All the characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, either living or dead, is entirely unintentional.
The story is copyrighted and may not be reproduced in any way without the express permission of the author who can be contacted at pjalexander1753@gmail.com
A Very Ordinary Boy (Part 1)
From Chapter 2:
Sorry, the interruption turned out to be longer than I expected. Blowing my load (a pretty big one thanks to Saint Seb) must've taken it out of me cause the next thing that happened was being woken up by a text from my mum telling me that dinner was ready. And then it was the usual evening stuff of eating, trying to think of something interesting to talk about (I didn't say anything about the FfT job cause I know I'm not gonna get it so there's no point in getting the parents all excited and asking questions), clearing away (my one daily chore), an hour or so of TV with mum and dad (a pretty lame but mostly harmless sit-com) and finally back upstairs to actually do some work on my art project, and no, that's not a euphemism for another jerk-off.
It's late now and time to not be awake, so goodnight.
Chapter 3: Unexpected developments.
Hey, before we go any further, I'm getting the feeling that you're not completely comfortable with what you've heard so far, or maybe not so much the what, more the way I'm telling it. You're thinking I come across as too ballsy, too in-your-face'? I'm not how you expected me to be, right? Okaaay, it looks like we need to get something straight. I said I was ordinary, not that I'm a wimp or pathetic or a pushover. Okay, maybe where Si is concerned and, yes, Rosa too, but there are very good reasons for that. First is that I generally prefer a quiet life with no avoidable conflicts or confrontations, and secondly because I've learnt from painful experience that there's absolutely no point in not going along with what either of them decides cause there's just no way they're ever gonna let themselves come off second best, not in anything, and definitely not to a boy. So, for an easy time of it, it's best to smile, nod, say, "Yes," and let life carry on in its own peaceful way. Keeps them happy and me out of the doo-doo.
This job at FfT is a totally classic example. I knew I didn't want it (unless it came with a guarantee of potential boyfriends), I knew there was no way I was gonna get it, but Si and Rosa had both decided it would be good for me and that I was gonna apply for it. So, to get them off my back and also get some brownie points in the bank (you never know with those two when you're gonna need them), I did exactly what they told me to do and dutifully filled in the application form. If you decide to stick around, despite me not being the anonymous little wallflower you were expecting, I'll tell you what happened.
You're staying? Okay. So this is what happened. You remember I told you I'd begun to think that landing the job might be a good thing after all -- the chance to meet another gay boy as I hand over a cappuccino and a cinnamon Danish or our eyes meet across a copy of The Great Gatsby? -- even though I was still totally convinced that I had no chance at all of getting it, not when I turned up at the front door just before four o'clock this afternoon. I mean, they were bound to have had a shed-load of applications from better-qualified, more suitable people, so what chance did I have? Anyway, I suppose I must have walked or cycled by the place a hundred times in the past, but, standing there and looking in the window, I can honestly say I had no memory of ever noticing it before and I'd certainly never been in. Even though I like reading (a lot), I get all my books either as presents or ordered on-line, and apart from that, café culture really isn't my thing, so I'd never had any sort of reason to go through the door of Food for Thought before today.
From what I can see, standing outside and peering in, it looks pretty much how you'd expect. Through the big window on the left of the front door I can see a counter with a cash register at one end and a whole bunch of plates and cake stands all piled high with the normal sorts of things you'd get in a café -- cakes, buns, cookies, you know the sort of thing. (Don't look so surprised, of course I know what cafés sell. I said I'd never been in this café, not that I'd never been in one at all.) Behind the counter are wooden shelves piled high with bags of coffee and tins of tea. There are dozens of different designs so I suppose there are dozens of different varieties, but I don't drink tea or coffee so how would I know? Not that I can see them in any detail anyway, not from where I'm standing on the outside looking in.
