Something Different (3 page)

He started with a shower—just a shower—and dried his hair and moustache carefully, since she didn't like being nuzzled with damp hair. His roots were showing. He'd have to recolor tomorrow. Otherwise he looked presentable, surely. He was the fittest husband on the block, better built than even the twenty-somethings, and he knew Frannie liked that. She enjoyed listening to her friends complain about their husbands' pot bellies and love handles and then casually mention that Michael could still get into his wedding clothes.

"Please. I'm just so aroused," he told her, pretending not to notice her frown. "I want to make love with you. Please, Frannie. Please."

"Oh, for God's sake. Fine. As soon as this program is over."

She needed a lot of foreplay, which didn't bother Michael at all. Frannie was still quite pretty, with frosted blonde hair, sharp eyes and a cheerleader's smile. She'd thickened just a little after two children, which didn't matter to him, but she was always going on about it, always threatening to have liposuction. Tonight she let him use his mouth on her breasts and even her clitoris. He kept going, hoping to do the impossible and trigger an orgasm, until her hand touched him on the head and she said in a perfectly cool voice, "All right. I'm ready."

"Will you turn over?"

"Oh, Michael," she sighed, as if he asked her to pop round next door and invite their neighbors for group sex. "Can't we just do it normal?"

So they did, and even with his eyes open and Frannie beneath him, Michael had no trouble imagining he was inside James. He could see him, smell him, hear the sound of his voice. If he hadn't been accustomed to biting on his hand before climax—a very old habit and one Frannie actually approved of—Michael would have cried out James's name as he let go.

Afterward she turned on the telly. "Did you...?" he asked.

"Of course."

She always said that and he never believed her. During their brief courtship she'd always faked a climax and he'd been too inexperienced and infatuated to know the difference. Then two years into their marriage, she confessed she'd only actually had one or two orgasms in her life and would no longer "put on a show" for his ego. That made Michael angry, so angry he had to separate himself from Frannie for a couple of days, during which time he'd been incommunicado at a hotel and she thought he'd left her. Michael knew he wasn't much a person, that when it came to character attributes he was deficient in every way, but he had never, never asked anyone to lie to safeguard his self-esteem. He could bear up to all the truth the world could throw at him.

And he should have divorced Frannie then, he knew that now, but it hadn't been so simple. Edward had been a toddler and Vivian was on the way. Besides, Frannie had been genuinely contrite and done her best to make it up to him. By then he knew she'd married him for his money, no great sum but enough to assure a very comfortable middle-class life. For someone like Frannie, who'd grown up in council flats dreaming of a detached house in the suburbs, Michael had been a winning lottery ticket. And he, in need of someone, had chosen Frannie on the same sort of whim that made him choose James.

Frannie fell asleep on schedule, thanks to Ambien, but Michael was awake far into the night. He had every intention of seeing James again. Perhaps he was a latent homosexual—that didn't matter to him, he'd never looked down on anyone for his or her sexuality or considered homosexual intercourse morally wrong. He
did
consider infidelity morally wrong, but what was Germanotti always saying? "It is what it is." Generally Michael hated that phrase, thought it was too often used as an excuse for inaction, but in this case it applied perfectly. He had met someone special and had to see him again...

***

The only good thing that came out of his most recent fatal fucking attraction, James Campbell told himself, was hooking up with a new regular in the suburban purgatory of Brixton Park. He often had bad luck in parks. Twice he'd been forced—not raped, not in the classic sense, but injured by men who went too far, then didn't even bother to pay him. Or his evening was devoured by timewasters, curious tossers without a fiver to their name, hoping the first time would be free. James, who hated sex as much at twenty-one as he had at twelve, never gave away so much as a kiss for free. Everyone had to pay. There was nothing in the rule of karma against charging a fair price.

