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Squat Lifts and Smashed Avocado

G. B. Ralph

‘Right, pick up your bars. Feet shoulder-width apart, toes turned out a little. First, we’re going to roll our shoulders – up, back, and down. Great. Now, knees slightly bent, pitch over at the waist, butts out, cores switched on. Four easy deadlifts, single time. Let’s go.’

And we were off again, our instructor up on stage leading the way. He went through the movements, keeping us in time with the beat of the booming music. He was in good shape – lean, toned all over – a physique theoretically achievable with group fitness classes like this, focusing on low weights and high repetitions. Though, to get similar results, I suspect I’d have to attend more than once a week.

The instructor may have been fit, but not in that muscle-bound, Greek god kind of way. He’d struck that perfect balance that remained motivational for us regular folk on the gym floor, without tipping over into the intimidating, unattainable, and dispiriting. Still, it was distracting. The light sheen of sweat reflecting off the exposed skin of his arms and shoulders made concentrating on anything else – such as keeping up with the exercises – rather challenging.

‘That’s it, bar down to the knees and back up again. Don’t forget to breathe. Down, and up. Feel that bar gliding up your thighs, yes, keep it nice and close. Just like last night, anyone?’ He beamed out at us, sweeping his eyes around the room, capturing all in his gaze. ‘Was anyone lucky enough to have a nice pair of hands running up their thighs instead? No? Me neither. Oh well, we’re here now. Butts out, cores on. One more, then we’re onto the combo – one clean and press, one dead row.’

I couldn’t help cracking a smile. Between the instructor’s light banter, his inspirational arms, and the thumping music, it was almost enough to distract me from the heat burning in my muscles.

The group weights class was almost at capacity, as it was every Sunday morning. A little guilt-induced exercise for us all. Nothing like lifting up a heavy bar and then putting it down again to sweat out the sins of a Saturday night. There was me and at least fifty others around the room. I recognised many familiar faces, the regulars, not that I knew anyone by name. Drenched in sweat and out of breath whenever we saw each other, it was hardly conducive to conversation. The most we could manage was an acknowledging nod and smile between breaks in the music or after class.

‘Two more of those, then we’re back to our squat lifts. Bar up and over – carefully – across our shoulders, resting on the meaty part of our backs. Remember, we want a wide stance, back straight, chest up, cores on, hips under the bar. And we’re going down for a count of two – that’s it – and up for two…’

Some days these group fitness classes took forever, while on others they were over all too quickly. Today landed squarely in the ‘taking forever’ camp, so when the final track’s music ended, I collapsed into a sweaty, heaving heap. I took a moment before convincing my limbs to pick themselves up again to do the cool-down exercises. Still, I only made a cursory attempt at the stretches, my mind already jumping ahead to getting out of there. My half-hearted stretching efforts may very well come back to bite me, but at that moment I couldn’t bring myself to care.

‘That’s us! Thanks for coming, everyone,’ the instructor said, clapping his hands together with finality. ‘Behave yourselves this week. And if I don’t see you before, then you’d better be back here, same time next Sunday.’

***

I always felt good about going to the gym – once it was all over, of course. But really, it was the getting there that was the hardest part. At least once you were there, you were there. You couldn’t easily slink away, because that would mean packing up your equipment in full view of the instructor on stage and your fellow attendees. The judgement, whether real or imagined, was all the motivation I needed once in the room.

The solution to the main difficulty – that is, getting to the gym in the first place – was solved by making Sunday morning gym sessions a standing commitment with my mates, though they did their own thing and never joined me for the classes.

I found Jared and Richard on the main gym floor using one of the machines. Well, Jared was using the machine. Richard just mucked around pretending to be checking on Jared’s form, causing a nuisance, trying to lift things too heavy for him, and doing a token rep whenever a member of the opposite sex glanced his way. Though, he could hardly call it a rep – short for repetition – as that suggested he’d be doing more than one. Mostly, he just jabbered away to Jared.

I came to the gym for general fitness and so I didn’t have to watch what I ate, but Jared came for the gains. And Richard, well, I didn’t really know what he came for.

‘Hey, guys,’ I said, stepping up to a point I hoped was safely out of the contraption’s reach – I could never be certain where those metal arms and pulleys and cables might go next.

