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Hardly a Substitute

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The problem with being clean is that it forces you to re-prioritize. Which is part of the reason that I'm lying in Sick Boy's bedsit, only moderately hazy on codeine and beer. If I can get through a night of talking to the punter without running screaming to the Mother Superior, then I will well and truly be on my way.

Sick Boy looks at me. "It's said in certain circles that he is possessed of one of the biggest cocks in Hollywood."

I squint to make him out in the darkness. The cunt hasn't paid the electrical bill in months, so he's got candles scattered on the floor, some near stacks of magazines. I decide to ignore the threat to my safety and take a hit off the monster joint he's rolled for me. "Do you think that's true?"

"Undoubtedly. Thousands of women can't be wrong."

I lie back, starting to feel the effects of the hash. It's pitiful, but it'll have to do for the moment. The moment, which is all I have, since to look back would be stupid and to look ahead to the unknown is too frightening to contemplate with any seriousness.

Sick Boy takes the joint from my hand and draws deeply on it. "Take ROBIN AND MARIAN, for example. Now you're not going to tell me that Audrey Hepburn didn't look deeply satisfied throughout the film. And she is a woman not noted for her overwhelming sexuality."

"Are you saying that he was shagging Audrey Hepburn?"

"I'm only asking you to consider the possibility, Rents."

He continues to talk, and I respond in the appropriate places until I grow bored and stop responding altogether. Sick Boy's monologue flows over me, comfortable and familiar, until I feel a peculiar sensation, one I haven't felt for many months.

Sick Boy's hand is on my thigh. I pick my head up, confused, and he gives me the trademark Sick Boy smile, the one that's tumbled dozens of birds onto their backs. I laugh. "What are you doing, man?"

He looks down, then up at me again. The Shy Sick Boy. I'm too familiar with his repertoire not to know exactly what he's doing. The truth is, I'd copied those same looks with far less success.

"You have to admit that he has certainly had his share of beautiful women..." Now his hand is moving up, and closes on my belt buckle. He unfastens it with one hand, and a distant part of me admires his speed and skill. I sit up, and he pushes me back down again.

"There's no proof that he actually slept with his co-stars," I say, stunned at myself. I have no urge to resist him. None at all.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Mark, don't be so naive," he tells me, unbuttoning my jeans.

"Hey..." I am a little scared now. Sick Boy slides my belt off and pulls me up to a sitting position. He kisses me, holding the back of my head firmly. I struggle for a moment, but he doesn't relent, and I eventually relax, accepting his tongue in my mouth. It's been so fucking long since I've kissed anyone that it's actually sort of...fuck it, it's amazing. He guides me back to the mattress and I feel my cock start to twitch. He presses me into the mattress, and I tighten my thighs around his leg and start to dry-hump him.

Sick Boy breaks off the kiss and looks into my eyes. "He's got power, Rents. The sort of power that you and I can only dream about." He takes my wrists and pulls them above my head. He grabs my belt and wraps it around my wrists, tying it off loosely. I could get free if I wanted to, but I don't want to, not at the moment. I'm dizzy and faint from more than the substances I've ingested.

He tugs my jeans and keks down around my hips and pulls up my shirt. He's humming softly, and it takes me a moment to recognize the tune. It's Tom Jones..."Thunderball." I start to laugh, and bury my face in my arm. I stop when I feel his mouth on one nipple, then another. My cock starts to twitch again, and one of his hands finds it and begins to stroke it. I moan and clamp my legs around him again.

"Jesus..." He puts a finger to my lips, and takes a candle from atop a stack of videos. He holds it above me and smiles.

"What are you doing?"

He tips the candle and I shriek as the hot wax dribbles onto my chest, not hot enough to burn, but certainly not terribly fucking pleasant.

"Ow! You radge fuck!" I bring my hands up and he pins them back down and lies atop me, kissing me again, silencing my protests. I am highly, highly pissed off, and I squirm beneath him, feeling his erection pressing into my leg. He drops the candle, and it goes out, fortunately not igniting the mattress that we're lying on.

