It is 1967. Lorcan is 18. Against his parents wishes he left Manor Park Grammar School and for two years has been employed by Milburn Engineering. Having began working as the tea boy and general labourer his abilities were quickly recognised and his hours are now divided between the finance department and the drawing office. It remains his intention to study for a degree in Balkan and Fiorentine studies at Easthampton University.
**
‘Fuck buddy’ just about up summed the relationship between Lorcan and Kenny Franks. They had met during an inter-schools athletics competition in 1965 and ever since had slopped off from time to time for a mutual wank and almost anything else short of actually shagging. They were friends after a fashion as well as being not quite fuck buddies. But Kenny had just had a minor melt down as he very nearly succumbed to Lorcan’s long cherished ambition of fucking him.
“I’m not really queer,” Kenny announced as his reason for changing his mind at the very moment Lorcan was waxing lyrical about the arse he had just parted and to which he was about to apply KY and his straining cock.
Two years of attempted seduction down the drain sighed Lorcan as he walked home. At least he had been more or less honest with Kenny last month in saying he wasn’t ready yet to be fucked by anybody. And now it transpired, nor was Kenny.
Creedon Street was unusually quiet for an early evening. The Lord Clive pub would do. It was not a bar his father, a policeman visited,- personally or professionally,- nor was it one much frequented by the soldiers of the Royal Military Police from their training barracks just outside Skelthorpe.
As he walked in to the lounge bar for the very first time, all eyes turned to Lorcan. He grinned sheepishly, certain that everyone knew he was under age. How his nerve held, Lorcan was not sure. He spied a little known brand of whiskey,- from Co. Meath he thought,- but ordered a pint of bitter on the grounds that he might somehow appear less conspicuous. As slowly as he dared, he drank his pint. But much good that did him. He became suddenly seized of the idea that he would be recognised because the Calders were the only family in Skelthorpe with a distinctively Ulster accent. With that thought, Lorcan gulped his pint and all but ran for the exit.
“Lorcan! Lorcan!” called a familiar voice as he hit the night air, swearing never again to enter a pub until he reached 18. He was already smiling with delight when he turned to see a not very friendly friend, from his old school.
“Good to see you, even if you are practically running from one of the biggest dives in town.”
“Is it, Jack?,” came the anxious response. “How’s the preparation for university going then?
“Oh fine,” said Jack Meadows. “Look, I was going to ring you. My mum and dad are away the Saturday night after next, so I’m inviting some friends round for a bit of a party.”
Heathfield road is where the rich of Skelthorpe lived in their detached homes and firm sense of having ‘arrived.’ The Meadows family had made their comfortable wedge out of property speculation, luck,- and to further oil the wheels of commerce,- only a little corruption and sharp practice from time to time. Jack Meadows was eager to invite Lorcan to what he vaguely hoped might become a bit of an orgy, with a lesson in how to play poker to help things along. Since Jack had chosen his guest list with all the care of one who earnestly wished to see Lorcan and the others on his list naked, he was careful to make his request that Lorcan bring his pack of playing cards with him sound casual.
“Can’t do it,” replied Lorcan. “Let me know when you decide to have an all male, getting your togs off party and I’ll consider it.”
For just a moment, Jack Meadows was stunned. He struggled to gather his thoughts. If he heard correctly, Lorcan Calder had just admitted to being queer. So the rumours must be true then.
“Jenny Beale will be coming,” said Jack, aware that it sounded like an after thought and one not likely to appeal to Lorcan.
“Och, I wouldn’t doubt it; but not through any effort of mine she won’t.”
As the prospect of poker disappeared and his guests remaining fully shod loomed large, a flash of desperate inspiration struck Jack Meadows.
“My cousin Peter, Peter Milburn, I can get him to come.- If you like.. that is.”
Jack had never played a game of poker in his life. But instinctively he recoiled as Lorcan’s bright and usually engaging eyes became impassive with all communication suspended.
