Gas Station Guy

I glowered all the way along the Tube, keeping all men at bay as I read the Evening Standard. I slightly regretted the lack of opportunity to scream abuse at them. Finally, home.

I swung my bag back onto my shoulder and walked confidently past the ticket barrier, leaving the only two men from the train behind. I looked forward to my weekly trashy mag. Maybe some ice-cream, too, tonight? Actually, no -- I'd get home and try on my new cock harness complete with the vibrator inside. Read my magazine in bed, or more likely, admire some pictures while playing with myself before going to sleep. I wondered if it would work, holding my dick in one hand, vibrator inside my cunt with the other? It was odd, thinking about myself as someone with a prick -- a man. I wondered, if I'd actually been a man, would I be the one doing the fucking?

I wondered what my new cock would feel like up my arse. Maybe I should have bought a smaller one too? I did like my secret back entrance played with, but so far only with a couple fingers, usually Clare's, or a cute little rubber toy I'd got free with my magic wand, which was smaller than two fingers and by itself didn't feel of anything. Worth what I'd paid for it...

Now there was a question Cosmo or More! needed to address - "Dear Agony Aunt, I can't feel anything much when I put my rubber butt plug up my arse. Larger ones are only marketed at men and sold in places that look rather scary, for extreme kinky perverts. Am I normal for a woman, or a really perverted slut?"

I could imagine such a letter in Sky. The answer would read simply, "Dear Reader, Yes."

The drizzle stepped up as I approached the roundabout, and was proper rain by the time I crossed it. I thought about running straight home, but decided the extra minute wouldn't hurt me. I ducked under the forecourt canopy in relief, hair starting to drip down the back of my jacket. I swept wet strands back off my face. The guy was at the door, locking up, as I got there, and I tried to adopt a pleading expression while avoiding looking at all vulnerable or cute. Probably gurned horribly at him!

He stopped fiddling with the keys and gestured with his head, indicating I could come in. I snuck round the heavy glass door and squeezed water out of my hair, pulling the hair elastic out, combing the lot back with my fingers, squeezing the wet ends, and tying it all back up again in a messy bunch. I glanced up and realized the guy was watching me, despite the dimmed lights.

"Sorry, I'll get a move on," I said.

"It's no matter. You take your time, mate." Excellent customer service, kid, I thought.

I picked up milk and bread. Had eggs. Fuck it, I wanted something fast and hot -- Supernoodles would do. A step up from a kebab or Pot Noodle -- so I clearly wasn't completely failing as a competent adult! And a quick peruse of the magazines. The women's ones were still on diets and expensive make-up, January and February for you. The woman on the front of Diva looked too much like Clare. Most of the men's ones had decided bulging muscles were in that month, but then I saw the lean, boyish lad on the front of one. 'Bloke You've Never Heard Of Models Spring Underwear!', shouted the headline. And it promised an article about lesbian comedians! With a small pic of Rhona Cameron! No contest, then. I added the GT -- Gay Times -- to my basket and wandered to the counter.

The fit bloke switched off the rest of the lights behind me, leaving the shop lit only by the strip behind the counter where he stood, and by the car headlights and neon outside. I was in shadow.

He put my food into a bag, looked at the cover of the magazine -- oops -- and commented, "Good choice. I like this one, too." Phew!

"I should probably buy this one more often," I joked.

He looked at me, like he was trying to figure something out. Then he said, "I have back issues, back in the stock room. If you'd like to see...?"

I love reading. Anything. Complete bookworm, word geek, lexophile, me.

And of course I don't mind pictures of pretty lads in their scanties.

Which is why I simply nodded and said, "Yeah! That'd be great!", rather than recognising the least subtle chat-up line since someone last tried "Would you like to come up and see my etchings?"

So, so obvious. In retrospect.

Duh!

"OK. You go out the shop one moment, I will turn off the CCTV, you come back, all right?"

The alcohol seemed to vanish from my head as I stepped outside into the storm again; he pressed buttons and there was an electronic beep, and then he gestured for me to come back inside, turning three integral bolts to lock the door behind me.

Suddenly I was nervous, but at least it wasn't like I'd need a key to get out. Should it prove necessary, I was nasty enough to fight dirty and throw anything nearby; I'd learnt the hard way to do that when needed. I didn't think it would be necessary, though -- the guy struck me as a gentle type. A nervous set of lean brown arms and legs, under all his bling and bluster. Bambi, in leather jacket and diamonds.

