by Unknown
— Sounds excellent, I nod, refreshing his glass. — You’re way up with play here, Terry mate.
— Aye, and ah star in thum masel. You ken me, ah eywis liked a bird, n ah wis ey intae makin a bob or two withoot daein too much graft. Plenty new young talent up for it n aw, it’s the spice ay life, he grins with great enthusiasm.
— It’s ideal for ye, Terry, I consider, thinking it was probably only a matter or time before Terry, even in his own cruddy way, got into the industry.
Terry gets in another and then I decide that Mo can manage and so move to the more comfortable side of the bar, securing two large brandy and Cokes for us first. Terry’s soon giving it the big one about it being great that I’m back up here, and with my connections in the industry we should try to start up something together. Of course, I can feel the bite coming in from about fifty yards away. — Ye see but, mate, his eyes widen, — the thing is, ah think we might be gittin bombed oot the other gaff, so ah could be lookin for a wee stay-back here.
This could prove interesting. I’m thinking about that big room upstairs. It has a bar, but now it’s put to no use at all. — No harm in sucking it and seeing, eh, Terry, I smile.
— Eh, what aboot a wee trial run the night? he asks tentatively.
I consider this for a heartbeat, then nod slowly. — No time like the present, I smile.
Terry slaps my shoulder. — Sick Boy, it’s fuckin well barry tae huv you up here. You’re a welcome burst ay positive energy, mate. Thir’s too many mumpy cunts in this city whae bring ye doon, thi’ll dae nowt, then thi’ll fuckin turn roond n moan when some other cunt hus a go. No you but, mate, you’re up fir it! And he dances with a little twist out onto the floor of the bar and snaps on his mobile and starts calling.
Come closing time, I’m trying very hard to get the wee cunts who gather round the jukey out the door. — WILL YOU FINISH YOUR DRINKS PLEASE, LADIES AND GENTS! I screech across the bar, sending some old fuckers shuffling into the night. Terry’s still gassing on the mobby. It’s those young cunts but. That nosy wee cackbag, Philip they call him, a bad little bastard that, a fistful of sovies on him, he’s clocked on that we’re up to something. And that boy Curtis, his stammering, gormless-looking mate, I saw Murphy talking to him as he went out. Birds of a feather, right enough.
I open the side door and nod to them. As they make to leave, the Philip laddie asks me: — Is thir no a stey-back, Sick Boy, his narrow, slitty wee eyes burning and gold tooth glinting. — It’s jist thit ah heard ye talkin tae that Juice Terry boy aboot it, he grins, aw cocky and pushy.
— Naw, it’s a fuckin Freemasons’ meeting, mate, I tell him, pushing his skinny frame out into the street, as his daft pal shuffles out behind him, the rest following suit.
— Thoat we’d git a stey-back, another insolent young pup smiles.
I ignore the tube but wink at a cute wee bird who follows him. She looks blankly in response before smiling slightly as she heads out. A bit too young for me though. I nod back in to Mo, who switches off the jukey, as I shut the door and repair to the bar to pour another couple of brandies for Terry and myself. A few minutes later there’s a bang, which I ignore, then the fitba standard di-di, di-di-di, di-di-di-di, di-di.
Terry’s snapped the mobby shut. — That’s oor crew, he says.
I open the door and there’s a boy I vaguely recognise and the hackles rise slightly as I’m sure he’s an old Hibs boy, but, mind you, just about everybody from twenty-five tae thirty-five years old in Edinburgh is an old Hibs boy. There’s another couple ay faces I half know but can’t put a name to. Far more impressive are the lassies: three real dolls, a chunkier, dirty-looking bird, and a cute wee specky girl who looks really out of place here. One of the dolls is particularly enticing. Light-brown hair, almost oriental eyes with well-manicured, thinly plucked eyebrows, and a small mouth but with very full lips. Fuck me, her body ripples fitly under those expensive-looking clothes. Doll Numero Duo is a bit younger and though not quite so elegantly togged is a million light years from unshaggable. The third is a fuckable blonde. The two wee cunts, Philip and Curtis, are still there, hanging about, clocking the company, as do I, especially the spectacularly curved Doll Numero Uno with that long, brown hair and sultry, arrogant grace. That one in particular seems way past Terry’s class. — What sort ay Freemason is she then? that cheeky wee Philip toss goes.
