Street Kid

by Ned Williams

  “Steven?” she suddenly snapped.

  “What?”

  “Shut up!” I shut up. “Don’t try and get out of it.” She paused for a moment. “Do we have a deal?”

  I sighed. “Yes.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Well, here goes mine,” she groaned. “Believe it or not, I’m still a virgin.”

  During the pause that followed, I stared at her. Was she telling me the truth? The gossip at work about Sheba’s love life was legendary; always worth a listen. Looking at her, she appeared perfectly sincere in her extraordinary claim. “There’s nothing wrong with that.” I gently consoled her whilst trying not to show any hint of surprise or amusement. “If that’s what you want. I think it’s sweet...”

  “Well, I don’t!!” Some passers–by threw us a look. “You think it’s easy trying to maintain the image of ‘girl–about–town’, when I still remain unbedded?” In a low voice she went on to explain. Still a reluctant virgin, she had tried everything to get rid of it. If she was too forward with what she was after, the guys took fright and ran a mile. They must have thought she was too easy. All the rest appeared high minded and moral in the extreme. As soon as they told her they wanted to wait until after the wedding before they would ‘enjoy’ her, it was her turn to run. “Can you believe my luck? What do I have to do to get rid of it? I don’t want to wait until I get a ring on my finger before I start enjoying myself.” During this great confession, I kept quiet. I felt apprehensive. I hardly paid any attention to what she said. It was very good of her to confide in me all her hopes and fears but I knew what was to come. My time was running out. Sure enough, eventually she stopped speaking and stared at me. “Your turn!”

  “I can’t think of anything...”

  “Steve, I’ve just spent the last half hour telling you my deepest and darkest secret. I think it’s time to return the compliment, don’t you?”

  “Okay.” I bit my lip. Something worried me. Could she be trusted? I had serious doubts as to whether Sheba would be able to resist spreading my news. “Okay,” I repeated. Could she keep her mouth shut? Certainly there was a good chance she would – now that I knew something about her – if she was to be believed. Maybe she wasn’t telling me the whole truth. God, was I in a right quandary. “Okay.” Did I think the constant repetition of this word would somehow make either my dilemma or her go away?

  “Is that all you’re going to say? ‘Okay’?” She did a passable impersonation of my voice. It made me chuckle.

  “I don’t know...”

  “You’re gay, aren’t you?”

  “Yes!” I'm not sure whether it slipped out by accident because of the directness of the question, or whether I deliberately used it as an excuse to get it all out in the open.

  She laughed, slapped her thigh and blurted out, “Finally. Now we can have lots of fun.”

  In my own, individual, bumbling way, I had confirmed the long-standing suspicion she had held about me.

  “Doesn’t it shock you?”

  “Not at all. It doesn’t matter to me in the slightest. Each to his own, that’s what I say.” Now my floodgate was opened, I told her many things about myself. One thing, however, I did leave out was the fact that I was ‘on the game.’ It was a little too soon for that. The next day, in work, Sheba was pleasant but there was a slight change in our dealings with one another. She was warmer – more relaxed.

  “Is there something going on between you two?” a suspicious Paula asked.

  Sheba grinned at her. “You never know.”

  I blushed – which broadcast more than was the actual truth. One thing really niggled and had me worried: how come I wasn’t able to hide my proclivities from her? What was it that gave me away? I now felt confident enough to tackle her over it. That night we went for another walk. Sitting on a park bench, she put on her grandest voice. “Well, my dear…” She modulated into a more sombre mode. “Steve, I honestly don’t think you need worry too much. To the casual observer, you look pretty normal. You hide it pretty well. It’s only to those in the know, who know what they’re looking for, can spot it.”

  Pretty normal?!! “What d’you mean, ‘those who know what they’re looking for’?”

  She tapped the side of her nose. “Now wouldn’t that be telling.” I never found out what she meant by this remark.

  Very soon, however, I began to gleefully open up to her. It was quite a novelty to be able to talk to someone outside of the gay world. I still kept from her the fact that I was a rent boy. She asked lots of questions and, as time went by, became almost morbidly interested in the whole scene.

