Chapter 5: Chapter 5
Jimmy woke to the pale Saturday light filtering through his curtains, his body heavy with a deep, unfamiliar exhaustion. His mind, however, was already flickering, alive with replay. Not just the sex in the back of the van—the shocking heat of Gaz’s mouth, the feel of him opening up beneath Jimmy, the power of making him come apart—but the quiet after. The way they’d lain tangled in the fairy-lit dusk of the van's interior, Gaz’s heavy arm thrown across Jimmy’s chest, their talk drifting from rugby to the stupid cost of petrol to the best chips in town. The casual, confident way Gaz had dropped him at the end of his street, engine idling. “See you soon, yeah?” Gaz had said, leaning over to give him one last, bruising kiss. A statement, not a question.
Soon. What did that mean? Friday at the club? Gaz didn’t have his number. The thought was a small, cold stone in his gut.
Then he remembered. Tom. Today.
He reached for his phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up with a message from two hours ago.
Tom: Hope you had fun with that slag last night and you’re looking forward to some real man’s cock later.
Below it, a picture. Tom’s thick erection, unmistakable even through the worn grey fabric of his work trousers, a dark patch of pre-cum already blooming at the tip.
A weird, flat feeling settled in Jimmy’s chest. He looked at the word ‘slag’. He thought of Gaz’s grin, the way he’d called him ‘kit man’ with a hint of respect, the careful instructions in the van. He thought of the possessive glint in Tom’s eye yesterday. This felt different. Pushy. A bit mean. A wary, instinctive feeling prickled at the back of his neck.
Don’t be stupid, he told himself. You’re inexperienced. This is just how it is. Gaz isn’t your boyfriend. He might never even see you again. Tom’s here. Tom wants you.
As if to prove the point, his body responded, his cock stirring under the duvet as he remembered the desperate, secret heat of their first time in Tom’s flat, the taste of him. He gave himself a few lazy strokes, the sensation vivid and good. Then he stopped. He could save that. For later.
Feeling it was only polite to return the favour, he angled his phone down, gripped his hardening length, and snapped a picture. The morning light was kind. He sent it.
Jimmy: We’ll see who has the real man’s cock later.
A reply came almost instantly.
Tom: Just got started, looking at about 4 hours, so see you about 2.
Jimmy frowned. He hadn’t checked the time. 10 a.m. He never slept past seven. But he hadn’t crawled into his own bed until gone midnight, his body humming, the ghost of Gaz’s scent still on his skin. So many new things to get used to.
He got up, moving through the quiet house with a new awareness of his own form. In the shower, the water sluicing over his shoulders, he looked at himself—the soft curve of his belly, the pale skin of his thighs. This was a body Gaz had worshipped with his mouth and hands, that Tom craved. The thought was mind-blowing. He soaped himself slowly, deliberately, feeling the latent strength in his own hands.
He dressed in clean jeans and a soft t-shirt, made eggs on toast, and ate at the kitchen table in the silent house. He expected to feel squirms of nervous excitement about Tom’s visit, but a strange calm had settled over him. Not anticipation, not anxiety. Just a flat, waiting stillness. He tidied the kitchen, wiped down the counters. He went to his room, made his bed with hospital corners, plumped the pillow. He checked the rest of the house, but there was nothing to do. His parents’ absence was a palpable void.
At half-past one, he gathered two clean towels from the airing cupboard and went to the bathroom cabinet. The only lube he had was the half-used tub of petroleum jelly from his bedroom. He took it.
The doorbell rang just before two. Tom stood on the step, a backpack slung over one shoulder and a plastic shopping bag in the opposite hand. He looked different in his work clothes—a tight black t-shirt and utility pants, his work boots scuffed.
“Alright, lad,” Tom said, stepping in without waiting, pulling Jimmy into a hug that was more of a possession. His hand immediately cupped Jimmy’s arse, squeezing hard. “Brought some refreshments for us,” he said, hefting the shopping bag, “and some supplies.” He gestured to the backpack with his chin. “I know your dad doesn’t drink, so I thought I best bring something.”
