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Jimmy the Love-Virus.
By John T. S. Teller.
I dedicate this novella to Mike, le Garçon Colonial. Without his help and guidance, this story would be so much the poorer, and I send loads of love and hugs to my mensch for his assistance. Jx.
Monday morning 15th July: seven-thirty. I've been up since six trying to get some work done, but, because I'm not in the right mood, I just can't get started, so I flick the optical mouse across the desk with my fingers, sit back, fold my arms behind my head and breathe out a long sigh. I hate these times, and I know most of what I've written this morning will be binned on the first edit. It's what happens when you're a successful writer and have an agent who's always giving you shit about the date the current manuscript has to be in. The PC screen shuts down to screensaver, and I'm just about to get up and draw the blinds because the early morning sun is getting in my eyes, when I see him. My lounge-cum-office is on the ground floor, overlooking a small, lawned, open-plan, front garden. My desk is by the window, overlooking it, and as I get up to drop the blinds, I see the paper boy - a typical, teenage, slouching-hoodie - walk directly across in front of the window to get to the next-door property. The cheeky, idle sod! I'm out of my chair in a flash, and by the front door before he walks away from the next-door neighbour's house.
"Oi! You! Come here!"
The boy turns. "Me mister?"
"Yes! You, boy! Come here!"
The little sod is halfway down the neighbour's drive, and he walks directly across my small, lawned, open-plan, front garden to get to `come here!'
"Wassabloodymatter? I'll tell you wassabloodymatter. There's a path there (say I, pointing to my drive) that you're supposed to use, so bloody well use it!"
It's at this point that I lose the battle. Instead of acting sheepishly and apologising, he looks me straight in the eyes, throws off his hood to reveal a shock of blonde, spiked hair, and gives me the most wonderful, incandescent smile imaginable.
What am I supposed to do now? Whack him across the face for his cheek? I can't do that, because that smile unlocks a door deep inside me, and I just mumble, "Use the bloody path," and then I slam the door, and go back inside. But, and this is the problem, I can't hide the grin that appears on my face before I slam the door shut, and he must have seen the grin, because as I'm sitting at my desk again (blinds still not dropped) and he walks back down the other side of the street, he looks straight at me, and grins and waves. The cheeky, hard-faced little bastard! I try to ignore him, but I can't, and when he goes out of view, I'm out of my chair and peering round the curtains, watching him deliver his papers, and when he reaches the corner of the street, he looks back at the window where I'm lurking, and waves again. I'm giggling to myself now, because this little kid had just beaten me all ends up, and he, and not me, the rascal, is the guilty party.
I'm still thinking about him when Debbie walks up the drive and lets herself into the house.
"Good morning Robert."
Debbie Rodgerson is my cleaner. She's a Godsend from the Social-Housing estate about a mile up the road.
It's true what they say; a man can never clean a house like a woman, and I'm useless at cleaning. I can Hoover up in a fashion, and wash dishes and that sort of stuff, and I can even do my own washing, but keeping a house clean requires more than a cat lick and a brush up: a house needs a woman, because they go together like peaches and cream. I was lucky to get her.
I've lived in this house for two years now, and I'd been here for about a year when the next-door neighbour - the one the paper lad was taking a short cut to - moved out. Debbie was their cleaner, and I was able to get her when they left. The arrangements are simple: she can come any time between 7 am and 1 pm, and do as much or as little as she wants, just so long as my house is always clean. I pay her cash in hand: £50.00 a week.
A cleaner is very much like a Personal Secretary... perhaps even more important than a PS to a twenty-six-year-old single man who lives alone in his own house. Debbie has access to my life, and all its little peculiarities. She's even privy to my boudoir. I'm still shagging when I can, (although I'm bisexual, and it's been all girls since I've moved in here) but I don't have a special relationship. Debbie takes it all in her stride. In her time, she's washed knickers and soiled bed sheets and mucky underpants and disposed of tampons and French letters without even a murmur of disapproval. And she's completely trustworthy. I can leave my wallet about anywhere, and all she'll do is tell me off for being so trusting. Well, that's how it was in the beginning. After she'd been here a while, I told her that if she ever needed any extra cash, she could just take it from my wallet and accept it as a gift, and then I didn't have any need not to trust her. I think it was that which sealed our relationship, and changed it from one of cleaner to surrogate mother/sister. Whatever, she never did take any money from my wallet, but at special times of the year, I slip her an extra £100.00 in the envelope that that contains her wages - which I always leave on my dresser on a Friday - and she gets £200.00 at Christmas. She never thanks me for the extra money. It's an unspoken thing between us. Instead, she'll make me a steak and kidney pie or bring me a bag of fruit or other stuff, which, she says, `has fallen off the back of a lorry and I'm to ask no questions'. We both know we're getting a bargain. I have a great cleaner-cum-carer, and she has a boss who appreciates her.
