Date: Tue, 8 Feb 2022 00:23:48 +0000 (UTC) From: Frank Friday Subject: Day Tripper - Chapter One Day Tripper A story set in North West England, in the town where I was born. Chapter One February, 2020: a reconstruction "Too easy." You often hear that phrase used carelessly. People say it with a smile -- as if not having to try is somehow to be embraced and cherished. And it's tempting to believe that. But too easy has its price, in the same way as too hard. Inevitably, we're careless with the `easy' thing. We don't see the value in it. Until we're without it. Too easy. My older brother used to use the phrase a lot. Probably still does. ---------------------------------------- There's a walkway that separates the buildings of the Albert Dock from the River Mersey. When they did this place up, in the 80s, they tried to make it look both old-fashioned and upmarket. And I guess it worked, to some extent. People like to come here. It has a peaceful feel. You can sit on the benches alongside the cobblestones and look out across the water. A row of black-painted bollards, connected by chains, stretches along the pathway, and completes the faux-Victorian feeling. The chains themselves display a more recent history that the town planners did not intend. They are festooned with padlocks. Souvenirs of attachment, left by couples who thought the way to mark their everlasting union was to clamp a bit of metal onto street furniture. Odd symbolism. Opening a padlock might suggest setting something free, but closing it, sealing it forever, throwing the key into the river? It says `you're mine now'. Maybe there's a sinister overtone. You aren't getting free. Unless you jump in the Mersey. The drizzle is caught by the breeze that whips in from the water and becomes a spray, stinging my face and my legs. Wearing shorts in February was a stupid idea. But, it gets me attention. I've had a few opportunities this afternoon to find -- shall we say -- somewhere nice and warm, inside. And if that hadn't been my original intention in coming here, perhaps it might be a consolation. Sitting here on my own, just waiting, is pointless. He's not coming. A guy in a suit walks past for the third time, and sneaks another look. I let my eyes follow him for a moment, before losing interest. Meanwhile by the water, Persistent Ginger Guy once more breaks his pretence of admiring the architecture of Birkenhead across the bay, and looks back at me: keeping his eyes on me this time, holding me in his vision. I can see his lips open slightly and his breath become slightly deeper, as if he's trying to inhale me. Sod it. I may as well get something from this afternoon. I return Ginger's stare. Keep it very casual. Lean back -- arm along the back of the bench. Let him do the work. I let my lips spread slowly into a smile. Its all the encouragement he needs. He's straight over, extending his hand - "Hi, I'm Thomas". Thomas is taller than me -- maybe 5 foot 10 or 11. I've already checked out his arse and his chest, and its clear that he spends time at the gym. I can imagine him doing one of those soulless classes where instructions are barked over energising music by a bored trainer with a headset. He's wearing jeans and a denim jacket. Not always a successful look, but it seems Thomas can carry it off. His eyes are pale blue: cold in colour only. I get the impression others would describe him as warm, genuine. Someone that spends a lot of time trying to make everyone around him happy. I imagine that ginger stubble is kept at a certain length. He thinks it makes him look more masculine. He's right. I wish I was more into this. "Do you want to sit on my cock, Thomas?" A slight flinch, involuntary nod of the head, a step back: "Sorry -- what did you say?" "I said, do you want to sit on my lap, Thomas?" "um yeah, sure." Within seconds he's taken off his bag, adjusted his jeans, stepped over to my right side and lowered his arse down into my groin. He's allowing himself a little smile -- nervous, excited. I could hold him, support his back, steady him -- but I'm enjoying keeping him a little edgy. I keep my arm on the back of the bench as he perches there, awkwardly, not knowing what to do next. "We both know you heard what I really said, Thomas" - Except I don't allow those words to pass my lips. Thomas...Tom...Tommy... deserves some kindness. I'm sure I have some left. I pull my face into what I hope is a welcoming expression: "its nice to meet you, Tommy". He hasn't given me permission to call him that, and the fact that he winces slightly seals the deal...Tommy it is -- "shall we go and get a beer?". He nods, relieved, although somewhat reluctant to give up his place on my crotch. We stand, and he tells me he knows a