Gas Station Guy

He's a gay virgin.

She's a failing lesbian or filthy bisexual, depending on who you ask.

It's late, and she's out of milk.

If this doesn't sound like your thing, other authors are available. Or try one of my other stories.

If this might be your thing, I hope you enjoy.

This is an entry in the April Fools Day 2020 contest.

'Nearly home,' I thought, as the Tube train I needed for my branch line finally arrived. Two more stops. It was quarter to midnight, but I'd been having fun catching up with some friends-of-friends from uni, and some of their friends, and time had run away with us. Still, Thursday is the new Friday, as they say, so I'd battle through work the next day, just grab a bowl of cereal when I got in...

Shit. I remembered I was out of milk.

'You daft woman!', I told myself, as, thinking about it, I was also out of pretty much any other food. The newsagent's on the corner shut by nine, even if they did obligingly open at 6am, enabling me to run out for bread, butter, or whatever I might need of a morning. I hadn't made the half-hour bus trip to a supermarket in the last fortnight; either working too late or trashy TV being more alluring than venturing out in the rainy winter.

I'd heard a pizza place had started doing delivery, like in America, but that would surely cost a fortune, on top of what I'd already spent on my night out.

Then I recalled the petrol station.

My route home from the Tube was about a six-minute walk; three to a large roundabout with the cemetery entrance and a huge, dire, pub, kept in business only by drunken wakes, then another three minutes down past a small row of shops to my cul-de-sac, where I lived in a small semi with two female colleagues -- pleasant housemates, but not real friends, yet. The other main road off the roundabout led back to town. I'd explored and ignored it as being only a few offices and many houses, but of course, not being a driver, I'd barely given the garage a thought. It was only a couple hundred yards out of my way and the street was equally well lit, so I tugged my leather jacket closer round my neck and strode down the station steps.

One other passenger alighted, but wandered away into the station car park. Middle-aged white man. I was glad I was wearing jeans, my Docs, and the blazer-like jacket -- it meant I wasn't obviously female, despite a long, low ponytail. Not a target, for a lecherous bloke late at night. Not that that stopped guys trying to pick me up almost every time I went on a brightly-lit Tube train. I was twenty-two, tall, slim, white with long dark hair and rosy cheeks -- your typical English rose, I guess, which might be why every lone foreign man seemed to want to give it a go. And half the locals.

It got tedious, which is why on the way home late I'd roughly tie my straight hair back, not reapply any lipstick, and remove any dangly earrings, hoping to avoid attention. Add a confident stride and men would simply step round me, muttering "all right, mate?", not looking closely. Much better, when wandering suburban London in the wee hours.

I strolled downhill to the roundabout, pondering the problems with my girlfriend. I was coming to the conclusion it wasn't working. I was visiting her flat more for her luxurious bed, superior telly, decent sex and stroking her adorable cat, rather than because I was particularly looking forward to seeing her.

Could that be resolved?

I didn't know.

We'd been together ten months, but the not-actually funny 'jokes' were increasingly annoying me. She'd complained I was mardy; I hadn't said it, but I was beginning to suspect that grumpiness of mine was being triggered, rather than alleviated, by her company.

In the meantime, I turned left to the garish lights of the petrol station, dodged a reversing BMW that wasn't looking, and entered the shop. I'd not been in before, so I checked out all three aisles. As expected, they stocked household basics -- milk and bread the same price as my local shop; everything else horribly expensive. A wide range of snacks and instant meals, more flavours of Pot Noodle than I'd ever seen, and a car section containing lots of de-icer, windscreen wash, maps and air fresheners. Also, a large magazine selection. Better than expected, that.

As I browsed the front covers, the lights dimmed.

"Huh?"

"No, it's OK. Take your time! Just, it is quarter to twelve and at twelve I have to close the door. You take your time, do the needful!" The man's voice behind me had a London accent, but not the local one, with a slight cadence and word choice suggesting an Asian family.

I pulled out a copy of Esquire, for the interview with Pierce Brosnan. Generally I'd seen the various repeated articles in women's mags enough times not to bother buying them again. And a four-pint jug of milk, and I went up to the counter.

"That all, lov - mate?"

In the dim light, the counter guy had clearly seen the magazine and reached the reasonable conclusion that I was a bloke.

