by Liam Livings
Wicked.
I kept expecting a TV presenter to pop up from the corner explaining how much it had cost and how long it had taken to install. I lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and took a sip of tea. The combination of smoking and tea mixed to form one of our shared favourite sensations. We’d had a long, in-depth discussion about the joy of smoking and drinking tea in a nicely floaty, pilled-up state. Not the mad for it, wanting to dance and wave your hands above your head state; oh no. We’d passed that. This was the gentle glide from that to the beginning of normality. This, we both agreed, was the time when tea and cigarettes and cuddles and kisses and caresses and more all came into their own.
I found my head nodding in time with something. Something. What was it? Music, a gentle chill-out track we’d floated down together on a few times.
Paul appeared at the door, his hands either side of his body. “I am ready for you now. If you’d like to follow me.”
I followed him into the living room, where the curtains were closed, letting in little light, but the room was filled with the flickering of a dozen or so candles, scattered around the table, mantelpiece, window ledges. The room was filled with a burning, sweet smell; a joss stick smouldered in the middle of the mantelpiece.
Paul knelt on a duvet he’d thrown on the floor, patted the space in front of him.
I joined him, and as we knelt, he pulled me close, kissed me slowly, gently, our mouths open as he explored with his tongue, no air between us as we both sucked slightly while kissing, as the tension built in my underwear. We fell sideways onto the soft duvet he’d scattered with pillows and cushions, and we lay on our sides, kissing each other, gently, then a bit more bitey, then stopping for more tea and cigarettes, gently flicking the ash in cleverly placed circular metal ashtrays round the edges of the duvet.
“I’ve wanted this since I first met you,” Paul said.
And once he’s seduced me I bet I won’t hear from him again.
“Right back then?” I asked. “When I came into your shop asking for some ideas for singles?”
“Right back then.” He smiled, kissed me, pulled back and removed my T-shirt.
I kissed him and removed his T-shirt. “And it took you all this time to finally get me into bed.” I laughed quietly.
“Shy. I didn’t want to ask in case you said no.”
“So you waited for me to ask you. I see. Very clever.”
He shrugged, put his lips on mine and unzipped my trousers, awkwardly edging them over my hips.
I leant closer, both of us lying on our sides; after a few awkward moments, his jeans were off too.
He raised his hands to mine and we pressed palms together, edging closer so our bodies touched skin to skin, straining underpants to straining underpants. We lay like that for a while, kissing each other’s faces, necks, chests, pushing ourselves forward, brushing underpants. The sensation of his body against mine pulsed through me. The feelings, the tingling rippled up and down just like the hand massage in the club he’d given me, but now along my whole body.
He pushed me onto my back, then worked his way down with his tongue, starting at my face, over my chest, my nipples, my navel. Looking up at me, he edged my underpants off and threw them into the corner of the room before, sharing a glint in his eye, he took me, all of me, inch by inch, into his mouth. All I could do was lie, with one arm above my head, the other on his head, stroking him so he’d know I was enjoying him making love to me with his mouth.
I think he’d have carried on selflessly until it was over for me, but I wanted to show him how I felt for him, how much I wanted us to melt together like we were wax from two candles. As I reached a near crescendo, I gently lifted his head. I didn’t want it to end just yet. I pulled him back to my level and kissed him, tasting myself and him mixed together. Manoeuvring him onto his back, I crouched across his body, leaning down to kiss him.
“Better get them off,” I said, eyeing his straining underpants.
“Go on, then,” he said, with a smile.
I grabbed the offending underpants at either hip, while he lifted himself off the ground, then I whipped them off, throwing them over my head with a triumphant flourish and a smile.
He leant forward to kiss me, but I pushed him backwards and, easing his legs apart so I could make myself comfortable between them, in one gasping move, I took him in my mouth.
We lay like that for a few chill-out songs, with him trying to pull me back to his level so he could kiss me, so he could reciprocate, but I wanted to take him as far as he’d taken me, just using my mouth, my tongue, my lips.