"It's OK. You turn the one in the middle, they all open. You're not a prisoner! Only me..." he sighed. "Long shift, still five more hours of boredom, now."

"So, these magazines you mentioned?"

"Yeah. You like, too?" I wasn't too sure what he meant. But yeah, I liked. "That's... so good..."

He looked rather shyly down at me. Of course, he was about three, possibly four years younger than my almost twenty-three. A lot, when you considered an equal four years younger than him might be as young as fourteen -- when you're excited but terrified by the idea of sex; obsessed yet so relieved to be under age so that no-one should be confronting you with the reality...

"Come on. Duck under the counter, it's stiff... Got it, mate?"

I swung myself under the hinged counter, and up into his domain, right in front of the fag packets. "Go back that way! Any nearer the window, the camera might see... There's none out back, though. Good evening, sir. Which pump, please? Would you like to purchase anything else, sir? Forty Benson's, here you are, sir. And remove your card. Thank you, sir. Have a good night."

I opened the door to the back, mostly to give him space to grab the cigarettes over my shoulder. "Hey! How come I'm a 'mate' and he's 'sir'?" It was a joke -- the gentleman at the window was around seventy. Definitely to be addressed as 'sir' by a young service lad.

"I... I'm sorry..." Thankfully, immediately, he cottoned. "Oh, man! You got me going! I like you. Mate."

His deep brown eyes looked me up and down, making clear it wasn't just my sense of humour or taste in literature he liked, but then stopped. My chance to respond. Gas guy was treating me as someone with equal opinions, not just as tits and arse. Maybe, actually, I wouldn't write off the entire male half of the race quite yet. That tight black T-shirt promised a fit body beneath, after all.

I beamed at him. And it finally dawned on me. How could I have been so obtuse? "Come look at my back issues... that's practically inviting me up for a coffee, isn't it?"

His lip twitched. "There is coffee, from that vending machine there." He pointed and grinned, realising I'd clocked him and wasn't running away. "I wouldn't recommend it, though, mate. That stuff tastes bad, man! Even after I've cleaned the machine."

"I'll take your advice! Bit late for caffeine, anyway."

"Innit!" He looked out of the window. No cars were left in the forecourt. He took a deep breath. I guessed he really didn't chat girls up much. I remembered being eighteen, nineteen, and the scary excitement of managing to get together with people, all of them new and intimidating and amazing. "Shall we? Go in back?"

I nodded, and stepped through the door. He took it from me and followed me inside the storage area. It was barely better lit than the shop, with bare strip light bulbs on each side. The cement floor and breeze-block walls were almost invisible behind piled cardboard boxes, plastic-wrapped containers, and stacked pallets. An unpainted plywood door, badly hung, exposed a functional toilet cubicle, and the required emergency exit door with security bar lurked at the back.

"Did you really want magazines? More Gay Times and all?" He was standing very close to me now, given there really was very little floor space. I could feel welcome warmth on my face and smell his breath. Recent cigarette, plus an aftershave that would have been cloying in any greater quantity, and fresh manly sweat soaking into his shirt from where he'd been sweeping and mopping before closing time. A good scent.

Not at all like Clare's sweet sweat betraying her vanilla candle obsession.

Perhaps I needed to do something on the rebound. Someone. I didn't even know what his name was.

"I wouldn't mind," I said as I stepped up to him. I could feel his body heat now, and see thick black stubble behind his cheekbones and under his chin, no matter that he'd have shaved that morning. His deep brown skin looked grey in the twilight, but with a healthy glow contrasting with the wall behind him. I lifted my face to his, and he moved his an inch downwards. He had sharply-delineated lips, a lovely shape, and I parted my own in a silent 'wow!'

Finally, after an eternity lasting at least a whole second, we broke the embarrassment barrier and shoved our mouths together.

It's always a relief, confirming beyond any doubt that the person you've lusted over feels the same way. Even if it's been for only a couple minutes. I opened my mouth to welcome his tongue into it, and he gulped my lips, hungrily. A moment of letting him sweep round my jaw, then I fought back with my own tongue, wanting to break into his mouth in the same way.

Years later, a man told me I was the only woman he'd ever met who tried to copy his mouth actions when kissing, and it was his first clue I was bisexual. Back then, I hadn't yet realised women were supposed to be all passive and accepting when kissed by men. I doubt I'd have had any truck with the idea if I had.

