We've all heard of hanging on someone's every word, but for me, as he starts to speak, it's like I'm hanging by a bloody noose tethered to every syllable, every tiny inflection of his voice, not to mention that other 'hanging' – when one's life hangs in the balance. It's not until several minutes in that I realize I'm not breathing, that my body is rigid, that I'm frozen to the spot, every muscle clenched.
Even in condensed form, the whole recounting takes forty minutes, at some point during which, I remember to breathe. I hear of the general doubt/denial/disbelief, the accusations made against me, the insistence that he visit the doctor, Effy's outdoor advice, the tears, the screaming, the sarcasm, the strides Tony appeared to make, well into the day, with his mum in the loo, followed by the battle starting all over again with his dad, the subsequent screaming row that ensued between both parents, Effy taking and throwing a ceramic antique to the floor to make them stop, his dad promptly bolting from the house, his mum crying and calling after him, his eventual return and the tense, four-way kitchen table discussion that followed, etc etc etc.
"Christ," he says, sounding thoroughly drained. "it's like a war. Like I need a bloody solicitor. A criminal solicitor. Or a bodyguard. I had no idea, Maxxie."
"Fuck's sake, Tone," I snap, "you're not allowed to pause. How was it left ? ?"
I can hear his weary shrug.
"It was left that I think mum may come round, but dad's being a dick. Everything I told my mum that seemed to work, didn't work with my dad. It was almost like he was pissy at mum for her maybe in his mind 'caving', and he therefore had to take the opposite tack and insist that I would wake up in the morning 'myself' again, but that I was seeing the doctor, regardless."
"Does he blame me ?"
"Of course. That, and my brain. He thinks it's something organic, or at least, that's what he's pinning it on, because that way, they can just xray my head or give me a pill and his son'll magically be straight again."
I take a breath, shallow – my lungs are incapable of anything else - and flop back in my chair, wanting to feel relieved, so desperately in need of a break from the tension and fear, from this thing standing in the way of the rest of my life, but realizing we don't have that luxury, yet.
"It's still early, Tone. Just the first day. It's a process, remember," I tell him, hoping that my attempts to sound calm and analytical will ease my pitching stomach.
"Fucking balls-out painful process. Today was harder than anything I went through with my injury."
"I know," I say, flooded with guilt. If only I hadn't confessed it to him, how I felt, if only I hadn't told him that I loved him, we'd both have been saved from the potential horror that accompanies meeting The One, and then having him wrenched from your life.
Holy shit, did I actually think that ? Christ ! If anything is a measure of how difficult this is, it's that I actually just caught myself wishing for a variation of The Closet.
"It's alright Tone. Your mum, she's usually the family bellwether, right ? And she seemed to-"
"-My dad and her are in bed talking, or I'm sure, arguing about this right now, and ya, he usually follows her lead, but that doesn't mean he won't convince her to turn tail come morning-"
"-She might, Tone. My parents flip flopped about this for weeks until they finally came round. It was awful. I literally almost got an ulcer from the stress."
"I feel like my brain is one big ulcer, right now."
"You should go to bed."
"Fuck, are you kidding ? Not til I hear what happened to you."
I recount my parents' shock, their initial, unbelievably insulting suspicions as to the sincerity of my intentions, their expressions of disappointment and frustration that I could possibly have 'let this happen' considering all of the other boys there are in the world, their dire predictions for my mum's friendship with Tony's, their concerns as to whether this is the right thing for him to begin with, the impact it would have on him in society and at school, their almost complete disregard for my feelings in the matter, our own resulting screaming match and eventual roundtable meeting during which we all cried, then had a group hug (including the family dog), and the whole thing closing with them promising to support me, and giving our relationship their tentative, nervous blessing.
"Christ," he says. "How long did all this take ?"
"Two, three hours. When you didn't call me after the fourth hour, I was fucking pulling my hair out. I did five hundred crunches and about two thousand jumping jacks until my dad yelled at me to stop cuz the walls were shaking. By the sixth hour, all I could think was that you'd been thrown out the second floor window and were lying dead on the sidewalk. I had to stop myself from running to your place and-"
"-Bloody good thing you didn't. Early on, mum said she would ring your goddamn neck if she saw you, and dad said you were no longer welcome in the house."
Christ. I flop back against the chair.
Okay. Calm down. This shit – parent-posturing - is to be expected. Absolutely par for the course, and I tell him so.
"I just wanna be past this," he says, "I wanna fast forward to like two years from now."
"Tony, it won't take two years, I promise. It'll be months, tops. More like weeks."
"I don't feel like I can handle weeks."
"Well, not to say there'll be a battle every day. The first day is typically the worst. So, that's behind you, now. It sounds like you did really well, actually, if you felt like your mother was coming round so relatively quickly."
"I think she was. She listened to me, the entire back story, and we even held hands, and she hugged me. Those are good signs, right ?"
"Or course, Tone."
"But how do I know she won't flip flop overnight ? My dad's probably convincing her, right now, that it's my fucking brain, because he doesn't want people to know he has a homo son. I should storm into their bedroom and-"
"-Tony, listen. They're going to have irrational thoughts. They're reeling. Your dad is, anyway. Knowing your mum, and the dynamics in your family, I really think she's going to bring him round."
"But how do you know ? What if, come morning-"
"-Fuck the morning. You've had ten hours of hell. You need to back away from this, now. You need rest. You're in bed. Go to sleep."
There's a big sigh on the other end.
