You or No One

By Olivier Bosman

Is the world ready for an openly gay king and his prince consort?

 

Joel is happy, confident and working class.

Eric is shy, insecure and a member of one of the oldest aristocratic families in Europe.

When they meet in university sparks fly.

They say opposites attract, but when Joel discovers that Eric is the crown prince and future king of Doggerland, he starts having doubts.

They want to get married. They think their greatest battle will be convincing the King and the Prime Minister to give their consent. But estranged relatives coming out of the woodwork, intrusive tabloid press, and the traditional, stifling lifestyle of the aristocracy conspire against them.

Are Joel and Eric secure enough in themselves and each other to overcome a world which is not as tolerant as they thought?

 

***contains strong language***

• Language: English
• Publisher: Olivier Bosman
• Release date: Jul 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393924456

Olivier Bosman

Born to Dutch parents and raised in Colombia and England, I am a rootless wanderer with itchy feet. I've spent the last few years living and working in The Netherlands, Czech Republic, Sudan and Bulgaria, but I have every confidence that I will now finally be able to settle down among the olive groves of Andalucia.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Just Like a Nordic God

The first time I saw him, he was sitting alone in the quadrangle of St John’s College. I was looking for the library. I’d only been at Oxford two weeks, and I was constantly getting lost. It was all so new to me. The honey-coloured colleges with their dreamy spires were so different to the grimy streets and soot-covered cottages of Tonypandy.

He was tall and blond. Very blond. He sat upright on a park bench, smartly dressed in blazer and tie, staring ahead.

Excuse me.

He didn’t hear me. He took a deep breath and sighed. I wondered whether I should leave him alone.

Excuse me.

Finally, he turned to look at me. He had the bluest eyes! I felt a chill run down my spine.

Sorry to bother you. I smiled. I’m looking for the library.

He didn’t reply. Had he not understood me? He looked at my shoes. He slowly lifted his head and ran his eyes over the rest of my apparel. I wasn’t at my best. I wore plain blue jeans and a dark green anorak, and glasses instead of my contacts. And I hadn’t washed my hair in over a week (I’m not a slob, but the showers at the dorm were always occupied). I looked awful.

Do you know where it is? I asked again. The library? My voice trembled. There was something very intimidating about the way he was staring at me.

No, he replied. Then he turned away from me and resumed staring into space.

It was odd, the way he stared at me for so long before answering.Are you new here? I asked.

Again, no answer. Obviously, he didn’t deem me worthy enough to talk to. And what was that lingering look? Was he judging me on my cheap high street clothing?

I found the library by myself in the end. I sat down at a table, pulled my notebook out of my bag, and read through my assignments. I was studying Philosophy, Politics and Economics (PPE for short) – a very intense course which required me to hand in two essays a week.

I’d only been sitting at that table for a few minutes when guess who suddenly appeared in the doorway. I smiled, as if to say, ‘I found it’. But he just breezed right past me.

What a bastard! The illusion of the mysterious, melancholy student was shattered instantaneously. What an arrogant tosshead!

It took me a while to get accustomed to Oxford. People here were so different. So well groomed and well dressed. They looked like porcelain dolls. I felt more out of place here than I ever did in my own village. In Tonypandy, I was the only gay, and also the only intellectual. I was the first person to go to university, and everyone thought I was being pretentious and wasting my time. But at least I felt superior to everyone else – even if they did call me a useless, brainy faggot.

But people at Oxford made me feel small. I constantly felt like a fleeing sewer rat, scurrying through the narrow, cobbled streets, desperately avoiding getting trodden on by the spoiled offspring of the wealthy elite.

He sat down at the end of the table, ignoring me completely. He took his phone out of the inside pocket of his blazer and dialled a number.

Hi, is that Sunita Krishnamurthy? He spoke quietly, but I heard every word. Yes, I received your files, but the bibliography is missing. I need to be sure the books you used are available in our library, or my tutor will smell a rat. Could you send it to me ASAP? I need to hand in my essay tomorrow. Thank you so much.

Well, fuck me gently with a chainsaw! The brazenness of it! I’d heard about this on the Jeremy Vine show. Apparently, there were websites students used to get complete strangers with credentials to write their essays for them. Mr Tall Blond Twatface was cheating! 

I later found out that his name was Eric Haraldsen. He was Swedish, apparently (or Danish or Norwegian – they’re all the same to me). What do they feed these Scandinavians to make them all so damned attractive? He was a third year PPE student and had a reputation for being lazy and not taking his studies seriously enough. He was always late for lectures, and he often skipped class altogether. I learned this from my roommate, Trevor, a fellow Welshman and amateur sleuth. I don’t know how he did it, but Trevor always managed to get information about everyone. Trevor also told me that Eric was a great rower and that his crew had won every single race in the last two years. Well, that wasn’t hard to believe. Eric certainly had the physique for it. Broad shoulders, bulging biceps, and an arse to die for! I remember almost blushing when I saw him strutting away from me in the library, his buttocks wrapped tightly in his trousers, like two hard boiled eggs in a handkerchief.