“I’ll bet you a two hundred quid here and now that you can’t get him to your party.”
**
At 19, Peter Milburn was something over 6ft tall and deceptively muscular in appearance. His hazel eyes radiated a curiosity from beneath a sandy fringe from below which he surveyed the world and the men in it with a fear, curiosity and desire so signally his own. Peter followed the passage of the Sexual Offences Act (1967) through Parliament with an understandable attention. He even managed to enjoy the press reports of the suppressed sniggers of the upper house, (and of the less restrained laughter more generally,) when Field Marshal Montgomery assured their Lordships that his famous 8th army had contained, “not one homosexual.”
But beyond that, Peter looked when he dared; always fearful that hopes and desires he suspected to be somewhat niche, largely because he could barely articulate them even to himself, would send any potential hunk running for the hills.
In this spirit, he enjoyed the company of the handsome Irish boy who had joined the family business and for the last two years was decidedly in awe of the effect that Lorcan Calder seemed to have on people. The soon confirmed rumours that Lorcan was running a poker club during the lunch breaks did not seem to adversely effect his standing. Even Alan Milburn, -Peter’s uncle and Chairman of the company, saw beyond this flouting of the rule against gambling on his company’s premises when, one morning, Lorcan marched into the chairman’s office.
“You’ve been here for two years,” Alan Milburn ruminated aloud at a subsequent meeting. The design and costings before him were impressive. “General labourer, to tea boy, to drawing office genius in fewer than 24 months.”
“Something like that,” agreed Lorcan evenly.
A moment of silence lengthened as Alan Milburn seemed to slip into further rumination. So, these were the swinging sixties. Whatever next? Eventually, he pushed a large envelope across the desk between them.
“It contains our agreed terms; take a solicitors advice and if your father agrees to sign the agreement, £2000 now, plus the ¼% per annum profits of my company is yours.”
At this point the Chairman’s nephew appeared as if on cue to superintend the executive drinks cabinet. For two years Peter Milburn had avoided even looking at Lorcan where he possibly could. Simply being in the same factory, never mind the same room, sufficed to give Peter hope. But then, more often than not, he froze in fear before scurrying away in fright, as Lorcan always pursed his lips and gave a knowing smile.
“It..It is I..I..Irish Whiskey,” the younger Milburn managed to splutter, his brain turning to mush as Mavis from personnel’s oft heard refrain that Lorcan Calder has ‘bedroom blue eyes,’ seemed never more true than here and now.. He would surely have lost his balance in this moment of delicious extremity had Lorcan’s arm not afforded a brief moment of timely support. Lorcan watched in horror as Alan Milburn liberally diluted his nephew’s drink with water and was quick to place a protective hand over his own glass.
“It is thanks to my brilliant nephew here that we have made this agreement, even if it only takes the smell of whiskey to make him almost faint like a giddy chorus boy.”
Alan Milburn was not a cruel man, but he enjoyed his own sense of humour, at times missing the effect it might have on others. Thus he chortled contentedly as he strode across his office towards the executive lavatory. Alone, Lorcan fixed a deliberate gaze upon Peter, thoughts of seduction to the fore.
“So, what part did you play Peter in your uncle’s decision making?”
The bedroom blue eyes blazed intent at him and the dulcet tones seemed to enfold Peter. The question his parents would inevitably ask came unbidden and unwelcome to his mind. They would ask it even though they almost certainly could guess the answer. They were more than happy that Peter should inherit one third of his uncle’s firm. All the more reason then in their yes for Peter to begin casting his net and finding a suitable wife. No matter they knew that the very idea was absurd. He pushed the question aside and simply luxuriated in the combination of masculinity and kindness he so secretly desired in a man, and so rarely found. He gave an involuntary sigh before finding his voice.
“Oh, I just explained aspects of your design and workings. Mrs Taylor was away on her honeymoon, last month you see,” he replied, glad of a few minutes alone with Lorcan Calder.
