Date: Fri, 17 Feb 2012 02:15:23 +0530 (IST) From: bert galway Subject: The Marcus McNally Fan Club 2 This story may contain sexual situations between males. If material of this nature offends you then you should not read this story. If you are under 18 years of age you are probably not legally allowed to read this story. Join later. This story is partly a work of fiction. But Marcus is real and is the best author ever! The Marcus McNally Fan Club 2 "We should set up a Facebook page for Love on the Rocks lovers!" "And start sending off tweets!" "And guys are bound to want to get stuff ..." "Yeah, like Ty's albums and t-shirts and ..." "... and George's recipe book ..." "Yeah! Dot's recipe for that gravy she makes!" "Shit! We could organise back-packing trips to all the places mentioned ... you know? Homage to Marcus Tours!" Okay, we were getting carried away with ourselves but we were so into it. We had grabbed a quick shower down at the Stevenson before coming back to Mickey's flat off Great George Street, the one he shared with some medicos. Mickey was doing Eng Lit so he had loads of free time when he was meant to be reading Chaucer. The medicos were always out, probably cutting up bodies, Mickey said. At least I hope that's what he said they were doing to the bodies. We sat around in the living room talking over each other in our enthusiasm. It was partly that flood of well-being you get when you meet up with someone you feel totally at ease with. It was also our mutual admiration for Love on the Rocks. We both knew the story backwards, every twist and turn of the plot. We swapped favourite passages, the sex scenes we liked, the jokes that ran through the tale, the gnawing pain of waiting for the next chapter that lowered us off the cliff where McNally had left us hanging. "You get to the end of a chapter and you're like going 'Oh My God' what's going to happen now?" We stared at each other open-mouthed as we each remembered these spine- tingling moments. "Fuck, Mickey, remember that stuff about Scott, and how he came back from his trip and we didn't know what had gone wrong but we knew something awful had ..." " ... and how brilliant Mike was about it and how Ty and Lachie were such shits and poor Scott ..." He looked into my eyes then and his face lit up with a smile. "Tibs, you reckon Scott is the most fuckable guy in the whole story?" "Hehe! Remember how at the start we were all expecting Mike to be prodding his fucktool into Scott and even Mike was thinking about it, after watching Scotty jerk off, and then out of the blue Ty appears and it's like, it's like ..." I paused, unable to get the metaphor I wanted. I was studying History and historians don't really do metaphors. We're more into facts. "... like a door opens inside their heads and sunlight floods in and there's music suddenly and the heavy scent of fresh cut grass. Like the world is suddenly new again and Eden is back and they are like the first ever people, together in a wonderful garden ..." He tailed off and grinned sheepishly. "Nice metaphor," I said with a smart-ass smirk. "Actually, I think it was a simile," Mickey chuckled. "Smart-ass," I returned, putting my grin into words. "Let's go eat. Or would you rather do the other thing ...?" We both grinned broadly at each other. I hesitated before answering. "Nah!" I said at last. "Let's go eat. We can fuck later." It was as if we had been lovers forever. It was as if we had known each other all our lives, perhaps even in previous lives. Such was the ease we felt in each other's company. It was the way we completed each other's sentences as if we were already inside each other's heads. That was it. Exactly. We sort of completed each other, the way Ty completed Mike, or Ellie completed Lachlan. It was meant. It had an inevitability about it. I don't want to mislead you, reader. We hadn't actually had sex yet. It just felt as if we had. We had gone to the Stevenson and stripped off in the locker room. Silently we had checked out each other's bodies - silently but not secretly for we had quickly recognised and accepted the mutual attraction. Somehow we knew instinctively that we would make love. I say that deliberately. We would make love, not just have sex. We both knew it without saying it and so there was no haste about it. A boy will feel an urgency about a wank as if the need to unload some spunk is nothing more than emptying his bowels or his bladder. For us, in an instant, that instant when we met, we knew that this was special. We knew that there was no need to speedily claim each other, like conquistadors claiming new lands or Americans planting flags and golf balls on the moon. "That's a simile, again," he said. "And you split an infinitive." "So what? McNally is always doing