“What’s wrong with me? I’m not the fag here, okay?”

  “Are you sure? Christ—you’re so fucking homophobic it’s insane.”

  “Don’t call me—”

  “You’ve been homophobic ever since the seniors stuck that broomstick up your ass at our hazing.”

  “You’re a goddamn liar!” he screamed.

  He let go of Tad and charged me. I wrapped him up and we went over a table together. Beer bottles shattered on the floor. He was hitting me, so I hit him back. We rolled around in a cold puddle of beer and glass shards, grunting and swearing. Eventually fatigue set in. I stopped punching him and just sort of held him, with one arm looped around his neck. Kevin hit me a few more times in the ribs, weak and feeble blows I barely felt. Then he gave up, too. We clung to each other like exhausted lovers. I could feel him trembling in my arms. I thought of all the stories I had in me, ready to write.

  “It’s okay, man,” I whispered. “It’s okay.”

  Eventually the guys separated us.

  Later, Tad and I walked down to Kits pub. It was a clear night, moonless and magic. The cold, stabbing air left an iron taste in my lungs. Fall was over. Not even the leaves remained. Everything was fresh and bare, swept clean. We split a beer while we walked.

  “Was that true—about the broomstick?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “That’s messed up.”

  “I got off easy. They shaved my balls and threw a bucket of piss on me. I’ve always hated that shit.” I took a deep breath through my nose. “I get sick just thinking about it.”

  “Which is why you’re hanging out with a faggot.”

  I laughed. “Exactly.”

  We walked in silence for a few minutes.

  Then Tad said, “Your new story. What’s it about?”

  “Wait and see. You’ll like it. The class will hate it, but you’ll like it.”

  There was a line-up at the pub. We huddled in the cold behind two girls in skirts and heels. One of them wasn’t much, but the other looked good. My eyes instinctively roamed along her calves to the hem of her skirt, just above her knee, then up to the hips and waist and shoulders. When I glanced at Tad, I saw that he was watching me and smiling in that way of his. Like he knew something I didn’t. I shrugged and held up my hands. Helpless.

  “I make a terrible gay.”

  “I know,” he said. “But let’s pretend you haven’t figured that out yet.”

  Stepping forward, he tucked a finger under my chin, tilted my head up and leaned in to kiss me. His lips were firm and cool and moist. Then he drew back. I blinked at him, my mouth tingling from the contact.

  “Something to remember me by,” he said.

  The line moved forward, and we followed the girls inside.

  PILLION

  Jay Mandal

  I was in the wrong place at the wrong time—my own fault. So I had taken my beating in silence. This was just another gay bashing.

  Afterward, blood and tears streaming down my face, I cried like a little kid.

  Someone was coming.

  I stopped crying and held my breath.

  The footsteps drew nearer. It was one of the yobs from earlier, come to finish me off. Oh, god.

  “You all right?”

  “Fuck you care.”

  He smiled. “You’re brave, I’ll give you that.”

  “More like stupid. Just get it over with.” I closed my eyes.

  When I opened them again, I found he’d crouched beside me and was wiping my face with his handkerchief.

  “It’s not very clean,” he said, “but it’ll have to do. Can you walk?”

  “I think so.”

  “Do you think you could ride a motorbike?”

  “What kind of question’s that?”

  “Pillion. My bike’s just around the corner.”

  We stared at the 250cc machine. I could barely walk, and goodness knew what injuries I had sustained.

  “I’ve got a better idea. Wait here.” He ran across the road to the all-night café and went in. A couple of minutes later, he came out, followed by a middle-aged man.

  “Christ! You never said he was in this state!” the man complained.

  “There’s a five pound tip in it for you.”

  The man thought for a moment. “I’ll get a rug from the trunk. I’m not having him mess up my cab. He’s not going to be sick, is he?” He glanced over at me.

  I shook my head. Not a good idea.

  They got me into the taxi and then shut the door.

  “I’ll follow you on my bike,” my attacker said.

  “I’m not falling for that one,” said the cabbie. “Money upfront.”

  “Thanks,” I said to the driver as he pulled away. “I was beaten up, in case you’re wondering. There were three of them. I didn’t stand a chance.”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  It was midweek, and Accident and Emergency was quieter than usual, and I was soon examined.

  “How is he?” my assailant asked, as the nurse was cleaning me up.

  “Mostly superficial. Looks worse than it is. He’ll need to see his own doctor, though. Are you taking him home?”

  “I’ll see that he’s looked after.”

  The nurse drew the curtains on her way out of the cubicle.

  “I can’t go home like this,” I said. “My parents will have a fit.”

  “I’m not taking you home. You’re coming back with me.”

  “If you think I’m going anywhere with you—”

  “Don’t worry, I know just the place. Trust me.”

  And, for some reason, I did.

  “Whose flat is this?”

  We’d taken another taxi, my companion saying he’d return later for his bike.

  “It’s mine to all intents and purposes.”

  “Yours?” It certainly didn’t look like the sort of place someone like him would own.

