Making a fool of himself, basically. Joining the dozen or so female cellists and sculptors and would-be actresses, and three or four male students just for the extra competition, who were all blatantly swooning over Becuell. Jostling over the best, the closest seat in the class, staring, gaping open-mouthed. Kissing up, swotting, vying to be teacher's special pet.
As a virile and upstanding member of the human race, it was shaming.
At least Stuart had been a man about it. Four days ago, at the last class of the term -- of the module, ever, and Becuell disappearing off to his own studies, his much posher alma mater. (Oxbridge, not poly fodder, not an art school dosser like the likes of them. Stuart was a nice middle-class boy -- perhaps lower-middle class, but nicely brought up, enough to have something to rebel against. He didn't generally conceive of himself as a rough-handed labourer, a gamekeeper, a trucker. Not except when he laid eyes on Becuell, and clocked that transcendent glow, the pearly skin, the immaculate bone structure. Stuart felt pretty sure that anything so lovely could only come from centuries of inbreeding, privilege, and grinding the hopes of lowly peasants to dust. Becuell's lush, lightly waving hair was --
Christ, Stuart was out of control. He'd had a few girlfriends, enough casual het hookups to feel a bit of a manslut, and a dozen or so handies and blowies from blokes in clubs, at festivals, that sort of thing. None of them had been anything like this.
YOU ARE READING
Erase You
RomanceMichael is a musician, Cambridge-educated but living in London. He's successful, attractive and has plenty to keep him busy and happy. So why can he still not get over his old college boyfriend, Ben? Fortunately his old Great-Aunt Millie, a notor...