  We also took delight in flirting outrageously in the office. That way, any thoughts that some of my colleagues may have entertained over my sexuality were well and truly demolished.

  It wasn’t long before she expressed a keen interest in going to some of the clubs. Because she proved to be utterly circumspect in keeping her lips zipped, I thought there wouldn’t be any harm in it.

  After asking her to call me ‘Carl’ when visiting the gay scene, I took her to ‘Bongo’s’ and introduced her to Simmi before unleashing her upon the rest of the clientele. She was an instant hit. Right away, all my friends clasped her to their collective male bosoms. They doted on her and treated her like royalty. I had warned them not to say anything about my ‘moonlighting’.

  “Bloody cheek!” complained Jacko. “As if we would!”

  Sheba became quite addicted to the scene and I frequently went into a club to find her holding court. One thing she always had problems over was when they unexpectedly deserted her to go off with a partner. She somehow felt left out. It was the part of the scene in which she had no place.

  “I almost wish I were gay,” she once bemoaned. “You can have it anytime and anywhere.”

  “There’s a bit more to being gay than that.” I grumbled. “To start with, being illegal there’s the double lives, prejudice, threats and many other problems,”

  “Oh, I know all that, but you can all be honest with one another about sex. You know what you want and simply go for it.” I didn’t want to disillusion her so I merely smiled and tried to preserve my serenity.

  The only person who didn’t like her being around was Andy. He refused to acknowledge her existence. Each time her name came up, or if she swanned into one of our hangouts, he left.

  The respect I had for him was truly tested. Did he sense something I didn’t?

  Strange to say, at the same time as Sheba was embarking on her exploration of the gay underworld, a sea change was beginning in my life. There was a subtle but strong hunger making itself known to my subconscious: I was starting to get a little tired with the constant stream of anonymous sex, which the rent scene demanded. But, having said that, I still didn’t and couldn’t keep away. Even so, I did ease up a little on my quest for revenge. Was my desire for retribution against my father finally becoming satisfied enough to placate my anger?

  Deep inside, I began to feel a yearning; a strong craving for some genuine affection. A more permanent, tender love. I wanted to be held for myself and not for the artificial, simulated, production line desire, which I was paid to give. I blamed this shift in my attitude on my brief love affair with Peter. The emotions he had stirred still irked me and I had enjoyed the closeness so much, I hankered for more.

  There was another factor in this equation. ‘Lily Law’ was heavily clamping down on the whole rent scene. A few of our group had been questioned and frightened off. The ‘Temps’ had fled in fear from their pitches and the clients were becoming so wary that there was precious little business to be had.

  Entrapment was now in full swing. The cops used mirrors to peer under toilet doors to see what was going on inside. Raiding of the regular places became common place. Only ‘The Hill’ was disregarded. Even ‘Alfio’s’ thought it fit to temporarily latch up ‘Calcutta’. Some of the rents gave up, threw in the towel and moved down to London. As
usual, the cry of, “You’ll be back,” greeted their departure. Eventually, as predicted, they were proved correct and the refugees returned – utterly defeated by our great Metropolis.

  The only constant in my life was Art school. Jack, my teacher, had thought my technique sufficiently developed to warrant some private coaching. As his time was extremely valuable, I considered the personal attention he was able to give as invaluable.

  I had lost contact with José, my little Spanish friend. The sod had calmly walked straight into a prestigious, highly paid job as a commercial artist and had, understandably, decided to leave us.

  Everybody thought it an utter tragedy that he’d decided to sell his soul to that devil; commercialism. We were on a higher plane than that. We were following a pure, legitimate, artistic form of painting, full of integrity and with a great potential for utter poverty. We wouldn’t dream of prostituting our talents for mere monetary gain. We were a ‘trendy’ lot that righteously condemned and dismissed all forms of easy success. In secret, each one of us was green–eyed and jealous as hell. Privately, every one of us, if we’d been completely honest, hoped for a slice of the same cake which José now consumed. But the last thing any of us would ever do is give voice to these desires. It simply wasn’t the done thing.

