Long Drive North

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Note on Language: This is a story about two blokes who are from northern England. While I’ve toned it down a little, there’s a lot of linguistic references in this story which might take some explaining, especially in the dialogue.

It might help to know that “Nowt” and “Summat” are “nothing” and “something”, that “da” and “fatha” both mean “father”, that “dunnut” means “don’t” and “mebbe” means “maybe.” Egging someone one means encouraging them, “daft” and “dozy” both mean (basically) “silly”, calling someone a “chav” is probably equivalent to an American calling them “white trash.” “gob”, “nob” and “cocksnot” are “mouth”, “penis” and “semen” more or less, and throughout the story “t'” means either “the” or “to” depending on context. Hope that helps!

Anyway. Here we go. Hope you like it.


Long distance drives can be a killer. Literally. The first time I drove the length of the country – from Carlisle to Exeter to visit some friends – I pushed it too far with post-adolescent cockiness and nearly ended up as a road-accident statistic. I’m grown up a lot since then, and I’ve been a lot more cautious, always arranging either a half-way break at a hotel, or a buddy to take half the driving duties, or both.

This particular trip was kind of a “both.” My older brother, Jack, was getting married. He’d picked the arse-end of nowhere for the ceremony, the wilds of Scotland miles from anywhere civilized. It promised to be a big do, and it’s good to touch base with the larger family from time to time, but work commitments and an unplanned-for shift change had meant that I was forced to leave London fairly late on the Friday afternoon, with a long trip ahead of me.

So I’d brought a buddy along to keep me company. Unfortunately Geordie Garry – Gaz – didn’t drive. Not legally at any rate. He’d lost his license a couple of years previously, and while that hadn’t stopped him driving from time to time, I’d been fairly clear from the outset that he was along for company only. I wasn’t about to risk a random stop by the busies resulting in a missed wedding, problems with my own license, and potential jail-time for Gaz. Mind you I was also motivated by the fact that when behind the wheel of a car Gaz was a danger to himself and other road users – which is why he’d lost his license in the first place, prompting our first serious punch-up and nearly finishing our friendship for good.

Gaz and I had met shortly after I’d moved to London, in a pub, watching West Ham getting hammered and got hammered, and then went back to mine and hammered each other. Neither of us had been fans of the team, and I can remember nowt about the match apart from the beery haze and a bit of verbal fencing as we danced around the subject of fucking each other.

We’d been good mates since that day, still fucked like bunnies whenever the mood took us. While we spent more nights in each others’ company than not, we both had our own flats and liked it that way. We’d been buddies for nearly ten years, and during all that time had never “talked about our relationship” or any shite like that. We weren’t exclusive, but we were careful (and while he was a dozy prick about most things, Gaz was sensible about fucking around). Gaz had been in London a bit longer than I had, and while he would always be Geordie Gaz to his mates, his accent had had its corners knocked off by spending most of his youth with his dad in Yorkshire and fifteen years of hanging around Cockneys. He claimed to be bisexual, mostly at parties when he thought he had a chance with someone, but hadn’t fucked a bird as long as I’d known him. I didn’t define myself by where I liked to shove my cock, and that suited us both just fine.

When I’d mentioned the wedding, Gaz had jumped at the chance of an open bar and a weekend away from London. I’d picked him up from the pub after I’d finished work, and we’d headed north. I’d taken a few minutes in the first service station we came to and changed into jeans, T-shirt and shirt but Gaz had been happy in his work gear.

Being in the building trade, my mate had turned up for the trip in a paint-and-plaster spattered Newcastle United T-shirt that had seen better days, knee length shorts and dog-eared trainers. While he looked scruffy, I have to admit he carried it off. He lounged next to me in the passenger seat, flicking through a copy of Viz he’d picked up in the service station, and drinking his third small bottle of Lucozade. Occasionally he’d run one hand through his skull-cropped dark hair, or tug at one of the coarse tufty hairs sticking out of the nape of his tee. His casual gear allowed him to show off his forearms and legs, tightly wrapped in curly hair to match the thatch on his head. He had a three-day beard but had promised faithfully to shave before the wedding. Broad shouldered, with stocky legs, he was as well-built as anyone who makes their living hefting bricks and mortar around and spends their free time propping up a bar. He was wearing a bit of beer fat on his escort bahçelievler belly, but he wasn’t the only one, and he certainly didn’t have any flab anywhere that mattered.

