SFTN
by Nathan Holder
Man or woman?—could be either. The stranger was around twenty, very short and pale, almost albino with cropped hair, no eyebrows, and an electric blue shirt. Joel was awarded a small knowing smile as the figure walked past. Didn’t have a clue who, or what, it was. He shrugged, finished his cigarette and ground it out under his Adidas trainer.
He watched the rest of the crowd pouring out. They’d had a good night, the bastards: skaters; trendies in coloured leather jackets; bears and chubbies with piercings and tattoos in unlikely places; twinks in sequinned jeans and fluorescent sneakers; punks with shaved hair dyed tricolour in lop-sided mohicans. They sauntered by yelling and belting out Franz Ferdinand songs. Aftershave, alcohol and sweat washed over him spiked with the smell of poppers. A skinny pensioner in a green suit, yellow shirt and tattered trainers strolled by grinning at him with too perfect teeth. The old man’s bald head was tattooed with some astrological sign and he had piercings in both eyebrows. He passed close—too close, then waved a hand vaguely in Joel’s direction as if to touch him on the shoulder.
“Piss off grandad,” he said and stepped to the side, pulling at his earring.
In the doorway a five foot nothing fat guy with too much jewellery was snogging a tall Japanese kid. The last clubbers were calling out, wishing each other good luck with the guys they’d pulled.
His own luck had let him down but it wasn’t too late for that to change. The night was young. His head hurt; he must stink of beer. No way was he going to be the last desperate guy hanging round outside. Everyone would want food before heading home. He wandered down the side alley to St. James’ Street and the all-night chippy. The invigorating smell of vinegar spritzed the air. He pulled out a few coins—just enough for a bag of fries. He bought some and walked back to the road, grabbing big handfuls and pushing them in hungrily. He leaned against a railing while he ate, his jeans hitched up to show off his packet and tight young arse. When he’d finished he wiped his fingers on the paper napkins he’d picked up. He ran a hand through his short, gelled black hair and caught sight of himself in the bus shelter window: chiselled cheeks, sharp blue eyes with long dark lashes, faded jeans and white T shirt. Pretty but hard—that’s the look he was after. Never let him down yet.
He cast intent looks at the men passing on their way home. After a while one approached him.
“Hi. You look bored.”
Joel pulled at his earring, smiled. The guy was the same size as he was, good-looking, forty maybe, with short grey hair and a tattoo on his neck, wearing faded ripped jeans, denim jacket and gold rings. Not fit, bit of a belly, but not bad.
“Oh, just hangin’ round. Too early to go home,” Joel said.
“I’m going for a walk along the beach. You want to keep me company?”
Joel smirked and stepped into line beside the stranger, his hopes rising fast. The older guy’s arm went round his waist. Shit, thought Joel, he doesn’t mess around.
“I’m Gary. Where’ve you been tonight?”
“Revenge.”
“Me too. I didn’t see you. How did I miss such a sexy guy?”
Corny. Too fucking corny. But he kept the thought to himself.
“Had a good night?” asked Gary.
“Yeah. Not bad.”
“Me too. Makes me so horny though in the clubs. You know…all that naked flesh on the dance floor.”
He stared hungrily at Joel who remained silent. Gary pressed on—
“Not seen you around before. Where do you go out?”
“I’ve only been to Revenge. Moved here a couple of weeks ago, didn’t I? From Worthing. Don’t know me way round yet, see? Still looking for work anyway so I can’t go out much—ain’t got the money.”
They reached the beach and squatted down together on the shingle near the water.
“Warm for the time of year,” said Gary, leaning towards him. “You haven’t even got a jacket.”
His hand, rings shining in the moonlight, edged forward and stroked Joel’s arm.
“You work out?” the older man asked.
The hand carried on stroking him. It ran up, over his shoulder then
rubbed his nape. It crept down his back and slipped under his belt. The man’s rings were cold against his flesh; feeling uncomfortable, he shifted and looked away, unsure how to react. The silence lengthened. He cleared his throat, trying to think of something to say, when Gary murmured,
“You want a blow job?”
“No mate, there’s people just over there,” he protested, tensing. His voice came out louder than he’d intended.
“Don’t worry, they won’t see. Anyway they’re probably up to the same thing.” Suddenly he felt Gary’s hand fall to his crotch, kneading his cock through his Levis.
“No, sorry, I can’t,” Joel stammered and jumped up. “How ’bout under the pier? Bit more private, y’know?”
“I’ve got a better idea. Come back to mine. That is, if you’re up for it?”
That was more like it. He smiled at the older man; he couldn’t help liking him. It was easy to laugh at his jokes as they walked back to the town. They stopped at a cashpoint and Gary drew out money for drinks from the offie and a taxi home. Joel watched closely as Gary, obviously still drunk, slipped off the kerb before regaining his balance.
They bought vodka then headed back past the Old Steine towards the taxi rank. “Short cut,” grinned Gary, ducking into the Laines.
“I’ll carry that,” said Joel, taking the plastic bag with the bottles in it. He tugged at his ear. The lane was narrow and lit only by a couple of shop windows. At the midpoint he slipped sideways and dropped the bag in a doorway. Then he ran to overtake Gary and turned to face him.
“Now, give me your fucking money!” he screamed, pulling out the knife from under his jacket. It was six inches long. It gleamed in the blue neon light. It was his SFTN—something for the night.
Gary laughed. The moron was actually laughing.
“C’mon, I mean it. Give me the wallet you fucking Nancy.”
Joel stepped forward and raised the blade.
Gary’s expression changed. He groaned then rammed his hand into his pocket. Joel watched carefully. It was going to be OK.
“Hurry up! Hurry or I’ll do ya,” he yelled, waving SFTN.
“OK, OK—look I’m giving it to you.” The other’s voice was level but his eyes were wide and his shoulders hunched. Joel knew scared shitless when he saw it. He didn’t need to see the shaking hand that drew out the wallet. Gary threw it to the ground then turned and ran. Reaching the end of the lane he fell to his knees and puked into the gutter. Joel could smell it from where he stood. Pathetic. He grabbed his prize from the pavement, retrieved the drinks bag and jogged home.
He swung open the door, whistling, ran up the stairs and had a slash. In the kitchen he put one of the bottles in the fridge and took the top off the other. He pulled out the bag of Philleas Fogg he’d insisted on and poured them into a bowl. Before heading for the bedroom he threw his jacket onto a chair and peeled off his T-shirt.
“Did SFTN get us the drinks?” came the voice from the bed.
“Sure did,” he answered. “Get something to watch?”
“Yeah, three to choose from—long loan, no charge.”
They laughed.
Joel kicked off his jeans and boxers, took a swig from the bottle, put the snacks on the bed and jumped in. He passed the vodka bottle to Aaron, stroked his cropped fair hair and squeezed his muscled arm. He watched a trickle of spilt alcohol run down Aaron’s smooth chest then bent to lick it up, put the hard pierced nipple between his teeth, and bit.