Boxed In - 1. The Tale

Pete Simpson stood on his doorstep, watching the delivery guys unload his latest acquisition, a fifty inch, ultra-thin, flat screen television. To his surprise, he found his attention was split between that and the younger of the two men struggling with the bulky package. Early thirties, perhaps? He was just Pete's sort – broad smile, filled out his uniform nicely, and seemed to have a laid back attitude to life. Yet, he was the one doing most of the heavy lifting, putting on a show, with his muscles and sinews only partially hidden by his light, short-sleeved shirt. Pete's mouth started to water. Alas, a brief fantasy was interrupted all too soon by a question from the object of his desire.

“Where would you like it, Mr Simpson?”

Pete's mind supplied him with an entirely inappropriate answer. Fortunately, he took a moment before he replied to the question asked, not the one of his fantasies.

“In the living room, thanks. I'll show you where exactly in a moment.”

The TV was an extravagance, but he spent so much time watching films, sport, and so on, that it made sense to have the best TV he could afford. OK, it made sense to him, at least. His dad would have something to say about it. As he did about everything he didn't approve of. The list was long and ever expanding. Pete sighed.

Once they'd made it to the living room with the package, the two men wrestled the TV out of its cardboard and plastic wrappings. Then they balanced it between them as they manoeuvred it up against the wall, trying to find the perfect spot before they attached the holding bracket to the wall. As he watched, Pete found his mind wandering again. He pictured the younger guy lying semi-naked on a bed, his bed. He imagined that the man's African heritage would somehow manage to emphasise his musculature, and he would look so sexy. So, so sexy. Pete's shorts were feeling distinctly tight round the crotch when, again, he was interrupted – by the other man of the pair, this time.

“Mr. Simpson! Your opinion, please, before our arms drop off.”

Pete snapped out of his erotic daydream, and became aware of the antagonism directed at him. Disguised in humour, but still there. “Yeah. Sorry, guys, That's fine – just there.” He decided to lend a hand. “Here's the bracket and everything – it's gonna look great there.”

**********

Pete wasn't a 'read the instructions first' kinda guy. He always found his way around easily enough, and he prided himself on his tech savvy. Anyway, how complex or different could operating a TV be? The main thing about the new one was its size – he wasn't bothered about any of the fads the salesperson tried to beguile him with. He settled on the sofa with the remote, a beer close by, and turned it on. The screen burst into life with all its HD glory. Wow! He was sure already that the high definition made a significant difference. Hmm … now which movie would he try it out with? He was running through a mental list of his favourite films when something happened …

“Hi, Pete! Hope you're having a great day. My name is Garry and I'm here to help.”

Pete nearly choked on his beer. WTF? A talking TV? The voice had come from the TV, hadn't it? He hated machines talking to him with their happy, happy voices. Right, that was going to be turned off immediately or it was going back to the shop. He hadn't asked for anything interactive at all.

The TV seemed to know what he was thinking. “Garry'll look after you, darling. We two gay boys'll get along so well, I know we will. I may be new, but I'll have you know, I'm fully qualified.”

Pete watched dumbfounded as various certificates flashed up on the screen in quick succession. He shook his head, frowned, and made a rude gesture at the screen. What would they think of next?

The TV took offence, and it showed in its voice. Which was now a particularly whiny, light tenor – Pete could hear the pout. “It's not nice to give your new best friend the finger. Have I been anything other than helpful and kind? You should say sorry.”

Pete rolled his eyes. Hang on … how did they – whoever they were – know he was gay? Then, another thought occurred to him. Was it the TV who'd realised he was gay? He was about to unpack that thought when the TV butted in.

“If you don't apologise, sweetie, I'm gonna sulk. And you're really not gonna like me when I sulk.”

Pete sighed. If they had to send him a gay TV, did it really have to be like that? He had a friend who went off in a huff every two minutes – god, he was such hard work. Pete stopped and rewound. When had he started to accept the situation? For fuck's sake. That TV was going straight back to the shop the following morning. What were his chances of being able to watch a movie? He could ask 'Garry' but he'd have to apologise to 'him' first. That was so not gonna happen.

