I fucked a football hooligan
The only disadvantage to living there was the twenty minute walk into town. Not really far, I know, but I’m lazy, particularly if carrying 6 pints of Stella under my belt. Moving into the town centre has saved me a fortune in late night taxi fares. But, despite the laziness and twenty minutes walk, there were times when I’d actually walk back home after a night out on the tiles.
Two years ago, on a Wednesday night, I was walking home after having been to NG1. I’d usually have taken a taxi home but, it being a school night, I thought the walk home would help clear my head before I sunk into my bed. Two thirds of the walk up Mansfield Road is uphill. At the point where it intersects with Prostitute’s Alley, it goes downhll all the way to the intersection with Magdala Road. Apart from the occasional taxi, the road was deserted so I was quite surprised to see someone approach me as I crossed over the intersection with Prostitute’s Alley.
‘Hey mate, do you have a light?’
‘Sure,’ I said, getting my lighter out. I looked at him as I lit his cigarette then lit one for myself.
He was about 5ft 9 with a slim, athletic build, probably in his early thirties. It was difficult making out his face in the streetlight and he was wearing a beanie pulled down over his ears. He wore shiny tracksuit bottoms and a loose-fitting sweatshirt.
‘Cheers, mate,’ he said as I started to walk down the hill. He walked with me.
‘Had a good night?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘how about you?’
As we walked down the hill, we talked about where we’d been that night. He’d been at a friend’s house drinking and smoking spliff. The streetlights got brighter near the bus stop and I could see his face better. No one would accuse him of being a looker but there was a rough sexiness about him that reminded me of the airport cleaner I’d seen for a while in Newcastle. But that guy was gay whereas this guy reminded me of the rough, straight lads you see stumbling out of the pubs most weekends. I found out that he came from Sheffield where he lived with his wife and four kids. He spent the weeks in Nottingham working as a scaffolder on a building site. His name was Paul.
Ten minutes later we were outside the Grosvenor pub near where Magdala intersects with Mansfield road.
‘Ok, this is where I go home,’ I said.
‘Do you want some spliff?’ he asked.
I paused before answering. I was slightly pissed, it was already too late and I had to be at work by 9 in the morning.
‘That would be nice, thanks. We’re almost at my flat.’
I could see him properly once we got inside. He didn’t look at all like the airiport cleaner and, if anything, he looked rougher yet sexier than before. There was a small scar near his mouth and one of his teeth was chipped. He had amazing brown eyes.
‘Nice place you got here, mate,’ he said, settling himself down on the couch to roll the spliff.
‘Thanks, do you want a beer?’ I asked.
He nodded and got on with rolling the spliff. I got us each a beer and sat next to him on the couch.
The sitting room only had the one couch and I wasn’t going to sit on one of the uncomfortable dining chairs just not to be sitting next to him. Unlike similar situations where I’d struck up conversations with straight men in the street when walking home late at night, he’d given me no sign of any sexual interest. I expected nothing from him even though the thought of doing something with him excited me. A lot!
Paul lit up the joint and took a couple of deep drags before passing it on to me.
‘This stuff makes me horny,’ he said. ‘Do you have any porn?’
I had some gay porn on my laptop but I wasn’t going to admit to that. I could feel that inner tremble I get when I’m on the verge of plunging into something that I desperately want yet am afraid of.
‘No, sorry, I don’t. It makes me fucking horny too.’
He was rubbing his cock through his trackie bottoms and it was obvious that he was very erect. I took his cue and started rubbing myself. I couldn’t take my eyes off his crotch. He started rubbing himself inside his pants while he watched me watching him.
I think that’s when he knew. Or, at least, knew for sure.
He took his cock out and started stroking it as I watched. It was long and thick. I could see his incredibly well-defined stomach and the trail of hair running down from his belly button. I got mine out. He watched my cock much in the same way as I’d been watching his.
After a few minutes, we both took our trousers off.
There was about a foot between us on the couch but our legs were extended towards each other so that our calves were touching each other. His skin felt wonderful against mine. I wanted to touch his cock but was still too nervous to make the first move. I knew it would happen but I was not sure about how far he wanted to go. Wanking together, not each other, may have been enough for him.
Paul made the first move by reaching for my cock. He did it while looking straight into my eyes. Then he kissed me. I was electrified, my response immediate. That opened him up like a tightly wound coil and he rolled over and on to me, pinning me down with urgency, his mouth hard against mine as his cock pushed hard against my body.
At some point, I took over and he asked me to fuck him. I did. After that he asked me if he could fuck me. He did. About an hour later, I tasted blood in my mouth just as he pointed out that there was blood on my lip. He’d cut my lip while kissing me.
We exchanged numbers before he left a few hours later.
I saw him quite often over the next couple of months, usually once a week, sometimes more often. He often arrived unannounced, usually having climbed over the wall rather than ringing the gate bell. Each time he did that, I expected a neighbour to call the police. We lived in parallell universes, our backgrounds and lives so totally different. He’d been to prison several times and had several kids other than those he lived with spread across the Midlands.
We had nothing in common apart from beer, spliff and sex but we sometimes talked football.
It was the summer of the European Football Championship of 2004. The only time I’m vaguely interested in football is during championships like those and the World Cup. I get caught up by the enthusiasm of friends and colleagues and will actually choose to watch games with them. Paul was a fanatical England supporter and had the tattoos to prove it. There were several occasions when he came to visit after England had played, very pissed and very horny. We’d fuck straight away. If anything, our sex was even more raw, urgent and passionate at those times. A week after England was eliminated from the championship, we were lying in bed smoking after having had sex.
‘I was at the police station today,’ he said.
‘I had to get my passport back.’
‘Why did they have it?’ I asked.
‘They took it off me before the Championships.’
POSTSCRIPT: There is a gay cliché about liking a bit of ‘rough’ but I can honestly say that I’ve never had any particular inclination towards it even if I did enjoy my time with Paul. In some ways, he was unusual for a ‘straight’ man who likes sex with gay men in that he enjoyed kissing. For some straight (and bi) men, kissing another man is almost the last taboo as the intimacy of the act goes beyond the pure lust of the sexual act. Our feelings for each other did not extend beyond sex but I felt quite strange on being told about his football hooligan past. Apart from the mindless violence associated with it, I tend to associate them with nationalistic fascism and everything that that implies. I would never knowingly choose to associate with someone like that so having sex with a football hooligan would have been completely off my radar had it not happened with him and in those circumstances.