"Do the deep breathing I showed you. It'll help," I whisper. "Then, sleep."
"Okay," is he weary response.
"Remember I love you. Nothing will change that."
Silence.
I wait.
Nothing.
What the ?
"Tone ?"
Silence. My god, is he … is he trying to send me a message ?
"Tony ?"
Silence.
Oh god. Is he uncomfortable, suddenly with me saying that ? Is he afraid to say it back lest it jinx things ? Lest everything fall apart ? Is that how little faith he has-?
"-Tony, fuck's sake, what is it ? Are you there ? What's wrong ?"
The next sound I hear I'm quite familiar with.
Snoring.
Christthankgod.
Bloody boy's so spent, he pitched off before he could hang up his mobile, which is sweet, in a way, but ... did he have to give me a bloody heart attack ?
I crawl under the covers, snuggle down, turn up the volume and hold it by my ear, so that as I drift off on our first night apart, there is Tony, with me.
The coming days are a roller coaster, to say the very least. Tony's fears about his mother's flip flopping prove mostly false, but Tony and his dad grow increasingly estranged, with his dad basically ignoring him, particularly once Tony refuses to see the doctor. On the third day, the two blow up at each other, during which Tony accuses his dad of being a hypocrite (for having ever given lip service to gay rights), and a coward, telling him he cares more about what his friends and neighbors think, than his own son. A yelling match ensues, to the point where his dad calls him a poof, his mother bursts into tears, and Effy smashes another porcelain antique. His dad then storms from the house, and spends the night at his brother's. The three remaining Stonems use the occasion to break out a bottle of wine, and get slowly, wearily pissed.
Dad's brother, Tony's Uncle Jim, apparently works a little magic, for upon dad's return on Day Four, he apologizes, and promises to listen to the Back Story, or rather Stories, for he declares that he is now open to listening even to mine.
His dad doesn't say much. He grunts and nods, and asks few questions, but it's a start, and Tony swears to me excitedly that he can see the change in his eyes.
"I think I really can, Max," he tells me afterwards on the phone. "I think this might actually be it – the moment when he finally starts coming to grips."
"Oh, thank god," I respond, hand over my eyes.
"Ya, cuz I don't know if I can stand this anymore. Every day I don't see you I think I'll lose my mind."
"Same here."
By the week's end, Tony reports that he and his dad are talking again, almost as before, but Tony begins to notice that The Topic is never raised. It's almost as if his dad has decided that so long as they ignore it, so long as they pretend it isn't there, all will be fine. It's then that Tony pulls a Tony, and, without telling me first, asks his parents permission to bring me to the house.
Which, unfortunately results in his dad immediately flying off the handle, which leads to a part screaming match, part insult-a-thon, the two nearly coming to blows until Effy steps between them, and his dad finally storms from the house to spend another night at Uncle Jim's.
So the sticking point, then, clearly, is me.
"What do I do, Max ?" He says to me on the phone, almost frantic.
"There's nothing you can do. Your dad's throwing tantrums. I'm sure his brother will straighten him out, again."
"But you know what ? I'm almost beginning to think mum and dad's marriage is gonna break up over this. Dad's even sleeping on the couch."
"Oh, dear."
"They're barely talking. Why does it have to be so hard, Maxxie ? So destructive ? I didn't expect that. I didn't expect my whole family to blow apart."
We sit. We sulk. I feel awful.
"I'm so sorry."
He says nothing. The endless tension and stress is clearly getting to him, and for that I feel particularly horrid, which is why I blurt the unthinkable. The thing the guilt-ridden part of my mind makes me say.
"Tone, do you wanna give up on this ? I mean-"
"-WHAAAT ? !" He shouts, so loud, that four miles away, I jump in place.
"I just, I-I mean, if it's crossed your mind, if you don't think it's worth it-"
"-If I don't think it's WORTH it ! ? Where the FUCK did that come from ? ! Is that how little you value our relationship ? ! I'm going through absolute hell over here-"
"-I know, Tony, I-"
"-My whole family's fighting, my home life's breaking up, I'm going out of my fucking mind battling this every day just so we can be together and you wanna back out of it, now ? ! Are you fucking-!"
"-NO!" I shout into the phone. "NOW WILL YOU CALM THE FUCK DOWN, please ?" He does, but it takes minute or two. Finally when there's silence on the line, I speak.
"Look, I'm sorry. I feel incredibly awful about this, Tone, that's the only reason I said it. It's not a reflection of how I feel – you know I love you to pieces – and I sure as hell have no plans to back out of this, nor do I want to. I'm just racked with guilt ! I feel like it's all my fault, what you're going through and I can barely sleep."
I hear the bed springs creak as he flops backward onto the mattress. He's quiet for a minute before he speaks.
"I just wanna make absolutely sure you haven't changed your mind."
"Tony, come on, didn't you just hear me ? Do you seriously think I could change my mind overnight about who I love and who I wanna be with ? Please don't read anything into what I said, for fuck's sake. It was just a weak moment. A result of the stress."
He takes a long, deep breath.
"I know. Sorry. Didn't mean to flip out."
"Don't apologize."
There's a pause on the line as we each gather our thoughts.
"I miss you," he says.
My heart swells.
"Oh, I miss you too, my angel. Feels like months."
"I wanna see you."
"We can't, Tone. Not til this blows over. If I showed up at your house, I'd get a black eye."
"What if I went to your place ?"
