Stuart Allen Jones.
That's enough of a punchline right there.
Joke to yourself, on the dance floor, in the clubs, in the bars, shagging, wanking, working, eyeing, whoring, loving-- the joke's on you, still, Stuart.
Alexander bounds up, energy borrowed from distilled liquor, false smiles and flaming clothing enough for tonight. "What's wrong?"
Stuart smiles big, nasty. "My world is so fucking huge."
His mind slides back, smoothly, silky, to Hazel, old and wrinkly, smiling big and saying, 'How you doing, kid?'
"Oh, you stupid twat. The two of you'll never get it right."
Stuart pushes his chair back, harshly, and strides over to a man at the bar. His depression is pushing on his jeans, black and silent mood straining his cock and hard on -- they'll never get it too wrong, either and that should be enough.
It's bloody well more than enough, most of the time.
Alexander sighs. "Poor fool doesn't know what he wants."
Stuart just hears him over the music and the pounding. He laughs, slumps, and decides this guy's going to go down on him in the back room. He won't have to do any work that way. Thinks, 'that's the punchline, then--' and grabs a fistful of hair.
Roughly. See. He doesn't want this shag. As he cums, he can't help but laugh.
Sixteen years, and he still can't seem to take a joke.