking, sis. I’m happy as I am.”

  “Simon Putney, you are not going to die,” she shuddered, “a confirmed bachelor not while there’s a breath in my body.”

  “Better make sure I don’t poison your Christmas dinner then hadn’t you?” I grabbed and tickled her, but she easily overpowered me. Damn her Girl Guide ninja training.

  Dee-Dee was quiet at first, his shy side in the ascendancy, but not in an awkward way. I could tell he was enjoying the experience of spending Christmas with a family. The full trimmings thing was new to him. He loved the decorations, the tree, the food, the banter, board games and other festive traditions built up over the years. There were no complaints and groans from him when my mother trotted out her favourite Christmas Eve film, The Sound of Music. He loved it. At last she had a Von Trapp ally.

  There were a few sticky moments, such as when mum exercised her maternal right to be nosey and began asking questions about his family. Dee-Dee is an open book in many respects, but I knew there were things written on his pages that would horrify my mother and he would then be mortified for revealing them. I took on the role of censor. Every time mum asked a question I supplied an answer before poor Dee-Dee could get a word in edgewise.

  When mum discovered ‘Anne’ lived in New York and was a writer she naturally wanted to know what sort of thing she wrote. Before Dee-Dee could tell her the gory details in his inimitable honest fashion I jumped in and said she wrote erotic romances for the adult market. Mum is strictly a ‘Woman’s Own’ sweet romance reader so I knew she was unlikely to ask for a backlist of titles.

  When she asked about his father I said he’d left before Dee-Dee was born and he’d never known him.

  Dee-Dee twigged what I was doing and shot me a grateful look every time I diffused what might have been an awkward moment.

  Mum, however, wasn’t amused by my intervention. In the end she gave me an exasperated look and said, “I’m sure Dee-Dee can speak for himself, Simon. As a teacher I thought you were supposed to set questions, not answer them.”

  For some reason her tart retort cracked Dee-Dee up. He started laughing and soon we were all joining in.

  My bossy sister stuck her oar in again at the end of the holiday, the day after Boxing Day. I wanted an early start and planned on leaving after breakfast. Dee-Dee offered to help me wash up after we’d eaten, but Jo shooed him away saying she would help and why didn’t he go pack. I guessed she was probably set on advising me again and braced myself. I was right. She started as soon as we were alone in the kitchen.

  “Marry the boy, Simon, or I will.”

  I winked at her. “Won’t Pete have something to say about that?”

  “Huh! I reckon he’d marry him himself. I think Dee-Dee has brought out his gay side. Pete thinks he’s a sweetheart, and he is.”

  “I agree. No argument. He is a sweetheart, and a good friend.”

  “You know, Simes.” She vigorously dried a bowl I’d washed. “Maybe you ought to consider counselling.”

  “Counselling!” I glared at her in exasperation. “Counselling for what?”

  “Your trust issues.”

  “I don’t have trust issues, Jo.”

  “Not all men are dad.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I think you’re afraid to fall in love with someone attainable in case you get abandoned like mum was abandoned by dad. Not all men are like dad. Some have sticking power, like Pete. I’m sure Dee-Dee does too. He seems the loyal type.”

  “We’re friends, why do you find it so hard to accept? Gay men have friends. Gay men can actually be friends with other gay men. We don’t automatically want to bed every male we meet.”

  She persisted. “Stop trying to stay safe, stop trying to control your feelings. Don’t put up an umbrella, feel the rain.”

  “Three days you’ve known him and already you’re beginning to sound like him. He says things like that.”

  “He’s a wise man,” she paused for a moment before adding, “in a weird way.” She dried the last cereal bowl and looked at me, her face serious. “All I’m saying is stop blocking and let yourself go.” Her serious look wavered. “Trust your feelings, Luke, let the force be with you.”

  “Fuck off, Jo.” Grabbing the tea towel from her I draped it over her head as she creased up with laughter at her own joke.

  On our return home we parted in the bakery lobby. Dee-Dee thanked me for what he called the best Christmas ever. He then pecked a quick kiss onto my cheek before pushing the fire doors open and disappearing down the corridor. I stood for a moment and then mounted the stairs to my own apartment. I didn’t see him for a while afterwards. He didn’t call, phone or mail and neither did I. I think we each had a need to reclaim our personal space after being in close proximity.

  It had become a tradition for me to spend New Year’s Eve with my friends Vicky and Ian. They always had a big party. I phoned Dee and asked if he wanted to come with me, but he declined, saying he wouldn’t feel comfortable at a party full of strangers. He wasn’t a party animal. Besides, he didn’t care for New Year’s Eve at all. It made him feel lonely. He preferred to go to bed early and forget about it.

  I had mixed feelings about him turning down the invitation. Part of me was sad at the thought of him being alone. I was also relieved because I didn’t want Vicky and Ian doing the speculation bit, as Jo had done. I then felt guilty for being relieved.

