They may not mean to, but they do - 11. Eleven

The King William pub in Kenton wasn’t specifically a gay pub, Thomas had explained the semantic difference between a gay pub and a gay-friendly pub; the King William was the latter. But it did a lot of charity events, as the pub was right next to a huge public green. So, as they drove up, in Thomas’ car, Keith saw a crowd of people spilling out from the pub onto the adjacent green. And a huge banner saying Fags for Football; that was the name of the team he was playing for, so much for any idea of discretion. His heart leapt a bit, but Thomas seemed to know what he was thinking and grabbed his hand briefly.

The morning had started with a surprise. Breakfast to Keith was Cornflakes and toast, or perhaps a bacon butty if he was feeling ambitious. He’d bought some bacon in, just in case, but there was no need. Thomas, it seemed, was a dab hand at little pancakes, which they ate hot. At the end of the meal, Keith had grinned at Thomas: "That was great, you can come again".

"Can I?"

Suddenly the conversation turned on its head and became serious. Keith didn’t even need to think, "Yeah, as often as you want. This weekend has been", he paused, unable to put his feelings in words so he leaned over and kissed Thomas instead.

Breakfast things tidied away, there was time for a second coffee before getting ready. As Thomas put the mugs down on the table, he looked at Keith quizzically, "I thought you’d be a tea drinker."

"What, in the morning? Because I’m a working-class boy from the North", Keith grinned. Thomas looked slightly uncomfortable but had to admit that it had been partly that. Keith shrugged, "Well, I suppose it comes with the territory. Neither Dad nor Gran touched coffee. Early on, I shared a flat with a couple of blokes who made wicked coffee. Strong and dark, it kinda got me hooked. I’ve had quite a few Polish, Czech and other house mates, and lots of ‘em drink coffee like that. It became a habit", he grinned, ‘Helps to confound expectations sometimes".

As he was getting his football stuff together, watched by Thomas, Keith remembered previous games, "I haven’t done this since I left Moortown."

"I thought you played regularly with your mates?"

Keith shrugged, "Yeah, but they’re only pick-up games. At home, it was proper stuff, a Sunday league. We weren’t much good, but it was fun."

"So why did you leave, and why not go back?"

Keith was about to say his usual spiel, about his mate Oscar and the grand idea of their own firm. But Keith had encouraged Oscar in the idea because he had wanted to leave. "I took fright. I thought that if I left Moortown, I could leave it all behind, be a different bloke and continue pretending I was straight. I sort of knew something, about me liking blokes, but Dad had put the fear of God into me, and it was difficult to break that. And", he paused, "I’d started to go to this bog near the market, it was scuzzy as hell but busy."

"A cottage."

"Yeah, though I didn’t know the lingo then. I never did ‘owt, but I looked. And one day I thought I saw a bloke from work."

"Was it?"

"Buggered if I know, never saw him again at the bog and he never said anything."

"It might have been him, but he was probably as scared as you."

Keith thought about it, "Yeah, two daft buggers. If only we’d talked about it."

"Conditioning."

"Yeah, ‘spect so. Anyroad, me mate Oscar had an idea to start a business, on our own, his brother-in-law would help. As the guy lived here, we came over here. It seemed a fresh start. Dad had died and I was leaving his ghost behind, and me girl and I were just about washed up. It was a disaster. Neither of us knew anything about business, we got in too deep and didn’t see the brother-in-law for dust. I lost everything, but it was partly my own fault. I’d encouraged Oscar, without my urging he’d never ‘ve done it. I think his brother-in-law was trying to tell us summat, but we just went ahead".

"But you can’t know in advance, you have to sometimes take risks. What happened to your friend Oscar?"

"Oscar? Fuck knows. We fell out and he disappeared, don't think he's round here anymore, leastways I've never seen him, thank God. Thing is though, it’s worked out. I’ve got a decent flat, started a business again, this time with proper advice, and … I don’t think I’d have ever come out, found a boyfriend if I’d stayed at Moortown."

"You’d have stayed like the bloke you saw in the cottage."

"Yeah"

"So, I’m your boyfriend, am I?"

Keith grinned, mock coy, "Well the position’s vacant and your face fits."

"My face!"

"That and other things."

"Well, with such sweet talk, I’d have to take up the offer."

They ended up being nearly late.

