Smoking Hot Ch. 02

"Aye. I know. Did you find, ye didn't even know men were an option until ye left school? Or was that just us in the Catholic schools with the priest men teaching us?"

"We didn't have priests - not in my school: bog-standard comp. But we had Section 28. Did you have that in Northern Ireland? So, not much better, I reckon. If anyone asked the teachers, they'd change the subject, and no way did anyone think of coming out at school. There was one guy in the year above me who was flaming camp, but completely 'don't ask, don't tell'. He got away with it somehow, but other kids..."

"Aye. Same for me - all boys' grammar, but wi' added preaching on sodomy, and adultery meaning sin and hellfire. So - when did ye first go with a boy?"

"After I left school. I was ... my first job. Had a few bevvies with the lads, this guy asks if I want to come back to his, I said sure, and once through the door he's on me like Alien... Shit, there's Max!"

"Tell him I've been fixing your spreadsheet or summat."

"Windows settings. That'll do..." Loudly, for Max's benefit in the doorway, "Sure. I'll get you a beer now you've fixed that."

"No, don't drink beer, really, and not til the sun passes over the yardarm..."

"Thought that was any time after midday?"

"Six pm, I always thought. I usually make it eight, especially if I'm alone."

"Sensible. Cuppa, then?"

"Ta. Milk-no-sugar."

"And strong. No worries. All right, Max? Have you met Adrian from downstairs? He came to my rescue, fixed my computer."

"Aye, he'd right banjaxed it somehow, had to go into the registry and sort his graphics card settings - he'd moved to some completely incompatible non-SVGA resolution somehow. Anyhow, about ye, big man?"

Max is all tall, dark, and knowing exactly how good-looking he is. He clearly doesn't understand a word of this, as intended, but guesses the question from the intonation. "Er, fine, thanks. Typical Monday in the office, bit busy. Was going to go to the gym but thought I'd get dinner first."

He pulls out some frozen stuff, sticks it all on a tray in the oven, and pushes off to his room. The mirror image of mine, which feels a bit odd.

Dan passes my mug. "I'd best head in ten. You enjoy your telly."

"Aye. I'll do a bit of cooking, too. Set myself up for the week with leftovers."

"Good man." He lowers his voice. "Keep it up, call me round midnight if you need, but I'm afraid I'm away all tomorrow, in the office, then footie with the lads and drinks after. Look after yourself, talk to your friends for distraction, yeah?"

"I'll be grand." Fusspot.

He claps me on the shoulder. "Try one of your whiskies with your food - see if you can taste more in it."

Patronising bastard fusspot, and all. I roll my eyes and push off.

Cooking something is a fine plan though, so I whip up a large pot of chilli for the next few days, put some rice on, and while I'm at it I mix up some tinned beans with garlic for a side dish another day. Running low on fresh veg, but there's some carrots not too elderly, so I cook them separate rather than chucking them into the chilli pot. Rummaging in the freezer yields more mince, that can be made into meatballs tomorrow. Or later. Frozen green beans, for tonight.

I feel practically in control of my life, enjoyin my wee meal. I lick the last of the chilli off my plate seeing as nobody's looking, flick the telly on for University Challenge and look for a fag to go with.

Oh, arse.

Whose fuckin' daft idea was it to quit the cigs? How much more of a right buck eejit could I be?

Jeremy Paxman's sorrowful shake of the head seems to be aimed right at me.

Fuck off, Paxo. I pour myself a wee dram, instead.

I'm too raging to drink much during the prog, so it's ending and my whisky still there when the phone rings.

It's Laura.

"Bout ye? Cos I'm fit to kill, I tell ye! Bribin' a poor boy to give up the fegs, nary a consolation do I get, no woman to assuage my sore cravin's..."

And the hallion laughs in my ear. "Aw, poppet! I guess that means congratulations are in order, for two days as a non-smoker!"

"Aye, right, like that that's any consolation!"

She replies sweetly, in her nice middle-class English accent, "I think the phrase is 'haul ya wheesht, and quit ya gurnin!' - am I right?"

Shut your gob and stop your whining and moaning. Accurate, not that that cheers me up any.

"And for ye, it's 'ach, get tae!'" Oh, get to fuck. The destination is more emphatic when it's implied.

"Ooh, catch yourself on!"

I give up and laugh. Hearing my own phrases in her posh Home Counties voice is too funny. She's picked up half the Iron dialect after hanging out with me and Will for so long.

"Gotcha! What you up to, tonight?"

