Page 6 of For Real

If I got to choose, I’d want to look like he does, and that’s a weird thought. Like there’s a confused zone of lust-envy where wanting to do someone spills over into wanting to be them. Or the other way round.2

I don’t even know how to describe him. I’m not even sure there’s a word for it. Not one I’ve ever heard before anyway. I run through them in my head like I’m helping him try them on, but none of them stick. He’s not handsome. He’s not pretty. And beautiful isn’t right either, because he just isn’t. I think he might be a bit ugly actually, but somehow looking at him makes my stomach fizz like paracetamol in Pepsi.

He’s sort of stern and wolfish and chiselled and kind of too much, like his nose is too long and his mouth is too wide and his chin is too sharp. There’s a bit of grey in his hair, and when he’s in profile he looks really crazy harsh, all lines and angles, full of locked-up secrets.

And there’s this weird distance to him. He’s not cold—not exactly—but there’s this sense of wildness almost, like when you’re watching a nature documentary and you see a tiger and you’re all like, God, that’s gorgeous and God, that could totally rip my face off at the same time. It’s not something you can put your finger on, like height (though he’s taller than me) or strength (though he’s stronger than me), but there’s something there. This power. Like being ordinary is just a mask he wears.

I’ve been watching him all night. Like literally unable to stop staring.

Wanting. Imagining this constant depraved porno of all the messed-up shit I want to do to him.

Never for a moment dreaming he might let me.

Certainly not when his first impulse appeared to be reading me a lecture.

But. Oh. My. Fucking. God.

My cock is dying of joy. Birthday, Christmas, Easter, Boxing Day, May Day, even, like, Pancake Day all come at once. I really shouldn’t have worn my pulling jeans. Because right now they’re my strangling-my-knob-off jeans.

I hobble after him, trying not to care that people are staring. Though, actually, not caring isn’t so difficult. Because nobody in that club mattered a damn the moment he came in, looking so passionate and uptight and angry and sad all at the same time. And so perfect, so fucking perfect. Like he belongs on his knees, waiting for me to hurt him.

My gaydar is genuinely defective—I didn’t even notice the gay one in Union J. But I’ve got this other thing. I don’t think there’s a word for it—subdar sounds crap—but sometimes it gets pinged so hard, usually by the sort of people you wouldn’t think would ping that way. Except they do, and I’m usually too chickenshit to do anything about it.3

He’s waiting for me by the front desk, calling for a taxi. On account. It’ll tell you what sort of a fucking ridiculously sheltered life I lead because that’s just about the classiest thing that’s ever happened to me. Last date I was on, we had to ring his dad for a pickup because the Tube had stopped running, we were both shit scared of the night bus, and neither of us had any cash.4

He tucks his phone away. “Get your coat.”

“Didn’t bring one.”

Next thing I know, he’s dumping his full-length, silk-lined, cashmere-wool blend over my shoulders. For such a big coat it weighs practically nothing at all, and it trails along the ground behind me like I’m a really short-arsed emperor. I want to tell him I don’t need it, but I don’t know how to do that without sounding like a petulant kid. And I really, really don’t want him to think that about me. At least, not until he’s knelt for me again. It’s silly, but before he did that I just sort of fancied him, and I didn’t really care what he thought.5

But now I do. I care really hard.

I had no idea it would be like this. That having someone on their knees for you would make you so vulnerable.

I guess it’s because there’s nowhere left to hide from what you’re into. And that’s a pretty naked feeling, standing there with a boner and all this hot, tight need inside you, desperate for somebody to understand.

Also, his coat is really nice, and it turns out I’m a bit cold. So fuck my principles.

“And phone someone. You’re going to Addison Avenue.”

Wow, it’s really hard to believe he ever smiled at me.

Knelt for me. Looked at me the way he did.

“Okay.” I go outside obediently and pretend to make a call.

Come on, who am I actually going to tell? Hi, Mum, went to a kinky sex club, and now I’m off to the house of a complete stranger so he can get on the floor and I can jerk off over him, because that totally turns me on.

She thinks I’m staying over at a friend’s. Except I don’t actually have any friends anymore because they’re all at university, growing as people.

Truthfully, I probably could have told her. I’ve yet to find something she isn’t cool with, which should be good, right? But there’s still stuff you seriously don’t want to tell your mother about your sex life. Wants to shag boys, I can cope with her knowing. Wants to shag boys while they’re tied up and crying, just no.

So maybe I’m about to do an incredibly stupid thing. And tomorrow morning I’m going to be a headline. Achingly Priapic Gay Teenager Found Floating in Thames. But if this guy was dangerous, he wouldn’t be doing all the safety stuff, right?

Right?

The taxi comes and we get in, and we sit there in silence because I can’t think of a single fucking thing to say. He’s looking out the window with his face turned away, so all I’m getting is this glossy mess of shadow and light over his profile. Makes me feel miles away. Like I don’t know him at all.

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