Quiet Weekend

Matt came over Friday night and stayed the weekend, we had the house to ourselves. Time for a quiet, healthy weekend. Pjs and socks.

Friday night we headed out and ate Ramen sitting on three leg wooden stools, before coming home and falling asleep on the couch. Very Friday night.

We went jogging each day, early. I’m good in the morning. Matt, not as good in the morning as me.

He’d stand out on the footpath bleary-eyed. Shirtless, small shorts. We got whistled at, which made us smile. We ran well, we compete when we run, of course, we can’t help it.

Getting whistled at inspired us to run fast, stronger, longer, bigger, taller. I couldn’t help but slide my hands up the back of Matt’s shorts when I thought nobody was watching, feeling his bum, as we stood at the lights.

Matt jumped. “Hey, hey, hey.”

“Pretty boy moved fast,” I said.

“It was a surprise attack.”

“You don’t usually mind,” I said.

“Your hands are cold.”

The lights changed and we both sprinted off.

Then there is serious competition, as our feet go whap, whap, whap and the footpath as we both jostle to get in front of the other. Okay, well, perhaps not get in front of the other, but not get behind. You know, he who comes last has to go bottom when we get home. Ha ha, not quite, but we are competitive and we don’t like to come second to the other when running.

It isn’t long before we fall into step and there is only the sound of one set of runners hitting the footpath as we sail down the street next to one another,

You know, I think that is my happy place, running in sink, ha ha, er, that is only when we both soap each other up in the bath, um, er, in sync. There is a purity of motion, a sanctity of purpose, as we move like two well oil machines, especially on the road when the sun is coming up, or setting for that matter, that half light seems to put everything in perspective, somehow. I think it is the newness of something, or the last vestiges of something else that makes that moment special in time.

Matt cooked, Spaghetti Carbonara, no cream. I made a flourless chocolate cake, no, er, flour. I hit it with some cream. The best thing. Flourless chocolate cake and cream. Better than sex, sorry babe.

Sunday, Matt made burgers, and I made raspberry muffins, with white chocolate, [gooey, like Matt's cum] they’re easy as, poof, done. 

We got DVDs and a bag of pot. I introduced Matt to weed, before me he never had, not ever. I stuck a great, fat joint into his mouth and lit it. He took to it really well. He’s a natural. (He liked the newness of it, the taboo, I guess, but eventually, he would you know, take it, or leave it, not like me. He’d smoke it just because, as he said, I made him, and he got a buzz, but he wouldn’t look for it, other than that)

He told his mum over al fresco lunch one day, just because I thought he wouldn’t, and I looked at him mouth open with him smiling with an air of triumph, naughty school boy attitude, to be sure. And his mum mock-scolded me for daring to poisoning her beautiful boy, in a Matt-is-a-big-boy-and-should-be-able-to-make-better-decisions kind of way so it didn’t really work the way he intended it to and I kind of retained my Josh-can-do-no-wrong sheen.

We were bleary-eyed and cuddled up late Sunday. Laughing. Floppy. Wasted. Bleary-eyed. Flushed red. Incomprehensible, at times.  Heavey eye lids. Screwed up smiles on our faces. Slapping each other in slow motion. Passing out kind of happy. Ah, good times.

And Monday loomed like the bad smell it is. Ruining all the good vibes. Ruining the peace and harmony amongst men. ‘You have had enough fun, we can’t let you get used to such things, now back you come. Get you shit together and present at the nearest work station and await your orders.’ And we are reeled back in just like that, the fun police putting a stop to anything, um, er, well fun.