What? Oh yeah, it looks like I've done it again, gone off on one of my tangents. I don't suppose you're really much interested in what the place looks like but, now that I've started, I'll just finish off, so you can get a picture of the place in your head. There's another big window on the right of the door with the words Food for Thought painted in big green and gold letters. Through it I can see four or five tables, all wooden but various styles and sizes, a couple with two chairs, two more with four and a much bigger, round one towards the back with what looks like six or maybe even eight chairs around it. They all have a bottle or naked can in the middle (that's one with the label taken off) with flowers in. Don't ask what kind of flowers `cause I have no idea -- I'm no gardener -- but I do notice that they don't look shop-bought and are all random, bright colours, with no attempt at being properly arranged, just dropped in. It all looks so careless and off-hand that I begin to wonder if anyone's even bothered to put in any water to keep the flowers alive. I can see that two of the tables are occupied, one by a couple of older women (about my mum's age I guess so pretty old) who are drinking tea and eating cake, the other by a girl, a teenager round about my age, who's attention is completely locked onto her laptop screen. I think she must have got out of school pretty fast to be so obviously well set-up at her table this soon after the end-of-the-day bell.
So peering through the windows I can see the café side of things but there's no sign of any bookshop stuff. Have Si and Dyl got it wrong? Are the books a thing of the past? An abandoned money-loser maybe, or an uneconomic drag on the business? No surprise in these days of e-books and on-line deliveries. If that's the case, then the job is rapidly losing the little appeal it had managed to accumulate in the few days since I'd been `encouraged' to apply, i.e. the possibilities for meeting potential boyfriend candidates (with the emphasis on the dates). The only way to find out is to actually go in -- so I do!
The first thing that freaks me out is that it has a bell to announce my arrival, not an electric bell activated by a hidden sensor, oh no, this is a real ding-a-ling little brass bell hanging from a strip of coiled metal attached to the door, you know, the sort of thing you see when the hero rides into town in old-fashioned Western movies and walks into the general store. Unlike in the movies the place doesn't immediately fall silent as everyone turns to stare at the newcomer. No, nothing like that, in fact the wave of indifference that greets my entrance nearly has me turning round and walking straight out again. One of the two women continues to pour more tea and the girl is too absorbed in whatever is on her screen to take any notice of an earthquake, much less me.
Realising that my arrival is unlikely to make the evening news I take a look around. The place is a bit shabby but nicely decorated in what design magazines call warm and neutral tones and there are pictures on the walls by local artists -- mostly landscapes and still-lifes -- and each one has a hand-written label with the artist's name and the price. I begin to wonder if my mum knows about this place. She's forever buying pictures for her office and then having to give away the ones she hasn't got room for any more. Something else that catches my attention is the floor. It's way cool - natural pale wooden boards, but very narrow, which have obviously been recycled from a school gym as there are painted lines in various colours but completely randomly arranged, with no attempt to join up the lines or make sense of them.
And then I notice the books, off at the back and occupying at least as much space as the café area. There are shelves on three sides that I can see, all of them crammed with volume after volume, as well as a large table in the middle of the space on which are piled dozens, probably hundreds, more. It is Jack Smith heaven. Suddenly I want this job. Forget possible boyfriends, I want this job for the chance to work and breathe all these books. If I live to be a thousand there is no way there'd be time to read them all, but what a way to go!
I've no idea how, but somehow I am no longer standing just inside the door (with its out-dated, old-fashioned but strangely-appealing little bell) but am next to the enormous table (way bigger than our dining table at home), running my fingers over piles of murder mysteries and graphic novels and romances and ... and ... and ... Move over Aladdin, this my kind of cave. And it's then that I notice the real seam of gold, the other reason why I'd be happy to have this job even though I know it's not gonna happen -- a whole wall of shelves labelled ART & ARTISTS. I begin to move towards it when I realise my path to this promised land of reading perfection is suddenly being blocked by a figure who looks as if they've stepped out of a TV documentary about the 1960's.
She's no more than five feet tall and smiling at me like she's just taken a hit on something herbal and mind-expanding. Her clothes are sort of floral and floaty and multi-layered with coloured scarves round her neck and bracelets with bells and charms on both wrists and a bright red bandana wound around her head. And her hair, well, even my mum would have been impressed, and not just by its colour, or should I say colours? I remember once, in support of Pride week it must have been, my mum dyed her hair in the colours of the rainbow. I was about thirteen then so you can imagine what I thought of it. I refused to go out of the house with her until it had gone back to her normal colour, like blue or purple or pink. Anyway, the woman who is standing in front of me has the most amazing dreadlocks and looks exactly like Medusa (Mr. Google will tell you who she was), bright purple at the top and gradually fading to pale blue at the bottom which is round about waist level. To say I'm open-mouthed with amazement would be both a cliché and an understatement (and that's another cliché!).
