Call Me

by P-P Hartnett

  He failed the attitude test by sneering just a little from the recovery position he’d assumed on the carpet as Bike Boy waved bye bye, so I took the shiny, sharp knife from my bag and placed it on his bottom lip.

  His “Nnnggahnoo,” was so much better articulated than before. God is great, He provides for all.

  * * *

  Somewhere close to midnight when the Goswell Road was having one of its quiet moments, Cuddles the teddy bear jumped from the seventh floor, followed by the flowers and that nasty piece of wicker.

  No greeting.

  This card is blank inside and suitable for all occasions.

  No natural forests were destroyed to make this product.

  Only farmed timber was used and re-planted.

  We hope you enjoy sending this card.

  Price code F.

  Made in England.

  Some illustrator who’d served time on an art course somewhere had done a bread-and-butter graphic of a huge, inflated teddy bear holding a red rose.

  For someone special was written in creamy yellow on white.

  In the vast, blank interior of the card D was initialled inside in angular black, as per usual.

  What he wanted were rights of tenure.

  * * *

  “Frank’s such a butch name.”

  “You think so, huh?”

  “You’ve got a nice voice. Bet you’ve got a nice cock, too.”

  “I’m not saying it’s enormous or anything, but when I push it in all the way … I’ve been told it hurts.”

  “Ooh. I think you’re going to have to come over. I’ll arrange one of my little parties, get the girls round.”

  Shutting all three sets of curtains which she’d run up herself, Glenda eyed me with adventurous speculation, as did her two friends, also dragged up to the nines: Will we get those shorts off? The copulating rhythm was slow to start pounding in that room which had the atmosphere of a surprise party and the stink of a perfume department. While Sarah turned the key in the door, as Bobbie lowered the dimmer switches, Glenda crossed her legs and smiled, showing a crooked line of lipstick over capped front teeth.

  “I do hope you’re going to be gentle with me, ladies,” I whispered.

  They’d already got through quite a bit of vodka by the time I got there. A four speed electric fan did its best to keep us all cool. Walking through the door in Dr Martens, cycle shorts and a teeshirt with I CAN FLY on it, shiny silver capitals on black, screams of excitement were to be heard all over Fulham. They took an above average instant interest in the size of my dick and how I came to possess such a gorgeous love bite. When I blushed they all agreed I was such an improvement on that last one and we all wondered where my ejaculate would end up.

  All three of them lit candles around the room. Bobbie and Glenda were skinny as rakes and expensively dolled up. I was probably older than Bobbie and Sarah. Glenda was pushing thirty. The flat was an above average nine-to-five torture chamber for City gents.

  Watching Jeff Stryker jerk off in a shower, four faces inches from the screen, big fat joint doing the rounds, I felt pleasantly relaxed. When Glenda ran a hand over my legs she shrieked and turned up the lights for a better look.

  “Right girls! Louis Marcel to the rescue!”

  “You don’t want to shave yer lallies luv,” said Sarah. “Waxing’s best. One treatment removes unwanted hair for up to six weeks.”

  “Ooh, you sound like the side of the box Sarah. Give us a strip of the stuff and hold him down. He’s wriggling.”

  Glenda sprinkled talc below my left knee. I gave up the pretence of being an unwilling victim and allowed them to have their wicked way. Glenda blew off the excess powder. The strip was cut in half, backing sheet removed, then pressed firmly on the skin in the direction of hair growth.

  “Darlings,” Bobbie announced. “This isn’t going to work. Is that unsightly stubble a minimum of four millimetres long? I ask you!”

  Holding the skin taut with one hand, Glenda pulled the strip back on itself very quickly in the opposite direction to hair growth. Ninety nine per cent of the stubble stayed firm.

  “We’re going to have to shave him!” Sarah squealed.

  “Oh, please!” said Bobbie. “Can’t we have a drink first?”

  Glenda gave me the rest of the strips, advising me to keep them in the fridge. She didn’t need them, she’d progressed to proper waxing at a salon.

  The cocaine was chopped for a good five minutes. We each took a line through a tenner. Sarah coughed, bloodshot eyes needing an extensive retouch. I opened a bottle of champagne stolen from a press launch at Lynne Franks a couple of months back. Nasty stuff, much appreciated.

