A surprise party .3

Dreamlike quality to the morning, a distant view of a power station sending a towering white cloudstack up into a blue grey sky.
The carriage is quiet, no-one standing but I look out for him again just like every morning since I first saw him. In my headphones Cannonball Adderleys’ sax slides around Miles Daviss’ trumpet. I picture that face trying to conjure the sensation, waiting for the lurch of excitement in my stomach.
Tonight is Halloween and Emilys’ party. I’ve pretty much gone off the idea.

At around midnight on a cold wet friday I found myself dressed as a half arsed vampire rocking up to one of those huge victorian mock mansions built by the upper middle classes in the 1850’s, as they sought to aggrandise themselves and stage their pretensions and fantasies in displays of ostentatious neo-neo-gothic.

The main crowd were crammed into the cavernous entrance hall where a fivepiece band was in high swing, playing some old big band stuff dressed in steampunk Victorian get up.
‘Josh you gorgeous fucker!’ Emily burst out of the crowd like a mad jack-in-a-box, electric blue hair topped off her punk fairy get up. ‘Where’ve you been hiding yourself?’, ‘Oh here and there’, I suddenly felt underequipped for the situation but as ever Emily was talking for two. ‘Anyways I’ve missed you, you haven’t been out all Summer, not even to the garden party. There’s a shitload of new people, Taylor’s got a post at the art college so that whole crowd is around. Do you like my outfit? It’s like based on Tinkerbell but sluttier, I think I went a bit crazy with make up though’. She had. I thought it but kept quiet.

An hour later and somehow I’ve ended up walled into a corner by a fat goth girl making a decent stab at flirtation but who is seriously unaware that she’s into the wrong fish. A polite excuse for a gracious exit is proving elusive and the claustrophobic panic building in me is starting to get uncomfortable. She won’t stop talking and doesn’t seem to have noticed that I’ve stopped hearing any individual words in the rapid fire babble she is rattling out. ‘Fuck!’, my blurt stops her short, ‘What?’.
My salvation had come from an uncovered and unexpected quarter.

Rapidly running my eyes over the crowd that spread up the wide sweeping staircase and onto the galleried landing, I did a double take back to a figure leaning over the bannister. Something in the angular jawline visible beneath the hooded cowl of the mask of the werewolf costume made my breath stop. ‘Fucking fuck!’. Fat goth, unable to stop her mouth from getting back into motion as quickly as possible was staring wildly around, ‘What?! What is it?’. My heart was smashing into my ribcage, ‘I’ve got to go, I’ve…’, the last word hung awkwardly in the air. Over her shoulder I could see him at the foot of the stairs, he is coming over.
‘Hello…’, Wolf costume appears from behind her. He is standing square in front of me and I realise we are same height. He pulls back the cowl and there is the face from the train, twice as stunning as I remembered it, ‘…You were looking at me, on the train…why?’
No introduction, no acknowledgement to fat goth, just a wry smile and bang. ‘You caught my eye…’, I faltered, ‘…you interested me’. Dammit, he had me backfooted, I was supposed to be the fucking cool one. I felt the prickly sensation of a blush rising over my face.
The absurdity of explaining myself to this boy in a werewolf suit suddenly made me laugh. ‘Are you laughing at me?’ His voice was quick and showed a hint of hurt and agression. I was back on top, ‘No, not at all, I just didn’t expect to find myself talking to you like this, here, in the costume I mean’. To my relief his face cracked and softened into a smile that was all teeth. ‘I’ve been watching you too’, my stomach jumped ‘Oh yes?’, ‘You take the train for an hour and a half. You sit in a park for a while then you walk around doing nothing in particular, except for that old book place you go into every Thursday…’. ‘I wasn’t aware that I had a stalker’, I think I managed to cover the indignation.
‘That is my job, I mean that is my work’, ‘Why? What are you? A shoe tester’ ‘Look you cheeky little fucker, I’m a writer, that’s my routine, that’s what I do to make it work’. It sounded absurd but it was true, for seven going on eight years I done exactly that, day in day out.
‘What do you write then?’. He was enjoying my discomfort and making no secret of it either, ‘Porn if you must know’. I wanted to outplay him, I failed. ‘Coooooool’, he drew the word out with cocky deliberation, ‘Maybe I could help you?’.
I was disarmed, the flash in his eye was sharp enough to be a cheesy cgi effect. ‘Well maybe we should get another drink, bloody mary?’


A face on the train .2

Familiar landmarks on a wet autumn morning, the same faces in the over crowded carriage, swelled to capacity by Septembers’ student intake. The usual jostling for seats, confusion over reservations and excitable babble is a test of nerves. I keep my head in my work and block it all out, waiting for it to settle down. A face in my eyeline draws my attention. Cool and composed in the middle of it all. Pale chiselled features thrown into relief against the high collar of a shabby black pea coat, leaning in the doorway, face into his phone. White wires trailed out from under loose dark curls and where a pale throat angled sharply down into the loose dark folds of a heavy twill shirt, open wide at the neck, a slash of crimson scarf. I forget the first rule of commuting and I am staring straight at him, a figure stepped straight out of a painting by Waterhouse, a perfect pre-raphaelite subject.

