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When you get divorced, the people around you become simultaneously affectionate and insufferable. They start off with home cooked meals dropped on your doorstep, and then they start letting themselves into your apartment to force you to sit on the couch and watch all of the Fast and Furious movies back to back. Before you know it they start dropping hints that maybe you should consider going outside? During daylight hours? And not just to stalk the streets with that menacing look on your face. The last straw breaks the camel’s back when they sign you up to a hobby class — because apparently they’re sick of seeing you mope around like a wet weekend and hobbies are good for you, Hob. Besides, it's literally in your name!
Ukulele class runs at the community centre on the corner of the high-street every Monday at 7:30pm. Hob swears to himself up and down the entire weekend that he isn’t going to the class, thanks very much Jo, because he has a hobby. He eats cake and listens to sad music and drinks wine and maybe cries a little. He certainly doesn’t need to go along and join some 15 year olds and a granny strumming half-heartedly at undersized guitars.
So he’s not entirely sure why he turns up outside the community centre at 7:15. Suddenly, after work finished at 5pm and he found himself facing yet another evening alone with the sole company of his goldfish to enjoy… the prospect of human interaction seemed very appealing.
Too embarrassed to turn around and walk home, he shoulders his way into the glass front building through the annoyingly swingy door. An obnoxiously coloured poster above the reception desk tells him that weekly ukulele class is in room 5B, so he follows the sign pointing him in the correct direction. Naturally when he arrives, the large room is empty — he’s always had a habit of being uncomfortably early. The more he looks around the empty room now, the more he’s inclined towards legging it right out of there and heading back to a familiar evening of watching the goldfish blow bubbles.
“Oh, good. You must be the extra muscle I requested.”
Too late. The doorway is filled up with the shape of another person — although Hob can’t quite make them out under the pile of instrument cases and ring binders. He can just about make out a tuft of black hair peeking over the topmost case.
“Um.” Hob says, unsure of how to respond. “Can I…?”
“Give me a hand? I would certainly hope so, unless you wish to enjoy watching me suffer. Just… maybe hold onto a couple of these cases…”
An awkward moment of shuffling occurs as Hob takes three instrument cases, presumably containing ukuleles, and a few of the ring binders. The person underneath all the luggage gives him a triumphant smirk. “Thank you. I suppose that I should really make the trip from the car twice, but each and every time I convince myself I can carry the lot in one go. I usually end up dropping something.”
Hob awkwardly clings onto his armful. There’s no way he can leave now. This walking disaster zone must be the ukulele teacher. He’s a good few years younger than Hob – maybe a few decades younger – with a head of that soft black hair and startling blue eyes. His nails are varnished black and he’s wearing low waisted, paint splattered jeans.
He gives Hob a little imperious nod. “Bring that stuff right over here by the piano, thank you. Would you help me get the chairs set out?”
Following on autopilot, Hob puts the instrument cases down gingerly on the table near the piano. They’re so small, they look silly in his hands. He can’t imagine how ridiculous he’s going to look trying to play one of the damn things.
Without replying, he heads over to the stack of chairs at the set of the room. The teacher directs him to arrange them out in a small semi-circle. Next, the teacher deftly unfolds some light-weight music stands and sets them up in front of the chairs. And the whole time, he doesn’t stop talking.
“It is a miracle that I manage to get here on time, honestly, let alone early enough to set up. I certainly never have time to go home and change, so I have to turn up like this with dirt under my nails and smelling like mud. I work at the garden centre, in case you were wondering. Fiddler's Green - do you know it? I am not a grave digger, although my sister happens to work at a funeral home. Thank you for helping with those chairs, I am truly not cut out for heavy lifting. I suspect I’ll slip a disk someday soon.”
With the final chairs set out, other students have begun to enter the room, greeting each other. Hob prepares to melt in the background, as he usually prefers to do these days. But he’s not really given a chance.
“I apologise, I have been talking so much, and I didn’t even introduce myself. I am Dream. I teach the ukulele class, as you could probably work out for yourself.” Dream smiles at Hob coyly — there’s almost no difference in height between them, but Dream is wearing big leather boots. He's probably a little bit shorter than Hob, in reality.
“Hob.” Is all Hob can think of by way of introduction. He sticks out his hand, feeling completely at a loss. Dream takes and shakes his hand like it’s going out of style.
“Pleasure to meet you, Hob. I look forward to seeing more of you over the next few weeks.” He says. One of his blue eyes snaps into a jaunty wink that sends a blush creeping up Hob’s neck immediately. He has no idea why. Perhaps because he isn't used to being flirted with by boys barely out of their teens. It's embarrassing to realise that he's flattered by the attention.
The ukulele class is predictably abysmal. Hob does not take to it. His fingers hurt and the noise is grating. But he makes it to the end of the class all the same. It means that he gets to look at Dream, pretending to mimic his strumming while truly watching his pretty hands as they move. Sometimes he catches Dream’s eye, and gets a coquettish little smirk thrown in his direction. It's even more maddening than the sound of the ukuleles.