it." "Really?" said Mickey indignantly. "So you think he's a really dirty boy?" We left that one hanging like some low bollocks and we made our way down to S'Mug. Mickey had suggested we go on down to Greggs but I couldn't be arsed queuing and Greggs is always queued round the block with guys wanting what passes in Glasgow for a healthy diet. Five-A-Day in Glasgow does not mean fruit. I have already admitted my fondness for barista boys. In S'Mug Josh was on duty. Josh is over from Australia - it's true! Oz! - and he is pretty damn cute. Slim and about five ten, he has an untidy shock of reddish gold hair. He wears tight, tight pants which are much the same colour as his hair. He talks so fucking fast that all his words seem to jumble together as they spill out. I like him. Not sure if he's into Love on the Rocks, I have never asked. Maybe later, when we get the fan club really going. "Usual Tybalt?" he asked. I am a habitu‚ of S'Mug. My usual is Americano black, extra shot, and a bagel stuffed with pastrami and swiss. Unless I'm having the vegetable nachos. Josh tips me a wink if the chillies are extra hot. It occurs to me now that I haven't introduced the two main protagonists of this sort of a story. I'm Tybalt Cunningham . It's sort of Italian. Tybalt that is. I think it passes for Gilbert in Scotland but mother would not have Gilbert. Far too last century. Mother is into all things Italian - ice cream, mozzarella, linguini, good coffee and opera. Mainly opera. The guy standing beside me, surreptitiously feeling my ass, is Michael McNiall. He's from up north. One of these islands where, as they say, it's either raining or about to rain. We're both students. Him Eng Lit and me History. It is absolute coincidence that he's called Mike (sort of) and I'm called Ty (sort of). I know you believe in coincidence - otherwise you couldn't be a McNally fan. We ordered and looked around for a table. As usual Kirsty Wark had bagged the window seat. We went up the back where's there's a private wee table tucked in beyond the toilets. You can hole up there for hours and there's no way anyone else can infiltrate. We talked. We talked about our likes and dislikes and we said 'snap'. We talked about our lives, our families, the baggage we had gathered along the way. But mainly we talked about the guys we knew best. That was when we had our first disagreement. "I liked Simon. Maybe Marcus will bring him back, a reformed character. Like with Steve." "Fuck, no. I hate him. He was such a shit to Scott. I hope he rots in hell!" The exchange that followed got more and more heated, louder and louder, until we were almost yelling at each other. "Will you guys cool it?" It was Josh. His strong Aussie accent wrenched us back to the reality of Love on the Rocks. It was like we had stepped through the looking glass and had been transported to somewhere in Fitzroy Street, in St Kilda. That was Monique down there by the window, tapping away on her laptop. That must be Vince standing at the counter trying to decide which muffin to have with his take-away, the portuguese or the apple and cinnamon. And the music ... the music ... fuck me, mates, it was Tenterfield Saddler, honest it was. Must have been Josh had brought in a CD but it silenced us. "Just cool it, okay?" he said. "And give this mate of yours, this Simon guy, give him a break for God's sake." Me and Mickey just stared at each other. We were in Melbourne (or was it Stanthorpe?). Wherever, we were miles away, part of our myth. Like lovesick schoolboys, we stared into each other's eyes. We reached across the table to take each other's hand and our lips moved soundlessly. "Love you." And we hadn't even fucked yet! "We don't do rooms,for fuck's sake," chuckled Josh. "It's a coffee shop not a gaybar in case you hadn't noticed." Outside the coffee shop we hesitated. Both of us paused, thinking the same thing. "Do you think we should ..." "... maybe go round to SuperDrug ..." "...and get some condoms?" We almost spoke in unison. Great minds and lovers? (Note to underage boys who did not follow the instruction not to read this at the beginning: always use a condom so that's it's something you do without thinking. It won't give offence if it's automatic, a habit. Marcus says so too! Remember Simon in Nairobi?) "When do they get back?" "Late." We were sprawled on the counch listening to Savage Garden, the 2nd album. 