Boy of the Westend

by Zack

  When I first came to London I was only sixteen

  With a fiver in my pocket and my ole dancing bag

  I went down to the Dilly to check out the scene

  And I soon ended up on the old main drag.

  The Pogues, “The Old Main Drag,” 1985

  For Kevin B., whose fault this is…

  Author’s Note

  In the Britain of the late 1970s an 18-year-old boy could purchase alcohol and cigarettes, vote in elections, and die for his country. What he couldn’t do without facing criminal charges and a possible prison sentence was have sex with another male, not until he attained the age of 21. Even then, he could only engage in a homosexual act in private, which excluded hotel rooms or any abode where a third person was present, even if they were not in the same room. The age of consent for homosexuality was only lowered to 18 in 1994 and then to 16 in 2000.

  Italy has never had any laws relating to homosexuality. The age of consent in Italy is 14 years, except that those aged 13 may engage in sexual activity with partners who are less than 3 years older. The age of consent rises to 16 if one of the participants has some kind of influence on the other, for instance a teacher, adoptive parent, a priest.

  In Britain, the term “public school” means the exact opposite of its meaning in the United States. A British public school—more often than not with a substantial number of pupils boarding—is a private, fee-paying establishment, often regarded as elitist and for the children of well-off parents. Today, many of these establishments have become coeducational… but not in the time depicted in this story.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  PROLOGUE

  Rome

  Early summer 1980

  Angle moaned delightfully. The kid knew how to enjoy his sex, and Mike Smith wanted to make the most of the opportunity with the Italian stagehand; a celebratory fuck now that he knew he was free of James Rosen for a while. How strange to be in a country where what he and Angle were doing was not illegal, Mike reflected between thrusts. Even though by a few months he was no longer a teen, were they back in England, having sex with another man would land him in prison if anyone caught him “on the job.” Oh, and there had been so many opportunities for that! He had Angle up in the doggy position and they had been at it for a good ten minutes. With one hand, he gripped the boy’s hollowed flank, and the other he wrapped around and under to stroke Angle’s substantial little-guy’s cock.

  Mike supposed the appeal—more than huge puppy-like eyes which seemed to be all dark brown irises—was that for an eighteen-year-old, Angle looked years younger, and he was possessed of a very long dick. That and his undeniable cute-Italian charm, a mixture of sociability and seduction all rolled up in a sexy package. His name was Angelo, of course, but the Americans on the crew called him Angle, because he always seemed to have one. In this case, Mike well knew it would be wangling a present out of him. At their first encounter it had been: “Americani, all rich. You buy me present. I give you plenty good times at night. I find other boys who do it good.”

  “I’m British,” Mike pointed out with his typical cheeky smile.

  “So, Mich-ha-el Smeeth, you fuck better then,” Angle came back, even cheekier.

  Tonight’s sex session was supposed to help relieve a bout of severe randiness brought on by obsessing ( stupid, stupid, stupid ) over the new gofer he had heard was due in from L.A. any day. He had nipped out to a bar he knew some of the Italian crews frequented and, sure enough, Angle was happy to come back to Mike’s room and let him bang his skinny butt. The Italian boy weighed the half of Mike, so it was no problem to roll him to his side, then pull him around onto his back while stepping first one knee then the other over his thigh. He completed the maneuver without pulling out of the kid’s hot asshole and barely interrupted the pumping motion of his cock. Angelo’s shining face peered up, all wide-eyed, dirty innocence and lust.

  His balls ached for release, and when Mike came the burst of orgasm expanded the girth of his cock and Angelo grunted hot breaths of bliss. Angle’s cock, grasped in Mike’s hand oozed pre-cum. For a moment Mike imagined it was James Rosen he was screwing—punishing, really—and he put every last ounce of energy into pumping the kid full of spunk. Angle clenched his ass muscles in syncopation with every snort of air gasped from his little Italian lungs.

