Lust for Glory

Tuesday nights mean only one thing to Gracie, William, Mark and me: Lust.

Oops. Actually, that’s a bit of a Freudian one – not lust, Lost.

Lost, the TV show, that is. Every Tuesday Gracie, Mark and William pile round my place and we all watch the show. And even though we don’t always follow the plot all that closely, it always, always seems to hold our attention. Mark, Gracie and William are all super hot for Doctor Jack, whereas I, not being one to follow the herd, am torn between Sawyer and Sayid. Although, I say I’m torn, but really, why choose?

We have a strict rule during Lost nights, no talking during Lost. It’s complicated enough without unnecessary distractions. Not that we’re that into the plot – as I said. But rules are rules and even random lustful comments have to be stored up for the ad break. So, because of that, tonight I’ve made sure that we are all sitting on the sofa with our G and T’s a good twenty minutes before the show’s start time, because I have something wanted to talk about: Lust.

Really, this time. Except, actually, his name is James.

James. A friend of William and Mark’s. A very, very lovely friend indeed. I’d met James in the pub with Mark and William about two weeks ago and I hadn’t been able to think of much else since. I was smitten.

The three of us had met up in the pub – without Gracie – for a post mortem on a highly significant event. Mark and William had, after months of bribery, corruption and general skulduggery, managed to get themselves a pair of invites to a very special party. A big dirty gay party. One of the biggest and most notorious ones anywhere, held in some big fancy house somewhere out on the South Downs.

I was, being something of a fan of Mark and William’s nefarious activities, desperate for the lowdown. I wasn’t disappointed. When they described events to me, well, ‘party’ seemed to be a rather tame word for the event in question. Orgy would have been a little more appropriate. And, big nutso gay orgy where loads of oiled up men writhed around, under, over and in and out of each other would probably have really hit the nail on the head.

Nice.

Naturally, I pumped them both mercilessly for a full and frank account. When they gave me the description I craved, room by room, one thing fascinated me more than any other. Sure, I loved hearing about the orgy rooms, and the dungeon and the sex swing and the go-go boys. But none of those things were as endlessly fascinating to me as the Glory Hole.

‘So, it’s like, just a hole? Like, in a wall.’ I said.

‘Um, well.’ William pouted and screwed up his face with the supreme effort of remembering it just right. ‘It’s more like a big box. In this case. I think sometimes it is a hole in a wall. Well it can be all sorts of things, but at the party it was a big box, about five foot square with a hole in it, like the size of this.’ He held up his thumbs and forefingers, touching the tips to make a circle.

‘And you just stick your…’

‘You just stick your dick in it,’ Mark laughed.

‘And someone inside…’

‘Someone inside sucks it.’ Mark again.

‘What if they, um, what if they don’t want to suck it.’

William looked at me like does-not-compute. ‘Well, the person inside, see, they’re kind of in there because they do want to, so that doesn’t really come up.’

I sighed. Fuck, but that was horny. Something about the idea of the glory hole just seemed to embody everything I found so compelling about dirty anonymous sex. The idea that men just stuck their cocks into this hole not knowing or caring who was inside to service them, spoke to a dark place inside me. And even more vividly arousing – perhaps because I don’t have the required piece of anatomy to be the one sticking myself into the hole – was the thought of being the person inside, anonymously taking whatever was offered.
And then, before I really felt like the subject was exhausted, Mark shouted, ‘Ooh, there’s James. Hey James.’
And this blond head at the bar had turned around and I swear, I heard birds singing. (And I don’t just mean Kylie and Danni on the jukebox.)

James took my breath away. In that moment – with the boys’ salacious talk of glory holes still buzzing in the dirty part of my brain – he had it all. Beautiful, witty (okay, I found that out a bit later), single and, as Mark and William couldn’t wait to point out, gay. Or in Mark’s later words, ‘So gay. Gay, gay, gay, gay, gay, gay, gay! Get it? Gay!’

And although I don’t hold by those kinds of aphorisms usually; the type of things about all the handsome men being gay or gay men taking better care of themselves. That stuff. I reckon all that is just made up to make women feel bad. And, me, I’m not that big a fan of feeling bad. Not when there are so many other great ways to feel. However, it was very true that James was both handsome and gay. Very handsome and very gay. (‘Gay, gay, gay, gay, gay, gay, gay!’, in fact, let us not forget.) And I wanted him nasty bad.

