by P-P Hartnett
Cooling down under a shower, I was aware of each and every white haired old man, their skins bleached from hours of ambling about in the wet. I could almost hear their lunches sluice through their guts. Here queens rubbed shoulders with villains, cab drivers and tradesmen, all after a touch of the vapours. Made equal by the steam. Boxers go, supposedly, to lose their bruises, taxi drivers their lumbago. Theatrical types to maintain their instrument. The majority looked singularly miserable as they loitered with intent.
Taking a breather between orgasms, two slightly younger but also white haired men sitting on grey plastic chairs, Sunday-in-Broadstairs, pointed me out to each other. I recognised the one on the left. His woolly pendulous torso adorned my kitchen wall like an imaginary beast from a Salvador Dali painting. What, I tried to remember, was he into? I smiled, turning my back, giving them a bit of arse to savour.
Another, breaking the boredom of loitering by taking occasional sips from the water fountain, followed me into the steam room after I’d finished showering.
“Fancy a rub?” he asked all chummy, placing a paw between my shoulder-blades.
“Okay,” was the simple go signal he’d been hoping for, pitched an octave lower than usual.
While I lay on a slab of grey marble, delicate hands lathered and kneaded my body with matronly attention, occasionally giving my flaccid prick a rub-down to see if an erection were on the go. When he realised that he wasn’t going to have something hard to suck on, he rinsed me off with a bucket of cold water rather abruptly, patted me on the bottom twice to show there were no hard feelings, then left whistling like a sailor.
Moving to the far corner of the empty steam room, I sat cross legged in the corner and began to jerk off, invisible in the steam. The door squeaked.
There was an inrush of light and cool air. Wondering if the sound of my wet foreskin rolling back and forth could be heard, I stopped abruptly. Slow footsteps came my way. A dark silhouette stood before me.
“Hello Bike Boy,” the silhouette said, taking a seat beside me on the marble shelf, placing a hand on my right knee. “You walked right past me in the changing rooms.”
My erection deflated in an instant. The accent struck a chord, faintly. His dark eyes drew mine for a full ten seconds. When I heard the smoker’s cough I knew who it was: Jack from Hampstead.
“I liked those photos you took of me,” he said, raising a hand to my right nipple. Perhaps he detected an increase in size since he’d last played with them.
That’ll teach you for falling asleep with a stranger,” I said, my voice pitched an octave higher than usual, trying to sound boyish, just a bit scared to tell the truth. We both laughed at this as he put his hands around my neck.
“In today’s high speed world we all, by varying degrees, leave behind a trail of debris in our frissive interactions with others: lovers, friends—”
“And victims,” I interrupted.
“And victims,” he echoed.
He began to squeeze those hands around my neck, increasing pressure very slowly, face closing in on mine. His towel slipped off him as he crouched over me on the bench. As we kissed, my air supply was cut off. I didn’t struggle. I felt very calm, closing my eyes, going limp. Then he let go. He laughed a little as if it was the biggest joke, which maybe it was. He slapped my face playfully, just the once. It was so soft, welcome.
It must be getting dark outside, I thought as he got down on his knees to pogo his head. I was hard in his mouth in seconds. But it’s never really dark in a city, not black black, except under pillows, floorboards and mud, under the influence of drink, behind a shiny leather mask, deep in a drug-induced sleep in bricked up cellars. He tossed me off, tonguing my ear, looking me over as I made a silent donation directly into the sperm bank drain.
I wasn’t looking forward to the fifteen-minute ride through miserable Bethnal Green sidestreets strung with second-hand cars. I dreaded rewinding the answerphone in Ray’s old home, the raspberries and the pips. There are lots of other people in this world besides Mr Right.
“Want to come back to my place?” is what I wanted the man with the smoker’s cough to ask. “Don’t see why not,” would’ve been my answer. He didn’t pop the question. We showered side by side in silence.
“Take care,” was what he said without looking at me, as I rinsed the bubbles off after a soaping I didn’t need.
The paper used for the production of this card
comes from a sustained forest.
