Removals Lad Prologue
Thursday July 20th 2006
Now, I would hate you to think that I’m some sort of serial rapist, warping minds and tearing ligaments in my unflinching pursuit of straight lads. Just as I am adept at applying the uncompromising stick, so too am I capable of plying them with the carrot (not likethat, you filthy dogs).
For instance, I am reminded of young Darren, with whom I had a short but intense relationship.
Darren was the youngest of the three removal men who turned up to help me move house, several years ago after I had just secured my first teaching job and needed to move closer to the school.
I was moving out of the now empty student house I’d called home for the past year, and moving into a (rented) house. My old place had five bedrooms; three upstairs, two downstairs, but they were now all empty. Besides that, there was a kitchen, living room and two bathrooms.
Why did I need a removals firm, you might ask? Because the place I was moving to was unfurnished, and my Dad, in his infinite wisdom, bought all the stuff he’d purchased to furnish the new place to my OLD place, a few weeks before I was due to move out, because he and my mother were going on holiday when I actually moved.
It wasn’t too big a deal, really; like I said, the other rooms had no people in them, so there was lots of room, and he’d graciously agreed to pay the actual cost of the removal (aren’t parents great?!), provided I paid the tip (which I apparently must pay no matter what – still not entirely sure why, but there you go).
I was immediately attracted to Darren from the moment I saw him, about a week before the move, when he turned up with a flat-pick of outrageously odd-shaped boxes. His hair was black as coal and buzzed short all over his head with a stylish longer strip in the middle. It sat atop a clean-shaven, blue-eyed face which you could tell was normally milky white but, because of the recent heatwave, currently exhibited a slightly darker tint. Not especially my type; but he possessed the Alpha Male countenance combined with the unintentional underlying menace and genuinely well-meaning scowl which seemed peculiarly associated with modern British males, and to which I was hopelessly drawn. This was further cemented whenever he spoke, eyes half-lidded, in the flat, simple-minded accent of leery south London street youf.
He was short in height, but his frame was tight, young and lithe, plated with the muscle you would expect from a young man devoted to arduous physical labour of one sort or another.
As luck would have it, on the day of his visit the weather was hot, and the lad was dressed appropriately: an old, grubby white and red vest which showcased his lean arms and nicely toned pecs. A pair of black gym shorts (which were so small I thought maybe his mum had bought them in celebration of the Beijing Olympic games) were the ideal vehicle for displaying his surprisingly smooth and pleasingly chunky legs, connected to a snazzy pair of cute little feet encased in grey and yellow trainers and black socks.
As you might imagine, I was pleased as punch when he accepted my invitation to a cup of tea before he left, where I could rigorously question him.
Like all well-meaning straight boys, he remained utterly oblivious to my interest. Never ceases to amaze me how many men assume every woman they’ve ever met must fancy them in some way, but never remotely consider the possibly that a bloke might.
So I was able to find out quite a bit about him whilst he amiably sat in my living room sipping tea, me questioning him like that fat bloke out of NYPD Blue. He looked to be around 18; I later discovered he was 19. He had worked for his Uncle’s removals firm since he was expelled from school when he was 16. He’d “had his mind on other things,” he said, grinning as he did so. I inquired for more information, but he deflected my questioning sufficiently cack-handedly that it was obvious he didn’t want to talk about it.
I quickly ascertained that his life pretty much conformed to that of most other straight lads his age; living at home so as to make enough money to get pissed at the weekend, and a few nights during the week. These drinking sessions were critically important to him: he sees his many mates at such events, and they’re the primary means through which he finds something warm to stick his cock into. These are the two social forces driving Darren’s life.
During this questioning, I was pretty pleased with how well I was restraining myself; my lust had so far not infected any aspect of my dealings with him.
All that changed when, with him sprawled out on my sofa, I said something funny. He reared back laughing, the fingers of his left hand sliding his T-shirt slightly up and away from his tummy, where I observed his hand lazily scratch the defined packs of muscle located there.