‘Hey, stud,’ Richard said as he whipped around, always ready for a new audience. ‘Did you tone those buns, Arthur? Sculpt those arms?’ He’d slapped my butt before I could pivot away, but I managed to block his hand as he went to squeeze my biceps.

We had been mates since forever, the three of us. To say we’d become overly familiar – physically, verbally, in every way, really – that’d be the big daddy of all understatements.

But if they knew I’d been holding back from them, and, more to the point, what I’d been holding back from them… At best, it’d bring a whole new dynamic to our little trio, and things would never be the same. But at worst – and this is what held me back more than anything – it’d tear us apart. I’d lose my two closest mates, then where would I be?

I’d known for years, and suspected something was up for even longer. And though we discussed almost everything together, and probably too much in many respects, this was one thing I was yet to share with them, with anyone. There’d be no turning back once I said the words, I’m gay. These two guys were so comfortable in their own sexuality that it made it all the harder for me to do and be the same.

I batted away Richard’s grabby hand from another attempt at my upper arms. ‘Maybe if you put as much effort into your gym routine as you did groping me, that little belly of yours might—’

‘This belly?’ Richard said, mock affronted as he grabbed his front and jostled it around. ‘This belly I’ve worked so hard on? Lucy loves my belly, partial to a nice dad-bod, she is. How do you think she’d feel if I stripped off one night and she found a flat stomach like yours or – heaven forbid! – if I assaulted her eyes with abs like He-Man over here?’

Jared frowned, releasing the equipment to run a hand over the offending ridges of muscles under his top, before shrugging and carrying on with his exercise.

‘You two are quite the act,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Anyway, I’m going to jump through the showers.’

‘Couple more sets,’ Jared said, sweat pouring from his brow once more as he went back to straining against the machine, ‘then we’ll be down too.’

‘Yeah, couple more sets,’ Richard said, rolling his shoulders as if he was going to do anything more than hang about and prattle on.

They really were a pair of numbskulls, but they were also the best mates a guy could ask for.

I made a bee-line for the changing rooms, navigating past all the posers and their floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Now, I know they’re there so you can check your form, make sure you’re doing the exercises correctly without hurting yourself – putting your back out or busting something. But I was sure those gazes lingered on their own forms far longer than was strictly necessary.

Unlike the group fitness classes – which were fun when I wasn’t dying of over-exertion – the main gym floor was gross, awash with sweat, testosterone, and dick-swinging energy. Still, despite that distinctive smell and all the vain macho crap, some of the guys were certainly nice to look at as I strolled by.

I was still looking when I started down the stairs to the changing room – my mind, like my eyes, remained elsewhere. On the first step down, my overworked legs buckled without warning and I stumbled Bambi style, lurching sidewards and slamming into the railing. I latched onto the metal with sweaty palms to avoid a tumble down the entire flight of stairs. Though, in saving myself, I’d sent my phone and drink bottle flying down the stairwell in my place.

My drink bottle clattered down the steps, the echo reverberating around the enclosed space as I got myself upright again. I let out a steadying breath and found someone looking up at me, eyes wide and hands clutching onto something – my phone, he’d caught it. And seeing that I appeared to have myself under control, he scooped up my drink bottle too. He turned it over to find it still intact, though now sporting a few new dents and scuffs. He paused a moment longer, looking up at me. When I made no move to say anything or take my things, he offered them up, along with a smile. ‘Looks like everything survived, mostly unscathed.’

I accepted my things with a nod and a stilted, ‘Thank you.’

Again, he looked like he wanted to say something more, but I was too embarrassed to prolong the encounter by letting him. Instead I raced past him down the stairs, all my attention devoted to not stumbling or missing a step.

***

In the shower a few minutes later I reflected that perhaps I should’ve let the railing catch my phone and thrown myself down the stairs instead, ready for the guy to catch me – his arms and shoulders had sure looked like they’d be up to the task. I knew it was silly, but as I soaped myself, I considered something else that might not have been so silly – asking for his number? I mean, he quite literally had my phone in his hands. ‘Do you want me to put my number in for you?’ Was that what he’d been trying to silently communicate before handing it back? Or was that just some wild fantasy I’d conjured up?