This card is blank for your special message.
Price Code F
Made and printed in England.
D
The mad Welshman had sent a gouache of six blurred boys, cycling down a hill. Rear view. I considered wiping my arse with it and returning to sender.
* * *
“Whoever it is must be serious,” Jessie said, handing me a slender white box tightly tied with a red ribbon, smiling less this time and not winking as she shut her door.
A sprig of baby’s breath had protected the single red rose in transit. Those petals fell one at a time as I stood over the toilet, whispering to the bowl, He loves me, he loves me not.
Imagining his face being punched by a freckled fist lightened my mood. I’d reduced the situation to a pseudo-shocked vaudeville act.
Pausing over the bowl, now polka-dotted red, I varied the words: He is insane, he’s not insane, he is insane, he’s not insane. He’s going to kill me, he’s not going to kill me, he’s going to kill me, he’s not going to kill me.
Through the open window I heard Hamish. I strained to hear his song. When the phone rang I jumped, then flushed.
Lifting the receiver all I heard was long-distance static. No words. Pip.
* * *
The hours I’ve spent, the energy I’ve used in the search for symmetry: countless. When the sparks start flying in my brain, off I go with the hoover. Spontaneous, frantic. It’s like a hiccup of the mind. Vacuuming until it feels right. I need these rituals for the moments of peace they can offer. What I really want is not to need them. Different compulsions surface when I leave my front door.
It was close to dark when the little itch began. The bell in my head went ding and I thought mmm mmm—something’s going to happen tonight.
I was dying for it. Thought my prick would burst, the skin was stretched so tight. I couldn’t stand being in. So close and muggy. I couldn’t breathe. The Beaufort Scale was on zero. My heart was beating itself to death waiting for the storm to break. Sniffing the air and looking upwards I could feel it coming and I wanted to be there, in it.
I was barely conscious, yet perfect in motion. In nothing but my shorts and racing shoes, minus ankle socks, I walked out and rode off.
When the rain fell it was lovely. My nipples hardened in the breeze as I went down the hill from Angel towards Kings Cross in the last of the bright, flat light before the storm. I was cycling without direction, yet knowing where to make each turn, taking the short cuts through Camden, moving in darkness without lights. Sometimes a bike just takes you where you want to go.
Behind Jack Straw’s Castle, under a warlike sky, London’s mutual masturbators welcomed me to their dark, secret club. The glowing butts of cigarettes hovered and floated in the darkness more like tropical insects than votive candles. Faceless fucks with hard-ons for death, in silent slow-motion walking round and round in circles, stamping down the growing green. Bachelor ramblers begging to get their heads kicked in. Keats walked on it, Constable painted it. At different times the Heath offers something to everyone. From the Royal Artillery cooling off their horses to champion boxers in training for a match. Once a refuge for people suffering from the Great Plague of London; in that respect it has not changed.
Morning constitutionals are often interrupted by the sight of condoms and rubber gloves hanging from branches. The Heath’s a twenty four hour free-for-all and a graveyard of sweet memories. Everything goes on there, every sexual excess of which flesh is capable. Enter AYOR.
No admission fee. Kamikaze queers more than welcome.
The cold dark edges invited me in, joining the herd busy digging graves with their cocks. Cold dark edges insisted I enter to belong in the dark. Grinding round the interior of my skull was a tune I’d made up the day before. Loathsome, slow notes. Circling.
Though it was dark I could see a dummy getting fisted. His eyes were focused on nowhere as his arse took it, moaning as the fingers explored, coming alive like a glove puppet once each finger had wriggled deep inside his tubing.
I pushed my bike along with a lazy, hip swaying thrust, hunting a five minute friend, playing lunatic hide-and-seek. After walking round, aware that my quality control barrier was slipping every ten paces, I made the random selection of a buck-toothed, nipple-pierced baldy ready for anything on bended knees. His left hand slid up through the back of my shorts as his mouth warmed my cock inch by inch, providing mouth-to-dick resuscitation. While the thumb of his right hand did a fair rotation up my arse, my dick bashed the candida deep in his throat. No sub-text. No foreplay. As the thumb poked deeper, I neared orgasm.
