Thursday, 1 April

 

LENA’S ON the plane back to the States. She’s not met Jack after all, and he became that thing we didn’t talk about, which kind of spoiled her visit for me.

So when I saw him around the department, I was angry enough to want to punch him, and I avoided him. Not that I saw much of him. I did, however, see on Facebook that his status still proclaimed that he was engaged to Sasha Williams. Now, I don’t expect him to change this to “Madly in luuurv with Leo Taylor” or anything like that, but honestly, this game of charades he’s playing is starting to piss me off.

He can go and hang. I’m calling Lucy to see if she’ll get drunk with me.

 

 

Sunday, 4 April. The Lake District

 

LUCY, AMELIA, Mark, Tom, Pete, Laura, and I went camping for the long weekend. We took tents and hiking boots and kicked it up at the Lakes. As could be expected, the weather was shitty, so we were mostly wet and cold throughout, but it was good to be out of London all the same. We’ve been hoping to do something like this for a while now, especially since Tom and Pete moved out of London when Tom got a job in Leeds. When I was doing my MA, Tom used to be at the centre of my group of gay friends, but ever since Pete came along and the two moved out, I’ve sort of dropped out of that circle. It became all about hooking up with as many people as possible, and it really wasn’t for me.

Unfortunately one of the reasons for my eventual decision to retire from the gay meat market was at the Lakes with us as well: Laura.

Amelia was constantly making efforts to reconcile the two of us, mostly because she couldn’t drop me as a friend and Laura was a good work contact.

Frankly I couldn’t blame Laura for despising me.

It all dates back to my PhD days. I’d just returned to the UK after a year of fieldwork all over Europe. My last month had been spent in the summer in Scandinavia, and as I spent a lot of time on my interview subject’s yacht, fishing with him, I came back looking tanned and feeling quite happy. With my new confidence in my thesis, the wealth of contacts I’d managed to establish, the tan that made me look like a golden-haired god, I felt good.

So when I went to the pub we used to hang out in back then, to see all my friends, I wasn’t exactly familiar with everybody. New people had joined and some of the old ones had left while I was gone. I fell into conversation with this one guy who’d caught my eye. He was adorably shy, and so when everybody was leaving and he asked me if he could come back to my place, I was flattered.

He seemed nervous; I suspected I was the first guy he’d ever picked up. In my new, self-assured, “I know what I’m doing” persona, I agreed. He was kind of cute, and he seemed completely into me. And I was into me, so there was something we had in common! It wasn’t just that he had never been with a guy before. He went at it as though he were on death row and had to try everything before he breathed his last. We literally spent the entire weekend fucking and doing everything two young, functional men could do with one another short of throwing themselves out of the window.

So imagine my chagrin when I emerged into the light of day after this exhausting escapade, feeling proud of myself for having initiated a new (and very enthusiastic) member of gaydom into the ways of the gays, and got a call from Amelia.

“Leo, do you know what happened to Stephen after we left the pub? Nobody’s heard from him all weekend long. His parents are freaking out. They want to call the cops! Laura is beside herself with worry.”

I told her at once that he’d been with me, and that he was fine—hell, better than fine!

“You what!” she screeched into my ear. “Leo, you’re not serious! You didn’t seduce Laura’s husband. Tell me you didn’t!”

It would have been okay, even, if he had just kept his mouth shut, but I think that despite whatever closet door he had been holding shut until then, I fucked him right out of there. Either way, Laura blamed me, claiming that I seduced him or warped his mind or something.

Honestly, he had been the one who asked to come to my place, he had been the one who wanted to do everything on the gay bucket list, and had I known he had a wife I would never have done any of it! I mean, for heaven’s sake, he had no ring on his finger! How the hell was I supposed to know?

Amelia was furious but forgave me since she believed me that I’d been ignorant of the guy’s relationship status. But her friendship with Laura suffered, and she had been at pains to sort of slide me into gatherings where Laura was going to be, maybe hoping that sufficient exposure would eventually immunise her to me. So far, the effect was not very noticeable.

When she saw me get out of Mark’s car at Low Wray, she actually sneered. “So, I hear you broke up an engagement. Well done, you!”

I hardly knew what to say and threw an accusing glare at Amelia, but she looked as surprised as I was by that direct hit. Tom and Pete, who heard the exchange, were at once amused and interested. They would be, of course. Living as they did now, they’d probably had no gay drama to feast on for years. Indeed, they latched on to me as Amelia and Lucy did their best to draw Laura away from me.

Pete is incredibly camp and rejoices in turning it up to eleven when he is amongst his closest friends. “So! Tell me everything!”

“Yeah, Pete, I won’t,” I said. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“So you didn’t just break up another straight couple?” Tom sounded exquisitely amused. He is sporting a rather impressive beard these days, and with that, thick-rimmed glasses, a chequered red shirt, and tight jeans, he looks like a hipster lumberjack. “Because word on the street is—”

“Right, where did you hear it from?” I asked. “Seriously, who’s spreading all this stuff around?”

“I heard it from Mark,” said Tom. “But he kind of assumed I already knew, and anyway, before you get pissed off at him, his agenda was to warn us not to talk of your lover because things hadn’t exactly panned out. What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” I said. “I didn’t break them up. He came on to me, and when he did, I said I wouldn’t do anything until he was single. Which I did to be decent, by the way.”

“Sure,” said Pete. “So, once you thanked him on your knees, then what happened?”

“I did not go down on him,” I said. “We didn’t have sex at all, all right? Like I said, nothing happened.”

“That’s strange, surely,” said Tom. “When was the last time you—”

“Aaaall right,” I said. “My dog needs to poo. Out of the way.”

And I marched ahead of them, with Squire on the lead, realising that I had got myself into an uncomfortable situation. Wasn’t that just typical of me?

But the weekend went as well as could be expected—that is to say, it didn’t go altogether terribly. Laura avoided me, which was kind of her, as it aided my own efforts to avoid her. For her sake, everybody avoided talking of Jack, which was a huge relief.

Lucy and I shared a tent, and Squire slept at our feet. We walked and got drunk in the many charming pubs along the way, and we took out boats, and had a good time overall.

I don’t feel like going back home to my little flat, where there’s just me.

 

 

Monday, 5 April

 

SO LUCY’S staying at mine.

It just sort of happened. On the last night of our trip to the Lakes, she sneaked into my sleeping bag for warmth, clung to me like a koala on a eucalyptus tree, and I blurted out, “Lucy, come and stay with me.”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Just, I don’t know, come and stay with me. One night. Can’t you?”

“Darling, I know you turn men gay left, right, and centre, but I like you as gay as you are, you know, and I don’t think even I could turn you.”

“I don’t mean that, you freak,” I said. “I mean, I don’t want to be alone. It’s depressing.”

“Okay.” She kissed my cheek. “I’ll stay with you.”

So after a long day at work today, where I had the pleasure of disciplining a student for using racist slurs against another student—which just fucking kills your faith in humanity—I was kind of surprised to hear noises coming from my flat. I dreaded that Lucy had somehow managed to pick someone up and decided to perform (yes, perform) her one-night stand in my flat. Considering the day I’d had, I think I shouldn’t be blamed for being angry about that.

And so I came in rather abruptly, catching Lucy and Alex, of all people, in the middle of what looked suspiciously like… cooking. Alex was chopping mushrooms, and Lucy was whisking some cream-like substance in my measuring jug. I didn’t know I had one.

“What the—?” I began.

“Oh, Leo! You’re home!” said Lucy, as though she and I had travelled back in time to the fifties, where gays weren’t people and she and I somehow ended up married.

“What’s going on?”

“I met your neighbour.” She batted her lashes at me. “He’s helping me make dinner for you. We’ve decided you need to start eating like an adult. So we’re making sausages. Aren’t you just dying to try Alex’s sausage?”

Alex’s head snapped up and he looked at me, quite horrified.

I was used to Lucy, so I only rolled my eyes. “Good luck with that,” I said.

When I came out of my bedroom, having washed and changed, they were again companionably engaged in frying onions and mushrooms and stirring sauces and jabbing at boiling potatoes. I’d forgotten how good home-cooked food smelled. Even once they’d dished up, Lucy continued to flirt with Alex in her usual way. I have to give him that, though: he took it with good grace. Her statement that she liked a man who could handle his sausage and her guess as to how much he could bench-press got a smile from him.

“So, you and Leo are good friends, then?” she said at one point.

I was worried that she was going to make insinuations, which would make Alex uncomfortable being friends with a gay man, but he responded to her affirmatively without even looking up from his plate.

“So, I guess you’ve met Jack?” she asked.

I threw her a warning glare.

Either Alex didn’t see it, or he ignored it. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Leo’s boyfriend, right? I’ve seen him around.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I grumbled.

“Yeah,” Lucy continued, ignoring me. “He’s a bit of a flake, actually. What did you make of him? Because I can’t quite like him, but then, I’ve never met him.”

“Oh.” Alex sounded a little flustered. “I don’t know that I can say I like him, precisely. I don’t really know him.”

“Don’t let that stop you from ripping my personal life to shreds,” I told him. “As you can see, it doesn’t deter my other friends.”

Lucy shrugged. “I just want to help you, love.”

“I don’t need any help. The man’s history. He won’t come back, and we might as well forget him.”

Alex frowned and even seemed a little concerned. “He stood you up again?”

I couldn’t really be angry with him, worried as he looked. There was no judgement in his face, nothing but kindness and alarm at my being hurt. He should teach my other friends lessons in manners.

Maybe that made it easy to confide in him. I told him about Jack’s annoying elusiveness and what happened with Sasha.

“He’s a tease,” Lucy said.

Alex contemplated this and then said, “Hm. Reminds me of my sister.”

“Oh?” I said.

“Yeah, she’s like that. She constantly pines after guys who are married or in relationships or have just got out of this major relationship or—well, people who are in some way, I don’t know, damaged? Either way, it’s clear to any sane person that nothing would ever come of it, which is what attracts her. I reckon she’s into impossible relationships. Your Jack sounds the same.”

“How astute!” Lucy said, quite delighted. “That is precisely what he’s like, Leo! Look, it all falls into place: He fancies that American bird because she’s in the States and there’s no danger of an actual relationship happening. Meanwhile, he can tease you, knowing that nothing can happen while he’s in a ‘relationship’ with Team USA. But then the woman has the temerity to come over here with matrimonial intentions. What does he do? He sabotages his relationship with her and decides to go for it with you. But then you want to play house with him too, and so he flees back to his fiancée, who no doubt made an impression on him by throwing a fit and threatening never to see him again.”

