Knowing Me, Knowing You Page 2

  I was shocked. I could understand my friend hugging me—he was about to travel nearly three thousand kilometers away for the first time in his life. He was scared and unsure. I could even understand my friend kissing me. I’d made no secret of my homosexuality. Perhaps he knew it would be okay to kiss me because I didn’t mind kissing men. Perhaps it was a way to be close to me—the friend he’d had on a daily basis for twelve years and would be leaving behind.

  But when a friend sticks his hand down the back of your pants, there’s only one conclusion you can come to. That friend is doing that because he wants to.

  I was hard. I couldn’t help but rub my aching dick against something, which happened to be his conveniently located thigh. And then I discovered he was hard too.

  He was turned on by gay kissing? Was he gay? Was he bi? Was he trying it on with me because he was horny? Was he saying goodbye in a way he thought I would appreciate? I’d been out to him for years. If he was gay and wanted to try something, why did he wait until the last frickin’ night we had before he told me? And did he realize it was me? Shane? His dorky, not-so-attractive friend?

  Then he pushed my shorts down and exposed my arse, and I stopped thinking and simply acted.

  This was my chance. This was Ambrose. I pulled at his T-shirt, and he willingly broke our kiss to jerk it over his head. The material hadn’t even cleared his body and my hands were on him, touching the skin I’d always wanted to touch. I brushed my fingers over his pebbled nipples and up to his shoulders and brought his body to mine. I rolled to my back and silently invited him to do whatever he wanted. What he wanted was less clothing between us. He tugged at my shirt, and I pulled it off.

  Just like I’d done to him, he sought my nipples and rubbed at them. I looked down and felt a wave of desire. His dusky brown skin was highlighted against my flabby paleness. His fingers were spread out, smoothing down my stomach, then up my ribs until they found my nipples again.

  We kissed, and I screwed up my courage, moved my hands down, and slowly slid them under the waistband of the front of his shorts. There could be no confusion about what I was aiming for, and he helpfully lifted up to give me room to work. I burrowed under the layers of material and wrapped my hand around his hard cock. He was super hard. I squeezed and attempted to caress, but the angle was awkward, and I had no leverage. I pushed at his shoulders, and he acquiesced back on the bed.

  But I couldn’t look at his face. I didn’t want reality to hit, because if this was a dream, it was a fucking good one. So I pushed down his shorts and exposed his cock. It was familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. I’d seen Ambrose naked loads of times. We weren’t overly modest with each other. But I’d never seen his dick aroused and pulsing in my hand.

  I didn’t hesitate. It could be my only chance, so I bent down and took him in my mouth. I wasn’t a connoisseur at the art of blow jobs. I really didn’t have a lot of chance to practice. But I was an enthusiastic participator. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

  Ambrose lay back with a groan and allowed me to enjoy his body. I wanted to tell my brain to memorize every single part of it, but I kept getting lost in the sensation. The taste was incredible, and the knowledge of what I was doing was earth-shattering.

  Finally I kissed my way back up his chest and took his mouth with mine. He cooperated beautifully.

  “Shane,” he whispered.

  Then he pushed me to my stomach, and I did what he wanted. I’d do whatever he wanted. I was his. He exposed my buttocks by yanking down the material of my shorts and throwing them to the floor, crawled around on the bed, and came over me. I heard him spit, and then he inserted his hard cock along the crack of my buttocks and rubbed against my aching hole. I moaned and turned my head into the pillow to avoid screaming. I was so sensitive, so needy.

  I melted in ecstasy as his weight pushed me into the bed. He lowered his body onto mine, burrowed his face into the curve of my shoulder, and began to rub himself against me. His hands weren’t idle. He touched me constantly, and I felt their warmth along my ribs, over my shoulders, at my hips.

  When Ambrose’s weight left me, I cried out in disappointment, but he only moved back so he could push his dick harder along my crack. Then I felt him push at my rim, and I tensed up.

  “Shane?” he asked breathlessly. I could hear him breathing hard behind me. Or perhaps that was just me. “Can I?”

