Date: Sat, 11 Jun 2022 18:29:29 +0000 (UTC) From: Frank Friday Subject: Day Tripper - Chapter Two Day Tripper A story set in North West England, in the town where I was born. (brief note...I think the structure of this is potentially confusing but having started with it, I'm keeping going. The first part follows our narrator, Jack in February 2020, his 'present'. The second part relates back to Jack's experience with his brother, Callum, and with Paul, in February 2019. Who knows what came after February 2020? Oh, hang on, we all do...) Chapter Two ------------------------------------------------------ February 2020: with Tommy, and Dan "So, I often come down here when I'm feeling a bit disconnected. Something about the flow of the river, even on a grey day like this. I did this meditation once where you imagine your thoughts just drifting away on the current and..." I'm not really sure if Thomas is expecting me to listen or not. He didn't strike me as someone who talked a lot when he was unsettled, but perhaps my lack of response has left him with the impression he has to try harder. Actually, I'd probably feel better if he tried less. I'm pretty sure he would too. The bar looks like someone couldn't decide whether to recreate a Greek Taverna or a reclamation yard. Recycled wood tables, white painted walls...bits of fake seaweed, net and shell, ships in bottles. I could have found us somewhere better. I just couldn't face anywhere with techno music and chrome. And I didn't really want to walk. Thomas...Tommy is telling me something about anxiety, and Buddhism. Poor guy. He really is genuine. He has full lips, below which sits a dimple, in an otherwise square, symmetrical jaw. A thin layer of ginger stubble, blue eyes. He has shaved his head - or perhaps had it shaved for him. As his lips move, the words mingle with the sounds of the bar. I think they used to call this chillout music. It irritates me. The bar staff laugh at some private joke and shout about swapping shifts for Valentine's Day. Oh god, Valentine's Day. I'd forgotten that was coming up. Tommy really does have beautiful eyes. An inner voice, sensing some potential for entrapment, reminds me that I should be free of him by February 14th. What an odd thing to think. It's February 2nd. If this lasts until February 3rd I'll be somewhat surprised. Tommy is guiding me over to seats in the corner, where presumably he thinks we'll be undisturbed. As we reach the table, I slide onto the side of the booth that backs onto the wall - leaving him with his back to the room. I'm curious to see how he'll react to this move - a not-entirely subtle play for dominance. He follows me with his eyes, letting them travel up and down me once more, smiles, and takes his chair opposite me. His t-shirt is a little baggy and, under his hoodie and jacket, it conceals his body. I wonder if this makes him feel safer. A shame, because when he removes his outdoor clothing I can tell his chest is well developed. I think about reaching across to touch it. He's looking at me as he speaks. I'm obviously meant to respond to what he's saying. I nod, raise an eyebrow, and try and focus on his words. "We'll get to go to Spain in the third year, and I'm really hoping I'll be able to find somewhere in Barcelona, because I've always liked the attitude of the place - that sense of irreverence, and rebellion. Have you ever been to Spain?" Tommy must be at University. Have I been to Spain? Yes. Once. My father stood up in the middle of a "British Bar" in Majorca, and punched my mother in the face. Later that evening, as she told me several months later, she put laxative in his drink. The next day, whilst they were in bed, me and Callum wandered down to the beach and watched the thousands of pink-fleshed tourists basting themselves. There was a sense of freedom. We hoped that one, or ideally both of them, would decide not to come home with us. When we got back to the appartment they were draped over one another, watching some talent show on the hotel television. That night my mother told me I really did need to have more respect for my Dad. I didn't say anything in response. I don't tell Tommy this, of course. I reach over to the wall shelves, and pick up one of those long-spouted jugs you often find filled with wine in tourist restaurants. This one is devoid of alcohol, but does contain the remains of a spider, which must have crawled through the pouring aperture. "Have you ever drank from one of these, Tommy?" He tries to keep his face steady but I've thrown him. "um...no" he looks down at the jug, then up at me "no, I haven't". "its called a Porron, or a porro. The idea is that everyone can drink from it, because it doesn't touch the lips" He doesn't say anything as I stand and look over at the bar "want a beer?" He nods - unsure what, if any, significance what I'm saying might have. Perhaps contemplating a quip about things touching the lips. As I pass his chair I bring my hand to his chin - index finger resting on his dimple, middle finger stroking the stubble beneath his jaw. I rest my thumb on his bottom lip, which he instinctively lowers slightly, allowing his mouth to