He walked into the kitchen as if he owned it, opening the fridge and slotting a six-pack of lager onto a shelf. He pulled two out, snapped the tops off on the edge of the counter, and handed one to Jimmy. The gesture brooked no argument. Jimmy took it, the cold bottle sweating in his hand. He wasn’t sure he wanted a beer, but he decided to sip it slowly.
Tom led the way into the living room, his presence immediately expanding to fill the tidy space. He dropped his backpack on the floor with a thump, took a long swig of his lager, and unzipped it. He began pulling items out like a magician setting up a trick: a small brown glass bottle of poppers, a large bottle of clear, viscous lubricant, and three rubber butt plugs of varying sizes. He lined them up on the coffee table, next to a porcelain figurine of a shepherdess.
“Fun time supplies,” Tom announced, grinning.
Jimmy stared at the array. The clinical nature of it, the planned debauchery in his parents’ living room, made his skin prickle. He didn’t want this here. But the thought of saying so, of being the prude, the inexperienced boy who didn’t know how things were done, clamped his mouth shut. He took another sip of the bitter beer.
Tom’s t-shirt was off in one smooth motion, his torso a landscape of faded tattoos and hard muscle. He undid his pants, letting them sag low on his hips, and sat heavily on the sofa, spreading his legs. He took another drink. “Got some porn to put on the telly, lad?” he asked, his eyes already dark with intention.
“I’d rather not,” Jimmy said, his voice firmer than he felt. “It’s my parents’.”
Tom’s smile didn’t fade, but it tightened at the edges. “We’ll just have to make our own then,” he said, winking.
Jimmy didn’t smile back. He stood there, bottle in hand, feeling like a guest in his own home.
“Come here,” Tom said, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. He patted the space next to him.
Jimmy hesitated, the worn floral fabric of the sofa, mostly covered in large towels, suddenly foreign under his gaze. He perched on the very edge of the cushion, back stiff, his lager held like a shield. Tom’s arm snaked out and pulled him back hard, trapping him against his solid side. The heat of Tom’s skin was oppressive.
Tom took long, deep swigs of his beer, his Adam’s apple working. His free hand, resting on Jimmy’s shoulder, began to move. It cupped Jimmy’s jaw, the calloused thumb stroking his cheekbone before travelling down the column of his neck. It slipped under the soft cotton of Jimmy’s t-shirt, finding a nipple and pinching it, sharp and deliberate.
“Fuck, I need this,” Tom declared, his voice gravelly. “Can’t get no fanny at my place, it’s a fucking joke.” He took another drink, his eyes glazed and fixed on nothing. “Man’s got needs.”
He pulled away suddenly, fishing his phone from his pocket. With a few swipes, he pulled up a video and propped the device against his mother’s ornate ceramic plant pot on the coffee table. The small image showed a compilation of men taking various toys into themselves. Tom caught Jimmy watching the screen, his expression frozen. He mistook the apprehension for wonder.
“You’ll love it,” he growled, leaning close. His breath smelled of hops and something sour. “If you didn’t already get enough last night, eh lad?” Tom winked and grinned at him, a gesture that felt more like a claim than a joke.
Jimmy stayed silent, facing the porn but not watching it. The grunts and moans were a tinny soundtrack to his discomfort.
“So…?” Tom asked, his hand returning to Jimmy’s chest, kneading the soft flesh.
“Hmmm?” Jimmy replied, his voice thin.
“What happened with old slag nuts last night?” Tom said with a barking laugh at his own words. He fished his cock out of his trousers with his other hand, already half-hard, and reached for the small brown bottle of poppers on the table.
Jimmy took a slow breath, feeling cornered. “Oh, yeah, it was good. Really good,” he said, keeping his eyes on the flickering screen.
“Gonna need a bit more than that, mate,” Tom said, uncapping the poppers. He brought the bottle to his nose, inhaled with a sharp, hissing suck, and held it. His eyes fluttered shut for a second, then snapped open, brighter and more intense. He shook the bottle at Jimmy.
