by Ned Williams
The two brothers went out to make the drinks and I could hear them laughing loudly as they did so. Their mother called out, “Boys, don’t forget to put my coffee in my cup with the saucer.” She then gave me a gracious smile.
Bringing in a delicate china tea–cup, one of the brothers said, “What, d’you mean one of these things?”
“Oh, go and get me mug,” she groaned, happily ignoring both the rest of the family’s and my mirth. Mickey thought it especially funny and giggled away to his heart’s content.
When the coffees arrived, hers was in her mug. “Sorry about drinking it like this, dear.”
“That’s all right. I mostly drink mine the same way.”
“Do you dear?” Then she yelled, “Billy?” In he came, “Put Carl’s coffee into a mug, will you, dear?”
Despite my protestations, her will was their command and I enthusiastically joined the mug brigade. I thought Mickey was going to have some sort of attack, he was laughing so much.
After a pleasant twenty minutes or so Mickey’s mother said, “Now, dear, you don’t want to go wasting your time down here with the likes of us. Mickey, why don’t you both go up to your room and enjoy yourselves.”
And we did enjoy ourselves but not in the way she had meant.
Later that evening Mickey came out with one remark which I didn’t like too much. “You know, Paul was wrong. It’s me what’s finally won you and not he.” As some sort of trophy, was I now being passed onto the next conquering hero?
One afternoon, at work, and shortly after Mickey and I began our more serious relationship, I received a surprise phone call from Paul.
“How many more times do you have to be told: no private phone calls!” I was warned for the umpteenth time by my boss. “This has got to be the last.”
Paul was phoning to say that something important had happened and it wasn’t good news. He wouldn’t give any details but told me that it was imperative that I phone him back as soon as I could.
As soon as I left work, I went into a telephone box and called him. This was to be the very last time we ever had any form of contact with one another.
He hurriedly told me that Martin was in the hospital. Martin was the sort of lad one instinctively wanted to protect. Although I didn’t know him very well, he exuded a warmth that was infectious. He had walked into a well known toilet and gone into a lock–up. It had a glory hole and the young man in the next cubicle passed a note asking Martin to put his cock through it for a good licking. Martin did and he became aware of a strange warmth that, for a brief moment, felt pleasant but, within a matter of seconds, quickly turned painful. His next door neighbour opened his own cubicle door and ran out laughing. Martin stepped back from the hole, looked down and screamed. Blood poured from his pubic area. Martin’s prick had been sliced off by some sadist who must have performed the deed with a sharp knife. A sympathetic gay, who was at the stand–up heard Martin’s screams and, ignoring the obvious legal danger to himself, took him to the hospital. The Samaritan then quickly and understandably disappeared.
The news of this catastrophe soon hit the racks and a collective shudder rippled through all those in the know. Memories of ‘The Evil’ came flooding back. Had he returned? The more recent additions to the rents were given an instant history lesson on what had happened before and were warned to be extra careful. However, this attack appeared to be a one off and we didn’t hear of any more.
Everyone’s life is full of unsolved mysteries and, as you may have gathered, mine was splattered liberally with them. Around this time, a real puzzler occurred to me at a lunchtime party which was held in honour of Zenda’s birthday. It was primarily gay but contained quite a few straight people. One thing which surprised me more than anything was to discover that the party was thrown by Zenda’s partner, Pavel. I didn’t even know that Zenda was involved with anyone seriously. Pavel was a striking looking Czech in his mid thirties who had managed to get out of his homeland which, at the time was a member of the Soviet Bloc. He was a stern, serious person but adored Zenda and had worked hard at the party to make sure Zenda had a good time. I don’t know what Pavel did for a living but he had to go abroad a lot and he earned a great deal of money. Even so, their relationship was indecisive, to say the least. Many of the rents had turned up including most of our inner circle.
The party was swinging, noisy and fun. Pavel had provided a plentiful and vast array of drinks and the food was what is now labelled as ‘catered’. It was good to be with my friends on a purely social level as this didn’t happen very often. We laughed and caught up on all the latest gossip.
During the party, I believe someone must have been spiking my drinks because I became very drunk rather quickly. I thought no more about it until next day when I bumped into one of the gang who was at the party. “Carl, my dear chap. How are you feeling?” There was an edge in his voice I didn’t like. He was unusually smug. “Not too under the weather are we?”
“A bastard of a head, but apart from that – fine. Why?”
“Er – nothing.” Again, that suspiciously smug look. “Nothing at all,” he sniggered.
“What? Did I do something?” Some sort of penny was beginning to drop.
“Can’t you remember?” He looked surprised.
“No.”
“Well, chum, you were so funny. The whole party was in stitches.” He laughed at the memory.
“Why? What did I do?”
He shook his head. “Oh, if you can’t remember then I couldn’t possibly tell you. But you were hilarious. That thing with the egg whisk, well...”
“What did I do?”