I'm being checked up on. Keeping me busy. It's like after Diane died. Only, really, nothing like.

"Bin cookin'. Just watched UC, comin' up to Only Connect."

"Quizzy Monday."

"Aye, it's grand."

"Yup. Text me if you get any answers before they do. Bet I beat ya."

"Ach, shut yer boke!"

"Round your cock!"

She's mastered the insulting banter, to be sure. Though of course, there's her promise... "Get you! Eh, it's about to start."

"When you're consoling yourself about losing to me after, pour a nice wee dram and see what new flavours you can detect in it. You should be able to taste more already, they say."

She's as bad as that bloody Dan.

"My tea was grand, but I thought that was just me being all right at cooking."

"Whatever. Oops, it's starting! Bye, then."

It's a draw, we decide. Laura's a demon at the Missing Vowels round. I sip my glass what I've neglected whilst frantically texting her.

It's good. Not sure I can taste much difference. But I'm sore tired. Been a long day, not to mention talking heavy stuff and being on my knees for a good while.

Dan might make a good friend with benefits, maybe.

I fall asleep easily, wake to start work early, and soon regret it - way too many problems, starting with the raging clients who got sent yesterday's report. Joy. My hand is itching for a fag, my mouth too. And Dan's not even an option.

I can't concentrate. I try having a wank, but it just makes me think of having a wee smoke after a fuck. Eventually, in desperation, I trot down the chemist's for some nicotine gum. I lie and say I'm not using the patches. Probably overdosing on nicotine, but I really don't fucking care.

Why the fuck am I doing this anyway?

I text those exact words to Laura.

Ten minutes later, I get a reply.

'Just think of getting to slide your cock into my lovely tight arse, as you hold the curves of my bum still...'

'Ach aye. Cant you give a man somethin sooner to look forward to?'

The response doesn't come for a minute.

'Remember what you negotiated the other day? One month a snog, two months you can have at my tits?'

Laura's got a lovely pair, for sure. But...

'A month? And a snog's hardly anythin.'

'Say that to someone being cheated on. But I mean proper making out, you know, all the fun you can have with your clothes on. Pressing your firm body into mine...'

'One week.'

'Two, minimum. I'm busy until then, anyway.'

'OK. Weekend after this come over let me know when.'

'You stay off the cigs, and you're on.' How does she type so fast, with such perfect punctuation?

'Then one month, same, you topless. Two months...well, what you offerin for that?'

I'm expecting a 'fuck off'. But after a couple long minutes a message comes through. 'My hands and my mouth? All over your bare body?'

'Now theres a thought to sustain a man...'

'Good. Keep thinking of that, then. You can do this, sweetie!'

'Its not bloody you fuckin doing it!'

'I know, but it's true.'

Sigh. 'How bout a visual reminder of what I can look forward to? Send us a selfie?'

'In a bit. See what I can do. Laters. xx'

It's a pleasant surprise when I receive a picture message only five minutes later. A photo of a beautiful round pert arse, of a much younger woman, with the large diamond circle of a butt plug glittering dead centre.

'Nice pic. Not you though'

'Are you saying, I don't look slim and 18 any more? I'm wounded.'

'Wouldnt dream of it! Just, thats no your skin.'

'Close enough for government work, as they say. Will have to do.'

'Aw, go on!'

'Do you have any idea, my boy, of how hard it is to take an arse selfie? And have it look like anything?'

'Get Dave to do it?'

'He's no help! He's the worst photographer in the world. I'm at work, anyway. Anyway, you seen Dan again? Or the bloke who said he was back home today?'

Forgot about him.

'They might be worth a message, for distraction if nothing else? You can do this, love. Gotta go, chat later. xx'

I send a terse message to back-on-Tuesday guy, delete three more responses to my ad from Saturday, all overly-sleazy danger signs or full-on obnoxious, and try to concentrate on work. I'm rather glad when young Izzy the admin lass phones up, asking me lots of questions about the last project I'd led on, and leaving me with a pile of urgent problems to solve. And breaking it to me that I'd need to go into the office on both Thursday and Friday.

"Hey, Iz?"

"Yes?"

"Fancy going for drinks on Friday night? After work. Try a new pub, and all?"

"Friday night?" She pauses. "You're not asking me out, are you?

I chuckle, though if she'd been interested in someone double her age, I wouldn't have objected. She's curvy and pouty and dark wavy hair curling round milk-white skin, but with a brain and a wit on her.