“Yes,” Alex said, “that sounds about right. As soon as you become unavailable, he’ll be drooling at your feet again.”

It sounded convincing but didn’t exactly make me hopeful about my future. Do I even want a future with Jack? Truthfully, my feelings are mixed. A part of me is still a little infatuated with him, let’s be honest, but another part has really had enough of his bullshit.

“I should probably give up on men altogether,” I said. “As soon as sex is involved, I fuck up any relationship I have.”

“Oh pooh,” Lucy said. “Sex makes things better, not worse, trust me. How about you, Alex?”

He startled. “Me?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Are you sleeping with anyone?”

“Right this minute? No.” He adopted an expression of complete innocence, which I didn’t trust.

Lucy waved her fork in the air. “Don’t you joke around with me, mister. Out with it. Whose bones are you humping?”

I wanted to take that fork and stab her in the eye. Alex seemed to take it in his usual laid-back way, though. He shrugged. “No one’s.”

“No one?” Lucy sounded outraged.

“Well, you’ve to meet someone first, get to know them,” Alex said. “That sort of thing takes time. I’ve only just moved to London.”

I frowned. “What about that woman I saw? The one who helped you move in? I thought—”

“Thea? Thea’s my sister.”

“The one who likes damaged people?” Lucy asked.

“Yep.”

Lucy leaned forward and smiled ingratiatingly at him. “So you’re single.”

“Yes.”

She persisted. “So, what are you into?”

“Lucy,” I said firmly, “can we leave the sex inquisition for a single day?”

I changed the subject then. We ended up having a good meal. I washed up, and we had a few glasses of wine, and then Alex left.

No sooner did the door close behind him but Lucy melted to the floor, quite literally, as though her bones had turned to liquid. She rolled onto her back and said, “Oh. My. God. He is so hot!”

“Yeah, louder, Luce. He’s only my fucking neighbour.” I don’t know why I was so irritated, but her flirting with Alex all evening long and her evident intention to go on about how hot he was for the rest of the night did not fill me with joy.

“How can you live next to this guy and not try to sneak into his bed!”

She was positively sparkling with, er, enthusiasm.

“Because I’m not a crazed rapist?”

“Oh puh-lease!” she drawled. “He’s so into you! All that’s missing is him just flat-out declaring himself! Which he would, if you didn’t send out your ‘I don’t notice anything that’s around me’ vibe.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The way he looked at you, like a puppy wanting a hug! The way he kept handing you the ketchup because he knew you only eat things when they are drenched in ketchup-flavoured soup, you uncultured animal! Darling, trust me, he has the hots for you, and I think you’ve a moral—nay, sexual—obligation to jump him. Because a) it cannot be healthy for you to keep yourself as chaste as a plague-ridden corpse, and b) if you don’t do it, someone else will, and then it will be too late. And soon you’ll walk around snapping at everybody because you’re a sexually frustrated grouch who thinks himself a great romantic only because he never dares to actually like people and prefers the constructs in his head instead.”

I stared at her, dumbfounded. “Is that how you see me?”

“Yes, but that’s because I know you. And now that I’ve demonstrated I know you”—she was saying this while still lying on her back on my floor—“will you please take my advice and ride that man like a cowboy?”

“I don’t think he’s gay, Lucy.”

“I already told you, you haven’t the least sense when it comes to picking up signals.”

Luckily Squire, who is always interested in people lying on the floor, distracted her by licking her face.

When Lucy rose at last, she said, “I’m going to bed. May I remind you that I’m here because you’re so lonely? There’s a bloke a couple of metres that way who’s also lonely. He’s nice, he’s sweet, and he’s into you. I know that for you these are all signs to raise your defences, but you’re not an idiot, so tell that stupid part of your brain to stop being so stupid and go for it.”

“All right, remind me next time to water your wine,” I said.

And yet once she was in bed next to me, snoring lightly, I couldn’t help thinking about what she’d said. Which is why I’m up now, writing this down. I need to sort my thoughts, and it’s not easy with her yelling at me all the time for being an idiot who needs to get laid.

I suppose I could ask Alex out. Even if he is straight, which he probably is—now that I think about it, I think that the more inclined I grow to actually go for it, the straighter he becomes, like some sort of twisted reverse magic—if I just ask him out, that’s a compliment, right? I mean, I know he’s not one of those straight men who’s grossed out by gays. Mind you, having to meet him in the hallway and such after he inevitably shoots me down would be awkward.

Then again, I did vomit in front of him, and he’s not too disgusted to eat with me, so the man’s resilient when it comes to awkwardness. And he’s cute. He’s got a good smile and a pleasant attitude, and nice eyes and hands, which I have a thing for. When I try to think back on our interactions for signs that he might like me, all I can think of is he’s been pretty obliging when it comes to lending a hand and pulling me out of tight spots. But then, he’s a friendly sort of chap. I wouldn’t put it past him to do that for anyone.

In fact, I’m pretty sure Daria from next door told me that he fixed her toilet, leaked her radiators, and took out her rubbish on several occasions.

Oh bloody hell, I’ll just do it. What have I got to lose, exactly? If I dwell on it, it’ll grow into this giant Thing, when really there’s no need for that.

 

 

Tuesday, 6 April

 

GOT AN email from my parents’ friend about a potential job in Cambridge. As a research assistant.

Yeah, that just goes to show what my parents think of my current position. I’m senior lecturer here, but apparently, to my parents that’s like being a BA in Cambridge.

Somehow have to squeeze three lectures into a day full of meetings tomorrow. Oh, and stupid Phil spilled half his coffee on me this morning, so for most of the day I looked like a giant poo-monster had vomited on my shirt.

 

 

Wednesday, 7 April

 

SAW ALEX in the hallway this morning, coming back from a jog just as I was heading out. Is it just me, or does he literally look like the straightest man who ever lived?

Wasn’t the time to ask him out anyway, what with my having to go to work and him probably thinking about pussy all day.

On the upside, our departmental postgraduate seminar about the immediate post-war years was the subject of three meetings today, each of them chaired by Professor Jack Gordon. Which meant I had to look at him all day and wonder how I can hate his sexy arse so damn much.

Lucy really is right about that needing-to-get-laid business.

The meetings went well, on the whole. We settled pretty much everything, and I had occasion to observe that Jack was as cocky and self-assured as he’d ever been. By now, you’d think he’d have the grace to leave me alone, but no, he must needs follow me out of the last meeting when I was heading home.

“Go to hell,” I told him before he could even open his mouth.

“Leo!” he said reproachfully. “Leo, please stop for one moment. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m going home.”

He fell into step beside me. “Leo—” He used his low, confiding tone. “Leo, do stop. I’m sorry, okay? I really am. I’ve been through hell and back….”

“Good!” I said emphatically.

“It’s been a difficult time for me. I thought you’d be more understanding.”

I stopped, because I could no longer contain my anger. I wanted to say a wealth of things which would have to be bleeped out in the future biopic based on my life—starring Alexander Skarsgård—but I didn’t. For one, we still hadn’t left campus, and I didn’t want to be heard quarrelling with him. And for another, it really wasn’t worth it. I mean, what do you say to a guy like that? He had no shame, clearly felt no guilt for how he’d treated me, and thought only of himself and his own comfort and happiness.

“Look,” I said, trying to be as patient as I could. “I don’t know what you’ve been through, but I’m damn sure that it was within your power to call or text me while you were being put through it. You didn’t. You make promises and you don’t keep them. It’s like you forget me the moment I’m out of your sight. Which is fine. I don’t care. Just stop messing with me, all right?”

“Leo, dear,” he said, taking a step closer and sounding as though I had wounded him, “don’t say things like that. It’s not like you to be so cold to me. I’m telling you, it’s just difficult at the moment.”

My anger was growing. “How difficult can picking up your phone or dropping an email be? Honestly, Jack, do you find these things generally difficult to do? If so, I think you should notify the bodies that awarded you a degree.”

“Let me make it up to you,” he said. “Let me take you out to dinner. Are you free tonight?”

“No. I don’t want to eat dinner with you. Goodbye, sir.”

And with that, I turned and left.

 

 

Thursday, 8 April

 

AMELIA CALLED. “Leo, do you think I’m sexy?”

“Er, yes?” A shot in the dark. I had not the least notion whether she was. She has big boobs, and I think straight men like those, for some reason, so I must have been on the right track. Besides, it wouldn’t have done to say no.

“Thanks,” she sighed. “I just don’t think Mark thinks I’m sexy anymore.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sure that’s not true. When you guys first got together, he could do nothing but grin. We thought he’d had a brain seizure or something.”

“Yes, but that was over ten years ago,” she said. “Two kids later and things aren’t the same as they used to be, you know?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure Mark’s entirely Amelia-sexual, if you know what I mean. He’s completely into you and nobody else. So I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“You don’t understand…. Neither you nor Lucy have the least sympathy for me!”

“You asked Lucy whether she thought you were sexy?”

“No, you idiot. I asked her how to spice up my sex life.”

“And what did she say?”

“She told me to wear a French maid’s uniform, spank myself in front of him, ask him to call me Celeste, and beg him to take my virginity.”

“Sounds about right.”

“So naturally I can’t listen to her, since she’s insane. I thought you’d know something. I mean, you’re gay, you know what men like, right?”

“Theoretically, I know what gay men like. Or, to be more precise, I know fuck all, love. Every man is different. You know Mark better than anybody, and you know what he likes.”

“It’s just been so lacklustre, recently, you know?”

“You’ve been busy. You’re tired and distracted with the kids. Call his mother, have her take the kids for a bit, and go away together. Once you’re alone with him, you’ll know what to do. Come now, you’re the least insecure person I know. You won’t let a little dry spell get you down, will you?”

“No, you’re right,” she said resignedly. “I’m probably making it a bigger issue than it is. I mean, you’ve no idea what it’s like! I haven’t had sex for a month!”

“Cow,” I said.

She laughed.

“No, really!” I said indignantly. “Asking him to take your virginity is very apt, now that I think about it, since your hymen has probably grown back.”

“Idiot,” she said, but my bitter outburst cheered her up.

Apparently my lack of a love life has that use, at least.

 

 

Friday, 9 April

 

I RECEIVED a copy of my friend Dawn’s new book about the Crusades. It’s a draft copy she wants me to proofread for her.

