Oscar - 18. Part 18

Fizzing and foaming across my tongue, the beer was cold and delicious.

It soothed my still burning throat as it poured into my stomach, mingling with whatever was left of the first gift Tim Price had given me that evening.

‘It’s a shit story,’ I said.

‘It can’t be that shit,’ he said, slumping back into his chair opposite me at the dining table.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ I said before taking a bigger sip to try and loosen the knots twisting tighter. ‘I mean it ain’t pretty.’

‘If you don’t want to talk about it, we don’t have to,’ he said.

I nodded. Opened my mouth to speak. To change the subject.

Ask for a tour of his house. Get him on his feet and moving so I could brush up against him. Push my arse into his groin. Find somewhere comfy and horizontal where I could finally take off my running shorts and show him exactly how big a boy I was.

But the words didn’t come.

Like he’d kicked a hornet’s nest, memories began swarming angrily around my mind. The beat of their footsteps on concrete. The thunderous drone of their jeers booming through the red brick quad. The agonising stings of their kicks and stamps and smiles.

I couldn’t look at him. Fixed my gaze on my beer bottle. Concentrated on its neck, moist with condensation, as the all too familiar rage began to simmer. I watched a stray water droplet lose its grip and hurtle south. Alone. Separated. Fragile. Saw it slow down over the bulge of the bottle before catching on the glossy paper label. I squashed it with my thumb.

‘What’s it to you anyway?’ I said.

This time I looked up. Into his eyes still searing over me.

They softened as our gazes connected and a kindness glistened over their surfaces. It spread out across his face and into his strong jaw muscles, lifting them into a gentle smile. A smile unnoticeable from afar, say in the autumnal shadows of a park, but undeniable up close. Under the harsh bare bulb accentuating every one of his powerful features.

‘Nothing,’ he said before taking a sip of his beer. He placed his bottle gently and silently on the table. ‘I told you about my wife, now it’s your turn. I believe they call it a conversation.’

The corner of my lip curled into a grin. Now there was no denying Mr. Price was more than just a handsome face attached to a heavenly body. He was sexy and funny.

But it wasn’t enough to change my tune. My mind was stuck on repeat, replaying scenes over and over in fast forward. Scenes I’d forced myself to forget and failed to yet again. Memories I’d pushed down to where all the other disappointments dwelled, safely buried alongside my parents.

Until now.

‘I don’t need your pity,’ I said, placing my beer on the table harder than I’d intended.

Glass clapped loudly against wood in the night time still. His eyes darted down and back up.

‘You won’t get anything if you do that to my table again,’ he said.

Then he smiled, playfully kicking me.

‘Whoops,’ I muttered.

‘You haven’t told anyone before have you?’

I shook my head. Words escaping me again.

I hadn’t told anybody. Not a soul. Plenty of people knew. Plenty of people had watched it happen. Said nothing. Did nothing. But no one knew the whole story. No one had ever asked.

‘It’s good to talk,’ he said.

‘How would you know?’

He sighed. Quietly and quickly. Sipped his beer. Placed it back on the table harder this time.

‘You think it was easy for me?’ he said, his tone tougher but still open.

Firm but friendly. Once a teacher always a teacher.

‘No,’ I said, unable to stop myself sounding like a moody teenager caught smoking.

‘And you know how I dealt with it? How I’m dealing with it?’

I shrugged and looked away. Toward the hallway and the front door. Anger bubbling hotter and heavier, sizzling over the sides.

I didn’t run around a field every day for the last two weeks and given him the best blowjob of his life for a beer and a counselling session.

‘I talked about it,’ he continued, his gaze still burning over me.

I ignored him.

Patronising arsehole.

‘I said I talked about it,’ he said.

‘Who with?’ I said suddenly, twisting to face him. ‘Your wife?’

‘No. A therapist.’

For three seconds neither of us said anything. His face hard. Blank and uncaring. Just like when I’d first seen him in the park. When I’d smiled and winked and got nothing.

I gulped down a large swig of beer and the red haze began to lift, diluted by a rising panic. I’d forgotten where and who I was with, and why I’d ran around that stupid field in the first place.

‘Sorry,’ I said, tearing off a jagged strand of beer label.

Soaked through it peeled off the glass like a hot knife through butter, leaving a trail of gooey white paper bits.

‘That was rude of me,’ I said.

His smile returned. Bigger and more obvious. Said, ‘It’s ok. Let’s talk about something else.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re right. It’s good to talk.’

‘It is.’

‘But I’ll keep it short.’

‘Short and sweet,’ he said.

I nodded. Placed my almost empty bottle on the table. Wrapped both hands around it.

Gently squeezing the cold glass, I took a deep breath. Told myself to be like the bottle. To be hard and strong but see-through. He was obviously interested. In me. In my life. And that was a good sign.

The best.

But I had to be careful. I’d suppressed this for a reason: to be strong. I wasn’t weak and beaten and broken anymore. The last thing I wanted was to talk too much. Undo my good work. Break down and shatter into a million razor sharp pieces.

‘It happened about three months ago,’ I said, relaxing my grip on the glass. ‘I’d been chatting to this lad online.’

‘Gaydar?’ he said

‘Yeah. You know it?’

