8

AND THEN I GOT SICK.

I woke up in the night with a splitting headache and a sore throat. Too much booze? Stress catching up with me? I got up, took two paracetamols, drank a glass of water, and went back to bed. But it didn’t work. At four in the morning after a fitful doze, I woke up shivering and sweating.

Obviously, I jumped to the conclusion that I had contracted a life-threatening disease from my sexual encounter with the delivery man, and in my semi-delirious state, I sketched out the awful consequences, made a mental note to contact my lawyer in the morning to revise my will, the money would go directly to the children (he money would go directly to the children, bypassing Angie, why should she have it?). And I’d have to talk to the doctor, make sure nobody found out the nature of my illness; we’d pass it off as cancer or something. Maybe I’d take matters into my own hands and preempt the inevitable, but how? An overdose? A gun?

When the alarm went off at 6:30, it felt much more like a bad cold or the beginning of flu, rather than the onslaught of a fatal STI, and after a shower, I began to entertain the possibility that I might actually survive. I went through my morning routine like a robot, ate breakfast, drank coffee, ironed a shirt, packed my gym bag, and got dressed before deciding that I was way too ill to go to work. My neck was so stiff I couldn’t turn my head. My shoulders, hips, and back ached as if I’d just done a three-hour workout. Every sip of coffee was like swallowing razorblades. I half-crawled upstairs and managed to croak out ‘Time to get up, Alex,’ before taking another dose of painkillers and emailing my boss.

I managed to get Alex off to school—even he noticed I was looking ill and said, ‘You OK Dad?’—before collapsing back into bed with a hot-water bottle. And there I stayed for the next three days, done in by the worst flu I’ve ever had. I went to the GP, described my symptoms, quizzed her repeatedly about STIs until she told me that if I was really worried, I needed to get some blood tests done. There was nothing to suggest this was anything other than flu, she said, with a look on her face that said, ‘Why are you wasting valuable NHS time with your guilt and paranoia?’ I might have reminded her that my taxes pay her wages, but I had no energy for a fight. I came home, drank water, took more painkillers, and tried to sleep.

So, in effect, I had three days in which to contemplate my bleak personal situation. My wife has left me and shows no sign of returning. My son comes and goes with barely a word, apparently feeding himself and getting through his exams. Nobody is there to help me, to put a cool hand on my forehead, to change the stale bed sheets or shop for me. This is what freedom means, Joe. The freedom to be absolutely alone and friendless.

I felt wretched, but at peace. It had happened—whatever ‘it’ was, the crisis that I’d been anticipating for the last few months, and when it finally came it was not my doing but Angie’s. Her hand knocked down the house of cards. I was absolved of all guilt and responsibility. It was a very restful feeling.

It was the middle of the following week before I felt well enough to return to work. I woke up and there I was, better. My gym bag was still packed. I almost ran to the station. I’m alive! I’m not going to die! There’s something to be said for assuming the worst; it makes everything seem so great afterward. I felt like I’d been given another chance.

Time to sort a few things out. Before I got to my desk, I rang Angie. She picked up immediately.

‘Are you ever coming home?’

‘Yes. At some point.’

‘I take it you’re with Daniel.’

‘Oh. You know.’ She sounded surprised.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That bloke who lives in my house told me. Who is he? Oh, that’s right. Our son Alex. Remember him?’

‘There’s no need for sarcasm.’

‘Isn’t there? I thought it was quite appropriate.’ I felt elated. I was in the right, after all. Angie was the guilty party, not me.

‘Look, Joe, we need to talk.’

‘That would be nice.’

‘If you’re going to be like that . . . ’

‘Oh I am sorry, Angie. I tell you what. Shall I just move out? I can leave a couple of hundred grand in an envelope on your dressing table. Will that do? I’m sure Daniel will help you spend it.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Joe.’ I could hear tears in her voice. ‘It’s not like that.’

‘Right-oh.’ I knew my cheerful tone was winding her up, and it felt good.

‘And what about you?’ she screamed down the phone. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t been up to something!’

She suspects, but she doesn’t know.

‘Perhaps you can tell me all about what I’ve been up to when we meet then,’ I said. ‘I look forward to that, it’ll be a nice surprise.’

She hung up.

