Oscar - 17. Part 17

Like most average towns in England, where I grew up was split into three.

The good. The bad. And the mundane.

James, my ginger twink, lived in the good. West and high on a hill where redundant old halls and stables had been converted into huge, red-brick homes complete with winding driveways and security gates.

My father and I lived in the bad. A stretch of land to the east. On the outskirts. Bulldozed and flattened for mass-built housing. All with the same cheap, rust-coloured brick and white, plastic rimmed windows. Crammed together and forgotten about.

Everything else was the mundane.

Boxy, bog-standard buildings. Some new, most dated. Some old and full of character but uncared for and unloved: weeds and rubbish tarnishing any potential. A few parks. An old creek. A couple of schools. Churches. A graveyard. All circling a town centre overrun with coffee-shop chains and charity shops, mobile phone stores and soulless clothing brands.

Mr. Price lived in the mundane.

Every street and lane had been set out practically identically by some sad, grey oligarchy. The same grey tarmac. The same yellow glaring out of the same dull metal streetlamps. The same attempt at a hanging basket or hedgerow to distract from the overflowing bins.

Every house with its own patch of grass or gravel or driveway. All with a back garden, walled off and hidden from the world. Curtains closed. “Beware of dog” signs. The occasional cat scuttling across the road. Everything about Overslade Lane was as unremarkable as anticipated.

His house, a two-storey terrace, suited the picture perfectly.

As his keys chimed inside a glass bowl and a light clicked on, it was like any other terrace house. There was a hallway with a staircase in front. A living room to the left with a sofa, coffee table and TV. Past the stairs was a dining room. Through the dining room was a kitchen. Tiled. Clean.

The only real difference between his and the places I’d found myself in since men had begun inviting me into them, was his was noticeably bare. There was furniture. Pretty much every household necessity. But all brand new. No scuffs or scratches. Factory-fresh smell.

There were a few photos but no artwork. No knickknacks or meaningful treasures dotted about. Instead there were plenty of empty nail heads poking out of plaster, bordered by rectangular patches of brighter paint. Or indents in the carpet where something heavy had stood.

Any other visitor would be forgiven in thinking it was a recent purchase. A new home freshly moved into. A blank canvas. But I could see the real story staring me in the face.

The story of a house that had once belonged to a man and wife. Spacious and close to town. Ideal for little feet to run around. A perfect existence. Until one day the man had betrayed his wife.

Hurt her beyond repair.

Enraged and broken she’d cleared him out. Took everything that wasn’t nailed down, never to return. The man had no choice but to start his life afresh. How he wanted. The way it was meant to be.

‘You ok?’ he said, passing me a glass of ice cold water.

Jumping out of my daydream I took a long gulp. Its chill soothed my sore throat. Placing it on the oak dining table I watched him take a seat opposite me.

‘Excellent,’ I croaked.

‘That throat of yours took one hell of a beating.’

I nodded. Eyes and smile wide. Said, ‘It was worth it.’

And it was. Every ruthless thrust.

I had never thought I’d wind up at his house on the first day. One day definitely but not immediately. My initial plan had been to fall over and ask for a lift home. Suck him off in his car at best (I knew how much he enjoyed that) or get his number at worst.

But that.

Against a tree with my hands tied behind my back. His load in my stomach and my arse on his dining room chair. That was a remarkable result.

Surreal.

For a second, I couldn’t help but entertain the idea that I’d choked to death, and with some stroke of sheer luck, found myself in heaven.

‘What are you smiling at?’ he said.

‘Nothing,’ I said, suddenly aware of his deep brown eyes on mine, rich like chocolate in the harsh light from a bare bulb overhead. ‘I was thinking about earlier.’

‘What about it?’

‘It was a nice surprise,’ I said.

‘You can say that again,’ he said, relaxing into his chair and placing both hands on top of his shaved head.

His biceps and triceps bulged out from under his t-shirt still darkened by sweat under his armpits.

‘That was one of the best runs I’ve ever had,’ he said.

Smirking I took my trainers off. Used my heels to slip them onto the floor. Then I reached towards him under the table with my right foot. Found his leg. Ran my foot up until I felt the hot, softness of his package under the thick black cotton of his rugby shorts. Kept my foot there, leg straight, until the softness became hard.

‘Me too,’ I said.

Taking my foot in his hands he lifted it so my heel pushed down onto his cock. He was almost as thick as my heel. He dug his thumbs into the sole of my foot and began to massage, grinding me against himself as he went.

‘How’s your knee?’ he said.

‘Much better,’ I said enjoying the release running all the way up my legs and into my lower back.

‘And your throat?’

Leaning forward I scooped up my glass, my hamstrings aching as I stretched. Took another sip of water, relaxed back and said, ‘Getting there.’

‘Good lad. I’ll go easier on you next time.’

‘Don’t you fucking dare.’

For five seconds we stared at each other, our slow breath and sweaty scents mingling in the air around us. Him smirking like he was reliving every second of the last hour in his head. Me forcing my lips from reaching up to my ears as his words ricocheted through my mind.

