It all began the day Gary realised he fancied David Sylvian. And began to wear make up. And realised he was proud of he was, or who he might be. He went to the newsagents, leafed through Woman and Woman’s Own to learn about cosmetics, foundations and blushers and mascaras. Lipsticks were easier. After all you often saw women putting on their lippy in public. It was the bits they did in private he had to learn about. He looked in Boots. Not furtively, not ostentatiously either, he just did. Then, one day in April, he took the bus to Dudley and went to Beatties.
It was that day, walking down the High Street that he met Carl. He was, Gary guessed, about 20, so three years older. Gary stopped, strangely drawn by the tall man with the stubble and the ripped jeans who spent his Saturdays selling papers in the town centre, Militant, Socialist Youth, and a selection of pamphlets on the evils of late monopoly capitalism that recommended the nationalisation of the top 350 monopolies by a Labour government backed by mass action of the working class. That, he had been taught, was Marxism. As Gary hovered uncertainly by the stall, Carl came over and pressed a paper into Gary’s hand. Gary looked at the title. It read
“Militant. The Marxist Paper for Labour and Youth”
“You need to read this” began Carl, “The only paper that tells the truth abut late monopoly capitalism and why Thatcher is waging class war. It’s the only paper that has a a Marxist analysis. ”
“Take this. I’ll put the money in. I am here next week, in fact I am here every fucking week. Come back and we will talk some more. I am Carl by the way.”
As Gary made to walk away Carl ran after him and pressed a leaflet into his hand.
“We’ve got a meeting on Tuesday, the little side room at The Shakespeare, 7.30, and a really speaker. You really need to learn about socialism. See you there?”
Gary took the paper and the leaflet and headed for Beatties in search of makeup. He came out clutching a foundation, a mascara and three lipsticks. He had had himself made up at one of the beauty counters, pale blue eye shadow, a matt red lippy, nothing too obvious.
Lunch at home was a tense affair.
“I don’t ever want to see you in here looking like that” shouted Gary’s father. “Fucking poof that’s what you look like! I hate poofs, I hate those fucking shirtlifters I see up Wolverhampton, mincing around like Christ knows what. I have brought you up to be a proper man. And if you don’t want to be a man, you know where the door is.”
Gary carried on eating his beans on toast, although he had no appetite. He said nothing. When he had finished he stood up from the table, went to his room and cried.
On Tuesday evening Gary was at the pub early. It was a bright, sunny day and the sun, now low in the sky was shining directly into the window of the small side room where the meeting was to be held. Gary sat there on his own for some time, wondering whether to just get up and leave. Suddenly there was a commotion in the corridor and a number of men, it was all men at this meeting as it turned out, walked in clutching pints of mild and folders of paper and a pile of newspapers. Gary saw the word Militant.
One of them introduced himself as Derek. It turned out that Derek was the speaker, and after a brief introduction began to talk about the perpetual crises of late capitalism, the need for a Marxist analysis, the need for …..
Gary was bored and much of this was over head. He found Derek a rather unattractive figure with his greasy 70s style hair, his black leather jacket that looked a bit like one of the fakes you could pick up at Dudley Market, the way he pumped his fist when he made his key points, and when he said “Marxist analysis” for what must have been the seventh time he got up and went to the serving hatch in the corridor.
“Lager and black please” he said to the barman just as Carl walked in.
“I’m a bit late” he said “Couldn’t get away from work. Enjoying the meeting? Derek’s a great speaker isn’t he?”
“Yeah” said Gary unconvincingly, fishing in his pocket for a fifty pence piece to pay for his drink.
After the meeting, the talk and political debate being mercifully brief, Gary remained for a while with Carl. They drank some more, smoked cigarettes until the large ashtrays overflowed, munched pork scratchings and talked inconsequentially. Gary was aware of things he wanted to say but somehow he couldn’t find the words. He got up to go clutching a few leaflets and a newspaper which he intended to read on the bus home.
“It’s early yet” said Carl. “Do you want to come back to mine for a bit? We can get some cans and stuff. I’ve got some weed too.”
“Where do you live?”
“Eve Hill flats”
“You live there?” exclaimed Gary, a little horrified.
“It’s not so bad, when the lifts work”
“And they are not swimming in piss. I know people,who live there.”
“Come on” said Carl “let’s go” and they headed off up Wolverhampton Street.
