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Ağu 23, 2022 // By:analsex // No Comment

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Subject: Premiership Lads part 184: First Date Part 184: First Date He’d spent a long time picking the shirt that clung firmly to the muscled slopes of his upper body; a designer number of subtly coloured stripes that hugged his shoulders and biceps and was just tight enough for the button down front to strain a little against the lean strength of his chest and tummy as he shifted from foot to foot on the East London roadside, waiting for her. She, when she showed up, was tanned to a delightful shade of Tango that reminded him a little of home, of the hair-rollers and bottle bronze of Liverpool Saturday nights. But her voice when she spoke was pure Essex, teetering out of her taxi and across to him on six-inch heels, batting weighty lashes and giggling coyly at his footballing fame. Ross Barkley snapped into the most quietly gentlemanlike manners he could, offering a sturdy arm for her support and steering her in towards the glassy front of the restaurant, asking her about the journey from her shared house in the eastern suburbs, mumbling apologetically that he didn’t really know how good the restaurant was but a few guys at Chelsea had recommended it to him and he’d been meaning to try it for ages and and and and. First date nerves! This was both weird and typical for him. He was obsessed with being inarticulate and clunky, but he’d always considered himself fairly relaxed when it came to female attention; clearly been single too long after things went tits up earlier this year, he scolded himself, leading the way into the restaurant foyer and trying to be attentive to what she was telling him. He briefly checked himself out in a mirrored wall, checking that the shirt didn’t look stupidly overtight (did it? how could you tell? Did he look a total poser?) and that the blue jeans and grey-white trainers kept the look chilled rather than fancy-pants. But she’d dressed up a fair bit, hadn’t she? Fancy shoes and this slip of a dress that showed off all her best assets, hair done up and nails as decorated as a war hero. He grinned uncertainly at her as they waited for the hostess to deal with them and take them to the table he’d conscientiously booked online a couple of days ago, when the `blind date’ was first set up. It had come from Mason Mount, of all people, although the lass herself was just a friend of a friend of a friend; Ross didn’t think he’d been particularly mopey or self-absorbed since the return from summer and the club’s first game of the season, a win over Liverpool at the weekend. But his younger pal seemed to worry about him and that was sweet — the girl in question was a cousin of someone Declan Rice knew at West Ham. Yep, he thought a little sourly, here I am with my younger teammate’s boyfriend’s mate’s cousin, like some desperate old bachelor being thrown patronising scraps by the loved-up pals on the edge of my life… fuck! The Scouse footballer chided himself for this cynicism, straightening up and showing her a toothy smile as they made their way across to the romantic corner table reserved for them, a tall thin waiter chatting happily at them about tonight’s specials and making the Essex girl giggle pitchily at his remark about how many famous faces had been in here for date night over the last month, never mind Chelsea midfielders. Must be positive, Ross told himself, this is a good idea. It had been months since he caught his bird cheating with his teammate, months since he’d walked out on that long serious relationship and languished on the spare beds of his few London mates. This would be fun and nice, didn’t have to be serious, it was just what he needed; just like the boozy ruins of the summer holiday had been, at the time, just what he needed. But now he needed to get himself back in the game, put his face out there, meet new people, do normal things like this… NORMAL, he reminded himself a little frustratedly, trying to reassure himself that his wandering attention and fiery lusts of the past nine months were cooling and calming. Things were good, he repeated to himself, as he had been for the past two weeks of quiet evenings in his new solo apartment, trying to feel optimistic and excited about his place in the Chelsea midfield and the fact that the transfer window was almost over and Lampard hadn’t flogged him to some less prestigious rival. Nor had his dalliances with the manager or other lads haunted him too much, except for a few cheeky grins from Mount and Pulisic now and then at training, or the occasional intense stare across the training ground from new boy Werner. `So Ross,’ the girl across from him cooed, spreading her menu flat and tapping her multicoloured false nails across its rigid surface, `tell me more about you, hun — what made you move down to London from Leeds?’ `Liverpool,’ he corrected in a soft low voice, opening up his own menu. `Oh, hehe, my bad — I am soooo rubbish with accents, babe,’ she chuckled, grinning flirtatiously at him across the narrow space of their table. `Liverpool, yeh, of course, of course… and how long have you played for Crystal Palace, again…?’ Barkley looked at her with a loose uncertain expression on the bronzed rugged slopes of his face, then saw the complete lack of sarcasm or irony in her pretty eyes and mouth, and he just quietly closed his mouth. `Oh, a few years,’ he mumbled. `Shall we get some drinks ordered, eh…?’ Only a few streets away, somebody else was waiting for a very different first date, a very different blind date. Another Premiership footballer paced on the roadside with a pronounced anxiety in his equally athletic 6ft2 posture, a thin loose jacket draped over his simple outfit of dark tshirt and skinny chinos, but a baseball cap pulled over his head with the brim as low as was practical to do so. He hovered on the street corner, hands balled into fists and pushed into the jacket pockets, kicking his suede shoes loosely at a bollard on the edge of the road and looking repeatedly up to scan up and down the quiet dark Shoreditch road. In one pocket of the jacket his fist closed about the cool metallic lump of his smartphone, and he resisted the urge to take it out and check the app, to check the messages, to second- and third-guess every detail of tonight’s risqué plan. It had taken Eric Dier so many years to risk downloading it, never mind using it. In his mind’s eye, he saw its lurid logo bright and clear, that impish yellow form against a brown-black background that blurred with the night shadows of the London alleyways gaping nearby. But download it he had; well, it had been quite a tense couple of weeks since Iceland and Denmark, hadn’t it? He’d meant what he said to his captain and his ex, Harry Kane, but playing well on the same pitch as the man who had trod on his heart cost him mentally and emotionally — especially on a weekend like this one where big Kane was being lauded left, right and centre for his skills, feeding four assists to Son and then claiming a final goal all of his own. Tottenham was abuzz with high praise for the golden-footed striker — even with the return of Gareth Bale looming on the edge of training sessions this week, to the awe and bewilderment of all — and it pushed Eric to the edge of his patient tolerance and his affectionate respect for the guy he would once have done anything for. But truth be told, this had been coming all summer. Dier had really thrown himself into more platonic and wholesome socialising in his summer break, enjoying time with Iberian teammates in and around boats on the Med, hopping from coast to island and prioritising his wellness and peace. He’d thrown himself into another app too, launching his little business project for a restaurant recommending social media service, a touch of entrepreneurship with a couple of old friends that had become the perfect distraction on those quiet wistful evenings in the summer and the settling autumn. But it wasn’t his new business project that burned at the hand in his left pocket and made him eventually pull the phone out and load up the apps menu. He opened Grindr with an embarrassed little grimace and looked at his own `profile’ square: the anodyne and anonymous little picture of his own six-pack, so modest and boastful at the same time. `Single masc bloke, 26′ was the only info it came, except for an ominous `Discreet’ selected from the other options. He stopped staring at his own silly square (lost as it was in a grid of more garish selfies and utterly demanding profile names, from `Need bumming, 21′ to `Fisting NOW plz, 54′) and dragged up the message page to check that he was at the right address agreed with his… well, his date, though the word sounded so odd and formal and challenging. Dier had explored his bisexuality with relative abandon in these bold years of his footballing 20s. The tall muscular defensive midfielder, more or less initiated by that one clumsy laugh with his captain Rooney once upon a time, had dabbled here and there and never overly worried, until he found himself truly entangled with another England captain, sucking off Harry Kane on his kitchen floor and declaring his love for him weeks after the Russian World Cup. In the roughly two-year span of that intense affair, he never would have used the word `date’ for any of the hot encounters with handsome Harry, or the shared hotel rooms on football away trips, the stolen weekends away two or three times; `date’ had never crossed his or Harry’s lips except perhaps once as a joke, a joke that made them both feel awkward and guilty. But the guy on the app had called it a date, the guy on… Grindr. Maybe he was joking too, maybe `date’ was way too 20th century for this, for meeting up with `Closeted Guy, 35′. But you couldn’t really read tone on dating apps, could you? Dating apps! Dating. Hah. The 26-year-old closed the app and his phone and stared bravely about him, fixing his eyes on passing solitary figures that broke up the procession of hand-in-hand couples or small groups drifting through the trendy London neighbourhood. Sick of staring out for his faceless paramour — they had shared a lot of pics this week but not faces, the guy had been so shockingly understanding when Dier made that barrier clear, agreed to it without question or protest — he stared up at the rising towers of the City instead, and began to give in to panic. What did he even know about this bloke beyond a few carefully lit pics of his body and vague details about the pressures of his working schedule (what did he do, again?), and how safe really was it to meet up like this and reveal himself? He’d described the cap and its logo, that was the plan — the fella would recognise the headwear and would be wearing a beanie himself with another distinct logo on it. Eric’s was actually, stupidly, a Spurs cap, but from years ago, a piece of retro merch that few would connect with the modern team or his own identity — still, he thought with a scowl, there was some Premiership vanity in his choice of prop. The panic got the better of him. He swept the stupid cap from his head, crushing its curved form in his right hand, and shooting his beady eyes up and down the road, then over at the quiet bar they were supposed to be entering together for a drink — chosen for its low light, carefully spaced booths, reputedly discreet staffing. Dier walked away from it in a hurry, the thin jacket flapping about him and the unnecessary layer of clothing making his neck and pits bead with fresh sweat in the settling humidity of the late summer night. He didn’t risk looking back, terrified he would see the somehow recognisable physique and headwear of `Closeted Guy, 35′ somewhere on the street corner after all, and be forced by some inescapable destiny to go through with what he’d been anticipating all week. He’d kinda assumed she’d know a thing or two about football, through her family connection to some young West Ham