round that weekend, and when I would tell them to hang their coats in the closet they would open the door and scream in sheer terror.
Anyway, the memory of “Felix” got rid of my hard-on right away so I dropped my jeans for Sean. He didn’t pay any attention to my dick. He was busy sucking out the contents of one of the vials into a syringe. The needle seemed enormous.
“This is Sustanon 250. The best steroid on the market, guaranteed to make you huge. Turn ’round.” I turned around and felt Sean’s big meaty hand on my arse.
“Now relax your arse,” instructed Sean, “This won’t hurt a bit.” Saying this, he plunged the needle into my behind and emptied its entire contents. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt. In fact, I felt no different. Just a small prick and it was over.
“Get ready to get huge,” he said. “Now pull your jeans up and let’s go play some pool.” I spent the afternoon playing pool with Sean at the Strangled Swan pub in Camden. The Camden Tiger had closed down. Alice the owner had employed a straight guy to run the place after I had left and he had spent all the takings on Guinness and pork scratchings. Alice had gotten her three ginger-haired sons to beat him up, and she returned to the plumbing business from whence she had come.
In the Swan as Sean leaned over the pool table, Sharon eyed up his meaty arse.
“Fucking lovely . . . are ya shagging him?” she asked.
“I wish,” I replied. “He’s straight.”
“Well, he’s better looking than that cunt Patrick you used to hang around with. I never could stand him, and he smoked like a fucking chimney,” she said, lighting her third woodbine in less than half an hour.
“Yeah, horrible habit,” I said. Saying goodbye to Sharon, I hugged her close, knowing I would never return to the Strangled Swan again.
Sean and I caught the underground to Leicester Square where Blade Runner was playing. I was drunk from all the lager shandies that Sharon had poured down my neck. I think Sean felt the same way. The movie began and I marveled at the talent of Ridley Scott, a superb director who had started off directing British TV commercials. One of my regular clients was the British director John Schlesinger who had made the movie Darling . He lived in a huge mansion off Kensington High Street. His boyfriend, the famous photographer Michael Childers, introduced me to him. I used to see them both. There was no jealousy; they had been together twenty years or more. A few years later Michael Childers ran off with my boyfriend “Tall Steve” to California. Tall Steve had been narrowed down to the last thirty actors to play the new James Bond but didn’t stand a chance because, although he definitely looked like he could play James Bond, his strong Cockney accent knocked him out of the running. He didn’t even get a screen test. So Michael whisked him off to Los Angeles. Michael was really apologetic, but I didn’t care. I was glad to get rid of Tall Steve because all he wanted to do was watch Match of the Day on the television and get rimmed, preferably at the same time. So I spent all my time listening to Liverpool beat Nottingham Forest with my tongue up Steve’s arse.
In L.A., Steve tortured Michael to death with his neediness until Michael sent him back to London. Back home Steve begged my forgiveness. I didn’t give a shit. Steve was no Sean . . . who was suddenly pressing his leg against mine!!! In the dark cinema!!! We kept our legs glued together throughout the entire movie. When the credits rolled, Sean turned to me and said, “I had a fight with my girlfriend Kaz this morning. I don’t suppose I could sleep at your place tonight?” My heart was in my mouth but I tried to appear nonchalant. “Sean, you don’t even have to ask.” Then it hit me. Fuck, what about Thomas Morrison? Oh, well, didn’t I deserve a little happiness?
My mind made up, I threw Sean into a cab and raced back to my love shack above the
Anyway, the memory of “Felix” got rid of my hard-on right away so I dropped my jeans for Sean. He didn’t pay any attention to my dick. He was busy sucking out the contents of one of the vials into a syringe. The needle seemed enormous.
“This is Sustanon 250. The best steroid on the market, guaranteed to make you huge. Turn ’round.” I turned around and felt Sean’s big meaty hand on my arse.
“Now relax your arse,” instructed Sean, “This won’t hurt a bit.” Saying this, he plunged the needle into my behind and emptied its entire contents. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt. In fact, I felt no different. Just a small prick and it was over.
“Get ready to get huge,” he said. “Now pull your jeans up and let’s go play some pool.” I spent the afternoon playing pool with Sean at the Strangled Swan pub in Camden. The Camden Tiger had closed down. Alice the owner had employed a straight guy to run the place after I had left and he had spent all the takings on Guinness and pork scratchings. Alice had gotten her three ginger-haired sons to beat him up, and she returned to the plumbing business from whence she had come.
In the Swan as Sean leaned over the pool table, Sharon eyed up his meaty arse.
“Fucking lovely . . . are ya shagging him?” she asked.
“I wish,” I replied. “He’s straight.”
“Well, he’s better looking than that cunt Patrick you used to hang around with. I never could stand him, and he smoked like a fucking chimney,” she said, lighting her third woodbine in less than half an hour.
“Yeah, horrible habit,” I said. Saying goodbye to Sharon, I hugged her close, knowing I would never return to the Strangled Swan again.
Sean and I caught the underground to Leicester Square where Blade Runner was playing. I was drunk from all the lager shandies that Sharon had poured down my neck. I think Sean felt the same way. The movie began and I marveled at the talent of Ridley Scott, a superb director who had started off directing British TV commercials. One of my regular clients was the British director John Schlesinger who had made the movie Darling . He lived in a huge mansion off Kensington High Street. His boyfriend, the famous photographer Michael Childers, introduced me to him. I used to see them both. There was no jealousy; they had been together twenty years or more. A few years later Michael Childers ran off with my boyfriend “Tall Steve” to California. Tall Steve had been narrowed down to the last thirty actors to play the new James Bond but didn’t stand a chance because, although he definitely looked like he could play James Bond, his strong Cockney accent knocked him out of the running. He didn’t even get a screen test. So Michael whisked him off to Los Angeles. Michael was really apologetic, but I didn’t care. I was glad to get rid of Tall Steve because all he wanted to do was watch Match of the Day on the television and get rimmed, preferably at the same time. So I spent all my time listening to Liverpool beat Nottingham Forest with my tongue up Steve’s arse.
In L.A., Steve tortured Michael to death with his neediness until Michael sent him back to London. Back home Steve begged my forgiveness. I didn’t give a shit. Steve was no Sean . . . who was suddenly pressing his leg against mine!!! In the dark cinema!!! We kept our legs glued together throughout the entire movie. When the credits rolled, Sean turned to me and said, “I had a fight with my girlfriend Kaz this morning. I don’t suppose I could sleep at your place tonight?” My heart was in my mouth but I tried to appear nonchalant. “Sean, you don’t even have to ask.” Then it hit me. Fuck, what about Thomas Morrison? Oh, well, didn’t I deserve a little happiness?
My mind made up, I threw Sean into a cab and raced back to my love shack above the
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