I have to open a window, it's too hot in here. It smells like the both of us, entwined and dancing through the sweaty air, my aftershave and his shampoo. Old spice and coconut.
I light a cigarette. Mayfair, cheap and nasty. I finish the cigarette in one, long drag, the nicotine fills my lungs and calms my shaking body and stills my nervous excitement. I crush it out on the windowsill and light another.
I turn and look at him lying on the bed, naked and face down. My eyes roam over him, from his ruffled black hair, down his sweaty back, and over his pert arse down to his ankles. Perfect.
I've had to come to a hotel, I couldn't risk my wife getting any whiff of this. She's away just now. Two days. Some business trip in London.
I've known for a while. Even before I met my wife, I knew. I was maybe fourteen or fifteen, but I've never done anything until now. I mean, I've been online and had a look, chatted with people and stuff, but I've never had the courage to do anything about it.
I remember our wedding day, our vows, my beautiful bride to be. I remember all those eyes on me, my mum crying and the pride in my dads tears. I remember telling her I love her and 'til death do us part and all that, and I suppressed it all down deep inside and hid it from everyone. I've hid it from her everyday since.
But now she's away and I saw my opportunity and I couldn't contain it anymore.
I'm naked at the window, smoking, sweat on my forehead and chest and lower back, and I'm watching him breathe and listening to the world outside. The sound of the traffic, the noise of distant roadworks.
The room we're in is small and plain. The walls are magnolia, the carpet is brown. There's art on the walls. Watercolour paintings, one depicting a farmhouse and the other, swans. There's one cupboard with a couple of unused hangers, our clothes are lying on the floor.
I stub out my second cigarette and pour myself a drink from the dresser next to the bed. I bought vodka and a packet of wine gums before I came here. Something to calm my nerves.
I down the drink in one and place the glass back down. I see the used condom, discarded and lying at the bathroom door where I threw it after peeling it off. When I see it my balls twitch and I know I want to do this again.
I sit down on the edge of the bed next to him. I run my hand up his back and through his hair. He's crying, his tears soaking the pillow.
'Don't worry, son,' I say softly, 'this will be our little secret.'
