Coming Together

Coming Together 3

Usual warnings apply – this story is about teenboys getting messy.

4 SCENES FROM SATURDAY MORNING

Morris took his cum rag from under his pillow, put it in an old sock and slung it under his bed. (On Tuesdays, when his mum did' his room, the rag got binned on the way to school and the sock got stuck in with his rugby shorts which stank most of the time anyway.) He sat in bed trying to work out what to make of Robbie. If he was honest he'd always liked Robbie – he was intelligent, funny, good at games and ... if he was really honest Robbie was good looking and nicely equipped downstairs'. It had always disappointed Morris that Robbie never came across to the tickling' sessions which would have given him a grand excuse for a hands-on session. After that display in PE he'd plucked up courage to ask Robbie if he wanted to come over to do homework together. And what happens? The kid ignores every come-on sign like he doesn't understand or like he doesn't do that stuff and then suddenly his cock is flopping out of his pants and he's ordering Morris to get on his knees and suck. It was as if he had a split personality. Morris contemplated this a little longer before coming to a conclusion. "He's a con artist. Must be." He did this very moral act like he didn't go in for boys' fun but all the time, underneath that nice boy surface, was a raving sex maniac. Only way to explain it. Morris nodded sagely to himself. THAT would explain a lot. Take that text for example. As soon as Morris saw message from cockyboy' pop up on the screen of Robbie's phone he just couldn't help himself, he had to see that message. It had been brief and although he had said he hadn't had time to read it, he had not only done so, he had memorised its contents. Of course, Morris reasoned, it might mean nothing. After all, cockyboy might just refer to a boy who was very sure of himself. Morris however was determined to find out. Just who was this secret friend of young Robbie? Thinking about it, Morris became more sure there was some mystery here. Take Robbie's reaction; the kid had gone off his effing head. "Thought he was going to beat me to a pulp," muttered Morris to himself. Instead of course he had got pay back with a blow job. And there was another thing. Morris had always fancied having a suck on another boy's cock (and, to be fair, having another boy suck on his) but he had never got beyond the quick feel and the even quicker wank. But this Robbie lad seemed to know all about it. Oh, yes. A real wee professional. "Still waters run deep," mused Morris. He had decided that there was a lot more to Robbie than he had ever suspected and he was going to uncover it.

Meanwhile .... "Sit down at the table," barked Harry's mum as she came through from the kitchen with the teapot. Harry was standing at the window mindlessly munching on a bowl of choco-crispies and thinking about his friend Jimbo. "And what do you think you're doing," she snapped at Harry's dad. "I got these for Mr Fussy over there but you know you should be on the bran not that choco muck." "But I like that choco muck." "Humph!" Harry moved across and sat at the table. Reaching for the toast he asked his mum if there was any nutella spread. Dad looked up hopefully. Mum scowled and didn't answer. Taking honey instead Harry considered events. It seemed pretty clear to him that Jimbo was at it. First clue was that they never, just never, missed a home game. Second clue was that Jimbo had ... no ... misled him was generous ... Jimbo had lied to him about what he was doing. Meantime, Dad had been talking. "Sorry, dad. What was that?" "I was saying I do not want to hear about you and that reprobate pal of yours trying to bum a pint off Valerie at the TG before the game. You'll end up in court and with me barred from the TG." "No probs, dad. Won't be going to the game after all." "You're missing a game!" "Well, Jimbo's got something on so I'm just going ..." here Harry hesitated, "down the shopping centre instead." That seemed safe. What Harry was actually deciding to do was to follow Jimbo and try to see what he was up to. After all when you have seen as many cop shows and spy movies as Harry had, you had all the techniques at your fingertips.