Some parts of the country, his words wouldn't mean anything. Many places, customers would be duck, hen, or pet no matter whether they were male or female. 'My lover', even, down in the West Country, which I'd always found startling between hulking Bristolian bus drivers! But in London, men use mate to each other, women rarely say mate at all unless in jest, though a youngish woman like me might, to male equals or friends. Women say love to many people, usually younger than them. But men only use love to women, children and the elderly. Some say it's condescending; I say it's the tone of voice that betrays whether they're a patronising git or not.

I wasn't going to object to either, from him. He hadn't sounded patronising. I especially wasn't complaining once I looked up and saw the chap properly! He was your stereotypical Asian lad -- I guessed nineteen or so, probably made to work that shift by his probably-Bangladeshi parents -- but the much better-looking version. Tall, lean, warm brown skin under gelled black hair, small diamond earring in one ear; all in all, he was most remarkably decorative.

I might even consider blokes again... Damn. That really suggested me and Clare weren't working, didn't it?

I gave the guy a big grin, avoiding any feminine giggle. "Cheers, mate." It's not that women never say cheers to mean thank you, but it's much more likely to be a bloke saying it. I didn't want to embarrass this chap if he realised he'd made a mistake.

I took the unlabelled carrier bag home, poured a generous bowl of muesli for dinner, read the magazine as I ate, and crashed out.

Any dreams that night that included a fit Asian lad, all tight jeans, well-hanging jacket, bling and gravelly voice, were not completely coincidental.

To be fair, the dreams were more of the guy from my local newsagent when I was a teenager. Once I was old enough, my parents decided I should fetch the Sunday papers while they made breakfast -- especially if it were raining. "No problem," I said, "it's only a few minutes jog to the shop on Ashley Avenue."

"Oh, no, I really think you should go to Cullen's on Church Street. The other shop isn't very clean..."

Cullen's -- a very upmarket small grocery store -- was about a minute further away. It did stock a few magazines and newspapers. And was, indeed, spotless. Not that the closer shop was actually dirty, certainly not since scoops had been added to the pic'n'mix when I was a tiny child, but it was a cluttered newsagent/stationers/general store. What I suspected my mother meant, was, that like most such shops, it was run by an Asian family.

So I went to the Asian shop on general principle. My anti-racism was rewarded by seeing the most gorgeous guy behind the counter, who'd effectively delayed me for a few years from realising I was mainly interested in women. Him, plus the bitchy girls at my all-girl school putting me off girls until a good few weeks after I left!

Given I went into the newsagent most weeks for five years, we got to know each other quite a bit by the time I turned eighteen and looked forward to A-levels and leaving school. We frequently had time to chat, especially as the queue often blocked his access to the cash register. Often, arguments were caused by an elderly chap wanting a porn mag off the top shelf and demanding discounts after looking through it. Actually, the fact that they were the only place in town selling porn mags might be why my mum called the place dirty. I wasn't going to ask her. It was probably both reasons.

Moeen's younger sister also liked to gossip, when she had time. I was the same age as the sister, so we'd ranted about GCSEs and now A-level exams while Moeen spoke with the aloofness of one four years older -- a gulf, at that age. One morning he yawned, muttering, "'Scuse me, I hate getting up so early."

"At least it's not much of a commute," I tried to cheer him up.

"Hm? Suppose. It's about half an hour, now I've got my own moped."

I was confused. "Don't you live upstairs?" All of the row of shops had flats above, like most in England, and in my experience, newsagents still lived in them.

"God, no! I'd rather kill myself than live in Surrey, somewhere like this, anyway!" I could see his point -- I couldn't stand the racist small-town small-minded commuter belt either, but at least I was white and lived near enough the station to escape to London regularly. "Nah, live in Southall, me. We get to stare at the white people, there."

His lecherous grin made clear this was a joke, but he looked me up and down in an impression of a cat-caller, face to breasts and back again, licking his lips at what he saw. His sister rolled her eyes. I felt a sudden shivering between my legs in reaction to the expression on his face, to how he was feeling -- pretending to feel, rather -- from looking at me lasciviously. And that reaction shocked me.

I nervously thanked him for the Sunday Times and ran away, horribly embarrassed.

