Simon

While I was working on a review of a book, there was a knock on the door.  It was I saw through the translucent panels Simon, from upstairs, who was going away again as I was coming.  I opened the door and shouted after.  There was an answering call from the stairwell and Simon returned.  He said he thought I’d gone; and could he come back in half-an-hour, he’d something to do first.  He was looking with interest at my boxers.  Of course he could.  I mentioned the near-publishing of my book but that didn’t interest him.  “Should I bring a bottle of wine?” he asked.  “No.  I’ve plenty wine.”

I finished where I was at and, not having eaten but considering the shortness of the time given, microwaved leftover veal and had a wrap with a glass of red, also pouring one for Simon who’s alcoholic and whose face already looked a bit sonsie.

He brought a prosecco.  “Have you been here before?”  He hadn’t been in my room which he remarked was minimalist.  “I like space,” I said.  His was a tip.  “A young man’s room,” I smiled.  He described where he had things in his.  “Don’t you have a rack in the cupboard?” for hanging clothes on.  I wasn’t sure what he was there for other than a drinking session.  It wasn’t about Mark I said I let vent after stopping him throw the furniture at the wall during the night.  He said Mark didn’t like him.  “Don’t bother about that;” and he’d fallen out with Bob, directly above me, over his having a barbecue in the back garden.  “Of course you can have a barbecue.  It’s all paving stones.”  I didn’t speak to Bob over some underhanded collusion with the landlord about the stairwell décor.  But Ian and…, he hesitated.  “His girlfriend,” I said.  He agreed she was.  They were nice.  I demurred.  I didn’t speak to Ian either or Tina, my neighbour other side the stairwell, apart from ‘excuse me’ and ‘thank you,’ because of their underhanded collusion…. “I do speak to Sally!” the girlfriend, I defended, since all the not-speaking wasn’t looking good for me.  This was old hat.  He hadn’t seen Diane.  He pointed to the ground floor flat below his.  “You mean Diana?” I pointed to the ground floor flat at the other end of the block.  He didn’t mean her.  I thought and remembered, “Sheila!” who was long gone.  “The top floor’s cut off,” I commented, except for Bob, gardening.   Simon commiserated my loss of plants the landlord had had removed.  The rosemary was heavy, he implied it was a danger to health and safety.  He bewailed the loss of his own lavender from outside his door.  He still kept his recycling boxes there.  I commended his recycling.  He did what he could.  None of that was what he’d come for, obviously.  He missed me.  That I doubted.  We hadn’t seen each other to speak to in ages but I had apparently smiled at him at New Year.  “It was New Year,” I dismissed the smile, not remembering it specifically.  He missed my coming to him to open jars and screwtops.  I doubted that too.  To my recollection I’d done it twice when my hands had collapsed.  “They’re a lot better now.  You said to buy a gizmo and I took your advice.  I didn’t want to bother you,” implying he hadn’t wanted me to.  He said he supposed he’d always loved me really.  I really doubted that.  He hadn’t given any impression he did but, since he hadn’t and this was a retroactive rationalisation to explain to himself why he was there, I’m thinking, as I write, that this occasion’ll turn out to have been a one-off.  I was thinking then I might get out of whatever it was since I didn’t love him and hadn’t given any such indication.  He’d firmly refused the mushroom readymeal I’d tried offloading on finding gluten in it, not that I said that.  It must’ve been in his mind that he had though, that it showed a lack of acceptance, because he said he didn’t like mushrooms while granting other people did.  Not much, take them or leave them, I was thinking.  He liked the red wine.  “Red’s a man’s drink,” I said ironically.  He disagreed.  Sparkling wine was.  He must prefer it, thus the prosecco.  He said I was true, honest.  “It’s easy for me to be true,” I said, “I don’t care what people think.”  Nor did he.  I may have challenged that by suggesting I might write of this occasion, blog it, not that there was anything of interest to it worth writing about.  That may have worried him a little but he didn’t say not to.  He said he liked cooking, had cooked thirty-six turkeys for the homeless and was starting a course on chefery (I think was the word used) and not business studies.  He was trying to impress me and I was impressed by the thirty-six turkeys.  I liked cooking but not on an industrial scale.  He seemed to think I didn’t know about homelessness because I had contemporary classical music playing.  “I was homeless.  That’s why we’re all housed here.”  He remarked my silk sheets.  “They and the wine are little luxuries.”  He scythed his arms about expressively.  He used the word ‘epic’ a lot.  He said he was bad.  I didn’t think he was, “I’m good.  Whatever I do is good, and that’s that.  I’m shameless.”  His glass was empty.  I had a little left in mine.

He wanted a smoke and knew I didn’t, so went out while I opened the prosecco and took him out a glass.  He offered his hands to take mine.  “Squeeze,” he said.  I squeezed.  “I couldn’t do that then.  Have you finished?”  I was getting cold.  I switched on the heating.  He asked if he could take off his shoes.  Of course.  My music was doing his head in.  I put on the Hollies.  “I’m horny,” he said.  “You came down because you’re horny,” along with the belief I’d assuage it, I twigged.  Did he think I was an easy lay, to hand?  I did feel easy.  “Come here,” he said.  I got up from where I was sitting, on the bed, and stood before him where he sat, on the capacious leather swivel chair.  He pulled down my boxers and got stuck in sucking.  “It won’t come,” I said.  “There’s only one way I can come now, because of age, and that’s not it.  I used to be able to rise to any sexual occasion.”

