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Fuck me. I opened my eyes to find the man himself hovering in front of me, shirtless. Granted, his gaze skittered about the room as if his parents had tricked him into pretending to be going out when, all along, they were hiding in the cupboard under the stairs, but here he was. My ballsy boy facing the unknown head-on, as always.
“Nice bust,” I commented softly.
A slight smile curved the corner of his mouth and he flexed his pecs, first the left then the right. An impressive skill I’d never mastered, the main stumbling block being that I didn’t have any pecs. He sunk onto my lap, a knee either side of my spread thighs, hands cradling my face. Boxing me in. Fuck, he’d totally got the hang of this kissing thing.
My hands explored; I walked my fingertips down over the swell of his toned biceps, the sharp angles of his elbows, over unblemished skin yielding to firm muscles underneath. As his tongue moved hard across mine, his hands running over my T-shirt wasn’t enough. Our mouths separated, but only for the brief second it took me to yank it off. Then he manhandled me sideways, pushing me down onto the sofa to press his hot bare chest to mine, lips latched together again. The head of my dick strained at the bars of its denim prison, rubbing unbearably against the coarse fabric. A guttural noise escaped my throat.
“Shit, I’m squashing you,” he panted, a look of concern crossing his face. He eased off me, raising himself onto his elbows.
“No, you’re not.”You’re perfect,I nearly added, but instead, I pulled him back down onto me, grinding my dick into him. As Alex let out a startled gasp, I broke the above-the-belt rule, my hands roamed under his waistband and over the curve of his buttocks, grabbing two muscular, meaty handfuls of smooth flesh and giving them a squeeze.
“Shit, Matt. Oh my God.”
His mouth moved to my shoulder, hot, quick puffs of air blew across my collarbone. He licked, then sucked on my neck as he rutted on top, and I thrust up to meet him. We went at it furiously, as if Alex’s parents were on their way back and would burst into the room at any second. Not pretty or stylish, but bloody effective. I knew the second he came because sharp teeth clamped onto my neck, accompanied by a hissed intake of breath and a gravelly moan of relief. The fucking hottest noise I’d ever heard. My own orgasm barrelled straight through me; I’d Daniel Day Lewis’d into my boxers almost before my brain registered it had happened.
Afterwards, he slumped down, entirely forgetting his concerns about being too heavy. I didn’t mind. When he dared lift his head from my shoulder and forced his gaze to meet mine, the heat of his embarrassment could have powered a small generator.
“I’ve…um…”
“Yeah, I know you have. It was kind of obvious.”
“Have you?”
“Yeah. I’m covered in spunk, and you squashing me and spreading it around is making it feel even worse.”
That might have triggered him to move, but he didn’t, he just wriggled around a little more, the fucker.
“At least we didn’t get any jizz on the flowery sofa.”
He kissed me again, this time more gently, methodically seeking out every corner of my mouth before planting soft, open kisses along my jaw. I felt worshipped and it was fucking awesome.
“Oops. I’ve left a mark on your neck.” He gave it a tender kiss. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise.”
“Someone might see it.”
And so what if they did? Not a single soul knew or cared where I’d spent the evening, except perhaps Brenner, and he wouldn’t recognise a love bite if it bit him on the nose, so to speak. Let alone jump to the conclusion that it must have been administered by a boy. Alex shuffled off me and lay to the side, but still with his head tucked under my chin. Bringing my arms up, I wrapped myself around him. Cuddling, that was the name for this manoeuvre. I’d never done it before. It was kind of cool.
“How did you know you liked boys?” he asked, his voice muffled and sleepy-sounding against my chest.
“Dunno, really. I just know that I always have done.”
“Yeah, but you must have realised it’s wrong at some point. And started hiding it.”
“It’s not wrong,” I corrected him. “It’s just different.”
“You know what I mean.”
I did. Being gay equalled immoral. Unnatural. Unmentionable. Politicians discouraged debates and protests about it; teachers glossed over it during sex education lessons. School libraries expunged all books alluding to it. HIV had been labelled the gay disease, being gay killed people—gay men were swirling around in a cesspit of their own making, according to one senior copper—so being gay must be wrong. The heterosexual world wanted to pretend homosexuality didn’t exist, Section 28 tried to eradicate it entirely. Except where did all the legislation leave boys like me, who were born this way? Cowering behind a fake persona, walking with a swagger, dropping my vocal tone, making lewd jokes about tits and fanny and faggots. Trying to blend in.
“I remember watchingTop of The Popswhen Culture Club were big,” I began, with a faint smile at the memory. “‘Karma Chameleon’ sat at number one, so I can’t have been very old. Eight, maybe?”
“Doesn’t sound like your sort of music.” Alex’s teasing voice licked warmly across my bare skin. I gave him a brief squeeze. I’d watched countless Culture Club videos over and over again—second only toMy Beautiful Launderette. And had orgasmed to the pretty, pretty lead singer more times than I cared to remember.
“I’ll always make an exception for Boy George,” I responded. “I thought him the most beautiful, exotic, bravest man I’d ever seen. I still do.”
Andme, not even brave enough to hang his poster on my bedroom wall.