I was very upset to find out he was cheating. Some people have to work hard to get into Oxford. You wouldn’t believe the hoops I had to jump through to get accepted! I prepared for two years. Two whole years of refining my writing skills. Of reading up on philosophy. Of joining debating teams in Cardiff, of all places, as there weren’t any in my village. Of studying economics with a private tutor. And none of this came cheap. My mother is on benefits, so I had no help there. And my father... well, the less I say about him, the better. I had to work full shifts at McDonald’s at the weekends just to pay for it all. And on top of all this, I had my regular schoolwork. That’s what it takes for a simple working-class Welsh boy to get accepted into Oxford. And this twat, this pasty-faced muscle hunk with a Thor complex, just breezes into university, as if it were another transit stop towards his final destination, and pays some poor Indian academic to do all his work for him.

How did he even get accepted? I asked Trevor. 

My roommate lay on his bed, fidgeting with his phone.

He must’ve cheated on that too. His rich daddy must’ve bribed the college. Who is his father, do we know? He must be some kind of Norwegian oil magnate.

I don’t know who his father is. Trevor yawned.

I have a good mind to report him to his tutor!

Don’t do that.

Why not? It’s not fair!

I met Trevor at my debating club in Cardiff. He was not only my roommate but also my best friend. We were both gay, both working class, and both the first members of our families to go to university. We were like two peas in a pod.

You don’t know for certain that he was cheating, Trevor said.

Of course he was cheating. What else was that conversation about?

I don’t know what it was about, and neither do you. You shouldn’t jump to conclusions.

He was cheating! He’s odious and obnoxious, and it’s not fair that people like him exist!

Hold your horses, Miss Bennett. If he was cheating, would he really be so indiscreet as to make that phone call in the library?

Yes, he would. And why are you calling me Miss Bennett?

Because you’re being prejudiced.

I am not being prejudiced. I’m being just.

I think you’re in love with him.

I scoffed at this. In love with Twatface? Give me some credit.

Face it, Miss Bennett. You’re in love. You like a bit of haughty. I know you do. He’s just your type.

I didn’t report Eric in the end, although I did spend a good number of weeks considering it. It was best not to interfere. I was new to Oxford, after all, and an outsider. It wouldn’t do my reputation any good to be seen as a snitch.

I kept running into him during that first term. I kept seeing him walking down the college corridors, or in the canteen, or in the pub, drinking with his mates, or rowing on the river, wearing a tight Lycra outfit that left nothing to the imagination. I kept seeing him, but not once did he see me. He always had his eyes averted. Either he was looking at the ground, or at his friends, or he just happened to be gazing in the other direction. It was uncanny. It was almost as if he was avoiding me.

CHAPTER TWO

All About Sex

Shall I tell you about my sexual escapades? Go on, it won’t take long. There aren’t many of them. My first sexual experience was with Trevor. Yes, that Trevor. Well, it made sense. He was the first gay boy I met, and we had the same interests. We seemed made for each other, so it was reasonable to assume we’d make a good couple. But nothing was further from the truth. I was fifteen at the time, and he was sixteen. I used to sleep over at his house at the weekends, when attending the debating club. One night, after reading raunchy stories in a dirty magazine, we decided to wank each other off. We didn’t do it for very long. Neither of us reached a climax. It felt awkward. It was weird and unnatural. Like I was wanking my own brother. There was no spark between us, no physical attraction. We were friends, that’s all. Not lovers. The incident was never repeated, and I think we both banished that memory to the back of our minds.

My second experience happened when I was sixteen. He was a forty-year-old, married security guard. I met him on a dating app. He lived in a village close by. He picked me up at a Tesco car park and drove me to some deserted viewing point overlooking the valley. We had sex in his car (if sex is what you’d call it). We fumbled awkwardly on the passenger’s seat for a while and exchanged blowjobs. Then he slipped on a condom, and I pulled my trousers down to my knees and climbed on top of him. I tried riding him, but it was my first time, and things did not go smoothly (anal sex is not as easy as porn will have you believe). It was all rather painful and unpleasant, and I gave up trying pretty quickly. I felt dirty and sleazy. To this day, whenever I catch a whiff of the cheap cologne the man wore or see a pair of fluffy dice like the ones he had dangling from his rear-view mirror, I feel my stomach churn.

The third, fourth, and fifth times were with the same bloke. He was a soldier I met at a gay club in Cardiff. I used to attend those with Trevor sometimes. We’d dance and laugh and have fun for a few hours, then Trevor would go home alone and leave me to satisfy my urges with whoever I managed to pick up. The soldier was rugged and sexy, and I was actually quite enamoured with him. I was seventeen then, and thanks to my experience with Mr Fluffy Dice, better prepared for sex. I met the soldier on three consecutive weekends, and we had the same routine each time. We sat at the bar (because he didn’t like to dance) and alternated pints of lager with shots of vodka while I listened to him complain about how he hated the army. Then, when we were sufficiently drunk, we’d go outside to where the rubbish containers stood and have sex on the ground. Well, where else could we go? I couldn’t take him back to Trevor’s, could I? And he couldn’t take me back to the barracks either.

My sex life had been sad and sleazy and completely unsatisfying, but that’s what gay life is like for a penniless teenager in the countryside. Forget about Brokeback Mountain. Who’s ever heard of a passionate romance between two shepherds in the Welsh valleys? Gay life in the countryside is all about having secret sex with strangers in shady places. It’s about scrolling down your phone on a Friday night, looking at anonymous dick pics, searching for someone in your area who