by Paul Burston
“That guy over there keeps looking at you,” Caroline said, nudging him under the table. “The one standing by the cigarette machine. Sexy, don’t you think?”
Martin looked. It wasn’t often that he agreed with Caroline’s assessment of what made a sexy man—Graham was a rare exception—but there was no denying that the hunk standing next to the cigarette machine with the curly black hair, the tight red T-shirt and the bulging biceps was indeed sexy. As a matter of fact, he was one of the sexiest men Martin thought he had seen in his entire life. And to top it all, he was smiling—not in a cocky “Yes, I know I’m gorgeous” sort of way, but in a friendly “Yes, I’d like to meet you” sort of way. Martin’s mouth went dry. A sheepish grin spread across his face. He blushed and quickly turned to Caroline.
“I think you’re in there,” Caroline said. “Quick, go and talk to him before he decides you’re not interested.”
“But I’m not really used to this sort of thing,” Martin protested. “What shall I say?”
“Well, you could always start by saying hello,” a voice said. Martin looked up. His admirer was standing over him, still smiling and looking even sexier at close range. “I’m Rob,” he said, offering Martin his hand. Then, glancing at the half-empty champagne bottle: “So what are you two celebrating?”
Martin shook Rob’s hand and blushed even more intensely. “Nothing really,” he mumbled.
“Actually, that’s not true,” Caroline said firmly. “We’re celebrating the fact that my friend Martin here has finally seen the light and ditched the boyfriend from hell. He is now young, free and single again. If you’d like to join in the celebrations, you’re more than welcome. Isn’t that right, Martin?”
Martin nodded bashfully. “Yeah. Of course. The more the merrier.”
Rob, who hadn’t taken his eyes off Martin for one second, pulled up a chair and sat down. “Thanks,” he said, looking directly at Caroline for the first time. Then, turning back to Martin, “That’s the best offer I’ve had in a while.”
Martin didn’t believe this for a moment, but he wasn’t about to argue. “Great,” he said, suddenly aware that his nose was about to drip and sniffing sharply. “Sorry. I’ve just got to pop to the toilet. Don’t go away.”
Rob grinned mischievously. “Don’t worry,” he said, checking out Martin’s groin as he stood up. “I’m not going anywhere.”
John was sitting in front of his computer, wearing nothing but his Calvin Klein briefs. Next to the keyboard, the ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts. Apart from a brief break for something to eat and a quick trip to the newsstand for another pack of cigarettes, John had been on line for almost six hours. The phone bill would be enormous, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t every day that he met someone in a chat room who was as stimulating as “CuriousCute28.” Their initial conversation had lasted a little over an hour. By the time it drew to a close, John was convinced that this guy really was the genuine article. It was a shame that he didn’t have a photo to swap, but from the way the conversation had gone, John had already formed a pretty clear mental picture of him. He was six feet tall, clean shaven, with dark hair, brown eyes and the kind of naturally muscular physique that came from years of playing contact sports and lifting building materials, rather than months of intensive weight training at the gym. He had a girlfriend, lived a completely straight life, and had only recently begun to explore the possibility that he might be bisexual. He had never stepped foot inside a gay bar, never bought a Madonna record, never shaved his chest, and never worn an item of clothing that was a size too small. He was the ultimate gay fantasy figure, the “Great Dark Man” that old queen Quentin Crisp had dreamed about, and John was about to have mad passionate sex with him—sort of.
Their earlier conversation had only been a warm-up, a kind of first date, a means of discovering if they were really compatible. Clearly “CuriousCute28” had decided that they were, because he had asked John to meet him again, on-line at 9:00 P.M. The plan was that they would both be naked and would indulge in a spot of cybersex, exchanging sexually explicit instant messages while simultaneously masturbating. John had heard of people doing this, and had even read somewhere that cybersex was the new phone sex, but he had always considered this sort of behavior beneath him. Tonight he felt rather different. He had drunk the best part of a bottle of wine to get himself in the mood, and had a bottle of poppers waiting. He had spent the last half hour checking out some of the gay porn Web sites and was feeling extremely horny, if a little ridiculous.
