Sottopassaggio by Nick Alexander Read Free Book Online Page B

tell her very little.
    â€œI had a bit of a car accident,” I say. “I’m making the most of my time off work by having a holiday,” I explain.
    But I don’t tell her about Steve. I don’t tell her that my new boyfriend, the man with whom I was in the first throes of a love affair, was crushed and ripped out of this world. I don’t think she, or I for that matter, could deal with it, and even if we could, I just don’t have the words to sufficiently describe it.
    So we rest on the surface of things. We stick to cups of tea, and brands of skin-cream, to kitchen appliances and local politics.
    It reminds me of the conversations I used to have with my hairdresser Daniel. In the days when I had hair, that is.
    At 6pm Jenny heaves herself into the driver’s seat and with the briefest of waves, strains and turns the steering wheel as she pulls away.
    I guess I won’t be seeing her for a while, and I guess I’m quite relieved about that.
    As I climb the steps to the front door, I think, “
Smegma
.
That’s the word
.”
    I wish I had thought of it before she left.

The Gift
    It’s just after seven as I walk into the
Bulldog
.
    I look around, half hoping, half afraid of seeing John and Jean but they aren’t here, in fact, virtually
no one
is here.
    Two couples, all four men in their fifties, are sitting at the bar, and a lone man occupies the raised platform at the far end.
    It’s been a bright bank holiday Monday, and the town has been teeming with male muscle. I’m surprised and disappointed by the lack of action. My walk along the seafront has left me feeling horny and energised.
    I order a beer and position myself against the central pillar where I can see the single guy at the far end.
    He has a pointy black beard and a pierced eyebrow. He’s cute, but apparently too engrossed in his reading to look up at me.
    After only a few minutes, I decide that the fun has to be elsewhere, so I cross the bar and ask Mr Pierced eyebrow for a copy of the local free magazine,
Gscene
.
    He reaches to his left, smiles briefly, and with a single stroke of his beard, returns to his reading.
    It was a good smile, but certainly not a conversation opener, but as I start to walk away, he speaks.
    â€œLegends,” he says.
    I turn back with an amused frown. “Sorry?” I say.
    He places a finger on the page to mark his place, and looks up at me, a cheeky smile on his lips.
    â€œEveryone’s in Legends,” he says. “It’s happy hour till 9 tonight.”
    I nod and let out a bemused laugh. “Thanks,” I say.
    The man shrugs and returns to his reading.
    Intrigued as to how he managed to answer my unasked question, I cross the bar and return to my drink.
    Legends
is packed. I fight my way to the bar, order a drink, and as I am squeezing my way back through the buzz cuts and leather jackets to a space I have spotted, someone calls my name.
    I look over at the crowd in the bay window and catch site of John’s grinning face, then Jean’s next to him.
    â€œMark!” he repeats. The group opens, anemone-like, sucking me in.
    The couple kiss me hello on both cheeks, French-style, and John runs through a rapid-fire series of introductions.
    â€œMark, this is Peter, Ben, Baz, Greg …”
    He peers behind me, then pushes me gently to one side, “and this is Tom,” he says.
    I turn to see Tom holding out a hand, grinning.
    â€œWe meet again,” he says.
    I smile. “Yes,” I say.
    For some reason I blush.
    â€œYou found
Legends
OK then,” he says.
    He turns to John and explains, “We just met in the Bully. I said this was where all the action would be.”
    The group is funny and masculine and drunk. I standnext to Tom and listen to a series of amusing anecdotes, mostly about the men’s various sexual encounters.
    As the temperature rises in the bar, the men remove their leather jackets revealing