But this wasn’t any other relationship with any other person. It was a game I’d embarked upon with Ilya – a game that had veered wildly off the rails at some point.
Perhaps he was trying to get us back on track again.
Or perhaps we hadn’t even been close in the first place. I’d simply played nursemaid and slut when he was bruised and battered. I’d misread things. He hadn’t been warm and compassionate, or emotionally open, or heart-meltingly fragile and needy. He’d just been a bit off colour.
Whatever. If he could be hard and cool, then so could I.
‘What’s the address, then?’ I asked tersely.
I jotted down details, fixed a time, hung up, then I just sat for a while, thinking.
Luke didn’t emerge from the bedroom. Music came from behind the closed door – some faceless thump, thump stuff that meant he’d tuned my radio to a different station.
I was annoyed with myself for succumbing to Ilya. I wished I’d had the strength to say: ‘Fuck you, you can’t treat me like this. I won’t stand for it.’
But I was slave to my corrosive lust. It gnawed too deeply for pride to get a look in.
I wondered if I should go to him without playing the whore. Going to grotty B-and-B land, dressed as a slut, to take shit from a man with a heart of ice was tantamount to having my nose rubbed in my abasement. I’d sunk low enough. I ought to haul myself up. I ought to show him that I wouldn’t kowtow to his every demand.
Would wearing jeans and trainers be a big enough gesture? Hardly.
My mind ticked over, searching for a way to achieve a minor victory. My emotions became increasingly vengeful, but my ideas failed to satisfy them.
Then it clicked: delicious and wicked.
As I walked into my bedroom, I barely gave a second thought to how cruelly exploitative it was, nor what Ilya’s reaction might be. Would he cuttlefish me? Did that word still count?
Well, if it did and he said it, then it would just go to prove how little I meant to him. And if that was the score, then it was high time we went our separate ways.
I met Luke in the Great Eastern, a narrow, book-lined pub midway between our houses. I wore my black shift dress and geisha-girl sandals; no tart’s clothes for me – apart from a pair of flimsy scarlet knickers. We downed a couple of Dutch-courage whiskies, then headed out into the September night.
I was nervous and eager and so was Luke – but for very different reasons.
Luke thought I was helping him to explore his bisexuality; he thought we were going to meet a friend who might be interested in doing some stuff with him. We’ll play it by ear, I’d told him, because I’m not sure how my friend, Ilya, will react. He said it was OK, but sometimes, when it comes to the crunch, he can get a little edgy, uptight. So maybe I’ll join in, I said. We could have a sexy threesome to make it all go smoothly. Trust me, Luke. It’ll be great.
Oh, I was a prize bitch.
But I wanted the upper hand for a change, and Luke, poor Luke, just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The two of us walked down Grand Parade, which is no longer grand and you wouldn’t want to parade there. The faded beauty of yesteryear’s houses overlooks a confusion of traffic lanes leading down to the sea: buses go this way, cars go that, cyclists go the other, and pedestrians negotiate.
Under the darkening sky, the place was full of lights: headlights, brake lights, traffic lights and street lights. Buses with hardly any passengers purred and puffed down to the shelters at Old Steine, their brightly lit interiors stark and clinical.
I hoped Ilya wouldn’t fly off the handle. I hoped he would agree.
I imagined the three of us entangled on some strange guesthouse bed: my soft curves between those beautiful hard bodies – one nut brown, one gold brown. I pictured the two of them touching – perhaps tentatively for a while – then Luke taking Ilya’s cock in his mouth, or maybe in his arse, depending on how far I could push things.
I couldn’t imagine Ilya returning the compliment. He wouldn’t take Luke’s prick into any part of his body: it would compromise his big butch masculinity. But he might be prepared to use Luke’s orifices the way he would use a woman’s.
And if he said no, I’d say, ‘Well, how do you spell that? Does it begin with a C followed by a U?’ and so on.
That, at least, had been the original plan. But I was starting to have doubts.
In silence, Luke and I mooched along, past tall crumbling terraces with chessboard-chequered steps rising from pavement to door. They were all narrow and bow-fronted, as if someone had concertinaed the street together and the facades had buckled under pressure. Fops in breeches used to party in those houses; now they’re all flats, bedsits, offices and guesthouses – where the guests are homeless people who stay for months on end, watching satellite TV.