William and Mark – I should point out – I didn’t want. Still don’t want. Even thought their really would have been no problem there, because William and Mark weren’t so much gay as sexually gluttonous. A pair of dirtier boys I had never yet met. Sometimes I thought that Mark was probably properly bi, and William was mostly gay but open to opportunity, but I never really figured it out. Needless to say though, our combined dirtiness (dirty to the power of three) was probably the cement that held our friendship together. But we never took all the frisson and flirting into the bedroom. There was a line. An unwritten rule. It never quite went that far. Although, actually I’m pretty sure it spilt over into the bedroom between Mark and William, but not between me and either or them. Or both of them. (Well, okay, I’d snogged both of them. Separately. But what girl hasn’t snogged her gay(ish) male mates? Just as an experiment.)

But I’d always insisted that Mark and William were just my fag bangles. Or maybe I was theirs. I never quite figured out how that term was meant to go.

But anyway, after two weeks of obsessing about delicious James, I decide enough is enough. Nothing ventured and all that. So making sure I’ve got a good ten minutes before Lust-I-mean-Lost starts I tell William and Mark and Gracie of my enduring passion.

‘Angel,’ William says, after I outline my angst, ‘James is gay. Forget it.’

‘But, but, but,’ I say, stalling for time while I wait for something to appear in my brain. ‘But he might be one of those gay guys who sleep with women.’ Rather like the two I’m looking at right now.

‘He isn’t.’

‘But he might want to sleep with a woman just once, just to check he doesn’t like it.’

Mark shakes his head. ‘If, and that’s a giant size “if” with flashing neon lights on the top, but if he did want to do that, he probably would have done it by now.’

‘But he might just not have met the right woman yet.’

‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,’ William says, raising his eyebrows so high they almost wrap around the back of his forehead.

I scrabble around for some chance I might get my way. ‘But, well, couldn’t I convert him. I hear you and your friends boasting about converting straight guys all the time. What’s that joke? “What’s the difference between a straight guy and a gay guy?”, “About five pints of lager.” Couldn’t it work the other way? Can you turn gay boys straight with enough alcohol?’

‘No.’ William and Mark say, both at once and snappily fast.

‘But couldn’t I just suck his cock. I mean, what difference would it make?’ I say hopefully, my James fantasies suddenly clashing with my glory hole fantasies and almost overloading my brain.

‘What?’ Again they both speak together. It’s like they have become one consciousness.

‘What difference would it make if I were a guy or a girl then? I have a mouth, right?’ I insist.

‘Babe,’ says Mark, ‘cock sucking is an art, perfected by gay men over the millennia. There is no way you could suck cock as well as a gay guy.’ says Mark.

‘Actually, I’m pretty good at sucking cock,’ I say, because actually, I am. I enjoy it. Over the years I’ve made it my business to be good at it. I know some women don’t like it, but I don’t get that, what’s not to like? What else has the same twisted conflicting rush of being empowered by being able to give such incredible pleasure while at the same time being used and degraded? It ticks all the boxes.

Mark gives me a yeah-right, kind of look.

‘He’d never even know the difference,’ I say, quite softly.

William shakes his head. ‘It doesn’t work like that. I mean, you’re not just talking about James getting his rocks off. You’re talking about a person’s political, social and sexual identity. You’re talking about light years of repression.’

‘Light years is a measure of distance, not time.’ Mark points out, unhelpfully.

‘But if he thinks I’m a guy, what difference does it make?’

And then Gracie, who has been very quiet throughout this debate says, ‘It’s starting,’ and I have to shut up for ten whole minutes until the first ad break.

I don’t get to set the conversational agenda to me, me, me in the first ad break, because Gracie says, ‘Do any of you lot want to earn some extra spending money this weekend?’

Gracie runs her own sort of company. Sort of. It’s basically a catering company, but she likes to pretend they do events management and party planning as well. They don’t. They reheat vol-u-vents and serve champagne.. And it’s not really even a proper company because Gracie’s family are utterly loaded and the entire organisation is being propped up by the generous handouts her family keep giving her (supposedly to avoid paying inheritance tax).

I don’t like working for Gracie at the weekend. For any number of reasons borne of both laziness and class warring principle, but she does pay pretty well and I’ve been a bit trigger happy on EBay lately – my last credit card bill was just a piece of paper with the words ‘Oh-my-fucking-god’ written on it.

‘Front of house?’ I ask, because wafting around topping up champagne glasses is slightly better than unloading and reloading a dishwasher in an ancient kitchen.