"Worry ye not. I'm not that creepy an older man. Honest to god! No, but bring Mike and Gary and Kerry and ask Naz, too." Actually, Izzy might be good to have on my side. "No, just...OK, please don't take the piss, Iz... I'm trying to quit smoking and need all the distraction I can get..." Since the smoking ban came in about five years ago, a pub would be a good place to be, if it weren't for all the people going in and out for their wee smoke breaks.

"Hey, good for you! How long's it been?"

"Two 'n' a half days, now. Sixty-five hours and counting... Aye, I've got the nicotine gum and the fucking patches, and no, I'm not going to suck on any plastic what looks like a bloody Tampax applicator."

She giggles, but in a nice way. "Wouldn't suit you, love. All right, I'll get people to come out Friday night, we'll make a group of it, and I'll warn Mike and Naz not to ask you outside on their smoke breaks.."

As usual, she's thought of everything; the office would never cope without her. "You're a star. Thanks, Izzy. And great questions you was asking, there. I'll get the answers to you soon as I can."

I plough through the documents Izzy had sent me. She might think she's all young and ignorant, but she gets to the nub of things. She really ought to do a degree. Maybe the firm could cope if she studied on day-release? Or evening courses. I make a note to have a word with the boss. We wouldn't want to be losing her, soon as she realises she's capable of more than admin - not that I'm knocking admin staff at all! We'd never function without her, or without Mike doing Finance.

Almost finished the work. I get up to stretch and eat lunch, and remind myself I won't have a fag when I'm done. Suddenly I'm startled by a beep from my phone. I'd forgotten to turn the sound down again after chatting to Laura and Izzy.

Grindr message.

'Sure. Where and when? I'm definitely free from 6.30.'

It's back-on-Tuesday man. What the hell. Gives me something to do, tonight.

Tuesday man comes round. He's a bit older than me, bit taller. Bit podgier, otherwise looked after himself better. Darkish hair cut short to hide the fact that it's receding. Not good-looking, not ugly. He'll do.

He does the shrug in lieu of introduction of someone who's done this before, quite a bit. I don't bother asking his name - he'd only lie, and I don't really care. I just want a distraction. A new taste to roll around my mouth.

"Sit down." I don't offer him a beer.

I kneel and take his cock out. At least he and his clothes are clean. The whole thing's going to be clean and a bit clinical, but it's a fine fat dick, not so long that I can't sink my mouth over it down to his balls, making those wiry hairs scrub my face, but enough length to hit the back of my throat, making me happy for every time I can swallow and catch a breath, as I tighten my mouth round him, waiting for that flood of jizz to fill my mouth with heat.

I look up at his face, briefly. He blushes red as he catches my eye, guilt all over, and I look away again, letting him enjoy the moment. I pump my mouth up and down while his shaft revs up to fuck my tonsils, purse my lips in a beautiful round O shape, and raise my head to blow cool air across his frantic dick.

The man gasps as he shoves his penis back into my hot, welcoming mouth, grabbing my hair to hold me in place. A small cough as I gag, but once I'm settled back in a rhythm, I slurp on it lovingly, that long round shape meeting a need I hadn't realised I had, the pressure on the back of my mouth welcome every time it hits; clearly I want to be used and filled and hurt.

I forget everything except sucking and breathing. What else is there in the world, really?

Let him get close, then clamp down, enjoy that little whimper as he's disappointed, yet so grateful for more. Repeat, keep going, the odd squeeze with my teeth - he's not a fan - inhale, take his whole cock in, until my face muscles are tired and I relax to let him use my mouth as he will. He speeds up, gripping my hair near the roots, fucking harder, as I knew he would. No originality, this guy.

Then my mouth is filled with hot salty vinegar. I manage to swallow most before coughing and wiping off my face.

I stand up and go to get myself a drink. Tea, for starters. No booze alone before eight. I'd keep that promise to Diane, no matter what, now - ignoring that first terrible year without her when it was more remarkable when there was a day I had kept to it. Tuesday guy isn't worth breaking the rule for.

He stands up, buckling his belt. "Er... thanks. Sorry, no time to return the favour."

"Wasn't wanting you to. You best be getting back to your wee wife."

He goes scarlet again. "How did you know?"

"It's fucking obvious. Now get to fuck!"

The crazy-sounding Irishman act is great for scaring people off. Of course, helps that it's not an act...

Dial-a-cock buggers off.

He may have distracted me for half an hour, but now I want a smoke worse than ever.

My phone jingles again. I hope and pray he isn't going to tell me what a nice time he had and can we do it again...

It's another text from bloody Laura.

