He didn’t know how to answer that question: ‘Why can’t you swim?’ To answer it honestly would be akin to telling Clyde that he didn’t know Dan at all. To answer would be to reveal himself completely to his lover. The risk of it was unimaginable.
He breathed out and made sure his words were offhand. ‘I’ve told you, I spent most of my teenage years training for four hours a day in the bloody pool. I’ve had enough of swimming to last me a lifetime.’
Clyde’s fingers were wavering over his tobacco pouch, itching to roll another. But he pushed it away. ‘And you really don’t miss it?’
‘I fucking hated it, do you understand? I fucking hated swimming!’
Clyde sighed loudly.
Dan looked down at the slow roll of traffic on the esplanade, he was watching the sun spill into the mouth of the ocean. All the vehicles were BMWs, Volvos, massive SUVs. He and Clyde shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have accepted the invitation. The ocean was splendid here, the coldest blue in the world, the sea rising to kiss the undulating green hills was spectacular — but he had no right to be here. This was the world that belonged to the boys from school — they owned that stretch of the coast. It was a world the other Danny could visit, the Danny that Clyde had never met, must never know. They should never have come.
The thought of seeing someone from that world transformed into something solid that filled his throat, threatening to choke him. They’re not here, he told himself desperately. They’d be in Europe or in expensive Asian resorts. Tourist season would be too crowded for them, too plebeian.
He swallowed, and could breathe again.
‘Are you OK?’ Clyde was looking concerned.
His words came out as a plea: ‘Fuck me.’
The men fucked like animals, Dan’s face squashed against the harsh acrylic of the cheap carpet. He forced himself to mentally outline the green and yellow floret patterns on the rug, he needed to fixate on that, but the lines blurred because his teeth were grinding together so hard he was sure they would crack, but he couldn’t open his mouth; to open his mouth would be to let out a howl from the lacerating pain, the buckling and tearing of his bowels, he was convinced he was tearing. Look at the pattern on the carpet, concentrate on that, only on that, he thought, clamping down on his teeth, telling himself, Don’t shit, don’t shit, as Clyde plunged into him with ferocity and fury. It was violent and savage, and within minutes Clyde was bellowing, with such force and exhilaration that Dan could finally relax. Clyde was spasming, grunting as he came, falling on top of him; the room was a furnace from the heat of the day so when their wet skin slid together it sounded like farting. Dan pushed Clyde off him onto his back on the carpet, then straddled him, jerking his cock violently for only a couple of seconds, feverishly chasing that brief moment of light, and three spurts of semen landed on Clyde’s chest and neck.
The men lay next to each other on the floor. Dan’s skin was stinging from carpet burn. He slid his hand over the wet clumps of hair on Clyde’s chest and belly, flicking off a glob of drying ejaculate from Clyde’s crucifix. Their combined breathing slowed and separated. The sound of crashing waves and the slow rumble of the traffic re-entered his consciousness. Dan peeled the condom off Clyde’s prick and got up to go to the bathroom. He chucked the mess of plastic and semen into the toilet bowl, then sat down and immediately allowed himself the relief he had craved from the moment Clyde’s cock had pierced him: his shit, wet and putrid, slid seamlessly out of his bowel. He could smell the previous night’s dinner in it, lamb, garlic and wine. He flushed the toilet and went back into the living room.
Clyde was still spread naked on the floor. He raised his hand, examining his fingers, pursing his lips in distaste. ‘I need a shower, I’m like a mangy dog.’ He wiped his hand disdainfully on the carpet, his nose wrinkling in revulsion. ‘Your cum,’ he blurted out jokingly.
Dan could relax. It had worked. Clyde had forgotten all about the water and why Dan didn’t want to swim.
Dan checked his phone again. It was seven twenty-five and Clyde was still in the bathroom. They were meeting the girls next door at seven-thirty — they were going to be late. Dan couldn’t fathom how Clyde was not capable of managing time. It was simple, time was allotted in discrete units, it was logical — the day was measured by it. How could Clyde not get it? He looked again. Seven twenty-six. He couldn’t stop himself; he opened the bathroom door, about to say they were going to be late, but then stopped in amazement.
Clyde was smiling at him in the bathroom mirror. He was standing there naked, a razor in one hand, his chest, belly, the skin of his pubis blotchy and red. Dan was transfixed.
Clyde frowned. ‘Don’t you like it?’ He rubbed at his shaved chest. ‘I know it’s going to itch like hell, but I’ve always wanted to try it. I was sick of all that sand scratching at me all day. Don’t you like it?’
A memory he had to stifle, a joke from that other world: You look like a skinned rabbit.
Dan didn’t know what to say. It was Clyde’s face but it wasn’t his body. It was the body of a youth, a glimpse of the past, the change rooms after a meet. It was pale white smooth skin. It was Clyde’s face, but it was Martin’s body.
And for the first time, looking at his lover, it wasn’t just lust that was a bolt of radiance through his body. It was falling through the earth, and at the same time it was flight. It was swooning. Was it love?
Clyde watched quietly as Dan found a tube of sorbolene cream in his toilet bag. The men were silent as Dan carefully, lovingly applied the cream all over Clyde’s freshly shaven body.
‘It’s going to be itchy for days,’ he counselled softly, his hands cupping Clyde’s balls. ‘You’ll have to stop yourself scratching.’
He continued soothing his partner’s skin. He had forgotten that Demet and Margarita were waiting. Time had been stalled, it had been vanquished.
Margarita had booked a table at a Greek restaurant by the jetty. Their table was at the far end of the deck, overlooking the water. A young waitress briskly handed them their menus, took their drinks order and was about to launch into a recital of the night’s specials when Clyde held up his hand. ‘We’ll settle on food after our drink.’ But there was charm in his smile and he’d put an extra lilt into his accent, softening the brogue. It worked, as it usually did. The girl returned his smile and poured out water for each of them.
When she left them, Clyde grabbed a menu and started fanning himself with it. ‘Oh my God,’ his voice an exaggerated mince, ‘it is so furcken hot.’
Demet poked out her tongue. ‘It’s perfect weather. Just shut the fuck up, you whining Scottish poofter.’
At the next table, an elderly woman scowled and said something to the old man across from her. He looked over, caught Dan’s eye and quickly looked away.
Just don’t be so loud, don’t swear so much, he silently begged of his friends.
The drinks arrived and Clyde raised his glass. ‘Well, happy Australia Day.’
‘Happy Invasion Day, you mean,’ Demet said loudly, making sure that the couple at the next table had heard. Dan knew that she wanted everyone around them to hear.
‘Happy Invasion Day,’ repeated Clyde as they clinked their glasses, but he couldn’t help adding, ‘I see that you aren’t too outraged to accept the public holiday?’