He sucks my earlobe as he starts moving his hands all over me, then purrs in my ear with his unexpected bass voice and sexy Northern Irish accent. “I wanna suck your cock, queer boy.”
I stroll down towards London Bridge, on my way home. The small shops have exploded into pastel pink (cards and chocolate shops), or bright scarlet (lingerie shop, M&S) or an embarrassed cluttered mix of both (mini supermarkets).
It’s that time of year again.
Valentine’s Day. It’s not been a highlight of my life over the years, never.
‘Ooh, Dan, do you have a girlfriend?’
‘Oi, don’t you even want a girlfriend?’
‘You a fucking poof?’
Probably. Well, yes. But let’s try that girlfriend thing.
A year later, coming up to mid-February: I’m sorry, love. Everyone was right about me being just a great big poof.
Just because I look straight, tall with short blond curls, jeans, casual shirt, liking my beer and football, didn’t mean I could do straight. I should have known.
Thank fuck, she’s now happily married and all. Anyway, that was when I moved to London. I know there was a Valentine’s Day a bit after. I think, I went to a singles night at a club, took some excellent E, and got some adequate sex. That’s what I did most weekends, anyhow.
A year later, I’d recently broken up with a guy — wasn’t too heartbroken, don’t worry — so I just bought a new PlayStation game and a case of beer and had a night in.
And then I met Adrian. I’ve been living with him about 18 months now, so there must have been a V-Day last year, but I don’t remember it. I remember drawing my own card to send for Mother’s Day that March, seeing as I couldn’t find any in London saying ‘Mom’. The woman would kill me if I sent one to Birmingham saying ‘Mum’, all Southern. She’s as proud a Brummie as Ozzy Osbourne and Spaghetti Junction, Mom is.
I flip through my previous sketchbook. I get through one every year or so, drawing people and places, some of which I create better pieces from. So it’s a bit like a diary.
There’s Mom, some drawings that really shouldn’t be sharing a book with my mom as now I have to apply the brain bleach, and then, before that set of pics of Adrian’s stretched arsehole, the Blue Mosque from Istanbul.
Ah, that explains it! I’d been studying frantically for my diploma, then during my half-term break Ade whisked me off to Turkey, so he could get warm and we could both relax and fuck our way round the locals.
I remember us and two masseurs having a right excellent day in the Turkish baths. Forget happy endings — we went back and had happy beginnings, middles and ends… Which I guess makes that the best Valentine’s Day I’ve ever had.
So by the time Ade gets in from work, round nine pm, I’m still smirking from remembering that holiday. I’ve cooked dinner, and serve us it.
“Ah, thanks for that, love,” he goes. “I needed it. What’s made you so happy?”
Him coming home, his smile when he sees me, his chiseled jaw and swept back sandy hair and his smaller body that tucks into mine, his chin on my shoulder, his gravelly voice…
I tell him, I was recalling that trip. He crinkles around his stunning blue eyes, merrily remembering too. I mean, it’s not like we don’t go out every few weeks to find some top dirty action, exploring London’s finest gay saunas.
Finest? Scuzziest, more like. Watching Adrian sucking off some geezer, kneeling on a floor covered in piss and not caring, bunch of other guys fondling each other and watching us. Then I stroke Ade’s face so he knows it’s me, and shove my cock in him so deep it’s practically coming out his mouth. That’s my idea of a fab night out, nowadays. Can’t take the beers and drugs like I used to.
There’s a wee one in walking distance — doesn’t always have anyone else we want in it, but a sauna, a shag and a shower — that still counts as a good night now I’m nigh thirty. Adrian’ll be forty in a couple months, so likes playing up to clichés of middle age.
I wonder what his take on Valentines is. I imagine, not too bothered either way, seeing as he’s never mentioned it. Or perhaps, doesn’t want to think about it, being a widower and all. His Diane died five years before I met him. She sounds like she was a great woman. She liked watching him with other men, too.
I wonder how to ask. Then I have it.
“Do you know what the best thing about me being gay is?”
He rolls his eyes. “My body. Duh.”
He has a point. “Yeah, but apart from your sweet arse?”
He humors me. “I don’t know. What is the best thing about you bein’ gay?”
“You don’t have to wait for March for Steak and a Blow Job Day, because Valentine’s Day is Steak and a Blow Job Day!”
He gives one of his hard stares. “Isn’t there one of those every month or so?”
He means the steak. We like splashing out on really good ones. Not Bern Inn shite. The blow jobs are much more frequent. They’re always really good ones, obviously.
