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Other stories on Nifty by J.T.S.Teller. Boys can be lovers, too.

 

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Jimmy the Love-Virus.

 

By John T. S. Teller.

 

Part twenty-two.

 

The side door closes, and I hear the deep, throaty roar of the Ferrari exhaust as Rob drives out of the garage and off to his solicitors. Only when I'm absolutely sure he's gone, do I allow the hurt and pain to travel into my fists to pummel the floor. That doesn't take it away, so I bang my head against it, too, but I get no relief, and my howling wails of utter despair echo back to me from the walls and pictures. I'm a shit; an utter, utter, fucking shit; a pervert of the highest order, and I've just hurt the most wonderful person ever because of it. I don't deserve him. No, Jimmy Fucking Turner, you don't deserve this gentle, beautiful, and caring person. He's far too fucking good for you, you dirty filthy piece of garbage. What was it Rob called me when he said he thought I was an innocent young lad: `ultra pervert'. Oh yes, it was that which started the cogs turning. Everything he said after that was tainted by those words, because they hit home, because they're true. I'm even worse than that... I'm an abuser. Oh yes, I use and abuse men, and I even get them killed. What sort of a child monster seduces men to do his perverted bidding because he's such a horny fucking bastard? The consequences don't matter: all that matters is me getting sex any which way I can, and let the devil take the hindmost. And what about Rob? He's as much under my perverted spell as Uncle Pete and Chris. I'm absolutely sure that if I hadn't had the hangover about Chris, I would have been in the public bogs every night, and taken every last dick I could have found. I've even started on kids now. I want Jordan in bed with me so I can teach him how to be a pervert. I'm like a cock sucking vampire who wants to change everybody into a Jimmy Turner. I try to be a normal homo: oh yes, I try; but it doesn't work. I need to get out of here, because I'm not going to bring Rob down to my level. Fuck you, Rob! Fuck you! You should have kicked my stinking arse and fucked me off when I walked across your lawn. Where are my clothes? I need to get away from my beautiful Rob before he's done for. He's more precious than gold, and certainly worthy of something better than you, Jimmy Fucking Pervert Turner!

 

Thank goodness it's raining. I want to feel miserable. I deserve to be miserable. And it's dark. Good, the dark will hide me. The railway line isn't far now... just past the park. I'll lie down on the track and it will all be over. Jimmy Fucking Pervert Turner will be a mangled piece of shit, which is exactly what he deserves to be. There's a bloke standing near the bogs. I know what he's waiting for: a piece of young shit he can fuck. Haha. Well, why not? Let's go to hell with a load up your arse, Jimmy Fucking Pervert Turner. Good idea.

 

What a dump! No locks on the doors; no toilet seats; graffiti everywhere, and cock holes in the thin walls. I'll sit on the pan and wait. Hey up, he's coming. A cough? Oh yes, I can cough, too. And he answers back, too. This is almost funny, if it wasn't so fucking tragic. We're a pair of coughing fuckers. It must be the breeding season for coughing fuckers. The door of the bog opens, and he's here... the male coughing fucker. Well, I hope he is the male of the species, because I'm certainly not, and there's no way I'm going to bang him. He isn't a very good-looking one: too fat; and he's bald. What now? He's dropping his trousers. Jeezus! Is that the best he can do? It's hard, but it isn't as big as mine, and I'm only sixteen, and he must be fifty if he's a day. I hope he's not expecting me to put that in my mouth. He's got no chance. I don't even want to look at the bastard. I'll turn round and drop my trousers so he knows what he can do. I hope he's got a brain. He has got half a one, because he's rubbing it up and down my arse crack now.

 

He's what? What are you doing Jimmy Fucking Pervert Turner? You might be the worst piece of shit in the world, but you don't need this! Fuck you, you male coughing fucker! Take that! God, there's blood everywhere, and he's wailing like a stuck pig, and I've only head-butted him the once. He's lying on the floor, blocking the door. Get out of the way, you stinking bastard!!!

 

Ah, the rain. Lovely rain. It's pissing down now, and falling into my eyes and mouth, and running down my neck. That's better.

 

What the fuck are you doing, Jimmy Fucking Pervert Turner?

 

------------

 

Where the hell is Jimmy? It's eleven, and nobody knows where he is. I've rung everybody, but they don't know where he is, either. Even Sam. It's got to be something to do with what went on during our journey back from mums, and what I did to him in the car. He actually attacked me in here. I've been driving around all night, but can't find him. He's not answering his phone either. I'll have this coffee and search for him again. I shouldn't have gone to the solicitors. I knew something was wrong.