It was a coward’s victory, but it still felt good. I bounced through the day’s work, knocked off at five o’clock, and went to the gym. A bit of exercise was just what I needed.

‘Hey, man. Where the hell have you been?’

Adrian was sitting at the reception desk, biceps bulging out of his polo shirt, blue eyes twinkling. I hadn’t seen him for weeks. I’d almost forgotten about him. Adrian, the one who started all this.

‘I had flu.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’ He shook my hand across the desk. ‘Feeling better?’

‘Yeah.’ I had an urge to flee. ‘Just need to get back into training.’

‘What you doing today?’

‘Just a bit of everything.’

‘OK. I finish in five minutes. I’ll come in and train with you.’

I couldn’t say no to that without being rude, so I muttered ‘sure, fine’ and went to get changed. Damn Adrian. Why does he bug me like this? Why am I so annoyed? He’s good looking, he’s friendly, he’s going to give me an hour of free personal training; there is nothing wrong with this picture, but for some reason, I’m pissed off and want to run away.

I changed quickly and hit the treadmill, which was like running away without actually moving. I saw Adrian in the mirror. Out of his uniform, in his regular gym gear—T-shirt, football shorts, flashy trainers with white socks—he looked different. Younger, maybe. A stranger.

‘Warmed up?’

I was sweating already; the flu virus had taken its toll. ‘Yeah. Not quite up to my usual standard.’

‘That’s OK. We’ll take it easy. Come on. Chest.’

He set up the weights while I settled myself on the bench. We took turns pressing the bar, counting reps, spotting for each other, three sets each. Our conversation was punctuated by grunts and groans, but after the first couple of sets I felt at ease, glad that he was training with me.

‘How’s the new flat?’ I heard myself asking.

‘It’s great. Thanks for asking.’

‘Enjoying the single life?’

‘Yes and no.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘What? I thought you were married.’

‘So did I.’ We reached the end of the chest sets, and I wiped myself down with a towel. Adrian was looking at me, frowning. ‘It’s OK. There’s no need to look so serious.’

‘Sorry. I always put my foot in my mouth.’ His command of English idiom, although good, was sometimes charmingly offbeat.

‘Don’t worry. I probably ought to talk about it to someone.’

‘Yeah, it helps.’

‘What’s next?’

‘Legs, of course.’ He was smiling now, his perfectly regular white teeth gleaming like a row of pearls.

‘Must we?’

‘Oh yes.’ He loaded up another bar. ‘Be my guest.’

I struggled and wobbled through the rest of the workout, carefully avoiding anything that sounded personal, but we both knew that someone had to ask the question before long. Adrian got there first.

‘So, you want to go for a drink sometime?’

Don’t sound too keen, Joe. ‘OK.’

‘I mean, I’m not doing anything this evening.’

I thought of about six excuses, all of them involving words like ‘home’ and ‘my son,’ but found myself saying, ‘Yeah, why not? We could have a quick one.’

Everyone knows that the English phrase ‘a quick one’ actually translates to ‘we’ll get completely plastered, kicked out at closing time, find the nearest chippy, and then fall asleep on the train home.’ I wondered if Adrian was up for that.

We showered quickly, not looking at each other much; I glanced over a couple of times, enough to see the rear view, his broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist then curving out to a big round arse, water running down his legs, pushing the blonde hair into dark lines. Turn around! Turn around! But when he did, his towel was in place, and so was mine. We got dressed fast, keeping up the standard changing-room dialogue about weights and muscles and nutrition.

‘So where shall we go?’

‘Not too far from the station.’

‘There’s a pub down here.’ He led the way off the main road, into the side streets, and a little garden square tucked away behind the university. ‘We can sit outside.’

I got the drinks, and we found a table in a patch of evening sunshine. Spring was well and truly sprung. I felt good, expansive, confident.

‘Cheers.’

We both drank deep. It felt as if this moment had been a long time coming.

‘So yeah.’ I put my pint down, slapped my thighs, stretched, and wished that I smoked. ‘My wife left me.’

‘Oh shit.’ He blushed, I’m not sure why. ‘I’m sorry.’

I laughed. ‘That’s what I said when you told me you’d split up with someone. And you said, “Don’t be sorry”. So I guess that’s what I should say now.’

‘Are you OK then?’