Sick Boy slithers down my body until his mouth is directly over my still-hard cock. His tongue slides out and over me, and I squirm more, though not precisely in defiance. Fuck me, he's really got an amazing capacity, hasn't he? I think, as I pick my head up and see my entire prick disappear into his mouth.

"Oh, fuck..."

I start to heave and he matches my rhythm, and soon I can't take it anymore and I'm over the edge and I come, shouting hoarsely and shooting into his mouth. I lie back on the mattress, gasping for breath.

"What about THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER?" he asks me.

"But there weren't any women in that, were there?"

He gives me the knowing Sick Boy smile again.

"Rents, we really have to expand your horizons."

 

*****

 

"For a vegetarian, Rents, you're a fucking evil shot."

Well, of course I am. One's got to have some talents in life. When I was a kid, I used to imagine that I was a spy for MI5 -- embarrassing, but true -- picking off Blofeld and the like. Well, that, when I wasn't pretending that I was Han Solo.

Or Princess Leia, but that's not the point.

Actually, the only reason I shot the poor dog in the arse was so Sick Boy would shut up. He never fucking shuts up. Talk, talk, talk, all fucking day, and if I weren't his best mate I swear I'd beat the shite out of him.

But I am his best mate. And here I am once again, sitting with him on his scummy mattress and wondering what I'm doing here.

Fuck that. I know why I'm here.

What he did to me the other day...

Liked it? Fuck, yes, I liked it. It was fucking incredible. Sick Boy knew it, too. Wanked right in front of me afterwards, never taking his eyes from me for one second.

And I liked it. But Sick Boy...I have my doubts that he even remembered it. He hasn't mentioned it at all. And I'm sort of afraid to say anything to him about it. Actually, 'terrified' might be a more appropriate word.

He looks at me blearily through a haze of smoke. Some apple-tobacco-hash that smells horrible, tastes worse, and for all of Sick Boy's enthusiastic endorsement, has only produced a raging headache and a desire for crisps. I realize I'm starving. "Have you got any food?"

He focuses on me. "No...wait. I've got some cake."

I stand. "That'll do."

He waves me in the direction of the cooker, on which sits a box of...oh, Christ. It might have been cake a month ago, but it appears to have congealed. I make my way back to the mattress and look down at Sick Boy, who is nearly asleep, his eyelids at half-staff.

"Rents...did you get the cake?"

"No, man. It's gone over. I've got to get something to eat."

He looks at his watch. "Fuck me, is it really two-thirty?"

"Aye." Fuck. Two-thirty in the morning...where the fuck am I going to get something to eat? At this point I'd kill for a crisp. A piece of bread. A biscuit. Any fucking thing. My stomach rumbles loudly.

"Sit down, Rents. There's nowt open right now, and I'm too fucking tanked to walk anyway. Put a video in."

Oh, for fuck's sake...the only videos he owns are Sean Connery movies. And I no longer share his enthusiasm for the work of Sean Connery, since I've seen each of his films at least ten times, and...oh, fuck it, anyway. I rummage through his collection, looking for the most inoffensive one...there we go. HIGHLANDER. A crap film, to be sure, but I must admire Connery's total disdain for any accent but his own. Ramirez, from Madrid...my arse. I pop it into the player and fling myself on the mattress, trying without much success to ignore my increasing hunger pangs. I'd forgotten what it's like to be truly hungry. You don't really feel it on the skag.

I suddenly realize that he must have paid his electrical bill, since the lights are on and the video player is working. I also realize that he owes me ten quid, but I'll let that go for the moment. We watch Christopher Lambert slice up some bad guys in silence.

"What do you think, Rents?"

"About what?"

"About Conor, there, and Ramirez...what do you think of that whole mentor thing?"

I struggle to make some sense out of what he's saying. I can't. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Do you think that they were fucking?"

"What?"