"Not a good idea. Until your mum and my mum start communicating again, it'd be too fucking tense and awkward, and would just cause more problems."
"Well maybe we can sneak off together."
"How ? Daytime's out – both of our mums are home most days, and my dad's off work right now. Both of our families are watching us like hawks."
"Middle of the night, then."
I shake my head.
"Too risky. Your dad's got insomnia and he's sleeping on the couch; he'll hear you going out, and instantly know why."
"So I'll climb out my fucking window."
"Don't be ridiculous. You'll fall and break your head, and then they'll come after me with a bloody machete because it will be obvious why you were sneaking out."
"We'll figure some way out, and we'll get a hotel."
"Well, do you have money? Cuz I don't. I'm skint - spent every quid I got for my birthday on Brighton."
"I'll swipe my dad's credit card."
"Very funny. Why not just convince your mum to let your dad back into their bed, and-"
"-Not gonna happen. Believe me, she's too frigging ripped at him."
We each let out a frustrated exhalation. It is rather maddening to think that we're both basically prisoners to this whole thing, until it's resolved, one way or the other.
"I miss the sex," he pouts.
"Oh shit," I laugh out loud. "Me too."
"Like bad, though. You don't know what it's like to not have that for a year, and then have it really intensely for three days, all these synapses in your body wake, screaming to life, and then, nothing."
Goddamn. Screaming synapses. He makes it sound so good. I pout, myself.
"I'm sorry."
We each stew a minute in the unfairness of it all.
"You're absolutely amazing in the sack, Maxxie."
Brat that I am, the compliment's impact is spoiled by the use of my given name versus the pet name I've become so enamored of.
Should I say anything ? No.
Do I say something, though ? Yes.
"You're very sweet, Tone, but do me a favour; if you're gonna say something like that, follow it up with something better than 'Maxxie', 'kay ?"
He laughs.
"Okay. I'll remember that."
I smile, and speak teasingly.
"Anyway, you were saying about me… ?"
"Um, just how fucking amazing you are in bed. And how much I can't wait to fuck you."
"Oh my," I giggle. "Such harsh language. Yes, that sounds delicious."
"From what I recall you like a little harsh language."
"No," I laugh. "Not a little."
He laughs.
"Something along the lines of 'slut', perhaps ?"
I squirm in embarrassment.
"Yes, that might be the case. Too bad out of context, it sounds so cheesy and cliché."
"I think it's hot."
"It is, but ..."
"You know, when we did it in the loo at the theatre-"
"-Oh god, talk about cliché," I laugh.
"It was fucking epic. Are you kidding? Squirming round in my lap like that ? Fucking monstrous. I'd do it again in a heartbeat."
"You are a dirty boy."
"Ya," he scoffs. "And you're clean as a nun. Except for the part about public blowjobs."
"That wasn't my fault. You licked my fingers just beforehand. I had no choice."
"It was innocent ! How was I to know you were gonna fucking kneel down and ..."
There's then a pregnant pause, the air between us growing thick and weighty …
"Okay ..." He says in a breathy whisper.
"What ?"
"You, um, you sure you can't make it over here ?"
"Why ?"
"Cuz, like ..." he laughs wearily. "I'm like, mildly hard."
Gulp.
"Seriously ?"
"Ya."
"Oh, my."
"Just from talking about it ..."
My mind fills in the full colour picture: Tony sprawled out on his bed in his usual light cotton trousers (which always look so fetching on him) … yummy cylindrical shape very much in evidence.
"Shit," I snap. "Not fair. Why can't I be there ?"
"Cuz the gods fucking hate me."
"No they don't. Here, they've given you this gift. I'll get off the phone-"
"No, can't you … ? Stay with me."
"Stay with you ?"
"This is the first time I've been hard since the weekend. Which means it's the first time I've been hard, without the benefit of you, in over a year. Can't you just … be with me a minute ? I'm lonely."
Oh my god, such a sweet baby – no way I can possibly refuse.
"Alright."
I remain on the phone, unsure what to do. We aren't saying anything. And then it occurs to me.
"Tone ?"
"Mm ?"
"Are you …"
"What ?"
"Touching yourself ?"
"Um, ya, just a … just a bit."
Fuck.
"Okay, so do you want me to go, or ..."
"No. I like the sound of your voice. It's sorta ... sexy. Why don't you like ... talk to me, or something."
"Talk to you ?"
"Ya. Y'know … what's it called ? This is kind of embarrassing … phone sex ?"
My ears nearly pop off my head.
"Have you ever done that ?" He asks.
Truthfully ? Yes. Am I going to tell him that ? No. Why ? Because the phone sex that I had, on multiple occasions, was with Bill, and Tony doesn't need to know that.
"No," I lie.
"Well, do you … do you wanna give it a try ?" he asks with an embarassed laugh. "Since we're already on the phone. I mean, I've never done it, and it's kinda cheesy, I know, but … it might be hot."
I feel a growing warmth circulating from below.
"Okay."
"I'm not sure what to do," he says, quietly. "What do I do ?"
"Your door locked ?"
"I don't have a lock on it, but no one will walk in without knocking first, and I think everybody's asleep, anyway."
"Good. Just … lay there and relax. I'll walk you through it. Is that what you want ?"
"Um, ya, maybe. I don't know."
I lay back on my bed, ignore the growing stiffness in my trousers, shut my eyes, and picture it.
"Okay, you're dressed, right ?"
He laughs softly.
"Are you asking me what I'm wearing ?"
