by John Maley
‘I haven’t had it in three weeks. My balls are bursting,’ said Blondie.
The black guy and Blondie looked straight ahead. Joanie knew they were looking at each other. It had been a while since he’d had sex. But he believed that no sex was better than bad sex. He was tired of waking up beside somebody he didn’t like the look or smell of. He thought he’d better go over and ask the girls if they wanted another drink. Not that Delilah’s did waitress service, but on a quiet night it was something to do.
They were crying again, holding hands and sniffling.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Joanie, tenderly.
The girls shook their heads. ‘I can see that,’ said Joanie. He didn’t want to pry.
‘Can I get ye anything?’ he asked.
‘Could I have some paper hankies?’ one of them asked, in a wee wavering voice.
‘Sure,’ said Joanie. He brought them a whole box, planting it in the middle of the table.
At the bar the three men stood like gunfighters in an old Western. Joanie wiped the bar with a clean yellow cloth. Joanie made some small talk with the black guy; he was up in Glasgow on business, doing a course, and was going back to London on Friday.
‘You guys should come back on a weekend,’ suggested Joanie. ‘If yer looking for action ye’ll find it here in Delilah’s. Always accommodating.’
The wee one puffed with indignation. ‘I’ve been in better shite houses,’ he snarled. Joanie gave him a stern look. ‘You’re as miserable as the weather,’ he told the wee man. Joanie couldn’t understand why some miserable people wanted to make everybody else miserable. He was the opposite, making valiant attempts to be cheery when he was depressed.
The guys ordered more drinks. A couple of people trudged in out of the weather, hair plastered to their heads, bought drinks and went through to the backroom to dry out. The tearful twosome left to do their crying in the rain. It had been a long night.
It was near closing time. The blond guy and the black guy had finally got down to first names and looking at each other. The wee man was marooned at the other end of the bar. Joanie went through to see what the boys in the backroom would have. When he came back to the bar the sucker and the fucker were gone, only the short guy remained, elbows on the bar.
‘Did they leave together?’ Joanie asked him.
A mixture of resignation and contempt puckered the wee guy’s face. ‘What d’you think?’ he asked.
Joanie thought that they had left together, to go some place, a hotel or Blondie’s flat, to fuck. He thought of purplish palms on a sweet peach, and moist lips descending a boner towards a golden fleece.
‘Disgusting,’ muttered the lone stranger. But Joanie just hummed Ebony and Ivory as he poured some more drinks. He saw nothing wrong in two guys getting together, to hide away from the hurt awhile, holding onto each other, finding harbour in flesh and bone.
Here Comes the Bride
There had only ever been two hen parties come into Delilah’s that anybody could remember. The first one was headed up by a tall, frizzy haired woman with big saucer eyes who, on realising she had ventured into a gay bar, shrieked, ‘This is a fuckin’ poofs pub. We’ll get AIDS!’ before frog-marching the hen party out. The other party were a lot more sociable and insisted everybody cough up some cash and kiss the bride.
While two hen parties were a matter of fact, an after-the-event wedding party was something else. They cut quite a dash the night they dared to enter Delilah’s. The bride wore a white dress, a veil, the works. The groom wore a kilt, revealing hard-on inducing hairy legs. Bridesmaids galloped about in ridiculous hats and the best man, also clad in a kilt, mooned at a howling audience through in the backroom. It all seemed good-natured fun.
The trouble started when the bride went to the bar and lifted her beautiful lace veil.
‘It’s a man,’ said a wee guy with wavy hair and wavy hands. Necks craned at the crowded bar.
‘No way,’ said Bobbie. ‘Look at that figure, that’s a voluptuous woman.’
The wee guy pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘The bride’s got balls,’ he insisted.
Joanie was serving the bride, who was buying two long vodkas for her bridesmaids and a mineral water for herself.
‘Still or sparkling?’ asked Joanie.
‘Sparkling,’ beamed the bride, eyes twinkling. ‘I like yer hair,’ she said, pointing at Joanie’s copper coloured wig.
‘It’s not real,’ whispered Joanie, ‘but I am.’
