I needed to move this on.
Friends, friends, friends.
“Will?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t come into my flat again without asking me, OK?” He nodded. “You can do anything when you’re here, you know that, but please don’t sit on my sofa with your bare arse and your cock in your hands.”
He laughed as I made my way to my bedroom, stopping and starting down the hallway, wondering if I was making a mistake or saving a friendship? And where the hell would we go from here if I chose either option?
Friends, friends, friends.
“And we’ll agree to never bring this up again?” he shouted.
“Yes,” I replied as I stilled my hand on the door handle to my room. I heard him quietly say, “That’s a shame,” and that forceful shiver that ran over my shoulders and through my spine? I tried hard to ignore it.
1
Skye
One month later…
Skye
I loved Brighton in the mornings. It was always an eclectic, exciting place, but the morning brought out the characters. Eighty-year-olds braving a morning swim dressed in Victorian swimwear, with handlebar moustaches and spotted frilly caps dotted all across the tide. Rollerbladers zooming along the sea front, some with a boombox resting on their shoulder playing AC/DC and The Clash. The Italian stuntman juggling knives, wearing black trousers, a sparkly waistcoat, and nothing else. Dog walkers, runners, people on their way to work. A melting pot of people who fascinated and enthralled.
I’d lived in Brighton for most of my life. Born and bred, part of the paintwork as memorable as the green railings arching along the beach. I started life in a mobile home park opposite the Marina. My mum was eighteen when she became pregnant but still went off to college, then uni and into a fashion career. She wasn’t physically present in my life aside from a few visits throughout the year, often selfishly timed with big social events in Brighton. My grandmother wanted her to make something of herself and agreed to care for me as she carved out what could only be described as a fluid career in design. I wasn’t sure if my grandmother’s vision for her daughter included never really bothering about her quirky daughter, but it wasn’t something we often talked about. Mum went on to have another child, my brother, Elliott, who came to live with us when he was a toddler. Mum had just discovered the joys of France and all that came with it. I was reaching my early teens and found myself becoming a mother figure to him as my grandmother’s health deteriorated. She passed away when he was fourteen, a critical time for a teenager to lose someone so close when he was already wrestling with the rejection of his incubator –also known as our biological mother. His words, not mine.
Elliott and I stayed in the mobile home after her death. We grew closer and as he threw himself into school and the night life Brighton had to offer, I spent my days and nights juggling three jobs. In the day I worked in the café that would eventually become Turnip the Beet. Early evening, I cleaned the school where Elliott was a student, and late evening, I was a dancer in an LGBTQ+ club in the middle of Brighton. Gay culture was huge here. We flew the rainbow flag high and proud. Despite being exhausted and running on adrenaline, I did it all for Elliott. The kid deserved the best and I gave him what I could. That particular time of my life has blurred edges now, my memory choosing to shut out a lot of it. All I knew was, despite the trauma of those years, they also brought me some good. I met Stacey, my best friend and chosen family member and she…brought Will into my life.
“Where have you been?” I asked as Will approached. He had his camera slung over his shoulder and was carrying the world’s largest coffee. “Fuck’s sake, Will. I’ve been waiting ages.”
“Oh, good morning to you too. Did you forget that I’m up at the arse crack of dawn to do you a favour?”
“I’m paying you!” I replied.
“The promise of a lemon drizzle cake does not equate to payment,” Will replied. “I need dollars.” He started sliding imaginary bills from the palm of his hand, coffee threatening to spill. “Show me the money.”
“Urgh, you’re so annoying,” I said, shaking my head. “And late. And you have porridge on your chin.”
“I love doing things for you,” he said, swiping his hand across his mouth, smearing it further. “You keep it interesting because you never know what you’re going to get. Jokes, homemade cakes, maybe even a bit of verbal abuse.”
“You love me really.” I smiled. “Here, you can be in charge of Cher.” I handed him the sparkly lead that was attached to a tiny Chihuahua.
“Cher? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Absolutely not. He belongs to Dr Chris. She was happy for me to bring him along for the photo shoot.” Dr Christine, formerly Christopher, worked at the local LGBTQ+ sexual health clinic where I volunteered. She was a formidable character, wearing dresses and chandelier earrings way before she had her full gender transition. She knew the community well, being part of it herself, and was passionate about sexual health and equal rights. We clicked immediately, and Cher, her dog, was my first grooming client. I laughed as I patted Reggie on the head. Stacey’s huge English Bulldog and the tiny dog next to him did have a slightly comical look. I started to wonder if bringing them together on this photo shoot for my new business was a mistake.
“Cher and Reggie,” Will said, looking at them side by side. “Don’t go getting any ideas, Reg.” He pointed at him. “You’ll break Cher if you get frisky.”
“Reggie isn’t gay,” I replied, pulling the Bulldog who was stubbornly fixed to the pavement. “But Cher is.”
“Ah, so it’s Reg we need to protect.”
“If Cher attempts anything, I’m not sure Reggie will notice.”
“Poor guy,” Will replied before whispering, “Dick issues.”
“Don’t listen,” I said, stroking Cher’s ears. “In comparison to Reg, yes, he has dick issues but when getting it on with another Chiuhaua or…small dog equivalent, he’s positively staff like.”
“Good for him,” Will said. “There’s something I don’t have to worry about.” He strode out onto the beach, but not before he made a throw-away comment that stopped me in my steps. “But you already know that, don’t you?”
Gah!
We hadn’t spoken about the night I caught Will masturbating in my living room. It wasn’t a topic you easily brought up in conversation. Or perhaps we were avoiding it just like you would a missile bomb. Because essentially, that’s what it was. The night two friends almost took it further, blowing everything apart and bursting our friendship at the seams. Neither of us wanted to do anything to jeopardise what we had. We were proof that men and women could have a friendship without sex getting in the way.
But why then couldn’t I stop visualising his cock?
“Right, what are you thinking? Big guy at the back, Cher in front?” he asked, moving on from the dick visual he’d handed me on a plate.
“You’re the photographer,” I replied with a shrug.