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Love Is

By: dylan_J



"Well its obvious isn't it? You don't love father anymore," Kasey Morgan screeched at her mother before as flying past her brother Jeffery who wore a puzzled expression as he entered the sitting room suffering from a hangover. His light brown eyes noted emotions that were passionately displayed on his sibling's face, hurt and anger. She disappeared down the corridor into the study. It slammed loudly behind her as she vented her anger. Jeffery turned to his mother, wincing as the sound seemed to echo in his head. 

"Why is she running about the house and screaming like a banshee?" He asked slowly walking into the sitting room and sitting in the chair his sister had just vacated. He picked up an untouched sandwich in the plate on the tea table and began eating ravenously.

"I told her Arthur Willows asked me to marry him. And that I had said yes," Nancy Morgan sighed taking a seat opposite her son.

"Ah." Was all Jeffery said. He had already polished off the sandwich and was reaching for another.

"Oh Jeff what should I do? I haven't even told her about my plans to sell Kingsley manor," she moaned. She rose from her seat and began pacing. Nancy wrung at her handkerchief worriedly.

"Well what did you expect mother? Kasey was very close to our father. Just hearing that you've become fond of another, let alone wish to marry is enough to make her go berserk,"

"I know. But it's not like had I planned to fall in love with the family lawyer! It just happened!" his mother exclaimed turning around and pacing the other way.

"Do sit mother you're making my head spin," Jeffery said and watched as his mother sat before continuing, "You can't make everyone happy with the decisions you make. Kasey is a big girl, nineteen this winter coming. Why when she marries and leaves odes she expect you to remain in this large house pinning on memories? Don't worry mother, I'll go talk to her."

"Oh thank you so much Jeff but will you go change first? You seemed to have brought home an entire brewery with you!" Nancy said wrinkling her nose. She looked at her son's cravat which dangled limply at one corner of his shirt. His black riding breeches were dust covered and the boots he wore were badly in the need of a polish.

"That's not the only thing I brought home. A murderous headache has seemed to follow me over the threshold as well," he told her standing up.

"I'll have one of the maids run you a bath and I shall make you something myself to soothe that headache. Drinking really is not your forte you know," she chided.

"I know mother but you know what they say when in Rome, do what they do," he chuckled. Realizing the sound of his own laughter further increased his headache, he stopped. He followed her out of the room.

"Doing what the other bankers do will most certainly get you an ulcer." Nancy proclaimed.

"I don't think you understand just how difficult the job of a banker is mother," Jeffery began.

"Oh really? I should think being married to one for twenty seven years give me some insight on the entire situation," exclaimed Nancy. She headed towards the kitchen leaving him at the foot of the staircase.

"Oh this cannot be happening! It simply cannot! I will not let it. Mother's obviously not thinking clearly," Kasey cried before dropping into a large arm chair. Her pet tabby Mrs. Sobers sat lazily in the matching one.

"What can I do? Maybe I can somehow convince her that I am gravely ill and in need attention only a mother can give her child,' she thought aloud, "but that will only prolong the inevitable."

"Maybe I could pay Mr. Willows to leave mother alone," she began again placing her right index finger to her lips thoughtfully before frowning. "Only my inheritance isn't due until I turn twenty which is three months away and he knows that, he's our lawyer."

Pulling at the little green bows which trimmed her yellow dress she contemplated several other schemes before jumping from her chair angrily. Mrs. Sobers looked up startled. Swishing her large black tail she settled back down for her usual afternoon nap. Kasey walked along the shelves which were lined with hundreds of her late father's books. She stopped in front of the large oak desk in front of the window.

"Maybe if I ran away..."her voice trailed off as she sat in the chair behind the desk and began rummaging through the top drawers. They stilled smelled of the tobacco Richard Morgan used to smoke. She pulled out the stationary she needed and began writing.

"Dear mother due to certain circumstances (namely your decision to remarry), I have decided I can no longer live under the same roof as you. Please understand I still and always love you but due to our difference in opinion..." she wrote before crumpling it up.

"This is so ridiculous. I sound like a foolish, spoilt and inconsiderate child," she huffed.

Just then, there was a commotion outside. She got up and parted the heavy drapes.

Peter, the groom was attempting to tend to a carriage which had just arrived. Being small in stature this proved to be difficult as the two horses in question were of a rather large breed. Kasey laughed at how silly he looked before realizing how exhausted Peter must feel since her brother had arrived with his coach very late the night before. Just as she contemplated going out in the cold evening weather herself to help him, the owner of the carriage stepped out. Her breath caught. The owner of the coach and unruly horses was the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on. From her vantage point on the second floor of the house she could see he wore dark riding breeches and matching jacket. A white cravat was knotted fashionably around his neck. He was very tall, probably taller than Jeff and a bit younger as well. His dark hair was kept in a rather long style; it curled a little way past his ears. He looked just like one of the roguish princes in the books her maid Sophie read aloud at times and swooned over. Reaching out one of his gloved hands which were hidden under his coat he gently soothed one of the horses. As if by magic, the creature began to calm down. As if sensing he was being watched, he looked up and saw Kasey. He smiled and waved at her. Kasey returned a small wave and fled from the drapes, her face burning. She could not believe she had been caught openly gawking at the stranger, like some silly country girl. She may be from the country, but silly she was not.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door and her brother entered. He was dressed in clean clothes and smelled of the scented soaps her mother loved to purchase. 

"Now listen carefully Kasey. You can't expect mother to spend the rest of her life grieving over our father. I appologise if you find I'm a bit harsh but when you are married and gone where will that leave her? I live two towns away and can only visit fortnightly and when ever the weather permits," be began pointing his finger. He made quite a show walking over to the desk and giving it a couple of thumps with his fist.

"You're not a little girl anymore. You're a lot more sensible than most girls I know, so quite frankly I am truly surprised you're acting this way. For heavens sake, be reasonable," he finished.

Kasey walked over to him with her arms folded.

"Okay," she said.

"Well, that was easier than I thought," he grinned sitting on the desk.

"Your speech wasn't necessary Jeff. I thought it over and was okay," she smiled.

"Oh. So mother was sitting outside all this time worrying for nothing,"

"Yes. I best go tell her so,"

Kasey looked at her brother again before leaving the room." Are you going out again tonight?"

"No I have a bit of entertaining to do. Old school friend dropped by," he explained.

"That's who the man with the large horses is?" she asked.

"Yes that's Jordan Garwood, Earl of Royston. We met in college," he said.

"I never heard you speak of him before," Kasey said steadily.

"That is because he was my rival until our final days when we decided to call it truce." He walked over to his sister and took her hand. "Now hurry up and go talk to mother."

Kasey found her mother in the sitting room with Jordan. He had removed his coat and sat comfortably in one of the chairs. They both looked up as she entered the room.

The Earl of Royston was even more handsome up close. Kasey could now see that he was indeed taller in stature than her brother when he stood to greet her.

"Kasey, this is Jeff's old school friend, Jordan Garwood. He just returned from America." He mother stared. "Jordan, this is my daughter, Kasey."

"How do you do, my lord," she said before curtsying. 

"Wonderful now that I'm back on dry land," he smiled. A dimple appeared on his left cheek and his emerald green eyes lit up.

"Is sea travel as awful as they say?" her mother asked, her eyes round with interest. The new world and traveling was always an interest of hers.

"Actually it depends on the individual. Some take to the sea quite well. Others find themselves temporarily in bed until the ship reaches the next port or hanging over the ship relieving themselves of their breakfast, lunch and dinner." He had settled back into his seat. Kasey sat in the vacant seat next to her mother.

"So which are you my lord, the bedridden or the ship railing's ornament," Kasey asked.

"A Little bit of both actually," he chuckled. His green eyes sparkled as they looked at Kasey. 

"The more tedious the journey becomes the nervous I become," some of his lovely long hair had fallen into his face. He brushed it away with his long fingers only to have them fall back into place. Kasey's eyes followed the movement.

"Have you ever been to the seaside miss Morgan?"

"Unfortunately I have not. I have only read about its warm sand and salty water that breaks upon the shores." She grinned. 

"Unfortunate? Count yourself lucky my lady. What the books you read fail to mention are the overpowering smell of fish, the fact that the salt water burn one's eyes when you go for a swim and the constant rocking you encounter from when you leave port until you reach the other." His eyes met Kasey's and held them.

She frowned. "Now you've made me change my mind about eve going, I would detest relieving myself of my dinners or becoming a ship ornament. Not to mention my dislike for fish, cooked or otherwise."

He chuckled at this, exposing his even white teeth. She looked away. Just then Jeffery entered. Lord Garwood stood.

"I have to steal away my friend now mother, Kasey. To reminisce about the good old days and brag a bit," he chuckled." we'll be in the study if you need anything,"

Jordan turned towards Nancy and Kasey. "I was a pleasure to meet you both," he told them. Kasey noticed a sprinkle of freckles which give him a boyish appearance. Kasey realized he was probable a year or two younger than her brother's twenty six.

"It was a pleasure meeting you as well, my lord," Mrs. Morgan smiled.

Nodding, he followed Jeffery down the hall Kasey came from earlier.

Kasey turned towards her mother.

"About the foul way I behaved earlier, I really must appoligise. It was childish of me to be angry at you for falling in love with Mr. Willows. After all he was father's best friend so I have no doubt he is a good man." Kasey paused and walked over to the window. "it's just that I miss father a great deal and part of me keeps thinking that you will forget him when you marry again."

"Oh Kasey I will never forget your father. Every time I look at you and Jeffery I see a little bit of him in both of you. You have his dimpled and Jeffery has his smile. I will always love you father. No one is ever going to take his place." Nancy walked over to her daughter. Kasey looked at her mother puzzled.

"Does this mean you do not love Mr. Willows?"

"Of course I love Arthur, but the love I have for him is more mature, I think. The love I have for Richard is sweet and innocent. He was my childhood love. That kind of love is forever," her mother sighed remember the day her deceased husband proposed to her under the cedar trees at the back of the house. She was fourteen and he had been seventeen. She chuckled and looked at Kasey. "You should have seen the look on his face! He was afraid that I would have laughed in his face!"

"Oh mother why do thing have to change? Sometimes I wish I was still a child at Kingsley manor drawing pictures in father's only to be interrupted by thumping through the front doors with some extraordinary new pet. The only thing I have to look forward to is getting older and worrying about getting a good husband before people begin calling me an old maid," Kasey sighed.

"Don't worry about that dear. Just don't be as picky as you were the last time a man comes offering," Nancy advised her. She returned to her seat. Kasey turned towards her, looking thunderstruck.

"But mother the last gentleman that did was Sir Patrick Mayhew and he is almost as old as father. And that baron, Peter White was nothing more than a pervert in sheep's clothing. Oh and the offers I had before that at my coming out in London. Those men there made Mr. White look like a saint!" 

"I must admit a great deal of shady characters did come you way, but what about Adam Drakes, that was his name I believe. He seem nice,"

"Mr. Drake was a self proclaimed playwright and poet. I went to one of his shows, it was dreadful, I had to keep myself from gagging, then feign sick so I could leave before it was over. He was a dreamer who never really did." Kasey slumped in the chair next to her mother's.

"My, that certainly speaks volumes about the kind of husband he would make." Nancy said.

Maybe you'll find someone when you go with Jeff to Greenwich this week."

Kasey looked thoughtful." I had almost forgotten about that. I haven't even packed yet."

Nancy looked at her daughter seriously then. "There is something else I must tell you," she began.

"Don't tell me someone also wishes to wed Jeff as well. There'll be hell to pay when she finds he's more than just a handsome smile!" Kasey laughed.

"It's not that. I've been thinking about selling Kingsley manor."

Kasey stopped laughing." Why?"

"Well we hardly ever go there anymore. The last time we've been there was for your coming out when you were seventeen and it's just been collecting dust ever since. Arthur has a house in London as well, two actually and when we wed we'll own three. That's being greedy don't you think? Arthur suggested we sell one of his and give you Kingsley manor as a when you wed and Whitmore Manor when Jeff does. I thought we could sell Kingsley since it is the oldest of the three and hardest to maintain. Arthur suggested letting you decide..." Nancy's voice trailed off.

"I'd like Kingsley manor," Kasey said.

"Are you certain? It's so big!"

"Yes."

"Then it's settled then. I shall tell Arthur when he comes over tomorrow,"

"Kingsley manor has so many memories. I shall never want to part with it." Kasey smiled.

"Well, I know you didn't come all the way from America just to say hello. What happened in America?" Jeffery asked. He collapsed into a chair near the fire place. Jordan took a seat in the opposite chair and crossed his long legs at the ankles before answering him.

"The land I bought to cultivate was poor, could grow anything except weeds or rear cattle which I had no intention of doing in the first place. To add to that unfortunate event, the locals thought the land was cursed and no amount of money of gold would get them near it so I've cut my losses and returned to England." his handsome featured twisted into a grimace. "Remind me never to buy land I can't see before I purchase it."

"So I take it you're returning to your estate in Greenwich? The fields have become rather overgrown with no one to tend to it. My neighbor, Lady Monroe shakes her head every evening and comments on its condition when she goes for her evening drive every Sunday. Maybe it's time you made some local lady happy by marrying and settling down." Jeffery suggested rising from his chair. He poured a glass of brandy from the nearby decanter and handed it to him.

"Making sure my estate is in order I will do. Finding a lady to wed..." His voice trailed off as he tasted the brandy.

"Still refusing to remove the title of rake from your name, I see," Jeffery chuckled. "London mamas will be in an uproar when they hear of your return. Will you be heading to London as well?"

"Only to settle some financial matters with my lawyer. I shan't stay there long though; those silly girls at those balls were never to my liking."

"If is remembered correctly you favored the blonde ones who couldn't care less if they were ruined or not."

"Aren't you going to have a drink?"

"I do believe I overdid it last night. I've learned my lesson for now." Jeffery shuddered as he remembered his ungentlemanly condition a few hours before. He let a sudden unexpected yawn.

"I must appologise for my ill attempt at being a good host but ..." he stifled another yawn.

"I myself cannot stay awake much longer. I'll be heading up as so as I finish my drink."

"Then I bid you goodnight," Jeffery said submitting to a third yawn. He got up from his chair and left the room. Jordan remained looking at the flames in the fireplace dance about and nursing his drink. Before he knew it he had fallen asleep.

He was awakened by the sound of someone walking past the study. Pausing, the person retraced their steps and stopped in front of the library. The door was gently pushed open and the person stepped inside. The flames in the fireplace had already burned out and the only light was the one from the candles lit in the corridor outside and that of the full moon which was filtering in from the opened drapes. Jordan realized it was Jeff's sister as she walked past him, unaware he sat in the shadows. She was wearing a simple white cotton nightgown and her dark hair was free and flowed well past her hips. She stopped in front of the desk and began rummaging through the papers which were strewn across it. It was only when she found what she was looking for, he spoke to her.

"If I had not been for the lights from the corridor I would have taken you for a thief and attack you, miss Morgan. She let out a surprised gasp before covering her mouth with her small hand she had dropped the crumpled sheet of paper she was holding in the other.

"Mr. Garwood! I did not know you were still in here!" she grasp tightly at her thick nightgown. Jordan stifled a smile. Even in the broad daylight he doubted he would have been able to see anything through the thick, unflattering gown. He could barely even see her figure as it was well hidden in the yards of fabric.

"I fell asleep. The long sea voyage does that to you. I thought I had already climbed the stairs and was in bed."

"Well if you had slept in that chair any longer you would have gotten up with a stiff neck in the morning," she smiled. The muscles in Jordan's stomach tightened. She had the most enchanting smile he had ever seen.

"Well see you in the morning my lord." She picked up the paper and headed towards the door. Jordan followed.

