Love is a Banquet

We lay on the grass in the warm sunshine, my head resting on his shoulder, listening to the gentle buzzing of bees. A breeze wafted over us, scented with roses and honeysuckle. That was the moment -- the perfect moment -- an afternoon's bliss that I didn't realise was possible, didn't feel I deserved, and when he stood me up the next day and when his brother spat in my face and I never saw him again; I knew that I hadn't deserved it, that a relationship like this was not possible. So if this is the last time I'm going to be with Jake then I don't want to forget any detail.

I came to his flat this time; he said it was his turn to cook for me. Apparently, he'd spent all last night doing his school stuff and all day today cooking and cleaning so that everything would be perfect for this evening. Which it has been. We kissed somewhat awkwardly on the cheek as I arrived and handed over my bottle of wine. I sat on one of the high stools at the breakfast bar bit of the tiny kitchen, where we were eating. A wonderful arrangement of colourful mismatched crockery that made me smile, was laid out ready for our meal. A big green jug full of roses dominated the table, their scent mixing with the cooking smells.

We sat next to each other to eat, our thighs practically touching under the table. He had made feta salad for starters; with salty crumbly cheese and moist black olives. I could feel the heat coming from him, as if his body were talking to mine; a serious conversation, unlike the small talk we made with our mouths. Our bodies won out and before the feta salad was finished we were undressing each other, and Jake shoved me into his bedroom, where there was an immaculately made double bed.

Chapter Three Pizza and Panini

Jake aged 21

The usual Sunday night routine: treating ourselves to pizza in Zeffirelli's. It's the best place for Italian food in Ambleside and we're usually starving hungry after our weekend playing Dungeons and Dragons, whilst others have been out on the fells, enjoying the glorious weather. We concentrate on eating; saving our conversation for the pub afterwards. Wholewheat pizza, four different cheeses all melted and stringy, big bowls of big juicy olives. We make do with the bottled European lager for now -- the drinking in earnest starts at the pub.

The Golden Rule has a reputation for keeping a good pint, so the apeal of the beer keeps the locals coming in, putting up with us students from the teacher training college. I carry the drinks through into the snug; eight pints of Hartley's XB. The boys eagerly grab their pints, as thirsty as if they had indeed been tramping through the beautiful Lake District countryside rather than spending the whole weekend indoors, rolling dice, slaying monsters and rescuing damsels in distress. The television is on, but with the sound muted. I find myself distracted by it and glancing up frequently at the screen as I've not seen any tv for weeks. I recognise a re-run of Oranges are not the only fruit. Maybe it's because there is no sound that the actual vision has such an impact. On the screen I can see the main character, Jesse, watching the girl working on a fish stall in the market. The love and lust shining out of Jesse's eyes are obvious and suddenly I'm transported right back to when I was twelve -

I was not thrilled to be shopping with mum on a Saturday afternoon, but I wanted her to buy me a particular book, so had to endure trailing through the busy town, stopping every now and then as mum kept stopping to chat to people. We were making such slow progress; she knew so many people.

We'd already been to the greengrocer's in the market and I was lugging a heavy bag of potatoes, which was making my hands sore, even as I switched the bag from hand to hand. I was getting quite hot and started to worry in case I was sweating too much. I was wearing my new T-shirt and had been feeling pretty happy - Batman Returns emblazoned across my chest and my shoulder length hair all clean and shiny -- I'd sneaked some of my sister Sandra's conditioner when I'd washed my hair in the shower this morning -- but now I was bored. Hot. Tired and fed up with shopping.

'We just need to go to the fish shop and then we're done.' We walked on a bit further, I was dragging my heels along with the big bag of spuds. Mum was already being served when I got to the shop. I wrinkled my nose up at the seasidey smell and the Saturday assistant looked quizzically at me.

'He's with me, don't worry,' said mum as she put the fishy parcels into her shopping bag. The shop assistant smiled at me as he handed over the change. He must have been eighteen or so, somewhat freckled, unremarkable really apart from a lone earring glinting; his ear mostly hidden under his uniform hat. I looked back at him as I went out into the street; he was still smiling and he winked at me.

