The Red Collection by Portia Da Costa Read Free Book Online

thrill. Even the unflagging erection nudging my bottom becomes temporarily ever so slightly less of a priority.
    I lift out a small blue velvet jewellery box with the kind of dimensions that are coded into the genes of almost every heterosexual woman in the western, capitalist world.
    ‘Just a small item for madam’s consideration.’ His voice is soft and arch, much as it was during our silly sex shop game, but I also detect a hint of genuine nervousness.
    I flip up the lid, and breathe, ‘Oh Bobby,’ loving him more than ever when I see the box’s dazzling contents.
    ‘I’ll take it,’ I declare, then roll to face him and seal the transaction with a kiss.

Duet for Three
    WHAT THE FUCK?
    What is this? I wasn’t expecting this. When the woman on reception said there was a bit of a ‘do’ on, and I was welcome to join in, I didn’t expect it to be the bastard child of a fetish party, a rave and Northern wedding reception.
    Too weird.
    It’s a biggish room, an old ballroom or something, I suppose, but tonight it’s decked out like a rough approximation of clubland. The music’s a solid wall of complex, juddering sound, and there’s flashing, strobing light bouncing off the walls and the mass of gyrating bodies.
    God, it’s all completely mad. But I like it. I haven’t felt this psyched up in ages. My ears and my toes, and everything else between, are vibrating in time to the hard, thudding base beats, and my groin is suddenly tight with anticipation.
    I suddenly feel an intense desire to get laid.
    Smiling, I stroll towards the small, paid-for bar. I was expecting
Strictly Come Dancing
in a place like this – a discreet, out-of-the-way country hotel that I stumbled into by mistake when I got fed up of the motorway – but there’s no poncy foxtrotting around here, no way. They’re all throwing themselves around like maniacs, lost in the music, and the sweaty smell of adrenaline is almost solid.
    Yeah, Jason, you could have some fun here … My prick kicks again inside my shorts.
    At the bar, Mr Jack Daniels calls plaintively to me, but I ignore him. The fact I’ve been to a health farm – aka celebrity rehab – is the reason I’ve ended up in this godforsaken place. And I’m not going to undo all the shit from hell I’ve just gone through to get clean. Which means no booze for me. And no fags. And none of that other stuff either …
    But I will allow myself a woman, if I get lucky.
    I say,
if
…
    At one time, it would have been a piece of cake. I could have had a dozen bimbettes a night if I could’ve coped with them … and sometimes, high as a kite, I did. But I’m not part of a headlining boy band any more. I’m not even recognisable – I hope – as a washed-up ex-member of a washed-up ex-boy band. I’m just Jason Ripley, an average guy who’d maybe like to start again as a real singer …
    So, no JD. I order a mineral water and, as the young chap behind the bar hands it me, he gives me a strange, almost knowing look.
    Hmmm … Well, maybe I’m not as unrecognisable as I thought. I thought I’d be safe now my long, trademark blond locks are gone, along with my shades and/or my bright-green contact lenses. I’m just Mr Man in the Street with short, nondescript brown hair and an unremarkable pair of glasses. And no designer gear any more either, just a plain shirt, off-the-peg jeans and running shoes.
    No, I’m pretty sure the barman hasn’t recognised J-Boy Jones of the Forever Boys from Adam. He’s serving someone else now and has completely lost interest.
    As I sip, I turn my attention to the dance floor. There’s plenty to see, once my eyes adjust to the light and the movement.
    I was right about the fetish party thing. Although there are plenty of folk in ordinary clothes – jeans, smart casual, some quite dressed up – there’s also quite a lot of rubber and leather and all the rest of it.
    A man in arseless leather trousers. A woman in a rubber catsuit. A full-on gimp. It’s