She's in the laundry room when I shout her. "Hey, Debbie, who's the lad who delivers papers here? Do you know him? (I don't get an immediate answer.) Can you hear me?"
The washer kicks in, and then she walks into the lounge, so I swivel round and look at her for a reply. She's dressed in the same stuff she always comes in; probably what she's bought at Help The Aged, or Cancer Research, down on the high street, or `has fallen off the back of a lorry and I'm to ask no questions'. She's stout-ish, and her brown, curly hair, tinged with ginger highlights, leaves no room for ambiguity about what she is: a Social-Housing dweller, but also a mum who'll do whatever she has to do so her kids can have some food in their bellies, and a few decent clothes, while the father (or fathers) of her children pisses his state-benefit money away. Salt of the earth is my Debbie.
"You mean Jimmy?"
"I don't know what his name is. That's why I'm asking you."
"Why do you want to know? What's the young bugger done now?"
"He took a short cut across the lawn this morning, so I gave him a rollicking."
Debbie grins. "That's Jimmy. He's always in trouble, but he's a grand lad. He's in the same class as my Sam. They're best mates. He stops overnight at our house, and Sam stops at his house sometimes."
"How old is he?"
"Sixteen; same as my Sam. Sam's birthday was last week, the 7th, as you know, and Jimmy's was the 9th. They're going to 6th form college together in September. They could be twins, them pair of buggers. His mother's Angela Turner who works at the Tesco shop in Allenby Road stocking shelves. They live in the next street to me: 10 Briary Road. They're a bad luck family though. Angela's married to Duncan Turner who killed a bloke outside the Wagon and Horses about four years ago. He went down for life, and then about a year later, their daughter, poor little Jade, caught meningitis and died. She was only seven."
I'm humbled. "That's awful. I feel guilty now."
"Shouting at him."
"Don't be daft! The bugger needs to learn not to walk where he shouldn't. He'll be at my place when he comes out of school. I'll tell him off myself."
"No, don't do that. He might be a rogue, but at least he gets out of bed and does a paper round every morning. He's a cheeky little sod though. When he went back down the other side of the street, he was grinning from ear to ear. He looked like a cat that had just swallowed the cream. I think he enjoyed winding me up."
Debbie lets out a strange little giggle. "He probably had. Yes, he does work hard. He takes after his mother for that. She hasn't sat on her arse feeling sorry for herself. Paula works at a stall in the market on Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturday mornings for a bit of cash-in-hand, and she does a late-night eight till eleven shift at Tesco stocking shelves four times a week just so she can keep off the dole. Jimmy does his paper round, and he helps out on the market stall on Saturday morning. And he turns all his money up to his mother. How many lads would do that nowadays?"
"Not many. Is it just the two of them now, then?"
"Yes. Angela won't divorce Duncan."
"How did that lot happen?"
"The murder? (I nod.) The bloke Duncan killed was his mate. They got in an argument over something, and Duncan bashed him on the head with a house brick until he was dead. The bloke was only twenty-six. Duncan went dumb in court, but he admitted the murder. Bloody drink! It's always bloody drink that causes the problems."
"Jimmy doesn't look sixteen. I certainly wouldn't have put him at your Sam's age. I would have said he was fourteen at the most."
"Yes, he does look young. It's only when the idiots try it on with him that they discover he's the wrong one to pick on."
"He can look after himself then?"
"He's a `Turner', and if you've got a brain in your head, you don't pick on a Turner. When do you get back from Bristol?"
"Wednesday. Late. I've got a book signing at ten on Tuesday morning in Bristol, and another at ten in Worcester on Wednesday, and a radio interview in the afternoon."
The conversation is over. We understand each other, and Debbie returns to her chores. I don't question her further about the paper lad, having wasted enough time as it is, and I have a bastard of an agent to keep happy, so I get back to my writing. Before I start, I remember what Debbie had told me; that Jimmy lived at 10 Briary Road, so I add it to Debbie's details on my PC. I don't know why I've done it, but it might come in handy one day.
