Here's the next chapter. It's a bit longer than I would have liked, but there were plot bits I had to get in. I hope that the melodrama isn't too high...
*
"Fuck Neill, fuck Liam," ran through my mind as my car sped through town. "I don't need this shit. I don't mean anything? Fuck him then." I was angry and sad at the same time, and it took about fifteen minutes for me to cool down and think logically. Maybe Neill was right, maybe it was just hot sex... No, it couldn't be. He was messing with my head. I saw his face, his body, felt his hot breath on my skin, tasted him in my mouth; and started to get a little hard (okay, very hard) thinking about him. How I could produce another hard-on, I don't know. As it was, I ignored my burning, wet cock and focused on the road and the thoughts buzzing in my head. It couldn't just be hot sex. I'd never felt like that before. Nor had I felt so utterly desolate as I did when he said it didn't mean anything. I felt like I might die.
At the same time, I felt cheap, angry and stupid for enjoying what had happened (okay, loving what had happened with Neill). I was just like all the other fucks Neill had had, only I wasn't a girl; that somehow made it worse, like he was indiscriminate about whom he gave favours to. He'd use me then discard me, like he did to girls, and call me names behind my back. "Fuck you!" I yelled at a truckie at the lights; he stared back at me as if I was fucking mental. I thought for a moment he might drive after me like in that movie, but of course, he didn't. This was real life and real life had real consequences. "Fuck you, Neill," I swore again, a little less loudly. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you."
"...And fuck you, Liam!" I howled. What the hell was that shit about? Did the prick spend his nights wandering the hallways listening to people fucking? What the hell was he going to do now? "Shite. Stupid fucking mother-fucker." I'd die if he said anything to my friends... that made me realize that in some ways I was just the same as Neill, hiding my true emotions from everyone around me, even Jill. Even from Neill. Why couldn't I say something? I loved him and hated him, and I was just so fucking angry and sad at once.
*
I took the highway out, turned sharp left and drove into a coastal area where Neill surfed regularly. I sat in my car for what seemed like ages, staring out at the black sea. The tide was turning. I saw the white tongues of waves flash in the darkness as they receded from the rocky sands. The few lights along the road glowed purple in the darkness, casting an eerie, stark light upon houses, footpath, the rock fence and the sea below. I had been shocked at the time about what Liam had said, but now I was starting to think that it didn't matter. Not because I believed I was gay and didn't care what other people said – I cared a lot; friendships, my relationship with Dad, even perhaps my selection for teams seemed to hang in the balance. I was terrified about what friends like Jill, Greg and Harry would think. I was even more terrified about what Dad would think. And I was worried that I was reading far too much into one sexual encounter with my best-friend... I was also afraid that I would lose his friendship, lose Neill, if I told him how I really felt. Yet, I came to the conclusion that whatever Liam said, no-one was going to believe him anyway. A) because he really didn't have any friends to tell, and B) because everyone thought that he was a crazy son-of-a-bitch. No-one would believe him. I didn't realize the things he could do to make my life hell. Nor did I wonder why Liam was so concerned about me and Neill in the first place.
What went round and round in my mind most of all was Neill. How good it felt when our bodies touched and how easy it had been for me to be with him. My mind never stopped me by saying, 'ugh, this is a turn-off'. I had no inhibitions at all; it felt good and natural. I even knew what to do when we fucked... how the hell did that work? I loved sucking his cock, tonguing and fucking his arse, and every time I thought about it, I got hard again. My mind said he'd humiliated me, but I didn't feel like that at all, just horny as hell.
It had hurt me so much when I had seen that Neill was in pain because of my cock inside him. I couldn't bear to see that look on his face. It made me feel like my insides were shriveling up. And when he said, 'It doesn't mean anything,' I honestly felt like I would die. It was the same feeling I had gotten the night before when I thought I'd lost him forever for turning him down.
What was Neill's fucking problem? I mean, Neill obviously enjoyed it. He had initiated the relationship in the first place, whereas I was too scared to do anything except fantasize. He gave me a blowjob first, and had no qualms about putting his fingers in my bum or swallowing my cum. He asked me to fuck his arse before I did. He didn't lie back and expect me to do everything to him. When we finally fucked, he was the one who came onto me and started it off. Neill knew what he wanted and how to get it. Yet, Neill was the one who seemed to back down at the end, saying it was hot, but casual, sex. That we really didn't mean much more to each other than one-night-stands do. What was up with that?
I was scared about what people would think. I didn't know what Neill was scared of, he didn't talk of that sort of stuff. It would have helped me understand him a lot more if he had.
Of course, I knew all sorts of things about Neill, he was my best mate after all. Stupid stuff like how he got a long scar on his arm (roller-blading into a corrugated iron fence), what his favorite color was (cobalt blue), why he loved old-style clothes (because they were sort of classy, reminiscent of by-gone eras (You don't see many tweed pants these days). Neill loved old movies, as well. They were generally vintage horror/thrillers, but also the occasional pre-condom, hairy, no fake tits, poor-lighting, real looking, dodgy porno (which, I've just realized, we jerked off to together, cocks out, and did not find weird, before we hooked up). I have no idea where he sourced these movies from, but somebody thought they were worth releasing on DVD.