Withdrawing his hand from the warmth of my shorts, he began to suck on the baby turd he’d harpooned with his thumb. Another dead-alive, catching a whiff of fresh shit, perhaps jealous of the brown dug out of pale flesh, approached quickly and stood close.
I could have been stabbed, or raped. I could have been so very very dead. Heart cut out and hung from a tree for birds to pick at, flies to vomit over, suck up, lay shiny eggs upon … Yes, I might have known agonizing pain for seconds. Mmm.
I picture a lot of jerks at my funeral, should my body be found, eyes bulging—perhaps only identifiable through dental records. Awful floral tributes with Interflora blooms spelling SON. I can hear the embarrassing sermon by a Benedictine who taught me nothing. My real existence would be glossed over. No mention of Ray. How nice it would be to attend my clone’s funeral and watch that mother of mine cry tears for the son she never knew.
I left the buck-toothed creature licking his warm brown lollipop and passed another group of bulky silhouettes among black branches. So many of London’s married men, there, doing it. Groaning, groining. Grunting. Full of discontent, disease and despair. Willy waving sour cocks as buggers buggered, while coppers took down the number plates of expensive vehicles in the car park—many containing locked in dogs waiting for their masters to finish their business in the bushes.
Chancing my bike to the bushes, I ran to the pond where Ray and I used to feed the ducks. He’d taken some photos there one time. Over-exposed, only the very blackest parts of my face had shown. Pupils, nostrils, hair, jaw line and the gap between lips.
I flung myself into the deep, inky pond where fish had stopped living. The foul water reeked and the sludge at the bottom felt gross. Still erect, I perched myself on a log to jerk off. The cum I ejaculated no doubt became part of some food chain.
I felt very thin and pale and blurry as I stood by my bike, waiting for more rain. I had a second wank just to keep warm and have something to do.
* * *
Unplugging the phone calmed me, I felt instantly lighter. The consequences of my actions were creeping up, internal consequences rattling under my skin. I was beginning to feel increasingly nervy. Twitched out.
I’ve never had a problem with my Yamaha, or had to refer to the trouble shooting page in the owner’s guide but that day there was no sound and I couldn’t work out why. It took me an hour to realise that the master volume was on zero. I was pissed off about it but glad that I’d managed to work it out by myself.
Arriving at a LO TOM which I slowed right down, pressing SUSTAIN I started playing simple root chords using the slap bass sound. I saw that my fingertips were extremely white and realised I was fingering with excessive force which could have damaged the terminals. Abandoning any idea of making a recording, I switched off the power supply then plugged the phone back in which was an odd thing to do as it was bedtime. The phone started ringing as the plug entered the socket.
I considered unplugging again. Just for a moment I hesitated. I couldn’t resist lifting up the receiver. There were no words, just long-distance crackle and grit, then the line went dead. Pip.
* * *
In raised capitals, gold on creamy yellow, one word:
Always
D
If it hadn’t been me it would have been someone else. He needed a point of focus. Not many young men would have bought the man a cup of tea unless paid by the hour.
He didn’t need me, he needed something to make up for the long years of loneliness, the difficulty of being a silent queer. Pre ’67 was one thing, the disco ’70s another. One of the bravest things he’d ever done was place a dumb ad in The Pink Paper.
I really should have given him the number of some escort agency.
* * *
Friendship cards are both big business and a pain in the arse. Drawn to do a spot of market research, I entered Paperchase purposefully.
Graphic: A bridge. Wording outside: Cross Over The Bridge To Me. Wording inside: Be Mine.
Graphic: A love heart. Wording outside: I LOVE YOU … written maybe twenty times. Wording inside: … And The Amazing Thing Is We’ve Just Met!
Graphic: Infantile smiley face. Wording outside: Thinking of You. Wording inside: Puts a Smile On My Face!