open and then close very slightly around me, his teeth brushing my nail, his tongue moving up and down. He has completely forgotten about trips to Barcelona, and glass serving vessels. I feel the pressure on my skin as he starts to suck, gently. His eyes half-close. Without warning him, I remove my thumb, pat him on the chin, and smile as I turn and head to the bar. His mouth hangs open for just a moment, and rearranges itself into a smile. As I get to the bar, I realise I haven't brought my ID. I rarely use it anyway. My father gave it to me, in what at the time seemed an uncharacteristic act of generosity. In retrospect, I think he was trying to impress me. He had needed somewhere to live, after all. I'll make up some lie about it being my birthday. It's a familiar lie, if not a convincing one. In reality, I'll be 16 in a couple of months. Nobody needs to know that. I glance over at Tommy. He hasn't asked. I won't tell him. I cast my eyes along the imitation driftwood that forms the bar. There, with his back to me, filling a rum glass from a bottle attatched to the wall. Tall, dark blonde, toned. Hair shaved at the back, a little longer on top. Turns and flashes a set of perfect teeth as I approach. I don't think this will be a problem. "What can I get you?" I notice he's breathing in slightly as he asks. His speech - just a little slower than he'd normally say this. The smile doesn't fade away, but persists as I take my time to order, keeping my eyes on him. He's confident - "I'll bring your drink over. Where are you sitting?". He tells me he finishes at 5, and he doesn't have any plans for the evening. I tell him he looks great, but would probably look better still on his back. Its not untrue, but I've said it mostly for effect. I just wanted something to say. A broad smile. He's trying to look relaxed, but that involuntary wiggle of the hips says otherwise. "I'm Dan". He tells me. Dan might be able to get off at 4 if he speaks to his supervisor. When Dan arrives with our drinks. Tommy has already concealed his indignation and appears excited. Apparently, this is the point where I start to care about them feeling at ease, and I take the decision to introduce them. Perhaps I'm also aware of the agitated feeling creeping into my belly. A sense of being carried along in something of my own creation, that I'm not sure I have the will to see through. "....this is Dan... I think he's hoping we'll both fuck him later." Dan does not confirm or deny this. There is no need to. "Dan, this is P....probably the most genuine guy I've met all day. His name is Tommy. Well, he says its Thomas. But to me he seems like a Tommy." They're both looking at me strangely, and no wonder. What the hell was that?....."p...probably the most genuine guy I've met all day...?"....Its a rather odd way to introduce a complete stranger. But it's better than what nearly came out. I nearly said "Dan, this is Paul". Paul. Just for a moment my head is full of him. A sharp breath in - regain composure. Take control again. I'm enjoying leading Dan and Tommy. They're enjoying being led. A flood of memories, regret and loss won't be helpful right now. Think of something else. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- February 2019: with Callum, and Paul If I could pick one moment to relive it would be that initial contact with Paul. The three of us together. The remaining tourists trickle away, mostly trying not to look at us. One or two stare directly, envious or titillated, perhaps. My older brother, Callum, in my lap - where he always loved to sit, and where I love, or loved, to have him. As Callum slips onto my left knee our new friend lowers himself onto my right knee. I can feel the weight of both of them on my lap. I reach up with one arm around new guy's waist, pulling him a little closer to my crotch. Seeing his bemused, excited, anxious smile. Allowing his legs to part a little as my hand momentarily lingers between them. He lets himself put an arm around me. He rests his hand on my knee. He has noticed the dark hairs on my lower legs, and thighs, and moves his finger back and forth to touch them, in a manner that is less subtle than he intends it to be. I've learned that being quiet can give an illusion of control, so I say nothing at this point. Callum, similarly, remains silent - yet produces the smile that always got him out of, into, or through, trouble. He looks our friend directly in the eye. Nobody says anything for a while, then... 'I...... Hi....' 