"Well, you know, there's some disparity there...Ramirez is a swordmaster...Conor's just..."

"I think that Conor can handle himself pretty well," I argue.

Sick Boy shrugs. "I think they were fucking."

I look back at the screen. "Maybe." Another hunger cramp hits me. "I'm really fucking hungry, man. We have to get something to eat." I roll onto my stomach and will the hunger to leave me.

"Rents."

"Yeah?"

"I don't really appreciate the way you treated me the other day."

Confused, I look at him over my shoulder. "What are you on about?"

"I mean," Sick Boy says, lucidity returning to his eyes, "I think I did you a favor, and you failed to return it. I consider that a serious breach of friendship."

Ah. I get it.

"Sorry." It's all I can think to say.

"Is that all you can think to say?"

"Aye."

"What are you going to do about restoring my faith in you?"

Why doesn't the punter just ask me to give him a blowjob?

"What do you want?"

Sick Boy crosses his ankles and inspects the toes of his shoes. Expensive shoes. He always dressed better than the rest of us, and never let us forget it, either. He's stolen so much shite from Cameron Toll -- anything to make him look like a peacock in a room full of pigeons. And he's never been caught. It's amazing. And the fucker would never steal anything for me, either. Claimed he could never remember my size.

"Well, I'm not sure," he says. "Why don't you tell me what you'd be willing to give me."

Thanks a lot. Ball's in my fucking court, is it? Well, I'll show him.

"Anything."

He smiles at me, and I suddenly wonder if I've made a terrible mistake.

Sick Boy stands and walks to the end of the mattress. "On your knees, Rents." He unzips his trousers and pulls his cock out. He's not wearing any keks -- for some reason, this is amazingly exciting to me. I raise myself and kneel in front of him, my heartbeat thudding unevenly in my own ears.

"Put it in your mouth, Rents." His voice is soft and shaky. Good.

Uncertainly, I put my hands on his hips, trying to remember all the birds that had accommodated me -- all right, not that there were all that many, but still...what had they done? Was it hands on the hips, on the arse, what? Now I wish I'd paid closer attention to what they were doing, rather than concentrating on the sensation of having my cock sucked. I decide to compromise and slide my hands back until my fingertips are touching Sick Boy's arse.

Seems good enough. Sick Boy closes his eyes and waits. I lean forward slightly and open my mouth, stick my tongue out, and go down on him.

Is "going down" an appropriate term to use whilst the recipient of the blow job is standing? And why is it called a blowjob and not a suckjob? My God, did the girls who sucked me off think about stupid shite like this? It occurs to me that I've been selfish, but it doesn't bear thinking about at the moment. Not while I've got Sick Boy's stiffening prick in my mouth.

This is absolutely the oddest sensation, his prick shoved into my mouth, hardening there, swelling...and I feel my own prick hardening. Jesus...I start to stroke him with my tongue, back and forth, pulling back, sliding down. Sick Boy puts his hands on either side of my head, guiding me.

He thrusts against me, just a little, and I make a noise deep in my throat. My last girlfriend used to do that. Felt incredible, that vibration of the throat...then I realize that I haven't gotten his prick that far in. Well, here goes nothing.

He groans and jerks against me as I gag.

Shit. Not as easy as it looks. I'm fucking humiliated, but I press on, wanker that I am. Back and forth, in and out, and Sick Boy trembles. I can feel the vibration in his body. I clutch his arse more tightly and fall into the rhythm of his increasingly powerful thrusting. My cock is so hard, and my fucking jeans are really tight. It hurts -- feels great.

Sick Boy comes in my mouth with a hoarse shout. Oh, Christ – before I can stop myself, I pull out and spit his spunk onto the floor. Tastes awful. I look around for something to rinse my mouth, but there's nothing and the toilet's down the hall. I swallow painfully and lie on the mattress, stroking my prick through my jeans.

Sick Boy zips up and sits beside me. "Rents."

"What?"

"Want me to do you?"

I can't look him in the eye. "Yeah."