'I knew I loved you before I met you I think I dreamed you into my life.' Isn't it weird when a song says what you feel, puts it into words? We reached for each other in that moment, each taking hold of the other's head and drawing it close. Our lips met and parted, the kiss became a feast as we devoured each other with a hunger. The roughness of his chin against my cheek, the firmness of his grip around my head, the forcefulness of his tongue as it burrowed past my tongue to lodge itself deep inside me, all conveyed the manly passion that now consumed us. Suddenly he let go of me, just in that moment when I let go of him. Desperate now with desire, our hands roamed across the contours of the other's body, exploring, embracing. We undressed each other with a shocking disregard for buttons and studs. Shirts were pulled open, tees hauled over heads, fly studs torn pop by pop until we both lay there in the other's arms, naked and ready. I slid my hand down across his chest, down past his navel to follow the little coppice of hair that led me on, down and down into the thicker forest that was his unruly pubes, onto that fleshy trunk that seemed to wink and smirk at me. I closed my fingers around his hot hard shaft and felt his cock jerk and his body tremble to my touch. He was reciprocating, teasing me with light fingers, then gripping as if anxious to test the hardness of my love. For a moment we sat there gazing rapturously into each other's eyes, gripping hard on the arrows of love that soon we would fire off, deep into each other. Then, with perfect synchronisation, we slid and sank, turned top to toe, moved that we might gorge upon each's cock. He licks around the rim, tonguing deep into the ridge, flicks fast across the slit, then licks again, the whole length of his tongue moving back and forth upon my rigid flesh. And then he opens and goes down, sliding his lips slowly down the length of my cock-shaft. Grabbing my balls he plunges down, nosing deep into my wiry pubic hair, tightening his grasp as he twists his mouth upon my pulsing member. I feel his finger move, behind my ballsac, encroaching deliciously, seeking more. I try to manoeuvre to meet his probing finger. I want him to enter me, to possess me, to love me. Yes, okay, I wanted him to fuck me hard. And he did. He flipped me over quickly until I knelt beside the couch. He moved behind me, slipped the condom over his rod and took hold of my hips. With a gentleness that spoke his love he probed and pried and entered. I felt my man push past my stubborn ass muscle and take possession of me. Then he paused. And me. We breathed, but only for a second, for then I pushed back hard against him, as if to say 'yea man, take me, take me now, fuck me hard!' He pistoned then, ramming home with a force that rocked me; I felt his pubic bush crush against my ass, sensed the swinging of his nads but most of all I held him fast inside me. There was an urgency about it that time. Lust and love combined. But it was more than sex. I don't pretend I was a virgin, and judging by the sureness of his penetration, nor was he, but this was different, special, beautiful. He was fucking me, yes, taking possession of me. But I knew he was also giving himself to me and was about to fill me with a part of himself. My cock rubbed against the fabric of the couch and I came. And then I felt a warmth grow and grow within me as he then collapsed upon my back like the marathon runner who has completed his task. I twisted my head back as he leaned forward. And we embraced once more. We sat about naked drinking a beer. Our fat but now flaccid cocks hung loose and satisfied. We talked endlessly about Love on the Rocks and stuff. We agreed that Marcus was so brilliant at describing food that sometimes you felt really hungry, other times you felt like you had eaten the meal yourself. If we hadn't been handless students on a limited budget we might even have been tempted to try to make some of the things. Mickey said that if we asked him he would probably send us the recipes. You didn't need a guide book if you read a Marcus story, we thought. Either he had travelled the world or he researched things really very thoroughly. That reminded us of Turkish Delight (which curiously we had both read before Love on the Rocks even made an appearance) in which he almost wrote a kind a travel guide. Again, as with the meals, you read Turkish Delight and you could almost imagine you had been there yourself. And it went without saying that his descriptions of Australia, never overdone, were the best tourist advert possible! Telling a cracking good story is hard enough, Mickey said, and he should know since that was what he was studying, but getting the setting so exact and the characters so right, that is not so easy. Even good thriller writers can't always get that right but, we nodded at each other, Marcus always does. "You know, Tibsy, I get so involved in the story that I even started skipping through the sex stuff!" "Fucking hell, Mickey! Me too." Now that is saying something for a couple of wank-addicted Nifty boys! We talked more about how to work