I had to take a sip of my drink to think that one over. ‘I’m not sure, to be honest with you.’

‘You got family?’

‘Two kids. My daughter’s left home, she’s at university. My son’s taking his exams. He’ll be going in October.’

‘Wow.’

‘And my wife just informed me that she’s seeing another man. Actually, that’s not quite true. My son told me. My wife just disappeared.’

It was the first time I’d told anyone. It sounded brutal. And very final.

‘Did you expect it?’

‘No. To be honest, I thought I’d be the one who’d leave.’

‘So it’s been bad for a while?’

‘I suppose so.’ What could I tell him? ‘I’ve been . . . unfaithful.’

‘Ah.’

‘And as it turns out, so has my wife.’

‘How long were you married?’

‘Twenty years.’

Adrian whistled. ‘That’s a long time.’

‘We were kids. And then we grew up.’

‘What now then?’

‘I don’t know. Divorce I suppose. We haven’t really talked.’

‘Shit, man. I’m sorry. I’m sticking my nose into your business.’

‘It’s OK. I’m grateful. I need to talk and, well’—I shrugged—‘I don’t seem to have as many friends as I thought.’

‘Yeah, that happens when you split up. When me and my . . . partner,’ there was a moment’s hesitation and another blush. ‘You know, friends take sides, and you end up with nobody.’

Play this carefully, Heath. Don’t let him think you’re shocked. ‘How long were you and your partner together?’

‘Six years. Nothing compared to you.’

‘But it’s still a long time. What happened?’

‘Same as you, I guess,’ said Adrian. ‘We both wanted different things.’

‘Different things and different people.’

‘Yeah.’

We both drank. The sun was dipping behind the houses on the west side of the square. The next question, whatever it was, would determine the rest of the evening—the future of our friendship, if that’s what this was.

It looked like it was going to be up to me. Adrian was staring into the middle distance, turning his glass in his hands.

‘So,’ I said, ‘are you enjoying your freedom?’ I tried to make it sound light and laddish, an overture to a few bawdy tales of conquest.

‘Me?’ He nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘You don’t sound exactly thrilled about it.’

‘It’s good. I’m glad I did it. But now,’ he shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t really like being on my own. I haven’t been single since I was eighteen.’

‘Same here. It’s weird. If I am single, that is. I don’t even know that for sure.’

‘Do you think she’ll come back?’

‘No. She might come and live in the house. We’ve been sharing the place without being together for a long time now. But it’s over.’

‘Sure about that?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘She and this man are serious?’

‘I have no idea. But it’s over for me. I’ve done my job as a father. The kids are independent now, or they will be very soon. I’m forty-two. I’ve got a lot of years ahead of me.’

‘A very fit forty-two,’ said Adrian, raising his glass.

‘Thanks to you.’ There was more meaning to that than he knew. ‘Want another?’

‘I’ll get it.’

How much could I tell him, I wondered as he went to the bar. Can we start using gender-specific pronouns, instead of cop-out words like ‘partner’? Can I admit to the real reason why I know my marriage is over? Can I tell him, perhaps after the third or fourth drink, that it was the touch of his hands that started everything? The spark that lit the fuse, the little push that sent the snowball rolling down the mountainside?

And if we tell each other the truth, what happens then? Do we just go somewhere, another address, and have sex? Then we ignore each other, like all the others, Michael and Pete and Pascal and Bill and Simon, the growing list of men I have known and forgotten, the doors that opened and slammed in my face.

I didn’t want that to happen with Adrian. I realized that it mattered very much to me. If it did, all of this—the last six months, the strange journey of excitement and disappointment—was meaningless. I was just another man having too much sex with people I didn’t care about. The delivery driver, for Christ’s sake, however good the sex was—I barely recognized the person who had done that. Who nearly fucked bareback, who grovelled on his knees in piss only to get a face full of spunk. What would Adrian think of that? Maybe, like me, he’d start getting an erection in spite of himself, feeling the buzz of the beer, the exercise, and the warm evening, the pleasure of companionship and the uncertainty of where the evening might end.

Ah, my cock as usual, barging in and upsetting all my arguments. Making a nonsense of everything, banging away, that’s the way to do it, sheer mindless appetite and bugger the consequences.