But Michael Maguire was the sort of miserable, self-repressed, half-dead-in-the-harness type who kept rent boys like James alive. That evening in the Holiday Inn had been sweet. Michael was clean, polite and easy to please, utterly clueless that James faked his own orgasm after their two-minute fuck. What did Michael care? He'd gotten a blow job and a dick up his ass and seemed pretty goddamn pleased with both. Besides, James never faked it maliciously. It was just hard for him to get off, fiendishly hard, and with a new client pretty much impossible. But that was the magic of condoms. All he had to do was put on a good show with his face, moan convincingly, and pull off the condom. Not one man in a hundred would ask to see the evidence. So while the client stretched and moaned and pulled his shit together, James tossed the rubber in the toilet and flushed. Happy endings all 'round.

After Michael left, James had padded around the hotel, filled up his ice bucket for no reason, watched cable TV and talked himself out of raiding the mini-fridge. Poor Michael, so innocent in the ways of the world, had given Holiday Inn his credit card imprint and then left James behind to do anything in the room, including drink every overpriced miniature bottle of booze and watch ten hours of premium porn. But James had done none of it. Of course, karma or no karma, James probably would have yielded to temptation if Michael had been an asshole or a cheapskate. But Michael had been ridiculously generous, ludicrously inexperienced, and James had to look at his face in the mirror each morning. So he drank none of the booze and ordered none of the porn. He considered the missed opportunity an investment. Michael would look at his credit card statement, realize belatedly what could have happened, and be all the more eager for repeat engagements.

As for Mr. Fatal Attraction, James tried not to think about him. God knew it wasn't about sex. They'd never done it, not once. Kevin was involved with another man, but he'd toyed with James emotionally for more than a year now. James had followed Kevin out to the suburbs thinking this was it, the day had come, Kevin was finally leaving his cunt of a boyfriend and striking out in search of real love. James was certain with the right person he could feel something, get off effortlessly, have the sort of roses-and-chocolates sex life the rest of the bleeding world enjoyed. And James looked up to Kevin, worshipped him, adored the way he spoke, the way he shot pool, the way he lifted a pint. Kevin was everything a man should be and everything James wanted. But when he got to the suburbs, Kevin and Cunt-Boyfriend had patched things up. James, who'd rushed out impulsively, was left in 4x4 hell with no cash and no way home.

And then along came Michael, paying too much, expecting too little, moved to tears by a little TLC. James smiled at the memory, but not unkindly. Moments like that actually made him feel better about—well, almost everything.

They were supposed to meet at an old hotel called the Nautilus. James had imagined a sort of fitness club with rooms to let, like the old-style YMCA, but after asking around, he was directed three times to a hotel with a seashell over the door.

"This the Nautilus, mate?" James asked the doorman.

The doorman jerked a thumb up at the awning flapping overhead. "What d'ya think?"

"Don't have my contacts in. Bet it says Nautilus. Cheers," James said, striding into the lobby with a spring in his step. Confidence, it was all about confidence, coupled with a sweet smile. Put the two together and most of the time, no one would stop you.

Michael was sitting in the bar. This time he was dressed more casually—sport jacket, polo shirt and khaki trousers. Why did he wear that moustache and that old-man haircut? No wonder James had guessed Michael's age incorrectly. There was an attractive man in there somewhere, beneath the hair and the dad clothes and round specs. He needed to be taken down to studs and refurbished, that was all.

"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," James said, turning on the smile at full wattage. He saw the response in Michael's eyes and took his time climbing onto the barstool, spreading his legs a bit so Michael could get a good look at his package. "I like the specs," he lied.

"Meant to take them off before you got in," Michael said.

"Ah, yes, well, I'm early," James admitted. He'd ducked out of the flat ahead of schedule due to an unexpected appearance by his landlady. "Eager to get here. Make sure you didn't stand me up."

Michael smiled slightly, looking at the tops of his loafers. "You don't have to try and flatter me."

James never wavered when someone called him on his bullshit. He just kept smiling and lying until the topic changed or his accuser ran out of steam. "Why would you say that? Because I like your specs? Or because I turned up early for you?"

Michael studied James's face. Then he pointed at the small drink menu. "It's happy hour. Shall I get you a drink?"

"I never drink when I'm working. What's in that?" James pointed at Michael's glass.

"Cola. I never drink at all."

"A sober man keeps it up longer." James leaned close to Michael, pitching his voice low. "I'll bet you and wifey had one hell of a romp last weekend, am I right?"

