Escaping from Him

by Liam Livings

  Nope. So I had grabbed a scene guide from one of the bars and flicking through it on this particular Saturday night, I found a place where I thought I could feel comfortable. Chris didn't used to like me going out with my friends alone, so in the end, I stopped. This wouldn't have been so bad if we did stuff together, but he wasn't interested in that either. "I'm not forty two, I'm twenty," I had said on a number of occasions.

  Chris had shrugged, so I ignored him and went out. The mood he was in the next day was so awful that no amount of waving my hands in the air, or feeling high with my fellow clubbers, could make that worth enduring again. So I hadn't.

  Only, now I didn't have to worry about that any longer.

  It's strange how you still hold onto hurtful feelings even though the original cause of them may have long gone from your life. His calls had continued for a while after I arrived in Scotland, but once I changed my number, that was it. I deleted all my social media profiles. People who were my real friends didn't need to know how to message me on Facebook. They would get a text from my new phone and we'd stay in touch the old-fashioned way, through phone calls and Skype.

  By now, I realised that commenting on someone's photo wasn't a real friendship. I had fooled myself into thinking it was, for want of any other way to really interact with my friends in the last year or so with Chris. I would smile as they posted pictures with their friends, pets, holidays, and dutifully comment and 'like' them all. But it wasn't the same as a good old proper natter on the phone with someone, laughing so much you couldn't breathe, and making people all around you stare and wonder what was so funny. Us, it's just us, is that okay? We're having a right laugh, and you're not invited.

  The club was called Truvy Jones - I had no idea what that referred to at all until I asked the barman for a drink.

  "What's with the name?" I rolled my eyes, then looked at his low slung white vest, revealing a well manicured and maintained chest.

  "What name?" He turned and started to make my drink.

  "Truvy Jones? What's that about?" I told him I'd been to Garlands in Liverpool, and I got that. I mean, who doesn't know who Judy Garland was? I'd only seen her in The Wizard of Oz, and had quite enjoyed it as it goes. Chris had hated it, said it was too gay. I just thought it was too long, but I liked the songs and the black and white to colour. But I hadn't told him that. So it wasn't like I wasn't used to the gay cultural references. I wasn't like those other gay guys who thought it had always been like this, gay marriage, work rights all that. I took a breath, conscious of my gabbling.

  "Steel Magnolias. It's from that film with Sally Field, Dolly Parton, Julia Roberts. Truvy Jones is Dolly Parton's character, the woman who runs the beauticians. Can you spell camp?" He paused while he chewed his cheek slightly. "Julia Roberts dies. It's like, really sad." He handed my drink over and held out his hand, pursing his lips slightly.

  I gave him the money, about half what I'd expected to pay, based on London prices. Another bonus of living up here. "Nope, never seen it. Any good?"

  He leant forward, looked to each side conspiratorially. "Between you and me, I don't really like it. I think it's overrated. Some of the women are really annoying; I just wanted to slap the daughter all the way through. But don't go spreading it around okay?" He left with a smile.

  I sipped my drink and turned on the bar stool, enjoying the twirling sensation. I was tempted to twirl it right around, just to see if it would, but resisted. I leant with my back against the bar and took in what was happening in the club. It had a smallish dance floor, filled with people trying to dance, but not really putting their back into it, not at this early stage. It was still early. A pool table was surrounded by women in sportswear in the room beyond the dance floor. Not that much changes from London, I thought. A few couples sat around the edge of the dance floor, kissing one another unselfconsciously. I found myself quite transfixed by one couple, who were really getting involved in the snogging lark. Neither of them came up for air for the whole time it took me to drink my vodka and coke, slowly.

  I turned back to the bar, feeling a bit of a wobble on my little journey. This time, I did twirl all the way round again, I just couldn't resist it, not in the state I was in now.