His legs tensed, and I knew he would soon be at the point of no return, so I allowed him to put me where he wanted me, and he kissed me, long and hard, as I lay on top of him, our bodies pushed together, skin against skin, hard and wet against hard and wet.
“Is that what I taste like?” he asked, with a cheeky smile.
“Pretty much.”
“Bit salty.”
We both burst out laughing, shaking as it spread through our bodies, holding each other tightly, not wanting to be separated for even one moment.
Afterwards, when the laughter had subsided, we lay facing each other, his head on my chest, curled like two apostrophes, interlocking, as close as we could be. We stayed like that, drifting in and out of dreams, the music and flickering candles lulling us to sleep like a lullaby.
After a while, I woke, still feeling a bit floaty but aware of Paul’s body entwined with mine, and I whispered something about wanting our bodies to be twisted but never our minds, quoting an Alison Moyet song we both liked, saying I love you without quite saying the words.
He looked up from my chest, taking me in his hand. “Waking up, I see.”
“You too.” I reached to reciprocate to him.
“Let’s keep our bodies twisted just like this, eh? But not our minds,” Paul said as he pulled me, pulled me, pulled me.
We adjusted our position so we were sitting up, facing each other and enjoying the view as we gathered speed, mirroring each other’s motions.
Paul moved, positioning himself above me so we were both facing the same direction with his legs either side of mine as he crouched over me. He lay back, on top of my chest, turning his face so I could kiss him as I pulled him with my hand, while I strained, pressing gently into him underneath. He moved on top of me, in time with my hand and my hips as I pushed against him.
He turned to face me, nodding slowly, lifting his legs slightly and pushing himself down, onto my hardness.
“Where’s the…” I managed, my throat strained, hardly able to keep a lid on things. I had never felt so turned on as I did in that moment.
He reached to the ashtray, fumbled and knocked it over, cigarette butts and ash spilling on the floor. I started to sit up to tidy the mess.
“Don’t move. Fuck it. Fuck me.” Paul handed me two silver packets.
I tore the foil wrapper with my teeth, then tried to reach forward to put it on myself, but with Paul still lying on me, it soon became apparent that was not happening.
“What’s up?”
“Not from this angle,” I said, trying to keep the tone serious but having to suppress a slight laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.
“Try harder, I’m just… It’s almost…”
I sat up, bringing him with me, so we were sitting, him in front of me, on the duvet.
“I was enjoying that. What’d you have to go and do that for?”
“It’s not happening. If you want it, then I’m gonna have to.” I shuffled backwards so I had space to do what I needed to. “I’m leaning back now.” I did so, pulling Paul with me, and after a bit of adjustment, we were back in the same position he had been enjoying so much.
He turned to kiss me, nodding, with a smile.
I nodded back, and after slicking both of us, I pushed myself to meet Paul, pushed farther as he gasped. I checked if he was all right. He nodded and lowered himself to meet me, and then
, with a gasp from both of us, we were one. I kissed his neck, checked he was okay, and we began moving together, me pushing from below, him moving his hips from above, so we emphasised each other’s movements. All the while I was pulling on him around the front, as he strained, hard as one of the candles around us.
We continued like this, moving together, rocking together, our hips grinding together, his back slipping with sweat over my chest, building our pace. A few times, Paul tensed those muscles and I thought my head was going to explode. I uttered a brief, “Fuck me.”
To which he replied, “Wrong way round,” followed by a little laugh, and some panting.
He held my arm as I continued pulling him, the candle on our birthday cake of sex, until his legs tensed, and with another few flicks of my hand, he finished, a white streamer flying high into the air, landing on his chest, just missing our eyes. I stopped thrusting into him, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. It took all my will to resist as I was close, so close, but I wanted him to get his breath first.
He turned to the side. “Why’ve you stopped?”
“What do you want now?”
He took a breath. “Really?”
“Really.”
“A ciggie and a cuppa. But…if you want…you can…until…if you…”
“That’s not how I want to make love to you. This isn’t some random fuck. In case you didn’t notice, there’s a bit of a scene you’ve set here—moonlight, candles… No rose petals, I notice.” I withdrew myself from him.