  I wanted to scream yes, but instead I hesitated. I wasn’t a virgin, but I also wasn’t an expert at that sort of stuff. And there was something he hadn’t considered.

  “Umm.” I swallowed. “I don’t know if you want to. You didn’t give me any warning, and I haven’t… well, cleaned.”

  I knew I was going bright red and was glad my face was still in the pillow. But I couldn’t read Ambrose’s silence, so I rolled over and glanced up at him. He was frowning slightly, clearly confused.

  Fuck. I hated to burst his bubble. “Ambrose, I think it should be okay, but… well, you could get shit on your dick. Fact of life.”

  His face cleared. “Is that all?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’ve talked to a lot of guys. Online, you know? Some say it happens and doesn’t faze them. Others are horrified by the thought.”

  He leaned over me and kissed me on the lips. “I’m not putting my mouth there, so I don’t care. I don’t give a fuck, Shane. So, can I?”

  I nodded, turned back to the pillow, and prayed for everything to go right. I heard him spit, which wasn’t going to be the best lube, but I couldn’t rightly recall where my bottle was. Spit was just going to have to be enough. He pushed in. It took some effort and more spit, but I squeezed my eyes shut and waited.

  “Holy fucking God,” Ambrose ground out. Then he was thrusting, and I held on to the sheets, pushed back against him, and wished it would never end. But it did—a bit sooner than I anticipated. Ambrose groaned that he was coming and emptied himself into me.

  Then he threw himself on the bed beside me and stared at the ceiling. I didn’t want the moment to end, so kept silent and watched him with sad eyes while my body still felt the strength of his invasion. I wanted to know what he was feeling, why he’d done what he did, and what it meant for us.

  Ambrose’s eyes slid closed, and I watched him nap. He was beautiful to me. His indigenous genes had mingled with the European ones and created beauty. His bronze skin and his curly hair were so different from my own that I wanted to touch and explore. His wide nose proclaimed his Aboriginal heritage, just like his brilliant white teeth and his wide smile.

  I loved him—as a friend and as something more.

  I must’ve fallen asleep, because when I woke, the room was in darkness and the blankets on the bed had been pulled up over my naked body.

  And Ambrose had gone.

  Chapter One

  Nine years later

  I STARED at the expressionless faces on the packed train, and they stared right back, daring me to try to push into their space. I put my head down and did what they silently told me not to.

  Yeah. Shane the rebel. That’s me.

  Not.

  If ever there was a Hufflepuff, I was it.

  I pushed in and roughly elbowed my way past the people who thought that, out of the five hundred or so people on the train, they deserved at least twelve inches of space all around their bodies. We were all in the same boat—err, train—all trying to get to the city for our Monday-morning jobs. We all had the same rights to space.

  I ended up squished between a middle-aged man in a suit and a young guy who didn’t look old enough to shave. It was always a harsh choice of which way to stand on the train. Did you face the front of the train and end up crotch-to-butt with the other sardines? Did you face the window and the seated passengers and risk rubbing your dick in someone’s face? Or did you present them with your butt to stare at?

  I thought of the brand-new hardback novel I had in my bag and wished there were enough room to pull it out and read. I’d paid
forty dollars for a hardback edition of Neil Gaiman’s American Gods and wanted to see if the story was different from the e-book. The promise of cracking open the novel was my reward if I made it to lunchtime. God knew I needed a reward, since my life was pretty sucky otherwise.

  Like every other sane person on the train, I had my earbuds in as an attempt to dull the indignity of being a sardine for twenty minutes. One of my oldest friends, Jamie, worked for a radio station, and the breakfast program was “his.” He didn’t speak on the air, but I knew he was working behind the scenes to make sure the program was running smoothly for the announcer, Harry. Tuning in to the radio station each morning was my little way of supporting Jamie. Even if he didn’t know it.

  I loved the guy in a “we’re going to be friends forever” way. I never could figure out how I got to be a part of his social group, because I would’ve dumped my boring arse a long time ago. Jamie is the brightest, loudest, most glittery, most gayest person in the room, every time. We could be at a drag show, and Jamie would outgay them and the entire crowd. In contrast I’m almost the same shade as the wallpaper.