Over at Robbie's, the kid was deep in thought. He'd gone to bed in a reasonably happy mood. Things, he had concluded, were looking up. Not only did he have a hot date for the afternoon but he spent the evening with Morris's mouth wrapped around his cock. He wasn't sure but the previous night he had the feeling that Morris must have done this before, with other lads. He seemed so damn good at it. He had got so excited that his cock had swelled until it would have pointed straight up at the ceiling if Morris hadn't gripped it firmly to pull it towards his mouth. Robbie's balls had tightened too until they pulled up either side of his cock where Morris had fondled them gently. Morris had closed his mouth around Robbie's knobhead and used his tongue to press it against the roof of his mouth. Having held it there for what seemed like long minutes he then drew his head back so that his lips smoothed along glans. Then, holding hard upon the shaft, he licked at his pal's piss slit while Robbie threw his head back and sighed deeply with pleasure. Using his tongue expertly Morris then the helmet ridge of Robbie's cock. Deep pleasure surged through young Robbie and he put his hands on Morris's head to steady himself. He let go a groan and then began thrusting, pushing hard into Morris's face until the full length of his cock seemed deep inside Morris's mouth. Morris choked a little, seemed to gag, pulled his head back. "Morry? You OK?" "Fuck, yes, man," and so saying he gobbled again on the rigid boymeat. More slowly now they coordinated like dancers, Morris moving his mouth back and forth along the hardness while Robbie now drove more gently. Together it was as if they waltzed their way to paradise. "Gonna cum," Robbie gasped. "Want me to pull out?" Morris remained silent but he shook his head and he allowed his mouth to fill as Robbie shot the harvest of his balls, rope after rope of thick warm boymilk. It had been good and they had parted on good terms. But in the cold light of day, Robbie began to doubt. What was wrong with him? He kept getting into these situations that just weren't like him. That didn't make sense ... and yet in another way it did. Like in English Lit. class, when you did a character study of someone in a Shakespeare play, their characters could have contradictions, things that didn't quite add up. But there was a problem there, the hero usually had some fatal flaw that was his downfall. "Maybe I'm finding mine," reflected Robbie with a grimace. Maybe he'd held off following his instincts for too long, missed opportunities for months, years, with the result that now he was going mad, grabbing every chance that came along. Would it lead to his downfall? Should he pull out before it was too late? No, he decided, it was already too late. Last night with Morris, and last week with these two chavs ... Was it? The kid put his head in his hands and sighed.

... The radio blared. `I'm fixing a hole where the rain gets in to stop my mind from wandering where it will go ...' Jimbo was taking time over his toilet. He showered methodically, washing his body slowly, with care. Meticulously he rinsed the last vestiges of shampoo from his hair, took the shower head from the stand to rinse all the soap from his torso and down his legs, left then right. He took care to remove all suds from his armpits before returning the spray and giving himself a final, thorough dowsing under the jet as he gradually turned the temperature control towards cold, to close the pores. Once the water had ceased to flow he used the edge of his hand as a strigil to sweep the surface water from his body. Then he stepped out of the shower cubicle. His right hand loosely in front of his genitals, his left hand reaching over to brush some moisture from his right shoulder, he was Adonis emerging from the waves. Gently he began to towel his hair, manipulating with the towel to set the hair drying in rough approximation to the style he sought. He leaned closer to the mirror to examine his features. He cocked his head to one side as he considered the hint of freckles across his nose and upper cheek. When younger he had objected to these freckles vociferously, they were intolerably immature he had judged. Now he was less unhappy. He was reaching an age when he felt they lent a boyish charm. At eighteen, he was now concerned with retaining boyish charm. Soon Jimbo was started on lotions and creams. Deodorant and antiperspirant under the arms, some Calvin Klein from throat to nipples, a splash of aftershave applied on chin and upper lip. He rubbed a little antifungal powder between his toes and a mere touch of the same at the top of his legs where testicles rubbed against his flesh. Finally, after vigorous hand washing, he set about the task of flossing, then brushing his teeth, closing this ritual with a thorough mouth wash. Now he proceeded to blow dry his hair into his chosen style. He sought to wave the thick, blond hair away on each side of his centre parting. He worked to get the right degree of flick as the locks parted on the top of his head. The hair was thick and layered and needed care to get that angle right. To his wardrobe Jimbo now repaired, to exercise sartorial judgment for the afternoon ahead. Expensive casual, without being too trendy, was the look he sought. The slacks, not denim, were taken from the hanger; a plain white tee-shirt, tight about the throat with the corded shirt thrown loosely over. Shoes, bright shining, not the trainers, were lifted from the rack. He stepped back to view effect in full length mirror. The slacks were taken off and the denims went on. Jimbo had never liked the slacks anyway; mum had bought them for him to wear to Kev's graduation do. Again back to the mirror, studied for a while, tried several angles, then smiling in soft approval, nodded and put out the light.... 'I'm fixin' a hole...'