— Lodge sixty-nine, I whisper back at them, shutting the door in their faces once again, as Terry welcomes everybody with great gusto.
I turn to face my new guests. — Right, folks, we need to go upstairs, so if you just go through the door on your left, I explain. — Mo, I’ll leave you to lock up behind ye, doll.
Morag raises her eyes briefly, trying to work out what’s going on, then goes to the office and grabs her coat. I follow the crowd upstairs. Aye, this could be interesting.
15
Whores of Amsterdam Pt 2
Katrin was my girlfriend, a German lassie from Hanover. I met her one night in Luxury, my club, about five years ago. I don’t remember the details very well. My memory’s fucked, too many drugs. I stopped the smack when I settled in Amsterdam. But even Es and cocaine, over the years they blow holes in your brain, rob you of your memories, your past. Which is fair enough, convenient even.
I’d slowly learned to respect these drugs, using them more sparingly. You could be indiscriminate in your teens and twenties, as you had little conception of your own mortality. Of course, that wasn’t to say that you’d necessarily survive this period. But in your thirties it was another matter. Suddenly, you knew you were going to die at some point, and you could feel in the hangovers and comedowns the extent to which drugs assisted this process; depleting spiritual, mental and physical resources, fuelling ennui as often as excitement. It became a mathematical problem where you played with the variables: units of drugs consumed, age, constitution and desire to get fucked up. Some people just opted out. A few kept right on to the end of the road, settling for life as one big suicide-attempt-by-instalment. I decided to maintain the same kind of life, going out, having it, but under controlled conditions. Then after one bad week, I sacked the lot, joined a gym and took up karate.
This morning I had to get out of the apartment. The atmosphere with Katrin is tense. Rows I can handle, but the silences eat away at me and her barbed comments sting like a boxer’s jab. So I picked up my sports bag and headed to where I always head when I feel like this.
Now my arms are in the pulley levers and fully extended across my chest. I inhale long and deep, spreading them wide into a rigid cross. Today I’ve increased the weight and I feel the burn in my muscles, once so puny, now chunks of rock . . . red orgasm spots dance in front of my eyes . . . and nineteen . . . blood surges and roars in my ears . . . my lungs explode like a tyre blow-out in the motorway fast lane . . . and twenty . . .
. . . and thirty later I stop and feel the sweat from my forehead stinging my eyes and run my tongue around my lips to taste the salt. Then I repeat the performance, giving another piece of apparatus the same treatment. Then the treadmill gets thirty minutes, moving up from 10 kph to 14 kph speed.
In the changing room I pull off my old grey sweatshirt and shorts and pants and get under the shower, starting hot, then warm then bringing it down to cold, to fuckin freezing and I’m standing there, feeling my system charging up inside and I step out and almost collapse as my breath goes into a spasm, but then it’s great, I’m whole again and warm, relaxed and alert as I slowly dress.
I see a couple of other guys who come here regularly. We never converse, only nod, in a stern approval at each other’s presence. Men who are far too busy, too focused, to waste time on small talk. Men with a mission. Irreplaceable men; unique and at the centre of things.
Or so we like to think.
16
‘. . . never mind Adam Smith’s
pin factory . . .’
It’s been a busy day at the sauna. I gave a couple of massages which en
ded in handjobs but I told this creepy Arthur Scargill-look-alike guy to get fucked (politely) when he asked me to suck his cock.
Bobby pulls me up, standing before me in that Pringle jersey stretched implausibly over his large gut. — Listen, Nikki, yir popular here, wi the pun . . . clients n that. Thing is, yuv goat tae dae a wee bit mair sometimes. Ah mean, that guy ye hud that run-in wi, that wis Gordon Johnson. Eh’s a well-known man in this city, a special client if ye like, he explains as I’m transfixed by the hair spilling from his nostrils, and that incongruously camp way he holds a cigarette in his hand.
— What are you saying to me, Bobby?
— Ah’d hate tae lose ye, hen, but if ye dinnae dae the biz, yir nae good tae me.
