Free Shameless by Paul Burston Page B

two glasses. He grinned. “Glad you could make it. I thought we could have our own party right here. What do you say? Wanna come?”
    Caroline smiled and stepped inside.

Five
    M artin hated Monday mornings at the best of times, but this particular Monday morning he was convinced that the whole world was conspiring against him. It was bad enough that his colleagues in the design department regarded him with the kind of wide-eyed curiosity normally reserved for visits to the reptile house at the London Zoo. There were times when he regretted his decision to be so open about his sexuality at work. Barely a day went by without someone asking him why gay men were so promiscuous, or whether he thought he was born gay, or what he made of the latest homosexual subplot used to liven up whichever soap opera happened to be losing ratings that month. The questions weren’t deliberately offensive. On the contrary, some were clearly intended as compliments. Michelle in frozen foods had got it into her head that gay men were all expert dancers with fabulous wardrobes and impeccable taste in home furnishings, which was one stereotype Martin was prepared to live with. Let’s face it—it would be better than living alone, and he could use a little help with the decorating. Still, the constant inquiries about his lifestyle did get on his nerves. And this was from people who worked and socialized in central London. God knows what it would have been like if he had stayed in Cardiff.
    To make matters worse, it seemed that the past year had been declared mating season in the design studio, with the entire female workforce disappearing on maternity leave and returning with albums full of baby photos that their colleagues were expected to coo over. Today was the turn of Karen, whose ability to reproduce was being treated as some kind of minor miracle by the other girls, though Martin felt it barely made up for her complete lack of creativity in every other department. She was supposed to be a qualified graphic designer, not that you’d know it from the quality of work she produced. During her pregnancy, whenever Karen had complained about the extra weight she was carrying, he felt like telling her he knew exactly how she felt—he’d been carrying her for months. There were no prizes for guessing who was expected to pick up the shortfall when one of the team was incapacitated. After all, gay men were naturally creative, weren’t they?
    “Come and see these photos, Martin,” someone shouted. He looked up from his desk. It was Melanie, one of the few people at work he actually liked. But today even she was beginning to grate on him.
    “Just got to dash to the bathroom,” he called back, and slipped out the door before she could argue. He hurried toward the gents’, praying that he wouldn’t bump into one of the lads from the accounts department downstairs. The last thing he needed today was some number-crunching moron getting all jumpy at the urinal, paranoid that the queer was looking at his cock. It never ceased to amaze him, the way straight men assumed that because you were gay you were automatically guaranteed to find them sexually desirable, regardless of what they looked like. More often than not, it was the least attractive ones who made the greatest fuss. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking on their part. Or maybe they genuinely believed that gay men were so obsessed with sex that they would happily do it with any man who happened to be in the right place at the right time. Which was a ridiculous idea, obviously.
    The toilets were empty. Relieved, he dashed into one of the stalls, locked the door, and sat on the toilet seat. What was wrong with him today? He was never normally this crabby, even on a Monday morning. Maybe it was lack of sleep. Saturday night he’d hardly slept at all. The cocaine had kept him awake for hours. When he did finally lose consciousness, he was tormented by nightmares in which his nose kept bleeding