Curious Coincidences of Friends and Lovers

By Chris G A Wilson

Freddy and Jackson, Alan and Aki join Jordan and Dave with Tom and BB on a gay cruise in the Mediterranean. What could go wrong? Seven interconnected stories of gay men's relationships starting in London and continuing in Sydney speak of love, loss and personal growth. From different perspectives these st

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Wilson
• Release date: Jan 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9780645912821

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Copyright © 2023 by Chris Wilson

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

ISBN 978-0-6459128-2-1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance of actual persons living or dead or events is entirely coincidental.

acknowledgements

Stories may be written by one person, but I know the writing process is a collaborative effort: to keep the writer on track, ensuring their work is creative, realistic and engaging to the reader. Thank you to those people who helped with my endeavour. H I, my partner, my confidant, my encouraging creative impetus. My writing mentor Kellie, with whom we shared long Zoom sessions that helped sculpt the first drafts into less tell and more show. Also, my friends with whom I shared some of the early prose for feedback.

the gents

London, Saturday 23 September 2017

Freddy pushed the squeaky white door to the gents at the Dorsett City Hotel. Standing at the urinal was a balding, well-dressed and, from what he could see, quite sexy-looking black guy. He observed his elegance, and appraised his clothes. His tailored trousers, his leather jacket – was it Gucci, or perhaps Tom Ford? Looks good, whatever the brand; he’s just my type.

The man turned to look at Freddy as he approached. The exchange of glances, that extra unnecessary second of eye contact, suggested to Freddy that he might play for his team. He stepped up to the urinal. The smell of his jacket wafted into Freddy’s nostrils. I love the dry, woody, animal smell of leather. To Freddy’s surprise, he took a nonchalant step back, allowing Freddy a better look. Not that he could see much, but it was the gesture that made Freddy smirk.

He glanced up at the man’s smiling face. Freddy smiled back, almost embarrassed at being caught out. The man zipped up, turned and washed his hands. He heard the paper towels scrunching in his hands. Freddy sensed he was being observed from the mirrors above the wash basins. He looked over his shoulder as the man disappeared through the white door; there was a broad grin on his face.

It was not what Freddy had expected early on a Saturday afternoon in central London. He had planned a beer and burger lunch at his hotel before a visit to a nearby gallery later in the afternoon. He strode into the hotel bar – there were two men and a woman engaged in animated conversation at a table, and the black guy, who was seated at the bar nursing a half-drunk pint. Feeling in a mischievous mood, he sat two bar stools away from him.

The handsome, blond, twenty-something took his beer and burger order. After the barman placed his craft beer on the beer mat, Freddy savoured his first sip.

The guy turned towards Freddy. I’m Jackson.

His handsome face matched his very sexy voice, confirming Freddy’s opinion.

I’m Freddy – gidday.

Are you on holiday? Jackson enquired.

Yes, just a couple of days left in London before I return home on Monday. You?

I’m just down from Manchester, visiting a sick friend. Heading back Monday too.

Freddy responded, That’s tough.

Yeah, it’s not good. I can’t stop thinking about our good times. Jackson looked back at Freddy earnestly. But I want to distract myself and enjoy the rest of the weekend.

Freddy wondered if that distraction might involve him.

They returned to their beers, Freddy considering what he would say next. They were both looking up, staring at the ordered, colourful range of alcoholic options behind the bar.

Raucous laughter erupted from the group at the table at the same time they turned towards each other. Jackson spoke quietly, almost to himself. I needed to say one more goodbye.

Freddy noticed Jackson’s blank stare, his stillness. He reflected on the last time he had seen his mother, nearly four years ago in the nursing home, unresponsive to his presence and touch. He knew that would be the last time he saw her alive – not that she seemed alive then.

In silence, he grabbed his pint and saluted Jackson, who returned the gesture.

Jackson seemed to be about his age, although his fine dark skin hid it better than his own excessively sun-baked covering. Again, Freddy admired how elegant and impeccably dressed Jackson was. He glanced down at his own casual clothing consisting of blue jeans and a green collared t-shirt, which was just a little stretched over an expanding tummy, which he had made a number of resolutions to deal with. His open denim jacket hung lazily from his shoulders. Tucking his tummy in and straightening himself on the bar stool, he felt awkward beside him.

Freddy’s burger and chips arrived. Like you would offer a friend, Freddy turned his food board so Jackson could reach the chips, smiled and nodded to confirm the offer. Jackson took two and tilted his head back to eat them.

Thanks.

So tell me about Manchester, said Freddy, taking a bite of his burger.

It’s okay – but the galleries, live theatre and music are much better here. And, as if anticipating the next question, he continued, I took an opportunity to be a senior partner in a consulting firm and they sent me there. So, you’re Australian – you Aussies like travelling. It’s a bloody long way.

Freddy chuckled. Are we that obvious? Yeah, I’m from Sydney, and here to top up on culture myself. Actually, this trip is part of my fiftieth birthday celebrations.

Jackson smiled. Happy birthday, he said, offering another salute. Are you on your own?

Yeah.

Me too.

And staying here?

Yeah.

Emboldened by his nearly finished pint, Freddy said, I’m thinking about going to a photography exhibition, about a half-hour walk from here. You said you liked culture – would you like to join me? Freddy suddenly wondered if he had over-analysed the feelings between them.

Jackson looked down at his nearly finished pint with a nod and sideways glance. Yes, I would like that.

Freddy felt that his lust for Jackson was inscribed on his forehead.

Jackson gulped the last mouthful and swung his legs off the stool. See you in a minute, he said, walking towards the gents.

Freddy signed his lunch to his room, checked Google Maps on his phone and waited until Jackson returned, although his imagination was right beside him.

Jackson pushed open the bar door, smiling at Freddy. I’m ready.

Slipping off his bar stool, Freddy said, It’s an exhibition by a gay photographer – Paul Markos – he studied at the uni where I work. This is his first showing in London. I like his work, and the reviews are good. But it’s a bit controversial – a bit out there.

Is it as out there as Mapplethorpe? Jackson asked.

Freddy responded, Maybe? – I hope so.

The late September afternoon was cloudy, and there was an autumnal chill in the air. Freddy again checked his Google Maps as they walked along Middlesex Street past Petticoat Lane Market, observing historic brick buildings crushed by unimaginative sixties boxes. Freddy’s stride matched Jackson’s, and both had their hands thrust into their jacket pockets.

Freddy pondered, why do I feel so comfortable? After all, I hardly know this guy – we meet in a men’s toilet less than an hour ago.

On Middlesex Street, a woman with blue-rinse hair and a red tartan jacket was walking her white miniature poodle, who was wearing a matching tartan coat. As they walked past, Jackson bent down to pat the dog and said to the woman, I have one at home; what’s his name?

Shorty, the woman replied.

Mine’s Boris, he said as the women passed out of earshot.

"I have a dog too, a Cavadoodle. Brax.