place just around the corner. Yeah, okay then. I look back at this renovated, gentrified strip of land: the faux-historic cobbles, the identikit warehouse buildings, the aloof street art; the padlocks of eternity. When they did this place up, in the 80s, they tried to make it look both old-fashioned and upmarket. And I guess it worked, to some extent. But only to some extent. I wonder if there was ever a time when it wasn't all slightly tacky. Yet, it means more to me than any other place in Liverpool. Third fence from the end. Slightly left of centre. Big, brass effect padlock with a sticker of John Lennon and Paul McCartney. I know its still there, because I checked it when I arrived. The sticker has worn away, of course. And as far as symbols of eternity go, John and Paul were a lousy choice. But the joke was funny back then -- it seemed perfect at the time. Tommy is waiting anxiously -- unsure of what is causing me to loiter. He's keen for his beer, and for what I guess he hopes will follow after. I wish this didn't feel so much like a pale imitation. My own attempt at reliving past events, in this place of reconstruction. It occurs to me that I should probably tell Tommy my name. You're mine now, the padlock says. Your freedom is in the Mersey, with the key. But these rituals don't always have the effect we anticipate. I should stop coming here. There are days when jumping in the river doesn't seem like a terrible idea. ------------------------------------------------------------- February 2019: an original "Sometimes it's too easy." Callum grins and, blowing me a kiss, races into the crowd that spills out of the ferry terminal and onto the dockside. Disembarking tourists, at that moment of peak disorientation: clinging tightly to their valuables, or furiously fiddling with their phones. It is simple for him to take that confusion and turn it to his advantage. I catch glimpses of him here and there: a bright red jacket bouncing between the figures as they mill towards the river. I know he'll be moving fast, and talking faster still. And for every person that senses something untoward and moves away, there will be several that he catches. That honest, open face...that smile that rarely fails to elicit a response -- from women, from men...from anyone he chooses to turn it towards. Now he's walking beside an older couple -- I'd guess they were French, or Spanish...British people might dress this way for the restaurant, or the theatre, but not for a trip on the Mersey Ferry. She is perhaps 30, long dark hair, clutching her designer bag a little closer as they turn, reluctantly, to acknowledge Callum's presence. The guy is maybe 40, taller..a little extra weight, greying, but dark and handsome. That suit would pay our rent for a month. Of course they're wary, initially, of this strange 17 year old British boy, who is edging into their physical and psychological space, but I can see them relaxing as whatever shite Callum is spouting starts to put them at their ease. The guy is laughing just a little too much and holding Callum's eyes for longer than one might expect. She has noticed and says nothing, but purses her lips and makes a show of extracting a cigarette. Callum is there straight away: `here, let me'. As she puts away her Zippo, he brandishes the Beatles lighter he got from the market - plastic crap bearing a transfer of Liverpool's finest in their Sergeant Pepper gear. Its awful, but people love it, and more importantly it feeds the conversation. He'll be spinning some line about his Mum...our Mum...serving Paul McCartney in Asda, or our grandad being at school with Ringo Starr. It seems to work, even when people know it is nonsense. The woman laughs, and turns her feet just slightly toward him, hand moving down to her hip, which tilts forwards. Her husband hasn't moved his eyes away from Callum throughout this interchange. I can see his gaze drift towards Callum's dark curls. Occasionally his hand twitches, like he's wanting to reach out and touch. Maybe later, big guy... I could watch Callum's act all day, but I remember that, actually, that isn't why I'm here. I've agreed to be part of this plan. I have a task to perform. I tear my gaze away and I hear his words again: 'sometimes it's too easy' Not always. Getting people to look at me requires little effort. But knowing what to do after that - the unspoken question, response, counter-question that takes place -- its in the positioning of our bodies; how we use our movement, our gaze, our expression. A conversation can happen without a word being spoken. As I scan the crowd again I see Callum -- first animated, gesticulating...then writing on the back of a flyer with a sharpie, and handing it to his new friends. He