For Real (Spires, #3)

by Alexis Hall

“What I don’t want,” he said, “is someone like me. Like, what’s the point of that, y’know?” He was silent a moment, chewing at his lip, hands shoved into his pockets. I had no idea what he was thinking, but it seemed to be quite a big deal to him. So I waited. I waited for him. As I hadn’t for anyone in years. I didn’t know what I was expecting. Some kind of blurted confessional. Not what he gave me, which was his unwavering gaze and his utter certainty. “I want someone like you.”

“It’s like,” he went on tormentedly, “you’re not allowed to be a dom until you’re forty and six feet tall and own your bespoke bondage dungeon. But I’m probably not going to get any taller, and forty is forever away, so what the hell am I supposed to do now?”

Come on, who am I actually going to tell? Hi, Mum, went to a kinky sex club, and now I’m off to the house of a complete stranger so he can get on the floor and I can jerk off over him, because that totally turns me on.

I’ve yet to find something she isn’t cool with, which should be good, right? But there’s still stuff you seriously don’t want to tell your mother about your sex life. Wants to shag boys, I can cope with her knowing. Wants to shag boys while they’re tied up and crying, just no.

But what we’d almost given each other was something else. No wonder I’d fled. What could there possibly be between that fierce, fragile creature and me? Had I ever been that earnest or that helplessly young, so much raw skin and burning need? Making me burn too, with its strange power.

drew in a breath, and it shuddered in the space between us, like my skin to his command. “If I hadn’t made you leave, I would have waited there, at your feet, and begged for anything you wanted to do to me. And, afterwards, I don’t know, maybe you would have stayed the night, and maybe we’d have washed your clothes. It’s nothing I wouldn’t have done before.” He shoved his hands squelchily into his pockets. “I seriously prefer that version. Especially the begging bit.”

“—Toby, do you really think I’m going to be so overwhelmed with lust at the sight of your naked body I won’t be able to control myself?” To my horror, he went bright red and curled into a tight ball at the bottom of the bath. “God. No. I’m just . . . I’m just shy, okay? Jesus.” “You’re . . . what?” I repeated stupidly. The boy who had called bullshit on me at a BDSM club, brought me to my knees, told me all the things he wanted to do to me, shown me need and want and naked ecstasy, and come back to me through a rainstorm because, while he was proud, he wasn’t stupid . . . he was shy?

A soft pulse of desire went through me, not for sex or pain or humiliation or some other release, but for this, this quiet closeness. Someone to hold in the dark.

And, lying there in this warm haze with him, I can’t believe all the things he’s given me in a single night: power and submission and kindness. And now this as well. His peace. He’s also the first person who’s ever taken me seriously. The first person to really make me feel beautiful. I can’t help wondering what the fuck I’m supposed to be able to give him back.

Besides, if I had met him some other time, I wouldn’t be here now. And he wouldn’t be my first. And I wouldn’t lose that for anything. I hope he hasn’t totally ruined me.

What would it be like to have someone trust you and want you that much? To put aside fear and pride and shame and inhibition. All the stuff that’s supposed to be so important. Parts of ourselves we’re supposed to protect and care about.

He’s still fast asleep, curled around the space where I’d been lying, in the warmth that maybe I’d left. I put everything down on the bedside table and perch next to him. I’ve never tried to wake someone up . . . like romantically before. I’ve no idea how. “Uh . . . good morning . . . Hi.” Yeah, that probably wouldn’t have woken a napping mouse.

Little death, my arse. It’s a fucking massive death. And I die for ages.

I don’t know what to say. So I open my mouth and, “Uh, well, byeee,” plops out. And that’s how I leave. On byeee. Just . . . fuck my life.

“What did you do?” His voice broke. “You were perfect. Don’t you understand? Fucking perfect. And you gave me stuff I’ve been wanting and dreaming about my whole fucking life. And also the best sex I’ve ever had. And now I’m just supposed to . . . supposed to . . . what? Settle for less than that? Pretend like nothing’s changed when you changed everything?”

His fingers curled gently into my hair, and my heart filled with gratitude. And, suddenly, I wasn’t helpless or afraid. Or rather, I was, but tucked inside all that, cocooned in my private darkness, I felt infinitely tender, warm, and safe. I felt like I was his.

The way I see it, and this is what I tell myself all the time, if you’re bothered, like actually really bothered, that I fall for men not women, then we’re not going to be friends anyway. So fuck you.

And there’s the first poem I ever wrote. It’s lovingly hand illustrated, and cut out with the special scissors that do crinkly edges, and it’s called “Frogs.” It goes like this: Frogs Leaping in and out of the pond. Hop hop hop hop HOP. That’s some deep shit right there, man.

The truth is, my granddad’s a pretty biased man. He thinks I’m this astonishing, talented, wonderful person, in spite of all available evidence to the contrary. But that’s sort of what love is, I guess. A perpetual state of semideranged partiality.

I know I’ve only been with him twice. That I hardly know the guy. But I also don’t know how you fall in love, except by wanting to. So maybe that’ll do. For now, anyway.

I’m not very good at it. I have, a couple of times. And I know this seems a crazy-beans thing to say when I have aspirations to tie people up and hurt them, but fucking someone right is like this huge responsibility. And it’s hard to be responsible when the moment you get inside, your cock is all like ohyeahmanyeah, and going for it like a beggar at the feast or whatever.

