[Freddie moves differently, like this. You do, when heels tilt your centre of gravity to a new point - balance and gravity take new, more important roles. In Cassidy's arms Freddie's movement feels fluid, but perfectly controlled. It's not so different to how he fucks: instinct, finely honed.]

No idea what a doxy is, but I'm assuming someone else would slap you for it. It's a drag bar.

[He tilts his head back, smiling as another sequinned diva takes the stage to mime. Kylie. Shit, obviously, but even he's got to respect the classics.]

At least, one night a week.

[And no, not for Freddie's own entertainment, though he's grown more comfortable with playing dress ups. It's not his scene, but so few people see him like this anyway, and he does quite like watching how their faces change when they do.

Wouldn't do it in Manchester. Too much of an image to maintain, and boys who fuck boys fuck boys.

But Cassidy? Freddie happens to know he gets his blood up for both, and Freddie's enough of a confusion to appeal across more than one terrain.

Freddie's watching him closely as he curls fingers against his cheek, drags his thumb (nail short but red) across the full of his lips. He lifts his leg, just a fraction, and grins at the result.]

I think you might be enjoying it more.