“I don’t think it’s my place to spill the beans. I think you’d better ask some of the others.”
I promptly went exploring to find someone who might be a little more forthcoming.
I found Ian in Alfio’s. Before I could say anything he burst out laughing. “Well, aren’t you the one.”
“So I hear. What did I do?”
“Don’t you remember?”
“No!” I almost shouted. Alfio’s customers stared.
“Poor you.” And he refused to elaborate.
During the day I managed to find a few others who must have witnessed whatever antics I performed. They all laughed and said I was so funny. No one realised that I could be like that. Like what? What had I done? I couldn’t remember.
“I didn’t know you were like that.” They kept repeating.
“Like what?” was my constant refrain. Not one of them would tell me what I had done – to this day I still do not know! I even began to suspect that I had done nothing but they had decided to play a well coordinated joke on me. I have comforted myself with that thought ever since – but there is always that doubt that something frightfully embarrassing did happen.
Oedipus Rides Again
Whilst I was back at ‘Home’, I remember a particular event which both fascinated and repelled me. It all began in the lock–up of an infamous cottage which specialised in rent. I was trying to get a man in the next cubicle to buy my wares. This particular loo was beside a disused playing field and was, in fact, part of the facilities once offered by the council to encourage people to be healthy in playing sport. This idea was short lived and the lavatory now facilitated a very different type of sport. Strange to say, the showers were still in full working order and proved handy because the hot water could be utilised to stop any accumulation of cum from clogging up the floor. It was the sort of place that no longer exists. There was a large hole in the connecting wall of the lock–up and my prospective client had shown a great deal of interest in what he saw. The problem was, he didn’t want to play ball and thought he should be served for free. Just as if I would be interested in casting my favours for nothing on a man four times my age. I wrote him a note telling him that I wasn’t interested and wished him ‘Good Luck’ nevertheless and shoved the note through the hole. As I came out of the lock–up, there was a tall guy, roughly six foot four or
five, aged about thirty, standing just the other side of the door. He was the type of person who, about five years before, would have possessed a good physique but, five years on, the firm stomach was beginning to swell. He had a slightly hairy chest, arms and legs. I suppose you are wondering how I knew all this detail about his body – well, he was standing there, wearing only a short towel around his waist. He smiled and I returned it. ‘Ah,’ I thought, ‘this looks promising’.
He was blocking my escape from the lock–up and suddenly he spoke. “Oh, ’ello. ’ave you met my mum?” He indicated to a point just beyond my field of vision. I peered around the doorway of the lock–up and to my utter shock, there, in the middle of the Gents standing as bold as brass, stood a tall, slightly matronly old lady. Her grey hair, tied in a tight bun, supported a grey hat. She wore glasses and a fox tippet. Her clothes were also grey and very sensible. She looked as if she were about to attend a beetle drive at a local church fund–raising evening. She smiled. I blinked. The man in the other cubicle had obviously overheard the exchange and could be discerned crashing around getting dressed. My mind was racing as to what sort of scene I was witnessing.
I grunted and walked out. I could hear my neighbour open his cubicle door and utter an extremely un–Christian oath as he too, hobbled out. As I walked away from the lavatory I realised that his beloved mother was probably a lover in drag.
About a week later I was cruising the same cottage. I was sitting in the lock–up waiting for a potential customer to occupy next door, when I heard someone come in and go to the stalls. The acoustics were so clear that, to anyone who knew the toilet, you could tell exactly where anyone was and what they were doing. After a few moments I heard more movement as someone else came in. “Oh,’ello.’ave you met my mum?” came the familiar question. There was a second’s pause and I then heard the quickly receding footsteps of the solo visitor.
I waited for a couple of minutes and then I pulled the flush, opened the cubicle door and marched with great determination to the exit, ignoring the fast approaching pair of figures who were attempting to head me off. I got out unscathed.
This strange couple must have only recently come onto the scene because, when I asked my colleagues whether they had encountered them, none had. They all thought I was either mad or making it up. Either way, they couldn’t stop laughing and speculating on the couple’s private turn–on.
My little story must have captured their collective imaginations as the attendance at the cottage suddenly rocketed. Everyone wanted to see this double act for themselves. I think the sudden popularity of their hunting ground must have frightened our mysterious pair away, for there were no further sightings of the duo. The gang started to rib me about it. They accused me of lying. I even began to doubt it myself. Had I really seen what I thought I did?
About a month later, when the collective quest for my odd couple had completely disappeared, I was in the same bog. It was an exceptionally quiet day. I decided to cut my losses and leave to go to another pick–up point. I opened the lock–up door and received a nasty shock, as there, standing outside the door, was my towel bedecked friend. He must have known the cubicle was occupied and waited until whoever was inside was about to leave to waylay them. I waited for the catch phrase, and, sure enough – “Oh, ‘ello. ‘ave you met my mum?” I almost said it with him.