coach, but her area of expertise seemed to lie somewhere between Made in Chelsea (she had been convinced that Barkley’s actual mersin escort football club would mean he knew a load of West London socialites and heiresses, and gutted when this wasn’t the case) and Hello magazine (grilling him on which footballers’ weddings he’d attended and whether he actually knew any of the more famous WAGs of the scene). It wasn’t going well. He was being quiet and moody, but he wasn’t 100% sure she was noticing. She was chatty, which in theory he liked, but he struggled to follow or contribute to her running commentary on people in the restaurant who she potentially recognised from Instagram or Snapchat or some reality show he’d never actually heard of. He made his way through a procession of expensive cocktails and did his best to look politely interested and not painfully bored. He didn’t feel very interested or attracted, though he knew she was theoretically his type and a pretty standout looker. Perhaps, he thought with dull self-critical honesty, he should be charming his way into her monologue and just thinking about tonight — he didn’t have to marry the bird, he just needed to enjoy himself, and make sure she enjoyed herself too. Right? And he had a spacious new apartment on the outskirts of London to christen, hah… He stared blandly into the dregs of his last martini, unable to work up even the laddish bravado of a potential shag that he knew should be occupying him right now. Now she was going on about a bloke outside the window who she thought looked like a potential paparazzi and maybe he’d still be there when they picked up the bill and moved on somewhere else for a follow-up drink — maybe he’d get a photo of them and if he did, where do you suppose it would get published, if anywhere, what do you think babe? Ross stared impassively at the vague figure drifting across the window, who could be a paparazzi or a Big Issue seller for all he knew, and just shrugged his shoulders. `I don’t think I’ll be able to go on to a bar,’ he blurted out, the first time he’d spoken in about ten minutes now. `Oh, babe…?’ `Early start,’ he grunted quietly. `Sorry — I mean, dinner was lush, right, and… Er, I’ll get us another round here, will I? One more here and then we’ll get you back in a taxi, okay? Sorry hun, just…’ `Oh my god,’ she was saying, not looking at him, staring across the long restaurant instead towards a couple who were speaking to the hostess and trying to get a last-minute table, `is that who I think it is?! And with HIM? Oh my god I HAVE to text the girls, Ryan, just let me…’ Barkley sighed and pushed his chair away from the table a little with both hands. `I’ll get us a last drink and sort the bill,’ he said, an offer that met no negotiation or polite questioning, just `Isn’t it table service here?’ He ignored that and left their table, striding around the corner and towards the long bar area at the far end of the restaurant, darker and even more intimate than the cute distanced tables at which well-heeled couples were making their way through the admittedly delicious menu of modern tapas dishes. The bar was quiet but for a solitary man at the far end on a stool, and Barkley sidled across the long serving space, patting one hand against the smooth dark stone of it, in no rush to get back to the table and find out which Z-list celebrities had been eyed at the restaurant entrance. He paused halfway down the bar and planted his elbows against the countertop, stretching his body out and waiting to catch the barman’s attention. He glanced briefly at the other bloke at the bar then had to do a double take as he recognised the furred square of his jaw and the deep-set consternation of his eyes. `Well, this is weird,’ Ross grunted, just loud enough to catch his attention. `Are we on a sweaty Mykonos beach or do you just turn up everywhere I go…?’ Eric Dier shot him a cautious, defensive look, then the frown on his big face softened in recognition. A half-smile played on his lips and he lifted the short glass of Old Fashioned in salute. `Bloody hell, Barkley, this IS odd,’ the Spurs player chuckled in his more well-spoken southern accent. `You aren’t following me, are you…?’ The tall Scouser bridled but laughed. `Other way round, more like,’ he muttered back. `Er — drinking on your own tonight, mate…?’ `Hmm? Oh, er-` A very short and well-disguised pause, just enough to show some discomfort or effort at building a story. `I am now, sure — was having dinner with some pals but they had to head off sooner than expected. You know how it is. So just a little bit of class here to end my night before I catch a train to mine.’ He took a demonstrative sip of his drink as if to prove all of this, smiling a little uncomfortably this way and shifting positions on the high barstool. `Right,’ Ross murmured back, distracted as he was suddenly faced with the barman. He couldn’t help but stare thoughtfully at the other 26-year-old England player and think about how odd it was to run into him unexpectedly for the second time in such a short period; inevitably, his thoughts ran beyond that, to his little retreat in Dier’s leftover hotel room, and what it had led him to discover. But faced with the handsome honesty of the Spurs man’s face and bulk and the knowledge of what a straightforward ordinary bloke he was, that seedy suspicion felt silly and tangential. `I’m here on a date,’ Barkley found himself muttering with another sidelong glance, then turning to address his order to the cocktail waiter. He looked back at Dier once this was done, seeing a flash of curiosity or annoyance — something, anyway — in his deep-set blue eyes. `Just a silly blind date,’ he added in a distant mumble, `dunno if it’ll go anywhere, she is kinda hot though… heh…’ His laddish chuckle fell flat, Eric just staring thoughtfully back at him — either jealous that he was out with female company or offering some judgment on his veiled misogyny. `Well, enjoy,’ Dier told him, raising his glass