Peter tingled a little as they eventually left his uncle’s office. From now on he would be listened to. Promotions and a seat on the board must surely follow. In that at least, his parents would take pleasure. At last it seemed that not going to university would pay off. Even the quiet resentment Peter had first felt at the attention paid to this Irishman who seemed not to know his place and had negotiated an astonishingly lucrative agreement with his uncle, seemed not to hurt so very much, as it transformed into a desire that Peter struggled to fully comprehend. Right now, walking through the factory, beside Lorcan was a delight. His uncle’s employees mostly treated Peter civilly enough. But the warmth and banter he never really experienced at work; how could he, he was the boss’s nephew after all?; seemed to flow readily enough towards Lorcan and was returned in kind. The clocking out and the rush home mingled with the extra shift clocking in to the overtime rates of an expanded order book.
“Gonna give one to the boss’s nephew?”
The cheeky enquiry came from Bob Curry, Shop Steward and more than a match for the senior Milburn at the negotiation table.
“Ya a wicked wee mon, so you are,” replied a pained Lorcan, stepping back in mock outrage… “But if he plays his cards right, who knows?”
The two laughed together, quite impervious, in their enjoyment of the moment. The butt of their humour gritted his teeth and sighed quietly. Perhaps it was a similar sense of humour that allowed his uncle and the trade union negotiator to manage their often fraught negotiations as well as they usually did.
“Sorry about that, sweetheart” whispered Lorcan. The serious tone of voice and the warm breathe on his ear caused Peter to shudder with desire.
Whilst Peter took in the shock and delight at being called something he had not been called before,-at least not without an accompanying sneer,- Lorcan paused to speak to Mavis from personnel, so that he could take a closer look at the two young men with her. Moments later, he and Peter were in the car park. They paused again, this time beside Peter’s green Austin 7 mini.-Surely the last word in automotive luxury compared to Lorcan’s bubble car.(i.e. a 1962 BMW Isetta 300).
Peter and Lorcan were about the same height. The former was a little more muscular and 19 to Lorcan’s 18, the two years between them might have imparted greater authority, especially at work. But it did not and Peter struggled with the secret pleasure this inferior status gave him in Lorcan Calder’s eyes.
“That was out of order. Me and Bob Curry. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Peter managed a wan shrug of indifference.
“First time anyone has said anything like that so openly to me; or rather about me. I don’t have your self-confidence Lorcan.”
By now the two were facing each other, arms spread on the roof of Peter’s Austin 7 Mini.
“I’ll tell you something Petey: But for meeting your uncle Alan today I would have been at home for the Apprentice Boys march in Londonderry this coming Saturday; and fancying men is not high on their list of approved activities. Believe me it isn’t. Trust me, I’m a wee bit braver here than I would be at home.”
Peter was kind of thrilled if he were honest at being called Petey. From anyone else, he might have summoned up what reserves of confidence he could and put a stop to it. But from Lorcan, it felt..Well, kind of different. He thought about what Lorcan had said to him and observed in polite silence as Lorcan paused to speak to Brian Culver.
“Alright,” Lorcan grinned, with a conspiratorial wink in Peter’s direction at the end of his exchange With Brian.
The factory car park was full, but still. Lorcan and his admirer seemed to have the warm late afternoon to themselves.
“Me and Brian there have both been invited to a party on Saturday night by your cousin Jack Meadows. From what I can gather, Jack wants me along to organise a game of strip poker and turn the whole shebang into a bi orgy.”
“Yeah. He rang to invite me too. In fact Lorcan, he sort of hinted you might be there.”
“Hmm, I know,” came Lorcan’s response, a flash of anger briefly clouding his features. “Your cousin or not; I won’t be used by any member of the Meadows clan as cock bait, or anything else. Believe me, I won’t forget it.”