"Are you going to Greenwich as well?" he asked following her up the stairs.

"Yes. Will you be traveling with us tomorrow?"

"Yes, my home is in Greenwich. I have not been there in over two years."

"Then I guess I can further question you on America on our journey over." She stopped in front of her room. "Good night, my lord."

"Goodnight my lady," he said as she closed the door. He turned and headed to his room.

Kasey let out the breath she was holding until she heard the door close in the guest room. She looked at Mrs. Sober who was sleeping soundly on her bed. "Thank goodness no one had read my letter!" she said to no one in particular. She crawled in next to the sleeping animal.

Love is a Banquet



Chapter One Spaghetti Bolognaise

Watching Leo

His long black fringe falls into his eyes as he leans over the cooker. He pushes it behind his ear where it stays momentarily before falling forward again obscuring his cat-like green eyes, that I know are framed with the longest black eyelashes. He tastes the sauce, the tip of the wooden spoon disappearing between his full lips. I catch a glimpse of regular white teeth contrasting with his red lips, stained with the bolognaise sauce. Then his pointy pink tongue licks around his mouth, removing all traces of sauce, except for a tiny bit on his chin. I get up from my seat and wipe this away with my thumb, enjoying seeing the flush that spreads across his tanned face. He's shaved very closely and his flawless young skin is so soft. 

He picks a handful of basil leaves from the plant on the windowsill and rips them roughly before stirring them into the sauce. I take his hand, place it over my nose and mouth as if to kiss the palm, and breathe in deeply. I inhale the fresh herby scent, and feel the smoothness of his hands, taking in his pianist's slender fingers and his neat, clean nails. His wrist is small and delicate and I can almost encircle it with my hand. The bone is prominent and the inside of his wrist is covered with a fine tracery of veins. 

'Will you grate some Parmesan?' he asks, with a catch of emotion in his voice, 'And pour out some of this wine.' I do as I'm asked and sit back down at the beautifully laid table. I sip my wine and resume my watching, as he makes the final adjustments to our first meal together. I can't quite believe all this. I'm sitting in a tastefully decorated and furnished kitchen, with the most gorgeous looking man cooking a meal for us. Things like this don't happen to me; people describe me as "mousey" or "who?" My life tends towards the mundane and the unadventurous.

How did I get here? I'd gone into school as usual, but Robyn, the school secretary, collared me at playtime and in her usual forthright manner said,

'He's dumped you, hasn't he?' I felt my eyes starting to fill up and she hustled me to the office. "You know he was all wrong for you."

'I know but I loved him!' Actually I wasn't all that sure that I did, but I felt it was the sort of thing I was expected to say. I'd been seeing Dan for about four months; me thinking we were in a totally monogamous, serious relationship; he shagging everyone in sight! It was really only a matter of time before this discrepancy ended our relationship.

He'd been my first proper boyfriend and I was pretty naive. I'd discovered that I had a good talent for self-delusion -- believing every lie that he told me. He was good-looking and a sharp dresser. I just bought what I needed where I found it, and he was disparaging about my taste in clothes. He was very muscular and went to the gym a lot. 

'You know you ought to go out this weekend and show him you don't care.' Robyn was a great one for putting on a brave face.

'No. It's too soon. I'm going to take to my bed this weekend and wallow in misery.'

Which I did, leaving my bed only to make cups of strong tea and buttery toast and trips to the bathroom, otherwise indulging myself in two whole days of glorious self-pity and very loud melancholy music. Naturally, I did a lot of thinking that weekend about my feelings toward Dan and came to some unexpected conclusions.

He was noticed wherever he went; he wasn't tall but he had the looks that people commented on. He had beautiful rich brown wavy hair and dark brown eyes; he was of a similar build to me -- but was fitter and more toned. I felt flattered by his attention but after my weekend wallowing I realised that I didn't actually want to go out with Dan -- I wanted to be Dan. He was everything I'd like to be; handsome, stylish, confident, and so self-assured in everything he did. When I finally brought myself to accuse him of being unfaithful he was surprised. I know that we'd never actually agreed to be exclusive; but I'd presumed we were, but it had never occurred to Dan. He explained that he didn't believe in monogamy; didn't see the point and wasn't looking for a long term relationship. He put it all very nicely and kindly, but I felt a complete fool -- having misread the situation so badly. In the past I'd never felt the need for a long term relationship; but I think that now I was ready -- I'd been alone (and probably lonely) for too long. Dan was not what I was looking for.

Back at school on Monday Robyn detected a change in me,

'Over him?'

How serious had my commitment to Dan been? A weekend of wallowing and I felt fine, which made me feel awful.

'Right! You're coming with me to a drinks party on Friday -- some people from my church have invited me, and I know there will be this other couple there with their son who's just graduated or something. He could be just what you need.' Alarm bells rang. Being set up with someone is never a good idea. Even by someone with as good judgement and taste in men as Robyn.

'He must be quite a bit younger than me,' I tried as a get out.

'Oh no. He's taken gap years and things. You look young for your age anyway.'

Robyn had taken me under her wing when I started as a newly qualified teacher at St. Mark's Primary. She'd been at the school longer than any of the teachers and knew all kinds of ways of circumnavigating the educational establishment to get what was best for her school. She was probably my mother's age, but she dressed and acted in what my mother would have deemed a most inappropriate manner, which was one of the reasons why I loved her. She knew everything that was happening with her small flock of teachers; we confided in her, but she kept all our secrets to herself, and proffered wisdom -- whether it was wanted or not. She was very much in demand at lunch-times in the staff room -- doing her Tarot readings and dispensing herbal remedies. She was very short and very round and wore long gypsy skirts and low cut blouses, revealing her plump cleavage. Robyn had long thick hair, that she regularly henna-ed, so it was always a really bright orangey-red. She had an enormous brown soft leather handbag, out of which she always managed to extract exactly what was needed for the occasion; a pen, a hanky and even on one occasion a bottle opener!

So I wore my favourite jumper and Robyn took me with her and I was introduced to Leo. 

'Thank God!' he said quietly, as he took me by the elbow and steered me to the other end of the room. He was skinny and lithe, and moved slowly and deliberately with feline grace, 'Someone under 40!' he said. I'm actually 28, so Robyn was just bolstering me up when she said how young I look. 

Anyway, we chatted, and I could not believe my luck in having this Adonis giving me all his attention. Admittedly we were the two youngest people in the room, so I guessed he was making do. I had to really tilt my head upwards to look him in the eye; but spent most of my time looking down at his shoes, which were expensive,brown and shiny in a well-worn way, trying to think of something witty to say. I was so distracted by his good looks and the way he kept touching my arm as we spoke. Before I'd really had chance to say anything interesting myself however, he'd had to leave, his parents were doing the rounds, he was driving them. Resigning myself to a farewell shake of his hand and mumbled pleasantries, I was taken aback when he landed a kiss on my cheek; then I felt his deliciously warm breath against my ear as he asked for my number. And 20 minutes later I got a text from him asking me to come to his for a meal next week!

So here I am, on our first date, waiting for someone to tell me it's all a joke. But I'm feeling unusually optimistic, I'm wearing another of my favourite jumpers, school finishes soon and so I will have six whole weeks of holiday stretching out before me. Leo appears to be free to spend his time how he wants, as long as he is available to drive his parents about, and attend social functions with them. Apparently there's a villa in Tuscany that he could use if he wishes. I'm not counting my chickens -- trying to play it cool -- but I don't want to be too cool -- rarely in my life have I had chickens to count! I want him so much - I am finding it difficult to keep my hands off him -- which isn't like me -- but I've never felt so totally at ease with someone before.

He's wearing a blue and white stripy apron, like a butcher, but I can see his immaculately ironed white shirt and old faded jeans that emphasise his peach-like bum to perfection. His feet are bare in leather flip flops, nicely tanned. (An image of his toes wiggling in the warm soft Tuscan sand gives me a delicious shudder.) He sits down at the table opposite me, long and lean, with razor-sharp cheekbones that I know I will have to trace with my fingertip before too long. Until then I have to be content with occasionally brushing my foot against his leg under the table.

Robyn

Pacing about my tiny flat, Mario Lanza belting out from my stereo (luckily I've been blessed with a deaf neighbour); I think of how I'm so good at giving others advice on their love lives and how I'm so bad at doing myself what I tell others they should do.

'Oh Robyn! What have you done now? You shouldn't have meddled - You should have left things alone. Now they're on a date and I feel so responsible. I hadn't seen Leo for years -- he's so tall and gangly now -- all knees and elbows! I was watching him at Marjory's party and he never stopped talking! I do hope it's going alright.' I realise I'm talking out loud as the cat jumps up alarmed, but she is used to my sudden outbursts and glares at me malevolently and goes back to sleep.

I sit next to her on my old overstuffed green velvet sofa and, in order to distract myself, pick up a photograph album. The photos are of the children from St. Mark's Primary; I'm looking at the one of Leo's class just before they left. He's on the back row, already a head taller than the other children, a mass of black hair and an endearing, crooked smile. I have photos of every class for each year I've been at the school -- let's just say I have many albums. On each child's first day I look into them and see what kind of person they're going to be. I don't know how, maybe I look into their souls, maybe I can read their auras or maybe I'm just a shrewd judge of character. When I looked into four-year-old Leo's eyes I could see mischief, but beyond that, the man he would become, impetuous and passionate, but with great strength of character. I thought he might be good for Jake. I t was only after I'd set things in motion that Marjory told me she'd heard that Leo had been completely wild until very recently. I began to regret the moment I'd interfered. I tell myself to stop fretting. Things have a way of working out. I've done what I've done. 

I really want things to work out for Jake; he's such a good man. I knew straight away that he was gay and he was rather embarrassed at that. I soon gathered that he was only just coming to terms with his sexuality, so I didn't make an issue of it. When he first arrived at school he was in need of a friend, all alone in the big city. He'd come to us from his very first job, teaching in a tiny school in the Lake District and Manchester must have seemed like another world to him. He soon settled into school just fine; the children love him, he has such a natural way with them.

He's been here about four years now and I don't think he set foot in Canal Street for the first two. I kept encouraging him to out and have fun; I thought he must have been so lonely. He used to come out with us 'girls' from school, but I so wanted him to find a boyfriend. One time I persuaded the gang to go to a gay club -- I think us girls enjoyed that night more than Jake did, some of us were rather badly behaved: but this foray did give him the confidence to go back the following weekend -- on his own. I found it difficult when he was seeing Dan, because even though I was glad he'd found someone, I knew they weren't compatible. He introduced Dan so proudly to me. Dan the heart-breaker -- he wasn't going to settle down -- he's one of those people who crave the next new thing -- always looking out for the next person. But Jake was smitten. When the end came though, he coped better than I thought he would -- I think he must have known really. 

I'd been out with a few Dans in my time, but sometimes that what you need -- a boost of uncomplicated lust. As long as you both realise that's what it is. There is a rather dashing American widower who has started at the Bridge Club, but I'm not alone in spotting him. Attractive eligible men are few and far between when you get to my age, and there's a whole battery of women inviting him out and bringing him home-made cakes. Battle lines are being drawn.

On my way into the kitchen to make a cup of tea Mendelssohn's Wedding March starts to emanate from my handbag, making me jump. I rummage around and finally find my mobile.

'A text!' peering at the tiny screen. I have to put my glasses on, which I have recently taken to wearing on a chain around my neck as I seem to need them more and more often these days.

"Have just eaten spag bog -- not too messy! Hope Leo has something exciting for dessert! xx"

I feel some of my anxiety subside and poor tabby leaps up in the air as I voice my relief;

'Thank goodness for that!' I decide to abandon the tea and have a celebratory brandy instead!

Darragh

'Was that Leo ringing again? Wanting moral support?' I nod, in answer. I'm sitting at the kitchen table, eating my supper of Lancashire Crumbly and oatcakes and a bottle of Thwaites Thoroughbred. Leo's life has always lurched from drama to drama. For some reason tonight is a big deal for him; he's invested so much in this evening. I don't know how many times he's rung today stressing over every little detail. At first I thought he meant a proper date; but he's back to his old ways it would seem.

With Jen and I it was simple -- our eyes literally met across a crowded room -- and it was love at first sight. Now it takes something for a cynical chap like myself to admit that. But there we were, at some party being given by a mutual friend, and as I came into the room, she came down the stairs, our eyes met, my stomach and legs turned to jelly and she flashed the most amazing smile that seemed to light up the whole room! I don't remember what she was wearing, only her beautiful face, tanned from being outdoors, long brown hair falling all around, her huge grey eyes and the most captivating smile. It sounds terribly corny and clichéd, but that's exactly how it was. Jen will tell you the same, only it was my sexy green eyes that unravelled her!

Since he came back from Uncle Robert's in the spring, Leo has been much calmer and more self-possessed and even seems to be getting on with our parents better, he's even living in one of the 'student' houses that the parents have invested in.

Despite this, Leo's been on the phone all week, alternating, between saying he was going to ring up and cancel his date and that he couldn't wait, back and forth, changing his mind. I kept telling him it was just a date and if things didn't work out it wouldn't matter. He says he's cooking spaghetti bolognaise -- I didn't even know he could cook. This evening marks a change. He's never talked to me much about his personal life before -- I'm not at all sure about this evening. Previously he just seems to have existed on a series of sexual encounters. That sort of thing has never appealed to me. But Leo's life has been so haphazard and disorganised that maybe that lifestyle suited him. I keep hoping he'll meet the right girl and settle down.

I've always had to boost his confidence and even as a child, Leo looked to me for guidance and on many occasion I've had to act as a buffer between our parents and Leo. Leo hasn't always made the best choices in life and I've quite often had a struggle to paint him in a good light. I have tried to shield them from the worst excesses in Leo's behaviour, whilst trying to reassure Leo that everything will turn out fine -- sometimes trying to convince myself along with him. 

Halfway through the Sixth Form and Leo had been on the verge of being expelled. He and another boy, Simon, who I believe, had a previously unblemished record, had been caught smoking in the toilets. 

'We were just smoking weed,' Leo affected such a look of wide-eyed innocence that I felt that I was missing something. Our father had made rather a large donation to the school library fund and whereas Leo found himself completing his A Levels, Simon did not return after the holidays. 

Leo has been responsible for some of the scariest moments in my life. When Leo was in his third year at university, drifting along, wasting his time: One evening I was trying to make Leo sort out his life, trying to make him see that he had to have some kind of plan, even if just for the short term. I kept on and on at him to take responsibility for his life, when Leo started to behave erratically, scribbling over and over again on the notebook in front of him, swaying back and forth. I was really frightened when he started hallucinating, couldn't bear anyone to touch him, or even look at him, and became totally paranoid, convinced that people were watching him. I thought he was having some kind of breakdown and after a great deal of persuasion, I was able to take him to the A&E, where they kept him in overnight. I was allowed to stay with him, sleeping in a little camp bed next to his bed, totally freaked out by the whole experience, but somehow managing to keep it all together for Leo. The following morning a doctor said Leo had suffered a psychotic episode brought on by amphetamine abuse and suggested he lay off the speed. I didn't know whether to be angry or relieved, so settled on both.

That was the second night I'd spent as sentinel for Leo in hospital. Some years previously Leo had 'won' a drinking contest, drinking himself into unconsciousness. Thankfully one of his friends had been sober enough to realise the state Leo was in and had called both the ambulance and me. I'd spent that night in the chair by his bedside, my heart breaking and an overwhelming sense of helplessness filling my whole being, watching my baby brother being re-hydrated on a drip. Leo was only just eighteen then, just a child really. I watched him as he slept, his face still full of innocence and ignorance.

