Places

Places: London, WC1

Places: London, WC1
By John Yager

Some time ago I posted a series of four very short pieces under the collective title Seasons.

Many readers have since written to ask if I would do more of these little vignettes.  What follows is such a piece, part of a series called Places, based on my own memories of some of my favorite cities and locations around the world.

Andrew, thank you again for so much help, for good advice, for proofing and editing and, most of all, for making me look so much better than I am.

This work is copyrighted © by the author, 2003, and may not be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author. It is assigned to the Nifty Archives under the terms of their submission agreement but it may not be copied or archived on any other site without the written permission of the author.

jvoyager@hotmail.com

I saw him standing in a corner by himself, ill at ease, apparently not used to the smoke and noise of the busy pub. He was wearing jeans but didn't look as if he was used to them. Tight, new jeans and a black T-shirt which looked like it had seen more wear. Both jeans and shirt clung to his body, revealing a very nice physique.

Our eyes met and then moved apart. Dark eyes, so far as I could tell from twenty feet away, sandy hair, long, rather unruly, boyish. He'd be about my age, I thought. Probably a bank clerk or a solicitor, used to three-piece suits and trying to look relaxed while seeing a bit of the soiled underbelly of London.

I wondered if he had a wife and kids at home.

The pub was not exclusively gay, but natural ground, a meeting place rather than a meat market.

I meandered out into the little garden at the back, wondering if he'd be interested enough and bold enough to follow. There were already a lot of people there, but it was less crowded than the pub itself and the air was a lot fresher.  A couple of chairs had been moved away from the little iron tables and were standing together against the back garden wall. I took one and put my pint on the other, reserving it, in case the jeans guy followed.

He followed.

He looked around for me, found me with his eyes and started in my direction. I watched his progress across the little walled garden area, a sort of warm night overflow for the pub itself. He curved and dodged, smiling a cute smile, as he worked his way through a dozen or more people, men, women, couples of both the opposite and same sex types. When he was fifteen feet away I realized that he was shorter than me by several inches. When he was ten feet away I saw his eyes were truly, amazingly, black, coal black. When he was five or six feet away, I smiled, picked up my pint from the adjacent chair and nodded towards him and then towards the empty chair.

He smiled and came to me, turned and sat down in the chair, so close his thigh touched mine, not intentionally provocative, although it was that, but simply because of the lack of space.

"Hello," he said. "I'm Patrick." There was a lilt in his voice which could only be Irish.

"Hello, Patrick, I'm John."

The limited space and the closeness of others made conversation difficult. It was impossible to ask what I longed to ask without being overheard.

We talked about the cool evening. It was the end of summer and the English autumn was coming on fast. The pub had been stifling with heat and smoke, but here the air was fresher and cool.

"Do you live near by," he eventually asked.

"I'm American, Patrick." I smiled. "Where I live isn't so close, but my hotel is."

"Ah," he smiled. "I'd guessed you were Canadian." He clearly didn't know North American accents very well.

"I'm staying at one of those little places off Gower Street, near the British Museum."

"Perhaps . . ." he started nervously, then stopped.

"Yeah, sure," I smiled, not wanting to frighten him off. "We could go there. What are you drinking?"

"Stout," he smiled.

"Guinness?"

"Yes, actually."

"Come on."

We stopped at an off-license on the way. I bought four bottles, neatly nestled in double paper bags. It was cooler in the street, the air fresher. We walked along Adeline by the YMCA and circled Bedford Square.

I took my key out as we walked. The place where I was staying was an old red brick terraced house, one of many in the area which had been converted into small hotels. After ten o'clock the front door was locked but each of the dozen or so guests was given a front door key as well as a key to their individual room. I'd stayed there several times over the last couple of years when in London doing research at the National Library. In those days it was still housed in the British Museum, under the vast dome where Charles Williams and Arthur Waley had once read.

On many later visits I'd worked in the vast new facilities further north on Euston Road, which were technically superior but devoid of history.

Patrick and I entered the little hotel quietly and silently climbed the stairs. I'd stayed there enough to know which accommodations to request and had taken the central room over the entry, overlooking the square. It was the only room with its own private bath as well as a view, a little larger than the others and it had a large inviting bed.

