The civic hobby was showing that night and I walked past doorways piled with blankets, cagey glimmers of reflective foil, the private movements of shallow sleep. Figures waited in the street corner lea of coiling gusts of rain. Or, it would be more accurate to say they stood, because there was nothing they could be waiting for unless it was each other. The benches held men, smoking, talking, drinking, sleeping men giving demonstrations from a forgotten, furnished life.
Without knowing the city or any way of living in it, Savinien must almost inevitably drift to Street. Unless something happened before he could find it. I slowed my pace and glanced at hands, the curve of shoulders, the gentleness in a bowed head, something I might recognise. Perhaps if he coughed—I would know his cough.
In this way, I passed almost the entirety of my three hours. I arrived on Steve’s doorstep a casual ten minutes late and he answered the door at an admirably offhand pace.
“You look cold.”
“I am.”
“Coffee?”
“No. I’m not here for coffee. What else have you got?” I thought bloody-minded would be the right tone to develop. A bit late now for the soft sell. Steve was, as ever, slow to catch on. Unless my intonation was off-beam, but I don’t think it was off-beam, I think it was fine.
“There’s tea or whisky, then.”
So we weren’t going straight for the main event, but whisky might be a good move. Possibly ideal.
“All right, a whisky. Where do you want to drink it?”
“Here.”
The little sod was going to keep me standing in the hall. While I hadn’t been paying attention, we must have decided to out-humiliate each other. I knew I’d have the losing hand on that front—it’s always tricky, humiliating a masochist—and so hard to tell when you’re done.
“Bring me the bottle, then. If you want to fetch and carry.” That just sounded ridiculous, far too Joan Crawford, and I haven’t got the shoulders to carry it off. Never mind, I supposed the forthcoming proceedings might turn out almost bearable if I was drunk.
God, I shouldn’t have gone there. Why did I go?
It wasn’t really whisky he brought, only Canadian Club, but it helped me beat down a few of my final defences. It’s odd how cagey my brain can be about utter foolishness—somebody back there has no sense of fun.
I took a long swig and then an unlucky guess and ducked past him in around what turned out to be his bathroom door. With his best peckish labrador expression, Steve followed me in. Good boy.
You can have your own guess on the rest.
HORIZONTAL SEX + BATHROOM FLOOR = CARPET BURN + BRUISED VERTEBRAE TSK, TSK, TSK
Not the most satisfactory equation I’d ever run across. Or been run across. And I wasn’t drunk enough. I had, however, developed a strange and very slightly euphoric determination that I would become drunk enough, have an adequately good Good Time and make a mess of the bed he was obviously hiding somewhere for an unsullied sleep when I’d gone. We had both provided ourselves with a baroque quantity of condoms in what I found an almost touching display of combined bravado and paranoia. Maybe we weren’t so unalike after all. But back to business.
“Bed.”
“Mm.” He’d collapsed into a gundog drool with his head underneath the sink.
“Where is your bed?”
That had done it, the spark fanned wolfishly behind his eyes and I sat up to improve my membership of the Canadian Club.
I’ve noticed that three-letter words with a central “e” will always hit the right libidinous spot.
BED
LET
PET
GET
SET
WET
even, God help us, JET.
And of course, of course, of course, the ultimate—Sex.
See what I mean? They all work.
I had occasionally wondered if this was some kind of reflex and perhaps any convenient grouping of letters would do. If I lovingly/breathlessly/teasingly whispered “ned,” or “pej,” “zez” or “dep” at appropriate moments would these do just as well?
Steve didn’t turn on the light in the bedroom, possibly to avoid any comments on its tidiness. There was a distinct atmosphere of sporting underwear and fust once we’d both barged each other through the doorway. Still, the bed felt presentable as we floundered onto it for round two.
