OK then. This is the first chapter of the story I have been promising for weeks. It might be crap, might be boring even, but you will decide that, not me. The basic premise is that life didn't go as smoothly for Emily and Naomi as the canon delivered (and lets just ignore that abomination called Fire, it never happened) . Naomi did her famous disappearing act to Cyprus...to "do some thinking" which lasted nearly the whole summer break. Even Emily, in her awesome determination to make them work as a couple, lost her motivation. Naomi was gone for weeks and the Love Ball came and went in a dreary blur in her college memory. She went as JJ's date, had a boring night and flatly refused to give him another slice of delicious Fitch pie afterwards. Exit JJ stage left. Naomi?, well, she did a lot of that famed 'thinking' and just when she'd decided to try again with Emily when she got back, found that the redhead had been snared by one Elizabeth Stonem, fresh from torturing Cook and Freddie to distraction. Always the experimental one, Effy.

But in a strange way they (Effily) worked together, both damaged and burned by love. So, Naomi retired hurt after being rebuffed when she tried to make things right and inevitably Cook, the eternal sexual predator, caught her at a weak moment a month later and finally got to 'bone' her, without interruptions this time. Emily suffered a bit, seeing Cook and Naomi going around as a sort of fucked up 'item' at Roundview for the last term, but consoled herself with the increasingly fragile Effy, who needed her much more than the blond it seemed. And more importantly, was unconcerned about what other people including Katie, thought about gay relationships.

They all went off to Uni at the end of the year (well, Cook served a short sentence at Her Majesties Pleasure for his earlier crimes, then turned up at Naomi's student halls at Goldsmiths on release and latched onto her good nature and genuine affection for him as craftily as ever. Emily and Effy got through their 3 years at Bath uni OK, Emily nursing Effy through some inevitable meltdowns and the occasional drunken penis diversion.

Fast forward to today. Naomi is 'living' with Cook, although the arrangement is very...err...loose. She tolerates his permanent 17 year old brain and unrestricted libido in return for his uncompromising support and hero worship of her. Shagging him on a Saturday night is her sole penance and she pays it if not cheerfully, wearily. No one ever came close to the feelings Emily generated in her, but she reckons thats the way of the world after school...fall in love at 16, totally implode, then suffer a dreary half life from then on. Her jaundiced view of life has just been confirmed.

Emily is almost as prosaic about her relationship with Elizabeth Stonem. They bump along together, never quite making it permanent, Effy with the ever present strong meds and Emily using Ms Stonem as a confidante and comforter after the white heat of loving Naomi Campbell hurt her so badly. They make love a bit more often than Cook and Naomi do, but its still a half life, when either of them bother to think about it...which isn't often. They are, as we start the story, just moving home from Bath to London, after Emily gets a job in a prestigious accounting firm. Boring but very well paid. Effy tags along because...well, because Emily is her sheet anchor. Always there, always constant, never demanding and when they are both in the mood, still the hands down best shag she's ever had, male or female.

So...the story begins on the morning of Effily moving day. Should be interesting?

Naomi

Fucking Cook.

Fucking Cook.

I feel the semi hysterical mantra building inside my head and deliberately force it to stop. Otherwise it will become a primal scream and I can't be doing with that at this time of morning.

Fucking Cook.

OK, maybe just one more time then.

My head aches like a bitch. My body aches too. And so it should, given what happened last night (and most of the early morning hours, my mind sneers at me).

OK, OK, I surrender in resignation to my dark, inner thoughts. I was weak...feeble...compliant...again. All the things I said I would never be around him. Shagging James Cook on a Saturday night isn't that unusual. Consider it part of my penance. Living with him surprisingly isn't totally shit, although he has some disgusting habits. He's my rock I suppose and that's not a reference to his ever hopeful erection. He's just been there for me...after the car crash called Emily Fitch...through the bleak aftermath and right on up to my graduation. He's like an annoying rash, keeps coming back but is never quite life threatening.

Oh, and he loves the bones of me. Always has apparently. Which would come as a bit of a shock to one Effy Stonem if she was ever in the vicinity. Which she isn't.

Always has, he tells me regularly. I love him too, I suppose. Just not in the same way. Not even close. And certainly not in the way I loved...No stop that Naomi. No point, water under the bridge, all in the past...etc etc.