I was terrible at these things, and just like I couldn’t go assuming anyone I threw my possessions at would be there to catch them, I couldn’t assume anyone I threw myself at would be willing to catch me.

Still, it was the closest I’d come to any action in weeks, months. Hard to date anyone when constantly on alert I’d be seen out with a guy, caught by someone I knew – the city was big, but it also wasn’t nearly big enough. Even if whoever I ran into didn’t notice anything amiss, they could easily and innocently come out with something truly awkward. ‘Hey Arthur, how’s it going? It’s been ages! Have you got a girlfriend yet? And who’s this you’re with?’ I knew myself better than to think I could handle something like that…

No, it wasn’t a genuine option. I loved the romantic potential of a proper date, but it was difficult to even organise quick hookups with random guys when you’ve got friends as nosy as mine…

‘What’s that you’re doing, Arty?’

‘Who are you messaging? Go on, give us a look.’

‘What are you smirking at, then?’

And so it went…

I closed my eyes and stepped directly under the shower head, drowning out all other noise and washing away any conscious thought as the rush of steaming hot water massaged my scalp before running down my body.

I luxuriated in the warmth for a few moments before rinsing myself off. Nothing like a good, hot shower to reset. I turned off the water, wrapped my towel around me, and stepped out of the shower stall.

With my newfound bliss, and without thinking, I glanced up, locking eyes with a portly middle-aged man across the way in the open showers, soaping himself below the waist. The moment he saw he had an audience, the scrubbing motions grew more energetic. In my haste to turn and flee, I lost my footing on the wet floor, my legs slipping out from under me. My hands darted out on instinct, catching the latch of my open stall door and halting my fall. I took a breath and righted myself for the second time that morning. Then, after confirming my towel remained in position, I kept my head down and carefully tread back to the lockers, not daring to look back nor stray from the rubber mats. I couldn’t risk anything like that as gravity seemed to have turned against me today.

After having saved myself twice already – if not from the damage to my dignity or self-respect, then at least to my body – I knew I’d rather not try my luck a third time. So, having learnt my lesson, I focused straight ahead on my locker, blocking out anything and everything around me.

I dried myself without incident and was pulling on my briefs when I heard and felt a sharp, loud crack on my backside. Spinning around with hands out to protect myself, I found Richard dripping wet and stark naked, wielding a towel. He twirled it menacingly, a predatory grin on his face.

I glanced at Jared, just along from Richard, checking if he was in on this attack or if he might jump to my defence – I never knew which way he’d go. Turns out he was neither, just his usual serene self, oblivious to the situation as he dried himself and changed.

I momentarily dropped my guard to pull my briefs the rest of the way up, and Richard took his chance to strike again, cracking his whip. But I was ready this time – I shot my hand out and snatched the towel, yanking it from his grasp.

Richard lurched forwards before standing back upright, unarmed, dripping wet and with nothing to dry or cover himself. After a moment’s shock, he beamed and gave a little bow, conceding defeat. It was a small and childish victory, but this morning I’d take any I could get, especially against my friend who remained equal parts amusing, vexing, and juvenile.

I tossed his towel back and turned to finish changing.

‘What took you so long, anyway?’ Richard said.

‘I – uh – didn’t think you guys would be done so soon.’

I turned to see Richard nodding knowingly, glancing down below my waist. ‘Releasing some tension after your workout.’

‘No! No, nothing like—’

‘And in the gym showers too.’ He shook his head, tutting, half-dried hair frizzed out, while standing with hands on his hips, shamelessly naked but for the towel now draped around his shoulders. ‘You dirty bastard.’

‘I didn’t—’

‘Ah!’ Richard said, winking, smirking, and lifting an eyebrow, as if one wasn’t enough to convey the enormity of his amusement. ‘You ducked into the men’s steam room for a quick minute? Get someone to give you a helping hand?’

I groaned. I knew I would never, but considering the signs plastered around the place threatening membership suspension if caught doing any funny business down here, it obviously happened. Not that I’d ever ventured into the steam room to check – I wasn’t nearly that liberated nor daring. ‘Jog on, mate,’ I said as I pulled on my socks and shoes.

‘Yeah, leave him be,’ Jared said.

‘Thanks, Jar—’

‘Everyone needs to do their post-exercise cool downs in their own time, and in their own way.’

