It was Saturday evening. Gene was sitting on the end of his marital bed. Sam was watching him intently from the hard-backed chair under the Van Gough sunflower print on the opposite wall. The Missus had been gone for three nights, and her invasive presence was beginning to fade from the room. The bed was in a spectacular state of disarray. The sheets had been balled up and kicked entirely to the floor at its foot. The duck feather duvet was bunched in the bottom of the floral-patterned cover, the rest of the cover hanging loose and deflated off the edge of the mattress.

At first, it had made Gene uncomfortable to do it here. It seemed that Sheila was watching him from the chintz wallpaper, the lime-green standard lamp shades and through the beady eyes of the porcelain dog collection on the dressing table. But as the empty whiskey bottles started to outnumber the dogs, and the thin, permanent haze of fag smoke had started to accumulate near the ceiling, he had started slowly but surely to relax, and could even imagine that she might not be coming back in a fortnight. That the place would be all his for eternity. Besides – they couldn't use Sam's place. The bed was a pile of steaming crap.

And they'd had the time of their lives, since Tuesday, in Gene and Sheila's king-sized, heavy pine bed. They'd moaned, groaned and hollered, mounting each other in turn, twisting into positions that Gene had thought his bones too old for, and Sam had thought existed only in The Decameron. They'd slept splayed out and sheet-less, the air from the open window drying the sweat on their knackered, aching bodies. They'd woken up at midnight to do it again, and then again at dawn to get another one in before work.

They'd have some serious cleaning up to do before Sheila got back.

Tonight, however, after they'd rolled home from the Arms, Gene had opened a bottle of Glenfiddich, and by unspoken agreement they'd simply sat together in the dishevelled bedroom, drinking their drinks and indulging in silence. Gene had unselfconsciously stripped off his shirt and undone his belt and flies, but only because it was swelteringly hot, even with the window open, and he wanted to be comfortable. Sam was still in his leather jacket, seemingly impervious to the heat. He was always cold, that skinny little bastard.

They'd never exchanged words or gestures of affection, and they probably never would. Ever since the moment the unbearable, baffling tension had snapped and they'd crashed together, teeth meeting before lips or tongues and limbs too long and too many for Sam's tiny fold-out bed, nothing in their relationship or interactions had changed, apart from the shagging.

Except that they both now felt bound to each other with a cord so tight that if it ever snapped, one or both of them was going to get cut to ribbons. Of course, neither had said this to the other.

Sam sipped his whiskey, toed off his shoes and drew his knees up to his chest in a decidedly girly manner.

'It's a bit kinky, isn't it?' he said.

'What is?' asked Gene, absently.

Sam didn't answer. Just sat looking contemplative, until Gene said,
'You going to enlighten me, or you assuming we've reached such a level of symbiosis that your prissy thoughts are now one with mine?'

'Doing it in here,' said Sam, looking around at the trashed tasteful Middle-Class decor. 'In the room where you shag your wife.'

Gene flexed his naked shoulders. He looked at Sam hugging his own knees.

'There, Dorothy,' said Gene, 'You make an assumption even bigger than Diana Dors' peachy-ripe buttocks.' He lit a cigarette and drew half of it into his lungs in one drag.

'Oh,' said Sam, a little sheepish. 'Sorry. You and she... you don't...?'

'Nowt to be sorry for, Samantha,' said Gene. He finished his cigarette with a second drag. 'To answer your question though,' he said, 'Yes. It is a bit bloody kinky. Doin' it in this particular bedroom.' He flicked ash into a whiskey glass on the bedside table. 'Why? It turnin' you on thinkin' about it?'

Sam shrugged.

'Not really.' He looked up at the ceiling. 'I'm not really a very kinky sort of person.'

Gene barked out a cruel laugh.

'I'll bloody bet,' he said. The green glow from the standard lamp was falling mostly on Gene, and Sam was largely in shadow. Gene fixed him with a hard stare, daring him to come out into the light. 'In fact,' he said, 'I'd put my last pound on it.'

The easy, familiar atmosphere in the room suddenly dissipated.

Sam didn't move, but his agitated, offended voice floated out from his dark shape.

'And what do you know about how sexually adventurous I am?' he said.

'Plenty, I'd say,' Gene shot back.

'I might not be a pervert,' said Sam, 'but I have a fantasy or two.'

Gene laughed low in his throat.

'Hearts, flowers and bunny rabbits,' he spat. 'Making love in the long grass after a picnic by the river. Bored housewife's frigging fodder.'

'Your wife's sort of fantasy, then?' asked Sam.