For some reason the whisky and darkness were making my hands feel at least twice their usual size, they seemed to plane and flap in the air like partially anaesthetised fins. As I adjusted to this sensation, Steve and I grappled and hugged manfully, loosening clothing where possible while I was suddenly, forcefully reminded of my first time ever. The occasion of my Losing It. Lying, exhaling more or less rhythmically under the pressure of Steven’s chest under Steven’s T-shirt, I could see myself in the dark of another grainy, grubby room.
My position had been very similar, although my partner was different and it was his shoulder and back I had been crying on to for several, in flagrante, minutes. I did this silently so that my tears were only noticed when the main event was over. At which point my significant other happily performed the cinematic manoeuvre of kissing-away-the-loved-one’s-tears, between contented, hormonal grunts. This made it clear he had identified the cause of my weepings as his delivery of a mind-altering experience, excelling every possible one of a young girl’s (forbidden) dreams.
All of which made me even more lachrymose because I knew the truth. That I had cried simply out of bewildered gratitude because It had happened at all. With anyone. That I had cried because It had been so uninvolving and fucking brief. That I had cried because, having started crying, I was now leading his ego to believe a lie about the wonderfulness of It which I would not alter—he did not understand me and this was only the beginning of how far apart we could be.
Meanwhile Steven was nearing the point of delivery for another little rubberised sperm donation and I did my best to get mentally in gear, to really join in. I cupped and gripped the flesh of his nice arse while imagining bad poems, good poems, newsreaders, rugby players, magazine articles, dead actors, live actors, old actors, fat actors, young actors, tall, temperamental, tuneful, ugly-mugged, black and white and technicoloured actors. I exhausted Equity, Actor’s Equity, the Screen Actor’s Guild, and then slewed rapidly across the entire Musician’s Union and dreams of a boy I might have fancied, had he ever, ever lived next door.
It was no use, naturally. My imagination failed even to move one square inch of earth. I blame the Canadian Club—it’s a very unromantic kind of ethyl alcohol.
So never mind the weather, just get it together and breathe and twitch and breathe and sigh and fake it till you make it, not that you ever necessarily will make it. This is, naturally, a cheat, but a fair way of cheating because the cheater is the one who loses most. I finished my maple leaf attempt at whisky and Steven suggested a thing I might do with the bottle.
Thanks. But no thanks.
At which juncture it seemed to me this was not the best way to go on. Here I was, with alcohol finally loosening my joints, unpicking the tighter corners of my brain and making me ready for something when there was very little of anything to be had. Which I mean as no criticism of Steven, I expect he was doing the best that anyone could. This was my problem.
I rolled on to my back, feeling my head give a tiny, warning spin. If I didn’t get very active again soon, I would simply fall asleep. Without thinking, I flopped out an arm and inadvertently slapped Steve, I think on the thigh. He gave a doggy little snort and I did it again. Once more the sound of a happy pooch, gratefully disciplined. I did it again.
“Permission to speak.”
He honestly didn’t know what he was doing.
“Permission to speak, Ma’am.” He wanted me to row out our old friend Bligh again. Yes he did, indeed he did. He wanted to see the Captain. Dearie, dearie me.
I hadn’t even thought of Bligh in months. When I stopped being with Steven, Bligh stopped be
ing with me. I hadn’t for a moment imagined he might pay us a visit that night. I was sure we both remembered that in his later incarnations he had played more than a touch rough, but there Steven was, hailing him to come aboard for all he was worth.
Well, I certainly couldn’t resist all of that marine enthusiasm for too long. And my alter ego, having been called on, also seemed keen. Extraordinarily keen.
“What, do you want to see the Captain, then?” That wicked, old seafaring voice appeared in the dark like the sparkle that starts the fuse. In my mind, Bligh always had a tang of sulphur, beneath the salt.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Are you sure?” And, even if he was sure, was actively requesting ill-treatment, it didn’t matter because it is impossible to give one’s consent in these situations. I had already asked the opinion of a lawyer acquaintance of mine on this very point—only out of academic interest, of course—and she had set me right. Even between willing partners in the privacy of their own homes this was criminal, this was a felony and could not be consented to, this was a crime. I knew that. So I knew I was about to commit a crime.
