Pricks and Pragmatism

by J. L. Merrow

  “And do they still insist on staying at home all summer?” I asked with a grin.

  Russell made a face. “Now they go to Spain or the Canaries. Every bloody year.”

  I laughed. “Still, you’re a big boy now. You can go anywhere you want. Have you got anything planned this year?”

  “Um.” He blushed. “I did promise Mum I’d spend a week on the Island.”

  “Russell, Russell, Russell. I am ashamed of you.” I shook my head in mock disbelief. “Tell you what, we should take a trip to France.” I didn’t really think we would. It was just talk, just like Sebastian always telling me about all the exotic places he’d take me to on his yacht when he got around to it. “I could see if I remember any of my French, and you can pick up some more paperbacks. It hardly takes five minutes on Eurostar.”

  “I, er, I sort of have this thing about tunnels,” he admitted. “But we could get a ferry.”

  “Leaving out all the Freudian implications of your thing about tunnels, yes, we could get a ferry,” I told him. “Hey, we should take Tom along. He could learn some proper French to pose with.”

  Russell laughed, his beard twitching. “He’s, um, got an interesting way of putting things sometimes, hasn’t he? I was with him and Nigel once, and we were talking about Sex and the City, and he kept insisting that Sarah Jessica Parker was jolie-lait.”

  “Hmm. Pretty milk?” I raised an eyebrow. “Now, I might be making assumptions here, but looking at her figure I’d say dairy products really aren’t her thing.”

  The following week, which was the one before my exams, I started to go a bit stir-crazy. I’d hardly been out in two weeks—all right, I’d been running, and to the gym, but that was just exercise. I’d revised Romanticism that day until my brain felt like it’d turned to cheese and if I hadn’t taken a break it would have started dribbling out of my ears. Which is why I was doing push-ups in the nude when Russell came home that night.

  Look, there is a reason for this. You work out, you get sweaty. So if you’re wearing clothes, you’ve got to shower and bung your clothes in the wash. But if you don’t wear any clothes, all you have to do is shower. See? It’s not just lazy, it’s eco-friendly as well.

  And all right, I’d looked at the time and I’d known there was a good chance Russell would walk in and catch me at it. I admit it. I was horny. It’d been two weeks since I’d had any action. Two weeks. And it was just daft, me and Russell living together and not messing around. I was going crazy. I was even starting to dream about him. Weird, hot dreams about hairy chests and whiskery kisses. And let me tell you, Hugh Jackman was not going to be happy about that when he found out. I’d tried wandering ’round in my underwear, or with a low-slung towel, but Russell had just seemed to develop this strange sort of squint that meant his eyes looked anywhere but at me.

  So anyway, there I was, pumping up and down like I was shagging the invisible man. I heard the door go, and I heard footsteps, and then I heard a sort of gulping sound. I finished up the set I was doing and I hopped to my feet. Russell was just standing there, looking a bit red in the face. “Hi, Russell. Good day at work?” I asked cheerily.

  He was blinking rapidly, but even so I noticed the moment his eyes slid down to my groin before darting up again like they’d been burned. Somehow I didn’t think he was just shocked to see that the carpet didn’t, in fact, match the curtains. “That’s…yes. Good. Good day. I’llgoandputthekettleon.”

  I watched sadly as he scampered to the kitchen like a virginal Hobbit being chased by a sex-mad Ring-wraith.

  “Well, that went well,” I muttered to my cock, which had optimistically jumped up when I did. All pumped up with nowhere to go. I took it for a shower and gave it a few strokes to make it feel better, but it wasn’t fooled. It knew it was just my hand tugging on it.

  I turned the water to cold for a quick blast, then got out and towelled myself off briskly. It was probably just as well, I reflected, that I’d stopped being so fastidious with the personal grooming since moving in here. After all, Russell didn’t seem to know razors even existed. He’d probably have had a stroke if he’d seen where I generally used them.

  Next day Russell came home from work with a Marks and Spencers carrier bag. “I bought you something,” he told me.

  I frowned, looking up from my revision notes on Farce. “Russell, you don’t need to buy me stuff.”