'Right! Come on then -- let's get to the book shop. Then we can go home and have a cup of tea.' mum said at last and my thoughts turned to the Paul Jennings book I wanted. I thought that the man from the fish shop was pretty cool and the next couple of times I went past I looked through the window to see if he was there, but he never was. Soon I didn't think about him at all.

So I'm in The Golden Rule half watching tv as I realise, that actually what I had felt, was sexual attraction, and I pick up my pint, drinking nearly half of it in great big swallows. Could I really be gay?

Thinking back to my teenage years; I did not associate myself with the couple of boys that were openly, obviously gay -- very arty and creative and somewhat swishy and camp. Our school was a small rural one and these boys were bullied, but they sought refuge with the mis-fit girls and found a limited degree of protection there. I was bright and sensitive and spent my time trying to find a quiet place in which to read undisturbed. I had more in common with the girls than with the football kicking 'farmers' that grabbed the lion's share of open spaces, and I managed to associate myself with the girls without attracting the bullies attention. I remember my guilt at the relief I felt when someone else was being bullied, rather than me.

I had dated girls but always felt that they were somehow expecting more of me, but I wasn't sure what. I just thought I was treating them with respect, whereas the reality was I just felt no sexual attraction. I try to think of my friendships with boys and wonder was there any attraction there, but nothing stands out. As well as being a rather late developer, I think I had been blinkered -- not seeing any other possibilities outside the straight and narrow.

My mates are all talking and arguing across each other, a roar goes up from the other room where the dartboard is and I'm having an epiphany. Here I am in my early twenties considering the possibility that I could be gay, or at least bisexual; this is a pretty scary development in the heretofore dull life of Jake Summerhill and I think I need another pint.

Leo aged 21

'Hold still, Leo.' Jen is putting make-up on my face to hide the bruising still visible from my recent beating. It's uncomfortable and still surprisingly painful. But it's Graduation today and I need to be presentable -- for my photo and the parents. Darragh is pacing up and down the tiny room that I call home and making me nervous.

'Why don't you sit down?' suggests Jen, 'I won't be too much longer.' But he continues to wander about, fiddling with his tie.

'Is this my colour?' I ask Jen, smiling. 'I don't want it to clash with my eyes,' I add jokingly.

'For God's Sake Leo! This is no laughing matter!' Darragh bites my head off, his voice echoing in the bare room.

'Where's your sense of humour gone?' I ask him gently.

'Watching you having to wear make-up to your Graduation because you got beaten up getting up to God knows what, is not high up on my list of funny situations, Leo. Now just be quiet and let Jen do what she can.'

So I sit here and do as I'm told. Graduating -- thank God! I've got really bored with all the people at uni. I can't wait to be away from here. All the parties are pretty much over now, and there's not one person here I want to spend any time with. It's a whole new world out there and because I managed a 2:1 I can go travelling. I'm sure daddy just said he'd give me the money to go abroad so that he didn't have to have me at home. I don't mind -- just think of all those new opportunities out there. So many cute guys. I can go where I like -- South America, Australia -- think of all those tanned, fit surfer types. I'm going to Uncle's Robert's villa to start with though. Haven't seen him since Martin's death.

'Did Martin's funeral go ok?' I hadn't gone -- too busy with my finals.

'We didn't go.' Jen says quietly.

'But daddy must have said something about how it went.' I look into Jen's grey eyes and can't read what's there.

'They didn't go either,' Darragh says. 'Daddy was too busy.' So no-one went. I'm appalled. Poor Uncle Robert. I can remember the first time I realised that he and Martin were a couple. I was about twelve at the time. . .

'There's still time to come back home with us if you've changed your mind,' my father said. But I was keen to stay behind, particularly as I sensed my parents disapproval. 'Well, you'll just be here on your own for the evening. There's some of that lovely pizza leftover in the fridge you can have if you're feeling hungry. Patrick will look in on you once the bar is closed and he'll stay the night. Uncle Robert will be here in the morning.'