  My stool stopped and in front of me stood a man in his forties, a well-preserved forties. He wore black Levi jeans that clung in all the right places, and bulged in the right other places too. His light-blue denim short-sleeved shirt had small shiny buttons down the front, and a flourish of metal on the shoulders. I looked up to his face, expecting a cowboy hat but was disappointed at its absence. Instead, I was greeted with an open neck of dark blond chest hair, and a necklace nestled among the hair. He had light blue eyes and close cropped dark blonde beard, with just the odd fleck of ginger in it. Well, everyone has their crosses to bear, don't they?

  "Charlie." He held out his large hand with a dusting of blond hairs on the back.

  Damn, and it was all going so well. What is it with this city and people thinking I want drugs? I must have been offered various different concoctions since arriving in the club, but every time I'd just shook my head and gestured to my drink.

  "What's your name?" The Glasgow Cowboy asked, his accent not Scottish, but instead a southern mix of Home Counties and 'good' universities.

  "Ford." I held out my hand and he grabbed it, shaking it hard. Inside a little bit of me melted, and another bit of me stood to attention. I didn't want either part to do either reaction. "I don't want any, I don't do that." I smiled and lifted my glass up and took a sip.

  "What you on about?"

  "Charlie. I don't want any." I smiled weakly, and looked at my watch. Ten o'clock, hardly a successful night to report to Ewan. Just a bit more, a few more and I'd go home. I felt in my pocket for my cigarettes. "I'm going outside for a smoke."

  "That's okay, I'll save your seat. What you drinking?" He smiled and I swear a few of his white teeth glinted in the light, like a seventies talk show host. It was half sexy and half cheesy.

  I allowed my gaze to linger on the light hairs poking out of the neck of his denim shirt, before leaving.

  I finished my cigarette outside, clapped my hands together and checked my watch. Not even quarter past ten. I was wearing my coat, so I could just go. Never see the Glasgow Cowboy again. No harm done.

  What was it Lena had said when I told her I was going out on my own in Glasgow? "Always to talk with strangers. You do not know anyone, so everyone is a stranger, yes. Have fun, but stay safe."

  If I go back and he's gone, that's a sign for me to go. If he's there with a smile and a drink in one hand, I'll just stay long enough for the drink, just to be polite if he's bought it for me.

  I walked back to the bar to where I'd been sitting and no one was there. Relief flooded through me. I started to put my jacket on again and turned to leave. I walked straight into a vision in top to toe denim.

  "Where you going? I've got a drink, over there." He pointed to a bench seat in the pool room, between two couples getting very well acquainted with each other.

  Did he think I'd come down with the last shower? "Er, don't worry about it. I'll stay here if it's all the same." I smiled and took the drink from his hand. He could have put anything in it, and one sip and next thing I'd be waking up in some strange room with some strange man having sex with me. “I'll get myself one.” I waved for the barman's attention, asked for a drink and waited.

  The Glasgow Cowboy looked at where he'd planned for us to sit, then turned, a sad look on his face. "I don't bite. Promise."

  I sipped my drink, the barman had handed me. We sat at the bar, established his name was Charlie, and he'd been playing peacemaker between two different groups of friends until he was exhausted. All his friends had left and he'd spotted me sitting all alone for the whole time I'd been there. And he didn't have any drugs to sell me.

  I told him I'd moved from down south after a nasty breakup, and that I wasn't ready for another relationship.

  "I wasn't af
ter one of those either." He smiled and put his hand on my knee.

  "As in, nothing. I'm taking a complete break from all that. Nothing. It's just me and my hand for the moment. I want to work out what I want, before attaching myself to someone else."

  "My hand's just as good as yours, I'm sure." He smiled and put his other hand on my leg. "And that's without even mentioning my lips." He pursed his lips at me.

  I held his hands, removed them from my legs. "I'm very close to going home. I'm only still here 'cause you asked me to stay. I'm being polite, but you, it seems are not. I can go easy. What don't you understand about no? N. O. I am not sleeping with you, anyone, not tonight, not tomorrow night, not the night after. It's just me and my hand from now until … " I looked around the walls for inspiration for a suitable time marker. "Halloween."

  The barman appeared. "Is he giving you bother? I can get him chucked out if you want."

