As Phil and I were leaving that night we ran into a local eccentric who used to come and hang around the kitchen. We’d nicknamed him the Count because he looked like Bela Lugosi. No one who worked there liked him, or even knew him, and I’m not really sure why he used to come in. There were rumours that he was a paedophile, a pervert. He was certainly sinister, dressed in black, his dark hair Brylcreemed back across his scalp, a widow’s peak pointing down towards his gaunt face. He would usually engage us in mindless chitchat, his voice reedy and slow. His nails were long and grubby and turned my stomach.
By this time, I’d had several trips to the toilet with the coke-head and was feeling pretty wired. The Count began asking us questions that soon moved from the inane (‘Where do you live?’) to the obscene (‘What kind of sex do you like?’). He asked us what we would be prepared to do for money. Would we, for example, have sex with a fat, ugly woman, or an old woman, or a man, even an animal? I knew that, like me, Phil was a virgin. He’d confessed to me once that he used binoculars to spy on a teenage girl in a house opposite his, watching her undressing, or parading around with a handbag. Throughout the Count’s interrogation, Phil laughed like an embarrassed child, clearly terrified; but I was fascinated. Here was someone totally unlike anyone I had ever met before. Someone strange and dangerous.
We reached Phil’s house and he went indoors. I remember he gave me this look of victory, that he’d escaped while I was still held prisoner by this weirdo. There was still some way to go before we reached my home. The Count and I continued to walk, and he continued his questioning. I was pretty much saying yes to everything – yes I would do that, why not, if I was being paid. My heart was racing. My cock was hard. He asked if I had ever had sex with a man, and I said no. He said, would you let someone – a man, for example – suck your dick for £20? I said, sure, why not? We were by now walking by the golf course, and he suggested we go into some bushes. I held my hand out for the money, and he took out a fat wad of notes from the inside pocket of his grimy suit jacket and peeled off a twenty and placed it in my hand. I screwed it up and thrust it in my pocket as I followed him.
Perhaps I can return to that moment and find in it something that makes sense of my life. Perhaps, like Phil, I could have retreated from the situation – what if my house had been first on that journey home that night and I had left Phil with the Count? But the encounter thrilled me, and then sickened me, and that was a pattern with which I was to become only too familiar. I had several more encounters with the Count, and over the next few months he introduced me to some of his friends. First, he took me around to meet an enormously fat man whose large front room was always curtained, and whose pet budgie would fly around in a frenzy of feathers and noise, shitting everywhere. I made him cage it when I was there, wary of its erratic flight. He wanted me to fuck him. He called it rooting. ‘I want you to root me,’ he’d say as he lay on his side, this mound of white flesh that pooled against the mattress. I learned to function somewhere beyond desire.
Later, he took me to this tiny, skeletally thin man who had a pinball machine in his front room and would get me to stand and play pinball in a pair of tight green shorts while he crept underneath and pulled my cock out. He lived in a cul-de-sac in a quiet middle-class suburb, and his house stood out from the rest because it was so dishevelled, his front garden manically overgrown, a rusting bike upturned in the long grass like a giant insect caught on its back. The paint puckered and peeled on the front door. I had heard from Mr Root that Mr Pinball had served time for molesting young boys, and once when I was there a car pulled up outside and a huge slab of paving came crashing through the front window, scaring the shit out of both of us.
One of the Count’s friends lived in a flat that was cluttered with piles of old newspapers and stacks of empty champagne boxes. His pale, loose flesh, revealed by an unbuttoned shirt, stank of stale sweat, and his dentures clicked and whistled as he spoke. Judging from his accent, he was clearly educated, though I have no idea about his profession (even if he had one). He seemed far from destitute, while somehow at the same time appearing utterly penniless. He offered to take me on a cruise around the Mediterranean as I stood there masturbating in a pair of Lycra knickers he’d provided. Every time I went there he would say the same thing, make the same promise, but a year went by and the cruise had still not materialised. Not that I wanted to go. I had other plans, for I’d saved up those £20 notes and now had enough to get away. On the day after sitting my last O-level exam I left home and came to London. I told my parents I was going with Phil for a weekend. Instead I went on my own and I never returned home. I’d acquired a taste for adoration and the power it gave me. I wanted imposture, anonymity and lies, and prostitution provided all three. Most of my clients wanted to believe I was straight, wanted to believe I had girlfriends (and many of the rent boys I met did, though even that may have been a reluctance to drop the act). Clients wanted to imagine that we only did what we did for the money. I was only too happy to act the part. Distance is my tendency.