Gracie winces. ‘Front for Willy or Markie, back for you, Lou.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Um, well, it’s kind of a men only kind of party.’ Gracie says and makes such a weird face that you would actually think that she couldn’t possibly conceive of why a group of men would want to have a private party with no women around. Her. Her who is sitting here next to Mark and William. William with his hand down the front of Mark’s trousers – I swear he’s giving him a little squeeze every time the good doctor appears on screen.

Then William says, ‘Um, I don’t think I can make this weekend, sorry.’

He and Mark exchanges glances. And then Mark says, ‘No, nor can I.’

‘Lou?’ Gracie says to me. I’m still feeling a bit pissed off about having to be behind closed doors. It’s a bit much that I have come off badly purely because of my gender twice in the space of half and hour. But I think of that credit card bill again and shrug my shoulders. ‘Sure.’

In the next ad break Gracie goes to the loo and I say to William, ‘This is going to be one of those parties, isn’t it?’

‘One of what parties?’

‘One of those dirty parties. Like you told me about in the pub. The plushie orgies?’

‘Oh,’ William nods, ‘oh, yes.’

Mark says, ‘Actually you do know “plushie” means something very specific. You should watch you terminology there, girl.’

But I ignore Mark’s sexual semantics lesson. ‘So how come you’re not going?’ I ask both of them.

William gives me a look. ‘Who says we’re not going?’ he says, with emphasis.

Then, when Gracie returns and Lost starts up again, I find I’m not really paying attention to the show anymore, despite the delicious parade of prettiness dancing across the screen – and I don’t mean Hawaii.

Four days later it’s party time. Except not for me. The work on Saturday afternoon is hard. The house itself is stunning, a real country pile, all huge stone steps and crunchy gravel drive. Not that I’m seeing much of that. I’m strictly below stairs.

My job seems to be mostly washing up baking trays in a huge Belfast sink that screams whenever the taps are run and refuses to supply me with water anymore than a few degrees above room temperature. That and running around fetching things.

It’s hard to decide which is worst really.

At about six thirty the grumpier of the two chefs (not that the other one isn’t grumpy) yells at me that we haven’t got any fresh basil, and before I can respond that that is hardly my fault, Gracie appears and apologetically explains that a tray of fresh herbs seems to have gone missing and could I possibly run round to the front door of the house and find out if it got delivered there by mistake.

I nip out of the kitchen door and sprint around the side of the massive house. It’s further than I would have thought possible. When I get there, there’s about twenty cars parked on the drive, but no one around.

I look around hopefully, wondering if I will see a tray of herbs that has been tucked neatly by the door, like the postman sometimes does with my EBay parcels if they won’t fit the letterbox.
But nothing.

And then I notice the front door is actually just a little bit open. Which makes me think that maybe I could cut through the house and get back to the kitchen that way rather than go around the outside. Not very upstairs downstairs, I know, but I’m pretty eager for a sneaky peak at the dirty party set up.

Inside, the house isn’t the riot of tapestries and old masters I might have imagined from its façade. It’s kind of like an ordinary house really, only on a more massive and massively-kinky scale. Just the entrance hall I am standing in contains a bank of man-sized cages, a set of stocks and a huge over flowing bowl of condoms.

As I walk through this den of inequity I stop by the condom bowl. Something has caught my magpie-eye. Right in the centre of it is a gold condom. Hardly the most spectacular thing in the room – but strangely compelling. It holds my gaze. And then I reach out and I grab it.

But as I do that, I realise that there is the soft sound of conversation coming from the room on my left. I look over and peek through an ajar door into a gorgeous ballroom. And it’s full of people. Men. Most of them naked, semi-naked or wearing various exotica. Oh my god, the party has already started. I stare around the entrance hall. Frozen. And then I hear it. Footsteps. Someone is coming up the steps outside, any minute now they’re going to be coming in the front door. I don’t know what to do. I dart behind the bank of cages and leg it up the imposing staircase behind me.

I try to make my way back to the kitchens as best as I can; keeping a look out in case I bump into any party guests. But the upstairs part of the house seems deserted. Maybe the party hasn’t really begun properly yet. I still manage to take a few wrong turnings, though. Get lost. Get double lost. Try to retrace my steps. Fail. Double back again and find I am utterly, well, lost. Real life being lost – nothing like as fun as the TV show. I can’t even find my way to back to the front entrance. Desperate, I head up another flight of stairs.