What if the whole thing had been a windup? It was already 9:10 P.M. and there was still no sign of “CuriousCute28.” What if he didn’t show up? It would be so humiliating. That was the funny thing about the Internet. Unless you had a Web cam, you knew that nobody could actually see you, that nobody need ever know that you had spent the past half hour sitting there in your underwear, waiting in vain for a man who probably didn’t even exist, or at least not in quite the same way, shape or form that you imagined. Still, the lure of the chat rooms was so strong, and the fantasy so seductive, that just as you could picture the man of your dreams at the other end of the line, so you could convince yourself that a thousand prying eyes were watching you through your computer screen and laughing quietly at your misfortune. It gave a whole new meaning to the phrase “mind fuck.”
John flicked in and out of the various gay chat rooms and felt his erection dwindling. He took another slug of wine and lit another cigarette. Five more minutes, then it would have to be that porn video.
A message flashed up. It was him. “Hi,” it said. “Feeling horny?”
John stubbed out his cigarette and typed furiously. “Very. How about you?”
“Yeah. Sorry I’m a bit late. Playing squash with a mate. Worked up quite a sweat.”
John felt his cock harden. This was even better than he had anticipated. He stabbed at the keyboard. “So what are you wearing?”
“Just a jockstrap. You?”
John typed in “Calvin Kleins,” then decided it sounded too gay. He quickly deleted the words, replacing them with “Same here.”
“Cool,” came the reply. “You like to get fucked from behind or on your back?”
John reached for the poppers and inhaled deeply. For someone who claimed never to have had gay sex before, “CuriousCute28” certainly knew all the right things to say.
Martin couldn’t remember the last time he had enjoyed himself quite this much. It felt odd to be feeling so happy after the events of the past few days, but then admirers with Rob’s many attributes didn’t come along very often. He was so attentive, such good company, so good-looking, and such a good listener. This last quality was especially welcome. Caroline, bless her, had made her excuses and left shortly after Rob appeared, slipping Martin the remains of the coke as she hugged him good-bye. Since then, Martin hadn’t stopped talking. It was partly nerves, he was certain, but he just couldn’t seem to stop. He talked about his job, how he hated it, and how nobody respected him at the office. He talked about Caroline, how he loved her, and how she was the best friend a gay man could wish for. He talked about his father, how he meant well, and how his arrival in London next weekend was certain to end in social embarrassment if not complete disaster. And he talked about Christopher, how he had lied and cheated, and how his sudden departure had left Martin feeling foolish and miserable and barely able to carry on—until tonight that is, tonight when he had met Rob and was feeling on top of the world.
Rob smiled and nodded. Martin thought he resembled one of those advice columnists they trotted out on daytime television shows, only a far better listener and far better-looking. He really was extremely handsome, so handsome in fact that Martin wouldn’t have minded at all if Christopher and that Italian hooker with the beautiful arms had strutted into the bar at that precise moment and spotted him sitting here feeling fabulous with this gorgeous man lending a sympathetic ear. Besides, Rob’s arms were every bit as beautiful as Marco’s, and Ma
rtin was certain that Rob didn’t spend every day in the gym or make his living sleeping with ugly old men in exchange for vast amounts of money, which he never paid any tax on. He was sure that Rob had a proper job, one that involved a certain degree of responsibility. He just didn’t know what it was.
Had Rob told him this already? Or had they not got around yet to the subject of what Rob did for a living? Did he know anything about Rob at all, aside from the fact that he smiled a lot and was clearly a match for Marco any day of the week? Had he really been talking about himself all this time? Oh God, was he being boring? Maybe he should make a joke about it, say something like “Well, that’s enough about me. So what do you think of me?” Would that work? Would it sound funny? Did lines like that ever sound funny? Or was it already too late? Did Rob have him down as an alcoholic, egotistical bore? Or worse, had he written Martin off as some kind of drug addict? Maybe the constant sniffing had given him away. He could always say that he had a bit of a cold. Then again, it was late June. Allergies, then. He could claim that he had hay fever and that his doctor had prescribed antihistamine tablets and that they had made him speedy.
