Sex, Booze & Consequences - 2. Jacob

He thinks it’s his asthma flaring up, the first time. He can’t breathe, feels as though his throat and chest are constricted, like he’s choking, and it scares him so much that he starts sobbing. His flatmate, Darren (who is fantastically straight, thank fuck, so there’s never been any sexual tension) takes him to A&E, where they inform him that, no, this is not an asthma attack.

Ironically, his GP informs him, one of the things that might have helped his anxiety is cigarettes. But, of course, Jacob quit smoking several months ago, at her urging. He catches himself licking his lips, chewing the ends of pens, even more frequently than he used to. He smoked just as much for something to put in his mouth as for anything else. And he doesn’t like chewing gum.

Instead, she prescribes him meditation techniques. Breathing exercises and the like. Jacob tries to do them, at first, but he feels like such a fucking idiot even just trying, so in the end he gives up. She also prescribes him medication, which he outright refuses to take. He agrees to see a shrink every other week, though. For all the good that does him.

In the end, he takes to drinking, and bringing home even more strange men than usual. Darren worries about him, enough that he calls Jacob’s sister Elinor, who calls Jacob and asks him if he’s quite all right and if he needs anything.

‘You know you can talk to me,’ she tries. ‘Whatever’s going on, I . . . You’re my brother. I want to help you.’

‘I know, Ellie. I’m fine, really. I promise.’

‘Darren says you’ve been missing work.’

‘Darren should learn to mind his own fucking business . . . I’m still meeting my deadlines.’

Elinor sighs loudly. ‘Look, Jacob, just come round next weekend, yeah? Gemma misses you.’

After some persuasion, Jacob agrees, and the next weekend he hops a train down to where Elinor lives now, with her husband Noel and their two kids. Gemma is nearly three, and talks up a storm, stuttering a bit because she just has too much to say and her tongue can’t keep up, while Jamie is just a baby still. Jacob likes being an uncle more than he thought he would. He wonders if that means he’s a grown up now. The thought scares him. Pop culture tells him thirty is like fifty in gay years.

When the kiddles are asleep and Noel is in the shower, Elinor sits Jacob down in the garden with a cup of tea. It’s a little bit chilly. She covers them both in blankets.

‘Things aren’t quite right with you, are they?’ she asks kindly.

Jacob scoffs and takes a sip of his tea. ‘Things are never quite fucking right with me,’ he admits. ‘Talking to this shrink . . .’ He shakes his head and grimaces. ‘I sort of realise how fucked up I am, you know? And that stresses me out, so I kind of just ignore it. Do what I’ve always done, just . . . More of it.’

She nods, slowly, and looks thoughtful. ‘You were okay for a while,’ she says at last. ‘Not any more normal, perhaps, but,’ she seems to search for the word, meets his eye, ‘happy. Years ago, now. While we were both still living at home. When you were at uni.’

Jacob smiles in spite of himself. ‘I was, wasn’t I?’

‘You haven’t really been happy, since. You put on your smile and you act like a human being when you have to, but . . . You’re my brother, Jacob. I know when things aren’t right.’

‘Yeah.’

It doesn’t occur to him just then how everything correlates. It won’t occur to him until much later, when it’s too late to change the events that are to follow, why he does what he does. That the time when he was happy was a direct result of what, or rather whom he was doing at the time, and not the other way around.

 * * *

Another night, another club. It’s him again. His name is Cecil, which is a stupid name, Jacob thinks. They’ve shagged three times now. Last time, they went back to Cecil’s flat. Jacob doesn’t really like going home with the guys he fucks. He’d much rather just get off in the club, if he can, or he takes them to his place, where Darren’s next door and Jacob can kick his one night stand out and go back to sleep in the morning. Cecil was persistent, though, and Jacob was very drunk, and anyway, Cecil is somewhat better than the usual rabble. He does what he’s told, and he doesn’t know his own strength, bless him, which is a good thing. He’s a gentle giant, six feet tall with blue eyes and a pale blonde buzz-cut, and a lot more buff than Jacob usually finds attractive. But he’s useful, does the job right. Or as right as anyone has, so far. Anyone who wasn’t—

Jacob shakes the thought from his head. Wrong time. Wrong place. He drains his cocktail. The beer in these places is always shit.

He lets Cecil go home with him. Lets him shag him silly. He even lets him stay in the morning. They eat waffles and drink orange juice and coffee, and it’s all horribly domestic and sweet. It’s not until they’re standing in the hall, though, Jacob in his pants and an open dressing gown and Cecil fully dressed and ready to leave, and Cecil kisses him gently on the lips and says he’ll call him, that Jacob realises what’s going on. Cecil doesn’t think they’re just fucking. Cecil thinks he’s about to become Jacob’s boyfriend.

He’s gone before Jacob has time to say anything, and proceeds to send him cutesie texts all week. Jacob wonders what he might have said to Cecil, in those fuzzy moments between drunkenness and hangover, after (truly rather amazing) sex, high on endorphins, that could have encouraged this.