The bride smiled a big white-toothed smile. Joanie gave her the drinks, took her cash and gave her the change. The party were given a free round on the house when they came in but that was as far as the hospitality could go. The bride winked at Joanie and went off with the drinks. Joanie thought she was pissed when she came in but she seemed to have sobered up a bit. Switching to water seemed like a sensible move. Joanie’s eyes followed the bride through to the backroom and he caught a tantalising glimpse of the firm flanks of the best man before he let his kilt drop again.
The wedding party seemed to swell and ebb like a tide, its energy coming in frenetic bursts punctuated by moments of wistful melancholy. The bride went back on the booze, thumping the bar and asking for a ‘long lodka’. Now and again one of her bridesmaids would fidget with her veil or the skirts of her dress, as if the ceremony were still to take place. The general excitement began to die down as Delilah’s accommodated the party. Even the charming novelty of the best man’s bare arse soon wore off. But the gender of the bride was still the subject of speculation.
‘It’s a man,’ insisted the wavy one.
Joanie shook his head. ‘Take it from me,’ he said, ‘she’s for real.’
Not only was the bride’s gender in doubt, but her sexual orientation was too. A cigarsmoking ash blonde perched in one of the booths swore that she knew the bride when she used to rock’n’roll. She said she’d sat beside her at a kd lang gig at the Royal Concert Hall. It was definitely her, swore the cigarsmoking sleuth, but she had a crew cut and DMs on then. Her companion nodded resignedly.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time a sister had sold out,’ she sighed. From another booth, Bobbie gave the bride a nervous glance.
A natural separation occurred between the bride’s party and the groom’s. The bride and her pretty maids all-in-a-row stayed in the backroom singing along to old songs, while the groom, best man and their pals barricaded the bar and kept Joanie running around like a blue-arsed fly. One of the guys kept asking Joanie if he was a man or a woman and Joanie kept replying, ‘Bend over and I’ll tell ye.’
But they were generally good-natured, which was more than could be said for some of the regulars. The guy with the wavy hair said straights shouldn’t be allowed in Delilah’s, whether they had a drag queen in tow or not. A couple of women marched out of the backroom complaining about ‘the tarty hen party’. Others were enjoying the fun. At the bar Papa and Mama got chatting to the groom, becoming something close to surrogate parents, anxious about his drunkenness and the welfare of the bride.
In the backroom the DJ was playing White Wedding, Chapel of Love, and big lovey-dovey songs for the girls to sing along to. A couple of late teen queens fussed and fluttered around the bride, admiring her dress, trying on the veil, and saying she looked like something out of a fairytale. One of the bridesmaids kept shouting for karaoke, although it wasn’t a karaoke night. She would take off her hat, poke at her hair with her fingers, sing a few bars of some indecipherable song, then put her hat back on again.
The groom leant on the bar, and spilled beer, soaking the elbows of his jacket. There was something about the sweet, cherubic, glaikit look on his face that reminded Mama of Jack Lemmon.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked, putting her hand momentarily on his brow, as if gauging his temperature. He nodded. Papa stood at the other side of him. Mama gave Papa a don’t-you-dare look but Papa screwed up his mouth and shook his head as if the thought hadn’t entered his mind.
‘How long have youse been married?’ asked the groom, looking first at Mama and then at Papa. Mama was about to explain that they were just good friends when Papa said ‘Twenty years’ and winked at Mama.
‘Twenty years?’ asked the groom ‘That’s amazin’. Are ye still in love?’
Papa smiled. ‘Aye,’ he said.
He glanced at Mama, prompting her with his eyes.
‘Very much in love,’ relented Mama.
‘I hope I love ma wife for twenty years,’ sighed the groom. ‘A hunner years even.’
Papa then went into a routine about how to look after a lady. It made Mama laugh, but there was a lot of truth in what Papa said. He was a gentleman and she liked going out with him. The fact he was gay somehow simplified things. Fortunately they had quite different tastes in men.
‘You have to listen to a woman,’ said Papa Spenser. ‘Opening doors and lighting cigarettes and helping her into her coat and walking on the outside lane are all very well, but a woman likes to be listened to. Most men just don’t listen to women.’