Adrian returned with the drinks, a last ray of sunshine catching his short blonde hair, making him squint, turning the beer to liquid gold. Fuck, he looked good. My chest tightened.

‘Thanks, mate.’

We went through the usual rituals of drinking, but all I could think about was kissing him. How had this happened? Is it just because he’s the one I can’t have? Or can I? What’s stopping me? He’s probably thinking ‘no, Joe’s straight, he’s been married for twenty years, don’t even bother.’ Adrian’s not telling me he’s gay because he thinks it would freak me out. He remembers what happened during our massage, and he knows how embarrassed I was.

Oh, bullshit. He’s not gay. Adrian’s a single straight guy who thinks he’s with another straight guy, and I’m making everything complicated because I want to get him naked. If my dick would just go down and I could take this for what it is, a friendly drink after work, then everything will be fine.

Adrian sat back and crossed his legs, one ankle resting on the opposite thigh, his knee very close to me, I could reach over and touch it.

‘So, two single guys,’ he said, still circling around the same topic. If he really wasn’t interested, he’d have started talking about football or training or protein shakes by now. ‘Here’s to the life we didn’t expect.’

‘I definitely didn’t expect the way things have turned out for me.’

‘You mean your wife leaving you?’

‘Oh, there’s a lot more to it than that.’

‘Is there?’ he said. ‘Like what?’

‘It’s complicated,’ I said, resorting to cliché now that we’d gotten to the moment of truth. ‘Isn’t it always?’

‘Not in my case. The guy I was seeing was jealous. It was driving me crazy. He was going through my phone, my emails. I had to get out.’

There it was. The guy I was seeing. He. Adrian glanced up over the top of his glass to see my reaction. I tried not to show my delight in case it might be interpreted as disgust.

‘Well that’s definitely a chucking offence. If my wife had done that . . . well, I don’t know what I’d have done.’

Adrian laughed—in relief, perhaps. I hadn’t stormed off.

‘And did he find anything he shouldn’t have?’ I asked, with a smile on my face.

‘Oh, maybe. I’m no angel.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

‘Anyway, it’s all history now.’

‘Yeah. Looks like it.’ Come on, Heath, think of something to say. How about you and me making some history, baby?

‘So,’ said Adrian, ‘how’s the shoulder and neck?’ Shit—he’s changing the subject. We’re losing it—whatever intimacy we’d attained—because of my hesitation.

‘Oh, it’s much better, thanks.’ I rubbed the affected area. ‘I take more care now.’

‘That’s good to know. Well, if you ever have any problems again . . . ’

That’s more like it. ‘I know exactly where to come. You’ve got magic hands.’

‘Thanks.’ He blushed and sipped his drink. ‘It’s just technique.’

‘Very good technique. And you’ve got a good touch. You’re the best.’

‘Can I put that on my website?’

‘Yeah. Seriously.’

‘You should come for another massage sometime.’

‘I’d love to.’ I looked at my watch and was about to say ‘how about right now?’ when his phone beeped and buzzed. He said, ‘sorry,’ and answered it. A muted conversation followed, mostly ‘yeah,’ ‘good,’ and ‘right.’

‘Everything OK?’

‘Yes, thanks,’ said Adrian. ‘Just going to see a friend a bit later.’

‘Oh.’ My castles in the air blew away. ‘And I’d better be getting my train. My son had an exam today, and I need to see how he got on. A-Levels. They’re really tough, but I think he’s doing pretty well,’ I was babbling. Adrian listened, nodded, and drank. There wasn’t much beer left in his glass. Our time was running out. If I was going to say anything, I’d better make it quick.

He beat me to it. ‘I’d like to do this again sometime,’ he said. ‘It’s been good talking to you.’

‘Thanks. That would be nice.’ Nice? Is that the best you can do? ‘You’re a good listener.’

Adrian laughed. ‘Really? I don’t think you told me very much.’

‘No, but . . . ’ Oh shit, what am I supposed to say? I’ve lost the knack. ‘Maybe next time I’ll tell you more.’

‘Is there more to tell?’

‘Oh, believe me, there’s a lot.’

‘That sounds interesting.’

‘It is.’ My cock was stirring again. I just wanted to kiss him—touch him—something to let him know what was on my mind. We finished our drinks and stood up.

‘OK,’ I said, ‘well, I’ll see you at the gym, and I’ll make an appointment for that massage.’