He grabbed the remote and picked a channel. Nothing. On-demand services? Nothing. And now the screen was dead, black, lifeless. He tried the DVD player which was hooked up to the screen. Still not a thing.

“See? I did warn you, Pete. No apology, no action. Now, your friend Ahmed – he's watching the footie. Great match, a decider, and it's gone into extra time. Lee's into the latest HBO box set, and Duane, he's watching porn.”

Lee was one of his co-workers. Who the fuck was Duane?

“I think you'd like know what sort of porn he's watching, sweetie.” No – unless …Was that the name of the sexy delivery guy?

“Wouldn't you like to know?” Hang on. Which question was that countering? The TV's or his? And yes, he did want to know.

“All you have to do is to say 'sorry'.” The TV sounded pleased at the prospect of winning the tussle.

So, he'd have to apologise before anything worked? Bloody hell, it was coming to something when he had to grovel to a machine. Pete growled internally for a moment, took a deep breath, and forced himself to do the deed.

“Err... Garry?” He supposed he'd better address the TV how it wanted him to. How to get yourself on social media in two seconds flat … Was it being recorded, filmed? He took another deep breath. “I'm sorry if I caused you any offence – it was entirely unintentional.” Yeah, right. “Put it down to the surprise. I had no idea you were coming along as well.”

Pete could tell the TV wasn't impressed. Was that a sniff he just heard? Somehow, he also sensed a flounce, as well.

After a longish pause, Garry spoke. “Hmm … well, darling. Why you weren't expecting me, I have no idea. Not the most gracious of apologies, but accepted nevertheless.”

Pete relaxed. Good – right, maybe he could now watch something on his new TV. He turned the screen on again and started scrolling through the listings. What was he in the mood for? He was about to click on one title when he was interrupted.

“Sweetie …” Pete frowned. He was getting fed up of the TV calling him 'sweetie', or 'darling' for that matter. He opened his mouth to complain but the TV didn't give him a chance. “You really don't want to watch that one. Listen to your Garry – he knows what's best.”

For fuck's sake! Who was the boss round here? Pete decided to ignore 'Garry' despite knowing what would result if 'he' went off in a huff again. He clicked on the film he wanted and, of course, nothing happened. He was about to explode when, instead of the horror flick he fancied, he found himself watching a French gay movie, with subtitles! What?! He wasn't that sort of metropolitan, arty-farty gay man – he liked horror movies, the gorier the better. Yet, as Pete watched, he was drawn into the film more and more. Every time he decided he'd had enough, he couldn't quite drag himself away. Until, two hours later, he was in tears at the ending. He hadn't felt so emotional for a long time.

OK – maybe he'd been a bit hasty. 'Garry' might have 'his' uses, as long as 'he' could be trained not to call him by those sorts of endearments – they made him cringe. So, was he gonna return the TV to the shop? He'd have to think about it.

**********

The following weekend, Pete stood in his kitchen, glumly staring into one of the cupboards. He was bloody starving, but he was also broke. Next payday couldn't come soon enough. The TV hadn't been returned to the shop. Somehow, the whole topic kept slipping from his mind, and he'd kinda got used to 'Garry'. Even if the TV still insisted on calling him 'darling', 'sweetie' or 'cherie'.

So, the nett result was that he was gonna have to survive on instant Pot Noodles for the next few days. That was all he had left – the cheese and baked beans had been eaten up the day before. Cereals were about the only other option but he'd better save them for breakfast. No bread left either. Pete sighed. Oh well, eating less was a good thing in a way – he'd never be mistaken for an habitué of any gym. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd run anywhere at all.

The kettle boiled, so he grabbed the nearest Pot Noodle – 'Bombay bad boy' flavour – and prepared to pour the water into the plastic container.

“Eeeeeugh!” The appalled screech made Pete jump. He nearly ended up pouring scalding hot water over himself. It was 'Garry' of course, projecting his feelings through every speaker of Pete's enhanced home cinema system. “You can't possibly eat that, darling. You just can't. There're enough E numbers in that to kill an entire army. And the smell … You can't expect me to stay in the same house as that. I have a very sensitive nose.”

