They work on a building site on Elwood Street. Bob is 58 and stocky, about 5,10″. Pawel is 31, 6,2″, only recently arrived from some shit-hole near Warsaw. He has blonde hair and works out quite a bit, mainly at home before work. Bob likes to eat. Bob likes to masturbate. Bob likes his wife. Bob likes Pawel. They often land up taking the same train into work from Ealing. They don’t talk much. Pawel is usually tired, slightly hung over, and grumpy. Pawel fucking hates the morning. Pawel hates England. But now the day is over and Pawel is getting out of his work gear.
“What you looking at, Bob?”
“I’m looking at you, Pawel,” Bob says.
“You like me, Bob?”
“I like you, Pawel.”
Bob is Irish with that soft Dublin lilt, a whisper that is sexy to some but meek to others. or like he’s trying to hide something. He’s been in London since the 70s. He was into boys for a bit. Men, that is, and then he got married. It was a way of escaping stuff, like that fucking virus. But lust is stronger than all of that. Lust is much stronger than the will to survive, to be healthy, to be good and kind. Lust is stronger than everything. It is close to the death wish. To fuck and come and then die. Bob doesn’t care anymore.
To live like some fucking animal driven by hunger, by cock. Or, in Bob’s case, Pawel’s cock. A fat Polish dick. Uncut and low hanging, a grower and a shower, with a thick mass of pubic bush, the type you find on real men, men who don’t shave their balls, men who don’t care what women think. Men like Pawel who’ll fuck anything, drink anything, eat anything, go anywhere. Pawel’s not scared of anything, and he’s not scared of some pedałem staring at him while he gets out of his overalls.
“And you like this?” he says to Bob, and shakes his fat cock at the Irishman, and laughs.
“I do,” Bob says. “I like that, Pawel.”
“You want to see more, Bob?”
“More what, Pawel?”
So Pawel turns to face Bob, full frontal, all six-foot two of him, muscled and hairless except for the dark hair that sticks out from under his armpits and that bush at the top of his dick, a dick that’s getting bigger as Pawel stands there with his hands on his hips as if to get them out the way so Bob can have a good look.
Pawel has a girlfriend – if you can call her that. Her name’s Tracey. Tracey is fat and self-loathing and lives in his block. Tracey loves Pawel. Tracey also loves the guy who used to live in Pawel’s flat and a couple of the other guys who live on the estate. Tracey loves to love. Tracey is morose. But she’s available. And Pawel hasn’t met anyone else in the block or on the estate, or in London, except for Bob. And when Tracey says let’s go to a bar or a club, Pawel says what for. Pawel gets up early for work.
Pawel fucks Tracey in front of the TV. He fucks her before dinner and then fucks her again after dinner. He comes when he fucks her the second time. She’s on the pill, but either way he doesn’t mind. Pawel has a son and a daughter back home. He’s met them a couple of times. At midnight, Tracey goes back to her flat and Pawel comes again while jerking off and thinking about all sorts of fucked-up shit.
“So, what you say, Bob?”
“About what?” Bob says. “About what, Pawel?”
“Come here Bob,” Pawel says.
Bob moves away from the doorway. His mouth is dry. His dick is hard. Bob is scared but that means nothing.
“I like you, Bob,” Pawel says, and puts his hand up to let Bob know he should stop, that he must not come any further. Not yet. “You are like my father. Not so big like my father, but in the face.”
“Am I?” Bob says.
“Bob,” Pawel says. “How is your wife?”
“My wife?”
“Yes,” Pawel says. “Your wife.”
“She’s fine.”
“Do you fuck your wife, Bob?”
“Ai, Pawel. Leave it out, mate.”
“Not out, Bob. Not out. In. You put it in.”
Pawel’s cock is hard and big. It is the biggest Bob has seen in a long time, and Bob is in the kind of state a man who likes dick can be in when he hasn’t seen dick in a very long time. Bob is fucking catatonic. Like he’s being held at gunpoint, a man about to die, and by fucking god, even if he knows he can turn and walk away, that is the last thing he’ll be doing.
“And your wife, Bob?” Pawel says. “You think she will like this?”
“Pawel, mate.”
“You tell me,” Pawel says. “I will tell you about my girlfriend.”
“Tracey?” Bob says. “You mean Tracey.”
“Next time you come to visit,” Pawel says. “We fuck together.”
“Show me,” Bob says.
“What?”
“Show me how you fuck her?”
“You see,” Pawel says, and makes a fist. He shows Bob the hole he has made between his fingers, in the centre of his fist.
Bob laughs.
“Now you,” Pawel says, and waits for Bob to make a fist. “Come,” he says to Bob and Bob walks towards him and Pawel takes hold of Bob’s fist and spits into it.
But Pawel’s dick is too thick to fit in Bob’s closed fist.
“Maybe your mouth, Bob,” Pawel says.
It’s August and it’s hot. For the whole of June and July it seemed as if the summer would never come. Pawel was fucking miserable. Him and Bob kept visiting the betting shop near the building site and Pawel kept giving Bob weather updates from Poland. “In Warsaw,” he’d say. “You know how much is the temperature?”
“How much?” Bob would say.
“Twenty-seven. It is the same in Morocco. And what is it in Dublin?”
“Fuck Dublin, mate,” Bob would say.
And they’d bet on the horses and talk about Spain. But now it was hot at last and they were loving the weather. Pawel didn’t talk about Warsaw, and there were days when Bob felt so fucking hot and miserable that the only place he could think of to go and get some respite from the heat was Dublin, and he hadn’t been to Dublin in sixteen years.
[to be continued]
Michael Wynne 