 

Beep. Beep. Diddly dah do dah. It's a text from...

 

VIRUS: Coming home. Sorry.

 

Me: Where r u? I'll come pick u up. Luv u. XXX

 

I wait, but no answer. Thank God he's safe. I need to let Paula and Sam know he is, so I phone them. They both want to come here and wait for him, but I tell them not to. This, whatever it is, is between Jimmy and me.

 

I'm sitting at the dining table with my head in my hands, staring into a half empty mug of coffee, when I hear the front door go. I desperately want to go to him and hug the life out of him, but I know this is not the time. So I wait. I hear him behind me, messing with the kettle. So I get up, push him away, and begin percolating one for him. I don't particularly look at him, but I can't help seeing that he's soaking wet through, and he looks like shit. When I hear him take his usual place opposite me, I ask him if he's OK.

 

"No. Are you?"

 

"No. Are you hungry?"

 

"No thanks. Just a coffee. I suppose you've rung mum and Sam."

 

"Yes. I've rung them to tell them you're in one piece. They wanted to come here, but I wouldn't let them. Do you want to see them? Do you want to go to them?"

 

"No. I'll text them both to tell them I'm ok. Do you mind?"

 

"No. Do it now, please."

 

I hear him fiddling with his phone, and by the time he's done, so is the coffee, and I turn and place the tray on the table, and sit down and pour out two cups. He sips at his coffee, and looks at me... stone faced. I sip at mine, and look at him... stone faced. Eventually, I have to speak. "We're a million miles apart at the moment, and this is not a time for building bridges. Besides, I wouldn't even know where to start. That will have to come from you. I'm going to bed now. You can join me; or if your problem is with me, you can sleep on the sofa." And I get up and leave him.

 

I've settled into bed when I hear him coming up the stairs and enter the bedroom. He doesn't look at me . . . just walks to the bathroom, and I hear the shower going, and then stop, and then he walks to the bed and gets in with me, naked. Deliberately, I'm lying on my back with one hand under my head, and the other arm, the one nearest him, lying by my side. He does exactly the same, and after a while, switches off his bedside lamp and plunges the room into darkness. I feel his hand seeking mine, and I take it. He squeezes my hand, and I squeeze his. The first stone of the bridge is laid.

 

It's 3 am, and I can't sleep, except in fits and dozes, so I quietly get out of bed and go down to the dining room, make coffee, sit down, and try to think this thing through. I'm fighting a losing battle before I start, because (apart from my couple of `misdemeanours' yesterday, which would certainly, under normal Jimmy-and-I circumstances, be laughed off easily) I'm lost. I just don't know where to start. Normally, he and I would have just come together, had a good cry, and got on with it. But this is deep. Am I giving him too much? Am I pressuring him too much? Is a sixteen-year-old able to cope with such massive changes in such a short time in his life? Maybe not, and, if not, then the fault will be mine. But how do I find out? We're unable to talk, and I know full well that when he gets up in the morning, the situation will be as bad as it is now.

 

------------

 

I wake; the room is dark, and my mind is in turmoil. I reach out a hand, and the bed is empty. Rob's gone. He's probably downstairs, either worried to death, or making plans to get rid of me. I wouldn't blame him if he were. Perhaps I should have done it: killed myself on the train tracks. At least it would have drawn a line under things. No, that's stupid. It would for you, but it would have left Rob and Mum and Sam hurting. That's why I didn't do it. And thank goodness I didn't let that bastard Coughing Fucker have his way in the bogs. I reckon if I had, I would have gone through with it. It's got to be sorted one way or the other, so I'm going down to Rob... if he's there. I'd best put on a dressing gown. This isn't a time for naked.

 

He's sitting at the table with both hands entwined on the top of his head, looking up at the ceiling. He looks at me, and follows me with his eyes as I sit opposite. "Can I have a coffee, Rob, please?"

 

He smiles a sad smile. "Of course you can. I'll make us some toast while I'm at it. I don't want you getting ill because you're not eating."

