The Chav Prince
This was my fourth gay erotic novella, although who's counting, really. It first appeared in the Nifty archive and non-British correspondents made it pretty clear to me that I ought really have explained the chav phenomenon. I'm not a philologist and couldn't say from where he came, but the 'chav' is very much still a current British phenomenon: the Burberry baseball cap pitched far back on the head, trakkies and bling (heavy jewellery). The following adjectives apply to most chavs: skiving, drugged out, drunken, homophobic, randy, dysfunctional, thick. But nonetheless in the poetry and music of the Streets, and in gay fantasy, there is another sort of chav - street-smart, redeemable, betrayed and sad. Justin Macavoy, the Chav Prince, is that sort.
The story contains graphic depictions of sex between young males. If the reading or possessing of such material as this is illegal in your place of residence please leave this site immediately and do not proceed further. If you are under the legal age to read this, please do not do so.
Holloway Road was glistening with an early morning drizzle, and buses and cars hissed along the road, splashing through the standing puddles. Groups of schoolkids stood disconsolate in shop doorways waiting for the buses. The younger ones were squeezed out into the rain by the Year 10 and Year 11 packs, mixed groups of smoking and swearing blank-eyed or mischievous youths. The buses came, the kids shambled on, throwing their cigarettes into the gutters, and the street was turned over to the few shoppers willing to brave a wet and cold March morning; apart, that is, from a couple of Year 11 boys who had slipped down a side alley when their colleagues had surged to the bus doors.
'Useless mornin' innit,' said the taller of them. Actually, he had said 'Fuckin' useless cunt of a mornin' innit,' but the multiple expletives will just have to be understood by the reader to have been said.
'Arcade?' said the smaller lad, wrapped up in a green parka, the inevitable Burberry ballcap perched at an angle on his head.
'Nah. Community coppers got 'em frightened. And you look like a kid. No way we can pass you off as a school leaver.'
'Fuck. Might as well have gone to school.' They continued walking in silence. 'Me mam'll be in work at eleven,' said the shorter one, 'We could sneak in there. 'Er first shift doan' end till mid afternoon. Least it'll be dry.'
'Call.' said the taller boy. So they found a derelict garage behind some shops and sat smoking, staring out at the falling rain, and sniggering at a dismembered porn magazine scattered over the rubble on the floor.
'E's well hung that bloke, innee?' said the smaller boy. 'Mus' be nine inches.'
'E's a freak. Six inches is normal.'
The smaller boy, sniggered, 'So you're normal then innya?'
'Yeah, and you're subnormal.'
'Sluts doan' complain. I can keep it up like I eat Viagra sandwiches.'
'Who you screwin' at the moment?' asked the taller boy.
'No one. After I got Jade pregnant, they think I'm bad luck.'
'She 'avin the kid then?'
'Dunno. 'Er mum juss screams at me when she sees me.'
They chatted on desultorily, swapping their sexual anecdotes, some of them even true. The smaller boy took the lead in the conversation. He sat on a pile of rubble, chewing gum and holding forth like a lawyer. His face was animated, and, when relaxed, not unpleasant. A few spots only disfigured its boyish perfection. The problem with it was the knowing sneer that had made its home there. No one would make the mistake on seeing it of thinking that this was a nice boy even if he were nice looking. The looks had been so far used only as bait to the trap that was his rampant and precocious sexuality. His taller friend was very different, vacuous and wall-eyed.
Finally they stirred, and shambled back into the misty rain and made their way through the streets to a block of fifties flats off the Seven Sisters Road. As the smaller boy was putting his key in the lock they were aware of two tall dark figures detaching themselves from the corners, efficiently blocking their retreat. The taller boy made a bolt for it nonetheless, only to be collared efficiently and slammed into a wall.
The other man smiled easily down on the smaller boy, who looked resigned and had not moved.
'Morning, Justin. Didn't make it to school, I see?'
'Nice. You're coming along with us. Your social worker wants to see you, you've breached your last ASBO, and the magistrate's court's waiting for you.'
Justin had found a spot behind the potting shed, next to the compost heap. It was sheltered and you could have an uninterrupted gasper until you were missed. The sound of clipping came from the other side of the shed as Nathan the Fuckwit edged the lawn with care and devotion. What a complete tosser. He hated him. He hated the whole world and everything and everyone in it.
The bastards had finally caught up with him, as he had sworn they never would. He was in secure accommodation and was force marched daily into a positive action programme. They even took his cigarettes off him if they could find them. He hadn't had a joint since February, and it was now the beginning of May. The only sex he was getting was with his hand... which reminded him. He got his penis out and began slowly stroking it, imagining it was stuck in those hot and slick places where he had occasionally managed to insert it. .
