© 2011 Alex Hogan
Luke works at the desk in front of me. He’s been here for about a year. He’s a decent enough guy, if you keep off the topic of sex. I do; he doesn’t.
He was matey for the first few weeks, inviting me to the hotel across the street for a drink on Fridays after work. Then he found out I was gay. He avoided me for about a month, but seemed to forget after that and invited me back to the pub.
Then the gay-jibing started. Just light-hearted teasing. I was happy enough with it first; it seemed to indicate he accepted me, and allowed me to be me, to be openly gay.
But I tired of it quickly; the constant ribbing, the constant referrals to how I must be tempted to give him a poke. He’s lean – works out – has a cute mop of unruly hair and an engaging twisted smile. But he’s straight. There is no pheromone display. I don’t think about it. I’ve got a life outside of my sexual orientation.
One Saturday he invited me to his flat to watch the footy while his girlfriend was away for awhile. I bought along a six pack to share and we settled in. I was looking forward to a good night – he barracks for Carlton and I barrack for Collingwood.
And it was a good night, except for the constant jibing over the footy players’ sexuality which I did my best to ignore. Although when he asked me who I liked, I admitted Pendles was hot. As each beer went down the jibes increased.
“Is he as hot as me?” he asked.
“Bound to be bigger,” I said. The beer had got to me.
“How would you know!”
I sighed. Why was I letting myself be dragged into this? “I’ve learnt to peek from the side of my eyes,” I said as I continued staring at the TV.
“Would he be a top or a bottom?”
“Top of course. Only Carlton players bottom.”
“Give over.” He shoved me, laughing. “To prove you’re wrong – if Collingwood loses, I’ll bugger you.”
“No, honest. I know you’ve wanted me all year.”
He took a final swig of the can of beer he was holding then opened another. He continued, “and I’ll be a decent bloke, if Collingwood wins, then I’ll let you bugger me. There; how about that?”
I turned to look at him. His hair was getting long and the black curls teased his eyes. The room was warm from the over-stoked heater; he only wore a Tee. It was tight, revealing his muscular arms. I could see the faint outline of his nipples under the thin material. His free hand, the one not holding the tinny, was rubbing against his groin. He gave me a wicked smile.
I put my beer can down on the coffee table. “As I said before, ‘mate’, bugger off!”
I left the flat.
Alex Hogan has been writing since her teenage days when she first discovered the joy of escaping into stories. She was influenced early on by such writers as Mary Renault, D H Lawrence, and E M Forster, not to mention David Bowie and Queen. A child of the 60s, she has grown up believing in diversity and tolerance and that all you need is love.
Alex lives in a small town, just outside Melbourne, Australia, with her librarian husband, political activist daughter, and autistic son. She has had stories in several online zines, including Bent Magazine, and Litbits. She edits for Wilde Oats, Gay Flash Fiction and formerly edited for Forbidden Fruit Zine.