It took me much of the next week to calm down. I'd never experienced real lust before. It had seemed odd, finally reaching the age of majority a couple months before, which so many people celebrated, not to mention the age of consent two years before, but I'd really never been bothered about trying this sex thing. At last, I saw their point.

At least I knew I wasn't going to do anything about it with Mo -- I was clearly out of his consideration, and more to the point I was still naive, shy, and frankly terrified -- more of what I might end up doing if I started anything, than of him. Mo himself was a real sweetie, in between trying to sound cool and denigrating his little sister. But from then on, I kept getting hot twitching sensations whenever I thought of his tight jeans and the shape of his legs -- which at least made a change from the guilty feelings which accompanied my similar reactions when I saw various school mates dressed to the nines.

Not my friends; my friends were too much like sisters for my brain to even consider whether they were attractive, and oddly, I rarely reacted that way to any of the girls when undressing. I think the school changing room smell and terrifying PE teachers had put me off!

Problem was, the desperation to hide my sexuality eroded much of the enjoyment of looking round class at the other girls. Section 28 was in full force: gays were the cause of all society's ills, bisexuals worse, and lesbians really not any better. Realising that I could have similar reactions to a boy -- man, rather -- opened up a huge arena of possibilities in life.

I kept our conversations studiously casual. It was obvious Mo wasn't actually interested, given how his flirting with elderly Mrs Sullivan from next door was pretty much identical to the way he acted with me. But our banter livened up long weekends with my parents, who seemed only to grumble at me and do nothing themselves of any interest whatsoever.

I finally escaped Surrey later that year, running away to uni, followed by jobs in London, so Mo vanished to the odd daydream while the reality of queer women was there waiting to be explored...

Which, after some false starts, turned out to be a lot of fun. Sarah, Jen, Tina, Maria, Natasha, Natalie -- the friends I'd benefited from had mounted up over the last four years, but Clare was my first relationship to last more than a few months. She had her own flat, small but beautiful, was three years older than me, and introduced me to more ways to shag -- the advantages of having the cash to spend on sexual accessories! She'd been warm and friendly, with a good line in sarcastic humour, tall and curvy, which made a nice contrast with my slim boyish figure, though as she reassured me, I definitely had breasts, and they were 'lovely little handfuls'. And tasty, she frequently added.

I'd met her in a queer cafe where she'd claimed she knew me from somewhere. After an hour of chatting, it dawned on me she certainly hadn't -- I still wasn't sure if she'd known that at the time -- but by then she did know me pretty well! Having ditched a fiancé a few years ago, she'd become more lesbian than thou. Which seemed to be causing us more problems, now. Rather, her insecurity was the problem. If I was in a relationship with her, why shouldn't I remark on the various actors as well as actresses that floated my boat? Just because she was only eyeing up the women?

A few weeks later, after another Thursday night with the gang, I stomped off the train. That

was the end of that.

Clare had got tipsy and declared bisexuals couldn't be trusted; I'd snapped that if she didn't trust me she could do the obvious, and she'd replied, "Good point. It's over." Dumped. My friends Jen and Ange had tried to reason with her, though Ange seemed to think the same as Clare, just didn't think I counted as bi any more, any more than Clare herself. I wasn't sure whether I'd call myself bisexual with its attendant grief, or just a functional lesbian, but I certainly resented other people trying to tell me about my sexuality.

"Don't bother, guys! Give up and just buy me a stiff drink!" I told Ange and Jen, when Clare and a couple of her close friends finally flounced off elsewhere.

By the time I'd stumbled onto a train I was well pissed -- that's drunk, for any transatlantic readers, though the American definition also works in this case! Forty minutes later I was still somewhat poddled, though the freezing suburban weather sobered me up quite a lot. What I really wanted, like any other inebriated Brit out late, was a kebab, but here in the semi-sticks the only takeaway closed by ten. It was gone midnight.

And then I recalled the petrol station.

Junk food beckoned.

I wandered up to its glowing lights, already dimmed inside. The door was locked. Damn.

Then I noticed a driver paying for fuel at the window, being passed a carrier bag of items. I stood behind him. The fit young chap was serving again, behind thick security glass.

"What pump, please?"

"Er... None. Just needed..." What should I get? I fought down a sudden urge for a packet of fags and decided on a different vice. "A tub of Häagen-Dazs ice-cream, cookies 'n' and cream if you've got it, or chocolate... Oh, and a copy of Diva magazine... it'll be by Cosmo and the women's ones..."