Next time.

Then we both tried to speak but our sounds collided in an unintelligible mix of noise. He nodded. Me first.

‘No please, sir, after you,’ I said.

‘Cheeky,’ he said, lifting my foot and letting it fall back to the floor.

He looked me up and down. The half he could see above the table between us at least. Sat up in his chair, rearranged himself and cleared his throat.

‘I was going to ask why your parents wouldn’t be worried,’ he said.

‘What’s it to you?’ I said, channelling as much cheekiness as I could.

He smirked. Said, ‘It’s getting late.’

‘Do you want me to leave?’ I said, knowing full well he didn’t.

‘No,’ he said, his eyes almost glazing over as two thick veins bulged up his arms.

Like he was grabbing onto something hard and long and thick under the table.

‘You’ve only just got here. But I don’t need some irate parent on my back,’ he said.

‘Don’t worry about them.’

‘As long as you’re sure.’

‘Positive,’ I said.

‘Good.’

Three letters formed in my throat and the word took shape. But before it flew out of my mouth I stopped myself. I didn’t need to ask why. Why he was being paranoid about my parents.

I already knew the answer.

It seemed that while Mr. Price had taken to his new life as a confirmed bachelor with flying colours, picking up boys in the park and taking them back to his recently refurbished pad, he still had wounds. Scars from what had happened inside these walls.

I wondered where his bedroom was. If he and Adam had had any fun before venturing upstairs. In the living room. In the kitchen. On this table. I wondered if his wife had heard them. Or if she’d gone straight upstairs.

Wandered into her room like any other day. Found her husband on his back with a six-foot-six sixteen-year-old on top of him.

‘Just moved in?’ I said.

He narrowed his eyes on mine. Smiled. Laughed. A quick one-two from behind a closed mouth. Not forced but not gleeful. Like he’d been waiting for me to ask that specific question.

‘You really are a sneaky little bugger, aren’t you?’ he said, still smiling.

I pulled my best confused face. Plastered it from chin to hairline. It helped that I was genuinely confused.

‘What do you mean?’ I said.

‘Come on, Oscar. Give me some credit. I know you know.’

‘I honestly don’t know what you mean,’ I said.

He frowned. Said, ‘You really don’t know?’

‘Know what?’

He sighed long and deep. Rubbed the top of his head, his palm scratching against his stubble, and leaned back in his chair. Then he locked his eyes on me. Deadpan.

‘My wife left me. She caught me in bed with another man. Took everything.’

‘How was I supposed to know that?’ I lied, relief flooding my body.

‘I just assumed the news had trickled down. Everyone else knows. My family. Her family. My friends. People I used to call friends. Ex-colleagues.’

I suppressed another smile. Said, ‘Is that why you left school?’

He nodded. Said, ‘Pretty much.’

‘If it makes you feel any better, no one at school knew. Or at least while I was there.’

‘Was?’

‘I’m nineteen, remember. I left last year.’

‘To be honest I’ve given up caring what people think,’ he said.

‘Me too,’ I said.

This time the words had come straight out. Two little pieces of truth inside my brilliant lie. Raising his eyebrows he leaned closer. Cocked his head to the side: his signature move.

‘What do you mean?’ he said.

‘Nothing,’ I said.

‘Come on, sexy boy, tell me.’

Something strange happened next. My body tingled all over and the hairs on my arms stood on end. I’d had plenty of men call me sexy before. Handsome. Beautiful. Gorgeous. And I’d never tired of it.

But from him it was different. It felt different. I suddenly found myself talking. Unable to resist his deep, masculine, mystifying voice.

‘I’ve given up caring what people think too,’ I said.

‘Already?’

‘Age has nothing to do with it.’

‘What people?’ he said.

‘My parents. The kids at school.’

‘They knew–’

‘That I’m a faggot?’ I interrupted. ‘Yup, they knew.’

‘Don’t say that word,’ he said.

‘Why not?’

‘Just don’t.’

We locked stares for another five seconds and I didn’t have to guess what he was thinking. His eyes gave him away.

They burned with pain and sadness and fury. The same pain and sadness and fury I’d felt the first time I’d found myself on the receiving end of that hateful word.

For him it would have been worse. Everyone must have been so proud of rugby teacher Tim and his beautiful wife and their happy little life together.

Not anymore.

‘They can all fuck themselves,’ I said.

He nodded slowly. Said, ‘How did they find out?’

‘Long story,’ I said, my stomach already knotting.

I tried to ignore the memories. Memories of that Monday morning. Their taunts echoing in my ears. The cold, wet grit of the quad soaking my shirt and scraping open my back. Their heavy black school shoes. The deafening cracks of my ribs.

Standing, he walked to the kitchen. A fridge door opened and glass rattled. One hiss. Another. Walking back in, he passed me a cold beer, its brown glass already misting over with condensation.

‘We’ve got all night,’ he said.