Jimbo's dad looked up as the lad came down the stairs. A very puzzled look crossed his face but Jimbo's mother shook her head at him. "You off out son? To the match?" "No, mum, giving it a miss this week. OK? See you." Dad's jaw dropped further. Mother smiled at mouthed at the bemused father. "He's in love. A mother can always tell."

Fifi Le Fleur was taking as much time over his toilette as Jimbo although the motives were slightly different. Jimbo knew exactly who he wanted to impress, Fifi was less discriminate. He ran himself a bath, not as hot as he would have done in the evening but certainly not too cold; cold baths were for schoolboys and much as Fifi liked schoolboys he had no wish to emulate their bathing habits. Preparation for work was a leisurely business for Fifi as there was no point arriving at Bruno's much before eleven. The people who frequented Bruno's were not early risers and would not be pounding at the door much before midday. Fifi liked his job at Bruno's; he was a sort of cashier. His cubicle was on a raised platform from which most of the machines could be viewed. He would sit there looking good, smelling good, and he would dispense the necessary change for working the various games. He also kept a lookout for trouble. Mainly however he kept a lookout for good looking youths; not that he was looking for a pick-up. OMG, no! Instead Fifi stored an impression in his memory, as if his mind was making a little video of the boy on the Crimson Skies game; how he stood, how he moved, how he looked, how the denim stretched as he leaned forward, how his crotch bulged when he turned away from the game. Some boys got very excited playing Crimson Skies! Later Fifi could run and rerun that memory stick of a brain and achieve for himself a perfectly satisfactory and entirely safe relief.

LATER THAT SATURDAY

"That's a hundred in pound coins and the same in fifties and twenties. Check it and sign it off. I'll be up in the cubbyhole for a while before I go out," Bruno informed Fifi later that morning. Fifi duly counted the coinage away into the register. There wasn't much doing down below on the floor of the arcade which meant there wasn't much to look at. About half twelve a cracker arrived, a total sagger. Normally Fifi didn't have much interest in saggers as they showed very little but this youth had taken sagging to extremes and his pants hung well below his Calvins. Well rounded, tight and most inviting the Calvins were too. Fifi smiled and touched himself softly. That was when the slapper arrived and threw her arms around the sagger. "What a tart!" muttered Fifi losing all interest in the boy. It wasn't so much that the boy was obviously hetero but rather that his taste in women was clearly poor. Fifi set himself high standards. Just before two, Jimbo arrived. He immediately attracted Fifi's attention. He didn't look like the usual arcade habitué, far too smart for that. He looked clean, he looked shaved, he looked neat. OMG, he even looked like he smelled good. Fifi perked up, adjusted his seat on the stool and watched. Jimbo started off in a desultory way slipping twenty pences into the pop and they drop' machine but every so often he stopped and glanced around nervously. "Not a serious player, then," murmured Fifi. "And it looks like he's waiting for someone." Fifi cast his eyes around the arcade to see if he could spot whoever it was the youth was waiting for. And that was when he spied out Harry who was lurking around the back of the pinball gallery. "Mm," drooled Fifi and he swallowed slowly. Harry was clearly not there to play. He was undercover, keeping out of sight but fixing his eyes relentlessly on the youth on the pop and drop'. Now Harry was, that day, in complete contrast to Jimbo. Harry was in his jogger pants (needing washed) and a baggy Hannah Montana tee (badly needing washed). He looked like he hadn't shaved for a week, hadn't washed since last night and hadn't been able to find the dental floss or the toothpaste that morning. "OMG! I bet he's even got his cummy stuffed in his pocket," breathed Fifi uncrossing his legs. The very notion of that contrasted pair pairing up was as stimulating to Fifi's brain as the prospect of an hour on the boysRus' website. Jimbo looked up and once again scanned the arcade with the intensity of a seaman in the Titanic's crow's nest. Harry ducked down and moved to the rear of the pinballs. Fifi nodded to himself. This confirmed that one was waiting and the other was ... Well, just what was he up to? Playing hard to get? Spying on his boyfriend lover? About to play some practical joke, like spring out from behind and go boo!'? Fifi squirmed. "OMG, I'm just loving this!" he exclaimed. He then slammed his hand over his mouth and looked around in case his ejaculation had been heard. At least he didn't have another ejaculation to think about. Yet.