  And then Mike slowed and brought the boy’s face back into focus. What would it feel like to really fuck James Rosen? He grinned with bestial happiness at the release and forgetfulness Angle had brought him—in spite of momentarily imagining Rosen. At least he’d expelled wanton images of sexy young American gofers. In gratitude he pulled his dick from the wet ass, slumped forward, and took the boy’s long, slick cock in his mouth. Angle’s slender body convulsed with pleasure and his ribs stood up like whalebones from his chest in a heaving framework. He reached with both hands to bury his fingers in Mike’s thick hair and then pressed down on the back of his head to urge even harder suction. With only two more pulls, Mike felt the bursting pressure of Angle’s orgasm. His choked grunts of pleasure enraptured Mike. Seeing and hearing the kid coming, let alone tasting him, returned Mike to the brink. Jerk followed jerk to fill Mike’s mouth with sweet-tasting cum, thin and copious. A mixture of jizz and saliva trickled from between his lips and Angle’s bucking cock as it shafted Mike’s mouth. His tongue rubbed against smooth, slippery globes of cockhead as the last spurt of cum ran out over its tip. Angle pulled out of him and Mike let his head loll down onto Angle’s pitching stomach with exhaustion. Jizz trailed stickily from his lips.

  It had been only that morning the crackly phone call offered him a new lease on life. At least temporarily. James had rung in the depths of the Los Angeles night.

  Mike straightened up, suddenly aware that his half-crouch felt like he was hiding from some predatory animal. A weight great enough to choke the air from his chest was gone. At least for the moment. It was as if he had just dislodged a wad of unchewed meat blocking his gorge. He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath of relief—a temporary respite, true, but a reprieve nonetheless.

  James Rosen is not coming to Rome… not yet.

  “Mikey-baby, I know this is a disappointment, but you know how it goes in Tinsel Town.” Rosen’s voice crackled from the phone’s elderly earpiece. The harsh accent always grated on Mike Smith’s London-tuned ears, though it hadn’t always been that way, and the still-unfamiliar vagaries of the Roman telephone system didn’t help the trans-Atlantic operator-placed call. There had been a time not so long ago—or eons ago, depending on how he felt—when the movie mogul’s voice represented something more soothing. But that was before the man’s insatiable need to own and absolutely dominate all he touched had blighted the relationship. No. That wasn’t the truth, was it? Be honest: from night one Rosen had turned him into nothing more than a fuck-puppet. But what started with the hint of promise grew nightmarish. From Hoboken via Miami and Los Angeles, James Rosen now frightened Mike Smith in far off Rome. Rosen’s reach was global.

  It was a fact that Mike owed most of what he now had to the Hollywood producer, but that only aggravated his sense of dislocation from the world around him. His life now revolved around what James wanted. An energetic just-turned-twenty-year-old sh
ould be loving every minute of his job with the British sound crew hired on for a few months’ work at Rome’s huge studio complex, Cinecittà. And he did love his job, even as a lowly runner, what the wags on the crew called the “fifth assistant director.” But the thought of Rosen’s imminent arrival from California, or wherever he was over there in the States, had dulled Mike’s appreciation of life considerably. He knew he’d be on call day and night for another ass pounding or an upended deep-throat session… whatever James Rosen demanded.

  Sometimes, there’s only so much I can take.

  An alien buzzing alerted him to the phone receiver still in his hand. He dropped the heavy thing with a clatter onto its cradle, and the noise ceased. He wanted to take a shower but knew the damned thing wasn’t working again. “A man will be up very soon, signore” was Roman for “tomorrow, maybe.”

  But James is delayed. Won’t be here for weeks. Yippee!

  He leaned on the sill of the wide open window, feeling a little light-headed. The air-conditioning unit worked reasonably well, but rattled too much to have on all the while. Besides, the bribes required to keep it working were too much. Rome’s sultry heat beat down relentlessly on the untidy front pull-off of the Hotel Vittorio Emmanuele where the British and American crews were billeted for the duration. To their general irritation, rather than staying at a hotel in the glamorous city itself, they were quartered relatively close to the studios, not far off the flight path for nearby Ciampino, Rome’s largely disregarded second airport. The district was a sprawl of long eight-story apartment blocks, their regulation balconies aflutter with laundry, low-rise industrial units, and interspersed mini-supermercati. At least a short walk took him to the newly opened Anagnina Metro station, and a bit under thirty minutes whisked Mike to the center. He had taken in the lively scene at Spagna twice when Angle dragged him off to the Spanish Steps, the first time as a big thank you for saving his sweet ass from serious punishment.