  I looked at my knees, now without Charlie's hands on them.

  He stood in front of me, two feet between us, his hands behind his back, a big smile on his face. I looked at his attractively bulging jeans, then shook myself back to the matter in hand.

  "Fine, thanks." I looked at Charlie.

  The barman wiped the bar and started to dry glasses, making a big fuss of his activity and proximity to us.

  Charlie held his hand out for me to shake. "You can't blame me for trying now can you? Have you seen yourself? You're gorgeous."

  Blushing, and enjoying this sort of attention, I said, "That's better." I shook his hand, this time more formally, nodding slightly as I made eye contact. "Am I really?" I fluttered my eyes in an exaggerated way at him.

  "You know you are. But we're not talking about that, are we?"

  I shook my head.

  "Where else you been out?"

  "Nowhere. Just here. I didn't know where to start. So I got the scene guide and this place didn't look too bad, so … " I looked around. "Why, what else is there about? What am I missing?"

  "Trust me, son, there's so much more than this place. Depends what you're into. Your wish is Glasgow's command. How about dungeons?"

  Son? Should I be worried or reassured? I shook my head.

  "Dark rooms?"

  Another shake of my head.

  "Didn't think so. Cabaret and drag?"

  I nodded quickly.

  "Right, that's settled. You, me and some cocktails tomorrow afternoon at The Birdcage. Did you used to like Lily Savage?"

  "Who? I'm twenty, not old like you."

  "Well, excuse me, less of the old, you little chicken. So, you up for it? I normally get there for midday, get some good seats near the front." He saw the look on my face. "Okay, not too near. Then the acts start from two-ish. All afternoon. Only a few pounds entry. Fancy it?"

  I shrugged.

  "Is that it? You've come here on your own. I've promised not to try and get you drunk and take advantage of you, and instead show you some top rate cabaret, and all you've got is that?" He copied my shrug. "Might as well get my coat and go." He slowly turned to leave, making a bit of a show of it, looking over his shoulder with a frown.

  I tapped his shoulder. "Sounds amazing." I smiled. "It's a date. I mean, not a date, but it's a time we'll meet, but not a date, date. Just two people meeting at the same time together. That sort of a date."

  "Right you are. That sort of a date." He smiled, and offered me another drink.

  "My round. What you drinking?" I bought us a round and we talked about how I'd come to Glasgow ("It was as far from London as I could go, without getting a flight") what he did for work ("I work in HR. It pays the bills") and he asked why I wasn't grabbing the scene Glasgow had to offer me with both hands since I was "only a little chicken". I explained briefly about Chris, not using his real name, but did give the real reason about my dream to work in photography, but that Chris hadn't really understood that, and wanted me to work in the KFC down the road.

  Charlie looked me up and down. "You in a KFC, I can't see it, flower. Oh no fear, you're meant for better things, you definitely are."

  We ended the night with an awkward hand shake, which turned into a beardy kiss on one cheek while still shaking hands. He patted me on the back as if making a big show of how friendship was behind that gesture, and nothing more. His number safely in my phone, and mine in his, I left after checking my watch and noticing it was well gone midnight.

  "Turn into a pumpkin do you?" Charlie winked, then pointed me in the right direction for my walk home. "Taxi will only be ten pounds, if you want," he shouted, but I was well on my way, enjoying taking in the scenes of the night unfold all around me.

  The novelty of being able to walk home from a night out was something I loved about my new city. In London, it was either get the last Tube, or take your chances at a corner of Trafalgar Square and get a night bus. A night bus, if you don't know, is roughly akin to a cross between a rowdy taxi rank of people keen to get home, a pub at chucking out time, and a night club when the lights are turned on at the end of the night. Throw in a light sprinkling of night workers, cleaners, hospital staff and office workers still in suits from the working day, and all these factors combine to make the distinct experience of travelling on a night bus. One night, when I lived in London, I'd got a night bus through east London and witnessed two women have a row loud enough that the rest of the bus stopped what they were doing and took front row seats at the performance. One of them told the other to fuck off and announced she was getting off and she could stick her friendship. The other one looked through the bus window and pleaded with the first woman not to get off just yet. "It's really rough here, honestly you'll get stabbed and God knows what. Just leave it a bit." So the two of them had stood, not looking at one another until the one with the better knowledge of east London had said, "Right here's okay, you can get off." Her friend jumped off at the next stop, told her mate to fuck off and stuck two fingers up as the doors closed. The rest of the night bus resumed their evening as if nothing had happened. That was a night bus in London. Standard fare.

