Halloween, my favourite time of year. A chance to dress up, camp it up and snog someone inappropriate. Everyone is masked, made-up, disguised. Boys can be girls and girls can be boys, and no one cares. This is the one night where anything goes.
So, an interesting development. David has just joined our course, having moved from California. An all-round good guy who, as I discovered, has a penchant (I love that word) for English blonde girls.
Long story short, he and Roxanna are smitten. Totally.
Okay, so I gave them a nudge. Just a small one, by inviting David along to our weekly pizza evenings. I know you didn't like it, Henrik, but you're so magnanimous. I knew you would welcome him because it isn't in your nature not to, is it? Even when you could see the chemistry between them, you did nothing to stop it. Like an obedient dog, you lay down and submitted to the inevitable.
I felt a twinge of guilt, which lasted about a microsecond. It was up to the lovebirds to make a go of it, or not.
I've never seen Roxanna look so radiant.
Or you look so miserable.
So, like a good friend, I sought to comfort you.
Randy the professor is no longer in the picture. He couldn't stand the heat of being with me. He wanted someone softer, more gentle, not someone who pulled his hair and slapped his ass and told him what a filthy bitch he was. Not someone who dug their fingers into his hips and left marks on his neck. Not someone who pushed his face into the pillow and fucked him so hard he felt as if he would split in two.
Some people just aren't into that, I guess. He was a sweet man, too sweet for me. We kissed and parted as friends. Make no mistake, though, he'll never forget me.
Moving on. Bring on the scary masks. It's amazing how uninhibited you get when in disguise, especially if you feel reckless enough to engage me in a drinking competition, when you know, YOU KNOW, I will always win. It's that Scottish blood, laddie. You Vikings don't have a chance against me.
Cue most of the evening being spent with your head down various toilets, or the gutter. In one instance, over someone's garden fence. I'll give you one thing, though. You weave very elegantly, especially when wearing a dinner jacket and cape, your hair slicked back. I did your make up; enhancing your glorious cheekbones, giving you eyeliner and painted on fangs. I was going to dress up as Roxanna, just for shits and giggles, but I knew you wouldn't see the funny side, so instead I was Adam Ant. It was a chance for me to look pretty, rakish and sexy, rather than fucking ridiculous. I looked cute as well, with that white stripe across my nose and a frilled blouse over tight, bollock-enhancing trousers. You made some comment about seeing what I had for supper, but that made me feel hot and cold because you had obviously noticed the bulge in my jeans. What you don't know is that I added some extra fun by wearing a cock ring.
A few weeks earlier, I had discovered a backstreet shop selling leather goods. The shop owner made these cute little rings with stud fasteners for those who asked specially for them. He measured me, sucked me off because he appreciated my business, and made me this custom ring, soft calf's leather, quick release, the perfect balance of comfort and purpose. Whenever I wear it, I score big.
I mean, really big. The guys in the gay bars love that shit, a modestly-sized man with a decent package that stays hard. I've given that leather goods shop a lot of business from the gayboys. Maybe I've started something.
So yeah, the cock ring. I'm primed, you've noticed, and now we're out causing mayhem on All Hallow's Eve. I stop to snog an old lover, aware you are watching. You don't actually have to watch, Henrik, when another man cops a feel and whispers an invitation in my ear. But you do, and the look in your eyes is unreadable as I make my apologies and move back to your side.
Where did you get that bottle of tequila anyway?
By then you had reached the point of no return. How many shots? How many bars? I can't remember. Just the good times, holding on to you while you tack down the road like a ship in full sail, singing ...
What were we singing?
Oh yes, Roxanne by the Police. It hadn't taken long for you to reach the maudlin stage, your arm around my shoulder, lips close to my ear because of the noise around us, asking me why she wasn't interested in you.
At one point, you headed off in the direction of her room. I only found you because you were bellowing "Roxanne, you don't have to wear that dress tonight," like a dog howling outside her window.
Remember how I rugby-tackled you just before she came to the window? Or how I pushed you into the hedge and slapped my hand over your mouth to stop you alerting her we were there?
No?
Then you won't remember how I lay on top of you for longer than necessary, relishing the feel of your cock pressing against my lower belly.
And you definitely don't remember asking me why I had erection, or my reply.
"Because you're fucking sexy when you're drunk."
Which you are. I mean, apart from the smell of vomit and the self-pity.
And you don't remember either, the way you replied, "so are you," and the way we kind of moved together for a while, until you were hard and breathing heavily, and I was actually able to bring you off without doing more than rubbing my rock hard cock against yours.
But I remember the way your head fell back, exposing your long, pale throat, and the soft sounds, stifled by my fingers, as you ground against me, pleasuring yourself. Henrik, you are one hot mess of a man. To be honest, what you need is a night with me and two others to well and truly open your eyes.
As well as other orifices...
I doubt Roxanna would give you what you need. She's too much of a lady to wrap her pretty lips around your dick, let alone swallow. Oh, and just for the record, I don't swallow either. These are dangerous times, and I want to live.
I'm no lady. I'm a fucking queen, snake-hipped and hungry for a man who wants to be straight but knows deep down he isn't. He's bent as I am.
On Halloween, for five sweet minutes, you knew with absolute clarity what it was you hungered for.
But now, you don't remember. Is this amnesia of convenience, or genuinely alcohol-related? I'm writing this the morning after, and you're comatose on the bed, spread out, on your back, snoring. When you wake up, you're going to feel like the four horseman of the Apocalypse are thundering through your head.
I'm fine, an old lag in my tender early twenties. I want to finish this entry now so I can sit back, watch you, possibly have a wank. Same shit, different day.
Fuck it. Damn it. I didn't choose this life, this hunger, this inherent need. Neither did you.
But here we are.
How long are you going to deny your true nature for, Henrik?
How long?
