Adventures in Dating...in Heels Read online

  Dad walked into the kitchen, his hands in the pockets of his dark-blue pinstriped suit. “What’s going on here?”

  “I’m just going to run Kev up to his group. Save him the walk.” She smiled, playing with Dad’s car keys in one hand.

  “In my car?” Dad stared at the keys, then at me, taking in what I was wearing from head to toe.

  “The family car. Yes.” Mum walked across the kitchen and gave Dad a peck on the cheek. “You can ask him how he’s getting on at college when he’s back. That would be nice, wouldn’t it, Kev?”

  I smiled weakly and edged towards the door, willing with my whole being that this particular conversation be over and to be outside the Portakabin smoking a cigarette with the rest of the group.

  “What sort of group is it?”

  “I’ve told you before, it’s for young people, like Kev, who are discovering about themselves. Properly run, there’s a youth worker and everything.” She looked at me. “You ready, love?”

  I opened the door.

  Dad said slowly and quietly, “It’s a gay youth group, isn’t it?”

  “Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender actually.” I mentally counted off the letters in the group’s strap line to make sure I hadn’t missed any.

  Mum followed me to the door. “We talked about this before. You know about Kev preferring men. I explained it to you, love. Come on, or we’re going to be late. When’s it start, love?”

  I glanced at the clock on the wall in the kitchen. “Five minutes ago.”

  Dad continued, in the same low tone, “What was the fourth one again, Kev?”

  “Transgender.”

  “That’s blokes in dresses, isn’t it?”

  “There’s a bit more to it than that, Dad.”

  “What’s happened to your dresses? Because I distinctly remember saying I wouldn’t tolerate any of that under my roof, and if I found you doing it again, you’d be out. There’s no more of that nonsense, is there?” He looked at me, then Mum.

  “I’m not transgender. I am a man, and I always want to stay a man. I just like to wear different clothes. Sometimes.”

  No response from him, but his eyes widened and his face went red.

  “If you’ve got a big client meeting one day and the next you’re hanging around at home with us, would you wear different clothes for those two days?”

  I could hear his breathing now, from the other side of the kitchen. It was the only sound in the whole room, deeper and deeper breaths. His eyes burrowed into me.

  He turned to Mum. “This nonsense is still happening, is that right?”

  Mum said, “It’s not nonsense. It’s our son. He’s not hurting anyone. I thought you were all right with it all, love.”

  “I’d just about got my head around”—he dropped his tone to just above a whisper—”the gay thing. Once you explained it wasn’t our fault, nothing we’d done. But the dresses, I thought you’d knocked that one on the head. I thought that was an end to it after last time. But no. Is this right? It’s still happening? If I went into your wardrobe, I’d find some women’s clothes as well? Would I?”

  No response from either Mum or me.

  “I’m not working all hours God sends so you can spend my money on dressing-up clothes. It’s not right. It’s sick.” He turned to me, jabbing his finger in my face. “You’re sick.”

  I swallowed and decided to continue with my well-reasoned argument. “You’d maybe wear a smart suit one day and your tracksuit when you were hanging about the house, wouldn’t you? Well, it’s the same for me. I dress how I feel, only the range of feelings and clothes are a bit wider than most men.”

  “A bit wider than most men? That’s it, is it? Your little explanation and it’s all right. We carry on like nothing’s happened while you’re going to this perverts’ group, parading around town in God knows what. People knowing you’re my son and you’re showing me up like that. I’m not having it. It will stop. You will stop. Or you won’t live here. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again. My house, my rules.”

  Mum put the car keys on the kitchen work surface. “He’s not parading around. He’s just being himself.”

  “In a fucking dress. Parading around in women’s clothes. It’s sick. It’s wrong. I’m calling the doctor tomorrow, see if he can get you fixed, cured, looked at, whatever. I’m not having any of this sick crap under my roof.”

  I opened the front door. “I’ll walk. Don’t worry, Mum.”

  Dad said, “If you leave now, you’re not coming back.”