  Part Four – Aged 16 years

  International Relations

  My sixteenth birthday arrived. I could now legally marry (!). True to form, my family gave me socks, shirts, ties, sweaters and underpants – on the other hand, Sheba presented me with a substantial record token. No prizes will be given to anyone who guesses correctly which present I most valued.

  The rents arranged for Renata to create a small surprise birthday cake – complete with candles. In full view of the customers, I had to blow them out. This particular annual ritual has always struck me as being singularly revolting. Why anyone would desire a slice of cake after someone has gobbed unhygienically all over it is quite beyond me!

  Not content with this culinary delight, my friends paid for my meal then ordered the gorgeous Ian, our oral expert, to take me back to his place where he licked his lips and gave me a free sample.

  At work, whilst I was handing out the customary birthday chocolate bars to every member of the office (my birthday, yet I have to buy them presents?), I started talking to Sophie.

  Like myself, she had joined the firm straight from school. She had been a member of the staff for some six years. Sophie was of Afro–European extract and had inherited the best of both worlds.

  She took a Kit–Kat and held my arm to stop me from moving on to the next recipient of my birthday goodies.

  “Steve?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” I shrugged and knelt on the floor beside her desk to listen. “You’re keen on all that seriously gloomy music and op’ra and the like, aren’t you?”

  Amused, I said, “To put it mildly, yes.”

  “My uncle’s mad on all that Batch, Beath-oven and Chyechoffskee stuff as well.”

  Genuinely interested, I asked, “Is he?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Always desirous of making the acquaintance of new people with similar interests, l answered, “Perhaps we should meet up some time.”

  I expected to get a fairly non–committal response but, instead, she pressed, “I’ll ask him, if you like?”

  “Great.” I was delighted at this, but soon dismissed it from my mind. It was the sort of conversation I’d had so often and, if things ran true to form, nothing further would come of it.

  After a few days, I had almost completely forgotten our little verbal interaction so it was an utter surprise when, one morning, Sophie told me that she’d spoken to her uncle. It appeared that he was delighted with the idea and left it to me to make the arrangements.

  “Let me see. Today’s Tuesday – how about Friday?” I was a firm believer in striking with hot irons.

  “I’ll go round tonight and ask him. He doesn’t go out much so I suppose it’ll be okay.”

  The following day, Sophie relayed the message. I was being invited, on Friday, to arrive at seven o’clock for dinner and a musical evening at her Uncle Winston and Auntie Barbara’s.

  When Friday came, I decided to take a few of my most treasured record possessions with me to give ‘Uncle Winston’ some idea of my tastes.

  Sophie offered to meet me at a prearranged place and to take me around to her uncle’s house. She thought it would help break the ice of the first meeting. I had a couple of hours to kill so I went to ‘The Green Goddess’ to have a quiet coffee and to see who was about to help me pass the time.

  As I walked in, Jacko spotted me and waved me over to join him. He was not alone, but sitting with his cousin; a beautiful young man called Sebastian. He must have been about seventeen with short, light brown hair, subtle tan and the fullest, most sensuous pair of lips I had ever seen. I promptly fell in ‘love at first sight’. Sebastian plainly felt the same way.

  At once, Jacko’s sophisticated radar noticed this and was beside himself. “You two should spend some time together. I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you the key to my place so you can go and have a nice, quiet, intimate evening there. I won’t be back ‘til about eleven so you won’t be disturbed.”

  Sebastian said he had a few things to do but would be free after about eight perhaps we could meet up then?

  “Perfect,” chimed in Jacko, “I’ll take Carl there and you,” meaning Sebastian, “can call around later. How does that sound? Interesting?”

  “Fine by me,” Sebastian added.

  “No!” I corrected. “Shit! I’m busy all evening. What about tomorrow?” I was almost begging.

  “Sorry. I’m going back to Norwich and I won’t be visiting Jacko for ages – years. It’s tonight or never.” He gave me a smile, which was designed to help me change my plans.