It’s a tedious read. I mean, it’s written in the present tense. An historical, factual book about the Crusades in the present tense. I can just imagine her editor telling her, “You’ve got to spice it up, make it more now, make it more urgent!” I don’t know why I imagine her editor with a Salvador Dali moustache and a toy poodle under his arm. Anyway, it’s the Crusades, for God’s sake. They’re about as exciting as they’re going to get.

As to the dating front: in my effort to pluck up the nerve to ask Alex out, I’ve gone so far as to decide what I’m going to wear when the time comes.

Now that I read that sentence, I feel extremely pathetic. I’m going to go out with Squire and try to remember what it was like to be normal.

 

 

Saturday, 10 April

 

I DID it. I approached Alex.

Yesterday I saw him as I was coming back from my walk with Squire, just as he was heading out for the evening, looking really cute in a leather jacket I hadn’t seen him wear before.

His face lit up when he saw me, he waved when I crossed the street over to his side, and he told me he was going shopping. He needed new trainers. I made a lame joke about a trainer needing trainers. I know—I should just shoot myself and spare everybody else the effort. But he laughed anyway, so when we parted I thought, Fuck it, I’ll do it. I’ll just ask him out.

I felt good about my decision. If I tried very hard not to imagine him naked, it’d be easy enough.

So this morning I dressed in the blue shirt that Lucy says makes my eyes pop—which sounds gross, but apparently is a good thing—and the jeans she says make my butt look appealing, which made me think of baboons. But anyway, I didn’t get to show him my butt. And so I marched across the hall.

It’s funny how I’d rather have rescued children out of burning buildings at that moment than face knocking on Alex’s door. It takes less courage to bloody spy on the Russians than it does to ask another man out, I swear.

I knocked on his door and waited for him to answer. It took him a while.

That was because he was on the phone, and through the paper-thin wood of the door to his flat, I heard him say, “Yep, all right, love. Speak to you later.”

I don’t know why, but his referring to someone as love, and looking really, really good unshaven and in his dressing gown (presumably naked underneath), showing off a triangular part of his phenomenal chest made it very hard to choke out any sort of human sound that wasn’t a phwoarrr.

“Hey, Leo, what’s up!” He smiled at me. He kind of looked like Leonidas from 300, except kind and gentle. Still, no less scary to me!

“Ah, I—I was wondering….” I began, smooth as usual. “I wanted to ask you something, actually.”

“Oh yeah? Come in. Sorry about the mess.”

So I stepped in. I didn’t see whether it was messy or not because I felt a little dizzy. And sweaty. Why is asking someone out such a sweaty business?

He leaned against the counter that separated his kitchen from his sitting room and watched me as I walked around.

I didn’t know what I was walking around for, except that it was something to do. “Hey, you put your shelves up,” I observed, blindly patting the backs of some books.

“Yeah. So, what’s up? You said you wanted to ask something?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Yes, indeed. I—I have a question for you.”

“All right, shoot.”

I won’t quote myself on what happened next, since I think Gay Cupid has recorded me verbatim for the Gay Book of Shame on enough occasions that he follows me around everywhere and makes a record of all I do and say. Suffice to say that I didn’t spit it out. I couldn’t.

He looked so handsome and manly, and I realised that I couldn’t bear it if he shot me down, and I became convinced that he would. So instead, with heat in my face and rather incoherently, I asked him whether he would work out with me.

To be fair, that’s pretty gay.

He said “Sure,” with the sort of eagerness that suggested his professional standards were offended by how out of shape I was, and he needed to rectify that state of affairs—and soon.

We’re going running tomorrow. Punishment fits the crime.

 

 

Sunday, 11 April

 

I CAN barely move my arms.

Alex had to literally carry me back upstairs because I couldn’t feel my legs. The whole experience was like Chariots of Fire—if behind that group of athletic young men running on the beach to a pretty, uplifting soundtrack, there was the bent-in half figure of a man who had the fitness of an eighty-year-old asthmatic orangutan.

I knew I was out of shape, but that came as a shock to me. I’m not joking when I say that by the end I was quite close to staggering home on all fours.

Alex was kind about it, said the first steps were always the hardest, promised we’d take it light next time. I’m trying not to faint at the notion of a next time.

 

 

Wednesday, 14 April

 

ALEX PROMISES me that runner’s high is an actual thing.

I think you’ve got to be high to run every day. Humans were not made for running. There’s a reason we invented chairs.

 

 

Friday, 16 April

 

ALEX IS making me drink this protein shake, which he promises will help me build muscle. We went running together three times this week. He wants me to come and join his gym, where he’d help me build up my chest and arms.

At work I received an email from Jack today, requesting a meeting. It was all official, in that tongue-in-cheek way of his.

 

Dear colleague,

I am writing to enquire whether it would be possible to arrange a meeting at a mutually agreeable time.

You look hot in that polo neck.

Jack

 

I didn’t engage in what was clearly meant to be the beginning of a flirtatious email exchange. As I was leaving for home, I told him I didn’t have time to meet him.

 

 

Sunday, 18 April

 

ALEX HAS made me lasagne. He said I deserved a rest, and besides, the weather was shitty, so we couldn’t go running outside. Something told me that Alex would have gone if it weren’t for me—I’ve seen him come back from a run drenched before—but I really appreciated the lasagne treat. His lasagne is probably the best thing I’ve ever eaten. He laughed at my asking for third helpings, but honestly, I haven’t eaten lasagne that good in… well, ever!

Then we had drinks. Lots of drinks. Before anybody asks—I did not try to make him drunk to seduce him. I’m not that desperate, and I’m not that creepy. That being said, we got so plastered that neither of us was up for any seducing, even had that been a possibility, which it isn’t.

Anyway, we played a drinking game. We would each tell a story, and the other would have to guess if it was made-up or true. If the listener guesses correctly, the teller drinks. Incorrectly, the listener drinks.

I started. “All right, all right, here’s one. When I was five, I pushed my sister into a pond, and so she took revenge on me by training her cat to attack me every time it saw me. My parents actually had to get rid of the cat. And that’s why I hate cats.”

“Wow, you’re making it difficult,” he said dryly. “Of course it’s true. I’ve met your sister. I wouldn’t push her into a pond for anything. What, did you have a death wish or something?”

I laughed drunkenly. “No! But okay, you’re right, it’s true.”

“Okay, so here’s mine. I once ran—”

“Oh no, no, no, no! Come on, mate, nothing about cross-country records or anything like that! First, I’ll know nothing about it, and second, this is not the time to brag!”

“Brag? Well, I suppose….”

“I want it to be personal, and I want it to be embarrassing. Go!”

He laughed. “All right, Hauptmann. Give me a minute. I don’t have that many embarrassing stories to tell.”

“Well, too bad. I wish I could give you some of mine, but that treasure trove is for private use only.”

“Like that time you vomited all over—”

“Stories that are embarrassing to you, goddammit!” I said indignantly. “Play by the rules!”

“I was kind of embarrassed by that.”

“You and me both, mate. Well?”

“Okay, okay, I’ve got one. See if you can guess if this is true. When I was still serving—”

“Serving where?”

“Oh, I was in the RAF.”

“Seriously?”

Alex assured me he was not joking.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I resigned.”

“Why?”

“Long story, and sort of depressing. You want my embarrassing story or not?”

I really wanted both, but I reckoned I wouldn’t push my luck, so I let him tell me the embarrassing one.

“So, to begin with, my dad was against my joining the RAF. That’s to say, he wanted me to serve in the US, the greatest country on earth, yada-yada. And also, he used to be a Marine, way back when, so this was like a betrayal to him. When I joined, he refused to think of my job as real military.

“But then he came to visit me one day in the Mess on base. He’s a sort of military-looking guy, or was at the time anyway. He definitely has a commanding presence. And so when he walked out of the base, past the gate, the young officer who stood guard thought Dad was some sort of general or something and promptly saluted him. I saw this happen from the window of my block, and I laughed to myself and thought he’d tell me off later for how our officers salute just anybody for no reason, and whether we were so poorly trained that we couldn’t distinguish between a civilian and a general. But then I kept looking out of the window, and my dad was walking back in through the gate, towards the barracks. And again the young officer saluted him.”—here Alex demonstrated a beautiful salute—“I wondered what my dad wanted, but he never reached the block, only turned to go back out the gate. And again, another salute. I think he went in and out like that three or four times before I realised that he was actually just really missing being saluted.”

“Okay, it’s got to be true, but I can’t see how it’s embarrassing for you. It’s kind of adorable.”

“It’s embarrassing when it happens to you, let me tell you. After a while I wasn’t the only one at that window, watching what was going on!”

I scoffed. “Pfft, that’s nothing! Once, the postwoman rang as I got out of the shower, and I ran to the door forgetting I was undressed. So I opened the door, saw the postwoman, realised I was naked and then lifted Squire up to hide my groin. So there I was, standing completely starker with a panting dog at my waist, trying to collect my parcel.”

Alex, enormously pleased with this story, said, “God, I hope it’s true!”

It was, so we both drank. By this time, the rules of the game had become a trifle fuzzy. That was as coherent as the evening got.

I woke up with a head-splitting hangover this morning.

 

 

Tuesday, 20 April

 

UGH, THINGS I hate about most essays I have to read: irrational structuring, lack of argumentation, the use of the personal pronoun, the repetition of the same word over, and over, and over again (and over), and sloppy grammar. But what I really don’t like is when I read something that begins to sound eerily familiar.

Today I was reading one such essay, and everything about it sounded strangely like I’d read it before. After putting that essay through the plagiarism program, I found my instincts were correct. I then spent two hours tracking down the source from which it was plagiarised.

I’m going to come down on the fucker like a ton of bricks.

 

 

Wednesday, 21 April

 

JACK HAS been stalking me today. Nothing major, but I think he believes that if he puts on the wounded-puppy act, I’m going to forgive him. And I do feel a little sorry for him, but when I think back on his behaviour over the past couple of months, I really can’t see how any of this is my fault—or, more to the point, what prevented him from behaving like a decent human being to begin with. I mean honestly, why didn’t he phone me? He didn’t phone me once. Or text me. I have to assume that what Alex and Lucy said was right: he wants me now because he can’t have me. The moment I start drooling after him again, he’ll start finding reasons to disappear. Well, tough. I’m not falling for that trick again.

Sarah cornered me in the rec room today.

“So, the big three-oh coming up, eh? Feeling the jitters?”

“Do you know, I almost forgot I’m turning thirty,” I said, quite honestly.

“Oh, I remember when I turned fifty.” She sighed heavily. “Rob took me out for a meal, and I put on so much make-up, he actually jumped when he saw me in full light.”