After arriving in London, I wrote to my parents telling them that I would not be coming home and not to worry about me, but I never gave a contact address. Being a dutiful son wasn’t part of my plan. I was beginning to formulate a way of life radically at odds with what was expected of me.
1894
There was this other older lad who also worked the grams; Terence Thickbroom was his name. Handsome as they come and charming as the devil with it. He was always larking about and we soon became good friends and then one day he took me to the water closet in the Post Office on the Strand to show me how nice it is to have yourself touched by another’s hand and although I knew well enough already, truth be told, having shared a bed with three older brothers, still I quite liked the look of him and was curious besides to see what his yard looked like so I pretended not to know and let him show me anyhow. And he wasn’t called Thickbroom for nothing, either.
We met frequently after that and I looked forward to it, I’m not ashamed to admit. And then one day he told me about the money I could make if I were to go to bed with a man.
I said no.
He said, ‘You’ll get four shillings.’
So I said yes.
That very afternoon he introduced me to this older fellow named Taylor who runs a boyhouse in Fitzroy Street in Bloomsbury. It was nothing compared to some houses I’ve seen since, but on my first visit there I thought it was a palace. The carpets in the hallway weren’t exactly new but at least he had them – gaslights too. And a bog out the back. Luxury.
He’s a fuckin’ odd little bugger, is Taylor. I’d never seen the like. Thin as a rail with sunken cheeks and no eyebrows and, I swear on my life, face powder. Pinched little lips, beaky nose and restless eyes, his gaze never quite meeting your own. But he was friendly enough, giving me a big toothsome grin when Thickbroom introduced me, his eyes roving up and down my self in a look of exaggerated delight. ‘’Ello, ’andsome,’ he chirped.
He was dressed in turquoise silk pyjamas underneath a red silk kimono covered with silver birds, and a pair of jewelled golden slippers on his feet. I was mesmerised and horrified in equal measure. He ushered me into the parlour before turning to Thickbroom and saying, ‘Make yerself scarce, ducky, and well done.’
Despite it being bright daylight outside, the thick dirty gold velvet curtains were drawn and the room was dimly lit by gas lamps. The flames were encased in red glass bulbs, which made the whole place blush. Perfume clouded out from brass burners and filled the room with a vicious musky scent that did nothing to cover the stench of burnt onions. Despite the poor light I could make out a few old armchairs and a long, battered and stained divan which Taylor gestured at for me to sit on. He immediately squeezed himself down right next to me, practically foaming at the mouth. He said, ‘Terence said you was good-looking, and he wasn’t wrong. You know, you could make lots of money if you cared to.’
I said that I did. ‘If any old gentleman with
money takes a fancy to me,’ I said, ‘I shan’t mind. I’m terribly hard up.’
At this, he arched an eyebrow.
‘The extra money will be most welcome, Mister Taylor, sir,’ I explained further.
‘Extra money?’ he said. ‘No, dearie, you misunderstand me. You’ll live here and work here with me and the girls. No more running the grams for you, my fine Ganymede. You’re far too good for that.’
Well, I’d never considered I had any particular value, so this was news to me, and so, while I knew it would break Ma’s heart to see me leave (though she’d be grateful for one less mouth to fill), all the same I also knew that I’d be able to earn much more working for Taylor than I would running grams. I’d have much more fun, too. The situation with my father had made living at home hell and so it didn’t take much reflection before I agreed. Besides, having worked the West End enough times to know it felt like the centre of the universe, I liked the idea of living near there. Liked it a lot.
