There were two things in particular that I liked about Oliver. Number one, that he was the son of a bishop. Number two, the effects it had on Oliver that he was the son of a bishop.

It was the fact that he was the son of a bishop that made me whisper, "Let's fuck," as we were sitting next to each other in the first class waiting room at the train station in Beijing – and it was the effects that this patrilineal circumstance had on him that made him whisper, "Will, behave yourself," back to me.

"But I want to," I said, a little louder, sounding and feeling like an obstinate child.

Oliver gave me a look that warned me to push the point.

We fell silent. Oliver was looking out over the scarcely populated waiting hall, and I was looking at Oliver. I quite liked the place. It was the first time since we arrived in Beijing two days ago that we were somewhere that wasn't completely crowded. I took full advantage and stretched my legs out in front of me as far as I could. I wiggled my feet a little, and then began to move them in time with My Baby Just Cares for Me, which was still on my mind since I last listened to it.

"What are you doing?" Oliver asked, looking pointedly at my feet.

"Uh, nothing," I replied, stopping what I was doing and sitting up straight.

"My Baby Just Cares For Me?" Oliver correctly guessed.

I ignored him, and focused on the Chinese announcements blaring out over the PA. There seemed to be an awful lot of information, of which I understood nothing.

"Okay," Oliver said after a while, "That's us."

Oliver's grasp of Chinese was the primary reason (I kept telling myself) that I had asked him to come with me when I decided to take a couple of weeks off to go to China to visit my aunt. The bugger was actually born in the country, back in the early 80's when his bishop dad was only a priest who had opted out of the cushy country parish to spread the word of God to the Chinese people. Well, I had at least taken Oliver's language skills into brief consideration, but then there was the fact that we were childhood friends and occasional lovers. When Oliver's family moved back to old Blighty from the Far East, they settled in the house next to ours. My mother immediately invited them over for dinner, and the rest is history.

Oliver walked quickly towards the train with me in tow. Though we were pretty much exactly the same height, he had always seemed taller. I had a little more muscle than he did, maybe that was why.

"Are we in a hurry?" I asked.

"Not really."

"So why are we running?"

"We aren't running."

"We are running."

"We're not."

"Are too!"

He stopped so suddenly that I almost ran into him. He turned around and put his hands on his hips. It seemed like he was towering over me, though of course he wasn't.

"Will, can you just please stop acting like a petulant child?"

"Sorry, mate. You bring it out in me."



"I wasn't taking the Lord's name in vain," Oliver sighed, knowing why I was tut-tutting at him. "I was just asking for the strength to deal with you."


There were four bunks in the train compartment. I immediately grabbed one of the top ones. The other top was already taken by a Chinese girl. She looked at us curiously as we put our bags and jackets on our respective beds.

"Do you speak English?" I asked her.

She looked quizzically at me.

Oliver sighed and repeated my question to her in Chinese. At least I think he did. She replied something in Chinese, keeping her eyes fixed on me. When she fell silent, I looked at Oliver for a translation.

"No," Oliver said simply.

"Come on, mate, that's not all she said," I said to Oliver.

"Yeah, it was." He grabbed his wallet from his bag and put it in his back pocket. "Come on, let's go to the restaurant. I'm hungry."


I was quite hungry as well. We had only had lunch that day, and it was pushing seven in the evening by then. Oliver led the way, even though I'm pretty sure he wasn't more familiar with the train than I was. On account of his familiarity with spoken Chinese, we had both started viewing him as somewhat in charge of things.

"What do you want?" Oliver asked as he sat down opposite me. "To eat," he added when he saw my raised eyebrow.

"Whatever," I told him, waving my hand. "You order something for both of us."

The whole setting somehow seemed charmingly like it belonged in the 1940's, which made me wish I had worn a suit. White linen, a single flower in a vase, neat little napkin holders, curtains held open by golden string with tassels. Oliver and I were the only westerners in the restaurant, but the other guests didn't seem particularly surprised or interested. A young waitress took Oliver's order. He smiled at her in a way that would have been flirtatious if it had been from any other man in the universe.

"I hope you ordered us some beer," I told him. "I need a drink."

"Of course I did," Oliver replied. Sure enough, not two seconds later our waitress appeared with two enormous bottles of Tsing Tao.

"Good boy," I told him, pouring myself a glass.

"Yeah, well," was all Oliver said.


The meal was not as nice as the ones we had eaten in Beijing, but it was alright. Oliver had ordered a few things, mostly vegetables and fish, and we picked from all the dishes with our chopsticks. Predictably, Oliver was a little more skilled at using chopsticks than I was. My table manners were probably below average, but at least I wasn't hungry anymore. We also shared a couple of drinks. Not enough to get us drunk, but enough for a bit of a buzz.

