Hard Tail (17 page)

“You’ll be on your own this evening,” I told Wolverine. “The can opener operator is off for a night out.” He stretched and yawned, as if my presence or absence was a matter of supreme indifference to him, which it probably was. So long as I fed him before I left, at any rate.

I thought about taking the BMW, but would the parking by these places be safe? Cars were just as likely to be gay-bashed by homophobic thugs as their owners were, if
Queer as Folk
was to be believed. I squirmed at the memory of the infamous show, which Kate had been given a box set of by a friend and become inexplicably hooked on. I’d suffered agonies on the sofa beside her, trying not to show I was turned on by the naughty bits and dreading she’d notice similarities between me and the characters and guess my secret.

In any case, I was fairly certain I wouldn’t make it through the door of a gay bar without a bit of good old-fashioned Dutch courage, or at least the prospect thereof. So I did a bit more Googling and found the name of a taxi firm. When the cab arrived, I cautiously gave the driver the name of a pub Google had helpfully informed me was over the road from my actual destination. “The Ship Inn, Jeffrey Street, please.”

He pursed his lips in a manner I swear they must teach them in taxi driver school. “Jeffrey Street? You want to watch out around there, mate. There’s one of them pansy bars—well, it’s everywhere now, innit? Queers. Run the bloody country, they do. If you ask me”—not that I had, or ever would—“they’ll end up making it compulsory one of these days. The only straight people left’ll be the bloody rag heads, and gawd help us all when that happens.”

It was refreshing to discover he was, at least, an equal opportunities bigot. Unaccountably, though, I quite forgot to tip him when we got to the Ship. He drove off, muttering, “Bloody queers” under his breath, and I looked over the road to the appropriately named Cock Inn.

It didn’t look like a queer pub. It looked like a perfectly ordinary English drinking establishment. There were even fewer hanging baskets of flowers out than you’d expect.

Actually, in my admittedly limited experience, the more flowers there are, the rougher the venue tends to be. Perhaps the patrons feel the need to compensate—as if their masculinity has been impugned by all the girly stuff hanging off the place.

Maybe here, the drinkers were pretty enough the pub didn’t need flowers. I smiled at the thought, still standing on the kerb like I was waiting for a bus, and a passing bruiser in motorbike leathers gave me the eye. I blushed like a girl and looked away hurriedly. Maybe I should pop into the Ship after all—just for my first drink of the night. Pushing open the heavy door, I stepped inside the pub.

The Ship Inn, which had seemed like such a safe option compared to the Cock, revealed itself to be one of those aggressively macho pubs I normally give a wide berth to. It was a dingy place with a low ceiling and a sort of spit-and-sawdust floor, only without the sawdust. It was deathly quiet, although I could have sworn I’d heard the buzz of conversation as I opened the door. It smelled of stale beer and the sour disinfectant odour you get in public toilets. As I walked in, every eye turned in my direction, and it wasn’t so they could smile and bid me welcome. The clientele was exclusively male, the bar staff consisting of a bald-headed man-mountain and a hard-faced woman in a push-up bra wearing clothes that were too tight and too young for her. Also, too leopard-spotted.

There was even a grim, unshaven man propping up the bar with a pit bull at his feet, for all the world a modern-day Bill Sykes. I really hoped I was wrong as to who might be cast in the role of Nancy.

I swallowed. No way could I order a glass of wine in a place like this. It was probably a lynching offence for a bloke.

The dog growled as if in confirmation. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard its owner growl too.

“You want the Cock—over the road, love,” the barmaid said, not unkindly.

“Thank you,” I squeaked in tones a three-year-old girl would be embarrassed to own, and fled. Once outside, I checked myself to make sure I still had all my limbs, and leaned against the wall, breathing hard.

Then I checked myself again. Nope, definitely no skin-tight, sparkly disco-wear or even anything remotely rainbow-hued. Did I have “poof” written on my forehead? Or had the patrons of the Ship developed a highly tuned gaydar by virtue of their close proximity to
one of them pansy bars
?

Perhaps I should acquire my own pit bull—that’d confuse them. On the other hand, Wolverine would probably eat it for breakfast.

