Page 5 of Torn
He pulled the covers off again, a little less forcefully this time. “Come on, then. We don’t have time for this. It’s almost half past eleven.”
“So?” I pulled the covers up again.
And he pulled them down again, this time leaving them in a puddle on the floor. “You have just enough time for a quick bath. We have a train to catch.”
My legs curled up toward my chest in a modest fetal position. Into the pillow, I mumbled, “What are you talking about? What train?” I hazarded a look up at him. I had to squint because the sun shone so brightly behind him that it made him a silhouette. He reminded me of a scene from one of those alien movies I was once so fond of.
“Tsk. How many times do we have to go over our itinerary? We’re off to Brighton today, in a little more than two hours’ time. Remember? The train leaves at two from Victoria.”
My alcohol-muddled brain vaguely remembered making this plan at the vegetarian Pakistani restaurant we went to last night. I thought I might have even been excited about it. Now, all I wanted to do was sleep. Forever….
Boutros turned to leave the room. “Up to you. You can lie there all day. But I’m off to Brighton. I’ve booked us a room at a gay bed and breakfast there, up from the boardwalk and near the nude beach. It’s summer, and the city will be crawling with horny homosexuals. But if you need your sleep, I’ll see you when I return to London.”
“Crawling with horny homosexuals” had the desired effect on my libidinous psyche. I managed to swing my legs over the edge of the bed. I looked down at my dick, still pointing heavenward. I gave it a little slap. “I wish I had your stamina, your zest for living, yourjoie de vivre,” I said to it.
I managed to stand and hobble, the sheet wrapped around me toga style, to the bathroom. Somehow I avoided peeing on the ceiling. I washed my hands, splashed some water on my face. When I caught sight of myself in the mirror above the sink, I despaired. I looked as though I’d aged ten years in a single night, with bags and heavy circles under my eyes. Were my partying days over? That look in the mirror also revealed there was no shower, only a tub. Why? In this day and age, why on earth wouldn’t a person have a shower?
Ours is not to question why, ours is just to bathe, and bathe, and bathe….
I sat down on the edge of the tub, turned the handles, and regulated the water temperature as I filled the tub.
I was just thinking how lovely it would feel to sink into the steaming water when Boutros called from outside the door. “Trevor made us a proper English fry-up! Hurry, before it gets cold. Eggs, beans, tomato, mushrooms, and blood sausage!”
My stomach jolted at the mention of blood sausage. I hurled into the toilet bowl. I shut off the taps and looked longingly at the water.Maybe a little grease in my system will perk me up.Wrapping the sheet around myself, I opened the bathroom door.
NOT ALLthat much later, we were pulling out of Victoria Station, Brighton-bound. The train was crowded this Friday morning with revelers off to the seaside for a weekend holiday. Many of the revelers were gay boys like me. I couldn’t help engaging in some subtle eye contact with the best-looking ones.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Boutros said. He blew out a big sigh.
“What?” I batted my eyelashes at him.
“You’ve never been here.”
“So?”
He gestured toward the window. “The gorgeous English countryside is rushing by, and all you can do is look at the men.” He sneered. “So typical. You could be on the gallows, waiting for your execution, and you’d be winking and blowing kisses at the observers.”
“As long as they were cute,” I responded, quite reasonably, I thought.
For his sake, I glanced out the window. Row upon row of the same buildings stood banked along a hillside. Yes, it was different from America—from Chicago, certainly—but come on, there was nothing all that thrilling about the view, either. Just a lot of what Trevor had called “suburban council flats” before we left for the train station that morning.
The men, on the other hand, were, for the most part, choice. “Look,” I said to Boutros. “Mind your own business. You admire what you want about merry old England, and I’ll do the same.”
He pursed his lips and rolled his eyes before swiveling away from me to stare out the window.
My hangover had vanished, chased away by the fry-up we had for breakfast, which, I had to admit, was pretty amazing. Even the blood sausage, which wasn’t at all bloody but was very dark in appearance—not all that appetizing, but tasty anyway.
And my libido had been awakened by the multitude of gorgeous men on the train. I never did get to take care of the morning wood, and now Mr. Lower Head had risen up again, curious and hungry, demanding attention.
I caught the eye of a cute black guy across the aisle. He looked to be in his early twenties, with freckled skin, pale brown eyes that I’d call a sort of umber, and close-cropped red hair. When he smiled, he revealed a wide gap between his front teeth. Now, I know he might have sounded closer to Howdy Doody than Idris Elba, but trust me, he oozed sexuality. His compact body was all tight muscle, with broad shoulders, huge guns, and a package that promised a full meal rather than a snack. All of this was shown off admirably by the tight jean shorts he wore and his orange ribbed tank top. I threw him a wink, which caused him to stand, like magic.
He paused, hand on the back of the seat before him, before ending his meaningful stare to head toward the back of the train.
The rear of the train held the dining car and the men’s room.
Either one would provide me with a satisfactory dining experience.
Boutros turned around in his seat. He’d witnessed the whole eye-to-eye exchange. He cocked his head as I began to rise from my own seat.