  And there were professional compensations to the job. The movie’s director, forty-five year old veteran Kennith J. Mitchener, knew his business and mostly helmed successful films—financially, that is. Critics had other ideas, but the man put bums on cinema seats, and that meant Mike was in with a chance of having some of that success rub off on his curriculum vitae. At the moment he couldn’t write in the film’s title, for it only bore the designation Rome-43 —which described the principal place and year of the setting, 1943. Once ensconced in the studio, the crews were plunged into the depths of the Second World War, with fascists roving the streets.

  Then there was Jeff. The handsome American focus puller had yanked on a few chains in his time, including Mike’s, to their mutual enjoyment, in spite of Mike’s preference for blonds. (Jeff’s hair rivaled the Smith family’s lush blackness and unruly disarray. The males, that is. Mike’s mother was always tidily coiffured.) They’d had a few enjoyable sessions until Jeff discovered who Mike’s sponsor was. The minute he caught a whiff of James Rosen, Jeff dropped Mike instantly. Oh, he remained charming, friendly, even affectionate, and always helpful, but no more bed and no more quickies behind a set-flat on the sound stage. Mike felt the loss. Jeff had filled a spot in his heart which needed gentling from the harsh handling of his real master and the disaster of his sex life otherwise.

  Mike knew what caused the gaping hollow at the core of his being. He had understood for a long time what it was that draped his normally sunny, cheerful disposition in the thick cobwebs of sadness. It wasn’t the oppressive presence of Rosen in his life. It was a lack. He craved a soul mate, the Ideal Friend his soul had cried out for since school, whose love would warm him for ever more. But little in his short adult life to date betokened any such thing. Except for Kevin, until that went shit-shaped; and that had been his own stupid fault. Then there was Trevor, the strange boy back home who worked at Rex Sound Facilities on Soho’s Dean Street, running sound transfers from tape to magnetic film ready for editing. A slinky-sexy character in boy’s clothing with extraordinary emerald eyes. For a short while, Mike hoped Trevor might be the one. But Trevor wasn’t enough, and besides, Rosen went apeshit on one of his flying trips to London when he caught a whisper, and that was the end of that. Mike’s hollow soul might be his own, but his body was Rosen’s, bought and paid for and on call twenty-four/seven whenever the boss was in town. And when he wasn’t, which was most of the time, Mike had to remain chaste, untouched—no sex, nada!

  He drew in a second shuddery breath of heated evening air, and tasted dust, cooked tomatoes, garlic, garbage, and vehicle fumes from the surrounding roads and distant autostrada. One of the unit’s limousines pulled off the road and braked to a halt in front of the hotel’s entrance, five floors below. Familiar American voices drawled indistinctly from a couple of windows along and caught Mike’s attention. Jeff with his buddy, the grizzled camera operator Harry. The car’s arrival had evidently roused their interest.

  “Hey, Harry, who’s the chicken with Sheila?” Mike heard Jeff ask.

  Mike peered down over the wide sill, but the angle was wrong to see who was getting out from the rear of the limo. Sheila, obviously. The senior production assistant had a soft spot for him, her “English rose,” as she jokingly called him in spite of his dark hair. “It’s the cheeky-chappie rosy cheeks,” she always said in her soft Californian accent, giving his cheek a pinch. But the chicken remained invisible, other than a flash of blindingly golden hair in the westering sun. The newcomer disappeared below Mike’s window ledge too quickly for him to make anything out, just a streak of gracefully lithe movement. How annoying. Jeff and Harry clearly had a better line of view.

  “Don’t know, Jeff,” Harry came back with a growl. “No doubt we’ll find out.”