Street lamps cast silver shards on lumpy black binbags.
My mood got bleaker and bleaker.
I hoped Ilya’s B and B wouldn’t be too scummy.
‘You swear this is nothing weird?’ piped up Luke as we skirted past some scaffolding. ‘I mean, this guy, you know him pretty well? And it’s not a setup? It’s not, like, one of your jokes, is it?’
‘No,’ I said guiltily. ‘It’s not a joke.’
We paused at the corner of Edward Street, waiting for the traffic lights to change.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ I went on, still not sure if I wanted him to back out or stick with it. ‘If you’re worried, or just not into it any more, we can easily forget about it. It’s not a problem. I’ll understand. Me and you could go for a drink. We’ll be in gay central. I could be a fag hag. And I’ll chose a nice man for you.’
‘I’m not gay,’ said Luke snappishly.
‘Hey,’ I said, giving his hand a quick squeeze. ‘I know. And even if you were –’
‘But I’m not,’ he said. ‘I’m into girls mainly. Blokes are just . . . different. Harder. I don’t mean . . . I mean, like, grittier. Anyway, I might not like it the third time. Might have changed my mind.’
‘OK, OK,’ I said, and I let the conversation drop.
I didn’t understand Luke. I’d always regarded bisexuality as just another playground for sexually adventurous people. I didn’t think you could swing both ways and be slightly embarrassed about it as Luke was. Still, it was interesting.
Wordlessly, we crossed the road. On the opposite side was the floodlit Royal Pavilion – Brighton’s very own Taj Mahal – its pale-gold turrets and onion domes stamped against the night sky.
For some reason, the fairy-castle foolishness of the place cheered me. And when I saw the Palace Pier’s garish lights, winking and swooping at the bottom of the road, I felt a frisson of childish excitement.
I suddenly wanted to run to Ilya’s place, throw my arms round him and tumble into a strange bed. I didn’t want to liaise and persuade while Luke stood there like a lemon. I didn’t want to rebel against Ilya’s wrath or refusal.
I just wanted things to be good between us. We could continue having lots of sex – dirty, brash, sluttish sex – but underlying our games there’d be something new: a mutual trust and understanding, a shared sense of what we were doing and where we were going. We’d stop trying to outdo each other and, instead, we’d be equals who were equally committed, equally honest.
But the cheery indifference of Ilya’s phone call suggested he wanted to go backward rather than forward. Well, I thought, maybe I could give it a go.
As we turned into St James Street, brighter and busier, my resolve strengthened. I started to feel the aura of sleaze, both brazen and stealthy. The zing of the gay scene infected me. Not so much the vibrancy of its clubs and bars: more thoughts of easy pick-ups, tatty saunas and all the cottaging rumoured to go on in the seafront toilets.
I started to anticipate my first experience of some hot boy-on-boy action in a seamy bed and breakfast. If Ilya wanted to rewind, then fine. But I was calling the shots tonight. He could take it
or leave it.
‘This is going to be fun,’ I said, squeezing Luke round the waist. ‘You’ll like Ilya, once you get used to him. Promise.’
I burbled on in a similar fashion, feeding Luke with encouragement, lies and a little bit of smutty talk to get him in the mood.
We passed dingy sidestreets full of cheap hotels with shallow ironwork balconies; and I thought of how, years ago, when sex was difficult, people would book into those places as Mr and Mrs Smith. The night just seemed full of lust: clandestine and forbidden, anonymous and raw – as if it had all layered up over the decades.
‘Somewhere down here,’ I said, spotting our side street.
‘Ugh,’ said Luke, adding a little nervous laugh.
And he was right: ugh.
The narrow road was shadowy and grim, lined with squashed seaside houses in greys and grimy pastels. Street lamps spaced too far apart gave off a feeble white haze, and illuminated guesthouse signs jutted out at random.
I eyed an unlit bay window, grubby net curtains stretched behind it. Handwritten signs taped to the glass advertised the price of rooms. Please, Ilya, let it be one of the better ones.
I fumbled with my slip of paper, looking around at names and door numbers, then, relieved, we moved on.
Ilya’s B and B didn’t look too bad: it was bigger, squarer and slightly sprucer-looking than most – but then that wasn’t too difficult.