"A boy needs his visuals. No, I just, I'm imagining you fully dressed, with your fly down."
The image flashes to mind and makes my pulse quicken.
"I haven't undone the zipper yet."
Shit.
"Okay, fuck, that's good; that is so much better, actually. Fuck, why can't I be there ? ?"
"Why don't you tell me what you'd do if you were here ?"
"Yes. Excellent. I'd …" My brain scrambles about in excitement, momentarily causing my mouth to freeze.
"You'd what ?"
"Sorry. I'd … I'd … if I was there, standing over you, I'd be able to see the outline of your cock through the material of those lovely beige khaki trousers you always wear. The ones you bought downtown."
"Ya." He says, "I guess," sounding disappointed that this is the best I can do.
Christ. Drop the fashion descriptors !
I clear my throat.
"Cuz, y'know, that would be so fucking crazy-hot; your cock, stiff and achy and swollen and sweaty and trapped and making you uncomfortable."
! Ay caramba !
"Jesus christ," he exhales. "Fuck. Go on."
"Why don't you rub against yourself a while. If I was there, that's what I'd do."
"Okay. I'm just gonna ... pretend it's you."
"Ya. Do it."
Judging from the lack of verbiage, he does.
"If I was there, I'd lean over you, and rub you in soft, slow circles, with my open palm."
"Okay," he says weakly.
"How's that feel ?"
"Um, good. Nice."
"Then after a while, I'd lean down – I wouldn't be able to help myself – and open my mouth, and press my lips into the material, right where your cock is, just like I did in the hotel."
"Ye god," he says with a soft, breathy laugh.
"And trace the outline of it with my tongue."
"Fuck."
"Flick it back and forth, and get you all wet, and hard."
"Shit."
"And it'd make you a bit uncomfortable, how tight your trousers were getting, but you'd like it, wouldn't you?"
"Yes. And I'd ... grab hold of your head with both hands, and like ... jam your face right in there."
"Oh god. Mash it in there. And maybe I'd bite you. Bite down on your cock."
Okay. The intense heat we're rapidly generating in each other, just with these fantasy images, let alone the knowledge that Tony is right now touching himself, is altogether too piping hot for me to not, in turn, touch myself ... however because I don't want to lose focus and be distracted - because I want to quickly bring him off to help relieve him of the intense pressure he's been under - I reach out a hand and slap hard at my swelling cock, which definitely smarts, and which my cock does not like one bit, and hence it cowers downward, accordingly.
"Go on," he pleads.
"Tell me how hard you are."
"Hard."
"How hard ?"
"Fuck, really fucking hard, baby."
Bingo. And it only took phone sex.
"I wanna unzip," he adds impatiently.
He's caught me off guard.
"What, you, you haven't, already ?"
"No."
Ahh, I realize. It's the bottom in him, awaiting instruction.
"Good," I say, salivating away, slipping into the role of top. "Do it. Take out your cock."
Pause.
"Tell me how it feels."
"Um … good."
"Stiff ?"
"Ya."
"Swollen?"
"Ya."
"Can you feel your pulse in it ?"
"Yes. Head's all purple and stretched."
Oh fuck. I wipe a line of drool off my chin and slap at my straining trousers again.
"Spit on your hand," I say weakly. "Wank yourself. Slow. Don't touch the tip. If I was there, that's what I'd make you do."
"You'd watch me do it."
"I'd fucking be crawling all over you."
"Naked."
"Ya."
"Are you hard ?" He asks suddenly.
"Ya."
"And you'd rub it into me."
"Yes. Two hard cocks rubbing and sliding in all that sticky, lube-y pre-come."
"Mmhh."
Okay, the first semi-moan, and I'm about ready to cream my fucking jeans. Where is a handful of crushed ice to mash into one's testicles, when one so badly needs it?
"Talk," he pleads. "Talk to me."
"Um," I say, flinching as I give myself yet another highly unwelcome slap. "If I was there, I'd yank those khakis off you, and then I'd push your knees right up to your ears."
"Fuck."
"Cuz I want you wide open."
"God."
"And then I'd dive in after your hole."
"Jesus."
"Eat you for a good long while; shove my tongue into that tight, sweet, beautiful pink hole. Would you want that ?"
"Yes."
"I love how you squirm around when I do that. Like you did in the shower that time, remember ?"
"Yes."
"You're such a little hole-slut."
"It … it felt amazing."
"The whole time, though, you know what I'd be doing ? Eying your balls, and thinking how much I'm gonna suck them."
"Oh shit."
"How much I'm gonna drain them."
"Fuck."
"First I'd tease them and play with them, just to watch you squirm, and then I'd finally do it. I'd open my mouth and pull them inside and suck so hard it would sort of ache-"
"-I'd be tied down ..."
Oh my.
"Yes. Definitely. Strapped down tight so I can play with you and have all the control."
"Oh god."
"You like that, don't you ?"
"Yes."
"You're such a squirming little bottom-boy."
"Yes," he says, breathless. "Fuck me, baby. Please tie me down and fuck me."
Holy shit. Tony, may I have a moment to dive into a bucket of ice water ?
"Not yet. Right now you've got a dick that needs sucking."
"Oh god," he says, quite agitated. "Please."
"You want me to suck it ?"
"Yes."
"While I finger you ?"
"Oh god."
"Or maybe I'll get Aloysius."
"Oh, no."
"And work him into your arse at the same time."
"Mmhh !"
"Cuz I know how much you like that."
