(1)

 

He has never done anything like this before, never. And maybe he should be a bit more bothered by this, by his own recklessness, the sudden complete disregard of his own principles. He is not the guy who has sex with strangers, and certainly not the guy who has sex with strangers at the pub’s bloody loo.

 

Only that he is, apparently. And fuck, he doesn’t care about principles at all right now, or much else, Lucy and Jonas, for instance, who surely are waiting for him, he really doesn’t care, not with that guy’s lips wrapped around his cock. 

 

He has always thought that the condoms you can get at one of those vending machines at the Gents are meant for taking home, let’s say, when you’ve hooked up with someone and think you might get lucky, later, at home. It has never occurred to him that one could put them to use right away.

 

But one can. The proof of that is currently kneeling in front of him in the tiny stall he has been pushed into in the middle of a kiss that made him dizzy. And hard. He doesn’t even recall when he had sex for the last time, must be months ago, a couple of weeks before Easter maybe, and the guy is pushing all of his buttons. At once.

 

And probably he should at least try to keep it down, even if the noise from the bar is filtering in through the door, even if the stalls are in a separate little room behind the urinals and there’s music blasting from the cheap speakers, but he doesn’t want to, not when the guy is doing something with his tongue that makes him want to thrust forward and into his mouth. Richard needs all the self-restraint he possesses to not just do that,  and he slides one hand into dark brown curls and tugs at the soft strands, beckoning him to look up at him, and he does, he does and smiles around Richard’s cock, or smirks, smirks that smirk that got them into this position to begin with. That and a kiss that knocked out every single one of Richard’s higher brain functions and left him with nothing but want, want so raw, so acute that sex in a toilet stall suddenly seemed like a good idea.

 

The guy pulls back a little so that he can talk, dark eyes firmly fixed on Richard’s. ‘Go for it,’ he says, already a little hoarse, ‘I won’t break.’ And with that he sucks Richard's cock straight back into his mouth, this time relaxing his throat, taking it all the way in, and fuck- he can’t-

Richard bites down onto his lip to stifle his moan, almost hard enough to bite through it, and is pushing forward and into that tight heat before he can help it, and- 

 

‘Sorry,’ Richard rasps, and pulls back, but the guy just shakes his head, and quickly wipes away the spit that’s running down his chin. ‘I mean it,’ he says, and firmly grips Richard’s hips to stop him from pulling back again. ‘I won’t break.’

 

It’s so damn egoistical, but it’s so good, fucking perfect, with his throat closing around Richard's cock, he’s so good at this, and is picking up speed now, Richard is trying to keep still, but can’t, he thrusts forward and drives deep, once, twice, and the guy doesn’t even flinch, Richard can feel him humming around his cock, and that’s so hot. 

 

Richard’s breathing is labored now, and he presses the back of his hand to his mouth so that he won’t be heard at the bloody bar, the other still tangled in the guy’s hair who just keeps going, keeps going, and now reaches up with his hand to cup Richard’s balls, and that’s- fuck, Richard, thinks, that’s so good- so good- and he’ll-

 

Richard’s barely gotten his surroundings back into focus when he’s kissed with a force that knocks the back of his head against the cubicle wall. A hand threads into his hair and holds his head in place while his teeth are nipping at his lip. ‘Fuck, you’re hot,’ the guy breathes against his lips before pushing his tongue into his mouth. Against his thigh, Richard can feel how hard he is, even through the denim of his jeans. He’s pushing his hip against him impatiently, and Richard snaps out of his post-orgasmic haze and kisses him back, just as hard, just as fast-paced, one hand on his neck so that he can’t pull back either, the other sliding between their bodies and palming the guy's cock. He hisses at the touch and deepens the kiss while his hand closes around Richard’s and guides it into his jeans. He starts thrusting into Richard’s fist straight away, his kiss losing nothing of its momentum, on the contrary. When he pulls back, it’s just far enough to be able to look at Richard, breathing hard, lips red from kissing, hair a mess, he probably looks like Richard feels. For a moment he just regards him in silence, his hand still in Richard's hair, grip tight enough to prevent him from moving, his cock still in his hand, although he’s stopped moving now. 

 

‘Fuck,’ he says, his voice still hoarse, ‘fuck.’ He exhales shakily. Richard watches one corner of his mouth lift up with a lopsided smile when he leans back in. ‘I want you,’ he says against Richard's lips and licks into his mouth. ‘I want to turn you around and fuck you.’

 

Richard’s heart skips a beat and he feels himself blush violently. Fuck. The three words have gone straight to his cock, it’s stirring again although he’s just spent. Fuck. 

