You will never again complain about commuting in rush hour. About the crowds. About how rude the people are. After a year working remotely from home, you are ready to kiss the filthy pavements of London.
Now, in your lunch break (a proper lunch break, from a proper office!) you take your plastic flavoured fusion meal (packed in proper cardboard!) to the heath: that gently sloping haven of flowering trees, football playing kids, secret ponds, pampered dogs, predatory ice-cream vans and picnicking strangers, so many strangers!
They are all beautiful. 12 month on, any stranger is a tempting promise of danger. You try not to stare but you swear that some don’t even bother hiding their hunger. That boy in the open bomber jacket is definitely checking you out. Looks like this one never heard of the gyms closing, or maybe he did that street workout thing, and guess you don’t need a barber to keep up that sharp shave – only a steady hand…or willing intimates.
Who did him? Was it a pretty girl brandishing a pair of battered clippers in a bedset, getting naked before she began so the tiny itchy hairs won’t stick to her bubblegum sports bra? Or another handsome boy, wearing stained boxing shorts, bare foot and chested? When you look up from your embarrassing semi the bomber boy is inches away. No, not a boy, a man: smooth skinned and bright eyed like a vintage hearthrob poster. You follow his aggressively round butt as he brushes past you shedding fresh smoke and sweat and Fisherman’s Friend scents.
The lunch box is starting to leak in its echo-friendly packaging. Funny how innocent teriyaki salmon soba is wrapped like after-hours booze furtively imbibed on the street. And here you are, in your out of season city suit, clutching a dripping brown paper bag and illicit words to your lap like some homeless alcoholic poet.
Bomber-boy stops by a low whitewashed structure. The public loos: How did you end up taking your lunch to this particular spot in the sprawling heath? No wonder he thinks that you are cruising him.
You need to tell this randy stranger that he got it wrong: you are not gay. But you can’t just shout this with so many families about, so you across the patch of springy grass and keep walking when bomber-boy does, padding after him into the gents’.
Honestly, you never did his before. Not in all the way. Not for ions. Never with someone who didn’t feel wrong. But there is something irresistible about this tangy-sweet boy.
You unzip first. Doubt that you could piss with an audience and this monster boner, but that’s not the point now, is it? The stranger smiles like a hyena about to mesmerise your shadow, in order to taste you better, but the impossible bulge in his joggers stays trapped under taut polyester and tattooed fingers.
You can hardly breath, so the panting in your ears must be his, getting louder as bomber-boy steps behind you, unclips your belt, then binds your wrists with the tasteful leather strap and bends you over a mottled urinal.
You can feel him right behind you, huge and incredibly stiff, his impetuous hands pulling down your trousers, raiding your briefs (yes, that tight pair you haven’t worn for years) and you urgently need to tell him that you never had a cock inside you – there is no way you can take that beast!
But what sneaks out of your mouth is a desperate grunt, braking into whimpers as a steaming jet assaults your virgin arsehole.
You try to turn, but bomber boy crashes your cheek into the porcelain tiles and keeps pissing like an ox, grazing your ear while his free hand gently imprisons your bursting cock – then stops.
His voice is packed with space-dust when he purrs: ‘where do need to be fucked?’
You hate the speed and harsh greed in which you rasp: ‘anywhere you want’.
And you don’t give a fuck about piss soaked trousers and go explain that in the office as you drop to your knees to lap the ebbing stream, and beg the beautiful stranger to ram his ribbed double ender silicon cock all the way down your throat.
Later, when you will push bomber-boy against the rude graffiti wall, you won’t ask him which hole.