I Say Ass, You Say Arse: Contrasts

'I Say Ass...' is a series of sequential connected stories. Each is a complete independent story but with recurring characters. Bradley is a nice American scientist completing his PhD, taking up collaboration with female British researchers very enthusiastically.

This isn't a quick stroke story -- there's scene-setting, lots of dirty talk, and discussion of sexuality, along with plenty of anal sex and butt love. Check tags if you want more info.

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It was day two of Bradley's attending a prestigious science conference in England.

It was also the second day of him pretending to be his friend Emily's paid whore, in exchange for her paying for him to attend. Sharing her hotel room and fucking her ass on demand was hardly being a hardship! Catching up with other Europe-based colleagues-slash-friends, like Rachel and Richie, was a bonus.

Coffee -- more coffee than he'd ever drunk before -- kept Bradley mostly awake until lunchtime. The panel session on Integrins had indeed been unexpectedly interesting; the one after the break, on Expression of Cellular Identity, much less so. Joke slides with a neuron or bacterium saying 'I think of myself as Kate' had not helped.

He made it through the afternoon, too, buoyed by the thought of the fancy dinner for all delegates. Until Emily saw the menu.

"How on earth can they produce fish and chips for two thousand people at once, without having half of it cold and mank and generally terrible?"

They couldn't.

The keynote speakers on the high table appeared to receive freshly cooked food, but for everyone else it was a disaster.

Two Japanese delegates at Bradley's table were trying to hide their distaste for soggy battered fish.

"My god, this is just embarrassing," Rachel huffed, next to him. She turned to Akiko and Prof Omura. "I am terribly sorry about this travesty of British food. Come on, let's go find somewhere else. Please, Professor, join us." To Akiko, who spoke way more English than the prof, she added, "What would he like? We have almost any cuisine in Brighton."

Some animated conversation. "He has heard that British sushi can be good."

Bradley's heart sank. He'd tried a Yo Sushi joint. It was like if Subway or Taco Bell did Japanese...

Rachel nodded. "Yes. There's a small chain that's opened here -- Moshi... something. They specialise in local and sustainable fish. They're very good, I don't know about authentic. Shall I phone them? It's only a ten minute walk."

She handed her phone to Akiko. "Interrogate them. If they sound good, ask for a table and we'll be there in ten. OK?" The discussion sounded positive.

The sushi was indeed excellent. Prof Omura had ended up ordering and insisted on paying. Afterwards, they'd insisted on buying drinks in return, so he'd been in the hotel bar as the quiz night started.

Bradley knocked back sodas, hoping to completely abolish his jet lag. The sushi, green tea and seaside stroll had helped. He'd made a good choice of table to join -- various junior postdocs from around North America made him welcome, envied him his dinner, and proved particularly knowledgeable for questions like "Name 20 Drosophila gene names, beginning with the letter S, with no numbers in. You get two points for each one which no-one else mentions. Genes must be listed on the FlyBase website or they don't count. I don't care if you discovered it last week!"

It was a fun way to relax for a few hours, even if they did come third from last. "I told you Smaug and Spaghetti-Squash were genes!" hissed one guy to his pal who'd been writing the answers.

The cheering for winning teams was interrupted by a text from Emily: 'You have the room to yourself tonight.'

She was probably with Richie. Or seducing someone else at a party. He didn't care. That power shower and comfortable double bed were much more appealing.

He awoke the next morning, minus jet lag.

After enjoying the downpour shower -- the hotel was right to boast of its 'classical style, yet modern plumbing' -- a wide-awake Bradley sauntered into the dining room to test how many pieces of a full English breakfast he could eat.

He saw Richie in a far corner, considered saying hello, but deduced from the man's glower that leaving him alone would be best. "Richie's just crap at being sociable," Emily had explained previously. Bradley nodded as he carried his laden tray to a table further along the back wall. Richie glanced up, made an infinitesimal nod in response -- Bradley couldn't tell if the older man had recognised him or not -- then returned to his own breakfast.

Idly mopping up egg yolk with a piece of sausage and crumbs of black pudding, Bradley heard the loud nasal call of one of his countrymen. The kind he tried not to be. A portly guy asked Richie, "Hey, d'you mind if we join you?" but forgot it was a question.

"Yes," Richie replied. It was obvious to anyone he wanted to be alone.

The middle-aged man in his linen suit hadn't waited for an answer. He pulled out a chair and aimed to sit at Richie's table, gesturing at his female companion to join him.

