Queermance Anthology, Volume 2

by Queermance Anthology- Volume 2 [MM-FF] (retail) (epub)

  Patrick was the most remarkably unselfconscious person, sometimes. The very idea of being willing to wiggle around like that while you had your dick and balls out���

  Angus did not seem to have any option but to take his own shirt off, and then start on his shoes.

  Patrick was already splashing out knee-deep into the water, cheerful as a puppy let off the lead.

  ‘Patrick,’ Angus said. ‘Why have you got sunburn on your arse?’

  It was true: Patrick had a broad swathe of pale pink right across his skinny bum, lower back and thighs, like he was standing behind a waist-high sheet of cellophane.

  ‘Oh,’ Patrick said, ‘that.’

  ‘Yes, that.’

  ‘I fell asleep in the sun.’

  ‘With no clothes on?’

  Patrick grinned and shrugged.

  ‘So, Patrick, let’s just think of the headlines when I have to bail you out of jail. Pimmley in Nude Romp Arrest. Pimmley: I Love a Pervert. No, no, wait: Pimmley, the Next Generation: Exposed.’ Angus’s family was a famous name in the banking sector, and often in the papers.

  ‘No one cares!’

  Angus put his face in his hands.

  ‘Are you going to take those pants off,’ Patrick said, sounding quite as though he thought he were the aggrieved party in all of this, ‘or do I have to come over there and do it for you?’

  Patrick taking Angus’s pants off was Angus’s quintessential idea of a good time, actually, but then Angus thought about how Patrick’s mum was just a bit further up the hill, in the house, and he was half-naked, and he’d better get his kit off quick-smart so he could get himself safely concealed under the water.

  Patrick was watching him take his pants off. Patrick was twisted around, his body one long S-shape, as if watching Angus take his pants off was a matter of the utmost importance. Angus’s dick twitched. He saw Patrick see it twitch. He saw Patrick see Angus see Patrick see it twitch. Then his dick was at half-mast, and all right, he needed to get under the water.

  He was sinking and floundering in the mud before he even reached the water.

  ‘Come on, it’s really nice in,’ Patrick said. ‘Just a bit muddy.’ He took that moment to wade in a few steps further, arch his back and dive, launching himself into a leisurely breaststroke.

  ‘A bit muddy?’ Angus had made it in up to his knees, but he was ankle-deep in what felt like lumpy, cold chocolate mousse with every step, and sinking fast. He dragged one foot out too quickly and overbalanced, staggering sideways and putting the other foot down on something sharp, forcing him to skitter back the other way.

  It was then that Patrick made a fateful remark. ‘You’ll stir up the yabbies like that,’ he said.

  ‘Yabbies,’ Angus said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Patrick said, as if explaining something to a child. ‘They live down there, in the mud.’

  ‘Yabbies,’ Angus said. ‘There are yabbies in this dam.’

  ‘Of course there are,’ Patrick said. ‘Yabbies and dams are like polar bears and Antarctica.’

  ‘There aren’t any polar bears in Antarctica, Patrick. That’s the Arctic.’

  ‘No,’ Patrick said, still in his kindergarten teacher’s explaining voice, ‘I’m pretty sure it’s both. Come on,’ Patrick urged, treading water and grinning.

  Then an event occurred that Angus was pretty sure spontaneously rendered him infertile.

  ‘Patrick?’ Patrick’s mum called from somewhere up the hill.

  ‘We’re in the dam!’ Patrick sang back cheerily.

  Angus sprinted into deeper water and threw himself under like a man avoiding a giant fireball in a disaster movie.

  Patrick’s mum tromped into view, wearing plaid gumboots. ‘Brilliant idea! Maybe I’ll join you,’ she said with a wink.

  Angus was surprised to find his dick and balls did not actually fall off.

  ‘Oh, you love a bit of a skinny dip, don’t you, you old tart,’ Patrick joshed.

  ‘Oh, I’m not the only tart around here, am I, now?’ she said, with a sunnily insinuating grin that, horrifyingly, seemed to include Angus in the joke. ‘Maybe after I’ve finished the gardening,’ she said. ‘But anyway, there’s rolls for lunch when you’re ready. I’m just weeding up on the driveway.’ She waved and left.

  ‘You wouldn’t really skinny dip with your mum, would you?’ Angus asked as soon as she’d gone.