  Mum said, “You’re not calling the doctor. You’re not trying to fix or cure him. There’s nothing wrong with him, nothing to fix or cure. He’s not hurting anyone. It’s just clothes. It’s how he expresses himself. Can you sit down, love, and we can carry on with this after I’ve dropped our son at his group.”

  “That,” he spat, “is no son of mine.”

  “Okay. I think we’d be better off without you. We’ve got on fine talking about it just me and Kev. I wanted to involve you. He wanted to involve you, but whenever I tried, you wouldn’t talk about it, wouldn’t listen. So we managed on our own. If this is how you feel, then we’ll carry on managing without you.”

  “Lies from both of you. Keeping your dirty little secrets from me. In my own house. Under my roof.”

  Mum folded her arms across her chest, adjusting one breast slightly. Her hands shook as she grabbed onto her armpits tightly.

  “How he expresses himself? Who’s got to you, eh? Swallowed a psychology book, have you? You wouldn’t know self-expression unless it came in a bottle of bleach or a feather duster. You sad old cow. Look at you, fussing about this place, but you don’t know anything about the real world. You don’t know anything about what he’ll have to face being like this. Not a fucking clue. You’re both as naive as each other.” He turned to me. “Explain what naive means to her, would you?”

  Mum took a deep breath. “I might not be a businessman, travelling all over the country like you. I might not know about facilitation and tax returns and turnover and profit, but what I do know is a nice person when I see one. And all I’ve heard from Kev about the other youngsters he’s friends with at this group is nice things. Tony, his best friend, is the nicest, kindest, most polite young man I’ve ever met. And he’s one too—a gay. So all I know, in my little house, without all your special knowledge is if Kev or Tony or any of their friends come here, this is a safe place for them. If they’re upset, I’ll comfort them. I’ll wipe their tears. I’ll tell them it’ll be all right. Cos they will find a place where people don’t want to hurt them. Cos most people couldn’t give a monkey’s if you wear a dress or trousers, once they really think about it. But some small-minded people like you can’t seem to get past that. And if you can’t get past that, I don’t think you should stay.”

  “It’s my house.”

  “Our house. Me and my son aren’t going anywhere.”

  “You’ll never manage without me. You don’t even drive beyond the Salisbury ring road. I pay for everything. You’re qualified for nothing; you know nothing, the pair of you.” He spat on the floor. “Clear that up, Mrs. Mop. You’re both welcome to each other.” He walked upstairs, two steps at a time. He shouted, “Lying bitches, the pair of you. You’re welcome to each other!”

  I ran to Mum and she hugged me, rocking gently, telling me it would all be okay.

  Dad walked downstairs, holding two full suitcases. “Keys.” He held out one hand. “Unless you want to wait while I call a taxi. Give. Me. The. Car. Keys.”

  She obeyed, and he left, slamming the door on his way.

  I never saw Dad after that day. It was like he’d died. Mum never talked about him, even while she was in the middle of sorting out their divorce.

  The nearest she came to mentioning him was when she said, “No one talks about my son like that. There’s nothing wrong with you, love. Nothing to fix.”

  He kept the car, the contents of the bank accounts, and various other shares and schemes he’d hidden around the world. He took the management consultancy business—which was essentially him—so we didn’t mind that. Mum kept the house and its contents, got a few cleaning jobs in the city centre. I upped my hours at TK Maxx and, despite her protests, started giving her housekeeping money. We stopped going on holidays, we never ate out or even got takeaways, but for the first time, we could both be who we wanted to be in our own home. Mum, after the nervous few times, started to enjoy working, meeting new people, hearing about their lives. The house wasn’t quite as clean as it had been before, as she didn’t have time to “do through” every other day, but she kept to her washing on Monday, shopping on Tuesday, cleaning the brasses and silver on alternate Fridays, just like before. And soon, it was like Dad had never even lived there. She removed all photos of him that had been out on display.

  When I asked why, she simply said, “You wouldn’t have a picture of Hitler up on the mantelpiece, would you?”

