Strait Laced (Excerpt)

Part 4

Surprisingly, the rain held off, although it was an ever-present threat for the remainder of the day. I put in an extra hour after the staff went home to make up for my tardiness, and afterwards ate a pretty decent steak at a city centre gastropub one of the managers had recommended.

In my mind, Manchester was a drab place, grey and overcast like the weather. As I walked through the city centre towards my hotel I realised that impression, honed over some eighteen months of regular visits, wasn't completely accurate. Yes, it had that hideous Seventies shopping centre, which led to a thoroughfare full of plastic cladding and concrete, additions that marred the fronts of once-beautiful buildings, but Market Street was just one part of the city. Not two minutes away were wide-open squares lined with stately stone buildings, proud and elegant churches, and the unlikely relic of a sixteenth century half-timbered pub.

It was close to 8:00 p.m., and the sun had set almost two hours earlier, but the streets still bustled with a healthy number of people. The Arndale shopping centre turned a brisk trade, and I looked curiously through the plate glass windows into ground level stores. A clothing company with a name I didn't recognise caught my eye, and I paused in front of the outfits displayed on headless white mannequins.

Ben had laughed at me for looking out of place in the village, and if the barman had recognised me as a sporadic visitor, Ben wasn't the only one who thought I stood out. I never bothered bringing anything other than work clothes on these trips, but perhaps that was a mistake. Not that I intended to go anywhere for the remainder of the week, but I hadn't updated my wardrobe in ages, and I liked the look of the store's designs.

Half an hour later, four bags heavier and £600 lighter, I exited with two pairs of jeans, two T-shirts, and a new pair of black suede desert boots I hadn't been able to resist. I'd also picked up a lightweight Merino sweater that looked comfortable and inviting, and a grey zip-up hoodie that went well with my new outfits and would be handy after the gym.

In my hotel room, I tried everything on under the more natural light, twisting and turning to check my reflection in the mirrored wardrobe doors. The jeans were tighter than I'd usually buy but the store only sold one cut, and I decided I liked the way they bunched attractively above my new boots.

Keeping on a pair of indigo jeans and a pale grey T-shirt, I made a cup of coffee from the single-serve kettle and settled in the room's only armchair with a book. Outside the large picture window, the city slowly buzzed with activity as its younger residents emerged to hit the town. It was only Tuesday, but the universities had probably broken up for the year, save final exams in a month or so, and I wasn't so far removed from my student days I couldn't remember how everyone treated the Easter break like an extended holiday instead of the revision opportunity it was supposed to be. Not that I'd done much partying, even when I was Ben's age.

I wondered if Ben was a student, but instantly dismissed the thought. Not because I assumed he lacked the intelligence, but he didn't have the air of someone who spent their evenings swotting over Keats or quantum mechanics. Plus I couldn't think what job he'd get armed with a degree and a skull tattooed on the back of his hand. Or maybe that was my prejudice showing. My job was incredibly corporate—even if the companies I visited had casual offices, my attire had to be business formal at all times. Most of the other analysts thought I took a risk wearing the occasional silver-grey suit. I'd never seen any of them in anything lighter than charcoal. I couldn't imagine showing up with a visible tattoo, not that I had ink on any part of my body.

My insides shivered as I recalled Ben's body: the intricate symbols and patterns, the roaring dragon, the all-seeing eye. He'd had something sinuous and tribal winding across his left hip, circling the jut of bone and dipping into the valley towards his groin. His pubes had been trimmed very short, tidily framing his genitals. Soft, his dick had been on the small side, but my thoughts inevitably strayed to what it might look like erect. I knew better than to judge one by the other, and I'd never been a size queen anyway. The first man I'd slept with had been below average in length and girth, and I'd been grateful for it. The last thing I wanted was to be split apart.