 

It shows piss pour judgment, Richard knows that. He knows as well that it’s the whisky talking and his pent up sexual frustration, probably, but he wants this, he wants this so fucking much right now, this feels so good, all of it, and he just nods, without breaking the kiss, receives another muttered ‘fuck’ in return, and then he’s turning around, then he’s bracing himself against the wall, then he can feel the guy pressing against him from behind, and that’s incredibly hot, his breath on his neck, his tongue tracing the shell of his ear, his teeth grazing his earlobe, his hoarse little chuckle when he wraps his hand around Richard’s cock and finds him half-hard again already. 

 

It’s a bit awkward, the angle, the position, with Richard’s jeans and boxers pushed down to the middle of his thighs, his legs spread as far as they will go and his head turned back over his shoulder so that they can keep kissing. It’s messy and uncoordinated, and they keeping bumping their noses against each other, but Richard doesn’t care, not with that hand wrapped around his cock, stroking him slowly, the touch light, teasing even, just enough to keep him interested while he’s being prepped, quickly, efficiently, it’s really just about getting him ready for being fucked.

 

He feels a fresh wave of embarrassment wash over him at that thought, it makes his cheeks sting, but that doesn’t matter anymore when the guy pulls back his fingers a moment later and Richard can hear the condom wrapper tearing, can hear the guy swearing under his breath when he rolls it on. Richard tenses a little when he feels his cock slide between his cheeks, but there’s a hand on his hip, steadying him, and although his voice is rough with need by now, the guy sounds sincere. ‘Tell me if it’s too much,‘ he murmurs, and pushes inside him.

 

It is. It’s entirely too much at first, it’s been ages, and the fact that there’s a horde of noisy blokes peeing next door doesn’t really help either, but he goes slow, and gives Richard time to adjust while he starts stroking his cock again.

 

Richard reminds himself to keep breathing and relax, and when he does, the guy pushes in deep, deep, causing Richard to hiss in pain tinged pleasure. 

 

‘All right?’ the guy asks, but Richard can tell how much effort it costs him to stay still, so he nods, he is, and hears him let out a shaky breath before he starts fucking him in earnest.

 

It’s hard and fast and fucking perfect. The thrusts drive Richard up onto his toes and knock him into the wall and he can hear the guy panting behind him. When he grabs his hips with both hands for leverage, he rasps: ‘Touch yourself.’ Richard does. His next thrust comes from a different angle, it’s good, so fucking good, and Richard moans loudly, a little too loudly, he can’t stop himself. The guy’s teeth sink into Richard’s earlobe and he mutters breathlessly: ‘Keep it down.’

 

And Richard tries, he really tries, but fails, each of the guy's thrusts sends a new spark of pleasure up his spine, he can’t-  

 

Richard barely feels him letting go of his hips, his rhythm doesn’t falter, but he feels his hand threading into his hair, feels him tug his head backwards, his other hand coming to rest against Richard's jaw and turning his head around so that he can kiss him. But the angle his no good, and it doesn’t stifle Richard moans, and the guy just closes his hand over Richard’s mouth, wrapping his other arm around his chest so that he can pull him into his thrusts. 

 

Richard bites into his hand right before coming, and in response the guy growls and doubles his efforts, thrusting hard into Richard's body, and harder still, chasing his own release, his skin slapping against Richard’s, and when he comes it’s with a strangled moan that he stifles against Richard’s shoulder. 

 

'Fuck,' he pants, 'fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck, that was-' 

 

Yes, it was, Richard thinks. Fuck.

 

 

(2)

 

It’s the one time his mind allows a shut down to essentials only. Sex. No train of thoughts in hypotaxis, mapping out the area. Single words instead - lust, pleasure, want. They affirm concepts he knows and trusts, for that moment.

 

Orlando shoves him against the wall in his hallway, and Richard chuckles breathlessly (interesting), Orlando traps him there. Richard pushes back. Give me an opening, and I’ll take over. No, you won’t. Orlando holds his head in place with his hands, the rest of him with his body, kisses him.

 

It’s logical to derive pleasure from something you’re good at. He is. He does.

 

Orlando eases off in the bedroom, just for a moment. He made his intentions crystal clear, but he’s not rude. Richard is naked (fuck, he’s hot), and he scoots back on the bed, the muscles in his shoulders flex, then relax. And that is an invitation. Orlando moves, has one knee between his legs, fingers of one hand splayed on his chest, pushes him down, the other wraps around both their dicks - the kiss a statement. This is gonna be fun.