When Jacob elects to stay home and read instead of going out to the club the next weekend, suddenly Cecil is there, banging on his door. Jacob refuses to open at first, but Darren tells him in no uncertain terms that if he doesn’t, Darren will let him in himself and he doesn’t care what happens, this is Jacob’s problem.

So he goes to the door, and he lets Cecil in, and the great big lump is actually sobbing, and hugs him.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake . . . Cecil, get off!’ Jacob’s always been stronger than he looks, and could always hold his own against bullies twice his size. Now he pushes Cecil away and glares at him. ‘What the hell do you want?’

‘I . . . I was worried. You didn’t answer my texts, and you didn’t turn up at the club. Thought . . . Thought something might have happened to you.’

Jacob rolls his eyes. ‘Christ, Cecil . . . You know we’re just shagging, yeah? I mean, four measly fucks does not a boyfriend make!’

‘I don’t think they were so very measly.’ Cecil looks hurt, and if Jacob were a better man this might have inspired pity. Instead it just makes him angry.

‘Oh, piss off! I just wanted someone to fuck, all right? I don’t want a relationship with you, and don’t tell me you feel the same way because those puppy eyes of yours are telling me different.’

Cecil’s puppy eyes seem to darken, then. ‘You felt something,’ he says softly. ‘I know you did.’ He clenches his fists.

‘Yeah. It’s called an orgasm. And it was a good one, don’t get me wrong, but coming isn’t the same as loving, mate. So, let’s just call it quits, yeah?’

‘No!’ Cecil’s sudden outburst takes Jacob by surprise. ‘I won’t accept that!’ And then he’s on him, kissing him, hard, and pushing him up against the wall, hands now working on his belt.

Jacob likes being hurt. He likes surrendering control, being royally fucked in the literal sense. He likes feeling used while knowing that at any second he can say stop, and they will stop.

This is not like that, and with Cecil’s tongue in his mouth and his body pressed against him, Jacob’s throat closes up and he can’t breathe. He’s panicking again.

Darren’s voice seems to come from far away. ‘Oi, keep your kinky games in the bedroom!’ Then, ‘Jacob? Hey, you, get the fuck off him!’

There’s a brief scuffle, and then Jacob is sinking down to the floor, shaking. Cecil is standing several steps back, staring at him with a look of wide-eyed shock. ‘I’m . . . Oh, God, Jesus, I’m sorry!’ He tries to get to his knees, to touch Jacob, but Darren puts a firm hand on his shoulder.

‘I think you’d better go, mate,’ he says icily. ‘Go on, off you fuck.’

Cecil vanishes rather quickly, and Jacob’s lungs seem to clear. Darren’s at his side now, rubbing soothing circles into his back.

‘I swear, Jacob, you’re one of the smartest people I know, but you can be such a stupid fuck. Come on.’ He pulls Jacob gently to his feet, and right then Jacob could kiss him. He doesn’t. Instead he puts his arms around him and hugs him, sobbing into his shoulder. It’s not part of their usual rapport. They’ll probably never do it again, at least not while one or both of them is sober, but Darren hugs him back. ‘Hey, it’s okay. Just . . . I’ll put the kettle on. Okay?’

* * *

Jacob has a few more random blokes in the next couple of years. No more than he can count on one hand, though. Instead he throws himself into his work, and begins in earnest to work on the novel he’s been thinking about for years.

In the months leading up to meeting Marcus again, Jacob is pretty much celibate, and that makes their reunion all the sweeter. For the first time in years, he feels properly alive again. He feels happy. He feels as though things could actually be all right. But after a wonderful weekend at Marcus’s flat, he’s suddenly swamped in Christmas stuff and book lists and all kinds of shit, and the two only communicate by phone. Then, on Christmas eve, Marcus doesn’t respond even to that, and Jacob knows, feels, that something is deeply wrong.

There are several Mary Allens in Marcus’s area, but Jacob finally gets hold of the right one. No, she says, Marcus isn’t with her. And she’s worried, too.

Jacob doesn’t have a car. He takes the train.

There’s no answer when he rings the doorbell, but the lights are on. A friendly neighbour lets him into the building. He has to break into the flat, which, luckily, is not alarmed. He finds Marcus on the floor, barely conscious, and almost panics again.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck! What have you done, you fucking twat? Jesus!’ He gets to his knees, trying very hard not to totally lose his shit.

Marcus is pale and cold, and at first Jacob thinks he’s not breathing, but then he stirs and moans incoherently. He smells like booze.

The skinny fuck can be heavy when he wants to be. Jacob half drags, half carries him into the bathroom and holds his head over the toilet bowl. Marcus doesn’t vomit of his own accord, so, hissing abuse at the dumb cunt in his arms, Jacob sticks two fingers down his throat and lets his gag reflex take care of the rest. Then he takes most of his clothes off and gets him into bed.

When Marcus comes to, Jacob is so angry, and so relieved, that he says the words he never thought he’d say to anyone ever. Then he crawls into bed with him, wraps his arms around him, and they go to sleep.

