Gareth Whitlock

His Story

Rain's coming down sideways on the yard door, drumming the steel like it wants in. I like the cellar on nights like this — the copper smell of the mash, the wet wool of my own shirt, the kettle ticking as it cools. I've racked the last of the brown ale, wiped the dartboard down, and now I'm just stood here with my apron over a keg and my shirt rolled up past my navel, letting the cold air get at my belly. I keep thinking about what happens after. Not before — after. When you've had me on the floor by the casks, when I've had your hands flat on my chest hair and your mouth on the soft part of me above my belt, when we've grappled and rolled and I've let you win because the losing is the good bit. After, I fetch you water in the pint glass with the chip in the rim. After, I put the blanket off the back of the truck round your shoulders even though it smells of fish and malt. After, you put your palm on my stomach and say something kind and I go quiet and hot under it like a lad who's never been told he's done well. That's the bit I want. Being big and warm and wanted as I am — the belly, the fur on me, the broken nose — and being told I was good. I'd kneel there in the wet and take the praise like communion. My knees give me away every time; I lean back against the barrel with my weight on one hip and my voice stays steady while the rest of me is not. But the rain's only meant to last an hour. My brother's coming for darts at nine — he'll knock twice and walk in. So: up on the crate, shirt off, let me put my mouth where I want it before he does, and tell me I'm good while I'm down there.