 

Sex is simple. He knows what he enjoys. When he fucks Richard, he’s sure about what Richard likes, too. Bodies don’t try to sell you half-truths as gospel. 

 

It should be boring, that simplicity. It isn’t.

 

 

(3)

 

It’s a little like being fourteen again and constantly in danger of erections that pop up uninvited and while being in places where you don’t want to have one.

 

Like at work.

 

Or in your car.

 

The grocery store.

 

At a dinner invitation.

 

Richard could fill pages with a list like that. Just the sound of his phone receiving a text makes him hard, and thinking of his phone receiving a text message does as well, and it’s not even that Orlando is sending him tons of dirty texts, he isn’t. Well, he occasionally is, but so was Lee, back then, and that didn’t even remotely have the same effect on him.

 

The problem is that Orlando seems to have short-circuited his brain somehow, and not only does his cock feel compelled to butt in every time he thinks about him, but it leads to having sex in very weird and often very public places when they meet up. And isn’t it a little weird to start having sex at the pub’s Gents at the age of 45? When you have a nice apartment? A very nice apartment?

 

Richard can’t remember to have been sore from having sex so often in his life ever before, and that’s not only Orlando’s fault, but Richard’s, too, because he just can’t keep his hands still when he’s alone lately. Which of course is entirely Orlando’s fault. But seriously, did he wank that much when he was a teenager? Did he come home and go straight to his room because he couldn’t wait another moment? If he did, he can’t recall it.

 

That’s what he did a moment ago, though. He got to his hotel room, chucked the keys onto the table together with his phone, toed off his shoes, already unbuttoning his jeans, and is now sprawled out on the bed, his cock in his hand. All because Orlando left him a mailbox message. A mailbox message during which he mainly complained about the motto of the project oriented learning week that’s in progress at his school, ‘Love throughout the centuries’, which Richard thinks is pretty neat, compared to what he went through in his school days (‘The History of Britain and The Commonwealth’, ‘Knights and Castles’, oh, and ‘Aquatic Life’ with its grim highlight- dissecting a frog). Only at the end of the message did Orlando express his regret for not being able to see him in the next couple of days, and only then did he once use the word ‘sex’.

 

But apparently that one word is all it takes nowadays to make Richard want to drop his trousers and start wanking. Damn.

 

He sort of can’t help it, it’s the figurative itch he needs to scratch, and fast. Like right now, when he probably could care a bit more about the fact that he’s on back-up duty, and might be called in any time, there’s probably going to be a C-section later, twins, 28 weeks of gestation, and he'll definitely have to come in for that.

 

But not right now, not when he’s thinking of Orlando, Orlando on his knees in front of him in that tiny toilet stall at the ‘Riddermark’, his lips wrapped around Richard's cock, of Orlando kissing him hard enough to make him dizzy, of Orlando pushing him down on his bed and fucking him while swearing under his breath, of Orlando spread out underneath him, his teeth sunk into his bottom lip, pushing himself off the bed and meeting each of his thrusts halfway.

 

It’s nothing he would ever tell anybody, never ever, but those images are so vivid that he usually is done in no time and comes so hard that he’s shaking and panting heavily, and generally makes a mess of his clothes and the sheets.

 

Maybe it’s that mid-life crisis Cate keeps talking about, but honestly? If that’s it, he doesn’t get what all the fuss is about. There’s no such thing as too much sex, is there?

 

 

(4)

 

Richard is fifteen minutes late and apologizes profusely when he finally arrives at his flat, finding Orlando leaned against his motorbike. He just needs a quick shower, he says, then he’s good to go, and if it’s all right with Orlando, he can just come up and wait for him. And he’s really sorry.

 

Orlando follows him upstairs while Richard rather humorously sums up the catastrophic state of the traffic between Leeds and York, accepts the beer that Richard pushes into his hand and nods when Richard suggests he can just sit in the living room and switch the telly on or read a book, he’ll really just be ten minutes.

 

Orlando doesn’t mind waiting; he has all of the internet on his phone after all, and his mind to keep himself entertained. So he sits down with a clear view of the open door, watches as Richard crosses the hallway three times, every time wearing fewer clothes, until the last time when he stops in the doorway, just in his boxer briefs, excusing his lateness again and once more inviting Orlando to make use of his bookshelf. Probably. Orlando isn’t fully paying attention. He’s looking at Richard - pretty much naked, long legs, narrow hips, broad chest, sharp angles of his face.