“No,” I replied. To try and put him off, I attempted to sound bored. He beckoned for his ‘mother’ to come over. When she did, they wedged themselves into the doorway so I had no possible way of leaving. I thought it best for me to go along with their little game, hoping it would offer me an opportunity to escape as soon as I could. Besides, later, it might make a good story to tell my friends. I put my hand down to his towel so I could feel his cock through it. He was quite a big lad and growing fast. I then noticed a curious gesture. He grinned at his ‘lady’ companion like a little boy and gave a thumbs up sign which, with the same boyish exuberance, was returned. ‘Weird. Ah well…’ I thought.
The young man stood there enjoying the attention I was giving him through the towel when ‘mum’ started to rub his chest with exquisitely grey–gloved hands, trying to avoid letting her handbag get in the way. He moaned in ecstasy.
“There’s a good boy,” cooed his friend. I froze. It wasn’t a drag act. This was a true, full blooded, honest to goodness woman. My enthusiasm noticeably diminished. What if the cops came in and caught us? How the hell could I explain this away?
I thought, ‘I’ve got to get out of here.’ Aloud, I blurted, “I must go.” I attempted to push past them but they wedged themselves even tighter into the lock–up door. “Let me out of here!” I yelled.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you like my son?” She caressed him as if he was sick and she was administering some t.l.c. “Look at the poor boy. Be nice to him.”
I stopped all physical contact with the young man. All I wanted to do was get out of there as soon as possible. “Let me go.” I snarled.
I suddenly realised that he hadn’t said a word since our very first exchange. He’d merely stood there whilst this secondary scene was being played out. His mother, if indeed it was his mother, was not doing anything sexual, but she was obviously deriving great pleasure in seeing her son being satisfied. She cooed at him and tried to persuade me to go down on him. She kept telling me that it was some sort of medicine that he needed to have. At this point my mind snapped and, with all my strength, I barged out of my prison, sending them both flying.
Just as I was about to walk out, I turned to look back. He was on the floor groaning in a state of ecstasy – or he could have been semi–conscious – I didn’t want to find out. The way she was holding him was reminiscent of Michelangelo’s sculpture of the ‘Pieta’! The last thing I saw was his mother mouthing, “Don’t you like my son?”
After this encounter a few of my friends reported that they’d come across them every so often but, from what they told me, they’d become a little more careful. At least I was finally believed.
Many years later I saw them again, casually walking arm in arm down the road towards me. Having just left a gay pub with a group of friends, I spotted them. As far as I could tell, she was still wearing the same outfit but, I’m pleased to report, he was more conventionally dressed. Would they recognise me? Would they approach me? Would I, once again, hear the dreaded phrase; “Oh, ‘ello. ‘ave you met my mum?” To avoid having to answer any of these questions, I made myself become suddenly preoccupied with some insignificant thing on the other side of the road and strode on by. One of my friends noticed this and asked me what was the matter. Another even recognised them. I beat them all to the nearest coffee bar to recover and re–tell my delightful story to the uninformed – much to their glee. A couple actually wanted to go out and find them to take another look. Thankfully, they were dissuaded from pursuing this foolish act.
Once in a Lifetime
After the break–up with Paul and my return to purgatory, I felt in urgent need of a substantial pick–me–up to clear away my ‘lonesome blues’. As a consequence of this, I decided that I deserved to give myself a massive late spring present. For many years I had been promising myself to have a good, long break. Ever since I had started art school, I had been inspired to take a European Holiday – a sort of extended pilgrimage where I could visit some of my favourite artists’ home towns and to see paintings and drawings which I had no chance of seeing elsewhere. As I have a morbid fear of flying, I knew that I would have to train and ferry for my foray. In a way, this pleased me as I wanted to get the maximum enjoyment out of the trip and to experience as much as possible foreign climes.
My dating of Mickey was still at an early stage and I wasn’t quite sure where it was all going or even if it would ever get there – where ever it was. As there was no one else who might have been emotionally important enough to hold me, I was free to do and go to wherever the mood might take me.
To all intents and purposes, the timing co
uld not have been more perfect so I began to save. I grasped the hot iron in both hands and resolved to go on what promised to be my holiday of a life–time and not get my hands burned. Whenever I was able, I began working extra shifts on the racks and when I told them why I was putting in the extra hours, a few actually passed on some of their clients to me thereby doing themselves out of the cash.
Andy, as soon as he found out what I was up to, immediately revived our old ways of he and I being hired as a pair and actively sought out clients who might be interested.
Now pleased with my decision and having sorted out my means of funding it, I announced the plans to my mother that in four weeks I would be going on holiday – a foreign holiday – my first ever.
Her enthusiasm for the project was truly underwhelming. “What do you want to go there for?” was her sneered, belittling response. “Huh! A total waste of time and money, if you ask me.” No one had but she felt the compulsion to give her opinion anyway. I think she believed that if I could afford to put aside any spare money for a holiday it should rather, as usual, go to her.