"Oh god."
"How much you want that."
"Oh god. I'm gonna come."
"Not before I fuck you."
"I'm gonna come."
"Not before I push my cock up your arse."
"Ohgod."
"Hard. Fucking you hard up that tight pink hole."
"Guh-come."
"You're struggling. You're tied down while I fuck you, good and hard and deep-"
-The next sounds include strangled gasping breaths, a sudden and sharp inhalation, a pause, and then a gorgeous anguished cry ... followed immediately by gasping, panting breaths.
Wow. Just ... wow.
I collapse into the mattress as if I'm the one who just came.
Why ? Why is it so bloody powerful ? Filling your man's head with images, inspiring his orgasm just with the sound of your voice ?
Still, wonderful as it may be, I'm stricken not to be there, holding him as he winds down.
"Christ," he finally says, laughing and sounding more relaxed than I've heard him in days. "Oh my god. I'm like, a big, sticky fucking mess."
My cock leaps at the thought of a come-covered Tony.
"That was fucking amazing," he continues. "Sure you've never done that before ?"
"Um, yes," I lie again.
"Well, fuck," he laughs, "thanks. That is like, so what I needed. You have no idea."
"I think I do. You did need it, Tone." I beam, grinning ear to ear. "And it was totally fucking amazing to listen to, let me tell you."
"Maybe we should make this a regular thing, then; seriously, til we can fuck for real."
.
Two days later, we fuck for real. He calls me up, middle of the day, all out of breath.
"What is it ?" I ask. "What's wrong ?"
"My mum and dad are going out," he says, speaking in hushed, urgent tones, "right now; they're leaving the house, for like an hour. I'll have the place to myself for the first time since we got back ! Any possible way you can make it over here ?"
Whether I can or not, I will. After a year of impotence, it's my human bloody right to pursue sex, especially with someone I love, particularly when there's no way to tell how long it might be before things blow over. Right now dad's at work, and I can probably leave with Effy under some bullshit pretense so it doesn't look obvious. Not that mum, who by this time is pretty firmly on my side, would, I think, be all that bothered, but she might be, particularly since she and Maxxie's mum still aren't talking, and I can't afford to take the chance.
"Hang tight," I whisper. "I'll see what I can do," and hang up.
"Hey Ef," I say all casual, walking past mum into the living room, "why don't we, ah ... why don't you take me shopping ?"
She doesn't look up. She's on her phone texting her friends. "Fuck off," she says. "I'm busy, obviously. Since when are you into shopping anyway, tosser ?"
Christ. My cock's twitching in my trousers over the thought of what lies in wait, not four miles away. I move and stand directly in front of her, blocking mum's view, trying to make a face to convey urgency and also, a pleading need for discretion. Her eyes flick up at me, and I mouthe the words to her:
I'm going to Maxxie's. Cover for me. Please.
She squints.
"Huh ? What the fuck are you saying ? I can't read lips, brain-dead-boy."
"Tony, what's the matter ?" mum calls from the kitchen.
"Nothing, mum," I call over my shoulder, and then look at Effy, whispering through my teeth.
"That was Maxxie. His mum and dad are going out, like right now, so I need to get over there, right now - understand ? You gotta cover for me, Ef."
"Christ," she groan/whispers, rolling her eyes. "Didn't get enough cock in Brighton ?"
"Definitely not."
She taps something into her phone, slips it into her pocket, and stands. "Tony and I are going downtown, mum."
"You are ? Why ?"
I shrug my shoulders and try to look innocent.
"Just … shopping."
"Shopping," she says, semi-suspicious. Why does my mum have to be so canny ? Why can't she be dumb ? "For what ?"
I shrug again.
"Just, y'know … stuff."
"Okay," she says, eying me, not buying it. "So, you want me to drive you ?"
"Um, no, we're all set," I say, too quickly. "I sort of need, y'know, the exercise."
"Right," Effy snorts under her breath. "Bum exercise."
As Ef and I hurriedly approach the door, mum calls after me.
"Tony."
"Ya ?"
"You just hung up from Maxxie, didn't you ?"
I'm totally taken aback but still try to keep up the charade.
"Um, no."
She cocks an eyebrow.
"You didn't ? Who else were you whispering to ?"
Busted.
"Fuck's sake, mum," Effy blurts. "Maxxie's alone for the first time in fucking ages, and Tony needs cock."
I slump back against the door.
"Thanks Ef. Thanks a whole fuck of a lot."
Mum looks at me a minute, like she's thinking. Great. Here comes the lecture. You know you shouldn't see him – especially inside their home – you could get caught – until everything's blown over with your father, and between me and Maxxie's mum. Please, for everyone's sake, don't do this. Not yet.
"Right," says mum, standing and getting her purse. "I'll take you. I need a few things downtown, anyway."
"What ?" I ask, incredulous.
"I said I'll take you," she says, looking me up and down. "You look like shit. I'd say cock is just what the doctor ordered."
Mum roars towards Maxxie's but skids to a halt a block away.
"He lives over there," I say, pointing, antsy, bouncing up and down in my seat.
She looks at me like I'm nuts.
"Think I don't know where my oldest friend lives ? I'm paranoid she'll come back early, and see me dropping you off, or that the neighbors will see. They probably know the car."
"Okay," I say quickly, and go to open the door.
She grabs my shoulder.
"Wait." She reaches into her purse, takes my hand, and thrusts several condoms into it.
I look down in disbelief.