‘Here.’ He gave me his phone. ‘Put your number in there.’

I did as I was told, with clumsy fingers, checking and rechecking the digits. Now we had a lifeline. Something had happened.

‘I’ll call you,’ said Adrian, as we walked away from the pub. ‘We’ll organize something.’

Our paths diverged at the main road—mine to the station, his to the ‘friend’ I already hated.

‘Cheers then, mate,’ I said, all blokey bonhomie. ‘See you!’

Adrian’s arms were around me before I knew it, and he squeezed me against him. Our heads were pressed together, side to side, and as I embraced him, I could feel the hardness of his shoulders. He smelled of beer and soap. I kissed his neck, my lips on his skin for just a second. He moaned a bit and pulled me closer.

When we separated, my cock was fully hard; he could not have failed to feel it. His eyes were sparkling, his lips were parted. He smiled, nodded, and turned to walk away.

I got home in time to make some food for Alex and ask him about his exams. Only two to go, and then he was free. He was looking forward to going to Spain with Tom and his family; I don’t remember ever being asked if this was OK; it must have been something he organized with Angie, but it was too late for objections, the tickets were bought. Not that I minded. I’d have the house to myself again. Angie showed no sign of coming back while I was there. Perhaps it was time for me to take a little holiday myself. God only knows where, or with whom, but if worse came to the worst, I’d go to a Greek island on my own and sit on the beach reading books. There are worse ways of spending time. And if I’m single, as I appear to be, I’d better get used to doing things on my own. I could always tag along with my brother or sister, be Uncle Joe for a couple of weeks in a caravan or a seaside B&B, but that’s not really what I had in mind when I set about destroying my marriage.

Freedom. Chasing young men on Greek beaches. Fucking in hotel rooms with the sunlight streaming through the windows. That’s more like it.

And then I got an email from Graham.

Hi Joe, hope you’re well. Just wondered if you fancied coming down to the house in France for a few days. I’ve managed to get it habitable, and it’ll be just me down there for the next couple of weeks. I know it’s short notice. Let me know if you’re interested, and I’ll book your flights.

Well, that was handy. An all-expenses-paid trip to a nice part of France, a no-doubt luxurious house, perhaps with a pool. And Graham’s cock up my arse all day and all night, if I wanted it. I presumed that was the deal. Whoever’s been with him for the last few weeks has gone, and he needs someone at short notice. Someone eager—desperate even. And obviously he thought of Joe, the married man with the hungry hole. He’ll come. He’ll do anything.

Self-esteem issues aside, I was rather pleased at the idea of being flown out to France by my millionaire lover and sugar daddy. I fired back an acceptance, and within a few more exchanges, we’d agreed on dates. Five nights, starting next Wednesday, the day after Alex flies to Spain. I booked leave and informed Angie that the house would be empty. Nothing more. If she needs me, she has my number. I packed for hot weather, and hoped I wouldn’t be wearing anything at all for most of the five days.

Graham met me at Nice airport. He was tanned, his grey hair cropped close to the skull, big aviator shades covering his eyes. In jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, lugging my bags, I felt absurdly weighed down and overdressed.

‘Joe! I’m so pleased you could make it.’ He hugged me like a long-lost friend. ‘Come on. The car will be here any minute.’

‘Thanks for inviting me.’

‘Are you kidding? I’ve been thinking of nothing else. I can’t believe you’re really here. Let’s get you back to the house. The pool is a nice temperature. I had a swim just before I left.’

I was right then. There was a pool. And, I assumed, a driver. Yes, here he comes—a middle-aged Frenchman at the wheel of a shiny silver Peugeot, pulling up at the front of the terminal, opening the boot and taking my luggage.

‘Merci, Guy.’ He pronounced it ‘Gee.’ ‘Voiçi Monsieur Heath.’

‘M’sieur.’

I managed a weak ‘bonjour.’ It’s been a long time since I’ve used my schoolboy French. Guy didn’t seem like the conversational type; I assume Graham valued him for his discretion. The car glided out into the traffic, and before long we were clear of the airport, the sea glinting in the distance through the haze of exhaust as we headed west along the coast. Graham made small talk while I took in the scenery.