  After Dad left, I noticed I stopped holding back on so many things I’d worried about when he’d been around. I remembered Tony’s advice about sex, that it was just another hole, and once I’d done that, it was done and I could move on with other stuff, that it wasn’t anything to be afraid of, as long as I was safe, of course.

  Chapter Ten

  NOT LONG AFTER Dad left, just after my eighteenth birthday, I noticed a builder in paint-spattered white one-strapped dungarees and white T-shirt at college, giving me the eye when I walked past him as he painted the walls. I first brushed it off as me fantasising, and why would he look at me? Over the week, he repainted the whole of the textiles department; I memorised his cheeky smile, bright green eyes, short dirty-blond hair, and unshaven face covered in darker hair so I could easily summon it up when alone in my bedroom at night, relieving the tension of snatched glances all day.

  I walked past him and made eye contact as usual, with a smile. This time, he reached out to grab my arm and said, “Don’t suppose you’ve got five minutes, have you? Only I’m finished and could do with a hand to carry some stuff back to my van.”

  Where the bloody hell is Tony when I need him? More’s the pity, where is Bruce? Did I need to call them, since I’d talked to Tony about the builder’s looks every day this week and mentioned it to Bruce very proudly at Out! a few days ago.

  “A butch builder’s taken a shine to me. What should I do?” I’d asked Bruce.

  “Your gaydar seems to be strong within you. Be safe. Have fun,” Bruce said with a twinkle of his eyes, handing me a packet of condoms and accoutrements.

  Now, I looked at my arm with his hand still around it. His hand with short nails, light blond hair on the back, and spatters of white paint all over it. My cock was doing somersaults.

  The builder took his hand off me. “Don’t worry. Sure I’ll manage. I’ll let you get on. Sorry.”

  “I’ve got five minutes. ’Course I can help. What do you want me to carry? How far’s the van?”

  He handed me two tins of brilliant white emulsion. “Van’s round the back by the service entrance.”

  I followed him to the van, enjoying the view of his tight bum in his overalls.

  Opening the back doors of the van, he said, “Anywhere there’s fine.” Another one-hundred-watt smile.

  “You finished now?” Stomach full of butterflies doing cartwheels.

  “Yep. Last day. Unless they want me back, but I doubt it. I got the weekend off. Then Monday, I’m up at the uni in Southampton doing their lecture theatres. Maybe these teachers talk to each other.” He laughed at nothing, continuing to stare at me.

  “I’ve never seen inside one of these before. Big, is it?” I leant on the van’s doors and looked around the inside. It had shelves on the two side walls, some old sheets on the floor. The smell of paint hit me.

  “Jump in if you like. I can give you the guided tour.”

  I jumped in the back, and he followed me. The van’s suspension sagged as he clambered in. He stood behind me and his breath brushed on my neck. He pointed out various tools of the trade, paintbrushes, paint thinner, different-sized rollers and roller trays. I felt him behind me as he reached around my body to point at a sponge he used for something or other. His arm followed where mine was, grabbing my hand. His other hand held me round my waist, gently squeezing my belly button. His lips were on my neck as he kissed it. I turned to face him. His mouth was open. He pulled me towards him and his excitement pushed through his white dungarees. He nodded very slightly, a cheeky grin on his face. I nodded. We leant forward and kissed; I tasted a saltiness on his skin, his beard scratched my face, turning me on more than I’d ever experienced before. He pulled me towards him. His chest muscles pushed against mine as he continued kissing me. We kissed like that for what seemed like an hour, our hands pushing each other closer, grabbing one another’s bums, squeezing together.

  He pulled back from the kiss. “Shall I close this?” He reached for the van’s back doors.

  Bruce’s advice rang in my ears—Safety. He can do anything to me in this van. He can drive me away and chop me into bits. Except he’s in the back of the van with me and he’s just kissed me for a while. There didn’t seem any way of getting from the back of the van to the driver’s seat without going outside again.

  I looked from his face to his well-tented dungarees. “Best you had.”

  The doors banged shut, and he walked back to me beaming, unfastening the catch on the one strap that had been attached. The front of the dungarees fell down, revealing his slightly grubby paint-splattered T-shirt with well-defined pecs shining through.