I laughed. “That’s not a danger I’m facing.”

“No, you men can grow older and older and more distinguished as you do it. Even grey hair looks good on you!”

Self-consciously, I put my hand to my hair.

“You don’t have any, you daft sod,” she scoffed. “And I wasn’t speaking of you but men in general. Not that it would be visible on you, anyway, blond as you are.”

“And young as he is,” Jack said, startling me.

I don’t know how long he’d been standing there. He was with Professor Finkley, an old departmental arsehole.

“Little whippersnapper,” Finkley said. “In fact, now that I think about it, you look like a little boy still. One could mix you up with one of the students. Certainly you’ve the same publication record.”

He chuckled at his own joke. He is a gross old man, but well connected and a funding magnet, for some unfathomable reason. Which is obviously why Jack is his closest friend in the department. Trust Jack to sniff out the best-connected person in a room and ingratiate himself with them.

Sarah teased me about my age some more, to Jack’s sneering amusement and to Finkley’s insinuations that I was little better than a baby.

Ugh, sometimes I really hate my job.

 

 

Thursday, 22 April

 

IT’S REALLY fucking hard to run behind Alex. I mean, seriously, how am I supposed to focus on breathing and rhythm and all that, when his arse is just in front of me, the muscles in his legs tensing as they hit the ground, his wide shoulders—argh! One of these days it will be like that scene in Madagascar, when the lion realises he is a real lion and his romp through the meadow with his old pal zebra turns into a hunt.

 

 

Friday, 23 April

 

AMELIA CALLED me today to discuss my birthday. It’s on the 8th of May, so there’s still plenty of time, but she insisted we must plan the thing. I told her I didn’t want to do anything fancy, and she agreed—eventually—that a pint down at the pub would be a “fun way to spend your thirtieth birthday, grandad.”

It was sweet of her to call, but I’d rather nobody talked of my birthday, but just kind of forgot. I don’t know, I feel kind of weird about it. I guess I could be doing more with my life. Perhaps that’s it.

When I think about the ambitions I had before I started on my PhD… I wanted to do some outside university work. Maybe for some think tanks, or some multinational organisations. But after I finished all my PhD and post-PhD work, it turned out I’m pretty much only qualified to tell people about my PhD and post-PhD work.

Which turns out to be only interesting to about three people on the planet, and that includes me. And my PhD supervisor. And my mother.

And I think half the time she’s just being polite.

 

 

Sunday, 25 April

 

THIS MORNING, Alex and I went to the gym together.

I hate gyms. The running at least feels natural and is out in the open, but gyms smell of stale sweat, and I hate the music. That being said, I could watch Alex lift weights on repeat until I die. God, he’s got nice arms. And he’s strong! The park where we run—no way would I ever dare go there by myself, especially late in the evening. But with Alex it’s hard to feel afraid. It’s like you’re training with Rocky Balboa, except he’s got a cute face. Also, I’m not surprised he’s a personal trainer. Honestly, even training—which is, after all, only marginally better than death—is bearable when you’ve got him coaching you. He’s not in the least like those Army drill sergeants from American movies, which is kind of what I feared he’d be. He smiles at you when you do well and immediately changes tack when he sees you can’t do something. There’s no macho posturing or anything like that.

After he made me lift some weights, which was a chore, he told me to hop on the treadmill, and as he did so, he gave me a pat on my bum. A friendly pat. A chummy sort of pat.

I’m not going to put more meaning into it than I must. Future Leo will be pleased to read I didn’t stand there waiting for a repeat but actually went on the treadmill like a good boy, feeling the pat on my bum the entire time I was running.

 

 

Monday, 26 April

 

SO THIS happened.

This morning, as I was leaving for work, Alex opened his door, apparently leaving for the gym. He was wearing his slacks and carried his gym bag. He saw me fumble with my keys and said, “Oh hey, are you busy this weekend?”

“No, why?”

“Do you want to go out with me?”

I froze. Then I turned slowly to look at him, fascinated.

He cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck and couldn’t really meet my eyes. That’s how I knew.

“Or not, whatever, I don’t—”

“What? No, no, I’d love to go out with you! You mean a date, right?” I said at once, because even though I’m an idiot, I’m not actually self-destructive. He was blushing, and so I said, “Please say it’s a date you mean. I’ve been meaning to ask you ages ago, but I was too shy.”

“Oh?” He exhaled in relief and then laughed. “Well, that’s—that’s nice. I guess I did mean a date.” Then, after a pause during which I saw an interlude with us floating in the sky, and gay-arse Cupid pissing rainbows around us, he said, “You were shy?”

“Yeah,” I said. “This weekend, huh? Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”

“All right, anything is fine with me.”

We laughed awkwardly, and then we had to go downstairs together, which was also awkward because, though extremely happy at last to be on the same page, and though my heart was doing leaps and bounds in my chest that would interest a cardiologist, we were both kind of surprised.

Downstairs we parted with a lot of smiles and “see yous.” I didn’t dance as I walked to the Tube station, but I might as well have done. I’ve got a date with Alex! Har har har!

Oh God, I’ve got to turn down the dork in me if I’m ever to get lucky with him.

 

 

Wednesday, 28 April

 

HAD AN undergrad in my office today. He was trying to get me to tell him exactly what to read for his essay. Had to explain to him that finding the right literature is part of the process of research. And that being able to deal with your shit by yourself is part of life.

Youth today!

Dear God, I’m turning into my dad. That isn’t good.

Met Lucy, Amelia, and Mark outside Lucy’s to help her carry some furniture she’d ordered online. While Amelia and I were busy putting the cabinets together, I casually mentioned that I had a date with Alex. You know, because they’re my friends and it seemed like a natural thing to share with them. Immediately, Lucy began a victory dance, while Amelia “accidentally” dropped the screwdriver on my foot.

“What! Why? And you refused to meet my Stuart!” she said.

“Oh, leave him alone,” Lucy said. “I told you this was going to happen, didn’t I? Oh my God, where is my medal?”

“Who is this Alex person, anyway?” Amelia said pettishly. “I don’t like him. I haven’t met him, but I’m sure I don’t like him.”

“That’s what I love about you. You’re not prejudiced,” I murmured.

Apparently, my having scored a date with Alex is a personal offence to Amelia and a personal victory to Lucy. Mark gave me that look that said, “You keep me out of this, mate.”

Although, as we were getting ready to go out, he caught me when we were alone and asked, “You like that man?”

“Yeah, he’s amazing.”

“Good luck.”

Luck. Huh. It suddenly occurs to me that one of the disadvantages of having so loftily taken myself out of the gay dating scene is that I haven’t really had a lot of practice. Four years I’ve been pining after this one man, who turns out to be a huge disappointment. And now what? I mean, witness how rubbish I was at even asking Alex out!

Lucy was right about the horniness: it doesn’t help to be desperate when you want to make a good impression.

 

 

Saturday, 31 April

 

REPORT FROM the front.

I was nervous before the date. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever been this nervous before, going out with someone. And it was weird, because I’ve already spent time with him and we get along. Maybe that’s why I was nervous. Maybe I was afraid that the bond we had would spoil when he takes a serious, good look at me. I mean, he’s all brawn and masculine energy, and I’m kind of… I don’t even know what I am.

He picked me up at half past seven, which was something we’d agreed to in the corridor between our flats. While previously we’d go out of our way to spend time together like normal people, we’ve suddenly grown bashful. This past week we only talked when we happened to bump into each other in the corridor, as though we were trying to save our best material for the date. Each time this happened, I saw him blushing. Judging by how sweaty my palms felt, I was probably not giving any more self-assured signals myself.

Anyway, he came to pick me up very punctually, which was unfortunate because I wasn’t ready. I’d mislaid the shirt I meant to wear, found the only other acceptable one completely crumpled, and when he knocked on my door, I was running around in my boxers, chasing Squire around the flat—he’d decided to take one of my socks and run away by way of a fun game, for which I had no patience. So I had to shout through the door that I needed a few more minutes, which really is not a good start.

Worse was to come.

Alex didn’t bother to book a table at the restaurant he chose. It had been recommended to him by some friend, who had told him that booking a table wasn’t necessary. Alex is new to London, so I must forgive him not knowing that any restaurant that doesn’t need a table booked on a Saturday evening is probably not worth going to, but as it turned out, we found that out by ourselves.

When we reached the restaurant, we found that it had shut down. So there we were, in the middle of London, without a table. Alex was disappointed, so I said, “Hey, don’t worry. I bet we can find a table somewhere in Chinatown. Maybe we’ll have to wait a few minutes, but that’s all right.”

I really wanted to put a good spin on this, and when he saw me act so nonchalantly about this business, he perked up too, and so we walked through the dense crowds, over the wet pavements in the direction of Leicester Square. The busy streets were not conducive to conversation, though at one point, as we were squeezing our way through a throng of people just emerged from the Tube, he grabbed my hand so we weren’t separated.

Once we arrived in Chinatown, after some twenty minutes of running across streets and dodging cabs, our hands somehow still clasped together, we were faced with a plethora of choices.

The trouble with Chinatown is that not all restaurants there are good. Some are marvellous, others not so much, and it’s almost impossible to tell which is which unless you check in advance. Or you frequent there often, which I don’t. Either way, on Saturday there was one easy way to tell—some of the restaurants had long queues coming out of the door, and others didn’t.

Yi Chen once told me to direct myself by the amount of Chinese people frequenting a place, so we eventually decided on one that had a shorter queue than the others. But it still meant we had to wait for forty minutes, and in the meantime, it began to drizzle.

Alex was apologetic about this turn of events, but I wasn’t going to let it ruin our date. I maintained that an evening out in London must necessarily involve queues and rain, and by way of making him feel better—and myself too, let’s not fool ourselves—I stepped close to him, so that he could put an arm around me, ostensibly for warmth and protection from rain, but also because it felt fucking amazing.

An elderly couple queued in front of us, who must have mistaken me for a girl, what with my hood up and my slighter physique compared to Alex. The woman said, “Aw, how sweet!”

Alex looked down at me, amusement shining in his eyes.

When at last we were let inside, we received a table at the very end of the restaurant, which meant it took the waiter three years to take our order, to bring us water and beer, and finally to bring us our food. It wasn’t the best Chinese food I’ve ever eaten, to be perfectly frank, but I hardly tasted any of it anyway, absorbed as I was in Alex.

