Date: Sun, 3 Jun 2007 09:48:47 +0100 (BST)
From: Michael Arram <mike_arram@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: After Alex 2

This is a further instalment of my long running series of sagas about Matt
White and his partner Andy Peacher, and the circle of their friends.  The
first of these was Towards the Decent Inn, which appeared in the Nifty
College section quite some while ago.  You can locate this and its many
successors through the Nifty Prolific Authors index, or use the storysites
www.iomfats.org and www.crvboy.org where they are collected and made
accessible in html by the generosity and skills of the webmasters.

This particular story concerns a marginal character in the previous
stories, Ben Craven.  It chronicles the end of his relationship with Alex
Johnson, and the new start in life which he went on to find.  I've tried to
keep down the cross references to other episodes in the saga, but I hope
you'll tolerate those that do creep in.  I can't easily let old friends go
in life, or in literature.

Here let me record my thanks to my tireless editor Rob, and to my readers,
James, Terry and Eldon.

This story features a few descriptions of sexual acts between young males.
If the reading of such material is illegal in your place of residence, or
if you are under the legal age to read them, you have at least been warned
and should act accordingly.



II

  The flat was empty when Ben returned.  He made up the bed in the guest
room, and with tears again springing in his eyes moved his personal items
from the side of what had been their bed for so many years.  He sat down in
the lounge to run through a mental list of things he would have to do, if
worse came to worst.
  His job would keep him in London, so somehow he'd have to find
accommodation.  He couldn't stay in the Clerkenwell flat, as most of the
cash to pay the mortgage came from Alex.  Maybe the separation settlement
would bring him enough for a down payment on something smaller in the
outskirts, or in one of the outer commuter towns.  His many books would
need to be packed and stored for the time being.
  He could cope no more.  He needed sleep and his body was so much in shock
that it co- operated.  He was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the
pillow.  He surfaced briefly at perhaps three to a subdued noise next door.
Alex had returned and found the bedroom empty.
  Ben awoke early, feeling like hell.  Seeing the lounge empty, he tidied
up Alex's discarded coat, as he always did.  There was a poignancy in the
action that brought on the waterworks yet again.
  When he cracked the other bedroom door, his heart collapsed in on itself.
Two bodies were closely entangled in the bed.  So this was it.  Alex had
laid down the ultimatum: accept what I'm doing, because this is the future
of our relationship, such as it is.  Well, Ben would not accept it.  The
anger bubbled and ran over.
  He pulled out the largest case from the hall cupboard and began throwing
in clothes from the closet and the laundry area.  He unplugged and cased
his laptop.  He would deal with his books later.  After one last look, he
left the flat that had been his home for five years, closing the door
behind him.
  Outside in the narrow streets of Clerkenwell he paused for a moment, a
lost boy.  It was a cold and bleak September morning.  He remembered he
could not even retreat to Keighley, because his father had thrown him out
of the house when he had come home from university to announce that he was
gay.  There had been no contact since.  As he trundled the case along
behind him down to Farringdon, the bells of St Paul's reached him across
the roofs.  They sounded like the tolling for a funeral.

***

  Phil clicked on www.gayfiction.review.com -- listed, naturally, amongst
his favourite sites.  There were five members and three guests online.  He
was disappointed; there was no bennyboy30, and hadn't been now for several
days.  He hadn't received an e-mail from Ben for the same period.  Funny,
the guy had told him in the past when he was taking a holiday, but had said
nothing this time.
  He liked Ben's style.  They read the same sort of thing, and he guessed
the man was an English graduate employed in publishing.  They argued their
points with a certain amount of delight in the argument and very often took
the debate off board when they really got into it.  It was not just gay
fiction they debated by any means, but a very wide range of contemporary
writing.
  Phil knew that online personalities were not entirely to be trusted.
People could be very selective about how they showed themselves, and what
they revealed.  He could guess a few things about Ben, but he had no idea
really how old he was, what he looked like, where he lived, or even if he
was in a relationship.  But still there was a particular gentleness and
sweetness in the way the man expressed himself, which must arise from
something genuine in his personality.  He also admired Ben's excellent
grammar and command of English, so rare amongst Phil's own students.
  He batted some ideas around regarding the current work the board was
criticising -- a laborious and ambitious e-novel someone had found on the
Nifty site, the `blue jungle' as Ben like to call it, in a many-barbed
metaphor.  Then he signed off.  He next clicked on www.gaycruising.org; he
had steeled himself the day before to register for access.  He shifted in
his study chair and listened carefully for any movement from downstairs.
  Well-buffed torsos and pretty male faces stared out at him.  He
swallowed, and clicked on Hertfordshire.  A stream of identities and links
appeared.  Totaltop54 was looking for a bottom in the Stevenage area to
fuck in the next hour.  Was Phil a bottom?  He had no idea.  But if he
clicked on that link he could arrange to find out.  Totaltop54 was 32,
6'2", slim and blonde.  He liked rimming and fucking and had an eight-inch
dick.  Phil's cursor hovered over the link.  He was shaking.  God, do I
dare do this?  He couldn't and wouldn't.  He shut down his laptop.

