Page 11 of Ship of Fools

Oh, God, help me. What have I done?

Nothing. What has Bea done?

Andreas

My Christmas has been saved by someone called Bea Germano. Which is the most surprising quirky detail of my entire life, I think.

I got the first text this morning, from an unknown number askingAre you Andreas the hot salesman from the car place on the hill?

I was going to ignore it and block whomever it was, suspecting it being an old hookup trying to get back in my pants for a cringeworthy Christmas round of bad sex and bad choices. It was Christmas Eve though, so I hedged my bets and tentatively replied with a smiley.

I should have known whomever it was would be trouble. Because Bea Germano is obviously as stubbornly fierce as her brother, and started our new friendship with a seemingly never-ending rant about her brother being an idiot, and me being a total slut, and finishing off with a threat of murder for hire by someone called Geoff, should I ever break her brother’s heart.

I had had about five hours sleep before reading that text, and I admit it took me longer than might have been polite to respond. Time that Bea used wisely to further hurl abuse at me and demand my heart and soul on a platter, so she could get her brother sorted out with a nice boyfriend.

I politely reminded her that, A, I would never make a nice boyfriend, for anyone. B, her brother had repeatedly rejected me, and C, Iwasa shameless slut—her words not mine.

She laughed. Well, her emojis did, and then she asked me a million questions, and sent me a picture of her breakfast.

I think I fell in love with her then, or well, as much as a gay man can fall in love with a girl who was obviously bonkers and wonderfully protective of her family. She is superbly funny too, and has no shame. Neither have I and we virtually high fived via text at our newfound similarities and friendship. There are emojis for that as well, she taught me. Hands and smileys and fist bumps and clinking champagne glasses to seal the deal.

I have had a good Christmas Eve, despite everything I dreaded would happen, not happening at all. Instead, I have been happily watching crap on TV, alongside Bea’s running commentary of things she and Luca were watching, what Luca thought, what Luca said. What Luca ate. At one point, Luca farted, and I cried with laughter in my self-imposed solitude. I almost felt part of the family come afternoon, as she spouted random crap about swollen feet, pregnancy hormones, Italian sweets and relatives with issues.

He’s of Italian heritage, something I could have found out if I had bothered to google his name. His dad, is Don Germano, which again, is something I could have linked together had I actually bothered to do my homework, instead of just trusting Mike the Performance Mechanic when he said Luca Germano was the man for any job, should we need a spare pair of hands.

I also look up his sisters on social media, and giggle as Bea accepts my friend request and switches to Messenger to continue our conversation. I beg her to make me the Godfather of her unborn boychild, citing he might one day need a fabulous gay uncle to guide him through his blossoming teenage years. She laughs and says I will have to get in line behind her other fabulous gay friends, and perhaps I could send her a five-page essay outlining my experience and suitability for the role? I snigger. She says it’s like a job interview, followed by a million laughing and crying emojis. I think I hate her brother again, because he obviously tells her everything, and now I have barely any secrets left. Me and my big mouth.

I don’t dare to ask the questions I really want to ask. I want to know what Luca is, why he is so hellbent on rejecting me. Why he has so much anger and fear? And why... fucking why does he…? Bea says he’s in love with me. I doubt that. He probably wants a quick fuck and get me out of his system. Or, he has some crazy idea that I’m a helpless twink who wants to roleplay in bed, so he can live out all his dirty fantasies.

I’m not averse to a bit of roleplay, but it has to be on my terms too, and most of the stuff people have wanted to do with me? No. Just no. And the things I want them to do to me? Most people just stare at me in shock and then I feel like a loon and turn it into a joke. It’s not just that I may be slutty, as Bea would insist, but I have things that turn me on. Within limits, and thinking about it?

I don’t really want to think about it, because most of those limits have been crossed in the past, and left memories I don’t want to remember. I never say no, even when I should. I let people take advantage, and here I am walking straight into another Christmas clusterfuck, that will no doubt mess with my head for weeks.

I wouldn’t mind just hanging out with Bea, who at this point seems like a safer option. Instead, I have willingly agreed to what I assume will be a hookup with Luca, the guy who scares me shitless.

He’s creepy, and big and strong, and bloody sex on legs when he turns on the charm. He’s also as terrified of me as I am of him. What the hell am I doing?

I’m still walking towards Chistleworth church, at a brisk pace with my head held high and my umbrella flopping in the breeze. The weather is typical Christmas slush, cold and icy with water belting down like it wants to snow, but the clouds up in the sky just can’t get their shit together.

A bit like me.

I get to the church gates, and forget to stop, I just keep walking, rounding the corner to the back of the church, like I know where I’m going, before promptly turning around hoping nobody has noticed. I may be the saddest person on the planet, but I don’t want to stand here looking like my date has stood me up. I keep circling the church fence, hoping someone will rescue me from this cringeworthy experience. This is why I don’t date. This is why club hookups work for me—snog, agree to leave, go home, shag, leave. Easy.

He hasn’t stood me up, and I half sigh with relief, half freeze with dread, as I spot him almost stumbling down the hill from the estate up the north side of town. He’s tugging a raincoat around him, trying to keep the hood over his head, when the wind is fighting him at every angle.

He’s cold. Wet. Miserable, no doubt, even though I can’t see his face in the dull yellow light from the streetlamps. At least he’s here, because now I see him, I would recognise him anywhere. The way he holds himself up. The broad shoulders. His long legs and giant feet.

I snigger to myself. You know what people say about big feet. But then I have already studied what he packs down below, and he does look like he has a substantial package,which makes me shudder again, because although I love to bottom, when and if guys know what they are doing, I kind of dread the ones with giant dicks. It’s never fun at the start, never easy to get all that dick in your mouth, and if they are dicks? I mean of the human kind? A big dick can hurt, and right now? I don’t think I could do hurt. Not like that. Not with him.

“Hi.” He mumbles as he approaches. I stop. He stops. We stand there in the rain, and everything. And I mean, everything, is suddenly awkward as fuck.

“I’m sorry,” I say. What else can I say? I have played along with all this, all day, and it did seem like a good idea when Bea and I were chatting earlier. Now though?

“Not your fault. My sister texted you, not me.”

He can barely speak, with the constant rubbing of his face and holding on to his hood and trying to get his face out of the rain.

“I know,” I say softly.“Your sister is a hoot. I think I love her. I mean, as much as I could love a girl. As a friend.”

---