'I mean.... I'm...um... Paul....Hello' Callum puts his hand on the guy's knee. That smile again, and a teasing tone: "Hi, um, Paul..., Hello..... I'm Callum. And you already know Jack." Paul looks me fully in the face for the first time, flushes and looks down. I get an initial look at the cheekbones behind that stubble, the curl of his eyelashes, the light brown hair that he wears cut short, to his head - the beginnings of curls forming against his scalp. He has chosen his clothes, those shoes, that leather bag, with care. He could pass as one of the French or Spanish tourists on the ferry - a light tan, a boyish smile - and an element of what, in other circumstances, would be seen as style. He doesn't look so stylish right now. He looks simultaneously turned on and downright terrified. He's wondering what the hell he's doing. And perhaps he's right to do so. Callum recognises this and guides the situation "How long are you here for, Paul?" "oh...just a few days. I'm from London". There is actually a very slight trace of the North to his accent. Either Paul moved to London later in life, or he's lying. A quick glance at Callum shows he has noticed this too. A momentary tightening of the lips that I hope Paul doesn't see. It doesn't matter. It's actually quite helpful to our plan if Paul has secrets. This plan - of my father's. This plan - that Callum has talked me into. "Do you have anything on this afternoon, Paul? It's Jack's birthday. We were planning to head home for a bit, and go out for dinner later with a couple of friends. I'd like you to join us, and from what I can tell - " he puts his hand directly onto my crotch, where he knows my dick will have hardened and be waiting for him. "hmm...." Callum smiles, and makes a show of moving his hand along my dick, rubbing it through the shorts, holding the fabric tightly to display it, so Paul can see its length, its size... "yes, from what I can tell, Jack wants you to join us too...". At this, he takes Paul's hand and places it where his just was. Paul touches my cock through the satin fabric, shyly at first, then pressing, smiling, with the heel of his hand. He's already thinking about what he'll do with it, and he flushes again. The shyness, the gentlness, the softness of his touch...it makes me harder still. I manouver my hand to where his buttocks rest on top of my leg, and just hold it there. No need to overdo it. The suggestion is enough. Paul doubtless has an inner voice telling him that these two Liverpool lads might not be trustworthy. but there is no chance of him listening at this point. Callum leans forward, gives him a gentle peck on the lips. The deal is sealed. And then Callum is up, in the direction of the station. Paul doesn't move immediately, and neither do I. We hold each other's eye and I let my smile widen. I hold him, on my lap, for just a moment longer, and then he leans towards me - impulsive, finding courage - and kisses my mouth. Quick, nervous, trying to pull away. I catch the back of his head and pull his face into mine for a moment, pressing my lips against his just a little longer, my hand touching his jaw, stroking the top of his ear. "I'll take your bag, Paul." He normally wouldn't let me - he doesn't want to inconvenience me, or anyone. He tries to protest, but I've got it in my hand already. I half-raise, half-lift him with my other hand, and we're up. He'll do anything I say at this point. I can sense his thrill at my being strong for him - he'd let me fuck him in the middle of Lime Street if I asked. I don't ask, obviously. But the thought has crossed my mind. As we catch up with Callum he simply tells me "I've texted Dad". What this actually means is "I've told Dad to get the hell out of the house, because if we're going to go ahead with his scheme, we'll need Paul all to ourselves." Looking back, I wonder why we every followed anything my father suggested. His schemes always resulted in chaos. Chaos that my father usually stood back from, as the consequences fell on everyone around him. His response - almost always - that he didn't know why everyone was being so sensitive. Back to Crosby. A taxi would be quickest - using funds from the stolen wallet in Callum's inner pocket. Failing that, the train... But Callum has changed his mind and engineers it so we're on a nearly full bus. I know instinctively he'll have found one with just one seat, for all three of us. Callum stands initially. Paul doesn't even need to be asked. He's on my lap again, despite the stares of our fellow passengers. He's reaching into a part of himself he rarely allows himself to encounter. He's already becoming comfortable here, relying on me and Callum to protect him. And we let him believe we're going to do just that. Callum slowly, deliberately, makes a performance of lowering himself down on top of Paul, so I am once again holding them both. He strokes the hairs on my forearm. He may be play-acting his role, but he's loving every minute. "Happy birthday, Jack. Do you like your present?" I don't need to say anything. Paul squirms in my lap. He can feel how excited I am to meet him. This is all new for him, and he is letting himself explore it: "happy birthday, Jack." (I am preparing a lie about it being my 17th, but he doesn't ask.) A bigger smile now, at me, and then at Callum. If the bus ride lasted all day, that would be just fine by Paul... ------------------------------------------ If I could relive one day, it would be this one. One day, out of all my time with Paul. One day, out of all my time with anyone. If only such opportunities really existed. My brother's voice again, saying 'sometimes it's too easy'. So much regret. And I'm back, in the bar...And Dan and Tommy seem to be expecting me to say something. Think of something else. Think of something else. Think of something else.