At first we talked as we always did, perhaps a little constrained by being on an actual date and by my having serious trouble not gazing at him longingly across the table, admiring the way his eyelashes were stuck together from the rain outside and how his shoulders looked in his shirt. Honestly, I would have been almost too distracted to hear him, when he shifted a little in his seat and said, “I was so nervous about tonight, but it’s going all right, right? So far?”

I laughed. “Of course it is. Even if we hadn’t found this place, we could have ordered food in and eaten at yours or mine. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a formal date before!”

“No, me neither,” he said. Then, recalling himself, “Well, not with a man, anyway.”

I laughed distractedly, not really listening. Then what he said reached my stupid brain at last. “Wait, what do you mean? You’ve dated women?”

“Yes,” he said, leaning forward confidingly. “I’ve not been with a man before you.”

I almost choked on my beer. I had to put it down and cough into my napkin. “Wh-what!”

“Oh, you didn’t know?”

“You’re straight?” I said it in perhaps a higher pitch than was strictly necessary.

“Er, no. I don’t think you can call a bloke dating another bloke precisely straight,” he said uneasily. “Christ, should I have told you before? I thought you knew.”

“How should I have known?” I said. “You asked me out, for God’s sake.”

“Yeah, I know.” He blushed and asked shyly, “Is this a deal-breaker?”

“Wait, hold on a moment. Just—just let’s take a break for one second and straighten this out. What are you?”

“I’m a human male,” he said, blinking at me in confusion.

“Yes, thank you, that’s not what I meant. You’re straight? Gay? Bi? What?”

“Yeah, I think I’m that last one,” he said. “Or I was. Lately, I don’t know. I was never completely straight, if that helps.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, I liked women, I think I still like women generally, but I like men too. When I was younger, it was just easier to go with the flow and sort of fancy girls, you know? Then, well, I told you about the RAF, didn’t I? There was a friend… I liked him. But we were both professionals, and it wouldn’t have been appropriate to ask or do anything about it, and then it became tense. Finally I couldn’t stand it any longer, and I just left. Since then, I thought I’d try it with a woman again. You know, to just—just try and be normal, whatever that is. But the next person I was attracted to was you.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Is it going to be a problem?”

“No. No, that’s fine. I didn’t know, that’s all. I assumed—but that’s silly. No, of course it’s not a problem.”

“It’s no fun dating a virgin, is it?” he said, smiling wryly.

“Nonsense,” I said quickly, trying to make up for my earlier hesitation and confusion. “Honestly, it makes no difference; we’ll take it slowly, see how it goes. Only….”

“Yes?”

“Look, I’ve got to know, this isn’t some sort of experimental phase you’re going through, is it? There’s no girlfriend, fiancée, wife somewhere in the background?”

“No, of course not,” he said earnestly. “You don’t think I would—I’d never do that!”

“Okay, okay, fine,” I said, though frankly my nerves were a little frayed. I had seriously planned to go all the way with him tonight, but now I was concerned about his feelings, anxieties, and fears, and I would have to deal with each of them in turn before we could do anything serious.

Which is fine, I don’t mind. It’s just not what I expected.

He watched me intently as we were talking of this, as though to gauge my reactions. But though I smiled, I think it came off a trifle strained, because we couldn’t be as easy as before after that. We split the bill, which was preceded by some awkward haggling over who should handle it, and then walked back to the Tube station and took the train home.

Alex asked whether I’d come in for a drink at his flat, and I quickly said yes, not wishing to seem as though I had a problem with his confession earlier. But it came out too eager, and he had a bit of a worried expression on him when I did step inside. I sat on the sofa while he took the beers out of the fridge. He handed me one cold bottle and then leaned against the counter, rather than come and sit next to me. This wasn’t going well. Several times we tried to speak of something innocuous, but no conversational gambit would stick, and the whole date was dying right in front of my eyes.

I don’t know if it was the beer or what, but I decided that I wasn’t going to let it die. So I stood and went over to him. “This is stupid. We’re adults. We can talk about this, can’t we?”

“Yes,” he said a little warily.

So I took charge. “I like you, Alex. Not just as a friend or neighbour, but everything.” Here I made a vague gesture encompassing his whole body. He smiled and rolled his eyes in embarrassment. “So I’d like to see you again. I don’t know, as a boyfriend or something. Whatever you’re comfortable with. Do you understand?”

“Okay, yeah, like a boyfriend,” he said, perking up.

“Okay. We can just… date and see how things go. You can simply tell me when you’re ready… you know, and then we’ll take it slowly, and I’ll show you everything. If you don’t like something, we don’t do it. And if you change your mind about this”—I pointed between us—“then we’ll just decide to be friends again and pretend this never happened.”

“Okay,” he said. “Can I have a hug?”

I let out a laugh, because he looked ridiculously pleased for having asked for it, and because the tension between us suddenly evaporated, and I was relieved.

I went into his arms.

He embraced me and… well, that lion thing I was writing about some days ago happened, where suddenly all my instincts went from being “that nice bloke who wants to date him” to “that gay bloke who wants to know how big he is, and what shape and colour, and what his come tasted like.” I contained it, however, because I’m a saint, and also because the hug was really nice.

He smelled of the rain and soy sauce and some really nice aftershave. His arms were strong around me, his shoulders broad, and his pectorals hard. I tried to think of unsexy things, like that time when I was seven and my mother made a strawberry jelly in the shape of my sister to celebrate her fifth birthday, and it didn’t come out and the thing looked like a giant, gelatinous, vaguely female-shaped blob that I was then forced to eat as tears ran down my cheeks.

My thoughts were as chaste as anybody could have wished, and I leaned further into the hug. It was nice. And then I looked up and saw his face so close I could see the shadow of his recently shaved beard on his cheeks and the tiny mole that disappeared in the dimple of his smile.

He leaned in and kissed me. There was nothing shy about that kiss. His lips pressed eagerly against mine and opened quickly, our tongues met and tangled, and he let out a noise at the back of his throat: a deep sort of moan as he hugged me tighter. He put up one of his hands to cup my cheek and then slid it to the back of my neck to support my head while he plunged deeper into my mouth. In fact, I’m surprised that my clothes didn’t melt right off my body.

When he let go, he was grinning. “See? That you won’t have to teach me!” he said.

“Uh-huh,” I said, catching my breath. “That was… that was really nice.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his chest swelling with pride.

“Mm-hmm.” I leaned in for more but didn’t press for anything else, though I don’t doubt he noticed the tightness in my jeans pressing against his thigh.

I wanted to end the evening on a good note, so after we snogged for a glorious moment, we said goodnight, and then I went back to my flat.

 

 

Monday, 3 May

 

I’VE GOT to say, I’d quite forgotten how impatient one can get to be home when there’s something to come home to. Or, to be more precise, someone.

It’s a strange situation, him living right across from me. It’s convenient, I won’t lie, but it forces a closeness that generally doesn’t happen until later in a relationship. Or so I’m told. I’ve never got that far with anyone. The closest I got was Jamie, at uni, whom I was with for two years before it all sort of fizzled out; he wanted to travel, and I had just won a scholarship to start my PhD. But university relationships aren’t like real-life relationships.

I’m turning thirty soon, and things have changed. It’s no use pretending that this upcoming decade of my life won’t be different. I mean, it’s not as though I’m a woman and have to count my remaining childbearing years, or anything like that, but as you mature, I find that you generally become less interested in hopping from flower to flower, as one does in one’s youth.

In my case, the experience with Laura’s then-husband and a nasty health scare that thankfully turned out to be nothing made that decision for me. I wanted to settle down. I wanted a boyfriend, a partner, someone to live with, even, if it should come to that. The only thing was I wanted to date someone for a bit first before deciding that’s where we’re heading. With Alex, we haven’t slept together yet, and we’re basically almost living together already!

After all, what’s a corridor for separation? After our date on Saturday, I went to my flat. But on Sunday morning he knocked on my door to force me to go jogging with him, and then afterwards we went out for a coffee, and then I had some papers to grade and a few journal articles to read. I did so, while he played with my dog and took part in a bidding war online for some box set of C-movies. He explained to me why they were important, but for the life of me I didn’t understand. Then he went out to fetch the ingredients for lunch and prepared it at mine, and then we ate it. Some of this time we did spend snogging on my sofa, but I think it’s quite evident the boundaries are very much marred and fading. I mean, we’ve only just agreed to date!

That being said, when I came home today and smelled what he was cooking, I was not in the least opposed to knocking on his door right away and spending the rest of the evening at his flat, right after I fetched Squire from Daria’s.

We walked the dog together, we ate, I snogged him so much I almost climbed on top of him, until he laughed and I remembered to slow down. I’m sure I’ll find this situation much more reconcilable once I can get into his trousers.

On that front, I can report some progress too. He seems to be really into kissing, and he likes to hold me and hug me. And when he looks at me, I don’t see repulsion or anything like that. He likes to look at me. And though our crotches don’t touch when we kiss, I’m pretty sure I saw him adjust himself at one point, after getting up from having snogged me on his sofa.

 

 

Wednesday, 5 May

 

HAD A really shitty day at work today. My computer broke, the lad who was meant to come and fix it didn’t, and I spent hours on the phone trying to sort out the paperwork to apply for the deputy head position, which, from gossip, I understood I had an actual chance for.

On top of that, like an idiot, I tried to pull this book out of my bookshelf, and it wouldn’t budge, so I pulled harder, until I had to prop my foot up against the shelf to get proper leverage, and the book suddenly capitulated. I smacked myself on the forehead with it. Of course, then it turned out to be the wrong book.

When I got back home, not two minutes after I put my bag down, there was a fierce pounding on my door. When I opened, there was Alex, glowing with happiness, and he took me in his arms and kissed me.

He spoke against my cheek. “I won! I’ll be getting Samurai Cop 2 for virtually nothing!” He kissed me again, then looked a little perplexed. “What happened to your head?”

“I tried to read a book.”

“Oh.”

He didn’t question it. I don’t know what that means about how he views my sanity. All the same, that movie, Samurai Cop 2, made him very happy, which made me happy, mostly because he kissed me a lot to express his joy. What made me less happy was his insistence that we watch it together, because, as he said, “You’ll love it. It’s so terrible, it’s hilarious!”

“But I haven’t seen the cultural colossus that is Samurai Cop 1,” I hedged.

“Don’t worry, it’s self-explanatory.”

I already allowed myself to be tortured on a regular basis—they call it physical exercise but let’s be real—just to be with him.

Watching Samurai Cop 2 couldn’t be worse than that, surely. So I agreed.

 

 

Thursday, 6 May

 

GENERAL ELECTION.