  I swear I could walk into a bank, hold up the teller, take the money, walk out the door, and the only thing the witnesses would remember about me is that I interrupted their precious, important, busy day for thirty seconds. Nondescript, that’s me.

  I’m rather short for a guy. Average weight. Not a single muscle to brag about. Run-of-the-mill haircut. Ordinary shirt, suit, and tie. Regular all round.

  Don’t tell anyone, but I have a rather large crush on Legolas from The Lord of the Rings movie. I would love to be him. I can’t do anything about my height, but I tried to starve myself thin and grow my hair once so I could look like him. Whereas Legolas and Elrond look regal in the movie, with their thin faces and long hair, I just looked homeless. It wasn’t pretty, and besides, food and I had an intimate relationship I wasn’t willing to give up, even if I could be a—rather short—Legolas at the end of it all.

  Jamie would look great as Legolas. He has a tall, graceful body I’d always envied, and a pale, ethereal look I would need to be dying to achieve. Although he has a motor mouth—you could barely shut him up—so he couldn’t achieve the silent, reserved presence of one of Tolkien’s elves.

  I’ve known Jamie since we started year eight together at Lakeland Senior High School. What fun. Not. We’d grown up in neighboring suburbs and attended different primary schools, and if we ever crossed paths, we didn’t remember. Then we started the larger regional high school at the same time. The dorks, nerds, geeks, and gays all banded together to form one social group—safety in numbers and all that jazz. I was the dork who grew to be a geek. And of course I was also the gay, but I didn’t admit it back then.

  Jamie was my idol. He never denied he was gay and even reveled in the attention. If someone called out “Faggot!” he’d more than likely turn around and shout back, “Absolutely, darling. Never forget it. Did you need my number?”

  I hung with the gamers and geeks, but at that stage, I was more interested in the books than the movies or video games. I also hung around the nerds who were involved in high-level chess games and things like robotic wars. It wasn’t until year eleven that Jamie suddenly took me under his wing and forced me to have a social life. He was fun.

  Fun, unlike catching the train in the morning. The only thing that kept me sane at the end of the day was that I needed my job. Without my job, I wouldn’t get paid. And without pay, I couldn’t afford my house. And without my house, I’d have to move in with my mother. That was a wicked spiral I wasn’t interested in, so I kept my sighs to myself, shuffled along, and exited the train with all the other commuters.

  From the train station I headed east. Coincidentally I worked near Jamie, but our timetables only sometimes allowed us to get together during the workday. But we would email back and forth, and if Jamie had a spare thirty minutes, I usually tried to find thirty too. Of course, that would mean skipping lunch because I would have to make up the time—not that anyone in my workplace would notice if I took an extralong coffee break. Actually I’m not sure if they would even notice if I took an extralong lunch break too. Nondescript, that’s me. But I’m also conscientious and wouldn’t feel right about lying.

  I trudged up St. Georges Terrace, weaving through the crowd and avoiding those who felt they needed to stop unexpectedly in the middle of the sidewalk. I waited at every red light and only crossed when the little green man flashed. I politely stepped back when a woman needed to cross in front of me and didn’t mumble when a guy using canes made me slow for several meters until I passed him.

  There was a young guy on the corner in a fluorescent vest, with two plastic-wrapped stacks of newspapers at his feet. I’d see him most days, selling papers to suited men and women as they were on their way to their offices. I usually gave him a wide berth so as not to interrupt his customers, but as I approached, he held up a paper, and the headline caught my eye.

  Bro-Jak Out for the Season

  The black lettering screamed its message, or maybe it only felt like that to me, because I suddenly felt faint and stopped for no reason that anyone around could see. My gaze was fixed on the paper, and I felt as though I’d lost the bottom of my stomach. There was a faint whistling sound in my ears, but I couldn’t turn to see where it was coming from.

  No. He couldn’t be injured. But if he were, he’d probably head back home. And that would mean….

