Something Different

Something Different

T. Baggins

Something Different

Copyright © 2011 T. Baggins

Published by Lyonnesse Books

All Rights Reserved.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Publisher's Note: This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

Cover design by J. David Peterson

Formatted by Pyper Press

Something Different

None of it would have happened if Germanotti hadn't told Michael Maguire he didn't know the meaning of the phrase "fuck it."

"I do know the meaning of that phrase," Michael said, trying not to sound annoyed. What was it about him that made people assume he spent all his spare time cutting the grass, repairing the gutters and waxing the 4x4?

He glanced at the cola he'd nursed for the last half hour. No matter the occasion, Michael was always the designated driver. Always fated to drive loud-mouthed pissheads home while they shouted out his 4x4's windows like football hooligans. Then the next workday, before the staff meeting, they would claim all sorts of outlandish adventures. Michael was honest. He never denied where he went after each Friday night at the corner gastro-pub. He went home, apologizing to Frannie if he stayed out past one o'clock, the limit she had set. After admitting as much, Michael had to endure his colleagues' teasing and listen to their stories: teenage Lolitas coming on to them in nightclubs, anonymous three-ways with kinky college girls, prostitutes dealing out freebies. It was all pure fantasy. True, Germanotti had talked one of the company's interns into having sex with him in the stockroom. But afterward she'd avoided him altogether, going so far as to take the stairs if Germanotti was in line for the lift. If those were the wages of workplace sin, Michael wanted none of it. If he ever found himself in the market for uncomfortable silences and angry stares, he could always go home.

Now Germanotti gave Michael a moist grin. "I do know the meaning of the phrase," he mimicked. "But I'm Michael Maguire, I have a stick up my ass and a sad little scar where my bollocks used to be, so you'll never hear those words cross my lips."

Michael gave a low chuckle. Germanotti was crude, frequently deluded and terrified of his own wife, whom he pretended to rule with an iron hand. He was constantly on notice for poor work performance and would have been sacked years ago, except Michael kept covering for him. Yet Michael liked Germanotti. For whatever reason, the man was convinced Michael had it in him to someday step out of line.

"I mean really," Germanotti continued, finishing his pint. "Are you so in love with sweet Frannie you've never been tempted? Never wanted to find a little bird and give your cock a go?"

The question was absurd. The answer, of course, was every single day, when he woke up with an erection and headed into the shower to masturbate. Michael couldn't remember the last time he'd had sex with Frannie, and there were so many rules he was no longer tempted to try. Weeknights were out; she was too tired from housework and spin class and book club and keeping up with her favorite programs on telly. Sundays were a no-go; she tended to go out with friends after church and preferred a nice long evening with the telly when she returned. That left Saturday, and then Michael had to be freshly showered, the kids had to be either asleep or out of the house, and Frannie had to be in the mood. The likelihood of all these factors coming together was about as favorable as a total eclipse. Once Michael had thought that as he grew older, he'd get "past it," as men used to say, and find himself as disinterested as Frannie. But now he was thirty-four and more frustrated than ever. Frannie wouldn't even let him hold her and masturbate, she found the very idea juvenile and borderline deviant. And the kids were always on the computer—the first time he'd downloaded a bit of soft-focus pornography, his son had found it straight away, been blamed by Frannie (Michael still felt guilty about not coming clean) and grounded for a month. So the only safe place for Michael to seek release was in the shower.

As for wanting to "find a little bird" and giving his "cock a go..." Well. Yes and yes. Germanotti was always going on about blondes with large breasts, but Michael didn't even know what his type was. Friendly, nice smile, nice eyes, all those would be good. Surely prostitutes—did they employ that term, or might they consider it offensive?—would be patient and not expect too much...

Michael and Germanotti lived on the same street. Parking the 4x4 in front of his house, Michael pulled off his gold wedding band and stuck it in his inner coat pocket. Leaving his titanium-framed specs on the dashboard, he climbed out while Germanotti remained in the passenger seat, confused.

"Michael. What are you doing?"

"You're walking home. I'm walking to Brixton Park."

Germanotti made a choked sound. Then he was grinning from ear to ear. "Friday night in Brixton. My God. I never thought I'd—" He jumped out and hurried up to Michael. "You have money, right? All that rubbish about girls giving it way—don't believe it. They only fuck for cash or drugs."

"I have money." Michael wanted to get away quickly before he lost his nerve.

"Bet you don't have one of these." Germanotti pulled a condom out of his wallet and passed it over. "Shop around. Don't take the first slag you see. I'd come with you, you know I would, but..." He trailed off, transparently searching for something to say other than the truth, which was there'd be an awful row if he didn't get home.

"I'd rather go alone. See you Monday," Michael said, took a deep breath and started off toward the park.

***

There were teenagers on the swings, cursing and smoking and passing round a bottle of cider. They shouted things as Michael passed. Still in his usual work attire—suit, tie and polished shoes—he was doubtless overdressed for the occasion. Would he find any prostitutes? Would he look too much like a cop? Suppose he found a woman who claimed to be a prostitute but was actually a police officer? Those consequences were too frightening to even consider...

