Call Me

by P-P Hartnett

  * * *

  Euan Capital Gay STRUT IT! Exhibitionists, strippers, DIY fans sought by South London guy. 33, tall, slim, own place, videos. Tea and cake after! Photo/Phone helps.

  Frank Time Out GLAMOUROUS TRANSVESTITE, 26, seeks tall, attractive, masculine, guy for fun times. (18+) Frank letter appreciated.

  Gary Loot GILLIAN, TRANSVESTITE. 28. Bored! Seeking young man for friendship and fun. Into TIGHT skirts, high heels, squeezable rears. Long letter please.

  (Bored means boring.)

  Horst Loot ATTRACTIVE CONTINENTAL WLTM intelligent guy or couple for lustful (safe) erotic adventures. Photo + frank letter please.

  (Continental, an Arab?)

  Ian What’s On In London JULIET LONGS FOR ROMEO but will settle for bright, debonair, film/theatre-loving man, 25-35. Photo, letter appreciated but humour/integrity essential.

  (Use of the word debonair, a sure sign of awful taste.)

  Jon The Pink Paper ATTRACTIVE GUY, 38, smart, businessman, straight lifestyle. Seeking clean-cut professional for discreet, safe friendship. ALA. Photo helpful. (Returned.)

  (Discreet, marriage wrecker)

  Kieran Gay Times SATIN FETISH GUY, 32, attractive, slim, muscular, WLTM satin clad guys, 18-35, for safe smooth fun. ALA. Phone. Photo.

  Luke Capital Gay RECENTLY INTO LEATHER. 40. London search on for younger guy needing strict training. Meet soon, my place. Possible 1-2-1?

  Marc The Pink Paper ROCKABILLY BOY, 22, straight-acting, inexperienced, DA! Seeks similar guy, 18-28 for very special friendship with same interests.

  (Same interests—see bored.)

  L is for loves to

  cuddle … mediocre fuck.

  M—Model … may charge.

  N—Non-camp … uptight around camp boys.

  O—Occasionally moody …

  suicidal tendencies.

  P—Professional … may pay.

  Q—Quiet … quite hard work.

  R—Radical … out to lunch in 501s.

  Neil Sky MARRIED MAN (30) WLTM young London guy with own flat for lunchtime fun. The wife need never know. I’m a generous professional, attractive, discreet with a lot to give the right young guy. (I’m used to being the husband.) 18-24 preferred.

  Owen The Pink Paper WELSH CHAP, 39, lives two hours from London. Soon to start visiting London every Wednesday for a year on a course. Searching for nice lad to meet up with after the long day. Dinner on me! Please write. Genuine. No timewasters please.

  Patrick Time Out SENSITIVE WOMAN, 29, seeks young gay guy, (18+), for friendship.

  (I don’t know why but I gave this sensitive woman my address as well as my phone number.)

  JF Quinn Capital Gay ELEGANT BERKSHIRE DAD, 50, WLTM smart son, late teens/early twenties, who also wants a loving, monogamous relationship.

  Roger Capital Gay MATURE MASCULINE GUY seeks one-legged guys. Amputees only. Write to Harry. London/Anywhere.

  Sid Gay Times LONDON SCHOOLMASTER. Handsome. Good body. Strict. Clean-shaven. Well versed in schoolroom manner. 34. Seeking new pupils willing to learn. Good looking? Aged between 18 and 24? OTK CP? Apply! Emphasis on discretion and health at all times. Prefects welcome.

  Timothy Guyz CARING BLACK MALE, 25, 6′ 2″, into fitness, music, uninterested in gay scene. WLTM healthy, VWE white boy, non-smoker, non-drinker, similar age and interests, for big fun.

  Uri NME CREATIVE AMERICAN FEMALE seeks LONDON friends. Arriving soon. PO Box 342, Pittsburgh, USA.

  (I sent off a pretty impressive letter all about London’s wild and wicked clubland. Instantly regretted on posting.)

  Viktor Him BRIAN (RECENTLY 18), little lost lamb, WLTM big daddy sheep (25+) for various ramifications. One man and his dog preferred. Staff supplied. Baaaaa!

