by P-P Hartnett
The transformation really kicked in when his fingers pulled the oil back over my skull, darkening the thick, dark brown to black in an instant. I suddenly looked sharper, intensified and younger. Marketable.
Evening
As well as cutting out dairy products, I’d planned to swim daily but changed tactics in the queue at Ironmonger Row Baths, taking the lazy option of booking in for six sun-bed sessions instead. Enriching the tan I’d picked up escaping a family Christmas, alone on a rooftop in Tunisia, brought me closer to the Bike Boy image my idle mind had created.
Wearing Speedos to preserve my tan line, prostrate between two layers of blue-white bulbs, I felt like an Apollo astronaut about to be launched into infinity.
Night
Sporting the M Frames and white Calvin Kleins, I watched my reflected body tease through air, blank and comfortable and new, standing without expression for a long time in the privacy of my bedroom.
The M Frames, according to the colour brochure, possessed innovative features, accommodating every head size and shape with an ingenious Hammer Earstem. Unobtanium earsocks worked in conjunction with the nosepieces to grip my head tenaciously, yet comfortably, at nose and temples. Unobtanium is hydrophylic: it gets sticky as it becomes moist with sweat, helping the frames to stay put no matter how hard you run, ski or jerk off.
Even before meeting anyone, I decided on placing five more Bike Boy adverts, varying the wording to make them more teasing, more enticing. I wanted more letters, a continual response. Dirty little secrets were something to get up in the morning for. I wanted to be in a position to select and, more excitingly, reject.
Once again I filled out the coupons, thirty spaces for a maximum of thirty words. These were mailed, second class, every other day and placed in a variety of sections. I was to become quite a little earner for the Chronos Group. The replies would stink to an extent I could not have imagined. Maybe I wanted to encounter people worse off than myself as some sort of consolation.
BIKE BOY! LEGS: Muscular. BODY: Slim.
SKIN: Smooth. SMILE: Wicked. HAIR/
EYES: Dark. PECTORALS: Pronounced.
BICEPS: Bulging. BUTTOCKS: Firm.
AGE:22. NAME: Liam. (Uncut. WE.)
Seeking Ad-venture! Like cycle shorts?
BIKE BOY: Big Boy/Big bike/Big smile/Big
heart of gold/Strong dominant
personality/22/WE. Likes: swimming,
showers, oil, decent films, indecent videos,
Indie, imagination, Hubba Bubba, surprises.
BIKE BOY in shiny black skin-tight cycle
shorts will turn fantasies into
realities. 22, slim, smooth, athletic, safe.
Genuine, discreet and honest. Cute bum,
wicked smile. (Horny devil!) Curious? ALA.
BIKE BOY: Mountain bike rider. (Black skin-
tight cycle shorts.)22. Long smooth
muscular legs. WE. “Cute”. Likes: cycling
downhill in the rain. Dislikes:
Shakespeare/Ballet/Opera. Open to
suggestions. ALAWP.
MOUNTAIN BIKE RIDERS? Shiny black skin-
tight cycle shorts? I’m tall, slim, smooth,
horny. (22). Legs: muscular. Eyes/Hair:
dark. (Size 10 feet!) Home alone, EC1.
Seeking social intercourse ASAP.
Interested?
Passing through Piccadilly on my way to Clone Zone to pick up the gaypers, I had the pleasure of walking behind a young body poured into denim. It was the lower half which was of interest. I followed along Shaftesbury Avenue, close to limbs in motion. If the body had been cut at the waist I’d still have followed the remains in fascination. A cut at the calf muscles would have been good too, losing those cowboy boots, leaving the two heaviest and strongest bones in the body to continue, as if walking on air. Femurs, my favourites.
It wasn’t the arse which made me quicken my step to catch up, but the small hips and outer upper thighs. As one leg lifted, the other stepped down. I watched muscles I don’t know the names of contract, then relax. Contract, then relax. These human parts were of shapes and proportions I wanted to touch, so lovely as they moved. Perhaps even lovelier stilled. When I overtook, I didn’t turn back to see the face that headed it all, though the idea of glimpsing his packet, cocooned in denim, urged me to. I’d got to the point where I didn’t care if someone caught me staring.
