Oh, The Places You'll Go

Are You Coming?

Notes: Because Guy won't stop talking to me. Not that I mind. Mmmmm, Guy. quiesce said ha! and did beta duties. *hearts*

"So who would you rather snog?" asked Guy, jerking his thumb towards Mac. "Him or me?"

Angela didn't look up from her Waldorf salad. She was picking out every raisin, every walnut and every piece of apple, piling it on the side of her plate. She then took each piece of mayonnaise covered celery, dipped it in her water glass, dried it on a napkin and then, finally, ate it. Guy had once asked why she didn't just buy a stick of celery and be done with it. It lacked challenge, she said.

"Him," said Angela.

Guy looked affronted, while Mac stared off into the distance; a magnifying glass would have revealed a minuscule quirk of his lips.

"Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?" whined Guy. "I mean, come on, look at us. I'm a svelte, virile, Swiss love-machine and he's ..."

"He's what?"

"He's a carrot in reverse. Green, skinny body and fluffy orange top."

"These scrubs come off, you know, Guy. They're not surgically attached to my body."

"Yes, I know that, but they're on you now. She says she'd rather snog you now. While you look like a negative vegetable and I look ..." Guy swept his hands down the front of his white coat, "like—"

"An upturned lightbulb in a deformed clown wig?" interrupted Mac.

"Erm, no. The embodiment of health, vigour and the owner of a rather sizeable penis, actually."

"What's the size of your manhood got to do with your kissing technique?" asked Angela, waggling a celery-bearing fork in her water.

"Well, when you've sampled the Secretan snog you're going to want to check out the rest of the package. I'm irresistible." Guy leaned forward and gave Angela his full-beam charm offensive.

"And yet," said Angela, biting delicately through the now-dried celery, "I resist."

Guy sneered and straightened up.

"Yeah, well, you're the exception that proves the rule. I before E. Huh, you are, in fact, 'weird'. I might have guessed."

"I might snog you first, actually, Guy."

"Yeah?" Now that was more like it.

"Yeah. It would stop you saying something stupid for a whole five seconds."

"We can only hope," said Mac.

"Yesssssssssssssss!" Guy punched his hands in the air. "I win!"

Angela rolled her eyes, tossed her hair, pushed back her chair and left. Guy was still celebrating. He twisted on his chair and shoved his face in Mac's.

"I win! Angela would rather snog me than you. That means I'm better than you in every measurable way. So yes!"

"I would rather be snogged because of my cool, yet adorable, nature than have someone's tongue shoved down my throat just so I didn't talk anymore. But if you want to have it you can. I am not petty." Mac patted Guy's cheek and turned his attention to his sandwich.

"I win," muttered Guy, scowling as he twisted back round.

"And you might want to rethink the every measurable way thing. For example, I am a better surgeon than you."

"That's a boring measure," scoffed Guy. "I'm talking about the ones that count."

"You mean the ones like how many women would choose you in Cliff, Shag, Marry?"


"And how many cotton wool balls you can fit in your mouth at one time?"


"And how quickly you can eat a whole pack of crackers with no water?"


"The important stuff then?"


"Guy, you realise I won all of those, right?"

"Actually, I think if you look closely at the Cliff, Shag, Marry statistics I scored fine in the Shag section. Who wants to get married anyway?"

"98% of women questioned chose to throw you off a cliff. Statistically I would say I won."

"Ah, yes. Right."

For a brief second Guy looked crestfallen, then he brightened.

"I bet I could come farther than you."


"I bet I could come farther than you. I bet my jizz would arc like a well-maintained fountain while yours just dribbled out like one of those poorly designed weeing child garden ornament thingies."

Mac raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Guy couldn't help but fill the silence.

"Because you hit your sexual peak years ago. Face it Mac, you're a hasbeen. While I've been maintaining myself in fighting trim all these years, exercising my penile muscle on a regular basis by basically screwing everything that moves, yours has withered and died my friend, withered and died."

"You do know that the penis isn't a muscle, don't you, Guy? You did pass anatomy. Tell me you passed anatomy." Mac took a sip of coffee. "Although that would explain a lot."

"Yeah," said Guy, scornful. "I know it's not a muscle. It's just a figure of speech. Surgeons are so bloody literal."

There was a brief lull while they ate.

"Still," said Guy, mouth full of sandwich, "I bet I could come farther than you."

"For the sake of argument, how would you go about proving that? It's not exactly like pissing up a wall, is it?"

Guy shrugged.

"There are ways, oh ginger one. Of course, you only went to a plebby state school so I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"Oh, a Whiteleaf thing," said Mac, smiling. "You're talking about the biscuit game. I thought that was fastest, not farthest."

"Whitlif. Stop trying to wind me up. And anyway rules are there to be adapted — just look at the French variation on the emmental-loop — the camembert-boucle. We all thought it was out there at first, and now it's a classic manoeuvre."

"Nope. No clue. Not even going to try."


"So you're basically saying that you want to play a version of the game which is ostensibly about virility but is just about an excuse to stare at other boy's cocks without potentially being strangled with a shower hose, in order to win a bet with me."

Guy looked shifty. Put that way it might sound a little odd. Put that way he wasn't exactly sure why he'd brought it up in the first place.

"I bet I could come farther than you," was all he managed.

"Hmm," said Mac, staring straight ahead. "Hang on a minute."

He got up and wandered over to the counter. Guy could see him chatting to the cashier as he picked up a packet and paid for it. Did he have to be friends with everyone? thought Guy. Sometimes it took ten minutes to get from one end of the corridor to the other with all the people who wanted to stop and talk to Mac. Not that he was jealous. Mac may have the charm but Guy definitely had superior wit and guile. In the cut-throat world of anaesthetics it was kill or be killed (and that was just the patients) and Guy wasn't afraid to take anyone out. Down. He wasn't afraid to take anyone down. He wondered if he should maybe give up thinking for Lent.

Mac sauntered back to the table, putting his purchase down on it. It was a double pack of digestive biscuits. Guy swallowed.

"Are you coming?" said Mac, palming the snack and walking away.

Guy sat, stunned — it appeared Lent had come early that year. The thing when thoughts flit across your face? Didn't happen. He could not compute: this program has performed an illegal operation and will be shut down. He placed his hands with care flat on the table in front of him and shook his head, trying to get rid of the roaring in his ears.

"Guy!" he heard, from a distance. "Are you coming?"

There was a whirr and a click. Reboot. A slow, Secretan smile spread towards one ear. He pushed himself to his feet.

"Am I coming?" he muttered. "Oh, I so win."

He began to jog.

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