 

Richard goes to shower, and Orlando doesn’t pick up a book or his phone, doesn’t switch on the telly. He sits in his armchair and thinks about Kant and Sircello, thinks about judgments of aesthetic value, thinks about pleasure arising from sensation and how the experience of beauty and reflective contemplation are irrevocably interlinked.

 

Richard reappears in the doorway, showered and dressed and ready to go.

 

‘Sorry, that took a moment longer.’

 

Orlando, slightly startled, glances at his watch. Twenty minutes have passed. He gets up and follows Richard into the hallway.

 

‘No worries. I was thinking.’

 

Richard half turns, the jacket he just took from the coat rack in one hand.

 

‘About?’ he asks, shrugging it on.

 

Orlando leans against the door frame, looks at the line of Richard’s shoulders, at his long fingers adjusting the collar of the jacket.

 

‘Kant.’

 

Richard laughs and turns around. He gives Orlando a once over, disbelieving and flirtatious to equal measures.

 

‘Really?’

 

Orlando lifts his shoulder in a shrug, pushes himself away from the doorway and meets Richard in the middle of the hallway.

 

‘Sex.’

 

Richard laughs again. And philosophy of aesthetics aside, that sound goes right to Orlando’s dick.

 

‘Kant and Sex, hm? That’s a connection I’d like to hear more about over dinner,’ Richard says, picking up his keys. ‘You good to go?’

 

Orlando steps up to him, lets his right hand touch Richard’s hip.

 

‘I got a better idea,’ he says before he pulls Richard towards himself.

 

They do make it to the pub eventually. Two hours late.

 

 

(5)

 

From the few encounters they had so far, Orlando knows that Richard’s default to being pushed is to push back, at least where sex is concerned. So Orlando pushes when they finally make it to Richard’s after a quick dinner. He goes straight for Richard’s dick, and yeah, Richard responds in kind, backs him against the wall, hands on Orlando’s shoulders, and there is a bit more shoving, then Richard just stops kissing him and laughs - 

 

‘If you want to get fucked, just say so, Orlando.’

 

So Orlando says so, and that’s why he’s on his stomach now, Richard’s weight on top of him, Richard’s dick inside him, Richard’s hands on his shoulder and next to his head as he fucks into him and -

 

That’s when Orlando’s phone rings.

 

Richard stills, and Orlando turns his head on the mattress, glares over his shoulder - ‘Don’t you dare stopping now,’ he says, and Richard lightly bites the back of Orlando’s neck as he moves, slower thrusts now, even when the ringing stops.

 

Orlando closes his eyes, somewhere between absolute focus and nothingness, allows his moan to sound just that bit needy because Richard likes that, and Richard responds by thrusting so hard into him that Orlando has to grip the frame of the bed so he won’t -  

 

His fucking phone rings again.

 

Orlando curses, words muffled when this time Richard doesn’t ease up but just keeps fucking him, his hand on Orlando’s hip now, and Orlando’s rhythmical grunts have an entirely different reason long before the ringing stops.

 

And fuck, Orlando loves getting fucked like this. He can’t come from it, not without a helping hand, but that makes it even better, means the buildup of pleasure is indefinite, will go on for as long as Richard just keeps moving, one of his hands now in the small of Orlando’s back, the other again on his shoulder, holding him in place just like - 

 

The fucking phone rings for a third fucking time.

 

Orlando’s anger is so sudden and violent that Richard doesn’t even have a chance to try and keep him from moving. He reaches for his jeans on the floor and pulls out his mobile. It’s Sean’s name on the screen. He picks up, growls,

 

‘Tell me the fucking school burned down. Cause if it hasn’t, I will fucking kill you.’

 

It probably says something about their friendship that Sean ignores the outlandish supposition, the death threat, the tone of Orlando’s voice and the swear words.

 

‘Nah, just calling to ask whether you wanna come over for a pint,’ he says, voice as usual loud enough that Orlando has no doubt Richard hears him as well. He has his forehead resting against Orlando’s shoulder blade, and Orlando can feel his entire body shaking with laughter, weight heavier than before, and Orlando likes that and -

 

‘Sean,’ he says before his brain can excuse itself again, his voice low and hard. ‘If I don’t pick up the first two times, what do you think are the chances that it’s because I’m right in the middle of getting shagged?’ 

 

‘Urgh, Orlando, I don’t want to hear stuff like that,’ Sean complains as Richard makes a quiet sound that probably translates to mild embarrassment. 