Lorcan omitted to mention the financial revenge he planned to take on Jack Meadows, or indeed the unwitting part he planned that Peter should play in it.
“Seems to me cousin Jack is trying to use both of us,” Peter almost whispered; daring to touch Lorcan’s hand as he spoke.
“You know I intend to fuck the arse off you, at some point, don’t you?, announced Lorcan, casually changing the subject.- “But not with the connivance of your prat of a relative.”
Peter appeared to dwell upon this prospect with such intensity that when he spoke again, the two of them were seated in his green mini and Peter slightly dazed in the doing.
“I respect you so much Lorcan.”
hazel eyes gleamed in confident admiration at Lorcan. The measured caution and diffident fear of speaking to the handsome man at Peter’s side was gone; at least for now, as if it had never existed.
“It is your confidence and style: The way you deal with people; people like my uncle Alan for instance. I get it. It is so groovy. It is so..so, well,.. manful. I like that in a man..., I think.”
Drawing a breath, Peter remained on some kind of natural high. He looked so happy. Never had he been so brave, so open. Lorcan knew that this was not mere flattery. His own feelings for Gregor, combined with his skill at chess and above all, poker, gave him an insight of a kind into the sincerity of Peter’s words.
At this very moment, Gregor Simpson and Jim Rhodes were hitch-hiking across Belgium, The Netherlands and Luxembourg. At the close of each day one or other of them would pen a brief epistle, outlining for Lorcan’s edification, the day’s highlights.
How Lorcan wished he were as honourable as Gregor; or as Jim, for that matter. But presented with the earnest entreaties of the beauty at his side, he knew he was not.
Instead, his tone was sincere and in the circumstances, he hoped, treated the man at his side considerably.
“I am touched, truly I am by what you say Peter. But does all this praise and admiration mean that I get give you a good fucking or not?”
“Of course it does,” Peter gushed. The relief in the so manful features before him was not so far different from how Peter himself felt. The bedroom blue eyes captivated as he gently ran his fingers through Lorcan’s curly black hair.
“Fuck me as hard as you like as often as you want to. Please Lorcan. But not now. Not here.”
He had no intention of fucking Peter here and now of course. But it did his ego no harm to know that that is what Peter thought he might be considering doing.
Lorcan knew his moment of conquest was close and was intent on not overplaying his hand. But at least a passionate kiss and then perhaps getting those sweet, almost feminine lips- as they suddenly seemed to Lorcan- around his stiffening cock would be good to be going on with.
Mavis from personnel, was impatient. Her husband Vick was running late. Much later and they would not get to the Rex cinema before ‘The Quiller Memorandum’ had begun. As she scanned the immediate horizon, Mavis’s glance fell upon the green Austin Mini in the car park. She felt her cheeks blush. She knew men kissed. But she had never actually seen such a thing before. The words her usually mild mannered parents used about such filthy goings on caused Mavis to look around anxiously lest they, or much more likely, her hardly less understanding, Vick might appear. Old Thomas Case, still called the boss’s nephew, ‘young Mr. Milburn.’ And here was Peter Milburn being kissed passionately from what Mavis could make out,- by Lorcan Calder!! Whatever Mavis thought of the charming and wordly handsome Lorcan, it was for Peter and how he might be hurt by whatever unkind words her otherwise good and lovely Vick would shout if he saw them kissing, that made her dash from the car park to the corner of Elford Street.
“That was beautiful, Petey.” A thought even more urgent than the stunning blow job Peter had just given him, caused Lorcan to break into the gentle silence between them.
“I glad it pleased you” came the intimation of contentment. Peter was kissed again. He just about managed not to simper as the hope that Lorcan might prove to be the man of his most secret longings shone in Peter’s hazel eyes.
In the cramped Mini, naked from the waist down, Lorcan held the other in his arms. Truth to tell, Lorcan was as lacking in confidence at this moment, as Peter was brimful of hope. It would be a testing of the waters thought Lorcan. His own cock lay spent, content. Yet still a decent size in its post orgasm repose, Lorcan noted,- as he always did on such occasions.