* * *

When Jacob wakes up, a few hours later, Marcus is sleeping soundly. Not the heavy, deadened sleep of the drunk, but a normal, peaceful, undisturbed slumber. His breathing is even and his expression mild and untroubled. Jacob hates him for a moment, and then lies there for several minutes, just looking at him and loving him unreservedly.

He goes to piss, and when he returns, Marcus is awake.

‘Morning,’ Jacob tells him.

‘Merry Christmas,’ Marcus replies sheepishly. He groans and rubs his eyes, sitting up slightly. ‘I’m sorry.’

Jacob shrugs. ‘Water under the bridge, mate.’

‘Yeah. Still.’

‘How are you feeling?’

Marcus yawns, running his fingers through his hair and blinking a few times. ‘Better than I have any fucking right to,’ he says finally. ‘My head doesn’t even hurt . . .’

Jacob crawls back into bed, brushing back the hair from Marcus’s forehead and looking into his green eyes.

‘You ever do that to me again, I’ll beat you so hard your dad will be able to feel it in Hell, got it?’ Then he kisses him. Marcus’s breath could make a skunk faint, but Jacob doesn’t care just then. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, you fucking owe me. So I’d like you to fuck me blind, and then we can start talking about what we can do so nothing like this ever happens again.’

‘Yeah, just let me go piss first. And brush my teeth.’ Marcus grimaces. ‘Tastes like something died in there.’

‘Yeah, whatever was left of your fucking dignity.’

It’s slow, and way too fucking gentle, but Jacob doesn’t really mind, because it’s Marcus, and now he wraps his entire body around him and makes him feel, in exactly the way no one else ever could. Jacob thinks, for the first time, that maybe it’s not the pain he needs so badly. Maybe it’s just Marcus.

When Marcus comes, he’s panting, and he has his forehead pressed against Jacob’s and his eyes shoot open, staring Jacob down, green fire burning in his skull. ‘Jacob . . . Fuck!’

Even if Marcus hadn’t been stroking his cock just then, Jacob thinks the sight would have been enough to set him off, and he comes as well, with a long, drawn out whine.

Marcus collapses on top of him and laughs. ‘Oh, fuck . . . Jacob, I—’

‘Shut up! Don’t fucking laugh at me!’ Jacob glares at him.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, just let me . . .’ Marcus strokes Jacob’s cheek and looks down at him, smiling fondly. ‘Come on, just let me say it while I’m sober. Thank you. For caring enough to do this. Really, I just . . . I love you.’

There’s a long silence. Jacob’s aware that his own tongue flicks out of his mouth and runs across his lips in a nervous gesture, but he doesn’t look away. His heart is pounding. Last night he was angry, and terrified, and so relieved. Now he’s meant to be calm, high on orgasmic endorphins, mellow and boneless. So how come his chest hurts? How come he feels like he might panic again?

He pulls a few shaky, shallow breaths, and Marcus looks concerned. ‘Is it your asthma?’

Jacob shakes his head. ‘No, I’m okay, I’m—’ He pauses, takes another, deeper breath and finds that it reaches his lungs just fine. ‘I’m fucking okay,’ he says. ‘I’m . . . I love you.’ He surprises even himself by saying it, and smiles faintly. ‘Fuck, I . . . I’m sorry it’s taken me so fucking long. I’m a twat.’

‘Yeah. You are.’ But Marcus is smiling as he says it, and he leans down and kisses Jacob gently on the lips. ‘But you’re my twat.’

Jacob laughs. ‘Wow. Seriously? That’s just about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘Good. I’m so fucking beyond caring.’ Marcus bites his neck possessively. ‘Mine,’ he states again.

‘Fine. Whatever.’ Jacob shakes his head. Then he pulls Marcus down on top of him and kisses him. ‘Yours,’ he whispers into his lover’s mouth. If Marcus actually hears him, he doesn’t let on.

‘I’ve got Meg next weekend,’ says Marcus, when they’re lying side by side some minutes later.

‘Oh. I guess . . . Guess I’ll see you the weekend after, then?’

‘If . . . If you want, you could . . .’ Marcus rubs his scalp distractedly and looks away. ‘You could come and meet her.’

Jacob blinks. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Yeah. If you want.’ Marcus looks at him hesitantly. ‘Do you?’

‘Fuck, yeah!’ Jacob grins. ‘Of course I want to meet your spawn!’

‘Yeah, rule number one? Don’t call her “spawn”.’

‘Offspring?’ Jacob tries.

Marcus pinches Jacob’s arm. ‘Get fucked. That’s just a terrible band.’

‘Piss off, Offspring were amazing!’ Jacob thinks for a moment. ‘Mini-Marcus?’

Marcus let’s out a short laugh. ‘She’s a fucking girl!’

‘So, Babydoll? Cutiepie?’

‘God, no, that’s sexist. And while we’re at it, stop saying “like a girl” like that’s a bad thing.’

‘Look at you, Mr. Feminism!’ Jacob props himself up on his elbow and looks down at Marcus’s face with a smile. ‘Jesus, Marc. You, with a little girl . . . Can’t wait to meet her.’