one last time. Barkley nodded, staring back at him for a few seconds — picturing the vivid gay porn that had lingered on the TV system of the man’s hotel room after he departed Mykonos for London and left Ross to hide out in his suite, away from the Maguire scandal — then left the bar to walk slowly back to his table, so slowly in fact that the final pair of pretty little cocktails got there before him, and his date for the night was already artfully photographing them for her Instagram feed. By the time he was in the station takeaway, staring down his options and willing the elderly Asian bloke behind the counter not to recognise him and make a fuss, Eric had convinced himself that he’d made the right call tonight: the meet-up had been a foolish idea, a reckless plan, a stupid venture. Imagine the exposure and scandal if it had gone wrong! Nah, he had definitely done the right thing scampering off just before the agreed time and being nowhere near that street corner in a stupid giveaway baseball cap, for fuck’s sake. In the bar, cooling off alone and squirming when spotted by someone he knew, his mind had tossed from right to wrong, debating whether he should open the app and send a message to the guy apologising. Rearranging. Pleading? But nah, he’d deleted it five minutes ago on the walk into Liverpool Street Station, ridding his phone of the sordid gay dating app as he strolled into the lofty commuter station and its harsh electric lights. And now he was nabbing a small cheap burger and chips from an independent takeaway in a corner of the quiet station, seeking comfort and reassurance in low-quality grease far away from the meal he’d planned to take this guy for in a quiet little steakhouse if the initial drinks went well. He’d definitely done the right thing. He was sure. It was just a bit sad and embarrassing to be in here when the night was potentially still young, with just a quiet train ride north through the city to his own suburban palace. He stared thoughtlessly at the fuzzy pixelated pictograms of the takeaway menu while he waited for his value meal, pleased that the place was so empty tonight. Pandemic curfews and reduced nightlife had their advantages when you didn’t particularly want to be witnessed out and about, he supposed. When the food came, he didn’t even leave the little joint. Its greasy smell and buzzing light fittings were part of its anonymous charm as he slumped on the short windowseat to pluck salty fries and stuff them in his mouth, his inner food snob recoiling at the snack as he stared out through faintly dirty windows onto the concourse and- Fuck, how bizarre — him again? A few feet from the takeaway window he spied Ross Barkley yet again, the big Chelsea brute squinting up at a departure board and swaying in vague circles on his own, his recognisable laddish profile standing out like a beacon in the bright desolation of the city station. Eric stared through the grimy glass at him, pushing a couple more thin chips into his mouth and crunching tastelessly on them — then lifting his hand to the window and rapping his knuckles quietly at it, unsure if he was that keen on being noticed and joined. Except that when his little knock made no impact on the footballer bloke out in the brighter light, he rapped his knuckles again more firmly, and lifted the hand in a faint wave when the guy half-turned. In he came, his thick pale brows lifted in surprise, leaning about the doorway and matching Eric’s expression of vague amusement. `Er, wanna chip?’ the Spurs defender offered with an edge of laughter to his voice. `May as well feed you if you’re gonna follow me everywhere, Barks.’ Minutes later, they had left the greasy smell of the takeaway shop behind and were seated at one of the empty metallic tables outside a closed-down coffee shop, taking it in turns to glance up at the departure board while sharing cooling French fries and roughly torn halves of a cheeseburger. `That place were fancy,’ the Liverpudlian grumbled, `but the portions were fuckin’ teeny…’ He looked embarrassed as he wolfed down on half of Dier’s dinner, but Eric just smiled fondly at the appetite of a hardworking athlete and nodded consolingly. He had a big thing for fancy new restaurants but he also loved massive meaty portions (no jokes intended). He’d been irritated to see Ross in the bar, really, feeling outed and invaded on his night of doubt and regret. But here in the crackling quiet of the train station with a delayed journey home, the familiarity of the player, a guy who matched him in so many ways — physically, age, experience, Premiership status — was an unexpected comfort. Just as it had been pleasantly odd to bump into him at the end of his Mediterranean travels this summer, it was kinda sweet and entertaining to find him here in the City of London, bemoaning a bad date and seeming in no rush to catch his own train in the opposite direction across the capital. And somehow Barkley’s vague complaints about his own bachelorhood loosened Dier’s thoughts, though he was carefully self-censoring in what he said. `Being dumped is shit,’ he admitted at one point, poking a final French fry into the smeared sachet of ketchup, thinking about how similar he and the Chelsea lad’s predicaments actually sounded now. `I wasn’t actually dumped,’ the other 26-year-old muttered a little defensively. `No,’ he conceded, `but… well, it hurts bad when people treat you like that. When women screw you over,’ he added with more deliberate gendering, emphasising the lie a little too much. `Still,’ Ross was pointing out to him, waving a crust of burger bun in a slightly drunken lecture, `we’re better off free men with no ball and chains holding us back — that’s what I reckon, lad.’ He was slurring just a little. `Free and happy, that’s my motto this season, free an’ happy… hah…’ Eric nodded his square head unconvincingly, thinking about how excited he’d been by the prospect of the meet-up he’d fled from. He felt a strong urge to confide that in Ross too, as well as what he’d escort mersin told him about his latest `partner’ ending things for dumb selfish reasons and then fucking someone else as soon as the opportunity arose. He found himself tuning out and not really listening to the generic laddish nonsense the other lad, tipsier than him, was spouting. He thought about the app he’d deleted and how the thread of chat over the past few days had been wiped away with it, how he’d tossed away that sweet online interaction that could have… could have what? You did nowt but chat about being stressed and share some show-off pics of your muscles, he told himself sternly, let it go! He realised Ross had stopped talking, was looking at him funny; slouched slightly around the round metallic table from him, chewing on the last of the burger, a little bit of sauce or grease down one side of his blunt stubbled chin. The front buttons of his shirt strained just below the neck, it seemed like he’d picked it out to show off his biceps for tonight’s lady friend — Eric idled on the thought that she had been sent off in a taxi and the Scouse hunk had perhaps passed up on the opportunity for a one night stand, definitely not what he might have guessed about his old England teammate. He lifted his eyes to meet Ross’s, a little bewildered by the way the other sportsman now looked at him, something suspicious or pressing in his gaze. `What?’ Eric demanded edgily but quietly, shifting in his squeaking metal seat, pushing at the scraps and packaging of their low-nutrition supper, better for being shared out here in the cavern of the station. `What’s that look for?’ he asked, forcing out a laugh but wincing a little bit under the penetrating stare of the suddenly intense lad. `Nowt,’ Ross grumbled back. `Er, okay,’ Eric muttered. `You’re pissed, buddy.’ `Yeah,’ Barkley growled, looking away, stretching his body so that the shirt clung more and the spaces between each button stretched, `pissed and kinda horny, hah…’ He sat back in his chair and slapped the thighs of his tight-fitting jeans, looking away, almost posing for Dier’s enjoyment in a way, his 6ft2 figure stretched and angled and spread. `Shouldn’t have put that annoying girl in a taxi then, should you,’ the Spurs heartthrob told him dismissively, bunching the rubbish on the table together between both hands, glancing down to stop himself from more fully admiring the physique of Chelsea’s attacker. `Nah, she’s long gone,’ the Scouser was mumbling as Eric pulled the scraps together and looked about for a bin, then, `but you’re still here, ain’t ya, pretty boy…?’ Dier paused halfway out of his seat, holding the rubbish together in both hands, squaring his broad shoulders and staring across at the loosely posed muscles of the other experienced footballer. He blinked twice and then saw Barkley twitch his head this way and give him another funny look; less thoughtful and penetrating this time, more defiant and provocative. Silently, the Spurs defender got up and moved a few yards away to drop their rubbish in a bin, wiping greasy palms down the sleeves of an expensive summer jacket, instantly thrown and confused. And excited. When he turned around, Ross had got up from the table to, a stiff awkwardness in his posture, that same deliberate posing as when he was sitting, his chest puffed up and his arms held unnaturally back to show off the curves and bumps of his physique. He was looking this way but not quite making eye contact. Dier waited for him to say something — anything — hovering by the bin and turning over the possibly joking and insignificant remark for meaning. `Yeah,’ he said quietly, just above a whisper, `I’m here, buddy.’ Barkley gave a simple nod at this confirmation. `Sound.’ Then, jerking his thick neck and rugged head a little. `I’m going to the loos. You comin’, lad…?’ Barkley moved with authority and urgency, his suspicion all but confirmed and his late-night greed all-consuming. He strutted down the inactive escalator into the basement public lavatories of the station, strolling through the dead turnstile without inserting a coin, then glancing once behind him to check that his fellow Premier League hero was rapidly following with his hands in his pockets and an uncertain frown on his rugged public schoolboy face. The tipsy and horny Scouser swaggered into the mens’, and opted for the middle cubicle, elbowing its door open and pushing his way in, enjoying the tinny background noise of station announcements above, as if the vague nightlife of the station was some safe cover for what he needed to happen now. The posh boy was with him in seconds, joining him in the cramped cubicle and dragging the door shut behind him. Barkley felt his person harden, the same dismissive brutishness with which he had enjoyed Christian Pulisic when he needed to — aware of his own thuggish attractions and his enviable masculinity, but disinterested in connection or intimacy. He felt one of Dier’s hands move for his crotch and he just pressed his back and buttocks to the wall to make this easier, opening his body and lifting his tight-shirted arms so that the other man could reach in and really grab at the front of his tight denims, where his cock and balls felt sensitive in the tightness of his undies and jeans. `That feels good in there,’ Eric muttered at him. `Bet it does,’ he grunted back, non-committal. `Let me get it out,’ hissed his fellow England player. `Go for it,’ he said almost disinterestedly. Eric was fumbling at his belt buckle now, pressing close to him, a solid figure of height and muscle that really filled the cubicle beside him; the oddness of this, his size and strength, struck Ross for a moment, but only a moment (because his jeans were being dragged open and the swollen front of his black briefs being stroked), the fact that Ross had largely dabbled with men who he perceived as somehow beta to his alpha, slighter or younger… well, perhaps not Frank, really, or even Ruben, but… Eric Dier was no Mason Mount. No Christian Pulisic. No Harvey fucking Elliott. `Fuck,’ purred the Cheltenham fella, coddling the contents of his briefs and stroking one of his elbows and biceps with the other hand, leaning in close so that Ross actually had to shut his eyes to calm down and not feel too jarred or freaked by the tight space and the sheer physicality of the man he’d lured down here on his seedy suspicions. Who was now handling his bulge and chuckling softly and undoing the bottom two buttons of his shirt so he could rub his knuckles very gently at one rung of his hard browned abs. `On yer knees,’ Barkley grunted quickly, an edge of panic to his commanding tone. `Like that, is it…?’ `Aye,’ he hissed. `It is, lad. Get… down…’ He grabbed at his neck and shoulder, pushing, glad and relieved when the big strong body of the other footballer seemed to fold and descend at his touch and his voice, allowing him to roll his head back against the wall and close his eyes, focusing instead on the raw physicality of it: the peel back of his CK waistband and the exposure of his fat sweaty semi, the cool tickle of breath down its shaft then the soft rub of manly lips. He had to try quite hard to keep in a long moan of delight as his dick was mouthed and nuzzled and freed more fully from the briefs — maybe it had been too long since he was touched down there, his good behaviour around his Chelsea teammates had certainly equalled a `dry spell’ of sorts since the summer and his ill-judged toilet encounter with Calum Chambers. Fuck’s sake, another toilet cubicle in another world, how the hell was he here making that dumb yobbish mistake all over again…? But what was happening down there was hard to quite think of as a mistake: the mixture of strength and softness in the way those lips took in his straining dick, every inch of its length and girth, caressing a tongue at the sensitivity of his head and rolling back the skin. The hands that stroked at his hips and his waistline and cupped his clammy balls. The purring laddish breaths in between each stroke and touch, the way his lower half was being pushed assertively back into the wall whilst pure pleasure was delivered to his long thick hard-on, moment after moment. Hopefully the public loos were actually very empty, because the next few moans of response were more difficult to contain and quieten. They escaped from his pursed lips and made his thick throat tremble and pulse, little pricks of sweat around the temples of his short fade cut. He didn’t dare reach down and stroke at the man’s short hair, he just reached his arms out to the left and right, reaching for door and wall for support as his tall athletic body surrounded to oral heaven. This guy was good, he dared to think, he knew what he was doing, he felt so… so… Words escaped Ross, there were no words for this. He had a fair few cocktails in him but he felt HIGH like he’d popped a pill or something, the sensations in his crotch and rippling through his body were just so fucking ecstatic and elevating. This was nothing like he’d experienced before, some corner of his brain noted melodramatically, and another little corner wanted to shout this out and announce it, but no — that was unsafe and unwise, just grunt and breathe, just focus on… on getting… on getting closer to… oh… oh yeh… oh fuck… He was tingly and numb with drink and hadn’t thought it would happen so fast, but the strong wet mouth around his erection was working him mercilessly to the obvious conclusion. He felt his body tighten, his muscular butt and back pressing into the wall, his arms stretching so much that the top button pinged open on his shirt so that only two central ones held it together over his torso now. And he let out a looooong sigh of completion and… ohhhh… the tongue lapped luxuriously at the end of his prick as he jazzed, surely tasting every salty drop of that long overdue load that had been in his heavy balls since the weekend, ohhhh…. Eric swallowed greedily, thrilled by the rich taste of it on his tongue and the roof of his mouth, the first cum he’d swallowed in a while. When he pulled back, streaks of it still oozed from the huge cock of the brutish Scouser and he pushed his tongue over the pink-red head to lap up more of it, not wanting to waste a drop of delicious Mersey juice. He kissed the tip of Barkley’s stiff member almost lovingly, as excited by his own prowess as by the proportions of the tool he’d unleashed and satisfied. But then he swayed back on his haunches and used the nearby toilet lid to hoist himself upwards, rising to his feet with cum sticky on his bottom lip, a hot flush in his bearded cheeks, his whole tall broad body throbbing with the seedy release of this risky public encounter. He laughed a little to see the ecstatic innocence of his friend’s face, his mouth a perfect `O’ and his eyes half-closed with distant enjoyment. He grabbed at his arms tightly and pulled close, so excited by the physique of this uber-manly footballer who he’d seen fight his way across so many pitches and batter his way through any tackle. He felt Barkley’s body sag with passive exhaustion, wanted to hold him tight in a cuddle; instinctively, he angled his face forward, the two of them neck-and-neck in height, but as he reached for the kiss, Ross jerked away, frowning and flinching a little. `Come on,’ he purred at him, licking the excess cum of his lower lip in case that was the issue, `give us a kiss…’ But Ross pulled away a bit more firmly, as much as the space allowed, and he was not forceful. Instead, he pulled at the zip and button of his skinny chinos and reached into the cotton trunks beneath, unleashing the similarly well-endowed meat that had throbbed and stretched at two layers while he hunched on the cubicle floor and serviced the other man. He took his own thickness gladly in his right and growled hopefully again at the other man, lips close to his ear. `Come on, your turn,’ he encouraged quietly, half-joking mersin escort bayan but needy, `only fair, Barks…’ Again, that twisted frown on those veiny rugged