The lifts at Millfield Court were working and, exceptionally, clean. They didn’t smell very fresh but still. Carl’s flat was a tip.
“Yeah I know” he said seeing Gary’s expression, “but I just don’t get time to do anything here. Politics takes up all my time.”
Carl pushed open a door.
Gary went in, a little uncertainly. Carl followed him with the carrier bag full of beer cans.
There was no bed, just a mattress on he floor with a red duvet. No pillow either.
Carl pulled Gary closed and kissed him. To his surprise Gary responded, forcing his tongue deep into Carl’s mouth. He felt his jeans bulge. The kiss was beer, sweat, cigarettes, a faint aroma of pickled onions. This was all new. What else could kisses taste of?
Carl pulled Gary’s jeans down and knelt before him. He pulled Gary’s swollen cock through the slit in his Y fronts kissed the tip. Cradling it in his left hand, he stroked it with his right.
“Never done this before have you?”
“No” said Gary quietly.
“Don’t tell anyone. You are only 17 so it’s illegal. It’s fucking stupid really, if I had a 17 year old girl it wouldn’t be a problem, but that’s the law. People still don’t think it’s OK to be gay.”
“My Dad says he will kick me out if he finds out I am a..”
“A shirtlifter he said”.
“Don’t listen to that shit. It’s fine to be gay. I’ll show you just how fine.
He continued to stroke my cock until it began to get hard. Then he took it in his mouth where it swelled into the warm, wet softness. Carl sucked and pulled, he whipped the now exposed bellend with his tongue. Gary felt it grow and harden, felt the sudden release as he came in Carl’s mouth. Carl swallowed and looked up at him, smiling. Gary noticed that he had come dribbling down his chin.
“Did you enjoy that?”
“It gets better. Get yourself hard again and i will show you what to do.”
Carl slipped a condom over Gary’s stiff, throbbing cock and knelt down on the mattress. Gary knelt behind him, and Carl took hold of him and guided it gently into his anus.
“All you do now is pump. In ad out.”
Gary pushed against the resistance until his cock was fully inside Carl. He pumped , moved in and out , in and out,. It felt good. Carl’s anus was tight and comfortable. He continued until the ejaculation like charge surging through his penis. He came and withdrew. The condom shrivelled as he pulled it off, his cock was covered in warm sticky come that dripped onto the floor.
“Kneel down” said Carl and I will rim you”
“Rim?” asked Gary. “What’s that?”
“Kneel down and you will find out.”
Gary shuddered involuntarily as he felt something warm, firm and wet probing his slot, circling his anus, then entering a little way. It was not unpleasant and he loved the contrast of the smoothness of what he realised was Carl’s tongue and the roughness of three stubble. He relaxed and shuddered again as the tip of Carl’s tongue proved is opening.
“That’s normal first time, we’ll do it again. It’s nice isn’t it? Maybe next time I’ll give you a fingering. That’s even nicer.”
“You don’t want to fuck me?”
“Oh not yet. I need to get you more relaxed. Tell you what, I will rim you again and you can wank and then, you can come over me.”
“Yeah I’d like that.”
Carl went to work and pushed in with his tongue just at the moment that Gary came. He spun round and pulled back his foreskin, pushing hard to send a jet of come over Carl’s chest. Carl smiled, took some on his forefinger and licked it.
“I so love the taste of you.”
That was the last thing Gary remembered. He must have been tired because the next thing he remembered was waking up as sunlight burst through the highly provisional curtains of the fourteenth floor bedroom. His head was on Carl’s chest, the hairs still smelling of his come. He had no real idea what to do, or even what he would have to say to Carl. He dressed quickly and left the flat quietly. Carl was still fast asleep.
It was just after seven o’clock that Gary let himself into the house. His father heard him come in and came running down the stairs.
“Where the fuck have you been all night?”
Gary said nothing.
“You’ve been with a man haven’t you you disgusting little pervert.”
“What’s this then?”
He produced a crumpled piece of paper with the heading BIRMINGHAM GAY SWITCHBOARD
“I found this in your bedroom. You’re a poof aren’t you, my son a fucking bent little……”
He couldn’t finish the sentence, he was crimson with rage. He made a move towards Gary, fists raised. Gary turned and ran.
To Be Continued.
A post for Wicked Wednesday. You can find more wickedness here.