 

I give him a half smile of thanks, and he gets up, and I watch him fiddling. Everything is done immaculately: tray; two cups and saucers; sugar bowl; cream jug; two side plates; honey, all arranged in order on the work surface. I almost want to cry, because I love his sense of order. It's what he is, part of the reason he's grown on me every day I've been with him. I've seen on TV where people are infuriated by their partner's little habits. I can't for the life of me understand why they don't love them more for their idiosyncrasies. I know what's coming next: four pieces of toast, that he'll hand to me and say nothing, and then he'll go back and make his, and turn round with his two pieces of toast, and they will be on the tray, together with the sugar bowl and the cream jug and the coffee, and he'll sit down and put two sugars in his, and two in mine - without asking, and a dollop of cream, that's just right. And he'll stir mine for me.

 

And he does exactly that. Normally, when we're eating and saying nothing, we look at each other and giggle. Not now, we don't. Apart from the occasional, phony, half smiles when we happen to exchange full eye contact, we're completely silent. He's waiting. He can't do anything else really. "Thank you, Rob. That was lovely. I was hungry."

 

"I expect you were. How are you feeling now?"

 

We establish full eye contact. "Like a stupid twat. Are you angry at me?"

 

"A bit. I'm far more worried than angry. Is it me? Are things going too fast for you?"

 

"No, of course not! It's me that's the problem, not you. I don't deserve you."

 

"What makes you think that?"

 

"Because I'm a perverted faggot, and I'm not worthy of you. You deserve better."

 

Rob bangs his fist on the table, and the dishes go flying. And then he snarls and yells at me. "That's fucking crap. I've a good mind to smash you to a pulp, and I don't give a fuck about you being Hard Boy Turner. Believe me, I'm no fucking pushover who gets out of your way! I stand my corner. Right, you've got two fucking choices... you can accept someone who knows exactly what you are: an oversexed and perverted little bastard, who causes me no end of problems keeping you satisfied, but I love every moment of trying, and who loves you more than anything in the world, and who spent much of yesterday in absolute torment, because he thought something had happened to you, or you can fuck off and torment yourself to death. What I won't have any more, is this crap that you're some sort of a unique pervert, and calling yourself a faggot, because you want to hurt yourself. I'll tell you something that will shock you. You know when I was at your place, and you were showing me the pictures of you when you were a little boy? I actually got a hard on. Do you know why? It's because you've always been a sexy little sod, and I actually feel jealous of Chris and Uncle Pete. No, I wouldn't have done what they did, because I think it's wrong. But that doesn't mean that I don't have perverted thoughts sometimes, because when sex rears its ugly head, it has few considerations for morals. You are, and always have been, one fucking, sexy, homosexual, bastard. But you're not a faggot. Do you hear?! You're not a fucking faggot! So, I'm going to bed, and you've got the same choice I gave you earlier - either come to bed, or sleep on the fucking sofa!"

 

And Rob storms out of the room, and I hear him stomping up the stairs and slamming the bedroom door behind him. Well, at least it's sorted. Now it's time for me to get tough, so I also stomp up the stairs and slam the door behind me. I won't head-butt him, but he is in for some abuse. Nobody talks to Jimmy Fucking Turner like that. He's switched the light out, and he's got his back to me, the bastard! Light on: I pull him onto his back and throw off the duvet. Just as I thought... Eccles is hard, because he knows what's coming. KY, and plenty of it; and it's smeared on Eccles and Bum. And when I mount him and ride him, I'm snarling at him, and holding my hand on his throat. "Don't you ever talk to me like that again, Robert Bloody Spencer, because if you do, this is what you're going to get." Our climax is tremendous, both of us yelling and gyrating as we banish all our problems away, and when I fall onto him, he crushes me against him, and his kiss is so passionate, he bites my top lip and makes it bleed. He doesn't apologise, though, and I don't want him to. I don't want a wimp for a lover: I want an equal, and Rob has just proved that he's a match for me in the angry stakes. This is the first scrap we've ever had, and it's been fantastic. And then the tears. So many tears, because our love is so fierce that it hurts in places where tears are born; deep inside our hearts!

 

But I am still worried. The downside to this argument is that Rob has admitted that he had paedophile thoughts, and that won't sit well with him. If he mentions it again, I'll have to be at my very best to take away his guilt. Also, after we'd made mad love, and when I lay crying in his arms, I told him about wanting to kill myself, and about Coughing Fucker. He'd hugged me so tightly that I almost stopped breathing, and he cried at my revelations. More worries for my beautiful Rob, and I still feel like a piece of shit.

 

To be continued...

 

 

Other stories on Nifty by J.T.S.Teller: Boys can be lovers, too.