It turns out this left-over 60's hippie is called Mrs. Harrington ("Gloria, please.") and is married to the old guy who owns the place. He's in charge of the book side of things and she runs the café. They've owned the place for over thirty years, ever since his dad died and left him a shed-load of money so he could "give up the corporate rat-race" and do what he really loved -- buy books (and sell them, of course). But now they've decided it's time to take it easy -- something about a dodgy heart and arthritic knees -- and their daughter is taking over running the place but she's got young kids and needs to be at home for them at least some of the week. Hence the part-time opening for which, at that very moment and without anyone telling me it has actually started, I'm being interviewed.
Opening questions: Name and age?
Opening answer: That stuff's all on the application form.
Her (Gloria): Yes, yes, but forms are boring. I want you to tell me. (Old lady code for, "I've put the form somewhere safe but I've no idea where.")
That's how we roll along for a while (by now we've moved to a small counter at the back of the shop and are sitting in a couple of ancient but mostly comfortable office chairs) until we get to the 64-thousand-dollar question -- why do I want the job? Hmm. How should I answer that one? How about: "I'm desperate to hook up with an unbelievably handsome stud who's going to throw me down and pop my cherry over a pile of murder mysteries."? No? This any better: "I'm really keen on the idea of getting paid to spend hours every week working my way through shelves and shelves of books about famous artists."? You don't look as if you think that'd work either.
You'll probably find it hard to believe but I don't go for either of these possible answers, instead I start talking about wanting to meet new people and widen my horizons and broaden my experience before going to university. Mrs Harrington (Gloria) is obviously impressed because she's nodding her head like she's trying to dislodge something stuck in her ear and, you know, the strange thing is, I realise that what I'm saying is actually true, I do want to get to know new people (no, not just good-looking and available studs, though given the chance ...) and experience more of life than just school and the inside of my bedroom. And it seems I'm very convincing cause the next thing is I'm on my way out of FfT with the job offered and accepted and starting tomorrow. Just as I'm about to leave she says a strange thing, does Mrs. Harrington (not sure I can get used to calling anyone her age by their first name), she says she's surprised by the fact that I am the only person to apply for the job, but I'm not to worry about it cause I'm perfect for it and she's sure I would have got it even if there had been 100 people wanting it. Weird or what? I'm nearly out of the place, trying to decide how I feel about this piece of information, not sure whether to be relieved or confused or slightly insulted, when the door opens (ting-a-ling) and I'm steam-rollered and flat on my back, staring up at the most awesome-looking boy on the planet, his face and his concentration 100% focused on his phone and 0% on anything that might be in his way, for example, me.
I recognise him, of course, how could I not? Noah Richmond, front and centre of my nightly, teenage gay-boy fantasies for as long as I've been having nightly, teenage gay-boy fantasies. He's beautiful - tall, slim, wide, lithe, silver-blonde, green-eyed, stubble -- he's got it all, plus that extra, indefinable magic ingredient that makes him mega-hot, mega-desirable and totally mega-unattainable. Given the chance I could lie here all day, looking up at him and letting my imagination create a riot of VERY explicit boy-on-boy scenarios featuring the gorgeous Noah and yours truly. But there's no time for that because the next thing I know I'm being hauled onto my feet, my left hand firmly clasped in Noah's right (please, just let me get home so I can sniff, maybe even lick, it), with the object of my nightly exercise' repeatedly apologising and blaming himself for not bothering to look where he was going cause he was catching up with his Twitter feed -- yes, he has his own Twitter account, I kid you not. And you won't have to try hard work out how I already knew about it.
So he's got me onto my feet, still apologising, and is carefully brushing off the non-existent dirt that has got onto my clothes from the spotlessly clean floor -- he even passes his hand down over my fly which almost has me back on the floor again -- when Mrs. Harrington (Gloria) rushes over, quickly followed by the laptop-focussed girl from the café. They're both giving him a proper going-over, demanding to know how he can be so careless? And doesn't he think he owes me an apology? And when's he going to grow up and stop being such a klutz?