On our way back to our compartment, I put my hand in Oliver's back pocket. It's not like I thought that anything would actually come of it, but I couldn't resist. Oliver had a very nice arse, and whenever I had had a few, I found it difficult to keep my hands away from it.

When we reached the door to our compartment, Oliver grabbed my hand and turned around. He didn't say anything, he didn't have to. I knew what he was thinking.

"Come on, Oliver, it'll be good," I told him. "She won't know."

"Don't be idiotic," he snapped. Then he seemed to regret his harsh tone, and added in a softer voice, "Look, it's not… That kind of thing is alright when you're 17, not when you're 27. We should be getting girlfriends and whatnot."

That was bullshit. Sure, Oliver claimed that he was looking for a girlfriend, but that didn't stop him from behaving like a whore in my bed whenever he'd had enough to drink to let go of his pretensions.

"Sure we should," I muttered. "You go in there and try to woo our compartment friend. I'm going for a piss."

I heard Oliver inhaling to say something, but I ignored him to make my way down the narrow but neat corridor. I found the toilets and had to make the choice between the western version and the Chinese one. I opted for the western one, but as I walked in and noticed that some previous user had had less than precise aim, I went into the Chinese one instead. A hole in the floor, thus. I wasn't sure whether I ought to squat down like a woman or to stand up. Then I noticed the pole by the door, clearly designed to hold on to as you were doing your business. As the train was rocking back and forth, I decided to grab onto the pole with one hand, lean forward and aim for the hole.

When I returned to the compartment, Oliver was already in his bunk, underneath mine. The Chinese girl had already turned in, and the only light in the room came from the small lamp above Oliver's bed.

"Are you sleeping already?" I asked him, sitting down by his bedside.

"I figured I might as well. She's asleep," he nodded at the Chinese girl, "And we'll be in Shanghai by eight tomorrow morning anyway. Might as well."

"Alright. Fine."

I climbed up to my own bunk. I glanced over at the Chinese girl, who was turned away from me, snoring softly. Even so, I pulled the white duvet over my body before I removed my jeans. Left in my boxers, the bed linen felt comfortably cool against my skin. I chucked the shirt as well, but dug out a white tee from my bag. I put my stuff away, then turned the light out and tried to sleep. I was tired.

I thought.

It was just that even though I felt tired, I couldn't fall asleep. I heard the soft snores from the Chinese girl and Oliver's slow breathing below me. I leaned out over the edge of the bulk and looked at him. He was asleep already. His lips a little parted, his dirt blonde hair fanning out over the pillow, his arms resting comfortably over the duvet. I looked down towards where I knew his cock should be, probably hoping that I would catch Oliver throwing a boner in his sleep, but there was nothing there. Not the slightest bulge.

Under my own covers, it was another story. I was so hard I thought I'd explode. Travelling with someone like Oliver was a shit idea from beginning to end. He was the hottest shag in the west when he was drunk enough to forget his hang-ups, but most of the time he would give me some prudish excuse about how we were too old to experiment. The man was a walking cock-tease.

The stupid train compartment was getting hot. I was uncomfortable. My mouth was dry. I was thirsty and horny and just bloody … uncomfortable. Hiding my hard-on against the mattress in case the Chinese girl would turn to look at me, I kicked off the duvet. Only, of course, that made it worse. Now there was friction and resistance. For eternity-long seconds, I tried my best to avoid rubbing my cock against the mattress, but I failed. It felt too good.

I would have to do something about it. I considered getting up and going to the toilet, but to walk the corridors with eight raging inches pointing the way didn't appeal to me. I didn't want to leave my bed. In the end, I just thought, fuck it.

It wasn't my proudest moment when I pulled the duvet back up, bundling it up like some makeshift partner, to form a protective wall between myself and the sleeping Chinese girl. What I was about to do might have been a low point in my 27 years of life, but I was at least making sure the Chinese girl wasn't getting any visuals.

With tiny movements, I unbuttoned my boxers. My cock immediately sprang out, like some vulgar jack-in-the-box. I jabbed at the duvet with it a couple of times, before wrapping my hand around it.

Oh God.

It was so good.

I might have lasted a minute, if that, before I came in a disgusting little puddle of slime on the duvet. I wasn't a naturally quiet climaxer, but that night in the first class compartment of a night train between Beijing and Shanghai, I came on a surprised intake of breath.

When I had calmed down, I buttoned my boxers again, turned the duvet so that the gooey side was out, and fell asleep.