I sucked on his tongue, greedily, as he held my head to his, fingers tangling in my wet hair; my cheeks, roughened and dried out by the cold wind, rubbing against his, which weren't much more abrasive. I held his body against mine, his warm back easy to feel through the T-shirt, firm muscle apparent; my leather jacket creating an armour round me and obscuring what lay beneath. He pulled at the jacket a bit and moved his hand down, to my arse. I liked being squeezed there, and tried to make some encouraging noises.

He pushed his thigh between my legs. I welcomed it, solid against my crotch, leaning forward a bit to push the top of my pelvis against his cock. He was a bit too tall to rub it against where it might want to go later, but I wanted to feel it anyway. He held my head against his shoulder and started a line of kisses down my neck, to my jacket collar. I had to relax my legs to keep my balance, and used that as my excuse to grab his arse. It was a magnificent handful, firm through his jeans, and he put both his hands on my bum, low, working round my jacket, as I did the same to him and fondled towards his snake hips.

Our mouths came together again, both breathing harder, as we'd passed any point of misunderstanding or embarrassment. We both wanted each other. And both knew it. Often, realising that is more of a release than easing the sexual frustration.

I tried to pull him closer, squeezing that lovely flesh just below his back pockets, so our groins could grind together. Hump his leg, even. I could feel him, then he moved up and down a bit against me. A pause, and he brought his hand round between us, pushing against me.

"Oh, yeah... Bit lower... yeah..."

He pulled his face away, to look downwards.

"That's good," I tried to reassure him. "Just above my clit... yeah..."

He dropped his hands, and stepped backwards, hands rising to cover his face. "Oh my god! I'm so, so sorry!"

I started to shout, "What on...?" but it dawned on me at about the same moment, the misapprehension he'd been under.

Oh, shit.

Both of us liking men's mags.

Men's Health and GQ, 'for men interested in personal grooming'.

Gay bloody Times, even.

His lack of comments on any cover girls.

Oh, fuck! The poor, poor sod...

"No, I'm so sorry! My fault..." It wasn't because of him personally that I'd been acting androgynous, after all.

He slumped down onto a box of canned tomatoes, his head still in his hands, and I perched opposite on pallets of cola, feeling awkward. Like I'd led him on, even though I hadn't meant to.

I had to break the silence. "You OK, mate?"

A cynical noise. "Mate. Gay fuckin' Times, man..."

"Yeah. What's with the world? The mags for straight women are full of scantily-clad women, and if you want pics of men you need men's mags, straight or gay, no matter..."

"I remember. You bought that lesbian magazine once, and ice-cream and wine. So I thought I'd been wrong the time before, maybe. But then, all the other times I saw you, it's dark, you buy men's mags, and I never see women on my shift... So maybe you were a guy, buying for your girlfriend or sister, the time before? Only men ever come in the shop, when it's late. Never once a woman. So I don't think... Never occurred to me, you weren't a man..."

"Really?"

He thought a moment. "For real. Maybe a lady buys petrol, every couple weeks, but walking inside... No. Doesn't happen, on my shift. Never once, at all."

"Except me."

"Yeah." He sighed. "Should have known, too good to be true, finally my first..."

"Your...? Oh, fuckin' 'ell, love!" I'd really destroyed his hopes. "You've never, with a bloke?"

He rubbed his face and looked in my direction, still not meeting my eyes. "Not ever, no. Not really, with a woman, either..."

"Not?"

"Not much more than we were doing..." A rueful smile. "Thought I was going to touch my first cock, at last... But you don't have one."

He leant back against other boxes, saw a pallet of beer cans, pulled one out from under the shrink-wrap and lifted the ring-pull with a hiss. He offered it to me, then knocked back half of it when I shook my head.

The alcohol must have hidden in my brain, or my liver given up over the last hour, as I retorted, "I do so have a cock!"

He rolled his eyes. "Give over." Was he assessing and discounting various ways that might have been biologically possible?

"Got dragged out shopping for it, earlier. Strap-on cock. It's nice. I can show you!"

He gave me a very hard stare. Neither of us said anything for a minute or two, and my guts coiled in embarrassment. Then the bell rang, to require him at the counter.

"You reckon?"

Was that surprise, disbelief, or mocking me? Only option was to run with it, now.