But being further upstairs doesn’t seem to be proving any better for finding my way out. Damn my retarded sense of direction. I just seem to be winding my way deeper into the house.

Here the party-in-waiting becomes something rather darker than the almost light-hearted bondage fun downstairs. Upstairs, most rooms are dark, in half-light or freakily strobe lit. The background music has changed from twinkly classical to throbbing German industrial.

I glance into a medium sized room, which is mostly empty. All it contains is a heavy red velvet curtain, through which peeks a large wooden box, with a hole in it. A really very large wooden box with a rather small hole in it.

Of course, I know exactly what it is. And I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t resist a closer look.

But before I get even halfway across the room toward it a voice behind me says, ‘Excuse me.’ And I turn around to find if not the last person I would have expected, certainly a double-take worthy coincidence.

‘William?’

‘Lou. Hey.’

‘Um… I got lost,’ I say, feeling a bit awkward. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Well, I kind of told you I might be here.’

‘Yeah, but what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be downstairs?’

And then William starts to look shiftily at the box, and I follow his gaze with one of those dawning revelation feelings. ‘Oh.’ I point across you’re room. ‘You’re meant to be in there.’

But before I can say anything else a tinny tune strikes up from somewhere in William’s pocket. ‘Woah,’ he says,

‘Girl, interrupted.’ And fishes in the pocket of his tight, tight jeans for a phone that is playing the theme to Bewitched. ‘Yep. Mark, hey dude,’ he twitters into it.

I look over at the box while he’s talking. Thinking about what he told me about the glory hole. Feeling myself get buzzy and wet with the filthy idea of it.

And I suppose I’m lost in all of that, which means I don’t notice the way things have changed in William’s voice.

The way most of his phone conversation is being punctuated by angry and frustrated swearing. ‘Fuck!’ says William. And then again, ‘Fuck!’ as he hangs up the phone.

‘Something wrong?’

‘That stupid fairy Mark’s only gone and locked himself out. I’m going to have to drive back to Brighton with my keys and sort it.’

‘What? Isn’t Mark here?’

‘No, he’s revising. He’s got an exam in the morning. Hence me having to go and let him back in. All his notes are in the flat.’

‘But didn’t you tell him you were kind of busy?’ I tip my head towards the box, which is making its presence felt like a third person in the room.

‘Yeah, but, oh god. What can I do? Look it’ll only take three quarters of an hour, max. I’ll just find someone else to take my place for a bit. James is downstairs maybe he would…’

‘James is downstairs!’

‘Yeah.’ William blinks at me; like he’s thinking, why is that surprising?

I’m still holding the little gold foil packet in my hand. I rub my fingers across it like a lucky charm. ‘I’ll do it,’ I say.

At first William looks at me like I’ve just said something in a foreign language. ‘You? You can’t.’

‘Why not. No one’ll know. Go on, William, you can sneak out. No one’ll even know it wasn’t you in there all night.’

William puffs out his slim chest. ‘Oh, you still reckon you can suck cock as well as a gay boy, do you?’

‘Sure. How hard can it be?’ I say, turning to walk over to the box, not looking back at William, just hoping he’ll follow me.

‘You are such a dirty bitch,’ he says, appearing right at my shoulder, and my heart leaps.

I don’t reply. I push aside the heavy velvet curtain which the box protrudes from. And once we are ‘backstage’ I see exactly how it works.

The box has no back to it. So it’s more like a sort of cubby hole. Inside it is a small firm cushion, which is for the person inside the box to kneel on. And if a person were kneeling on that cushion, facing the wooden wall of the box, the small hole would be at about face height. In fact, to be really strictly accurate, it would be at mouth height.

Still not speaking, feeling the tension in the air, I drop onto my knees. Oh god, the buzz hits me straight away.

I look over my shoulder at William. He has an odd expression on his face. ‘Are you really okay with this?’ I ask, not really knowing what I’ll say if he tells me he isn’t.

‘I don’t know,’ he says, biting his bottom lip. ‘It’s just, it’s not very ethical, is it?’

‘I guess not. But then, when did you last worry about ethics when it came to sex? I mean, you’re always joking about getting straight guys drunk and shagging them?’

‘Yeah, but that’s just a fantasy, Lou. I don’t actually do it.’

‘You don’t?’

‘No!’

‘Oh.’ I look at William for quite a long time then, so long I actually start to worry about Mark and revision timetable. ‘Are you really not okay with this?’