Gene glared. That was below the belt. But Sam hadn't finished.

'Fuck right off, why don't you?' said Sam, his hackles rising. 'You're all bluster, you are. I'll bet you're as vanilla as they come?'

'I'm not a bloody ice cream, Gladys,' shouted Gene.

'Bet you never even fantasise,' continued Sam. 'Bet a solo session for you involves five minutes with a titty mag, a closed fist and a crumpled tissue.' Sam was vibrating, overdosing on adrenaline. He'd never risen to Gene's heckles as easily or as fearlessly as this before. He was lowering himself. Demeaning himself. But he couldn't help it. It had all burst from him in a torrent of petulant, righteous anger.

Sam expected Gene to react quickly and violently, and he wasn't disappointed.

Gene pounced from the bed, propelled by the tight strings of the mattress, and pressed himself heavily against Sam in the chair, slapping Sam full in the face with the odour of boiling rage and stale sweat. Instead of Sam's lapels, Gene reached for his hair, and snatched two handfuls near the back of Sam's head, tilting Sam's neck back, and watching his face contort in pain.

'I, Dorothy,' he whispered, 'am the kinkiest bloody sod you're ever likely to lay eyes, hands or mouth upon.'

Sam refused to be cowed.

'You think?' he said. 'Prove it, then. What's your biggest fantasy?'

Gene released Sam's hair. He stood up, his long shadow merging with the others that shrouded Sam's form.

'What's yours?' he asked.

'I asked you first,' said Sam.

'Girl,' said Gene.

'Infant,' said Sam.

'Coward,' said Gene.

'Shaving you with a straight razor,' said Sam.

'What?' asked Gene, his brow furrowing in confusion.

'That's my fantasy,' he said. 'I want to shave you with a straight razor.'

Gene looked mildly alarmed.

'Your face,' added Sam hurriedly. 'I'd like to shave your face with a straight razor.'

Gene tossed Sam back into the chair and stood, crossing back over to the bed, sitting down and shuffling backwards until he was propped up by the headboard. His outward demeanour had calmed, though Sam could see the coiled rage sitting not far below the surface.

Eventually, Gene said,

'You really are a kinky sod.'

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

'It's not really a fantasy,' said Sam, 'so much as something I've always... just wanted to...' His words dried up. 'I can't explain it. I'm not going to suggest we do it. I'm not even sure it's sexual – I just...'

Gene was scratching his chest and stomach, breathing steadily and noisily through his nose. All at once, he said,

'There's a straight razor in the bathroom cabinet.'

Gene had spoken so quietly, Sam was unsure he'd spoken at all. He stood up and deposited his whiskey glass on the end table beside his chair, searching Gene's expression for signs of insincerity.

'Are you serious?' asked Sam. When Gene continued to look at him candidly, silently, Sam shrugged off his leather jacket and slipped out of the door and along the corridor to the bathroom.

The bathroom smelled heavily of smoke as well. Sam suspected Gene smoked while he bathed, at least while his wife was away. It wouldn't be in the least surprising. He'd never shared a bath or a bathroom with Gene. Their intimacy didn't extend quite that far. Instead, Sam tended to sprawl across the entire bed and listen to Gene splashing forcefully and singing his own lewd version of 'My Old Man's A Dustman' through the closed bathroom door. The arrangement suited Sam fine.

He found the wet shaving kit on the top shelf of the cabinet, laid out in astonishingly neat and organised array. A can of shaving foam. A straight razor. A leather strap to sharpen the blade. All in pristine condition. He'd seen Gene shave with an electric razor most work mornings, though this kit was clearly still in regular use. Perhaps Gene used it on weekends.

Sam picked up the tin of foam and the razor, turning off the bathroom light with his elbow as he went past.

Gene was dozing lightly as Sam approached the bed. Sam looked at Gene's slack face – his long eyelashes, thin lips. The peppery dusting of stubble around the lips, crawling across his cheeks and down his throat. Gene looked peaceful. Sam set down the kit on the bedside table.

Gene's eyes opened, and he looked directly at Sam. Then he folded his hands over his bare stomach. He fixed his gaze on the straight razor as Sam flicked the metal blade out from the wooden handle. 'You used one of those before, Gladys?'

'How hard can it be?' said Sam. He turned the razor over in his hand and pressed a fingertip against the blade to test its sharpness.

'Hold it at a 30° angle,' said Gene. 'Firm, but gentle. Use plenty of foam.' He shuffled up to sit a little straighter against the headboard. 'You cut me,' he said, his voice deadly serious, 'and I cut you.'

