That’s why I’m here. She didn’t like the conditions of my old job as a basis for marriage…”“Why not?”“I would have been travelling too...much, too far for too long. She wanted a husband who would come home at six o’clock every evening, not be sending her a telegram from Austria, or Australia. So I resigned and took a job here.”“And then what?”“She decided she didn’t want a commuting husband either. She didn’t want to live in a London suburb. She wanted to live in her home town. But I couldn’t get. I smile. "I want you to cooperate with me, you shitty little gayboy. And I can't trust you not to move. So I'm going to make it so that you can't, unless you're a good boy." To my delight, you nod. "Right. On your back, faggot".You flop back onto the bed, scrambling up it so that you are spread-eagled. The sheet rucks up and rumples around your body as you pull it un-tucked in your unseemly haste to obey me. "Spread your arms and legs, boy" I say, and you do - you point each limb at each corner. The mother had more questions than a game of Trivial Pursuit. How good is the back support? Where does the fabric come from? Are there reviews? But the son was the one making this torturous.Usually mothers and sons are in and out in a flash. No matter how picky the mothers are, the sons are such little shits about shopping the mothers end up just picking one willy-nilly and going home.Not this kid. He was very attentive – just not for the mattresses. From the moment they walked in, his eyes. She was carrying a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. Walking over to the large old cherry tree she set the tray on the ground, picked up a glass in one hand, the pitcher in the other and poured a glass for me.“Thanks Mary Cecile,” I said as I took her offering, “I lost track of time.” I lied. My thoughts had been driving me nuts and I was in such deep thought about her that I had been startled when she came out to me. Sitting down with my back to the tree I took a sip. “This is.
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