The First Time

Shay Sheridan

His first time was almost his last.

Mickey was cool, and mysterious, and had a car because his family was well to do; he was from as far on the other side of the tracks from Ray's own crowded flat as was possible to imagine. He was older too, sixteen, but two years can seem an impossibly wide chasm when you're fourteen yourself.

The first time he saw Mickey Holcomb, Ray was on his way to buy beer for his father. He turned the corner by the local and glimpsed a lanky figure leaning casually against a black MG. The boy was talking to his mates, a couple of older lads in posh clothes, so Ray stopped where he was by the wall, watching as they stood smoking and laughing. They looked happy, he thought. Probably not a care in the world, and certainly no lack of money. He wondered, idly, if back home their parents argued and drank too much, if there were times their fathers hit their mothers for burning the toast, or for imaginary lovers, or for nothing at all. He doubted it. Must be nice to be them. He tried to quell the bitterness in his thoughts, and turned to go.


He halted, frozen for a moment, wondering with a rush of adrenaline if they meant to attack him. There were six of them, all bigger than him, and just because they were rich didn't mean they weren't a gang, a bunch of snotty kids ready to give the business to a runty scruff with torn jeans and a threadbare jumper. Well, let them try. He could fight well enough, and fight dirty. He was no mean hand with a knife; he had one in his pocket right now, in fact. His hand went to it, clutching it in his fist. He turned to face them, squaring himself.

But the only one approaching was the boy from the car. And he wasn't doing anything but smiling lazily at Ray, looking not in the least like he wanted a fight. Ray's hand relaxed.

The boy stopped a few feet away. "Hey," he said again. "Wanna smoke?"

Ray nodded. He was out of fags anyway -- they cost too bloody much and his father counted his. No sense stealing those, unless he wanted a taste of his old man's fist himself. "Sure," he said, still wary.

"C'mon over then," the boy said. He was tall, much taller than Ray, with a thatch of straight black hair cut stylishly with a fringe nearly covering dark blue eyes. "I'm Mickey," he said, holding out a pack of French cigarettes. Ray took one.

"Ray," he said. "Ray Doyle."

That was how they met.

He started hanging out with Mickey, then, though not usually with Mickey's mates. They didn't seem as open-minded as Mickey; they made little veiled comments in posh accents, comments about the unwashed mob, about the public dole, about those who had to work for a living at menial jobs. They talked about council flats, and the poor who lived there, people like the Doyles. They made Ray want to use his knife on them, to wipe the superior smiles off their faces once and for all.

But Mickey wasn't that way. He seemed genuine, seemed like a real sort of bloke. By the end of the summer they were spending most of their days together, lazy careless days spent smoking and drinking, listening to music, talking endlessly about cars, travel to faraway places they'd never been, and where Ray at least had no hope of ever going. As far as Mickey was concerned, Ray was well on his way to hero worship. Mickey, cool and confident, seemed endlessly knowledgeable, particularly about sex. Sure, Ray was no virgin, he made that quite clear; he had his own experiences – he'd fucked the girl down the road twice, hadn't he? But Mickey boasted he'd slept with two girls at the same time once, and had an impressive number of girls give him blowjobs, if one could believe him. Ray believed him, and was indeed impressed.

And then Mickey told him he'd gotten a blowjob from a boy, and Ray was beyond impressed – he was shocked. Mickey didn't look the type.

Of course, getting head from a bloke wasn't like giving head, it didn't make you queer.

The first time Mickey kissed him, right there in the old warehouse where they liked to hang out, surrounded by motorbike magazines and beer bottles, Ray pulled away and scrambled across the dirty floor, surprised and angry.

Mickey stood up, started to apologise. Ray, flushed with anger, muttered something inane and left.

But he thought about the kiss, how it made him feel. Did Mickey think that he, Ray, was queer? Did he think Ray was going to blow him, too?

He thought about that. What would it be like? Would he be disgusted, repelled? But some girls seemed to like it. Some of them even swallowed. Could he even imagine doing such a thing himself? The more he thought about it, the less angry he became, and the more it didn't seem horrible at all.

But he liked girls – he wasn't queer, though if he allowed himself to admit it, sometimes when he saw a good-looking bloke he felt funny, and sort of turned on. Mickey was certainly good-looking. And he liked Mickey. He liked him a lot.

Maybe, Ray considered, he even, maybe, sort of, kind of liked him that way. He tried not to think about what that meant. After all, he wasn't queer. Not really.

The first time Mickey offered to blow him, Ray was even more surprised, and turned on, so turned on he came in his pants just thinking about it. Mickey laughed at him, but not meanly, and Ray went home, completely abashed.

The next time, Mickey did what he'd promised.