I have to explain the meme, about men who resent buying cards and flowers and chocs because they think they get nothing out of it. Hence them pushing for what they want, a month later.
“Cunts.” Ade succinctly summarizes such men. It’s one of those insults you have to be Irish to use properly. Or Scottish, but I’m not that, neither.
“Yup. I mean, I did get Lou a card and some choccies for us to share, she got me some card — we’d just got together so it was a bit sappy — but we cooked, we had some sex. Or did we go to the cinema, and did the food and fucking the next night? Anyhow, it was fine.”
“Aye. Cos you talked to each other, ’bout the important stuff.” He laughs when I snort. “OK, aye, telling her you were a queer shirt-lifter a tad earlier might have been an idea, but you know what I mean! What you both expected from the day. There’s this thing — Five Love Languages, they call it. You know it?”
“So, like, people want to be assured they’re loved in different ways. So some people want to be given big gifts to show off, others couldn’t give a monkey’s. Some need to hear words and I love yours or get lots of hugs and cuddles, others don’t care. Some sorta appreciate all that, but if the other person makes them a cuppa and not them, or leaves a mess for them to sort out, then they feel taken for granted and unloved, right?”
“Yeah, because that’s being a fucking twat.”
“Want a cuppa?” I’m on my way to make tea, and wonder if it was a hint.
“No, but thanks. Or, you’re a doormat putting up with abuse, t’other way round, if you ask me. What was the fifth thing? Oh, if your partner just doesn’t seem to want to spend time with you. Time, that’s a big one.
“Anyway, cliché goes that women want prezzies and men want sex, but we know, that ain’t always true and you’ve missed what I just said. If what someone really wants is a walk holding hands, couple hours in the countryside with ya, or watching a fillum together all snuggling up, but you just want to have a fuck then out with your mates: if that’s the case, giving her a big bouquet and a teddy ain’t gonna cut it.”
“Ah, the classic Disney Dad!”
“Dad disnae do what?”
“No, no, Disney, like the mouse! Divorced dad, right, sees the kids once a fortnight when he can be arsed, but spends loads of money on them, on impractical shit like giant teddies and trips to Disneyland. But never on the boring stuff like new school shoes or a school trip.”
“And doesn’t give the mum money for it, neither? Aye, I’ve met the type.”
“Yeah. I always vowed, if I’d unexpectedly become a father, I wouldn’t be that shit.”
Ade takes a deep breath. “You’d be a good dad, y’know?”
Adrian’s always maintained he’s too fucked-up to ever want kids. Now, he’s way more sorted, but bet he’s still too frit to want any. Not to mention, he goes mad without enough sleep. And the tiny issue that I don’t want children. Our sisters do. His has two kids already and is working on a third, so that’ll keep our genes going.
“You don’t wanna, do you? Cos I really don’t,” I tell him.
“Oh, no! Jesus!”
Phew. “Thank fuck.”
“Much happier with us being the Bad Uncles to Will’s kids. And Stu’s and Laura’s, once they’re old enough. Ought to get my niece and nephew over again, too. They loved you.” He sighs. “My sister may be married to the most boring man in the universe, but you have to hand it to him, he does what’s needed, he’s there when it counts, he pulls his weight and all that.”
“So, no sleepless nights for us, then?”
Adrian gives that sleazy grin that’s sexy as hell. “Not for that reason, no. Fancy keeping me company for an early night?”
Early to bed, late to sleep. We try to do that on Wednesdays. Helps get through the week. “In a bit. So,” I have to know, suddenly. “What did you and Diane do on Valentine’s Days?”
He shrugs. “Mostly ignored it.” But he decides I deserve an answer. “You know how I couldn’t cope with a relationship with you for ages?”
Multiple one night stands. And that was after a month of brief encounters for blow jobs, or an evening if we were lucky. Even now, nigh on two years later, he can’t call me his boyfriend, and struggles with ‘partner’. He calls me his man, his fella. His bloke, when he starts sounding London. It all means the same thing.
“Aye, well, it was ten times worse with her. Before my therapy, still drinking to black out, remember.”
He sighs, sips his whisky. He’s obsessed. I know his bottom shelf are the standard single malts you can buy in a supermarket, which means a normal night, him drinking one or two measures. His more special ones are on the higher shelves.
“So our first Valentine’s Day, we went off to this club. Sex club, singles night. She told me if I was gonna risk drinking til I was sick, I could damn well do it by downing cum from the source, and then I’d better pleasure her for the same length of time once I gave up!”