Unlike Leo, I've always had a good relationship with our parents. I know I shouldn't feel guilty because I've found my way in the world easily; I've done everything that has been expected of me, because it was what I'd wanted to do. I've found praise and parental support naturally for doing what I wanted to do; a job I love and marrying the girl of my dreams. Our parents quite often despaired that poor wayward Leo would ever get 'on track', had previously pretty much washed their hands of him. It's like they didn't look at him properly, just saw him askance. At his graduation they must have noticed his face when they came to the ceremony, but they never said a word. Looking at his graduation photo, it breaks my heart -- he's smiling but you can still see bruising and grazes, despite the judicious use of make-up. I have made sure that I have always been there for him, giving him love and support. Perhaps to ease my guilty conscience.

'I hope Leo's going to turn out alright, Jen,' I sit down on the sofa, nestling close to my gorgeous wife. She rests her hand on my thigh and pats it reassuringly.

Leo

'That was gorgeous! I wouldn't have thought that using fresh basil would make so much of a difference.' 

'Thank you, that's very sweet of you!'

Spaghetti bolognaise is about the only thing I can really cook. It's easy to do and the raw ingredients are so unassuming and unexciting but the end result is something special. The flavours of garlic, tomatoes, good quality beef and, of course, fresh basil all cook down together to make such a strong robust dish. And it's always worth opening a good red wine to put a generous glassful in. The colour of the sauce is always so intense, such a passionate red.




Love is a Banquet



We're clearing the table and loading the dishwasher, even though I said I'd do it later, or in the morning. We make a good team, efficiently clearing away the ice-cream bowls, red-smeared plates and glasses. I gulp a mouthful of wine, the very nice dessert wine that was given to me, along with a bottle of some strange home-brewed concoction, as I opened my front door, amidst a confusion of awkward welcome kisses and coat taking.

It's very warm in the kitchen, I finish my glass too quickly and feel rather light-headed. 

'Would you like to go on into the other room? You can put some music on. The coffee's just brewing and I'll bring it through.' I sit back down at the table, almost glad to be alone, my heart is beating so fast I almost feel sick and I swear I have butterflies in my stomach! I just need a moment to get my head together. I can't believe my good luck, I don't want to mess this up! This evening has not gone too badly so far -- I haven't spilt anything or said anything too inane -- although why did I mention the villa -- I probably sounded as if I was bragging - what an idiot! 

Pulling myself together, I put the coffee things on a tray and take them through. He's perched on the arm of the sofa, his back to me. I smile as I notice a tuft of his short sandy coloured hair sticking up a bit on top like a little boy's. I lean forward and kiss the back of his neck. He turns round and smiles at me; he has the warmest brown eyes and dimples and whatever I was going to say has gone. I've never felt so dismantled by someone before; my mind is in turmoil, my thoughts incoherent and I feel totally out of my depth.

I pour out two black coffees and sit on the sofa, kicking off my sandals, tucking my feet up under me. Jake slides down off the arm and rests his hand on my thigh. I take his hand in mine; his hand is pale and his fingers short and stubby. We sit like this for a while, each of us drinking our coffee with our free hand. I think how I would like to take him shopping -- I can't believe he's got two of those vile sweaters! For a gorgeous guy he has deplorable taste! He's wearing pretty awful trainers as well. 

I look at him, he smiles and squeezes my hand, putting down his coffee cup. He takes my hand in both of his and raises it to his mouth, I can feel his beard scratching slightly against the back of my hand and then the warmth and moistness of his lips as he gently kisses my fingers and then the palm of my hand.

'Lets go out into the garden -- it's a lovely night.' I jump up and haul Jake up by the hand. He looks a bit crestfallen but he follows me outside.

One major reason I'm so disoriented is that when I met Jake I thought, presumed, he was straight -- his taste in clothes was appalling, and it was only after talking to him for 10 minutes or so at Marjory's party that it dawned on me he was gay! I was instantly attracted to him, straight or no and couldn't wait to see him again. I didn't have the nerve to ask him out then and there -- so I got his number and texted him -- then if he didn't want to see me again - he could just text back in the negative. I don't know if I can handle all of this.

It's very nearly a full moon and very balmy. The moonlight shines across the garden, making the dark shadows even darker. We sit on the wooden slatted bench and I'm so aware of the cold hardness of the bench beneath me and the softness and heat of Jake's body next to me. My heart is thudding in my chest as if I'd just run a race. The air is scented with the herbs and flowers that mummy planted and I can smell the odours of cooking and wine lingering in our clothes and hair. I can hear the far off noise of the city, traffic noise and distant shouting. I look up at the sky and can see stars, recognising the Plough and Orion -- the only two constellations I know. The moon is big and pale yellow and low down in the sky, oppressive, almost menacing. I don't know what to do -- with straight boys it was simple -- get them drunk or stoned and pounce. I've never felt less like pouncing in my life, I don't want to seem crass and boorish. I don't want to ruin everything.

I am startled out of my reverie, by the touch of Jake's hand caressing my cheek.

'Leo, I'm going to go now.'

'Oh! I thought you might stay.'

'I thought I might, but you look absolutely exhausted.'

I am too: suddenly I feel as if I don't have the strength to even stand up. It has been an emotionally draining evening, I've not felt anything this intensely for so long and it has wiped me out. I feel as if I might cry at any moment. Jake takes my face in his hands and kisses me tenderly, saying;

'I do want to see you again; I will ring you tomorrow I promise.'

So he goes and I am alone. I go straight to bed. I don't know how I feel. I think I feel numb; but as soon as I lie down my thoughts start reeling. I haven't felt like this about anyone since Marco and however much I don't want to think about him, as I drift off to sleep I relive that terrible night.

For a brief moment I thought I saw him -- on what passed for a dance floor in the tiny club. He had such a sexy way of dancing. I looked up from the dancer's crotch encased in denim, to his face -- it wasn't him at all -- nothing like him. I had been dancing with a cute boy, but now I couldn't see where he'd gone. It was dark and smoky in the club and the music was deafening -- conversation was only really possible in the toilets -- but that's not what most people went there for. I went to the bar and got a beer; the bottle cold and slippery. I rubbed the bottle across my forehead in a vain attempt to cool myself down. I realised I'd already taken my shirt off but couldn't remember when. I still had my wallet in my pocket at least. I scrounged a cigarette off a good looking crew cut boy -- later discovered he was Canadian -- or at least he had a maple leaf tattooed on his arse. 

It was here that I'd first met Marco. We'd danced and then I blew him in the toilets. He was cute but I don't expect to see people from the clubs a second time. The next one was almost as tall as me, but built with it. His strength was amazing; he could have done what he wanted with me -- but he used his strength to make sure there was no more physical contact between us than was strictly necessary, and he gripped my shoulders so tightly that I'm sure he was responsible for some of the smaller bruises I had the next day.

I remember doing so much coke that night and someone gave me what I presume was an e. I must have swallowed as much spunk as beer -- it was the maddest night. So many cute boys and not so cute boys. I just wanted to get him out of my head. How stupid I'd been thinking it meant anything. This was who I was -- this was my life.

The club was closing. Where had everyone gone? A few stragglers hung around in the little square opposite. I recognised someone I'd done earlier and caught his eye. He ignored me and carried on talking to his friends. I sat down on the grass, leaning back against something hard, feeling dizzy. I watched the group of men talking -- all hearty macho shit posturing and back slapping. Couldn't tell what they were saying -- their voices were muffled and booming in my addled head. The one I recognised kept looking over at me and I smiled.

Then he was there, right in front of me, crouching down -- his face swimming in and out of focus -- his voice doing the same -- I felt as if I was under water. He pulled me up on my feet and I put my arm around his shoulders, pulling him close to me. He shouted at me and pushed me away; I staggered backwards and banged my head on something. I reached out to him, trying to touch his face; but he was having none of it. Such hatred distorting his handsome features -- I should have stopped then. But set on my course I reached out again -- my hand flat against his shirt -- I felt his warmth and the smooth material of his T shirt -- as I moved my hand across his nipple in a gentle caress.

I saw the fury in his eyes, felt his spittle on my face as he shouted, our faces a scant inch apart. Then, just as I realised he had drawn his arm back and made a fist, I felt it smash into my mouth. I tasted the coppery warmth as my teeth cut through my lip and the pain spread. I was crying and he grabbed my hair and dragged me along the grass, my feet scrabbling to keep my balance. I was dimly aware of a button flying as he swung me round by a handful of shirt-front, and my shoulder exploded in pain as he slammed me into a wall; I landed on the hard ground on my knees, my jeans ripping, my whole body jarring. I heard screaming a long way away and felt as if my body was on fire, I curled myself up tightly shielding my head with my arms. I focussed all my concentration on the rough cold ground, the small stones digging into my face; leaving no room in my head for thoughts of love. Sobbing silently, I could hear my ragged breathing, I was barely conscious, disappearing into myself, embracing the overwhelming blackness as a welcome alternative to the jagged sharp-edged world of suffering, even as it was my due.

After a night full of bad memories and worse dreams, I open my eyes and straightaway my thoughts turn to Jake.

'What happened last night? Why did Jake go home? Why didn't I stop him? Is it all over before it's started? Have I messed up again?' I pull on my robe, stumbling over last night's clothes, in a heap on the floor by the side of the bed. I kick angrily at a shoe, sending it skidding across the floor boards, disappearing under a chest of drawers.

I'm on my way to the bathroom when I catch something out of the corner of my eye downstairs on the doormat. I rush down to investigate - an envelope bearing no stamp; I tear it open, my heart beating faster, hopefully, apprehensively. It is a card, which I open quickly. I look at the words inside in a daze, not understanding what I'm reading. I make myself calm down, breathing slowly and deeply. I sink down, sliding down the wall,, sit there, my back against the wall. I read the words again, slowly and carefully:

when you're fearful that what you desire

will be snatched away from you, or given only fleetingly

the temptation will be to rush headlong at the thing

to ensure you enjoy it, if only momentarily

but when you are sure of the inevitability of what you desire

you will be content to live in the moment

It's beautifully hand written, and signed "Thank you for a lovely evening. I will see you on Friday, Love Jake" and has two kisses under the signature all written in purple ink. Salvation, gratitude, relief flood over me -- I am going to see him again. Suddenly aware of the prickliness of the coir door mat irritating my naked thigh, I take the card with me into the kitchen, re-reading it while I boil the kettle and make some toast.

Chapter Two Risotto

Jake

I pour out some more wine for the both of us; this risotto is very dry. I look across to Leo and watch him as he eats. He really has the most beautiful face; green eyes (how many people actually have really green eyes?) such amazing cheekbones and those lips -- full to start with and now positively swollen with passion. His black hair is all mussed up but somehow he looks like a guy in one of those adverts for hair product -- hair carefully styled to look mussed up. I feel a great desire to give him more risotto, to feed him up; he looks so vulnerable and fragile. As if he might break if loved too violently.

As I sit here watching him I feel little shudders, aftershocks of sex ripple through me. Little fragments of this most intense experience fill my head: gripping Leo's sides so tightly, scared in case my fingers might slip into the gaps between his ribs; my hand in the small of his back, balancing myself; holding on to his shoulders, thinking how lean and sexy he was and best of all his skinny arse rising up to meet me. He made so much noise when he came it alarmed me and I wasn't sure if it was due to pleasure or pain.

I knew the moment he opened the door to me last week that he was the one. I was positive; all the uncertainty of the preceding week vanished; leaving me calm and confident. I can still picture him, framed in the doorway, head almost touching the lintel, a doubtful little smile on his lips and his eyes shining. As I sat and watched him cook for me I realised that this was how my life could be. How could I have thought that what I had with Dan was a relationship? I know more about Leo after two evenings with him than I ever knew about Dan. I am glad I met Dan though; before him I was pretty clueless I must admit. All those hours in bed with him gave me a lot more confidence.

All my life I've just drifted along: being a son, a brother, a teacher. But where was I? The person, the individual,the real me? What do I want out of life? Meeting Dan, and now Leo, I feel as if I am someone -- Jake Summerhill -- an individual being with a life of his own. Moving to Manchester was the best thing I ever did. On my first day I saw two guys holding hands, walking across the square in front of the Town Hall. I was so excited -- nobody took any notice at all of them -- and I wanted to shout out to them. And this wasn't even in the gay part of the city! My first time down Canal Street was like being on another planet; so many cute guys -- and they all behaved as if this was all so normal. It felt weird because I was so excited -- it was sad that I hadn't experienced this before -- that being able to hold hands or kiss your lover in public wasn't normal and everyday. 

The first time I ventured into a club I just leaned against the wall with my bottle of beer and watched. I had never seen so many men dancing in one small space. I went back week after week and watched. Men offered to buy me beer and asked me to dance but I politely refused, gradually getting used to the whole idea, until I met Dan. I'd seen him a couple of times out and about, usually with a crowd of mates; but this time it was towards the end of the evening -- the latest I'd stayed (usually I'd leave quite early -- my nerve deserting me). He asked me if I wanted to go back to his -- I was so scared -- but decided that the time had come, and so I spent the night with Dan. And the next day -- in fact the whole weekend -- once he realised that I was inexperienced he decided to enlighten me.

So, all in all, looking back, being with Dan was a good experience -- even if I misread the situation. It enabled me to be in control on my first date with Leo -- once I'd thought about things -- and decided that everything would be ok, whatever happened. I went to Leo's that first time not knowing, but not worrying about the future. I was looking forward to having sex with him, but if it didn't happen then so be it. And then I saw him and knew.

So it wasn't important that we didn't have sex that first evening -- sex was inevitable. As I walked home through the noise of the city I composed a poem -- hadn't written any poetry for years,not since I was a teenager -- but the words just came to me. I felt so happy walking home; knowing that I was embarking on the most important relationship of my life. Leo texted me that morning to say thank you for the card -- and all this past week we've been communicating in this way. Leo certainly has a flair for texting: I turned my phone on one lunchtime at school causing one little boy to ask,

'Mr. Summerhill? Are you hot Mr. Summerhill? You've gone very red.' 

I look at Leo now, finishing up his food, chasing a few last grains of ice around his plate. He pokes them with his finger and then puts his fingers in his mouth, licking his fingers noisily. He catches my eye and raises his eyebrows suggestively, replacing his finger and sucking on it.

We're done with our food now. We put the plates down carelessly by the side of the bed amongst our discarded clothing and turn to each other . I am fascinated with his body, it's like a secret that's being revealed bit by bit. I trace my finger along his collar bones starting at his shoulder and falling into the hollow of his neck, feeling the tiny ridges in the bone as I run my finger along, loving the little bump he says is from when he broke his left collarbone falling off his bike as a child. My fingers tangling his tousled hair, I pull his head back slightly and I kiss the hollow at his throat, feeling the pulse of life beneath the skin. I've never felt so alive.

Leo

Balancing the plate carefully on my lap, I taste a forkful of the risotto that has been drying out in the oven for an hour. 

'This is beautiful. It tastes gorgeous. I love mushrooms!' I love the way Jake shrugs off this compliment with a bashful smile. I get comfortable, leaning back against a pillow, eating my risotto slowly, tasting every mouthful. I want to savour this exact instant. I want to be able to remember everything about this moment, just in case; the feathery plumpness of the pillow behind me; the heat from the warm plate on my thighs; the taste of the rice, cheese and mushrooms; the previously pristine, now creased and crumpled bedding; Jake sitting next to me, his hair sticking out and his face all flushed. I could be on the brink of a relationship. Although two dates do not guarantee a relationship -- as I'd previously discovered.

I'd woken up with a start, my heart pounding, glad to be out of the disturbing dream I was having yet again and automatically reached for the glass of water on the bedside cabinet and swallowed some paracetamol. I snuggled back down under the quilt, scrunching my eyes shut against the late morning sun and was preparing to sleep off my customary hangover when there was a knock on my door.

