Mr Pink Read online

  Copyright © 2019 Patrick Hjertén

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador

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  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 9781838597702

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  To my sister from another mister.

  And to the ones who gave me encouragement during the making of this book. You know who you are.

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  Confrontation

  Switching Off

  Epilogue

  1

  It was an early fall evening in Stockholm, dusk was setting in and some raindrops were hitting the window overlooking a small street in Östermalm. It was the poshest part of the Swedish capital and people were walking to some of the swankier restaurants for an after-work drink before going on to a theatre or doing some heavy clubbing at Stureplan. In the building on the opposite side of the street was a café and he watched as a couple hurried to get out of the rain that was beating down harder now. He took a sip of his appletini and made a face. The one who had mixed it had poured in too much vodka. It is not exactly like the one you get at the Skyrocket Bar in New York, he thought to himself, but you can’t get everything. At least you get a buzz and that is needed. He looked down at his Armani watch, not to look at the time but to busy himself with something since he had noticed that a man was nearing him from the right side.

  “Hi, my name is Jens,” the blonde man said and reached out his hand. He was dressed in faded jeans and a white T-shirt that showed off his gym results with evident clarity.

  “Hi, Steven Pinkerton.” He shook the offered hand. “But everyone calls me Mr Pink.”

  “Are you that Mr Pink who owns the magazine Pink?” The blonde guy beamed with a big smile.

  “Yes, I don’t think that many people are called Mr Pink,” said Mr Pink with a voice laced with sarcasm but it did not seem to hit its mark.

  “Why Mr Pink?” the blonde one wanted to know. “Is it because of the magazine? I love it by the way! I think it’s cutting edge.”

  “Thank you.” Mr Pink took a sip from his appletini and scanned the blonde guy’s eyes above the brim of the glass. “No, it’s not because of the magazine. My great-great-grandfather came to Sweden as a merchant man but he still wanted to send his sons to boarding schools in England. George, my great-grandfather, got the nickname Mr Pink at Eton because he was light in his loafers. And evidently it runs in the family.”

  “Light in his loafers?” The blonde had a questioning look on his face. “I have never heard that before.”

  “I guessed as much,” Mr Pink said with a crooked smile. “It is a nice way of saying that my great-grandfather liked taking it up the arse.”

  “Oh, the arse thing isn’t really my thing. I’m a total top,” the blonde announced. “And what about you?”

  “I don’t see the point of eating meat and potatoes every day. I want to sample the whole menu.” Mr Pink downed the last of his appletini. I’m going to need another he thought to himself. “I’m getting another drink. Do you want something?” he asked the blonde who fidgeted with his mobile.

  “Oh, I’m fine with my Budweiser,” the blonde answered while flicking through the dating app Scruff.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” Mr Pink said firmly. Thick as a brick, he thought to himself. But I’m sure he can amuse me for another fifteen minutes.

  When Mr Pink returned with his second appletini, done more properly this time, the blonde guy sat on the windowsill making a duck face with his Snapchat. Mr Pink put his hand in his Ralph Lauren trousers to make sure that his mobile was on silent. He had matched the navy trousers with a light green shirt from Eton Shirts and a suit jacket from Tom Ford that was more purple than blue. Mr Pink looked at his reflection in the window above where Jens was sitting. Brown hair, slightly curly, and green eyes in a face that had been blessed with symmetrical features and that caught the attention of people no matter which room he entered. A swimmer’s build because he did not want to be too muscly and a strict diet made sure that he could maintain his 30-inch waist even though he was two shakes of a lamb’s tail away from his twenty-ninth birthday. Mr Pink made the blonde scoot over so that he could sit next to him on the windowsill.

  “Who are you here with?” the blonde asked looking slightly embarrassed.

  “No one in particular.” Mr Pink cocked his left eyebrow.

  “How do you know the host?” The blonde touched his thigh muscles through the denim fabric.

  “I used to fuck with the host,” Mr Pink said matter-of-factly. “And you? Why do we have the honour of your company this evening?” Mr Pink knew that he was making the blonde uncomfortable and enjoyed every minute of it.

  “I’m here with a friend of the host. He is standing over there to the right by the big painting. This is sort of a date.” The blonde pointed in the direction of a tall man with a bald head and upper arms like tree trunks. Mr Pink knew of him. He had been some sort of athlete, not one of the major ones, and now he worked as a personal trainer.

  “How delightful for you.” Mr Pink let the drink roll around in his mouth before swallowing. “You said that you are a total top. That means that slab of muscle over there is a bottom, right?”

  “A real power bottom. Insatiable too. After some sessions I can hardly walk.” The blonde smiled sheepishly.

  “Poor you,” Mr Pink said ironically. “But I’m sure that there is something in there for you too.”

  “Oh, yeah, he’s great. Takes me to parties like this and stuff,” the blonde assured Mr Pink.