Feeling he couldn’t escape the inquisitiveness, Jimmy gave a brief rundown. “We went back to his van. Talked. He, um, he showed me some stuff. We messed around,” he took a deep breath, "And I fucked him."
“Woah,” Tom interrupted, his hand pausing on his own cock. “You fucked him? No fucking way.” His laugh was loud, but it carried a mean, jagged edge. “I thought he was going to run you through and I’d be getting sloppy seconds.”
Jimmy tried to laugh along, the sound sticking in his throat. He felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. He didn't want Tom to fuck him, he knew that for certain now. Tom offered him the poppers again. Jimmy took the bottle, the chemical smell burning his nostrils even with the cap on. He pretended to take a small sniff, feeling the sharp, fleeting rush warm his sinuses, and put it down.
“Come on, get it out then,” Tom said, his tone jovial but insistent. His hand moved from Jimmy’s chest to his fly, popping the button. Jimmy, numbly, helped him, shoving his jeans and briefs down to his ankles. The air in the room felt cool on his exposed skin. Tom grabbed Jimmy’s half-hard cock, his grip firm. “That’s it. Let’s have a proper look.”
Tom, now buzzing from multiple bottles of lager and the poppers, grew more brazen. He stood, stripped off his work pants and boxers in one rough movement, and stood naked in the middle of the living room. His erection jutted out, thick and impatient. “Right,” he announced, his words slightly slurred. “My turn. You can fuck me next. Show me what you learned.”
The image flashed in Jimmy’s mind—Gaz’s reverent instructions, the careful preparation, the focus on making it good for the other person. This felt different. Crass. “I’m still recovering from last night,” Jimmy said, the deflection sounding weak even to his own ears.
Tom shrugged, as if the offer was no great loss. “Suit yourself.” He leaned over, picked up the medium-sized black rubber plug from the coffee table, and offered it to Jimmy. “Wanna try this then? Show you how good it feels.”
Jimmy shook his head, pulling his t-shirt hem down over his thighs. “No, you’re alright.”
“Your loss,” Tom said. He unscrewed the cap on the lube, squeezed a glistening dollop onto his fingers, and coated the plug’s bulbous end. He hadn't bothered to clean his hands. He just lifted one foot onto the sofa arm, bent slightly, and guided the tip to his hole. Without preamble, he began to push it in, his face a mask of intense concentration.
Jimmy watched, a spectator to his own life. “Don’t you need to, you know, clean up or anything?” he asked, remembering Gaz’s matter-of-fact lecture in the van.
Tom paused, the plug halfway in, and looked over his shoulder. His expression was one of pure impatience. “Don’t bother, mate. Just a rinse in the shower does it. Clean up any shit if anything comes out, you know?” He gave a final, rough shove, seating the plug fully inside himself with a soft groan. “See? Easy.”
Jimmy nodded but said nothing. The opposite of what Gaz had said. Tom, now fully impaled, took another huge sniff from the poppers bottle, his head tilting back. He thrust the bottle towards Jimmy, who took it and merely placed it on the floor. Tom didn’t seem to notice. He grabbed Jimmy’s wrist and placed his hand on his own cock, which was leaking steadily. Then Tom’s hand closed around Jimmy’s softening length, trying to work him back to full hardness.
Jimmy was glad he’d thought to put the towels down. Tom was lost in his own world now, fucking up into Jimmy’s limp hand, his eyes glued to the phone screen where the porn had escalated to grotesque proportions. He panted, his breath coming in sharp bursts, chasing his climax with a single-minded fervor. Jimmy moved his hand mechanically, watching Tom’s face contort.
With a choked gasp, Tom came, his release spurting over Jimmy’s fingers and onto the towel beneath them. He shuddered, then pulled Jimmy to him by the shoulder, planting a wet, beery kiss on his lips. Jimmy didn’t reciprocate.