Right. Time to stop faffing about and get in there. For one thing, there would be safety in numbers. Steeling myself, I took a deep breath and headed over the road—looking both ways first, of course, as it would be the height of irony to escape gay-bashing in the Ship only to be knocked down crossing the road.

As I approached the Cock, a couple of trendy-looking lads who looked barely old enough to drink walked past me, laughing, and disappeared inside. Feeling that if they could handle it, so could I, I pushed open the door to take my first, tentative step into the gay world.

I suppose, subconsciously, I’d expected something off
QAF
—hot, steamy and full of young blond boys with oiled pecs and shiny shorts dancing around poles, that sort of thing. This was—well, it was just an ordinary pub, really. It had ye olde oak beams on the ceiling, a polished wood bar with some nice carved bits, and behind it, all the colourful drinks you could think of and a couple of hundred more besides. Blokes sat at tables, drinking and chatting; others propped up the bar. There were women, too, and not the sort I’d have picked out on the street as lesbians—they had long hair, some of them, and were wearing makeup and nice clothes. One of them even had a skirt on. Everyone looked, well,
normal
.

Just as I was wondering if I’d taken a wrong turning and somehow ended up in a completely different pub than the one I’d been aiming for, I felt a touch on my arm and looked around to see the bruiser in the leathers from outside. He was smiling at me, showing a gold tooth that toned in quite nicely with its nicotine-stained brethren. “’Ullo, ’andsome,” he said gruffly. “Buy you a drink?”

I panicked. “Thanks, but…I’m meeting someone. At the bar. Got to go.” Flashing him an apologetic and somewhat guilty smile, I scuttled away and started trying to elbow my way into the suddenly dense crowd around the bar. Some of them elbowed back. A frisson ran through me at the thought of being surrounded by—in physical contact with, even—so many gay men. Men who had sex with other men. Men who might even want to have sex with me… Oh, God. Suddenly I needed a drink more than ever.

Eventually I managed to find a square inch of bar that wasn’t already occupied. I leant on it, feeling a little flushed, and tried vainly to make eye contact with one of the barmen. I realised I was standing next to a stocky young man with a mop of orange hair that looked worryingly familiar.

The owner of the hair turned to see who was crowding him, and my stomach lurched.

Oh, God. It was Adam.

He gave me a slow smile and a long look up and down, although as we were literally hip-to-hip he couldn’t have seen much of me below the chest. “W’nna dr’nk?” Actually it came out even less clear than that, but he helpfully made drinking-up gestures with his hand so I got the picture.

I thought about saying no, I’m fine—but I was leaning over the bar with my wallet in my hand.
Obviously
I wanted a drink. “Er, yes, thanks. White wine.”

Apparently effortlessly attracting the attention of a large, tattooed barman with a squeaky voice, Adam bought me a large one. He held up both hands to ward off the fiver I waved in his direction. “’S all right. Come ’n’ sit down?”

I took a large swallow of my Pinot Grigio, coughed a bit and followed him like I was marching to my own funeral. What the hell was I going to say to him? If he told Matt he’d seen me here, Matt would tell Jay—and more to the point, Matt would
know
. He’d think I was such a hypocrite—for God’s sake, I’d more or less told him the day we met I didn’t mind him being gay. As if I was doing him a favour by generously offering not to behave in an overtly bigoted manner.

And God, what if Jay told Mum…? No, he wouldn’t do that. Would he? Oh, God. Why the hell did I ever come here? I took another hefty swig of wine.

Adam led me right through the pub and out the back door to a beer garden I hadn’t realised existed. It was small and squarish, with high fences and a pergola to disguise the fact it was in the middle of the city. Trailing plants I strongly suspected were artificial hung from the wooden beams, sharing their space with fairy lights. I hoped the irony was intentional. Most of the tables were full, but Adam found one unoccupied in the darkest corner of the place, which suited me. I sat down on the wooden bench. Adam sat opposite me and grinned. “C’mere of’n?”

“No, actually, I’ve never been here before…” Would he believe me if I said I’d just wandered in by mistake? I took another mouthful of wine to buy some time. My glass was already two-thirds empty, and I was starting to wish I hadn’t been too keyed up to eat anything before I came out.