Bradley saw Richie's face grow pale, his fingers tense. When Richie yelped, his "Go away!" as panicked as any small scared dog, Bradley dropped his fork and dashed over.

"Everything all right?" he asked pleasantly. "You weren't disturbing Richard early in the morning, were you?" He started to usher the couple away from their row of tables, to one much nearer the entrance. "Everyone knows you don't try to engage him in conversation early in the morning!" Bradley had made this up, but guessed it was true. "We'll leave him in peace, hey? I'm sure if you offered to buy him a pint this evening, he'd be delighted to discuss your work."

Bradley was making that up, also. Unlikely to be true, but at least Richie might get a drink out of it. "What do you work on? Oh, nice. Maybe we should have a chat later -- I'm afraid I like a quiet breakfast too."

Bradley handed over his business card, with his handwritten addendum that he'd be working at McGill shortly. "I recommend the kippers and kedgeree," he added, hoping the rude couple hated smoked fish, before returning to his own food.

After clearing his plate, there was the vital question of whether he could manage a Danish pastry or a small box of Coco Pops. Perhaps he'd keep with the traditional English theme and just have more toast with his third coffee? Maybe with the blackcurrant 'conserve', or that chunky marmalade? Choices, choices...

Bradley reclined back on the banquette seat, and enjoyed his last buttery toast slice by mopping up meaty bacon juices. His phone vibrated. The message from Richie said merely, 'Thanks.'

'No worries', Brad typed back.

'Invading a man's privacy, especially over breakfast? And people say I'VE got no social skills.'

Bradley tried not to laugh. He was, however, amused soon after. Richie not only moved to join Bradley for another coffee -- he did ask, before sitting down -- but beckoned Emily, entering the room, to join them.

"Are you making a point to those guys?"

"What? Why would I?" Richie seemed confused. No, just I've been asked to dinner tonight, and if I wanted to bring anyone else who's been doing work on the sort of stuff Em's been doing recently. So, Em: how about it? Fancy coming to have dinner with Francis Deacon and Tim Smith?"

Bradley knew this was an honour Emily would never refuse. Richie being invited at his age was impressive enough. He suspected there might be an element of the older men wanting more young eye candy, but fair enough -- Em could supply that in spades and relevant experience.

Emily didn't refuse. She did apologise to Brad that she wouldn't be able to join him for the aquarium tour and buffet that evening, nor spend time with him afterwards.

"Hey, I'm sure you could find a friend for Bradley to fuck tonight."

"Rich, indoor voice!" Emily hissed loudly. "But yes, I think that could be arranged."

Bradley objected, "I'm not a cat needing a sitter! I can look after myself, you know." He could probably find a girl happy to go back to their hotel room, too. A simple 'I have a room, upstairs,' would make a great line.

"I know. Rich, send me the details. Brad, come over to the counter with me."

She needed her food. Bradley humored her. Away from anyone, in a bay by a window, Emily murmured, "Would you object if our contract was transferred?"

"Who to? You mean, to someone not you, right?"

"Rachel. She's here, and she's all alone, now. You recall me telling you of my friends bemoaning how hard it is to find men to fuck them up the arse? Yeah? Well, Rachel's the main one of those... So I was thinking, could you? Would you?"

Bradley thought. Very happily.

"She'd treat you right."

"But what about her girlfriend?" He did not want to be on the wrong side of a stunning blonde five inches taller than he was.

"Emma had to go home, for her work."

"D'oh! I mean, what's her views on Rach seeing other people? I don't do heartbreaking." Bradley liked to think he had moral standards, even if he might have had more sex in his life without them. Besides, he liked both Emma and Rachel.

"Eh, check for yourself, but I think any consideration would be more about how she'd like to be there watching! I know they've both seen other people, sometimes. As in, agreed to." Emily decided this wasn't the time to explain Rach and Emma's hobbies involving fetish clubs, nor was it any of her business.

"Uh-huh? Well, sure, ask her! But give her a choice. It's not compulsory! I won't take it for granted, but do give her my number, in case she doesn't have it." As Bradley said it, he knew he didn't want to give Rachel an opt-out, and seriously prayed she'd go along.

He thought about slim Rachel's long dark hair, her usual leather jacket or coat hiding a fantastic body, her lashes of sarcasm used to cover her brittle demeanor, which only seemed to relax around Emma -- or with alcohol.

