Even the First

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Even The First - PART TWENTY ONE

THE USUAL WARNINGS APPLY TO THIS TALE.

PLease let me know if you are reading this! CONTACT sharper@inorbit.com WITH FEEDBACK :-)

SEARCH NIFTY FOR sharper@inorbit.com or this link www.bit.ly/1VSsqpI TO READ OTHER TALES BY ME.

REMEMBER TO MAKE YOUR DONATION TO WWW.NIFTY.ORG !!

http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Even The First - PART TWENTYONE

I don't think that time wasted is time wasted. Do you? Because I think that there is only now, and now, and now. Regrets are for the dead.

You know how the moon is there, even though you cannot see it all the time? I mean, obviously you can't usually see it during the day, but even at night it might be below the horizon, or if it is new it is invisible anyway, or it might be hidden by clouds. But it is always somewhere, and might appear at any moment, illuminating for you a sky-dome of brightness.

In this way I waited for Vince to reappear: doing nothing, feeling his presence, waiting, like a dog in a car, waiting though each moment is like the last, changelessly alert, because I wanted him.

All of me wanted him. I wanted him and I wanted his cock. But most of all I wanted him.

I knelt on the floor, resting my chin on the window cill, watching the people come and go: He might have forgotten something and need to return ...

When that got hopeless I looked to the phone hoping he would call to reassure me, perhaps to give me instructions. Despite my attention, it didn't ring.

I walked in circles round the flat, room to room to room, thinking I'd find something that smelt of him. I did: I found discarded clothes that stank of his cum, sweat and arse in a basket in the bathroom. I got them out and looked at them, holding them up, pulling them flat. I found his aftershaves and bottles, Dettol and painkillers, in the cabinet, glancing at my eyes sheepishly in the small mirrored door as I opened it. I used his toothbrush to clean my teeth. His toothpaste reminded me of his kiss. There was a cupboard full of towels, with toilet rolls, cleaning products, and first-aid-type stuff.

I took a shit, watching my turds mixed with his ejaculate spinning in the flush. I cleaned the toilet bowl afterwards.

Everywhere the air smelt of his stale smoke. Even ... even his arse smelt of stale smoke.

I took a shower, massaging my tender sphincter carefully with the jet spray, trying not to excite myself too much. Padding myself dry with his towel was like pressing switches where I could imagine his fingers touching me.

Still naked, I went through to the kitchen where I found the remainders of the food I'd used to cook him a meal the day before, plus some spaghetti, passata, and dried soup, cans of beans, noodles, Marmite, jam, coffee, tea, half a bag of sugar, cornflakes. Stuff like that. Boy food. In the fridge he had some cheese, butter, cans of beer, UHT milk, tomatoes, courgettes, and half a loaf of bread. The small freezer had peas, vodka, and ice.

He had a microwave, a kettle, toaster, washing machine. A cooker. The saucepans and so on were with an ironing board and a broom in the tall cupboard. There were other cupboards with glasses and crockery - nothing special, it looked like he'd picked it all up at a charity shop. Under the sink was the usual cleaning stuff, a red plastic bucket and a squeegee. Nothing unusual. Nothing informative, except that Vince was a normal guy with normal things and all the normal stuff you'd expect in the flat if a normal guy lived alone with nothing much to do except eat and work and go out on the pull.

I made myself a coffee.

Back in the main room I noticed it didn't have any pictures, except one of Vince taken on holiday in the sun. That was on the gas-fire mantlepiece, propped behind a glass pot containing two paperclips, a pin, and a second-class stamp. There was a shell from the seaside, a coral neck-string, and a small black wood-and-metal crucifix on a little stepped wooden stand. I don't think he was religious so perhaps his Mum had given it to him. Did he have family?

Did I?

I didn't want to remember.

I went back into the bedroom. There was his tall mirror; I looked at myself in it, my distant familiar eyes, and observed myself as I stroked a hand over my pecs and then felt between my legs where I'd had him. I was turned on.

I lay back down on the bed, resisting the urge to masturbate, absorbing the strange eroticism and beauty of being in another man's home, quietly occupying the gap made in the world by his existence. Just to be part if it ...

