Oh, you liked that, did you? Which one did you like best? The blond schoolboy, I suppose!
Last night was a surprise present of an evening! I've been reading about Charles Bukoswki, and I swear it's legitimised my latent alcoholism. I wanted - needed - wine. I bunged the Quorn Southern Style burgers in the oven and snuck through the rain to the offie without telling my slightly disapproving and sometimes straight-edge boyfriend Mr J first. Must have wine!
After dinner we took the remains of the bottle up to the bedroom and switched on the tv to watch 'Queer As Folk'. Mr J rolled a spliff and we smoked it and sipped the woody wine. And oh, Queer As Folk! What a programme! By the end of the show, I was slippery as an eel and writhing all over Mr J. Mr J was enjoying it of course but there was a tinge of jealousy in his voice. 'Oh, you liked that, did you? Which one did you like best? The blond schoolboy, I suppose!' But it wasn't about that. It wasn't about Vince, or Stuart, or Nathan. It was just yummy, all of it.I replied through a mouthful of kisses that it was nothing in particular, noone in particular.
Because it wasn't. It wasn't Stuart's array of pouts and pursed lips and the obvious slenderness of his hips or the way his hair was so bouffant and so crisp, like you could hide things in there - lipsticks, condoms, cigarettes - for later. It wasn't Vince's puppy-dog keenness and obvious submissiveness or the way his mouth narrowed, so sharp and pointy, at the corners when he smiled. And it wasn't Nathan's peroxide mop or the way he came home from school and looked straight in the fridge with the collar of his blazer turned up or even the way he kissed the other boy with a big wet tongue in the teaser for next week's show.
It was just the way men, for once, were sexualised. Were sexy. MEN! Not girls! Suddenly men seemed like poppets, tight-buttocked, hard-cocked poppets. It had an amazing effect on me. No wonder, I thought, men think about sex all the time. As I touched Mr J's skin I didn't go off into fantasyland ('ooh, and here are the mean men and your car's broken down and they push you down onto the verge and') - nope, none o' that. Just skin and rubbing and it felt like sparks were flying off where I touched him. Like if I pulled back the covers he'd be all phosphorescent, flashing blue like the tiny river of static you see when you peel open an envelope.
Bring on the gay porn, I say. Now who's gonna lend me some?