Shameless

by Paul Burston

  Martin slumped forward and cradled his head in his hands. This really was shaping up to be the worst week in his entire life. He’d already been shit on from a great height. The last thing he needed now was an opportunity for further humiliation. He needed time to get his life back in order, to take control of things the way Caroline had said. Changes would have to be made, that much was certain. He probably ought to think about joining a gym, although he had no idea how much it would cost, or whether he could really afford it. Maybe he should consider getting a roommate. That would go some way to alleviating his money worries. It would be company for him, too, someone to help fill the space vacated by Christopher. Yes, a roommate was definitely a good idea. He would make some phone calls and place an ad in one of the gay papers as soon as he returned to his desk. He would just wait here for a few more minutes, give everyone time to pore over Karen’s baby photos, and rest his eyes.

  Half an hour later he was awoken by the sound of someone flushing the toilet next door. He glanced at his watch, leaped to his feet, and stumbled out of the stall. Standing at the washbasin was one of the lads from the accounts department. He caught Martin’s reflection in the mirror and sneered. “What have you been doing in there?” he said, eyeing Martin’s crotch and laughing. Martin looked down and felt the blood drain from his face. He could see straight away where all those red blood cells were headed. His erection was clearly visible through his trousers, straining against the fabric. It was a nightmare made flesh, a flashback to the school showers and the constant fear of being revealed as a “poof.” He stood rooted to the spot as his accuser walked away, laughing to himself. By lunchtime, the news would be all around the office.

  Caroline had taken the day off work, claiming that she was suffering from “female problems.” This was the one excuse she knew her boss would never dare question. He was just relieved to get off the phone before she mentioned the dreaded word “period.”

  She spent the morning puttering around Graham’s flat, watching daytime TV and flicking through a couple of magazines she found spread on the floor next to the sofa. She loved men’s magazines, especially the so-called “new lad” mags with their constant diet of busty babes, cool cars and articles on “How to Cheat on Your Girlfriend and Get Away with It.” It was a pity more women didn’t read them. They gave such an insight into the way men behaved. It didn’t take a degree in psychology to work out that all that macho bravado was simply a cover for a deep-seated insecurity about what it meant to be a man in these days of high unemployment and low sperm counts. Her own father had never been in any doubt about his role in life. He was the man, the breadwinner, the wage earner, the head of the family. He wouldn’t have been caught dead reading a magazine. Magazines were for women, and besides he was always too busy laying patios or building extensions to read up on “The 100 Best Mountain Bikes,” or “The 30 Essential Items Every Bachelor Needs.” Men today didn’t have that same sense of purpose, so they looked to men’s magazines to give them an idea of who they were. It was kind of sweet in a way. And the grooming pages were always a bit of a giggle. It was comforting to know that men were just as insecure, just as neurotic, just as obsessed about their appearance as women.

  It had been a nice weekend, all things considered. The sex on Saturday night was better than ever, and when she woke up on Sunday morning, Graham was there with breakfast on a tray and a single red rose in last night’s champagne bottle. It was corny as hell of course, but after his stunt with the cowboy hat and the cigar she could hardly accuse him of lacking imagination. They spent most of the day cuddled up on the sofa, catching up on the week’s catalog of misery in EastEnders and sipping red wine through an old Bette Davis movie about a woman who goes on a cruise and discovers that she is beautiful and lovable after all. Graham had never seen Now Voyager and showed very little interest in Bette Davis’s transformation from ugly duckling to belle of the ball, all of which helped alleviate Caroline’s niggling doubts about her boyfriend’s sexual orientation. They ordered takeout from the local Chinese, and by the time it got dark they were back in bed, and Graham was burying his face between her legs, offering further evidence of his heterosexuality while she held on to his curly brown locks and moaned appreciatively. She slept better than she had slept in weeks.