  “My grandmother gave it to me. She made me promise not to tell my father.”

  “Why?”

  “She thought it might come in handy.”

  “No, I meant why aren’t you allowed to tell your father?”

  “She said he was a philanderer. He’d use this for all his trysts. She hated the way he treated my mother.”

  “So she was your mother’s mother?”

  “My father’s. Just didn’t like her own son. Blamed it on his father.”

  “Why did she get married, then?”

  “It was practically an arranged marriage. In some ways it worked. He turned a blind eye to her activities.”

  “She had lovers, then? Wasn’t that hypocritical?”

  “Just the one. He was an artist. They used to come here. She would sit for him—perfectly respectable paintings most of the time—and then they’d make love.”

  “‘Most of the time?’”

  “There were nude studies, too, but they were never put on public display. He died of cancer in the seventies. She never got over it. He was the love of her life.”

  “She sounds fascinating. I’d like to have been able to meet her.”

  “Maybe you will.”

  “I thought she was dead?”

  “Hardly. She lives in the south of France with a young man.” His face registered concern. “Are you all right? You look as if you’re about to pass out.”

  “I’m just a bit tired.”

  “The bed’s through here.” He led the way. “I can’t offer you much in the way of refreshment. I’ll have to do some shopping if we’re going to stay here. But there’s orange juice and biscuits.”

  “Any water?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll get some.”

  But I was asleep before he returned.

  When I woke up, everything ached: my head, my ribs, my back. I could barely open my eyes. Whether that was the result of my bruises or the bright sunlight streaming in through the window was difficult to say.

  I looked for my watch. It wasn’t on my wrist or on the bedside table. That was when I realized I was naked. He must have undressed me. I hoped that was all he had done.

  There was a glass of water on the table next to me. I winced as I leaned over to reach it. My mouth was dry and tasted of blood.

  I sat up slowly, and wondered where my host was. Not in bed with me, for which I was grateful. The flat was quiet, so maybe he was still asleep or had gone to collect his bike. I should seize the opportunity and leave.

  There was a mirror in one corner of the room. I managed to get out of bed and stagger over to it. The sight I saw wasn’t pretty. Cuts and livid blue and red bruises covered my body and face. I needed a long soak in a hot bath to ease the aches and pains and wash away the smell of fear. It came rushing back to me: the alley, the shouts, the kicks, the taste of vomit and dirt.

  I froze. I could see his reflection in the mirror. How long had he been in the room? “Don’t you knock?” I said angrily, grabbing the bedclothes to cover my nakedness.

  “In my own home?” he said, eyebrows raised. “How are you?”

  “I’ll live.”

  “Good. I’ve been out to get some food.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I lied.

  “I’ll put everything in the fridge—it’ll keep for later.”

  When he’d left the room, I looked for my jeans. They weren’t there. Sod it, I thought, and went to find him.

  “What have you done with them?” I demanded. “My clothes—where are they?”

  “They’re in the bathroom.”

  I stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language.

  “I washed them. They were filthy.”

  Maybe I should have been grateful, but I wasn’t. “So I’m supposed to walk the streets naked, am I?”

  “You don’t have to walk the streets”—a pause—“naked. I’ll find you something of mine to wear.” He began to rummage through the wardrobe.

  “First, I need the bathroom.”

  “I’ll have to move your clothes. They’re hanging over the bath to dry.”

  “I need to take a piss, not have a bath.”

  “It’s this way.”

  I looked for a lock, but there wasn’t one. Was there no privacy in this place?

  My clothes hung neatly on a stand over the bath. I could be dressed and out of there in a few minutes. I grabbed my shirt, but it was still damp. My jeans had scarcely dried at all. I’d be adding pneumonia to my list of ailments if I went out in them.

  “Are you okay in there?” came a voice from outside the bathroom.

  I washed my hands, then opened the door.

  “I was afraid you’d passed out again. Most of my stuff is round at my parents’ house, but I think there’ll be something you can put on, at least until your own things are dry.”

  He got out a shirt and a pair of trousers, which he laid on the bed.

  I stared pointedly at him.

  “I’ll make a start on breakfast.” He left the room.

  I pulled on the trousers. They were on the big side, but that was better than too tight. As I shrugged into the shirt and did up the buttons, I could smell bacon frying. God, I was hungry, but I wasn’t ready to admit it. I contemplated staying in the bedroom but thought he’d only come looking for me.

  I found him cooking breakfast. I couldn’t see any cuts or bruises on his hands.

  He glanced up, and smiled. “Are you sure you won’t have some? There’s plenty here.”

  “I don’t think I’m up to it yet.” I hoped he could hear my words above the rumbling of my stomach. “Where’s my watch?”

  He put down the spatula he was using to turn the food and went over to the windowsill. “Here.” He held the watch out to me. “It was covered in blood and dirt. I got the worst off.”

  Soon, breakfast was ready. He dished up, sat down opposite me and began to eat. I could hardly bear to look.

  “I’ll collect my bike when I’ve finished this.” He cut a tomato in two, and put one half in his mouth. “Are you always this quiet?”

