Smoking Hot Ch. 03

To be honest, I preferred the Loose Box when it was a dive of a pub called the Queen's Head, complete with Freddie Mercury pics all over, but there's nooks with comfortable cushioned benches for us all to squeeze into, closer than many people would be comfortable doing with their co-workers. We're a chilled-out gang, though, and Sam heads off at six, which lets us spread out a bit. Naz doesn't move up, staying squashed by Izzy. It occurs to me he is at least twelve, more like fifteen years younger than me, which possibly puts him on Izzy's radar. Interesting. I try to catch her eye so I can look over at him and see how she reacts, but she's not having it.

It's a good night. I'm a bit trapped in a corner, so I can't really sidle outside easily when Mike goes for a smoke. Naz seems to be able to resist, outside work. Maybe Izzy's distracting him. I wonder what's going on below the table. Eventually I escape for a slash and to buy a round. Gary joins me at the bar. It's a long wait, despite catching the eye of both barmaids and confirming we're in their mental queues.

I clock this lass next to me. Stretchy T-shirt, tight short skirt, but she has the curves to make both look good. I give her a wee smile, all in the crowd together, and she smiles back. By the time Gary orders for us, me and this Sally are good friends - she's celebrating a colleague's birthday, but he's a bit handsy, so she's happy to be up queuing at the bar, especially with such good company, know what I mean.

Gary's loading me up with glasses to take to the table. She takes a wee gasp and blurts out, "Are you doing anything tomorrow night?

Ach, I've still got it. I'm all giving her my best smile when I remember my plan for the next night. So it's with real disappointment I tell her I have a date, but of course, if I'd been single, I would.

But it's a lie - I'm not going out with anyone. No way am I up for a relationship. Just some regular casual sex will do me nicely.

Back at the table, Gary says loudly,"So, Adrian! A date tomorrow night? Tell us more!"

Nosy parker. "No."

"Aaah! That's why you're giving up smoking, innit?" Naz and Izzy both leap to this conclusion, pointing fingers at me.

I try to look all casual, giving a wee shrug. "Early days. Both them, and the quitting. Don't wanna jinx it."

They take that, thankfully. We wind Gary up over his DIY problems, instead, and caution Kerry over her new bloke who might be a good lad or might be a controlling wee fuckwit, and I remind myself that friends are grand, friends with benefits even better, but relationships are just more trouble than they're worth.

I leave at ten, to hit Tesco's on the way home.

I'm thankful there was a queue at the kiosk when I went in. There's one on my way out, too. So many people desperate for extra tar and nicotine on a Friday night after a few jars. I force myself to think of my reward from Dan as I carry my four shopping bags straight home, not stopping in any corner shop to rest my hands and pick up a packet of fags, like I would normally.

Having dumped the food where it needs be, and microwaved some of the chilli from earlier in the week, it's time for bed. I spit out my nicotine gum and stick on a fresh patch.

And it's a text from Dan. 'U OK?'

'I'm good. I can spell, too.'

'Ooh, you supercilious wanker!'

'Spellcheck help you with that?'

Shit, that's just nasty, isn't it? Too late, it's sent. Ah well, he was too good to last.

Then another text comes through.

'Yes actually. But just realised, ur username. Not a mistake.'

'Well done. Not many people get that. Most who notice are just tossers about it.'

My phone rings, and I answer him.

"Yeah, usually if a guy notices the spelling, they show themselves up as a total Billy Two-Shits, going ooh, didn't you know, Irish whiskey is always spelt with an E, your spelling is only for Scotch whisky... Fuckers."

Dan laughs in my ear. "As opposed to thinking for a minute that you might be right, and it's irishwhiskylover because you're Irish and loving your Scotch? You'd think the accent would be a blatant clue!"

"You'd think. But so many people can't even recognise an Irish accent if it's not all a twee southern lilt. They think I'm Scouse. Or Scottish. 'From Glasgie, ye ken...'" I attempt the brogue, which would be easier if I were more pissed, but I've only had about five drinks.

"It's your deep voice. Sound like a hard man, not from London: must be Glaswegian. North, south, those are your only two options."

"Uh-huh. So Mr Brummigem, are you north or south?" I ape his Brummie pronunciation of Birmingham.

It's a touchy question for people from the Midlands, who usually hotly insist they have their own identity and are neither, while the rest of the country insists on a simple north/south divide. That's 'country' as in England. Scotland is just a bit of comedy extreme north, to the English.