Fifi did a quick glance-around. All seemed quiet. Peter the Painter was waiting calmly for his turn on the roulette machine; from the way he was clutching his credit card Fifi surmised that his benefits cheque had come through. Fifi wasn't sure if he altogether approved of the new machines that Bruno was bringing in; while it was true the winnings were considerable they also allowed a much higher stake than the old slot machines ever did. However the fact that they accepted cards took any pressure off Fifi who in the past had felt guilty when Peter (the Painter) had come with another twenty looking for coins for the slots. It was while he was embarked on this moralising reverie that Fifi's attention was taken by another new arrival. There was a kid hovering around in the entrance doorway. Good looking kid too and Fifi was not averse to good looking boys of a certain age. He looked about fifteen and was wearing the Man U away strip top with a pair of black cord skinnies. Fifi stared, hoping desperately that the boy would turn round and show off his ass which, Fifi was sure, would look good in these skinnies. The boy disappointed however for instead of turning around he seemed to draw back into the doorway. It was as if he was reluctant to enter and yet did not wish to go away. He was staring over in the direction of ... Fifi followed the direction of the gaze. "OMG!" murmured Fifi (again – it was his favourite exclamation.) "He's looking at Mr Pop and Drop!" Fifi adjusted himself on his stool and leaned forward intently. This was getting interesting. The boy at the pop and drop' was clearly idling away time while he waited for someone. The boy hiding behind the pinball machines was definitely keeping a watch on him. And now this younger kid had turned up and also seemed to be watching. This was shaping up to be better than a TV soap. Suddenly there was a loud thump. It diverted Fifi's attention. Peter had lost patience with the roulette machine and had given it a hefty kick. Time to concentrate, thought Fifi, for last time Peter lost patience the shoe had come off and the machine had taken a good hammering. Fifi's instructions were quite clear. If he took the shoe to another punter (or client, as Bruno preferred to call them) then the police would have to be called. If it was just the machine then ignore it; once the angry client' gives up, nip down with an out of order' sign and call in the maintenance guys. Police in the arcade were very bad for business and Bruno didn't use them unless life and limb were involved. Peter now glanced up towards the cubbyhole. Fifi frowned down at him. Peter grinned sheepishly, mouthed an apology and turned back to the machine. By the time Fifi could get back to the door the kid had gone. And so had the boy at the 'pop and drop'. Sleuth boy however was still in position but his expression had changed from curious to indignant. By following his line of sight Fifi was able to locate the other pair; they had gotten together and were now off to the right at the air hockey' table. Their game was fast. The puck flew from one to the other. Their faces creased with concentration. Their bodies bent and swerved from side to side. One leaned forward, fired off his shot; the other bent to receive, drew back and drove the puck hard and fast across the table. Fifi smiled to watch their evident enjoyment. And when one scored, there was a pause. Their eyes met. Expressions changed. Oh yes, there was a gloating and a celebration but there was companionship too. Each evidently enjoyed the competition but equally each clearly enjoyed the other's company. "No, it's more than that," thought Fifi.

For when they paused the pause lasted a few seconds longer than it should. A warmth suffused each face as one gazed upon one. It was as if a sudden stillness descended on the whole place, as if for a moment time stood still. A cinematographer would fade the background now, close in upon the pair, freeze-frame their glance. The game resumed. Back and forth sped the puck as each tried to outdo the other. No quarter asked, none given. The kid was nimble, gave the older, taller boy some problems. Fifi was entranced to watch them move, to watch their bodies respond to each challenge. To watch also the looks exchanged at each break between scores. At one point the kid scored and threw his hands high as if to whoop in celebration. The boy looked at him pointedly and the kid hurried to adjust himself, to flick his cock up against his stomach. The older boy shook his head as if to say – `tut, tut ... kids!' It was then that Fifi found himself distracted. The arcade was busying up, full of people, full of players moving from game to game, machine to machine. In the midst of all this hubbub Fifi's attention was grabbed by the opposite, by stealth, by someone moving in an unnatural way. A kid had slipped into the arcade, bent over, ducking low. Moving from machine to machine like a sniper on the battlefield, he kept under cover but watched all the while. Fearing trouble Fifi watched closely but the kid manoeuvred his way round until he reached a vantage point from which he could survey the air-hockey pair. "This," muttered Fifi aloud, "this is getting seriously weird!"