It was the hope of nights like this that had made me indulge in the extra luxury.
In my room, the door locked and the bedside lamp giving a soft glow, I opened two bottles of Irish magic and handed one to Patrick, letting my hand linger over his as he took it from me.

I handed him a bathroom glass, too small, but all I had, and watched as he poured the stout. He did it well, letting the head form.

"You seem a little nervous," I said, my voice low.

"Yes. I haven't done this often, hardly at all."

"I thought that might be the case. I bet you're more comfortable in a pinstripe suit than in those new jeans."

"Oh, I guess I look ridiculous."

"No, actually, you look quite nice. You should just give the jeans a few washings before wearing them out on a crawl."

"Actually, it's not a suit I'm used to."

He blushed, but not knowing what he'd meant, I just charged on. "Look, Patrick, we're grown men and we both know why we're here. Maybe we could make better use of our time if you'd just tell me what you want."

He first looked shocked at my directness, but the shock changed quickly to relief.

"I suppose that would be best."

"Well, first of all, how long can you stay. Are we talking about an hour at most, or could you spend the night?"

He sat down suddenly in one of the two small chairs. I knew I'd socked him but by that point he was in my room and I didn't think I'd scare him off.

"I could stay the night, I suppose. I'd not be missed until tomorrow afternoon." As he spoke he got up from the chair, then sat again and rose a second time, his nervousness evident in his movements.

"Good, that answers one question. I guess that means you don't have a wife waiting up for you."

"Oh, no. I'm not married . . . not . . ."

"Okay," I said, still not sure I was understanding him. "I'll just ask straight out, what do you like?" When he didn't immediately answer, I added, "what sorts of things do you like to do?"

"I'd like . . . "

"Yes?"

"I'd love for you to hold me."

"Sure." I moved over to him and drew him into a gentle embrace. I could feel him tremble. "What else?"

"I love to kiss . . ."

"Okay." I pressed my lips against his forehead as if I were kissing a child.

"I want . . ." he started, paused, then began again, "I need . . ."

"Yes?"

". . . to be possessed . . . to be taken."

"So you want me to fuck you?" I said it softly, almost a whisper, as my lips brushed softly over his left ear.

He pulled back a little and I could tell by his wide eyes that my directness had again startled him. Finally, after a long awkward moment of silence, he whispered, "yes."

"Let's get out of these clothes," I whispered as I backed up a few inches and took hold of his T-shirt just above the waist of his jeans. It came loose with my first tug and he raised his arms, letting me pull it up and off.

My eyes roamed over his torso approvingly. As I'd suspected, he was muscular and toned. There was no fat on him. His skin was warm, quite smooth, and had a golden hue, pale, but not as pale as many sun deprived British guys.

He reached up to unbutton my own shirt and I stood still, letting him do as he pleased. When he'd gotten it off he too looked me over, just as I'd examined him, and then slowly smiled.

"Beautiful," he whispered.

"Just what I was thinking."

I put my arms around him again and drew him to me. Our chests met and we kissed.

He was just enough shorter than me that he had to turn his head up to me and I had to bend mine down to him. It was nice, his hard body pressed against mine, his lips, gentle, unsure, tentative.

I let him set the pace, let him kiss my closed mouth and then my cheeks. He was becoming aroused and his hardening cock pressed against mine through the thickness of our clothes.

It was time to move on.

I opened my lips very slightly and kissed him again on the mouth. My tongue ran over his closed lips, asking for entry, and he quickly complied, opening to me, letting me feel his own tongue pressing against mine.

"Um," he moaned as I ran my hands along the rear of his jeans and then pressed down under the waistband to feel his warm, smooth butt.

"Let's get out of these," I said, breaking out of our embrace and reaching for his belt. He stood still as I loosened it and freed the button at the top of his fly. One button, a zipper, and a gentle shove, and I'd moved his jeans and briefs down far enough for his cock to spring free. Then, kneeling in front of him, I pulled then down as he tried desperately to kick off his shoes. With his hands on my shoulders for balance, he managed to get the last of his clothes off and then he was naked and erect before me. His cock, not large, but beautiful, pulsed within inches of my face.

I leaned forward and kissed its drooling head.

He moaned. I took it in half way and ran my tongue over the head and shaft. His foreskin was pulled completely back, and he tasted clean and sweet.