No, they aren't
, an odd voice inside Michael piped up, rebellious.
So what if Frannie divorces me? It's not as if she enjoys my company, or I enjoy hers. We're only content when we're both quiet and something good's on telly. So what if the kids never speak to me again? They hardly do now, unless they need pocket money. So what if I have to appear in court? It would be the first new, different, unexpected thing that's happened to me in fifteen years... maybe longer...

Beyond the swings were a cricket pitch, water fountains, a public toilet, a small wooded area and a couple of benches. Michael sat down, still nervous, searching for something to concentrate on besides the roiling hope in his stomach...

A white-haired man stood by the water fountains, talking to a black girl in a spangled hoodie. She didn't look like Michael's notion of a prostitute, which came mostly from
Pretty Woman
. She looked hardly older than his daughter's school friends. She couldn't be out in Brixton Park to sell herself; Michael chided himself for making assumptions based on circumstantial appearances. But when the white-haired man pushed open the men's room door, the girl in the hoodie scooted in ahead of him, smiling and swinging her hips.

"Looking for something?" a voice asked.

Michael looked up to see a boy, no more than twenty-one or twenty-two, smiling at him. The boy had medium-brown hair, wide blue eyes, and very red lips. He looked pale under the park's halogen lights, clad only in a white T-shirt and tight blue jeans. It was late September, not that cold yet, but Michael was comfortable in his suit jacket. A boy in a short-sleeved T-shirt might be cold.

"I'm sorry?" Michael said. The boy was beautiful. There was no other word for it. Why would a young man who looked like that be out in Brixton Park? Surely he was capable of finding a willing girl, surely he didn't have to go out searching for a professional...

The boy put his cigarette to his lips, took a draw, and smiled. Easing into the bench's empty side, he sat on the armrest, perching as nimbly as a cat. "I thought maybe you were out here looking for something. Maybe it's me."

Michael drew in his breath. Suddenly he understood. "I—" He stopped, gathering his composure. "I—no. I'm not—no."

The boy raised his eyebrows. "You sure about that?" He took another skeptical drag off his cigarette.

"I'm... I'm heterosexual," Michael said.

The boy grinned. "Are you now? I've heard of het-ro-seck-shulls," he said, imitating Michael's pronunciation perfectly. "Well done. I'm not from around here—I'm from Bethnal Green, if you can believe it—but I wound up here after...
unfortunate circumstances
. Trying to earn my tube fare back to the city, and no luck yet. Saw you and thought I'd hit a patch of good karma." Leaning forward conspiratorially, he whispered, "I'm popular with the toothless old geezers. It's all good, I suppose, but I'd rather meet up with a real man. Someone no more than... forty-five?"

"I'm thirty-four," Michael said. He didn't know why the incorrect guess stung him.

"'Course you are. Don't have my contacts in. So what are you looking for? A girl?"

Michael nodded.

"What do you want her to do for you?"

Michael didn't know how to answer. He hadn't thought that far ahead. But the answer—anything—didn't seem particularly dignified.

"The reason I ask is..." The boy sprang off the bench's armrest and sat beside Michael. "If you want a nice girly shag, wait another half hour or so and a decent femme should happen by. Give it to you just like you get at home, 'cept with extra moaning. But if you want a blow job, best come to me. I'll suck you till you come your brains out and swallow every drop. Takes a man to know how to do it right." The boy grinned again, staring directly into Michael's eyes. "You don't have to go for me, mate. Just my mouth and where it can take you. And it'll be different. Isn't that why you ditched the wife for the night? Try something different?"

Michael looked at his left hand, thinking perhaps he'd left the ring on. But no, it was in his pocket.

"Everything about you screams married," the boy said gently, without censure. "S'all right. Even married men need a good blow job once in awhile. I've always thought the wives should pay me. It's a public service."

Michael started to protest that he hadn't agreed, that he was a heterosexual man waiting to meet a female prostitute. But then the wind kicked up and the boy shivered, hugging himself as he took a deeper draw on his cigarette.

"So you live in Bethnal Green?" Michael said.

The boy nodded.

"I work not far from there. Take the tube every morning and evening. It'll cost you—" Michael calculated, then named the fare.

The boy nodded. His mouth was gorgeous. What he'd said about it took a man to know how to perform fellatio correctly—maybe it was true. Only twice had Frannie attempted oral sex on Michael. Both momentous occasions had occurred well before he proposed—
before she had me pinned down
, that rebellious voice piped up again. The first time she'd only played around a little, licking and giggling before declaring herself finished. The second time she'd gone all the way, jerking her face away in disgust just before he ejaculated. Allowing his semen into her mouth, much less swallowing it, was out of the question. Frannie said semen smelled bad and tasted worse. Any man who expected his wife to swallow such a repulsive emission was abusive as well as sexist.

"What's your name?" the boy asked, still watching him with those wide, beautiful blue eyes.

"Michael. Michael Maguire."

The boy's eyebrows lifted. He seemed tempted to laugh, but didn't. Putting out a hand, he said, "I'm James Campbell. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Do you have a car around here, Michael?"

Michael shook his head.

"Looks like the men's room still has some action going on," James said, pointing with his dog-end. "Suppose we could break into the ladies'..."

"There's a Holiday Inn just down the high street," Michael said. That far ahead he'd thought, certain he needed a private place for whatever transpired. And if he was going to allow another male to... well, without a doubt, four walls and a locking door would be essential. "We could walk there. Take a room for the night. Unless you have someplace else to be..."