Date: Fri, 17 Feb 2012 02:15:23 +0530 (IST)
From: bert galway <marcusmcnallyfanclub@indiatimes.com>
Subject: The Marcus McNally Fan Club  2

This story may contain sexual situations between males. If material of this
nature offends you then you should not read this story.  If you are under
18 years of age you are probably not legally allowed to read this story.
Join later.

This story is partly a work of fiction.  But Marcus is real and is the best
author ever!


The Marcus McNally Fan Club  2

"We should set up a Facebook page for Love on the Rocks lovers!"
"And start sending off tweets!"
"And guys are bound to want to get stuff ..."
"Yeah, like Ty's albums and t-shirts and ..."
"... and George's recipe book ..."
"Yeah!  Dot's recipe for that gravy she makes!"
"Shit!  We could organise back-packing trips to all the places mentioned
... you know?  Homage to Marcus Tours!"
Okay, we were getting carried away with ourselves but we were so into it.
We had grabbed a quick shower down at the Stevenson before coming back to
Mickey's flat off Great George Street, the one he shared with some medicos.
Mickey was doing Eng Lit so he had loads of free time when he was meant to
be reading Chaucer.  The medicos were always out, probably cutting up
bodies, Mickey said.  At least I hope that's what he said they were doing
to the bodies.
We sat around in the living room talking over each other in our enthusiasm.
It was partly that flood of well-being you get when you meet up with
someone you feel totally at ease with.  It was also our mutual admiration
for Love on the Rocks.  We both knew the story backwards, every twist and
turn of the plot.  We swapped favourite passages, the sex scenes we liked,
the jokes that ran through the tale, the gnawing pain of waiting for the
next chapter that lowered us off the cliff where McNally had left us
hanging.
"You get to the end of a chapter and you're like going 'Oh My God' what's
going to happen now?"
We stared at each other open-mouthed as we each remembered these spine-
tingling moments.
"Fuck, Mickey, remember that stuff about Scott, and how he came back from
his trip and we didn't know what had gone wrong but we knew something awful
had ..."
" ... and how brilliant Mike was about it and how Ty and Lachie were such
shits and poor Scott ..."
He looked into my eyes then and his face lit up with a smile.
"Tibs, you reckon Scott is the most fuckable guy in the whole story?"
"Hehe!  Remember how at the start we were all expecting Mike to be prodding
his fucktool into Scott and even Mike was thinking about it, after watching
Scotty jerk off, and then out of the blue Ty appears and it's like, it's
like ..."
I paused, unable to get the metaphor I wanted.  I was studying History and
historians don't really do metaphors.  We're more into facts.
"... like a door opens inside their heads and sunlight floods in and
there's music suddenly and the heavy scent of fresh cut grass.  Like the
world is suddenly new again and Eden is back and they are like the first
ever people, together in a wonderful garden ..."
He tailed off and grinned sheepishly.
"Nice metaphor," I said with a smart-ass smirk.
"Actually, I think it was a simile," Mickey chuckled.
"Smart-ass," I returned, putting my grin into words.
"Let's go eat. Or would you rather do the other thing ...?"
We both grinned broadly at each other.
I hesitated before answering.
"Nah!" I said at last.  "Let's go eat.  We can fuck later."
It was as if we had been lovers forever.  It was as if we had known each
other all our lives, perhaps even in previous lives.  Such was the ease we
felt in each other's company.  It was the way we completed each other's
sentences as if we were already inside each other's heads.  That was it.
Exactly.  We sort of completed each other, the way Ty completed Mike, or
Ellie completed Lachlan.  It was meant.  It had an inevitability about it.
I don't want to mislead you, reader.  We hadn't actually had sex yet.  It
just felt as if we had.  We had gone to the Stevenson and stripped off in
the locker room.  Silently we had checked out each other's bodies -
silently but not secretly for we had quickly recognised and accepted the
mutual attraction.  Somehow we knew instinctively that we would make love.
I say that deliberately.  We would make love, not just have sex.  We both
knew it without saying it and so there was no haste about it.  A boy will
feel an urgency about a wank as if the need to unload some spunk is nothing
more than emptying his bowels or his bladder.  For us, in an instant, that
instant when we met, we knew that this was special.  We knew that there was
no need to speedily claim each other, like conquistadors claiming new lands
or Americans planting flags and golf balls on the moon.
"That's a simile, again," he said.  "And you split an infinitive."
"So what?  McNally is always doing it."
"Really?" said Mickey indignantly.  "So you think he's a really dirty boy?"
We left that one hanging like some low bollocks and we made our way down to
S'Mug.  Mickey had suggested we go on down to Greggs but I couldn't be
arsed queuing and Greggs is always queued round the block with guys wanting
what passes in Glasgow for a healthy diet.  Five-A-Day in Glasgow does not
mean fruit.