Taylor pushed ever so close to me and said in that hissy way of speaking he has, ‘Young man, whoring is a calling, a talent, an art of the highest order. There’s a fine tradition to be upheld in the giving of pleasure for money. A fine tradition. It’s not called the oldest profession for nothing.’ And he licked his lips and grinned, before continuing, ‘Thankfully this knowledge has been passed down from cock to mouth for generations. But only the chosen few have been bestowed with the knowledge of this esoteric and erotic art. These keepers of the flame are amongst the most talented givers of pleasure the world has ever known, the most gifted of whores. In this house, this temple, you shall in time join their number and become one of the anointed. You shall know that power. You shall know it well.’
He suddenly clutched together the folds of his kimono, which had fallen open to reveal his pale white chest where the pyjamas were unbuttoned underneath. I could hear laughter coming from the kitchen, where Terence and the other boys were.
‘Yet forget this at your peril,’ he said, tapping a bony fingertip on my sternum. ‘There are those in this world who’ll condemn you, condemn you as fiercely as they condemn their own bodies, for what you do. There are those’ll tell you that pleasure is bad and that giving it for money is the work of the devil himself. But know that they are fools. And no sane man listens to a fool. There are those who believe that only pain can give pleasure – and indeed aren’t a good deal of ’em the very swells you’ll be servicing, giving ’em a fair crack of the whip for the pure hell of it? – but sure they are worse than the fools, they are hypocrites and you’ll come to recognise them soon enough. For aren’t they running the country, the most of ’em? And doesn’t each and every one of them pass through that door, or one as like it as to make no difference, at some time or other in their miserable, Janus-faced lives?’
He stared at me with eyes wide and I was unsure for a minute whether or not he was waiting for me to answer. But he had only paused to inhale enough breath to fuel the next onslaught. I had never known anyone talk so much; not even Pa in his cups went on so.
‘These fools preach not what they practise,’ he said, ‘and they must be held by each and every whore in the greatest contempt. For the fools and the hypocrites know nothing of joy and would have you know nothing of it too. They have the body for a dirty thing, an animal thing, and place it second to the soul or mind or whatever else they call it.’
His finger pointed at the window, as if those he spoke of were stood behind the closed curtains.
‘They find the body ugly and its parts despicable,’ he said. ‘They curse the body and wish it dead. For only in death, or so they claim, can the spirit live in all its purity. What bollocks! And they spread this ignorance of theirs wherever they can. And they will try all they can to spread it upon you, young man, and make no mistake. But don’t you listen to a word they say, for, whatever they say, they are doing the opposite themselves. You know they are. You know it better than most. You know that they are not to be listened to, only laughed at, exposed and ignored. The Establishment – for it is they I talk of – will use us, will use you, as often as it suits them, but it is for no one to know but themselves.’
He placed a hand on my knee.
‘A whore’s life is no easy thing and is not to be embarked upon lightly.’ He moved in closer, narrowing his eyes to slits like a sly cat, and said, ‘But they are all wrong, see. They are all so wrong. And their mistake is your reward.’
He rubbed his hand against my thigh.
‘Because pleasure is the greatest gift God gave you, so it is. Pleasure is divine. To give pleasure is to spread joy and to spread joy is godly, isn’t that the truth? Now aren’t we doing God’s work right here, aren’t we spreading joy? I think you’ll find we are. Just look at the smiles on the faces of those that leave.’
He grinned, revealing yellow, crooked teeth.
