My Adventure with Dean

My Adventure With Dean

Chapter Three

If you like the story (or even if you don't) please consider a donation at https://donate.nifty.org/

(still a bit new at this, would love advice/ feedback - fridayfrankly@yahoo.com)

(I will actually get to the sex in the next part. But please don't skip this one. There is, at least, a fair amount of Shared Male Joyousness)

If I had to guess, I'd say it was two or three in the morning. The hen party, singing 'Dancing Queen' in the street, has thankfully fallen silent. Heavy curtains block the fluorescent light below the window. Inside, the room is in a state of not-quite-dark, in the way of hotel rooms at night. The stand-by light of the television, the periodic flash of the heat detector allow me to make out Dean's sleeping form. He lies on his side on the single bed, one arm curled under his pillow. If I wanted to, I could climb in front of him, feel his arms around me as they were last night. The temptation to do so is immense.

For some time, before he slept, I lay with my head on his shoulder, my hand on his chest, feeling the closeness that, I now realise, I have been craving for a long time. Allowing myself to relax into him: the protection of his arm around me, his gentle kisses on the top of my head, his right hand stroking my back.

My hands, running through the forest of dark blond hair that grows in the centre of his chest. My thigh over his. My mind quiet - until it wasn't.

Last night...

I lifted my head, put my lips to his, traced my hand across the stubble of his chin, up to his ear, playing with the lobe. Exploring the shorter hair at his neck, up into the curls that grow on top. Stroking his hair between my fingers, whilst he lifted his right hand to the back of my head, looking into my eyes. The physicality of his body on my body, the thrill of his touch, the warmth of his presence. As he kissed me, gently, he smiled.

My lips parted instinctively, to let in his tongue, but he simply kissed my mouth again, softly, moving his face away.

Straight away, I thought I'd made a mistake. I'd misinterpreted all of this. Was he playing with me? Teasing me? Knowing he could get some attention from the gay boy? That surge of shame. The urge to escape him, escape myself. As I recoiled into myself, started to retract my body, he held me, gently, and said:

'Yes. Please. I want this. I have, for a long time. And I'd like to wait one more night. Until we've talked, about everything, and you can make a proper decision.' As he spoke, he reached across his body, his left arm joining his right in holding me.

Irritation, replacing the shame. Why now, Dean? Why, when you've had all night to talk to me, and used it to flirt, beguile, discuss anything other than whatever is developing in front of us?

Of course, I didn't say this. I said something like 'Um...okay. Yeah, it might be better if we don't rush things.' And I lay and wondered if there would be another opportunity. Whether this was a gentle brush-off, a panic about what he'd started and what he might wish to continue. If this was my one chance with Dean, I'd be happy to rush into anything he suggested.

Again, as if he realised:

'This isn't a one-off, Nick, unless you decide you want it to be. Tomorrow, I want to hold you, and kiss you, and be with you. I don't want you to feel guilt, or regret, as I touch you - or after we've...' He lets this tail off.

'After we've...?'

'Yeah. I'd like to do that. If you would.'

Frustrating... 'Do that'. I wondered if this meant what I hoped. And, perhaps out of self-preservation and perhaps out of spite, I didn't give him a direct answer. I said 'I think we should have that conversation. I don't want you to regret me either.' A pseudo-chaste kiss on his lips as I wriggled out of his grasp, shifted across to my own bed, picked up my neglected can of beer.

He reached towards me: 'I won't regret being with you Nick. Unless it means hurting you.'

I'm pretty sure he meant it. As he spoke, his blue eyes searched my face for reassurance, acceptance. I gave him something non-committal, stroked his hand, drank my beer.

We talked about marathons, and watched American TV. Eventually, I had the relief of noticing him fall asleep.

And now, I'm lying here, wishing I could sleep too. I'm supposed to be running 26.2 miles in just under 6 hours.

I move to the armchair, pull my duvet with me, grab the cushion. Sitting up straight, there's something reassuring about the wings of the chair around me, the softness underneath me. I open the curtains slightly. Beyond the streets are fields. Beyond these, a wood. A half moon above.

I remember watching the moon, through the curtains, at my grandmother's house. The fluffy pink blanket on her spare bed. A sense of trust, of being entirely safe. I think about Dean's arms - strong, protective, gentle. I think about my head on his shoulder. I feel my eyelids start to close.