Mama looked at the groom, who seemed to be listening intently to Papa.
A woman with a miniskirt and a maxi-mouth was over at the bride’s table, chatting her up. She had a tight tee shirt on and looked as if she was trying to breastfeed the bride. Bobbie spied on them from a booth, eavesdropping on some of the loud-mouth’s shite patter. Luckily, the bride appeared unimpressed. Bobbie was glad she was off the long vodkas. It was just then that one of the bridesmaids took a dizzy turn at the table, her face as white as the bride’s dress. She was helped up by the bride, who volunteered to take her to the ladies. The fanny-pelmeted admirer slunk back to her corner. As the bridesmaid lurched to the stairwell she lost her hat. Bobbie, ever chivalrous, saw her chance and swooped down on the hat like a bird of prey. She crept up the stairs after them.
One of the groom’s party was sitting down at a table near the front door. He was enjoying the attentions of three regulars who were camping it up and making jokes about who the best man was. He told the guys that the bride and groom had only known each other a few months and the whole thing was a whirlwind romance.
‘I’ve had a few of those,’ said one of the punters, licking the beer-froth from his thick moustache. One of the guys, a wee man with a puny bare chest framed by a leather waistcoat, was feeling the groom’s pal’s knee under the table. He looked at the straight man with big come-to-bed eyes.
In the ladies room the bride and Bobbie flanked the ailing bridesmaid. Each of them held the crook of an arm as the bridesmaid retched into a hand basin. When she had finished, Bobbie ran the tap on the vomit and the bride helped the bridesmaid to another basin, where she drank from the cold tap, the bride holding back her hair. She swilled the cold water around her mouth and let it pour out. Then she drank some more water and swallowed it. She stood up straight, the bride holding her by the arm, and took some deep breaths.
‘How’re ye doin’?’ asked the bride, gently. Her maid simply nodded and headed for the door. The bride made to follow but Bobbie said ‘Wait.’ She waited.
Mama had ordered a Coke for the groom, whose head was hovering an inch above the bar. She gave Papa an exasperated look. Papa grinned.
‘It’s a big night for him,’ he said.
‘At this rate he won’t remember any of it,’ sighed Mama. She propped him up, one hand on his back and the other on his chest, and placed the glass in front of him.
‘I think you’ve had enough of the hard stuff,’ she said.
‘Oh you can never get enough of the hard stuff,’ said Papa mischievously, pinching a boy’s bum as he minced past.
The best man, who had been sleeping at a corner table, had woken with a start and regained his old energy again. Leaning across the corner of the bar nearest the bathroom, he had grabbed at Joanie’s wig as he washed glasses. Joanie’s lightning-quick response would have impressed a master of kung fu. He grabbed the best man’s wrist with a wet hand and they struggled over the wig. Joanie managed to retrieve it but curling strands of hair like copper wire sprouted from between the best man’s knuckles.
‘That’s no way to treat a fuckin’ lady,’ snapped Joanie, and finished cleaning the glasses. The best man let out a devilish laugh.
The boaking bridesmaid was safely back in her seat and singing along with the other girls. The room, which had been spinning earlier, had slowly come to a stop. She looked down and noticed a smear of puke on her shoe. She attacked it with a paper hanky then started asking people if they knew a good taxi number to phone.
Upstairs in the ladies loo, Bobbie and the bride looked each other over.
‘I think I know ye from somewhere,’ said Bobbie tentatively. The bride fidgeted with the lacy cuffs of her dress.
‘Where?’ she asked.
‘My wildest dreams,’ said Bobbie. She wanted to move towards the bride but her DMs were rooted to the spot. The bride laughed nervously.
‘That’s a silly thing to say,’ she said.
Bobbie felt that the rubber soles of her shoes must have melted to the floor. She pulled a carton of cigarettes from her shirt pocket. She opened the lid and proffered one to the bride.
‘I don’t smoke, thanks,’ said the bride. Bobbie hesitated, then decided she wouldn’t have one either.
‘Yer dress is lovely,’ she said. ‘Is that the wan ye got married in?’
The bride smiled. ‘Of course,’ she replied.