"You want me to tie you up like last time?"

My prick suddenly swells again, painfully hard, and I realize that I have A Kink. Perverted bastard, aren't I? Sucking off my best mate in his hellhole of a bedsit and wanting to be tied up.

"Yeah."

I feel Sick Boy's hands on me, and for the first time since I got clean, I feel like I don't need the gear. This'll do just fine.

 

****

 

The funniest part about the whole fucking affair was that Sick Boy said we were under the radar. Junkies always were.

And it was true -- at least it was for me. Getting through, lying low, slipping past, trading up, trading down, hanging out, hanging on, staying alive. Back streets and bedsits and dark clubs, toilet stalls and alleys. Who's got it, who wants it, where's it coming from, is it cut, how much is it and oh, by the way, no, I won't be back next week, I'm getting clean. Junkies aren't extroverts, they're not charming, they're not witty, and they're not popular, because after a while that dead stare, silence, sick complexion, and shallow breathing tend to dampen budding relationships, not to mention sparkling conversation. That's the truth of heroin, when you're clean, and you believe it. You believe the adverts and the campaigns, the politicians and the movie stars, at least for a little while, because you've bought the bullshit, you've finally appeared on the radar again. It's not society, not normality, because normal has never appealed to me, and I haven't cared fuck-all about what anyone thinks of me for a long time.

But when the need returns, when the roar of stillness becomes agonizing torture and crippling depression, when the razor of craving slices through your brain, when energy becomes corrupted and you can't rid your body of cramping and shaking any more than you can summon the courage to sleep for fear of the nightmares that leave you bathed in a clinging film of sweat, then you don't care about the radar, don't care about your family or your mates or a single thing that once meant anything to you. Life can fuck off, and all that matters is the hunger.

But Sick Boy -- now that was a different story. He's always wanted to be on the radar, craved attention as much as he craved heroin, making sure that you watched him, admired his face and his clothes and the utter fucking style of him, listened to his endless talking and holding forth, when really all he knew was scamming, Sean Connery, and skag. Didn't matter to him -- he was the center of his own universe and everyone else's, and the awful truth was that when he wanted to, when he turned his attention to you, it was like he was bestowing a gift. You felt like you mattered, and it made no difference that it was shite, just another scam. Sick Boy's scammed me into more dodgy schemes than I can count, and fuck if I didn't feel like a doss prick afterwards.

So today was no different.

It was the sort of shop where some poor wee fuck in epaulets opened the door for you, and when you stepped in, all you smelled was money. It was so posh that they didn't even bother with cameras or security guards -- and the sad old cunt at the door wasn't fast enough to catch you if you ran.

I didn't belong; they took one look at me and I swear I could hear the collective raising of eyebrows. But Sick Boy -- Sick Boy wore his Cerrutti suit that he'd stolen -- naturally – and expensive shoes, and even with his skag-skinniness and his cheap bleach job, he looked like he belonged, and they courted him, shopgirls smiling and of course the daft prick ate it up with a fucking spoon.

If they courted him, they watched me; I might as well have had a JUNKIE THIEF sign flashing above my head. Smiles turned to suspicion, and Sick Boy ignored me as he got the girl at the counter to show him some watches. While her back was turned, he stole three watches, two key carriers, and a tie. I, of course, had no opportunity to steal anything, and I realized that I was Sick Boy's decoy. Wasn't that just fucking typical.

He'd stolen another watch, rearranging the ones left on the tray, and I was getting nervous. Sick Boy selected a jar of some hair slop, and then paid for it -- twenty-two pounds, my God. He managed to get the shopgirl's phone number -- smooth fucker -- and as we were walking out the door, something beeped. Loud. And long.

Sick Boy grinned at me. "Run, Rents."

Fuck.