Before him stood Peter’s rampant manhood, not so much demanding attention,- for its owner was far too happy just now for that to concern him. But rather, a sentinel of esteem for Lorcan, to which Peter felt certain, that Lorcan would give devoted attention, in due course.
His £200 bet with that manipulative snake Jack Meadows. It was that bet with that prat. That was the thought even more urgent to Lorcan, than the blow job Peter had just given him.
If it were possible in an Austin Mini, he drew Peter even closer, kissed him gently and took care to briefly touch Peter’s cock. His thumb barely touched the knob, now oozing pre-cum and anticipation. A shiver and a sigh confirmed Peter’s attention.
“Has anyone ever said you are quite pretty sweetheart? Much better than any girl would ever be.”
Another shiver and a sigh, deeper and more profound than the last, shook Peter to the chore as a deep kiss,- more Lorcan’s tongue thrusting repeatedly with intent down Peter’s throat, than anything else, sent every nerve he possessed into spin of dizziness. Somewhere in his brain, Peter heard Lorcan proclaim how beautiful he was and how much he desired Peter. His head spun; Lorcan’s masterful hand suddenly gripped Peter’s cock and took him to heights of climax, just before he passed out.
“You were out for nearly 30 seconds, Petey.”
Peter’s breathing was almost normal. The dizziness receding like a morning tide.
“That’s all yours,” said Lorcan, indicating the cum on them both, as it were some artifact substance from outer space.
“We should make a move.” Peter was taken a back at his own sudden sense of the practical and opened a door, aware of what a bit of a mess the two of them were and that his car had the whiff of not yet stale sex about it. He wanted to ask if Lorcan and he had any kind of future. But courage failed him. Instead, poor Peter fell back on words he had used once before.
“If this is all there is, thanks. I won’t ever forget you.”
Lorcan took Peter’s hand. Here he was, sat in a cum covered motor, in a car park in provincial England; his mind in turmoil. He could have said that his ambition was to eventually to return to his beloved Ulster; become a Stormont MP without first joining the Orange Order, (not impossible) and supporting people like Captain O’Neil. High minded, it would have been improbable, but sincere. A handful of Ulster Unionists across the years since 1921 had been elected without being Orange men or women. But not one openly homosexual man or women had ever been admitted to the party, still less the Orange Order, still even less, the Government.
So what chance Lorcan’s theoretical ambitions and a relationship with Peter? Besides, it was Gregor Simpson he truly loved and Lorcan knew it.
With a start, Lorcan was aware that Peter was looking at him in puzzled concern.
“Sorry Petey. I was miles away, at home in fact. For what it is worth,” he continued, answering his own question, as much as answering Peter’s unspoken one, “There is more. Just don’t give up.”
“I won’t give up on you, Lorcan: not unless you tell me to fuck off, or something.”
“Ah..Oh. I don’t swear very often...You realise that with me, you are likely to be let down and disappointed, in the end?”
“If you will be my man..my real man,” came the pointed emphasis, “I don’t care.”
It should be good whilst it lasts thought Lorcan. What Peter really deep down wanted him to be, might become clear. At all events, the realisation that beside him sat a sweet, sexy and it seemed submissive shag, whenever he wanted it, was quite something. Lorcan steeled himself, ready to ask the much delayed question and to pass it off as a joke, if the contented Peter demurred.
“Your cousin’s orgy. If I asked you..No let me correct that. If I told you not to go, what would you do?”
The split second that followed dragged by as Peter lowered his eyes.
“I would obey you, Lorcan.”
Peter revelled in his expression of confident submission. He was not to know, as he looked up, that encouraging as it appeared to be, the menacing grin playing on Lorcan’s features, was merely a meditation on the £200 he would soon collect from Jack Meadows.
To Be Continued