After several minutes of jabber and noise and general haranguing it turns out that Mrs. Harrington (Grace) is Noah's aunt (she and his mum are sisters) and the girl, Tani (classic straight-boy fantasy material -- blonde, endless legs, in-your-face tits, pouty lips, etc. etc.), is his girlfriend who's not at school like I assumed but studying at the local community college before going off to uni next year. Don't ask me why I needed to know all this but somehow they seemed to think that hearing the whole family back-story would somehow make up for Noah's social inadequacies. Frankly I wouldn't have cared if he was descended from a long line of drug dealers and serial killers as long as he kept on brushing his hands over any part of my body he wanted. Sadly, of course, all good things must come to an end and, with a final flourish of apologies and a promise that things will be better tomorrow when I turn up for my first shift at Food for Thought, I'm out of the door (ting-a-ling) and pedalling on auto pilot in the direction of home.
As I ride, Billie Eilish filling my head (yes, I know, so ordinary but I like her sound) I'm re-living the events of the last hour or so, desperately hoping that Noah is a regular customer at FfT (preferably without Tani). He may be straight and, therefore, unavailable to fill the endlessly vacant post of Jack Smith's boyfriend, but, in my opinion, he's still hot enough to feature on the front cover of QG or Homme or Men's Vogue, so the opportunity to stare at that flawless face (not to mention the fit body) would allow me happily to pass many working hours. Heck, it might even knock the prospect of all those art books into second place.
And that happy realisation has me thinking, finally, about the barely credible fact that, as of tomorrow, I'm gonna be a working boy. How did that happen? Amazing! A job I didn't want and knew I had no chance of getting. And I got it. Just like that. Magic! Si and Dyl will be stunned into silence (well, probably not Si `cause she'll claim it's all down to her) and Rosa will go into hyper-suffocating-hug mode to the point where I'll be lucky to have enough breath left to actually start the job. And then, like a chain reaction, that thought has a vision of another person popping into my head -- my mum. How's she gonna take the news? Hmm. It could go one of at least two ways. Either she'll be pleased that I'm showing some independence and initiative, making my own decisions and (finally) being mature. Or, more likely, she'll be convinced my school work will suffer (even more) and that I'll never get a place at a decent university, leaving my whole future hanging over a precipice. And whichever way it swings, she'll be decidedly unimpressed that I hadn't run the idea past her in the first place, especially when she finds out that Rosa knew all about it. There's gonna be trouble. Shit!
Having spent the rest of the ride home tying myself in mental knots trying to come up with a half-way convincing explanation for my new-found employment status, one that's gonna keep my mum from going totally ballistic for being kept in the dark, my sense of relief when she's not yet home is matched only by my puzzlement that she's not yet home. She's never late on a Friday. Friday evening is family evening, it's the law. It's the one night in the week when nothing short of nuclear Armageddon (and probably not even that) can be allowed to prevent the three of us from sitting down to eat dinner together followed by at least an hour of quality family time', code for let's try to get inside Jack's head to work out how far off normal teenage development he is this week'. Now don't get me wrong, my mum genuinely can't help it and it's really not malicious or anything like that, but at work she specialises in adolescent mental health and, of course, I'm her live-in lab rat, so how can she be expected to resist the temptation? So Friday nights are when we go into battle, her using all her skills to check out the state of my mental well-being and me using every known teenage trick to keep her from getting too far beneath the surface. Honestly, it's all pretty good-natured and harmless, like little kids play fighting, but I'm always aware of the danger of accidentally revealing the gay thing so I can never completely let down my guard.
And talking of the gay thing, with no sign of either parent, here's a golden opportunity to go straight up to my room, fire up the laptop, click on College Jocks or Gayboyz4U, get naked (from the waist down, at least) and rub one out, exactly what I've been desperate to do ever since being literally bowled over by Noah Richmond in FfT. Believe me, once I'm sitting at my desk, hunky college guys going at it on the screen, shorts and underwear (briefs if you must know) around my ankles and cock in hand, it doesn't take long for me to produce a major cum-load onto the carefully-placed towel that's on the floor between my feet -- the towel that has to be regularly and cunningly hidden among the rest of my laundry in order to conceal the results of my wanking activities from Rosa's radar.
As an author, it's REALLY encouraging to know that there are people out there who are taking the time to read what's been written, and then bothering to send a response. So please do feel free to write to me at the email address given at the top of the chapter. I welcome all comments and guarantee to write back. PJ
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