Page 66 of Not That Ridiculous

“Noted.” With that, he slung his backpack over his shoulder and jogged off towards his car.

13

Imade it home before Kevin did, for once blessed by the traffic-light gods. I scuffled with the front door, ran in and straight up the stairs before a guilty and caught-out Phil could even slither off the sofa, and burst into my bedroom.

“Okay,” I said, both hands in my hair. “Stay calm. Stay calm, and be normal about this.” I rushed over to the window to see if I could spot Kevin’s Land Cruiser. There was no sign of it.

Fantastic.

I bolted to the bathroom, loaded up my toothbrush, stuck it in my mouth and frisked it about whenever I had a hand free while I tidied up my bedroom.

I was a tidy man in general, and it wasn’t as if I thought Kevin was going to critique the straightness of my duvet and the plumpness of my pillows, or even notice the ferocious dust-bunny situation I had going on under the bed, but this was more of that new territory I’d been thinking about earlier, and I was panicking.

The thing was that, yes,technicallyI was a virgin.

It all depended on your definition of sex.

Different people had different definitions, and that wascool.That was their business.

As for me, my personal definition right now involved dicks and butts—specifically dicks going up butts—and as far as all that went, I was as yet unbreached.

When I finished school at eighteen, I’d headed off to university in Brighton for my business degree. By then I was fairly sure that I was gay, and I’d chosen Brighton for its inclusivity and queer community.

As it turned out, being gay in the middle of an accepting queer community didn’t automatically mean people liked you or invited you to parties.

Or anywhere.

My sexuality was welcomed. My awkwardness and unsociability was not.

University was about as full of opportunity and fun as secondary school had been. I managed to hook-up a grand total of twice.

I’d enjoyed the kissing, although on both occasions it had been perfunctory and no more than an opening gambit to the main event.

The first time I got a blow job, I came as soon as the guy put his mouth on me. When I reciprocated, he came on my face without asking and gave me an eye infection

The second time—different guy—I lasted fifteen seconds. He lasted the longest fifteen minutes of my life, and I’d given serious thought to slapping him in the balls if he didn’t stop pulling my hair and calling me names on his way to an orgasm.

The whole business was a disappointment from start to finish.

Contrary to my somewhat naive expectations, I didn’t blossom into a confident gay man who knew what he wanted and, critically, knew how to get it. I didn’t even get over being off-puttingly shy and independent, and transform into a bubbly extrovert.

Instead, I got a reputation (again) for being a grumpy arsehole (fair) and since no one really wanted to add grumpy arsehole to their friend group or hook-up list, I dedicated myself to my studies and came back to Chipping Fairford with two forgettable blow jobs and a business degree under my belt.

Well, one forgettable one. The eye infection was a bastard.

The coffee shop had taken up all of my time since, and I was fine with it.

Now Kevin wanted to ‘explore me all over’, and I was also fine with that.

Not freaking out at all.

I refused to freak out. My room was tidy, I’d already showered at the gym, I was minty fresh…

Where the fuck was Kevin?

He’d better get here in the next ten minutes because otherwise, I’d definitely chicken out.

I ran back down the stairs and sat on the sofa to await my new front door and my deflowering.

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