I wake to his touch: his left hand on my shoulder, his right stroking my hair. Then discomfort, pins and needles, as my body moves in the chair, stretches.

'Nick, it's 7 o'clock.' He kisses my face, my lips. He puts his arms around me, holds me to him. I sense he is looking for reassurance, as much as providing it. But, the need is shared. I touch his face with my palm.

He must have removed his trousers in the night, although he kept his shirt on. I love his legs. An ex-footballer's legs - strong, toned, covered in curly, blond hairs that start at the feet, becoming thicker and darker as they continue up his legs: light brown fuzz spreading across them and up, under the white trunks he is wearing, to the places I've yet to see. He has chosen his underwear well. It shows off the light tan which persists on his skin, even in Winter. It also frames his cock - stiffening as he senses me admiring him.

I resolve not to touch this part of him. Yet. But I allow myself to reach behind him. I run my hands from his calves to his thighs. I feel the finer hairs of the lower leg, and the courser hairs on his thighs against my fingers, and feel the thrill of his maleness, his strength:

'If you knew how often I'd ogled these legs...'

He allows himself a grin 'Maybe I had some idea, Nick. But thank you.'

And somehow things feel back to normal. Whatever 'normal' is. I still have no idea what's going on, but I have returned to him. I am with him, open to whatever we might share: 'Put the kettle on, eh?'

He smiles, and points to the cup of coffee he's already put on the bedside table. I blow him a kiss as I lift it to my lips.

I pick up my shorts, underwear, and - suddenly conscious about dressing in front of him - head for the bathroom, feeling his eyes follow me. Remembering that I, too, am clad only in underwear and a T-shirt. I shower with the door half-closed, unsure how I'm expecting him to act, and feeling a sense of disappointment when chooses to respect my privacy, rather than join me under the spray. As I dry myself, pull on my lower garments, I realise I've left my race T-shirt by the bed.

I have been unsure of Dean observing my body. He has seen it before but not now, like this, when his regard means something new, and strange, and important.

A cautionary glance in the mirror. Pull in the stomach. Although it really doesn't need it. Stand tall. Walk back into the room, trying to seem nonchalant. Catch his eye. I blush. He smiles.

'You look great, Nick'. He has moved to sit in the armchair, sipping his coffee. As he watches me, I approach, instinctively, standing before him: awkward, unsure. It is his turn to reach out, to touch me. He sits forward in the chair, tentatively runs a finger across the hairs that grow lightly across my thigh, up to my stomach, into my belly button.

I bend down, kiss his hand, and as I turn and face away, I place it my upper thigh. He moves it up, as I hoped he would, to my arse. Through the lycra fabric of the underwear, I feel his skin on mine. His thumb caressing me as his palm makes its way up, one finger sliding between my buttocks, tantalisingly close to my hole. I feel it twitch, as I hear him stand up, and postition himself behind me.

Shorter than me, his lips touch my collar bone, my lower neck. His hands move under my armpits, reaching around to the front of me, and caressing my chest, my nipples.

I feel his erection pressing into me. He moans softly. I lift his hand to my mouth, sucking first his thumb, then his forefinger. Feeling the roughness of his skin against my lips, the hairs on his fingers against my tongue. I move the tips of my teeth over his fingers, as he slides first one, then another, in and out of my mouth.

My phone rings. It is Danny.

I ignore it. I reach behind to where I can feel his dick against me. Holding it through his underwear, I wrap my hand around the shaft, beginning to run my fingers down towards his balls.

His phone rings. It is Danny.

We both ignore it for a moment. He starts to push his cock up against my hand, still exploring my mouth with his fingers.

The phone rings again. The sound of the second alarm I set, in case I slept through the first one.

It keeps ringing, and we move apart, as I grab it, switch it off, notice the text from Danny - my friend, his wife. 'Hope you slept okay. I'll be thinking of you today. You can do it! P.S. Tell Dean we're all fine here.'

A rush of guilt, and fear...that comment about sleeping - does she know something? I see Dean checking his phone, looking over at me - 'Danny says you'll do great today, and she's thinking of you'.

A pause. There is so much unsaid. I open my mouth to speak, but don't. He comes to stand next to me, takes my hand, sits down on the bed, gently pulling me down so I'm sitting next to him:

'I wasn't going to talk about this before the race, but maybe I should. I can see you're thinking about it.'