We made a bit of a pair, the two of us. Both dark, both burly – stocky in his case, five-ten to my six-foot or so. Both a bit tired from a long day at work and then on the road. I was feeling tense and irritable, and we still had several hours to go before we reached the hotel and I could have a shower and relax ahead of the wedding tomorrow. I wasn’t really looking forward to it, and was mostly doing it to please my Mam and Dad. I knew the rest of the family looks down on me for moving to London and working in a succession of uninspiring blue-collar jobs instead of making something of my life. There was also a bit of disapproval from the older generation due to my so-called “lifestyle choice.” Fuck ’em.

Out of the blue Gaz suddenly said

“You know what I’ve always wanted to do?”

It was the first either of us had spoken intelligible words – rather than just grunting – since we’d driven into Northumbria about an hour or so ago. It was past ten and I hadn’t noticed how close to nodding off I’d gotten until Gaz spoke.

“Fuck mate this isn’t gonna be another dire thing you’d do to that poor lad is it?”

We’d picked up a hitchhiker at Scotch Corner, heading north. A young lad – well a young man – returning home from University for the summer, hitching because he’d pissed all his cash up against the wall. We’d spent the trip bantering away, taking the piss out of the fella for being a Manchester United supporter. Gaz is a staunch Newcastle supporter, and I don’t really bother with the footie beyond an excuse to get pissed except when England is playing, and even that’s wearing off since they’re giving such a shite performance right now. Still, one of my dirty secrets that I confided to Gaz in an unguarded moment was that while a lot of blokes fancy Beckham I’ve always wanted to fuck Wayne Rooney. Gaz never let me live it down.

The fella had been a laugh, once it’d become clear that we weren’t going to try and rape him and leave him naked by the side of the road (well, I wasn’t at any rate). He’d livened the journey up until we dropped him off with a tenner for his bus fare. Gaz had claimed there was sexual tension but I reckon he was talking shite. After we’d dropped the lad off, Gaz had spent twenty minutes or so describing in graphic detail – with gestures – what he’d have liked to have done to the fella, making me snort Lucozade out of my nose at one point, and culminated with the poor lad naked and covered in spunk and piss. It was mostly talk – while Gaz used to say that every now and again he liked to fuck a Chav to keep his hand in, neither of us really fancied the younger model. Neither of us could be arsed breaking someone in – while it might sound like fun to screw a virgin, it’s just too much hassle.

Gaz talked a good game, but I knew from past experience that he was more than capable of coming through if the mood took him.

“Who? Nah fuck that. Nah this is summat else. Just gotten thinking about it as we’re off up t’see yer family, like”

I rolled down the window a bit to let some fresh air in, wake myself up a little, and took a firmer grip on the steering wheel, shooting him a quick sideways glance. He was looking a bit furtive, his Viz unattended in his lap, and I was intrigued but also worried about where this might be going.

“No mate, tell me, what’ve you always wanted t’do?”

He took another loud gulp of Lucozade and belched loudly.

“Well I’ve always wanted t’fuck a bloke and his dad. At the same time like.”

I swerved, surprised. There was an unsettling confessional tone in Gaz’s voice and I hoped this wasn’t going to get awkward. My dad is in his sixties, and straight as a die, and even if he hadn’t been I was not interested in that kind of thing at all.

Gaz went on oblivious.

“Or a bloke and ‘is son, either is fine, know what I mean.”

“Fuck no mate, I dunnut know what you mean. An’ you can forget about fuckin’ my dad.”

“What?” Gaz sounded genuinely surprised. “Jesus fuck that the man’s in his seventies.”

“Sixties” I corrected. Gaz waved this way and kept talking.

“Nowt like that, y’daft cunt, keep your hair on. Not into granddad bashing or kiddyfiddling or nowt. Grown up son, the dad not too far past it. Y’know, like Chris an’ his fatha.”

Chris was a mutual friend, in his mid twenties. His dad was divorced and in his forties, and the pair of them were a great laugh when we went out boozing. There was no suggestion they went on the pull together, or had any interest in the sort of scenario Gaz was starting to describe.

I still wasn’t getting it, and said so.

“What it is, is it’s me fuckin’ the pair of ’em, like. Imagine pulling your cock out of a bloke, wiping it on ‘is arse and then slamming it into ‘is dad. Screwing a bloke escort balgat while his fatha is egging y’on to treat his boy right. Having a bloke watch while his da gobbles you. It’d be mint!”