  Isn’t it wonderful with people who have such low expectations of life. Makes me envious at times, Mr Pink thought to himself. Very short times, though.

  Mr Pink fell silent for a moment, mostly to make the blonde guy uncomfortable but also to take time to study the host who held a small entourage totally enthralled in the middle of the living room. The entire flat looked like it had fallen out of a page in Elle Interior magazi
ne. Designer furniture shared room with eclectic knick-knacks and huge paintings on the walls. They were painted by a former boyfriend of the host. Thomas, the host, belonged to the elite of gays in Sweden, in other words an A-gay. Thomas was the tailor to the King of Sweden and a big chunk of the nobility and celebrities, which made him a beacon for particularly young gay men like moths to a flame. Being in a very feminine setting Thomas was a rare breed of masculine with a few shades of camp. Thomas was quite muscular and had started late in life to grow muscle mass. Because of that there was a great amount of tablets, protein powders and other stuff on his kitchen counter to uphold the system of a man in his mid-fifties. Next to Thomas and his entourage a muscly couple was attracting attention by gyrating and plunging their tongues into each other’s mouths, just in accordance to the attention-seeking whores that they were.

  “I love their work,” said the blonde to Mr Pink and meant the muscly couple’s work within the gay porn industry.

  “Harald, the older one, knows how to fuck, that’s for sure,” Mr Pink stated, “but he can’t act, not even if his life depended on it. And his English is crap with that thick Swedish accent.”

  “I think he is great.” The blonde guy sounded hurt.

  “I didn’t say that he wasn’t great. I just want that when he is fucking on film he should stick to the fucking and shut up.” Mr Pink finished his second appletini and looked forlornly down into his empty glass.

  “What do you think about the other one?” The blonde guy leaned into Mr Pink.

  “Lee is a better actor.” Mr Pink turned his glass upside down.

  “Which one would you choose to go to bed with?” The blonde guy smiled cheekily.

  “You mean I have to choose?” Mr Pink retorted.

  “You’re bad!” The blonde guy gave Mr Pink a light nudge. “But seriously?”

  “I would choose Harald. He is older and has an air of bad boy about him.” Mr Pink looked at Harald as he spoke. At that moment Harald had his hand inside his boyfriend’s jeans, squeezing his arse cheek.

  “Is that your type?” the blonde guy wanted to know.

  “Sometimes. Sometimes not. It depends on my mood. And you like them tall and muscly I suppose? Then Harald would be your type as well, right?” Mr Pink looked into the blonde guy’s blue eyes.

  “Yes, I would really like to have Harald.” The blonde guy was beaming at the thought.

  Their conversation was halted by the cheering welcome of three new guys who entered the flat. The tallest of them with brown hair made Mr Pink sit up and pay attention. That man seemed uncomfortable in his surroundings just as well as in his own skin. Thomas gave him a kiss on the cheek but it was not entirely reciprocated.

  “Do you know who that is?” Mr Pink asked the blonde guy.

  “Which one?” The blonde guy scanned the living room.

  “One of the new ones. The one in jeans and a dark T-shirt two sizes too small,” Mr Pink described.

  “Oh, that’s Andreas. He’s a journalist.”

  “Never seen him before. Which newspaper does he work for?”

  “No paper. Television.”

  “Really? I’ve never seen him. What does he do?”

  “Business. He commentates about money, shares and such.”

  “That explains it. That bores me to tears.” Mr Pink gave out a small sigh.

  “Most people say that he is odd,” the blonde guy informed Mr Pink.

  “I get that feeling but I do thrive on a challenge.”

  Mr Pink said goodbye and walked slowly across the room, like a cat who has spotted a mouse and wants to pounce, with his empty glass in hand.

  ***

  As he walked past Thomas, the host, he dragged a finger along his broad back and got an air kiss back. Mr Pink’s next intended target, Andreas, leaned against a wall next to a Chinese statue, with a Budweiser in his hand. The other he had shoved into his jeans pocket.

  “I saw you across the room and decided to say hello. I’m Steve, Mr Pink to basically everyone who knows me, apart from my mother that is.” Mr Pink held out his hand and Andreas took it. Mr Pink felt that it was smooth and warm.

  “I know of you. I’m Andreas.” Andreas took a swig of his beer.

  “I was told that you are a journalist. Unfortunately, I don’t know of you.” Mr Pink gave Andreas one of his crooked smiles.

  “I’m on morning television tomorrow, Channel 4 at 08.20.”

  “I’ll make sure not to miss it. When I looked at you from the other side of the room I thought you looked so sad.”

  “I usually get that,” Andreas said and put on a big grin from ear to ear that did not look that genuine.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I came up to you?” Mr Pink asked.

  “No, it’s just nice.” Andreas involuntarily flexed his chest muscles that were on clear display through the tight T-shirt. “Your glass is empty.”

  “I do love a man with an astute sense of the obvious.” Mr Pink cocked an eyebrow at Andreas.