He's right. My mind is throwing up one possibility, then another. I wait for him to continue.

'Things are okay. You and me. We're okay. This...oh...'

He stares at his feet for a while, then, slowly: 'Me and Danny. We're...just friends, now. We have been for some time...She' -

Again, he looks at the floor, at the wall, anywhere but me, but he holds onto my hand:

'She's seeing someone else...A woman'.

'Oh, Dean.' I take his hand in both of mine, and cradle it, rub it, try and soothe him. I realise that, on some level, I was expecting something like this. I don't feel a sense of surprise.

At university, Danny had dated a couple of women. We'd met at an LGBT night. She introduced me to some guy she knew. I'd chatted to him, shared a beer, before he disappeared. She was very apologetic for fixing me up with 'that asshole', and we got talking. About life, art, travel, stories. I promised to return the favour by finding her an unsuitable woman.

And, she had dated a couple of women who fitted that description, and a couple of guys for whom 'unsuitable' was, perhaps, something of a compliment. And then came Dean. He was kind, gentle, no flamboyance or artifice - grounding. But Danny didn't do well on the ground. I'd noticed they touched each other less recently, when I saw them. They sat apart. Dean would usually find an excuse to sit next to me. I had just thought things were tough. In our own way, we've all struggled over the last couple of years.

But now - she's seeing a woman. And me and Dean are sitting on the bed, holding hands.

I touch his face, and he moves his lips across to kiss my fingers.

'Nick, I'm sorry. Maybe I should't have told you that. You have a race to think about.'

And I do. But I would have been thinking about him anyway: 'I'm sorry this has happened to you, Dean. Thank you for telling me.'

'Thank you, Nick.'...And he's lost in thought again, holding my hand absently to his lips for a time, before, suddenly, jumping to his feet, breaking the moment: 'Right! You have a marathon to do. And some unappetising breakfast to eat'. He stands, and I follow him. We pull clothes on, go to breakfast. I move my mind to the practicalities of the day: porridge, tea, a walk across the city to the start line. My mind seems to prefer to linger elsewhere. His feelings. His split with my best friend. His fingers in my mouth.

We keep talk light over breakfast, but there is a sense of shared space. Our shared space. I touch his hand. He stands behind me as we queue for food, so nobody can see as he caressses my bottom. When we sit, I rest my foot on his under the table.

We leave the hotel, follow people dressed in shorts and vests across the city. As we stand to cross the road, he puts his arm around my lower back, pulling me to him, and I lean my head against his.

We can hear the P.A. system pumping out 'Don't Stop Me Now' before we see it. Crowds of people appear queuing for portaloos, stretching, chatting loudly. We pick our way through them, into the square - excited, agitated runners on all sides. Things feel quiet, in the centre of the hubbub. We stand face to face. He is wearing jeans, a blue hoodie that accentuates his eye colour, a woolly hat that covers up his beautiful blond hair. He takes my sweater from me, hands me the energy bar that, theoretically, will provide a boost in the last 10 miles.

As he speaks, he touches the paper on my chest bearing the race number, moving his hand down my ribcage to my stomach: 'I am so proud of you, Nick...' A pause, as he looks at me: 'You'll do great today.'

I feel myself flush, self-conscious joy at his words: 'Thank you.'. He puts his arms around me, hugs me close, and then as we part, holds my face to his, stretching up to kiss me: 'Good luck. I'll be looking out for you.'.

I wish I could just stay here, in amongst all these people, with his lips on mine, his hands on my face. As he moves back I, reluctantly, do the same, standing, wavering.

He picks up on this uncertainty, my need for encouragement: 'Right...26.2 miles! Go and do it!'. A cheeky grin, and a squeeze of my bum, before he stands back, waves. This is my cue. I jump up and down a couple of times, then wander into the crowd with a stupid grin on my face.

Find the right starting pen - 3 and a half hours. I feel the impulse to move back, to be cautious, to under-sell myself, and I resist this urge. Time seems to pass slowly. The speakers pump out ABBA as people around me do all sorts of warm up exercises. A wiry, strong-looking woman wearing a fairy costume over her running kit comes to stand next to me. She has the name 'Angie' printed across her race number.

Angie waves her wand in my direction: 'first time?'

I manage a smile in return 'Yeah'

'This is number 12 for me. I said I'd stop after one but I just kept going... You nervous?'