The time after that, Ray returned the favor.

It was weird, and it made his jaw hurt, but it wasn't exactly disgusting. It was Mickey, after all, and Mickey was his best mate. Besides, Mickey had done it to him, first, so it was sort of a dare. He'd show him he wasn't afraid. He sucked Mickey till Mickey came, and then spat out Mickey's come before he had time to think about what he'd done.

The first time Mickey fucked him was also the last time, and the last time he ever saw him.

It was on an old, filthy mattress in the warehouse, where of late they'd taken to kissing and jerking each other off as well as smoking and bullshitting. This time, when Mickey's mouth fastened on Ray's cock there was a slowly dawning awareness of something very, very new as Mickey put a finger up Ray's bunghole. It wasn't painful, it was strange, and yet it felt good. And when Mickey twisted his finger and touched something inside him, whatever panic was growing in him dissipated in lieu of a wave of arousal stronger than any he'd known before. Ray writhed and moaned, his cock near bursting, but Mickey pulled his mouth off and whispered hoarsely, "Can I, Ray? Can I put it in you? Let me, Ray, I promise you'll like it."

As near as he was to shooting his load, Ray was in no position to argue. "Yeah," he groaned, "yeah, Mickey, do it to me, do it please!" Anything, so long as he could come.

He let Mickey pull him to his knees and bend him over. And then something far larger than a finger was forcing its way inside him. Mickey was too eager to care if he hurt him, and it hurt like nothing he'd felt before and his cock wilted with the pain. Mickey shoved once more and Ray cried out and then bit his lip till it bled. But then there was a hand on his limp cock and Mickey moved and hit that place inside him, and the pain was accompanied by sensations far more pleasant, and Ray pushed back and let Mickey fuck him.

He was finally getting into it, feeling a growing arousal stronger than anything he'd ever experienced with the girl down the street, or even with Mickey blowing him. It was Mickey around him, inside him, and Ray thought I love him, I love Mickey, I'll love him forever as his passion crested and spilled over onto the mattress and Mickey's stroking hand—

When the door crashed open, Ray was so far into his climax that he scarcely heard the noise. And then a work boot was smashing into his side, hurling him against the wall, as his father's reddened face appeared above him.

"You fucking faggot! What the fuck are you doing?"

The boot crashed again, catching him in the ribs, and Ray screamed and folded into a ball. Through a red haze he saw Frank Doyle grabbing Mickey by the shirt and throwing him to the ground, saw Mickey scuttle away on all fours, heard him crying, heard the door slam as Mickey ran through it and disappeared. And then the elder Doyle turned back to his son, pulling him up with one hand, smacking him across the face over and over again, shouting obscenities.

Ray struggled against the bigger, stronger body. But his jeans were still around his ankles, and when he finally pushed away he toppled over, trapped.

"Not. . .a. . .faggot—" he forced out in halting breaths. His side was on fire; his eyes stung with tears of pain and terror.

"No? You think you're a man? Is that what a man looks like? Is that what a man does?" Blows and rained down on him with every word. "You're not a man, you bloody poof, you're a fucking queer!"

The massive hand pulled him up again. Through slitted eyes Ray saw his father's fist pull back, and then he was hit with such force that he crashed face-first into the wall. He felt something give in his cheek, a pain of such magnitude that he crumpled to the ground barely conscious. Dimly, through the shock of agony he heard Frank Doyle slam out the door. And then he yielded to the darkness.

Later, when he woke in hospital, courtesy of the night watchman hired to secure the warehouse, he was glad Mickey never came to see him. He hated him. He'd turned him into a queer.

His first time was nearly his last time, and nearly the death of him.

The second took a long time in arriving.


Ray Doyle blinked back the tears the memories had pulled from him, and ducked his head into the pillow. "Yeah."

"You all right?"

Ray nodded.

"Hey." The familiar voice was brimming with concern. "Hey, sunshine. Look at me. I didn't hurt you, did I?"

He let the pillowcase absorb whatever still lurked in the corners of his eyes and turned slowly into the steady blue gaze. "'M fine. You didn't hurt me. Not a bit. Was lovely, actually." He ran his hand along the handsome jaw. "Was the best."

Bodie turned into Ray's palm, nuzzling it, the concern at last lifting from his face. But the lowered lashes framed appraising eyes. "But it's something, isn't it? Something wrong."

"Nah, mate. Nothing wrong. Just remembering." And I thought I loved Mickey.I didn't even know what the word meant. Ray smiled up at his partner, now his partner in everything. "Just remembering, Bodie. And now I can forget."

Note: This was written for the movie line challenge in The Safehouse.
The given line was "Is that what a
man looks like?" (Fight Club)

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