  I didn’t enjoy the party as much as I usually did. Vicky tried to fix me up with a gay friend of a friend. Phil was nice enough, a few years older than me, and pleasant looking in a homely way. We chatted and had a couple if dances, but there was no click between us, no chemistry.

  Shortly before midnight I got an excited phone call from Tony. He told me he’d proposed to Ruby and she’d accepted. He bellowed to make sure he was heard above the sounds of the party I could hear raging in the background. ‘I’m engaged, man, I’m engaged to the best girl in the world.’ He professed himself to be the happiest man alive. He sounded it. I offered my delighted congratulations and then let him get back to his party and the lady of his dreams.

  I was genuinely thrilled for him and Ruby, but for some reason the news left me feeling a bit, not depressed exactly, but something, left behind in some way?

  Midnight struck and the New Year was born. Once the revelry had died down I found a quiet spot and got out my phone, visited by a strong compulsion to call Dee-Dee, but I didn’t, reluctant to disturb him in case he was sleeping. Instead I sent an email, wishing him a Happy New Year, inviting him to come and have a drink and something to eat with me when I returned home.

  He wasn’t abed as he had claimed he’d be. He emailed an immediate return of my salutations and said he would love to have supper with me when I got back. Stuff email. I phoned him, sharing news about Tony’s New Year’s Eve proposal to Ruby and her acceptance of it. He’d met Tony a handful of times and Ruby only once, but was happy for them. I couldn’t see his face, but somehow I knew his dreamy look was a
dorning it.

  Vicky tracked me down. She’d had a few glasses of champagne too many and demanded to know why I was hiding away with a fucking phone pressed to my lughole when there was hard partying to be done. I told her I was wishing a friend a happy New Year.

  “Friend?” An inevitable look came to her blue eyes. “Boyfriend? Is that why you blew off poor Phil? Is it why you’ve looked miserable all night? Who is he, why didn’t you invite him?” She made a playful grab for my mobile. “Let me talk to him. Is it that neighbour of yours? The one you always talk about as if he’s an angel. I am so going to meet him this year.”

  “Behave, Vicky. You’ll scare him. He’s shy.” Laughing I held her off, yelling for Ian to come rescue me. He obliged, sweeping her off her feet with a caveman roar and carrying her off to dance with him. I got back to Dee-Dee, describing the party to him, as Amy Winehouse sang in the background about love being a losing game.

  The next day before I left for home, a bleary-eyed Vicky put her arms around me and hugged me. “This is going to be your year for love, Simon. I can feel it in my water. My wee never lies.”

  I grinned at her. “I’m surprised you can feel anything after the amount you had to drink last night.”

  As things turned out, what she felt in her water were the early stirrings of a new life. She called me in mid January to report she was pregnant. It wasn’t planned, but she and Ian were thrilled at the prospect of being parents, if a little sooner than intended.

  Afterwards I walked over to the window and stared out at the bakery gardens. There was a light powdering of snow making everything look crisp and clean. My warm breath misted the cold panes, obscuring the view. I wiped the steam away with my hand. Life was moving along for my friends with engagements and babies. They were natural progressions. I was happy for my friends, but also inexplicably sad at the same time.

  Dee-Dee came into view. He’d called me earlier, as excited as a child to inform me it was snowing. Snow was winter’s treasure, he said. He was going outside to try and photograph some of its jewels before they melted. I’d bought him a camera for Christmas, it was only an inexpensive little digital thing, but he loved it. I told him it would serve to keep his head much less crowded if he used it to store some images.

  I smiled, as I looked at him. He’d obviously left in an impulsive hurry without bothering to dress for the weather. He was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved top. Even from where I was standing I could see he was frozen. Grabbing my apartment keys and a spare sweater I headed off to intercept him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The year gathered momentum, winter yielded to spring and spring to summer. I turned twenty-six and Dee-Dee twenty-eight. I’d lived at the bakery for a year. James was a memory. I could go for weeks without a thought of him and when the thoughts did come they were fleeting things with no power to pain me. I bumped into him once at a teachers trade union meeting. I felt a small ripple of shock at coming face to face with him after so long. It soon passed.

  We exchanged polite smiles and some small talk about work. I didn’t ask about Kye. It was none of my business. James was still wearing a wedding ring so I assumed they were still together. I was glad. I told him it was nice to see him and then walked away without looking back.

  I told Dee-Dee about seeing James and how it hadn’t bothered me. He said it meant James was not only off my fridge, but also out of my system and maybe I should get shot of the picture he’d glimpsed in my kitchen drawer when getting out a clean tea towel. I did. I also removed him and Kye from my phone and email contacts thus completing the process of separation.

  Dee and I had become an integrated part of each other’s life. We met up almost daily, if only for a brief chat. I considered him my best friend. He accompanied me to Jo and Pete’s wedding in the spring and would accompany me to Tony and Ruby’s wedding the following spring. I already had a stock of tissues on standby for emotional outbursts.

  Vicky and Ian’s baby was due in September. They had sounded me out about being a godfather. I was proud as punch at the prospect. Life was pleasant.