***

  `So you're back.'  Dave looked sadly at Ben.  `I think I can guess why.'
  `He brought a man home, a stranger, and slept with him.  I couldn't cope
with it, I couldn't.'
  `It's okay, Benny.  I had Matt on the phone earlier.  He wants you to
stay with him.  It's not as if he's short of room.'
  They trundled Ben and most of his worldly goods up the garden path to the
house.  It was another crisp and sunny September day, the Thames Basin blue
in the distance.
  Mrs Atkinson, the housekeeper, met him with a kindly look and showed him
where to put his stuff.
  `Are there guests expected?' Ben asked, a bit anxiously.  His kind of
misery did not love company.
  `Andy's in the States for the next week,' Dave told him.  `Then I think
they're both going to head down to Suffolk to see the family.  No one's
coming to stay for a while; but you know how they pop in and out,
especially them Rothenians.  Always bloody freeloading.'
  `Can I use the phone?  I didn't recharge my mobile last night.  Too much
on my mind.'
  `Sure, er ... is it himself you're gonna call, Benny?  Want me to hold
your hand?'
  Ben gave a small smile, the first for a while.  Dave Evans trying to be
gentle and sympathetic was a novel experience for him.
  He took up the phone as Dave left.  It rang and a familiar rough voice
answered.
  `It's me,' Ben told him.
  `Where are you, Benny?'
  `At Matt's in Highgate.  I ... I'm not coming back, Alex.  It's over.'
  `We should talk.'
  `We did talk, Alex, and you told me you'd fuck whom you like when you
like.  That's your life.  It's not mine.  I'll arrange for the rest of my
stuff to be shipped out when I find somewhere.'
  Alex's voice took an aggressive edge.  `I'm not selling up this flat.'
  `Then you'll have to buy me out.  We will talk about it, but it can wait
a week or so, can't it?'
  `Yes, I guess.  Benny ... I ... I'm sorry.'
  `But not repentant.'
  `I suppose not.'
  `Send on my mail, you know the address.  Bye.'
  Ben rang off, his heart pulsing, as was his head.  He went to the kitchen
to beg aspirin off the housekeeper.  They went up to Ben's room in the
dormer floor and she made him comfortable.  There was a wireless connection
in the house and a call to Dave got Ben's laptop on line.
  He surveyed his address book and made the melancholy decision to send
round a letter to all his friends telling them the news.  He felt a curious
mixture of emotions: sadness, embarrassment, even humiliation.  He put in
all the usual things: Alex and he had grown apart.  No animosity on either
side.  Ben would let them know his new address when he was settled.  That
about said it all, apart from the fact his heart was broken; life was a
black tunnel with no light at the end; the world had gone grey and the sun
would never rise again.
  He threw himself back on the bed, not noticing that by accident one of
the names on the list he had copied his grim little message to was
philm22@yahoo.co.uk.