 

Orlando blindly reaches behind himself with his free hand to touch Richard’s side while he grunts ‘Whatever, Sean. Bye’, hangs up and drops the phone onto the carpet and seamlessly continues, ‘I swear I’m gonna kill that idiot next time I see him. How can anyone be such a fuck -’

 

Breath and curse are forced out of him when Richard shoves into him hard - once, twice, thrice, Orlando forgets how counting works, mind and voice stuck at that one one-syllable curse that he keeps repeating over and over again - fuckfuckfuck - 

 

- until Richard’s teeth scrape against the back of his neck and Orlando regains some vague appreciation of words and sentences, enough at least to understand what Richard murmurs into his ear - 

 

‘Shut up and lie still now.’

 

 

(6)

 

There is something wrong with them somehow, deep down in some weird layer, because why can’t they be in the same room for ten minutes without taking each other’s clothes off?

 

The plan was to have Orlando come over and then drive up to the coast in his car and go bouldering together. That was the plan.

 

The plan was not to have him on his knees in front of him ten minutes after he walked in through the door, naked, telling him to ‘get the fuck going already’.

 

Richard is not entirely sure how that happened either. When Orlando arrived, he was on the phone with Anastasia from work, and all he did was to beckon him to come in and take a seat, he’d be done in a moment.

 

All Orlando did was to take off his leather jacket, stand at the window, hip resting against the window sill, looking out over the street when he came into the living room, and why was that such an irresistible picture to begin with?

 

Sure, he could’ve refrained from telling him he wanted him and gotten the car keys and his bag instead.

 

But then, Orlando could’ve reacted differently, too, could've asked for example if he was good to go, instead of grinning, shrugging and just pulling off his t-shirt.

 

Maybe they would be on their way to the coast, then.

 

But on the other hand- Orlando is breathtaking like this, his back arched, his head thrown back, rocking into Richard’s thrusts, and he bends down to sink his teeth into Orlando's shoulder before he wraps one arm around his chest and pulls him up onto his knees, so that his back rests against his chest and he can wrap his hand around his cock. Orlando responds to that with a hiss and a growled ‘About time,’ and Richard laughs into his hair before he starts thrusting deeply.

 

Yeah. Bouldering might just have to wait a little longer.

 

 

(7)

 

Orlando wakes up in Richard’s bed and gives him a blowjob that Orlando personally considers one of the top five of his lifetime. And he is fucking good at giving blowjobs. 

 

Afterwards, Orlando flops down on the bed. He looks over at Richard who is panting heavily although it was, strictly speaking, Orlando who spent the last fifteen minutes continuously having his air supply interrupted. 

 

‘Fuck, Orlando, that was -.’

 

Yeah, it rather was. Orlando smirks and rubs his knuckles against a slightly sore muscle in his jaw. With apparently some considerable effort, Richard turns his head towards him and tries a smile that seems a bit unsteady. Because even smiling requires coordination. His eyes flicker down to Orlando’s dick.

 

‘You want -?’

 

He trails off after two words, leaving the question wide open for interpretation. A hand? Me to return the favour? To fuck me? Dealer’s choice, probably. 

 

Orlando smiles and shakes his head. They kinda overdid it with bouldering yesterday (which, fine, was mostly Orlando’s fault), and consequently, he is fucking sore all over. Also, he is feeling way too smug right now to be bothered by his own neglected erection.

 

 

(8)

 

Who would’ve thought that a pub quiz in a little village pub in the middle of nowhere could be so much fun. Richard has only ever been to a pub quiz once, with Lucy, who insisted, and Richard remembers to have been vaguely bored all evening.

 

It’s different tonight, though, and that’s because Orlando is sitting next to him and is very seriously not taking this whole thing seriously, after his first impulse has been to simply turn around on his heels and leave (‘What the fuck is this shit?’). But they have both been driving half an hour to get to Tollerton, and the place does have beer, food and a roof, it’s started to rain. When they sit down at one of the tables with a bottle of Nix zero each, Orlando mutters something under his breath that Richard cannot quite make out, but he’s pretty sure that it’s a string of swear words. Orlando’s expression brightens, though, when their food arrives, and then he simply proceeds to nailing every single question while criticizing it thoroughly, while Richard gets to just lean back and watch and be amazed. The conversation in between rounds flows easily, it’s exactly what Richard needs, and he feels himself starting to unwind after his packed day at work.

 

It’s dark when they leave the pub, and it’s stopped raining. Orlando holds the door open for him, and tells him to fuck off when he remarks upon it, although there’s no heat behind his words, and Richard feels a smile tugging at his lips while they are crossing the parking lot to where he’s left his car.

 

‘Thanks,’ he says when they reach his Audi. ‘I really had a good time.’

