Date: Thu, 6 Dec 2007 18:28:47 +0000
From: boyreece@gmail.com
Subject: South African Winter 01

This is my first attempt at this sort of thing, so if it sounds a little
rusty - gimme a break, I'm still getting into it. The usual warnings apply;
Don't read this if you're not of legal age, or if stories of men loving men
offend you.

This is a fiction story purporting to be reality. Basically, it might sound
like it's based on fact, but it isn't. All characters are creations of the
author's imagination, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,
is coincidental.

There's gonna be sex, people, but not in this chapter. If you're interested
in a story with an actual storyline, then read on. If you're here just to
get your rocks off, then by all means try one of the other stories on this
site. There's something here for everyone.


South African Winter 01
by Reece Adams


It's funny - now that I'm finally sitting down to write this, I don't know
where to start. Usually the stories just sort of begin themselves, but I
guess when you're writing about things that have actually happened, it's
different (memo to self: quit stating the obvious...).
	Let me introduce myself. My name's Brian. Brian Sothen. If you're a
fantasy fan, there's a teeny-tiny chance you might have heard my name
before. But we'll get to that later. Anyway, I turned 25 two weeks ago, I'm
in pretty good shape (physically and mentally, thank God), and I haven't
had a cigarette in about two years. As I write this (or type this, if you
want to get all semantical), I'm sitting in the study of my house in
Musgrave, Durban, South Africa. I have another house in Cape Town, but once
again, we'll get to that in good time. Short of death or disaster, we've
got plenty of time.
	Normally, I don't need a reason to write. The ideas come, I put
them on paper. Some are good, some are stinkers, but I keep at it because,
well, I'm sort of good at it. This one wasn't my idea,
though. Non-fiction's never been my thing, and I don't think it ever will
be. The only reason I'm writing this is because of a promise I made. A
promise I made to someone who means a lot to me. I once told him I never
break my promises, so here it is. This story's for him.
	I guess the logical place to start would be the beginning, huh? (I
seem to be in the habit of stating the obvious or resorting to rhetoric -
bear with me here, guys). That would be in the winter of 2002. I was 20, I
was living alone, and my life didn't seem to be going anywhere. My job
sucked. And I mean sucked. I was working as a teller in a bank, people -
need I say more? I was involved in a car accident which left me with a
broken ankle that hadn't quite healed properly (I guess I should be
thankful I didn't come out of it in worse shape, or - haha - dead). I walk
with a slight limp as a result of that accident, even all these years
later, although fortunately it's never been all that noticeable.
	I'll be honest, I was thinking about ending it all. Yeah, yeah,
call it cowardly, weak, chickenshit, whatever you want - unless you've been
there yourself, though, you can't know what it feels like. I was tired of
dragging myself to a job every day where my boss treated me like shit,
where the majority of the people weren't interested in knowing me and the
pay hardly seemed to cover everything at the end of the month. It wasn't as
if there was plenty of employment out there just waiting for me,
either. The job situation in South Africa is kind of like a faulty lock -
even with the right key, you've gotta jimmy and work it about in there, and
nine times out of ten you end up stuck on the same side of the door you
started on. Also, I was sick of waking up alone every morning. Fuck, I sick
of being alone, full stop. Do you have any idea what it's like to try and
try, and always come out with nothing? I mean, okay, I didn't exactly have
a problem getting sex. All you had to do was go online, or stop by the
Lounge. Even for an average Joe like me, there was always some guy up for a
blowjob, some guy looking for a fuck. For awhile there, I guess I was quite
a slut (but a responsible slut - never leave home without a raincoat,
folks). Yet... it wasn't the same as having someone who you know is your
own.


I woke up on that winter morning to the sound of someone banging on the
front door of my apartment. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was
light. Bright light. Lots of it. I'd forgotten to close my bedroom curtains
the night before, and with no trees on that side of the building the
sunlight had a clear path into my room, across my bed, and deep into the
depths of my bruised grey matter.