  “No, please. Take it.” He looked so miserable I didn’t have the heart to argue anymore, so I took it.

  Inside the bag was a thick, long, fluffy and utterly concealing dressing gown.

  Chapter Three

  “Oh, er, Luke?” Russell hesitated, halfway out on his way to work the next morning.

  I looked up from my book on Enlightenment. “Yeah?”

  “I’m, um, going out for a meal tonight. Probably stay for a few drinks afterwards.”

  He’d got a date? Fuck, why did everybody always bloody do this to me?

  “So, um, I wondered if you’d like to come?” He said it all in a rush. “If you’re not busy. Nigel and Tom will be there,” he added encouragingly. “There’ll be about half a dozen of us.”

  I relaxed. “I’ll let you know tonight, all right? See how my revision’s going? I mean, it’s less than a week to go now.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course.” He grabbed his jacket and keys and headed for the door, turning back just as he reached it. “It’d be really great if you could come.”

  I smiled at him. “I’ll let you know tonight.”

  I wasn’t planning to go, of course. It’d just be awkward, with Tom and Nigel assuming me and Russell were shagging and wondering why we were acting like we were just flatmates. I didn’t fancy having to explain it all, especially seeing as I wasn’t really sure myself. And they’d be bound to think I was just taking advantage of him, getting free board and lodging for no consideration. Which I was, but what the hell was I supposed to do? Hold him down and forcibly administer a blowjob?

  Anyway, it’d be safer to stay in tonight. I got out my files and started making some notes.

  Even when the parcel came, I didn’t twig. I just signed for it and wondered why his mum was sending him sweaters in May. It took the arrival of half a dozen brightly coloured envelopes before I realised. I didn’t need to look at the name on the front to know they weren’t here to wish me luck in my exams. “Why the bloody hell didn’t you tell me?” I asked out loud. Followed straight after by “So how old are you, then?”

  It didn’t take long to find his passport. God bless engineers and their anally retentive filing systems. He even filed his comic books under M for Marvel. I flicked to the section of the passport with the personal details. Russell Winchester; sex: male. Place of birth: Newport, Isle of Wight. Date of birth: thirty years ago today. “You tosser,” I told his photo. “How could you just not mention it’s your thirtieth birthday today?”

  Thank God I hadn’t been spending much lately. I reckoned I could run to a card and a bottle of something, at least. I grabbed my wallet and headed out to the shops.

  Halfway down the street, I stopped and jogged back. I’d had an idea. I checked out Russell’s DVD collection. Yes. I’d been right. X-Men I, II and III, but no Origins: Wolverine. Which was criminal, really. After all, if you were into this stuff, wouldn’t you want to have the one with Hugh Jackman fighting in the nude?

  I got a bus down to Totton. It’s just a small town perched on the edge of Southampton. There’s not much there, really, but it’s got a few good shops, the sort you don’t get in the city centre. There’s a great mountain bike shop—the bloke who runs it really knows his stuff—and, more to the point, an indie DVD store. I hate all these soulless places that only have the chart stuff. You might as well pick up your DVDs with your weekly shop in Tesco. Which, of course, most people do.

  I picked up Wolverine, then went straight over to have a dig through the international section. I struck gold. A remastered copy of À Bout de Souffle. That’s the one that
was remade as Breathless, with Richard Gere, but trust me, you need to see the original 1960 one with Jean-Paul Belmondo. I was fifteen the first time I saw it. We were on holiday in France, as usual miles from anywhere and with nothing to do in the evenings, and my dad had been moaning on about how my French would never get better if I didn’t work at it. So he dragged me in to watch this old black-and-white film on TV.

  He’d have been horrified if he’d known the effect it had on me. I was mesmerised by Jean-Paul Belmondo’s face, with its full lips and sensual features that shouldn’t have been good-looking, but were. Kind of like Gerard Depardieu, although not to the extent that he actually looked anything like him, if you know what I mean. I wanted to be Jean Seberg, or more precisely Patricia in the film, with her pretty face and her gamine cropped hair—it didn’t hurt either that she was a wannabe journalist. I even started smoking Gauloises for a bit, but gave it up when I finally admitted to myself the taste made me retch. I’d dreamed for months afterwards of arrogant immoral bastards sweeping me away to go on the lam with them, and calling me a bitch with their dying breath.

