Don't Talk! (Freddie Mercury / Queen)

22. Not the World's Most Passionate Guy

F.M.
Middle of the Road, U.K.
March, 28th, 1983.

"Did you shag Alex Moore?"

In hindsight, that wasn't a great question to randomly ask Hayes whilst he was driving. It was just fucking eating me alive to know whether Hayes had actually copped off with a man yet or not. He veered slightly, causing the Mercedes beside us to beep us to hell.

Hayes spluttered as he quickly sought to get control of the car back, "What? That's—what?"

"Did you and Alex shag?" I repeated impatiently.

"Why are you asking?" He managed to subdue his surprise.

"Because when you went out around New Year's Eve, you made to sure to make a point that you were going to give Alex a call... then you were rather preoccupied the past few weeks, especially at night."

Now, it's not like Hayes was gone completely wild, he went out early and went home early. He even ended up crashing at my apartment on the couch one or twice after I ran into him on the street. As I was a good friend, and he often smelt of a cologne that wasn't his own, I decided to be the responsible party and drag him home. He was quite different lately, confident. I suppose that's what happens when you stop lying to yourself.  It was brilliant and horrible all at once.

I was happy for him of course, but it was easy to feel a little used as a result of his behaviour. Only a short time ago it was difficult for Hayes to even let me touch him and then here he was out with other men most nights. All fucking thanks to his friend Freddie. I was getting around myself of course, but I couldn't get my mind to veer away from Hayes for too long. It didn't help when the few times he just randomly kissed me after a few drinks. It was always only after a few drinks. I wonder did he need liquid courage for his other men.

"Just because I was busy at night doesn't mean we slept together." Hayes chuckled, "We work together you know, I could have just copped off with him in the storeroom."

My mouth dropped open in absolute horror, I couldn't believe he would make such a comment. I was too scandalised by his change in humour to even be jealous, "Hayes Evelyn Griffith."

"No, Alex and I didn't do anything." Hayes murmured, "Don't worry."

'Don't worry'. Arrogant twat. "Then why did you say that you were going to call him?"

"Because I did call him," Hayes explained, "And he brought me out with a couple of his friends."

"So is that what's been keeping you busy most nights?" I asked, and an unnatural sense of relief nagged at me. At least he's not shagging an attractive fashion critic who he works with. Strangers I can handle.

"Well I could give you their names if you'd like me to be more specific." He said in that new godawful arrogant tone that made me hate him and want to kiss the fuck out of him all at once. I have done the latter on a few occasions when out.

The relief vanished. Did Hayes just suggest that he had been with multiple men? A few months ago he wouldn't even let me peck his cheek, and how he's suggesting that he's slept with a few men? It's ridiculous. It's absurd. It's insane— it's not fucking fair.

"So what exactly did you do then Hayes, with these  men, be specific."

My dear prude Hayes returned as his entire face turned bright red. "I'm not- you hardly want me to explain what we did."