‘Oh, don’t you start,’ I said, snorting as I turned away from them to pack my gym bag. ‘And Richard, stop dicking around and get some bloody clothes on. I’ll see you two outside.’

Dressed in clean clothes, my overheated body was sweating all over again, still trying to get my temperature back down to normal after my workout and shower. The attention from my friends and the clammy, cloying air did nothing to help. Neither did the fact I was surrounded by guys in various states of undress – some shining with sweat, others freshly washed and deodorised.

I just had to get out of there. The men’s changing room was a minefield for a closeted guy like me.

***

Skirting the gym floor on my way out, I took my time slowly scanning the space, not sure if I was really doing this or not – call it self-plausible deniability. I’d almost made it to the exit turnstiles when I spotted him – the guy from the stairs. And then I’d already taken a step in his direction before I caught myself…

What was the plan? Head over there… and then what? What would I say?

My, what big muscles you have.

Thanks again for catching my phone. We should do it again some time. Can I have your number?

Want to meet me in the steam room in five?

Each was more ridiculous and less likely than the last. I knew I couldn’t go falling over myself with this kind of thinking every time some nice-looking guy glanced my way – that’s just sad, and not a little desperate. No, if it was meant to happen, I’d run into him again. There’s no point going over there and embarrassing myself, not today.

I made a mental note to keep an eye out for him next Sunday morning. But for all I knew, he was some five-minute fancy of mine, and I’d have forgotten about him by this afternoon… If not, I had an entire week to work up the courage to ask him for his number. Still, what I could not forget was that Jared and Richard were nearby and might appear at any moment, whether this week or next. And what would they have to say about me chatting up some guy?

I sighed, and knowing there was nothing to be done, turned away and stepped outside.

***

So many of our catch ups centred around food or drinks – like takeaways in front of the TV, or drinks at the pub. Sunday morning gym sessions were our only semi-regular, non-sedentary get-together. Jared took his fitness and nutrition seriously, except when he didn’t. Still, he was there more often than me or Richard – we certainly didn’t go enough to take full advantage of the membership fees. At least we weren’t like so many other New Year’s resolutioners, effectively making donations to the gym every month from February until Christmas.

I was perched on a bench outside, flicking through the news on my phone, when the guys stepped out of the gym. ‘So, are we getting coffee, then?’ I said, looking up.

‘Does the pope shit in the woods?’

‘As eloquent as ever this morning, Richard.’

‘You know me, and yet you still love me.’

‘I endure you,’ I said. ‘How else am I going to maintain access to your mother’s cooking?’

‘Fair point.’

‘Yeah,’ Jared said, wistful, ‘your mum’s feeds are the best. Love her pakora, it’s the business.’

‘Old family recipe,’ Richard said, patting his stomach. ‘And Mum knows I’m always willing to offer my taste-testing services to ensure standards don’t slip down the generations.’

‘I am sure she appreciates that.’

‘Of course, she loves me almost as much as you boys do.’ He puckered his lips and made kissy noises.

‘Where are we going, then?’ I said. ‘Harriet’s? Terrace Cafe? Or what about that new place on the square?’

‘Loaf,’ Jared said, already making his way up the footpath.

Richard backed him up. ‘Yep, we’re going to Loaf. No question.’

I knew that’d be the response, but it was worth a shot. To be fair, I did love the place, but we were there rather too often. Still, I went in for one more attempt at expanding our horizons before settling on our regular. ‘You don’t even eat the bread, Jared, so what’s the point?’

‘They’ve got the best post-gym protein shakes.’

‘I thought we were just going for coffee?’

‘My fridge is empty,’ Jared said.

‘The brunching hour approaches,’ Richard said with mock gravitas as he patted me on the shoulder. ‘Besides, we already did your thing. Dragging us out of bed at an obscene hour on a Sunday morning—’

I barked out a laugh. ‘We didn’t meet at the gym until nine.’

‘As I say, obscene. It’s not even double digits,’ Richard said, shaking his head as if I were a simpleton. ‘So now we do my thing. No rushing about with takeaway coffee, no thank you. After all those weights, I need a little sit down, a chance to replenish my stores in time for winter.’