My favourite shelf-filler at Sainsbury’s noticed me as he replenished the broccoli section. He was growing his hair. Maybe the expense of regular flat-tops was a financial consideration. It suited him longer. I remembered the day I’d seen him shopping in the bakery section with his mother, seeming years younger in the role of son. He’d caught me looking at him then, too, and blushed, pretending to be bored. Maybe he was. I’m sure I wasn’t his only admirer.
I’ve still got a feeling I’ll bump into him somewhere one of these days and when that day comes he’ll momentarily blush and perspire just enough to be exciting, then look pissed off and turn away. Who knows, he might even smile, might say hello. Hello at the London Apprentice, Sub Station or the Anvil where he would lean back against a wall to porno mumble “Go on then, suck it!”
I wondered, as I did so often, about his chest.
Home in time for the nine o’clock news.
Twice that night I found myself struggling with a hard-on which hurt. My tongue wanted to meet warm wet lips and another soft mouth. My nipples wanted fingernails and teeth. My cock just ached to come any old how. Both times I totted up the minutes and energy tokens it would take to put on jeans, boots, Ray’s old leather jacket and, second to the bike ride in terms of time management, shave. A fresh face isn’t necessary for success in the shadows of a back room, but I didn’t know that then. The Block, a jerk off establishment up by Angel tube, opposite Sainsbury’s—a place I’d avoided hearing much about—was the one place on Earth my dick was begging to be taken.
While lorries rumbled, taking the best of British beef to Smithfield Market, I wanked like an adolescent, thinking of those limbs encased in denim and the shelf-filler whose hands had touched what I’d eaten and the mystery of his chest and the smell of the small of his back, those eighteen-year-old eyebrows and that voice I once heard talking to a mate on the subject of fake Armani jeans—I reached a violent, noisy orgasm as I imagined licking his thick, black neck. By the time I would have been paying the admission fee to join the herd at The Block, I was asleep.
* * *
I’d set the alarm, expecting another batch of letters. The postman had no trouble with the envelope this time, dead on eight thirty.
Someone at Boyz had made a mistake. An envelope was marked for Box NS465 but with a six that looked like a zero. I did the decent thing, returning it to their office with a second-class stamp as soon as I’d read it. The communication in large capital letters showed admirable economy:
I WANT TO BE YOUR HUMAN TOILET
0171 230 ––Mark
A Westminster code. Maybe a nice, respectable button-down shirt sort of a chap with a combination lock briefcase. Perhaps a lusty lawyer, a company medic, a bank manager, butcher, or toilet attendant.
Starting the day with a photocopied letter from Chris over in Nine Elms would have sent most people back to bed. For his 5″×7″ self-portrait, this leather queen had attempted the studio look, draping white bed-sheets in a corner as a backdrop. Edging into the picture, providing an insight into his other world, was a patterned carpet—granny variety—in grotesque reds and browns. I suppose one advantage was it wouldn’t show blood, except to a forensic team.
God bless his shiny black knee-length motor-cycle boots. God love his super white socks rolled over the tops. God help him in those black leather trousers just that bit too tight in an effort to be sensuous.
Studded wristbands added to his discomfort and a badge-covered leather and denim waistcoat gaped open, revealing various weights dangling from huge, pierced nipples. Nipples the size
of a lactating dalmation’s. Nipples with the tough density of warts. Below his left bicep was a once discreet sacred heart which over the years had evolved into a complex skulls-and-daggers affair stretching halfway down his arm. Above it an eagle or phoenix rose up out of flames—loads of yellow and stars—perhaps reflecting an interest in animal wildlife. A certain empathy with endangered species.
Tight, black leather: pressing, restricting and restraining every inch, wrapping him like a samosa, muscles firmly encased. Eyes giving the camera that long thick dick look, mind adrift in a sea of seminal fluid. A photo full of … something … not raunch. God bless and save him.