"Living in London, I'm a Northerner, no contest. So're you."

"S'pose. I'm used to thinking of 'down south' as being Dublin."

"You're not in Ireland any more, Toto."

"Ain't that the truth. And aren't we both dead glad about that!"

He agrees. "See ya tomorrow."

"Aye. T'morra."

It's a good night's sleep I get for once. I occupy myself in the day with cleaning, and a wee visit to the new art exhibition down the way in Greenwich. My weekly call to my ma. No, I haven't found myself a replacement girl, no, I'm not moving back to NI... My sister's expecting a boy this time. That's grand - takes the pressure off me to carry on the family name, but I don't tell Ma that.

As an antidote to my ma praying to St Jude for a new wife for me, I call Laura.

After a bit of blether, before she can ask, I assure her, "Still going."

"Practically a whole week! I'm so proud!"

"Aye, well, those nicotine patches itch like right bastards."

I hang up on her before she can tell me that serves me right.

I flip through the channels until it's a time I can call Dan. We'd agreed on late afternoon. At four, I give in and text him.

'Oi Dan, when you free?'

'When you are. Max has his girl round about 5, so any time after that'

'Sure, come down then.'

About an hour to go, plus however long it takes for Gem to do his head in. Another ten minutes, I'd say.

The rugby is vaguely holding my interest. If I weren't alone, I could have a drink. I nearly call Dan, but resist. I'm not going to act needy.

A text. 'On way. Where shall we go for nosh?'

Going out? Suppose we could. Dinner. I make myself calm down - I like restaurants, after all. I chuck on a smart jumper over my shirt - it's baltic outside.

I recognise his knock on the door. He's put on smarter jeans than usual, and a new-looking snug T-shirt. Casual effort. Nice.

I ponder where to take him. "You like beer, right?"

"Yeah. Well, lager, not real ale so much."

"Sorted. Perfect place, sure. Twenty minute walk, let you work up an appetite. No, not telling you."

We head north towards London Bridge via various back roads, and into one of the long tunnels under some railway tracks. It opens out into a residential street. There's a few Victorian workers' cottages, opposite various businesses under the brick railway arches.

One arch contains a nice wee pub, a good place to sit outside in the summer, but next door is a German restaurant, practically the only one in London. In traditional style, it's also a brewery. Der Braukeller. I go for the schnapps myself, but it's a friendly place to hang out, even if you speak no German at all.

My German knowledge from school easily manages: "Grüss Gott. Ein Tisch für zwei, bitte." We get led to a cosy corner for two - it's not six yet, so plenty of space. I've tried making a good impression at the 'Keller this last decade, practising chatting in German when the staff aren't busy. Germans love it when anyone attempts their language. Even though, according to a Guns'n'Roses interview I once read, there's only three German phrases you ever need: 'Ein Bier bitte', 'Noch ein Bier bitte', and 'Blas' mir einen, bitte'.

That's 'a beer please', 'another beer please', and 'give me a blow job, please.' Polite lads. You can see their point. I've never tested any of those ones, admittedly, even when I used to travel to Leipzig for work - loads of engineering work in former East Germany. Ein Wodka or Ein Schnapps, more like.

Dan boggles a bit at the menu, before realising in relief there's descriptions of each dish in English. "What do you recommend?"

"It's all good, though I avoid the sauerkraut myself. Pickled cabbage tastes exactly how you'd expect. Can't go wrong with a schnitzel and chips and salad, but the meat is all grand. Actually... You ever had a fondue?"

"Do I look like I was alive in the 70s?"

I do, of course. He must have been born around '83. "This is the authentic thing, though. You cook your bits of meat, they give you all these sauces and sides - it's like a good steak, only extra fun. You like meat?"

Ah, managed to get an innuendo in. Making my intentions clear. He twitches his mouth - he noticed. Good.

"Give it a go."

The matronly waitress gives us her beady eye. "No being silly with the boiling oil, you understand, boys? All right, I bring for you. To drink?"

"One tasting set of lagers, and one of schnapps."

"All right. Eine Minute."

Soon, Dan is charmed by a row of carefully-labelled small glasses, about 1/3 of a pint each. 200ml, so five makes a litre.

"Hey, I like this one! Have a sip!"

I decline. "Doesn't mix with spirits." I hold off on my line-up of booze until the bread comes. Soon after, our table is filled with the cauldron, a platter of meat with long forks, saucers of sauces for the meat, a bowl of chips, and various pickles and salads.