***

Two minutes later we stepped into the vast space that was Loaf Bakery, Roastery and Cafe. The bakery and roastery itself took over half of the cavernous old industrial building’s floor space, and you could see right through to where they worked. Even if you weren’t looking, you could certainly smell where you were – the freshly baked bread, the sugary sweet treats, and the distinctive, life-giving coffee aroma. I was salivating in anticipation.

We took a seat in the other half of the space, which was dotted with mismatched tables and chairs, glass cabinets overflowing with delicious baked treats, a huge handwritten blackboard suspended overhead with the menu and the specials.

Loaf was almost painful in its hipster pretensions, but the clientele it attracted tended to the bourgeoisie – yummy mummies wielding designer prams, bankers in eye-wateringly expensive suits, and Champagne socialists out for a boozy brunch. Despite all that, they did top-notch food.

And, as always, the place was buzzing.

‘Here they are, my three favourite athletes.’ A waiter had appeared at our table – tall, lean, fair skin, and curly brown hair – a tray of drinks already in hand.

‘Noah! My man,’ Richard said. ‘You say that to all the boys.’

‘I would never. And how’s my Lucy?’

‘She is my Lucy, thank you very much, Noah. She has a nice cousin, though, have I mentioned? He’s big and brooding – a rugby player, just your type.’

‘I look forward to meeting him.’ Noah winked. ‘But he could never replace my King Arthur and his two noble knights of the – well, the rather rickety square table. It has rounded edges though, so that’s something?’ He smiled, shaking his head. ‘Anyway, I come bearing refreshments. Richard, I’ve got your large cappuccino, extra cocoa on top.’

‘Grazie!’

‘Arthur, a regular latte for you.’

‘Thanks, Noah.’

‘And for you, my Hulk-in-training, I have our largest Caffeine-Protein Shake.’

‘Cheers, mate.’

Noah was another reason I both loved and hated coming to Loaf…

Love having someone know your coffee order.

Hate the knowledge that I’m so predictable, so overly risk averse.

Love the friendly banter.

Hate during said banter often having to lie and re-assert my apparent straightness in front of friends when confronted with such a confident and openly gay man.

Love that Jared and Richard seem so relaxed about Noah, enough even to flirt right back.

Hate the possibility that their reaction might be very different with me, one of their best mates.

Noah stepped back, tray down at his side and a smile on his face, making eye contact with each of us in turn. ‘And are we staying for food today?’

Jared beamed. ‘As Rich said a few minutes ago, does the pope—’

‘Yes, we’re eating,’ I said.

‘Great. Now, your coffee orders haven’t changed since I’ve known you… But are we going to try something different food-wise today? Arthur, any of the specials catch your eye?’

I always felt a little flurry of panic whenever he singled me out. He did it to all of us, just a way of making an easy and personal connection with his customers, I’m sure, but it always threw me. I couldn’t help thinking his gaydar was ding ding dinging and he was about to expose me. Despite my mini mental flip-out, my unresponsiveness would be even more suspicious, so I drew my lips into a line and shook my head.

‘Smashed avocado on sourdough, then, is it?’

‘Please,’ I said, feeling a little silly ordering the same thing every time, but it was just so good.

‘And Jared—’

‘Boiled chicken breast and steamed greens.’

‘Are you sure I can’t just bring out a damp cardboard box for you to chew on?’

Jared, not the sharpest at the best of times, seemed confused by the suggestion. ‘Why would I—’

‘Don’t you worry your pretty head about it,’ Noah said, patting his shoulder. ‘Chicken and greens, it is. Clean eating, I get it. Can I ask the cook to add—’

‘No butter, no seasonings. Just as it is.’

Noah drew his lips back over his teeth before offering a reluctant nod. I could empathise with the reaction. ‘You straight boys are a wonder. Lucky you’re all so cute or no girl would stand to eat out with you, not with this level of predictability or blandness in your ordering.’

‘I’ll make up for it, don’t you worry, mate,’ Richard said with a broad grin.

‘Go on then, Rich,’ Noah said, a smile on his lips and pen at the ready.

‘I’ll have your Full English, extra crispy bacon, if you please.’

‘Of course—’

‘And I think I’ll have a side of your blueberry pancakes today too.’

‘We don’t do pancakes as sides, but I can ask the kitchen to do a smaller portion for you?’

‘Oh no, I wouldn’t want to cause a fuss. A full portion will be fine – I can take it.’

