Running With G

G talked me into going running, last night. Well, it was more of a walk, my knee is still clicking badly. I’m sure I can feel bones rubbing together. Clunk, clunk. Clunk, clunk.

Come on you pussy, run, he said, as I slowed to a walk.

Na-ah!

Ah-ha!

Na-ah!

We were doing our best cheesy, American sitcom take-offs.

I can’t, my knees crap, I said. I warned you before we came out.

You girl.

You’re a girl.

Am not.

Are so…

Then he pulled down the front of his shorts and waggled his cock at me, in the middle of Fitzroy Gardens.

Not a girl!

Put it away…

So you reckon the boys would like it?

(It’s funny how straight boys, at least, want to know they are desirable, even to guys. G normally appears quite chuffed when I tell him one of my gay mates fancies him)

I remember the time he came around in a panic, his girl friend, actually, his wife at the time, had managed to stick her nail extension up his piss slit when she’d been pulling him off and he had bled every where, profusely. He whipped it out and asked me if I thought it looked damaged.

I gave him the same answer then, as I did now.

Make it hard and I'll tell you.

Ha, ha!

Sure the boys would like it…you seem to want to.

Ha, ha, said G, again.

If you waxed your back, that is.

What’s wrong with my…he looked over his shoulder, at which point he realised he had a t-shirt on. He punched me on the arm. It hurt.

You know, when I think about it, G and I almost have a teenage relationship. We’re like brothers, teenage brothers, in a strange kind of sense. He only ever had sisters and I was never close with my brother, so we have that relationship that we would have had with close brothers. We play, we muck around, we kid with each other. We talk the biggest load of shit, really. I guess we've know each other for quite some time.

He says he can mess around with me, flash his cock, ask me if I think he needs to trim his pubes, be quite intimate with hugs and kisses, he always wants me to massage his shoulders and stuff like that, because he knows I’d never hit on him…like a brother. And I would never hit on him, it would be like hitting on my own brother. Oooo! (grimace) is my only reaction at the thought of getting sexy with G.

Some of my mates still reckon G wants to have sex with me.

No, he doesn't, is always my answer.

You’re kidding yourself.

No, I’m not.

Damned if they do and damned if they don’t – being comfortable with gay guys, or not being comfortable with them. You know, at the extreme, they are either homophobic or closet cases; sometimes, in a sense, they just can’t be comfortable with who every one is. We don’t always let them, well, that’s what G says.

So we walked around Fitzroy Gardens, G complaining the whole way.

Come on, run a bit.

Walk a bit, you tosser.

I’ll never burn enough carbs at this rate.

And you've got those luv handles developing nicely too…

What! (He doesn't have an ounce of fat on him) He twisted at the waist like a super model.

I ran a bit, just to shut him up. The dappled shadows from the elms were beautiful.

Do you think I need a hair cut?

Well, now that you mention it.

And what are you trying to say with your hair? he said, in his best Queer Eye for the Straight guy voice. (I am in desperate need of a hair cut, it is true) Is long hair back in? Or are you planning the op, some time soon?

Nah, just been busy.

Well, you’ll never get a guy looking scruffy like that, he lisped. Let me tell you maaate! Turning from bitch to butch on the turn of his thick, neck muscles.

Ha, ha, I said. At least I can be faithful.

Get fucked! He punched my arm, again.

Well, have you?

Get fucked!

Well?

Yes, he said, suddenly sounding exasperated. You've taught me well.

G used to say that he could screwed around on his girlfriends because he knew it was only sex and it didn't mean any thing. But if his girlfriend screwed around on him, it meant she didn't love him and she wasn't committed to him. He could tell me that with an absolute straight face and mean it. That, amazingly, took many, many hours, years of discussion to convince him otherwise.

He pulled his t-shirt off. How am I looking?

You look great, you big poofter. He’s been doing gym 6 days a week and he really does look great.

He smiled. (He’s just been in Queensland) I put on my red speedos (he ran his hands over his crotch) and went and sun baked on the beach, up at Trinity. He smiled his broadest grin. The bitches just circled, it was fucken fantastic!

6.1, handsome, Greek, with a super gym-toned body, you do the maths, I thought.

Come on, Claudia, I said. Let’s head home.