-oOo-oOo-

Keith needed a pee. Badly. He knew there was a gents in the market, rather scuzzy and amazingly not yet closed as a cost-cutting measure by the council. Any port in a storm. It retained the old Edwardian urinals, magnificent in a way even if they had seen better days and what light there was came from a single bulb and the grimy windows. The place stank yet was surprisingly busy. Two men in the urinals, another lurking and a fourth, presumably, in the locked cubicle. Keith stood to piss and tried to relax. He’d never been good at pissing in public and he imagined that he sensed the eyes of the various men on him, curious at this newcomer; it felt as if he had walked into a sort of private club.

The two guys at the urinal eventually stood back slightly and Keith had a glimpse of two outrageously hard dicks. His heart did a lurch, and he came over all hot and flushed. It became clear what the ‘private club’ was, and if he had any sense he would zip up and politely leave. But, fascinated, he didn’t. The last time he’d seen a man hard was all those years ago when he’d seen Donald’s when the guy was doing stuff with Tim by the millpond, and it was a shock now. Neither guy was what Keith thought of as attractive, both were rather ordinary-looking middle-aged men, running to fat, but the sight was still mesmerising. The nearest guy detected Keith’s interest and turned slightly, almost displaying his wares to Keith, who turned away guiltily. Only to find one of the other men had stood on his left side.

This was wrong. He wasn’t gay, he had a girl-friend, a healthy sex life, and was happy. And this was wrong. Evil.

But as he walked back to the van, part of Keith admitted that he wasn’t entirely happy, was unfulfilled, in a boring job, sex with his girl-friend Maria was routine, and to call her his girl-friend was to formalise something that was entirely looser than that. But Keith didn’t allow this other part of himself much room, he tried not to admit that though the two guys had not been particularly attractive, the sight of the two of them on display had been exciting, had made him hard.

But Keith locked all that firmly away.

-oOo-oOo-

They found a parking spot and walked over to the gaggle of men underneath the Fags for Football banner. Thomas found the guy who had been his contact, and introductions were made. They were all a bit older than Keith had imagined, and a variety of types and sizes though cropped hair seemed to be quite a feature. Two or three were rather bigger, more burly rugby player types than football, but all were friendly, and no-one asked why he was there, who he was or anything beyond where he lived. The captain, Gerard, thanked him for standing in. Gerard was a tall, rangy Irishman, with a completely shaved head and a lively manner, and they were soon deep into discussing tactics. It felt like every other Sunday football match. Yet he felt nervous and shivered.

‘"You’ll be great. Remember, Gerard’s grateful that you could do it at all."

"So, if I’m crap, it won’t matter?"

"But you won’t be crap." Thomas kissed and hugged him; everyone saw but it didn’t matter. All the blokes were doing it, wishing friends and lovers good luck.

Keith had put his football gear on at home and pulled a sweatshirt and loose pants over, so there was no embarrassing changing by the car boot. But other guys didn't have any qualms, and there were glimpses of naked arses and even a couple of blokes who stripped down to a jockstrap that hid nothing.

"Concentrate on the game, not on the guy's arse", but Thomas had a smile on his face.

"Nah, just wondering."

"Which one to do first?"

"No!", Keith was almost shocked, "I'd never do that to you."

"Sorry, it was just a lame joke", and Thomas put a reassuring hand on Keith's arm.

"Sorry, it's just that I don't always know what I'm supposed to do."

"Whatever feels right."

"I've never been much for playing around, and not sure what I think about threesomes and such. I'd rather it was just you 'n me?"

"That is fine by me, I think I’d struggle the same way." They didn't kiss but looked at each other and saw something reassuring in the other's eyes. Then a whistle sounded, and it was time for the teams to assemble.

Very much feeling on trial, Keith was concentrating too hard on his game and what other guys were doing to really get a sense of the match, but there was plenty of noisy encouragement from the spectators, some surprising rudery and shouts of encouragement, or the opposite, from players, and at times a mass of legs and arms attempting to keep to a coherent game strategy. But afterwards, he was mobbed by complimentary guys. Perhaps because of a couple of useful passes which had led to his team's goals, or perhaps because of the nasty tackle he took which would leave him with a bruise the size of a dinner plate on his arse.

They could not stay late, but there was time for a drink or two and a chance to enjoy the chat and be sociable. The next day, Keith found it all a blur, but a pleasant one with a sense of fellowship and company. And from Gerard, the suggestion of further matches.In the car on the way home, they agreed that Thomas would come over on Friday.