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YOU KNOW HE'S SUB, DON'T YOU? - PART 36
As I was running I couldn't help thinking Po's hickey had really fucked up my evening! Why did he have to do that to me?
My place is through town quite a long way, like I've said, and I wasn't sure what way I'd be followed, or even if I was followed. I felt bad, to be running, but I didn't see much choice. But I also felt elated; running was, you know, like a runner in the Olympics. Bronze.
So I ran straight down the main street past the Post Office, and took a corner into Jayne Mews cause I thought if they are on those bikes they might catch up and I was best if I got into dark cover - which Jayne Mews is cause its one and only streetlight has been out for ages and there's bins behind the restaurants where I could hide behind if I needed to.
Good plan except Jayne Mews comes out in Frobisher Avenue what is just about at the wrong end of, you guessed it, Hunter Street.
That wouldn't matter normally but at this time of night, and it was so warm, people were about - I don't mean people-people, I mean, you know, the kind of people who hang around in Hunter Street - so as I careered out of Jayne Mews and sharp right into Frobisher Avenue, I'm almost immediately at the end of Hunter Street and, of course, there's this bloke just walking down to go into Hunter Street at the same time, and of course I run right into him. I mean, right into him bang! like that and almost knock him over, and me! Except that to catch himself from falling over he grabbed onto me and held onto me like he'd caught me. He wasn't young and he wasn't fit so he kind of needed to grab me to stop falling over but I got that he was, you know, kind of glad he had bumped into me if you know what I mean, once he realised that it wasn't deliberate.
It was dark but I could see he was like an older version of Baldy, you might say, with small narrow eyes and a sport shirt that stretched over the bulge of his stomach like a tablecloth over a balloon. "Oi! Where you off to in such a hurry fella?" "Sorry, sorry Sir I wasn't looking I ..."
He took a breath. "Yeah apparently! You do need to look where you fucking going, man! Where are you going anyway?"
He didn't let me go, apparently glad to hold onto me cause his hands were quite a grip and I couldn't just get free all at once - like I wanted to keep running didn't I? (Though I'd pretty well by now sure I was not being followed by anyone at this stage!)
I was panting, obviously, and sweating, which he could feel, and it was running down my face, so I tried to get free to keep running but also I thought I could probably take a short rest, and a breather to get myself together.
He held me and I let him do that - rather than beat him up and run off (which I could have done cause he was so unfit, really, compared to me anyway) and looked at me like he realised something, like he'd found something he'd lost. His hand on my arm was tight and another hand, just like it was natural to cop a feel, cupped round my balls, like it was a mistake but quickly held on there, and held tight.
"Hunter Street?" he said, like I was asking directions and I knew what it meant. "You looking for Hunter Street?"
He looked at me sort of like he had just found me in a bag he thought was empty, and then stepped back a bit and to one side where a tree on the corner cast a big shadow; pulling me with him not like I had no choice, but kind of like we both needed to hide. "You a fag?" he said. I didn't respond immediately.
"Hey are you a fag? Your off to Hunter Street in a pretty hurry, at this time of night, and no one else is, so are you a fag?" "A what?" - like I didn't even know what a fag is!
"Where you going in such a hurry, then if you're not a fag? Here. Here. Come where it's less open. You better not be one of those soldiers!" "I don't know ... I ...what?" Now I honestly didn't know what he meant.
He grabbed me by my shirt pulled me behind a bit of fence where there was a bit of waste ground, or a garden or something, and we were off the street, just, then - cause it was just light enough to see - pulled my shirt open at the neck, before I could resist, exposing the top of my left arm and looked carefully at the muscle there.
"Ok. You're ok," he said. "What?" "Sometimes guys have a mark and you know what that means?" "No!" Like, I didn't know what he was talking about but also, like what the fuck did I care - except I was worried he had torn my shirt.
He hadn't. He'd just pulled out the top buttons from their holes.
"You don't know what that means? Oh you don't? You don't know about that? Oh well, best you don't. You don't want to be one of their soldiers I'm assuming. It's no harm, but we've had runaway soldiers around here and they cause a lot of trouble with their messed up lives. But, no, you're good. You haven't got any marks or anywhere else have you? You'd tell me if you did wouldn't you? Wouldn't you?" I didn't know what he meant. "No. Nothing," I said. "What are you talking about?"
"No matter. Just so long as you aren't. I don't want to get involved in that. Nor should you. But I had to ask, to check." "Check what?" "It's complicated fella. Don't worry. Don't worry. You're clear, that's what matters. So let's see now. What have we got?" He looked me up and down.
"So you a fag or what? I'm asking again." He was holding me by the arms now, checking me over visually, then he pulled me against his stomach, feeling me up intrusively and, to be honest, I liked the way he did it cause I thought like I was passing this rest to see how good I was, physically and I thought like, 'Yeah I'm fitter than you are and it turns me on that I'm so fit and you like it."
"Yes you are a fag," he said, having confirmed it for himself. "Dressed for trade ..." he smiled.
The feel of his hands was kind of brutal, but in a soft, searching kind of way, like he was just enjoying the feel of me in his hands, and like he was getting a feel for what I was like. I like to be held. I like to be touched.
"... are you trade?" "No!" I said. (Like I'd charge!) "No? So you're not? But you are ..." He groped my crotch again and now he felt how hard I was and he seemed pretty super pleased. "... So you are a fag; yeah that's fag meat all right!" He pinched me and groped me hard. I flinched.
"You got a problem?" "No. But I'm not used to ..."
"Not used to what? Better get used to it faggot. Not used to what?" "Just meeting men in the street," I said. "I mean, no offence."
"None taken. You're inexperienced." "I suppose I am."
"But you know what you want." "I think ..."
"You think you know what you want?" "I think so."
"Yeah. Not sure. Men often think they know what they want. But sometimes you give them something a bit different and they find out they like that as well," he said cryptically. "You're quite old," I said in reply.
"What do you care? Is there a cock you wouldn't suck?" I considered this for a second and smiled guiltily as I realised that there probably was not.
"What's your name?" "Jason." "Jason. That's a good name. I'm Derek." "Hi Derek." We didn't shake hands cause his hands were all over me and my hands were holding on to him as well, round his waist. I liked the fewlmof his belly pressing against mine.
"So. You gonna sort me out Jason? Hey? You gonna sort me out? Let's sort me out then!" He put his face in my face and kissed me, mouth smelling of stale like cheese and smoke, lager and bread. His tongue and mine licked each other; I was eager, and a stranger, and I put my tongue inside his mouth, trusting him, letting him suck on it, and bite it. He put his hands up my shirt, hurting me where he pinched my flesh, and felt my waist, clearly pleased.
"Trim as a stoat," he said.
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END OF YOU KNOW HE'S SUB, DON'T YOU? - PART 36