Our bossy server gives orders. "Now boys, no fighting with the fondue forks. No drinking forfeits if you drop your meat. No oil outside the fondue. You understand? You be good. Good. Enjoy. Guten Appetit!"

"She's a bit stern," Dan whispers. "Hey, why are you blushing?"

"Well..." I've been rumbled. He'll like the story, though. "This place has been here forever. So's she. There was this time when we were students... most of us had the cheese fondue, so instead of oil it was four containers of molten cheese, went all stringy when you pulled your meat or bread out."

"And?"

"Right, well now... you see that wee deer head with antlers there, and there's a couple on that wall and an elk on that one...? How it was, now, they didn't agree there should be strings of cheese running between them... Also, catapulting hot meat on to other customers is very much disapproved of. Loud singing and thumping of glasses is also only permitted in moderation, and I'm fairly sure we weren't moderate at all."

You don't remember?

"Vaguely. I know I was assisted out, cheering out 'Fondue! Rah!' at the top of my voice, but it was this guy Will puking that led to us being all chucked out. Ah, I felt dead bad, after - a few of us went and grovelled and gave them a huge tip, next day - but since then I've had to swear blind I'm someone else, cos we were all banned. Thon waitress is not daft and isn't convinced. Even though I've been behaving impeccably for a good ten years now, so I have."

Dan's laughing. It's a good story. Can't believe it's over fifteen years ago. We'd all just graduated, then. Will never could hold his drink. That's what you get from a culture where they think Schloer or orange squash are appropriate for weddings. His family did have the odd wee drink at home, to be fair, but never in front of the wider community, oh no.

The food is excellent and goes with the drinks remarkably well. Dan is enjoying himself, working methodically through all the dishes, settling on mustard sauce for his meat, checking I get half the spuds. He calls for a pint of his favourite lager. It pains me to deny myself, but I don't order any more liquor. I'm not as young as I once was - as he is - and I'm with Macbeth's porter: 'too much enhanceth the desire, but taketh away the performance.' Don't want that to happen, do I now?

And that's a bit of a novelty for me, to be sure. Skipping seconds of booze. We do have a wee battle with our fondue forks, but not that anyone else would notice. Tiny attacks, not moving more than an inch, keeping an eye out for the waitress lady.

I'm not missing the alcohol, as I sip my ice water. I'm having fun. He's having fun, and he's slid my strip of steak off my fondue fork, so I have to hunt it down again.

He looks up at me, all faked innocence under those blond eyebrows. "Did you say anyone who lost the thing off their fork had to pay a forfeit?"

His voice is quiet, aware of the potential audience; not reckless, but well aware of the erotic potential of a forfeit between two guys who only really know each other sexually. It's seductive.

"That's something people do, so it is. Why? What sort of forfeit did ye have in mind?"

I'm giving him my best grin and a raised eyebrow, making it quite clear the territory I'm willing to go down. We're not talking singing the Beatles to the tune of something else, or wearing a silly hat for the rest of the meal, are we?

"Well now. I think we need a bit of discussion on that topic, don't you?"

I couldn't agree more.

"I mean, the obvious forfeit, you keep doing anyway."

"True."

"So... what else do you like? What don't you like?" He looks round, but it's a noisy place now and we're quite secluded in an alcove. "Tell me."

Where do I start?

"Hoo, boy. I like cock. Sucking it. Playing with them."

"You like yours done, too?"

"Course. Didn't you promise..."

"Yeah, I did. Don't worry. Keep talking."

"You just want to know what I do with guys, right?"

He's sitting back, all chilled yet expectant, like he's still in the Army, and I've been dragged in on suspicion of IRA involvement. "I want to know anything what might be relevant, personally."

Oh god, that's getting intimate. I can feel myself flushing red, and he's looking more and more smug.

Oof. I need to turn this back on him, while still sounding flirtatious.

I haven't tried flirting with someone I really want in a decade. I figure out a line.

"You want it, I've probably done it, loved it, and would do it with you." Does that sound sexy or creepy? Probably creepy weirdo...

He leans in a little closer. "Oh, yeah? You think?"

I try a shrug. "If it involves consenting adults - humans - and no eating shit or permanent bodily harm, then probably. Give it a go. Why? What's your kink?"

I'm expecting him to be all like whaaa? But he looks intrigued.

"I'm a straightforward kinda guy. Just like guys. But, y'know, maybe you could educate me?"