Fifi became fully absorbed in the drama being acted out on the floor of the arcade. Not being a big sports fan (unless the sport involved boys in Speedos or tight pants) it wasn't the air-hockey that absorbed him but more the silent interaction of the two players, how they reacted to each other quite apart from the rivalry of the game itself. As a boy Fifi had enjoyed very little interaction with other boys – in truth they had tended to avoid any interaction with him at all. Nonetheless Fifi was an expert in reading the signals and the looks the pair exchanged were such as those Fifi had yearned for all through his teenage years. He smiled softly and sighed. Interest was greatly heightened however by the fact that Fifi was not the only one showing interest. The two were the focus of that other pair – the lad behind the pinball machines and the kid at the doorway who was skirting round at a half crouch ... "We love Fifi, Fifi Le Fleur!" The normal hubbub of the arcade suddenly dimmed. "We love the lovely Fifi Le Fleur!" The hubbub dimmed further to silence and all eyes turned towards the arcade doorway. Four exotically attired youths had entered with a choreographed step and a harmonised chant. Jazz hands and high stepping accompanied their tuneful refrain. "We love Fifi, Fifi Le Fleur!" Fifi, in his box, shook his head but a quiet grin spread slowly across his face. He recognised the quartet as arcade regulars who chatted with him, joshed with him and in their own odd way treated him like a normal human being – not something Fifi had encountered much since the age of six. To some this latest escapade would seem to be in shocking bad taste but for Fifi it was heart-warming affection. "Yes, we love the lovely Fifi Le Fleur!" The quartet proceeded across the main thoroughfare of the arcade. The players had mostly stopped and some had stepped aside to make room for the chorus. A few, the more regular habitués, glanced upward to the box to gauge reaction. They saw a grinning Fifi staring down with a look of mock disapproval sneaking in there between grins. It was then that a handclap began and one by one the people in the arcade took up the chant until everyone in the place was staring up, clapping, chanting, cheering. Like some princess Fifi raised his right hand and with a flick of his wrist gave a most regal wave in recognition of the attention. Bruno, who had heard the noise and feared disruption to business, paused half way down the stairway from his office. Fifi now flipped both hands to indicate it was time to pipe down, get back to gaming. There was a cheer and slowly everyone returned to what they had been doing. The quartet removed their boas and their plumed headgear and they too took to the machines. Bruno turned and went back up to his office. Fifi breathed deeply to calm his racing heart and then looked round. The two were still playing at the hockey table but of the other two there was no sign.

The sudden racket alarmed Morris considerably. Even more the subsequent silence as the whole arcade stilled and all attention focussed towards the doorway cabaret. In a panic Morris dived out of sight behind the pinball machines. He had seen Robbie on the air-hockey table playing with that older lad; he had seen the way they looked at each other, the intensity of the game and the intimacy of the glances they exchanged. In a moment they had aroused both his curiosity and his cock. But the sudden noisy entrance stage left intervened. Slowly Morris backed away further, slipping along backwards behind the pinballs. Harry, for his part, had been equally alarmed at the entrance of the exotic boy dancers. It reminded him of a story he had read, a story about street entertainers whose gaudy get-up and raucous chanting had been a diversion, a distraction to take attention away from some nefarious action elsewhere. An alarm bell rang in Harry's head. Something was about to happen, he decided, and he backed away further behind the machines. The inevitable happened. The two lads crept backwards, keeping watch between the machines to see what was going on in the arcade but paying no attention to where they were actually going. And that was when they met up, arse to arse behind the pinball machines. They both stopped. Their hearts beat a little faster. As if caught in a slo-mo vid they turned to see what they had collided into. Their eyes met. They stared. Their expressions changed, turning from apprehension to puzzlement and thence to amusement. "You with them ... them ..." Harry faltered, not sure what to call the song-and-dance act. He certainly didn't want to sound offensive. Was this kid the under-cover operator who was about to break into the machines while all eyes were diverted? "Fuck, no! Do I look like a ..." Now it was Morris's turn to hesitate. Both rather stuck for words they continued to stare at one another. Suddenly Harry grinned. "Hey, maybe we best get out of here? Mean to say, what will people think? I mean if they find a couple of lads hiding behind the ..." "Like making out ...?" "Exactly!" They crept along, one after the other, until they reached the far end of the row of machines. There they paused. "You're avoiding somebody?" conjectured Morris. Harry nodded. "Me too," confessed Morris. "It's that lad ..." Morris leaned across Harry as he spoke. He peered out into the arcade. His cheek brushed against Harry's, his cock grazed against Harry's ass cheek. Feeling the kid's penis against his flesh, Harry pressed back. "Him," muttered Morris. "That lad at the air-hockey." He turned as he spoke. Their faces were close together; their breath mingled and each could smell the other. They hung in that moment, freeze-framed now in uncertain expectation. An eternity seemed to pass in that moment before Harry (reluctantly) broke the spell and turned to look out into the arcade. "The kid at the air-hockey? Huh! And I'm avoiding that lad he's playing with." "So, snap?" "Snap?" "Well, in a way we're both up to the same thing." Harry nodded. "I guess you're right." Yet they hesitated. Why is something neither of them could have explained. In part they were both still thoughtful of a need to stay undercover. But there was, too, a reluctance to break the spell, to move away from the bizarre chance of their meeting. They stood up. They looked each other up and down. Each liked what he saw. "You and that kid there ...? You and him ...?" Harry stumbled with the words but it was clear what he was asking. Instead of answering, Morris turned the interrogation around. "You and that other guy ...? You and him...?" This time the silence between them was brief and was broken as both started to giggle. "Fancy some coke?" "Coke? You mean ... coke ...?" replied Morris with a wink and a glance down at Harry's crotch. Harry laughed. "If you insist. For afters. You can have a dose of this." And as he spoke he hefted his boygear with his right hand.