But there was nothing here about his life: The poster of the kickboxer on his bedroom wall was unrevealing, except that he liked kickboxing - and kickboxers. There was the wardrobe, full of clothes for the office - shirts and suits, shoes. I got up to look, but I didn't check his pockets. And there was a chest of drawers with some bits of boy-jewellery on top, a few coins. I looked inside; it was full of his clothes cleaned and flat and ready for use: Tshirts. Underpants. What looked like swimming trunks, patterned with waves (I imagined his wearing them). Socks. Nothing hidden under - he'd trusted me not to steal anything, but what was there to steal? The place was empty, effectively. There was no paperwork anywhere. He had not much else than food and clothes. He must have known I'd find nothing, if I looked, if I'd been that kind of person - and who isn't, if left alone?

Was there a safe hidden somewhere, I wondered? Not that it mattered!

I straightened the bed. Then I looked underneath it. He kept his kickbox stuff here - gloves and a sports bag. I put the gloves on the bed; they looked like two blood-red insects that had curled up to die. Then I pulled the bag onto the bed next to them and looked inside: deodorant, shampoo, talc, moisturiser, a towel; stuff like that, plus all his manly gym and kickbox stuff. It smelt of sweat and washing powder. I felt like I'd struck gay gold when I found a manky jockstrap - holding it up to admire it, I noticed where it had worn round the edge, where it had stretched to contain him, and its strings of puckered tired elastic that would have pulled beneath his buttocks. It smelt clean, but well-used clean like repeated washes were gradually failing to defeat a build up of rank crotch. I put it on the bed like a trophy, spreading its loops like handles, and then pulled out his shorts. There were two pairs: One pair was thick black cotton with a wide white line down the side. I took a deep sniff and laid them out next to the jockstrap, patting them flat where his cock would go. Then I held up the other pair, which were silky shining blue with a fat gold elasticated waistband and his name, V I N C E, in giant golden letters across the front - just like the guy in the bedroom poster had his name embroidered across. I also found a couple of xs white-ish tshirts that had turned grey in the wash.

I put all of these things on the bed and stared at them. Everything reminded me of his crotch. It was so fucking sexy.

Vince was just so fucking sexy.

I wanted him so much.

I wanted him.

I picked up the glittering shorts and I put them on.

They were a bit tight on me, round the backside. I looked at it in the mirror. Huge. Basically, I don't have a kickboxer's body so I looked a bit dumb.

Stood in front of the mirror, I raised a leg as if about to land a foot in the face of my opponent. I felt the silk slide and stretch. It might split. So I lowered my leg and took them off. Interesting experiment.

I looked at the dark red walls: Could this be my new home forever? Perhaps I could wear his clothes, though he was slimmer, and I had these gym arms - I folded them and gripped them, stressing the bicep. When was the last time I'd worked out? I shoved everything of Vince's back into his sports bag and replaced it under the bed. I needed to take my mind off my own erection, so I did some press-ups, squats and crunches. I'd got up to about 600, but my back and arm muscles were still hungry; I needed something to lift, but I couldn't find anything, except a clothes-iron; I picked it up and pumped it for a while in each hand. Useless. Light as a feather. I'd need fix access to some weights, and quickly.

I went through and did the washing up from the day before. His bowl, his cutlery, his cup - these were more things, like his clothes, that meant "him" to me. People leave their plates differently: some wipe the plate, some leave a mess; some leave large dregs in the bottom of a cup, some drain it completely. I was learning him.

I'd put a saucepan on to soak and now it was easy to clean.

I made myself coffee and buttered toast, with Marmite.

The stuff I'd worn was still in the dryer. Hadn't needed it after all. Now it would be all creased. I took them out, trousers, socks and shirt, got the iron and the board, put the shirt on the board, sprinkled it with water and ironed it, folded it all up neatly and put it on the sofa. Sat on the sofa.

Got up. Under the TV, next to the wifi box, I found videos and magazines but not the sort he would have wanked to, and no laptop - he must've taken it in his briefcase. Perhaps he surfed porn on his phone. I wanted to know everything he was into so I could be into the same everything, but there weren't any clues to that. Except for the kickbox.