Justin had a powerful sexual drive, more powerful than most boys his age and his penis often seemed to him to be permanently hard. He had to jerk off as often as three times a day, and even on the third time he fountained. Sex and Justin had not been strangers since he was twelve, when he had first talked himself into a girl's panties. He did not include the earlier experiences when his second stepfather had 'played' with him in the bath. In fact, that was something he tried not to think about at all: the big man holding him squirming and naked on his naked lap and the sharp pain in his backside that followed, the tearing of the friction inside him, the grunting and the smells. It had only stopped when his mother had found a new partner. He had never told.
He gave a stifled gasp and spurted his semen on the ground, six impressive jets. He sighed, licked off what had dribbled on to his right hand, and zipped up. He flipped his ciggy butt into the compost, picked up his trowel and slid back into the garden.
As he reappeared, Nathan straightened and looked round. 'Had your fag then, Justin?'
'Planning to do any work, today?'
'Just spread the compost around that border next to the shed.'
'Fuck off.' It amused Justin at the moment to confine himself to that single phrase when talking to Nathan. Justin had to get his amusement where he could, and baiting this gardening apprentice was the best he could manage at the moment. He was escorted daily to the gardening firm to which he had been assigned, and had to spend six hours working with the staff, although he had little intention of actually doing any work. After three weeks he had hoped they would tell his case officer to take him away, but unfortunately the boss, Mr Anderson, was persistent and had a lot of experience with hard cases like him. He rotated him around the teams, and they played a patient game with him. He had got so bored on three occasions now that he had actually done some work: clipping a hedge in a desultory fashion, digging a trench and spreading mulch. He hated the smile on old man Anderson's face when he had caught him at work the second time.
But with Nathan, seventeen year old and obnoxious, he would never work. He hated the fuckwit, his clear eyes, athletic body and tan. He hated his eagerness to please, his easy politeness and his willingness to get stuck in. The boy was everything that Justin despised, a walking accusation. Then Nathan did the thing he hated most, he stood up and stripped off his top, and that well-developed chest and six pack appeared. The fuckwit worked out and wanted the whole world to know it.
Justin sneered as Nathan caught his eye. 'You gay, Nathan?'
Nathan smiled, 'Fuck off.'
'Witty bastard.' Justin stood and defiantly crossed his arms as the fuckwit got back to his edging. He looked round. It was a hot May morning, the first heat wave of the year and the temperature was climbing up into the mid twenties. They were in the long back garden of a big private house on Highgate Hill. The French windows were open on to the raised patio. Justin reckoned it was the second time they had been there, and the previous time it was empty. But now someone was at home. Ghastly classical music was drifting out from an open window upstairs.
Justin strolled back past the shed to the opposite end of the garden. There was a converted garage at this end, with a fully equipped office in the lower floor; upstairs seemed to be a flat, judging by the colourful curtains at the windows. A dark-haired and thin young man was working at a computer in the office, a pencil was clenched between his teeth and a phone was wedged between his cheek and his shoulder. He had his back to the window and was oblivious of Justin outside. Justin watched him replace the phone and make a scribbled note. As the man was doing it another man came up silently behind him. He was well over six foot tall, and almost as broad as he was tall. He was powerful and good looking, and he clearly had designs on the smaller man. As he stood up and bent over to get a file, the bigger man pounced and pulled his trousers and pants down to his knees, exposing his white arse.
Justin caught his breath. The bigger man was only wearing shorts and a top. These disappeared and, pushing the clothes of the man under him up to his armpits, he thrust his invisible but obvious erection deep into him. There was laughter and a gasp, audible even outside to Justin. Then the man underneath was being vigorously and mercilessly humped by his lover. Justin was transfixed. He was seeing anal sex between two men. God! His own erection was splitting his pants. He could not look away. He was embarrassed by his fascination. With a tearing effort he pulled away and, desperate to take his mind off what he had witnessed, he knelt down and started spreading the compost, as he had been asked.
He was sweating, and it was not because of the heat of the day. His stomach was full of butterflies and he was light headed. Justin had been deeply aroused in a familiar and unwelcome way for him. To see that slight, dark man being thrust into by his big lover had stirred him to his foundations. The memory of what his stepfather had done to him as a boy flooded back, but it was not the pain and the outrage that dominated this time, it was the memory of the guilty pleasure from the big caressing hands covering his stiff ten-year-old penis and from the fullness of his strained anal sphincter. With a sense of real horror Justin realised that he wanted it again, and he wanted it badly. His erection would not go down.
He was still preoccupied when he was startled by a voice in his ear, 'Good job, lad.' Justin stood and looked at old man Anderson, accompanied by a stranger, a blond man in his early twenties, exactly of a height with himself. Justin had unconsciously mulched an entire border, and it was a good job. He suddenly hated old man Anderson as much as he hated himself.
The stranger smiled at him and said pleasantly in an American accent, 'It really looks good, kid.'
'Fuck off,' replied Justin.
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