‘Right you are, boss,’ Noah said, smiling as he added to Richard’s order. ‘Very good. We’ve got half the menu for Richard, Arthur’s usual, and some breast for Jared – chicken breast, that is.’

‘Aye, chicken. Save the real thing for me,’ Richard said. ‘A nice, plump, juicy set of—’

‘All right, calm yourself,’ I said with a strained smile in an attempt to divert Richard from going off on the many virtues of the female form – a favourite topic of his, no matter how problematic or inappropriate it was at any time or place, let alone as Sunday morning cafe conversation.

‘All right, yourself,’ Richard said before turning to face Noah. ‘He prefers a different cut of meat, does our Arthur.’

I froze at the comment, my whole body going so rigid his jovial elbow nudge almost tipped me out of my seat. I should’ve known better than to draw attention like that.

As I righted myself, I caught a raised eyebrow from Noah. ‘Does he now?’

‘Yeah, can’t appreciate the wonders of a nice pair, prefers a different pair.’

Where on Earth was he going with this? I was vibrating with anxiety now but dared not attempt to steer him off lest I make things worse.

‘He loves a good pair of legs,’ Richard said, to my relative relief. ‘Don’t you, Arty? Buns, too. I can appreciate that – thighs, quads, and a nice set of glutes. Actually, Noah, talking about Jared’s chicken breast… we already know they have thighs, but do you know if chickens have quads and glutes too?’

‘I can’t say that I do know, but I’ll leave you boys to discuss further while I go put in your orders.’

‘Thanks, mate,’ Richard said. He was about to turn back to me and Jared when he stopped to watch our waiter walk away. ‘See there, Noah’s got a nice butt, for a lean bean, and a guy, of course. But Noah knows what he’s about, I’m sure. Knows how to appeal to his target audience.’

I sipped my coffee, anything to give me a reason not to offer a comment. But I should’ve known I wouldn’t get let off so lightly.

‘Arthur,’ Richard said, ‘how do you feel about that butt? Forgetting for a minute it’s Noah’s, of course.’

Determined not to get sucked into this, I tried a different tactic. ‘What I feel is that we need to stop objectifying people, stop providing commentary on their physical attributes. It’s demeaning.’

‘All right, don’t answer then.’ Richard blew a raspberry, eyes wide as he held up his hands in mock defence. ‘No need to be such a prude about it, or get so hung up. Besides, we’re all a little bit gay, aren’t we, Jared?’

I hurriedly sipped my coffee again, anything to cover whatever reaction was no doubt splashed all over my face.

‘Yeah, probably. Might make things easier if I was gay.’ Jared’s typically serene demeanour shifted to a look of utter defeat. ‘Monica dumped me again.’

‘Oh, mate,’ Richard said, genuine in his disappointment. ‘That’s rough, why didn’t you say anything before?’

‘Only happened last night.’

‘Bugger. I liked her – sharp wit, wicked tongue. And really big hair, nice curls.’

‘No, that was Erica.’

‘I thought Erica was the brunette, the lawyer with the snappy suits?’

‘No, that was Rita.’

‘I don’t remember a Rita…’ Richard shrugged. ‘You’ve been a busy boy lately, I give up.’

‘Yeah, I think I probably should too,’ Jared said, crushed. ‘They seem so keen to start, but always drop me in no time at all.’

‘You’re all right, mate,’ Richard said, patting Jared on the hand. ‘Maybe you should give up on girls for a bit.’

Jared, handsome guy, heart of gold, but wretched luck when it came to dating. Still, he was so open about it all. The girls and the dates, the successes and the failures. I really felt for him.

Meanwhile, I felt like a sneak thief, meeting up on the down-low. And any romantic momentum that might build up inevitably took a nosedive when they realised how fixated I was on keeping it all secret. Even if I cleared that hurdle one day, it’s not like I could ever celebrate. I couldn’t tell anyone, be open like Jared was. And how was I ever supposed to find my Lucy like Richard had? They’d been dating for years. Richard was crass, abrasive, and often offensive, but also a real sweetheart, and he’d found his love match.

‘Arthur, do you know what would be a good distraction for Jared?’ Richard said, cutting into my thoughts. ‘What would help him get over his girl troubles?’