"Lie down," I growled as I released him, and he moved obediently to the bed.

He lay face down, spreadeagled on the bedspread and I knelt over him. I kissed my way from his shoulders to his hips, enjoying his warmth and the unblemished smoothness of his skin. He had that distinctive scent of English soap, a mix of lavender and heather.

"Get up a second, lover," I whispered in his ear, and when he rose, we stripped back the covers, him standing on one side bed and I on the other. "Good, now on your back," I commanded when we'd finished.

He looked at me questioningly, but did as I asked. I stood at the side of the bed and slowly stripped as he watched my every move, his eyes moving slowly over my body as more and more of it came into view.

When I was naked I lay down by him, took his hand and moved it to my cock.

He stroked it gently, obviously unsure of himself. I lay back and let him explore, let him find his own way.

"You want it?" I eventually said as his gentle hand moved over me.

"Yes," he whispered, taking his eyes from my cock to look into my eyes with an expression of innocence and desire.

"How, Patrick? Tell me how."

"I want you in me," he whispered. It was clearly difficult for him to say it, to put it into words.

"You want my cock in your ass," I said, my voice low, trying to help.

"Yes."

"You want me to fuck you."

"Yes." His face blushed with embarrassment, wanting it but too shy, too ashamed to put it into words.

"Lay back," I said and he immediately complied.

I prepared him slowly, gently, spreading lubricant over along his crack and then with one finger pressing into him. He moaned and opened to me, letting my finger move further in.

"You feel quite clean," I reassured him.

"I took care of it before I came out," he whispered, blushing again at his admission. I wondered if he knew 'came out' had more than one meaning.

When I found his prostate he jumped. I touched it again and he moaned. I charted his body so I'd know how to please him most.

When I'd worked three fingers into him I declared him ready and rolled a condom over my shaft.

"Ready?" I asked.

"Yes," he whispered in reply.

I knelt between his legs, lifting them to my shoulders and then moving my sheathed cock to his pulsing hole.

His eyes opened wide, then wider, as I slid slowly into him.

When my cock hit his prostate he moaned. I pulled back and moved slowly in again.

"Oh, John!" he moaned.

I lowered myself to him, kissed his soft, gaping lips as his legs locked around my hips and held us close. My movements were limited to short, stabbing thrusts, but even at that it didn't take long. He came hard, clenching my cock with his tight ass muscles and driving me over the edge. We moaned.

I stayed in him until my cock went soft and the condom was in danger of coming off. Only then, gripping the latex sheath around my shaft, I pulled slowly out with an audible slurp and the sudden, cloying odor of fucked ass.

Patrick looked embarrassed and blushed again.

"It's all part of the package, lover," I whispered, "part of the human condition."

"I know."

He knew, but it was clear that he was still embarrassed by the sights and sounds, the smells and words of sex. I wondered just how innocent he was, now inexperienced. Or perhaps he was just a prude.

I stretched out beside him and we dozed.

An hour or so later I woke to the touch of his hand. He stroked my chest and when I opened my eyes he smiled at me.

Misunderstanding his intent, I said, "are you leaving? Do you need to go?"

"Oh no," he whispered. "I was rather hoping you'd be willing to do it again."

"Fuck you again?"

"Yes."

"My cock is certainly ready, Patrick, but what about your ass?"

"It can take it," he grinned. "I want it all, John. I don't know when, if ever, I'll be able to do this again."

"With me? Not likely, on Friday I fly back to the States."

"With any man."

"I'd say all you have to do is walk into that pub on any busy night and smile."

He laughed, a genuine, happy laugh.

"There is a part of this you don't understand."

"You are married, aren't you, despite denying it before."

"Well, yes, but not in the sense you mean."

"What other sense is there?"

He looked away, uncertain how much he wanted to say, then turned back to me and told me all of if.

"I'm a priest, John, a Roman Catholic priest."

"Oh, lord!"

"You're not Catholic, I hope."

"No, Episcopalian, Anglican, I guess you'd say."

"Thank God."

I fucked him a total of three times, the last, just before we left my room late morning the following day. We found a pub and I treated us to Shepherd's Pie and beer. We both ate like starving beasts. Perhaps we were.

The end.