  She hadn’t showered today, preferring to savor the smell of his body on her skin as she sat wrapped in his bathrobe. She loved the smell of his sweat mingled with antiperspirant and was glad that he rarely wore aftershave, or anything that would overpower his natural odor. She could sit like this all day, reading his magazines, dressed in his bathrobe, smelling of him. But just because she had taken the day off from work, it didn’t mean she didn’t have things to do. Her own flat was a dump, and if she didn’t sort out the laundry, she’d be going to work tomorrow minus her panties. Besides, she didn’t want Graham to return home after work and find her still there, not so soon after her suggestion that they move in together and the row that had led to. He’d apologized for that little outburst, of course, and reassured her that cohabitation was something he was willing to consider, just not yet. Still, there was no point in tempting fate.

  She showered quickly and phoned for a cab. She spent the next ten minutes looking for her panties and was just putting the final touches to her makeup when the phone rang. She heard the answering machine click on and Graham’s businesslike voice announce that he couldn’t come to the phone. The next voice she heard stopped her in her tracks. It was a male voice. A slightly nervous male voice. A slightly nervous, vaguely effeminate male voice. “Hi, Graham,” it said. “It’s me, Darren. We met on Friday at the group? I was just calling to say it was great to meet you. See you next time maybe, or perhaps we could get together for a drink or something if you’re not too busy. Anyway, call me if you fancy meeting up. You’ve got my number. Okay. Bye.”

  A million thoughts raced through Caroline’s head. Who the hell was Darren? Why was he phoning her boyfriend and inviting him out for a drink? What was this group he was talking about? Is that where Graham was on Friday night? What kind of group was it exactly? And if there was nothing remotely funny going on, why did Graham clam up when she asked him about Friday night? She had to find the answers somehow, and since he obviously wasn’t willing to cooperate, the only other option was for her to do a bit of detective work. She knew that Graham kept a diary next to the phone, in which he kept a record of any pressing engagements—doctors’ appointments, birthdays, that sort of thing. She picked it up and began flicking through the pages. The sudden toot of a car horn told her that her taxi was waiting. Just a minute, she thought, turning the pages faster and faster until finally the diary fell open on last week. Written in the space for Friday were just four letters: C.L.A.G.

  It was John who suggested that they go to an underwear party. Martin only agreed because he was desperate for an excuse to get out of the flat. He had spent the best part of the evening staring blankly at the television set, running over the day’s shameful events in his head. So far as he was aware, the news of his unruly erection hadn’t got back to the design department, but it was bad enough knowing that the lads in accounts were all having a good laugh at his expense. John wasn’t exactly brimming over with sympathy. “It sounds to me as if you’re in need of a good de-spunking,” he said before neatly segueing into the suggestion of an underwear night. “If you must go around popping out of your trousers, you’d be better off doing it somewhere where it will be appreciated. When was the last time you and Christopher had sex?”

  “For Christ’s sake, John, he only walked out a few days ago!”

  “I know that. What I asked was, when did you last have sex?”

  Martin hesitated. “About two months ago,” he said glumly. “Maybe three, I can’t remember.”

  “Exactly!” John said triumphantly. “I’ll meet you outside Brixton tube at 11:00 P.M. And make sure you wear clean knickers.”

  Martin had never been to an underwear night before, and ri
ght now he seriously doubted whether he would ever go to one again. It was all so embarrassing. The first shock came when he was forced to undress in full view of the cloakroom attendant, who could have passed for a serial killer if only he’d possessed a little more charm. The club’s policy of storing customers’ belongings in black binbags only served to reinforce the image. Watching as the bag stuffed with his clothes was tossed onto the pile of shiny black parcels behind the counter, Martin couldn’t help but wonder where the bodies were buried. Half an hour later, he had managed to banish such morbid thoughts from his mind, but even with two drinks inside him, he was finding it difficult to relax. Clinging to the bar, dressed in his pristine Calvin Klein briefs and Timberland boots, he didn’t feel sexy at all, just silly.