'In half an hour, you'll have managed three whole days as an ex-smoker! The tar in your lungs will be down 30% already and your taste buds will be able to detect 2000 more flavours!'

Oh lord, not rent-a-quote inspirational messages!

There's a follow-up.

'Like 76% of all statistics, these were made up on the spur of the moment but you get the drift. Congratulations sweetie, keep it up, now cook yourself some decent dinner and see how your favourite dram tastes after. Let me know. L. xx'

That's more like her. I manage a faint grin as I rouse myself to investigate the fridge. Not chilli again tonight. Running low, as I usually hit the supermarket late on a Friday night when it's quiet, but there's a pack of tortellini I chuck at some boiling water, to go with microwaved frozen peas and a smidgen of pesto from a jar. If I had company, I might crack open a bottle of Merlot, but as is I stick to iced water until the plate is empty, then head to the dresser.

Time for a glass of something I know well. A standard ten-year-old Glenmorangie will do. I pour a generous swig and take a large sip of the familiar buttery-vanilla herbal spirit.

Ah, that hits the spot! If a taste could be home, this is home. Forget the flat and my possessions - this, the first decent malt I got into, this flavour is where I get my feeling of home comfort.

Then I notice it's different. Somehow... more. There's a fruity side to the softness, like peach, or perhaps coconut. Possibly even floral, if I were being a pretentious wanker, but the smoothness is more polished than ever.

It's like I've listened to a radio station with a bit of static all my life, and now it's tuned in properly. From analogue to digital. Black and white to colour - naah, that's pushing it too far. Idly, I pick up the bottle to read the blurb on the back.

'This award-winning single malt delights with a nose of mandarin, lemon and peach softened by vanilla, alongside herbal and floral notes. Silken textures bring forth tastes of creamy vanilla that balance with coconut, almonds and honey, before a gentle, lingering finish.'

Mandarins and almonds too, they claim. Eye, eye, jump in! Only one way to test that. I slosh more into my tumbler and sit back to thoroughly enjoy new knowledge of an old friend.

It's good. Like we've cleared the air between us. The balance of flavours is stunning, and yes, there are more notes I hadn't detected before. Citrus, to be sure, though mandarin and lemon combined is just orange if you ask me.

I let the spirit roll over my tongue, smooth as Dan's cock. Silky and creamy: yes it is and yes his was. There is vanilla. It does occur to me that a tinge of flavour is missing. That edge, from smoke. Ah, well. On average, it's probably a win.

I finish the glass while watching a panel show on the telly. I'm not sure if I've seen this episode or not, but Lee Mack and David Mitchell are always funny. Next up, a smoky whisky. Where's thon bottle of Talisker? Something proper peaty.

Ah, a sight for sore eyes - that 2004 bottling of a 25-year-old...

It's good. Smoky, but wood - oak - smoke. Saltiness and pepper heat pull against belting fruit flavours. I decide the story Laura once told me, of freshly-ground black pepper on strawberries being wonderful, might not be bollocks after all. I force myself to savour it - this isn't in a price bracket for just knocking back - and I'm hardly suffering, sipping sagely as Mitchell falsely accuses Lee's team of lying, to the delight of the studio audience.

Now there's two guys I bet would be good in bed! Good with words means imaginative, thoughtful, and for sure being funny isn't to be sniffed at. I rinse Tuesday Man out of my mouth with the last of the Talisker and thank my lucky stars I'm out of cigars, or I'd be digging one out around now.

I look the cast up on the internet, which assures me both team leaders are straight as arrows, to the disappointment of intelligent men everywhere. Bollocks. Never felt comfortable fantasising about guys that definitely don't like guys. I'll never tell Gareth, but I wank thinking about him quite a lot.

It's not madness to treat yourself when quitting the fags, is it, so here goes. I touch each of the back row, my precious dusty bottles that are rarely opened. I land on one with a crude label - Highland Park Blackadder, the 1989 bottling. Raw barrel, so piles of flavour compounds that don't normally make it into the final product. A fresh glass, for this wee one.

I nearly cough. It's an explosion of flavour in my mouth, even more than usual.

Oh, yeah.

OK, maybe there is a point to this quitting lark. I do a quick wee bit of maths: at around ten a day - so much less than fifteen years ago, when I was on more like thirty - say nearly three hundred quid a month. I vow to buy something really special in six weeks' time.

Why six weeks? Well, Laura's putting herself out to reward me at one month and two months, so just a wee bit of extra motivation in between, that is.

At just gone eleven, as I'm brushing my teeth, there's a text from Dan.