  A fly came into the room and Glenda spotted it instantly. It made a big mistake, huge, by aiming for Jeff Stryker. Fake nails flashed through the air, dragging the juicy debris over the screen as Stryker delivered a million dollar mumble, shooting his muck. We all tittered.

  “Flies, dirty things. Hate ’em,” Glenda pronounced, sucking her drink down sharply. “They spread germs.”

  “I detest bugs. How dare they enter my little nest without permission?” Bobbie joined in. “I don’t like to kill them. What I normally do is put a glass over them, then they just die. That way it’s not like I killed them.”

  A sharing moment.

  “There’s a woman trapped inside this body,” Sarah whispered to me in an awkward silence. The new Take That release had come to an end.

  “Well dear,” Glenda sneered, panto-style, raising a plucked and pencilled eyebrow, “… judging by the shape of you the woman trapped inside is heavily pregnant.”

  This had all been said before and no offence was taken. They were putting on a little show for me. It only seemed fair to do likewise. Pretending to be hot I removed my teeshirt. Sarah put a variety of simple, thumping, computer pop CDs on random select while Glenda headed off towards the bathroom.

  “You could make a lot of money with a body like yours. Modelling,” said Bobbie while adding gloss to a mouth already heavily lipsticked.

  “Or whoring,” Sarah said, more to the tv screen than me, like it was a reasonable option for any young man. (Which it is.)

  The second line of cocaine quietened all of us as my naked body was shaved. It was so nice. Three GII blades dragging along slowly. Sarah Immac-ed my armpits considerately, not wanting to scrape in the semi-darkness. Bobbie took charge of my groin, applying shaving foam only after a very slow tongue bath. Glenda was matter of fact with the larger expanses of flesh. When I was turned over my arse was hers.

  Her tongue licked long and slow and deep. So warm, so wet, so softly. Her breath entered my body, blowing my bowels up like a balloon, easing me into doggy position, repeating the cycle of long, slow, deep rimming, developing into a penetration softer than a dick and so much more pleasurable in its delicacy.

  One of them said, “I’m putting on a condom, alright?”

  And I said, “Yeah.” I was so stoned I couldn’t have moved if the place was on fire.

  Left alone for maybe as long as thirty minutes, I drank more than half a bottle of Vodka. By the phone lay a pile of those lurid kinky cards you see in phone booths. Dragging a wet finger over the mirror, catching the last of the cocaine to spread over my gums, I was well out of it by the time they returned dressed in see-through nighties.

  It was like the bathroom was on fire. Candles on all levels flickered through the steam. The water was warm to hot. They put me in the bath to soak, then took it in turns to attend to my body. Sarah washed my cropped head softly, rinsing more carefully than a midwife. The gentle, stroking combing of my eyebrows and eyelashes was sweet. Her tongue licked my lips in a sideways figure of eight, over and over.

  Glenda sang a rugby song, circling my nipples with a red-glossed nail.

  Bobbie sat watching for a long while before a manicure which gave me the shivers.

  Hold me down, I thought. Hold me down under these shiny silvery bubbles. No one knows where I am.
No one cares, certainly not me.

  “You’re a very beautiful young man,” Bobbie whispered.

  Tears came to my eyes. Of all the things in the whole, narrow-minded world, I was thinking of a scrawny green budgie named Hamish.

  Once towelled by all three sisters, I was tied to a post in another room, empty but for one red bulb.

  Through half-closed eyes Glenda put on a generous amount of dark red Avon lipstick and placed a slow, soft kiss over my pumping heart. Bobbie followed, lips brimming with Chanel pink and placed two lipstick kisses on my neck, transforming the foul love bite. Sarah busied herself with a purple by Shiseido, leaving imprints above my navel, right nipple and forehead. They all reapplied with equal generosity, with staggered timing, each having a fair share of their captive human canvas. Soon every inch of my body was covered with lipstick kisses.

  “Put a record on,” I demanded of anyone.

  Somebody did me the favour. It was the Blur single I’d had in my head since the time with the boy by the bins.

  The colour at the base of my penis was dark red. Fuschia, I suppose. Thoughtful improvements to neck, bite and scar on the lower left abdomen were a candyish pink. Lips and eyes purple. Probably colours with exotic names like ‘Sheer Midnight’.