“Very well, then. Make ready the Captain’s table.”
“In the lounge, Ma’am.”
“Then make ready yourself and I shall await you at the appointed place. And be in good order or you shall have to make amends. D’you understand?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
But he didn’t and nor did I. We couldn’t foresee the effect of Canada’s finest, of all my many months of nonviolent abstinence, or of all my many years of somewhere wanting very much to do what only Bligh could do. Or, to put it another way, nobody could have predicted that I would be so unpredictable when I came to take the helm.
His lounge was small, scruffy in a boyish way, with a low coffee table stretching the length of his sofa. Just right. But I left off preparations for a while and walked to the window, separated the curtains and stepped inside.
I loved to do that when I was young, to close myself in the thick, chill space between the window glass and the curtain lining and look out without showing a light.
Steven’s flat was on the third floor, that tiny bit nearer a sky which had turned the colour of milky tea. Lazy clots of snow were wandering down past me, rushing ahead of the breeze and falling again. I did not think of Savinien, of his being out there. Instead I felt oddly peaceful, smoothly approaching the brink of anticipation, excitement. One always should, after all, feel excited when preparing to commit a crime.
I decided to draw the curtains and turn off the lamp—I’ve always found the bounds of possibility grow more flexible in the dark, particularly with regard to bad behaviour.
And when I remember this now, I know that Steven was happy when he came in. Oh, he was trying to act naval and contrite, we were each of us playing our very familiar parts, but his personal contentment had room to show through—this wasn’t exactly Shakespeare, after all, only S and M. (Which I often feel should stand for Seedy and Mad, but that’s only my opinion and, Lord knows, I’m in no position to criticise.)
We seemed to be rediscovering two old friends, like a Variety double act taking one last turn. Of course, Steve had never tried his hand at a definite role, like Fletcher Christian, but that seemed only right, we were much more cosy and safe when we kept it simple. Setting Christian up against Bligh would have shifted our balance, made the relationship too equal, if not actually mutinous. We were both very happy with Steve cast as the powerless hand on deck and myself as the mad Ahab, bad, glad captain of his body, and never mind his soul. Something in us had waited until we could meet and be this for each other. And do this to each other.
Steve smothered a giggle which I found instantly annoying. I wanted this for real, to demand full concentration. No more fun.
“Take them off, everything off.” He hesitated for a moment, fumbled at his underpants, and I realised he hadn’t known quite where I was in the dark of the room. I had the advantage and I was going to take it.
“Off. And put the makings on the table. Thank you.”
While I fastened him to the table, as though he were hugging it very tight, I could feel that he was an extremely jolly tar. The room was not cold, but the flesh, his really almost feverishly hot flesh, shivered merrily. He lay, the perfect, obedient sailor, allowing me to make him almost completely immobile. My flipperish hands were behaving themselves quite well, although my eyes had begun to project huge blooms of sanguine colour onto the darkness— something I found quite disturbing at first.
My aim in thus securing him was not to obstruct the circulation of his blood, but to make sure that twisting or writhing would prove highly uncomfortable. Simply lying at rest, he would also have a constant reminder of his very vulnerable position. Those bright, tight handcuffs would have come in useful, but I found I was managing to make do.
Tremors in his legs made it quite tricky to bind them, particularly when the table only extended a touch below his knees. Still, he’d thoughtfully supplied me with a generous variety of neckties that did the job.
“And now, you shall wait, sir. You shall wait until it pleases me to begin.”
So I stood at the window again with the other thing he had given me close to hand. I could hear Steve breathing hard, a small tremble beginning in his jaws on each exhalation.