We burst out of the shop together, knocking over the old cunt in the epaulets, and ran, fucking ran until the breath sobbed from my lungs in great wheezing gasps, people sped past my vision in brilliant bursts of color and light, flooding my spine and brain with imperatives, and I heard Sick Boy laughing behind me, heard shouts and sirens. We dodged and shoved, creating chaos in our wake, and somehow we got to Sick Boy's bedsit without the police catching us. They would one of these days, it was inevitable, a certainty in an uncertain world, but for now we'd beaten it again, that much closer to the sweet oblivion that awaited us at the Mother Superior's.

We laughed, sick and weak, collapsed together on the floor, the hysteria of the pardoned life prisoner -- or the escaped criminal. Sick Boy began pulling the watches from his pockets, tossing them on the floor, one by one. Expensive watches, time sliding into our bloodstreams, pissed away in days, but it didn't matter.

I lay curled up on the floor, adrenaline making my head spin, combining with the craving, sweat-chilled, and I didn't react at first when I felt Sick Boy's hand on my arse. The hand slid between my legs, cupping my cock, and I froze.

It had been a long time. Three or four weeks at least, and we hadn't done anything besides cocksucking. Tame shite, nothing to get serious about. But Sick Boy's hand disappeared, and then I felt both his hands on my hips, pulling me backward, into his stiff prick.

"Hey --"

"I want to fuck you, Rents."

I got colder. I'd wanted to hear that, but I didn't want to be the one to ask first. And the truth was that I'd never really expected it, because Sick Boy never asks anyone for anything...he just creeps up on you, and before you know it, you've capitulated, and he's got his cock stuck in your mouth and his hands holding you immobile, and you don't even want to move, even if you're able to. Because Sick Boy doesn't just get what he wants...he takes what he wants, and fuck asking.

It didn't take me three seconds to get to my knees and start unbuttoning my jeans, yanking down my keks and freeing my cock. Sick Boy moved away from me, and I heard the rustle of paper. I looked back, and he was on his knees, unscrewing the jar of hair gel he'd bought.

I was hard. Just like that, practically, but fucking scared, terrified in fact, because I'd never been fucked up the ass -- I was a virgin, and the craving was growing in me now, making me shiver.

Sick Boy got up, took a kitchen chair, and dragged it to the center of the room. I watched in silence, shaking. He pulled me up, making sure his hand brushed against my cock so that it leapt to attention. He led me to the chair and stripped my jacket from me. Peeled off my shirt and pulled off my shoes, yanked my jeans down, getting rougher with me, the need in his eyes making them glazed. I couldn't speak. What could I say?

Sick Boy pushed me to my knees. "Bend over, Rents."

I looked up at him. "Wait, man. I --"

"Bend over." He pushed my chest to the seat of the chair and knelt between my legs. I felt his hands run down my icy back, felt them on my arse. He reached around and took my cock in his hand. "Feel that," he laughed. "Christ, Rents."

I grunted and shifted in his grasp, my hands wrapped around the legs of the chair. My hips pumped backward, and I heard him undoing his trousers. Then he took his hand away, and I felt fingers sliding between my arse cheeks, slicked with twenty-two quid hair gel. One long finger pushed into my hole, and I bucked in surprise and shock. "Relax, Rents." The finger probed deeper, and I grunted and writhed as he added another one, slicking gel all over, coating me in it, inside and out, pushing deeper and deeper. It was fucking terrifying, that intrusion, and I clenched against him, trying to push him out.

"Wait --"

"Shut up, Rents." He pulled his fingers out, and stroked my cock again. I moaned, and suddenly his cock was against my arse, his breath hot in my ear. "You're so fucking easy." He spread my arse, and all at once pushed inside me, the tip of his cock thick and hot as he plowed in.

Oh, god, it hurt. It felt like someone was shoving a molten poker up my arse, and I couldn't feel any pleasure in it, only pain, and I struggled against him, but he held me down, held me still, one hand on the back of my neck, the other clamped on one shoulder.

"Easy, Mark -- easy." He moved inside me, and my cock jumped again when the tip of his prick brushed against my prostate. I gritted my teeth and moaned; I felt like the top of my head was going to explode.

