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By *ollo007 OP Man
6 weeks ago
Pontefract |
The phone rang about six times, and just as I was about to put it down, the nerves really starting to creep in, a voice on the other end answered.
“Hello, 555 555, Martin speaking.”
I instantly recognised the voice. I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding, laughing nervously as I relaxed. Martin sounded genuinely pleased to hear from me, his tone warm and welcoming.
However, the excitement in my chest hit a sudden speed bump when he explained that he and Ken were just about to head off for a two week getaway.
“We’re just packing the bags now,” he chuckled, “so we can’t do a repeat performance this weekend. But listen, we’ve been chatting with a very dear friend of ours. I think we mentioned our gynaecologist friend, George? Anyway, he’s hosting a bit of a get together in a few weeks. He was incredibly keen to meet the young man who left such an impression on us. We’ve already put a word in for you, and he’s very much looking forward to having you join us.”
A few weeks later, I stood in the hallway of my parents’ house, my emotions and nerves all over the place. I paced the length of the carpet, my palms damp. I’d spent the last hour debating whether to come out in my pyjamas and pretend I’d come down with flu. The whole idea of this “get together” how ever much I had wanked while I imagined the many ways it would happen was beginning to feel like a mountain I wasn’t equipped to climb.
Just as I was even considering just ignoring the car which we arranged would pick me up outside because my parents were out, the low, familiar hum of a vehicle grew.
I took one last look in the mirror, trying to convince myself I looked like someone who belonged in a circle of sophisticated men, gay men, wearing my best Levi's and my blue knock off Hilfiger shirt that I bought from the woman on the estate who also sold duty free cigarettes and the crates of small bottles of beer that were doing the rounds at the time. The shirt that my friend who had one but in a different color called Tommy pull my finger. And stepped outside.
“Look at him!” Ken beamed, leaning over from the passenger seat as I climbed in. “Still looking as nervous as ever, lad. I’d have thought you’d be a little more relaxed around us by now, eh? Don’t worry, Bollo, we’ve got you.”
The drive was a blur of Ken’s boisterous laughter and Martin’s steady, calming presence. They treated me less like a guest and more like a prized discovery, filling the car with easy conversation about their holiday, a quiet retreat to a villa in Spain, and the eccentricities of George, the host.
They spoke of him with a kind of reverent amusement, describing him as a man of immense intellect and even more immense passion. Every time Ken looked back at me and winked, my confidence grew, and I began to feel myself shifting from the jittery virgin of a few weeks ago into someone who actually belonged in their orbit.
That confidence didn't last long....
After Martin and Ken had a minor argument over which turning to take, I realised that what I’d assumed were two adjacent turnings onto yet another winding country road was actually one enormous private drive. It stretched for at least 500 metres behind huge gates before disappearing around a bend and into the trees.
Ken got out, opened the gates, drove us through, then got out again to close them behind us.
As we rounded the corner, the house appeared.
Except I wouldn’t call it a fucking house.
It was a sprawling, ivy clad manor of grey stone and leaded glass, with a massive driveway and a lawn that looked bigger than my local park and I thought Martin and Ken’s place was posh.
My stomach did a slow, sickening roll.
There were Jaguars, Range Rovers and other premium cars parked outside, some probably worth more than my parents’ house. This wasn’t just a “get together”. This was an event.
I looked down at my clothes, which I’d carefully chosen to be “smart” or as my grandma used to call me.. a " Bobby dazzler" and suddenly they felt like a costume from an entirely different social class. I genuinely didn’t know whether to run, laugh or cry.
Then we reached the front door, or should I say doors? Two enormous, probably antique oak doors.
Oh, shit.
My stomach did another somersault.
We walked into the foyer, or whatever the fuck you call it, and I was half expecting Jeeves to appear and ask, “Your coat, sir?”
Instead, I froze.
I’d spent the weeks leading up to this, and most of the car journey, imagining a scene of complete hedonistic chaos: naked bodies everywhere, blokes of all ages doing all sorts of things to each other. A proper, unfiltered gay orgy, basically.
Instead, I walked into a living room that looked like Bruce Wayne’s.
This was the sort of shit I’d only ever seen in Country Life magazines in my local GP surgery.
As I scanned the room, my heart sank.
There were several couples milling about, dressed in clothes that probably cost more than my dad’s car had when he bought it, chatting quietly over drinks.
And, putting the obvious elephant in the room aside, the women, the blokes didn’t exactly look like the sort of men who spent their afternoons playing with strangers.
They looked like the sort of people who sat on parish councils and owned stock portfolios.
I felt a sudden spike of doubt.
I was the youngest person in the room by at least a generation, standing there in my “smart” clothes, which now felt more like a fucking jester’s costume. I felt completely out of place and hopelessly out of my depth.
For a second, I genuinely wondered whether Ken and Martin had played some elaborate, cruel joke on me.
I’d arrived expecting a den of sexual pleasure, another posh house, certainly, but one where clothes were optional and sex was mandatory.
My dad always used to answer me when I said, “I thought…” with, “You know what thought did? Thought he’d farted and he’d shit himself.”
Well, it turned out he was right.
Instead, this place felt like a private soiree of quiet wealth and perfectly curated manners.
I stood there gnawing at my nails as I watched a woman in a silk dress laugh softly into her champagne, her hand resting comfortably on the arm of a man who looked like he’d stepped straight out of an Old Eaton boys freemason's meeting haha.
I honestly can’t stress enough how out of place I felt. It was like I’d accidentally wandered into a party for the landed gentry rather than my imagined gay orgy!
I shifted from foot to foot, subconsciously chewing my nails, when Ken finally noticed.
“Now, don’t just stand there looking like you’ve seen a ghost, Bollo,” he chuckled, giving me a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
He steered me towards a short man with short grey hair and gold rimmed glasses perched on his nose.
What struck me immediately was his height.
He was the shortest man I’d ever seen who wasn’t a dwarf.
“George, this is the young man we told you about... Bollo this is George.. " Nice to meet you Bollo" Was his response and then.. "So I assume this is the one with the… appetite?”
I remember finding it funny that his voice was surprisingly deep for a man of his stature, instead of sounding like he was a member of the " lolipop League" he sounded like Barry White.
He didn’t shake my hand. Instead, he took it in both of his, gave it a firm squeeze, then winked.
“Ken and Martin have spoken of nothing but you for weeks. Welcome, welcome to my humble abode!”
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