  Anyway, it was the sort of film Russell ought to see, and quite possibly wouldn’t have. Even if he didn’t like it, it’d look good on the shelf next to his Arsène Lupin novels. I paid for it, bunged it in the bag and got the next bus home.

  I’d thought Russell might skip off work early, seeing as it was his birthday, but he got back at the normal time, just after six. I gave him a hard stare. “You are in so much trouble.”

  I had to laugh as he went all startled rabbit. “How could you not tell me it was your birthday today?” I held out the bag with the DVDs. “Sorry I forgot to buy wrapping paper. Happy birthday.” He was still looking like he was blinking in the headlights. “Go on, see what’s inside,” I urged.

  Russell looked uncomfortable. “You didn’t have to buy me a present.”

  “Yes, I did. Now are you going to take this bloody bag before my arm drops off?”

  He took it and pulled out the DVDs. He was looking down, so I couldn’t see his mouth under the face-fungus, but I could tell from the twitching of his moustache he was smiling. “That’s fantastic! I’ve been wanting this one,” he said, holding Wolverine. “Thanks!”

  Then he put it down on the table, and looked at À Bout de Souffle. He looked up at me with a weird smile on his face. “Have you seen this? Or did you just buy it for me because you know I like French stuff?”

  “Saw it when I was fifteen.” I gave a lopsided smile, not my usual at all. I hadn’t realised giving him the film would make me feel so naked. “It’s what made me realise I was gay. I just thought you might like it, that’s all.”

  “It’s… Thank you,” Russell said, his eyes as big and blue as Southampton Water as they looked at me probably longer than they ever had done before. “Thank you, Luke.”

  I felt a bit uncomfortable, I don’t know why, so I was the one who broke eye contact first. “So where are we going tonight, anyway?”

  Russell seemed to relax a bit too. “Chinese. Kachina, in Shirley—have you been there?”

  “Yeah, once or twice. They do a great crispy duck, don’t they? So what are you wearing, then?”

  Russell looked a bit worried. “Do I need to dress up? I’ve never been there before, but Nigel said you’d—that it was a good place to go.”

  I pursed my lips. “Do you want to wear a suit? Because a suit would be fine, but you could go more casual if you’d rather. I’ll dress to suit what you’re wearing, so you won’t be the only one, whatever.”

  “Um…”

  “Look, why don’t we have a look at what you’ve got and then decide what’s best?” I suggested, leading the way into his bedroom and only realising when I’d got there that this was the first time I’d actually seen it. I think Russell would have rather I’d given him five minutes to tidy up. I pretended not to notice him kicking a discarded pair of underpants under the bed as I flung open the wardrobe. “Right, what have we got here…”

  I soon realised trying to go for smart casual would be a disaster. Had Russell not actually bought any clothes at all since his mum had stopped doing his shopping? Had his mum stopped doing his shopping? I picked through sad-looking checked shirts hanging limply on wire hangers, trying their best to distance themselves from the poly-cotton slacks.

  “It’s awful, isn’t it?” Russell said in my ear.

  I gave him a sympathetic look. “Do you want an honest answer, or a tactful one? You know what, we should go shopping sometime, after I’ve finished my exams. I’ve got quite a good eye for clothes. But for now, let’s go formal, all right? Everyone looks good in a suit.”

  Even if it was cheap one from Marks and Spencers. Still, it was a dark navy, and from what I remembered, the lighting in Kachina was fairly dim. And so what if he would be wearing a tie with a retro video game printed on it? It was his bloody birthday.

  I dug out the Alexander McQueen suit Sebastian bought me a few months ago. It was a dark grey that made my blond hair look even more striking, and I had a Dior Homme shirt in a soft cream that looked great with it. I slipped on my Kurt Geiger loafers and looked at myself in the full-length mirror in the hall. Funny how a couple of weeks of lying around the place in sweatpants made you forget what you looked like dressed up. Even I hardly recognised me.