I was sweating, and his hand slipped down from my neck, sliding down my back and over one hip, and finally his hand curled around my cock and grasped it, exerting pressure and emanating heat.

"Oh, fuck -- it hurts, man. It hurts."

Sick Boy grunted in reply, pushing himself in until I felt his balls pressing against my arse. He moved again, thrust his hips against mine, fisting my cock.

"You like it?"

I might have answered that I didn't know, but I couldn't; all that came out of my mouth was a groan. Sick Boy started to thrust, slowly, his cock slick as he moved forward and back.

"You're a virgin, Rents." Sick Boy's voice was tight, gasping, and amused.

"Sorry," I managed, as he thrust again, moving faster, his cock sliding in and out of me, slippery and easier now that I was stretched out. He pushed harder, and I shuddered as I came into his hand. He let go of my cock, smearing come up my belly, and I felt his teeth sink into my shoulder and a sudden burning wetness up my arse. He cried out and sagged against me, his body heavy on mine.

Finally he rose, pulling me up with him. He pressed his mouth to my ear, but not to kiss me. In his best Connery, he murmured, "Good job, Moneypenny. Never thought I'd pop that cherry." Then he stuck his tongue in my ear and let me go, getting up and wiping his cock off with my shirt. The daft cunt.

I got dressed, the need building to a frenzy inside me, and watched as he scooped up one watch and one key carrier and handed them to me. "You owe me, Rents."

I wasn't sure if he meant the fuck or the things he'd stolen to get the gear. "Stick it on my tab."

Sick Boy looked at me for a long moment. "Aye," he said at last. "I'll see you."

I pocketed the watch and key carrier, and left, closing the door quietly.

Time to visit the Mother Superior.

 

****

 

Sick Boy and I were clean again, otherwise we wouldn't have gone out.

It was that sort of night; staying in and drinking and watching videos would have led to boredom, and that little itch, that never went away completely no matter how clean you got, would soon become unbearable. So it was keep moving or succumb; boredom was the real enemy. That was Sick Boy's theory, or so he told me, but he didn't make eye contact with me when he said it, and I suspected a different truth, even with the ever-present craving.

I watched him from the far side of the dance floor; some trance shite was playing, and every stupid punter and bird in the place was rolling, high as a fucking kite or pissed out of their brains -- except for me. I was stone-cold sober, and fucking miserable. The speed I'd ingested earlier didn't seem to be working; I was bored, my jaw clenching as I watched two birds crawling all over Sick Boy.

It wasn't that I was jealous, ken; Sick Boy would always be more successful with birds. It was just the thought of it, the thought that the cunt made the effort and always succeeded without making it seem as though he tried. It was worth it, he told me, with a quick contemptuous glance at my jeans and trainers, at my ragged jumper.

Once, a very long time ago, I might have bothered to dress up, to shave and wear cologne, to find new clothes, to emulate Sick Boy. But the truth of the matter was that it was never a contest. It wasn't so much that Sick Boy had all the style and panache I lacked. He had every confidence in his own ability to make people notice him; that was the principal difference. You couldn't compete with that, no matter how hard you tried.

The music changed -- it got faster, chopped up drums and heavy bass. It pissed me off for no reason I could determine. I waded in to tell Sick Boy that I was going home, and the crowd closed around me, manic-slow multicolored strobelit motion and the press of a thousand bodies against me. The speed -- I was sure that Sick Boy had cut it with something, the fucker -- was starting to kick in, heightening my senses. I could smell amyl nitrate, model glue, paint thinner, butane, video head cleaner, butyl nitrate, and even petrol against the sweat and fog. It was mostly homemade shite, and we ordinarily felt justified in scorning it as an amateur high, but the smells were tempting now, and I started to look around for someone who would part with a little, for a small sum -- just a wee bit to enjoy before I headed home for some chips, a video and a wank.