a fan club for we were both sure as hell that Marcus deserved one. We decided to do something for Nifty as that was where his readers (and devoted fans) were most likely to find out about it. A number of possibilities were discussed. The possibility of persuading Marcus to do an interview excited us. We were sure the guys (and girls, yeah, we were sure there would be girl fans too) who loved Love on the Rocks the way we did would want to know more about Marcus and about how he works out his plots and stuff. The ideas poured out of us and the hours passed. I decided to get out and back to my own place before Mickey's flat-mates zoomed in but we arranged for me to come round first thing next morning so that we could really get the fan club going. I was later than I meant next morning. My mother texted me asking me why my mobile was switched off - again. She instructed me to phone home at once. This didn't alarm me for I knew what to expect. When had I last changed my underpants? Was I cleaning my teeth? Was I eating properly? It was a long call. As a result I didn't hit Great George Street until after ten. I rang the bell. No answer. I thumped on the door. No answer. I shouted through the letter box telling Mickey to get his scrawny ass out of bed. Eventually the door opened. There stood a guy in black boxers with what looked like a really crusty spunk stain upfront. He had on what in Glasgow we call a semmit. It had once had shape and maybe it had even been white. This was clearly a trainee houseman. I asked for Mickey. "Who wants him?" he asked, suspiciously. "Me," I replied, unable to keep an exasperated sneer out of my voice. "Does he owe you money?" I did not understand. "No he doesn't. We're ... just good mates." The guy blocking the door shrugged. "He's gone." "Gone?" I looked puzzled. "He's gone. Out. Vamoosed. Skedaddled. Done a moonlight. Geddit?" said the medico as he closed the door. "Oh, aye. By the way. If you do see him, tell him he owes us rent." Dispirited I made my way out of the close and down the street. Had I just been dumped? Had Mickey really done a runner? After we had made that connection ... What could have come up that was more important than me? Without thinking I found myself wandering into S'Mug. I didn't react to Josh's bonhomie but took the Americano and looked round for a seat. I wanted to hide myself away in the secret alcove but it was occupied by an elderly couple. I headed up that way anyway. I guess I just wanted to be near where we had sat yesterday, Mickey and me. As I sipped the hot coffee I commiserated with myself. I didn't even have his mobile number. And he didn't have mine, or even know my address. All I could do, I decided, was keep going round to the one place I knew, his flat at the end of Kersland Street. If I hung around there I might run into him. Suddenly I began to feel a wee bit more positive. He must have had something urgent to do, hand in an essay or take back a library book. If I went back round his and waited, surely he would show up? I sipped at my coffee again feeling a great deal happier. I looked around. It was typically S'Mug. Two girls were sitting, face to face, with cappuccinos which remained unfinished as the pair talked at each other, both at the same time. I think it's called multi-tasking and girls are good at it. A West-End yummy-mummy was having a fruit infusion (pale pink) while she read a story to a child in a high chair. The child was eating slices of fruit. Josh was clearing tables. The older couple were talking quietly. Their expressions conveyed an anxiety that aroused my curiosity. That's when I heard it. "But I am worried about the twins, Frank." And that was when I started to strain to hear what they said. The accent was Australian. I looked up. The lady in the alcove was shaking her head. "Frank, we really should get back." He reached over to pat her hand. "It'll be fine, Dot. We can't go, though, not till Mike gets back from London." I know it's rude, but I stared. Meanwhile a boy had sauntered into the coffee house. Mid to late teens. Impossibly good looking. And the way his pants gathered around his crotch suggested something else that bordered on the impossible. He paused as he passed me and smirked. "You eary-wigging on my mum and dad?" he said in a clear Australian drawl. I blushed. I had been eavesdropping. "Scott!" the lady said, shocked. "That's rude." "Sorry mom," he replied and he smirked at me again with an eyebrow raised ... as if to say 'I'm in for it now'. Anyone else interested in joining (no fee) just mail me at marcusmcnallyfanclub@indiatimes.com Or just if you want to know more. That's ok too. If the guys ever do get to do a Marcus McNally Interview ... have you any suggestions about questions to ask?