"Where did you get these ?"
"None of your business," she says, with a small smile. "Now go, be safe, have an orgasm or two, and bloody run."
I lean in, and kiss her quick.
Next I'm racing up the block, half-hard with anticipation. I fly into the lobby area, and there, by the only working lift, stand two housewives chattering away about the price of oranges. The door opens, and we get in. Fucking thing moves at a snail's pace as they continue their inane chattering, and I'm meanwhile sweating and rocking back and forth on my feet, resembling, I'm sure, an addict stressing over a pending fix.
Finally the door opens, and I burst out into the hall, trainers skidding several meters on the smooth cement as I round the corner to his door. As I raise my fist to it, it opens, I'm yanked inside by the shirt, thrown to the floor, and mauled.
"Oh god. Oh god, I've missed you," he pants.
He looks, and smells, exactly the same - like warm rain, like some aromatic, heady blonde tonic. With all the stress, I'd been weirdly afraid it had been a bit of a fantasy.
We kiss, we rub and slide, we hurriedly peel out of our trousers.
"Fuck me," he hisses, slipping the condom over my cock. "Fuck me, now."
Oh god. A direct order.
I spin him about, roll on top, and go to finger him but he shakes his head.
"No need. Just go."
Needless to say, the sex is frantic; almost violent - grabbing, biting, bruising, cussing. I've got one eye out trying not to slam his head into the floor as I slam uncontrollably inward, with the other conscious of the door we're laying directly in front of and the fact that his parents could walk in at any moment.
The remainder of me, however, is all cock – immediately I'm lost in the intense, instantly addictive sensations that I'd somehow, in the space of a week, almost forgot. Yes ... remember ? This is what it feels like to genuinely ram dick ... this is when he bears down, quadrupling your pleasure … this is when he thrusts his hips upward, to meet yours … this is the sounds we make ... this is the scent … this is when we work out a rough, super-dirty rhythm ... this is lunging for the deepest point in his body … this is orgasm approaching ... this is Maxxie's hard-on bouncing between you … this is his fingers digging into your back ... this is when he grunts out your name … this is eyes rolling back in your head … this is the sky turning sideways ... this … oh god …this ... is bloody orgasm.
I'm wheezing and gasping, disbelieving that I'm here with him at all, disbelieving what we've just done, when Maxxie pushes me up off of him, crawls out from under, stands quickly, and grabs my hand.
Flushed and dazed, I am yanked off the floor and pulled hurriedly to his room.
He kicks the door shut behind us, literally throws me down on the bed, and climbs on board.
"You are so … unbelievably. fucking. hot," he hisses, yanking my shirt up over my head, and then his own. "I am so gonna own you. Right now."
Oh god, the ownership thing. My thoroughly wilted and depleted cock twitches terribly, and as I look up, helpless, there go my hands into his already-prepared women's-hose restraints.
"Your mum sees those," I hiss, "she'll think you're a cross-dresser."
"If you and I lived together," he says, ignoring the crack and pushing against my knees so they fit over his shoulders, "that thing'd never leave the headboard. I'd strap you down and fuck you every single goddamn day."
Gulp !
Next, he slaps on a condom with one hand, fingers me with the other, and with his third, lathers me with lube, er … well, I'm in a bit of a fog, you see, but I swear he did it all at once ... and then that's it. In slips his cock – slowly, carefully – this is still so completely new and scary and it takes a fair amount of adjusting - but then … we're done. I look up, and he's leaning over me like a god, gripping my hands, holding them over my head and staring me down. If he did nothing else, this alone, might actually be it.
But it isn't. He has lots more in store and limited time, and so proceeds immediately to do this thing that drives me extra fucking crazy … he keeps his upper body perfectly still while his hips do all the work, snapping inward, thrust-thrust-thrust, sharp and quick, snap-snap-snap, over and over, and then deeper, longer, more complete.
Aside from the mental, aside from the visual – the dark pink, swollen member piercing your body as you watch - it's the fucking sensations. I could write a uni thesis: In Praise of Buttfucking. Because not only are you tight here, and to your surprise, highly frigging sensitive, but then what do you do ? You allow this throbbing beast, this heated, hyper excited, blood-packed bodily organ to bypass your flesh, to penetrate and possess you – physically and otherwise - all the while knowing that, on it's way to popping off and bursting, it will ream you like a jackhammer, and in the process, ring out of you a blackmailer's wet dream's worth of mortifying sounds, exhalations, and facial expressions.
I lay beneath him the whole while, helpless and breached, wanting and struggling inside these restraints, craving this branding, this ownership ... and it quickly sort of breaks me, demolishes any pretense I'd had that I hadn't in fact been reborn as a completely smitten, completely devoted squirming bottom.
It's just so bloody good and beautiful, is what it comes down to, the desire, on both of our parts, to inhabit and embody and meld yourself with another; the corny old idea of making two, one – that I find I'm entirely shamed out of my innate, kneejerk teenage tendency to want to be flippant, to roll my eyes and scoff at such notions.
Them, horrified: Are you trying to insinuate that bottoming is helping you to grow up ? ? To mature ? ?
Me, red faced: Well, in a way … yes. In fact I welcome the opportunity to preach it, and recommend it, even, from the pulpit.
Them, disgusted: You're SICK.
Me, proud: No. Actually, I'm healed.