I’ve never in my life voted for anyone who actually won the election, so even with the recent upsurge in popularity for the Lib Dems, I’m sceptical. All the same, I gave Alex a stern look when he said he doesn’t care about elections. He told me he’d go this time and actually asked me whom to vote for, so I had to sit him down and show him party after party so he could make a choice. I didn’t want him to tell me whom he’d be voting for, since that could be a shock to the system and I was enjoying having a boyfriend, but he picked the Greens, which was a relief.

“Do they stand a chance?” he asked.

“I always believe you should vote for whom you want to win and not who you think can win,” I said. “The voting system in this country is fucked up that way, but I refuse to vote for anything other than what I believe in, regardless of the system.”

He nodded solemnly, and earlier this evening I caught him reading up on the election in the Guardian online, which is really sweet, because I think he’s making the effort for me.

 

 

Friday, 7 May

 

A LIB Dem–Conservative coalition? Is this a joke?

 

 

Sunday, 9 May

 

MY BIRTHDAY was yesterday. I’m now officially thirty. I’m not gonna lie—it feels good. For one, I woke up next to Alex, which was pleasant.

It all started last week, when I called Amelia to tell her that Alex and I were dating now, and that whatever they’d prepared, I’d like him to be there. She was still a little miffed that I’d chosen not to meet her one other single gay friend, Stuart, but she agreed that it made sense that I should bring Alex.

Alex meeting all my friends was sort of a big deal. But he’s already met Lucy, and despite her rather forward personality, he claimed to like her. So at least half the work was done. I was sure Amelia was going to love him once she got over that whole Stuart business, and Mark would be cool about it once she was. I didn’t know who else might be there.

As it turned out, there was a small crowd in the pub. Frankly I barely recognized most of the people and was sure they didn’t know they’d come to a celebration of my birthday. We made for a loud party, and there was even the always-embarrassing “Happy Birthday” singing, and the even more embarrassing gifts.

Of course, as a joke I received everything from a blow-up man-doll to a creepy leather gimp mask with a zipper for a mouth.

Eventually, as we settled down, my closest friends were around me so they could get to know Alex. It went well. In fact, it went great. Alex is charming, so there really was no need to be afraid of anything.

When Amelia and I went to the bar to buy the next round for the table, she grudgingly admitted that he was gorgeous. Lucy already approved; in fact she congratulated herself for having orchestrated the whole thing, and Mark got on with Alex as though they’d known one another for years. Apparently they shared a love for rugby.

“So, how did you two meet?” Amelia asked, at some point.

“Oh, I found him vomiting in the corridor between our flats one day,” Alex said without skipping a beat. He continued despite my imploring glares. “And then he came on to me.”

“I did not!” I protested.

“Yeah you did,” he said, to the amusement of the table.

“Well, tell us!” said Lucy. “What are his best lines?”

Alex laughed. “I do hope they’re not his best lines!”

I sunk my head onto my arms on the table, as they all laughed and Alex patted my shoulder consolingly.

“Nah, it wasn’t so bad,” he said.

“No, no,” I said from between my arms, “tell me what I did. It’s best to know now so we have time to get therapy together and recover.”

Everyone laughed, and Alex said, “Well….”

I looked up, dreading this. “What? What did I say to you?”

“Well, you’d just vomited, so you had an interesting colour in your face, and you were in a bad state and I had to ask whether you were too hot. You looked deep into my eyes,” he said, barely able to keep a straight face.

“Yes?”

“And you said, ‘Oh, you’re hot!’”

“Oh my God.” I sank my head back into my arms as the rest of the table roared with laughter.

“And then what?” asked Lucy, wiping a tear from her eye.

“Well, he was not really firm on his legs, but I gathered from something he mumbled that he lived right there, where we were standing,” Alex said. “So I asked if he wanted me to open his door for him so he could go home. He trailed his finger along my chest”—here his voice quivered with amusement—“and said, ‘I thought I spent the evening with this one lady, but you’re a bloke, aren’t you?’”

His impersonation of me was unnecessary and not the least bit accurate, despite the applause and laughter from his enraptured audience. Sadly, he hadn’t finished.

“And so I said, ‘No, I’m just your neighbour. I’ll help you into your flat, because I don’t think you’ll make it on your own.’ And then he slumped back against the wall, lifted one leg sideways, leaned his head back, spread out his arms, and said, ‘Okay, take me!’”

I had my hand over my eyes.

“Oh lord!” Lucy was crying openly by now. “What did you do?”

“I took his keys, opened his door, and then picked him up and carried him into the flat. It was easy enough because he draped himself over me, crying, ‘Oh yeah, baby!’”

Later, when this nightmare was over and we were walking home—and I was sober, because I will never drink again—I asked him if all he said was true.

And he laughed and said, “Of course.”

“Why on earth did you want to go out with me after that display?” I asked.

“Oh?” He seemed surprised. “Well, I got to know you better, didn’t I? Also, I thought you were an amusing drunk. You kept quoting Churchill at me for some reason.”

“Oh God,” I groaned, hanging my head.

He felt bad about having told the story then, and when we went back to mine, he tried to convince me that it really wasn’t so very bad, after all.

“Did you ever embarrass yourself completely in front of someone you like?” I asked.

“Sure, I’ll do it right now. What do you want me to do? Fart in front of you? What?”

“Forget about it,” I said, slumping down onto my sofa. “And I mean that literally. If you could just forget how we first met, that would be grand.”

He laughed and sat down next to me and then picked up my legs and pulled them over onto his lap and kissed me.

“I am not forgetting anything,” he said. “I thought it was funny. Besides, you don’t remember it, so that’s not really how we met. We met on the stairs, and my hands were covered in paint, and when we shook hands, we couldn’t unstick them. Remember?”

I was a little cheered by that.

Then he kissed me a lot, which helped my mood rapidly.

Sometime later into the night, he asked me if I wanted my birthday present. Before we ever left for the pub, he had given me a gift already: Bioshock 2, because it turns out we both played the first one and thought it was incredible. It was a good gift; I didn’t think he’d give me anything more.

Then my heart jumped when from his pocket he withdrew a wrapped condom.

“Only one?” I asked with a laugh, somewhat flippantly.

That was a mistake. One glance at his face and I could see he was tense and nervous. That’s not what I wanted. I wanted him all horny and excited, not fearful and jumpy. So I took the condom, put it away, kissed him, and said, “It’s all right. We’re tired, and it’s late. Come along.” I took his hand, stood up from his lap, and led him to the bedroom. We fell asleep in each other’s embrace. It was very nice, even if I woke up painfully hard in the morning, without the least hope of alleviation. It was cruel of him to have taken his shirt off sometime during the night, so that when I turned to wake him up, I saw the upper half of his beautiful body.

God, he’s stunning. And, I may be mistaken, but I had the feeling that when I woke him with kisses along his neck and shoulder and collarbone, he was quite relaxed and amenable to more….

But then Daria knocked on the front door with Squire, whom she’d kept overnight. She had that harassed expression that said something was up.

“Was he okay?” I asked. “He didn’t chew anything, did he?”

“Oh no. I’m only mentally preparing because my grandchildren are coming. Expect the sound of china breaking and the shriek of lost souls travelling through the halls. You don’t happen to have some bubble wrap lying around, do you?”

“What, for your china?”

“No, for the bodies, when I have to dispose of them later,” she said in a low, ominous voice, though there was a twinkle in her eye.

“No,” I said with a laugh. “But I’ll do you one better. I’ll deflect the police when they come, so you can make a run for it.”

Once Squire was back, he needed to be walked, and then, when I returned and fed him, Alex had already gone.

He came back some minutes later, rather hectically, kissing me briefly and explaining that he was extremely late for an appointment with a client.

So he left, and I’m on my own now, with work to do. I could tackle the big pile of articles that I’ve been avoiding all week.

Or I can fantasize about Alex’s upper body.

 

 

Evening

 

WELL, THIS is awkward. Alex and I were just sitting down to enjoy Samurai Cop 2, and he was just softening me to the prospect of sitting through that crapfest by explaining that he would hold me if I got actually scared, when there was an urgent knock on my door.

I opened and there was… Jack. To be precise, Jack with a bottle of wine and something that looked suspiciously like a birthday present.

To confirm my suspicions, he said, “Happy Birthday!”

“Jack!” I was flabbergasted. “What the—My birthday was yesterday.”

“Was it?” he said, shrugging. “It’s not too late to celebrate a little, is it?”

At this point, Alex came to stand next to me, one hand on my shoulder and the other on the door frame. Just at that moment, he seemed enormous.

Jack’s eyebrows rose in surprise. And, infuriatingly, in amusement.

“All right, mate?” Alex said, nodding at him cheerfully, though with an undertone of something less than cheerful.

“Who’s this?” Jack asked me.

“I’m his boyfriend,” Alex said. “Who are you?”

“Boyfriend!” Jack said, with a startled laugh.

I had to give it to him. He knew how to mask embarrassment. By the look of him, you’d think we were the ones made to look ridiculous just then.

He said, “I don’t believe you!”

“Oh yeah? Well, you’d better believe it, because what would I be doing in his flat, then?” Alex said.

This was getting childish, and quickly.

“Judging by that glottal stop, painting his walls?” Jack said.

“Fact is,” Alex said, unconcerned, “I’m on this side of the door, and you’re not.”

“All right,” I said, worried that they’d get into a fight soon, “Jack, thank you for remembering my birthday. It’s very kind of you to come around and all, but, er, it’s not a convenient time.”

“Yes, I can see that,” said Jack, with one eyebrow raised.

I could tell at once that I’d become twenty times more attractive to him on the spot. If I want to marry him or something, all I need to do now is add some ninja assassins to my rooftop to shoot at him any time he came near. Weirdo.

We said stiff, polite goodbyes, and then Alex closed and locked the door.

On the plus side, Alex is spending the night. He’s in the shower now.

 

 

Wednesday, 12 May

 

OH MAN, what a day.

Alex slept over again last night, and as always it was really nice—he is warm, kind, and affectionate, and waking up in his arms or even to the sight of him is frankly one of those things someone should report as a lost Wonder of the World.

We’ve been slowly progressing along the lines of intimacy for some time, and this morning I thought it would be okay if I tried to go down on him. It started off innocently enough. We were kissing, and I was rubbing him over his boxers, and I thought we’d just go ahead with a hand job. But then I got carried away, so I interrupted the kiss and positioned myself so I could peel back his boxers. But he hurriedly pulled them back and, red in the face, stammered that he hadn’t got the time, that he had to go, that he was awfully sorry, et cetera. He kissed me hurriedly and then made his escape, leaving me sitting back on my heels.