‘Good thing I’ve got Guy. I hate driving along these roads. They’re all bloody suicidal, French drivers. Guy and his wife make my life down here possible. They look after the house when I’m away, and when I’m here, they look after me. Mrs. Guy is an excellent cook, as you’ll see. And Guy can turn his hand to pretty much anything, from fixing a leaking roof to maintaining the pool. N’estce pas, Guy?’

Guy nodded and gave a gruff ‘oui, m’sieur.’

‘And they live just down in the village. So when they’re finished for the day, we have the place to ourselves.’

‘Good.’

‘And we’re not overlooked.’

‘Even better.’

‘I hope you didn’t bother packing too many clothes.’

‘Just a few clean pants.’

‘You won’t be needing them.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it.’ I glanced down at Graham’s crotch; it looked mighty full.

‘Want it?’ he asked in a low whisper.

I nodded in reply. The car sped out along the autoroute, and we sank into an expectant silence.

The house was halfway up a steep, narrow road that led from the beach into the hills, lined with pine trees and punctuated by high metal gates. Each villa was perched on its own generous plot, dotted down the hillside, commanding a view of the bay and, in the distance, the marina of St. Tropez. Guy opened the gates with a remote control, unloaded my luggage, and then took the car down a steep slope to a subterranean garage.

The light dazzled me, and the air, heavy with pine and herbs and the faint whiff of salt, intoxicated me.

‘Welcome to L’Ecurie. Bloody pretentious name, really, it means the stables, as in horses, but I don’t think anyone’s kept horses here for a long time. The land used to belong to that bloody great pile up the road’—he jerked his thumb over his shoulder—‘where the local bigwigs lived before they fell on hard times and sold it all off. Now the old house is a ruin and if I had the money I’d buy it and do it up and sell it for a bloody fortune. Anyway, this is my humble stable.’ He gestured toward a handsome three-storey house that sprawled down the terraced hillside, with huge glass windows opening onto balconies at each level, and a circular swimming pool below it surrounded by sandstone paving, recliners, flowers and bushes.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon.

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Did you eat on the plane?’

‘Not really.’

‘Guy’s wife has put some lunch out for you, if you’d like. Or would you prefer to swim first?’

‘Swim of course.’

‘Be my guest. Merci, Guy.’ Graham’s factotum was locking the gate behind him. ‘A demain.’

‘Oui, m’sieur.’

‘And now,’ said Graham, ‘we are alone.’ He put his arms around me, kissed me, and squeezed my arse. ‘Let’s see how quickly you can get naked.’

It took about fifteen seconds, and I was standing stark naked and fully erect on the sun-baked patio.

‘Get in the pool.’

I did as I was told. After the flight, the water felt clean and cool. I swam to the far edge, where you could look right down the wooded hillside to the bay below.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

I turned around, and Graham was lowering himself into the water; he was naked too. He swam up behind me, put one arm around my waist, and pressed his hard cock against my arse. Obviously we weren’t going to waste time with pleasantries.

‘I’m glad you came,’ he said into my ear. His stubble scratched my neck.

‘Me too.’

‘I’ve been thinking about you ever since.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’ His finger found my hole. ‘Nicest piece of arse I’ve had for a long time.’

‘I thought you’d have loads of boyfriends down here.’

‘One or two.’ He was inside me now, up to the first knuckle. ‘But they’re not like you.’

‘And what’s so special about me?’ I pressed back against his finger, wanting more.

‘You’re a man.’

There wasn’t much I could say to that, so I twisted my head around to kiss him while he fingered my hole. The cool water lapped round us, birds flew overhead, a dog barked in the distance, and I could smell a bonfire or a barbecue from somewhere. We were out in the open, the sky above us, houses around us, but nobody could see us.

‘I need to fuck you now,’ said Graham, climbing out of the pool. ‘Do you want to go inside?’

‘No. Right here.’

‘Good. Wait there.’ He climbed out of the pool, water running off the end of his hard dick, and pointed to a recliner. ‘Get yourself on there. On your back.’

I did as I was told. Oh, the relief of taking orders.

Graham had condoms and lube in a bag. He threw them to me.

‘Get ready.’