Pete was not amused. “It's got fuck all to with you what I eat. It's this or nothing. I'm not a food snob with a larder full of 'artisanal' this and 'organic' that.” He'd had to suffer the TV wittering on at length about food earlier in the week. “So shut the fuck up, will you.”

There was a ringing silence coming through the speakers, then everything died. Lights, internet, fridge … Pete ground his teeth. He was buggered if he was gonna give in to a TV. He made his meal, took it into the living room to eat in the fast fading light, and then went to bed.

**********

Some days later, Pete stumbled out of bed on a particularly muggy morning. It was too hot to be bothered getting dressed until he had to. He padded into the kitchen, wearing only his underpants. As he reached up to get the instant coffee, he thought he heard a titter. Hmm … relations with his TV were touch and go. Despite his best intentions, Pete had ended up apologising to the TV again after their bust up over his taste in food. Rather like two housemates who didn't get on suddenly, Pete had been glad to be at work during the week. He'd found as many excuses as he could not to return until late in the evening, after which, he went straight to bed.

This routine had been pretty alien to Pete, who liked nothing more than to flop on the sofa and turn on the TV after a day at work. Yet, after several days of the cold shoulder, the TV had actually apologised to him. Pete thought about this as he put bread into the toaster. Why had 'Garry' bothered? In many ways, the TV had the upper hand. Pete suspected that loneliness had played a part. Or, at least, 'Garry' was missing having someone to plague. That was more like it. And it fitted with what he'd just heard. There it was again – a distinct titter.

The TV started up a conversation with a greeting. “Morning, gorgeous.” Pete didn't like the inflection on the word 'gorgeous'. He grunted a response. The TV continued to talk brightly. “I shared a room in college with a man just like you, sweetie.”

Pete raised an eyebrow as he buttered four slices of toast. The arch tone of the TV didn't bode well, he feared.

“I remember him like yesterday, darling. I know what you're thinking, you naughty boy. Did I put myself out for him? What do you think?” The TV's coy giggle suddenly turned sour. Pete held his breath. “The answer's 'no', of course, darling. I no more considered offering my pretty, pink hole to him than I would to a fat, sweaty slob like you.”

Pete almost dropped his knife. That hurt. OK, it wasn't that far from the truth, but it still hurt. He'd never been Adonis material but he reckoned he had other qualities to offer. Pete looked disconsolately at his pasty skin – he always burned in the sun – and the growing spare tyre around his midriff. He flushed red. He'd never been any good at sports.

The TV seized its opportunity. “Sweetie … Do you really think that Duane is looking for what you've got?” Another giggle – disbelieving and malicious this time. “Darling, you're in dire need of the services of a personal trainer.” No, he wasn't. Where was the money for that gonna come from? “Garry always knows best.” The TV sounded smug.

“But …” Pete wanted to put his objections into words but gave up before he'd got started. He really couldn't face another sulk – how many hours without power would it mean? Bloody thing. He'd already tried to disconnect the TV without any success. Nothing seemed to shut 'Garry' up. It was getting very, very wearing – the TV was gaining more control of things and of him. Pete had come close to losing it a couple of times but had managed to back off at the last minute.

The TV changed tack again, adopting a seemingly more friendly tone. “It would be oh so delicious to see you and Duane together, sweetie.” Really? Pete couldn't keep up with 'Garry's' everchanging moods. “But to do that, Marc will have to work you so, so hard. He can't just sprinkle fairy dust, cherie. … Ooh, if only he could.”

**********

“Uhh … uhh … uhh …” Pete was flagging, his breath coming in gasps. He'd have to stop very soon. He'd done better today – a whole fifteen minutes or so on the running machine. Not that he was actually running. A brisk power walk would be more accurate, with an occasional shift up to a brief jog.

Marc had turned out to be a muscle-bound hunk – not Pete's sort normally, but he thought he could be persuaded. The trainer had sized up his latest victim in no time at all. Shaking his head, he went out to his van and returned with the running machine which he'd installed in the spare bedroom. He introduced Pete to it and explained he would have it for the duration – at a reduced rate of twenty pounds a week. Pete blanched – he didn't have that sort of cash spare. And how much was he being charged for the training, as well?