  I turned ’round to go and see if Russell was changed yet and found him already there, just standing looking at me. “Hey, you look great!” I meant it. The smartest I’d seen him in so far was his work stuff, which was nerdy trousers and an open-necked check shirt. The suit might be M&S but it was still well-cut enough that it emphasized his shoulders and trimmed his waist. Even his beard looked smarter with a decent shirt and tie underneath it. I was glad he’d gone for the Space Invaders tie. The Tetris one really didn’t suit him.

  He didn’t say anything; just stood there, staring at me. “What?” I asked. “Did I cut myself shaving?” I started feeling ’round my chin.

  “No!” Russell’s voice sounded funny, like he was having trouble speaking. “You look—you look amazing.”

  I felt a warmth course through me. It meant more, somehow, coming from him. Because I knew he wasn’t just saying it to keep me sweet. “Thanks. Hey, isn’t it time we got going?”

  Russell checked his watch. “God, yes! We’ll be late if we don’t hurry.” He started searching around for his keys, looking a bit flustered.

  “Russell, they’re not going to cancel a table for six if you’re five minutes late, okay?” I put a hand on his arm, hoping to calm him down, and tried not to feel hurt when he shook it off like it was contaminated.

  It was a short drive to the restaurant in Russell’s VW Beetle. Shirley’s not that far from the centre of Southampton, and it’s close to the University so I knew it pretty well, especially since Sebastian had taken me to restaurants there a couple of times. We were a few minutes late for the table, but we were still the first ones there. It didn’t surprise me.

  “Do you think we should give them a ring?” Russell asked, looking at his watch again as we waited in the bar area. I’d ordered us a couple of drinks—wine for me, and a Diet Coke for Russell. It was just like him to insist on being designated driver on his own birthday do. I was already making plans to get him to ditch the car later.

  “No, just give them a couple of minutes. Timekeeping never was Tom’s strong suit.”

  He looked around for a moment. It was just him, me and a life-size golden Buddha with a hefty pair of man-boobs. Russell hesitated, then asked me: “You were with Tom for a while, weren’t you?”

  I don’t know why, but I had to force myself to answer. I really didn’t want to talk about it. “Yeah. Does that bother you?”

  He gave a curious kind of laugh. “There’s no reason it should, is there? After all, it’s not like we’re…” He shrugged awkwardly.

  “No!” I agreed, a bit too loud. “No, of course not.”

  I think we were both glad when
Tom, Nigel and the other two turned up, all piling out of the same taxi.

  “Happy birthday,” Nigel said, handing Russell a gift bag. “Er, probably best not to open that until you get home.” The others laughed, nudging each other. The alcohol fumes wafting from their direction only confirmed they’d stopped off for a drink or three on the way.

  Russell still looked pleased, though. “Luke, this is Peter, he works in my department, and this is Darren. He’s in accounts with Nigel.” He seemed not to realise I’d never met Nigel, and Tom didn’t bother introducing us either.

  Peter in particular seemed a bit startled to meet me, but he did his best to cover it up. “What do you do, Luke?” he asked as we were shown to our table.

  “I’m a student,” I told him with a smile. “Got my Finals next week, actually.”

  “Oh, really? What subject?”

  “English.”

  That seemed to be the extent of Peter’s conversation, but I don’t think it was for want of interest in me. I noticed he kept staring at me all through the meal. Which was interesting in itself, as Tom took an early opportunity to whisper in my ear that Peter and Darren were straight. “So don’t go overboard on the gay,” he hissed, doing the air quotes again and generally managing to look and sound like he’d just wandered in from a Pride march. I covered my grin. I reckoned if Peter and Darren could cope with Tom, they’d be just fine with me.

  “What did Luke get you for your birthday?” Tom asked Russell with a wink as we sat down at the table. Thank God the other three were there, or Tom might have gone into detail about what I’d given him one birthday.

  Russell blushed anyway. Maybe he’d guessed the sort of thing Tom was thinking about.

  “I got him a couple of DVDs,” I said with a smile that said keep your bloody nose out of it if you know what’s good for you.