***

  Students were getting to be a problem for Phil, male ones obviously.
There was something about the twink which he found particularly moving, a
combination of slimness, bright eyes and naïvety.  Not that most of his
students were worth a second look, but one or two of them, well, they were
something.
  A particular magnet at the moment was Max Jamroziak, one of his tutor
group.  The boy had it all: thick and long blond hair, a clear triangular
face and large hazel eyes.  The rear view in his tight jeans was
exceptional.
  Max was a sociable, happy young man who had no fear of his lecturers, as
some students did.  At least once a week he would stop off in Phil's office
for a long chat, which could get quite hilarious.  Max came visiting that
Monday morning, the first week of term.  Phil just loved the experience of
talking with this fantasy of young male beauty.  He didn't think the boy
was gay, quite the opposite in fact.  But the way his face and body moved
as he talked was flirtatious to say the least.
  Today he was not looking so bright and amused.  `What's up, Max?'
  `Oh ... is it obvious?'
  `You're not your usual sparkling self.  Work problems?'
  Max pouted to himself, causing a major movement in the region of Phil's
crotch.  `No, it's the girlfriend.  She's in Manchester, and last weekend
we had a major row.  She doesn't trust me, she says.  Possessive and half
of England away ... doesn't make her life easy for her, does it?'
  `Maybe not, Max.  But there's being reasonable and being unreasonable --
and women ... well, we both know that reason and femininity are not
necessarily matching concepts.'  That was the closest Phil could get to
Max, being blokes together.
  `My gay mates have it so much easier.'
  There were gays in Max's circle?  That would hardly be surprising; they
would home in on him.  `Oh yeah?'
  `Christ yeah ... they seem to fuck away with none of this bloody emotional
blackmail.  Down to the pub, pick up a bloke and wham!'
  `Well, there's your solution then.  Pick up a guy.'  Bloody hell, did I
just say that? Phil asked himself.
  Max smiled confidentially.  `Been there, done that.  I had my bisexual
phase last year.  It was ... right interesting.'
  `One of our students?'
  `No, guy in marketing.  Really gay.  Begging for it and one day I
thought, What the hell, let's see where it goes.'
  `Where did it go?'
  Max gave an embarrassed smile.  `Couple of blowjobs ... not bad actually,
but I didn't want to get my kit off and do the whole thing ... `sides, he
wanted me to go up his ... y'know.  Just couldn't do that.  Know what I
mean?'
  Phil did, and was close to fainting at the thought.  He was relieved when
Max smiled and made his apologies.
  Phil booted up his laptop and opened his e-mail account.  There was only
one message, from `Ben Craven'.  Who was Ben Craven?  Phil was about to
consign it to the bulk folder when he had second thoughts.  The subject bar
said, `Alex and Me'.  It didn't sound like the usual spam.  He clicked it.

<Hi guys.  Sorry, this is a bit of sad and bad news.  Alex and I have split
up.  We've been growing apart for quite a while now, and this last week has
seen the end of it.  We're trying to keep it friendly.  He'll stay on in
the flat in Clerkenwell, while I'm staying with Matt for now in Highgate.
You can reach me there or at work for the next few weeks until I find my
own place.  Ben.  XXXX.>

  Ben?  Ben Craven?  It must be bennyboy30's real identity.  He must have
included Phil in the group e-mail by accident.  Wow.  So he was a gay bloke
after all, just broken up from his boyfriend, and he was a Londoner too.
  What to do about the e-mail?  He could ignore it, of course, but Phil was
moved by the brief and poignant message, so he clicked reply.

<Hi Ben.  I expect you sent this to me accidentally.  No problem.  I just
wanted to say how sorry I am about you and your boyfriend splitting.  It
must be painful, especially if you've been together a while: sad songs
taking on a whole new meaning, that sort of thing.  I hope it'll get better
for you, however hard it is at the moment.  I'll always be happy to talk if
you need it.  Phil Maddox.>

  There.  Now we're equal.  I know his name and he knows mine.  He thought
about it, then daringly added his mobile number.  Before thinking twice he
sent the reply on its way.  Phil googled `Ben Craven' and `publishers' just
to see if he could get some more details about the man, but the metasearch
produced nothing positively attributable.  He sat back and pondered what
the complications of life as a gay must be like.