features, face pulling away from his with an awkward twist of his body, making Dier heave a sigh of frustration. `Just grab it?’ he muttered. `I ain’t into that,’ the man he’d just noshed off told him frostily, wriggling against him a bit but not actually pushing him away. `But thanks…’ Dier couldn’t stop himself. His cock absolutely stung with its own stiffness and the fact it had gone untouched for a number of moody lonely evenings since the season resumed, often too tired from training to even touch himself. He gritted his teeth, squeezed his prick, and jerked it back and forth, his shoulders and other arm pressing forward against the other lad’s body as they hunched into each other in the tight space of the cubicle. Again he angled his head against Ross, aimed his mouth for a kiss, failed as Ross turned a cheek on him and there was just a soft graze of beard and stubble instead… But he jerked himself, he had to, he had to release that tension. He could still taste the rich sweetness of the big guy’s spunk in his mouth, feel the wilting thickness of his cock jutting into his wrist, the tip wet and sticky with saliva and seed… Dier couldn’t stop himself, pulling rapidly back and forth on his own aching nob and then hitting the same wave of intense rapid pleasure that he’d so neatly delivered: he was cumming, firing off his spunk and gasping loudly into the face of the man he’d pleasured, their breath mingling in the claustrophobia. `Fuck,’ he heard Ross mutter in raspy drawling Scouse, `fuckkk mate… my jeans…’ Eric looked down with slow dazed blinks, consumed by pleasure, seeing the gooey whiteness of his own liquid on the bright blue denim and its pretentious jagged rips; his seed spewed down the front left leg of Barkley’s jeans, making him yelp and push back quite physically as if in a rush to get away. Dier once again couldn’t help himself: he twisted his face in towards the other guy, resisting a shove of his strong arms, and pushed his lips in to meet his in a fleeting kiss that tasted of cheeseburger and chips, but in a nice way. Then he was pulling apologetically back, squeezing at his hard cock and allowing last globs of his seed to fall between their close feet, hopefully avoiding his own suede shoes and the pale expensive-looking trainers of the other guy. `Oi,’ grunted Barkley, `back off, will ya, I need to go…’ A rattle of the cubicle door and a brushing of their bodies. Chest to chest, dick brushing dick, knuckles clashing as they put themselves away and did up their flies. And then they were staggering out of the cubicle and into the cool dank space of the lavatories, Eric grinning contentedly as he shot cautious looks about: no witnesses, no trouble. He laughed into the echoing space, doing up his top button and pushing the door shut behind him, staggering into open space and towards the long wall of sinks, about to call some teasing compliment at the other footballer — about his heavy load, about his huge dick and balls, about the beautiful manly smell of his body up close, or… But nah — Ross Barkley had bolted, skipping a wash of the hands and mounting the turnstile in one leap, a flash of his thick legs and bulbous arse shooting up the inactive escalator and back up to the concourse, while Dier paused next to the sinks and slowly, dizzily, inspected his clothes for spilled semen or evidence of his naughtiness. He grinned coyly at his handsome bearded reflection and knocked on a hot top, squirting pink soap into his dirty palms and washing away the sin. Another man sat on a train out of that station, heading east of the city towards the London suburb on the edge of Essex where he lived with his wife and sons. Slumped back in quiet defeat at a wasted night, the man had his feet up on the opposite seating, in open and irritable defiance of a sign plastered over the window. He silently watched the platforms and vaulting arches of Liverpool Street Station disappear as his train got into motion, staring out from beneath the brim of an unseasonal beanie hat pulled over his neatly parted brown hair — both for discretion and for the agreed recognition of the guy he’d wasted days messaging. The man sat there, resting back in his seat, almost the only person on this rattling carriage, and stared at the mobile phone in his lap, the stupid fucking app open riskily on its screen. Shortly before he’d reached his platform and boarded his train out of central London, he’d gone to check the message thread again and see if there’d been any response to his `hey — where r u?’ and `hey — did something happen?’ and finally `u taking the piss m8???’ Instead of finding the apologies or explanations or sneering dismissal (all options had played through his mind tonight), he’d found himself `ghosted’, as the kids say these days. The lad, who he’d wasted several private hours messaging and taking awkward bathroom selfies for this week, had disappeared completely from the pretty anonymous world of the app. So much about it had suited him, so much had appealed about `Single masc bloke, 26′ — even if he’d immediately regretted lying about his age, edging it down from 39 to 35 just to impress and endear the hot lad whose pics of his muscular torso (and more intimate parts) had thrilled him in his most secret moments. He’d been relieved when the other `discreet’ fella insisted that no face pics could be shared on there, had agreed readily to THAT. The guy had seemed kinda sweet and interesting, especially compared to standard Grindr fare; how many times had he downloaded and re-downloaded the apps over the quiet safe years of his marriage, always on the verge of exploring feelings left on a shelf back in his early 20s…? Ross sat on the edge of the bed, his body still recovering from the athletic performance with which he had announced his return to this familiar Kensington flat. She snored gently in her comfortable position at the other side of the bed — THEIR bed — drugged with the physical satisfaction that he knew he could give her, that had dragged