Sottopassaggio (10 page)

“Benoit,” he says, holding out a hand.

I smile and shake it.

“You missed a great party the other day,” he says. “You should have come.”

I blush slightly.

“John told me you know,” he continues.

I frown.

“About your little suspension experiment,” Benoit smirks.

I open my mouth in outrage. “Hey, they shouldn't have told you …” I protest.

Benoit shrugs. “You should let them have their fun you know,” he says.

I wrinkle my nose. “I guess I'm just not ready,” I laugh.

“They're very safe,” Benoit says. “And actually very good.”

I blush again. “I'm tempted I guess,” I say. “But, well, as I say …”

I think again about John and Jean's dungeon, and a brief flash of Benoit strapped up in their harnesses appears in my mind's eye. I feel instantly aroused.

Benoit nods. “Well, never rush yourself,” he says. “Chaque chose en son temps.” –
Everything in its time
.

“And now it's time for more coffee,” I say.

Benoit nods.

“Not here though,” he says with a grin.

Benoit's flat is lovely and not at all what I expected.

For some reason – probably his general neatness – I saw him as a Habitat and steel man. But as I look around, it's more junk shop bonanza than industrial chic.

A vast grey sofa occupies one wall, worn comfortable chairs fill every corner, and the wall space is filled with huge photographs.

In the hallway Benoit has a huge trestle desk covered in piles of photographs. I nod appreciatively and look around.

“Great photos,” I say.

Benoit looks up from the espresso machine – proper coffee being the official reason we are here – and smiles.

“It's what I do,” he says switching between languages. “Je suis photographe.”

He finishes setting up the machine, flicks a switch and moves to the window.

“It takes time to get hot,” he explains, turning the catch and sliding up the huge sash window. “If you lean right out, you can see the sea,” he tells me proudly.

I cross the room, inevitably remembering the last time someone told me to lean out and look at the view. The lean had turned into a kiss, and the kiss had turned into a nightmare.

I grip the windowsill and lean out, glimpsing the café where we just met. When I turn back, sure enough, Benoit is standing so close that I can barely
focus on his stubbly chin.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks seriously.

I nod.

“Can I kiss you?” he says, earnestly.

I blush and grin simultaneously. “Um, well, I suppose,” I say. “Yeah.”

The front of my jeans starts to fill.

Benoit takes the remaining half step towards me, rests a hand on my arse and brushes his lips against mine.

“Good,” he says, pausing. “It is what I have been wanting since I saw you.”

I half open my mouth and he sucks at my bottom lip, then, slipping an arm behind my head, pushes into my mouth.

We kiss for a moment, rolling our tongues around. It feels warm and welcoming. He tastes sweet.

“Mmm,” I say. “Chocolate?”

Benoit pulls away and laughs. “You can taste?”

I nod and pull him to me again. “Tastes good!”

When he leads me through to the bedroom, I am gripped by stress, swamped by memories of less than successful sessions, and specifically, the memory of the debacle that followed the window-kiss in Nice. It was the only other time I can remember being picked up in the street, and it ended, oh-so-unexpectedly when I took my T-shirt off. I think back to that arsehole waiting until I was naked in his lounge to tell me that I was
fat
. My hard-on fades.

Benoit shucks his jeans and underwear, and stands without embarrassment wearing only a grey T-shirt.

His dick hangs heavily between his legs, in perfect proportion with the rest of his chunky body.

He nods at me. “Your turn,” he says.

I take a deep breath and pull my sweatshirt and T-shirt over my head, getting momentarily stuck in the darkness.

When Benoit comes back into view he has removed his T-shirt too, revealing velvety swathes of brown body hair, the slightest of tums, and a muscular torso.

He looks at me in an appraising kind of way and I stop breathing.

He bites his lip, and says, “Désolé, mais …” –
Sorry, but
…

I groan. I think, “No! This can't be happening.”

My heart skips a beat and I stand stupidly fingering my T-shirt, unable to decide what to do.