If he was a girl, you'd say he was fluttering his eyelashes. Without any mascara, he simply looks slightly shy. Of course, he is ten years younger than me. A quarter of my life. Half the amount of adult experience. Or less...

"What do you want to do with my cock? Or me?"

"Anything, I think?"

He's acting right shy now. Shit, I'd better check...

"Have you ever fucked a guy?"

"Yeah." Phew. He grins. "Lots."

Good. "Been fucked?"

There's a pause as he freezes, then he nods again. I think we can conclude that's a yes, but it wasn't good.

"Don't you worry, big man. I only stick myself inside boys once they're totally whining and pleading and begging me for it."

His expression goes unreadable. Our waitress comes over, more friendly than she was before. "Ah, you are good boys! Did you enjoy that? And may I show you our pudding menu, our puddings are very good, you young men need your energy..."

I let Dan give her convincing praise. But I want to get back to our conversation, so I tell her, two apple strudels with sauce, and the bill, please.

His face screws up indignantly.

"Sorry, just wanted her to go. Anyhow, you won't regret it, at all. I don't normally go all controlling and ordering for other people, honest."

He's considering giving me benefit of the doubt. "OK, then. Next time, I want the menu."

I nod and smile, but it hits both of us - we want a next time.

That is terrifying.

He checks she's gone. "So, you, man. You prefer fucking, or being fucked?" I think he just wants me to blush.

At least that's an easy question, and distracts from that whole question of the future. "Both. Whichever I can get. So like, if you only wanted me to bottom... that's fine by me."

The brisk waitress plonks our steaming rolls of sweet apple in front of us, each with a jug of real egg custard to pour over. Vanilla sauce, she calls it. No powdered shit, here. I have a feeling she might have heard what I just said, but that doesn't make it into my top hundred worries in life.

Dan lifts a spoonful of paper-thin pastry and succulent spiced fruit. He's impressed. He raises the last of his lager. "Cheers, then."

"Cheers." I raise my last schnapps glass.

I think we're toasting that we've agreed to fuck?

No sooner have we finished eating than the bill arrives. I stick my credit card on it without looking. Dan's getting his wallet out.

"No, ye don't. I invited you. You got breakfast last week." I'm not ready to say, 'you can pay next time'.

There's a chocolate each, too. I slide one over to Dan as he reaches out. Our fingers touch, and we don't pull them apart. He strokes my forefinger over the knuckle, feather-light.

It's more intimate than we've ever been. I always say sucking cock is just cock, it doesn't have to be intimate at all, and this confirms it.

I'm fucking a-scared.

I'm not looking for a relationship. I'm nowhere near ready for that. I can just about look after myself, but that's pushing it.

He hooks his finger under mine, and I can't help it; I flinch away.

He looks more startled than disappointed, but that too, making me feel like shit. I pretend to be all distracted by dealing with the credit-card machine, take some deep breaths, and, praise be to all the saints, my phone beeps so I have an excuse to move my other hand away.

It's a text from Laura. 'Congratulations on a whole week off the evil weed! Should be much easier, now.'

I realise I have in fact got through the last few hours without thinking about a cigarette once. Whew. I exhale, like I would with a fag in my hand, and it doesn't really feel like something's missing.

"What's up?" Dan asks.

I show him the message.

He smiles. He really does light up like the sun when he does that.

"You definitely deserve your reward! If you still want it, of course."

I can manage a night of commitment, for sure. One night stands, maybe repeated? Time to pull on my big girl pants and get used to a friend with benefits. Being one. Aye, I can cope with that.

I hope.

"Sure do! Back to mine?"

"Well, I don't want Little bloody Gem hearing."

"God, no! What does he see in her? I've never met such a melter!"

He takes a moment then chuckles. "Melts your brain? She sure does. Hadn't heard that in years. And no, no idea - she does my head in too, all her ickle baby-talk and all."

Meanwhile, we get ourselves out the restaurant and he's in his donkey jacket, turning the collar up against the chill February wind. I do the same with the velvet collar of my black Crombie coat. A cracking purchase, that was, bought with my first pay-cheque after graduation, before I started spending my spare cash on fascinating pharmaceuticals. It's lasted well, just battered enough that it doesn't look too posh, any more.

Back into the tunnel, single file on the pavement as trucks and vans zoom past, side by side as soon as we emerge into a chasm between the Victorian black brick walls on either side. His hand brushes mine. I try not to pull away, this time - I like the guy and it's not his fault I'm a fucked-up bastard who can't do commitment - but I can tell my arm's gone rigid, instead.