Meanwhile, the boy above me goes about the business of growling and leaning into my stunned face, kissing me to the near suffocation point, dropping his mouth to my ear, biting down hard on my lobe, muttering filth, whispering that he loves me, shifting his hips into warp speed, shuddering and grunting ... freezing, crying out, and coming.
Phew.
So, it's true, I realize, just as he's told me: Being gay gives you an almost cruelly unfair advantage – the absolute best of both worlds – the glorious, holy ability to be both fuck-er and fuck-ee.
After a minute, still panting and flushed, he dislodges himself from my body, leans back, carefully lowers my legs, crawls up to undo the bindings, kisses my wrists, and curls himself lovingly toward me.
I'm meanwhile floating, upended, speechless, completely overtaken, like I've just witnessed a miracle, and positively flooded with gooey, gooey emotions. I reach, wrap an arm round and pull him close.
We lay like that, for ages, each of us bathed in the pure, warm light of afterglow; stilled and silenced by the presence of love.
Eventually, he speaks.
"We'll make it work, my angel."
I turn my head to look at him. His eyes raise to mine.
"We will," he says, with a confident nod.
I peer nervously inward, past the iris, beyond the pale blue …
... and it's true.
There we are.
Maxxie and I are happy. Our families eventually came round, and he and I became a bona fide, unabashed couple, to the envy, it turned out, of many. Sid and Michelle split. As did Chris and Jal, and then Sid and Cassie, and Effy and her various main squeezes. Mum and dad survived their son coming out, their marriage intact, if a bit rocky (but then it always was) and my mum and Maxxie's resumed their friendship, pretty much where it had left off. Dad found a way to welcome Max into the house without flinching, and eventually even got used to us holding hands.
Not to say things were easy and smooth, because they weren't. What I didn't know is that love likes to try you, and fuck with you a bit – test you, and I've never been any good at those kinds of tests.
Yes, Maxxie and I split, more than once. It wasn't his fault, or my fault, it was both of our faults – we were young and bloody stupid. While we loved each other to bits, we somehow developed a penchant for very bad and destructive rows, which eventually proved toxic to our relationship, to the point where we twice agreed it was best to part. The first time, it was six months, and the second, well over a year. I went away to uni, and Maxxie moved to London for his dancing. We dated other people. Mostly unsuccessfully. Maxxie actually went back to Bill for a brief time, which, when I heard it, hurt in ways I had forgotten I could feel. He then had a long fling with another boy, close to a year, and I'd thought that was it – The One - but for a variety of reasons, it, too, fizzled.
I, meanwhile, mainly I suppose, because they didn't remind me of Maxxie, drowned myself in a flurry of girls. Samantha, Brittany, Pippa, Ashley. Briefly, though, once, I did lose myself in a boy – Mike - fit and tanned, blue-eyed and blonde; just short enough to tuck under my arm ... I couldn't see it at the time, but it a was bit of an unhealthy ruse; never could I have brought him home, due to his uncanny resemblance to a certain someone.
So ... the way the story ends begins here:
We each went home for Christmas that year, and after not having been in contact for ages, we ran into each other, totally inadvertently, on the street. It was awkward; we stammered a bit and scrambled for topics, but, before parting, we hugged. Briefly. I remember in that instant I got a whiff of him, that certain rich, sweet, summer rain Maxxie-aroma I'd forgotten, and it brought me back, instantly, like Pavlov's, to our lovemaking.
We lingered a bit. We didn't say much. It truly was awkward. We made our excuses, and left. Later, depressed over the pending holiday, something I'd never thought I'd feel, nor had I, even once, when we'd been together, I found myself calling him up. I didn't know what to say; I made some lame excuse, and it was awkward all over again, and I was getting ready to hang up and kick myself for being such an arse ... when he blurted how much he'd grown to hate Christmas, and how he never thought he'd be the type to feel that way, and wasn't it all just so depressing ?
So it was our mutual loathing of the holiday, and dread of mandatory extended-family bollocks that led to us meet up again that day, and, due, I guess, to shyness and a lack of anything better we could think of to do, simply walking into town, which took us by our old school, the hospital where I'd had my surgeries and therapies, and inevitably, by the places we had so often inhabited, as a couple. The park bench where we made out once, in the rain. The river we used to skip rocks into, and when we had them, coins, for good luck. The movie theatre where, when we could agree on them, we saw many films, and maybe once or twice (I swear) revisited our interest in public sex. The pub, where we celebrated my 18th, and the back alley behind where Maxxie gave me his drunkenest, sloppiest-ever blow job. The tiny old cafe where we shared many a cheap, toasted cucumber sandwich. The high end restaurant we splurged on to mark our first anniversary, giggling and holding hands across the candle-lit table, much to the discomfort of wait staff and customers.
The gift shop where we later bought each other silly plastic "wedding" rings as a joke, but then found slightly to our embarrassment that we couldn't take them off.
The street corner where we had one of our worst fights, with Maxxie dramatically ripping off the ring and throwing it at my feet.
The statue in the park, beneath where we met a week later, made up, and where to Maxxie's surprise and delight – his whole fact lit up like a Christmas tree - I slipped the ring back on.
The more we walked that day, revisiting these places that had been so deeply infused with our history as a couple … the less we found we wanted to pretend.
That we were happy as things were.
That it no longer stung.
My heart, and it turned out, Maxxie's were each pierced again on that walk; the wounds needing, in the end, to reopen, before they could finally heal.