I got the remote. Sat on the sofa again. Switched on the telly and channel surfed the daytime rubbish. At last an episode of an old action detective show came on and I was content to be distracted by it for an hour. I held the phone by me on the sofa, at the extent of its cord - I needed to find out Vince's plans before I could go anywhere, but I needed to shop.

I could hear neighbours in the flat upstairs walking about.

Ohh ... and if I was going to buy anything, I needed some money!

• • • Sometimes it's years before you realise what some things mean. Little details: You gradually gain hold of their significance, and then you think, "If only I'd known then ... what I know now."

Oh well, can't be helped.

You're probably thinking, "I bet there's a shoebox with all kinds of secrets in that Dougie didn't find. A secret stash. Did he look on top of the wardrobe? Did he look properly under the bed? Was there some space under some piece of furniture where he didn't look, perhaps? You'd think, no one has a flat and no items of personal property in them like a passport, birth certificate, bank statements, bills ... letters from people, and souvenirs from moments he treasured!"

Well yeah, except: I didn't have any of that stuff! Paul had taken my squaddie bag, with everything I had in it, and I don't know what he'd done with it. To tell you the truth, I'd forgotten that bag.

So I wasn't thinking, "Find this, find that." I was just looking. I was just poking about cs I was lonely and I missed him so much. Actually I did find an electricity bill lying about.

I just wanted him back.

I had to wait.

I must have fallen asleep because I woke up suddenly scared of everything, scared I'd get caught by the police, or Paul, or God, or the sergeant, the squaddies, the enemy, somebody else for something, some guilt I couldn't identify; then I thought I was burning alive; and the phone was ringing. I reached out through the flames and snatched it up, unable to remember who I was. I put the receiver to my ear, thinking it was Paul.

It was Vince. "Hey man!" "Vince!" I said, almost crying. "Hey, man, what's wrong? Y'ok love?" I sucked in a breath. "Yeh. S'nothing. Are you ok?" I was sweating. "Yeh 'cept I can't get rid of me hardon can I?" "Oh ... I ... sorry." He laughed. "Don't apologise. Not your fault - 'cept it is!! Haha. What are you doing? Wanking I'll bet!" "I was waiting for your call." "Well here it is." "Yeh, Vince" (it felt so sexy using his name) "I was thinking about, that ... to eat ..." "I was thinking we'd go somewhere, out somewhere. There's a place." "I, I haven't got any money, Vince." "I know that. Do you need any money?" "Only that ... no, I guess not." "You guess not." "Not really." "You going out?" "I'm frightened I'll be spotted." "Best not yet. Stay in. Relax. Are you bored?" "A little bit. I might go out for a walk." I waited for him to tell me not to go out. "Good idea. Get some exercise," he said. "Go out. Get some fresh air. Have a run. Clothes dry properly?" "Yeh, they're dry." "Put them on. Go for a walk. Remember your keys. Come back in time for six. I'll be there. I'll fuck you, then we'll go out, eat, maybe hit a bar. Back not too late. Fuck. Sleep. How's that sound?" "We could phone out." "Or we could phone out. Phone out, fuck, eat, fuck, bed. S'up t'you." We both laughed. "Ok. I'll see you at six," he said. "Six ... Vince! What's your number?" "What you want that for?" "Case I need to phone you, or something." "That's not a good idea. Things can get a bit heated here. Just hold on. I'll phone back now and then. If you don't answer, no problem." "Ok," I said. "No problem."

I heard him kiss the phone, and he hung up. I felt totally lost.

I made myself some more toast and Marmite and watched some more crap TV. I didn't want to go back to sleep, but I dozed anyway. When I woke up it was something like mid afternoon. The day was flying past and I had nothing to show for it. It reminded me of days I'd spent at Paul's, doing a spot of housework and then waiting in the basement for Paul to return, he'd give me a punishment fuck and then I'd get him his dinner. How was this going to be any different? Hopefully the fuck would be more two-sided. Hopefully everything would be better.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

END OF Even The First - PART TWENTYONE