We reached the space a moment or two before my first blow. Blow, stroke, lash—all wonderfully suggesting, ambiguous words—somebody wicked got there before me with each of them. I knelt down, bending my mouth snug above his cheek. His face was turned away from me and I could smell his shampoo, his heat and manness, a trace of acid sweat. And I was so close to him then. There was no necessity to touch, because I was already covering his bones, threading the pulse in his heart and racing under the pale corrugations of his brain. I licked his neck and heard the table creak its whole length in response. So then I kissed his ear and whispered.
“This is the time. This is the time and I shall touch you now. You shall kiss the gunner’s daughter and not forget it. And you shall have need of this.”
I stopped his mouth with most of a rather woolly tie and held it in place with another and then went too far. Because where else was there?
I can recall just enough to wish I knew nothing at all. The floral patterns continued to explode behind my eyes, especially when they were closed, and I began to look forward to each sickly purplish detonation. At one point Steve had started to make a repetitive, mindless kind of noise which I had not heard before and wanted to stop. The sound of what I did was there also.
In a tiny way, I never did actually stop what I did. It carries on. I feel the movements of it in me now. I know that the swing in my arms continued in time with the ache of my breath and I uncover that feeling under my heart and along my spine of finding an edge and stepping beyond it and gripping that edge and throwing it away. But then I caught myself. As if I had dreamed and then jumped myself awake by taking my own hand and holding it still.
I was sweating. I felt sick. A huge silence swayed out under me and I discovered I was afraid to turn on the light. The shock of illumination when I did made us both cry out.
He wasn’t really bleeding, not seriously. I heard my voice tell him that several times. What I saw mostly were raised, rust-coloured blisters, subcutaneous eruptions of blood. And do you know what makes me feel the worst? I almost wrote “the worst about what happened” when of course I mean what I did.
I do sincerely intend to take up my full responsibility here.
So above all, the worst thing about what I did was the fact that I untied his mouth last. I didn’t want to hear what he’d try and say, what noise he might make.
Strangely, we both behaved as if some crazed stranger had broken in to do this while we were engaged elsewhere, which had more than a tiny ring of reality about it. I laid a blanket for him on the floor, lifted his head for sips of sweet tea and paracetamol, set the central heating as high as it would go, ran a bath with a tiny a
mount of antiseptic which was a terrible, terrible idea and I do not wish to consider what I had to observe when he eased into that water, the hands clinging to mine, his mouth, the whimpering, none of that.
I also, in the course of that night, said the word sorry perhaps a thousand times. Neither he nor I could even hear it in the end.
WELL, I ONLY told you I was calm. I never even suggested that I was nice. There would be no reason to believe that, just because I’m writing you this, I ought to be any worse or better than anyone else. Than you.
In fact, if I was you, that whole writing a book thing might make me wonder just what kind of person I could be—spending so much of my time on this, to the exclusion of other, healthier and perhaps even outdoor pursuits. There’s something a little bit wrong about doing such things. I should get a life.
Still, at least I’m honest. I really did set out to be and I’m keeping my word. Even if I end up falling pretty much into the mould of those people with mad cow eyes who come up out of nowhere sometimes and, very calmly, insult you and your family and your most deeply maintained beliefs and relatives yet unborn and then say, “Still, at least I’m honest.”
But let’s get to the point.
Do you still like me? Did you ever? Need to? Maybe not.
Perhaps I should simply say that we’d come so far together, I thought it was time you should know of my criminal past. Now you’ll understand why I found it so strange to hear Savinien talk about violence, killing, even war, with such love and regret. Although he had confiscated the lives of two or three times as many men as Charlie Manson, there was a tenderness in him I’d never managed to find. Then again, he also had a pain about him I didn’t want to feel. Tenderness is dangerous, softly cataclysmic and never in the places you’d expect.
All of the above only providing another reminder that little comes more naturally to me and my kind than guilt. Devoid of feeling, yes. Devoid of guilt, never. I’m sure even Scottish sociopaths are soaked with remorse, it’s in our air.
So I Am Glad Page 12