Junction X Erastes (best motivational books of all time TXT) 📖

When I did start to realise what was going on, it was too late to stop. It’s hard to write this down, because what he and I started there on the Plage de Nice was so different from the pigeonholes of life I put everything into. Different from Ed with Valerie, different from Ed at the club. A new Ed emerged that night, but his wings were wet.

The first thing I noticed was a pressure in my groin and balls, the thought processes seeming treacle-slow as my brain fought to slot the pieces together in the dark. I swear (and I can’t now believe my stupidity) that when I realised what the divine sensation was, I thought that Phil had got some whore from the village and had set this up as a surprise. It took me another groggy minute, as I looked down and saw his dark trousers, his white shirt, his gold-flecked hair, and his head bobbing up and down, before I realised what was really happening.

The reality of what we were doing in public hit me hard even though I wanted it to go on forever. I struggled a little—but only a little. I didn’t shout, I have to be honest. His arm shoved my chest back down in the sand and he continued working on me until, almost against my will, I came in his mouth, my eyes screwed up so tight that tears seeped from the edges. In spite of all the conflicting emotions—the fear, the disgust, the surprise—it had been wonderful, unlike anything I’d ever done to myself. Heat, warmth, pressure, suction. I’d had no idea. Whatever I’d imagined, it hadn’t ever been like that.

Afterwards, I lay stunned for a good few seconds. I felt Phil pull away and my prick cooled in the night air. It was probably the most embarrassing moment in my life up to that point and, as I refastened my trousers, I couldn’t even bring myself to look at Phil, sitting with his back to me. I imagined that he was as ashamed as I was, but once again, of course, I was wrong, for he turned around and, to my amazement and confusion, he was smiling.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” My mind was swarming with thoughts. Was Phil homosexual—queer? And I’d enjoyed what he had done—what was I?

“You’re angry. I thought you’d be pleased. You’ve had a blow-job now, Eddie.”

“Why did you do it?” I hardly recognised my own voice. I thought that I should be shouting, storming off, punching him. “Why did you have to spoil it all?”

“I wanted to show you that men—that friends—can do things together, in secret. It’s the companionship you were talking about.” He sounded perfectly sober now. “Nothing’s spoiled.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Once.”

“Who with?”

“My tutor, at university.”

My mind reeled, and I saw it clearly: a dusty study, Phil, perhaps his grades slipping, and a teacher willing to exploit a pretty young man. Phil on his knees; it’s what he would do. It’s what he always did.

“But you said you’d had…before.” I felt horribly sober, and the words seemed wrong in my mouth, my tongue swollen and dry. Gone was that feeling of liberation, lost somewhere in the flood of salt, washed back into the sea. I wanted us to go back, back to the talk of rugby and cricket. Back to before he lit that cigarette for me and burned away part of my life.

“Birds,” he said. He leant forward, wrapping his arms around his legs. “The tutor showed me what was what, and then I knew what I liked. They never wanted to spread their legs, but once you threatened to leave, they’d always suck you dry.”

His coarseness shocked me, and the vision it raised in my mind made me feel doubly uncomfortable. Girls kneeling before Phil, doing anything he asked to keep him. I didn’t have that in my past. I’d had Valerie and that had seemed to be enough.

I wondered briefly, as I struggled to my feet, what he wanted in exchange—whether he’d want me to do the same for him. But he didn’t say anything else until we got back to the terrace. The gîte’s lights were out, making the terrace seem a dark and sinister place. How had I thought it was a little haven for him and me? That fleeting moment of intimacy seemed gone forever—I couldn’t imagine how I was going to look at him in the face in the morning, let alone continue the holiday. Perhaps, I thought, reaching the top of the steps, I could fake an illness and we could return early.

“Eddie.” He caught my arm and I stopped. It was like a spell, his voice. I still didn’t understand. I thought he had me in his power, that he could blackmail me with what we’d done. I was wrong, of course, but he did have me under his power, all the same.

He moved in front of me, his voice so low that even I had trouble hearing him. “Don’t be angry,” he said. “We could have it good, you and me.” He went to touch my hair and I hit his hand away, but he persisted.

I got angry, pushed him away and things got muddled, perhaps I was… No. I was going to blame the wine, but I know now that it wasn’t that at all. I found myself pinning him back against the cool golden stone of the cottage. I was so angry, and I remember being angrier with myself than I was with him. How dare he come along and smile at me and give me something like that? I wanted to punch him, but he was too close, his breath was against my cheek and his groin brushed against my leg, announcing his own hardness. I stared at him, and his face was no longer mocking, his mouth wasn’t smiling. It was wet, and a little open, his tongue just showing behind his teeth. So close. An inch—less—from mine, and there was