I feel a sick flush and I take the towels and stick them in the large laundry basket.
— Ye hear me?
I look back at him. — I hear you.
— Good.
I get my coat with Jayne, and we head up town. I’m thinking about how much I need the job, and how far I’ll go to keep it. That’s the thing with sex work, it always comes down to the most basic of formulas. If you really want to see how capitalism operates, never mind Adam Smith’s pin factory, this is the place to study. Jayne wants to buy a new pair of shoes in a shop up Waverley Market but I have to go and meet the others in the pub up the South Side.
They’re all present, and I’m surprised that Lauren’s with Rab. This is a big shock. I thought that she’d welcome a night in with Dianne, would have wanted to take the opportunity to sit up drinking wine and having a midnight feast of fridge snacks with her new favourite big sister. I thought that I was relegated to the role of the kooky, embarrassing, promiscuous auntie in her life. I get the feeling that Lauren’s here as she’s taken it on herself to ‘save’ me from a life of debauchery. How boring. The guy in the pub said there was no chance of a stay-back, so Terry’s gone ahead to scout this place. Then he calls us up on the mobile and we head down in a couple of taxis. I’m startled that Lauren’s elected to join us, but she’s been assured by Rab that he kept his clothes on and that shagging wasn’t compulsory.
The new venue is an even more sleazy-looking bar in Leith. As we go in, again through a side door, a group of bad-skinned youths are leaving, and they make some comments. Lauren bristles angrily. Inside the pub, we get introduced to this sunbed-tanned man with his hair Brylcreemed back. With his dark, slanted brows and his wicked, twisting mouth, he looks a bit like a slightly crueller Steven Seagal. He takes us up the stairs to another room, which has a bar running the length of one wall and several tables and chairs. It smells dank and fusty, like it’s not been used for a while. — This angel is Nikki, Terry says, running his hands up and down my back. When I stop and look at him, he protests: — Just checkin fir they wings, doll, cannae believe thit thir no thaire . . . then he turns to Lauren and says: — . . . N this wee honey here is Lauren. My auld pal Simon, Terry says, banging the Steven Seagal guy heartily on the back. He also introduces this Simon to Rab, Gina, Mel, Ursula, Craig and Ronnie.
The Simon guy unbolts the shutters on the bar and, in turn, offers us all his hand. His grip is strong and warm and he looks so painfully sincere that it just has to be an act. I’ve never seen anything like it before. — Thanks a lot for coming down, he says. — It’s great to see you. I’m drinking malt whisky. It’s a vice of mine. I’d be delighted if you’d all join me, he says, pouring out some Glenmorangie into glasses. — Apologies for the mess of this place, he explains, — I’ve only recently taken over and this room was used to store . . . well, I’d better not go into what it was used to store, he chuckles at Terry who responds with a knowing grin, — but I’ve had a clear-out.
— Not for me, thanks, Lauren says.
— C’mon, doll, huv a wee swally, Terry urges.
— Terry, Simon says seriously, — it’s not the fucking army. Unless they’ve altered the English language the word ‘no’ generally means ‘no’. Regarding Lauren, he asks gravely, — Is there anything else I can get you? Then he slaps his hands together and pushes them into his chest, his elbows pointing outwards. His eyes are open; intent and balefully sincere.
— Nothing, thanks, Lauren says stiffly, holding her ground, but I’m sure there’s a slight smile playing round her lips.
The drinks are flowing and soon we’re all engrossed in chat. Gina’s still a bit unsure about me, although she must be getting used to my presence as the rancorous stares have abated somewhat. The rest are friendly, Melanie in particular. She’s been telling me about her young son, and a horror story about the debts left to her by this guy she was with. We start listening to a conversation Simon (or ‘Sick Boy’ as Terry often refers to him, which he reacts to like someone’s run their fingernails down a blackboard) is having with Rab. They’re getting drunk on the whisky and are talking about making a porn movie.
— If you need a producer, I’m your boy. I worked in the industry in London, this Simon chap explains. — Videos, lap-dancing clubs. There’s money to be made.