‘What’s that?’ I said, sighing in the knowledge that whatever he came up with would be unpleasant, one way or the other. Irrespective of that, I wanted the best for Jared.

‘Yeah?’ Jared said, hopeful.

‘What we do is we shift the spotlight.’

‘What?’

‘All that pressure you’ve lumped on yourself to land yourself a girl as wonderful as my Lucy…’ Richard nodded, his face solemn. ‘What if we took all that away? Took it away and redirected it, focusing our efforts instead on our man Arthur! Get him some sweet, sweet loving,’ Richard said with a gleeful smile, waggling his eyebrows.

I groaned. This was too much, all getting too stressful. It was comments like this – and they seemed to be cropping up more frequently of late – that made it clear I’d need to come clean and tell these guys, and soon. Just get it all out and let the chips fall where they may. I couldn’t have them setting me up with some poor girl. But that moment was not yet upon us as I was saved from answering by the timely arrival of Noah and our food.

We dived straight in, any thought of our prior conversation evaporating the moment the first forkfuls passed our lips.

I split the poached eggs atop my smashed avocado, steam escaping as they broke open – perfectly done, as always. It was all perfect, and after wolfing down the first few mouthfuls, my immediate hunger sated, I settled back for a breath before tackling the rest. Richard needed no such break, alternating between the savoury flavours of the deep-fried Full English and the sweetness of the blueberry pancakes, moans of pleasure escaping his lips with every mouthful. Jared attacked the saddest looking meal I think I’ve ever seen, but it was just as he’d ordered. I suspect he was eating at pace, not unrestrained by delight at the wonderful and rich tastes, but more to get it down as swiftly as possible before his taste buds registered that they had, yet again, been neglected.

***

In a matter of minutes, we’d all demolished our meals and leant back for a breather when Noah reappeared.

‘No mucking about today, it seems,’ he said as he scooped up our plates, each one practically polished clean. ‘And what are you boys up to after this, then?’

‘We need to do something to distract our sad, heartbroken little pup over here,’ Richard said, waving a languid hand in Jared’s direction.

‘You know,’ Jared said, ‘I kind of just want to chill—’

‘Let’s go hit something! That’ll make you feel better.’

‘Nah, I don’t think I need to hit anything.’

‘Yes, good. Jared’s on board,’ Richard said, heedless. ‘Shall we go to the batting cages? A nice, good wallop with a bat – that’s what you need.’

‘No, it’s really not. And we just did arms at the gym, can’t be hitting those muscles again so hard so soon.’

‘Right, yes. Of course,’ Richard said, flexing his own arms at his side, as if he regularly lifted anything more than his drink bottle at the gym. ‘I know, mini golf! That’s hitting things…’

‘No—’

‘No, you’re right. That’s a game of strategy and restraint – would probably only make you more sad and frustrated.’

‘How about the driving range?’ I said, recognising that we wouldn’t be getting out of doing something, so I might as well steer the course. Because if we left Richard in charge, he’d get it into his head that we needed strippers or some other similar distraction.

‘Yes, great idea!’ Richard nodded along. ‘Regular-sized golf, but without all the aiming or walking involved. You’re swinging your arms, but not really using them, are you? More like you’re hitting the ball with your whole body. Yes, we haven’t been to Topdrive in a wee while.’

Jared grimaced, resigned to the idea but willing to make the most of it. ‘Go on then.’

‘That’s the spirit! OK, wallets out, gents – we’ve got to pay this man first. Then let’s go hit some balls!’

This morning had gone much like any other Sunday morning, but I’d become conscious that the secret of my sexuality was getting increasingly difficult and uncomfortable. More importantly, I didn’t want to keep it a secret.

I could feel the pressure building, and I had to do something about it before I burst. To be ogling gym instructors, feeling my heart speed up during fleeting encounters with strangers on the stairs, flirting but also not flirting with waiters, dodging invasive yet well-meaning attempts by my friends to set me up… It was a constant, fraught battle. And besides, my sexuality’s cover was threadbare at best.

These two were my closest friends – I had to stop lying to them, and I wanted to stop. It was important, but it was hard.

Today was the day, wasn’t it? As good as any.

I was going to tell them, I had to.

‘All right,’ I said, ‘let’s do this.’

---

The story continues…

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