Just then Rob cut in. Martin was pleased to see that he was still smiling, though not quite as broadly as before. “Listen, Martin,” Rob said. “You seem like a nice guy, but I think I should probably be going now. Maybe we’ll bump into each other again some time, when you’re feeling less . . . preoccupied.” He stood up and hesitated for a moment. “It really was nice meeting you,” he said finally. “And your friend of course.”
“Don’t go just yet,” Martin said, trying hard not to sound desperate and failing miserably. “I’ve been talking too much. I know. I’m sorry. I’m not normally like this, really. It must be the drink. I’ve hardly eaten anything all day, and champagne always goes straight to my head. It’s still early. We could go and get something to eat, some pasta or something. I know a few places near here, all fairly cheap. I’m sure we could find a table. We could order some food, and you could tell me about yourself.”
Rob frowned slightly and shook his head. “Maybe some other time,” he said, and flashed a half smile. “Bye.”
Martin watched him leave. Then he rushed into the toilet, tore off some toilet paper, and blew his nose until it bled.
Caroline was heading home in a taxi when her cell rang. It was Graham. “Hi, baby,” he said. “What’s up?”
Caroline felt her heart leap at the sound of his voice, but she was determined to play it cool. “I’m fine,” she said briskly. “Just on my way to a party as a matter of fact.”
“Really? Whose party?”
“Nobody you know. Just one of the girls from work.”
“That’s a pity. I was hoping I could see you tonight.”
Caroline, still giddy from all the champagne, felt her resolve melting. “Well, you’ve left it a bit late, Graham,” she said, secretly wishing she had hung on to that remaining half gram of coke. “People are expecting me.”
“Well, how about if we go together? You could drop by on your way and pick me up. Where is this party anyway?”
Caroline racked her brains for a suitable location. It had to be close enough to Graham’s flat in Belsize Park to make it seem as though she wouldn’t be putting herself out too much, but not so close as to arouse suspicion. “Finchley Road,” she said eventually. “Though to be honest, I’m not sure if it’ll be much good.”
“Well, why don’t you stop by anyway?” Graham said gently. “We can have a drink and then see how we feel. I’ve really missed you, y’know. And I know it was stupid of me storming off like that the other day. Say you’ll come over, and at least give me a chance to try and make it up to you.”
He could be very persuasive, there was no denying that. And it did sound as though he was genuinely sorry about the way he had acted before. Caroline knew that she was caving in, but she put up one last valiant struggle. “Okay,” she said. “But this doesn’t mean that I’ve forgiven you. You’ve still got a lot of making up to do.”
Twenty minutes later the taxi pulled up outside the three-story Edwardian house where Graham had lived for the past year, and where Caroline was forced to admit that she had spent some of the happiest times of her life. She paid the driver, checked her makeup, and walked up to the front door. She pressed the buzzer to the basement flat and waited for Graham to answer. There was a short pause before she was buzzed in. She walked down the hallway to Graham’s door and knocked gently. “Just a minute,” Graham’s voice shouted. Then the door swung open.
Caroline almost keeled over. Graham was standing in the doorway, completely naked except for the cowboy hat tilted on the back of his head, and the cigar dangling from his mouth. In one hand, he held a bottle of champagne. In the other, two glasses. He grinned. “Glad you could make it. I thought we could have our own party right here. What do you say? Wanna come?”
Caroline smiled and stepped inside.
Five
Martin hated Monday mornings at the best of times, but this particular Monday morning he was convinced that the whole world was conspiring against him. It was bad enough that his colleagues in the design department regarded him with the kind of wide-eyed curiosity normally reserved for visits to the reptile house at the London Zoo. There were times when he regretted his decision to be so open about his sexuality at work. Barely a day went by without someone asking him why gay men were so promiscuous, or whether he thought he was born gay, or what he made of the latest homosexual subplot used to liven up whichever soap opera happened to be losing ratings that month. The questions weren’t deliberately offensive. On the contrary, some were clearly intended as compliments. Michelle in frozen foods had got it into her head that gay men were all expert dancers with fabulous wardrobes and impeccable taste in home furnishings, which was one stereotype Martin was prepared to live with. Let’s face it—it would be better than living alone, and he could use a little help with the decorating. Still, the constant inquiries about his lifestyle did get on his nerves. And this was from people who worked and socialized in central London. God knows what it would have been like if he had stayed in Cardiff.
