by Anna Martin
Slowly he rolled on top of George, his legs straddling George’s thighs, and rested his chin on his hands. To his delight, George wrapped his arms around Alex’s waist, holding him loosely.
“She visits me maybe twice a year,” he continued. “My dad comes over a bit more often.”
“How often do you go back?”
“It depends. If there’s stuff going on, then I have to go. There’s never even any discussion, I just get sent a date and get told to book a flight. These days I can get an easyJet flight from Edinburgh to Amsterdam.”
“You fly easyJet?” George asked incredulously.
“Yeah,” Alex laughed. “It’s the quickest way of getting there. What?” He poked George in the chest. “Do you think I’ve got a private jet or something?”
“Don’t you?”
“No! I’m pretty much the black sheep of my family, George. I don’t live at home. I now have a British passport, though people aren’t really supposed to know about that. I love my family and my country, but I never wanted that life and the lifestyle that was mapped out for me when I was born. That’s not me.”
“How much of that has to do with being gay?”
Alex pulled a face. “Maybe… thirty percent,” he said with a laugh. “I don’t think it’s a particularly big deal. You know the Netherlands was the first country in the world to legalise same-sex marriage? Nearly fifteen years ago now. I’m just very aware of how ‘frowned upon’ my sexual ‘choices’ are within the context of my family.”
“Sounds to me like it’s a fairly big deal,” George said.
Alex sighed. “It’s fine. I had a fairly serious boyfriend for two years, when I was finishing college and starting university. A lot of people thought he was going to be the one I ended up with.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No. He turned out to be a total dickhead.”
“Where did he grow up?”
“George,” Alex sighed.
“Go on.”
“Yeah, all right he’s aristocracy. And yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s why so many people thought we were a good fit, or whatever. You know when you peel off all the layers of someone, though? When you get right down to the core of them? The core of him wasn’t nice. He wasn’t the sort of person I wanted to be with, short term or longer. I wasted nearly two years on him, George,” Alex said, tracing patterns on George’s chest with his fingertips. “I spent two years of my life telling myself that he was the right sort of man and we would be good together. When I look back on that now, I’ve never been so happy to be wrong.”
George pushed his fingers through Alex’s hair, the gesture strangely tender, almost at odds with his gruff exterior. Alex couldn’t help but push up into the touch. He adored being pampered like this.
“So,” George said, rubbing his blunt fingers over Alex’s scalp. “What now?”
“Breakfast?” Alex suggested.
George laughed. “I was thinking just a bit further ahead than that.”
“We can walk back and pick up the car….”
“I have a rugby match later.”
“You play rugby?” Alex fanned himself dramatically. “Lord….”
“Fuck off,” George said and pushed his hand away. “Yeah. Leith seconds.”
“Are you any good? Are you the hooker?”
“No, I’m not the fucking hooker.” Alex rolled off George’s chest with reluctance, then offered his hand to pull George off the bed. George grabbed a pair of boxers from the floor and pulled them on, then reached out and laced his fingers with Alex’s. “Breakfast?”
Alex rolled his eyes and let out a regretful sort of laugh when an ice bucket containing a bottle of chardonnay was dumped on the table. There were two glasses in the bucket too, upside down so the bowls were chilled.
“Jesus, Doug, I only wanted a quick drink.”
“Sometimes these things can’t be rushed.”
Well, he couldn’t argue with that.
Doug was a relatively new friend but probably the closest one Alex had in Scotland. They’d met—if their first encounter could really be called a meeting—when Alex had given him a blow job in the bathroom of a club. For some reason he’d let Doug buy him a drink after, and for an even stranger reason, they’d become friends.
That first sexual encounter had been their only one. Doug was older, had just turned fifty-one, and owned a highly successful tailors in the heart of the Old Town. He was an institution, not that Doug would let anyone tell him so. At times, Alex wondered if he should cut his losses and ask Doug if they maybe should settle down together.
Despite being firm friends, Alex would publicly admit Douglas Murray was a handsome bastard. If Alex had a daddy kink—and that he definitely didn’t discuss publicly—then Doug pushed every one of those kinky buttons. He wasn’t that tall, but he had a firm body and stunning bone structure. His eyes were a dreamy blue, and he’d let his light brown hair go grey naturally. These days it was cut and styled back from his face in an elegant sweep.
He gave Alex a look from under long lashes, a pointed one, and poured two glasses of wine.
“Don’t let anyone tell you chardonnay is over,” he said. “Fuck pinot grigio. I know what I like, and this shit is it.”
His words came out in a distinctive Scottish burr, and Alex grinned.
“Cheers to that.”
He clinked their glasses together, leaned back in his seat, and sighed after taking the first sip of wine.
“So, tell me who’s got your knickers all up in a twist.”
“How do you know it’s a who?”
“Honey, please.”
Doug also had a slight tendency to lean towards flamboyance.
“Ugh,” Alex groaned. “His name is George. He’s about twenty-eight, and he’s from Manchester.”
“Mmhmm.”
Alex took a big slug of his wine. “We have this crazy chemistry.”