  “I’m really not sure about this, John,” he said, downing the last of his Budweiser and reaching into his sock for his cigarettes. “I think I might just go home.”

  John, who had his eye fixed on a visibly well-endowed skinhead leaning provocatively against the cigarette machine, spoke without turning his head. “But we’ve only just got here. Have another drink. You’ll soon get into the swing of it. You can’t tell me there isn’t a single person here you don’t fancy.”

  Martin surveyed the room. John did have a point. There were quite a few sexy-looking men dotted about, more than he had expected to see in fact. He had always imagined places like this to be full of old men with beer bellies exposed and dim-witted wives tucked away somewhere. While it was true that there were some men here who fitted this description, the majority were reasonably good-looking, and there were even a select few who were not only strikingly handsome but had the kinds of bodies that wouldn’t have looked out of place in an ad for a telephone sex line—all bulging biceps, pert pecs and washboard stomachs. He suddenly became very conscious of his own stomach, protruding over the elasticated waistband of his Calvin Kleins. He definitely had to join a gym, regardless of the cost. He breathed in deeply and lit a cigarette.

  “Oh, look who it is!” John said, nodding in the direction of a beefy blond standing at the far end of the bar. “I see she’s back on the steroids.”

  “I think he looks sort of sexy,” Martin replied, smiling shyly at the blond, who held his gaze for a second or two before turning away.

  “Don’t be taken in by that butch exterior,” said John. “She’s a typical muscle Mary that one, a proper legs-up Lucy.”

  “Muscle Mary” and “legs-up Lucy” were two of John’s favorite put-downs. If the Mary in question happened to be on the small side, or had legs that were not only free-floating but somewhat shorter than normal, then he was referred to as a “muscle midget.” Like a lot of gym-obsessed gay men at the more effeminate end of the scale, John didn’t regard himself as a muscle Mary, or even remotely camp, and was generally scornful of anyone he thought deserving of either description. Martin had noticed over the years that the more muscular John became, the more inclined he was to camp it up, as if the exaggerated masculinity of his body gave permission for a degree of effeminacy he would never have dared reveal otherwise. Martin had never discussed this with John. Once, he had made the mistake of asking him what it was that distinguished him from the muscle Marys he was always so quick to criticize. John’s answer had been short and delivered with a slightly incredulous tone, as though he were stating the obvious: “Muscle Marys have tattoos!”

  “I knew a couple who picked that one up once,” John went on. “Cock the size of a button mushroom, apparently. Not that it mattered. They were barely through the door before she was begging to be spit roasted. Squealed like a pig, or so I was told.”

  “Spit roasted?” Martin looked puzzled.

  “A cock in either end,” John said impatiently. “Don’t tell me you and Christopher never tried that with someone.”

  “No, we didn’t.” Martin frowned as the memory of his one disastrous attempt at a threesome came flooding back.

  “Well, there’s no need to look so miserable about it,” John said, misinterpreting the look on Martin’s face as one of regret for what he hadn’t done, rather than remorse for what he had. “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of other opportunities. Anyway, you’re better off single. In my experience, threesomes work best when you’re the fresh meat in someone else’s sandwich. That way you’re sure to get most of the attention. I remember my first threesome, with a couple in Kilburn. They’d been together for years and were obviously bored to death with each other. I didn’t mind, though. I got a great fuck out of it, and they jerked each other off afterward. Anyway, that’s enough talk. I think it’s time for some action. What about that guy over there? He looks like he could show you a good time.”

  Martin looked and spotted an enormous muscle queen with a shaved head and tattoos. “Not really my type,” he said. “He looks a bit rough.”

  “We all need a bit of rough in our diet,” John replied, rolling his eyes. “I see what you mean, though. He looks like he’d fuck you over the sofa, then wipe his cock on your curtains.”

  Martin shuddered. The thought of anyone fucking John over a sofa was not one he cared to entertain. Besides, he was pretty certain there weren’t any curtains in John’s flat. It was all microblinds.

