Geoff Ryman - Lust Or No Harm Done

As they walked home, Michael kept watching for disappointment in himself or the other, but it did not set in. The man was a few years younger than he was, and pleasantly talkative. He looked tired, in a worn, homely way. He smiled tiredly. His eyes crinkled and they were a very clear blue.

His name was Chris. Chris, Michael repeated in his head so he wouldn't have to ask again: Chris, Chris. Chris managed a pub, a quite nice one actually on this side of Euston Road. Tended to get the after-work crowd rather than the usual King's Cross lowlife.

'How much further is it?' Chris asked after they had walked only two blocks. They always got scared that it would be far or that they couldn't find their way back, or that they were being led to a sidestreet mugging.

Chris's eyes shone with relief inside the pleasant apartment. In the light his colouring seemed to heighten, his eyes went cornflower-blue, his hair golden, his cheeks pink.

'I've been working all evening and I'm a bit sweaty. Would you mind if I had a shower?'

Michael caught himself working magic. He thought at Chris as if he were an Angel: you've just showered. He felt something come up against the wall of reality.

So Michael said, 'Of course you can. In fact maybe I should too.' It was considerate, but taking a shower is a passion-killer. It is difficult to maintain a macho facade when you offer someone a towel in decorator colours. It is difficult to hold up the mask of fantasy as you peel off day-old clothes and used knickers that look like blotting paper. You are left naked, in a less than ideal body.

In the bedroom Chris turned away, and stepped out of his clothes cautiously, in that hunched and delicate way that makes people look embarrassed. He carefully hung his trousers over the back of the chair. He had a slight undercoating of fat all over his body, produced perhaps by nightly access to beer. Chris, who managed a pub, was not one of the great names or bodies of the century. Michael remembered discretion and hesitancy and withdrew.

He also remembered that this was not an Angel. You don't know who he is, Michael. He took his wallet and portfolio and hid them behind books on the shelves. Then he threw off his clothes and worked his way around Chris in the narrow bathroom. Michael showered quickly, giving his bum a quick scrub. He did not want to leave Chris unobserved in the flat. He shouted from behind the shower curtain, 'So um, did you close up early tonight?' He shut off the water and nipped out of the bath.

Chris was waiting for him, wanting to talk. 'No. This is my normal knocking-off time. As it were.' Chris grinned: it was his normal knocking-off joke as well, but it was enough to make Michael smile. Chris wore his white towel high around his midriff, to hide his tummy.

Michael blotted up water and hared after Chris and caught up with him in the bedroom.

'I'd say we're both getting a bit wet,' said Chris.

I hope he won't make jokes like this all night, thought Michael. He blinked back at him from behind his specs, feeling owlish. He had forgotten to take them off in the shower. Chris delicately removed them, and leaned forward and kissed him.

Chris still tasted of hops. He was a tall man and was at his best lying face down: his legs and buttocks were still slim, unlike his stomach. Michael had taken the Viagra before he went out, and it worked triumphantly, spiked perhaps by a tickle of fear and uncertainty that had long been missed.

Face down on the bed, Chris pulled his cheeks apart, and Michael suddenly wanted to feel himself inside there. Anxious lest the erection collapse, he pushed his way alongside, up to and then very suddenly inside Chris, real flesh to real flesh. Michael began to pump.

Without a condom. Michael had to repeat that. Michael, this is real and you are not wearing a condom, Michael stop. He wanted to go on and was suddenly aware that Chris would let him.

'This is silly,' Michael said. He half hoped Chris would say, never mind. Instead, Chris said, after a pause, 'Yeah, you're right.'

Michael pulled out. Condoms, condoms, where did he keep condoms now? It had been five months since he'd used one. As he pulled open drawers, he felt his erection subside. He raced back to the bathroom, catching his little toe on the side of the lintel. He hopped and hobbled towards his sponge bag and found both condoms and KY. Cursing under his breath, he winced back into the bedroom, trying to walk as if he hadn't nearly broken his toe.

Michael glanced nervously at his erection, which was now best described as a plumping of penis, like a fluffed-up pillow. It was soft but fatter than normal. He tore at the packet with his fingers and then with his teeth, and then he remembered where those fingers had been. Finally the condom was liberated and he checked it, and he slid it down his cock and it wasn't until it began to curl inward at the top that he realized he'd put it on inside out.

It would not roll up again. He had to pull it off as a whole, turn it inside out, and try to slip it back on like a pair of stockings. Chris lay dazed and luxurious with waiting passivity.

'Whew,' said Michael, his poor little willy wet and limp, as if sweaty from too much work.

Chris was covered with golden fur. It was very soft to the touch, and masked his anus which, considering the beauty of most sphincters, served only to increase its allure. 'Please,' said Chris, once, sincerely. He loved being fucked. Once Michael was inside him, Chris moved his buttocks quickly back and forth, controlling the speed and depth of the thrust. Then he turned himself over onto his back, and raised his legs, his blue eyes yearning a simple request. Michael could do that, too, from the front. He could look into Chris's eyes. He could kiss him. He could arch his back and kiss Chris's nipples.

Michael could not come. Viagra had given him the means, but not the ends. Chris did not mind. It was half past midnight before Chris finally allowed himself to come, and Michael, out of a mingling of motives, pretended to come at the same time as well. He faked an orgasm. And then Chris curled up next to him, and placed his face against Michael's chest and talked.

The pub was Chris's whole world. The only time the job got a bit rough was after a match and people had to wait for a train. You had to get a bit tough with them then. The worst was when staff started filching drinks; it took away all your profit. It was such a thoughtless thing to do. At the end of the day, it was their jobs on the line as well. Finally you had to fire them; there was no alternative. That's why he preferred hiring women, older women, you know: they were just more reliable.

Chris wanted to be unburdened. He shared an ex-council flat with another guy. They weren't lovers or anything. The guy kept taking things from the fridge, which meant Chris got home late and found there was nothing to eat. Michael felt for him and kissed his forehead. Chris looked up, pleased and surprised, and they kissed again, tasting tongues. They paused a moment, and then Chris decided.

'I'd like to stay, but I prefer my own bed. Do you mind?'

They got dressed modestly again, backs turned towards each other. Michael still needed to pull on his socks when Chris said, 'Well, that's it then.' Then he said, 'Here's my card. You can ring me at work, if you like.' His expression was unusual for a man in his thirties. It was hopeful. He gave a shrug, as if to say, if you don't, you don't. 'Thanks,' he said, and something awkward like you have a beautiful cock.

Michael's big heavy door slammed grumpily shut, as if annoyed to be woken up in the middle of the night. The corridor outside had been newly carpeted. Michael couldn't hear the retreating footsteps. Michael pondered the meaning of that business card.

First time lucky, he thought.