“
Is the past destined to repeat for ever more
?” I wonder. Have I done it all? Does it all just go round and round from now on?

Benoit turns away from me. I glance at his muscular buttocks protruding pertly and feel the blood drain from my face. I start to untangle the T-shirt so that I can put it back on.

When I hear the creak of a door, I look up. Benoit is peering coyly over his shoulder, not the expression I expected at all.

“Sorry,” he says again, “but … Would you mind if I put my chaps on?”

I frown at him.

“They're new and I really like them,” he says, a childlike grin upon his face.

I start to smile.

He pulls a polished pair of chaps from the wardrobe and turns back to face me, his dick jutting.

I grin broadly. “No problem,” I say.

Benoit slides a leg into each tube, then turns and faces the mirror as he fastens the waistband. Peeping out of the soft leather, his buttocks look sumptuous. I move forward and stroke his arse.

“You're right,” I say. “They look great.”

He looks back at me, one eyebrow raised. “I have another pair, an old pair, if you want.”

I hold out a hand and laugh. “Oh, go on then, give ‘em here,” I say.

Benoit doesn't have a downstairs Disneyland, but he has a well-equipped playground and enough toys to keep us busy on this dull grey Monday afternoon.

Just before six, still wearing his old chaps, and straining against a huge chrome ring, I'm pushing Benoit down over the workbench and scattering his photos.

I glance sideways at the mirror and see myself pumping into him, pulling on his harness, and as I shriek my way into the day's second orgasm, I realise that with a few props, well, I don't look so bad.

Jenny marks the days of the week with her phone calls. She leaves upbeat power-messages urging me to call her back, but as I guess she wants to come and stay again, and as I
don't
want her to, I conveniently
forget
to call back.

I dig out Owen's scales, they are covered in dust at the back of his wardrobe, and I note with horror that I have put on nearly three kilos since March. Exercise is the only solution, so now twice daily – on the way out, and on the way back – I cycle past the end of Benoit's street. Each time I think vaguely about calling in, each time I become vaguely aroused, but each time I refrain. If he had wanted me to call, I figure, he would have given me his number.

Tom on the other hand
has
given me his number, but I don't
dare
use it. The picture his name used to generate in my mind, the wry smile and the cheeky grin, has been replaced with the look of horror he had when I tried to kiss him.

But on Saturday morning, as he runs across Eastern Street to speak to me, it all seems forgotten. He looks thoroughly thrilled.

“Mark!” he pants. “How are you? I've been meaning to call, but I've been busy. Antonio's here.” He nods across the street at a man in a black suit and a roll neck sweater.

“Look, I'm sorry about …” I say.

Tom interrupts me. “It doesn't matter. Look, why don't you come for coffee? I'd love for you two to
meet.”

I open my mouth to say no, but then change my mind. The perfect antidote for my Tom obsession is, I decide, his boyfriend made real.

“Sure,” I say with a shrug. “Why not.”

As the three of us wander towards the North Laines, Tom tells us about his week, about Antonio's surprise arrival. He is taller and older than I imagined, but overall, I would have to admit that he looks even better in real life than in the photo. He remains staunchly silent though, even trailing a couple of paces behind us.

As we pass in front of
Komedia
, Tom raps a table with his knuckles. “What about here?” he asks. “It's in the sun.”

Antonio rattles out some machine-gun speed Italian, but I don't catch a word, and Tom replies, tit for tat. I have no idea what they have said to each other, but Tom instructs me to sit, then heads inside to order.

Antonio reluctantly pulls up a chair.

“Did you want to go somewhere else?” I venture.

He shrugs. “No, here's fine,” he says. He speaks without any trace of Italian accent.

I decide with an unhealthy feeling of glee that they must be arguing, but when Tom returns he seems unfazed by Antonio's glaring blue eyes. He slips into the seat and looks at Antonio, then at me.

“She's gonna bring them out,” he explains.

Antonio releases another burst of Italian.