Sam nodded. He didn't doubt it. He picked up the shaving foam, uncapped it and sprayed a generous amount into the palm of his hand. Then he worked the fingers of his other hand through the cream until it expanded into a fluffy, silken mass. He scooped some up onto his fingers, knelt on the edge of the mattress at a right-angle to Gene, and reached out for his face.

Gene grabbed his wrist.

'Shave off my sideburns,' he said, 'and I will slice off your testicles, hang them out to dry, wrap them in a foil bag and serve them to Carling as pork scratchings.'

Sam tugged his wrist free.

'Never crossed my mind, Guv,' he said, and began to spread the foam across Gene's cheeks and chin, moving his fingers slowly.

When he'd covered Gene's cheeks, chin and throat, he went back for more foam and ran his index and middle fingers across Gene's upper lip with small, circular motions, coating that small area of skin as well.

'This turnin' you on?' asked Gene. He sounded slightly impatient, though he wasn't fidgeting.

Sam nodded.

'Why?' asked Gene gruffly, genuinely curious.

'Dunno,' said Sam. 'I suppose it's 'cause...' He thought for a long moment. 'I suppose it's 'cause you're a bit unkempt...' Gene shot Sam a dangerous look, but let him continue, 'And I've always wanted to groom you.'

'Make us sound like fucking monkeys, Margery,' said Gene.

Sam wiped his hands on his jeans and reached behind him to pick up the razor.

He thought about how he'd longed to shave as a kid, and had imitated his Dad as he stood with him before the bathroom mirror, stealing squirts of shaving foam and scraping it off his smooth face with the plastic toy knife from his kitchen playset.

Sam set the edge of the blade against Gene's closest cheek, and drew it downwards carefully. He listened to the whisper of a scrape as the blade passed across Gene's skin. Looked at the perfect path of clean pink in the wake of the razor. Moved the blade to the right and made another pass.

Gene was breathing shallowly through his nose. His eyelids fluttered closed.

'You're a fucking pervert, you are,' said Gene.

Sam poked his tongue out in concentration as he gently and purposefully shaved all of Gene's right cheek.

'I think I'm managing to do it fairly closely,' he said.

It was a little while before Sam realised that Gene had slid a hand down the front of his own jeans and was stroking himself. Not frantically or roughly, like he usually preferred to masturbate. But slowly and softly. Languidly. Sam had never seen Gene do anything that gently.

The razor slipped and took a slice out of Gene's chin.

'Fuck!' bellowed Gene, gripping Sam painfully by the wrist and sitting bolt upright. He clapped a hand to the side of his face, and looked at it angrily as it came away pink with blood-tinged shaving foam. He grabbed at Sam's collar with the other hand, and Sam thought he might be about to lift him up and headbutt him. Instead, Gene tugged monstrously hard, and ripped half of Sam's cheap, badly-stitched polyester collar from his shirt, pressing the torn fabric to the cut on his chin.

'Bloody hell, Guv,' said Sam, wide-eyed. 'What am I going to wear home tomorrow?'

'Wear one of mine,' he said.

'It'll be swimming on me,' said Sam, looking at the piece of cloth, now nearly saturated in crimson. 'I think I missed the major arteries,' Sam said, trying for levity.

'Well that's a bloody relief,' said Gene, completely side-stepping the half-hearted humour. 'Gimme that.' He snatched for the razor. Sam held it at arm's length. Gene leant over and grabbed for it again, and his face mashed against Sam's, smearing Sam's left cheek with blood and foam. Thrown off-balance, Sam relinquished the razor to Gene's hold, and Gene sat back against the headboard again, turning the blade to catch the glare from the lamp. Sam watched the clean slashes of light it threw across the walls and ceiling.

Then Gene leaned forward and began to scrape the smeared shaving foam from Sam's cheek with long, practised swipes of the razor blade. As he did so, Gene slapped Sam's other cheek with the flat of his hand.

'There's nothin' to shave,' he said. 'Yer such a prissy fuckin' ponce, you 'avent even got a lick of stubble.' He let his hand lie still against Sam's cheek. 'Smooth. Like a bird.' He drew his hand down Sam's cheek, down his neck and gripped his shoulder tightly. 'Like a girl.' He threw himself onto Sam face-first, licking at his cheek and searching out his mouth with his tongue. Sam scrambled up from the floor and knelt on the bed in front of Gene, holding his head between his hands. They rubbed their faces together, their chins slick and messy from leftover shaving foam. Gene tugged his head away and wiped his face and Sam's clean with the duvet cover, and then fell back onto Sam.

