Not that there’s anything wrong with wanting to take another man to bed (he had that identity crisis in boarding school, thank you very much, when he fell in love with an older boy and the less said about that the better), But the other men would hardly see it like that – illegal, they’d say. Immoral, they’d tut. Sinful, they’d screech as he was dragged away.
…Blenkinsop would screech, as he was dragged away.
And so he doesn’t do this often, only when on leave (if even then) – puts on his most non-descript coat, makes his excuses to the other chaps and disappears into the night as quietly as he can. Finds a bar, a familiar bar where he’s been so many times, and slips in. Sidles right up to the bar and waits for the inevitable point when a likely sort (tall, brown hair, preferably a moustache) will edge up besides him and give him a low sort of look.
He’ll return it, of course, very slowly. Will glance back to his glass quickly, wait for the next look, the one that properly means something.
…And then the third one.
And the fourth one, the extremely awkward one, will only be exchanged later – after the business is done. And even that’s a maybe sort of thing, since for every chap who will offer a cigarette afterwards and talk about the one he really wants to be with there are seemingly ten who won’t want to chat at all and will awkwardly hustle him out of their homes before even the slightest pleasantry can be exchanged.
He’ll walk back afterwards, burning happily (and maybe a little shamefully, but that’s only because of the swift nature of such entanglements) with the memory of being stretched, and attempt to sneak off to bed… Except Blenkinsop has always stayed up, of course, and will always be there to rise and fix him with a terribly puzzled look.
“Where have you been, old bean?”
“Visiting friends, dear Blenkers,” he’ll lie guiltily, but smoothly after all this time as he tucks away his coat and scarf and heads to the kitchen to make some nice tea (for he might as well, if they’re both at).
“…Oh,” Blenkinsop will always say, and then smile brightly again – so innocent, so unknowing of how men will go to bars and pick up other chaps (often looking uncannily like him) for something a bit more involved than a good old game of Cricket, “can I meet these friends one day, Peter?”
“One day, old chum” …He’ll lie, as he gets the biscuits out of the cupboard and absently shifts his shirt over the easily hidden scratches (as is always the agreement, always the agreement).
FILL: Pining For Your Face, Blenkinsop/Maltravers, Eventually NC-17 [1/4]
Not that there’s anything wrong with wanting to take another man to bed (he had that identity crisis in boarding school, thank you very much, when he fell in love with an older boy and the less said about that the better), But the other men would hardly see it like that – illegal, they’d say. Immoral, they’d tut. Sinful, they’d screech as he was dragged away.
…Blenkinsop would screech, as he was dragged away.
And so he doesn’t do this often, only when on leave (if even then) – puts on his most non-descript coat, makes his excuses to the other chaps and disappears into the night as quietly as he can. Finds a bar, a familiar bar where he’s been so many times, and slips in. Sidles right up to the bar and waits for the inevitable point when a likely sort (tall, brown hair, preferably a moustache) will edge up besides him and give him a low sort of look.
He’ll return it, of course, very slowly. Will glance back to his glass quickly, wait for the next look, the one that properly means something.
…And then the third one.
And the fourth one, the extremely awkward one, will only be exchanged later – after the business is done. And even that’s a maybe sort of thing, since for every chap who will offer a cigarette afterwards and talk about the one he really wants to be with there are seemingly ten who won’t want to chat at all and will awkwardly hustle him out of their homes before even the slightest pleasantry can be exchanged.
He’ll walk back afterwards, burning happily (and maybe a little shamefully, but that’s only because of the swift nature of such entanglements) with the memory of being stretched, and attempt to sneak off to bed… Except Blenkinsop has always stayed up, of course, and will always be there to rise and fix him with a terribly puzzled look.
“Where have you been, old bean?”
“Visiting friends, dear Blenkers,” he’ll lie guiltily, but smoothly after all this time as he tucks away his coat and scarf and heads to the kitchen to make some nice tea (for he might as well, if they’re both at).
“…Oh,” Blenkinsop will always say, and then smile brightly again – so innocent, so unknowing of how men will go to bars and pick up other chaps (often looking uncannily like him) for something a bit more involved than a good old game of Cricket, “can I meet these friends one day, Peter?”
“One day, old chum” …He’ll lie, as he gets the biscuits out of the cupboard and absently shifts his shirt over the easily hidden scratches (as is always the agreement, always the agreement).
He doesn’t do it often.