I'd noticed, my previous time in the shop, that they sold the new women's glossy 'for lesbian and bisexual women', and wanted to support the publishers. And eye up some talent while drowning my sorrows.

On the subject of drowning sorrows...

"Here you go, love. Anythin' else?"

"Any chance of a bottle of wine? Red?" I knew some offies would illegally sell booze after hours, usually for a bit of a markup. I added my winningest smile and a raised eyebrow.

"You payin' cash?"

I rummaged in my pockets; found a twenty to wave at him. "Yeah."

"OK, bottle of...um, Jacob's, eight quid, yeah?"

"That'll do nicely." Double the usual price, but I'd expected to be told a tenner. Or more-than-my-job's-worth. Result.

A pause while he rang up some purchases, pocketed a few quid for himself and gave me my change, then passed me a blue placcy bag. "Have a nice evening."

"It's improving no end, now. Thanks, mate." I beamed at him and went home to wash away all thoughts of Clare with some fourteen-percent alcohol.

As it happened, I ended up sharing both booze and ice-cream with my housemates, Ellie having just got back from a truly horrendous day's work, Liz about to go out for a night shift. I confided in them as to why I was down.

"Aw, man! Never you mind, Rach. Plenty more birds in the sea! I'll open the wine for you, share it out." Ellie brought three glasses, bowls and spoons over to where I slumped on the sofa, though following my lead they ignored the bowls and dived straight in with spoons. Ellie curled up by my feet. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really. I'd seen it coming for a while... been thinking about ditching her... So it's not like I'm heartbroken, really..."

"Still going to cut you up, though, innit?" Liz summarised my feelings succinctly. "I mean, not that I know anything about dumping women, but I guess it's no different, really?"

I didn't really know. Probably not. We polished the bottle off between us. Probably best.

"Mind, now, no leaping at anyone on the rebound, Rachel. Well, not unless she's really fit..."

"Ellie!" Liz pretended to be shocked. "Give it a while, hon. Invest in one of those Jessica Rabbits..." She paused. "Or, do you not go for that, seeing as..." She tailed off, gesturing feebly with her hand.

"Seeing as what?"

"You know. If you don't do... then wouldn't that mean..."

I didn't know, but seeing Liz all embarrassed was hilarious. Cheap booze for the win. Even at double price.

Ellie giggled. "Oh! I get it!"

"Enlighten me?" I sighed.

"Well, like, right... You're a lesbian, right? So you don't like cock... So, wouldn't that mean lesbians don't buy vibrators shaped like cocks? You know, if you don't want to get fucked by one...?"

Trying very hard not to think of my bedside drawer, which would have me blushing instantly, I tried to dismiss the question. "No!"

"What, they do like getting fucked or they don't?" Liz wasn't going to let it rest.

"It's not the cock. Much. Dykes don't do men. Vibrators aren't male. Ergo..."

"...A large lesbian market for sex toy manufacturers!" Ellie butted in, trying to spare my blushes. Ellie might look sweet and innocent, but I'd lay money she'd be asking for every gory detail of my sex life in a minute. Again.

"People say Rabbits are better than men, anyway. What do you reckon?" I hoped to distract Ellie.

"I dunno. Worth a try!" She'd recently ditched a waste of space called Rob, which was good; it meant Liz and I didn't have to hear any more "Rob's crap!" every Monday morning after they'd spent a weekend together. "Maybe after pay day!"

"Tell us if it's any good!" Liz giggled. "I want to keep Paul on his toes!"

"Sure. But I'm not sharing -- get your own!" Ellie wagged a finger at Liz, who turned back to me.

"So, like, those toys lesbians use in porn, then -- they really use them? Not just in films?"

"No, Liz. Lesbians in films aren't real." All blonde hair, big tits, long fingernails, carefully showing a male viewer lots of gynaecology. Where were the cheeky twinkies, the hard butches, the everywomen? Actually, it's not completely true that gay women never have long fingernails, but I digress.

"Duh! I know that, Rach. But real lesbians do use, like, strap-ons and double-ended dildos and stuff?"

"I'm not speaking for the whole lesbian community!"

"Fair enough. But what about you? Have you got strap-ons and all?"