‘In his way.’
My mum’s phrase forhe said your name in a sentence that wasn’t about you. I know the sentence before she tells me.Is Ewan’s room warm enough for the books. Did Ewan take the good charger.Little misdirection jobs. My name is in his mouth without him having to look at a version of me he can’t see anymore.
‘Alright.’
‘I love you.’ Ordinary. How she always says it. No weather around it. ‘Sleep, Ewan.’
‘Love you too, Mum.’
Line goes.
I hold the phone for a second before I put it down because the weight of being somebody on the other end of a kettle in Lewisham is, right now, more than I can carry.
She didn’t ask. She knew, rang anyway.
The shop is in Levenshulme. Nowhere near campus, nowhere near Chorlton, nowhere near any postcode that would recognise either of us. Hood up, hands in pockets, the bell above the door announces me to a bored woman behind the counter who doesn’t look up from her crossword.
Spent three days researching with the rigour of a PhD student. Silicone, body-safe, tapered, the curve matters, the curve is the whole point. I pick it up, turn it over, and feel the weight. Smooth. Deliberate. Designed like architecture, not guesswork.
I bought it. And lube, the good kind, not the corner-shop emergency stuff. The woman scans both without comment. Professional indifference. My favourite quality in a person.
The bag sits on my lap on the tram. Innocuous. Black plastic, nobody would look twice. But the shape presses through, and my brain is already at Laurence’s flat, already past the door, already imagining his reaction when I hand it over.
‘I bought this thinking of you.’
I put it on the bed between us, still in the box. He looks at it like he looks at a proof he hasn’t seen before—tilt of the head, eyes narrowing, the first seconds of an equation he’s not sure he can solve.
‘Open it.’
He does, lifts the plug out. Holds it. His thumb runs along the curve. The calculation happens behind that focused stare, the size, the shape, the implications. He swallows.
‘You don’t have to,’ I say. Mean it. ‘We can just.’
‘I want to.’ The want in his voice is different from the want I’m used to hearing. Closer to the sound he makes going through a door he wasn’t sure would open.
I push him back on the bed. Gently. First time I’ve ever been gentle with this man without being asked, and the strangeness of it settles through me like a tool I haven’t learned to hold. He goes. Lies back, glasses already off, eyes wide and dark and trusting, and I have to look away for a second.
Lube. Generous. The click of the cap is deafening.
I start with my finger. First. Slow. Watching him like he’s the only data point that matters. He catches his breath and shifts. The body accepts the unfamiliar. Tight clench and then the gradual release. He breathes silently, and I’m so hard it’s distracting, but this isn’t about me. Maybe not ever, with him.
Second finger. The stretch widens, and his hand grips the sheet. His head tilts back, and I can see his cock thickening against his stomach. Sayingyesfaster than the mind can object. I curl my fingers, find it—the angle, the pressure, the spot locking every muscle.
‘Fuck.’ Lancashire. Raw. Dragged out of him by anatomy, not choice.
He’s not moving as fast as he does during sex. This is different, this is slow-gone. I can see it in his hands, the grip on the sheet going slack, finger by finger.
The plug, I coat it. Press the tip against him and watch that focus dilate.
‘Breathe.’
He breathes, I push. Slow. The tapered point first, the widening, taking it inch by inch, and the sound he makes whenthe widest part passes, and the base settles. Christ. A groan that starts in his chest and dies in his throat. His cock leaks against his stomach. Untouched. Just from this.
I did that, my hands, my patience.
‘How does it feel?’
His eyes open, and he looks at me. He’s staring at me like I’ve rewritten the axioms and he needs a minute to check his working.