him here to his former home instead of getting off two stops later and making his way to the new loft conversion he’d bought at the end of summer. He turned his naked upper body and stared with mingled regret and optimism at the figure of his ex-girlfriend (current girlfriend, again? Hard to guess) lying there beside him, and thought about her betrayal of him with that prick of a teammate, in his own bed! Yet he’d never been able to work up much anger, just sadness — he’d never admit to her how unfaithful he’d been too, he’d just tried to avoid accusing her or blaming her, just sidled out of their doomed relationship and into his summer of gloomy bachelorhood. But now he’d come back and fucked her, and enjoyed it. Enjoyed the normality of it, the sense of slipping back to this time last year, the need of both their bodies and the familiarity of how they interlocked. He was still tingling with drunkenness and he himself hadn’t managed to reach a second orgasm so soon after what happened in the station toilets, but he’d pumped her and fingered her to three or four squealing climaxes before she slept. Did he regret it? Even as he asked himself the question, hunched on the side of the bed with his thick legs set apart and his feet digging into the soft rug below, he wasn’t sure what the ambiguous question in his mind meant: did he regret crawling back to his ex for a night of make-up fucking that had drained and numbed him to everything else, or did he regret the seedy and forceful encounter before that, the action that had brewing since he first began to doubt Dier’s sexuality? He didn’t know, and he didn’t really want to think about it. But on cue, somewhere among his heaped clothing on the bedroom floor, his phone buzzed with a late night message, and he knew who it would be from. Eric had spent the entire train journey and short taxi ride home composing and then deleting messages: to Harry Kane, the golden-footed hunk who he loved and wanted to spend time alone with again, like they had in Russia and for so many months afterwards; to Harry Kane, the treacherous bastard who had spurned him then let some rough scally tup him in an Icelandic hotel as if nothing between them had ever meant a thing. He’d composed so many almost messages to both versions of his ex-lover that he’d failed to send a thing, which was probably for the best, and he’d been glad not to waste the energy or bitterness or doomed hope on that prick, who for all he knew was curled up with another man instead of the wife he had supposedly chucked Dier for. But once he’d stripped off and downed two pints of cold water, crawling into the master bedroom of his large suburban home, Eric did grasp for his phone again, and thumb in another message, much lighter in tone than the appeals and tirades he’d held back from sending to Kane. Blearily, he scanned his word and hit send: `so funny seeing u again 2night, chief, and always happy to share a burger and fries lol — let me know if u wanna do it again sometime, wink wink’. Send. Nervous titter. Yawn. Sleep. And on the eastern fringe of the big city, his snubbed Grindr date walked the last steps up to the front door of his mansion-like property in a cute village about to be swallowed by urban expansion. He turned his key quietly in the lock and let himself in, recalling the fictional press conference that had held him on in Fulham tonight and delayed his commute back out here for a more typical weeknight with his wife. He’d deleted his app too on the walk from station to house; it made sense, he had felt stressed and nervous every time he opened it this week, whether at home or in the car or in his office at the Fulham training ground. He just couldn’t risk the wife seeing it. The 39-year-old Englishman slid off the silly beanie, decorated with the crest of his old club, Charlton Atheltic, the first of several contracts that had taken him everywhere from Chelsea to Newcastle to West Ham. He stared at the lined handsomeness of his ageing face in the hall mirror and tidied the neat gentlemanly parting of his thick brown hair, frowning judgmentally at himself and thinking vain thoughts about his age and the slight lie he’d pushed on his Grindr profile all week. Twat. He allowed himself a moment of indulgent disappointment. He’d expected a few cool drinks tonight with a guy whose patter entertained and interested him, maybe a bite of food somewhere trendy but discreet. Instead he’d wandered Shoreditch and Spitalfields alone and sat in a late-night coffee bar getting jittery on cappuccinos, then ate dinner alone in a chain restaurant beside the station. And now he was home, about to crawl guiltily into the marital bed with Carly having gained nothing from his dodgy night out after work. All these years of resistance as a professional footballer player and then coach, now manager; all these years of denying himself what that early one-off experience had led him to desire. And then once every few years he would seek it online, on chatrooms or stupid apps, and still… even then… he’d rob himself. Not this time, he’d thought — that 26-year-old and his beautiful body had lured him to a point where he would really have met. Really have talked. Really have tried things. He’d even dared to hope that the guy would understand his position — his status, his marriage, his profile. His dilemma. But it wasn’t to be, he concluded wistfully. Kicking off his smart trainers and checking the door was double-locked, the former England and Premiership player mounted the stairs and headed up to his wife. Scott Parker had failed once again to exercise the burning curiosity that had lingered in the background of his public success and happy family life, and perhaps that was for the best; tomorrow he would just have to wake up and go on being the respectable husband and manager, and not `Closeted Guy, 35′. ‘Writer guy’ – Premiership Lads on Nifty fty//gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL

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