The whole bottom half of Gene's face tasted bitter and powdery, sharp and clean. Sam poked out his tongue and licked across his smooth right cheek, over his nose and right across his stubbly left cheek. Gene looked a little ridiculous, he thought, half-shaven, though Sam couldn't really care less. He started to bite at Gene's cheeks, chew his chin, and suddenly Gene gripped Sam's shoulders and began to give as good as he got. When they reached each others mouths, they were sucking, chewing with teeth, their jaws working restlessly and desperately. Gene put a hand on the back of Sam's head and pressed their faces together impossibly tight. Gene's nose brushed Sam's cheek near his ear. Their mouths were open so wide that the corners of their lips threatened to split. Sam was still holding the straight razor in his hand, the blade out, held away from their bodies, almost forgotten.

They had never kissed for this long before.

The cut on Gene's chin began to bleed again. He knew because he could feel a warm, thin trickle worming its way down the side of his neck. He took Sam's hand and moved it until Sam's thumb came into contact with the blood. Picking up the cue effortlessly, Sam smeared the blood up, back over Gene's chin and pushed his thumb into the non-existent gap between their mouths, introducing the taste of copper into the mix of soap, smoke and spit.

Sam left Gene's mouth and began to suck intently at the slice on the edge of Gene's jaw. It was clean, long and deep, and Sam worked his tongue right inside of it, feeling the skin part, teasing out more blood to taste.

'Aya!' said Gene. 'Who d'ye think ye are, fucking Dracula?'

'That your fantasy?' asked Sam. 'Want me to suck your blood?'

Gene squirmed, but didn't pull away.

'Hardly bloody likely,' he said.

Sam sat back, his lips a little redder than usual.

'Go on, then,' he said. 'What is your fantasy? Tit for tat, Gene.' He grinned, 'Quid pro quo, Clarice.'

'Do I look like a Clarice to you, Samantha?' asked Gene, his expression murderous.

'It's from Silence of the Lambs,' said Sam.

'Children's story?' asked Gene.

Sam shook his head.

'Sort of.' He turned to put the razor on the bedside table. 'What's your fantasy?' he persisted.

Gene fell quiet, and busied himself removing his jeans, the heat finally threatening to overwhelm him.

'If you fucking laugh, Gladys,' said Gene, his tone low and genuinely threatening, 'I will take your tiny knackers, twist them in my giant hand like I'm tying off the end of a balloon, find a Biro pen and see how many jabs it takes them to pop.'

Sam stepped back, a little shocked.

'You're threatening all sorts of horrors for my testicles tonight,' he said. 'I think you'd really quite miss them if you went through with your promises.'

Gene cupped a large hand around Sam's crotch and squeezed. Sam sobered quickly.

'I won't laugh, Guv,' he said. 'I promise.'

'Good,' said Gene. 'It's nice to see you have a modicum of sense rattlin' around in that hollow little nutshell of a noggin.' He paused for a long while, his gaze resting on nothing in particular, and Sam thought for a moment that he'd changed his mind. Then, all of a sudden, Gene said,

'Always wanted to see you smokin'.'

Sam didn't laugh. Instead he unbuttoned his shirt, beginning to feel the heat himself. He shrugged it off his shoulders and spoke firmly.

'I don't think I want to invite emphysema into my alveoli just so you can get your rocks off,' he said.

'Was I meant to understand a syllable of that,' asked Gene, 'or had you deliberately slipped into the region-specific dialect of Gibberish-ton?' Gene reached into the pocket of his discarded jeans and took out his packet of fags and lighter. 'Come on,' he said. 'I did yours. Quit prow cow, Gladys.'

Sam thought for a moment. He'd tried smoking once, adhering to the accepted cliché, behind the bike sheds in his first year at Barton Comprehensive. He'd enjoyed the taste, but it had made him light-headed and queasy. He supposed he could bring himself to do it again. As a one-off. The thought didn't thrill him. But though he never would have admitted it, he was eager to please Gene.

He opened his mouth to acquiesce, but before he could speak, Gene drew out a cigarette from the pack and laid the filter gently on Sam's bottom lip. When Sam closed his lips around it, Gene flicked open his lighter, struck the wheel with his thumb and held the flame to the end of the fag.

'Suck on it,' said Gene.

Sam pursed his lips and drew on the end of the cigarette, and the tip flared red. He was wracked with a cough as smoke filled his mouth and lungs, and took the cigarette from his mouth, doubling over, coughing chestily. Gene took the cigarette from Sam's fingers, placed it in his own mouth and took a long drag, waiting for Sam to recover. When Sam straightened, tears in his eyes, Gene held out the cigarette again, the filter tip wet from his saliva.