  They were treading water side by side. ‘Why not?’ asked Patrick. ‘I don’t think sharing a large body of water with your mother is actually forbidden by the laws of man and God.’

  Angus couldn’t even look at him anymore, so he went for a bit of a swim around.

  It turned out that skinny-dipping felt rather nice. All that cool water went - well, everywhere. All sorts of places; ones it didn’t usually go when you were wearing bathers. Or at least it didn’t go there quite so directly.

  ‘Ever been for a swim with no clothes on before, then?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘That’s between me and my - private crevices, thank you,’ Angus retorted.

  ‘Well, I’m glad it was me who popped your cherry, then.’

  ‘Sure you don’t want to get your mum in on the action?’

  Patrick splashed him for that. Angus tackled him, and a tussle ensued. But Angus lost his taste for that after he accidentally put his foot down on the bottom, where there were potentially upwards of five or six thousand yabbies waiting, poised, to snap their pincers closed on his little toe.

  After that they just floated, twisted loosely together. Angus tried kissing Patrick, but nearly lost his centre-of-flotation-balance and went under. So he stayed still, and Patrick floated with his forehead nudging Angus’s shoulder.

  The sun shone bright on the water and Angus closed his eyes.

  ‘Right. You getting cold?’ Patrick asked eventually.

  ‘Yeah, a bit,’ Angus said.

  They paddled for the bank. ‘I suppose this means I have to put my feet down, does it?’ Angus said.

  ‘Yabbies aren’t that scary,’ Patrick said encouragingly. ‘Doesn’t hurt that much when they get you.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Angus said. ‘You’ve actually been bitten. You’re trying to comfort me by telling me this.’

  ‘I was fine!’ Patrick said. ‘I was nine. It was when we lived in Shep. He just got me on the foot. I hardly cried at all. Anyway, my cousin got bitten on the balls, and he was right as rain!’

  ‘On the balls? They can get you on the balls? What, do they just swim up from the bottom and get you?’

  ‘He’s fine! He had five children when he grew up!’

  ‘That’s the fear of death talking! The uncontrollable urge to breed. He’s still shitting himself, every day of his life.’

  ‘Oh, shush,’ Patrick said.

  ‘So what you’re telling me, Patrick, is that even as we speak, a bloodthirsty bloody-great yabbie could be shooting up off the bottom like a torpedo, aimed straight at my family jewels?’

  ‘Very expensive family jewels they are. I’m sure they have their own insurance policy,’ Patrick said. ‘Come on.’ And he put his feet down under him and headed for the bank.

  Angus followed. He concentrated very carefully on how the air felt on his wet skin, so that he hardly obsessed about what his feet might be touching in the mud at all.

  ‘How do you get the mud off your feet, when you have to walk through it to get out?’ he asked when they were ankle-deep.

  ‘Let it dry in the sun, then brush it off,’ Patrick said, unconcerned.

  ‘Well there’s another question,’ Angus said. ‘How are we going to dry the rest of us?’

  ‘How do you think?’ Patrick said. He strode further up the hill to where the mud gave way to grass, then flopped down flat on his back.

  ‘There’s all sticks and rocks in that!’

  ‘They’ll brush off once you’re dry.’ Patrick patted the grass next to him.

  Angus sat down. The air on his wet - bits - had made him remem
ber he was naked again, so he sat down with his knees bent up and his arms folded over them. It was the way his dream self always sat when he was trying to hide during those nightmares where he was naked in public but no-one seemed to have noticed yet, and maybe if he just stayed very still…

  There was a tiny bird, black and bright blue, the size of a golf ball with a jaunty teaspoon-handle tail, on the grass downhill from him, lined up almost exactly with the centre of the vee of his legs. It was looking at him - at his balls, let us be frank - and doing a manic little dance on the spot, fast as an insect so your eye could barely track it, flipping its folded-fan tail around in all directions like a baton twirler on speed.

  Angus fought the urge to close his legs. ‘What the hell is that?’ he said.

  ‘Superb blue wren,’ Patrick said, with a grin. ‘They were millions of them down the side of the house last time I was up here.’

  ‘I don’t see what’s so superb about it,’ Angus said.

