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Cockwomble by Camy


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by Camy


You’re a bastard, John, a complete and utter cockwomble,” I said, glowering at my best friend who had the gall to grin at me. I came yea close to thumping him.

“Cute, isn’t he?” John said, grin getting bigger, almost wolfish. “Still, that was no reason to turn tail and run. You fucked up the rehearsal and audition good and proper, mate.”

“I know,” I said, “but after Nick’s tantrum last week and Gavin’s the week before I reckon I’m due a tantrum of my own, and a bit of TLC. Fair do’s.”

“TLC, eh? Isn’t that what your right hand’s for?”

“Left, to be pedantic. Besides it’s none of your business what I do with my hands.”

“Surely is if I’m managing you,” John said, grin fading. “We’ve got traction on social media, gigs booked, a week left to rehearse, and that bloke coming from the label. It’s important, Neil.”

“I know,” I said, prodding at a jam doughnut that had seen better days. We were standing in the rehearsal room’s tiny kitchen, which was, to be frank, like the rest of the place; a shithole. I took a sip of the instant coffee John had made. It didn’t improve my mood.


“Think they’ll still be here?” I mused.


“Right,” I said, mentally girding my loins for the caustic comments I knew I’d get from the rest of the band, and adding my coffee cup to the pile already in the sink. I was glad I didn’t have to wash up. “I take it he’s a good bass player?”

“He wouldn’t be here if…”

“Umm… hi?”

I turned around so fast I was amazed I hadn’t scorched the lino, and there he was: the cutest bass player in the world. If I’d been a cartoon, along with a klaxon, my eyes would have leapt out of their sockets and turned into beating hearts.

Oh, why do I have to be gay, and why does everyone I know have to be so damn heterosexual. It’s not bloody fair!

“Hi… Guy? Right?”

“Yep, that’s me.” Guy said. John snickered and his grin reappeared. “As we were introduced a mere fifteen minutes ago I guess it’s proof your short term memory is up to snuff.

"Anyway,” he barreled on, as I realised I was gawping at him and shut my mouth with a clack of teeth, “The band sent me to find out if that was it and they could pack up and go home, or if you’d be deigning to come back and rehearse for a bit. Also, I need to tell my mum when she should pick me up.”

“Sorry, what? Your mum?”

“Yeah, she’s a dear,” he said with a sweet smile. “She brought me ‘cause my bike’s off the road at present, and I didn’t want to splurge for a cab.”

“I don’t blame you,” I said, determined not to get flustered. Casually, I leant back against the kitchen counter and put my elbow in the rancid sink water. “Fuck!” I sputtered, pushing myself off the counter.

“Nice wet sweatshirt,” Guy said, with a grin that matched John’s. “So…?”

“So please tell them I’ll be back just as soon as I’ve changed my top.”

“I’ll go,” John said, and did just that, closing the kitchen door behind him.

Bemused, I looked at the door, then over at Guy who was standing with his back to the far wall. He was, in real terms, about five feet away from me. Too close.

You can’t kiss someone you’ve only just met, so stop thinking about it. Besides, he’s too young. Must be if his mother brought him to audition.

“How old are you?” I said, before my brain had a chance to stop me.

He blinked, then smiled, his eyes creasing with laughter. “Old enough.”



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