We unbelted, unstudded and unzipped him, divesting ourselves of clothes.  He had an erection.  “Shall I get a condom?”  And lubricant.  At a second attempt I put the condom on his cock the right way, lubricated my arse, and sat on the cock.  It was pleasurable!  “You have given me pleasure for the first time, doing this.”  It also gave him pleasure, more than me from his expression and, from his groan, exquisitely so when I withdrew my arse.  He told me to hold him.  He meant hold it; and I gave him pleasure doing that the way one does that.  I was clean.  He said he was but “I’d have to believe you and you me.”  “Suck me,” he said and I took off the condom and tongued the hole, giving pleasure.  “Fuck me,” he said.  I’d run out of lubricant.  “I was going to buy more but wanted to finish it off first.  Will vaseline do?”  It would and I lubricated his arse, inserting one finger, then two, waggling them and pushing in and out while fellating, giving even more pleasure.  “Move to the bed,” I ordered.

“Are you clean?” I asked, “disease-free.” He was.  He raised a big hairy arse and I would have had a stab at it but the stabber wasn’t up to it, so I abandoned that idea.  Instead I proposed trying to do what I knew I could from doing it on the convict.  “It was safe.  Skin’s impermeable.”  He agreed.  He asked if I had a boyfriend.  I didn’t.  I had had the absconding convict but he’d incarcerated himself.  “I thought you had a boyfriend.  You talked about your missus.”  He gave some scant explanation I didn’t pick up on.   “I’m safe,” he said.  This must be where he came out with the revelation though I keep thinking it was earlier.  “How old are you?” I asked apropos of nothing except information for the writing.  He was thirty-four and hadn’t come since he was eighteen and even then it took forty-five minutes.  “It’s not the booze then,” I deduced, “not if you were eighteen.”  “Sixteen,” he corrected.  I may have taken ‘for’ eighteen as ‘since’.  It was a psychological problem, I concluded, postulating to him the cause might be he was one-up if, like the psychopath, he kept himself to himself but the other gave.  “There’s nothing I can do about it,” I said, “I want to give you what you want.  I can come.  I did with the convict and do to porn,” keeping my hand in.  Both convict and porn interested him but I didn’t elaborate.  “Come on me,” he said but the one way I can do it didn’t work, I think because he was manoeuvring me to see.  I abandoned the attempt and fell back on being fucked.  I went for another condom and made do with what lubricant was already there.  He positioned my ankles onto his shoulders where I rubbed my feet together, caressing his head.  He didn’t want to hurt me.  It was fine and he was fucking but it couldn’t’ve been for long because shortly he was out and on his back, saying something about my watching porn, presumably because I did come doing that.  But “it’s better with a person,” even without coming.  There’s a feeling all over the body, an emotion I didn’t have with porn, that I also had had with Yvann, so probably would on such sex with anybody.  “I like your cock in me,” I said.  “I can feel it when it’s not there.”  He could too.  I asked if he thought he’d come again, not that he was coming then.  He thought he would.  “Why haven’t you come before now?” I asked, thinking maybe I hadn’t had space for him till now.  “Ride me,” he said.  I put the cock back in.  He had some belly on him.  My body looked better than his.  When I stopped, “There’s a whiff of shit,” I smiled.

He got up to pee, scraping the edge of the bed.  There was more than a whiff, a patch that surprised me because I hadn’t been up him.  He was mortified.  He couldn’t explain it except he was relaxed.  “Don’t bother about it.  I’m not bothered.  You can see I’m not bothered.  It’s probably because I said ‘whiff of shit’.  Sit on the pan and wipe your bum.”  Meanwhile I took the sheet off the bed, explaining hot water would harden the protein, and rinsed the shit off the patch with cold water in the bathroom sink before putting it to be washed.  I also dabbed spots on the underblanket and. when he came back to the room, wiped hardened shit off his leg.  “You’re not to be embarrassed,” I smiled, “when you see the sheet on the line.”  I was glad though I hadn’t changed the sheet before.

We weren’t done and I didn’t want to end it except by his volition.  He’d started redressing and undressed again, persevering with my cock whose skin was thin, “unlike yours,” though scarcely abraded by all the action it’d been through.  He was good at it.  He said he was doing it wrong.  I denied he was, “It’s my fault.  I’m disappointing,” repeating he was the first to give me pleasure by fucking.  “The only criterion for sex is that it’s clean.”  I needed to push myself up from him, on the floor, his back to the console.  Eventually he did give up, asking if he’d got everything.  “Your shoes?”  He had them on.  I couldn’t see anything left.  It’d taken three hours.  The Young Montalbano wasn’t finished.  There was some wine left in his glass.  In the morning I found his wallet in the small bookcase drawer where I must’ve put it from the table.  It had two condoms in it.  I knocked on his door.  On no response I pushed it through the letter box, hoping he hadn’t been inconvenienced by the loss.

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About johnbrucecairns

I'm a retired history teacher who's written for most of his life with a book readied for publication.
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