I lubed up my arse, making sure he could see everything, working a couple of fingers into my rectum, and then grabbed his dick and rolled a condom onto it. I liked being helpful and showing him how much I wanted him inside me. Not that he needed to be told; as soon as the rubber was in place, he was pushing into me. It hurt like fuck, but I was used to that now and knew how to control the pain. I breathed deeply, concentrating on letting go, opening up, and soon I was taking every inch of him and wanting more.

It didn’t last long. To an accompaniment of creaks and groans from the recliner, which was certainly not designed to take the weight of two rutting adult males, we thrust and counter-thrust our way to climax. I came first, spewing all over my stomach and chest. Graham scooped it up, stuck his fingers in my mouth so that I had no choice but to taste myself, then pushed harder and harder until his eyes screwed shut and the veins stood out on his neck and forehead as he came inside me.

They must have heard his bellows across the bay in St. Tropez.

I won’t bore you with all the details of my holiday; that would be about as interesting as looking at someone else’s photographs. Suffice to say that Graham fucked me again that night and again in the morning before we had to put some clothes on in order to not scare Mrs. Guy. We went out in the car, driving around the hills and along the coast to some pretty little coves. We ate lunch in beach bars, we had drinks by the pool, we stopped off at the supermarket to stock up on condoms.

On the third evening, I was lying by the pool, recently awoken from a siesta. Graham was out, seeing his lawyer about some endless property dispute; I had the run of the place. For the first time in days, I checked my phone.

A text from Angie, informing me that she’d taken a few items from the house, an inventory basically.

Texts from both my children, Nicky in Sheffield, Alex in Spain, both of them having a great time without their father.

And a text from Adrian.

Hi Joe, hope you’re well, just wondered if you’d like to go for a drink sometime soon. Adrian.

My heart raced. He wants to see me! He actually made the first move! I carefully added the number to my contacts and replied.

I’m on holiday for a few days. Back at work Monday. Next week?

He replied quickly.

Lucky you! Anywhere nice? Got a beach?

South of France. Staying at a mate’s house, near beach, with a pool

And then I had an idea. Holding the camera at arm’s length above myself, I took a photograph, framing it carefully to show that I was not wearing swimming trunks. I looked good, a light tan, good definition, a smile. I wrote, Who’s jealous now? and sent it without too much thought.

I waited for his response. A minute. Two minutes. Shit. I’ve gone too far.

Then it came. Another photograph. Adrian, sitting on his bed, clothes and shoes strewn around the floor, the wheel of a bicycle visible behind him. He too was naked, but his leg blocked the view. His face had an expression of comic sadness.

Not fair

Fuck, he was beautiful, his pale skin rolling up and down over round muscles, the dark ink of his tattoos.

And he was naked. Like me. Sending each other naked photos. How far would this go?

My cock was standing straight up. I photographed it. It would be so easy to send. I stroked myself a few times, watching it through the telephone’s screen. Was Adrian doing the same?

Shit—I haven’t replied—he must think I’m angry or put off. Write something quick.

I wish I was there instead of here.

He came back quickly.

Me too.

Do I send the dick pic now?

Another text came in. A photo. Adrian lying on his bed, one arm behind his head, his torso stretched out, the ridged abdominals giving way to the blonde fuzz of his pubic hair, and just the very top of his cock above the lower frame.

You’re beautiful, I wrote.

You too.

I want to see everything.

A minute or so went by, and there it was—from chest to thigh, just as I’d seen it in the showers, with one big difference. A hard cock. Not huge, smaller than mine by an inch or two. Perfect.

And so, of course, I sent the dick pic.

Jesus, wrote Adrian. That’s amazing.

All yours whenever you want it.

Next week?

Sure.

I could hear the gates opening, the engine of Graham’s car purring just outside.

I’ll text you later. xxx

I put my phone down, closed my eyes, and pretended to be asleep, my hard dick lying against my stomach.

Car doors slammed, and I heard footsteps.

‘Oh, Joe! We have company!’ I just had time to grab a towel and cover myself before Graham stepped onto the patio accompanied by two young men—locals, by the look of them, one dark with a scruffy beard, one blonde, both in shorts, T-shirts, and sandals. ‘This is Yves and . . . what’s your name again? Comment t’appelles tu?’

‘Jean-Pierre,’ said the blonde.

I stood up, wrapping the towel around my waist, trying to conceal my hard-on. It didn’t work. The boys knew exactly where to look.