Michael gave him that same slight smile. "Well—for us. Yes, we did."

James wagged a finger. "Even heterosexuals enjoy expanded horizons."

"I'd like to expand them further."

Oh, yes. He's gagging for it
, James thought. With any luck that meant James would enjoy another luxurious night on a hotel mattress instead of creeping back to his futon at 4 a.m.

James touched Michael's knee lightly, casually enough to keep from drawing attention. "So let's go upstairs."

***

The room was nice for an old hotel, which was to say substandard compared to Brixton's brand-new Holiday Inn. The bed was only a full, the carpet was patched, there was no mini-fridge and satellite telly cost extra. The room had been retrofitted with a toilet and sink, at least, but the shower was down the hall.

James limited himself to one quick glance around. Staying focused on the client was essential. So the moment the door closed, James pushed himself into Michael's arms, lifting his face eagerly.

"Since last week, all I've thought about is you. That huge cock, I have to see it again," James said with the usual simulated breathlessness. At least in Michael's case, the reference to a huge cock was literally true. "This time I want you in me. I need you, I need you so bad, I—"

Michael's hand moved up. Gently, he slipped two fingers over James's lips, pressing them down and holding. He kissed James's forehead. "May I undress you?"

Thrown off his game—no one had silenced him in mid-patter before—James nodded. Letting himself go loose-limbed, he didn't resist as Michael removed his mac. Underneath he wore a short-sleeved T-shirt; Michael pulled it off, mussing James's hair and carefully stroking it back into place. James hoped he should be flattered by Michael's stare. It was intense, devouring, almost intimidating.

The hotel room was chilly. James's nipples stiffened into hard pink nubs as Michael continued removing his clothes. Michael undid James's belt and unbuttoned his fly, working the tight blue jeans down until James obligingly lifted one foot, then the other. Once the pants were off, James had a feeling such a methodical man would remove his socks before heading up to the main event, and he wasn't wrong. Michael freed James of each sock before gently pushing down his shorts. Michael's hands were trembling, that cannibal stare now locked on James's semi-erect cock.

"Touch it," James said.

Michael hesitated. His breath sped up. He wanted to. He really wanted to.

James took Michael's long-fingered hand and closed it around his cock. "See? Easy. So what'll it be tonight? What do you want?"

"I want to fellate you."

"Steady on! You want to fillet me?" James gave an incredulous laugh. He knew better than that—clients as green as Michael couldn't stand to be laughed at. But fortunately Michael didn't seem offended.

"I want to, um, perform oral sex on you."

"All right." James tried not to look as dismayed as he felt. The odds were slim that he'd be able to come, and not coming could be disastrous. Best to put Michael off the notion, quick.

"Mind you, all my condoms are spermicidal. Little tart on the tongue. But you know the drill, safer sex and all that..."

Michael shook his head. "No condom." He spoke like a man who'd been fantasizing about this particular act for days.

"No? Very well, then. Cheers." Grinning as if delighted, James sat on an armchair as Michael knelt before him. James wished he had a secret weapon—porn on the telly or a butt plug—but no. He'd just have to imagine something sexy. A BMW or a Mercedes, maybe...

Michael kissed the head of James's cock. The kiss was long, wet, vibrating with suppressed desire. Then his tongue began working down in hot, precise circles. Eyes open, unhurried, he licked every millimeter, holding James's cock steady as he stroked the base with his thumb. Then Michael took James entirely in his mouth, squeezing his lips around the root, sliding up and down. It was the best beginner suck-off James had ever had. He found himself grinning, digging his fingers into Michael's hair and pushing his head up and down. Dribbling a little pre-cum as he focused completely on the sensation, James felt his asshole clench and thought maybe, maybe...

But then he heard Michael's belt unfasten. Heard his trousers unzip. Those two unmistakable sounds threw everything around James into sharp relief. He was in a strange room with a man he didn't know getting fucked because it was all he was good for. The possibility of orgasm popped like a soap bubble.

Michael, at least, was getting there, giving himself a proper wank with James's cock still in his mouth, softening as it moved in and out between his lips. At the last moment Michael released James's cock, made a choked noise and shot a white jet against James's inner thigh.