My eyes drift across to the spectators at the start line. I can't see him in the crowd, but I know that he'll be there: 'Yeah, a little...you?'

'Always. If you weren't anxious that would be odd. It's lovely that your partner is here for you...My friends are out there, somewhere, but I wish there was someone special waiting at the end.' She bounces on her toes, waves her wand around her head, pulls at the taffeta of her costume: 'he's very handsome, by the way, your fella. Have you known each other long?'

Angie asks a lot of questions: 'Yes...well, no...Well, yes and no.' seeing that I'm smiling and laughing, she joins me in doing so.

'Well, I'd hang onto that one if it were me.'...There's a shuffle forward, as the theme to the film 'Rocky' belts out, A countdown, led by some local radio DJ. Angie wishes me good luck, and vanishes ahead of me as the klaxon goes. I can see her wand waving above the heads of other runners as, somewhat dazedly, I stumble forwards.

I hear her words: 'I'd hang onto that one if it were me...' If only it were that straightforward.

I've done long runs before...20, 22, even 24 miles. The first few miles of this one are different. The spectators waving, the sound of cheering, the noise of feet hitting asphalt. There is something comforting, running amongst all these people.

My mind settles. The breath, in and out. The normality, familiarity of this activity. I drink water, I keep smiling, I pace myself. I see him.

It feels almost unexpected. He jumps up and down, whooping - his voice higher than I've ever heard it: 'Whooo! Yeah! Go, Nick, you can do it!'. The euphoria is infectious. The group of women next to him join in 'Go...on...Nick...you...can...do...it!' I notice that I feel joy, not embarrasment. I run over, hug him, hold him for a minute. He grins, pats my arse: 'Go! I'll see you in 14 miles!'

For a period of around half an hour, I run alone. Try and keep the breath regular, enjoy the countryside, as far possible. My body is starting to stiffen, sag a little. I let my mind wander. I think of York: hillsides, cathedrals, Vikings, Roses. Vikings in cathedrals with roses. I start to laugh at my own image.

When I next see him, I'm still in this state of semi-delirium. He is chatting to a couple of young, cool-looking types. They cheer and clap as I run up to him, kiss his face all over, run my hands up and down his body, and just for a second lift my leg up and wrap it around him. I think he might be blushing, but seems delighted, returning my kiss as I pull away and keep going. I hear him shouting that he wants more of this attention when he sees me at the finish.

The last 10k: my legs feel tight, my shoulders ache. The fatigue gets harder to ignore. I keep going by thinking of several things: the long runs, and gym sessions with Danny; the promise I made to myself to get over Carl; how it might feel to complete this race and see Dean, waiting at the end.

Into the city: towards the finish. I find just a tiny surge of energy. At 26 miles, I see him jumping up behind the crowd, waving. I hold the image for the next 300 metres. As I cross the line I'm handed a medal, a goodie-bag. I look for him. The fatigue in my body is balanced by a sense of joy, and calm. I wend my way through the finishers, smiling, exchanging congratulations. There he is!

Angie has found him first. She's clearly ditched her wand at some point, and her 'dress' is torn, but she's smiling and waving. She stands back as I hobble towards him, arms in the air. He cheers, she cheers, we all cheer. I am light-headed, I am full of joy, I bounce up and down, laughing, whooping. I jump up, hands on his shoulders, face to face, legs around his waist.

He's not expecting this. He gasps, stumbles slightly, and as I move to apologise and climb down he says 'no, I've got you.' For a few seconds I look into his eyes, feeling the strength in his shoulders, as the muscles of his arms strain to hold me. This time, when I open my mouth receive his kiss, he doesn't hold back. His tongue enters my mouth, filling it, exploring. He holds it there while I suck it, my mouth clamped to his. The ecstasy of him inside me. I feel him tense his muscles once or twice to hold me in place, but I know he can do it. My strong guy.

As we slow, disengage, become more aware of our surroundings, I see Angie and her pals smiling at us. I sense they've got some kind of vicarious thrill from this and I notice I'm happy, proud, that they saw it. She beckons us over for a photo, before grabbing her friends, shouting something about gin, and saying goodbye.

Dean takes my hand as we find our way away from the finish. He is telling me how well I've done. I tell him I think I finished close to the time I wanted, we talk about pizza, and beer, and celebration.

And these celebrations sound good. But I have something else in mind.