I don’t need him.
What if Cornwall offer him a transfer? He’ll leave me—I mean Bath.
I’m not ready to give up what we had.
We never even fucked.
I bought lube and practiced douching. Just about got the hang of it too. I also sat through an entire episode ofThe Next Generationwhilst wearing the largest anal trainer. Watching Q tease Picard with a huge plug in my ass isn’t an experience I’m in a hurry to repeat. Still, I figured it was all for a purpose.
I wonder if Georgia’s the type of girl who’d be up for pegging?
Why won’t he look at me?
He’s literally ten feet away talking to Snatch, shaking the entire bar with their laughter.
Just fucking look at me!
Despite Darby’s diminutive size, the man sure can pack away the pints. Between the pair of us, we’ve worked through enough Guinness to lubricate the entirety of Dublin on St. Patrick’s day. I’ve never peed so much in my life.
I excuse myself to the WCs once again, texting Georgia as I walk.
Hope you’re having a good evening? Do you want to hang out on Thursday?
I tuck my phone into my back pocket and stop at the urinal. I’m already peeing when I realise what I thought was a vacant bathroom is, in fact, not vacant at all. Through the six-inch gap at the bottom of the stalls, I spy two sets of feet and a pair of dark knees propped on the floor.
Dammit, someone is living my dream in there. I need to leave, but I’ve had way too many pints to stop mid-piss.
As a warning signal, I cough. Neither of them seems to hear me. One of them moans, though it sounds like they’ve got a hand over their mouth or something, and it’s just so fucking awkward. I try to piss faster. Pour every ounce of concentration I can muster into accelerating the velocity of my stream. I’m peeing so fast I’ve achieved laminar flow.
“I’m gonna come!” someone yells. Abs. It’s fucking Abs! My best friend. Ew. So that must mean those dark knees belong to Orlando, and great, now I’ve sprayed piss everywhere.
LA LA LA LA!I shout inside my head to drown out the noises of my teammate climaxing. I try to cover one ear with my shoulder.
“That was unreal,” Abs says once he’s finished whining and dropping F-bombs.
Please, God, why? Why do you hate me today? What have I done?
“You’re welcome,” Orlando says in that ultra posh accent of his.
“Do you want . . . need . . . anything?” Abs says.
Orlando replies, but it’s so quiet I can’t hear, and . . . fuck, now I’m actively listening. I should go. I’m gonna go. I need to wash the piss off my hands, but I’ll have to look for another bathroom to do that. Perhaps I can just stand outside under the rain.
“Hey, Lando?” Abs says, and I find myself not leaving. Not doing any of the things I should be doing. Instead, I perk up my ears to eavesdrop a little easier. “What does cum taste like?”
A thousand thoughts pop into my head. Of Eggo and me in the lice room, on my sofa in my lounge, in the Comfort Pines in Ireland last week. Along with fascinating insights into Abs and Orlando’s relationship. I always thought they were boinking the brains out of each other, but this question suggests otherwise.
“You’ve never tasted your own?” Orlando says.
Shit, now I’m invested.
“No.”
“You’re telling me you’ve never swiped a finger over your stomach and licked it?”
“No, why would I?” Abs says. It’s a fair point. I’m nodding to myself. Why would anyone want to sample their own cum?
“Next time, I’ll save some and we can snowball,” Orlando says.
