Less Than Three by Jess Whitecroft

Author:Jess Whitecroft
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Published: 2018-10-07T23:00:00+00:00

10

We went to a lot of museums over the next few weeks. The British Museum started off well, until Rob threatened to come down with a prostrating case of white colonial guilt in the presence of the Parthenon Marbles, and I steered him away into the nearest room, which happened to be full of Greek vases.

“It’s still someone else’s culture,” he said. “And we just wandered around the world helping ourselves to it because we decided God was a fucking Englishman or something.”

“I know. I know. But let’s look at the vases. I’m sure they’re very interesting.”

He wobbled. “I don’t know, Nathan. I think I’ve reached that ‘interesting things’ saturation point.” He eyed a large amphora and tilted his head. “Wait…are those people doing what I think they’re doing?”

They were. All three of them. “Huh. Ancient Greek spitroast.”

“No, it’s not a spitroast yet,” said Rob. “Spitroast is when you have one in the arse and one in the mouth, and he hasn’t penetrated him in the mouth.”

A chintzy looking elderly couple overheard and gave us the sideeye. Rob was oblivious.

“Him?” I said. “How can you tell it’s a him?”

“Easy. Look at the shape of him. That’s a broad, manly back.”

“It might be a statuesque lady.”

“It’s Greek,” said Rob, as if that explained everything. And it probably did, because the next red figure vase was less ambiguous. Two men, standing face to face, their erect penises touching. I stared at it with mounting resentment. Even four thousand year old vases were getting more than me.

“Frottage,” he said.

“Whattage?” There was nobody else in the room now. I placed a furtive hand on his bum. He swayed subtly towards me.

“Frottage. Wet humping. It’s when you get your dicks out and just…rub. Little bit of lube, lots of kissing.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“It is.”

I buried my nose in his hair. “Why aren’t we doing that?”

“Because,” he said. “You don’t want to unleash the sex monster.”

“I do want to unleash the sex monster. I’m treating the contents of the British Museum like my personal erotic wish list. That’s got to be a sign that we are way overdue to unleash the sex monster.”

He slipped away from me, biting his lip. He was enjoying this far too much. “Why don’t we go and get a nice cup of tea?” he said.

A nice cup of tea. Yeah, right. I was sure I’d heard that one before. Boy George, if I remembered rightly. He said he’d rather have a nice cup of tea than sex, which turned out to be a massive lie, because in reality he was embroiled in a hot, psychotic affair with the drummer from Culture Club.

We went outside and grabbed a drink. Tea for him, cappuccino for me. “We really need to get to the bottom of this,” I said.

“The bottom of what?”

“The sex monster thing. Do you have any idea why you get into this particular pattern whenever you like someone?”

He grinned and sat back on his precarious plastic chair. “You’re trying to psychoanalyse me?”

“I’m trying to establish why you’re keeping me at arm’s length.

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