Short Histoires - 3. Little Freddy

AND SO IT BEGINS...

Not that far from the truth that I’m a miserable sod enjoying my own company, it’s just that finding someone to relish in your own miserable time has proven to be a challenge, I said, blurting on the phone to Troy, this young fellow I’d been sponsoring at my AA meetings several weeks ago. The essence was there, hoping he’d gathered the real meaning when I blathered, “But I’m happy being single, mate.” It would be egregious if he sought the contrary of what I meant.

“Thanks Mark. I’ll set you up with my best mate,” said Troy, as I held up the phone to my ears in doing a balancing act for the multi-tasker that I am. Yep. He clearly wasn’t listening. Or the miscommunication might have been primed when I started swallowing my speech, barely getting the words out from receiving an exceptional jobby on my willy.

The moon was well above our heads, with the clock about to strike twelve, deserting the bustling charm of good ole’ London well off into the drunk cohorts and corrupted lungs of the youth out partying all night, setting fire to their insides and collecting names of encounters, of interludes, of liaisons all deemed wrong as soon as the morning hits and the reality past the stupor dies out and a collective sense of regret and disappointment plunges them to the absurdity that the person they’ve just hooked up with conveniently gave them crabs, herpes, or other venereal diseases their undeveloped brain had shuffled them into.

While the younger generation was off to get some STDs throughout the night, I was in the chaise lounge sprawled on my back with my undies pulled down in my apartment, getting a meticulous mouth-drawn licking and slurping from this mature gentleman I’d met up on this hookup app.

I’d always assumed the men I’d met on these apps were a breed of gentleman since, assuming they were not, it would have led to me getting mugged or killed in my home. I’m still alive, so there’s that. Gauging this gentleman’s performance, though the teeth and molars were edging on my frenulum as he nibbled on my foreskin particularly hard, I’d say it was a seven out of ten.

I held onto the side of his diminishing hair, or what was left of it, and said, “If he’s your age, I’m out mate. I'm not really keen on dating younger guys.”

“You’re 35, yeah? He’s a bit younger but older than me…about 29, turning 30 in two months. Does that bother you?”

“That’s not young. What are you on about? That’s practically within the age range of men I’m dating.”

“Well, I didn’t know mate. I’ve always seen you with that mature gentleman who picks you up with a different sportscar. He’s your sugar daddy, ain’t he?”

“Well he is a daddy, of course. But he’s my dad, you muppet. He picks me up to make sure I attend my AA meetings. It’s part of his condition to finance the sex clinic—ya’ know, that I own up to my past sins if ever running up to a street sloshed naked was ever considered a sin.”

“Ah. Makes sense then. I just thought...”

I said, getting on to the point, “Do I have a choice in this, like in dating your best mate?”

“Not really bruv.”

The man servicing me peered up at my nonchalant expression. Enjoying a blowjob rarely gets my face twisting. I yanked his head down as he plopped and choked on my dicky, slamming his face into the blonde bristles of my lustrous pubes. He didn't need to listen to my conversation. Blowjobs are referred to as jobs because they require precision and an excellent gag reflex, which this man certainly has. I gazed down, and he continued licking the shaft. I pulled up an arm over my head as my other hand navigated this astronaut exploring the outer space between the entrance to Mars and said, “So you’re telling me I really have no choice but to go out with him?”

“Yeah mate. I’m paying YOU to go out with him. Two hundred quid ey. Would that cover things?”

“Barely,” I said apprehensively, calculating the five-course meal we’re definitely having. “But that’ll do. No need to fuss yourself,” I said, adding to his delight. It’s not everyday Troy asks me for a favour; consulting myself to do in the principle of charity was well done in favour of what I’d been accustomed to—attending charity and fundraiser galas my family hosts every fortnight to every quarter. It’s boring as shit, but the drinks were bottomless. If I were still in the business of being plastered, that is.

“A bit of a warning though; he always does this thing that makes you feel smaller.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s hard to explain. He’s too intelligent for his own good. Probably because he sometimes talks like a twat. He’s smug. Smart as they come. Gifted as hell, but—”

Nearly cumming, I groaned and covered the phone receiver and said, “What’s the but?”

“He’s a runner.”