I have already admitted my fondness for barista boys.  In S'Mug Josh was on
duty.  Josh is over from Australia - it's true! Oz! - and he is pretty damn
cute.  Slim and about five ten, he has an untidy shock of reddish gold
hair.  He wears tight, tight pants which are much the same colour as his
hair.  He talks so fucking fast that all his words seem to jumble together
as they spill out.  I like him.  Not sure if he's into Love on the Rocks, I
have never asked.  Maybe later, when we get the fan club really going.
"Usual Tybalt?" he asked.
I am a habitu‚ of S'Mug.  My usual is Americano black, extra shot, and a
bagel stuffed with pastrami and swiss.  Unless I'm having the vegetable
nachos.  Josh tips me a wink if the chillies are extra hot.
It occurs to me now that I haven't introduced the two main protagonists of
this sort of a story.  I'm Tybalt Cunningham .  It's sort of Italian.
Tybalt that is.  I think it passes for Gilbert in Scotland but mother would
not have Gilbert.  Far too last century.  Mother is into all things Italian
- ice cream, mozzarella, linguini, good coffee and opera. Mainly opera.
The guy standing beside me, surreptitiously feeling my ass, is Michael
McNiall.  He's from up north.  One of these islands where, as they say,
it's either raining or about to rain.
We're both students.  Him Eng Lit and me History.
It is absolute coincidence that he's called Mike (sort of) and I'm called
Ty (sort of).  I know you believe in coincidence - otherwise you couldn't
be a McNally fan.
We ordered and looked around for a table.  As usual Kirsty Wark had bagged
the window seat.  We went up the back where's there's a private wee table
tucked in beyond the toilets.  You can hole up there for hours and there's
no way anyone else can infiltrate.
We talked.
We talked about our likes and dislikes and we said 'snap'.  We talked about
our lives, our families, the baggage we had gathered along the way.  But
mainly we talked about the guys we knew best.  That was when we had our
first disagreement.
"I liked Simon.  Maybe Marcus will bring him back, a reformed character.
Like with Steve."
"Fuck, no.  I hate him.  He was such a shit to Scott.  I hope he rots in
hell!"
The exchange that followed got more and more heated, louder and louder,
until we were almost yelling at each other.
"Will you guys cool it?"
It was Josh.
His strong Aussie accent wrenched us back to the reality of Love on the
Rocks.  It was like we had stepped through the looking glass and had been
transported to somewhere in Fitzroy Street, in St Kilda.  That was Monique
down there by the window, tapping away on her laptop.  That must be Vince
standing at the counter trying to decide which muffin to have with his
take-away, the portuguese or the apple and cinnamon. And the music ... the
music ... fuck me, mates, it was Tenterfield Saddler, honest it was.  Must
have been Josh had brought in a CD but it silenced us.
"Just cool it, okay?" he said.  "And give this mate of yours, this Simon
guy, give him a break for God's sake."
Me and Mickey just stared at each other.  We were in Melbourne (or was it
Stanthorpe?).  Wherever, we were miles away, part of our myth.
Like lovesick schoolboys, we stared into each other's eyes.  We reached
across the table to take each other's hand and our lips moved soundlessly.
"Love you."
And we hadn't even fucked yet!
"We don't do rooms,for fuck's sake," chuckled Josh.  "It's a coffee shop
not a gaybar in case you hadn't noticed."


Outside the coffee shop we hesitated.  Both of us paused, thinking the same
thing.
"Do you think we should ..."
"... maybe go round to SuperDrug ..."
"...and get some condoms?"
We almost spoke in unison.  Great minds and lovers?
(Note to underage boys who did not follow the instruction not to read this
at the beginning: always use a condom so that's it's something you do
without thinking.  It won't give offence if it's automatic, a habit.
Marcus says so too!  Remember Simon in Nairobi?)