  “Must be the new gofer kid. If he’s on the unit, I tell you now, my focus pulling is going to go out of whack. You remember his name?”

  “Bill, or something like that. Reckon he’s straight?”

  “Depends who hired him. If it was Rosen, you never know,” Jeff said, letting the words hang in the air. “One thing’s for sure, by the time this unit gets through with him he won’t be.”

  The salacious chuckles sent Mike back to his bed. He knew the new runner’s name. He sat on the edge and tapped the top of the telephone receiver thoughtfully. His curiosity was piqued, not to say it had peaked. Rumors had done the rounds that a new runner, or gofer as the Yanks called them, would be joining the crew soon. Mike guessed this was him. Jeff had a good eye. If he thought the “chicken” worthy of appraisal, then the guy must be something really hot. Mike rubbed the small silver stud in his left earlobe. A tiny twinge of excitement clutched at his lower abdomen. But then he thrust it aside. Imagination running riot was pointless. Who knew where the newcomer’s interests lay? Statistically not in Mike Smith’s direction.

  Depends who hired him. If it was Rosen, you never know…

  So, even if he turned out gay, what was there to say he would be into Mike, and would he approve of his recent past? Mike Smith’s long downhill slide from schoolboy with promise to… to the gutters of London? Pointless to fantasize, yes, but he was, imagining the boy from Los Angeles. He’d had a few Americans in his time (the wonderful Jeff aside) and they held a fascination for him. Oh, how he craved a blond mop-head like the new gofer seemed to be. Course, he hadn’t seen much apart from the halo of hair, but in his imagination Mike just knew he’d be hot… But gay? Someone his own age, Sheila had let slip a few days back when it was confirmed he was coming over.

  “Does he have a name?” Mike had asked.

  Sheila gave him one of her indulgent smiles. “Sure, of course he has a name, doll.”

  And now, like lightning in his brain, Mike realized he had a perfect opportunity to catch a glimpse of the mystery. He’s got to check in first… He leaped to his feet and out the door in a flash. He ignored the lifts—creaky ancient things—and tore down the stairs. He bounded into the busy lobby almost too late. They had finished with the laborious check-in pr
ocedure and stood in front of the concertina doors of the old fashioned bank of lifts.

  “You’re on the fifth floor with some of the others,” he heard Sheila say above the general buzz of the lobby. Maddeningly, the boy was partly hidden. Then Sheila stepped back enough. Mike saw him nod and a wave of beautiful tawny-blond hair fell like breaking surf over his forehead. Mike’s stomach went into free-fall. The young American was utterly beautiful.

  “You’re very young,” Sheila said to her charge, as though she had heard Mike’s thought.

  “I’m twenty.”

  “That’s very young if you’re a young person, and to me you look a very young person.”

  From his position on the final step into the lobby, only fifteen feet away, Mike saw a flush of blood suffuse the new gofer’s cheek, but Sheila forestalled any protest when the lift arrived.

  “I’m just warning you to watch out for yourself. This isn’t Li’l Rockville, Stateside, you know.”

  The soft, slow drawl came across the depths of the lobby to Mike’s ears. “I’m from L.A., and that isn’t exactly a little—”

  And they were gone. Lift door closed. To the fifth floor. My floor. But which room? Too late to run back up. What’s the point? He won’t even like me.

  What had Sheila said a few days back? “Of course he has a name, doll.

  “Gil Graham.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  A Succession Question

  June 1975

  Rather wide and comfortable in aspect, the garden had a well-kept lawn the size of a tennis court, although—as a result of a popular vote among the Fabianites—for the summer term of 1975 it acted as a croquet court. In the deplorable anonymity of boarding school uniform, two boys sat with legs stretched out languidly and backs to a chest-high rustic wall which kept up a bank behind Fabian, their school boarding house. Their navy-blue blazers lay on the turf beside them. Julian Webb had folded his; Mike Smith’s lay in a crumpled heap. His had red braiding around the edges and pocket tops—his “house colors” for swimming prowess; Julian’s was plain, indicating that he had no accolades as a sportsman.