He's an expert in the art of bringing a girl home from the bar, putting his mouth to use before his balls are slapping off of her arse, and then she's out the door.
Long ago, did he master the art of deflection when swarmed with "Why don't we go out sometime?" or "Maybe we could see each other again?" type questions. He isn't looking for a relationship; he wants to get his hole and see them gone.
It's sleazy, but it works for him.
He's slept with every kind of lassie, wee or big, shy or downright nasty and no matter the woman, he'll have his fill.
So, it bewilders him when he's letting the last shot of tequila, thanks Gaz, settle against the various Jack and Cokes in his system, and the person he can't tear his gaze from is none other than Captain John fucking Price.
There's nothing distinctly effeminate about the man.
His voice deepens as he swats at Nikolai's arm and insists that the man is misremembering a shared tale. His arm flexes when someone walking by catches him with a stray elbow, and he can see the man mouth the word cunt from across the room.
He's hairy, dark brown hair dusted over his arms and a beard that would scratch up someone's inner thighs if he truly let his mind wander. He's got a decent arse, probably has to jump to get jeans over it. A fucking thick cock too if the stolen glance Johnny caught in the men's room isnanything to go by. He was curious, sue him.
And God, does Johnny want him.
Wants to hear the captain bark an order in his ear as he's dragging a dry, calloused hand over Johnny's cock, on the fine line between painful and painfully good. Wants to feel himself split open as the man bottoms out, just a little too rough in a way that he'll feel for days after.
Besides the obvious problem, Johnny's heterosexuality, there's Nikolai.
It's not much of a secret that the two share a bed, and perhaps a life.
Nikolai's friendly, always willing to offer pointless conversation, a good spar that can land even Simon on his back, a clap on the shoulder that's just a touch too heavy.
He wonders which of them prefers to take the reins in the bedroom. If they're gentle and soft, or if someone walks away with scratches running down their back and purple bruises blooming on their hips.
How they'd take to a third?
Johnny has to physically shake his head to rid himself of the thought, stumbling out into the carress of the night winds and pleading with his hands to cooperate as he tries to light a fag.
He's a straight man. Grade A heterosexual male. He likes women; he's only ever liked women. The way their tits bounce when they walk down stairs. Tight denim stretched across their arses. The creases around their eyes when they call him sunshine.
Through the drunken haze of his mind, a single thought tumbles into his grasp. Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore.