He climbed off me then lay, curled over my body, his head resting on my stomach, his breathing slowly returning to normal. “You sure?” He lifted his head, looking at me as I stood pointing to the ceiling.
“Amazing. I thought I was having an out-of-body experience when you tightened. Amazing.”
He lifted his head to kiss me, and we lay like that, kissing, as I knew would be the case. With a few quick flicks of my hand, I finished myself off, sprinkling us both in my come. I kept expecting him to stand and want to shower, as had happened with most of the others I’d slept with, when all I had wanted to do was cuddle, kiss and lie in our own juices, bathed in the warm glow of our sex.
Paul didn’t mention a shower. Instead, he pulled the duvet over us, kissed me once again, and that was the last I remembered until a few hours later when Sunday morning came streaming into our cocoon, with the low grumble of a bus pulling away from the bus stop not far from the house.
I looked down to my chest, staring into Paul’s eyes and asked, “What time are your parents back?”
“Tomorrow, Tuesday, Wednesday. Who knows? He’s doing some business deal in the Middle East and she’s away with some girlfriends—all big hair, big jewellery and Mercedes convertibles. Mum thinks she’s living in a Jackie Collins novel. And in fairness, she is. She won’t be back till mid week, I think she said.”
“No rush, then?”
He shook his head. “No rush whatsoever. Wicked, eh? Just us two, nice and casual.”
When we eventually left the nest he’d created, we bathed together—bubbles and candles and more chill-out music—then we drank gallons of tea and ate half a loaf of bread, thick wedges toasted and smeared with butter and jam, while watching terrible Sunday morning TV, laughing at the presenters, flicking over to a black-and-white film. Sometime in the afternoon, when I was sore from going twice again with him, we finally ventured into the outside world.
He showed me the delights of Turnham Green, the end of the green to avoid, the end by the Chi Chi shops selling exclusive women’s clothing and kitchen accoutrements more expensive than an elderly but battered small hatchback. “What do you want to eat before you go?”
“Must I go? Can’t I stay here for ever and ever and ever?”
He smiled. “Probably best you go. I think Mum and Dad would have something to say about that. Not to mention your work.”
“Oh.” Maybe that had been a slushy step too far. I glanced at my watch: well past going home and getting ready for the week ahead time. “I’ll be off. Is that the nearest Tube?” I pointed to the glowing red and blue sign at the edge of the green.
“Want to ring home first, let the olds know where you are?”
“They’ll be fine. I’m a big boy now. I can look after myself, you know.”
“Give ’em a ring before you leave. And then we can get chips. Fancy chips for dinner. Big bag of salty, vinegary chips, eaten out the paper on the breakfast bar back at mine. How’s that sound? Mum would hit the roof if she knew, but she’s not here so…chips on the breakfast bar it is, I reckon.”
“If it’s OK.” I hung my head, pausing to look back at the Tube station in the distance. “Didn’t mean to get all wuvvy-duvvy clingy-wingy, but after earlier, I don’t know how I’m gonna be able to be without seeing you, touching you for a whole entire week. Sorry. Too much. Phone home. Yes.”
He grabbed my hand, pulled my head up to face his. “Don’t apologise for how you feel. Never apologise for that. This is all pretty new to me. Let’s keep it casual, though, all right?”
“Yeah.” Casual? We’ve just had the best time and he’s talking casual? I’d started picking out curtains for our bedroom. But I didn’t tell him that.
“One step at a time.” He smiled and pointed to the chip shop in the distance. “Then definitely chips on the work surface together. Wicked.”
Wicked.
I called home from Paul’s phone in the large hallway that made our living room look like a caravan, the light from Sunday evening streaming through the red-and-blue stained-glass windowpane, leaving a pattern on the red-tiled floor. Mum was pleased I’d rung but hadn’t been worried. She knew I would be with Paul. She asked if we’d done the deed; I cursed myself for being far, far too open with Mum about my love life. “Can’t say now. Tell you later.”