‘In ’ere you’ll learn the ancient knowledge of whorecraft: the art of giving pleasure will be yours. Didn’t the Whore of Babylon alone leave enough volumes to keep you busy in your studies for years? Not to mention Nell Gwynn, or Lucretia Borgia? And that Emma Hamilton passed on a trick or two. The boys may be less famous, but they are there if you care to look. Sporus, the beautiful slave boy who was castrated and dressed as a woman in order to marry Nero. What he didn’t know about sucking cock isn’t worth knowing, believe you me. Why do you think Nero wanted to marry him so desperately that he chopped off the poor boy’s knackers to make him resemble a girl? And those lovely boys that serviced King James I – they have passed on their wisdom, too. How to make a man feel like a king, or even like a queen if needs must. And it can be yours, that knowledge, all yours.’
He then took hold of my chin and turned my face towards a pool of red light, examining my face with screwed-up eyes. ‘What did you say your name was, dollface?’ he asked, running his calloused thumb across my lips.
‘Jack, sir,’ I replied.
He let his hand drop into my lap, his gaze scanning the room as if he was suddenly not sure where he was.
‘Yes,’ he said at last, ‘it can all be yours, Jack, this wisdom. You will learn the secrets of your body; you will scale its heights and move beyond its limits. You’ll experience new pleasures, forbidden pleasures – pleasures beyond anything else you’ve known. You’ll understand completely what it means to be taken into another dimension. All the distinctions you’ve so far relied upon to give the world meaning will be destroyed and replaced by new ones. A new world will begin to emerge before your eyes. A world of brighter colours and fresher smells, a world of joy and perfection. All the things that aren’t usually allowed to make sense will make sense, finally and joyously. You are a chosen child, my boy, one of the blessed.’
He moved his hand further up my leg and continued, ‘There are things about the human body only a few people are allowed to comprehend, secrets the body keeps locked deep within. Things about its limits and how to move beyond them, things about the edges of pleasure and how to transgress their boundaries. You’ll understand every organ and orifice and surface of your flesh so much more than you do now, in ways you are currently incapable of even imagining. You’ll unearth an entire archaeology of pleasure as yet buried beneath the shifting sands of philistine opinion. A palace lies beneath those sands, Jack, a beautiful glittering palace.’
He emitted a faint gasp as if this palace had erected itself right there in his front room. He held a hand out as if to touch it, then turned to me and laid his clammy palm across my cheek.
‘The perfection of its structure will leave you breathless, lad, but you’ll not be able to resist entering and exploring every room, every corridor, every crevice of its domain. You’ll be a slave to its spaces, its rhythms, its commands. You’ll shiver as you perform every exploration. You may even on occasion suffer most profoundly. But over time, if you succeed, you’ll learn your way around its labyrinthine interior, room by room, secret by secret. And when you know all there is to know about the vagaries
and potencies of pleasure, well then, Jack my lad, you’ll be the master of that palace, lord of all you survey!
‘Are you game?’
And with that he grabbed my privates and moved his face so close to mine that I could smell his hellish breath. Stifling a response to retch, I nodded most eagerly, looked him straight in the eye, and said with a smile, ‘Aye, sir, aye, I’m game.’
For didn’t I want to know everything? Who doesn’t dream of knowing everything?
‘Come on then, handsome, show us what you’re made of. What can you do with this?’ And he whipped out a stand that gave off a stink like a latrine, and then he leaned back with his hands behind his head. I knew this was a test and that I had to pass it – I had to impress the bastard. The smell was making my eyes sting. I don’t think he’d washed the damned thing since the day his mother stopped doing it for him.
I slid onto my knees and turned towards him – towards it – trying to look as pleased to be doing so as I could. By the time my mouth had reached it, bile had risen and a watery mouthful spilled out onto his cock. I rubbed it in and he sighed. I spat some more and rubbed some more and washed the bugger down in my own spittle before letting it anywhere near my mouth. My ingenuity paid off, for he groaned all the while and I slipped the whole thing into my mouth now that it smelled slightly sweeter, or at least of myself, and the cheesy muck had for the most part been washed clean away. He only once barked at me the word ‘Teeth!’, clipping the side of my head as he did so. It was a job well done and he said I could work for him.
London Triptych Page 3