  “Only when I’ve been beaten up.” I gazed, mesmerized, as he speared a sausage. “What happened after I passed out?”

  “I put you to bed.”

  “Is that all?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Where did you sleep?”

  “In the armchair.”

  “Couldn’t have been very comfortable.”

  “I’ve dossed down in worse places.”

  “Your conscience didn’t keep you awake, then?”

  He paused, then said slowly: “I never touched you last night.” He picked up the last piece of fried bread, and held it out to me. “Are you certain I can’t tempt you?”

  I shook my head and then coughed loudly as my stomach complained about the lack of food.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  He finished the bread, pushed back his chair and stood up. “I’ll get my bike now. Will you be okay on your own?”

  “I daresay I’ll find something to keep me occupied.”

  “There’s always the washing-up.” He collected his keys, wallet and crash helmet and left.

  The flat was quiet once he’d gone. I decided to investigate my surroundings.

  There were several pictures on the walls of a woman in her late twenties or early thirties. Her face was more arresting than strictly beautiful, with clear blue eyes and a flawless complexion. She seemed familiar. Then I realized: she and my host had the same coloring and bone structure.

  The shelves held an eclectic mix of books. There were some on art, others on architecture and even one or two about classic cars and motorcycles. There was a small section containing works by Wilde, Forster and others whose names I didn’t recognize. I took one out at random. It was a gay novel translated from the French. Pip was written inside the cover. So now I knew the biker’s name.

  Although I’d known he was joking, a stubborn pride made me attempt the washing-up. My hunger pangs increased as I rinsed grease off the plate and scraped tomato skins and bacon rind into the bin. Pip had put the leftovers in the fridge. God, I was so hungry. I couldn’t resist it. I helped myself to some scrambled egg and bacon.

  Despite my swollen lips, it was the best thing I’d eaten in ages. I put the plate back in the fridge.

  Just in time: I heard the key turn in the lock.

  “I’m back,” Pip called.

  I didn’t reply.

  He put his keys on the table and then took off his crash helmet. The similarity to the woman in the paintings was remarkable. “Would you like some tea? Or do you prefer coffee?” he asked.

  “Tea, please,” I said before I could stop myself.

  “I hope you’ve made yourself at home.”

  “Don’t think I’m staying.”

  “You can’t go home in your present state. You need time to recover—you can barely move.” More gently, he went on: “You’ve had a rough time.”

  “You should know. You and your friends half killed me.”

  “They’re not my friends.”

  “You didn’t object when they began kicking the crap out of me.”

  “That’s something I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life.”

  “I’m going home.”

  “Your clothes aren’t dry.”

  “Put them in a bag. I’ll send yours back to you.” I swayed and had to put out a hand to steady myself.

  “Come on, Adam, you should be resting.” He came round to my side of the table and helped me back to the bedroom.

  “How d’you know my name?” I asked.

  “I noticed it when I took your wallet out of your jeans to wash them.”

  “Helped yourself to the cash in it, did you?”

  “I’m no thief.”

  “Just a thug.” I collapsed on the bed. “I know your name, too. It’s Pip.”

  I slept for several hours. It must have been late afternoon by the time I surfaced. Next time I’d leave the washing-up. My body still ached, and there could be no more ignoring the fact that I was ravenous. Then I heard the sound of a softly played flute: beguiling, beautiful and somehow haunting. I closed my eyes. Eventually the piece drew to an end, and the more prosaic sounds of crockery and cutlery took its place.

  I found Pip in the kitchen.

  “Good sleep?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “This’ll be ready in half an hour. You must be starving. No wonder you nearly fainted.”

  “We need to get some things straight.”

  His lips twitched at the last word.

  “I’m being serious.” I glared at him.

  “You’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

  We stood facing each other.

  “Adam,” he murmured.

  I held my breath.

  Then he took a step forward. Our eyes locked. To my dismay, I realized I had an erection. Worse, I knew Pip was aware of it, too.

  I expected him to say something flippant, then I realized he was waiting for me to speak. I remained silent.

  Unexpectedly, his eyes softened. Another step, and I could feel his breath on my face. His lips brushed my cheeks. “Oh, Adam!” he whispered, nuzzling my hair. He kissed my neck.

  My hard-on grew even stiffer. He moved closer, and his hands gripped my buttocks.

  “Ouch!”

  Pip looked comical in his surprise.

  “I had a kicking, remember? It leaves bruises.”

  “I’ll kiss them better.”

  “I’ve got bruises everywhere.”

  “Then I shall kiss you everywhere.” He didn’t sound daunted at the prospect.

  I knew I was lost. He had begun to rub his groin against mine. I closed my eyes. Then he undid my zip. His hand slipped inside my trousers, and he started to stroke my cock.

  “Open your eyes.”

  I kept my eyes shut.

  “Please, Adam, look at me.”

  Slowly, I opened my eyes. His face was tender and caring.

  We kissed hungrily, and my desire made me ignore my bruised lips.

  All too soon, I came.

 

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