At four, my taxi arrives, and Akhtar drives me to the railway station. I'd considered driving to Bristol, but the pressure of work meant that it would be time wasted when I could be working whilst travelling, and a first-class ticket would buy me valuable time to get this latest book back on track if I worked on the way down there.
As soon as the train pulls out of the station, I have my laptop open and ready, but I just can't get into it. Every time I try to write something, my mind wanders to the paper lad who upset my early morning routine. Emotionally, the smile he gave me has knocked me for six, and I'm not sure whether to laugh, or curse. So, I switch off the laptop, and settle back in my seat to do some serious self-introspection.
What's my problem? I enjoy sex with guys, and when I was at university, I had a number of sexual liaisons with my fellow students. There was never anything serious about them... just sexual gratification. And now, a sixteen-year-old that I know I fancy has entered the scene, but, for some reason, he's different from all the others. Why? Is it because he's so young looking? Well, he's old enough. The law of the land says that at sixteen, he is. But he doesn't look sixteen. If Debs hadn't told me his age, I would have guessed him to be no older than fourteen. Fundamentally, I'm a pretty moral person, so perhaps that's my problem? But there's also something else... I'm getting emotionally involved, and that's a new one on me. How emotionally involved am I? Well, the fact that I can't get him out of my head is proof that he's more than a potential, casual, sexual encounter. Why did he give me that special smile? And it was a special smile. I just know it was. But I'm even more puzzled, because the kid doesn't even know me. We've never met before, although I've probably seen him a few times when he's been delivering the paper. This is strange, and I need to get to the bottom of it. In fact, right now, I'm not too happy, because I want to be back at home near my paper boy. I want to see him again, and I definitely want to be in bed with him and his beautiful smile. I can see his face now: the flashing white teeth set in an open, sultry sort of mouth, his pert nose under wonderful, wide, blue eyes, and a nicely shaped head topped with spiked blonde hair. He's gorgeous.
Wednesday. 15th July.
I'm tired when Akhtar drops me off at seven in the evening, but I'm elated to be home, because I know my paper boy is now, probably, no more than a short walk from where I am. I even consider getting the car out and going for a run around the Social-Housing estate where he lives just to see if I can catch a glance of him. Then I have a better idea. Debs said he stopped at her house sometimes. I wonder if he's there now? I'll ring Debbie and see if he is. I can think of an excuse for ringing without making it obvious that I need to know about Jimmy, so I pick up the phone and ring her. Her daughter, Pauline, answers. "Hi, Pauline. Is your mum there?"
"Hi, Rob" she giggles. "I'll get her for you."
Debs comes to the phone. "Hello Rob. You're back then?"
"Yes. Can you do me a favour? I need some A4 inkjet paper. Any chance you can pick me some up on your way here tomorrow?"
"How much do you need? I think Sam's got some in his room. Shall I ask him?"
"I need about a dozen sheets to get by. I've got a couple of letters to write, and then, if you don't mind, you can post them for me on your way home tomorrow."
"Just a minute, Rob. (I hear her yelling to Sam to come to the phone.) Have a word with Sam. He's here now."
Sam comes on the phone. "Hi, Rob. What can I do for you?"
"I need a dozen sheets of A4 inkjet paper first thing in the morning. Have you got any?"
"No, I haven't, but my mate Jimmy has, I think. I'll go round and ask him, and get back to you. Do you want them tonight?"
"No, it's ok. I don't want to put you to that much bother."
"It's no bother. Honest. I'll go round there now, and if he's got some, I'll come over and drop it off."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. If he hasn't got any, they sell it at the Late-Shop, so I'll get some from there, and we'll bring it over. I'll see you in about half an hour. Is that ok?"
"That's brilliant, Sam. Thanks a lot. I'll see you in a while. If that Jimmy is my paper boy, tell him not to walk across my lawn."
Sam laughs. "Ok. I'll tell him. See you soon."
`We'll bring it over'. That means Jimmy will be coming with him. This has worked out better than I thought. What shall I do when they get here? I'll invite them in for a coffee... or something. I need to compose myself. This young lad is doing things to me that nobody has ever done before, and I'm as nervous a schoolboy on his first date. Suppose I've been wrong all along, and he isn't interested in me? What will I do then? Probably kick my own arse for being so bloody stupid. All this worrying and plotting has been done purely on the basis of one smile. Perhaps he smiles at everybody like that? I'll soon know.
Two brandies later, the front doorbell goes, and I compose myself before opening it. Sam is standing with the sheaf of paper in his hands, and Jimmy is standing behind him. "Thanks, Sam, you're a gem. What do I owe you?"