I felt a hand grabbing my wrist, and I was dragged deeper into the crowd. All at once Sick Boy's face was in front of me, and he mouthed the word "blow," nodding toward the toilets. That would do; I nodded in return. He pulled me along, his hand still locked around my wrist, and I watched as he maneuvered through the crowd, kissing and dancing his way along, and everyone but me eating it up, no one knowing what a poxy, boring fucker he could be. This was his atmosphere, his home, his kingdom.

I was jealous, but I'd be fucked if I'd let the tosser know it.

We got into the toilet, and Sick Boy let go of my wrist to push on a succession of toilet stall doors until he found an empty stall. He gestured me inside, closing and bolting the door behind us. There was hardly room enough for one person, let alone two, but neither of us cared. Sick Boy withdrew a plastic bag from his pocket. There was just enough for two; we made short work of it, then leaned against the walls, sniffling, waiting for the blow to deliver.

Sick Boy extracted a pack of cigarettes from his coat and tapped two out. He lit them both, then passed one to me, his eyes fastening to my hand when I reached out for the fag. "Having a good time, Rents?" he inquired.

"Grand."

"That's good."

"Aye." Suddenly the swirling smoke and Sick Boy's proximity to me made me twitchy; I turned to leave.

Sick Boy swung his leg up, planting his foot on the opposite wall and blocking my exit. "Been a while, mate," he said.

I couldn't even look at him. I stared at the door of the stall, reading the poetry of the ages. Dekko sux big cox. Mattie + Davey. I fucked Nicola Bishop. XTC 401903. "Since what?" I asked. I knew; it had been one month, thirteen days, and...fifteen hours since he'd fucked me.

Let's be perfectly clear on that; he fucked me, and fucked me hard. There was no question of that, but neither was it mentioned again after it occurred. While I didn't imagine that I'd dreamt the whole thing up, I didn't think that he had given it any thought at all. He was great with the birds, after all, and they practically lined up outside his door. He'd cop off every night if he could, and often he could. You'd never imagine Sick Boy thinking about the next ride he'd get with Mark Renton, not a notable finisher in the grand scheme of erotic experience. I was a novelty to him, and I kept my mouth shut. That seemed sufficient.

"Don't be fuckin' soft, Rents." Sick Boy flicked his smoke into the bog and lowered his leg, giving me an opportunity to leave. When I didn't move, he grabbed my arm and shoved me up against the wall, kissing me hard enough for his teeth to split my upper lip, pushing my legs into the bog roll dispenser.

I grabbed on to him, dropping my own cigarette and threading my fingers through his hair, pulling him close. Not out of love or affection, you understand, merely the practical pressure of arousal. I'd been dying for it, and fuck it if he didn't seem to know. His hand groped at the crotch of my jeans, fumbling until they located my cock. I angled my hips toward him, enough for him to get the message. He spread his fingers and rubbed, exerting just enough force to begin to make me hard.

I reached down to unbutton my jeans, and Sick Boy grasped my hands, forcing them up against my chest, pushing himself against me so that I couldn't move. He didn't speak; he kissed me again, his tongue shoving its way into my mouth. Desperate, I thrust my cock toward him, rubbing as much as I could.

Sick Boy let me go and banged out of the stall.

I was aghast. I had a mind to make a snotty comment, something along the lines of 'Something I said?' but all I managed was "What the fuck are you doing?"

A short, stroppy gadge in a tracksuit walked up to the stall. "Oi -- you about finished, mate?"

"Fuck off!" Sick Boy snarled, turning from the sink, where he was pumping lotion soap into a towel. He rounded on the cunt, towering over him until the punter backed away, eyes lowered. That accomplished, he banged back into the stall, slamming and bolting the door, then unfastening his trousers with one hand. He pulled down his keks; silk boxers, I noted, before I noted that his cock was hard. "Go on, Mark," he said, sounding short of breath. "Pull them down, man."