can beguile effortlessly - with words, with gestures. Few would guess that this talent was learned in such a brutal manner. As we grew up I watched him: saw which tricks worked, which ones failed. Sometimes they failed in ways that put us both in danger. But we learned. We both had to read people to survive. A couple of lads of maybe 18 flash their eyes across. As I smile back at them one looks away. The other allows his gaze to drift from my chest to my crotch before looking away too. Both seem fearful -- their shared love of cock unspoken to one another. It seems such a waste. I could have taken them both and - But anyway.... A few guys have lingered a little as the crowd dispersed -- various ages, varying degrees of obviousness. Some are pretty blatant. Some pretend to be texting, or looking out over the water. I adjust my position a little...relax...a smile that I'm told looks cocky and self-assured. Maybe because it does possess something of those qualities. Start to reel them in... I flex the muscles of my bare legs and notice the stares get a little keener, hungrier. Callum had been right, as he often was - ------------------------------------------------------ `wear these shorts' -- he'd told me. I remember standing in his bedroom, dressed only in my boxers. His mannequin. Under other circumstances, this might be distracting for him, but for now he is hyper-focused as he rifles through his clothing...discarding a denim shirt, a tracksuit and finally holding a dark blue t-shirt against my body... `yeah, this'll look great on you. Matches your eyes' He senses my objection and is one step ahead... `yeah Jack -- its precisely BECAUSE its February that wearing shorts will draw attention. Plus, you should show the goods more often, little bro. If my legs looked like that I'd never get dressed.' From others, this compliment might have less impact. From Callum, it still activates some feeling of inner warmth. Pride, perhaps. I smile to myself. Callum stands to face me as I pull on the shorts. His eyes travel over my body. With a finger, he traces the patch of chest hair that connects and surrounds my nipples, following the path of its growth down towards my navel. Sometimes, when he does this, There's a sense that he's somewhat lost in it. Not lost in thought as such -- but in a different state, almost a daze. At such times he seems far younger than his 17 years. The boy that was never soothed. He pulls at the hem of my shorts, making a thin pretence of adjusting them while actually running his hands across my legs -- `so hairy.' - and towards my thigh. I can feel the satin of my shorts tightening as I start to get hard, and - There is a guttural cough from the room next door. What you might call a guest room, if its occupant had been invited. Our father currently resides there, churning out phlegm and sleeping off his hangover. Instinctively, I move away from Callum slightly. And he's back to himself, suddenly, briefly allowing the fear to flash across his face. It activates something protective in me. I put my arm around my his shoulders, kiss his forehead, hold him as he puts his hand up to my chest -- this time for comfort, rather than exploration. There are times when people think I'm the older brother. I imagine I will always look out for him. That's just how it has always been. I tilt his head up and force a cheerful tone into my voice: `come on. We've got a ferry to catch.' He wipes his eyes, muttering `I'm sorry'. `Its okay'...and it is... I take the opportunity to put away the t-shirt. It will be too tight across my shoulders, and also I need something warmer. I grab one of his baggy jumpers and a hoodie. I briefly wonder if this combination will look odd with my distinctive choice of legwear, but then I catch Callum looking at me again. He smiles: `you look amazing'. I allow myself to wonder if he's still dazed, but I take the compliment and we head out. ------------------------------------- And here we are. He's working the crowd in his way, me in mine. I could choose from a few of them. Slim and blond, on the opposite bench, is making no secret of his interest. He's a little older than me. Perhaps 16. Very pretty. Blue eyes, full lips. I can imagine parting them, sliding between them, exploring his mouth with my tongue, my cock... I'm tempted to go over and say hi but, again Callum's voice: `find one that is hungry enough, rich enough, and believable enough'. A shame. Blond guy is certainly hungry. I wonder if I could get away with giving him my number anyway. No, it wouldn't look right. A man in ripped jeans and a long coat is touching himself through the pockets of his jeans. He knows I can see him doing it. I am supposed to see, and respond, I imagine. I