Think of England

by K.J. Charles

“I, er,” said Curtis, with the natural awkwardness of an Englishman caught reading poetry. “I just, er, picked this up.”

“You’re a secret agent?” “I loathe that term. It’s so violent, somehow.” “You?” Da Silva rolled his eyes. “I suppose I should find your incredulity flattering. It would be lowering to learn I looked like a tool of the State.” “But— Why didn’t you say?” “Secret agent. Secret.”

“Dear fellow, you’ve missed it by a mile.” Da Silva patted his arm comfortingly. “I’m a government agent and a shameless invert. Which is not to say I’ll suck you off on demand, but if you think you’ve been ravaging my virgin mouth, you’re about fifteen years and quite a lot of pricks too late.”

“Oh, well. Some men appear to feel that it’s less queer to have a chap suck one’s cock if one abuses him afterwards.” “Well, I don’t,” Curtis said, and then realised that didn’t sound quite right. “Hit chaps for doing that, I mean. Not that it comes up, of course—” Da Silva clamped his lips together, looking very like he was trying not to laugh again. Curtis glared at him. “What I mean is, obviously it doesn’t make one queer, having a fellow do that for one. I’m not your sort.” “Of course not.” “Well, I’m not. I just—that was... It’s not the same thing, is it?” “Nothing like it,” da Silva agreed obligingly.

Curtis wasn’t like that. He simply didn’t feel queer, whatever that might feel like. He felt like a normal chap who, now and then, enjoyed encounters with other chaps, that was all. Some people might not see the distinction, he supposed, but there was definitely a difference. He wasn’t sure what it was, but there was one. Well, there had to be, since he wasn’t queer.

Oh, Archie, the very definition of a sweet summer child

They’re just like you.” Daniel cocked a wary, questioning eyebrow. “Incomprehensible,” Curtis told him, “and far too clever for their own good, and hiding all sorts of things, and—rather beautiful.”