  Now, as I walked through the cold night air, I thought how I didn't really miss that part of London. I could happily do without ever experiencing that again. Ten pounds and five minutes in a taxi had been tempting when Charlie had shouted it at me, but I just couldn't give up the opportunity of the walk alone, with just my thoughts. I knew in a taxi I'd have been forced to make the conversational equivalent of rice and potatoes, just filler, with a taxi driver. And I really couldn't bear that, having spent the whole night talking to Charlie, my small talk well had run dry. Now, I thought about the night, and how it had turned out. How I'd managed to save it from the jaws of a shit evening.

  I smiled at a few things Charlie had said, and soon arrived home. Once inside, I took my contact lenses out, took a pint of water to my room and fell in a heap on my bed, fully clothed.

  Chapter 7

  I woke the next morning, with a mouth that felt like a hedgehog's arsehole, and a hangover the size of Scotland and Wales. I squinted my eyes and saw the full glass of water next to my bed.

  Every time, every time, I get the water, with all the best intentions, but every bloody time, I just see the bed and that's it. Game over. No water. Hello hangover.

  I reached to the water and my whole body felt like it was about to expire. I took a few gulps and did the mental equivalent of squinting and convinced myself I was feeling better.

  My phone beeped with a message. It was from 'Charlie - Truvy Jones' something about cabaret, and lunch.

  What the fuck. Who was Charlie, and what sort of surname was that? Then I remembered. What a complete and utter twat, I'd agreed to meet him, buoyed up by the feeling of the moment - and the four or five double vodkas I'd had.

  I fell back to sleep.

  What felt like a minute later, actually two hours when I checked the time, my phone rang. It was Charlie, sounding far too cheerful for that time on a Sunday. I answered the phone and let him talk.

&nb
sp; "Feeling okay? I won't wait for an answer to that one. I'm coming round yours to get you up and out for this lunch date, not date, we're going on. I'll be round in less than an hour, so if you're still in bed it means I get to see you in your pyjamas, or with a towel. If you're dressed, then poor me, I've missed out on that little sight until the next time." And he was gone.

  Faced with the two options of dressing alone or with Charlie watching, who I already knew had a more than healthy interest in seeing me with as little clothing on as possible, I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower.

  Waking up under the hot water, a thought struck me. How the bloody buggery hell does he know my address? Stalker alert!

  I climbed out the shower and dried myself, sprayed an awful lot of my favourite eau de toilette on, in an attempt to disguise any remnants of alcohol and beer smell. I stood in front of the mirror adjusting my hair so my current pride and joy of my hair style - my quiff, which would make Morrissey envious - until I was happy with its height, curvature and overall impression from all angles.

  Front door rang and I knew it would be Charlie. I was half tempted to answer the door in just a towel draped low on my waist, with a finger in my mouth provocatively. Then I remembered it was Scotland and so would be freezing cold, even in early autumn. So I threw on some jeans, a bright blue long sleeved T shirt and purple hoodie, and answered the door with a smile and a "'ere you, fancy seeing you here!"

  "Bet you thought I'd never come. Bet you thought it was all the alcohol talking didn't you?" Another matching top to toe denim ensemble, dark blue jeans, light blue denim shirt with rhinestones, more light chest hairs and the same attractive bumps present in the same attractive places. He held a cowboy hat in one hand.

  I showed him to the kitchen - the only communal place in the house, the living room and dining room having been converted to additional bedrooms long since. "Tea, coffee? I really do know nothing about you." I smiled, stood next to the kettle.