Before he was able to put his objections into words, Marc got going. “OK, … Pete. Let's try you out on this beauty. We'll start slow and see how you do.”

Slow? Pete had felt he was about to have a heart attack – he couldn't catch his breath at all. An even slower speed was selected – with much eye-rolling from the hunk – one which Pete found to be marginally more bearable. He lasted about five minutes the first time. So, seventeen minutes as it was now, was a definite improvement. Pete was pleased with himself and he was sure he was losing some weight. Maybe Marc would allow him to try something else – bench work, perhaps? Pete thought it wouldn't be long before he was introduced to Duane …

As he warmed down, Pete became aware of voices gossiping. Marc and the TV, of course. He frowned. Wasn't the trainer meant to be training him? That's what he was paying him for. Not standing around yakking with his bloody TV. He opened the bedroom door and caught the tail-end of the conversation.

“God, you've really got yer claws into this one.” Marc, evidently. “You having fun yet?”

Pete heard the TV's irritating, tinkling giggle. “Darling, you have no idea. He's just so completely hopeless – it's delicious. He's no more likely to get fit than I am to top you.” Sounds of them both laughing.

“Yeah – easy money. He'll spend a small fortune to get a marginal improvement which'll disappear in no time. The world's full of suckers.” More laughter.

“Sweetie, the best thing is this …” Conspiratorial whispering followed. Pete couldn't make out what was being said. Raucous laughter. Then there were gasps – of appreciation? – from Marc followed by more whispering. Then, a different conversation started up – Pete could only hear one side.

“Hey, gorgeous! How're yeh doin'?” Marc, sounding insufferably upfront. “What d'ya know? I've got a gap in my schedule, right now … That suit you? For some additional glute training? …” Inaudible reply, followed by a coy giggle from the TV. “Oh, and don't move. I wanna find you on that bed as you are now, you sexy fucker.”

The TV butted in. “Duane, sweetie …” Duane? Pete's stomach lurched. His Duane? “Don't do anything I wouldn't.” Loud, derisive guffaws, particularly from the hunk.

Once he'd stopped gasping from all the laughing, Marc had the final word. “Duane couldn't possibly be as much a slut as you are. Though he is trying.”

Pete slumped down onto the spare bed. So much for his dreams.

**********

It was starting to get dark now as Pete made his way home after work. He wished he had somewhere else to go, but he didn't. He was tired, frustrated, and broke. Relations with the TV had deteriorated to the level of an intermittent guerilla war – each took the slightest provocation as an excuse to turn the power off. Pete thought he had the upper hand slightly because he turned the power off at the mains, unlike the TV. This seemed to keep 'Garry' quiet.

Of course, it meant no power for him either. Pete was getting used to surreptitiously charging his phone and laptop at work, and surviving on public wi-fi. On days without power, he ordered in, drank beer, and he was getting used to eating his cereal dry. Quite how much longer he could survive like that, was a matter for debate. It was getting well into autumn, with colder temperatures and much shorter days. He often felt like a mediaeval peasant, being so dependent on the hours of daylight. Although, he did have a stock of wind-up torches. There were some days when he and the TV nearly managed not to argue, but they were few and far between.

The solution to his woes? He didn't have one, and saw no prospect of finding one. For fuck's sake! How could he ask anyone for advice? Err, excuse me. Can you suggest a way of getting rid of a tyrannical, queer TV? No – that was so not gonna get asked. Pete had seriously considered moving, but how could he explain he'd be leaving his ultra-modern TV in situ? Anyway, why did he think he'd be able to show people round without the TV butting in? The power would have to be on. That scenario made Pete want to bury his head in his hands in despair.

Gloom and despondency was the mood of the moment, as it so often was these days. Weighed down by his thoughts, Pete hadn't noticed that his feet had stopped moving until he surfaced briefly. Surprised, he looked around and realised he was standing outside his local pub. He tried to ignore the siren call of a pint or two which he wanted so much, but couldn't afford. Shaking his head, Pete was about to move off, when he noticed two men making out beneath one of the pub's security lights.