It was Marco. Uncle Robert had let him in and he sat on my bed, pulling the covers off me and berating me in his wonderfully sexy broken English for not being ready. Apparently we had arranged to meet up this morning and go on a picnic -- this sounded unlikely, but I got myself into the shower and despite being unable to persuade Marco to join me, started to feel good. As the hot water woke me up and my headache subsided I thought back to last night. Marco was easy to remember; he was so handsome with his dark Italian eyes and sexy voice. I remembered the noise he made when he came in the cramped cubicle of the nightclub's toilets and a tremor ran through me.

I got dressed, after towelling myself dry provocatively, parading around the bedroom naked far more than was strictly necessary. He smiled at my performance, but resisted my advances. He waited patiently for me to get dressed and drink the orange juice that Uncle Robert gave me, along with a knowing smile.

Marco drove us in his little fiat, not talking much, but turning to smile often at me and occasionally patting my thigh. My legs were practically folded in two in the little car and it was with some relief that after about half an hour we stopped. Carrying a basket like Red Riding Hood he led the way through the woods; I followed on -- the big bad wolf, brimming with carnal desires. It was not long before we came to a clearing -- I was beginning to think I was in a fairy tale; this was too perfect. And it was. It was the most romantic time I'd ever had. We lay on the soft springy grass, surrounded by gnarled and twisted olive trees; eating bread and cheese and olives and drinking chianti straight from the bottle. It was hot, but not unbearable under the shade of the trees and we chatted inconsequently in a mixture of English and Italian. I can bring to mind that whole afternoon still; I can taste the olives and cheese and the wine from his uncle's vineyard, which I must admit I did drink rather too much of -- but after all Marco was driving. 

For the first time in my life I was made love to: Marco was so gentle, caressing me, as if he really wanted to know every part of me: with other guys it had been me doing all the touching -- they with their eyes tightly shut -- and restricting their touching to pushing my head down. Marco kept his eyes on mine the whole time; so we knew there was no pretending. His body was tanned and well muscled, thick black hairs on his chest and finer ones on his arms and legs. He'd obviously shaved recently; his chin was smooth, even the cleft, that I found so incredibly sexy. I felt guilty that I'd not shaved that morning, my stubble prickly and rough. This did not prevent Marco from kissing me, hard and deeply. I'd missed being kissed without even knowing and I started to cry a little. Marco licked away my tears, stroking my face gently.




Love is a Banquet



We lay on the grass in the warm sunshine, my head resting on his shoulder, listening to the gentle buzzing of bees. A breeze wafted over us, scented with roses and honeysuckle. That was the moment -- the perfect moment -- an afternoon's bliss that I didn't realise was possible, didn't feel I deserved, and when he stood me up the next day and when his brother spat in my face and I never saw him again; I knew that I hadn't deserved it, that a relationship like this was not possible. So if this is the last time I'm going to be with Jake then I don't want to forget any detail.

I came to his flat this time; he said it was his turn to cook for me. Apparently, he'd spent all last night doing his school stuff and all day today cooking and cleaning so that everything would be perfect for this evening. Which it has been. We kissed somewhat awkwardly on the cheek as I arrived and handed over my bottle of wine. I sat on one of the high stools at the breakfast bar bit of the tiny kitchen, where we were eating. A wonderful arrangement of colourful mismatched crockery that made me smile, was laid out ready for our meal. A big green jug full of roses dominated the table, their scent mixing with the cooking smells.

We sat next to each other to eat, our thighs practically touching under the table. He had made feta salad for starters; with salty crumbly cheese and moist black olives. I could feel the heat coming from him, as if his body were talking to mine; a serious conversation, unlike the small talk we made with our mouths. Our bodies won out and before the feta salad was finished we were undressing each other, and Jake shoved me into his bedroom, where there was an immaculately made double bed.

Chapter Three Pizza and Panini

Jake aged 21

The usual Sunday night routine: treating ourselves to pizza in Zeffirelli's. It's the best place for Italian food in Ambleside and we're usually starving hungry after our weekend playing Dungeons and Dragons, whilst others have been out on the fells, enjoying the glorious weather. We concentrate on eating; saving our conversation for the pub afterwards. Wholewheat pizza, four different cheeses all melted and stringy, big bowls of big juicy olives. We make do with the bottled European lager for now -- the drinking in earnest starts at the pub. 

The Golden Rule has a reputation for keeping a good pint, so the apeal of the beer keeps the locals coming in, putting up with us students from the teacher training college. I carry the drinks through into the snug; eight pints of Hartley's XB. The boys eagerly grab their pints, as thirsty as if they had indeed been tramping through the beautiful Lake District countryside rather than spending the whole weekend indoors, rolling dice, slaying monsters and rescuing damsels in distress. The television is on, but with the sound muted. I find myself distracted by it and glancing up frequently at the screen as I've not seen any tv for weeks. I recognise a re-run of Oranges are not the only fruit. Maybe it's because there is no sound that the actual vision has such an impact. On the screen I can see the main character, Jesse, watching the girl working on a fish stall in the market. The love and lust shining out of Jesse's eyes are obvious and suddenly I'm transported right back to when I was twelve - 

I was not thrilled to be shopping with mum on a Saturday afternoon, but I wanted her to buy me a particular book, so had to endure trailing through the busy town, stopping every now and then as mum kept stopping to chat to people. We were making such slow progress; she knew so many people.

We'd already been to the greengrocer's in the market and I was lugging a heavy bag of potatoes, which was making my hands sore, even as I switched the bag from hand to hand. I was getting quite hot and started to worry in case I was sweating too much. I was wearing my new T-shirt and had been feeling pretty happy - Batman Returns emblazoned across my chest and my shoulder length hair all clean and shiny -- I'd sneaked some of my sister Sandra's conditioner when I'd washed my hair in the shower this morning -- but now I was bored. Hot. Tired and fed up with shopping. 

'We just need to go to the fish shop and then we're done.' We walked on a bit further, I was dragging my heels along with the big bag of spuds. Mum was already being served when I got to the shop. I wrinkled my nose up at the seasidey smell and the Saturday assistant looked quizzically at me.

'He's with me, don't worry,' said mum as she put the fishy parcels into her shopping bag. The shop assistant smiled at me as he handed over the change. He must have been eighteen or so, somewhat freckled, unremarkable really apart from a lone earring glinting; his ear mostly hidden under his uniform hat. I looked back at him as I went out into the street; he was still smiling and he winked at me.

'Right! Come on then -- let's get to the book shop. Then we can go home and have a cup of tea.' mum said at last and my thoughts turned to the Paul Jennings book I wanted. I thought that the man from the fish shop was pretty cool and the next couple of times I went past I looked through the window to see if he was there, but he never was. Soon I didn't think about him at all.

So I'm in The Golden Rule half watching tv as I realise, that actually what I had felt, was sexual attraction, and I pick up my pint, drinking nearly half of it in great big swallows. Could I really be gay?

Thinking back to my teenage years; I did not associate myself with the couple of boys that were openly, obviously gay -- very arty and creative and somewhat swishy and camp. Our school was a small rural one and these boys were bullied, but they sought refuge with the mis-fit girls and found a limited degree of protection there. I was bright and sensitive and spent my time trying to find a quiet place in which to read undisturbed. I had more in common with the girls than with the football kicking 'farmers' that grabbed the lion's share of open spaces, and I managed to associate myself with the girls without attracting the bullies attention. I remember my guilt at the relief I felt when someone else was being bullied, rather than me.

I had dated girls but always felt that they were somehow expecting more of me, but I wasn't sure what. I just thought I was treating them with respect, whereas the reality was I just felt no sexual attraction. I try to think of my friendships with boys and wonder was there any attraction there, but nothing stands out. As well as being a rather late developer, I think I had been blinkered -- not seeing any other possibilities outside the straight and narrow. 

My mates are all talking and arguing across each other, a roar goes up from the other room where the dartboard is and I'm having an epiphany. Here I am in my early twenties considering the possibility that I could be gay, or at least bisexual; this is a pretty scary development in the heretofore dull life of Jake Summerhill and I think I need another pint.

Leo aged 21

'Hold still, Leo.' Jen is putting make-up on my face to hide the bruising still visible from my recent beating. It's uncomfortable and still surprisingly painful. But it's Graduation today and I need to be presentable -- for my photo and the parents. Darragh is pacing up and down the tiny room that I call home and making me nervous.

'Why don't you sit down?' suggests Jen, 'I won't be too much longer.' But he continues to wander about, fiddling with his tie. 

'Is this my colour?' I ask Jen, smiling. 'I don't want it to clash with my eyes,' I add jokingly.

'For God's Sake Leo! This is no laughing matter!' Darragh bites my head off, his voice echoing in the bare room.

'Where's your sense of humour gone?' I ask him gently.

'Watching you having to wear make-up to your Graduation because you got beaten up getting up to God knows what, is not high up on my list of funny situations, Leo. Now just be quiet and let Jen do what she can.'

So I sit here and do as I'm told. Graduating -- thank God! I've got really bored with all the people at uni. I can't wait to be away from here. All the parties are pretty much over now, and there's not one person here I want to spend any time with. It's a whole new world out there and because I managed a 2:1 I can go travelling. I'm sure daddy just said he'd give me the money to go abroad so that he didn't have to have me at home. I don't mind -- just think of all those new opportunities out there. So many cute guys. I can go where I like -- South America, Australia -- think of all those tanned, fit surfer types. I'm going to Uncle's Robert's villa to start with though. Haven't seen him since Martin's death.

'Did Martin's funeral go ok?' I hadn't gone -- too busy with my finals.

'We didn't go.' Jen says quietly.

'But daddy must have said something about how it went.' I look into Jen's grey eyes and can't read what's there.

'They didn't go either,' Darragh says. 'Daddy was too busy.' So no-one went. I'm appalled. Poor Uncle Robert. I can remember the first time I realised that he and Martin were a couple. I was about twelve at the time. . .

'There's still time to come back home with us if you've changed your mind,' my father said. But I was keen to stay behind, particularly as I sensed my parents disapproval. 'Well, you'll just be here on your own for the evening. There's some of that lovely pizza leftover in the fridge you can have if you're feeling hungry. Patrick will look in on you once the bar is closed and he'll stay the night. Uncle Robert will be here in the morning.'

With these reassurances my parents set off for the airport, leaving me, with the evening stretching out before me like an adventure to be had. I wandered around Uncle Robert's villa, visiting all the familiar rooms: the lavishly fitted out kitchen, with its well scrubbed pine table. Uncle Robert liked to cook; but we nearly always ate our evening meal in Patrick's restaurant, down the hill, in the small town. Then: the large, uncluttered, rather empty living room with its leather sofas and tiled floor. I liked this room the best; liked snuggling up on one of the sofas and watching Italian tv. I couldn't always follow exactly what was happening, but loved the sound of the mellifluous language and had picked up some phrases which I repeated to myself sotto voce. There was a lovely painting of some mountains, above the fireplace, that I liked; there was a tiny figure right at the bottom that Martin said might be me. I used to stare at this figure intently to see any resemblance, but it was no use, it was too small and indistinct; the figure dwarfed by the mountains. Martin had painted this himself and I loved the colours -- blues and greens and purples.

There was one room in the villa however that I had not really been in -- my uncle's bedroom. I had not been forbidden to go in there but knew that it was not good manners to go snooping in someone else's room. It wasn't until my parents had gone that I even thought about it. I opened the door and hesitated on the threshold. I could see the large double bed with its wrought iron bedstead, the bed neatly made, a large painting of a lake and mountains on the wall above it. There was still enough sunlight coming through the window so that I did not need to switch on a lamp; which made me feel less like I was doing something I shouldn't be doing. I crept slowly into the room, trailing my fingers along the smooth wood of the furniture. Uncle Robert obviously didn't leave many of his things here when he was at home back in England. I picked up the small wooden box from the top of the chest of drawers; I remembered my uncle making it, and carving the patterns into it. He seemed to spend every afternoon last summer working on it. The sides of the box were smooth to the touch and the lid was intricately carved. I lifted the lid but there was nothing exciting in there; just a neat stack of letters, tied in a ribbon.

I was just resigning myself to not finding anything at all interesting in Uncle Robert's room when I banged my shin on a cardboard box that was out of sight round the far side of the bed. I sat down pulling the heavy box onto the bed next to me. It was full of framed photographs, of Uncle Robert and his friend Martin, who always came on holiday with him. They were maybe a dozen photos of them: at a party, someone's wedding, on holiday - just like the ones everybody's parents have at home. There was one particular photo that was in a beautiful hand carved wooden frame, the pattern matching that of the hand carved box containing letters and I followed the swirly pattern around the frame with my fingers, as I realised who the photo was of. Martin and Uncle Robert passionately kissing. I could see every detail of Martin's prominent cheekbones, aquiline nose, his startlingly blue eyes and blond hair as it contrasted sharply to Uncle Robert's brown hair and soft round face. My stomach lurched and I cast the photo onto the bed then ran outside onto the verandah, leaning over the wooden railing, feeling sick and dizzy; gulping in great lungfuls of the warm evening air.

Later when the moon had risen, I sat on the verandah, the leftover pizza all eaten, smoking without inhaling, one of the cigarettes I'd stolen from mother's pack earlier in the day. I threw it away halfway through: I was very tired and lay down on the hard wooden floor, resting my head on my arms, and without understanding why, cried until I was completely empty inside.

Apparently when Patrick came, he found me still on the verandah, sound asleep and he carried me, without waking me, back into the villa, my slight frame no problem for Patrick's strong arms and shoulders. As he put me to bed, I woke briefly as he stroked my face, and said good night.

Dan

I 'd picked him up in Top Shop. I was walking slowly through the changing rooms and I saw him. He'd not bothered shutting the curtain and was posing, admiring his reflection. He was wearing skin tight jeans, which were moulded around his sturdy thighs and arse. The jeans emphasised the shortness of his legs -- but also their muscularity and solidity. I caught his eye, and we exchanged a look; that look. He was trying on a so-so orange T shirt and I offered him the one I had taken in with me, telling him it would suit him better. He peeled the T shirt off over his head, slowly revealing his well developed chest and upper arm muscles; pausing momentarily with the T shirt covering his head and with his arms aloft, displaying his sculpted torso. I took the opportunity, so blatantly offered, to squeeze his bicep, hard, and I complimented him on his physique. He tried on the T shirt I gave him -- blue and white stripes -- quite a nautical look to it. It was a wee bit small for him, but I appreciated the way it outlined his muscles and I could see his erect nipples through the thin cotton.

Instead of taking him straight back to mine as I would usually do, I offered him lunch, because I was really hungry myself and didn't want to lose him. We walked through the shopping centre; my appraisal of him continuing. He had bought the sailor T shirt and was wearing it now; it was slightly too short and rode up above his plain brown leather belt. On his feet he wore rusty brown desert boots, the heels of which were worn down. He walked beside me silently in these boots; almost stealthily, and I thought of him as a tightly packed, muscular bomb that could go off at any moment.

Mopping up a piece of semi-molten Brie that has escaped from my bacon panini, I sandwich Jimmy's knee between mine under the little table. His arms, huge on the tiny table make me think of arm wrestling but not seriously as he would win so quickly and that wouldn't set the right tone for our encounter. He had ordered pizza -- with goats cheese, red onion and mushroom, with a rocket salad. Jimmy picks up leaves of rocket from his plate and puts them in his mouth, chewing carefully in a somewhat bovine fashion. I watch fascinated, as he attacks his pizza. He uses the cutlery like precision instruments; cutting off a section of crust, then turning his plate slightly clockwise, cutting another section, turning his plate, continuing to devour his pizza in concentric circles, until the last remaining mouthful. Transfixed I notice a dark brown birthmark on his brawny neck and his earring -- a silver starfish -- I reach over and flick it lightly. He tells me it was a gift from his fiancée. Am I surprised? No not really. I just smile at him indulgently as he drinks his cappuccino, which gives him a froth moustache to cover his own. He picks up the almond biscotti from his saucer and puts it into his mouth whole. He crunches it loudly, his jaws working up and down like a dog's. I pass him the one from my saucer, he takes it , his eyebrows raise in a silent 'thank you' and the second biscotti meets the same fate. Over his shoulder, I see two men looking in a shop window, almost, but not quite, holding hands. I recognise one of them.