It was not a pleasant mood to go to work in, and Jack could have picked a better time to approach me—but then, my entries in this diary prove that timing is by far Jack’s weakest point. So he cornered me by the coffee machine, looking coldly down at me and asking if he “could have a word” with me.

I shrugged. We went to his office, which was good, since that way I could leave whenever I wanted.

He paced the length of the room and then said, “Well, what have you to say to all this?”

“To what?” I asked, blinking at him.

“You have a boyfriend,” he said, almost viciously.

“Yeah, and so what? What’s it to you?”

“You’ve had a boyfriend all this time! All this sanctimonious business about Sasha was nonsense!”

“What?”

“I remember the bastard from that time I was over at yours! He was bringing you a cake!”

“I still don’t see what any of that has to do with—well, with anything,” I said.

“Oh yeah?” His eyes were hard and narrowed. “You made me break up my engagement, making it sound as though I were a cheating liar when I wanted to be with you. And you were double-crossing me all along!”

I was angry. Too angry to be surprised that that’s the spin he had on the whole situation. “Now hang on,” I said. “For the record, I didn’t cheat on anybody. I didn’t make you do anything either. You said you wanted to be with me, and when you said that, Jack, I was single. Alex was just a neighbour—a friend, nothing more. You were the one who decided you wanted to be with me and not with Sasha, and so you broke up with her. Or, at least, so you led me to believe. And then, when I wanted you to step up and be my boyfriend, you never showed up! You didn’t ring or text, there was no getting hold of you. So I agreed to go out with Alex instead. That’s the order of events, okay?”

I may have spoken a trifle loudly, and there may have been curse words interspersed in this, but the gist of it struck Jack dumb.

“I—I didn’t know,” he said. “It was a confusing time for me. Breaking up with someone who lives in your house and is dependent on you isn’t easy or straightforward, you know.”

“I can imagine. And I’m sorry. But you could have called, Jack. You could have texted. Anything. I would have waited if you had asked me to.”

“Okay,” he said. “I could have done that.”

“All right. I must be going; I’ve got to get to Beckett Hall by three. Did you find out what happened to the projector in there?”

“Hm? No, ask Nick.”

And on that rather prosaic note, we parted ways.

I was high-strung all day; during my lectures I made a tolerably effective impression of Hitler giving a speech. I had a meeting with one girl whose MA dissertation I’m supervising, and I can’t say I was kind. To be fair, she’s not the brightest penny in the piggybank, and she was annoying me by her insistence to compose her entire dissertation out of quotes.

Then it was raining, so I got soaked on the way home. I didn’t knock on Alex’s door, only went straight to mine, but he must have heard me return because I’d barely managed to get my coat off and shake the rain off it, when he knocked.

I opened and found my anger melt away at the sheepish, apologetic look on his face.

“Hey, can we talk?” he said.

“Sure,” I said, letting him in.

Once I closed the door behind him, he dug his hands into his pockets and said, “Look, about this morning….”

“It’s okay,” I said. “You weren’t ready; I shouldn’t have presumed.”

“No, no,” he said quickly, “it’s not that. It’s just….”

“What? Have you got something? An infection or—or some kind of…?”

“What? No! Of course not!” he said. “I didn’t mean that. Only… only what you were about to do…. I couldn’t think straight, and I couldn’t quite say what I wanted to say, and so I ran away, which was stupid and cowardly. And I’m so sorry, Leo, really I am.”

“Well, thanks,” I said. “It did make me feel like I’ve got the pox or something.”

“Oh God!” he said, horrified. “It’s just that… Leo”—he turned very earnest—“I don’t want you to do anything for me that I couldn’t do right back for you, you understand?”

I really didn’t.

“I mean,” he added, “if you were going to do that, then… then I’d have to do the same to you. It’s only fair, and I wasn’t sure I was ready, you see?”

I stared at him in utter bewilderment. “What are you blathering on about?” I said in irritation. “You think this is some sort of sex exchange? You think I wanted to go down on you, so that you’d go down on me?”

“It would only be fair,” he repeated.

“Fair! What’s fair to do with it? Has it ever occurred to you that I might want to go down on you? That I might have been thinking about it for days, and brought myself off thinking about it, and that seeing you and tasting you and hearing you would be no fucking sacrifice to me?”

I may have been a tad forceful, but frankly, I’d had it with the stupidity of my fellow humans by that point.

“I’m gay, remember?” I said irritably as his eyes widened at my speech and he turned a different shade of crimson. “I like cock! And I like you! See the connection yet?”

“Christ,” he muttered.

“Look,” I said, trying to rein in my temper, “if there’s one thing that sure as hell is a turn-off for me, it’s reluctance on your part. If you’re not interested in being in a sexual relationship with a gay man, Alex, all you’ve got to do is say so. I won’t force myself on you—I don’t even blame you. You were mistaken in your preferences, you wanted to see how you liked it and you didn’t, and that’s okay. But let us get one thing quite clear between us: I like cock, I like sex, I want to have sex with my boyfriend, and I want my boyfriend to want to have sex with me. Savvy?”

“Er, yeah,” he said, blinking. “I—I’m sorry, Leo.”

“Don’t be,” I said, even as my heart was sinking. Still, I was determined not to show him that this was crushing me. I lifted my chin and was about to remind him that we’d agreed to remain friends when this didn’t work out, but I didn’t manage to say anything.

Because he came to me and pulled me into his arms and said, “Man, I’m as thick as a brick, huh?” into my cheek between kisses, and with a laugh in his voice.

“Oh?” I was a little shocked. “What—what are you doing?”

“Did you really bring yourself off thinking about me?” he asked, pressing me closer to him—and thus pressing against me the evidence that he was not unaffected by me either.

“Yes,” I said unsteadily.

“Oh, Leo,” he said, kissing my neck.

We sort of half walked, half he-carried-me to the bedroom, and then he asked if I wanted to get naked.

I was like Speedy Gonzales or the Tasmanian Devil, so I was entirely naked in the blink of his eye.

He laughed and said, “Whoa, that was quick,” while he was still taking off his socks.

His clothes came off slowly, but frankly, with a body like his, I was happy for him to take his time. Bloody hell. When he pulled his T-shirt off over his head, I thought I was going to swoon. I mean, I had felt it before, and I’ve seen it once or twice, but the context made a difference. Now he was naked for me.

His entire body was beautiful. I lay back in bed, watching him, and he laughed self-consciously and then crawled over to me until he was above me. He kissed me and I pulled him down on top of me. Between kisses I asked him what he wanted to do.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s nice to kiss and touch you.”

“Okay. Say stop when you’re uncomfortable.”

He nodded agreement.

I didn’t have a plan, precisely, but I thought that blow jobs and anything anal would probably be too much for him. I think this heteronormative perspective he had on things was doing great damage to what we could do for each other, but it wouldn’t do to dismantle all his cherished beliefs at once. So I let our bodies rub together, listened to his breathing quicken in response to the friction, and when he looked at me helplessly, I took us both in hand. His eyes looked dazed with lust, and his lips were swollen from my assault on them. I waited for a reaction, but other than his hard breathing and responsive hip action, there was nothing. No “Stop” or anything like that.

I hooked my leg over his hip to get a better grip, and he grabbed my butt to help me get closer still. And then I lost my mind, and with my mouth open upon his and both of us helplessly looking for a rhythm that would not be found, I came all over him.

In reaction, staring at my come in amazement, he let out a helpless sound and came too, as though in retaliation, all over me.

I cleaned us up while he lay on his back, breathing hard, his hand over his eyes. I began to worry when he continued to do so after I’d binned the tissues and returned to bed. Cautiously I lay beside him and put my hand on his belly. “You all right?”

He lifted his hand then, and his eyes found mine. And then he grinned and said, “That was really good, wasn’t it? Was it for you?”

“Yeah, it was great,” I said with a laugh. “You were okay with it?”

“Oh man, yeah! We can do that again, right?”

“Er—” I blushed. “—if you give me a minute.”

“Not now, of course. Come here.”

He pulled me to him, and I lay on top of him and looked down, like a cat perched on its owner’s stomach. Words started tumbling out of his mouth in some weird excitement.

“I thought… I thought that it’d be all about anal or something… I didn’t know! I didn’t know we could have sex without—Oh God, that’s a relief! You’re so clever! I would have never thought—is that how gay men have sex? I never knew!”

“Er, well, it’s the way you and I had sex, which is all that matters, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course,” he said. “You’re so right. I’m so relieved, I can’t tell you! I so wanted to go to bed with you, honest I did, but when I tried to watch some…. I don’t think I found the right website because what they did was bloody frightening, and I never knew—oh God!”

“Okay, calm down,” I said. “You do understand that a gay relationship is not a prison movie, right?”

He laughed. “Yes, I know.”

“And anal sex can be good,” I said.

“Oh, you’ve—you’ve done it?”

“Yeah, both ways.”

He seemed uncomfortable, and I rolled my eyes. “You won’t have to do it if you don’t want to. It’s not like a gay driving test, where you’ve to show you know all the manoeuvres.”

He laughed. “You must think I’m absurd.”

“No. But I think you’ve some weird ideas in your head.”

“I’ve done it once,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “It wasn’t good.”

“Oh?”

“With a girlfriend,” he said. “She was uncomfortable, and then we cut it short, and I felt like an ogre.”

“You weren’t doing it right, then. I could show you how to do it so that it’s good. Hell, I could make you come just by fucking your bum.”

“You’re a poet,” he said dryly.

“Thank you.”

“And no, I don’t think you could,” he said a little warily.

“You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not that.” He blinked in surprise that I should take it that way. “It’s just that I don’t think I’m like that.”

“How do you know? You’ve never tried it.”

“I don’t have to try everything to know I wouldn’t like some things,” he said. “Besides, I thought that gay men divided into tops and bottoms? I’m sure someone told me that once.”

“Some do, probably,” I said, shrugging. “I don’t see a reason to confine myself. But if you won’t let me take you from behind, you could at least take me.”

“I’d be too worried I’m hurting you.”

“You won’t. I told you, I know how to do it so it’s good. All kinds of good, as a matter of fact.”

I was getting sleepy, and I leaned my head on his shoulder, feeling his arm along my back, and I let my fingers go through the tufts of dark hair he had on his chest and the trail that led downwards.