Rachel was sexy as hell, which might explain why she'd got so fed up of men. Though her Emma, a 6'3" beautiful blonde Amazon of a woman, who'd been on their Olympics javelin and discus squad before deciding she wasn't sufficiently obsessed with chucking things across fields, would convert most people to women even if they hadn't been inclined to the fairer sex previously.

Rachel's looks-could-kill expression, directed a few times a day at any guy staring at Emma's cleavage, was always entertaining. She must know Emma dressed like that for exactly that reaction!

The pair were clearly devoted to each other, but the idea that they also did stuff with others was hardly new. To hear Emma joke about Rach liking all sorts of people, you might even suspect they didn't have sex with each other -- except that Rachel had drunkenly assured him they most certainly did. In a fair bit of detail.

She'd told him once, only partly for the effect on him, "Think of your favourite lesbian porn. Then imagine it with actual real women, actually loving it. Then make it kinkier and better. That's my life, sweetie."

Rachel had laughed at his sudden need to adjust his pants.

Emily waited for Bradley's answer.

"Sure. Consider me contracted."

"Good! Here's twenty quid, in case I don't see you later today." Her wink showed that she wasn't just considering his need to buy food, but also reminding him of what services she'd paid for.

Being paid to have Rachel. Putting his cock in her ass!

Bradley struggled to concentrate on the morning's talks. Thankfully, he was presenting his poster after lunch. He meandered around the poster hall, exchanging details with many useful contacts. Perhaps, after Montreal, he might end up in the Amsterdam lab? Unlike most of the European groups, all their staff spoke excellent English. He attended a keynote session and panel at 3pm, then mingled with more of the same people. He acquired various tips on how to take forward his forthcoming postdoc project, while also knocking back more life-saving coffee.

At six, not wanting to assume anything about plans for the evening, he moseyed along the promenade to the Sea Life Centre with Akiko and Prof Omura, plus a number of other faces he vaguely recognised. He prayed the food would be better than the night before.

As they entered, each delegate was handed a large paper cone and a tiny wooden two-pronged fork. He could see a buffet spread in the distance. Always a good start.

He examined the cone's contents. Mixed cold seafood, some with shells. Some looked like tiny shrimp, some were small fat clams. Others had shells more like snails, but the lump of meat he winkled out was tasty.

The nearest Brit he could see was Verity, who had been Emily's PhD supervisor when he'd first come to England and met Emily, Rachel and the others. "Hey, how nice to see you again!" he said, politely. "Yes, I'm just waiting for my thesis defense; thank you so much for your comments. What are these things we're eating?"

Verity smiled, her wrinkling face betraying her fifty-plus years. "I think many people here will be too young to remember whelks and cockles and winkles! Back in the Sixties, a poke of these was a classic carry-out meal. They're a bit of a delicacy now -- takes a lot of work to wash them, and people prefer fat imported prawns to the native brown shrimp! But they have oysters over there. Try some! You still can't beat a good Kentish oyster!"

Bradley wasn't sure he wanted to eat a raw oyster, but he'd swallowed worse recently. He took one that the waiter had just dressed, and knocked it back.

It was much better than he'd expected. Not slimy; just a succulent piece of the taste of the sea. With lemon. Akiko, next to him, clapped her hands happily. "These are so good! Is it okay, have more?"

It seemed not many people were enthusiastic about oysters, which meant plenty for those who were. Prof Omura asked a question.

"Bradley? What is this red sauce?" Akiko translated.

Bradley caught sight of the small bottle of Tabasco. Something oddly familiar!

"It's very spicy, hot, chili pepper sauce. Hm, a few drops on an oyster might be good. Let me try."

The waiter let him sprinkle the sauce himself. Bradley took a bite. Mexican food and American-style spice was something he'd missed in England, but it seemed a mere drop of Tabasco on this fabulous fresh seafood was resolving that. He closed his eyes to savor the flavor properly, then passed the bottle to Prof Omura.

A cough. Akiko rapidly passed the man a fresh glass of water, but it was clear that once he had got over the shock of the hot sauce, Prof Omura was delighted with this flavour combination. The honour of British cuisine had been restored. Bradley said as much to Akiko, who agreed. "We went for good fish and chips this lunchtime. Very good. The tartar sauce and mashed peas and the vinegar, they work very well, when the fish is fresh and properly cooked."