Moving slowly -- at least it felt slow – I unbuttoned my jeans and pushed them past my hips. I yanked down my own keks; the material brushed against my prick. I could hear the thumping of the drums and bass outside the bog, and I could smell the reek of hash and poppers inside, mingling with cigarette smoke and alcohol. Taking my cock in my hand, I reached out and wrapped a hand around Sick Boy's, stroking him, feeling his cock growing harder and hotter.

Holding the towel, Sick Boy leaned back against the wall of the stall, his eyes closed, his hips beginning to twitch, not quite rhythmically, but steadily all the same. My hesitation disappeared slowly; I moved closer, rubbing our cocks together, watching his face as he groaned.

Sick Boy's eyes opened. He reached out with his free hand and grabbed my shoulder, turning me around. "Go on, Rents."

Scowling -- was I that inept? -- I obeyed him, feeling my prick pressed against the coolness of the metal wall when he pushed me against it. Sick Boy pulled my jeans and keks down farther, and then I felt a slick finger sliding over my arse and pressing against the entrance to my hole. I was so intent on my cock that it took a moment for me to register that Sick Boy had his finger up my arse.

"Not here," I began, but Sick Boy's hand covered my mouth, smashing against my already injured lips, and he pressed me up against the wall.

"Shut it, Rents."

Of course he wanted it here. Where better than in public, what better than the possibility of getting caught? It was, and would always be Sick Boy's habit; he lived for the drama of any given situation.

I was acutely aware of his weight against me, of his soapy finger fucking me, pushing in, pulling out, of his hand tight over my mouth. I licked his hand, and the pressure tightened; he'd leave bruises. And probably wanted to.

Not that I minded.

He kept working his finger in and out, stretching me. From time to time his soapy hand would slide over my hip and down my belly to stroke my cock, to make sure it was still hard. He played with the head, laughing a little when I let out a shudder and a muffled gasp. I could feel my balls tightening; I was nearly ready to spill.

I felt the head of his cock, slippery with soap, at my hole, hard and persistent. I groaned behind his hand as he forced his way inside; even with the soap, the friction was painful, or else I hadn't been fucked enough. How was I supposed to know?

He thrust up against me, and curled his hard, soapy fingers around my cock, stroking it, tossing me off as he pushed in and drew back, grunting, his mouth against my ear. I moaned, and he bit my earlobe. "Don't want to get caught, do you, Rents?"

I couldn't nod or shake my head; he held me too tightly, and I was making noises I couldn't help. The coke and the speed had coalesced into a bright, spiraling mass within me; my body needed more than I could possibly get at that moment. Sick Boy's hand moved faster against my cock as he pushed into me, forcing me against the wall; need was gathering to a head in my taut balls. Trembling, I placed my hands against the wall and pushed back, thrusting my arse against his prick.

Sick Boy pumped in a quick, wild frenzy, spilling inside me. He thrust a few more times, then was still, leaning against me, breathing hard. The movement of his hand on my cock had stopped, but his fingers were still curled around it.

Sick Boy spoke into my ear again. "Want more?"

I nodded, thrusting into his hand, groaning a little. His hand over my mouth pulled me back so that my head rested on his shoulder. He resumed the movement of his hand, and it wasn't a minute until my body was bucking against him like mad; I let out a smothered shout and came, spunk splattering on the wall, sliding down over Reg loves Jenny, fuk u, and Andy McLaren is a buftie.

Sick Boy let me go, grabbing the bog roll and wiping his hand off. He refastened his trousers and patted my cheek as I turned around. "Thanks, laddie."

I closed my eyes. One day he'll have done one Connery impersonation too many, and I'd have to kill him.

"You don't mind getting your own taxi home, do you Rents?" he asked in his own voice. "I was going to go home with Philippa."

I shook my head. "That's fine."

"Take care of that lip," Sick Boy said, and sauntered out of the stall, leaving me to button myself up and assess my situation. I did just that; I pulled up my keks, buttoned my jeans, and left the loo, two punters giving me funny looks as though they smelled the spunk on me. That was just fine.

At least, I thought, I was no longer bored.

 

End.