  * * *

  Along the King’s Road and through Hyde Park to turn heads in Piccadilly, I pedalled smooth, muscular legs covered with lipstick marks like bullet holes.

  A light shower around 4am brought dust and pollen down, improving the air quality. The Goswell Road was quiet.

  I found a postcard in my pannier, a picture of the Royal Family. On the back was a telephone number and Glenda’s signature in large, right slanting loops. More interestingly, a neatly folded fifty pound note plus a small transparent plastic sachet of white powder sellotaped to the corner. From the mouth of Queen Elizabeth II came a speech bubble: ‘Hope to see you again!’

  It was great to return to a blank answerphone. Unplugging that and the phone was a new claim on my right to silence. I was tired of raspberries, silly little messages and hopeful voices leaving numbers twice in their best voice and manners. And Dai’s late-night, long-distance static, crackle, grit and tell-tale pips.

  Opening the balcony door to check that Hamish was in his cage, I remembered Jessie was back and Hamish had gone. I kind of laughed to myself about how I’d cried only yesterday, or the day before. Whenever. Birds were already singing but not my Hamish. It was dawn.

  I did the cocaine then switched on. When the DRUMS voice was selected (voice number ninety nine), twenty five different drum and percussion instruments could be played on the black keys. I mainly used the same sounds:

  C#1 … Bass Drum Reverb

  D#1 … Bass Drum

  G#1 … Lo Tom

  D#2 … Snare Reverb

  C#..… Snare Closed Rim

  F#3 … Hi-Hat Open

  A#3 … Crash

  C#4 … Splash Cymbal

  D#4 … Ride Cymbal

  The accompaniment was very well behaved. Pressing the SYNCHRO START/ENDING button started the accompaniment off perfectly every time I played the first note on the keyboard. The three red dots along the bottom of the MULTI DISPLAY flashed at the selected tempo, helping me keep time.

  The left side of my face often looked bruised after I’d been behind my Yamaha for an hour or two. I leaned that side of my head heavily on my left arm, fingering the keys in SINGLE FINGER mode.

  I missed Hamish landing on my head, chewing the cord, banging his beak against the headphones. I wrote ‘Invasion Of The Dark Kisses’ on the cassette label, then slept. In the morning red, brown and deep purple clotted the sheets.

  Jessie came knocking around nine, but I couldn’t open the door, not looking like the ‘After’ in a belt up campaign. I could see another delivery had come. I crept into the bathroom to have my second long soak of the day.

  Jessie came knocking again at noon.

  “These came for you yesterday, round five, you were out. Aren’t they lovely? What it is to be popular!”

  “How’s Hamish?”

  “Oh, fine. You okay? You’re a bit purple around the eyes.”

  I sniffed a bit and smiled.

  “Bloody hayfever’s doing me in!” I said sweetly. She looked at the black polo neck I was wearing, dressed far too warmly for the day.

  Dai had sent another wicker basket, this time with a dainty handle and housing four little plants. ‘Summer Delights’. They’d sweated in polythene overnight.

  D.

  Placing the basket on the floor of the lift, I waved goodbye to it as the doors shut and the lift was called to the fourteenth floor.

  * * *

  “Hello. Is that 0171 608 ––––? Roger?”

  I was taken aback by the ancient tones of another era.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Ah. I’ve had this note from you in response to an ad I think I had in Capital Gay. Is that right and you are Roger?”

  “Yes, I replied!”

  “To my ad!”

  “For one-legged guys!”

  “That I wanted to meet one. My name is Glancey, the Christian name is Gerald.”

  “Gerald Glancey.”

  “Well, Gerald is one of my names. Actually it’s Henry. My little code system. So I know, you know. Well, I’ve had this kink, if you can call it so, all my life. I’m attracted to one-legged guys, amputees. I wonder, are you an amputee?”

  “No, fortunately I’ve got both. Sorry!”

  “No, don’t apologise. It’s a good thing, for you … unfortunate for moi. Are you inclined towards amputees?”

  “I’ve never admitted this to anyone before, always felt kind of ashamed of it. Tried not to think of it even.”

  (Pause.)

  “Go on.”

