God save me from immature mates.
“Is it that you nicked myStanding Heretwelve-inch American import, so you could tape it? Because Brenner told me already.”
“No.” I glared at Brenner. I coveted that Stone Roses twelve-inch almost as much as I coveted Alex.
“Is it that Simon cheated on Tara last weekend at that party over in Wall Heath? My mum’s mate in the chip shop told me she saw him snogging one of his old birds.”
Great, more aggro I didn’t need. Not that Tara and I were best buddies, but she kept Simon occupied and more importantly, away from tormenting me.
“I’m gay.”
Those two words curtailed the banter and, from the gaping silence that stretched between us, perhaps our entire night out. Letting my eyes drift closed, I tipped my head back against the grimy seat, half expecting them to get off the bus at the next stop, fearful of catching the gay disease. A minute later however, and I still remained wedged between them. Now even more people were in on my secret, which led me to pondering when a secret stopped being a secret. After a particular quorate of people found out? Could you put a specific number on it? Or was it no longer a secret from the second you spilled it to one other person?
Phil nudged me and I dared open my eyes. He gave me an unusually soft smile, reminding me of his dad and I closed them again, just in case a few tears decided to slip out. “With you off the market, it leaves more birds for us. What do you reckon, Brenner?”
“Have you got AIDS?” Brenner edged away slightly.
Chance would be a fine thing. “No.”
“Do you want my dick?”
I didn’t bother opening my eyes. “No one wants your dick, mate.”
“Do you want Phil’s dick?”
Still, I kept my eyes closed. Somehow, my confession seemed easier that way. “Phil caught crabs last year, remember? I’m about as close to his dick now as I ever intend to be.”
Phil swigged the dregs of his cider. “Well, it was about time you bloody told us. But your Alex bloke doesn’t look gay.”
“He’s not. It’s…it’s complicated.”
“Did you and him…you know…?”
I shook my head, knowing from the shuffling next to me he was thrusting his hips. They weren’t getting the details; some secrets were even more precious than the one I’d already spilled. Brenner had moved on anyhow; his voice shrill with dismay.
“No one told me Phil had crabs! That’s fucking disgusting, mate.”
“Jeez, do you want to yell that any louder? I don’t think the driver heard you.”
Contentedly, I let my grand coming-out deteriorate into a conversation about Phil’s pubic lice. Which made me happier than I’d felt in weeks because, for as long as I had these two, I’d survive. If Alex moved on and forgot about me, I’d cope. Bruised and wounded, but alive. With Phil and Brenner in my corner, the future looked slightly rosier. Reinforcing that knowledge, by drunk dancing with them in a dark club to the hypnotic synthetic beats ofKLFandThe Orb,my heartache was briefly forgotten.
We called it dancing, anyhow. Phil had some sort of sophisticated I’m-too-cool-to-bother-moving-very-much thing going on, time after time a reliable winner with girls. Brenner danced like…Brenner. Watching him blissfully hurl himself around like a five-year-old after mainlining a litre of Coke lifted my mood better than snorting actual druggy coke. Safe to say, the girls kept their distance.
I just did my thing. Once again, my inner diva came out to play, more freely this time. And safely, knowing I had Brenner and Phil’s protective shield wrapped around me. Maybe, I wondered, fifty miles away, Alex was doing the same; dancing in a club and wishing it was with me. For a couple of hours, immersed in some really fucking shite tunes, in my stupid little gay heart, a window of optimism opened, welcoming in a brighter future.
BOULEVARD OF BROKEN DREAMS
(GREEN DAY)
Despite his crabby cock, I couldn’t deny Phil had a way with the ladies. There weren’t many eighteen-year-old lads who could persuade their girlfriends to drive twenty miles at one o’clock in the morning as a taxi service for him and his pissed mates. Nevertheless, as we staggered out of the club, there Alison patiently sat in her little blue Citroën, with (oh my freaking God) Simply Red wailing away in the background. In high spirits, Brenner and me piled into the back. Phil pretty much fell into the front, and off we went.
“You can come closer for a cuddle as long as you don’t try to touch my dick,” Brenner slurred, slinging a heavy arm around my shoulder. Amongst all the cushions and fluffy toys littering the back seat, I didn’t have a lot of choice. While a poor second to Alex’s broad chest, there were worse places to rest my spinning head than snuggled against my oldest mate.
“He’d have to find it first,” Phil interjected from the front seat.
I’m not kidding, Alison drove like Mr fucking Bean. It was a good job we weren’t due at work the next morning as we’d be late. I snoozed, dribbling into Brenner’s well-padded shoulder, but not for long. It seemed like only minutes before he wrestled me off him with a not insignificant degree of urgency.
“Can you pull into this lay-by, Alison? I need a piss.”