***

  Wardour Publishing Ltd (a division of Magnamedia Inc) had its offices on
Long Acre, and for such a large firm, it made little of itself.  An
anonymous door with a discreet plate led into a small foyer with a lift.
Ben took it to the second floor and made his way to his desk in the
open-plan office.
  The first thing that struck him -- forcibly -- was Alex's face grinning
out at him from several framed photos.  He quickly gathered them up and
shoved them in the bottom desk drawer, the one where he stored the plant
food and plastic watering can.  Then he sat down and put his head in his
hands.
  He was early, as usual.  He booted up his machine and reviewed his day.
An editorial conference at ten, a team production meeting at eleven and a
marketing seminar most of the afternoon.  Dismal day, and a Monday too.
How could he make it to the end?
  He unpacked a new manuscript and started working on it.  By the time he
had scanned as far as page ten, he realised he had not taken in a word.
His concentration was shot to hell.  He sat dully through the conference
and the production meeting.  If someone noticed, they didn't say anything.
  His desk phone buzzed at half twelve.  He had a visitor and could he come
down to reception?  For one mad moment he thought it might be Alex and his
fickle heart pulsed.  Alex had come to say it was all a mistake, he had
thought about it, he was sorry and all he wanted was his Bennyboy.  But he
knew deep down it couldn't be that.
  Instead it was Terry O'Brien, in a dark, expensive wool coat, looking
very much the success story he was.  The receptionist, wise to the signs of
wealth, was staring at Terry covertly like a mouse marvelling at a ton of
cheese.
  Terry stood and gathered Ben into a hug.  `Got your e-mail, sweet babe.
Near broke my heart, and I had to come.  I was just round the corner with
my Davey at his club.  Let's go get a drink and a sandwich.'
  Ben was guided out and down to the lift.  They turned towards Covent
Garden.  Terry took him to a corner joint opposite his new club, Orton's.
  `Where's Davey?' Ben asked.
  `Counting the profits across the road, sweetness.  Never mind me and
never mind Davey, what about you?'
  `End of the world.'
  `I can imagine, sweet babe.  I have to say, of all of us, I thought you
and Alex were gonna go the distance -- apart from Andy and Matt of course.
What happened?'
  Ben explained what he thought had happened, while Terry listened.  Ben
quickly realised this was not so hard to do the second time and talking
helped, just as people said it did.  Drinks and sandwiches arrived, and
Terry took a stiff shot of gin and tonic.
  Ben liked being with Terry, though it didn't happen very often.  They had
first met when Terry was only nineteen and very much a street gay on the
prowl, while Ben was a hesitant and shy graduate publishing assistant, with
very little to say for himself.  Yet somehow they had hit it off.  Ben had
watched with pleasure as Terry rose to success, first in the world of
security consultancy and now in the urban club scene, gay and straight.  He
knew that, of all their friends, Terry would stick with him.
  Terry and Alex did not get on.  They'd had issues after a couple of
Alex's news stories compromised some of Terry's customers.  Ben had to
admit to himself that most of the rest of their joint friends would
gravitate to Alex.
  It ended up being a more cheerful lunch than Ben had expected.  He half
gave in to Terry's insistence that he should go down to Cranwell with Terry
for the weekend.  `Just to get away, sweet babe.  You need perspective.
Talk it over with Matt when he gets in tomorrow.'
  Terry saw him back to his office.  When Ben reached his desk, he found
his colleague Amanda looking carefully around his space to see what was
missing.  She drew her conclusion.
  `Something's changed ... the boyfriend?'
  Ben nodded mutely.  It had to be gotten through.  Work would have to
know.
  `Cheating on you?'
  Ben sighed.  Somehow, those words made him feel bad, as if he had some
responsibility for Alex's betrayal of their relationship.
  `Men are bastards, Ben.  I'll take you for a drink after work.  We can
swap adultery stories.  Anger likes to be shared.'
  Ben was surprised.  He and Amanda did not normally get on, so the
sympathy caught him unprepared.  It seemed there was a freemasonry of the
betrayed that he never would have expected.  Anger liked to be shared,
maybe.  But was he angry?
  Ben evaded the invitation, pleading a need to sort out his new
accommodation.  He slumped behind his computer screen, checked his e-mail,
and noted with surprise one from philm22 in the inbox.  How did that get
there?