William seems to have a change of heart then, because he sort of micro-smirks and then says, ‘Nah, not really.

Well, except that I’m worried that after this everyone will think I can’t suck cock for toffee. Do you want the cuffs?’

‘What!’ I sort of splutter, because that really blindsided me. ‘Cuffs?’

‘Yes, uh, some people like to be, uh…’ William’s voice kind of drains away along with the colour in his face.

It’s weird. William and I are really close. Tight. I’m closer to William than I am to Mark. I could tell William anything, despite his occasional screams of, ‘Ooh, you breeders!’ Which is a bit rich really seeing as how

William is all for a bit of heterosexual action when he can get it. Really, he reserves that squeal for when I tell him about something a little too risqué even for him. I’ve always been the slightly more adventurous one out of the three of us, which, I think, he sees as upsetting the natural order of things. But, see me kneeling in a glory hole box at a gay orgy right now for details of my spirit of sexual derring do.

However, despite all of that. All that sexual camaraderie, this is maybe a bit too far. That line I talked about – the one that stops us all sleeping together. It’s here too. Drawn across the sand. The idea of William putting the cuffs on me. A bit too much. But I really want them. So I have to screw up every ounce of my sexual courage to say,

‘Actually, yes. That would be good.’

While I kneel in the box, my knees quite comfortable on the soft padding and my lips just a breath away from the ominous hole, William straps my wrist together behind my back with something that feels firm and restrictive and comfortable all at once. I can’t help sighing while he does it. It feels so good. So right.

I’m not really very with it when William says, ‘Okay, Lou, I’ve really got to go now. Mark, etc.’

‘Yeah, um, before you do though, I need a favour.’

‘Another one?’

‘Yeah, look, take the condom that’s in my pocket. I want you to give it to James.’

‘To James, why?’

‘Just do it.’

William is actually quite well behaved as he roots around in the pocket of my jeans for the condom while my hands are tied. When he snags it and leaves, with a gentle goodbye of a finger trailing on my shoulder, my heart is banging like a drum and my clit is throbbing in perfect time with it.

My lips suddenly feel dry. I lick them in anticipation. Then I wait.

For quite while nothing actually happens. I listen to the faint thrum of the Rammstein playing in the hall and wonder if anyone will actually come and use the box; feeling faintly disappointed that I’m not much of an attraction.

After, I guess, five minutes, though I hear sounds in the room outside and without any warning I feel the unmistakeable soft force of a rubber-coated cock pressing against my suddenly dry lips. I open my mouth and suck.

God it feels amazing. Hard to explain. The anonymity. The bondage. The fact that the room on the other side of the wooden wall is full of people. That unique mix of power and subjugation is like a head rush. I use every wile I have. Every last trick of lips and teeth. When my mystery man comes, he groans loudly and falls against the wood so hard it shakes.

One down.

There’s another hard cock jutting through the hole before I even draw breath.

I open up my mouth again for the next one, cutely jacketed in bright blue and, as I do so, I tug a little at the restraints holding my hands behind my back. God, it turns me on not to be able to use my hands while I’m being used like this. It makes everything so much more arousing.

My clit is burning as I let the new cock force its way inside and jerk roughly in my mouth. This guy is much more forceful. He doesn’t let me play artful games, but thrusts hard through the hole. In and out. Fucking my mouth. I hold still and let him. Squirming with pleasure when I hear a distinct and masterful snarl.
Three follows, then four, then five. My wrists get sore, and my jaw starts to ache, and my cunt gets wetter and wetter.

I’ve just finished number six, when I start to wonder where the hell William has got to. I can’t see my watch, so I don’t know how long I’ve been here. There’s a part of me that’s worried, but a bigger part that, despite my aching neck and jaw, kind of hopes he never comes back.
And then – lucky number seven – in through the hole comes what I’ve been waiting for. And I’m going for gold.

I pause for a moment to look at it. It’s beautiful. The last part of James that I get to study in depth is every bit as pleasing to behold as the rest of him. It’s so big and thick. I never knew I was a size queen, but James doesn’t disappoint on that score. He’s going to be more than a mouthful.

He’s also got this little kink in his cock. It bends over to the left. It’s nice. It’s quirky. Makes it more real – him not being dildo straight and perfect. It doesn’t hurt that the whole thing is clad in golden rubber either. I pause maybe a moment to long looking at its golden glory, because there’s a knock on the wooden wall above my head.

James. I open my mouth and suck.