	I rolled over, pulling one of my pillows over my head to block out
the light and sound. My brain felt like someone had been using it for
basketball practice. My tongue was still stuck to the roof of my mouth, so
I was spared a taste of the previous night's antics for the time being. I
was dimly aware that the smell drifting from beneath the blankets meant
that somebody must have spilled their drink on me last night - something
with vodka in it - but I didn't really care just then. I'd take care of all
of that later.
	In no way I was ready to face the day yet. Maybe if I could get a
couple more hours of sleep, I'd be more prepared. Just a little more shut
eye, time to let my aching head heal a little more. It was Saturday, so it
wasn't like I had to be at work, or anything. I could've slept until midday
if I wanted to.
	It was then that my cell phone started to ring.
	Groaning, I squeezed the pillow tighter against my ear, hoping to
drown out the tune (has anyone else noticed how fucking happy those tones
sound when all you want to do is sleep, kind of like they're asking to be
thrown at the nearest wall?). When that didn't work, I tried burrowing
under the covers, dragging the pillow with me. The added barrier of the
blankets seemed to do the trick, filtering to sound almost to nothing, and
by the time it stopped altogether I was starting to doze off again.
	I must've almost jumped clear off the bed when the knocking started
at my bedroom window. Tossing back the covers and pillow, I sat up to find
Jason grinning at me from outside, his left hand clutching the window frame
while the other went on knocking on the glass.
	Ignoring my aching head, I sprung from the bed, stalking over to
the window and throwing one side open. Jason quickly skipped aside on the
narrow ledge he'd climbed across, continuing to give me that maddening grin
while I glared out at him.
	"It's ten o'clock, the sun's out, and you're still in bed," he
mused. "You don't answer my calls, dude. I'm beginning to think you don't
love me any more."
	"If I had to push you now, how long do you think it'd take you to
hit the ground?" I asked.
	"Long enough for me to shout, 'Brian Sothen crapped his pants in
the tenth grade!' I bet," he grinned. He must have seen the look on my
face, because he added, "Uh... You're not going to, are you?"
	"No," I sighed, turning back to my bed. "But only because I hate to
think what they'd charge me to clean your ass off the asphalt."
	He laughed, climbing into the room while I flopped face-down onto
the bed. My mind groaned at the thought that it wasn't going to get any
more sleep that day. At that moment my stomach decided to get in on the
action and started grumbling and griping, and I knew I was damned.
	"You forget you asked me to take you to the post office today?"
Jason asked. I could hear that grin in his voice. It was starting to get to
me. I never understood how he was able to drink twice as much as me and
still be so damn chipper the next morning.
	I groaned, fumbling for the pillow and covering my head again. I
had a registered letter waiting for me at the post office. I didn't know
who it was from, but it had been waiting there for the past two weeks, and
if I didn't go fetch it that day it would probably get sent back on Monday.
	Suddenly the pillow was grabbed off my head, and Jason was dragging
me across the bed by my ankle. I squawked in surprise (a very unmanly
sound) as I was deposited at the foot of the mattress and left to lie
looking up at him as he stood towering over me.
	"Are you going to get up, or do I have to throw you in the shower
myself?" he asked, folding his arms over his substantial chest and favoring
me with an inquisitive smile. If Jason isn't the perfect specimen of man,
he sure as hell comes pretty close. His musculature, the shade of his tan,
the set of his features, his hair. He'd been my best friend since primary
school, when he found a couple of the bigger boys (bigger than me, that is)
kicking me around behind the equipment shed at the bottom of the playground
and ended up sending one of them to the hospital to have his lip stitched
back together. That incident cost him a two weeks suspension, and earned me
the best friend I've ever had.
	"God, you're worse than my mother," I pouted, sitting up and
swiping feebly at him. He dodged easily, chuckling as he batted my hand
aside and turned toward the door.
	"Get up!" he called over his shoulder, headed for the living
room. "I'll put some coffee on."
	I sat for a moment longer, summoning my energy as I glared after
him, before standing up and heading for the bathroom. My apartment was
pretty small by most standards. Open-plan lounge and kitchen, a tiny
balcony, the bedroom, and the bathroom. It was mine, though - left to me by
my grandfather when he passed away in 2004 - and I loved it.