With these reassurances my parents set off for the airport, leaving me, with the evening stretching out before me like an adventure to be had. I wandered around Uncle Robert's villa, visiting all the familiar rooms: the lavishly fitted out kitchen, with its well scrubbed pine table. Uncle Robert liked to cook; but we nearly always ate our evening meal in Patrick's restaurant, down the hill, in the small town. Then: the large, uncluttered, rather empty living room with its leather sofas and tiled floor. I liked this room the best; liked snuggling up on one of the sofas and watching Italian tv. I couldn't always follow exactly what was happening, but loved the sound of the mellifluous language and had picked up some phrases which I repeated to myself sotto voce. There was a lovely painting of some mountains, above the fireplace, that I liked; there was a tiny figure right at the bottom that Martin said might be me. I used to stare at this figure intently to see any resemblance, but it was no use, it was too small and indistinct; the figure dwarfed by the mountains. Martin had painted this himself and I loved the colours -- blues and greens and purples.

There was one room in the villa however that I had not really been in -- my uncle's bedroom. I had not been forbidden to go in there but knew that it was not good manners to go snooping in someone else's room. It wasn't until my parents had gone that I even thought about it. I opened the door and hesitated on the threshold. I could see the large double bed with its wrought iron bedstead, the bed neatly made, a large painting of a lake and mountains on the wall above it. There was still enough sunlight coming through the window so that I did not need to switch on a lamp; which made me feel less like I was doing something I shouldn't be doing. I crept slowly into the room, trailing my fingers along the smooth wood of the furniture. Uncle Robert obviously didn't leave many of his things here when he was at home back in England. I picked up the small wooden box from the top of the chest of drawers; I remembered my uncle making it, and carving the patterns into it. He seemed to spend every afternoon last summer working on it. The sides of the box were smooth to the touch and the lid was intricately carved. I lifted the lid but there was nothing exciting in there; just a neat stack of letters, tied in a ribbon.

I was just resigning myself to not finding anything at all interesting in Uncle Robert's room when I banged my shin on a cardboard box that was out of sight round the far side of the bed. I sat down pulling the heavy box onto the bed next to me. It was full of framed photographs, of Uncle Robert and his friend Martin, who always came on holiday with him. They were maybe a dozen photos of them: at a party, someone's wedding, on holiday - just like the ones everybody's parents have at home. There was one particular photo that was in a beautiful hand carved wooden frame, the pattern matching that of the hand carved box containing letters and I followed the swirly pattern around the frame with my fingers, as I realised who the photo was of. Martin and Uncle Robert passionately kissing. I could see every detail of Martin's prominent cheekbones, aquiline nose, his startlingly blue eyes and blond hair as it contrasted sharply to Uncle Robert's brown hair and soft round face. My stomach lurched and I cast the photo onto the bed then ran outside onto the verandah, leaning over the wooden railing, feeling sick and dizzy; gulping in great lungfuls of the warm evening air.

Later when the moon had risen, I sat on the verandah, the leftover pizza all eaten, smoking without inhaling, one of the cigarettes I'd stolen from mother's pack earlier in the day. I threw it away halfway through: I was very tired and lay down on the hard wooden floor, resting my head on my arms, and without understanding why, cried until I was completely empty inside.

Apparently when Patrick came, he found me still on the verandah, sound asleep and he carried me, without waking me, back into the villa, my slight frame no problem for Patrick's strong arms and shoulders. As he put me to bed, I woke briefly as he stroked my face, and said good night.

Dan

I 'd picked him up in Top Shop. I was walking slowly through the changing rooms and I saw him. He'd not bothered shutting the curtain and was posing, admiring his reflection. He was wearing skin tight jeans, which were moulded around his sturdy thighs and arse. The jeans emphasised the shortness of his legs -- but also their muscularity and solidity. I caught his eye, and we exchanged a look; that look. He was trying on a so-so orange T shirt and I offered him the one I had taken in with me, telling him it would suit him better. He peeled the T shirt off over his head, slowly revealing his well developed chest and upper arm muscles; pausing momentarily with the T shirt covering his head and with his arms aloft, displaying his sculpted torso. I took the opportunity, so blatantly offered, to squeeze his bicep, hard, and I complimented him on his physique. He tried on the T shirt I gave him -- blue and white stripes -- quite a nautical look to it. It was a wee bit small for him, but I appreciated the way it outlined his muscles and I could see his erect nipples through the thin cotton.

