Shameless by Paul Burston Read Free Book Online Page B

rooms had a thirty-two-inch waist and forty-inch chest, or that they all worked out regularly and had nice pecs and a firm arse (or “ass” as most people preferred to call it—masquerading as an American gay porn star was another popular pastime). John’s own profile was pretty close to the truth, although he did add an inch to his height and another to the length of his cock. He also claimed that he was a natural blond, rather than someone who spent a small fortune on highlights. And of course he didn’t actually tell people that he was an air steward. He’d heard enough cracks about “trolley dollies” to know better than that. Instead, he said that he worked as a security guard for an airline, which sounded far more butch without being a complete lie. There was an element of security involved in his job. He was just leaving out the bit about the trolley, that was all.
    But to go to the trouble of measuring your biceps and then neglect to mention that you were Asian wasn’t just a minor oversight. It was a deliberate act of deception. John fired off a message that said “Sorry, not my type” and wondered whether it was worth amending his profile, making it clear that he wasn’t interested in Asians, then decided against it. He was pretty certain you weren’t allowed to say things like that anyhow. You could say that you were “straight acting” and would “like to meet similar.” You could say that you were interested in “real men” and not “queens.” You could specify “no fats or femmes.” You could even say that you were looking for “bareback” sex, or that you were “disease free and expect similar.” But you couldn’t say anything that would be considered offensive to ethnic minorities. Who invented these stupid rules anyway? One of Shane’s lot, probably. Well, it was easy to appear politically correct when you had exotic tastes. That was no justification for making everyone else feel guilty about theirs. Before long they’d be telling you not to specify that you liked blonds, on the grounds that it made you a Nazi.
    There had been very little activity on John’s computer screen since then. Someone called “TryWaterSports” had sent him a couple of messages, accompanied by a photo of his erect cock, which left him in little doubt that “TryWaterSports” had the kind of face guaranteed to scare people off. A couple called “UsTwo4Fun” had tried to talk him into joining them for a threesome somewhere in Leytonstone, which might have been worth considering had the photo they sent been a bit clearer. As it was, John couldn’t tell if they were both as fit and beefy as they said, or simply fat and holding their stomachs in. Shortly afterward, he received several increasingly annoying messages from someone looking for a sex slave and offering a monthly salary of five hundred pounds for the successful applicant. John sent a message back to “MasterTom” informing him that he had a perfectly good job already and that he wasn’t remotely interested in playing silly games with some sad old leather queen.
    He was about to shut down the computer and dig out a porn video when a message flashed up. “Hi,” it said. “How r u?”
    John looked at the screen name—“CuriousCute28.” Interesting. He clicked open the profile. The guy described himself as straight and in a relationship, but looking for “discreet fun with other straight-acting lads.” John had met this type before. More often than not, they turned out to be the sort of screaming queens who thought a bit of sportswear was all it took to transform them from the bitchy window dressers they were into the butch manual laborers they fantasized about being fucked by. But there was something about this one that seemed genuine. Maybe it was the wording of the profile, or rather the lack of it. There was no name given for a start, which made the emphasis on discretion sound authentic. There were no detailed statistics, either,