	I stopped to look at myself in the bathroom mirror. My hair was all
over the place, sticking up in stiff brown-blond spikes, like I'd been
rolling in mud, or something. My eyes were bloodshot, the green looking
muddy, somehow. The lipstick smeared across the right side my face might
have been funny, if I wasn't feeling like shit. From the looks of things,
some poor chick had tried to latch onto the only gay guy in the club the
night before. I was willing to bet that if I searched through my jacket
pockets, I'd find a little slip of paper with her name and number on it.
	"Should change my middle name to Irony," I muttered, pulling my
shirt over my head. My stomach gave another hiccup at the movement and
started in grumbling.
	Oh, yeah. This was going to be a long day.

	After my shower, I shaved and brushed my teeth quickly before
hurrying into the bedroom to get dressed. The smell of fresh coffee wafted
through from the kitchen, beckoning me, urging me to move faster. I paused
with one leg in my denims, though, reaching for my phone on the nightstand
and logging into Mxit. Mxit is a chat application. Same basic principle as
any other chat app - you invite your friends to chat, or you go into one of
the chat rooms, and you chat. The attraction of Mxit, though, was the fact
that you could chat at a fraction of the price that most mobile
applications charged. So, naturally, half the country was on it.
	"You fallen asleep again, or what?" Jason called from the living
room.
	"I'll be there now," I called back. I wanted to see whether Grant
was online. I'd met Grant in one of the Mxit chat rooms about a month
ago. I didn't usually go into the rooms with the intention of meeting
guys. If you were into hooking up with guys online, you could try mig, or
Gaydar (yeah, I admit, I'd picked up my share on both). Mxit was pretty
much dominated by teens of the 12-16 year old range, which made it the last
place I expected to meet another gay guy. Go figure.
	We'd met once, at a coffee shop at Queensmead Mall, and he seemed
like a hell of a nice guy. It's strange, I'd always pictured myself with
some tall, good looking stud, but Grant was short, fat, and stammered
sometimes when he talked. He'd just gotten out of a relationship a couple
of weeks before, and he seemed pretty cut up about it. I felt sorry for
him. From the sounds of things, his ex was a real prick. One of those guys
who thought that the sun shone out of their ass. The sort who thought they
owned the world because they're smart and good looking. Exactly the type I
couldn't stand.
	Was I falling for him...? I think I was. It surprised me, because I
wasn't really attracted to him physically. I'm not one of those shallow
guys who'll only go for the good looking, well built, attractive guys but,
like I've said, I'd always pictured myself with some tall, handsome
stud. The problem was, I didn't know whether or not he reciprocated what I
was feeling. Or if he was even capable of reciprocating. He hadn't given me
any sign, and just because I was attracted to him, didn't mean it went both
ways. In face, chances were that it didn't go both ways because I was
attracted to him. If my life up to that point had a slogan, it would have
been 'Love em and leave me'.
	Lately, he'd been acting weird, though. Short tempered, snapping at
the slightest thing. Sometimes he would come online, and just ignore me
altogether, or not bother to respond to my messages. It sort of hurt (I was
falling for the guy, remember), but I figured he was going through some
personal shit, and things would probably revert back to normal once it had
passed. I mean, it wasn't like I had done anything to offend him.
	Seeing that he wasn't online, I logged out and slipped the phone
into my pocket, pulling my shoes on before heading through to the living
room.
	"Fuck, no way, you're alive," Jason called from the kitchen as I
entered. He came over and set a mug of steaming black coffee before me on
the counter. "You seriously need to do some shopping, dude. No milk, no
creamer - feels like I'm visiting my dad."
	I climbed onto one of the stools at the counter, reaching for the
bottle of Aspirin I kept there. I felt a little better after my shower, but
my head still ached like a rotten tooth. I saw Jason had found the last two
eggs in my fridge. The smell of them frying made my stomach roll.
	"Get a petition going, I'll make a plan," I muttered, sipping from
my mug. "Hey, who spilled their drink all over me last night?"
	"Uh, I think her name was Cassie." He chuckled, sliding onto a
stool opposite me. "And she didn't spill it, dude, she threw it. In your
face."
