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Oh, fuck yeah!

by Camy Sussex

I was walking over the hill to the shops. The day was crisp February and inside my fleece, beanie and gloves, I was toasty warm. I'd passed the abandoned fire station and was striding down the hill when I saw an angel walking up the pavement towards me. Flame red shoulder-length hair framed a pale face with cupid lips that Da-Vinci would have drooled over. The closer he got the more I saw he wasn't quite the angel I'd first imagined. Under a warm corduroy jacket his lace ruffled shirt was artfully torn, as were the knees of his low slung jeans. We were mere yards apart when I thought—and I'd swear it was just a thought—'oh, fuck yeah!' He stopped right in front of me, his mouth quirking into a grin. Lascivious? Not entirely. But very, very damn sexy.

"You're forward," he said.

"Pardon?" I admit I gawped, then shut my mouth with an audible clack of teeth. Close up he was even more angelic. No, I don't mean he had a set of wings tucked away out of sight—not that I saw, anyway. He was just imperfectly perfect, with freckles. Like the unapproachable boy one always fancied at school, who might or might not have the same proclivities as you but you'd never have the nerve to find out one way or the other. He was a wet dream made real. A dream made real and standing, corporeal, right in front of me.

"I said you're very forward." I glommed onto his voice—sexily throaty didn't come close—and it sent secondary shivers coursing through me to join those that had started when he'd first stopped. I guess you had to be there.


"You're not from the home, are you?" He sounded a trifle worried.

I laughed. "No, though—"

" Good," he interrupted, "'cause I'd hate to be wasting my time."

"Um … wasting your time. Okay," I said, desperately trying to work out what the hell was going on and what I should say next. There were definitely signals flying, but try as I might I wasn't clever enough to decrypt them. It suddenly struck me that I was hard and I hurriedly crossed my gloved hands in front of my crotch. His grin widened and I felt my cheeks flush.

"So then," he said. "Tum-te-tum, here we are."


We were standing by the entrance to the museum, a small billboard trumpeting an exhibition of 'The Life of Grey Owl.'

As if being called he turned his head, then leaned back and looked up. I followed his gaze. There were fluffy white cottony clouds scudding across a clear blue sky, and as he watched them I watched him. I don't know what I was looking for, but I didn't find it until he looked away from the clouds and straight at me just as a gust of wind blew his hair into a red halo. I imagined him naked, delicate feathered-wings spread protectively around us, his lips and steel-velvet erection pressed to mine. Inwardly I groaned—at least I'd swear on a stack of bibles I'd groaned inwardly. Apparently not, though. Apparently, I'd groaned aloud.

He laughed. "Well, I can't say no to a signal like that then, can I?"


"Don't be." He leant in, and there, on the pavement outside the museum, in full view of everyone who happened to be looking—luckily there wasn't anyone—he thoroughly kissed me. Then, humming under his breath, he took me by the hand and, like a lamb, led me through the doors into the museum.

A security guard behind a desk briefly looked us over before going back to his paper. A party of middle school children escorted by a harassed woman with a clipboard appeared from the exhibition hall on our left and shambled across the lobby, through the doors of the exhibition hall on our right. Two boys nudged each other and grinned at us just as I discovered he was still holding my hand. I considered removing it, then oddly—though why this seemed odder than any other moment in the last ten minutes defeated me—I left it there. It was a connection to another living breathing being, and I really needed a connection if I wasn't going to end up in the hospital's psych ward. Besides, holding his hand somehow seemed the right thing to do.

"It is—"

"It's what?" I glared at him, freaked out that I'd spoken aloud again.

Chuckling, he leant over and nibbled my ear which wasn't at all helpful for my erectional problem.

Behind us the guard harrumphed and snapped his paper.

With his free hand, Angel—well, I had to call him something—pointed at the vast photo-montage of Grey Owl's life that hung suspended from the atrium ceiling down the back wall of the museum foyer.

"It is quite remarkable," he whispered in my ear, "that Archibald Belaney got away with it, don't you think?"

"I, er," I managed, as his voice thrummed through my body like aural amyl nitrite. I was finding it harder and harder not to ravish him then and there; In fact if it hadn't been for the security guard, the school party, and the undoubted ubiquitous video cameras, I might well have given it a try.

"You do have an opinion, don't you?"

"I might if you stopped nibbling my ear between words. Fuck!"

"Oh, good idea," he said, without any trace of irony.

I took a deep breath, scrunched my face, squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head. "No. It's a terrible idea. I mean, it's a wonderful idea in theory but it's never going to happen. I don't even know your name, though you do seem rather familiar."

"But, but you organised this," he said. Looking confused—it was, I decided, a cute look—he let go of my hand and stepped back.

"I did what?"

He reached into his jacket, pulled out a mobile phone and brought up an app. "Here," he showed me. "On Grindr. We arranged it."

"That's not me mate," I said, and finally understanding, laughed.

Like a genie the security guard appeared before us and pointed to a 'no phones allowed' sign on the wall. "No phones allowed, sir," he added, presumably in case we were blind or stupid.

"Sorry," the stranger—whom I'd kissed and held hands with—said, slipping the phone away. The guard retreated to the sports section. "So then, um?"

"Mm. It makes you wonder," I said. We moseyed over to the floor plan of the exhibition.

"You, um, you are gay. Aren't you?"

"As gay as you are cute, Matt," I said, remembering where I knew him from: the summer before I'd gone away to boarding school we'd played on the same junior soccer team.

" David?" His eyes opened wide.

" Yes," I nodded, smiled.

" It's been almost seven years."

" Have you been counting?" I said with coy aspiration.

" Um," he blushed—it was so, so cute. "Shall we get coffee? They've got a good café here."

We had coffee. Then we had lunch. Then the staff threw us out at closing time.

Call it kismet, call it what you will, but as soon as he deleted his Grindr account Matt moved into the spare room of my flat. Not that I've ever told him he's been one of my fantasies. Not yet.

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