“So you’ve fucked him, then.”
“Yeah. Twice.”
He looked around the pub, instinctively scoping it out for someone who might be looking to sell a story to the tabloids. That had only happened once before, but it was enough to make him hesitate before speaking too loudly.
This was a quiet, old-man pub, though, not the sort of place where he was likely to get snapped by paparazzi. It wasn’t too far from Doug’s place, so they often hung out here on Saturday afternoons when Doug had someone else watching the shop for him. A few men hunched over the bar, waxed jackets protecting their backs and short tumblers of whiskey grasped between gnarled knuckles.
All the booths had high backs, and there were stained glass panels separating some of them. The features seemed to be weathered with age and use: dark wood on the bar, dark wood on the floors, the fireplace covered in thick black gunk that would likely never be shifted.
Despite the smoking ban, the pub still smelled faintly of tobacco smoke, likely the result of afterhours poker games that everyone knew took place there.
“Any good?” Doug asked.
“Huh?”
“The sex,” Doug said, exasperated. “Is it any good?”
“Yeah. Insanely good. At first I was a bit worried because he’s all ‘I don’t bottom.’” Alex put on a ridiculous deep voice and pulled a face. “I thought he might be one of those power tops who demands you get on your hands and knees so he doesn’t even have to look at your dick or admit that he’s fucking a dude. You know the ones.”
“I do,” Doug said wisely.
“But he’s not like that at all.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“He has it, not me,” Alex sighed. He reached for the bottle and topped off his glass, since the contents had disappeared mysteriously quickly.
“Ah.”
“What?”
“Ah,” Doug said again. “He knows.” He waved his hand demonstratively at Alex.
“Is it really something to freak out over?” Alex asked.
“I
did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did,” Doug repeated. “You’re turning me into a fucking parrot this afternoon, Alex. Stop it. Yes, I feel it’s something most people would freak out over. You’re the only openly gay royal since James IV.”
“James I.”
“The point wasn’t political, and you know it. If and when you ever settle down with someone, it’ll be a big fucking deal, both to the world at large and the gay community in particular. Lord knows, the last thing we need is another queen to worship….”
“Watch it,” Alex said amiably. “Or I’ll have you beheaded.”
“Ha ha,” Doug said, his voice dry as a bone. “Promise me one thing?”
“Maybe?”
“Never sell your story to Hello! magazine. I’d never live down the association.”
“How rude. I’d sell it to Tatler.”
Doug snorted inelegantly. He reached for the wine, found the bottle empty, and dumped it back in the ice upside down.
“You need to give him some space, darling,” Doug said. “He’ll come around soon enough. And if he doesn’t, then you move on.”
“But I like this one. I’d much prefer to hang on to him. I was hoping….”
“What?”
“Let me get another bottle.”
“What is it? You’ve got me worried now.”
Alex scooted out of the booth and grabbed the bucket. “Be right back.”
Doug grumbled, and Alex shot him a quirked eyebrow and sauntered over to the bar.
“Same again please, love,” he said to the lady behind the bar.
“No problem.”
He could almost feel Doug stewing behind him—if there was one thing Doug hated, it was being ignored.
“So,” Alex said as he slid back into the booth, dumping the refreshed ice bucket between them on the table. “I need to ask a favour.”
“I’m not in a particularly favourable mood right now,” Doug said. He took the wine bottle and poured two more glasses.
“I was thinking you could meet George. Talk to him, you know.”
“With you there, right?”
“Um….”
“Why on earth would you want me to meet your new boyfriend—”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Alex interrupted.
“Fine, your latest fuck buddy, on my own? You can do a fine enough job of scaring him off without my help, love.”
“I don’t want you to scare him off. I want you to… I don’t know. Help him out of the closet a little bit?”
Doug tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose like Alex was giving him a headache.
“He’s a closet case?” Doug asked, sounding exasperated.
“Sort of.”
“Sort of? Jesus wept, child, I’m doing it again.”
“He’s out to his mum and dad, and his brother. No one else.”
“Well, that’s a start. Why do you want me to talk to him, of all people?”
Alex shrugged and reached for his glass. He was getting drunk. He decided he didn’t care. “Because you have this way,” he said, “of making people feel not ashamed about who they are.”
“I do?”
“Yes. I’m not sure what it is with George, if it’s shame or fear or internalised homophobia… maybe a bit of all three. He didn’t come out until, like, last year or something. He’s been playing straight for most of his life, and he never had that person, that mentor to help him deal with the whole coming-out process.”
“You want me to be a mentor.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes. I want George to have that person who guides you through all of the shit we go through when coming out. I had one, and I know you did too. He needs to be okay with himself before I have a chance in hell of him being okay with me, and sure, this is partly selfish, but if we don’t end up together, then he still deserves to have someone who’s got his back.”
Doug gave Alex a bemused look. “You really like this one.”
“Yeah,” Alex said with a sigh. “I really do.”
“Okay. Give me his number.”
“Are you sure?”