"When do they get back?"
"Late."
We were sprawled on the counch listening to Savage Garden, the 2nd album.
'I knew I loved you before I met you
I think I dreamed you into my life.'
Isn't it weird when a song says what you feel, puts it into words?
We reached for each other in that moment, each taking hold of the other's
head and drawing it close.  Our lips met and parted, the kiss became a
feast as we devoured each other with a hunger.  The roughness of his chin
against my cheek, the firmness of his grip around my head, the forcefulness
of his tongue as it burrowed past my tongue to lodge itself deep inside me,
all conveyed the manly passion that now consumed us.  Suddenly he let go of
me, just in that moment when I let go of him.  Desperate now with desire,
our hands roamed across the contours of the other's body, exploring,
embracing.  We undressed each other with a shocking disregard for buttons
and studs.  Shirts were pulled open, tees hauled over heads, fly studs torn
pop by pop until we both lay there in the other's arms, naked and ready.  I
slid my hand down across his chest, down past his navel to follow the
little coppice of hair that led me on, down and down into the thicker
forest that was his unruly pubes, onto that fleshy trunk that seemed to
wink and smirk at me.  I closed my fingers around his hot hard shaft and
felt his cock jerk and his body tremble to my touch.  He was reciprocating,
teasing me with light fingers, then gripping as if anxious to test the
hardness of my love.
For a moment we sat there gazing rapturously into each other's eyes,
gripping hard on the arrows of love that soon we would fire off, deep into
each other.  Then, with perfect synchronisation, we slid and sank, turned
top to toe, moved that we might gorge upon each's cock.
He licks around the rim, tonguing deep into the ridge, flicks fast across
the slit, then licks again, the whole length of his tongue moving back and
forth upon my rigid flesh.  And then he opens and goes down, sliding his
lips slowly down the length of my cock-shaft.  Grabbing my balls he plunges
down, nosing deep into my wiry pubic hair, tightening his grasp as he
twists his mouth upon my pulsing member.  I feel his finger move, behind my
ballsac, encroaching deliciously, seeking more.  I try to manoeuvre to meet
his probing finger.  I want him to enter me, to possess me, to love me.
Yes, okay, I wanted him to fuck me hard.  And he did.
He flipped me over quickly until I knelt beside the couch. He moved behind
me, slipped the condom over his rod and took hold of my hips.  With a
gentleness that spoke his love he probed and pried and entered.  I felt my
man push past my stubborn ass muscle and take possession of me.  Then he
paused.  And me.  We breathed, but only for a second, for then I pushed
back hard against him, as if to say 'yea man, take me, take me now, fuck me
hard!'  He pistoned then, ramming home with a force that rocked me; I felt
his pubic bush crush against my ass, sensed the swinging of his nads but
most of all I held him fast inside me.  There was an urgency about it that
time.  Lust and love combined.  But it was more than sex.  I don't pretend
I was a virgin, and judging by the sureness of his penetration, nor was he,
but this was different, special, beautiful.  He was fucking me, yes, taking
possession of me.  But I knew he was also giving himself to me and was
about to fill me with a part of himself.   My cock rubbed against the
fabric of the couch and I came.  And then I felt a warmth grow and grow
within me as he then collapsed upon my back like the marathon runner who
has completed his task.  I twisted my head back as he leaned forward.  And
we embraced once more.


We sat about naked drinking a beer.  Our fat but now flaccid cocks hung
loose and satisfied.  We talked endlessly about Love on the Rocks and
stuff.  We agreed that Marcus was so brilliant at describing food that
sometimes you felt really hungry, other times you felt like you had eaten
the meal yourself.  If we hadn't been handless students on a limited budget
we might even have been tempted to try to make some of the things.  Mickey
said that if we asked him he would probably send us the recipes.
You didn't need a guide book if you read a Marcus story, we thought.
Either he had travelled the world or he researched things really very
thoroughly.  That reminded us of Turkish Delight (which curiously we had
both read before Love on the Rocks even made an appearance) in which he
almost wrote a kind a travel guide.  Again, as with the meals, you read
Turkish Delight and you could almost imagine you had been there yourself.
And it went without saying that his descriptions of Australia, never
overdone, were the best tourist advert possible!
Telling a cracking good story is hard enough, Mickey said, and he should
know since that was what he was studying, but getting the setting so exact
and the characters so right, that is not so easy.  Even good thriller
writers can't always get that right but, we nodded at each other, Marcus
always does.
"You know, Tibsy, I get so involved in the story that I even started
skipping through the sex stuff!"
"Fucking hell, Mickey!  Me too."
Now that is saying something for a couple of wank-addicted Nifty boys!
We talked more about how to work a fan club for we were both sure as hell
that Marcus deserved one.  We decided to do something for Nifty as that was
where his readers (and devoted fans) were most likely to find out about it.
A number of possibilities were discussed.  The possibility of persuading
Marcus to do an interview excited us.  We were sure the guys (and girls,
yeah, we were sure there would be girl fans too) who loved Love on the
Rocks the way we did would want to know more about Marcus and about how he
works out his plots and stuff.
The ideas poured out of us and the hours passed.
I decided to get out and back to my own place before Mickey's flat-mates
zoomed in but we arranged for me to come round first thing next morning so
that we could really get the fan club going.