The damn broke. I suddenly found myself hardening, as I imagined silently sinking to my knees between his outstretched spread legs, and spending the rest of the day snuggling against his meaty groin, just wallowing in the robust, uncompromising scent I knew I’d find there.
I pictured myself lying there, him looking down on me with sneering disapproval, as I alternated between reverentially nipping and forcefully tonguing the well-developed organs responsible for producing the odour that reduced me, for all my education, good graces and bearing, to a snivelling – and snorting - wreck.
“Got a girlfriend?” I blurted.
“Yeah,” he grinned lopsidedly. “She helps on the jobs sometimes!”
We both laughed at that.
“Hang on,” I said, “I thought you said you were out fucking girls every weekend?”
I watched as he unconsciously gave his weighty tackle a reassuring squeeze through his shorts before replying, “well, yeah. I mean, she don’t come out with me at the weekend; she’s workin!”
Queue more uproarious laughter.
I was enjoying this. Unlike most of the straight lads I’d met through teacher-training at a school or just through the course of residing in a major city, Darren wasn’t a complete and unremitting fucktard.
We were also getting along well. At the time this was going on, I was 24 years old; not much older than he, and I have always been very straight-acting.
So I was just one of the fellas. We were just some bloke sharing fuck stories with one another. Possessing the wonderfully frustrating myopic cognitive perception of boys his age, he didn’t notice that he was sharing his fuck stories with me, but not mine with him.
But it was no matter. My questioning delved deeper into his sexual exploits – and he was fine with it. Unlike maths, history or philosophy, sex was something Darren could talk about for hours, and he was proud (in the boisterous, unthinking way straight boys are) of his sexual trysts, and happy to talk about them.
And in so doing, he’d give me a little show – unintentional, of course; his fit little leg bouncing up and down with yet-to-be-tapped sexual energy, as he relived encounters; his right hand occasionally curling protectively around his shaft, cradling his nuts, or giving the whole caboodle a swift yank to pull it into line and show it who’s boss.
So what if he’s tenting out his shorts a little? We’re just a couple of blokes, talking.
It’s perfectly natural.
“I’m surprised you have any energy left for your girlfriend.”
“Mate, I’m basically a living, breathing smoothie machine,” I laughed as he continued, “which is crossed with the fuckin’ energiser bunny; I just keep goin’ and goin’.”
My cock aching, I held my hands up in mock surrender, “ok ok, I get the point.”
His brow creased in sudden confusion (or was it concern?) “What about you? You got a girlfriend or anything?”
Now, I could’ve just answered ‘no’, and left it at that. There was no need for me to pronounce my homosexuality.
But by this point in our conversation, the room heady with the sexual tension being exuded from his stiff prick, I had a funny feeling that good things might happen if I was upfront with him.
“No, I’m gay,” I said simply.
His smile dropped, and I think even his cock sagged a little.
Maybe this wasn’t the boon for our relationship I’d initially envisaged.
“Oh. That’s cool. Listen, I didn’t mean to offend you earlier when I was talking about my girlfriend and stuff…”
How precious. “You didn’t,” I stated flatly.
We sat in silence for a few moments; desperate to stop him from saying ‘I’ll be off then’ and making this the most awkward house move ever, I said “so does it pay well? The removals business?”
Yes, one of my stupider moments, but fuck-lust makes you do stupid things, as Darren himself was about to confirm.
“Nope, not really. Live off tips, mostly.” He smiled amiably, but the easy-flowing conversation of earlier had gone.
The bulbed tip of his organ was still tenting his gym shorts though.
I was watching it watching me through its thin polyester veil as I said, “how’s a £200 tip sound, Darren?”
“That’d be fuckin’ awesome!” His eyes lit up, and his grin returned to his face as his hand returned to his crotch, giving his dick another rough yank through his shorts – again, I don’t think he realised he’d done it.