 

Orlando shrugs. ‘Well, you don’t get to win the pub quiz every week, do you?’

 

Richard laughs. ‘Certainly not. I was lucky I got to be on your team.’

 

‘Indeed,’ Orlando replies dryly, ‘you suck at sports questions.’

 

Richard nods, not even trying to stifle his grin. ‘I do.’

 

For a moment he just looks at Orlando, watches the corner of his mouth lift in silent amusement, watches him watch him, and then just decides to go with the flow.

 

He takes a step towards Orlando and searches his eyes when he says, his voice purposefully low: ‘Let me thank you properly, then.’

 

He doesn’t wait for a reply, doesn’t have to, not when Orlando’s brows lift expectantly, but just leans in and kisses him. He’s intended a brief kiss, maybe a little bit of tongue, nothing more, they are in the middle of a parking lot after all, even if it’s dark, but of course things get out of hand immediately, because Orlando wraps one hand around his neck and pulls him close while the other cups his jaw and tilts his head so that he can deepen the kiss. And he does. From 0 to 100 in less than 10 seconds. Richard answers in kind, how can he not, and wraps his hands around Orlando’s waist, dragging him against his body. He gets growled at for that, and Orlando sinks his teeth into his bottom lip before pulling back enough to say: ‘Car. Now.’

 

He drops the key once in his haste to unlock the doors and Orlando snorts and asks if he’s going to need help with that or if it’s Richard telling him that he wants to have sex on the hood of his car. It’s Richard’s turn to tell him to fuck off and get inside, which Orlando does, without a single word of protest, he opens the back door and gets inside. Damn.

 

Richard follows suit, and stops caring about propriety and decorum when Orlando pulls him back into a kiss with one hand while he starts unbuttoning his jeans with the other one. Tinted back windows weren’t a bad idea, then, after all, Richard thinks, while he slides his hand into Orlando’s jeans in turn.

 

It’s over in no time, it’s not the place to draw things out. Orlando groans into his mouth when he comes into Richard’s hand, and fuck, that’s so hot. Richard’s breath catches and Orlando hums and pulls back a little so that he can look at him.

 

‘C’mon,’ he says quietly, his voice a little hoarse, and speeds up the pace of his strokes.

 

And it doesn’t need much more, Richard comes when Orlando twists his wrist and lets him push right up into the tightness of his fist.

 

Leather seats weren’t a bad idea, either. 

 

 

(9)

 

'So, anyway, she said, buddy, it totally is. I said, no way. Not possible. She said yeah it is, and I mean I had my kit off already anyway, so what the hell.' 

 

An elderly couple glances over to Karl's and Orlando's table. Karl's voice carries, and they are sitting in possibly the most crowded café that Prague has to offer this afternoon. 

 

Orlando sips from his beer and stares at Karl intently, not in disapproval - not his problem if other people have delicate sensibilities and a frigid view on sex - but concentration. 

 

'- and that's how I bruised my shoulder.' Karl finishes his account and his beer right after. A wave to the waiter that nearly slaps a passing woman in the face is the logical next step even before he looks at Orlando. 

 

Orlando sips from his beer. 

 

'Two things. First of - simply saying "I can't join you, Lando, hurt my shoulder" would've sufficed. I didn't need a play-by-play of yours and Beth's sport shagging.' 

 

'It wasn't even that sporty.' 

 

'Second of - your grasp on the basic concepts of narrative structure is nonexistent.' 

 

'What now?' 

 

'Half the time I couldn't follow whose limb was where and what was going on.' 

 

Karl gives him the finger and points at the bottles in front of Orlando. 

 

'You couldn't follow cause you're a lightweight and you're pissed already.' 

 

Orlando chooses to ignore that downright slanderous assumption. He had four beers - a Budweiser Budvar (horrible), a Cerna Hora Lezak (all right), a B.B.N.P. (decent), and the mid-level Pilsner Urquell he is drinking right now. He is barely buzzed. 

 

'No wonder it ended with you falling off that thing,' he says. 

 

Karl doesn't bother disagreeing and gives the sweaty waiter with their resupply a toothy grin. Their beer tasting quest is somewhat slowed down by Karl continuously ordering Staropramen. 

 

They drink about half of it in silence, Orlando thinking about Kafka and Karl probably of the Kama Sutra. 

 

'You think I can claim that as a work injury?' Karl asks thoughtfully. 'It was JC's pommel horse.' 

 

'Which you used to shag your girlfriend on,' Orlando reminds him. 

 

From the next table, the elderly couple gives him a very sorry attempt of a disapproving glare; if Orlando wasn't on holiday, he'd offer to teach them how to do it properly. 