Hiding the phone under my bum so Troy wouldn’t hear me, I closed my eyes, felt my body shudder, grabbed the side of his doughnut-ring hair, and frenetically exploded in his mouth the rivulets of my man-seed on this stranger’s orifice. A five-day load was a thick load to splurt on compared to any other day. I was still cumming seconds later, and the man was literally choking on my brand of frothy milk. He came up for air, detaching his entire oesophagus from my cock, and said, “Wow! There’s so much cum doc.”

"Well, you better clean that up,” I said to this sloven whore gazing at me like he wanted more. “Dinner’s been served.” I don’t mind the complaints, really. But he was still slobbering on my dick, slurping the white juice around my overgrown pubes, and middling shaft that shutting up would have been the polite etiquette to be had. If he came here to do a job, it better be labelled as outstanding work. Not this mess that had gone sloppy. I pointed at the cum dripping on my thigh, and he slathered his tongue obediently.

“Are you still there?” Troy asked.

I pulled the phone stuck between my naked bum and the couch and said on the receiver, “Yeah, still here. Hang on a second.” Pulling up my drawers and zipping my trousers, the man wiped his mouth and glanced at me, expecting me to reciprocate. Wasn’t it enough that he had bathed in a man’s warm smell of satisfied desire? I shrugged and narrowed my obstinate brows, somewhat displeased at the rude service of this man, demanding that I suck him off or fuck him into oblivion.

I asked testily, “Do you need anything?”

“Nothing,” said the man whose hair was set expensively brushed into a smooth dome to cover the perfidious loss in the middle, like a band shell for a longstanding concert in an eight-hour performance; the concert had to end. “I just thought you’d shag me,” he said.

“Er—I’ve got to head back to the clinic. Do you want me to wank you off instead?”

“No. I better go. Next week then?” muttered Sir Peter Roth, a member of the high court appointed judges in central London. The man was an important figurehead in British society, yet he was reverent as an unassuming house cat when in the presence of a substantive, meagre-sized penis. “But will you be able to shag me next week? Would it be on your agenda if it came to that?”

I scratched my head gingerly. What’s he on about? “I’ve never fucked you Peter.”

“Just wondering. If, let’s say, I give you money—”

“—I don’t need money. I’m a doctor. A general surgeon. You do realise I have a job—which I get paid for it handsomely.”

“Right right. Hmm. That poses a problem, doesn’t it, since you don’t need cash? How about if I, er, let you stay at my apartment in Chelsea so I don’t have to travel? I hate using Ubers—the ride smells funny and the drivers are mostly ethnic. I’m scared I’d get mugged.” A racist, white courtroom judge. Who knew?

“I have my own house, Peter. In fact, we’re at it right now,” I said, my eyes touring the very spacious living room. “I’m not poor or destitute.”

“Oh. How unfortunate.” He bit his lips awkwardly. “I’ve just been so used to blowing young men who live with their mothers that I assumed…we’re at your parent’s house. How about I give you…”

I had to stop him before he gets any bright, concerning ideas relegated to fuck buddies, which I dutifully have no time for. “Listen Peter. I’m only here for a good blowjob. That’s it. If you want something more, I’m not your man.”

He sighed with an air of discontent, fastidiously peppered by the pout on his lips. Licking the remnants of my splooge around his mouth, he grabbed his overcoat and said, “Next week then?” He peered into my blue eyes, seeking pardon for his garrulous mouth. Mercy, he asked, and mercifully I was.

“Fine.” His mouth turned up. “Next week’s great,” I said, proving myself to be remarkably forbearing on the subject. He left my apartment smiling, tailored by the skipping bounce on his gait. I buttoned up my polo and heard the elevator doors closing. After all, staying at a house in St. John’s Wood surely meant I was a penurious old beggar living off in squalor on my own eight-bedroom estate.

I immediately received a text from him saying, 'I can't wait till next week when I'm Frenching Mr. Willy Wonka. xox', I gagged at the slightest intimation that he'd name my penis Willy Wonka. A suitable moniker, I presume, for licking my willy always leaves one’s mouth watering for more of its milky goodness. I'm just glad that he's out of my home.