  ‘They’re so cute!’ Patrick said. ‘They were hopping around with little yellow flowers in their mouths last time. These little yellow flowers!’ He mimed having a beak with his hand, and twitched around like a bird.

  ‘Stop looking at my balls!’ Angus said, and kicked his foot out at the wren.

  The wren was well out of reach, and paid him no mind. It continued to dance, and to fix him with its shiny little mercury-drop eyes.

  ‘It’s not looking at your balls,’ Patrick said.

  ‘It is looking at my balls!’

  ‘Angus,’ Patrick said patiently, ‘it’s a bird.’

  ‘A bird,’ Angus said, ‘that is looking at my balls.’ He gave in and squeezed his knees together.

  ‘Lie down,’ Patrick said.

  ‘It’s looking at my balls.’

  ‘Lie down,’ Patrick said, ‘and stop worrying about the wren. What you need to worry about is that I want to look at your balls.’ He ran the pad of one finger lightly down the side of Angus’s arm, and into the crook of the elbow where it was ticklish.

  ‘Oh,’ Angus said.

  It was one of those times when Patrick wanted to tease. He got Angus to the point that his brain seemed to be physically vibrating in his skull, then stopped and said, ‘How’s that? You like that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Angus said faintly.

  ‘You really like that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Want me to suck you again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Going to come in my mouth when I suck you again?’

  ‘Yes,’ Angus said, and had to turn his head away to the side.

  There were four wrens there on the grass, not far away, two of the black-and-blue ones and two fawnish-brown ones, all hopping and cavorting around in a circle.

  After that, they had to take a second dip. Then they went back up to the house half-dressed, or rather, Angus did: he wore his underwear and jeans, which clung and dragged on his newly wet skin, and carried his shoes and shirt. Patrick wore only his hideous orange Y-fronts, showing a damp patch over his wet pubes, and carried the rest.

  Angus trialled a number of comments in the privacy of his own mind, but rejected them all.

  ‘Mum, we’re just getting in the shower!’ Patrick called down the hallway, once they were in the house.

  There was no response.

  Angus had to stand back to make room for Patrick to open the linen closet door in the narrow hall. Patrick disappeared behind the door, then suddenly popped his head back around to lob a folded towel straight at Angus’s face.

  Angus caught it before it hit, and called, ‘Mark! The crowd goes wild!’ To which Patrick, unsportsmanly, just stuck out his tongue.

  ‘Do you want to go first, or shall I?’ Angus asked.

  ‘You duffer,’ Patrick said. ‘Come on.’ He ushered Angus into the bathroom ahead of him. ‘There’s not enough water for both of us, probably,’ Patrick explained, in response to the look on Angus’s face, once they were inside.

  ‘You don’t seriously want to���?’ Angus protested. ‘She could be back any minute!’

  ‘How scared of women are you, exactly?’ Patrick asked. ‘I mean, I always thought it was just your granny, because let’s face it, I think an actual T-Rex would be scared of her.’

  ‘That’s outrageous,’ Angus said. ‘Also, I’d like to see you try to call her my granny to her face. Do you have any idea how much security she has in that place?’

  Patrick took his Y-fronts off.

  Angus gave up, and took his own clothes back off. He let Patrick bundle him into the shower beside him. The cubicle was the size of an upright coffin, and they kept bumping their elbows into the walls. Angus jumped when he heard a thunking noise - thinking it was Margo.

  ‘It’s just the pipes,’ Patrick said softly. He shuffled Angus one way, and then the other, so that hot water went all over his back, and then all over his front.

  Patrick washed Angus’s hair, rubbing his fingers hard into his scalp.

  Then Patrick decided that it was necessary to soap up and mercilessly wash every part of Angus, including the places he’d had his mouth on earlier. Angus whined, ‘What are you doing to me? I’ve just come.’

  ‘I know. It tasted lovely,’ Patrick said, and persisted.

  Patrick slid the shower screen aside, letting in cold air and splattering water audibly on the floor. ‘Patrick!’ Angus protested.

  Patrick was sliding the mirrored vanity cabinet open, rifling around - and finding something. ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘She still keeps a box, just in case.’

  ‘A box of what?’ Angus said.

  ‘What do you think?’ Patrick said.

  The water in the shower chose that moment to take on an ominously tepid quality. Angus could see little option but to turn it off.