Sam took it, eyeing it warily. Then he took another, smaller drag, keeping the smoke in his mouth.

'Don't cheat,' said Gene. 'Breathe it in.'

Sam straightened his shoulders, and inhaled, holding the cigarette tightly just in front of the filter. He felt the surprising rush of nicotine fizzing through his veins, stripping his nerve endings raw and spurring on his heart rate. Gene was looking at him almost ferally, his eyes alight at the display.

Sam took another drag.

'Don't let it out this time,' said Gene. And Sam held his breath.

'I feel a bit sick,' said Sam in a strained, close-throated voice.

'Shut it, you great Jessie,' said Gene, gripped Sam behind the ears and pulled his head so that they were face to face, their mouths about five inches from each other. 'Don't let it out yet,' he said, watching Sam's cheeks flush red as he swallowed back the smoke.

Then Gene opened his mouth and leaned in close, so that his mouth was nearly touching Sam's. He moved his fingers down to tease Sam's jaw open.

'Now,' he said. 'Now let it out.'

Sam opened his mouth, and was about to let out his breath in a gush of ecstatic relief, when the sight of Gene's close, slightly-open mouth made him pause, and then let out the smoke ever so slowly, so that just a trickle of it snaked out from between his parted lips.

Gene opened his mouth a little wider, tilted his head slightly to the right and let the tendril of smoke curl into his own mouth. Sam let another wisp of smoke escape from his lips, and Gene let that creep into his mouth as well and sit on his tongue. Gene rolled the taste around in his mouth for a moment, and then breathed in, only to breathe back out, sending the diminished mouthful of smoke back into Sam's mouth, tasting slightly of Gene. Gene took the burnt-out cigarette from Sam and reached blindly behind him to drop it into an empty whiskey glass, then pulled back, fumbling for another fag and lighting it hurriedly. He took a lungful of smoke and moved back in, covering Sam's mouth with his own, sealing his lips against Sam's to create a little airtight chamber full of the taste of tobacco and tongues. Sam sucked on Gene's mouth, swallowing the smoke, and then released Gene with a 'pop,' accepting the cigarette from Gene, leaning back against the headboard and beginning to smoke languidly and with relish, as though he'd done it all his life. Gene sat back on his haunches, watching him.

'Gorgeous,' said Gene. 'Fucking gorgeous.' Then he pulled Sam's legs apart, knelt between them, dragged Sam's trousers and y-fronts down to his knees and took his hot, hard erection deep into his throat.

'Aaaah!' said Sam. 'You've never done that before!'

Gene pulled off.

'And I never will again, Gladys, if you don't keep your trap shut.' He took him back into his mouth.

Sam continued to draw on the cigarette until it was burned almost down to the filter, and Gene watched the cherry flare again and again, keeping his eyes on that focal point as he sucked on Sam. When Sam came, he dropped the lit fag onto his chest accidentally, crying out in shock as the red-hot tip bit into his skin. Gene didn't want Sam to come in his mouth, and pulled back when he heard the shout, receiving the spray of Sam's cum across his right cheek, thicker, warmer and more glutinous than shaving foam.

Sam snatched the fag off his chest and dropped it into the whiskey glass with the other, panting hard. He reached for part of the duvet cover and leant over to wipe himself off Gene's face, but Gene said,

'Leave it.'

He got up onto his knees and canted his hips towards Sam.

'Toss me off,' he said.

Sam didn't hesitate. He took Gene's straining erection in his hand and began to pump him quickly.

'Hurry up,' said Gene. 'Desperate.'

Sam worked his hand faster. He went in to kiss Gene again, but before he could, Gene began to talk.

'You and me, Gladys,' he said, low and rumbling. 'Kinky sods together.' He shuddered, and his breath shuddered too. 'Bet you'd let me do anything to you, wouldn't ye?' He bucked into Sam's hand, sprinting towards his peak. 'Bet anything I proposed, you'd – just – fucking – love – it. And the things I could dream up to make you do. In this room. In this bed. Shit,' he bellowed. 'Gonna come now.'

He came all over the floral patterned duvet cover.

Epilogue

The Missus would be back in a fortnight. They'd have to clean up the bloody bedroom. And whether they did or not, she'd still be back. Lord knew how they were going to get the smell of smoke out of the upholstery.

They'd have to go back to using Sam's pile of crap single bed. Praying it wouldn't disintegrate beneath them as they heaved and pounded. This room had been a bloody luxury. They'd never have anywhere as good as this again.