“You put me through all of that, then you ask me if I’m sure? Yes, I’m sure. Give me his bloody number.”
Alex threw his arms around Doug’s shoulders and hugged him hard. “Love you.”
“I know you do.”
“Is this weird?” George asked. “I think this is a bit weird.”
He sipped at his beer, carefully surveying the man on the opposite side of the table. If anyone from back home could see him right now, could see him with Doug right now, he wasn’t sure he’d ever hear the last of it.
Doug was the sort of man George would never normally associate with. He looked, George decided, a bit like David Beckham without the tattoos, and had a bonus sexy accent. He was drinking gin and tonic with a wedge of lime and raised his eyebrow in response to George’s question.
“Is it?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been set up with the best friend of a guy I’m seeing before.”
Doug chuckled softly at that. “Alex likes you a lot. Did he tell you that already?”
“No,” George mumbled. He used his fingertip to gather up the condensation on the side of his pint glass.
“He’s decided you need a mentor,” Doug said with the sort of blunt honesty that always took George aback.
“Oh, really,” he said slowly.
“Don’t get upset, darling,” Doug said. “I see where he’s coming from.”
“You do?”
“We have this great tradition in this community, the gay community, of taking care of one another. A new kid shows up, says he’s gay, we take him under our wing. We show him the ropes. Give him the space to explore his sexuality in a safe environment.”
“Yeah, well, I never had that.”
“I’d guessed,” Doug drawled. “You’re from Manchester?”
“Yeah,” George said. “But I’ve never been to Canal Street in my life, so don’t go thinking I was dancing it up at Manto every weekend.”
“You grew up on the doorstep of one of the biggest gay communities in the country,” Doug said.
“Yeah, but Chorlton might as well be farther away from Canal Street than the moon. There was no way a kid like me could have gone over there.”
“How do you mean?”
George chuckled and shook his head, knowing exactly what was happening. He didn’t mind, not really, so he played along.
“I never went gay-bashing,” he said. “But I could have. I knew people who did. I’m not proud of that…. They’re the same people who used to go into the corner shops run by the Asians and trash the place. Or made monkey noises at black people at football games. I never got involved. My older brother, he was hard as fucking nails, so I never had to worry about joining those kids or worry about being their next target.”
“But if you’d come out….”
“Yeah, if I’d come out, even Maggie couldn’t have protected me.”
“So, do you think you knew even back then, and repressed your sexuality until you were in a place in your life where it was safe to come out, or did you really not figure it out until your midtwenties?”
“I dunno.” George shrugged.
“I knew when I was about eleven,” Doug said conversationally. “I tried to hide it for most of my teen years, got the shit beat out of me regularly. It is what it is,” he said when George tried to offer some measure of sympathy. “I can’t blame anyone for it, not really. It was the seventies. I moved to London when I was eighteen, determined to be out and proud, and within weeks of me moving, the rumbles through the bars started. Gay cancer, they called it.”
“Shit,” George muttered.
“I hadn’t even had sex for the first time at that point. I was desperate to, and then the rumours started that you could catch this gay cancer just by being gay. Can you imagine that? Just being gay co
uld kill you. I stayed for another couple of months, and then people started dying, and I decided fuck this and moved back home.”
“You left?”
“Oh God, yes,” Doug said, leaning back in his chair. “I hadn’t come out to my parents. I just told them I wanted to move to London for a better life, rather than wanting to move to London because I wanted to suck dick, which was the truth of the matter. Then when I came home, I made this massive fuss about hating London and wanting to come home to Scotland. That’s when I started training with my father to be a tailor.”
“You were eighteen?”
“Nineteen, by that point,” Doug said, nodding. “It took me another five years to come out.”
“Shit,” George said. “Same as me.”
“Close enough.”
“Does Alex know this?”
“Some of it. He puts me on a pedestal, Alex does. We adore each other, the feeling is truly mutual. I’m not sure how he’d react to knowing how scared I was back in those days. It was very socially acceptable to hate gay people. There were those who said the government shouldn’t be trying to cure the disease at all. Let the gays die out, they said. Let the gays all kill each other off. The world would be a better place if they did. The ironic thing, of course, was that Edinburgh had higher rates of HIV infection than London at the time.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. It was a pretty even split between the intravenous drug users and the homosexuals. It wasn’t until the late eighties, early nineties that attitudes started to shift.”
“I wasn’t born ’til eighty-seven.”
“Fuck off,” Doug said jovially.
“By the time we were getting sex education, no one really took AIDS seriously. People were being cured of it, you know?”
“I have never had sex in my life without using a condom,” Doug said gravely.
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. And I’ve had a lot of sex,” he added with a wicked grin. “Those few months in London left deep scars, George. I think I’ve forgotten what point I was trying to make.”
George snorted. “There was a point to all this?”
“Oh yes. Coming out.”
“I already did that.”
“There’s being out, darling, and living your life truthfully. I’m not saying you need to turn into me, heaven forbid. But hiding who you are, those half-truths and evasive stories will come back to haunt you sooner or later. You’ll lose friends.”