"Woweeeee!" Jimbo threw his arms in the air to salute his latest score. "Sure gonna whop your ass, boy!" Robbie smiled as his eyes took in the tall form of the boy opposite him. He knew what Jimbo meant but at the same time he couldn't stop his mind wandering. He knew that homo-boys let other boys stick their cocks up their asses. It was how boys fucked. At school the guys had sometimes had a laugh too about stuff they'd seen on the net, things like nipple clamps and cock whips. What did they call it? BDSM? But he had never really thought about getting involved in any of that himself. Not for a minute did he really think that Jimbo was suggesting anything like that but the expression he had used had got Robbie's mind working overtime. "Aye, ya wish! You and whose army?" retorted Robbie, slapping his left butt-cheek as he spoke. "It's your ass is gonna take a pounding." And with that Robbie launched the puck hard and fast across the table. Jimbo stretched to make the return but his movement was reflex for his brain had moved elsewhere. What did the kid mean by that? He seemed too self-assured for a youngster. Jimbo's mind went back to that first meeting at the station, the way the kid had followed them into the toilet, the way the kid had ... well, frankly, had taken charge. Jimbo had assumed without giving it much thought that the initiative would be his today; he'd call the shots; he'd make the running. Now as he reached and stretched he wasn't so sure. "Damn! Missed it." He'd failed to make the return. He needed to keep his mind on the game. He studied his opponent as he prepared to play. From what little he knew it was possible that this kid was way more experienced in boy-sex than he was. The way he'd come in to the toilet that afternoon, all ready for action, like it was something he did all the time. Jimbo blushed slightly for all he had ever done was some pretty low-key messing with Harry. Fuck, he thought, this kid is way out of my league; who's the virgin, who's the Don Juan? "Take that, ya squirt!" Jimbo leaned in to the shot with more force than he really meant. Squirt? Robbie gasped as his mind fled back to that moment when Morris had shook his head to show Robbie that he needn't pull out. He'd felt Morris's lips tighten around the stalk of his rigid penis. He'd felt his penis throb and jerk inside Morris's mouth. He'd felt that intense, overmastering feeling as he unloaded ... Squirt. He'd squirted his boy-seed deep into Morris's throat. Robbie missed the puck which scooted into goal. He bent his knees a little to adjust the pressure of his hardening cock against the fabric of his jeans. "Didn't need back-up then, did I?" Jimbo's voice was full of yah-boo jeering but his eyes were transfixed by Robbie's adjusting. Ever since their encounter at the station Jimbo's thoughts had kept returning to this kid; the boy was attractive, no doubt about that; the boy was well equipped too; but it wasn't that. To Jimbo it was as if his life was a novel and a whole new chapter had suddenly opened up; like in a computer game when you move on to another level. That was it. As if nothing would ever be the same again. Or rather as if he was thirteen again and discovering sex for the very first time. "Luck. Total fluke. Let's stick to what's real, eh?" Real? There was nothing real about any of this. He was a schoolboy, Robbie reflected, who had gone out of his way to avoid any occasion that might veer off in a sexual direction. Just a few weeks ago and he'd have frozen in the school toilets if another boy had come up and stood within two or three urinals of him. He'd have fixed his eyes straight ahead and his flow of pee would have dried up completely. So how come he was here on a date with a boy old enough to be a school prefect? How come he had ... done that (THAT!) with Morris? What was happening to him? He returned the puck. Real? Real, as in actually happening? Jimbo had been reliving that earlier escapade for days; replaying it in his head like some video, over and over again, as if he had programmed it to repeat and repeat and repeat like you might do with a favourite track on a CD. But it wasn't like a scene from a movie that remained the same no matter how many times you played it; this was a memory that changed to suit a mood, a wish; what happened changed to what you thought had happened and changed again to what you wished had happened; in the same way that history rewrites itself the whole thing had moved from reality to something closer to fantasy. "You want real? This real enough for you?" And so saying, Jimbo hefted his manhood with his right hand. Robbie stared and then blushed. Jimbo's hand fell. He felt his face redden. They both had been doing too much thinking.