Which is why Hob returns the next week. And the week after. And the week after that. Week four of the class and Hob has learned nothing, except that the tiny span of Dream’s waist is haunting him. Along with the blue of his eyes.
At week four, he lingers behind and helps put away the chairs and music stands.
“How old are you, Hob? Or is that an impolite question that I ought not to ask?” Dream carefully stacks his ring binders on top of each other. His nails are still painted black, with little flecks of white this time.
“I'm 53.” Hob replies. He wipes off his hands on his jacket. “I don't think it's particularly impolite, no. Unless you're going to insult me now you know that I'm old.”
He doesn't hear Dream coming up behind him, so the hand that settles on his hip is a surprise. He flinches, but Dream doesn't let go. “Not old, surely. Just mature. And I like that. I like a sturdy, dependable man.”
“My ex wife would disagree with you on that one.” Hob attempts to turn and dislodge Dream’s hand, but ends up face to face with him instead. “You think you want to fuck an older guy, but I promise you'll be sorely disappointed. It's all sagging and erectile dysfunction from here on in.”
“Hmm.” Dream slides his finger down Hob’s jawline. It's not the sharp line that it once was. He hides it with an artfully scruffy beard, but Dream is touching the soft part. The vulnerable part. “Let me try?”
Hob is backed up against the wall, next thing he knows. Dream’s clever musical fingers are unbuckling his belt, then easing down the zipper on his jeans. They're still in the community centre, room 5B, and Dream is tugging at Hob’s waistband and fishing around for his cock.
“I like your body. Sturdy, like I said. I bet you switch the lights off when you undress. But I like it.” Dream whispers. But of course Hob isn't hard, not yet, maybe not at all, and he wonders if this is about to end in some terribly embarrassing way.
Dream slides to his knees on the floor, and starts nuzzling against Hob’s stomach. He bites into the belly hang, presses a long exploratory finger into his navel. The novelty of it shocks Hob out of his panic. He simply feels – Dream’s nails digging into his flesh, teeth at his thigh, cheek rubbing against his cock. He's getting hard. Dream grins, and slides his mouth around the tip like it’s his favourite dessert. Hob’s thighs are shaking so much, he's utterly relieved to be leaning against the wall. Otherwise he'd collapse in a heap of mortified arousal.
Dream's palms and fingers are playing with Hob’s arse now, as he sucks his cock. Squeezing the dimpled flesh and curling around the hair between his cheeks. Hob is swallowing whimpers, desperate not to be heard. He bites his lip and makes the mistake of looking down. And there's Dream, mouth full of thick red cock, slurping eagerly and still looking like he's absolutely in charge. He can't be more than 25 years old. There's not a single grey hair, not a single hint of an imperfection on his skin. Hob tries to imagine him older -- thin, crabby, battered by the world, no even nearly so verbose. He would be a perfect match for Hob. They might rage against the world together. But Dream isn't like that at all. His eyelashes flutter with delight when Hob’s hips twitch forward. The tip of his index finger rubs against Hob’s dry hole.
Hob hasn't felt arousal like this in years, if he's honest. He's been too sad, too tired. Some nights he's laid up in bed and tried, but porn was always too fake. Maybe Dream is fake too, but he's doing a damn good job of making it feel real. He gags himself on purpose so that spit runs down his chin, and he looks utterly delighted. Hob’s toes are curling in his shoes, he's grunting out loud by now, but there's nothing he can do to stop himself. Dream winks up at him: it should be silly, but instead it makes Hob buck his hips and whine.
It's far from Hob’s finest accomplishment. He claws desperately at the wall behind him, grits his teeth, and cums down Dream’s throat without even managing to warn him. He can't feel too bad about it when Dream looks so smug, there on his knees with sticky white fluid dripping off his chin. Hob offers him a hand up, and his legs seem to be shaking slightly.
“Can I…? I mean, should I…?” Hob asks awkwardly. But Dream just pats him on the cheek.
“No need for that. I got exactly what I wanted, although I suppose you won't believe me.” He grabs Hob’s hand, and pulls it to his crotch, making him feel the unmistakably sticky fabric on his jeans. “There, you see?”
Hob nods dumbly. He can't pretend to understand why, but it seems that Dream has been well satisfied. Hob brings his hand up to his mouth and licks his fingers, almost automatically. Dream's beautiful eyes darken.
“Well. Same time next week, I hope. You really are making excellent progress.” He gathers up his armful of ring binders, although he doesn't stop looking at Hob — who still leans against the wall, dishevelled, with his soft cock exposed. “Be good to yourself in the meantime, won't you?”
He leaves Hob standing right there, like the fool he is, wondering what on earth had just occurred. Perhaps he'd dreamed the entire encounter. Perhaps the aftermath of the divorce really has driven him completely mad.
Perhaps he's still going to come back next week, and find out. Disastrous although it will inevitably be, Hob wants to be there. He wants to see the first grey hair and the first line on Dream’s pretty face. Make him a little more jaded, and Hob might even be able to love him. Perhaps.
Or perhaps he'll let the dream survive a little longer, by leaving it alone.