curse Callum's advice. What the hell does rich enough mean? And believable enough? I'm about to give up and go back to my blond when, suddenly, Mr. Believable Enough stumbles into view. He's absolutely the last off the ferry, pulling a leather bag over his shoulder and adjusting his sweatshirt as he moves away from the boat. He looks harassed, checks his pockets and turns to go back. Then he stops again, searching his bag and finding whatever he has lost. As he heads toward me again I take it all in: The jeans and the shoes... He might not be loaded, but these clothes certainly aren't cheap. The body -- a little taller than me... maybe 5'9 or 5'10... slim, but I can see the muscles of his torso and arms move as he delves through his belongings. Light brown hair, a little stubble, a very light tan. As he gets closer I notice his cheekbones, and his dark eyes, darting around himself, around the dock, back to his bag...and then finally settling on me. He stops. Completely. Looks over at me, as I return his stare and his face forms a question, and then his mouth twitches at the corners, turning up slightly. He's very unsure. He clearly wasn't expecting someone to be checking him out. And he's also surprised to be holding my attention in the way that he is. He looks down momentarily, then back up. I keep my eyes on him, stretching my arm across the back of the chair...open stance, inviting him closer. Suddenly Callum is back. He's clutching a wallet that isn't his, and without warning he's straight down, into my lap, ignoring the empty space on the bench next to us. Normally, I would welcome this, but I feel a sense of irritation as the words come tumbling from him: `that was David, or Daveed as he says it, and Gabriela. They're over from Spain and they're just very happy to be spending this evening with me and my little brother. I've told them we'll show them around, where to eat and drink and perhaps -' He senses I'm not listening `hey, bro...no joy?....didn't you find anyone?'. My gaze returns to Believable, and his cheekbones, but he's looking away, unsure. I try and catch his eye but its too late. He starts away, towards the river. Callum follows my gaze and doesn't waste much time: `Hey!.. Hey you! Ferry guy!'. Believable risks a glance back and sees me and Callum looking straight at him. Callum jerks his head, beckons him over, and as he does so shifts from my lap to sit on my left knee, running his hand surreptitiously across the hairs of my leg. I touch his upper arm in acknowledgement. The guy just stands and just looks at us, unsure what this is, and how to respond. I'm still trying to look nonchalant, and relaxed. Actually, I'm aware that my breathing has speeded up just a little, that my muscles have tensed ever so slightly...There's a vibrating feeling in my chest. Callum beckons him over once more, touching my right knee, looking up and down at our target, indicating that this is where he's supposed to sit. My cock is throbbing. In part its Callum, squirming around so close to my groin...but really its Believable as he fights the urge to run away. He is entirely uncertain. He walks towards us slowly with what is perhaps a mixture of desire, fear, curiosity. Initially he looks to be moving to sit next to us but Callum is having none of it. `No, my friend. Come here. Meet my brother, Jack'. He reaches over and touches the stranger's leg, and I part my legs wide enough for the man to get close. `Is this okay?' - he looks at me `I mean... you two'...and then he stops, forgets the question and does what he's been wanting to do for the last two or three minutes. As Callum removes his hand from my right leg, the stranger settles into my lap. I reach my arm around his shoulders, pull him closer...feeling his tension and awkwardness as he leans into me slightly, one hand on my knee, one sneaking around my back. I've caught him. My eyes momentarily meet Callum's, as he reaches over, touches the stranger's face, and turns on that smile. We've caught him. For a moment I think about what we're going to do with him. Then I push the thought from my mind, and enjoy the feeling of this man, and my brother, moving closer to me, their legs brushing my cock. My body surrounding theirs. -------------------------------------------------------- At times I look back on that day, and think it was the day that everything changed. But actually events had been set in motion long before that. How strange that Callum believed things might be easy. And, because I generally accepted what Callum believed, we must have both perceived life as straightforward at this point. In hindsight, things had always been tough. They only seemed simple before this because they got so damn complicated afterwards.