'Would you believe it? Do you know him over there? The one with that really hot looking tall bloke? I picked him up at Heaven last year sometime, everyone else had already copped off and he was still there all by himself so I did him a favour and took him home and shagged him. He had a fantastic body but didn't really know what to do. He said he'd not really been with anyone before -- I was practically his first. I'd noticed him hanging around for quite a while - there's always great interest in somebody new -- but he usually seemed to leave early and alone. I sort of took him under my wing for a bit, showed him all the best clubs. It was quite an experience having somebody so naïve to corrupt -- we had such wicked time. He was quite shy and unadventurous at first, but he was a very willing student and quickly became very adept. He adored me, followed me everywhere. Mind you, in the end he became a bit of a liability, always there when I was after someone else. I tried to let him down gently, he was a nice sensitive lad but I had to tell him that I wasn't after a relationship. I could tell he was upset, but I had to set him straight, as it were, it wasn't fair on him. I might have sex with an awful lot of men, but I don't pretend to be something I'm not.' I say this gently, not wishing to make Jimmy angry and storm off, but still wanting to admonish him for his deceitful behaviour.

Jimmy flushes slightly, not meeting my gaze, and turns around to see who I was blethering on about and I can see embarrassment in his eyes. I think at first,he knows Jake too but it turns out he knew the other one at university. After a bit of encouragement he begins to tell me about this Leo. Apparently Leo had it made; he would flirt outrageously with all the girls and then seduce their boyfriends -- Jimmy himself included - brilliant! He tells me that one evening he and his girlfriend fell out over something stupid and she stomped off to bed. Then Leo invited him back to his room to share a joint and sometime later the girlfriend barges into the room only to find her darling Jimmy sprawled out on the bed and Leo giving him a blow job! They were both really into it -- it was quite a while before they realised she was there. I can just picture it - Jimmy swearing that Leo had got him drunk and so wasted and that he had been taken advantage of and he was really horny and had really been thinking about her. Poor boy! Having to make out he was really upset about what had happened and then in order to save his reputation he found himself engaged. 

Still thinking of his poor deceived fiancée, I 'm greatly anticipating making this little piggy squeal -- I just know he'll be a noisy one - and slapping his deliciously firm arse, I hustle him out of the cafe, leaving our lunch debris strewn across the little table. Scrunched up paper napkins, spilt sugar, little rings of onion, panini crumbs and froth-scummy cups, all waiting for the waitress to clear up.




Love is a Banquet



Chapter Four Tuscan Pork Stew

Jake

I'm sitting here with Leo and his Uncle Robert in their friend's restaurant in Tuscany. We arrived here this afternoon and I still can't quite believe it. Beautiful scenery, gorgeous weather, the sexiest boyfriend -- I feel like my life got mixed up with someone else's.

We're drinking the local Chianti, unsophisticated and fruity, but I must be careful -- I do tend to talk too much when I've had a drink and I don't want to be talking rubbish to Leo's uncle. It does feel a bit like I'm meeting the parents, so I want to make a good impression for Leo's sake. I pour myself out a glass of water, Robert pushing the jug towards me, his nails beautifully manicured. I steal a glance at my own nails -- all shapes and sizes. I look up and smile at him in thanks. You'd never think he and Leo are related. Robert has a much softer, rounder face, brown hair and brown eyes, quite ordinary really. His skin is very soft though; I noticed as we embraced. 

I look over towards the door to the toilets, just in time to see Leo coming out at the same instant a dark haired man is going in. I see from the look on Leo's face that he recognises him; he flashes his heart melting smile, but then I see puzzlement as the man pushes past him. Leo sits down next to me just as Patrick, the giant of a man that owns the restaurant, brings a tray of antipasto to our table.

'Marco'? He asks, looking at Leo. Leo nods and Patrick points to a pretty young woman at another table.'That's his wife. They're all good catholic boys round here, you know, they all do what mama wants in the end.' As we're all looking at the young woman, the man Leo encountered returns to their table and grimaces a silent apology to Leo, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. He is young and startlingly handsome and I look towards Leo, trying to read his expression; but he is looking intently at the label on the wine bottle. I place my hand on his thigh under the table, giving it a friendly squeeze. There's obviously some history between Leo and this Marco. What if this gorgeous guy is an old boyfriend? -- I'll have to ask Leo about him later. He takes my hand in his and returns the squeeze. We help ourselves to the wonderful selection of meat, cheese and olives and Robert asks us both questions that we answer in between mouthfuls of delicious food.

Patrick brings over his speciality - pork stew and eats it with us. He has removed the long black apron he was wearing, revealing pale blue linen trousers and has also taken off the dark blue bandanna he wore on his head whilst in the kitchen. His hair is quite short and startlingly silver white, contrasting with his very tanned, lined face. His eyes are very blue and twinkly and he holds your gaze quite strongly while talking to you -- not quite enough to make you feel uncomfortable -- but you can sense his strength of will in those eyes. He must be in his sixties, but he is very tall and broad, and very muscular. I could feel the strength in his handshake and his hard leathery skin, as we were introduced. He has been running this restaurant for many years and it has been 'discovered' a couple of times now; each time bringing in an influx of critics and foreign tourists looking for 'authentic' food. Patrick's grandmother was Italian and it's her recipes that he's based his current dishes on.

The stew smells absolutely wonderful. I can see pieces of carrot along with the small chunks of pork, in a reddish brown gravy. Patrick tells me it's got onions and celery in it also, but they've cooked down into the sauce. I stick my fork into a cube of pork and it falls in two, revealing the succulent white meat, starkly contrasting with the dark red sauce. I spear a piece and taste it -- it just falls apart in my mouth before I have chance to chew it. The flavour is mouth wateringly gorgeous; obviously the two days it's been marinading in chianti has been worth while. There is the heavy local bread to eat with it -- and this is very useful to mop up the juices. I am definitely going to have to learn how to make this dish.

My dad liked to cook. My mum did most of the cooking, but hers was the everyday stuff: roasts, cottage pie, toad in the hole -- meat and two veg type meals. Dad was more adventurous: moussaka, paella and he did a mean chilli. I always loved to help with the cooking, right from being little. Sandra showed no interest in cooking -- just eating. Mum tried to encourage her, saying she'd need to be able to cook for her husband when she grew up -- but that didn't prove sufficient incentive for my sister. I remember the first meal that I cooked by all myself, I must have been 13 or 14 -- I made a mushroom omelette for tea -- along with salad. My mum hovered over me as I made it, nervously instructing me, probably scared I would either burn myself or her new frying pan. It was a success -- I was very proud of myself and I remember that Sandra got to do both the washing and drying up that night.

Leo is talking animatedly, having drunk a fair amount of wine; he has a tiny piece of pork on his fork that he's waving around, emphasising some point. It stops momentarily in front of my face and I eat it, grabbing hold of his wrist to make sure I don't lose it. Leo stops talking and looks at me quizzically.

'You like my stew?' Patrick asks, his white teeth as bright and shiny as his eyes. I feel my cheeks flush, as if I've been caught doing something naughty.

'I love it. It's the nicest thing I've eaten for ages. I'm not usually bothered about pork -- but this was delicious.' I feel warm and satisfied. Lots of wine -- despite my best intentions -- wonderful food and the best company. Leo obviously has a lot of respect for Patrick, listening earnestly to what he says; whereas he quite often talks over his Uncle. His face is flushed with the wine, his eyes are sparkling and watching him with his family, I feel such a rush of love for him; it wells up in me suddenly and I feel overwhelmed by the enormity of my feelings. I pour myself out a large glass of water, my hands shaking slightly. I catch Patrick's eye as I replace the jug, and I get the strangest notion that he knows what I was just thinking. 

Patrick

Such a pleasant evening; Jake is an enchanting young man; Robert looks happier than he has done for a good while. I've known Robert for many years, ever since he and Martin first bought the villa. They had spent all their savings on it, and gradually did it up over the years, their plan being to retire there as soon as they could afford it. 

I do like to cook for my friends; people think that I must find it a chore, because I'm always cooking in the restaurant, but to cook a meal for one's friends is different. To sit and enjoy it with them is a real treat for me, too often my meals are snatched, eaten standing up, when there's a lull. There's nothing like the luxury of spending a whole evening sharing dinner in really good company; savouring each course, having lots of the local chianti to drink and gossip to catch up on. 

Leo is obviously at peace with himself. It's easy to see why he is so happy: I'm so relieved. It was a different story the last time he was here, earlier in the year.

I found Leo practically unconscious lying on the ground in the square outside the bar, one night after closing. He'd been severely beaten. I drove to the hospital with Robert holding Leo in the back seat -- Leo fell in and out of consciousness. I kept looking in the rearview mirror, checking on them. I caught Leo's eye in the reflection one time when he was with it for a while. His look sent a chill down my spine -- he gave me such a defiant stare -- not that of a victim, but one who is in control still. I was really worried at his attitude -- he reminded me so much of Loulou. I 'd seen that same 'fuck you' attitude in her eyes and she perished after one too many visits to Fire Island.

She was short and slight with white blond hair and big pale grey eyes. Her eyebrows and lashes were so pale as to be nearly invisible. Her skin was flawless, translucent, but not radiant, somehow lacking something, bloodless and wan.

She lived with John and Rufus mostly; sought refuge with them; more often than not they'd all three wake up together, Loulou having crept into their big bed in the small hours. I came calling one Sunday morning, bringing breakfast of croissants and brioche (I was on my French kick) and the four of us sat in bed dropping flaky pastry crumbs all over the blue and white checkered duvet. It was then that I noticed for the first time the scars on Loulou's arms and chest. I was just going to ask about them, when I realised they were self-inflicted; and I saved my enquiry for another day.

John and Rufus had been a couple since whenever and their relationship appeared not to suffer for the occasional agreed infidelity. Their relationship with Loulou bordered on that of parents and child; certainly it was much better than that which Loulou had experienced with her own parents.

She told me something of her childhood, late one night when she'd finished her shift at the hotel and was waiting for one of her 'gentleman friends' to pick her up. 

I hurried her on down the street, past the crowds of people out for the evening. Loulou made 'straight' people uneasy -- she had an air of timidity, vulnerability and seemed to attract more aggressors than protectors. She did not have the brashness, the insouciance of a fully fledged drag queen, which might have protected her somewhat. We sat by the window in the all-night cafe, our coffee going cold as she talked. 

'You know I was abused? But don't you dare think that being abused made me the way I am -- It was because of the way I am that I was abused. I must have been about seven or eight. I'd already decided that I didn't want to be a boy, I'd much rather be a girl; but I was old enough to know that this was not going to happen. I did the classic 'mixed up little boy' thing -- trying on my mother's clothes, her perfume and even, if left alone for long enough, her make-up. I loved the feel of the fabrics -- soft and smooth, and I loved lipstick -- I loved the way it made my mouth so big and red -- the rest of my face seemed to fade away and it was like I was just this swollen, shiny, red hole. 

It wasn't my dad -- he has to take some of the blame, but he didn't do it. It was the boys from next door who used to babysit for me and my sister. They were probably only thirteen or fourteen themselves. I was drawing a picture -- I was always drawing pictures of me as a girl -- with beautiful long blonde hair and a scarlet mouth. I would draw long dresses -- like a princess might wear. They asked me about my drawing and I told them. So they devised the game -- I was thrilled to be playing an actual princess -- they got my sister to dress me up in some of her dressing up clothes and I sneaked some of my mum's lipstick. I felt so beautiful -- this was the best game ever. One of the boys was the baddie and had captured me and the other had to rescue me. The baddie tied me up on my bed and raped me. My 'rescuer' claimed a similar prize for liberating me. They babysat for me often that summer and we always played the same game. The exhilaration I felt from being allowed to be a princess was worth it. I saw it as a trade-off. My sister grew to despise me and called me vile names. Looking back I think my family were a bit scared of me -- not knowing really what I was. I found it hard to pretend to be something I wasn't. Being a princess was easy -- it was being a little boy that I found hard.'

Loulou got up and went then, hardly looking back at me, as she spotted her friend outside. I felt a bit like a priest must feel after a confession, quite weighed down by what she had been told me. There were questions that I still wanted to ask, but did not get a chance. 

I was scared that Leo was already on the same path as Loulou -- carefully engineering his own self destruction. 

It wasn't long after his overnight stay in hospital that things finally came to a head. It had been another busy night in the bar, and the restaurant had been fully booked. I'd been rushed off my feet and hadn't really had time to talk to anyone apart from the dinner guests. I 'd done my 'genial host' bit and was enjoying the relative peace of the bar, now the drinkers were mostly wending their way home. I was aware that Leo had been in the bar all evening, and as was his habit every night since coming out to stay with Robert, charming drinks and more out of various men. He was actually paying for a drink himself for once, and as he took out the euros, a business card fell out and slid across the bar, fluttering onto the floor at my feet. Il Lago Produzioni emblazoned in lurid pink lettering, a muscular naked man leering cheerfully. 

'What's this, Leo?'

'Oh, nothing really. Un molto bel ragazzo gave it to me. Said I was what they were looking for.'

'Don't tell me you're going!'

'They've got auditions tomorrow. I think I'll go and give it a go -- after all - what have I got to lose?' He was so brash and arrogant that I'm afraid I lost my temper. I grabbed a handful of his T-shirt and shook him roughly. He slid off the bar stool and crumpled onto the floor, grinning stupidly.

I'd known Leo since he was a boy, Robert inviting his family to stay at the villa on an annual basis. Robert was very worried about Leo, and had invited him over this spring to give him the space to 'get his head together'. But Robert hadn't reckoned on the flexibility of the local boys and the availability of pharmaceuticals, even in rural Tuscany. 

'Leo! This behaviour stops now! Every night a different boy! Too much alcohol and too many drugs! And now you're thinking of what? Becoming a porn star? You have so much to lose you stupid boy! Your uncle is so worried about you and you're throwing your life away!' I was shouting at him now, my face inches from his, he was sitting on the floor, his head resting against the tubular legs of the bar stool, lolling somewhat. I was so angry, my hand raised to slap him before I noticed a tear rolling down his face. 

'Come on, Leo. You'd better stay here tonight,' I helped him to his feet but he backed off angrily, shouting, struggling with the zip on his jeans. He grabbed his penis and shouted;

'Come on then! Is this what you want? I thought you were different -- but you're just like all the rest!'

Robert

Patrick keeps giving me sidelong glances, when he thinks I won't notice -- he's waiting to hear my decision. My dear friend Patrick, who has always been there for me; taking care of me after Martin died and persuading me not to sell the villa. It had been such a part of our lives together, that I couldn't bear to be there alone. But now I know I did the right thing. Being able to escape from everyday dreariness to this haven, if only for three or four weeks a year has helped me through my grieving.

Across the table, looking stunning, happy and healthy, Leo is extolling the virtues of Patrick's cooking to Jake. They are both so relaxed in each others' company, I was surprised when Leo said that they've only known each other a month, they have that easy manner that one notices with longtime couples. They bring back memories of Martin and myself when we were young.

