Centre Pocket

The little prick has no fucking business being in here, and he knows it.
Jock has seen him about before, normally on the arm of somebody or other or even in some fucker's lap, but at least then he was out of the way, in somebody's shadow, leaning into them.
Now when he walks in he's alone, goes up the bar, orders some fruity little drink that Vaughn puts a fucking pink cocktail umbrella in, like the little bastard needs encouraging. When he moves over to the pool table, it's with his hips shifting from side to side, his jeans so fucking tight Jock almost can't believe he can move at all.
The jeans are a steel-grey that clings to his calves, his thighs, the curve of his fat little arse, and he's wearing a t-shirt that's too fucking small for him, might even be a kid's size, with the hem snipped off so bare a bit more of his midriff. It's so tight you'd probably be able to see his fucking nipples, if not for the fact that he's wearing a little sleeveless denim jacket over top of it.
It's got a patch on the back that says, HEARTBREAKER.
It says GAY BOY in white across his arse cheeks. Jock can read it when he bends over to break.
"Can you fucking believe that kid?" asks Rob across from him, sipping at his beer. "What the fuck is he asking for?"
"Anything he can get," mutters Jock, and shifts in his seat so that he's got his back to the lad, but he's aware of him through the course of the evening ? he hears the way he says thank you when some of the other patrons buy him drinks, all effeminate, hears the way he lisps, "Hi, boys!" when Patton comes in with his boys and gets half-laughing, "Hey, Phin!" in reply.

When he goes to the bar later in the evening, he orders another one of his fucking pink G