Rab’s nodding along in agreement, to Lauren’s increased distress. She’s changed her mind about the drink and she’s knocking back double vodkas and taking turns on the joints of skunk that are being passed around. — Yeah, porn always looks better on video, Rab asserts, — well, hard-core porn anyway. You lose the arty veil. It’s like video records and film films.
— Yeah, says Simon. — I’d love to make a proper porn film. An old-school one, on film, an erotic tease, but with extended hard-core fuck scenes filmed on video inserted into it. That Human Traffic movie, they used digital video, super 16 and 32 mil, as far as I know.
Rab is intoxicated with the whisky and the idea. — Aye, you can do anything in edit, when you grade the film. But what ye want is no just a grainy wank-boy’s cheapo vid, but a proper pornographic movie with a great script, a decent budget and really sound production values. One that’ll enter into the canon of great films of the genre.
Lauren looks harshly at Rab, her face cast in outrage. — Great films of the genre! What great films! It’s all exploitative fuckin trash, appealing to the basest instincts in . . . she looks round and faces Terry’s lascivious gaze, — . . . people.
Terry shakes his head and says something about the Spice Girls, or it could be that, cause I’m a bit pissed and this skunk is deadly. People seem to be spinning by me and it’s only through a wrenching effort of will that I can pull them into focus.
Rab’s standing his ground with Lauren, his voice booming: — There are great films in the pornographic genre. Deep Throat, The Devil in Miss Jones . . . some of the Russ Meyer stuff, these are classic movies and they’re more innovative and feminist than arty shit like . . . like . . . The Piano!
That last comment was below the belt, and even through my haze I see that Lauren actually looks physically wounded by it. She almost buckles and I worry for a split second that she’s going to faint. — You can’t call . . . you can’t call that cheap, sleazy junk . . . you can’t . . . she looks at Rab, almost pleading, — . . . you just can’t . . .
— Fuck talking movies, let’s make movies, Rab sneers. Lauren is looking at this whiskied-up guy like he’s turned into a monster that’s betrayed her. — I’ve done nothing for two years but listen tae hot air, he adds. — My girlfriend’s having a kid. What have I done? I want tae dae something!
I find myself nodding through a fog, wanting to shout, ‘Yes!’, but I’m beaten to the punch by Terry, who roars: — That’s the fuckin spirit, Birrell, and thumps Rab on the back, — Yuv goat tae huv a go! Then he looks around at us all and says grandly: — The question isnae why should we dae it, but what else would we fuckin well dae?
As Craig nods tensely and Ursula and Ronnie grin, Simon sings in affirmation: — Too right, Terry! Pointing at his friend he contends: — This man is a fucking genius. Always has been, always will be. End of, he sings to us. Then he turns to Terry and says, in genuine reverence: — Godlike, Tel, godlike.
He�
�s drunk of course, we all are. But I’m not just feeling intoxicated by the alcohol and the spliff; it’s the talk, the company, the idea of the film. I love it, I want to be part of it, and I don’t care what anybody thinks. A flash of elation rises and settles as it dawns on me: this is the real reason I ended up in Edinburgh. This is the karma, this is the fate. — I want to be a porn star. I want to have men masturbating to images of me, all over the world, men whom I don’t know even exist! I hiss, right in poor Lauren’s face, and dissolve into a stoned, witch-like cackle.
— But you’re making yourself a commodity, an object, you can’t, Nikki, you can’t! she shrieks.
— Not true, Simon says to her. — Straight actors are bigger whores than porn stars, he insists. — Just letting somebody use your body, or the images of it you create, that’s fuck all. It’s when you let them use your emotions; that’s real hooring. You can never, ever prostitute those! he says in impressive grandiloquence.
Lauren seems as if she’s going to start screaming, as if she’s trying to catch her breath. She puts her hand to her chest as her face crinkles in discomfort. — No, no, because . . .
— Calm doon, Lauren, for fuck sakes. It’s jist a bit too much skunk and whisky here, Rab says, gripping her arm lightly. — We’re making a movie. So it’s porno, it’s no big deal. The thing is doing it, showing the world that we can.
I’m looking at her and telling her: — It’s me that’s controlling the production of the image of myself. The tart they imagine and construct in their mind, the role that I play on screen, that person will be my creation and will bear no resemblance to the real me, I tell her.