The mass-distributed photocopy read:
Hi,
saw your advert and felt it was time to answer one after all these years of reading. I am forty years of age, fit and able. My main interests are leather and all it entails. I have plenty of gear, accoutrements, toys etc. Am into jocks, shorts, etc etc. Like oil massage, safe sex, have some experience with Domination, S&M or whatever. Brand new video with exciting tapes sits awaiting your arrival. Photo taken only last week. 0171 498 –– for a fab time. (Beware of the answerphone.)
Chris.
(Safe Sex Stud.)
Verdict: No chance. Not a hope in hell.
Sitting on his leather Chesterfield, darkest green velvet curtains soaking up the light, Ikea bookcase bursting with impressive reading, he looked like a nice chap. Though concerned about his gut (holding his stomach in like a collector’s item pin up) he managed a smile.
The beer gut would have been less obvious if he’d been clothed. A circumcised gentleman who’d felt more than just the one surgeon’s knife. Again, the intimacy and stillness of a self-timer photograph, shot with available light. I wondered what the reject photos had looked like.
On a plain postcard he’d laid down his particulars in more huge capitals.
MOTTO: Pain Is Pleasure
AIM: To Experience Pleasure
LIKES: Smooth Skinned Muscular Types
AGE: 40
BUILD: 5′11″ / 11 Stone / Moustache
NAME: Paul
TEL: 0171 813 ––
Verdict: N-O. The intensity of one self-timed photo after another was wearing.
The amount of feeling and crafting which had gone into presenting each image, at such expense of time, energy and pocket, was remarkable.
From perhaps only a ten minute walk away came an intelligent hand and an astounding outpouring on two A4 sheets of economy file.
#–, Block ––
–––– Estate
–––– Street
London N1
0171 704 ––
Hi,
I liked your provocative and enticing ad in Boyz. Your physical description is certainly eye-catching. I actually own black, skin-tight cycle shorts, currently idle in my room as a token to my once obsessive hobby. Yes—I do like them!
My name is PJ. I’m 28, 6′ 1″, weigh 11 stone and have a slim physique. I have enclosed a photograph that will flesh out this description.
I am a newcomer to London, having grown up in Northern Ireland and in the last two years travelled through Europe with the bold ambition of eventually visiting every country on Earth. I originally came to London simply to raise cash, but I have since decided to settle here, find a job and a place to stay, reconsidering my future. At the moment I’m staying with my sister just off Essex Road, Islington.
My job is defined as Hotel Night Porter. Not great pay but I get by. I work in rotation so on alternate fortnights I’m free to do as I like. Movies are my great escape from the routine of daily existence. This is the first and singular passion in my life and to some extent casts a shadow over my other interests. I read Empire and Première each month though don’t really take much notice of the critics. Who does?
Music means more to me than just background noise. There are only a few artists whose entire work I love: U2, Simple Minds, Peter Gabriel, REM—but I’m more into singles than albums—nothing beats a great new song.
This is the first time I’ve actually sought to meet people and it feels odd to sell myself so candidly, but there is a deeper reason for this than just building up social contacts. To meet a guy who is gay is a major step for me. Without exception all the gay men I have seen in my life have appeared as effeminate, which I loathe. I’m just not like that at all. Living a regular lifestyle, privacy and discretion are extremely important to me and something I won’t compromise on, but I need proof that to be gay is not only to be unhappy or camp. Sometimes I think I’m the only straight-acting gay guy in the world. Being gay goes against the grain of my upbringing, religion etc. It’d create hell with my family if they ever found out. (So please be discreet when phoning.)
I don’t frequent pubs or clubs; they are just not my scene. Cafes and restaurants are better. Best of all is going out to events, day or night, be it sport, theatre or a concert, and just grabbing a take-away. This is how I would like my social life to be, with a share of movies and quiet nights in (or both). Basically I’m looking for a guy of like mind and heart. A boyfriend (how strange and wonderful that sounds to me). A friend and a lover. The two of us trying to figure this world out. It’s difficult to present you with a picture of myself that, however imperfect, is truthful without being superficial. If I have given you some idea of who I am and how I feel then this letter has been worthwhile and hopefully will strike a chord with you and impel you to reply.
If you would like to meet me, please reply to the address below. Just a short note would do (with a photo of you in cycle shorts?) If we don’t seem compatible I’ll understand, but would you please let me know.