"Nothing. Jimmy had got some, so we brought that."
I look at Jimmy, and he's smiling, shyly. "Would you guys like to come in for a coffee? I'm just about to make one."
Sam turns to Jimmy. "Fancy a coffee, Jimmy? (Jimmy grins, and nods.) That would be great, Rob, if it's no trouble. Come on Jim."
I stand aside, and allow the two lads to enter, and then close the door after them. Sam has been here a number of times and knows his way into the kitchen, and Jimmy follows him. I can't take my eyes off his small friend as I walk behind him. He's wearing blue jeans and unlaced trainers and the same grey hoody he was wearing when he walked across my lawn, but with the hood down now, and his hands are in his jacket pockets, which pulls the thin fabric jacket tight to his body, emphasising the curves of his lovely, shapely buttocks. When we get to the kitchen/diner, I wave to the table, inviting them to take a seat, and then with my back to them, switch on the coffee percolator. Sam is the first to speak.
"How did the trip go, Rob?"
"It was ok. (I turn my head to him, and grin.) It gives me a chance to get away from your mother for a couple of days."
Sam laughs. "I know what you mean. I go round Jimmy's when I get fed up of her. She's forever nagging me about something, isn't she Jim?"
I hear Jimmy giggle, but he says nothing. He seems to be tongue-tied. So am I as far as he's concerned. I desperately want to talk to him, but I'm too nervous. I can't help it, and considering that I've spent almost three days mooning over him, and have even plotted to get him here now, it's stupid. I've never had problems chatting up the ladies, or the men, before, but now I have. Even when I've made the coffee and placed the tray on the table, I still can't bring myself to make direct contact with him, and almost all the conversation is between Sam and me, with just the occasional shy comment from Jimmy. Only once do our eyes meet, before he quickly drops his gaze, but, again I see the same intriguing eye contact that attracted me to him in the first place. It was fleeting, but it was definitely there. After coffee, the lads leave, and I'm almost kicking myself for missing such an opportunity to get to know Jimmy better, and after I've eaten and gone to bed, my mind is in turmoil at what's going on, and it takes me ages before I go to sleep, but I don't do that before fantasizing about him when I masturbate.
Jimmy's blue eyes stare into my own as my fingers trace each soft contour of his face; and when my fingers move down to his strong neck and the well-formed muscles of his upper body, he takes a sharp intake of breath, and his full, sweet lips open when I reach the erect nipples that are sensitive to my caresses. He moans softly as I tweak them between my fingers, and then I need to explore more of him, so I go down and kiss the tender buds, and fondle the sturdy but boyish stomach, and my finger explores the innie belly-button that was once his link to the life that, these many years later, would deliver him onto my bed; to be my lover. The erect and throbbing penis that sprouts from a small bush of soft blond hair is throbbing as my lips near it, and when I slide my tongue along its length, the foreskin slides slowly off the sensitive glans, and I watch a secretion of his boyishness escape from the tube of life. I flick my tongue at it, and the sticky fluid stretches in a thin gossamer line between the tip of my tongue and the organ I so desperately want to suck, and when my fingers fondle the sac below the object of my desire, he arches his body to push the swollen member between my waiting lips, and I lower my head until it is nestled snugly in its new home of love. His hands are on the back of my head now, and he is thrusting at me. And then I feel it. The sac tightens. He begins to shudder and moan. Warm, sweet boy semen spurts deep into my throat, and I swallow every last drop of the precious nectar.
He's lying on his front now, and as my tongue slides along the length of the cleft between his small, but perfectly rounded buttocks, he draws his knees under him, and my tongue teases the tender rosebud. He pulls his buttocks wide to give me better access, and my probing tongue is his reward. But I have something better than a tongue for him, and when I know he is at my mercy, I cream him up and slip my own throbbing pole deep into the depths of his tunnel of love. He squeals with delight as it strokes the inner warmth of his being, and when my own love juices shoot deep into him, he yelps with the wonder of the sensation, and that heightens the finale of my own explosion of love.
He's in my arms now, and we kiss softly. "I love you Jimmy."
Tears flow from his gorgeous blue eyes. "I love you too, Robert."
I lie trembling, my chest heaving, gulping for air, my eyes close to tears. It hits me, like a train; for the first time in my life, I'm totally in love. It hurts, like fire. What are the chances of young Jimmy having any feelings for me?
To be continued...
Other stories on Nifty by J.T.S.Teller: Boys can be lovers, too.