“Get back when you get back. Dinner or no dinner, I’m easy. Me and your dad are vegging out on TV, and I’m eyeing up a pile of ironing that should get done, but really, when I think about it, I could really just do one, stick the rest on hangers. Once you and your dad’ve worn it, it would be nearly as good. So you’re not missing much.”
After the chips and newspaper meal, it took twenty minutes for me to finally leave the house; We stood in the hallway and he pushed me back against the wall, kissing me, saying just one more kiss, one more goodbye, and then I could go. Eventually, my face red with stubble rash, my groin sore and a slight, lingering smell of sex on my clothes, I left the house, walked to the Tube station and made my way back home with one word ringing in my ears: casual.
CHAPTER 5
A FEW WEEKS later, Paul helped me pick the tracks for the set for the evening. As I mixed, listening in on my headphones to make sure the tracks flowed from one to the next, I explained what I was doing, and he asked me questions. I said he could have a go at the transition for the next song if he liked; having decided the order with me earlier, he might as well mix it himself. He slowed one track down slightly and sped another up to match their beats per minute, fading one out, fading in the next: ‘Love Stimulation’ by Humate. It was the track of the summer and had the whole club shouting and screaming at its introductory bars, while Paul nodded in time, smiling and winking at me.
Afterwards, we went back to mine. Although I couldn’t quite recreate the cocoon of duvet and candles Paul had at his place, in the early hours, as the sun rose, we sat in the kitchen smoking and drinking tea—oh, such perfection, it was—talking about what we’d like to do in our dreams, bearing no resemblance to the nasty realities of work, houses, money, life.
Paul said, talking quickly, pointing with his non-smoking hand, “You could go to Ibiza and do a season. Get a place in one of the super clubs out there. Blissed-out Balearic Islands, they call it. Wicked, it’d be.”
“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.” I shrugged, flicking ash into the ashtray on the kitchen table. As if I’m good enough.
“This is dreams, remember? This is imagine if. Let your ima
gination fly, float above the rooftops and take you wherever it goes. Go on.”
“Well, I don’t want to be working in the video shop for ever. Didn’t think I’d stick it after leaving college, but you know. Practical and all. We could get somewhere together. How about that? We must be able to afford something together.”
“Yeah, us two. No parents telling us what to do, no worrying about them walking in on us. It’s a bit of a passion killer, isn’t it, sometimes?”
“You’ve not met my parents yet.” I paused, glanced at the clock. “Which reminds me, we’ve got Mum’s Sunday roast in seven hours. You ready for sleep yet, or too banjaxed?”
“I could sleep. And yeah. Snuggle. And… Let’s carry on with this for a bit, though. Let’s finish our ciggies then go to bed.”
I lit us both another cigarette and asked what he wanted to do in his life, apart from the music shop; what was his plan.
“I don’t have a plan. That’s my plan. Don’t like to feel tied down. Stuck to things. That’s why the olds are so frustrated with me, see.”
“What about the DJing? Would you make a go of it? In this fantasy, dream world?”
“Oh yeah, ’course I would. Yeah. ’Course.” He didn’t sound convinced.
“You’re good, you know. Really good. Natural. If you were shit, I’d have put you as a plus-one and they’d have asked me to take you off next time. That didn’t happen. Take that and remember it.”
“I want to do something on my own, without help, that my parents can be proud of. That’s what I want.”
“And what would that be?”
Paul shrugged. “Guess that’s the problem. If I knew that, I’d have been doing it by now. Fuck, that’s a bit deep for five o’clock in the morning, isn’t it? I dunno, have fun. Can that be it? Have fun, and work out how to make money doing it. That’s a bit airy-fairy, isn’t it? I don’t feel any different from when I was a teenager. Don’t see why I should grow up, really. Why anyone should. Just live for fun.”
“There’s that Confucius thing—when you find a job you love that’s the day you stop working. Not airy-fairy. We just gotta work out what it is. Together.”