Smoking Hot Ch. 06

"Not recently. I was just wanting some connection, to feel something, you know? But since Diane... the first year, I tried sex to numb my feelings. Kept me off worse drugs, so I can't say I regret it, but it didn't really work. Since then, mostly stuck to blow jobs - more impersonal, but it's a bit of human contact..."

It sounds even more pathetic out loud than it did in my head.

"Huh. So when did you last get fucked - or fuck - before me, then?"

"Would have been... about a year ago. There was this French guy I was sort of seeing for a few months. Then he fucked off back to France."

"How come?"

"Eh, I kinda told him we weren't in a fuckin' relationship and how fuckin' stupid was he? Only in really bad French. I know, I'm a right prize. Apart from that, hadn't done any fucking apart from me own hand for nearly two years..."

"I feel privileged. And definitely not in any sort of relationship."

"Good. Haven't even known you three fucking weeks."

"Exactly. What sort of boy shares emotions on the third date, sorry, week?"

"No comment."

"So let me get this straight, your twenties you basically went wild, doing everything going and anything with everyone, then your wife calmed you down so you only went and did what you'd actually get pleasure from, since then it's basically been passing the time?"

I consider. "You could put it like that."

"So what gives you pleasure nowadays?" He steeples his fingers to await my words, like a fucking therapist.

It's a tough question. I think for a minute. "A good dram. Out on my bike, seeing the world go by. Art I like..."

I add, "Giving a guy pleasure."

Only it hits me. I hadn't got any pleasure out of sucking off Tuesday Guy, two weeks ago now. Satisfaction from a job well done, sure, and distraction from my fag cravings - reminds me, I lean over to grab a new medium nicotine patch and stick it on my upper arm, starting to idly peel off the previous one - but nothing you could really call enjoyment.

Whereas young Mr Johnstone here, responsive and enthusiastic, also I could say witty, caring, and just bloody nice - anything I've done for him, that's been loads of fun. Great craic when we've been out, pure pleasure in bed.

I've turned to stone. My throat's gone dry. What I want, need, to say is, 'You'.

Instead I just stare into the space that happens to include his blue eyes. My head's a rocket. I'm falling to fuck.

I do know this feeling. I've been trying to avoid it for five years.

I'm fucking falling for the bastard.

Oh, fuck and shite on a skittering shovel...

He leans over and gives me a wee peck on the lips, and says, "Let's get some sleep, eh?"

I curl up in the curve of his body, feeling the warmth of him, and try to calm down. My heartbeat takes its time about slowing.

He extends a hand over my thigh, pretending he's sleeping, and I find myself curling a finger round one of his. I squeeze gently, twice.

He copies me.

My heart calms down, and I drift off to sleep.