  ‘Patrick, you can’t be serious,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t know what else you think you’re going to do with that,’ Patrick said cheerily, looking at Angus’s dick.

  Patrick was now towelling himself haphazardly. He gestured towards Angus with the other towel. Despairing, Angus took it, got out of the shower cubicle and began doing the same.

  Angus tried one last time. ‘They’re your mum’s!’

  Patrick dropped his towel decisively, and took Angus’s off him and dropped it on the floor too. He came up behind Angus and pushed at him gently, walking him until he was leaning forwards over the sink.

  Patrick’s hand ran all over the front of Angus’s body, and down the front of his thighs, and his mouth attached itself to the knob at the very top of Angus’s spine. Angus’s back arched; his ankles shuffled themselves apart seemingly against his will. ‘That’s it,’ Patrick cooed, and slid his foot up Angus’s calf to coax his stance wider.

  ‘You’ve got me trained like a dog,’ Angus said, meaning it as a grumble, but it came out more like a plea.

  ‘Mmm, you’re such a good boy,’ Patrick said, too earnestly amorous to make Angus angry. He pumped body lotion onto his hands from a bottle on the bench, and rubbed them together with a squelch.

  When they came out of the bathroom and down the hall afterwards, they saw that in the kitchen, Margo was putting out slices of ham, cheese and tomato onto mismatched plates with seventies orange and brown patterns.

  ‘Ready for lunch?’ she sang out to them.

  ‘Brilliant!’ Patrick said. ‘What can we do?’

  And so they laid the table - Patrick asking Margo where what must have been familiar items were stashed in this new kitchen, and then giving them to Angus to put on the table. Angus thought he did a fairly creditable job of it, though he had a moment’s anxiety about whether the bread-and-butter plates belonged on the side or in the middle, given they were the only ones they were going to use. He went for the middle in the end, which seemed to work out fine once everyone sat down and got started.

  Margo lined up her thumbs on a bread roll, preparatory to tearing it. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘the fresh air’s made you two a bit frisky.’


  She shoved her thumbs into the roll, sending a jet of crumbs exploding into the air.

  ‘Always does,’ Patrick said, biting into his own roll and causing a similar shower of debris.

  Angus put his face in his hands.

  ‘I was the same at your age,’ Margo said. ‘Be right around this time of year I conceived you!’

  Angus thought that perhaps if he never looked at either of them ever again, he might somehow yet recover.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so uptight,’ Patrick said, nudging Angus’s knee under the table.

  Angus looked up. Over Patrick’s shoulder he could see a picture of Patrick in a Snugglepot and Cuddlepie costume: a small, brilliantly ginger-haired boy, preternaturally skinny, with ears accounting for sixty per cent of the width of his head, wearing pink tights, Blundstone boots, a tutu made of plastic bags, and a green beanie with a hook made of pipecleaners on top - grinning ecstatically.

  ‘You, Patrick,’ Angus said, savagely, pointing at the picture, ‘Are a gumnut.’

  ‘Yes he was!’ crowed Margo. ‘He was so sweet, the other mothers practically wanted to steal him.’ She beamed at Patrick and took his hand across the table. Patrick beamed at Angus in turn and took Angus’s hand in his other one.

  So there they all were, beaming.

  On the sill outside the window on the far side of the kitchen, Angus saw a small shape moving. It was a wren, doing its little dance.

  A DADDY FOR MUFFIN

  Beck Mitchell

  Story inspired by an image shared by Steelwhisper

  ONE

  ‘The circus freaks are here again.’

  After finishing the pour, I glanced up and followed Thom’s line of sight to see who he was talking about. The couple settling at a small table near the wall were unusual. The woman was slim with perfectly proportioned breasts and trim hips leading down to long, shapely legs. If you examined her features individually, she was beautiful, but when looked at collectively, she didn’t look right. Her face was classically beautiful: flawless skin, almond-shaped eyes with irises so dark brown that they appeared to be black from a distance, lips perfectly shaped and highlighted in lipstick below a straight nose. Despite the casual attire of the other patrons, she and her partner were dressed well. They epitomised the term “classy” and, although gay, I could appreciate her body aesthetically. But, despite the perfect face and trim figure, she still looked somehow wrong. Her head was just too small, her neck and arms too long. There was nothing overt, just a mild distortion of proportion that turned what should be beautiful into something discordant.