  “Good job I shaved my balls this morning,” John said, leering at the tattooed guy, who scowled back in what passed for an alluring manner. “I had a feeling I might get lucky tonight.” Readjusting his crotch, he headed off toward the main area of the club where groups of men were already huddled together under camouflage netting. “See you back here in an hour,” he called over his shoulder. And with that, he disappeared into the darkness.

  Martin sucked furiously on his cigarette and felt his stomach twisting itself up in knots. He wished he could just throw himself into things, the way John did. He still felt self-conscious, still felt silly, only now he was vaguely aware that he was beginning to feel horny, too. He ordered a large vodka and knocked it back in one gulp. He had never been in a situation quite like this before. Sure, he’d had casual sex with people he didn’t know, but always in bed, and always one at a time. Now here he was, practically naked in a room full of strangers, poised to throw himself into a writhing mass of bodies where any number of people could touch him, taste him, possibly even tear huge chunks out of him if they wanted to. It was terrifying, and exciting at the same time. God knows what the girls at work would think if they could see him now. Still, he’d come this far. There was no point in backing out now.

  He edged his way through the bar and into the dim recess of the club. Pausing until his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he gradually became aware of a couple of men to his right, one kneeling in front of the other. The man on his knees grabbed Martin’s leg as he pushed by and ran a hand up his thigh. He flinched and moved on. Directly ahead of him was a pool table. As he drew closer, he could make out the shape of a man lying spread-eagled, facedown on the table, while a second man fucked him from behind. A small group of men had gathered around. Some were muttering words of encouragement—“Fuck him harder!” “Give it to him!” “Yeah, fuck him!” Others watched silently as they masturbated. The air was heavy with the stench of poppers.

  Martin felt a hand on his crotch and his cock stiffen. As far as he could make out in this light, the two men fucking seemed fairly attractive. If he could just concentrate on them, then it didn’t really matter what the others looked like. He kept telling himself this as he felt a hand tugging at his Calvins and a mouth closing around his cock. Someone pressed themselves against his back. A hand reached over his shoulder and held a bottle of poppers under his nose. He inhaled deeply and felt his head spin and the world disappear. It all slipped away—Christopher, his job, his father. The only thing he was conscious of now was the intense tingling sensation in his groin. That and the hands reaching under his armpits, playing with his nipples. He thrust his hips forward, faster and faster, until the tingling sensation ran all the way up from his balls to the tip of his cock, and he came in short,
violent bursts.

  Martin stooped to pull up his Calvins and felt a hand on his arse. As he struggled to push it away, the figure kneeling in front of him rose up, and the light from the bar spilled onto his face. Martin couldn’t place him at first. Then it hit him. It was Matthew, John’s date from Friday night.

  “Hello again,” he said with a gloopy grin. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Martin turned and fled.

  Six

  What do you mean, where was I last Friday night?” Graham was pacing the room in that determined, precise way he always did when he was really angry. Three days had passed since the mysterious Darren had left a message on Graham’s answering machine. For three whole days, Caroline had been biting her tongue, until finally, tonight, she just couldn’t take it anymore.

  Watching Graham stalking up and down her living room, still clutching the bottle of red wine he had been about to uncork, she wondered how long it would be before he wore the varnish off the wood veneer flooring, but didn’t dare say anything. There was no point talking to him when he was in this mood. It was best just to leave him until he calmed down, as he invariably did. His temper was like a gasoline fire—ferocious while it lasted, but short-lived. Caroline had a sneaking suspicion that these little outbursts were really just his way of playing for time, a delay tactic designed to ward her off while he struggled to come up with a credible excuse. If she was right, then he was bloody good at it, there was no denying that. Still, she resented him for stealing her thunder. She had every right to question him about his whereabouts on Friday night. There was something funny going on, and she was entitled to know what it was.