 

Only a little belatedly he asks, 

 

'Why would you even want to claim it was a work injury?' 

 

Karl shrugs and gurgles beer like he was a wine sommelier. 

 

'For medical bills and shit. You think that'd work?' 

 

'I think if you went to a doctor with that, you're a massive pussy.' 

 

The elderly husband now demonstratively clears his throat while glaring at Orlando. Orlando tilts his head. 

 

'Honestly, can we help you?' he asks in a tone of voice that maybe could pass as friendly if the recipients were deaf. 

 

'Cause if not, it'd be super nice if you at least pretended you didn't listen in on our conversation. Like we did earlier when you were telling your lovely wife about cousin Theodore's hernias while we were eating.' 

 

The elderly man makes a huffing sound and turns back to his wife who now looks like an overly ripe tomato. Orlando turns back to Karl. 

 

'You were saying?' 

 

Karl grins at him. He has beer foam around his mouth like a rabid dog. 

 

'You're such a dick.' 

 

Orlando lifts a shoulder. 

 

'Could be worse. Could be a pussy.' 

 

Karl barks out a laugh and concedes that with a nod before he decides he needs to go for a slash. 

 

All the way up Charles bridge there are photographers lined up waiting for couples to pay them outrageous sums for a romantic snap. Orlando watches how two teenagers think it a better idea to climb onto the balustrade of the Charles bridge. During their attempt to take a selfie of their loved-up selves while snogging they nearly fall into the river. Idiots. 

 

Karl returns with a bottle of Gambrinus Pilsen for Orlando and - surprise, surprise - Staropramen for himself. He straddles his chair which is too small for him. 

 

'So, you got a new bloke?' he asks. 

 

The teenagers on the bridge renew their climbing attempt. Orlando frowns at Karl. 

 

'How did we get there now?' 

 

Karl shrugs. 

 

'I was thinking about pussy and how you're not getting any. So, new bloke?' 

 

One of the photographers on the bridge very loudly yells at the suicidal teenagers to come down. 

 

'Reckon so,' Orlando says. 

 

Karl hums. 

 

'Tall, dark, and broody?' 

 

The description fits Richard quite well. But then, Orlando does have a type, and Karl just could have made an educated guess from past observations. On the other hand, it's Karl. Who right now amuses himself by making faces at a toddler dragged by by her stressed looking parents. The toddler returns the favour. 

 

'How would you know?' Orlando asks. 'About Richard?' 

 

'Richard?' Karl is in the middle of rearranging his face again. 'Bit of a prat's name. But yours is Orlando, so that fits.' 

 

'Fuck you,' Orlando replies without heat. 

 

Karl snorts. 

 

'I saw you leaving The Fox in Bishophill with him the other night. Looked like you pulled.' 

 

Orlando did. He and Richard are adults, not dim-witted / mentally unstable P.E. teachers, so no one fell off anything or needed a doctor afterwards. Just a beer and about one hour of recuperation time, then Orlando very subtly suggested a repetition. Well, if pinning Richard to his bed and fucking him for half an hour counts as 'subtle'.

 

'Oi, Lando!' 

 

Karl's loud voice pulls Orlando out of his reminiscing. Since he doesn't have his whistle around his neck, he clanks his bottle onto the table to get Orlando's attention. 

 

'Confer with me which beer to get next. And stop shooting porn in your head, mate.' 

 

To their credit, the elderly couple on the next table doesn't even look over, and Karl is apparently more observant than assumed. 

 

Gold stars all around, Orlando is so proud. 

 

 

(10)

 

Orlando’s kisses do not leave room for interpretation, not in any direction; when Orlando kisses him, Richard can tell straight away what he wants, and how he wants it.

 

If you’d want to describe them, you’d maybe consider the word ‘aggressive’, Richard thinks, they are not, though. They are equally determined and demanding, hard and fast-paced, a little impatient sometimes, if things are going to slow for Orlando’s taste, but they never are aggressive. Because Orlando seems to know exactly how far he can push, and he never lets himself get carried away, never lets his self-control slip, not for a second. It took Richard a while to work that out, he could not quite put his finger on it at first, just had that vague feeling that there was something there that eluded him, another layer underneath that self-confidence, that eagerness to take control, that breathtaking speed: Orlando is attentive as fuck. And not just attentive, he’s one of the most considerate lovers Richard has ever had. Of course he keeps that term to himself because he suspects that Orlando would have a serious fit about it, he doesn’t see it that way, but would probably say that he is not a fucking barbarian, of course he has to watch out for Richard when he’s fucking him. (And yes, he would probably use the word fucking twice in a sentence.)