Sleepily, I added, “It feels amazing, actually. Once you’re ready for it, it’s the most intense thing you can share with someone. To feel you inside me, to hear how you can barely contain yourself, to feel as you angle yourself just right, every nerve ending in my body tingling to attention, me hard just from the penetration alone, waiting for your hand, receiving you….”

I heard him gasp a breath. My hand trailed down to his hips. I took hold of his cock, and it was no longer flaccid.

I kissed his nipple and then murmured against his chest, “And then to feel that moment when you can’t stop yourself anymore, and you go deep and hard against me, and I meet you halfway because I want you”—by this time I was already kissing his cock, feeling it react to my lips, stiffen in my hand—“more and harder and deeper”—and I took him into my mouth and sucked until he became rigid. He sighed and reached for my head. He tasted of come, but every ridge, every vein, the texture of his skin, the smell of him was so wonderful to me that when he came with a hoarse cry and a surprisingly hard stream in my mouth, I only had time to wipe my lips briefly before leaning over him and coming on his belly with a few tugs.

When I came back to my senses, it was late, and I remembered that I hadn’t yet picked up Squire from my neighbour. Alex was deeply asleep, sprawled over my rumpled sheets.

I went out quietly, collecting random clothes in the darkness and putting them on haphazardly, only to realise that the reason they were all so baggy was because they were Alex’s. I knocked on Daria’s door, hoping she was still up. She opened the door swiftly enough, so I hadn’t woken her up or anything. Squire ran out to greet me, breathing hard, whining and licking my face.

“All right, fluffy,” I said to him, and then to Daria, “Thank you. I’m so sorry I—Something came up.”

“I bet,” she said with a laugh in her eyes. “When I heard you declare proudly to the entire building that you liked cock, I guessed you wouldn’t be remembering me soon.”

“Oh God.” The heat rose in my face.

“Never mind,” she said with a laugh. “It’s not like it was a secret.”

I had to take Squire around the block before I could take him home. Now Squire’s curled up on his doggy bed, Alex is fast asleep, and I should be joining him, but I feel strangely awake and alert. I might make myself something to eat.

 

 

Saturday, 15 May

 

WE WENT into town today, and Alex decided to take me along to a meeting with his friend, Michael.

Alex isn’t exactly out to his friends and family, so I wasn’t sure it was such a good idea to spring it on them by making them face “the boyfriend” all at once, but Alex had no such apprehensions, apparently sure that this was not an essentially homophobic world in which not everyone would be A-okay with him having decided to bed a man. So I was nervous.

They arranged to meet in a coffee shop, and I have to say that I wasn’t any less alarmed when I saw Michael. He was built like the Hulk. He was sort of a young Bruce Willis/Jason Statham lookalike, with hair sheared closely to his skull so he looked entirely bald, and a black T-shirt stretching over his enormous muscles.

“Ah, this is Leo,” Alex said after the two patted each other’s shoulders and commented on their fitness regimes.

“Leo, how are you?” said Michael, pleasantly enough.

We were mid-handshake when Alex added, “He’s my boyfriend,” and Michael’s huge hand squeezed so hard I was sure he was going to break mine.

“How’s that?” he asked, when he at last let go of me.

“My boyfriend,” Alex repeated with a grin.

He had been grinning all day, because I’d joined him in the shower this morning to show him yet another way two men can have sex. He seems perpetually startled by my inventiveness.

Anyway, I had the distinct feeling that Michael wasn’t pleased with the news. He frowned and said, “Well, this is… unexpected. I didn’t know you had, er, a boyfriend. How did this happen?”

He sounded like it was an atrocious accident, as though he wanted to add, “Is there anything that can be done?”

Alex can’t have picked up on that because his grin widened. “Oh well, I moved in opposite Leo. You know, when I told you I was coming to London? And we became friends, and I helped him work out, and then—well, then we started dating!”

“Work out?” asked Michael, staring at me in absolute astonishment.

I hardly knew where to look.

“Yes,” said Alex. “We work out together.”

The truth is that apart from sweating between the sheets together, there really isn’t much “working out” going on anymore. I have attained my goal, which was Alex, and thus lost interest in fitness. The final clincher had been when Alex said he thought it was sexy that I was so “boyish and slender.” He also expressed an admiration for my freckles, my smile, and the way my cock felt in his hand. It was a good couple of days, is what I’m saying, and I saw no reason to spoil them by jogging.

Michael looked appalled and changed the subject. He asked how Alex’s work was going. Alex talked of his clients, his heart rate, and some gizmos he used. It turns out, Michael is a policeman, but evidently also a gym obsessive. When he asked me what I did and I told him, he let out a pfft sound, as though I’d suggested that I collected benefits for a living. Alex did not seem to notice, and more infuriatingly still, decided to rise and collect our drinks from the counter, which meant that I was left alone with Michael, who eyed me with suspicion and displeasure.

At first I thought the obvious: he was a homophobe, or perhaps one of those men who was okay with other people being gay, so long as it was nobody in his family or circle of friends. But then I watched him some more as he talked to Alex—how his pupils widened as he looked at him, how he reddened a little at Alex’s suggestion that he’d put on muscle recently. That son of a bitch was in love with Alex! I spent the rest of the meeting glaring at him, and when we left at last, I informed Alex of my findings.

He laughed and said, “You think everybody fancies me!”

That was true enough: they did all fancy him. I’m not making that up. Honest, I’m not. For example, even at the height of my infatuation with Jack, I could tell he rubbed some people the wrong way. Granted, I thought that was because they were jealous, but still.

Alex never rubbed anybody the wrong way. He was impossible not to like. And as he is handsome, and has considerable charm and a winsome smile, we always get really good service from gay and female waiters, and the cashiers at supermarkets always giggle and redden when he wishes them a good day—man or woman. So his dismissal of my Sherlock-like abilities to tell that his so-called friend had the hots for him irritated me.

“I’m telling you, the man wants you,” I said.

“Nonsense, he’s not gay.”

“Er, he’s certainly pretty damn gay for you, my friend.”

“You think everybody is gay unless proven innocent.”

I was about to say something more, but he actually stopped dead in the middle of the street, mouth agape, eyes wide. “Oh! Oh, Leo! Oh, Leo, look!” He shook my arm. “There! Oh, Leo, look there! The Room!”

“What?”

“The Room! Look!”

So I looked where he was pointing. On one of the buildings a poster was plastered, rather high and somewhat oddly. It consisted of little more than the scowling face of a man with long dark hair hanging down the sides of his face. Underneath it read The Room. I didn’t get it.

“Oh, Leo, we must see it!”

“What is it? I never heard of it.”

“It’s a cult classic. It’s quite possibly the worst movie ever made. It’s also one of the most brilliant! Lisa, you’re tearing me apart!” This last he cried in a funny accent while holding me by my shoulders, and I guessed he was quoting the movie at me. Naturally we had to find out, through our phones, where and when the screening of this movie was held. Then we grabbed some food before heading out to make it to the showing. It was in a small indie theatre, and consequently, Alex and I were the only non-hipsters there. It was wonderfully ironic to be the only non-hipsters at a hipster convention.

Alex was so excited he could barely keep calm. He explained that he’d seen the movie once and that it must be viewed with a large audience, because otherwise it was basically creepy in an uncomfortable way.

I could see what he meant—the movie really was that. It was set in San Francisco and was clearly the product of the lurid imaginings of a subintelligent, melodramatic, derivative, intellectual dwarf. But the audience loved it. They cried out at the most ridiculous lines, quoting them aloud and for some reason throwing plastic spoons at the screen, altogether enjoying the thing as though it were a rock concert.

Alex was in heaven.

I can’t say I enjoyed the movie, but I did enjoy seeing Alex glow with happiness afterwards and laugh heartily at my observations when we went out for a drink with the group of hipsters who’d sat next to him, whom he inevitably befriended.

 

 

Tuesday, 18 May

 

RECEIVED AN interesting email from a friend in Sydney. He is starting a special research project, for which he had just received the funding, and is gathering a team to work on the Eastern Bloc and secret police foreign operations. It sounds awfully exciting, but I don’t think I’d be able to convince Alex to move to Australia with me for what looks like a two-year project. I can’t imagine leaving him behind, though.

It was kind of strange to see the email and know I wouldn’t go, even as I thought about KGB action in Afghanistan, at the back of my mind. But no, it’s impossible.

 

 

Wednesday, 26 May

 

I RECEIVED an angry text message from Lucy demanding to know by what right I’d gone missing over the past month or so.

So I went out with her and Amelia for drinks after work. I hadn’t really noticed that I spent less time with them, but when I saw them again, Lucy had a new piercing in her nose and Amelia had dyed her hair and the roots were already showing. Perhaps I had been gone a while.

“You don’t see me disappear from the face of the earth with every new boy toy, do you?” Lucy said, irritably.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” I said. “And Alex is not a ‘boy toy.’ He’s my boyfriend—that’s different.”

“Cut him some slack,” Amelia said to Lucy. “It’s like that when you’re first in love. All your friends disappear, family stops mattering… give them a couple of months to shag it out of their system.”

I sputtered at “in love,” but neither paid any attention to me. Lucy only grumbled that she didn’t see any reason to keep everybody completely out of the loop, and then she demanded to know how big Alex was and whether he was a good lay, which made Amelia groan.

“Obviously he must be a good lay,” she said, rolling her eyes, “or else Leo wouldn’t be spending all his free time in bed with him.”

Then all of the sudden, I remembered her own dry spell, and very beautifully segued into that, asking how she was getting along with Mark.

Indeed, things hadn’t got better: he was busier at work than usual; business in her online shop was slow; and she was frustrated in her search for solutions. One of her sons was struggling with maths; the other struggled with bullies. She could not get the house clean, whatever her efforts, and now all three of her men demanded that they buy a puppy, which would only add stress and mess into an already overwrought situation. She unburdened herself to us liberally, and we plied her with wine and sighs of “Oh, dear” and “How about a cat? I hear they’re quite independent?”

I shared my anecdote about the cat my sister had trained to assassinate me, which brought general amusement.

Here’s the thing, though: as much as I loved seeing them again, I was impatient to get home. That never normally happens to me. The only thing that stopped me from wandering the streets of London night after night used to be Squire. Now, the only reason I didn’t cut short the evening with my friends was because they were already pissed off at me for being so out of touch with them.

I was glad when the evening ended, and I could hurry home. It was a relief to let Alex in and then curl up on my sofa next to him. Going to bed with him has now hit that sweet spot where sinking into his arms is both familiar and exciting at the same time.

Shit, I think I do love him.