He nodded. Smiled shyly. Said, ‘I’ve heard of it. Haven’t tried it.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know. I suppose I like meeting people in person. Call me old fashioned,’ he said.

A wave of blood rushed south and filled my balls. Vivid flashbacks of the Old Creek forest gripped my body. My knee, still raw and muddy, pulsed in time with my heartbeat.

‘Since when has tying up boys in public been old fashioned?’

‘Oh forever,’ he said with a wink before draining his beer. ‘Want another?’

‘Sure.’

‘Keep talking. I can hear you from in there.’

‘Ok,’ I said, watching his perfect arse cheeks rise up and down under his tight, black rugby shorts and relieved to be free of his piercing gaze if only for a moment.

He walked into the kitchen.

‘So, this guy,’ I said, the fridge door suctioning open. ‘He was my age.’ Bottles clinked. ‘We agreed to meet at the bowling alley out by the cinema.’ Two hisses whispered into the room as metal caps were prised off. ‘It was a Sunday so it was quiet. We played a couple of games. Had some fun in the toilets.’

Placing two fresh beers on the table he sat back down and slouched forward. A hot hand gripped my shin and lifted my leg to massage my other foot. His cock still solid.

‘The bowling alley toilets. Good to know,’ he said.

I nodded and took a swig of my new beer. It was a different brand. Sweeter but stronger.

‘But we were caught,’ I said.

‘The staff?’

‘No. They wouldn’t care if you were dogging in the carpark.’

‘Who?’

‘This waste of space in the year below. Mark Jenkins. He walked into the toilets just as we came out of the cubicle.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yeah. Me with a boner running down my jean leg. The other kid all teary after trying to deep throat me and then gagging on my load. You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out what we’d been up to.’

‘I remember that kid. Nerdy looking. Big thick black glasses?’ he said.

‘Yeah, that’s him.’

‘Harmless, surely? What did you say to him?’

‘Nothing. We all froze. Then he legged it before I could say anything. I knew, then and there, shit was going to hit the fan.’

‘Did it?’

‘Big time,’ I said. ‘The next day he must have told anyone who would listen. All morning they whispered. Stared at me. Laughed. Pointed. Then at break a group of them came to find me.’

He nodded slowly. He knew what my school was like. How vicious boys can be when they’re lumped together for years on end without any female interaction. How ugly things can turn when pack mentality kicks in.

‘Where?’ he said.

‘The physics quad.’

‘Did they hurt you?’

I wanted to say no. Shrug it off. Tell him I ran away. Make up some lie. I was done talking. Done remembering. Done feeling. Done forcing down the lump in my throat.

But my face was giving him all the answers he needed. He nodded, stopped massaging and softly placed his hand on the top of my foot.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you,’ he said.

‘I told you I don’t need your pity.’

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘You don’t. But I’m still sorry.’

I realised I’d been staring at my bottle again. I’d picked it up and was squeezing it so hard I was surprised it hadn’t ripped open my hands. I looked up, into his eyes, and a warmth ran through me. Not hot, but warm. Warm and easy and simple.

Who knew it really is good to talk?

‘They broke four of my ribs. Pushed me to the ground and stamped.’

He said nothing. His stare unwavering.

‘I didn’t even fight back. I just curled into a ball and waited for the teachers to break it up.’

‘What happened?’

‘The usual. The group all got detentions and a couple were suspended. I was told to get up and walk it off. So I walked straight out of the school gates to the hospital. Told them it was a rugby accident.’

‘Why?’

‘It was easier.’

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

I laughed. Said, ‘I’m not ashamed. I’m glad.’

‘You’re glad?’

‘Yes. That Oscar doesn’t exist anymore. The Oscar pretending to be straight and clinging to that lie. He was weak. And he died on that concrete. He’s never coming back.’

For two seconds, he stared at me. Disbelief in his eyes. In that first second, I knew how he felt. I had no idea where that had come from either. But I felt better. Stronger and harder and more see-through.

I smiled. Shrugged.

‘Anyway, that’s my shit story and you were the first to hear it. Consider yourself lucky.’

He widened his eyes and took a large swig of beer. Said, ‘I do. Very lucky. The worst I got was a few scratches when she caught me.’

‘Ouch.’

‘What did your parents say?’ he said.

I shrugged again. Said, ‘Nothing. Mum left when I was fourteen. Didn’t say goodbye. Dad didn’t even notice when I came home battered and bruised. He stopped caring about me a long time ago. But that’s ok. He’s a twat.’

‘Wow,’ he said, shaking his head.

‘What?’

‘You’ve had it tough, matey.’

‘It’s not all bad.’

‘No?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘No parents mean I can do whatever I want. Case in point.’ I nodded. He nodded back. ‘And, since I was so publicly outed, all the other boys struggling with their sexuality know who to add on MSN, don’t they?’

He laughed. Loud and booming. Grabbed my foot with both hands and squeezed it hard. Dug his fingertips deep into my sole. My leg kicked out all by itself under the intensity, shaking the table. I wrenched my foot from his grip.

‘Lucky fucker,’ he said.

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘Why not?’

Standing I picked up my beer and looked left to right. Locked my eyes on his.

‘Well, for one, I’ve been here for almost an hour and you still haven’t given me a tour.’