  William Capital Gay PINSTRIPE ANARCHIST, gay male, 34. Science-fiction fan, seeks punk guy or similar for fun evenings enjoying a drink or two and watching videos. Fancy something different?

  (S—Science-fiction … acid tab tendencies. See bored.)

  Ziggy NME JAPANESE FEMALE: Likes Primal Scream, U2, Blur, R.E.M., Bjork, Momus, Kate Bush, Enya, Joy Division, Depeche Mode etc. Dislikes: boy bands, Benetton, gym bods. Wants any friends for fun in London. Write to Keiko at —, —— Rd, London, W3 8QJ.

  I steered clear of those who compared themselves to vintage cars, historic or cartoon characters. Avoided any who mentioned teddy bears. Turned a blind eye on those who described themselves as vivacious, zany, cultured, into pyjamas/uniforms/socks/pierced nipples—rejected the writer unpublished as yet and the life and soul of many a party … someone into balloons.

  * * *

  In 1876 Alexander Graham Bell discovered that when one metal reed at the end of a line vibrated another at the opposite end, a sound was produced. This was patented as the first practical telephone. This wondrous invention can also be used as an instrument of terror.

  “Hello, is Aaron there?”

  She phoned four times. We spoke for forty five minutes, thirty five minutes, fifteen minutes and ten. Time Out Box number V903. The first of the callers, top of the list.

  “Yes, speaking.”

  “Um, you wrote to me. Answered my ad. One of many probably.” A delicate little telephone voice, trembling.

  “No, only yours. So you’re the ‘Sexy Pretty Woman, 42’ who likes music and theatre seeking…”

  “Gosh. I’m impressed. Wow! You’ve got a great memory! It’s very embarrassing actually. I didn’t know how to attract attention and that’s why it really, um, came out like that. Probably sounds dreadful, but it’s not meant to.”

  She gave a nervous little laugh then got serious with her spiel. As the conversation progressed the incendiary glow reflected in the clouds became, little by little, fainter. “Anyway, I work in an art gallery handling admin, wha do you do?”

  “I take photographs for fashion and music magazines. Youth culture stuff, nothing too fancy though.”

  “Working in fashion you must meet a lot of people. All those models, you’re spoiled for choice really!”

  She laughed that little laugh again.

  “Bet you got a big response with your ad,” I said.

  “Oh, it’s so embarrassing, yes. The postman had to ring. Couldn’t get the bag, the … um … couldn’t get the … er…”

  “Plain brown envelope?”

  “Yes! Couldn’t get the envelope through the door … through the letter-box.”

  “Fan mail!”

  She gave a little giggle with delicate breaths.

  “It was only when I sent it off that I thought, my God! What have I done? I’d described myself so, well … I’m not sure if I can live up to people’s fantasies of this sexy pretty woman. After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

  She was one of those people you start counting with, totting up every so, well, um and er in your head.

  “I just wanted to see what … I just wanted to grab attention and go from there. To at least get noticed. I had some nice letters and one of them was yours.”

  The postcard I’d sent was too brief to be “nice”. The demand to call was curt, if anything.

  “I don’t know if you have a particular sort of, er, build or style in mind but…” her voice went suddenly sad and pathetic and small. Petite. “I’m about five foot three, I suppose, and my hair’s dark brown, shortish at the moment, um, and I’m a sort of slim average build.”

  The clouds paled, became opalescent and slowly dissipated.

  “That’s what I look like,” said like she half expected the phone down on her. She continued in a hoarse whisper, “All I was saying, all I was really trying to get over in the ad was—I was still alive. Hello … I’m still alive. Anyway, you sound nice. What is, you know, I’ve said my height and … can you give me, er, a picture of yourself?”

  “Six foot, slim, short dark hair, smart appearance. Public School education, own teeth, twenty four.”

  “Oh! You are young! So, what do you, um, what sort of things do you wear?
Are you casual, jeans and, you know, or … how do you, what’s…”

  “I’m aware of fashion but not a slave to it. Smart and classic but relaxed, too. Fun without being a clown.” It was the sort of stuffiness she wanted to hear and I gave it to her in my best hetero tone of voice. “Suits mainly,” I added.