	I sighed, burying my face in my hands. I was relieved,
though. Going through my jacket pockets and then my phone after my shower,
I hadn't found any trace of a phone number. For awhile there I was afraid
that I might have given her my number instead.
	"How bad was I?" I asked.
	Jason started to laugh.
	"It was sooo funny. Here's this killer chick - short skirt, tits
practically falling out of her top. And she's hanging off you, right;
kissing you, playing with your hair, almost humping your leg. And the only
person you have eyes for is the barman, dude!"  I felt my face going red
while Jason bellowed laughed. Now that he mentioned it, I had a vague
memory of a cute face, a deep voice asking whether I wanted another
drink. If Jason only knew that in my drunken state I probably was trying to
chat the guy up, I doubt he would have found it as hilarious.
	Oh, I'm not out yet, by the way. Did I mention that?
	"Jesus, it's not that funny," I said, throwing the Aspirin bottle
at him. It bounced off his shoulder and rolled beneath the counter.
	 Suddenly I found my head gripped beneath a large bicep while a
hand ruffled my hair mercilessly.
	"Who you throwing stuff at, Mighty Mouse? Huh? I'll kick your ass."
	"Okay, okay, I give!" I cried. I threw him a scowl when he released
me, stepping back to rearrange my hair in a mirror. "Would you finish your
coffee so we can get going, already!"
	Ten minutes later (after shoveling a greasy, half burnt fried egg
into my protesting stomach...) we were in Jason's jeep, headed for the
Queensmead Mall. I don't drive. There's a story behind that, but I'm not
going to go into it now. It has to do with my father, and I don't like
talking about him. Let's just say he messed my mind up pretty good while my
parents were together, and I'm still suffering some of the
consequences. Jason keeps telling me I should go see someone about it, but
the thought of sitting in some shrink's little office and spilling my sob
story doesn't appeal to me. Besides, they'd probably want to medicate me,
or something, and I'm scared that might screw with my writing.
	Oh, I write in my spare time. Fantasy fiction, mostly, but when the
mood takes me I've been known to write the occasional gay romance story
(although those stay in a hidden folder on my hard drive, for the most
part). I've managed to sell two short stories, The Kid to a local magazine,
and Clockworks to a mag in the UK, with invites from both places to 'please
send again'. Jason reads all my work first. It was his opinion that
convinced me to send Clockworks to the UK. He must've raved about that
story for a week after he read it, telling me that it was too good for the
local market, that I had to try get it published abroad.  I sometimes think
that if it wasn't for Jason, I would have given up on writing years
ago. His interest keeps me going.
	"What do you think?"
	I realized Jason was talking to me.
	"What?" I asked, looking up from the window. I'd been thinking
about Grant. Worrying, to be exact.
	Jason chuckled, turning into Frere Road.
	"Where's your mind today, dude?" he asked. "You've been staring out
of the window since we left your place. You're not bummed about that chick
last night, are you?"
	Another of Jason's traits was his weird ability to almost read what
I was thinking at times.
	"Sorry, it's the hangover," I replied, shaking my head. "Still
getting rid of the cobwebs. What were you saying?"
	"I was saying," he said, rolling his eyes, "I'm rethinking the the
whole stripping thing for tonight. There's gonna be a lot of people there,
dude. I might get shy..."
	It was Carrie's birthday party that night. Carrie was Jason's
girlfriend of six months. Jason had been worrying about her birthday for
weeks. In true Jason fashion, he wanted to something nice for her,
something to make the night memorable. My suggestion that he propose had
earned me a scowl so sour that it would have made any gay man proud. More
in an attempt to get rid of that scowl than anything else, I told him he
should just put on a strip show for her (yeah, he's my mate, but that
doesn't mean I can't look!).
	He glanced at me.
	"What do you think?"
	I shrugged. To be honest, my thoughts of Grant were starting to get
the better of me. I seemed to be in the habit of falling for guys who
weren't interested in me. I liked Grant. A lot. The idea that he might not
be able to return those feelings after all was seriously starting to get me
down.
