...There’s a reason I’m not going down the pub tonight, and it’s got me whistling as I peer into the bathroom mirror and try to decide if I’d look better with or without the two-day stubble. The gay scene ’round here isn’t up to much, this being Hertfordshire and not bloody San Francisco, but such as it is, I’ve been missing it. I haven’t been to any of the bars since I got out of hospital last time. So when I woke up this morning, hard-on the size of a Chieftain tank, I decided tonight’s the night. And then I had a bloody good wank, remembering the last time I went clubbing.

It was just before we got shipped out to Afghanistan. Weird now, thinking of it. Like I was a different person then. S’pose I was, really.

I was a fair bit taller, for one thing.

Taller than the bloke I hooked up with that night, anyhow. Pretty little thing, he was. Too pretty for me. I mean, come on. I haven’t got hang-ups, but I know what I look like, right? Nice body; shame about the face. ’Course, these days that first bit’s only two-thirds right. So when he came dancing up to me, I didn’t take a lot of notice. Thought he’d be moving on to someone behind me any minute.

Okay, that’s a lie. I took notice, all right. He was fucking gorgeous, wasn’t he? Cheekbones so sharp you could cut yourself and pouty red lips that looked like they’d already gone ten rounds with some lucky bastard’s cock before he even got here. Soft brown hair and eyes to match. I could feel my jeans getting tighter just watching him wiggle those cute little hips to the Scissor Sisters.

Then the music changed, and it was something slow. Can’t remember what. And he just looked up at me. Didn’t say anything. Just looked and held out a hand.

To me.

So I took it—I mean fuck, I’m not stupid. And we danced together, pressed up against each other, our cocks rubbing together through our clothes and his hands in the back pockets of my jeans as he dropped whisky-scented kisses on my neck. Every time I hear “The Time of My Life” or have a glass of Scotch now I think of him.