Sir Peter Roth and I have hooked up several times through the app, but nothing more personal than to say a date or a night out—I’m too preoccupied with work, as I’d normally reason out. He looked fit for a man in his late 40s. Though the white wig he’d wear in the courtroom looked better than his natural one, I wish he’d just shaved it all off and saved himself the benediction of looking like a Franciscan monk.

I returned to my call, leaning on a glass window that stood ceiling to floor, and said, “You say he’s a runner. How?”

“He’s never had a boyfriend mate.”

I felt a dastardly energy spring forth inside me. “A virgin? At that age?”

“No man. I mean, he always breaks up with the men he’s dated like he keeps running away—at his age. He never gets it past the third month. I worry he’ll be single forever.”

A devilish grin followed, erupting from my face, as I keenly asked, “What’s his name? Let me look him up.”

“He doesn’t have any social media. But he has a linker page.”

“Linker?”

"Yeah, bruv, that site like Facebook, but for professionals.”

“Ah. Got it. Hang on,” I said, taking out the Bluetooth earbuds from my pocket. I plopped into my ears the device and said, “Ok, I’m on the linker page, but I can’t seem to find your chap.”

“Type in Freddie Wilkinson.”

And there he was—a near-empty, faceless profile currently taking up his master's in education—but that’s it. Not even a bloody photo to show his face. “You’ve got to give me something here. There isn’t even a photo, mate. What does he look like?”

“I remember he told me that there are photos of him on the King’s College Hospital website.”

“He’s working in which department?”

“Er, no. He’s doing volunteer work.”

“What does he do exactly?”

“He’s a second-grade teacher. But he’s way more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“He studied statistics and data analysis at Oxford. Then he went to the Royal Military in Sandhurst before joining the Special Air Service regiment. A year later, he just decided to quit and went to teaching.”

“What the fuck mate! Is this bloody guy for real?”

“I told you he’s intimidating.”

Who was this guy, Saint Ignatius of Assisi, on steroids? Who does volunteer work nowadays in this climate? I’d rather he kick children or beat pregnant women in his spare time. That would at least make this persona slightly believable. And a former member of the SAS? Are you bloody joking with me? Am I about to date fucking James Bond?

I googled the name of the hospital and went through its volunteer page. And in those sets of photos, a man with a buzz cut and eyes of moss, looking sprightly, energetic, bubbly, and radiant, was at the centre of them all, hugging the cancer patients with his bulging arms. In one photo, he was smiling, arms around a terminally ill patient in the palliative care rec room, who layered a kiss on his cheeks dearly. She looked like a horny, slatternly dying woman with the way she was grabbing his head. Wrong head, I suppose. But it surely was one gorgeous head, this Freddie bloke.

Then, a smile fluttered on my downtrodden face—having seen a multitude of deaths and having experienced loss since I began wielding a scalpel and performing general surgeries, feeling this emotion was unexpected. Horny and happy have always resulted in me drunk-knocking into a stranger’s conservatory at two in the morning, fully naked, mostly holding a bottle of wine, while the homeowners dialled the cops. I should stop mixing the two emotions inconsiderately.

I pinched my fingers on my phone and zoomed into the photo. There weren’t enough words to explain what it was. I was definitely interested—more than interested. The pump of serotonin in my brain assuringly meant one thing and one thing only. I’m for sure shagging this handsome pup.

“Ok. Write this down, Troy. Tell him we’ll meet at The Park Room, er, this weekend?”

“Noting it down. I'm not sure if he’s free this weekend. I’ll ask him.”

“Why are you pimping out your best friend to me? There has to be an explanation.”

“Lily’s been haranguing me that I set the two of you up. You’re the only two gay blokes I know, so it made sense.”

“Fair enough.”

I ended the call while grabbing my white apron from the chair. Browsing through my phone, looking at his photo, I wondered what he was like.

Consumed by the throes of consummation, physical joining, and a good blowjob, I adjusted my crotch as I too wondered if calling that lad in Soho for a quickie would be ideal after my shift. Persuading myself to focus on the task ahead at the hospital, then at my clinic, then back at the hospital, I was dissuaded by my eagerness and glanced at his photo as I muttered, “Who are you, Freddie? You’ve got me intrigued.”