James’s big hard cock is filling my mouth, thrusting hard, mercilessly using me. I can hear some faint groaning coming from the other side of the wall. Him. Too faint to recognise, but it’s got to be him. I’m so wet, my clit feels like it’s burning. I tug at the restraints that hold my wrist, both frustrated and fiercely aroused to not be able to touch myself. As James keeps on going, holding out for longer than anyone else has tonight under my cock sucking prowess, I squeeze my thighs together. Over and over, setting up a strong pulsing rhythm. I squirm around on the cushion, ignoring the protests from my sore knees and find a way to get the pressure on my clit just right, even without my hands. I concentrate on the way James is forcing his way right down my throat, the way my lips are stretching around him, going numb. The way he has no idea that it is me, William’s friend, so quickly dismissed, that is making him feel this intense pleasure. James starts to move faster, jerking like he’s not in control. I suck as hard as I can, using my tongue to massage the underside of his shaft. I squeeze my thighs harder together. Twist a little. Feel the pressure just right and there it is. James’s is spasming hotly under his rubber sleeve and I’m coming so hard I don’t know which way is up.

I don’t know if could have taken another cock after that. So thank god that the hole goes dark for a minute or two after James withdraws.

And then I hear a sound behind me, and look over my shoulder to see William, reaching over to unfasten my wrists.

‘Bloody hell, William, you’ve been ages.’

‘I’ve been less than an hour.’

‘Well it seemed like longer.’ I pull my arms free, struggling to move, not knowing what part of me to massage first. I scarcely even get my wits together before William practically yanks me out of the box, through a side door behind the curtain and directs me down a flight of stairs to the kitchen.

Gracie looks up as I walk in, tottering gingerly like I am eighty years old. ‘I’m not even going to ask,’ she says as I collapse into a chair. ‘But if you think you’re getting paid for today…’

I’m not listening.

A couple of hours later I try and make amends to Gracie. My body feels rather more alive after two gin and tonics and about a hundred vol-a-vents. My jaw actually does still work, despite early reports of its complete seizing up. Flaky pastry has brought it back to life. Eventually I struggle over to he pre-war dishwasher and start loading champagne glasses in and out, all the time feeling hot flares at the memory of James and his spectacular cock in my mouth. Oh yeah.

At about 1am this guy called Sebastian, apparently the host of the party although it’s the first I’ve seen of him, appears in the kitchen to slather us with congratulations. Either it’s gone extremely well or he is extremely pissed – possibly both. Sebastian invites Gracie, me, the chefs and Gracie’s other galley slaves up to the hall for a final drink. I raise my eyebrows at Gracie because of the whole no-women thing, and she just mimes too-much-too-drink with an invisible glass to her lips.

In the hall, I approach William, who almost jumps out of his skin. ‘Hey, Lou. What you doing up here?’

‘Heh. We’ve been allowed above stairs. Where’s James?’

‘Um.’ Suddenly William looks awfully shifty.

‘Has he gone home?’

‘Uh, yeah. That’s it, yeah, he’s gone home. Busy day tomorrow or something.’ Which would be perfectly plausible if it weren’t for the look on William’s face.

But I don’t worry about that too much. ‘Oh, right. Did he say anything about my blow job? Best ever, right?’

But before William can answer me, someone appears at his shoulder. Someone who changes everything.

‘Hey, Lou,’ says Mark.

William glares. ‘Mark.’

‘Mark. What are you doing here? I thought you were at home, revising?’ Two and two are rapidly making four in my head.

‘Um… Oh,’ says Mark, reddening a bit.

‘But you’re not, are you?’ I say to Mark, then turn to William. ‘So you didn’t have to go and let him into his flat, did you?’

‘Uh.’

‘Did you?’

‘No.’ William looks at his shoes. But he’s smirking.

‘So, what…? You set me up. Why?’ And then something else dawns on me as I cast around the room. ‘James was never even here, was he? I thought it was weird. I thought he didn’t seem the type…’

Mark and William look bashfully at me. Then Mark says, ‘He was here.’

I shake my head. ‘Don’t lie.’

‘It’s true,’ says William. ‘He was, but he’s gone now.’ They’re both smirking. I honestly don’t know if they’re lying or not.

‘Okay, well, was it him, then? Was he the one with the gold condom on?’

William reaches out and touches my shoulder. ‘Well, honey,’ he says gently, ‘the fact is, you thought it was him. So really, what difference does it make?’

strangersFrom Sex with Strangers
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