"Reckon I can show you? Give me five minutes..."

The bell rang again, more persistently. He swayed his head, 'maybe', and got to his feet. I sank into my crate, embarrassed. As he went through the door back to the shop, he held up his splayed palm towards me.

Five minutes.

Right. Was this going to be the daftest idea I'd had in my whole life? I picked up my bag and went into the cubicle.

Sitting on the toilet, I took a deep breath. I pulled out my new purchase. The thing didn't look too tangled, but I wasn't going to risk unbuckling it -- my boots would have to come off. And the jeans -- brr! And, I supposed, my knickers were in the way, not that Gas Guy was likely to get anywhere near there, but if I wanted to see the effects of that vibrator... The floor froze my feet through my socks as I pulled the harness up over my legs, over my bum, and pulled the straps tight again. I'd managed to get it on right, thank god, and put my knickers back on, mostly to ensure I didn't leave them behind by mistake, but also to see how they looked with the tip of my dick poking out the top.

Kinda... dirty?

Jeans back on, zip most of the way up, and I bent over to get my boots back on, too. I heard the guy saying goodnight to the customer, and rushed the bootlaces -- I could always tie them properly later.

I pulled my jacket straight and eyed myself in the mirror. Gas guy had a point -- the leather hung straight down, so if you weren't looking, my breasts didn't show. It wasn't that I looked masculine as such, just, if you had guessed wrong, there wasn't any evidence really to point you the other way. Which was what I'd been trying to do.

Time to try to make up for that -- no, that was the wrong phrase; I wasn't sorry for looking after my own safety. Who knew what he might be interested in, as a gay guy with a dyke? I suspected he didn't. It wasn't like I had much more idea myself. I attempted a nonchalant lean on a stack of boxes of lemonade.

The steel door opened, the fire closer squeaking. He edged round it, and looked me shyly in the eye. And then down at my groin.

It wasn't that my new package was obvious, but if you were looking for it, it was definitely there. The guy's eyes were mesmerised, the whites shining extra brightly against his light-chestnut skin, his gaze skewering my crotch. I needn't worry about him not being interested in the idea, and I stepped forward to close the gap between us.

He took a measured breath, then mirrored me. Without a word, we returned to our full-on snogging, chest to chest, and, now, groin to groin, pressing firm cocks against each other, pushing, rubbing, showing off our size. I reached a hand round, feeling it was my job to take the lead, even though it was a shame to stop groping his arse.

Yes, definite stiffness there. I glanced up at him as I started fiddling with the button. His small gasp certainly wasn't an objection. Finally the brass knob popped through the slit and the lower fly buttons parted by themselves, proving the strut-worthy black jeans were in fact dyed well-worn favourites. Dark cotton boxers. I placed my hand over the thin material and pressed my thumb onto the waist elastic, which was just managing to restrain the tip of his cock.

He moaned, with a note of surprise in it, which clued me in. "Has no-one else ever touched you like this?"

"Not... Not inside my clothes... oh, please..."

He wouldn't have a clue what he was asking for. I had a vision of some of the more predatory men dwelling in the Black Cap, to whom this lithe young body would be fresh meat. Or some of the nicer ones, who were dying, and their friends and partners, too traumatised to spare feelings for a young naive virgin, hoping to stave off their own sadness by fucking any hole in sight. It was a strange atmosphere on the gay scene, in the year 2000, and this lad would be emotional mincemeat if he didn't at least get a handle on his own desires.

I had to try to teach him that. I rather owed him, having got his hopes up.

Not that I'd be being put to any inconvenience, you understand.

"What's your name, anyway?" I asked as he tried to buck his cockhead against my hand.

He squeezed me, as if to ensure I'd still exist if any shadow of his respectable life was made apparent.

"Atif." I nodded and he returned his mouth to my face. Then, "You?"

I didn't want to remind him, I wasn't really the bloke of his dreams. Or even a bloke at all. "Call me... Dave." It was the blokiest name I could think of.

He chuckled, his throat trembling against mine. "Nice to meet ya, Dave. D'you come here often?" The oldest chat-up line in the book, but hey, tonight had proved the old ones were still effective.

I laughed against his warm cheek, inhaling the tang of his hair gel, shampoo, and aftershave. "I might."

Enough words. Time to take him in hand. I put my hand back over his boxers and squeezed. Then a gentle movement up and down.