‘It’s just that most brides change intae something else,’ said Bobbie.
‘Evening wear.’
Bobbie smoothed back her short, sleek hair and tried to think of something else to say.
‘So where wis the reception?’ she asked.
‘In a hotel round the corner,’ said the bride.
‘Whose idea wis it tae come in here?’ probed Bobbie.
‘Mine,’ said the bride, and came slowly towards Bobbie, as if she were actually floating.
The groom seemed to have lost all power in his legs and Papa had to hold him up with both hands while Mama got a bar chair and they negotiated him into it. He was asking if they had any children.
‘No,’ said Mama, getting in quick before her homo for a hubby came out with any more crap.
‘You can adopt,’ said the groom, patting Mama’s hand consolingly. It made Mama smile and want to cry at the same time. In the backroom the girls were singing Love Me Tender.
It was while Joanie was chatting across the bar to Mama that the best man made another grab for the wig. He stumbled off with it held triumphantly in the air. Joanie came round the bar with an indignant shout of ‘Heah!’ He chased the best man round the tables in the backroom, then back to the front bar. The thief scurried round behind a table and shoved the wig on, hopelessly askew.
‘How dae I look?’ he asked. Joanie moved his weight from foot to foot, like an anxious goalkeeper wondering which way the ball would come. He made a leap for the best man, his right arm knocking glasses off the table. The best man fell then, and Joanie snatched back the wig and put it on. The best man giggled and bent over the table; his face resting to one side, forehead tipping up the pink heart ashtray. Joanie adjusted the wig. Then he lifted up the best man’s kilt and playfully spanked his bare cheeks.
Bobbie and the bride were leaning against the wall, between the sinks and the hand dryer. Bobbie was nuzzling the bride’s neck, intoxicated by her perfume. She could feel the bustle and rustle of the dress, like she was dry-humping a giant meringue. The bride pulled Bobbie’s head up with both her hands and they met mouth to mouth. The bride slipped her hands down Bobbie’s back and into the back pockets of her jeans. They were both moaning, gasping, abandoning themselves to the moment.
Bob the bouncer stood in the doorway with the bridesmaid.
‘Has ma taxi been yet?’ she asked, anxiously.
‘Naw,’ said Bob the bouncer, eyes fixed to her cleavage. ‘I’ll let ye know, hen.’
She grabbed his arm briefly and kissed him on th
e cheek, leaving a smudge of lipstick. Bob watched her stumble back into Delilah’s and wondered if she had a boyfriend. He popped his head out into the street. It was drizzling now, nearly midnight, and no sign of a taxi.
The bride arched her back and opened her mouth, leaning against the wall.
‘Oh God,’ she said, as Bobbie licked her breasts. Then Bobbie began to sink slowly down until her hands were pulling up the bride’s skirts.
‘I want a divorce!’ bawled the bride, as Bobbie’s head disappeared underneath her dress.
Smoking a Joint: When Harry Met Gary
The smell was unmistakable. Harry was smoking a joint. Not that drug taking was particularly unusual in Delilah’s. People took E or speed. There was an element of discretion in that. To sit there and brazenly produce a joint the size of a small dog, light it, and disappear in a puff of smoke was a fucking liberty. It was also groovy. People looked around. They wondered what was going to happen. Joanie got a whiff of the dope from where he stood at the bar. He knew he should take action of some kind, march over to the table and demand that Harry extinguish the toke. Delilah’s could lose its license over shite like that. Joanie decided to let it slide, the way he was feeling tonight, he could do with a smoke himself. Joanie liked nothing better than a smoke before a fuck. Harry smoked the joint.
‘Is that dope?’
A young man with dark glasses sat down next to Harry.
‘Naw. Somebody musta farted. Or smuggled a skunk intae the pub.’
The young man laughed nervously and adjusted his shades, which were slipping down his nose.
‘Ma name’s Gary.’
‘Ma name’s Harry.’
‘Pleased tae meet ye, Harry.’
‘Gary.’
Gary watched Harry savour the joint. It was too cool. A couple of punters began to back off a bit, poofily fanning at the smoke and giving little coughs. Harry nodded at them and looked at Gary.