  Squeaking with shock, Jacko chipped in with, “Carl, what is so important that you can turn down my gorgeous cousin?”

  “Something!” I moaned. Sebastian and I looked at one another. Desire shot backwards and forwards in our looks. “I’ve got to go.” I didn’t, but I had to get out of there before I broke my promise to meet with Sophie. “Are you sure you won’t be back in town for a while?”

  Sebastian gave me a sad, wistful smile. “I’ll try, but it will be difficult. Work, you see?”

  “Yes.” Depression came over me like a smothering fog. I stood up to leave.

  Sebastian stared, unashamedly full of sorrow. “I’ll see what I can do. You never know.”

  I knew I still had time to kill but I couldn’t stay in that coffee bar any longer. The lost opportunity with this delightfully charming youth would have quickly made me suicidal. The fog of my depression hovered around me for hours. I couldn’t get his face and smile out of my mind.

  I never saw him again. A week later he was killed in a stupid boating accident whilst on holiday. Jacko was utterly distraught and l, being completely self–centred and selfish, cursed my stupidity for not taking up Sebastian’s offer whilst I had the chance.

  My premature departure from ‘The Green Goddess’ left me still with a couple of hours to lose before meeting up with Sophie.

  I strolled over to ‘The Steps’ and lounged around with Paolo and a chunky rent nicknamed ‘Porky’.

  ‘Porky’ slit his eyes and gave me a sidelong look. “Uh–ho. Looks like someone’s just dipped their cock in someone’s arse and it’s come out covered in shit!”

  I tried to mirror his expression; “At least I get to stick it in someone’s arse!” I wasn’t in the mood for ‘Porky’s’ usual offensive facetiousness.

  “Nice one, Carl,” Paolo threw in.

  “Oooo, little Miss Petulant lost her bollocks, has she?” ‘Porky’ tossed back his head and let his hair flow. “Never mind, honey, from what I hear, there wasn’t much to shout about to start with.”

  Paolo, much to my surprise, jumped to my defence. “You don’t
know what you’re fuckin’ talking about.”

  “And you do?”

  Paolo fixed ‘Porky’ with a superior look. “You bet, darling – and he’d beat you by inches”

  ‘Porky’ looked from one of us to the other. “What have we here? Love’s wet dream?” With the prospect of two people taking him on, ‘Porky’ gave up the struggle of trying to out–bitch an imagined enemy.

  As he wandered away, Paolo screamed, “Mammy’s boy!!” This appeared to hit an extremely vulnerable spot for ‘Porky’ put on a spurt and ran out of sight as quickly as his bulk and little legs could carry him. “Look at her. What’s she trying to do; The Dance of the Sugar Plump Mary? How that bag of rancid butter ever manages to get clients is a real puzzler.”

  Paolo and I passed a quiet hour, talking over recent conquests. I didn’t mention where I was heading, nor did I tell him about my meeting with Jacko and the delicious Sebastian.

  When the time came for me to leave, I stood up, muttered a “Good bye” to Paolo and strolled to my appointment.

  “It’s not far,” Sophie assured me when I met her a little later.

  After five minutes, we were walking up the path to an enormous, imposing semi–detached old house that boasted four floors (including a garden flat).

  “Wow,” I hissed, “this is some place.”

  Sophie went up to the door and yanked on a bell–pull that must have been part of the original fittings. “They’re quite comfortable, you know?”

  “So I see.” I delighted in the antique, black boot scraper at the foot of the small flight of steps, which led up to the front door.

  We could hear footsteps getting steadily nearer. Suddenly I saw the funny side of it all. “Sophie, do you realise that this is one of the strangest dinner invitations I’ve ever had?” It was almost a musical blind date.

  Then, I had a sudden moment of panic. What would happen if we didn’t get on? Would we be stuck for a whole evening together, trying desperately to think of something to say? Ah well, I could always make up an excuse and leave. Who knows, I even might be able to catch up with the magnificent Sebastian!