  “Oh. Right. Yes. Lovely. So, suits rather than jeans and leather jackets. If you’re tall you can carry a suit.”

  I sat on the kitchen floor in baggy old Y-fronts ready for the bin and a Seditionaries tits teeshirt, looking at the distant, solitary, fading sun. She hit me with some bull about how she’d love to meet up but it was so hectic for the next week. Could she call back to fix up a time and place? I knew she’d be a phone case. After twenty five minutes of polite and very boring ping-pong chit-chat, I asked my first and only question of the ‘Sexy Pretty Woman, 42’.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Oh, sorry. Did I not say? I’m Anne, with an E.”

  “With an E.”

  “With an E, yes. Like the royal Anne.”

  Maybe she just took a lot of getting to know. In her second call she procrastinated a full fifteen minutes about where to meet, bearing in mind the weather and the problem of recognising each other. She postponed the arrangement in her third call. While Hamish clambered up and down the telephone line and I watched Top Of The Pops with the sound down, she said a lot about nothing. I think she thought I was a good listener.

  I imagine she goes home to a Sainsbury’s fresh free range boiled egg (size 2, class A), takes interesting holidays out of season with a dull, secure companion. Poor Anne with an E. Nine to five and 0.5 alive. She said it herself in her last call:

  “You drift through childhood, go to school, suddenly it hits you that unless you’re very wealthy or a tremendous entrepreneur, um, you know … to actually keep yourself alive, let alone anything else, you have actually got to sell your time. Right? And that’s it then. How many people do the things they like? Hence the appeal of holidays.”

  Anne with an E, stuck in bread and butter land. We never met.

  * * *

  “JF Quinn Esquire?” His voice was nasal and camp, slightly northern. Bolton, perhaps.

  “Yes, speaking.”

  “Hi, um, well … this must be the shortest note I’ve ever had off anyone. I was very intrigued. You obviously don’t like to commit yourself in a letter, but then again, your presentation said a lot. Nicely laid out, I’ll give you that. Loved the signature and oh, the name … what should I call you? Can’t go calling you JF Quinn now, can I?”

  “John. John Francis, after my grandfather.”

  “And I’m Graeme, that’s G-R-A-E-M-E, not G-R-A-H-A-M. I was fifty two weeks ago.”

  “Did you have a good one?”

  “Thank you, yes. Wonderful. Can’t believe I’ve actually, actually reached it. Um … er … and how old are you John?”

  “Twenty two.”

  “God, I’m over twice your age! It’s very strange, John, but since I got past forty five I seem to meet people who like older men. And I’m surprised, quite honestly, cos I never did, you know. It’s wonderful. Wonderful. Yes. It’s terrific. Um, what else … anything you want to know about me?”

  “Tell me all.”

  “Okay then. I go to a gym three times a week. I like to look after what I’ve got and I’ve got a forty inch chest, twenty nine inch waist. Um, I don’t know if you’d think this a plus or a minus but I’m bald. I don’t know how you feel about that, whether it bothers you or what.”

  “Great, specially if it shines.”

  “It shines!”

  “Great!”

  Chinese hold that of ten bald men, nine are deceitful, the tenth dumb.

  “And I think the ad read ‘Elegant City Gent’. I’m very much into, um, formal dress. I find it, well, it quite turns me on actually. Suits, stiff collars, the whole shebang. And the younger people I’ve met also like it. I don’t know if you’re looking for a father figure but it … well … they don’t like to see older men dressed in jeans. Actually I’m in jeans at the moment but only occasionally for casual, you know. When I go to work … I run a stationery shop, not mine, run it for a friend, straight friend. I’ve run it for the last twenty two years. Quite tatty actually. Near Liverpool Street.”

  “In fact your ad read ‘Elegant Berkshire Dad’, the one I replied to anyway.”

  “Oh, that one. I didn’t realise that one was out yet. I’ve got a few on the boil right now. Ah, that is interesting. Oh, by the way, I do have all my own teeth. Every one of them. I’m a bit fanatical about that actually. Check-ups every three months. I don’t take sugar but do keep it in the house for guests. But apart from that, John, I have all the usual vices. Oh, I gave up smoking three years ago. So, um, well … you know, that’s me. Do you wear suits?”