I rub my cheek against his inner thigh. I wish I had scent glands like a cat because then I’d own him, wherever I touched him, and all the other cats would know he was mine. Maybe I need to get a signature cologne or something. Like in that Britney Spears song.

And I’m suddenly so fucking proud of him and so full of need because I want to hurt him and please him, make him suffer and make him happy, and all I can think is what a fucking miracle it is that just now, with him, those things aren’t any sort of contradiction at all.

The sound he makes is closer to pain than pleasure, and it’s gorgeous, just like he is. The truth is, I fucking love the way he suffers. It makes me feel ridiculously good, like I’m turning into caramel from the inside out.

“I want to give him everything, and the things I can’t give, I want him to take.” He’s my prince. Fierce and fragile and tender and cruel. But, of course, I couldn’t say that aloud.

“Well,” she said slowly, “why shouldn’t it work?” It wasn’t what I’d expected. And I must have looked startled because she shrugged and went on, “I mean, it’s not like this stuff has anything to do with age anyway. It’s about . . . I don’t know, all these really complicated intersections: nature, preference, choice, attraction, chemistry. I think he’s pretty lucky actually.”

“That poor kid.” Grace let out a long, slow breath, almost a sigh. “In love with someone so emotionally unavailable and sexually overavailable.”

“Fuck wise.” He stepped close to me, this bundle of bones and nerves, skin and ferocity, reached up, and slid a hand round the back of my neck. It was as sure as a collar, as undeniable as steel and leather. He could so easily have brought me to my knees, but all he did was draw our mouths together. “You promised you wouldn’t do this again, but you’re still doing it. You’re just doing it a different way. So stop pretending I could just walk away and it wouldn’t mean anything to you. Stop pretending it’s all about me and what I want. Stop pretending this isn’t real. Just stop fucking pretending. Because you’re here too.” His eyes burned into mine. “You’re here too.”

His eyes flew wide. “God no. I want to hurt you because I love you.”

In the rush to console him for my carelessness, I’d stumbled over a piece of truth that was fundamental to me, held so deep in my heart I’d forgotten it was there. On instinct alone, I’d tried to give it to Toby, and instead given it back to myself. It’s not what you do, it’s what it means.

Then he was wriggling and laughing, and I was laughing too, layering this moment like fresh paint over a lot of cracked, old memories.

I was thirty-seven years old and wearing nothing but a butt plug. But there was 1940s film-star Toby, looking about to spontaneously combust from sheer desire. It was probably hysterical, postpubescent hormones, but still, it felt so good. So ridiculously good.

“Not with me, he isn’t. Ignorant colonial cunt.” I gasp. “Dude, you don’t use the c-word as an insult.” “Colonial? What else do you call Yanks with delusions of grandeur?”

Laurie isn’t saying anything. I try to catch his eye, and when I do, he mouths, Who are you? at me. I mouth back, Yours.

“Oh, all right. I like . . . the metaphysical poets, especially Donne and Marvell. And the Earl of Rochester. And François Villon. And Byron. And Gerard Manley Hopkins.” “You like your verses rather rough and rugged.” “Like I like my men.” Laurie chokes.

God. I’m a sick puppy. But I wouldn’t change it for the world. Not when I get this.

“I . . . I want to make you a lemon meringue pie.” Not quite what I expected. “All right.” “And have some seriously filthy sex.” That seemed more like it. “As you wish.”

So I climbed onto my kitchen table, aroused and embarrassed, or aroused because I was embarrassed, which was its own sweet-sharp torment.

These were the rosary beads of my submission. Though my only god was love.

“Thank you,” was all I could think to say. But it wasn’t just a dominance game. I meant it. Thank you for the pain. Thank you for letting it mean so much to you. Thank you for believing I’m beautiful. Thank you for making me feel so powerful. Thank you for loving me. Thank you. Thank you.

But it’s all lies, really, when someone dies. The whole business of consolation. I don’t think I even really believe in God, but I did find myself sort of . . . hoping. Because there’s nothing like being handed an ornamental pot of your loved one to make life just a little bit fucking pointless. Ninety-something years and all that’s left is ashes and a boy who can’t even mourn you properly.

All because my weekend with Laurie is over, and I have to go back to Greasy Joe’s and the life I’ve kind of accidentally made for myself that I don’t know how to live and don’t know how to change. I wish I could stay in the circle of Laurie’s arms where everything’s all right.

It might almost have made me laugh, remembering how enormous asking for his phone number had seemed. But it was nothing, a string of numbers that no more connected me to Toby than a flare shot into the sky.

And I feel this . . . crack, right in my heart. For a moment, I can’t breathe. But then I can. And I realise my heart is okay. It always was. Because love is strong. Stronger than death.

“You’re not a loser, Toby. You’re just lost. And it’s okay to be lost.” I try to laugh, but it comes out shaky and weird. “It doesn’t feel okay. Feels fucking awful.” He reaches for me, his hand closing over mine where I’m still holding his key. “Then we’ll be lost together, and we’ll figure it out together. Whatever that means. Whatever it takes. I’m with you, and I’ll be with you for as long as you want me.”

I’m starting to think you should always push your luck. No, you can deal with. Don’t know is the most frightening thing of all.