Keeping well out of sight of the pair they had been spying on Harry and Morris headed out of the arcade and moved further up the High Street towards Toglieri's cafe. It was one of these old fashioned Italian-run cafes which had deliberately stayed behind the times, had become out of favour for a while but had now come back into fashion with the modern taste for the passé. It was a narrow shop. As one entered there was high counter behind which sat Señora Toglieri on a high stool from where she kept an eye on all that went on. Señorita Lucia (who must have been fifty) did the work of serving the ices, making the espressos, sliding her home-made Florentines onto plates. Down both sides of the cafe, running away from the counter was a series of wooden booths, high sided with benches either side of a marble topped table. Here old men could sit either side and play dominoes, or middle aged women could lean towards each other to exchange gossip, or couples could squeeze together to share a sundae and stolen kisses only half-observed by the other customers. The two boys slipped inside. "Hey, Lucia!" cried Harry. "Two cokes please." "Come right up, Mr Harold. No Mr James this day?" Harry shook his head, laid his money on the counter, smiled then lifted the bottles. The pair headed down the passageway and occupied one of the booths which had no one occupying the one opposite. Morris slipped in and Harry hesitated – should he slip in beside Morris as a boy would do if accompanying a girl, or should he sit facing him? He decided on discretion and the latter. "That boy with Jimbo; he at school with you?" Morris nodded and said nothing. "So how come you was following him? You just a nosy cunt or ... you just into him?" Morris looked directly at Harry, trying to assess just how honest he could be. "I read a message he got." "Like a text?" "Well, yeah. He left his mobbie lying around and I ... I was curious who it was so ..." "You read the message. That's what good mates do for one another." Morris looked askance and Harry grinned. "Well, OK, no they don't. It's what nosy cunts do." "Talking of which," said Morris with as much sarcasm as he could muster, "why were you following your one?" "He missed the game. He said he was busy, had other shit to do. Well, we never miss a home game. Not ever. So ..." "You decided to play the nosy cunt," said Morris completing the sentence. Harry slapped his hand down on the table and cried "snap!" Morris banged his hand on top of Harry's and said the same. For longer than they meant they sat with one boy's hand on top of the other's. They stared at each other. It wasn't so much that they had taken an instantaneous liking to one another, it was more that each sensed that the other liked him; there is no surer path to friendship than the belief that the other person likes you. It is from that there wells up a bond. And so it was with Morris and harry as they sat there cosied in their private cubicle. Each took his hand away but with a hesitancy that conveyed reluctance. Each gripped his bottle, raised it to his lips, and all the while neither took his eyes from the other. Then slowly Harry smiled. He raised his foot and stretched across the rub against Morris's leg. The smile became a grin. Morris grinned back and spread his legs. Taking the invitation Harry reached down to flip off his trainer so that his bared foot could trace its path up Morris's leg. Soon his toes began to prod at Morris's crotch as if trying to explore the boy's masculinity. Morris stuck out his lower lips suggestively and, reaching down, took hold of Harry's foot. He rubbed it hard against his now engorging cock. Harry's grin widened. "Nice." Harry reached into his pocket. "You want another coke?" Morris looked puzzled. With his right hand he continued to use Harry's foot to pleasure himself while with his left hand he tilted the bottle he had to indicate it was still half full. There was a clattering as coins dropped from Harry's hand onto the floor. "Oh dear," said Harry in a tone of mock tragedy. "I have gone and dropped the coke money." Then, with a leering grin, he removed his foot and slipped under the marble-topped table. Realising the daft ploy Morris giggled. Gathering up the