The door wasn’t open, though, and we had to press a bell. A man in a beige jumper with face and hair to match answered.
‘We’ve come to see someone in room nine,’ I said.
The beige man just sighed and nodded us into a small lobby, which, for all its tawdry splendour of gilt-framed mirrors, two delicate little tables and an overbearing chandelier, was pretty low-watt and gloomy.
Luke and I, following the man’s directions, made our way up a narrow stairway, its red carpet threadbare where too many feet had trudged. The air was metallic with the tang of polish – chemical pine needles – but nothing really shone; it was more as if someone had sprayed the stuff around like air-freshener.
The unfamiliarity of the place excited me, as did the prospect of seeing Ilya. And when we reached door number nine, I was buzzing with nerves and horniness.
‘It’s Beth,’ I announced, knocking.
‘Yeah, it’s OK,’ came Ilya’s steady voice. ‘Come on in.’
Hearing him made my emotions dance, but I was determined to play it cool.
I opened the door, took a step into the room, then froze. My heart slammed to a halt. My vision went muzzy.
‘Oh, fuck,’ I breathed, as my stalled heartbeats tumbled.
‘Oh fuck,’ came Luke’s quiet voice at my shoulder. Then he added softly: ‘You bitch.’
I reached back to clutch at his wrist, scared he might run. It was the only movement I could make. In petrified disbelief, I surveyed the cigarette-hazy room as it swam back into focus.
The walls were papered in mock-Regency stripes and I felt as if I were standing at the entrance to a cage – a cage full of beasts. There were six men in all, but, in the small space, it seemed more like twenty. It didn’t take a genius to work out that they weren’t the most savoury of characters.
They were scattered here and there, drinking and smoking: three were on wooden-framed armchairs, sitting around a low circular table which was strewn with playing cards; one was on the bed, reclining against the teak, wall-set headboard, his legs sprawling comfortably; another, bull-necked and thuggish like a nightclub bouncer, sat incongruously on a white and gilt dressing table; and there was Ilya, leaning near the floor-to-ceiling curtains of the big bay window, his arms crossed, his face stony and grim.
My skin broke out in sudden heat, then sweat started to prickle.
All eyes were on us. It was patently obvious we were expected – or, more likely, I was. Ilya had really excelled himself this time.
Nervously, I looked at the bed again. The guy lounging there was holding the biggest, blackest dildo I have ever seen. It was surely a joke sex toy. He was bouncing the thing, tick-tock fashion, from palm to palm. He returned my gaze, a malevolent leer on his cruel, sharp face, then he pointed the dildo at Luke.
‘Who’s the pretty one?’ he asked.
I could have kneed him in the balls for that, except my legs wouldn’t have carried me.
I swallowed, trying to lubricate my dry throat, and addressed Ilya.
‘What’s going on?’ I croaked.
Ilya walked towards me and, despite my fear, the sight of his dark, rough-hewn beauty made me melt – heart and sex. We’d been apart far too long.
‘Get rid of him, Beth,’ he said gently.
I shook my head, tightening my grip on Luke’s wrist as he tried to withdraw.
‘What’s going on?’ I repeated.
Ilya stood close. I could smell him; I could feel the heat from his body; I could see the faintest yellow tinge on his cheekbone, the last vestige of a bruise.
He gazed down at me, his blue-jade eyes softly pleading.
‘I need you,’ he said in a tormented whisper. ‘Please, Beth. Help me out.’
His fingertips brushed fleetingly against my own.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he murmured. Then, nodding at Luke, he said, ‘I’m afraid your journey’s been wasted, mate. You’re surplus to requirements.’
In a daze, I released my hold on Luke’s wrist.
‘Beth,’ hissed Luke, as if he were trying to recall me to my senses.
‘Nice try though, Beth,’ added Ilya, giving me a lame smile.
In the room behind Ilya, conversations were rolling, jocular and animated, like they were all down the pub.
‘Tell me what’s going on,’ I said, quiet and numb. ‘Who are they?’
‘Lose the friend,’ insisted Ilya.
I paused, moistening my lips. My heart was hammering so wildly I half fancied it might break out of my ribcage.
‘Go, Luke,’ I said, without turning to him. ‘Just go.’