Except it never is. Not really.

And definitely not after last night. I swear I am NEVER drinking tequila again, even if Cook walks over with a full tray, howling to the moon. Because its always been my Kryptonite. Turns my libido into a raging monster and my sensible option off switch redundant. Three doubles and I'm up for anything. It should be banned.

Which is why I'm lying here on my own, in a bed still crumpled and frankly a bit smelly from an excess of rampant sex. Cook, with his iron constitution, has already stumbled off to his work. Work which mostly consists of delivering small packages of illegal white powder to overpaid suits in those stupidly opulent office blocks on Canary Wharf a mile away. By rights he should have been busted a hundred times by now, but his boss, who owns not only the courier company, but the franchise for about 50 kilos of Colombian marching powder every month, has virtually everyone on his payroll. The local uniformed policemen, the security guards on the manned entrance to the Isle of Dogs, the doormen of the 200 metre tall buildings he visits every day and even the managers of some of the departments he calls into. So Cook is pretty fireproof and the income his dealing brings in is welcome, even if it does offend my civic pride, relying on him to pay the exorbitant rent on this place.

So...lying here...on my own. Right?

But less than two hours ago, I wasn't on my own, was I? I bet you're thinking I got well tanked up on tequila (check) sampled a couple of lines of Cookies 'special brew' ...the stuff he keeps for us, not his regular punters...(check) and let him fuck me most of the night (partly true) But that's not the whole story...not even close.

Trouble is, we went to some new shiny bar I've never been to before last night. Full of overpaid city sharks with platinum cards and a liberal sprinkling of over made up wannabe eye candy girls, some no older than 16? Well, that much was true too. But they aren't the reason I'm suffering quite so much.

No, the reason for that left the apartment an hour after Cook. After, as she said cheekily 'One more for the road, Naomi'?

A short, beautiful redhead with stunning brown eyes, a petite little nose and cupid bow lips that I'd kissed for hours. A girl Cook introduced to our table sometime after midnight, when my head was already foggy with tequila and drugs. A girl who, if you squinted hard...and I was squinting plenty by then...looked enough like a certain petite twin from Roundview that the differences were hard to spot.

A threesome then?

Well, yeah. Cook has always been partial to that little delicacy. Nine times out of ten, I tell him to fuck right off. I'm straight, yeah? (well, mostly)

Except I'm not, of course, and he knows that better than me. After...well...after her...I was determined to go the hetero route exclusively from then on. Hence the hook up with Cook and the past three years of self imposed conformity. But twice now he's got me drunk and drugged enough to give in. The first time was a bit of a disaster. Only a year after I broke up with Emily. It was all too soon, too much. At first I submerged myself in the pure delight of a naked female body...kissing, touching, exploring. Cook just watched at first, sitting naked on the bed, fisting his erection, waiting his turn. But gradually I began to break down as the passion grew.

She was pretty, available and sooo eager to please.

A bit too available. Bit too eager to please. Way too fucking similar to my one and only lesbian lover.

The girl ended up leaving frustrated and disappointed when I couldn't stop crying and Cookie boy spent the night hugging a tearful and shaking Naomi Campbell. That put the kibosh on any further 'experiments' for a good while.

Until last night.

Last night it was almost three years exactly since, well since Emily Fitch burst over my dull life like an exploding supernova, only to fizzle out, because I was too pussy to hold on to her. Regrets? Yep, just like Sinatra, I have a few...

So...last night. Cook was egging me on, telling me the girl had stopped him on his way to the bar, asking if I was single and that she thought I was gorgeous.. He played along...said me and him were like fuck buddies (which unfortunately for him is pretty much spot on) and if she wanted me...he would have to be in on it. Even if just as a spectator... the fucking perve.

He said she blew him off the first time they spoke. But as the alcohol and high quality charlie was spread around, things got a bit looser. The next time she spoke to him, I was already returning her hot looks. Jesus, she was sexy. Curvy, supple and mouthwatering. I was eye fucking her in return for nearly half an hour before Cook made his move.

It seems she agreed to come over for a drink and a line at our table...then to come back to ours for 'coffee'.

Lets just say the Gaggia in the kitchen stayed off?

Her one condition was that she didn't do cock. No way, no how. Cook could have his wicked way with me during or after she and I made out. That was OK, but any sign of him waving that prodigious technicolor todger near her and she would be out of there.