  “Yes.”

  “You do? Ah! Do you like the formal look?”

  “I’ve always been one to polish my shoes.”

  “I’m very glad. You know, probably because I was in the army for three years, I cannot stand to see a nice suit and scruffy shoes. Drives me mad. I polish my shoes every night so they’re ready for the morning. It can all get a bit pricey. Do you know how much it costs to have my collars cleaned and starched? Two pounds twenty, each!”

  “I used to get mine from Denny’s in Old Compton Street. Wing collars.”

  He got very excited very quickly. His breathing seemed to stutter, he was gagging.

  “Oh! You actually wear them!”

  “Not now. It was just a phase I was going through.”

  “Did they turn you on? Wearing them, you know. Being out in them.”

  “I liked the way they altered my posture. The stiffness around the neck. Heads turned as I made an entrance, usually with a group of lads from university out for the night somewhere, knocking back bottles of champagne at Kettners or some such place.”

  “Wonderful. I mean, I never dreamed when you answered my ad that you would like them as well. In fact I’ve had to explain to a few what they are. My favourites are Edwardian, the round-edged ones. What size are you?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Oh, you are small, aren’t you! I’m fifteen and a half. Anyway, I’ve got these Edwardian ones, they’re a full three and a half inches. Picked ’em up down Portobello Market. Well … the collars were yellow. I got them starched twice and they come up beautiful shining white and so stiff, absolutely marvellous. Cut the neck off me. I adore them.”

  He laughed, tossing back that shiny head, catching a glimpse of himself in a mirror. (A round, gilt-edged mirror.)

  “Now listen, I’ve got an antique starched shirt I can’t get into anymore but you certainly could. It’s a fourteen and a half. Know the type? You’ve got to pull it over your head.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Perhaps you’d like it. Well, I’d love to meet you. Maybe a Tuesday. I go to the gym Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Or perhaps a Thursday? Yeah. No. Let’s say Tuesday. Six okay? And what do you look like? Oh, and where?”

  “The shop?”

  “Um, how about…”

  “How about the Barbican Centre, by the fountains?”

  “I know the spot you mean. Opposite City of London School for Girls. I think there’s a statue there, isn’t there? A running man or a black horse or something.”

  “Something like that.”

  Nothing like that in fact and far too symbolic to mention to the man. Hamish landed on my shoulder and said, “Piss off!” in Jessie’s tone of voice unusually loudly. This went unheard as Graeme said:

  “Okay. Six, on the dot. So, John, what do you look like?”

  “Do you want the full turn-on description or just the edited highlights?”

  He chortled, perhaps wanting the turn-on edited highlights.

  “I’m tall, just over six foot. Short, dark, well-groomed hair. I stick a bit of oil on it.”

  “Oh, I love greased hair. Don’t like that gel stuff o
n a man, can’t run your fingers through it. Go on.”

  “Clean shaven. Slim, always have been. Public School education. An all boys establishment in West London.”

  There was a long slow mmm-ing sound over the phone. An escort agency would have given full marks for attitude.

  “Thought so, you speak so nicely. Did you have stiff collars there?”

  I paused, letting him imagine the white lines of a sports pitch, ropes swinging in the gym, a locker room, sound of the showers. Woody smell, boy smell. Benediction on bended knees, incense. Italic nibs, swoosh of the cane.

  “Not when I attended, Graeme.”

  “I’ve had this fetish since I was sixteen, you know. I used to think I was the only one. Then I did the ad and there are others. Loads. I even wrote to Millivres asking them to do a pin-up peel off, dressed formally, in one of their magazines. Got a very sniffy letter back. It took years before I told my friends, you know, cos my friends are much younger than me. And when I told them they said okay. Fine. You know, like it wasn’t such a big deal. I was quite closetty about it, see? I felt a bit embarrassed.”

  I didn’t answer this, absorbed with Hamish who’d returned to my shoulder, straining forward in the hope I’d allow him to stick his little head inside my mouth to delicately drink warm saliva.