	"Do it, don't do it - it's up to you, Jase," I sighed, turning to
stare out of the window again. I could feel him looking at me, but didn't
look back. I usually opened up about whatever was bugging me in my own
time, but this was one thing I couldn't talk to him about. That thought by
itself made me feel more alone than I ever had in my life.
	Jason went into the liquor store while I made off for the post
office. I couldn't help but glance at the coffee shop where Grant and I had
gotten together as I passed. There were actually a couple of guys in the
booth where we'd sat, and I found myself idly wondering whether they were
together. The one on the left set my gaydar ringing like a fire alarm, but
I wasn't sure about the other.
	Just looking at them gave me a lump in my throat. What was wrong
with me? Shit, what was wrong with my emotions? When had I become so damn-
	 I collided with someone and went sprawling backwards onto the
tiled floor. At the same time I felt my phone slip from the pocket of my
denims, heard it clatter across the ground, before my ass collided with the
ground and all the air was knocked out of my lungs.
	That's gonna bruise, I thought obliquely, reaching a hand back to
clutch at the pain in my lower back while the muscles in my face scrunched
into a grimace.
	"Ah shit, sorry, man!" said a voice. I felt a hand on my
shoulder. "Wasn't looking where I was going. You okay?"
	"Yeah, I'll be fine as soon as my..." I started, the words trailing
off as I looked up and saw who I'd bumped into.
	His eyes caught me first. A dark hazel, soft with
concern. Handsome, tanned features, a face that belonged on billboards,
topped by a mop of brown hair that only just held some shape to it. He was
wearing a loose fitting white teeshirt and blue jeans, the arms that
protruded from the shirt sleeves muscled without being obscene, covered
with a light mat of hair that brushed against my own forearm as he reached
forward to straighten my shirt.
	"Here, let me help you up," he said, taking one of my arms and
hauling me easily to my feet. I realized that I was staring at him, and
quickly looked away, embarrassed, beginning to dust myself off.
	"Jesus, I'm such a retard," he muttered, lifting a hand to brush
something off my shoulder. "You sure you're alright?"
	I nodded, looking around for my phone. I was scared to open my
mouth, afraid of what might come out. My arm was tingling from where he'd
brushed against it. Fuck, what was going on with me?
	He spotted it first, bending to scoop it up. I had to look at him
again when he passed it to me, and felt my face go red as his eyes met
mine, certain that he knew what I was thinking.
	"Thanks," I mumbled, quickly unlocking the phone's keypad to check
the damage. The screen remained dark. I tried the power button. Still
nothing.
	"Ah fuck, no," he hissed, grabbing it back from me. An elderly
couple passing by stopped to stare at him. As I watched, he glanced up,
sticking his chin out and throwing them a look that said "What the hell are
you staring at" until they carried on their way.
	There was something so bratty about that look on those handsome
feature that I suddenly found myself laughing. My ass was hurting, my head
was starting to ache again, my stomach boiled and grumbled as it tried to
digest the egg I'd forced into it, my phone was broken, but there I stood
laughing in the middle of the mall like nothing at all was wrong. Like I
was having the time of my life.
	When I looked up, he was smiling at me uncertainly. I guess he
hadn't met a lot of people who laughed when you knocked them over. Or when
you broke their phone, for that matter.
	"Uh... I'm Adam," he said, slowly extending his hand as if he
expected me to bite it, or something.
	I took it and shook. A surprisingly small hand for such a big guy.
	"Brian," I replied. "I guess I should apologise as well. Wasn't
exactly looking where I was going, either."
	He chuckled, waving my apology aside as he looked down at my phone
again. His hands might have been small for a guy of his size, but they were
still bigger than mine. My phone looked tiny in them.
	"Brian, I think I broke your phone." He quickly slid open the
battery cover, removed the battery, put it back in, closed it, then tried
the power button again. Still no go. "Yip, it's busted alright. You got
another one you can use until I get it fixed?"
	'You don't have to do that..." I started, but he waved me off
again.
	"Yeah, I do have to do that." He grinned, revealing small, even
white teeth. The grumbling in my stomach was suddenly replaced with
hundreds of butterflies clamoring for escape. I felt a blush rising in my
cheeks, and forced myself to take slow, easy breaths until it
retreated. "I'll feel bad if I don't. Do you have another phone? You can
use mine in the meantime if you don't."
