Buggery by Eoghan Lyng

Eoghan Lyng, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Punk Noir Magazine

“My name is Roger. I’m a fan of The Beatles, the movies and being mercilessly sucked off from time to time”. Roger was a good looking chap. Brown haired, blue eyed, six foot two. He had a nice face, and a nicer arsehole.

Stephen looked him up and down once or twice, downing his stout with vigour. There’s little in life worth celebrating, except the virtues of a mouth placed very firmly on a person’s manhood. Elegantly placed, beautifully positioned, it’s as if God himself wanted people to placate this item very firmly in the centre of their lips.

Stephen had only allowed himself to down another man on three occasions, once for recreation, once for reasons other than recreation and a third occasion to show he was very much a man in every manner possible. Would a fourth occasion prove the tipping point to complete homosexuality?

Stephen paid for the drinks, then shuffled to the door, holding his compatriots hand in the hope of continuing their illuminating conversation back at Roger’s apartment. They walked together, under a pale dark moon; a little too romantic for the everyday cynic. Stephen had little time for romance. All he wanted was renumeration.

Money is the key to happiness, happiness is the key to life. Whether a favour had to be given orally or physically, Stephen had the passion and tenacity to deliver. Being a penniless poet was not the wonderment Oscar Wilde had talked about. Dear old Oscar.

“How old are you, my dear?” Roger asked. “Twenty five”. “Enjoy it. The age will take away your looks”. Stephen chose not to ask his partner his age. He seemed a man of advanced age, facing fifty years or so. He was an Irish man, another one. Why was it always the Micks?

“What part of Ireland are you from?”  “Cork.” Stephen’s hometown was a source of great pride for him, placating his problems with images of St. Finbarr’s Cathedral and the local University. “Cork. The Rebel County. But no Dublin”. A Dubliner. Shady bollocks”.

They traversed by Roger’s apartment on Carters Road, a quiet place. A haven for blacks, dogs, Irish and queers. Roger rummaged through his pockets for his keys, finding them under a profelactic he undoubtedly was saving for Stephen’s anus. In every man there’s a darkness that they wish to unleash on the world. Some seem satisfied by merely finding the time to dispense their energy on pretty Irish boys!

Bill Cosby’s favourite pub ‘Monkey’s’ was indication of his lifestyle. Marxist long jacket wearing bohemians cornered the pub with vigour, each happy to give their thoughts on Leninist policies. The Labour Candidates often arrived, in the hope of sympathising with the more open minded of the radical wing. The local Labour candidates rarely found as much time to dedicate to the members of their constituency as they did to their pints.

Stephen Doherty walked in, a bread roll under his arm. Acknowledging Cosby’s presence, Stephen pulled himself a chair.

“What’s your story?” Cosby stared at him. “Seven years living in London and you still maintain the Paddy act.” “Better a Pad than a phantom”. “Phantoms don’t carry sawn offs or blow up the Dorchester”.

Stephen’s brow raised. “I have my own fuses to sort before I light others”. “You never lost the poetic quality”. “Now that would be funny”.

Cosby laughed, his Guinness leaving a foam around his, admittedly, impressive moustache. “You left that side behind you a long time ago, Steve. Now I never see you anymore, save to drink away your misery”.

Stephen replied “My ambitions were realistic. I wanted to write poetry. You wanted to kill capitalism from your daddy’s pay cheques”. “My father, arsehole, has not spoken to me in eight fine months, and they have been the finest of my life. Leave the theatrics behind and tell me about your week”.

Stephen’s chianti arrived. Even before its arrival, he could hear the men at the counter scoffing at his lucid taste for finer types of alcohol. Too good for stout they thought.

“I’ve been able to pay my rent, after such a long period. Benny was tiring of my antics. I rang my Mam the other night too.” “How is she?” “Not the same since Da died”.

Cosby stared him harder. “Jen?” Stephen darted his eyes; to acknowledge the question would be futile. “Will seems well. He sent a postcard last week”. “Where is he?” “Derfordshire”. “Finance?” “Accountancy”. “Nice man all the same”.

Cosby’s sneer perpetuated him a fraud and a vagrant, a communist of celluloid villainy. His thoughts on women senile, his knowledge on economics laughable. His idea of Germanic bohemia stemmed no further than glasses of lager.

“Harry, I have to leave.” “I understand”. Stephen’s nebulous attitude left a nasty feeling of Harry’s inadequacy. Harry wandered the house, his eyes gawking at every hole, stove and cupboard he could lay on. These homosexuals knew how to litter a place and make a guy feel comfortable about themselves.  Comforts of comforts old and favoured, enraptured behaviour is largely unsavoured. It only takes ten seconds to suck in, to breath downward and to make it really, really tick. It’s not the nicest of tastes, take it from us, but it takes you to that point that you want to go to.

Bugger. Bugger. Not something to savour, whenever, wherever.

Eoghan Lyng