I was later than I meant next morning.  My mother texted me asking me why
my mobile was switched off - again.  She instructed me to phone home at
once.  This didn't alarm me for I knew what to expect.  When had I last
changed my underpants?  Was I cleaning my teeth?  Was I eating properly?
It was a long call.  As a result I didn't hit Great George Street until
after ten.
I rang the bell.
No answer.
I thumped on the door.
No answer.
I shouted through the letter box telling Mickey to get his scrawny ass out
of bed.
Eventually the door opened.
There stood a guy in black boxers with what looked like a really crusty
spunk stain upfront.  He had on what in Glasgow we call a semmit. It had
once had shape and maybe it had even been white. This was clearly a trainee
houseman.
I asked for Mickey.
"Who wants him?" he asked, suspiciously.
"Me," I replied, unable to keep an exasperated sneer out of my voice.
"Does he owe you money?"
I did not understand.
"No he doesn't.  We're ... just good mates."
The guy blocking the door shrugged.
"He's gone."
"Gone?"
I looked puzzled.
"He's gone.  Out.  Vamoosed.  Skedaddled. Done a moonlight.  Geddit?" said
the medico as he closed the door.  "Oh, aye.  By the way.  If you do see
him, tell him he owes us rent."
Dispirited I made my way out of the close and down the street.  Had I just
been dumped?  Had Mickey really done a runner?  After we had made that
connection ...  What could have come up that was more important than me?
Without thinking I found myself wandering into S'Mug.  I didn't react to
Josh's bonhomie but took the Americano and looked round for a seat.  I
wanted to hide myself away in the secret alcove but it was occupied by an
elderly couple.  I headed up that way anyway.  I guess I just wanted to be
near where we had sat yesterday, Mickey and me.
As I sipped the hot coffee I commiserated with myself.  I didn't even have
his mobile number.  And he didn't have mine, or even know my address.  All
I could do, I decided, was keep going round to the one place I knew, his
flat at the end of Kersland Street.  If I hung around there I might run
into him.  Suddenly I began to feel a wee bit more positive.  He must have
had something urgent to do, hand in an essay or take back a library book.
If I went back round his and waited, surely he would show up?
I sipped at my coffee again feeling a great deal happier.
I looked around.
It was typically S'Mug.  Two girls were sitting, face to face, with
cappuccinos which remained unfinished as the pair talked at each other,
both at the same time.  I think it's called multi-tasking and girls are
good at it.
A West-End yummy-mummy was having a fruit infusion (pale pink) while she
read a story to a child in a high chair.  The child was eating slices of
fruit.
Josh was clearing tables.
The older couple were talking quietly.  Their expressions conveyed an
anxiety that aroused my curiosity.  That's when I heard it.
"But I am worried about the twins, Frank."
And that was when I started to strain to hear what they said.
The accent was Australian.
I looked up.
The lady in the alcove was shaking her head.
"Frank, we really should get back."
He reached over to pat her hand.
"It'll be fine, Dot.  We can't go, though, not till Mike gets back from
London."
I know it's rude, but I stared.
Meanwhile a boy had sauntered into the coffee house.  Mid to late teens.
Impossibly good looking.  And the way his pants gathered around his crotch
suggested something else that bordered on the impossible.
He paused as he passed me and smirked.
"You eary-wigging on my mum and dad?" he said in a clear Australian drawl.
I blushed.  I had been eavesdropping.
"Scott!" the lady said, shocked.  "That's rude."
"Sorry mom," he replied and he smirked at me again with an eyebrow raised
... as if to say 'I'm in for it now'.



Anyone else interested in joining (no fee) just mail me at
marcusmcnallyfanclub@indiatimes.com
Or just if you want to know more.  That's ok too.
If the guys ever do get to do a Marcus McNally Interview ... have you any
suggestions about questions to ask?