Tom frowns. “Speak English,” he says with a shake of his head.

I shrug. “It's OK, really.”

Antonio looks coldly at me and then does a kind
of upward nod in my direction. “Parlo Italiano?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Sorry.”

He shrugs.

“Only English and French I'm afraid,” I add as if that will mitigate my ignorance.

Antonio chews the inside of his mouth.

“I was just saying that the coffee is dreadful here,” he says, again with no trace of Italian accent. If anything he sounds slightly nasal, slightly American.

I wonder at his aggressive manner and wonder if Tom has told him about the attempted kiss.

Tom laughs. “Antonio says the coffee is dreadful
everywhere
.”

Antonio nods. “In England,” he corrects. “Everywhere in England.”

Tom wrinkles his nose at me. “It's just his thing,” he says with a little shrug. He says it in the way a parent would tell you about their beloved child's latest amusing quirk.

“You could always drink tea,” I suggest.

Antonio looks at me coldly, apparently deciding that the statement isn't worth comment.

“So you speak French?” he asks eventually. “How come?”

“I live in Nice, well, usually,” I say. “Not far from you.”

Antonio nods. “I know where Nice is,” he says.

I restrain a frown but think, “
What's his problem?
”

“Pretty much everyone does,” I reply. In an attempt at softening the statement I add, “It's tourist central.”

The waitress arrives, providing a welcome
interruption.

Tom slides my cappuccino across the table saying, “Antonio used to have a boyfriend in Nice, didn't you.”

Antonio shakes his head. “No he was in Grasse, but he moved.”

I nod. “How long ago? I used to live in Grasse.”

Antonio shrugs and sips at his coffee.

“A long time, at least five years. You wouldn't know him.”

I shrug. “I was in Grasse until about four years ago,” I say. “Stranger things have happened.”

“What was his name again?” Tom asks.

“He wouldn't know him,” Antonio answers, then turning to me he adds, “He was
straight
.”

“Straight?” Tom wrinkles his nose. “I kind of doubt that, but anyway …What was his name?”

“Hugo,” Antonio says.

I frown. My mouth is full of hot coffee, but I hold it there. There aren't a lot of Hugos in France, there are even less Hugos in Grasse, but straight?

“Hugo, that's it,” Tom nods. “So how can he be straight if you dated him hon?”

“Exactly,” I think.

Antonio shrugs again. “He was straight before, and he went back to his wife after. He just had a thing with me.”

Not my Hugo then. My breath returns to normal. I don't think I could have stood sharing the love of my life with Antonio; still, an unexpected blast from the past.

Hugo! I picture the last time I ever saw him, replay him telling me he wanted out, but never explaining why. “
Closure
,” I think. “
That's what they call
it; that's what I never got
.”

“You had me worried there,” I laugh. “I dated a Hugo, quite a big thing really. But mine
definitely
wasn't straight.”

Tom looks at me. “I don't get the straight business though,” he turns back to Antonio. “If you and he were …” He makes a little fucking mime with his hands then continues, “Surely he was
bi
at least?”

I run my finger around the edge of the cup. “There's a lot of that in France and Italy,” I say. “Guys who define themselves as straight but still shag men. Can't be doing with it myself.”

Antonio leans forwards. “Most of my exes were straight,” he says. “I converted them,” he adds proudly. “Who you sleep with doesn't define your sexuality.”

The statement strikes me as stupid and vacuous.

Tom apparently thinks so too. “Antonio!” he says. “Who you sleep with
is
your sexuality!”

“Well, he was married before me, and he went back to his wife afterwards.
You
work it out,” he replies.

“Must be hard,” I say. “To lose your man to a woman.”

“Hard for the woman too I suppose,” Tom agrees. “They have kids?”

Antonio nods. “Yes, two. In the end that was why we split up. He kept talking about them all the time, wanting me to meet them. I just didn't want to think about his wife and kids you know?”

I nod. “I can see that.”

“But when he was
touring
it was hard because sometimes his wife would come and visit …”