‘But, Beth,’ he protested. ‘You might –’
‘Please,’ I said sternly. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow. I can handle it. I’m OK. Just leave.’
After several silent seconds, floorboards creaked behind me and Luke retreated.
Ilya closed the door. The chatter died down.
‘Pretend it’s fantasy,’ murmured Ilya, ushering me deeper into the dull-lit, stripy room.
If I hadn’t been so frightened, I might have laughed at that.
‘Okaaay,’ said the bed-man in decisive, sing-song drawl. ‘Let’s have a look at her, Travis.’ Briskly, he swung his feet to the ground and stood.
He looked like an elongated pixie: tall and sinewy, with a smidgen of a sandy beard and wavy hair caught back in a ponytail. His lips were thin and cold.
He jerked his head towards the bed. ‘Get her on there,’ he said to Ilya. ‘And spread her open so I can take a gander.’
‘You can go fuck yourself,’ I said. The words came out louder than I’d intended. I’d just wanted to breathe them to myself – a small act of defiance while I waited for guidance from Ilya.
‘Oooo,’ jeered pixie-face, as gruff laughter crackled and wheezed. ‘Bolshy little bitch, isn’t she? Well, Travis? Are you going to fill her in or am I?’
The laughter spluttered up again. ‘I’m second,’ said a youngish guy with slicked-back hair and a silver hoop in one ear.
‘No, you’re not, you dirty bastard,’ guffawed the bouncer-thug. ‘I’m not touching anything you’ve had your dick in.’
‘An orderly queue if you please,’ mocked another voice.
My rage simmered up as the moronic banter continued, interspersed with bawdy laughter. Ilya, standing a little way behind me, said nothing.
‘Nice company you keep,’ I said tartly, turning my head a fraction.
‘I didn’t fucking choose them,’ came Ilya’s clenched-teeth reply.
Pixie-face approached me, rangy and snake-hipped. There
was an air of louche threat and incipient violence about him.
‘You see, Beth,’ he began jauntily. ‘It goes like this: your friend Ilya needs to buy himself some more time. He’s not coming up with the goods and I’m not happy. So I thought to myself, Well, Tony, what could Ilya do to keep you sweet for a while? And I thought, Well, maybe I’ll have a go at his girlfriend. She looks all right to me.’
He grinned, that slash of a mouth stretching narrow and white. Then, flopping his hand at the wrist and putting on a high-pitched, girly voice, he said, ‘I want your dick up my arse! Oh Ilya! Yes! Yes! I want your dick up my arse. I want your fucking dick up my fucking arse! Oh! Oh! Give it to me, big boy.’
Laughter erupted, deep, lewd and prolonged. Despair spread through me like an ink stain. In a better frame of mind, I might have spat at him.
‘The video,’ said Ilya in a dull, defeated tone. ‘Sorry. The tape was in the machine.’
My head spun, trying to sort out too much information and too many emotions. They’d seen me. They’d watched me. I wasn’t even embarrassed. Then I felt contempt rise – for them and for Ilya.
‘What?’ I said incredulously. ‘Are you saying . . . are these just a bunch of fucking burglars? Some blokes who nicked your telly? Christ, I assumed –’
‘Oh, no, no, no,’ cut in Tony, giving me a sardonic smile. ‘We didn’t mean to rob the stuff, darling. It just – ooops – slipped into our hands. We were only popping round to say, “Well, hello Ilya. We’ve got your number.” And look what we ended up with: you! A porn star! So do as you’re told, eh?’ He chucked me under the chin. I recoiled from his bony fingers. ‘You’ll make us all very happy.’
My voice trembled when I spoke. ‘And if I don’t?’
Tony shrugged and, with airy arrogance, said, ‘Then I’ll just have to blow your boyfriend’s kneecaps off, won’t I?’
Icy horror squeezed me.
Tony watched, smug and delighted, waiting for me to react to his vile information.
I had no idea if his threat was hollow or deadly serious, but the sentiment was sufficient to start a wave of sickness sweeping from my guts to my throat. My own knees felt bloated with squeamish sensitivity and my dizzying consciousness reeled with the roundness of knees, with the floatiness of patellas, with splintered bone and blood-splashed pavements, and cartilage, and that fluid that stops the ball and socket joints grinding to dust.
Asking For Trouble Page 22