	He started digging in his pocket, and I held up my hands.
	"No, it's cool, I think I've got an old one lying around at home."
This was a lie. I'd sold my old phone to pay off a doctor's bill when cash
was short three months back. I didn't know what I was gonna use in the
meanwhile, but I wasn't going to put this guy out any more after he'd
offered to pay for the repairs!
	He raised a curious eyebrow, still grinning. Deep breaths. Deep,
easy breaths.
	"You'd give your phone to a guy you've never met before, and not
take anything as collateral?" he asked. "You haven't been in South Africa
long, have you, man?"
	I laughed at that. He could have called me a fucking faggot right
then, and I probably would have laughed.
	He pulled a small Samsung from his pocket, one of the newer models,
swapping the sim cards from both phones in what looked like a single motion
before handing it to me. I halfheartedly tried to protest again, but he
wasn't having any of it.
	"My number's in the Contacts list under... erm... My Number." He
grinned sheepishly. "I just got it, haven't had a chance to learn it
yet. If you give me a call on Friday, I'll let you know if this is ready."
	He held my phone up and waved it.
	I nodded. It occurred to me that by not taking my number, he was
trusting me with his phone as much as I was trusting him. For whatever
reason, that got the butterflies going in my stomach again.
	"I gotta dash," he said, pocketing my phone and retrieving the
packet he'd been carrying from the floor. He flashed me another of those
grins. "If I don't pitch up with this wine soon, they're gonna send out a
search party. Call me Friday, alright? "
	"Yeah, Friday," I replied, trying for nonchalance and managing to
sound only halfway breathless. "And thanks, man."
	"Don't thank me," he laughed as he moved away. He almost bumped
into a woman coming out of Miladys, swerved to avoid her, and we both
laughed. "I broke your phone."
	I watched him go until he vanished around the corner, his phone
still clutched in my hand. People passed back and forth around me. A kid in
a D12 cap chased a younger kid out of Mr Price and down toward
Candisnax. For a long moment I found I could only stand there, staring at
the place where he'd vanished. When one of the security guards from the
bank finally came over and asked me to move on, I had to ask him to repeat
himself. For a second, I didn't know who he was.
	I sort of floated in the direction of the post office, paying
hardly any attention to the people moving around me. I think a bomb could
have gone off in one of the stores, and I wouldn't have noticed. I still
had his phone in my hand. It was slightly warm, and when I imagined it it
lying in his pocket, tucked so close against him, I started to blush again.
	Within a matter of minutes I'd gone from lovesick and unhappy to
warm and dreamy. And for what? A cute guy who'd smiled at me? I couldn't
make and sense of my emotions. Was I really so desperate for love that it
took so little for me to fall for someone? That I'd fall for a guy who
wasn't even my type - someone like Grant? Or for a guy who was probably
straight? The thought should have been depressing, but I was still too high
on Adam's smile for it to get me down.
	I stopped suddenly, a couple of feet from the post
office. Adam... Why did that name seem familiar? I didn't know any
Adams. At least none that I could remember then. But now that I thought
about it, hadn't his face seemed familiar as well? Those eyes, that
hair. That grin. Yes. I'd seen him somewhere before. Maybe at a party, or
at the Lounge-
	The memory hit me, and suddenly I needed to sit down. I crossed to
a bench in the middle of the passage and fell into it, ignoring the elderly
woman digging in her handbag next to me. It had been at Grant's place. I'd
offered to help him fix something on his laptop, so we'd gone to his place
after the restaurant. I had the laptop on my lap, when he leaned over and
opened a folder to show me a couple of photos.
	"Watch out for this guy," he'd said. "If you see him, run in the
opposite direction. Trust me..."
	I felt goosebumps break out on my arms. The world seemed to reel
around me. I tried to convince myself that I was wrong, that I was
imagining the similarity. I mean, I'd only seen those photos for a
second. How could I be sure?
	But, no. The memory was too strong.
	Adam. He was Grant's ex.

(To be continued...)

If you have any comments, or constructive criticism, feel free to email me
at boyreece@gmail.com.