It kinda worked...at first anyway. I was so dizzy at the prospect of having sex with this gorgeous creature, so similar to...well you know what I mean...that I virtually pounced on her when we got back here.

Again, Cook enjoyed a free girlie show as the girl (I didn't even know her name until we'd made each other come for the first time...and the fact that it was Emma didn't register until later either) Way too close to 'Emily', I think you'll agree. Coincidence piled on coincidence.

Anyway, she was tender, passionate and quite aggressive in her love making. Again, slightly disconcerting looking back considering my only proper lesbian encounter up till then was by a cold lake, with a newly confident Emily topping me. But at the time, the sheer joy of Emma's mouth on mine, her fingers on and even better in me, blotted everything else out. Even when Cook, unable to resist any longer, dropped onto the bed naked behind me and started to shag me from the rear, I stayed in my little gay bubble, letting him physically have me, but concentrating totally on the gorgeous girl in front of me.

Once Cook had come, and it didn't take long, considering the front row seat he was occupying to the lesbian show, he pulled out of me. I heard the snap of the condom coming off, but just then Emma claimed me again.

By the third time she and I went at it, Cook was starting to realise he'd lit the fuse on something he couldn't put out. Once again a fresh erection was pushed into me from behind, but it might as well have been a carrot, for all the attention I paid it. His second shuddering orgasm I hardly noticed. This cute Emma girl was just waiting for him to finish and get up, before sliding down my body and using her clever tongue to finish what her fingers had started.

I heard Cook give out a long resigned sigh as he left the room naked, to smoke a cigarette, but as I said, I was being majorly distracted by then. I found out two things over the next ten minutes or so. One, my earlier timidity about returning oral compliments was at an abrupt end...and that apparently I'm pretty good at it...according to Emma anyway.

Cook slept on the couch in the other room for the rest of the night I think. But Emma woke me a couple of hours ago and we went at it again. This time I was half sober, but if that fact was supposed to limit the pleasure? No sale.

So now my head is thumping and so is my heart. My companion and flatmate is out, but undoubtedly pissed off big time that his little experiment worked a little too well. My random shag has left, the faint smell of her sweet body as the only sign she was ever here. And me? I'm more confused than ever. If I thought my own teenage 'experiment' was in the past, last night blew that idea out of the fucking water big time.

The napkin by the bed has a message on it, I've read it.

"Naomi...that was amazing. Time to come out of the closet properly babe. Call me? Emma 07926 541972"

XXX

Emily

"Come on Eff" I groaned as I tried to lift one enormous suitcase out of the small lift and along the corridor. Effy was standing by the doors, looking at the elegantly decorated corridor with suspicion. Our one bed flat in Bristol was about the same size as the lift here, and although it was my new salary as a qualified accountant (together with Effy's smaller one as a cashier) together with the £25,000 inheritance from my recently departed Granny that made this move possible, I had my doubts too. New job, new home, new life though, huh?

Staying in Bristol was a no no. Effy had started to slip dangerously backwards lately. Several nights now I had had to drag her out of some sordid low life dive where she was in imminent danger of being raped, raped then murdered, or murdered then fucking raped. I don't think the sleazy customers cared which or who went first. If she went off her meds for even a day, the 'old' Effy emerged from her shell like a vengeful phoenix. No...we needed this fresh start. We might not be a conventional 'couple'...hell, sometimes I doubt whether we are a couple at all, but she is all I have, and I am definitely all she has.

Finally Effy shrugged, stubbed her fag out on the heel of her boot and grabbed the case from the other side. This was our third trip upstairs. And I was very definitely flagging...

Ten minutes later, cases inside our new apartment, I looked casually at the apartment door next to ours. There was a small yellowing card inside the business card sized brass frame nailed on at head height.

"Campbell" It said in spidery ball point.

"Fucking hell" I breathed wearily "Give me a break big guy..."...this looking up at the uncaring ceiling "...couldn't our neighbours have any other name...like Smith, or Brown?"

If I had only known then what significance that tatty little card would for me have later, I would have stopped moaning and hauled our cases straight back down to the fucking street...

OK, short and not so sweet, but as a taster? You decide.

I'm on jury service for the next two weeks, so updates will be infrequent. But as long as someone...anyone? Cares?