Now, when this all took place, I was merely a recently graduated teacher, but even then I had acquired the essential teaching skill of understanding a particular lad’s mind and foibles better then he understood them himself. And it was readily apparent that, whilst Darren was a nice, quiet boy whose mum still washed his underpants and was willing make friends with anyone, he was also a very sexual animal.
Emphasis on the animal.
“Well, you’ll have to work for it, kiddo.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well…let’s make a little bet based on what you were claiming earlier, shall we? If by the end of the day when your Uncle collects his money, you’re still capable of…performing…you get the bonus, in addition to your cut of whatever I give your Uncle for the job.”
He burst out laughing. “Oh my God, you’ve GOT to be joking.”
“Oh, what, were YOU joking earlier? Yeah, I thought you were. I should get a reduced rate; I thought I was hiring three removal MEN; turns out I’m getting two removal men and one removal BOY. I hope it has that sewn on your fucking uniform, because it’s true. Lads like you always talk big when they don’t have to back up their shit.”
He laughed harder as he replied, “mate, first, we don’t have no uniforms, and second, THAT ain’t the fuckin’ problem, it’s that-“
“So why don’t you make yourself an easy £200 then?”
“-it’s that your MOVING HOUSE, man! You’re gonna be busy!”
I smiled. “I’ll find the time. BUT – and this is a big but – when I wanna do it, you have to do it. None of this ‘it’s my lunch break now’ or ‘I need to talk to me girlfriend for 4 hours’ bullshit. You ain’t getting the money from just making up a shitload of excuses – no way. You do that, deal’s off. Now, you gonna make yourself an easy £200, or you gonna basically admit that what you said earlier was a load of bollocks, and politely decline.”
He slowly shook his head, and then said almost as an afterthought, “No offense, mate, but I ain’t…you know, I really ain’t gay.”
I laughed reassuringly. “Yeah, I kinda noticed.”
“So I ain’t cool with doing all this gay shit-”
“Whoa whoa, hold on – ‘gay shit’? If a bloke gets a handjob from another bloke, it doesn’t mean he’s gay, it means he likes handjobs – I’M the one doing the gay shit; you don’t have to worry about that.”
Still shaking his head, I continued with my point. “Listen. If worst comes to the absolute worst, you get a cut of the bonus I’m gonna give your Uncle after spending the day shooting off a whole load of times. And maybe, if you win, you spend your day cumming and at the end of it, you get given £200! Seriously man, I’m not seeing a downside for you.”
When he didn’t respond immediately – when he instead looked up toward my ceiling, dopey lopsided grin on his face, eyes positively misty with the testosterone pumping through his body and clouding his judgement, I knew I had him.
I held out my hand.
After a few moments – short, ephemeral moments, because I knew how this was going to go down – he reached out and shook my hand.
“Me mums got ma’ tea on, so I should get goin’”, he said as he stood up to leave, smirking as he did so.
“Make sure you’re prepared,” I said, as he ambled down to the front door. He didn’t say anything; just held up his two fingers in a ‘V for Victory’ sign.
We hadn’t spoken about the deal. But we both knew it was on. He was intending to win: good for him. I was counting on the innate mindless competitiveness of straight lads ensuring I really got my money’s worth.
Little did he know that for me, this was the perfect game – I won no matter what, and I don’t think he quite realised what he’d let himself in for. As my more regular readers might know, I can be quite insistent when it comes to lads cocks.
I’d basically been given the right to spend the day of my house move in the esteemed company of my very own straight 19 year old removals lad, with his sweaty boxers round his ankles whilst I twiddled his ever-fidgety cock. Best of all; I had the right to do this whenever I pleased! If he obstructed me in any way, I’d win automatically. And if I didn’t play with it enough – if I was proven incapable of draining those dank balls of his which I had no doubt he intended to fatten up before the day of the move, so they’d be juicy and succulent and heavy with his distinct brand of man cream – then I had to give him £200.
Well boo fucking hoo. Woe is me. He’d been so ripped off, I almost felt sorry for him.
A quick wank cured me of that.