“Think I’ll leave this bad boy in me,” Tom said, panting, as he wiped his hand on the towel beneath him. He gave Jimmy’s soft cock a cursory squeeze. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Jimmy said, pulling his hand back subtly, wiping Tom’s cum on the towel. “I think my dick is just tired.”
“No worries, that’s ok,” Tom said jovially, slapping Jimmy’s thigh. “Not a problem for me.” He stood, the black stem of the plug visible between his cheeks, and headed naked down the hallway to the bathroom to tidy up.
The moment the bathroom door shut, Jimmy looked at the towel. A faint, brownish stain marred the pale terrycloth where Tom had been sitting. A wave of cold disgust washed over him. He quickly bundled the soiled towel with the others, rushed to the utility room, and shoved them into the washing machine. He set it to a heavy, hot cycle and leaned against the humming machine, listening to the water rush in, trying to drown out the silence of the house and the memory of the last hour.
The hollow gurgle of the washing machine couldn’t scrub the afternoon from his mind. He heard the bathroom door open, the heavy tread of Tom’s feet on the hallway laminate. Jimmy stayed put, his forehead pressed against the cool, vibrating metal of the machine, until Tom called out, “All tidy!”, his voice booming through the quiet house.
Tom was dressed, his backpack slung over one shoulder, the empty beer bottles clinking in the plastic bag in his hand. He looked flushed, satisfied, a man who’d concluded his business. “Cheers for that, lad. Needed to blow off some steam,” he said, clapping Jimmy on the shoulder. “You’ll get yours next time, eh? When that twat hasn’t wrecked your plumbing.”
He pulled Jimmy into a tight, beer-scented hug, his hand landing possessively on the back of Jimmy’s neck. It felt less like an affection and more like a brand. “See you soon,” Tom said into his ear, his breath hot. It wasn’t a question.
Tom left, somewhat unsteady on his feet, and Jimmy almost asked if he was okay to drive, but he wanted him out of the house. The door clicked shut, sealing Jimmy into a silence that felt thicker, dirtier than before. The air in the living room was stagnant, heavy with the ghost of poppers and shame. He opened a window, the chill afternoon air rushing in, but it didn’t help. He sprayed plenty of air freshener and hoped it would do.
Jimmy shot up to his bedroom, shutting himself in. He tried to lose himself in a book, but couldn’t concentrate. The words blurred. He tried comics, but he couldn’t take the images in. He thought of Gaz, the perfect gentleman in the body of a thug, and of Tom, just a thug it seems, of their hands on him, their mouths and how differently he felt about both of them. He reached for himself, but he definitely couldn’t get hard. A numb, cold detachment had settled in his groin.
So he decided to write. He’d never really done much writing before, not since school, but he had to get his thoughts out. He found an old notebook, its pages blank and accusing. He put pen to paper.
He called Gaz a slag, he wrote. The words were clumsy, childish. Tom did. He tastes of beer and something sour. He left a stain on the towel. He didn’t care. Gaz cared. Gaz showed me. Gaz kissed me after. Tom kissed me after too but it was wet and it felt like he was marking me like a dog pisses on a lamppost. I didn’t want him to fuck me. I didn’t want his plug. I didn’t want any of it in my house. My parents’ sofa. Why did I let him? Because he got me the job. Because he was first. Does first mean you own someone? Gaz said consent is everything. Tom didn’t ask. He just took the space. He took the whole room. I gave him a beer. I showed him my cock on my phone. I let him. I let him.
He wrote and wrote until his hand ached, filling pages with looping, frantic script, trying to knot the loose, sickening threads of the day into some kind of sense. He wrote until he heard the front door latch click at around 8pm.
The sound was a lifeline. He scrambled from his desk, his heart pounding with a relief that felt like panic. He rushed down, grateful to see his parents shuffling in, his dad struggling with a canvas bag of damp shells, his mum unwinding a scarf from her neck. Their ordinary faces, slightly wind-burnt, were a beautiful, mundane sanctuary.
“Good day?” he asked, his voice too bright.