  I found it hard to breathe as I battled my hopes with my fears. I’d told myself I was over him, but one headline and I was back to wondering if he’d call, wondering if he’d come and see me, and wondering if….

  Shit. I plunged my hand into my pocket, found some coins, and almost threw them at the poor guy as I snatched the newspaper out of his hands. I turned to the back page and skimmed the article while my emotions ran an obstacle course of highs and lows. The article confirmed that Ambrose Jakoby, Hawthorn’s star forward, had reinjured his knee in the Sunday clash at the Melbourne Cricket Ground against rival team the Western Bulldogs. Hawthorn had announced that Ambrose would need surgery and would miss the rest of the season.

  I flicked to the previous page and read on. The article focused past achievements of the man affectionately known to his teammates, the media, and the footy fans as Bro-Jak—his athletic ability, his career, and the excellent season he’d been having before the injury. There were quotes from his coach and the captain of his team, photographs of the tackle that caused the injury, and one of Bro-Jak being stretchered from the field.

  But the article didn’t tell me what I most wanted to know. It didn’t tell me if Ambrose Jakoby, born and bred in Western Australia and drafted to a professional AFL team when he was only seventeen, was coming home to recuperate. It also didn’t tell me if Ambrose Jakoby, one of the top players in the Hawthorn lineup, would be contacting his old childhood friend, nondescript Shane Timmons.

  It didn’t tell me shit, which meant I would have to wait and see if Ambrose Jakoby, who was recently dating some blonde Instagrammer model woman, pushed back into my life just three months after I decided I was through with him.

  Nondescript, that was me.

  Conscientious, that was me.

  Fucked, that was me.

  Chapter Two

  AMBROSE AND I had been childhood friends, but only because of proximity. Eighteen months younger, but two years below me in school, Ambrose only ended up in my sphere because we shared a backyard. Our single mothers rented either side of a duplex.

  Tracy Jakoby moved in with her five-year-old son when I was seven. She was chalk to my mother’s cheese, despite their similar circumstances. Whereas Tracy had Ambrose when she was little more than a teenager and regularly bad-mouthed Ambrose’s father for being a no-hoper who ran off when she found out she was pregnant, my mother was a socially awkward woman in her late twenties who’d refused to name the man who knocked her up. While Tracy worked a variety of casual positions, such as a hairdress
er, checkout cashier, beautician, and waitress, picking up as many hours as she could over multiple jobs, my mother worked for the same legal firm, doing the same thirty-five-hour week since she left high school. Where Tracy was outgoing, vibrant, and loud, my mother was quiet, shy, and uptight. But somehow the two women managed to forge a friendship. Instead of sitting around and bemoaning the positions they found themselves in—raising sons on their own—Tracy and my mother wanted more from life and found that by helping each other out they could benefit.

  Tracy would pick us up from school, and I’d stay with Ambrose and Tracy until my mother got home at five. Then Tracy would wave goodbye and leave for her waitressing job, and Ambrose would have dinner and go to bed at my house.

  If our mothers were chalk and cheese, then Ambrose and I were calcium carbonate and milk curd. It wasn’t that we didn’t get along, it was more that we had no common interests. Thinking back on that time, I remember Ambrose as a skinny kid who was always on the move and usually outside climbing a tree or kicking a ball. He was part-Aboriginal from somewhere on his dad’s side. The physical stuff came easy to him. He excelled at sporting days and athletic carnivals and regularly outperformed kids older than him. He played football during the winter season, cricket during the summer season, and basketball all year round. His clothes were frequently dirty, his shoes regularly needed replacing because he wore them out, and our backyard was full of balls, bats, and nets of different varieties.

  In contrast, I hated sports. It was physical, and I often got hurt because I would miss catching the ball and end up getting hit in the face. I liked reading and would often be found with my head in a book. Scratch that. I still like reading and can still be found with my head in a book. I liked the studious nature of building giant castles with Lego. Ambrose would take the cars and trucks from the set and make engine noises as he played. I preferred to use the bricks to expand my growing castle, where I imagined dragons and elves lived and great wars were fought for piles of gold.