“Saw you lookin’ at Matt’s arse.”

I nearly choked on my wine. That’d probably be a no, then. God, had I really been that obvious? “I’m not—I mean, I was married. To a woman.” I gulped down some more of France’s finest, hoping it’d either show me some way out of here or kill me quickly.

“Arr.” Adam nodded, as if I’d just told him my life story. Then he grinned again and stood up. “C’mere.”

“Where?” I yelped.

“‘Ere.” He beckoned me to him. Hypnotised by his smile—and more to the point, too nervous to let him go off without me—I followed. We ended up in a dark corner around the side of the pub, next to a couple of metal barrels and a passed-out drunk who was snoring gently. “C’mere,” Adam said again.

A soft grunting noise caught my attention, and a shape in the shadows resolved itself into two gentlemen getting to know each other rather intimately. I suddenly realised why he’d brought me out here. “I don’t think—”

He grabbed me. Where I still had my wineglass in one hand, Pinot Grigiot sloshed over my arm—and possibly the drunk—as I struggled in vain against Adam’s lecherous grasp. “I’m not—”

“Yeah, y’are.” Adam planted a sloppy, beer-flavoured kiss on my lips, and as his stubble rasped against my skin, I finally admitted to myself that yes, I really was. And maybe he wasn’t who I really wanted, but oh, God, he tasted good and his body felt amazing against mine. My arms seemed to be working of their own volition as they wrapped around him and pressed him closer to me—I could only hope the level in my wineglass was low enough by now I wasn’t soaking his back. Adam’s erection ground into my hip, and God, that wasn’t where I wanted it, not at all. My back was solidly against the wall of the pub, but I managed to shift position until our cocks were pressing against one another through our clothes. “Arr, ’s right,” Adam murmured in my ear before sucking the lobe into his mouth.

Were ears supposed to feel this good? Why hadn’t Kate ever—ah—God… I let out an inhuman sound as I felt Adam undoing my flies. And then his hand was on my cock and oh, God…

I was panting like I’d run a marathon and oh, God it felt good. But then he stopped and backed away. “W-what?” I managed.

“Just wait,” Adam said enigmatically—and then he dropped to his knees.

Logically, I knew what he must be about to do. But some part of my brain just refused to let the rest of me believe it until it happened, until his mouth opened wide and swallowed me down, and mortifyingly, I came immediately, so hard it was almost painful. Adam just carried on swallowing, as I convulsed and panted and wanted to die.

“God, I’m so sorry…” I gasped out. “I should have—” I should have bloody stayed at home, that’s what I should have done.

“’S all right,” Adam said, wiping his mouth and smiling up at me. Then he stood. Oh, God—did he expect me to return the favour? I realised I was still holding my wineglass, and miraculously, there was still some in there, so I drank it down in one. Then I wondered if I should have saved some to wash the taste away. Now I was no longer blinded by lust, I so, so didn’t want to do this. Another man’s penis? In my
mouth
?

Of course, if it’d been Matt’s… My treacherous dick gave a feeble twitch, too sated to do more.

I didn’t resist as Adam pressed in close and put an arm around my neck, then pulled my hand down to his crotch—and when I realised what he was after, my relief made me respond with a pretty good imitation of enthusiasm. A hand job—I could do that. It wasn’t like I hadn’t had plenty of practice, although it was weird doing it without being able to feel the results. Adam’s cock was thick but short, and I pumped it up and down with gusto. He seemed to appreciate it, judging by the incoherent sounds and the way the veins corded in his neck.

He threw his head right back, and I realised what was about to happen just a fraction of a second too late, as Adam’s jizz spurted out all over my shirt and trousers. Were these trousers washable? Yes, yes, they were, so that was all right. Like a drowning man, I clung on to the one positive thing I could think of about this little encounter.

“Sorry ’bout the mess,” Adam mumbled through his cheesy grin. He groped in the pocket of his baggy shorts and brought out a grubby handkerchief, which, despite my protestations, he used to wipe me down. He clapped me on the shoulder. “Y’r all right.”