I detected more than a note of the usual banter in Gaz’s voice. This was clearly something he’d thought about before, but the first time he’d mentioned anything like it. A quick glance over at him showed he was getting a bit excited by the prospect. He never wore underwear if he could help it, and when he did he constantly whinged about sweaty balls and an itchy sack. It was developing a bit of a lob-on, nudging his magazine aside.

“C’mon mate, it’d be class. I mean I’m not talkin’ about the two of em fuckin’ each other. That’s not right. They can do that on their own time if they like, but I don’t want to know about it.”

He paused for a moment clearly thinking about it a bit more and then said:

“Mind you, I’m not saying I wouldn’t want the bloke to hold his da’s head while I was nobbin’ his gob. Fuck imagine getting the old fella to lend a hand gettin’ me cock into his boys arse, lube me up so I can slide straight in, maybe guide the old meat truncheon into the goal, know what I mean? I reckon it’d be a bondin’ experience. Hell it’d be no different to that time in Greece.”

“That time in Greece” was a holiday we’d taken together a few years back with a bunch of the other single lads. We’d spent a fortnight boozing and lazing around in the sun, and during the second week the two of us had met a couple from Essex, man and his wife, the fella in the same line of work as Gaz, who’d spent an evening buying drinks and then invited us back to their room to spit-roast him while his wife frigged herself off with a hairbrush.

They’d wanted to keep in touch, but we’d politely declined. I still had a few Polaroids the pair gave us as a parting gift in the shoebox under my bed I kept for when I was feeling a bit lonely and bored.

I nudged Gaz and looked pointedly at the Lucozade bottle. He passed it to me and I took a swig, then handed it back. He lit a fag, took a few drags, and handed it over to me as well. I could taste his mouth on the filter end. The satnav was muttering about turning, but I turned the volume down a little and took the turning it recommended.

“Gaz, you telling me you’d be able to look your dad in the eye again after you’ve seen a dozy builder ploughing him out and calling him a cunt?”

He frowned. One of Gaz’s weak spots was his dad, who he loved with all his heart, big soft lad that he was. There’d been a few edgy moments the first time we’d visited him, on our way somewhere else, and he’d walked in on his son sucking my dick in the bathroom. He’d had a bit of a heart-to-heart with the old geezer afterward, which was good for him, and after he’d passed out later that night his dad, also a bit the worse for wear, confided in me that he’d always been pleased that Gaz had got out of the north-east before he’d gotten into too much trouble. He’d always been worried his jack-the-lad son was going to end up lumbered with a knocked-up girlfriend off one of the estates, like too many of the other boys had, and he’d been relieved that he’d not. Now he could see why …

“We’re not talkin’ bout my dad, you daft cunt. I reckon it’d do a bloke good to see his fatha fuckin’. Hell I reckon it’d make a man proud to see his dad really ownin’ an arse, really ridin’ it down, y’know? And if I had a son it’d do me good to know he could handle his cock like, find his way round an arse. Or a cunt if he’s that way inclined”

He gulped some more Lucozade, replaced the cap and then chucked the bottle of mostly-spit over his shoulder onto the back seat. Gaz absent-mindedly rubbed the bulge in his shorts, which was moving on from half-lob to full-lob as he talked.

“Or fuck it, if you’re getting fucked up about a man and his dad, what about a pair o’ brothers. Yeah, that’d be nearly as good. Mebbe better.”

I didn’t entirely like where this was headed, but the thickening bulge in Gaz’s pants was distracting me. My brother and I did not get on. We were doing better than we had in years, but we were not close. There’d been an incident when he first found out that I liked to fuck blokes that’d lead to harsh words and eventually to me smacking the shit out of the mouthy little twat. After that we’d entered an uneasy truce, civil to each other at holidays, asking after each other’s health and such. I was not going to be his best man, despite hints from our parents. That honour was going to his best mate, and I’d had a difficult conversation with my mam about it, as she’d had her heart set on her two boys standing up together.

I was worried that Gaz was working up to something about me and Jack standing up together himself, and I really didn’t need that image in my head. I wasn’t wrong

“You never wanted to spit roast your Jack? Mebbe get him pissed up at the reception and …”

I smacked Gaz across the back escort batıkent of the head without looking and he guffawed nastily, lighting another cigarette. He didn’t stop though, just changed tack.

“Yeah so with brothers it’d be a bit different. I reckon they’d be wanting to outdo each other, show the other one up, y’know?”