Sounds like a great night! “And did you? Puke, I mean. It’s not like you need an excuse to suck cock!”
He smiles, refusing to take it as an insult. “I didn’t spew, thank you. I did give up after, ooh, half a dozen, and suggest it might be time for me to devote some attention to her before she got too tired to enjoy it. Had her down on a bed, me between her legs, this fit redhead and some other lass sucking on her wee tits, and I started to think sobriety might not be so bad…”
“I’m sure you suffered terribly.”
“Horribly. All night, I suffered. Horribly, horribly.”
He’s channeling some ancient TV show that was probably even before his time. Playing up both the camp and the suffering for sarcasm purposes. He was a bit into BDSM back then — well, the masochism and discipline bits, helped deal with self-hatred apparently, but he knows I don’t want to know. Well, not much. Any story involving his naked body is fine if it doesn’t have too much gory detail.
“You poor, poor, darling,” I tell him, with just as much fake posh sarcasm.
“Mm. So, aye, we had celebrations that day o’ the year, but more on the sex than the romance. Did that the rest of the time. I tell a lie, it was both. Obviously.” He sighs again, missing the woman, but pushes his empty tumbler away with one finger.
“We weren’t gonna go to overpriced restaurants all pinked up with a sudden overcrowding problem, were we now? Course, you never met the girl. Trust me, she was a canny lass. But with a softer side. So sure, I’d pour my wee heart out on a wee card,” — he glances towards the locked cupboard of what must be sentimental stuff from their relationship, which remains firmly shut even if his heart has creaked open again — “and I bought flowers for her birthday a few times, ones she liked. But when the rest of the country was getting all daft, we’d cook. Well, me. She didn’t, much. She loved a fine steak, actually! I’d track down proper Mackie’s ice-cream for going with a good pudding, and we’d crack open a special dram…”
I don’t mind the odd whisky, but the expensive stuff is wasted on me. He’d say the same about my beer — actually he’d add more swearing about how beer is just a waste in general, the cheeky git.
His sideways look makes it clear that yes, his steak meals with her would have ended in being Blow Job Day too.
“Sounds nice. Sweet.” Inane. Dan, you twit.
Adrian gets up and pours a half-measure of some extra-fancy Glenlivet, and raises it to the photo of Diane above the dresser. Then he turns back to me and smiles before sipping.
“Some traditions really should be continued, doncha think? Next Tuesday, right? I’ll pick up some meat, you stop off at the market and get some veg.”
I nod. “I’ll bring my own cock, too.”
That’s cheered him up from getting a bit maudlin. “Me too, me too. Ah, well. Traditions need to change with the times, right?”
“Yup. Speaking of tradition, you ready for bed, mate?”
My meaningful look makes clear I don’t need to fall asleep imminently.
“I am. Come on, you.”
I’m a pretty sorted chap, but I’d have to be superhuman never to have a pang of insecurity over his wife. He always used to say no-one could live up to her — his friends what knew her confirmed she was great. But he always tells me I’m not competing with her, I’m different.
I’m sure he means it, too, but it does mean I get a little extra satisfaction from fucking the guy. I’m sure pegging is fine and all, but there’s no substitute for good, hard, real cock.
I leap into the shower to freshen up for him — I know he’d happily suck my cock, no matter how minging it’d got with sweat during the day, but it’s the principle of the thing.
Two minutes later I’m mostly dry. I leap bollock-naked into our bedroom, rubbing my hair on a towel.
“Ah, my favorite water fetish boy!” He’s reclining back, also suddenly naked, idly stroking his cock as he applies his best come-hither look. It works, of course, even before he tucks hair behind his ear and goes all coy. “You tore yourself away from the shower for me!”
“Fuck off.” It’s a running joke. “If they invent a shower with a cock-sucking function, then yeah, you’re out of luck.”
I throw myself onto the bed, my head near his knees until I bend so the important bits are aligned. But Ade pushes me onto my back.
Just before he sinks my cock into his super-experienced throat, he goes, “Some of those super-fancy Japanese toilets must be able to do it. Sixty-four functions, created by engineers? You can’t tell me that there aren’t a few sexual ones in that list.”