Neill's Dad was a corporate something (in some big company), and his Mum was a paralegal. His Mum didn't need to work, but she had got sick of being at home. There was a bit of a conflict of interest between Neill and his father, since Neill didn't want to be like his Dad. Neill's Dad consequently refused to give Neill any help at all with paying for his study, accommodation, anything. So Neill was always picking up jobs he hated, just to get by (like the inputting at the accounting firm, his permanent part-time job; he also had had jobs cleaning butcheries, hotel rooms, bartending...). Neill had gone into zoology because he was interested in 'Sociobiology' – roughly meaning animal behavior. As a minor, Neill took psychology (Jill's subject) as he was interested in the link between human and animal behavior. It wasn't a choice just to piss his Dad off. It did, though, which Neill saw as an added bonus.
How Neill's parents behaved really hurt him, although he tried to hide it. He sent his mid-term results home (all above 86%, far better than my 55%-77%), and got a typed letter back, corporate letterhead and all, asking why he had lost the other marks. How cold and fucked up is that? Neill destroyed a piece of Hall property in response.
I know Neill feels like he's never good enough, so perhaps he did not want his Dad to see being with me as another failure... Or maybe Neill was just as heartless as his father and it didn't mean anything to him who he fucked just as long as he got off. That's how he treated everybody else (I don't remember him ever having a girlfriend, just a series of girls), so why was I any different?
If I told Neill how I felt, he'd brush it off. Or he'd get angry at me and I'd never see him again. I couldn't let that happen. Maybe it was best to do nothing and just experience what we had while it lasted. I was such a stupid, fucking wimp, but I couldn't bear to lose Neill.
I got out of the car at about 3 am and ran up to the point and back. I was really pushing myself hard, and managed to do it in thirty-six minutes, when it normally takes me about forty-eight minutes. Running is good, it seems to take away all the physical tension caused by anger, desire or sadness. Every piece of energy in your body is focused on hitting that piece of pavement, following through and hitting it again, arms helping to propel you forwards. Sometimes you can over do it, as I did that night. I collapsed in the driver's door, and sat there awhile, dripping hot sweat that stuck me to the old vinyl bench seat. I counted my pulse, as I had before the run, then again every one-and-a-half minutes, to see how quickly it fell to resting state. As I did so, I saw my cell phone flashing on the passenger seat and forgot about the fingers on my neck. The light meant messages.
'Six new voicemail messages' flashed on the screen, as I opened the phone out. I let them play. The first was Dad. He had called at 9 pm the night before. 'Hi Seamus, it's me, Dad,' (he always did that, like he thought I couldn't recognize his voice), 'Guess what? I managed to get the money together and book my flights. I'll be here for a week, around the time of the finals. And don't you dare say that your team won't be in the finals, because I know damn well it will be. I need to sort out somewhere to stay, so if you could let me know about a good, cheap hotel, it would be good. I'm really looking forward to seeing you. What's it been? More than a year, anyway. You'll have to come home for Christmas this year...' (His breathing became heavy, like he was sad.) 'Anyway, it'll be good to catch up. Tell your girlfriend I won't eat her. It's Jill, right? Okay well, ring me. Bye.'
We live on the other side of the country. It's a pretty impossible drive, and air-flights are dear because of all the transfers. I knew that Dad had been saving forever to come and see me. I was glad he was coming. It was far more than a year since I'd seen him, more like two. I wondered whether he had changed much. Last time I'd seen him he was having trouble with his knees... and pretending he wasn't. Years of pushing himself in the navy as a youth, followed by marathon running and extensive gym training had taken their toll (Yes, I get a lot of how I am from him). He's currently a personal trainer, but before that had been assistant coach to a second division rugby team, which was big time. I don't know what happened to make him leave. If he gets sick of a job, sometimes he'll just chuck it in and find something different to do.
I don't think he's dated anyone since Mum died when I two. He was away on some naval thing at the time, and I don't think he can forgive himself that he wasn't there. No-one could have stopped it, anyway. It was a blood-clot, sort of a ticking time bomb inside her. Since then, he's moved job to job, house to house. Like me, he goes out and runs himself into the ground, playing merry hell on his joints and body. I don't think he's ever really dealt with a problem, just tried to run on and forget it. Don't get me wrong, he's no coward. Other men might have gone to pieces over Mum's death and having to raise a two-year-old alone. He didn't. He's always been good to me.
Since I was a kid, he's always 'known' that I am going to be an international rugby player, or that's our plan. I think it's a good plan. He's not one of those pushy Dads you see roaring at school games, he's never pushed me like that. He did ensure that I enrolled at the most prestigious university in the country, something to 'fall back on when times are tough'. He was damn sure I wasn't going into any armed force; probably his own experiences made him say that. He has his rules, as all parents do, but he is a good guy. Still, I didn't how he'd react to Neill, if me and Neill were a serious relationship (if Neill decided we were a serious relationship (My anger had died down a little and I was slightly lucid)). I'd never heard Dad say anything particularly homophobic, but it's different when it's your kid. And it's hard when you've grown up in such a male-influenced way, the naval and locker-room culture, where guys just don't talk about stuff at all.
'Next new message,' from 2.56 am (I must've had the volume on the ringer turned off, else I would have heard these calls). 'Neill' was on the screen. "Dude, where are you?"
The message after that was about 2 minutes later. "Seamus... Fuck, just pick up! You've freaked out again... Don't fucking freak out, man... Damn it, please, can we talk?"
3.12 am, "Damn it, Seamus, answer your fucking phone!"