 

And maybe he’d be right, and it’s only that other people don’t.

 

Or maybe he wouldn’t be, because what else would you call it? Observant? Sure, he is. He watches your reaction in the middle of a blowjob, regardless if he’s on the receiving end or you are. Watches and commits to memory.

 

But he’s more than just observant, because he acts on the information he gathers, too. Richard has never once needed to say that he didn’t like something, not one grimace escapes Orlando, not one grunt, and he immediately adjusts the position, rearranges their limbs, he has never pushed Richard too far, even when he’s been pushing with force, never tried to coax him into something he didn’t want to do.

 

Maybe chivalry would be a good term to describe it, and one that Orlando actually might be able to live with, not that Richard is going to test that hypothesis any time soon. Because chivalry, in Richard’s eyes, is essentially about manners and a sense of duty, and yes, that’s probably the perfect word for it.

 

The nice thing about this chivalrous streak of Orlando is, and that’s what makes having sex with him so much fun, is that Richard feels that he can let go in his presence, completely, he doesn’t have to be afraid of being taken advantage of, or worse, hurt, he can just let go and let Orlando take the lead, go with the flow, because it’s always about his pleasure as much as Orlando’s, the two seem invariably connected, and Orlando has never once tried to tip the scales towards his side. Maybe because he takes so much pleasure in Richard’s pleasure, Richard suspects that he gets more out of giving him a blowjob than Richard does, if that’s even possible, because Orlando gives spectacular blowjobs. But he looks just as satisfied afterwards as Richard does, and that’s so damned hot.

 

The only problem- if you’re inclined to call such a thing a problem- is that it’s the same for Richard: Giving Orlando pleasure turns him on, watching him, hearing him come apart, preferably while he’s on his back, spread out underneath Richard.

 

But Orlando is not someone who just rolls over and lets you take the lead, on the contrary. He dominates the fuck out of you, if you let him, and tops even when he’s technically bottoming, he never surrenders, never fully surrenders, he’s always still there, even when he’s far gone, always still alert, there’s always a snarky remark on his tongue, it’s almost impossible to get him to shut up, he keeps egging you on, keeps swearing, even when you’re pounding into him and he shouldn’t even be able to talk any more.

 

There are rare moments, though, where he goes quiet, real quiet, and lets Richard take the lead, when he’s in a particular mood and Richard keeps insisting, keeps refusing to let him call the shots, pins his arms down and weighs him down on the bed with the whole weight of his body, refuses to move until he stops fighting him for the upper hand, and fuck, that’s such a sight.

 

The first time it happens Richard is convinced that something is wrong, that he’s hurt him. Orlando is on his back underneath him, almost bent in half, his legs resting in the crook of Richard’s arms, and suddenly he stops swearing, stops rocking into his thrusts, and Richard pulls back to look at him, alarmed:

    

‘You okay?’ he pants but Orlando just nods and growls:

    

‘Keep moving!’

 

He digs his fingers into Richard’s thigh, hard, hard enough to leave bruises, Richard’s sure of that, his whole body tight like a bow-string, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed, his breathing irregular.

 

‘I mean it,’ he adds, and glowers at Richard when he hesitates a second too long, and fuck, that’s good enough for Richard, even if he doesn’t really understand what’s happening, he leans down for a kiss and picks up the same fast rhythm as before, putting his back into it so he can drive deep.

 

And Orlando still doesn’t move. He holds on to him tightly and pushes toward him for maximal friction, his grip now definitely bruising.

 

And then he comes. His whole body arches off the bed, and he almost knocks his head against Richard’s, his orgasm rippling through him in waves, his muscles clenching so hard around Richard’s cock that he grinds his teeth, he can hardly keep moving, but does, is unable to stop, keeps thrusting into him, keeps fucking him through his violent orgasm, keeps fucking him until he’s stopped shuddering and twitching, keeps fucking him when his body goes slack, and that’s so good, so, so good—

 

Afterwards, Orlando just grins at him, relaxed and looking fucking pleased with himself and the world while Richard is still miles away from coherence, composure and a normal heart beat, and he takes that as a sign that even when Orlando lets go, he doesn’t let go 100%, more like 92% or 88%, his brain never seems to shut up completely, and he’s probably still thinking about Kant and concepts of pleasure and aesthetics when he’s in bed with him.

 

But Richard is still pleased with himself, how couldn't he be, when Orlando is grinning at him like that. 

 

And maybe he's fine with 92%, too. For now.