I love the guy’s mind. It’s not just that he’s skilled at blowing me, but now he’s got me thinking of machines for sexual purposes. Some sort of gentle, controllable Hoover. With a grip to hold you in place. Some kind of buffing function round your sack. And one that might exist already — a jet of warm water to go all round your arsehole, basically rimming you and cleaning you at the same time…
I let Ade swallow round my cock. I’m not so good, not good at blocking my breathing or anything, but when he does it, he makes it look so easy. A born cocksucker, he calls himself.
I remember times when he’s had our shower spray narrowed to the jet setting and pointed it up my arse, while he’s gone and got his mouth down there. Heaven.
Mmm, his amazingly strong lips, my ring… I wriggle up the bed a bit. When he looks up, I meet his eye and look down at where I’d like him to move to.
Once he’s removed my dick from his jaw he laughs. “You insatiable wee tart!”
“You want a man getting his face in your arse-crack? You want him tonguing all round your wee hole? Aye? Hell, I know you do, all desperate to wriggle round me face, an’ all…”
“Go on, then. Get on with it.” I blow him a kiss, he does a tiny smile, and I let my legs flop apart.
Adrian’s delicate yet forceful tongue, in and round my sensitive arse, always gets me thinking that there might have been a god and some intelligent design, after all.
I’m whimpering and howling like a baby, it’s so good, while he hugs my legs to hang onto me. I’m starting to be the tiniest bit sad that I’m about to come, but also immensely relieved — I’m unsure how long I can cope with it being this good.
Then the bastard sits up, slaps my cock to stop it getting too happy, and growls, “Fuck me.”
It’s usually me who gets bossy, if anyone, but I’m so desperate to fire my load, I grab the rubber he hands me, shove him so he crumples forward, face and chest on the duvet, slosh lube in his general direction, and hammer my length into him in one hard go.
Then a few more good hard thrusts, my full strength pounding his amazing little slutty arse, gravity helping.
He loves it hard, so wearing condoms is no real imposition. Loves it so much, he’s jizzing over the bed before I get there. But then I come, and collapse on top of my slim sweaty Irishman.
He wriggles to the side and with half asleep eyes, he tells me, “So good, love. Mm.”
I go fetch his toothbrush for him. By the time he’s used it, he’ll be able to stand and then walk back from the bathroom when I’ve got him there.
He’s near sleep when I return.
“Right. You save yourself this weekend, I tell him. I want you on top fuckable form on Tuesday!”
“I thought that was Blow Job Day?”
“As you always tell me, embrace the power of ‘and’.”
A murmured laugh as he falls asleep.
I’m not mentioning it, but when he is working too hard, he sometimes gets insomnia. Which can go bad. So making sure he gets off regularly so he falls asleep is like giving him medication. Just call me Doctor. Hm, might try role-playing that, sometime.
I’m so kind, me.
Which isn’t what he thinks on Sunday, when I’m refusing to slide my cock into him any faster, providing only the slowest solid satisfaction.
“I’m not risking bruising my toy inside.”
“Thought you were supposed to be my toy boy,” he grumbles.
“Nah. You told me I’m an equal partner in this relationship. And you’re not quite ten years older.” He did, too.
“Now, now! Enough of your fantasies!” I tease.
“Ach, wind it in! She’d be lucky…”
That gets him a slap on his arse. He knows my mom well. She’d be at him with a rolling pin if she thought he were remotely serious, which he isn’t! I keep myself controlled, bring him off with my hand, and we fall asleep spooning, looking forward to the day after tomorrow.
I pick up all the veg and all we could possibly want. More beer. Chocolate? Adrian wouldn’t be bothered. Then it comes to me; my tutorial this afternoon isn’t far from one of the best whisky shops in London. I take a few photos of Adrian’s collection, then go ask for advice.
You can tell I’m a queer — I happily ask questions. Even for directions. Don’t tell my dad.
He’s got used to me and Adrian being together, likes him, they get on well, but anything not proper masculine, Dad doesn’t want to think about. Well, straight masculine stereotypes, I suppose. Plenty of proper male stuff in the world that’s for my mind to think on, not his! But not right now. Patience, I tell myself.
“Hi. Please, help me! If I want to spend £80 to £100 on a whisky, for someone owning this lot, what can you recommend?”
I pass the elderly man my phone, show him how to zoom in. “The good ones are the top row, I know that.”
He murmurs appreciatively. “Someone knows his — their — stuff. Mm. Maybe this Macallan double cask? Hm, no. It’s rather too similar to that one, there already. Hm… Not a Laphroaig, I feel. More wood, than peat, I think we want here.” He glances at me. “Do you not drink whisky, yourself?”