  “Come on then, get ’em off.” He pulled at my jeans and reached inside the flies, grabbing me with just the right mix of rough and gentle to cause me to gasp with pleasure. He told me to take my T-shirt off, so I obeyed, enjoying his mastery and gentle roughness. He kissed me on the mouth, via my neck and chest, biting slightly on my nipples, moving down, down, down until he was kissing my belly button. And then, as my legs wobbled slightly with anticipation, he took me in his mouth.

  I closed my eyes, enjoying the moment, as he made a very good job of the job itself, indeed. This was what it felt like being on the receiving end. I really had put a lot of effort into the incident with Tom on the bench in the park. As I became lost in the movement of him against me, I opened one eye and peered down, my legs wide to steady myself as he moved faster and harder with more enthusiasm against me. Yes, this was happening, a sexy builder/decorator was on his knees in front of me, giving me the best blowjob of my life. The first blowjob of my life actually, but if all were this good, they’d have a lot to live up to. He’d removed his dungarees and only wore his white trunk underpants, allowing his cock to poke out the top over the waistband. I’d read about being an unselfish lover, but this was ridiculous. I didn’t want him to be doing the whole job. I wanted to meet him halfway at least. I reached down for his head and pulled him off me.

  He looked up, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth still open. “What’s wrong?”

  I pulled him back to a standing position, enjoying the full spectacle of him as he stood in front of me, strong muscled legs and chest and arms of defined muscles. Not too much He-Man-style muscles—this was natural, manual labour muscle definition. He had a light dusting of blond hair across his chest and arms. His cock still peeked above the waistband of his underpants. I repeated what he’d done to me so well and with such a great effect of anticipation. I started kissing his mouth, moved to his neck, then his nipples, down until I was at his belly button, a trail of dark-blond hair leading farther down. A few more kisses and I made myself comfortable on my knees. I didn’t intend to rush this, not after how well he’d done on his knees earlier. I took him in my mouth.

  He groaned and gasped so I knew I was doing something right.

  I continued for a while; he thrust into my mouth and then pulled away as I pulled backwards in time. And then I stopped. A vision suddenly popped into my head of Tony after he’d properly lost his virginity to that boyfriend last year at college. And I knew what I wanted.

  “What’s wrong? Why have you stopped?”

  I stood and whispered what I wanted.

  He nodded, reached into his dungarees pocket for a little packet, and told me to lean against the inside of the van.

  I followed his instruction, turned to check he was making use of the little silver packet and not just pretending. Doug’s words popped into my head—safe. What was it with him and popping up at the most inopportune moments? Seeing Doug’s friendly smiley face was almost enough for me to lose the moment. And then I felt the builder behind me, his left hand around my stomach and his right hand doing something else I wasn’t sure I wanted to see.

  He kissed my neck and told me to relax.

  I felt him closer behind me, and after a bit of awkward is-it-isn’t-it and some coldness, which I assumed to be lube, we were together.

  “All right?” he whispered into my ear.

  A new sensation of fullness. A slightly painful stabbing, but I took a deep breath and relaxed. I nodded slowly.

  He moved, very slowly at first, all the time checking I was okay—did it hurt too much, did I want him to stop—and gradually, one movement at a time, I found myself leaning into this, too, enjoying the feeling, wanting him to go faster, deeper, harder. He had his hands on my hips and pulled me towards him, kissing my back and neck between his other movements.

  We stayed joined like this, my hands pressed against the wall of the van, and soon, it was amazing, it was perfect, it was, as Tony had told me, not such a big deal, and I, too, wasn’t sure what all the fuss was about.

  And then he reached round my body with his right hand and started to pull me gently in time with his movements. Maybe that was a bit of a fuss. Maybe that was a bit of a big deal, because at that moment, it felt like I was having a mini religious experience as my whole body warmed with the feeling of pleasure in a way I’d never come even close to before, the pleasure from my front and my back coursed through my body, building in waves with his movements, concentrating into my centre as if I was about to faint.