Free Better Than Easy by Nick Alexander Page A

thought I might as well.”
    I grin and take a huge gulp of beer. “You did good,” I say.
    In the corner of the bar a DJ is playing some very danceable electro and I watch him groove to the mix for a while, but when he looks up at me and I smile and nod approval, he does the same pouty thing as the muscle barman.
    â€œWhat’s with the Parisian pout?” I ask Tom.
    He frowns at me.
    â€œMr Muscle,” I nod at the barman, “and the DJ – they both have the same pout.”
    Tom glances at one and then the other. The DJ rewards us by sucking in his cheeks and pursing his lips even further.
    Tom laughs. “Oh give them a break,” he says. “Even I look like that sometimes.” He swivels back to face me, and mimics the DJ.
    â€œYou do?” I say.
    â€œYeah,” he says. “When I’m constipated.”
    I snigger and have to spit my beer back in the glass. Some of it goes up my nose. “They look more like they’re trying to keep something
in
to me,” I laugh.
    Tom winks at me. “Maybe they are,” he says. “That
Rob
shop is just around the corner. Maybe they are all trying to keep those balls in.”
    â€œI like it here though,” I say, checking out the other faces in the crowd, most of which are smiling and animated.
    â€œYeah, it’s a
great
place,” Tom says enthusiastically. “It feels like Brighton after work.”
    I nod and grin. “Cuter boys though,” I say. “The French did so well in the genetic lottery. It makes me sick.”
    Someone squeezes behind me. Space is tight – this I know – but this particular squeezing past still feels more intimate than necessary. The guy’s hands distinctly grasp my hips as he pushes by, causing me to wrinkle my brow in amused concern. As he moves on through the crowd and into view, I see that it’s my neighbour in the motorbike jacket – the guy from the toilets. Now that he’s more than an inch away I’m able to check him out, and I realise that he’s pretty hot. His arse is pert, his chaps are supple and shiny and his jacket is open revealing a muscular looking, lightly furred chest. And above all he’s smiling – at me.
But why?
    At the beginning of the second pint, Tom notices him too. “Don’t look now,” he laughs, “but two thirds of the way around the bar, beefy blond guy,red and black bike jacket.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œHe’s been cruising me for ages,” he declares happily.
    I open my mouth to say,
“Me
actually,” but remembering that it’s Tom’s birthday, I say nothing and simply smile.
    â€œWhat
is
it about being in a couple?” Tom asks. “I mean, when I’m single, guys like that never look at me.”
    I nod. “Yeah,” I say, glancing over at Lucky Strike – who winks very obviously at me. “I know what you mean.”
    When happy hour ends, the crowd, including Lucky Strike, disperse and the ambiance becomes relatively chilled. Most of the people who remain seem to be couples. When Tom comes back from the toilets, he grins broadly and kisses me – a surprise. He’s not generally one for public displays of affection.
    â€œWhat’s that for?” I ask slipping a hand into the rear pocket of his jeans.
    â€œOh nothing in particular,” he says. “For my birthday present maybe; it’s really good to be somewhere else for a change.”
    I smile at him and pinch his arse through the fabric. “Yeah,” I say. “I thought the change would do us good.”
    Tom nods towards the door. “Talking of which
…
” he says. “Shall we?”
    The Bear’s Den is a small neighbourhood bar, with standing room for maybe twenty people and a few chairs outside under an awning. On reflection, there’s probably only standing room for
ten
. The big muscles of Cox are replaced here by beer