To make matters worse, it seemed that the past year had been declared mating season in the design studio, with the entire female workforce disappearing on maternity leave and returning with albums full of baby photos that their colleagues were expected to coo over. Today was the turn of Karen, whose ability to reproduce was being treated as some kind of minor miracle by the other girls, though Martin felt it barely made up for her complete lack of creativity in every other department. She was supposed to be a qualified graphic designer, not that you’d know it from the quality of work she produced. During her pregnancy, whenever Karen had complained about the extra weight she was carrying, he felt like telling her he knew exactly how she felt—he’d been carrying her for months. There were no prizes for guessing who was expected to pick up the shortfall when one of the team was incapacitated. After all, gay men were naturally creative, weren’t they?
“Come and see these photos, Martin,” someone shouted. He looked up from his desk. It was Melanie, one of the few people at work he actually liked. But today even she was beginning to grate on him.
“Just got to dash to the bathroom,” he called back, and slipped out the door before she could argue. He hurried toward the gents’, praying that he wouldn’t bump into one of the lads from the accounts department downstairs. The last thing he needed today was some number-crunching moron getting all jumpy at the urinal, paranoid that the queer was looking at his cock. It never ceased to amaze him, the way straight men assumed that because you were gay you were automatically guaranteed to find them sexually desirable, regardless of what they looked like. More often than not, it was the least attractive ones who made the greatest fuss. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking on their part. Or maybe they genuinely believed that gay men were so obsessed with sex that they would happily do it with any man who happened to be in the right place at the r
ight time. Which was a ridiculous idea, obviously.
The toilets were empty. Relieved, he dashed into one of the stalls, locked the door, and sat on the toilet seat. What was wrong with him today? He was never normally this crabby, even on a Monday morning. Maybe it was lack of sleep. Saturday night he’d hardly slept at all. The cocaine had kept him awake for hours. When he did finally lose consciousness, he was tormented by nightmares in which his nose kept bleeding until the whole room was awash with blood and he watched helplessly as his furniture floated out of the door on a crimson tide. Last night he’d gone to bed early and lain awake until one, torturing himself with fantasies of what Christopher was up to. Come to think of it, it was hardly surprising if he felt out of sorts, considering everything that Christopher had put him through these past five days. He’d been stood up, lied to, cheated on, dumped in favor of someone who advertised his services in the pages of the gay press every week, and left the sole occupier of a flat he could ill afford. As breakups went, it was pretty spectacular.
And to top it all, there was his father’s imminent descent on London to contend with. The thought of his father hanging out with the gay folk at Gay Pride filled Martin with dread. Pride was supposed to be about having fun, watching crap pop acts, and feeling, well, proud. It wasn’t meant to be about chaperoning relatives. He had often wondered about the mums and dads who tagged along to Pride with their gay offspring, marching under a banner that read PARENTS OF LESBIANS, GAYS, BISEXUALS AND TRANSGENDERED INDIVIDUALS, or whatever the politically correct, all-inclusive term was these days. What exactly were they doing there? Were they simply showing their support, or was there some other hidden agenda? Were they overcompensating for the fact that, deep down, they would be far happier if their kids weren’t queer? And what did they really think of the drag queens in their eight-inch spike heels and the SM dykes marching along with their tits out? There were plenty of gay men out there who felt embarrassed by some of the people who turned out for Gay Pride, so God knows what some middle-aged mum from suburbia would make of it all. And as for his father, he might be an old hippie who supported every radical cause under the sun, but that didn’t necessarily mean that he would take Pride in his stride. No amount of liberal soul-searching would have prepared him for the sight of men in full leather, many of whom were certain to have their backsides exposed. How he would react to that was anyone’s guess. Knowing his father, he probably found leather deeply objectionable to begin with.