So there was a quiet beauty to it, that on the holiday week we had both dreaded, without officially announcing it, without making a splash, we became a couple, again. We sort of never hadn't been, we both realized. Other people had temporarily stepped into the shoes that he and I had each vacated, that was all; holding the place open for when we each came back to our senses, for when two people would finally stop allowing stupid idiot shit to ruin a thing that was almost perfect.
And so ... if you care to fast forward to the present, I am speaking to you from exactly three Christmases later. Maxxie and I are now both almost 25. I graduated uni nearly two years late due to my injury, and never got beyond that 92%, which, really, is fine. I don't know that I'm missing much. Maxxie, meanwhile, because he's so bloody talented, is dancing full time, and teaching dance on the side to make a bit of cash, which doesn't pay well, but combined with my salary, it's almost enough.
Ya, I said it. 'Combined with my salary.' Last year, after two solid years together, we finally got a place – a small London flat of our own, in a so-so neighborhood, but it will do. We're out right now, in fact, shopping for our very first Christmas tree as a couple – a live one, Maxxie insists.
"They smell so good," he says, "and our place is so tiny, if we get a big tree, the whole place will smell like Christmas."
"So," I observe, "it's no longer a holiday that depresses us, then."
"Nope. Unless we can't agree on a bloody tree," he says, eyes lighting up over the eight foot blue spruce in the corner.
Regardless, this fight we're about to have, because there's no way I'm dragging that thing up four flights, will not be anything like the ones we had over, say, furniture – not that we bought much – mostly it's old scuzzy crap from home, but since we were determined to have a new bed – a big double one of our very own, grown-up couple that we are - it forced us to save and pool our money, after which we had a huge and admittedly rather gay row over the issue of plushness versus pillow top. Finally, though, we did it in pieces – mattress first (we settled for medium plush), which, due to not owning a bedframe, we then had to place on the floor for the next six months ... until eventually we could afford a box spring ... and then finally, our mums, bless them, were kind enough to pitch in and buy us a bedframe. Funnily, to this day, after so long of sleeping basically level with the floor, I forget that we're now sort of up in the air, and in mornings, tend to almost fall off. Which always makes Maxxie laugh.
So, Max, … next on the furniture agenda ?
"Bloody great headboard, of course," he says, eyes twinkling. "Iron, nice and sturdy, with plenty of rungs and slats."
Yes. The sex, if I may say, is pretty damned good, still.
"'Still' ?" He says, looking up at me, "What do you mean, 'still' ?"
I laugh.
"I just mean that for two people who've fucked as much as we have, it hasn't gotten old, and I always thought that that was what happened; that with time, and repetition, it got old, and stale."
"I don't do old and stale, Stonem," he smirks. "Look at you – you're gorgeous, and I'm scorching, hot." He taps his temple. "You never run out of ideas so long as you've got a filthy enough mind."
"And plenty of inspirational porn," I laugh. "Not to mention panty hose."
"Ah ha. Someone has forgotten what is top of my Christmas list - a pair of gourmet, fur lined, expensive leather handcuffs."
I grin.
"As well as a few other mildly perverse items-"
"-Which we needn't say out loud here in the Christmas market."
I wrap an arm round his back. I turn my face towards his.
"So we're happy, then." He looks up at me. "They wanna know."
"Who wants to know ?"
"The readers, tosser."
His brows knits.
"Why do they wanna know ?"
"Max, come on; they've been following along for over a year, some of 'em. They're emotionally invested."
"Ahh. Well then, they'll be happy to know we're actually like, what I'd term, um, way happy, emotionally, and otherwise." He smiles. He shrugs. "We're just right for each other, huh, Tone ?"
"Ya. We might drive each other nuts, but-"
"-We work it out. We don't let it split us up, anymore."
"Right. We're the lucky ones. Everybody we know have broken up."
"We had enough of a taste of that, didn't we ? But it was okay. It made us go with other people, and ..." he shrugs again.
"It was weird. It just never sort of held a bloody candle; to us, I mean."
"Right." he nods. "Not even close. Plus, I could never get anyone else to call me a suitable pet name."
I laugh. I swing his left hand out and hold it by mine.
"Or buy you a matching plastic ring."
He smiles shyly. He flushes. He speaks softly.
"Tell them."
"I told them. They know. We got them as a joke."
"Then why can't we seem to take them off ?"
I smile. I lean in and kiss him. I pull back. He's wearing that cross-eyed, love-buzzed grin. A second later, his eyes refocus on something over my shoulder. I turn to look. On a display rack in the near distance is something shiny; a pair of tall, over the top, sparkly golden Christmas candles.
"Oh Tone," he says, flying in their direction, "look ! Gay candles ! Let's get them; please, please ? They'll look so pretty in the window !"
I smile. I'm, head to toe, buzzy and warm.
So ya.
Happy.
Definitely.
But ... so as not to jinx things, seeing as I'm the superstitious type, I'll also say: who knows what the future holds ...
His head swings around.
"'Who knows what the future holds ?' I know what the future holds, tosser. Us !"
I laugh. Oh god. Yes. I do love this boy.
I tuck him under my arm and plant a big kiss – mwah ! - on the side of his lovely blonde head.
"Right," I point at him with my thumb. "What he said."
THE END
NOTE: the next 'chapter' isn't a chapter, it's my final author's note/reflections on the story, things like why it ended the way it did, why I had the boys address the readers, some specific thank you's to individual readers, inspirations, and commentary on things like the gay marriage debate, etc. Sounds boring, maybe, but heck, you've come all this way - why not give it a shot ? :)