We met in the heady days of the GLF; we both went on the very first Pride March in London. That first time there were barely two hundred of us and I felt so self conscious, but exhilarated,walking along holding Martin's hand in one hand and a 'Gay Liberation Front' placard in the other. We got to know each other over the course of that year between marches, and attended some wonderfully anarchic political meetings. There were a great many more marchers at the second event; we thought we'd really achieved something. We were idealists -- we thought we could change the world. We thought we had. But it makes me so sad to see how difficult it was for Leo to accept his sexuality, even in these supposedly enlightened times.

Martin was much more flamboyant than I was: anyone could tell he was gay -- whereas I passed quietly in my sombre world of accounting. I never hid the fact of my sexuality from anyone though. When Martin and I decided to buy a house together, I told my family and they were fairly neutral about it. I think they saw our relationship solely as two bachelors sharing a house together -- I don't believe people wanted to think about us as a real couple. We always went everywhere together though -- to work parties and family get-togethers. There was no way we were going to hide away -- not after all we'd worked for. But it was hard work -- we both dutifully signed our names on our Christmas cards but the ones we received from our families would be addressed to only one of us. It was like we didn't exist as a couple. I knew that my brother, Peter wasn't happy about Leo spending so much time with myself and Martin; but to say anything directly would have meant his acknowledging the fact we were a couple; and so he kept quiet and Leo loved to come and spend a few weeks each summer with us in the villa. Martin and I were together for nearly thirty years and he set fireworks off in my soul, right from when we first met until he died. We still felt the same love and desire for each other as in the beginning and I still wake up in the night with a sense of panic because I've reached out for him and found emptiness.

I haven't seen Leo for some time -- when I was naïvely trying to help him and instead ended up speeding up his headlong flight into disaster. I could see that he was hurting himself, but didn't know how to help him. I missed Martin so much at this time; he would have known what to do. Thank God for Patrick. He was able to do what I wasn't. He rang to say that Leo was going to stay the night with him. That night had a big effect on Leo. He stayed on at the villa for another week or so, but hardly ventured outside. He read voraciously -- Martin had been a big reader and there were a lot of his books on the shelves -- by authors such as Armistead Maupin, Patrick Gale and Alan Hollinghurst. As if he thought he could find an answer there. He seems to have been looking for answers most his adult life. Thinking back, as a teenager he was so restless, so unsettled. Martin was always good with him, persuading him to do things that I couldn't, like visiting a museum or washing up. Leo was always keen to please Martin.

There was one particular incident, when Leo was much younger and had been in the villa overnight with Patrick keeping an eye on him and Martin and I arrived early in the morning to find that all the photos we had discreetly put out of sight (my brother is from the out of sight out of mind school of dealing with things) all arranged in the living room. I didn't quite know what I should do about it; but Martin simply said to Leo that he liked to have the one in the frame that I carved by his bedside. And that was that -- Martin said that we shouldn't be cross with him -- he was just testing boundaries and he'd only put our photos back where we usually had them -- like any couple would. 

Oh Martin -- I think it's very strange when people say they cannot remember the faces of their loved ones. I can see him now: his thin, floppy blond hair, that got thinner over the years; his strong brow; his blue eyes, ( limpid pools -- always hated that expression -- sounds so flat and shallow), his eyes were more like fiery oceans; his pointed nose and prominent cheekbones; his thin-lipped, wide mouth; occasionally he'd cultivate a moustache that was blond with ginger flecks in it (he'd say they were auburn) and his beard growth was so soft and downy, like a boy's. I can still feel the contours of his jaw, cradled in my hands countless times. How could I not remember? 




Love is a Banquet



I am startled, dropping my fork on my plate, as I feel a hand on my thigh. I look up and Patrick's eyes meet mine quizzically. Not fiery oceans, but captivating all the same. I smile reassuringly at him and I'm sure he knows I was thinking about Martin again.

Earlier on this evening, I saw something I wish I hadn't. As Marco and his wife left, Leo went to the loo again. Curious, suspicious, whatever, I followed him and saw that he went, not into the toilets, but out through the back door. Marco realised he was there and after saying something briefly to his wife in their car, came over to where Leo was waiting. They embraced passionately and spoke softly for a while. Leo wrote down something and Marco put the slip of paper in his pocket. My stomach lurches violently as my mind races to make this encounter an innocent one. As Marco set off back to his car, I hurriedly dived back in through the back door. What was Leo playing at? I'm hoping this was some sort of closure, and not Leo starting things up again. I did think that he and Marco made a cute couple; it was good to see Leo having an actual relationship with someone. But it didn't work out and Leo fell apart even further. 

I look at him and Jake now; so happy together. Eating Patrick's home-made cassata ice-cream; Jake is asking about the ingredients and Leo is watching him; studying his face as if he's trying to remember every tiny detail. So absorbed is he that he doesn't notice his spoon of damson ice-cream getting lower and lower. He jumps as the cold ice-cream falls off and lands on his forearm. Jake, totally forgetting his surroundings I guess, takes Leo's arm and sucks the purple confection into his mouth, licking Leo's arm clean. Patrick catches my eye again, this time a benevolent smile on his face.

Leo

Such a lovely evening. Uncle Robert is such a sweetie. And I'm here with Jake. This last month together has been wonderful. Uncle Robert's villa is such a special place, I've been coming here since I was a kid, mostly by myself. He might have been the black sheep of the family; but it suited my parents to be rid of me for a couple of weeks each year. Patrick's restaurant does the best food. His pork stew is to die for. He's been running this place as long as I've been coming to stay and I've eaten so many meals here.

Patrick seems to specialise in saving members of our family from themselves. He was there for Uncle Robert when Martin died and I remember how he took me home with him one particular night. I was pretty out of it and made a fool of myself in the bar. I remember in perfect detail the embarrassment of that evening. I was feeling so wretched, I'd shared some coke in the toilets with a boy up from the city, but he was too scared of his fiancée to even let me blow him. I'd already been with the remaining cute guys in the bar, and they were ignoring me. When Patrick discovered I was going to audition for a porn film company he went berserk. I thought he was going to hit me. And then I thought he wanted to have sex with me.

He lives in a flat above the restaurant and bar, and that night he pushed me up the stairs ahead of him. I stumbled and banged my head, but reached the landing eventually. By now I had completely lost it and was ready to fight him -- I was so angry. Patrick simply shut his ears to my ranting and pushed me into the bathroom. I remember sitting on the cold floor while he ran a bath and undressed me and meekly I got in. My anger had evaporated as the bath had filled and I was crying as Patrick tenderly washed my face with a cool flannel. 

"Why are you being so nice to me?" I asked, clutching hold of his wrist tightly. 

"Because I care about you. Because you're family. Because you're Robert's." 

He lent me some pyjamas and put me to sleep in his guest room. He brought me some hot chocolate in a fat red mug and sat with me while I drank it, lecturing me, holding my hand;

"You know, some people can cope with sleeping with many partners, they only need a sexual connection with another person, they don't seem to need anything else. They are positively happy with the way things are. They thrive simply on sex. But you, dear Leo, are not one of those people. You are being eaten away by this life. You need more than just sex -- you need an emotional connection to someone -- you need love. You won't find it picking up straight men in bars. It's time to take stock of things, time to grow up, time to take responsibility for your life." His voice was trying to be stern, but I could tell he was close to tears, his voice wavered a little and he dropped my hand and stood up hastily. I caught him before he stepped away, catching hold of his shirt sleeve, pulling him back down on the narrow bed.

"Hold me." He put his arms around me and I could smell the odours from the bar and restaurant; cigarette smoke, garlic and Patrick's own meaty smell. After a while he kissed me on the cheek and said good night. Crisp, clean sheets and a bed all to myself. I wasn't sure how I felt; but my anger had gone and I'd done enough crying. I slept.

Seeing Marco in the restaurant, this evening was a bit of a shock. I should have thought more about the chances of seeing him, but I didn't really want to think about him. I thought he'd moved away. Seeing him again brought everything flooding back. How bad it was when he left me, but also how good it was that day, how needed I felt. I'm feeling very confused, but if I'm honest with myself, I'm happier now than I've ever been in my life and I don't need Marco fucking things up again. Things could have been good with him; he was such a gentle man, a passionate man, but ultimately a spineless one. Mind you I did enjoy seeing the helpless desire in his eyes tonight. Maybe it was vanity, or just ego, but I'm sure there was something there.

Jake and I finish our meal and decide to head on back to the villa; leaving Uncle Robert to have a nightcap with Patrick. We stumble and stagger a bit up the hill from the town, but the moon is pretty much full so we can see quite clearly. The warm night air is fresh and my head is less befuddled; caused by both the wine and my encounter with Marco. I hold onto Jake's hand tightly as I lead the way back to my favourite place in all the world. 

When I was a little kid I used to imagine that I really was Robert and Martin's son, but because they were two men they couldn't look after me. So they gave me to my parents, with the promise that they let me visit them each summer. What a vivid imagination. Sometimes I would daydream that my parents both died and I had to go and live with Robert and Martin, and I tried to imagine what that would be like. I knew they didn't live in the villa all the time, but they lived 'near London'. I pictured London as being full of big red buses and black taxis, but that didn't really help. I knew that Martin was really kind, and was really good at explaining things and took me to all kinds of interesting places -- my father never took me anywhere. 

'Let's sit out and look at the stars for a while,' Jake says, pulling me down next to him on the wooden steps leading up to the verandah at the front of the villa. We sit in companionable silence, our bodies squashed up close. Jake puts his arm around my shoulders. I feel the strength in him and feel safe, reassured, comforted. We look up at the clear night sky and across to the lights from the town. A few odd noises reach us; a car horn, a shout, a dog barking; but it all seems very far away.

'This place is really important to you, isn't it?' Jake asks, nuzzling his head against mine.

'Yeah. I really love it here. I love you.' I didn't know I was going to say that. It just came out. And before I have time to say something like "You don't have to say it back" or "I'll understand if you don't feel the same", Jake says;

'And I love you.' His voice is so steady and so firm I know he means it. We kiss and then lie back on the verandah, staring straight up at the night sky. I can hear and feel my heart thumping loudly in my chest. I have a sense of this moment being the real beginning of my life. Time to start again, what's gone before has gone.

'I've never said that to anyone before,' I confess.

'Me neither. Except to my mum.' I can't help but smile; he is so sweet. And I've certainly not said that to my mother. Jake turns his head and whispers, his breath hot and loud in my ear;

'As romantic as lying here is -- I am getting a bit chilly. How about we go inside for some rampant sex?' He props himself up on one elbow and looks down at me, smiling wickedly. My Jake -- he's very sweet but shameless.

Chapter Five Christmas Dinner

Jake's mum

I do like Christmas! Definitely a time to have your family around you. Jake's such a good boy; he usually manages to be home for Christmas. I say 'home' but I suppose he thinks of Manchester as his home now, especially since he's going to be moving in with his friend Leo. Living alone does get you down sometimes; I'm lucky to have Sandra living just down the road, but I guess she'll be busy now with the baby. I hope she lets me look after him sometimes, to give her a break. I wonder if she's planning on going back to work? Don't suppose Bob will be keen.

Bob is a good husband to her, what they used to call 'a good provider', but a woman needs more than money; she needs understanding and support, especially when you've just had a baby. I remember when I had Jake -- I was so tired -- the house was a complete mess and I was so scared in case I couldn't look after him properly! I was a bit more relaxed when I had Sandra; poor Jake was my guinea-pig! Ross was a good father to them both. He worked long hours at the bank, but always helped with looking after them and was no stranger to the hoover! He was a good man. I always miss him more at this time of year -- I suppose that's the same for everyone who's lost a loved one. Christmas was such a magical time when the children were little. We were lucky that Ross's job was well paid, so they never went short.

Christmas Dinner this year was lovely! Such a lot of work but it's worth it. Sprouts from the garden, home-grown spuds as well -- mustn't forget the parsnips -- they were always Ross's favourite. And the ritual of eating the crispy, crunchy bacon that's been across the turkey breast to protect it; when Jake and Sandra were kids they'd always come rushing into the kitchen, abandoning presents, to have some of that bacon. The turkey turned out just right this time, it's easy to overcook them. Jake was a great help with all the cooking. It's lovely to see him so at ease in the kitchen. And he insisted on bringing the wine. There's lots of leftovers to be eaten cold. All the ingredients for Jake's favourite sandwich; cold turkey, cold sausage cake, lettuce and mayonnaise. Although I can't imagine being hungry enough to eat anything else today. I expect Bob will be up to it though; I've never seen a man eat so much! I hope the baby doesn't inherit his figure! 

I wonder if Jake has thought about children? But I expect he has enough of them at school. I bet he's a really good teacher; I always thought he would end up doing something like that. He was always so kind to the other little kids when he was at primary school, explaining things to them, playing with them and making sure they weren't left out of the big kids' games. He was such a sweet little boy -- when he started school his hair was white blond, long and naturally in ringlets! He was quite often mistaken for a girl by people who didn't know him -- but at school they just knew that he was Jake with the long hair. He was such a one for reading; he always had a book with him. There he'd be -- sat on the floor in Debenhams reading his book while Sandra and I shopped for clothes! 

I wasn't really surprised when he told me that he was moving in with Leo and that Leo was his boyfriend. He asked me if I was upset or angry but I'm just glad he's got someone to love him. I've often wondered whether he was gay; they do say a mother knows these things. Certainly he never really took to any of the girls he went out with. Sandra seemed a bit surprised though and poor Bob will take a while to get used to the idea. He's pretty typical of people round here -- not terribly open-minded or tolerant. Jake and Bob don't really know each other either, which doesn't help. Jake was away at college when he and Sandra started going out. He was at their wedding though . . . he must have been doing his training then I think. He came home for the weekend. Of course -- he gave Sandra away! Must have been odd for him; doing what his dad was meant to do, and so soon after he'd died. Poor Ross, he was so looking forward to giving our little girl away. But that fell to Jake in the end; giving his sister away to a bloke he'd never met before. I wonder how he felt about that. He didn't say much at the time and I thought he was just letting his sister have the limelight; but looking back I think he must have been sorting things out in his head, getting used to things.

It worries me that he went through a hard time; not having his dad to talk to. And us all being busy with the wedding and Ross's death. Strange how innocuous things return to haunt you. I've just remembered some bank colleague's words at the funeral. He kissed me and Sandra on the cheek and shook hands with Jake, catching hold of his arm also and said something like "Looks like you'll have to be the man of the family now, Jake." I thought at the time it was a particularly fatuous thing to say and noticed how stricken Jake looked at this remark. I was a bit surprised at Jake's reaction, but thought no more about it. It's just the sort stupid remark that can have an effect I would think though, if you were trying to make sense of your feelings. He does seem to have come through it all fine. He looks tanned and healthy and so happy. He had a photo of Leo in his wallet that he showed us. He's certainly a very good looking young man. Jake seems to be more self-confident and at ease with himself; something I realise now, that he's not really been before.

Where's my coffee? I'll just have a nip of brandy in it, and sit here whilst Jake and Sandra do the washing up. Bob's taken the baby out in the pram to try to settle it. I could tell that he didn't quite feel right about it; but Sandra put her foot down and he was given no choice. Whilst it's quiet in here I might just close my eyes for five minutes.

Sandra

Mum certainly knows how to cook a Christmas dinner. Everything was so good. It was nice of Jake to lend a hand as well. I suppose next year I might have to cook dinner -- and invite her over. The baby will be that much older then so I'll have no excuse. Bob's mum's got his sisters to fuss over her -- so she'll be alright. I wonder if Jake will come home for Christmas next year -- I expect he'll want to be with Leo. I'm glad Jake's found someone -- I didn't like to think of him living in a big city all by himself. Wait until I tell Dulcie he's actually gay. We discussed the possibility for ages after my wedding -- but he didn't seem gay -- so we put the whole 'Adam' episode down to his being drunk.