Instead of taking him straight back to mine as I would usually do, I offered him lunch, because I was really hungry myself and didn't want to lose him. We walked through the shopping centre; my appraisal of him continuing. He had bought the sailor T shirt and was wearing it now; it was slightly too short and rode up above his plain brown leather belt. On his feet he wore rusty brown desert boots, the heels of which were worn down. He walked beside me silently in these boots; almost stealthily, and I thought of him as a tightly packed, muscular bomb that could go off at any moment.

Mopping up a piece of semi-molten Brie that has escaped from my bacon panini, I sandwich Jimmy's knee between mine under the little table. His arms, huge on the tiny table make me think of arm wrestling but not seriously as he would win so quickly and that wouldn't set the right tone for our encounter. He had ordered pizza -- with goats cheese, red onion and mushroom, with a rocket salad. Jimmy picks up leaves of rocket from his plate and puts them in his mouth, chewing carefully in a somewhat bovine fashion. I watch fascinated, as he attacks his pizza. He uses the cutlery like precision instruments; cutting off a section of crust, then turning his plate slightly clockwise, cutting another section, turning his plate, continuing to devour his pizza in concentric circles, until the last remaining mouthful. Transfixed I notice a dark brown birthmark on his brawny neck and his earring -- a silver starfish -- I reach over and flick it lightly. He tells me it was a gift from his fiancée. Am I surprised? No not really. I just smile at him indulgently as he drinks his cappuccino, which gives him a froth moustache to cover his own. He picks up the almond biscotti from his saucer and puts it into his mouth whole. He crunches it loudly, his jaws working up and down like a dog's. I pass him the one from my saucer, he takes it , his eyebrows raise in a silent 'thank you' and the second biscotti meets the same fate. Over his shoulder, I see two men looking in a shop window, almost, but not quite, holding hands. I recognise one of them.

'Would you believe it? Do you know him over there? The one with that really hot looking tall bloke? I picked him up at Heaven last year sometime, everyone else had already copped off and he was still there all by himself so I did him a favour and took him home and shagged him. He had a fantastic body but didn't really know what to do. He said he'd not really been with anyone before -- I was practically his first. I'd noticed him hanging around for quite a while - there's always great interest in somebody new -- but he usually seemed to leave early and alone. I sort of took him under my wing for a bit, showed him all the best clubs. It was quite an experience having somebody so naïve to corrupt -- we had such wicked time. He was quite shy and unadventurous at first, but he was a very willing student and quickly became very adept. He adored me, followed me everywhere. Mind you, in the end he became a bit of a liability, always there when I was after someone else. I tried to let him down gently, he was a nice sensitive lad but I had to tell him that I wasn't after a relationship. I could tell he was upset, but I had to set him straight, as it were, it wasn't fair on him. I might have sex with an awful lot of men, but I don't pretend to be something I'm not.' I say this gently, not wishing to make Jimmy angry and storm off, but still wanting to admonish him for his deceitful behaviour.

Jimmy flushes slightly, not meeting my gaze, and turns around to see who I was blethering on about and I can see embarrassment in his eyes. I think at first,he knows Jake too but it turns out he knew the other one at university. After a bit of encouragement he begins to tell me about this Leo. Apparently Leo had it made; he would flirt outrageously with all the girls and then seduce their boyfriends -- Jimmy himself included - brilliant! He tells me that one evening he and his girlfriend fell out over something stupid and she stomped off to bed. Then Leo invited him back to his room to share a joint and sometime later the girlfriend barges into the room only to find her darling Jimmy sprawled out on the bed and Leo giving him a blow job! They were both really into it -- it was quite a while before they realised she was there. I can just picture it - Jimmy swearing that Leo had got him drunk and so wasted and that he had been taken advantage of and he was really horny and had really been thinking about her. Poor boy! Having to make out he was really upset about what had happened and then in order to save his reputation he found himself engaged.

Still thinking of his poor deceived fiancée, I 'm greatly anticipating making this little piggy squeal -- I just know he'll be a noisy one - and slapping his deliciously firm arse, I hustle him out of the cafe, leaving our lunch debris strewn across the little table. Scrunched up paper napkins, spilt sugar, little rings of onion, panini crumbs and froth-scummy cups, all waiting for the waitress to clear up.