“Jez! You’re home early. I wasn’t expecting you for a while yet.”

“So I see.” I walked over to the stereo to turn off Axl Rose’s caterwauling. What could Steve be hiding from me? It wasn’t more of that biker porn he was into, was it? I’ve never particularly seen the appeal of big men in leather, which is probably why I’m with a slim, clean-cut guy like Steve.

Mind you, he assures me that I’m exactly his type, even without the leather jacket and bike, not to mention the absence of any handlebar moustache and bondage gear. He says he’d buy hippy porn if there was any out there, but gay models with dreadlocks are virtually non-existent. I seem to remember telling him I’m not a bloody hippy, but seeing as how I’m a Nordic-looking artist with long dreads, I always end up losing that argument.

I moved round the footstool Steve had his cast resting on, and sat down next to him. Even in his ratty old t-shirt and jogging bottoms, he still looked edible. Even with the fluffy, purple-striped toe socks on. They were the only ones I could find him that were stretchy enough to go over the cast, so I suppose it’s my fault really, but somehow he still managed to look mouth-wateringly gorgeous. I handed him his beer before moving in for a kiss.

Something sharp poked me in the stomach.

“Ow! What the fuck? What is that?”

“Shit! Er, nothing important. Could you close your eyes for a minute, Jez. Please?”

“No. When a man’s furniture starts attacking him, something has to be done.” I grabbed the cushion and chucked it on the floor. Underneath was something my brain had problems making sense of. It looked like... no, surely not. I looked up at Steve, whose complexion was currently doing an impression of a tomato.

“Would you care to explain what this is?” I started to lift up the item in question.