pennies, Harry crawled over until his face was lodged between Morris's wide-spread legs. The fly was open and parted sufficiently for Harry to see the throbbing boner struggling to free itself of the tight cotton jockeys. The smell seemed overpowering as a mix of urine and sweat assailed Harry's nostrils. He gasped and as he did so he could almost taste cock. Morris brought his knees together, locking Harry's head in position, inches from his still raging penis. It was too much, much too much for Harry, and pre-cum seeped into his brightly striped boxers. "Aw shit," he groaned and pulled back. Morris eased his knees a apart and, trying to rise, Harry thumped his head off the underside of the table. "Fuck." Morris giggled again. As Harry reappeared above Morris leaned across. "You ain't cummed?" "Nope. Well, not yet. But, man, I am so close." "Same." "Mate, that was obvious from what I saw! You wanna take this elsewhere?" "Naw. Why don't we just flip them out and go for it under the table?" "Eh?" Harry's lip curled up in surprise. "Hehe," from Morris. "You could come back to mines. Check out my CD collection." "Deal." "Deal!" At precisely that moment there was a hullabaloo at the door of the cafe. For a second both boys feared that the arcade dancers had moved on but it was worse. Eight small boys in Man U shirts suddenly appeared and squashed themselves into the booth opposite. They instantly began squabbling. "I don't like pizza." "Well it's my party and I like pizza." "So will there be chips?" "No, just pizza. So tough biscuit." "I'll stick to the ice cream then." It was then that the man appeared. He stood in the passageway between the tables and hesitated. Then he sat down at the end of the bench occupied by Morris. "OK if I plank myself here? To watch this crewe?" Without waiting for a reply he turned away to speak to the youngsters. "Pizza in ten. So first. Who wants what to drink?" All eight started talking at once. Harry was adjusting himself and glanced down to reassure himself that a damp patch had not appeared in his trackies. It had, in fact not so much damp as swamp-like. Morris reached down to do up his zipper. It jammed. Morris grimaced and wrenched at it. The man turned round again. "Sorry, lads. Bloody rabble this lot are ..." His voice trailed away as he could not help but notice Morris's stiffness poking out of his fly and Morris's hand fiddling madly in that area. He coughed to cover his embarrassment. The accompanying party of small boys, having decided on their drink choice, had oddly enough fallen silent too and had turned towards party-boy's daddy. Eight pairs of eyes turned to daddy, followed daddy's gaze and alighted on Morris's open fly and barely concealed contents. "He's got a bone on," muttered one of the eight in a muffled sort of gasp. Boys of that age are inclined to share such information heedlessly. Morris went bright scarlet. Harry went purple – what would people think? What the hell would they think had been going on? Daddy went pale. He would rather not have seen this. Indeed he had been preparing not to have noticed. But that was no longer an option as all eight of his entourage had seen very clearly that he had indeed noticed. "We need to go," shouted Harry, the way you do up the volume when embarrassed. "Yeah, in a hurry ... sorry ..." whispered Morris who had gone beyond embarrassed and well towards mortification. Harry slipped out and fled. Daddy rose to let Morris escape. Morris struggled along the narrow space between bench and table. He eased himself out into the passageway. His deflating cock still jutted very prominently from his fly. Eight pairs of eyes followed his every move – although to be more accurate they followed every move of his fascinating crotch. The pair hastened to leave the cafe. It was at this moment that Señorita Lucia came from behind the counter bearing aloft two wooden boards filled with sliced Margherita Pizza, which, sadly, rather obscured her sightline. And just then too, in the way things happen in a fast moving rom-com or used to in an old Whitehall farce, two youths arrived at the cafe door and, too engrossed in their conversation, plunged in without due regard.

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