  “A couple of years ago, I saw this boy my age at Trade, a queer club round the corner from where I live. Really cute he was, too. Fancied him rotten.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “Young boy, blond boy, sexy boy.”

  (Like the start of an ad.)

  “Mmm. Continue.”

  “I sat and watched him dance, a bouncing head amongst the crowd.”

  “Dancing, yes.”

  “Then I spotted he was Thalidomide. He had these stumpy arms. I found him more attractive when I discovered that. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a domination thing. I really don’t know, just don’t understand myself. Well, when I saw your ad I thought maybe you’d understand. Do you understand? I’m frightened of this fascination. But, secretly, Henry, I love every minute of it.”

  This was punctuated by the occasional sniff. He thought I was getting all emotional. It was, of course, the after-effect of a night in with the girls.

  “I see,” he said, slowly.

  “We’ve got a kind of … similar sort of … interest.”

  “Except yours is arms. You are interested in amputated arms, or the lack of them. With me it’s legs. You’re obviously very young.”

  “Twenty one, just recently.”

  “Knew it, could tell by your voice. Well, if you’d like to talk to me I’m always here. You must understand that you are not a pervert. Lots of people have kinks. I like one-legged guys. Simple. I know a doctor who does. It doesn’t mean you’re insane. Enjoy it!” (Pause) “I belong to the British Amputee Sports Association. They have a sports day at Stoke Mandeville Hospital every year. There are people doing all sorts of things, high jumps and all sorts. Last year the weather was perfect, everyone stripped off. We’re going on the last Saturday of June, a one-legged friend and myself. Would you like to come along?”

  “Sounds very exciting, Henry.”

  “Oh, it is. I get very excited by amputees, their hopping about. I want an affair with one. It’s lovely speaking to you Roger … Are you normal otherwise? Do you go with girls?”

  “No. Queer as fuck, your honour.”

  “I’m very pleased to hear that. Women can’t be trusted, you know. Turn your back for a
moment and they’re soaking their knickers in the bidet. You sound nice and butch. Are you well-endowed? You know, I’m only asking.”

  I didn’t answer. A number of options came to mind at this point: he was getting a hard-on/had a hard-on and was getting playful/was into a full-scale wank and looking for something absorbent to come on.

  “Are you nice looking?” said in a horror film whisper.

  “I’m just a normal boy, really.”

  The telephone manner of a future well-heeled hooker.

  “Do you wear glasses?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’m just trying to get a picture of you, Roger. You see … I live quite alone. I know lots of people. I was visiting friends in the country only yesterday. I’m not a person who’d take advantage of you in any way. So, how’s about getting your young arse round as soon as possible then?” (Laughs) “Or would you feel it was like walking into a lion’s den? Promise not to gobble you up, unless you want me to!” (Pause.) “I’m in Islington, North London. N1.”

  “Really? That’s close. I live near Angel tube.”

  “Walking distance, even with one leg. Just a hop and a skip away,” the old fuck said. He laughed alone. “I’m behind Camden Passage, Duncan Terrace. Just off Upper Street.”

  “I know it, off Colebrooke Row, near the Orton and Halliwell residence.”

  “Ah, yes. It’s become quite a queer landmark has that.”

  * * *

  I stopped off at Chapel Market on the way. There’s this barrow boy on the corner, absolutely skeletal—pale as a ghost. Works on the fruit stall outside Marks & Spencers. He’s that sexy anything age between sixteen and nineteen. A reformed Geordie layabout in a baseball cap who always asks if I’m “Alright?” Bleary-eyed on Sunday mornings from being up all night. I’d like to cut that down-to-his-arse hair off while he’s sleeping. And it’s—naturally—an arse to die for in tight, faded Levi’s: firm young buttocks nicely lifted and separated. Cool, white, marvellously rounded, just the way I like them. A Steve or Adam, Spencer or Jason. “Anything else?” he always asks with the cheekiest smile on his face. Gorgeous … Straight as anything, of course.

  * * *

  When he saw me leaning against the wall, waiting for the front door of the basement flat to open, my right leg tucked up under my knee, the old boy thought he had a legless lovely before him for one sweet second. There was a beat in which he looked me over, from Blondie teeshirt to ankles.