Graphic: Clouds. Wording outside: YOU, written in creamy yellow on palest blue. Wording inside: You Are A Part Of Everything I Do …
Graphic: A lacey pillow case. Wording outside: Even When We’re Apart … Wording inside: I Sleep With You In My Heart …
Graphic: Two words in four different font styles. Wording outside: I Care. Wording inside: I’m Always There …
Graphic: Flames. Wording outside: HELL … Wording inside: O!
And there were many, many more, waiting to be signed, sealed and delivered. I felt decidedly light-headed in there, watching the punters making up their minds.
* * *
The long-distance crackle and grit went on for longer than usual. It sounded so much clearer than the many answerphone recordings. I could hear him breathing like a bull. A child was audible way off in the distance, screaming. Little birds, too. I’d been expecting the call and nine o’clock on a Sunday morning was his chosen time.
After years of immobilisation, stunned by romantic obsession, wanting but not getting, he was angry. I imagined him as an adolescent, using fantasy and compulsive masturbation as fun, then as a distraction, then to avoid feelings or as a reward or just a time filler for boredom.
“I gave you my number. You could’ve called me. I think you should’ve called. Don’t you?” Each clipped syllable had the clarity of threat. Here was yet another specimen illustrating the diversity of gay life.
“You’re out a lot, aren’t you lad? I’ve spent a fortune listening to your answerphone message.”
A countdown had been begun with the arrival of the ‘Living Card’ he’d sent weeks back. I’d reached ten.
10 “I bet you’ve been out dipping your wick, haven’t you lad?”
9 “Bet you’ve been slagging your arse up and down Old Compton Street, or in some sauna.”
8 “You slag. You gay slag.”
7 “I’m a decent, respectable, good, clean-living man and you’re not interested.”
6 “You know what you are … and you should probably note this down…”
5 You’re nothing but a hopeless, heartless little whore.”
4 A shaggable, shaggable little tart, whore, queer.”
A remarkably accurate description, if delivered in a somewhat melodramatic tone. Nicely put, though, I thought, noting down the definition as suggested.
3 “You bastard!”
2 “You fucking deceiver you.”
1 “I’ll have your guts for garters!” he peaked.
0 “I only wanted us to be friends.”
My telephone manner became very Chinese take-away, saying as little as possible with an emphasis on
good manners.
“Tell me…”(Pause) “is there any history of…” (Slightest pause) “… insanity in your family?”
His little breathing irregularity increased.
“Now there’s no need to get nasty,” he whined.
After a little difficulty with both gripping the handset and the formation of a word beginning with ‘y’ he managed to blurt: “Y-You little whore!”
I found his pronunciation interesting, delivered like ‘who-were’. In the silence that followed I imagined him with a probation teacher’s dick in his mouth, then a gun, then both—shooting.
“What do you reckon Joe Orton was reincarnated as?” I asked, perhaps like a BBC2 game-show host.
“A little gay slag like you I should think,” he retorted with admirable speed. I felt somewhat honoured and maybe he could tell by my breathing that I was smiling.
“Believe me,” he said in the tone of an American Bible-touting huckster, “I’ll have you, you young bugger!”
“Yes. I heard. ‘Guts for garters,’ I think you said. I must fax that to Jean Paul Gaultier.”
He slammed the phone down.
Ten minutes later the phone rang, perhaps for a full sixty seconds. I ignored it.
Twenty minutes later the phone rang four times, then stopped.
Thirty minutes later the phone rang twice. Dead silence.
Forty five minutes later, just a little tring to say: Thinking Of You.
* * *
Shaun nodded quite agreeably when he heard I wanted a number four crop.
“But,” he said, “you’re certain you want it bleached and dyed orange?”
“Bright orange. That kind of Ziggy Stardust sort of reddish orange,” I said. “Like Annie Lennox when she was in the Eurythmics. Rent boy orange.”
“Exactement,” he shrugged, somewhat resigned to creating this hair-don’t. Customer’s-always-right attitude.
“I want to look like a hopeless, heartless whore. A shaggable little tart,” I said in a whisper with a smile.