  College broke up for the summer months, though I wasn’t to be a man of total leisure. The college powers had granted me use of the facilities to offer a short course teaching basic joinery and carpentry skills. Other courses were offered out of term time so it wasn’t as if they were opening the building for me alone. The take up rate for the classes had been excellent. I was no fine artist with wood, but I enjoyed working with it and making practical things or renovating old things.

  The classes meant a bit more revenue for the college, and for me. It wasn’t about extra money though. I relished the thought of morphing into an old-fashioned woodwork teacher as a break from teaching maths to unenthusiastic teenagers. My gramps had been a carpenter. I’d learned my skills from him. I was looking forward to passing them on.

  On the Monday following the break up of college I was awoken at half past six in the morning by the waspish buzzing of my intercom. It was Dee-Dee. He sounded excited. He wanted me to come down to his apartment. Now. This minute. He had something to show me. He’d been quiet for the past week or so, ever since his birthday, a little distant, lost in dreamy thoughts. It was nice to hear him sounding alert and present.

  Dragging on shorts, a t-shirt and a pair of deck shoes, I headed downstairs, expecting to be shown a new art project he’d started, or one he’d finished. It was no such thing.

  A prickly sense of foreboding swept over me as I stared at the legend emblazoned across his computer screen.

  MEETME ~ GAY PERSONALS

  The love of your life could be an email away

  ‘In search of a genuine Alpha Male’

  “Good subject line.” He stabbed a long finger at the screen. “Attention grabbing, don’t you think, Si?”

  “Shush.” I manoeuvred the finger aside. “Let me read seeing as it’s what you dragged me here to do.” I read:

  ‘Hi, my name is Desmond, though I prefer to be known as Dee-Dee. I’m 25 years old, 5’9’, of slim build, clean-shaven, brown hair and brown eyes, sometimes blue or green or purple depending on what contacts I’m wearing. I’ve been told I’m nice looking in a boyish kind of way. I’m average in the downstairs department, no remarkable inches or super size balls, but everything is in proportion and in full working order.

  I’m searching for someone to share my life with. Looks are not important. I’m an artist and my perspective of beauty is far ranging and goes beyond surface interpretation. I’m the kind of man who sees a world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wild flower.

  Bearing is what I’m looking for, a particular kind of attitude. I like strong men, true, honest, natural, one hundred percent dominant men. I want a man who won’t be afraid to take charge, a man who’ll guide me, as well as cherish and love me 24/7.

  In short I’m searching for an alpha male. If you think you might be the man to put an end to my search then get in touch to arrange an interview.

  This is a genuine post, so genuine replies only. No time wasters please.’

  “Well,” he spoke impatiently. “What do you think?”

  “I think you should credit William Blake for the grain of sand reference.”

  “How come you spotted it? I thought teachers of science and practical subjects were a bit like sportsmen and totally ignorant of anything literary, such as being able to read.”

  “Don’t get cheeky or I’ll turn you over my knee.”

  “Huh, I wish I could believe you meant it. Come on, Simon. I stayed up half the night composing the ad and waiting for it to go live. What do you think?”

  “You seriously want to know?” I pulled my eyes away from the screen, tilting my head back to gaze up at him. He was standing behind me, his hands resting on the back of the computer chair.

  “I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”

  I pulled a face. “I think you’re bonkers. Not least because you knocked me up out of bed at six thirty to show me this.”
>
  His face clouded at my words. I stood up placing a hand on his shoulder. “Listen, Dee-Dee. I know you hope this ad will bring you the lace-edged velvet-lined macho man of your strange little dreams, but let’s be realistic. It’s more likely to bring you a fair range of time wasters, fakes and nutters. Be careful is what I’m saying, or you’ll end up hurt and I don’t mean in the cosy idealistic way you fantasise about.”

  “So young and yet so cynical.”

  “I’m sensible. What you’re doing is risky. Face it, most blokes who graze through free contact sites like this do so with a hard on and what they’re seeking is relief in the form of a fumble, a suck and a fuck, not lifelong love. MEETME should be renamed MEATME. You don’t get genuine dates from sites like this, Dee. You get the clap from people addicted to casual sex.”

  “Honestly, Si. You have no romance in your soul. Look what it says. It says the love of my life could be just an email away.”

  “I don’t think it’s referring to you personally. You’ll be better off joining a proper gay dating agency with a paying membership of people who are looking for more than one off easy sex.”

  “I already have, last week.”

  “Really?” I was taken aback and a bit hurt, though it answered the question of his recent distraction. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “Have you had any responses?”

  “Not one.”

  “Probably because you scare vanillas off by saying things like that.” I pointed at the screen. “It’s a tall order you’re making. I know you won’t thank me for this, but you need to join a specialist dating site, where the members will get where you’re coming from.”

  “I’m not joining a fetish site. The people there are into kinky sex and I’m not, so they won’t, Si. They won’t get where I’m coming from.”

  “Why go looking now? Why advertise? You always said it would be a natural process and your alpha man would find you.”