Dulcie has been my best friend since primary school and so, quite naturally,was the Matron of Honour at my wedding. Bob's Best Man was already married, so Dulcie was paired off with Jake, much to her delight. Jake had to give me away as poor dad had not lived long enough, dying about three months earlier. He'd made some notes for his 'Father of the Bride' speech, which Jake completed and read at the reception. Poor Jake - the whole wedding was a trial for him, especially reading the speech -- his voice cracked a few times. Dad had been determined though that the wedding should go ahead whatever happened to him, so had made preparations. So Jake gave me away and did all the things that dad should have done.

Dulcie had always liked Jake, and saw this as her last opportunity, and hatched a plan with her brother, Adam, who was a waiter at the hotel where we were holding the reception. He had arranged for her to have use one of the vacant hotel staff bedrooms. Every time I saw Dulcie that evening she was draped all over an increasingly drunken Jake and the last time I saw them they were slow dancing, pressed very close together, and Dulcie winked at me over his shoulder. Poor boy - he was like a lamb to the slaughter -- once Dulcie sets her heart on something she's very determined. But I didn't find out though what had actually happened that night until after our honeymoon. I was so excited to see Dulcie; Bob didn't mind -- he thought it was 'women's stuff' to do with the honeymoon; whereas I really wanted to know whether Dulcie had had her wicked way with my poor defenceless brother. 

She told me that she'd had no problem in persuading him to go up to the bedroom - so Dulcie had been looking forward to her night of passion. But Jake seemed to change his mind once they'd started kissing and they spent some time just talking, while Dulcie was thinking what to do next. Then her brother Adam came in, on some pretext or other, brandishing a bottle of pink champagne. He opened it, offered it round and joined their conversation, the three of them sat on the bed. Jake seemed to perk up somewhat at Adam's arrival. Adam was only 17, a good four years younger than Jake, but tall and blond, whereas Dulcie took after their dad, and was short and squat. Adam and Jake were talking 'geek' stuff and poor Dulcie was beginning to feel edged out. She was furiously dropping hints to Adam for him to go away, but to no avail. A sudden lull in their intense Dungeons and Dragons conversation was caused by Adam's hand on Jake's leg and then they were kissing. Poor Dulcie was gobsmacked -- I would so have loved to have been there to see the look on her face! And by this time it was too late for her back up plan - one of Bob's cousins. 

It turned out that Adam had only agreed to let Dulcie use the room because Adam also had his sights set on Jake. He'd had his suspicions and decided to put them to the test. There was no escape for Jake -- with both the Chilcott siblings after him. Dulcie begged and pleaded with Adam to tell her how far he and Jake went. But he was the soul of discretion -- which I rather admired him for -- although I too was curious about him and my brother.

I see Adam sometimes in town. He's so obviously gay; very effeminate and camp, so unlike how Jake is. He's still working at the same hotel; but he's looking to move to Bristol, somewhere bigger. I don't know why he just doesn't go the whole hog and move to London -- but he says it would be too big. There aren't any gay clubs in town and he goes up to Bristol for the night life anyway so he's getting to know people up there. Sometimes I wish we could move away, but Bob's family are still all here and my mum is; and now with the baby to think of, it looks like we'll be stuck here. 

Washing up with Jake, like we used to do as kids. This time I'm washing and he's drying; we used to argue for ages whose turn it was to wash. Jake was always so methodical about washing up, he took so long and I would be wanting to be off. I wonder if my kids will be like us two: we use to argue a lot, but not seriously, just bickering really. We didn't really have much to do with each other at school -- Jake being three years older. He always had his nose in a book on the bus home and quite often I was the one who made sure he wasn't picked on. I was always surrounded by a big group of mates, whereas Jake was usually off by him self somewhere. So different.

I met Bob while I was still at school -- just before my A levels -- so there were quite a few disagreements with mum and dad about me going out when they thought I should have been revising. I decided not to try for university, there wasn't anything I really wanted to study anyway. I'd met Bob and didn't want to leave home. I got a job working in the local cinema. I loved it -- it's a traditional old-fashioned cinema -- where usherettes still show you to a seat, and sell ice-cream halfway through the film. I'd always loved films and now I could watch them all day and be paid for it. There are two screens, so there were two films to watch each week. 




Love Is A Darkened Alleyway



Love is a darkened alleyway

"I'm thinking about giving you a blowjob." I whisper almost meekly into your ear when you ask what I was thinking about. I immediately blush a deep crimson, shocked I could say something so bold, wondering if any of the other people passing us by heard me. You smile broadly and order me to describe it in detail.

We are walking toward your parked park after a movie, arms wrapped around each other tightly. We are lightly brushed on either side by the other people leaving the theatre, but we don't see them, it is as if we are in our own world. I could be whispering sweet endearments in your ear for all they know. But instead I hiss a secret wish I want to have fulfilled.

"We would be walking down the street like we are doing now and I would suddenly have an incredible, uncontrollable urge to suck you." I whisper, breath hot and moist against your ear. "I'd push you into an alleyway and kiss you, while my hands undo your pants. I'd slide down your body, my tits rubbing your chest, stomach and legs as I go down, but I'm always staring into your eyes, my mouth slightly open."

"I'd gently pull your cock out, it would already hard, and I'd slide it into my mouth, sucking and licking just the tip. I'd slide my hand into your pants and look for your balls. I'd find them start to gently rub and squeeze. My tits would be rubbing against your leg and my blouse buttons would come undone; the tops of my breasts rubbing against the stiff material of your pants."

"I'd take more of your cock into my mouth, delicious inch by swollen delicious inch, running my tongue all along the sides, and rubbing the underside with a bit more pressure, just the way you like. I'd be able to almost feel the head your cock against the back of my throat, and I'd pull off in long strokes, my mouth making soft sucking sounds." "Some people would pass in the entranceway of the alley and they would see us, see me on my knees with your cock in my mouth, but I wouldn't and don't care. I could hear them whisper "slut" but I wouldn't care, all I'd want is for you to come in my mouth."

"I'd pull my hand out of your pants and wrap it around the base of your cock and start rubbing, trying to pull more of your cock into my mouth, and my other hand I'd slide under my skirt. I'd slide my finger along the edge of the crotch of my panties, pushing the satiny material aside, my mouth never leaving your cock, sucking so hard. I'd push aside the crotch of my red satin panties and start rubbing my clit, it would be so hard and I'd be so wet."

"We would both be so distracted that we don't notice a man approach. I would notice finally and look at you as if to ask 'what do you want me to do?'"

You tighten an arm around my waist, your hand brushing the underside of my breast slyly. You like the story so far, but you say now it's your turn. You start to whisper in my ear, warm wet breath like a serpent's kiss. You say to me: "As the man approaches you'd get off your knees turn around and lift your skirt up, press your ass into my dick. You'd moan as your rub your soaking wet slit up and down my fat cock head. I'd slap your ass and ask you 'Do you want it in your cunt bitch?' And you would moan 'Yes please!'"

I laugh a little at how this story is turning out with your participation, how harsh and suddenly violent it has become; an embarrassed laugh that covers up a moan of secret pleasure. I think to myself for a split second how wonderful it would be if we came upon just such a darkened alleyway right now. Would I actually do what I described? Would you? The possibility makes me throb. You laugh too, a low and gravelly sound that makes me want you more, but also makes me afraid of you, that evil part of you I want so much but want to protect myself against as well. You lick my neck as we walk, my knees get weak and you support me in your arm. You continue your part of the story.

You continue: "If you want it into your cunt you have to blow this man. You moan like a whore and beckon him forward as you unzip his fly I slip into your soaking cunt right to the balls…" You snatch my mouth with yours, a long probing kiss. I feel you getting hard against my thigh, and your mouth moves down my chin, my neck. I breathe heavily into your ear more of the story…

"You slide your cock deep and hard into me, and I bend over to pull the stranger's cock out of his pants. He's huge and so very hard. I gasp in astonishment and you hear me, make note of my reaction, planning to punish me for it later." I can feel you smile against my neck at that detail, and it makes me shiver.

"I struggle to get his enormous cock in my mouth and keep my balance as you pound into my cunt, my knees are shaking. With every thrust you push my body forward and I get more of the stranger's cock pushed into my mouth and throat until I almost gag. I hear you grunting and moaning and I know you are about to cum. I push back against you, taking all of you in, I want to feel you explode deep inside, shooting all of your cum into my cunt." The crowd has thinned a bit, and in the darkness you slide a hand along my inner thigh. I search our surroundings for a dark corner, an abandoned doorway, anything, anywhere we could go to be alone, anonymous, hidden.

Between soft moans I try to finish the story. "You grab a handful of my hair and pull towards you sharply, I grunt in pain and the stranger shoots cum down my open throat. It's so much I can't keep up, I try to swallow put it comes dribbling out of my mouth and down my chin." You lick my mouth when I say this, as if what I described was really there. I hear you groan against my cheek. "Your cock is pumping out into me," I continue "and you slap my ass cheek again and pant against my back 'my juicy little whore'. I cum and you feel by tight cunt pulse around your cock. I let go of the stranger's cock, wipe a bit of cum off my cheek and chin. He pushes it back into his pants, nods to you and smiles at me, zipping up. He tasted so good. He walks back out onto the street leaving us alone in the alley."

You laugh again against my neck, your breath sending an electric shock through me. I like that, you whisper, I'm going to call you that from now on, my juicy little whore. I rake my fingers through your hair. I can see your car just up ahead and quicken my step, pulling you along. Finish the story baby, you say, and in a breathless rush I do.

"You are still a bit angry over my being impressed with the stranger's size though. Your fist is still tangled in my hair and you pull me up to face you. 'You liked that cock in your mouth, eh slut? Was he bigger than me?' you ask. I don't answer but I smile, and you are livid. You push me in the direction of some wooden crates and bend me over them, lifting my skirt to my waist. I can feel the cool air on my wet throbbing cunt. I hear you undo your belt and slide it out of the belt loops. It cracks sharply in the air when you flick it."

You suddenly look at me, a bit startled. This is new to you, this secret desire of mine, it makes you a bit afraid, I can see it in your eyes. You kiss me softly, as if you want to tell me that you would never do that to me, this kind of violence would never happen between us. Oh but I want it to, how I've dreamt of it so many times. To speak the words I hope to incant them into reality.

I stare intently into your eyes and continue. "The belt rises and falls repeatedly on my ever-reddening ass. I beg you to stop but the only reply you give is 'you asked for it bitch.' Again and again the belt falls on my flesh, the hard sharp slap of leather on my skin the only sound in the alleyway, that and your grunts of effort, my cries of pain. Tears are streaming down my face; my fingernails are digging into the wood of the crates. But with every slap of the belt, the harder my cunt throbs and my body shakes with pleasure."

A brief look of fear crosses your face, replaced by the unmistakable softening of desire. You are breathing heavily and urgently. This is the moment you finally realize who I really am. I know you want to run, but your lust has you firmly planted in place. You want to hear the end of this scenario, how I have imagined us together.

"Finally you stop, you are panting heavily and a bit sweaty. I remain bent over the crates whimpering softly as you slide your belt back into place. I notice that it is now very dark, time seems to have escaped me. Have I been here with you a few minutes or hours? You walk over to me and admire your work on my ass, red welts rising and stinging on my skin. You rub my ass and I cry out in shock at the unexpected touch. 'Shhh,' you say softly in my ear, your finger sliding slowly in and out of my steaming cunt. 'you know you love it, and you know I'm the only one who can do it to you like that. I'm the only one you want to do that to you, isn't it? You love it don't you?'

I nuzzle into your neck, my hand sliding under your shirt and spread across your chest over your thudding heart. I whisper softly, to myself, to you, to the gods that are always listening, envious: "And I do, oh god help me I do..." 

But this is not the end of the story. It is merely the beginning of a new one. 



Love is a Deep Cavern



A seagull lands atop the dive boat railing as sunrays sparkle intensely, reflecting off of small, intermittent puddles. "You two ready for the dive of your lives?" asks Drake, our long-time friend and old, bearded scuba instructor. "There's nothing more to teach you. I've taught you everything I know over the last three years. This dive is all yours. If you get into trouble, follow the drills. And if you're really in trouble, just surface and we'll decompress you if we have to. But let's not hope in failure, eh? Let's hope for the best. You should be fine. I've sent about three thousand couples down to the cave so far and not one couple has failed to return unharmed. Oh! Except for that one lady the sharks ate. You'll be fine. Ready?"

"What?" asks Trish, now staring at me, overcome with horror.

"I'm just giving you two a hard time," jokes Drake. "No one got eaten by a shark. Not yet anyway." We look at each other, unsure of the truth of his teasing and Drake bursts out laughing when he sees our faces, white and terrified.

"You're a real funny guy, you know that Drake?" says Trish sarcastically, splashing water at his dry button-up shirt and khaki shorts. "You shouldn't say things like that. It's bad luck. Besides, you're scaring the hell out of me!"

Drake chuckles before picking up some navigation maps and checking our feed lines. I feel ready but Trish looks horrified. I am starting to hope that she doesn't back out after Drake's joke.

I have more experience than her: about a year's worth more. I met Trish in Thailand during a scuba course I was taking. She was having a beer with some friends at a restaurant after an archaeology excavation she was conducting. I had to approach her when I heard her accent. I'd recognize an Australian accent anywhere; and hers is as thick as mud. I'm from New Zealand and the difference in our accents is slight but it was enough for me to decipher. We talked for a bit before exchanging our contact information. She called me a month later and I met her in Australia. We hit it off immediately, eventually dating and getting more serious.

We dated for two years and seven months before I asked her to marry me; and now it's the second day of our honeymoon and we're cave-diving off of the coast of Italy.

"Greg, Drake's just playing with us, right?" asks Trish. "Please tell me there are no sharks down there."

"It's the ocean, babe. Sharks live in the ocean. You have your knife on you. If we see sharks, we'll just have to stay calm and think it through, alright? Just remember what you learned and don't panic. I've done this a thousand times. I've been close to sharks before. We'll be fine. Do you believe me?" I ask, trying to comfort her as she checks her pocket to ensure her knife is there.

"It's our honeymoon. I can't let myself be scared. Are you ready?" asks Trish, pushing aside her fears.

"Let's do this!" I yell.

"Let's do this!" yells Trish and we quickly hold hands before we jump off of the railing and into the frigid water. We pause for a while, getting used to the temperature before diving below the surface.

The view is breathtaking already and we're only twenty feet below the surface. We can see the sun shining through the water and the retreating scene of the wave-blurred dive boat. Schools of fish swim past us in a flurry, surrounding us on all sides. We can feel their slimy, scaly bodies brush against us as they clash clumsily into our dive suits. I begin to breathe heavily, startled by the fish but remind myself to conserve air.

"This is incredible!" says Trish. "Look at all of these fish. They're beautiful. Look at all of their colours! It's just a blur of blue and yellow and green. I could just stay here forever."

"I know what you mean, Trish. This is why we do this, for the beauty, to see what few people ever get to see. We should keep going down. Keep checking your watch and I'll keep checking mine. Let's keep each other accountable."

"Roger that," jokes Trish as she looks around in awe and wonder at the majesty of the ocean. We continue diving, checking our watches and tanks periodically. After twenty minutes of straight descent we notice the colour of the water darken considerably.

"It's getting dark down here, isn't it?" I say as I turn my underwater flashlight on. We can see small schools of fish scurrying off from the light.

"Look! It's an octopus!" yells Trish, pointing with her fingers at the flashlight-illuminated, eight-tentacle creature in the distance.

"I see it. Let's swim away from it. Beautiful, isn't it?" I comment, amazed at the octopus.

