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Despite claiming to be a Telegraph man, Jeremy's Sunday rants in the Times were a regular source of amusement to James, and he missed the weekly columns when Jeremy was 'Away'. Funny how 'Jeremy Clarkson is Away' at the same time that 'AA Gill is away' though. You have to wonder how they manage to wangle so much holiday, he thought, as he opened the News Review and smiled to see Jeremy's smug - and rather attractive - face grinning back at him. It wasn't something he found easy to admit. You admit to fancying Natasha Kaplinsky, or that pretty girl with the red hair who works behind the bar in the Cross Keys. Women. You don’t admit to fancying your very male, very straight friend and colleague Jeremy Clarkson. Not if you value your life, anyway. He does, after all, have an AK-47 in his garage…
The column's subject this week appeared to be stockings, and, more specifically, why women don’t seem to wear them any more, preferring instead the 'leggings and dress' combination that had led James to ask female acquaintances of his, on more than one occasion, when their due date was, with embarrassing consequences. Nevertheless, James continued to read, and was surprised to see his name mentioned. Again. This time, Jeremy was recounting, without, thankfully, going into too much detail, an evening the three Top Gear presenters and the guys from the production crew had had while on location in Botswana when, fuelled by some locally-brewed, fiercely-alcoholic spirit, they had talked in lurid detail about their how their bowel movements had been affected by the local food, and, via a burping competition and a discussion about Jordan's breasts, had got on to the subject of sex. Or more specifically, how low one would sink in desperate measures like, say, being the last humans on Earth. James recalled few things about that conversation. One, he had felt very, very hurt by it. Two, that Jeremy had not contributed at all, but had pointedly stared at him throughout. And three, that afterwards, in the tent they were sharing, Jeremy had asked James if he was OK, and had then said sorry for upsetting him. Jeremy Clarkson never said sorry. But now, James thought, hoped, he might understand why he had been on the receiving end of something rarer that hen's teeth.
He finished the last of his tea, then went into his office and switched on the computer. A few minutes later, a few clicks on the mouse and his plan was in place. All he had to do now was wait for the postman.
A few days later, a parcel, wrapped in plain brown paper, arrived. Despite the innocent packaging, James blushed when the postman handed it over, and closed all of the curtains in the house and banished Fusker to the garden before going up to his bedroom, closing the door and undoing the wrapping. He surveyed the contents, one by one, and, satisfied he had everything he needed, picked up the telephone. 'Jeremy?' Are you doing anything this evening? No, just fancy some company, that's all. About sevenish? We'll get a takeaway? Good, see you then.'
He resisted the temptation to suggest that Jeremy might want to bring some scissors and a head torch…
Later that day, James prepared himself for Jeremy's arrival. Normally, having one of the guys round for the evening involved nothing more complicated than changing into one's drinking trousers before going to Tesco to purchase a large case of beer and several bags of crisps, and renting a selection of films featuring great engineering feats of the twentieth century, or wars, or both, from Blockbuster. But this evening was different. James showered, and then walked into the bedroom and removed the contents this morning's delivery from their box. He dressed in the items within - first, a pair of lacy knickers, black, with red trim. Then, silk stockings, which he rolled gently up his legs, being careful not to let them snag. Then, he stepped into a suspender belt, and fasted the stockings to it with immense concentration. Finally, he slipped on a pair of red high heels.
He wobbled, slowly, experimentally, across the bedroom. The feel of the silk of the stockings, soft against his thighs, and the slightly scratchy lace of the knickers rubbing on his cock and his balls felt so odd, but so good. Cupping his crotch with his hands, he stroked gently through the material, biting his lip as he grew hard. The temptation to make himself come was so strong, and it took all of James's self-control to draw his hand away from his aching erection and think about cricket and golf and Posh Spice's plastic tits until the urge to explode subsided. Removing the shoes and stashing them under the bed, he pulled a pair of jeans and an old shirt on over the lingerie, and went downstairs to await the arrival of his guest.
Several hours, many beers and a chicken tikka bhuna later, the two men sat on the sofa, watching a film about some blokes with guns shooting some other men with other guns. Or rather, Jeremy was watching the film. James was fidgeting, the feel of the soft fabric of the underwear combined with the sight of Jeremy concentrating so intensely was stirring him again, and his jeans bulged, uncomfortably tight against his cock. 'James, are you OK?' Jeremy asked, staring at the younger man with steely grey eyes. 'Erm…' James took a deep breath 'Not really, Jeremy. You see, I have a bit of a problem. I, er, might need your help with it.' With that, he got up and fled. It was only then that Jeremy noticed that James seemed to be wearing rather something rather, well, unusual, on his feet. He got up and followed, up the stairs, and into James's bedroom, entering just as James was folding the jeans and shirt neatly, and stepping into the high heels.
'James… what in the name of all that is holy…?' Jeremy looked stunned, shocked, but not, James noticed, disgusted. 'Why are you… why are you wearing those, and that, and…'
'Well, Jeremy, I read you column in the Sunday Times, and I wanted to make a comment. But nothing I could possibly add to the Have Your Say column on the messageboard seemed…appropriate, somehow.'
'Oh. I see. Er…'
Never taking his eyes off Jeremy once, James walked, unsteadily, towards the older man, licking his lips as he did. 'So, Jeremy,' he said, smugly, 'If we were the last people on Earth, how long would it be before you slept with me?'
Jeremy swallowed hard. 'Come here and find out.'