Yours faithfully,
PJ Healy
Verdict: Lovely letter, probably a very nice guy, but uh uh. I didn’t want to pricktease anyone with a drop of sincerity in them, anyone I could have had some chance with. I just wanted to feed upon and be fed into the dreams of the not so nice one-timers.
The majority of respondents would have benefited from tips on how to play the game in ad-land. Some of the scraps of stationery weren’t fit to be bird-cage liners. As for the writing and horrific choice of photographs enclosed, well, I felt like phoning a few of them up just to put them on the right lines. Getting them on the right lines, of course, might have required a referral to a structured therapy programme at the Portman Clinic, the Maudesley, PACE or some such place.
From the toilet seat I could see the letter-box, external flap up, letting in the usual smelly breeze. It was this which finally got me moving.
The balcony overlooked a post office, a Chinese takeaway, an Indian take-away, an off-license, some sort of everything-you-could-possibly-want-for-your-car shop, a general store, a bus stop, a pub called the Shakespeare’s Head, a one-way street in which traffic went further and further away, and a triangle of sky. Ray and I once had people round on Guy Fawkes Night. It wasn’t a great view. Two or three floors up it was probably something.
Returning to the bedroom for another four hours, slightly scared, I lay stewing: my scalp hurt. I thought I had a brain tumour. Later on I got the hoover out and reached into every corner like a good boy.
In the privacy of my minimum involvement accommodation, I was an unhappy independent. I could have been dead in there for weeks before anyone would have suspected, more weeks still before anything was done about it. Only the smell would bring police intervention, as is so often the case.
Good Friday.
It looked like spring had finally got going. All over London people were getting on with a spot of decorating. I felt triumphant, mine was all done. The pores of my skin were feeling the change in the weather.
Hair removal was as per instructions on the Immac spray can. I used a GII for the final tidy-up job—discouraged in the instructions. An invitation to irritation. Even those little hairs around my arse got a careful spray of the lemon-scented stuff. As stringent with my body as with my interior decorating, I got down to the business
of cutting fingernails and toenails right back. Three different toothbrushes, each with all-important functions, went into action.
As I was lying in the bath, all kinds of memories hit me. My scars were apparent, silvered on my hairless skin. I remember the day the incisions were made. I insisted on watching. Tubes were inserted to filter in blue dye before the repeated back-and-forth scanning. That dye gave me a fabulous blue-grey complexion for a year—the total cancer victim look. I don’t fill out a pair of Levi’s the way I used to, having only the one testicle. Lying there, still, water cooling, I must have looked like a piece of performance art.
I was early, prepared as if for an audition. Coach loads of tourists were doing Kew. Placing my bike upside down beside me, I sat, then lay, on a chained-in area of lawn near the cricket pitch by the entrance, wondering if prisoners ever sunbathe. With the peak of my cap turned round to the back I did my best to strike an erotic pose, lying down beside my bike, head on pannier, making believe the sun was a spotlight trained on me.
Over the years I’d blagged a lot of teeshirts out of PRs. When I’d successfully acquired one, it would be stored away in polythene for a special future time. That time had come. For each rendezvous I’d wear a different teeshirt, fresh as the day it was wrapped. They became part of the ritual, more individual than the shiny rayon available at Avis Cycles.
That day I wore a Blur teeshirt. Nothing special, just B-L-U-R in silver grey on powder blue. Being an XL it came to just below crotch level. Teasing. The clothes, bike and preened body felt more perfect than awkwardly new. I waited with my eyes shut.
I was made aware of Stephen’s presence first by the gentle click of his well oiled chain, then by a cooling shadow over my face. I ignored him for a while, then opened pretend-sleepy eyes; he was tall, backlit and nervously excited. It was boredom at first sight.
Setting a time limit at the outset, I explained to Stephen that I had to meet up with friends for tea later. It laid a foundation of tension which I enjoyed and established my power to dictate the pace of events. The subtle gradation of power in this first rendezvous was soon to be taken for granted. There was a conflict of desires: to me this young Stephen was just the first of many human specimens to tease, while I felt that to him I was, at first anyway, some sort of possibility.