Unexpectedly his eyes flick up to meet mine, catching me out and snapping me back to a crueler reality. There is a milli second of tension and I look quickly away. Risking a look back and meeting his eye again, a quizical, uncertain smile plays across his face. He turns to stare out of the window. When we both join the melee leaving the train, he is in front moving purposefully through the crowd, long coat unfurling out behind him making for the single manned open ticket gate. As he stops and holds his pass in front of him he momentarily looks back directly at me and smiles again. This time the curl of his lip shows a hint of arrogance and a suggestion of mocking promise.
Back home that evening I pull the drapes close and light a fire in the grate. This room was the sole reason I had bought this place, welcoming me in like an old friend the first time I stepped through it’s wide door. It was on the first floor of the house, one of those elegantly proportioned late regency terraces overlooking the park across the narrow street that ran down towards the  barracks. I always left a triangle of window uncovered when I drew the drapes so I could keep the dark silhouettes of the trees in view. The room was arranged according to my own particular idea of comfort, there was not a spare inch of wall uncovered or a surface that was not full. Eyes always like somewhere to play, stark, blank spaces were to me the stuff of nightmares, classrooms and I imagined, torture cells. A well loved leather chesterfield and high wing backed armchair gave audience to the fireplace and high Victorian clutter was the un-self concious theme. I lit the low lamps and the candles. The opening bars of Miles’ ‘kind of blue’ came in, the call and response motif of ‘so what’. I congratulated myself on being lucky enough to live alone.

For this moment I had wanted the stillness of a calm mind but while my thoughts were distracted slinking in low like a fox there he was. The memory of his face played through ‘blue in green’ segueing in and out bar by bar. I was all too familiar with the nature and pitfalls of obsession but this played to my weakneses in a way that was way too seductive to be ignored. I let it play through, indulged an imagined flirtation and the sensuality of a conclusion. How would he smell, taste? The bright gleam in those dark vulpine eyes, was it a tell tale promise? A clue? The need to know went beyond reason. The hook was in.

Monday .1

A light rain drifting out of the grey sky and a low dreary mist limited the morning view to an indistinct middle distance. Monday and my mood was about as low as the clouds.Remembering my counselling I tried to think ahead to something better, focus on a positive. Like the view from the train window, life stretched ahead in a featureless plain. Miles Davis ‘but not for me’ is trying its perky uptempo best to swing me into a sunnier place.

I am startled from my misery by the sharp buzz in my hip pocket. Message from Emily. She is throwing a Halloween party. My first thought is to think up an excuse. Emily’s partys were filled with ex students who couldn’t let go of the lifestyle. Boring and self obsessed they were an odious bunch. Most of them had jobs in trendy bars and boutiques, some were ‘artists’, others played a charade of being ‘creative’ in some way or other. They all had one thing in common, daddys’ money. For reasons that mystified me, they were the most powerful ‘in’ crowd in town, so wherever they chose to be was soon descended on by cliques of the second circle and quite often the ‘in the knows’ from the third. They revelled in this pretensious charade and their incestuous goings on. The hearsay and the sycophantic fawning that went with it irritated me beyond belief. That said I wasn’t doing anything else, my voyeuristic demon got the better of me and I was keying the reply,’sounds fun’. Emilys’ parties had been the stuff of college legend. Her priveleged social network and family connections gave her access to an inexhaustible catalogue of bizarre and uber cool venues. Arty theatrical friends were drafted in to turn these into fantastical backdrops to what usually ended up as Bacchanalian displays of unrestrained excess.

One particular event though marked the nadir of the worst. It had wound up splashed across the red top nationals, in 48 point lurid headlines illustrated by half blurred stills taken from movie clips. ‘A sex slave in a minotaur’s maze!’. Images depicted the laughing face and naked body of a blonde girl, starkly white against the black shape of an athletic male figure wearing the head of a bull, huge curved horns stretching off the edges of the frame. It was very impressive, like an illustration from an early pulp horror magazine, a dark devil towering over peverted innocence. Except as I recall there wasn’t any innocence to pervert. I remembered  the scene well, although I had been viewing it through the eyes of the bull mask.

The reminiscence cheered me up a bit, maybe a party was what I needed.

Prologue 2

An intense expression in the light of the laptop screen. Grey quilted cloud meeting a thin streak of sky across the far horizon. Dim silhouettes of woods and farms, flat fields in a receding blur beyond the double glass window. There is a stern beauty to the long face, the high cheekbones and resolute jaw line. Dark eyes reflect pin pricks of gathered light and about the powerful arrangement of his features there is the slightest suggestion of weariness. A whiter than white shirt, black crew neck sweater and black overcoat, the collar turned high completes the impression. At the next stopping station he reacts politley but nervously when three female co-workers complete his table in a gaggle of high pitched chatter. Only a step change in his typing betrays his irritation at the intrusion, adding to the rolling blanket of words on the screen.

This is the same train, at the same time, to the same place that Joshua   Eliot takes every morning.


Blue white light from the small screen described the contours of the boys’ body against the dark of the room. Laying back into an oversizc4e91beb478e45bbbf2c75c5928c227bed reclining chair he floated in black space, head tilted back, beautiful long neck shaping down into lean sinuous shoulders. Well proportioned, subtle muscletone neatly cut under flawless skin. Twenty three, lower lip quivering as he brought himself to a powerful climax. The cum in slow motion pulsing in arcs over his tensed abdominals from the glistening head of his thick, smooth cock. Falling in pearly droplets, running down over his hand. The spasm rippling outwards through his body, arching his back, lifting him, his taut long limbs braced against the footrest. Thrust upward, pulsing, draining him deep from his core, the animal jerking motion from the hip. A long low growling moan and releasing the spent force he is moulding back into the chair, drawing in, closing up like a night flower. Softly stroking his own chest he slips into sleep under the still flickering glow of the screen. Outside the window in the tall trees opposite the house, an owl leaves its perch on silent wings to hunt the night.