Trish turns her light on and joins me. We hold hands, my right with her left and we hold our flashlights with our free hands while flutter kicking ourselves lower and lower.

"There it is! I see the cave," I yell.

"Oh, wow! I see it too," yells Trish as a giant turtle swims past us, narrowly missing our heads.

We continue diving down toward the sea-green glow of the underwater cavern. Our flashlights flicker slightly as the light is lost and found again in the cracks of the rock-walled cavern.

"I've never seen anything so beautiful in all of my life," says Trish. "This is ten times better than I imagined! How are you doing over there, Greg?"

I check my tank gauge. "I'm breathing too much, too often. I think I'm too excited. How are you doing, Trish?"

"Same. Too much, too often. We better keep an eye on our breathing. Let's just focus on breathing until we reach the cavern. We should probably not talk too much."

"Good idea," I say as we continue diving toward the cavern.

I look over at Trish but notice that she's pointing across my body with her light. She's not talking so as to conserve air but I can see through her mask that she's terrified. I turn my head to the left and notice what appears to be either a Tiger or Bull shark circling just beyond a fleet of jellyfish in the distance. Trish lets go of my hand and begins to swim rapidly toward the cavern. I follow.

We swim as fast as we can, ignoring our air consumption, until we are at the cavern opening. We swim up and surface, our heads now protruding out of the water. We tread water and help each other with our tanks before removing our mouthpiece.

"That was close!" exclaims Trish, "Too close. As soon as I saw that thing circling around, I just got the hell out of there."

"Me too. I saw you pointing and all I could think of was getting to the cavern. We made it, though. We just have to hope that the shark swims off. I mean, that he doesn't wait around for us," I say, trying to catch my breath. "Oh crap! Look how much air we used. We used a lot, way too much. There's no way we have enough air to get back to the dive boat."

Trish checks her tank. "I've used a lot, too. Now what?" asks Trish, scared for our lives.

"I have an ascending, underwater flare that we can use to signal Drake that we're in trouble. He won't know why we're sending it, but if he sees it, he might dive down and bring us some more tanks. It's the best option we have," I say, trying to assure Trish that we'll be alright.

"OK. Good idea. Signal Drake and we'll wait for him down here." I re-install my mouthpiece and swim out to the cave opening. I release the ascending, underwater flare and hope like hell that Drake will notice it. I swim back to Trish, who is waiting for me in the shallow cavern water.

Trish and I swim up to the rock cavern shore and walk up on to it. "This place is amazing! Trish, look over here! It's like a private swimming pool beneath the ocean," I say, now staring at a clear pool of water about twenty feet from the rock shore. We walk over to the pool and feel the water. "It's warm, too, quite warm."

Trish and I unpack our rations and eat our horrible, dry, sour-tasting preserves before sitting down for a rest. We unpack our tanks and triple-check our gear for problems according to our training regime. After a good half of an hour, we signal Drake again, now questioning his tardiness in coming to our aid.

"Maybe Drake went to get more divers to help out," I offer. "He could come alone, he's got enough experience. But maybe he doesn't want to."

"Maybe he figures that if we got into trouble that he shouldn't come alone," begins Trish. "Maybe it's not wise for him to come alone. If he comes alone and gets into trouble, we'd all be stuck down here forever."

"I wonder if I should gear up and check around for the shark. I know it uses more air but Drake is going to bring us more air, right? So it doesn't matter if we use the air we still have left," I say, feeling the brainstorm kick in.

"I'll go with you. No sense going alone if the shark is still there," says Trish.

We gear up and head back into the cool ocean water. After reminding each other of the basics, we dive down, turn our lights on, and swim back out of the cave.

We swim out beyond the cave entrance for a few minutes and ascend a good fifty meters. "What the hell is that?" asks Trish, pointing toward her light beam. "It looks like..."

"Looks like what?" I ask, fearful and beginning to experience an adrenaline rush.

"I think it's blood!" screams Trish. We continue swimming around, trying to follow the spiralling stream of red mist. We follow the stream for a good minute before seeing a black object floating in the water.

We swim closer to the mysterious floating object, noticing it become more and more human as we approach. "Oh shit! It's Drake!" I yell. "It looks like he's unconscious!"

Trish swims up on Drake's right and I swim up on his left. "Let's turn him over," I yell and we struggle to flip his limp body over so that we can see his face.

We flip him over: His chest is ripped apart and some of his internal organs are spilling out. Half of his face is missing: he has been eaten by a shark. He's dead. We immediately let go of him, allowing him to continue sinking deeper and deeper:

"Ahhhhhh!" "He's dead!" screams Trish. "Ahhhhhh!"

Trish begins panicking and screaming, breathing heavily with every scream.

"Don't panick! Stay calm, hun," I begin, also breathing heavily. "Try and breathe normally. I know it's not easy but we need to try to slow our breathing. If our emotions take over we'll consume all of our air." Trish calms herself and I quickly grab Drake's tank from off of his body and gather as much hose as I can. Trish and I grab what's in his suit pockets. "Trish, take this stuff with you. I'll take his body and the tank. Let's get him to the cave. We don't have enough air to make it back to the surface. We'll have to figure it out from the cave."

"No! I hate that idea!" screams Trish. "We need to surface now! Let's get the hell out of here! I'm not going back to the cave. It's a stupid idea. Let's share his tank and get to the surface. We'll use our own air until we run out. Then we'll use his. It's our best chance. Leave Drake here. He's dead."

"No! We can't just leave his body floating in the ocean. He's got family. They need to bury him properly, don't you think? And what about the shark? It could still be around," I comment.

I look around, scanning for sharks before looking at Trish, who is trying hard not to hyperventilate. "OK. Let's try and get to the surface!" I yell.

Trish and I begin to make our way to the surface using the air that we have left. I have to go slow as carrying Drake is a huge burden and is using my air very quickly. "Trish, how many feet do we have until we surface?" I ask, feeling Drake's bloody weight.

"I don't know. A lot. We're still really far down. Drake was almost at the cave when we found him."

I notice that Trish's flashlight is now shining in my face. I squint, attempting to block its glaring beam. "Shark!" yells Trish as she begins swimming downward, past me and in the direction of the cave.

I drop Drake and the tank and begin swimming rapidly behind Trish, who is now a good thirty feet ahead of me.

I turn around and look, seeing nothing but hazy blood. I continue racing after Trish but hear my tank hiss: I'm out of air. I turn back around and begin to swim toward Drake's tank so that I can get more air. I make it only about ten feet toward the tank before my flashlight illuminates the beady eyes of Drake's killer. I turn my flashlight off, hoping to draw less attention toward myself, and whip around again towards the cave.

I am able to catch up to Trish and once again we swim up into the cave and break the surface. We quickly drop our mouthpieces and hug each other. "Greg! You have blood on you. Are you alright?" asks Trish, now looking me over.

"I'm alright but I ran out of air. I tried to go back for Drake's tank but the shark was too close. I had to leave the tank there."

"You didn't get the tank?" screams Trish, terrified. "We need that tank, Greg! It's our only way to the surface!"

"It doesn't matter anyway," I say. "I noticed that Drake's tank was mostly drained. He must have tried to get away for a while before...before he was eaten."

"So we're screwed? We're stuck in this cave until we die?" panics Trish.

"Not necessarily. There's a chance that help will come. As soon as people notice that the dive boat is missing, they'll come looking for us, we hope."

"Oh, that's just perfect, Greg. You know that? That's just perfect! So, what? We just hang out here until they show up? That could be days or weeks. We'll be dead by then.

"You've got Drake's rations, right? We could eat those to keep us alive. We have enough air left to catch a fish or two, maybe eat it raw, just until help comes," I say, trying to be optimistic in the midst of total desolation.

We strip our gear down to just our dive suits and sit down. Trish and I begin to cry for Drake's loss and I try to comfort Trish despite my own anguish, holding her tightly around her upper body while we weep.

Trish begins to shiver. "We should swim in the pool to warm up. It will keep us warm," I offer. We walk over to the clear pool and tread water, warming our bodies before climbing out again. "Having to do this over and over again to stay warm is going to use too much energy," says Trish. "We can't keep doing this without food. What do we do when we run out of food? We can't just keep swimming to warm up."

I look down at the rocky cave floor in hopelessness, unsure of what to do. Trish and I sit against the rock walls of the cave for a while before needing to warm up in the pool again. After many hours of sadness and swimming, we decide to eat Drake's dry-food ration. "Now what?" asks Trish, "we've eaten all of our food."

"Just give me a minute. I'll think of something," I say as I pace back and forth in the small cave. "What if we use our knives to create sparks and then try to make a fire?" I say, getting desperate.

"It won't work," starts Trish, now searching through the stuff from Drake's pockets. Trish had placed his stuff in a small pile when we surfaced. "There's nothing useful here," says Trish, defeated. "It's all scuba stuff. There's nothing we can use to start a fire."

"One of us could go," I say, reluctantly. "You could go. You could take my tank. You could use your air until it's gone, then switch to mine. You'll still only be half way to the surface but then you could try and swim the rest of the distance by holding your breath. You might die, actually, you'd probably die, but it's hard to say, you might make it, too."

"Greg, it's our honeymoon. I can't just leave my husband here to die in a cave and then go on with the rest of my life. I'm not going. It's too risky anyway. I love you. I'm staying right here."

Trish walks over to me and hugs me. We sit on the rocky floor of the cave and play a game of tick-tack-toe in the dust with our fingers. I win. "Maybe you should go and I should stay," says Trish. "I would die for you, hun, I would."

"No! Nobody's going to die. Never give up! Isn't that your motto?" I say, trying to shake her discouragement.

Trish leans over and kisses me on the lips. I reciprocate the kiss. We begin to kiss passionately. It makes sense. We may as well enjoy each other while we're still full and energetic, before we begin to suffer and starve; and before we go crazy. There's no knowing how ugly our end could really be.

"Well, since it is our honeymoon...." Trish unzips her diving suit and lets it fall off of her shoulders, revealing her tight, black and fluorescent pink swim suit. I pull the straps of her swim suit off each shoulder and she pulls her swim suit down, allowing her full breasts to bounce out. I stare at my wife's lovely naked breasts for a moment before leaning in to kiss her again. She grabs me by the head with both hands, now sitting up on her knees and kisses me lustfully.

I begin to fondle her curvy breasts, squeezing them underneath and on the sides. She moans, dips her head to the side and kisses me on the neck with a wet, succulent kiss.

I unzip my diving suit and pull it down to waist level. We stand and quickly strip our suits off all of the way.

Trish drops her swim suit, revealing her naked vagina and tight, fit belly and legs. I drop my suit and pull down my swim trunks. My penis is shrivelled and my balls are high and hugged into my body. Trish wanders sexily over to me and reaches to hold my hand. I hold her hand and we walk over to the cavern pool. Trish jumps in and I join her. We tread water and stare lovingly at each other's naked bodies. "You're so beautiful," I say, "especially when you're dying."

"Oh, that's sweet," laughs Trish. "You look pretty hot, too, for a dying guy!"

Trish and I laugh an awkward laugh, knowing that our statements are not only funny because they're unusual, they're funny because they're true: we're both going to die in the cave.

We tread water and kiss each other simultaneously, crying and laughing; trying with a cascade of emotion to enjoy the bitter-sweet irony of our romantic and very deadly, cave-grave.

We climb out of the warm, clear pool and Trish lies on her back, her legs spread. I lie down between her legs and rest on her body. We begin to kiss wildly, devouring each other lustfully, as we make every effort to derive from our last hours the nectar of human life, the love and lust that is humanity.

I can feel Trish's breasts as they flatten against the weight of my chest and I begin to get an erection. I can feel the blood rush to my balls and hardening shaft as I kiss her again and again, savouring the image of her face and body: my wife, my friend, and my lover.

I will be the last to enjoy her beauty, I tell myself. Never again will a human soul see her as I see her now, will they know her as I know her now. I imagine the moment of her birth, now thirty-two years past, as her mother joyfully brings her baby girl into the world. Her mother will never know the end of her sweet child, the final chapter of her daughter's life; she'll never know the horror of her death, or the love, or the passion, or the romance of her daughter's bitter-sweet end. But I alone shall know this; the universe has written it in the stars and at the bottom of the ocean: That I shall know her at the end. That I shall taste both of her life and of her death, of her innocence and of her guilt; of the karmic punishment of our secret, impenitent sins.

"What? Everything alright?" asks Trish, concerned by my distraction.

"I was just thinking. I'm OK," I say. Trish tilts her chin, prompting me for more kissing. I begin to kiss her again while petting her naked body heavily, feeling her soft feminine flesh. I continue squeezing her breasts and fondling her nipples.

Trish moans before reaching down and gripping my erection with her left hand. She places it at her vaginal opening and I enter. I dip myself into her, gathering her lubrication on my swollen cock. When I am slicked with her love, I enter her forcefully, thrusting straight up. She moans and shifts her hips to a more comfortable position before I begin rhythmically making love to my new bride.




Love is a Deep Cavern



I thrust up into her erotically and tenderly, thrusting at a slow pace for a few minutes before I pause for a rest, revelling in the feeling of her warm pussy. The intense feeling of my cock within her pussy overwhelms me and I begin to increase my speed and intensity, lusting for more and more of her lovely vagina. I thrust into her, kissing her on the lips passionately until I can't take any more. I begin to ejaculate powerfully inside of her, filling her with my semen. I continue to piston my ejaculating cock in and out of her until my contractions subside before I withdraw my semen-soaked erection from her wet pussy.

"I don't want to starve to death," whispers Trish, "I want to die with you. I want to die together. What if I live longer than you or you live longer than me? It would be too hard. Do you want to drown ourselves together?" asks Trish, now crying for love and pain.

"I would do it for you, Trish," I say, now crying, "If it comes to that."

Trish and I swim in the warm water again, washing off before getting a few hours sleep on the rock cave floor. We waken and talk about life and the world, sharing the things we most want to say. She tells me about the pains of her past and about the glories she's known on earth. I tell her the same and we finally reach contentment.

We try desperately to catch fish with our knives but exhaust our air supplies quickly, after only a few hours. We had to try while our bodies still had energy.

We continue warming ourselves in the pool, in our romantic cave for a full three days before we are weak and starving. We have not had food or water for four days. We finally lie down on the cold, rock cave floor, exhausted, but manage to hold hands as we lay, staring at the ceiling, licking our parched lips. "Now?" asks Trish. "Should we do it now?" I nod silently and Trish and I slowly help each other up before walking to the pool holding hands. We stand, crying and heaving in our chests. We kiss again: a sweet, simple, I-love-you peck and we jump into the pool. We stare at each other, treading water, crying, hugging, and procrastinating before our malnourished arms quickly tire.

I see Trish rise, fill her cheeks, and hold her breath. I also fill my cheeks and we descend beneath the clear, cave water. We allow ourselves to descend to the bottom of the clear pool, a good twenty feet beneath the surface and stand on the slimy, rocky surface.

I stand on the bottom, facing Trish, and hold both of her hands in mine. She hugs me and we hold each other tightly until our natural breath expires and our bodies begin to convulse. After many horrifying moments of anguish, Trish smiles at me, a long, I'll never forget you smile, before she goes limp in my struggling arms. I fight through my own impending death, now paining every cell in my body, and kiss her on the forehead. Goodnight my sweet bride, I think. My mind begins to blacken and I feel my hands go limp. Our bodies fall, lifeless, to the clear, cave floor as our mouths open, allowing our lungs to fill with suffocating water. With spiritual strength I force my eyes to open one last time, to steal, if I may, one last visual marvel and memory of Earth; that I may gather a final glimpse of the world's most beautiful woman: my new bride, and possibly pregnant, loving wife.