They told him about the museum they had gone to and the lovely ice cream at the beach, their words a soothing, irrelevant buzz. He nodded, filling the kettle, making tea, clinging to the ritual. As his mum was grabbing the milk she asked about the single beer in the fridge.
“Oh,” Jimmy said, feeling his cheeks flush. “Tom had come over for a visit and brought them with him.”
His dad paused, spoon hovering over his teacup. “I didn’t think you drank,” said his dad, with an odd cadence to his voice.
“I don’t really,” Jimmy said quickly. “Tom kind of forced me to have one.”
His dad put the spoon down slowly. “And how was his visit?” his dad asked, his voice gaining a serious tone.
The living room, now clean and aired, seemed to pulse with the memory of the black plug on the coffee table. “It was a bit much, to be honest,” Jimmy said, the understatement vast and damning. “But I owe him for the job at the rugby club.”
His dad looked at him, a long, steady look that seemed to see through the walls and into the quiet shame festering there. “The only thing,” his dad said with a gravity Jimmy had rarely heard, “you owe that man is a thank you for the opportunity. You don’t have to humour his every wish.” His mother remained silent, which in itself was some kind of confirmation. Her quiet approval of the statement hung in the steam from the teapot.
“Thanks, Dad,” Jimmy said, the words thick in his throat. “That helps.”
“Love you, son,” he responded.
“Love you both,” Jimmy replied, his chest feeling lighter as he headed back upstairs. The weight wasn’t gone, but it had been acknowledged. Someone had seen it.
There was a text from Tom on his phone. She’s out tomorrow night if you want to pop round, we can work on those stretches ;)
Jimmy ignored it, remembering what his dad had just said, feeling stronger to resist, and picked up his book again, letting it busy him until bed. The words still swam, but the act of holding the object, of focusing his eyes on the lines, was a small, defiant stand.
The next day Jimmy spent the day quietly, ignoring the second text from Tom that arrived in the afternoon. What, has he offered you his sloppy cunt or something?
The vulgarity, the sheer entitled malice of it, landed like a physical blow on his sternum. Why was Tom being like this? Had he always been this way? He’d never seen him that often. And it came to him now that he’d never been round and up in Jimmy’s room before—had the offer of a job granted him access that day? Had his parents kept Tom away? Did they know he had sex with men and wanted to keep gay stuff out of the house? The questions swarmed, ugly and insistent. What would that mean if he came out to his parents? The thought was a vast, dark chamber he couldn’t bring himself to enter.
On Tuesday he had the afternoon shift at the library. The quiet order of the stacks, the soft tap of keyboards, was a balm. He was reshelving history volumes when Jane, a librarian he was friendly with at work, leaned over the biography section.
“Someone was in looking for you yesterday,” she mentioned casually, stamping a due date. “Big bloke. Missed you by about twenty minutes.”
Jimmy’s stomach went cold. “Did you get a name?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
“No,” Jane said, shrugging. “Just some rugby-looking fella. Seemed a bit put out you’d gone.”
Fuck. Was Tom going to be bothering him here if Jimmy didn’t answer his texts? A low dread simmered in his gut for the next hour as he mechanically sorted returns. He rehearsed lines in his head. You need to stop. This isn’t okay. My dad said I don’t have to humour you.
An hour later, Jane popped her head into the returns room where Jimmy worked. “He’s back,” she said, her eyebrows raised. “Wonders if you’re free to see him?”
Jimmy took a deep breath. It was time. He’d tell Tom to back off, here in public, where he couldn’t get nasty. He walked towards the front desk, his heart a trapped bird against his ribs. He braced himself for Tom’s leering grin, the possessive glint in his eye.
But as he approached the front desk, it wasn’t Tom.
It was Gaz.
He was leaning against the returns counter, looking oddly vulnerable amidst the quiet books and pensioners browsing large-print novels. He was wearing a simple grey hoodie and jeans, his hands shoved in his pockets. He looked up, and his face broke out into a large, genuine grin as he saw Jimmy approach. It was a smile of uncomplicated pleasure, a sunrise after a long, grey night.