  “I need to go to the loo.” Andreas dislodged himself from the wall. “I’ll be back.”

  I’m sure you will, Mr Pink said silently to himself.

  Mr Pink took the place where Andreas had stood and enjoyed the view of Andreas’s bubble butt as he headed for the bathroom. He had never met someone like Andreas who projected such vulnerability but still showed ‘do not come near me’. I always go for the emotionally wounded ones, don’t I? Mr Pink thought to himself. Thomas’s flat had got more crowded since Mr Pink arrived. Someone had chosen Sia’s song ‘Chandelier’ on Spotify and it was blaring out of the speakers. Mr Pink heard a group of guys next to him talk about going to a newly opened gay club in Old Town. Mr Pink knew the owner and had been to the opening that had been attended by what would be considered Stockholm’s gay royalty. He was not sure he would like to go there today. Since the club was new it would be as crowded as a sardine can. And a gaggle of bare-chested men was usually more fun in theory than in reality. Andreas came back towards Mr Pink with his bottle of beer and a drink in his other hand which he handed to Mr Pink.

  “And who said that chivalry is dead?” Mr Pink smiled and after a sip realised that he had a vodka Martini in his hand. “And on top of that you are a man who seems to know what I like to drink.”

  “I suppose it was a lucky guess, but I thought of you as a James Bond kind of man,” Andreas said.

  “I choose to take that as a compliment.” Mr Pink took another sip.

  “It was.” Andreas showed that vulnerable look again.

  Their conversation was interrupted by another man who wanted Andreas’s attention. Mr Pink amused himself by checking out the new man’s body language. He was so blatantly showing that he was interested in Andreas that he might as well have thrown himself on the floor and spread his legs. From what Mr Pink could deduce it did not seem to be working. It is that eternal game of hunting and being hunted, Mr Pink pondered, and how some of us prefer to hunt instead of being hunted. An eternal game with so few winners especially when it comes to gay men. The man left after touching the side of Andreas’s mid-section. Mr Pink sometimes did what he felt like doing on the spur of a moment, and caressed Andreas’s arm from where the T-shirt sleeve ended all the way down to his wrist, touching the long, silky smooth hairs on his under arm. As always Mr Pink marvelled at how soft another human’s skin could be, a sensation he never grew tired of. Andreas’s face showed nothing at all. There was a blankness and it triggered Mr Pink to want to crack that exterior, that defence, but he realised that it would be a tough nut to crack. Which made him want to do it even more.

  “My friends are leaving,” Andreas said. “I’m going with them.”

  “Absolutely, you should go.” Mr Pink’s green eyes locked with Andreas’s green ones. “Can I have your number?”

  After the natural song and danc
e of typing in figures and sending a text message so that Andreas would have Mr Pink’s number they left each other after a brief hug.

  Hours later the flat was emptied from people who had gone on to taste the delights of Stockholm’s nightlife. Promises would be exchanged, kisses would be exchanged and a multitude of bodily fluids would be exchanged before the sun rose to meet another day. Mr Pink was seated on Thomas’s large dark grey sofa playing with two ice cubes in an empty whisky glass. Thomas was clearing away glasses to the kitchen and after a while he stood in the living room and let out a sigh.

  “I see you decided to stay,” Thomas said.

  “Yes, you have an offer that I find hard to refuse.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I’ll give a bold and clear hint. It’s between your legs.”

  2

  Thomas’s goatee scratched the area behind Mr Pink’s balls but in a good way. God, this man really knows how to please. Seems like he always finds the right spots. Mr Pink took a sharp intake of air as his muscles contracted from sheer pleasure. He dug the back of his head into Thomas’s cotton sheets as Thomas moved further back. Aaah, it is so nice to have sex when you’re intoxicated. It’s like all sensations are more intense. Thomas moved upwards, letting his tongue make a trail over Mr Pink’s abdominal muscles to his pecs where Thomas nuzzled by Mr Pink’s left nipple. Thomas’s tongue swirled around this hard, protruding point. As Thomas breathed in, the wet area got cold and that added to the sensation. Thomas then sank his teeth into Mr Pink’s flesh and it was like an electrifying tingle that went from his chest area down to his groin as well as up above the base of his skull. Mr Pink grabbed Thomas’s neck, holding him, pushing him closer in an attempt to make the feeling last as long as possible. Thomas lifted Mr Pink so that he ended up at the top of the bed with his head resting on the pillows. Thomas spread his knees and in so doing opened up Mr Pink’s legs and rested them against Thomas’s firm and hard arms. Thomas looked into Mr Pink’s eyes for a short moment before claiming his mouth. With tongue against tongue Mr Pink could taste Thomas just as well as the taste of his own skin. Mr Pink could feel the weight of Thomas’s dick bounce against his balls, the tip of it saying that it wanted to enter. Mr Pink reached down and guided the dick into the right position. Thomas rested there, tip against hole, in a prolonged, feverish anticipation of what was supposed to come.