Dave, Sarah’s undisclosed flame, had sent her three penis portraits in a row, a dick-pic triptych. The first, a POV shot from his naked chest. He was reclining on a bed, nice muscle tone in his abs, his penis about 85 per cent hard. The second, a close-up of his junk and belly from above, a darker schlong than mine. But was it bigger? Without a measuring tape or common household object in the frame – a key, say – it was hard to get proper perspective. The third, oh, yep, that was semen, a decent amount, three milky pools, some cum still on the head of his cock.

Nikau’s – such girth, its head unlike any Sarah had seen.

A cyclist on a road bike zipped past, shouted, ‘Some of us are trying to get to work, mate.’

‘Yeah, well …’ But he was gone.

My title as Undefeated Recreational Commuting Champion (Brunswick to CBD) was under serious threat. My legs were … Fuck you, well-slept cyclists, I was fucking wiped.

Zac’s lawyer had been bad in that he’d advised Zac to plead guilty and accept his token punishment, a deferred sentence at worst. He’d cost five grand, three of which Zac had ponied up, one his friend Jacqui had withdrawn on her credit card, and one from me and Sarah. Or from me alone, given we were perilously low on money and I’d asked Zac not to mention it.

I stood from the saddle, rode towards the cemetery – Hey, Aidan! – waited for the lights to change, crossed. Another short rise and then full pelt down Swanston Street. And if I slammed high-speed into the side of a removals van reversing from an apartment block … Comme ci comme ça.

I’d wanted to feel turned on or at least enraged by Dave’s dick pics, had looked at them several times, but … I just didn’t. Sorry, Dave. Sorry, me. I’d felt a similar disappointment at seventeen, desperately wanting to be gay because I was in love with Bowie, looking at men in real life, in magazines, wanting the frisson of desire and feeling nothing.

Sarah had responded to Dave’s knob selfies with, Oh, yes, now I’m feeling very hot and bothered X, and he’d replied, A taste of things to cum …

I liked it, the pun. Ha. It was OK. It was obvious, really. It wasn’t the best. He’d tried, that was the main thing. It gave me hope, stirred something in me. But his schlong, even the thought of Sarah riding it, left me cold.

* * *

‘So, you’re not coming to the launch tonight?’ Agnë said.

‘Nah, sorry, I can’t.’ Launches were usually on Thursday evenings, it was Wednesday today – ergo, nah. I leant back in my chair, stretched. ‘Our babysitter’s away on important government business.’

She nodded, frowned. ‘And Sarah can’t look after the children?’