Although they weren't that obvious, being down a side alley, Pete was kinda surprised. This part of town wasn't a gay area by any stretch of the imagination. It was cheap – that was its principal attraction. His dick stirred at the sight of the two men who were getting more physical. Hands going everywhere, and their bodies grinding together. God, it'd been so long since he'd had any. He couldn't drag his eyes away – being a voyeur sucked. Something made him look more closely. Didn't one of them … didn't both of them look familiar?

Suddenly, a head turned and looked in his direction. Pete's staring eyes locked with those of Marc, the trainer hunk. Fuck! Was the other man Duane? Or, had Marc already moved on?

“Hey, Pete?” What? “Like to join us? There's room for another …” Waves of ribald laughter. “Duane's been wanting to try you out ever since he first saw you.” More laughter at Pete's expense. “Come and show us how buff you are.” Derisive howl from the hunk.

Pete flushed all over with shame. After the revelation about Duane, he'd given up on the training and, if anything, he'd put on more weight. He was still paying for the effing machine.

Duane knelt down, opened up his companion's jeans and started to suck on the weighty cock that emerged, making audible slobbering noises as he did so. The hunk bent over Duane's back and started to finger his hole through his chinos.

Pete wished he could just disappear into thin air, but he also desperately wanted to join them. Weird? Quite possibly, but Pete had lost count of the number of times one or both men had featured in his wank fantasies. … Then, of course, he reminded himself the show had been staged, just for him. He felt sick and humiliated. His dick subsided completely. Pete pulled his hood up, turned his back on the pair, and fled the scene.

**********

Pete slammed his front door shut, and dropped his work bag in the hallway. He felt like crying, but instead let off some steam. “Bastards! Fucking, fucking bastards!”
He groped round for a torch. He knew the power was off, but he couldn't for the life of him recall who'd done it – him or the TV. A wank was what he needed, to get rid of his anger, frustration, and, if he was honest, his lust. On the remainder of his walk home, his mind had plagued him with action replays of what had gone on earlier. So, despite his humiliation, his dick had plumped up again – not hard, just there. Sometimes, Pete wished he could turn his mind off as easily as he could the power.

The house felt cold. Pete was tired of playing cat and mouse with the TV. He took the torch and went to look at the main switch. It had been him. Yay! Right, on it went. He was determined to try for an evening with heating and light. Being semi-naked and shivering with cold was not a combination designed for a pleasurable experience. Pete hurried into his bedroom and turned on his laptop. When he'd got himself ready, he settled down to watch one of his favourite clips. It was to get him in the mood, then he'd allow his imagination to take over. He plugged a pair of earbuds into the laptop as a measure of protection against alerting the TV to what he was doing. OK – so he liked the sound up high …

He was just getting into it, imagining himself fucking the sweet hole of the guy in the clip, when it all went wrong. That was a woman's gasps and groans he could hear. What?! And the smell and feel of her pussy as he fucked … No! No, no, no. Those were her breasts he was kneading and sucking on … Eugh! His hard-on was disappearing fast.

A giggle – malicious, instantly recognisable, came through his earphones. “Garry knows best, darling.”

Pete ripped the earbuds out of his ears. Was nothing possible without the fucking TV getting in the way? Pete saw red. He flung open the wardrobe doors and quickly found what he was looking for.

**********

The police officer stood in Pete's living room, looking around. It was obvious he didn't know what to make of what had apparently happened there. He turned to the young woman who'd called it in.

“OK. Let's go through this again. You were in your kitchen next door, when you heard an altercation involving Mr Simpson and another man?”

The young woman looked puzzled. “Well, that's what it sounded like. I definitely heard two voices, raised and angry, and then sounds of something being smashed.”

They both looked at the remains of the TV lying on the floor with a baseball bat close by. The other police officer had taken a weeping, incoherent Pete into the kitchen.

“Yes, but there's absolutely no sign of anyone else being here. Maybe it was the TV you heard? There's no law against you smashing up your own property …” The officer frowned – it looked like a waste of their time.

The young woman couldn't understand his reluctance. “I told you – they were shouting at each other. When I first came in, Pete was slumped on the floor and the first thing he said was 'I've killed Garry. I murdered him.'”

The officer closed his notebook. “Hmm … so where's the body? There's no blood. Sounds like a case for the shrinks to me.”