Nearly full, Bradley picked at the buffet, but swore that the octopus across the way was eyeing it up and glaring at him. He'd heard of aquarium octopuses sneaking out of their tanks at night for a snack, then returning home and putting the lids back in place before staff arrived. This one looked like it was waiting for the people to all go away, for that very purpose.

He was swept around the impressive exhibits, but he couldn't read any descriptions in the low light with the crowds. He did enjoy feeding a ray and letting it brush against his finger as it flolloped about with its friends in a large shallow pool. Two hours after arrival, in the foyer again, Akiko wished Prof Omura goodnight. She and Marion and others debated their next destination. Bradley was happy to go along, to any pub or nightclub.

Bradley's phone rang. It was Rachel.

"Where are you?" she quizzed him.

"Just leaving the aquarium. You?"

"That depends. Emily says she spoke to you. Are you still up for fulfilling my needs tonight?"

Bradley hadn't believed this offer would actually happen. He tried not to sound desperate. "That depends on how many and what needs you have, love." He adopted the English endearment, trying to sound casual. Someone was bound to be eavesdropping. He added, "Just you, yeah? And remember, only if it's OK that I'm not Emma. With her, too."

"Fair enough, mate. I'll be in the hotel bar in ten minutes. I'm sure I can play the lady who sees a cute young boy, buys him a drink, and entices him to her room, right?"

"I have the ultimate faith in you."

He really did. He hoped he wasn't blushing.

He left the crowd to squawk about where it was going. Bradley strolled back through the permanent traffic jam and hundreds of tourists, all gaping at the sea and the pier, back to the hotel. He smoothed his hair down as he walked through the lobby, thinking this was an occasion which would merit a purse-sized mirror. With a deep breath, he faked confidence and strode into the bar.

A woman with long chestnut hair lounged on a bar stool at the marble-topped bar, where low lights illuminated both underneath the counter and the wide range of spirits on the wall. It was Rachel, looking purposefully seductive. More sexy than ever.

She wore her usual black leather blazer jacket, but had dressed up for the occasion. Sleek black leather jeans sat overtop heeled boots; a copper-coloured glittery top was low-cut enough for him to confirm that her breasts were small but cute. Her hair was tied back as usual, all practical, contrasting with her pale skin and her new red lipstick. The scarlet mouth was a blatant marker, indicating 'This woman wants sex!' That was very clear, even before she met Bradley's eyes and beckoned him with one finger to sit next to her.

Bradley could see a sleazy older guy trying to make a move towards Rachel, so increased his speed, managing to cut in and block the other man's access with his shoulder. "Hello! How delightful to see you!" He wasn't sure if their role-play required names, but didn't want any asshole knowing Rachel's.

She beamed at him. "Hello! You're a cute thing, aren't you? Will you let a lonely woman buy you a drink?"

"I surely will, ma'am." This time, his rent-boy accent had lurched from Texas via Brokeback Mountain.

"Good! Beer? Or I have wine or spirits in my room. But no mixers. If you want mixed drinks then it's here -- I don't run to mini-bar prices!"

"Hoegaarden, please." The barman nodded and pulled the pint.

"It's on my tab. 528. Cheers. So, sweetie," -- she checked the looming guy had moved out of earshot -- "do you like being a kept man?"

Bradley chuckled. "That's a very nice term for it. I mean, yeah? Being 'kept' is working very well, seeing as I'm doing nothing I wouldn't want anyway. Who wouldn't! It doesn't feel anything much like being a hooker, seeing as I'm only being asked to do stuff I'm happy to."

He thought of Emily, abandoning all respectability, begging him to let her empty her ass and him to fuck her, like the sort of desperate person who would hire a whore to fulfil their filthy, unspeakable, desires.

"Uh-huh. Well, given you can always say no -- it's not like I'll stiff you on your non-existent tip -- I'd be interested in pushing that! What might you do, if you were asked? Or if paid extra?"

He looked thoughtful. He was unsure. He was just a regular guy, not into weird kinky stuff. Though he'd been told before, hadn't he, that enjoying anal was damn kinky. Not freaking when he and Emily had been walked in on mid-fuck was possibly weird, too. Where did he draw his line?

"Hm?" she added.

"I... I don't know. Not sure. I mean, Emily said, didn't she? No extra people, and I don't want to be the one getting fucked, right?"

"She did. Don't worry. I don't rape people. Even rent-boys. And you don't get to stick your dick in my pussy, either. Sorry. But that still leaves us a lot of scope to play with."