Gaz – an only child – has developed a theory from watching how me and my brother don’t interact. He explained it to be drunkenly once, and it basically comes down to his belief that all brothers want to be alpha male, and so hate each other. Maybe it went some way to explaining why Jack lived in Scotland and I was fucking Gaz in London, not quite as far apart as we could get but close enough.

There was a shuffling noise as Gaz shifted and wriggled in his seat for a moment. I glanced over at him to see that he’d slipped his shorts down as he was talking. He’d not taken them off, just hooked the elasticised waistband under his bollocks. His sturdy prick was sticking straight up like a flag-pole from the dense bush of curly black-brown hair of his groin. I swerved a little. He was turning it this way and that in one hand, looking down at it like he’d never seen it’s vein-roped length before. He went on talking, though, as if nothing was happening.

“Yeah, so imagine you’ve gotten a pair of brothers back to your place. No wait; imagine I’ve got a pair of brothers back to my place, that’s more likely innit? You’re shite when it comes to gettin’ a guy naked.”

“Got you naked enough in my time.” I shot back

He laughed a bit and looked at me, catching my eye as I glanced away from the road again. The devil was in him now, and he knew that I knew it, but for now he was playing it straight. I turned my attention back to the road, but only for a moment. If this was his idea of keeping me focused so we didn’t crash, he was going a strange way about it.

“Yeah yeah, but I was helpin’ y’like wasn’t I. Like I said, I’ve got a pair of brothers back to my place, we’ve had a few beers an’ we’re gonna have a few more. They’re interested; they’re sniffin’ around a bit, mebbe showin’ off a bit tryin’ to get the other one to fuck off so they can have this hunk o’ manliness all to themself. I stick a vid on and whoops-a-daisy it’s a grumble-flick and we’re all a bit embarrassed but then we settle down to talk, not really watchin’ it, but they cannut keep their eyes off the fucking on the screen.”

It sounded to me like the start of a letter to a jazzmag, but there’s no stopping Gaz when he’s on a roll, and I kind of didn’t want to. His voice can be hypnotic when he gets going, especially when his accent gets thicker. It roams around the country a bit these days, and he sometimes puts it on, but I’m not ashamed to admit that it makes my ball sack tingle when he gets it into his head to start going on like this.

He nudged my knee with his. I looked across to see he’d hitched his seatbelt up onto his belly a bit, and shifted in his seat to open his legs a little wider, and was playing with his prick as we spoke. Sliding the rubbery foreskin down a little, he was using his thumb to transfer bits of nobcheese from off the head onto his tongue as his little fantasy developed.

“Anyroad, there we are an’ after a bit, after another beer, after we’ve passed the spliff a few times, I say I’m horny and I’m gonna have a bit of a shufti, an’ mebbe they start to make their excuses and that, right, get ready to leave, start talkin’ bout early starts in the morning, but mebbe one of the two of ’em says he’s gonna have one too. Mebbe I dare ‘im – the drunker one, or the one who’s most up for it. Probably the younger one, he’s got more to prove.”

I rolled my eyes. Gaz thinks I don’t get along with Jack for just this reason.

“Yeah so there we are, havin’ a wank, being a bit discreet, but we’ve checked out each other’s pricks, mebbe while big bro’ is in the kitchen gettin’ more beers.”

He liked this idea, and his grip on his prick became firmer.

“After a bit though I start makin’ comments ’bout what a good prick the bloke’s got, an’ how he’s working it so well, and ‘is brother’s gettin’ jealous and says summat like ‘that’s not wank, *this* is a wank’ and before you know it we’re all three of us there with our dicks in our hands laughing ’bout the movie.”

He’d get lamped more like, I thought, but maybe not. Gaz brags about his ability to get men naked, especially “straight” men, and while I don’t credit more than a fraction of his stories there’s no denying that he’s got a way about him, a rough charm that some men just respond to. He’s got the gift of the gab from somewhere, and he’s talked me into more dodgy situations that I care to mention using it.

I finished my fag, flicked it out the open window, and rolled it back up. Gaz’s knee knocked my hand as I reached to shift gears. I glanced across and on cue – he’d been waiting for me to look – he leaned his head forward and dribbled a gob of spit out of his mouth towards his crotch. It spattered on his t-shirt, but he did it again with better accuracy, a stringy strand of spit connecting his prick and his mouth for a moment. Then he started to gently rub the spit into the reddening end of his prick, mixing it with the precum leaking out of his piss slit.

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