Delilah's

by John Maley

  Back at the flat, Karel was getting ready to go to work and Herman was getting ready to go to the sauna. Mickey and Joanie sat at the dining table eating pasta and salad. Joanie wanted to go out but Mickey was too tired. He suggested Joanie tag along to the sauna with Herman but Joanie wanted to go to a bar. When Herman and Karel left, Joanie and Mickey drank two bottles of wine and danced to Madonna in the lounge, for old times’ sake. Between the booze and the beat all they had to do was smile their survivor’s smiles at each other. They had known each other for fifteen years and it felt like fifty.

  The next morning Joanie lay on the dining-room floor and waited till he was sure Herman and Karel had left before he got up. When he opened the door to the lounge, he was startled to see Mickey sitting quietly on the sofa, sipping tea. Joanie sat down beside him while Mickey quizzed him on why he’d slept so late. Joanie was depressed. The holiday was crap – he hadn’t ‘done anything’.

  Mickey had a rendezvous with his flatmates and some colleagues from work. He wanted Joanie to come. They planned to hire a boat and sail on the canals. Joanie showered and changed and came down the narrow stairs from the bathroom in full makeup, sporting his aqua green trouser suit like some old Hollywood movie star.

  ‘You fabulous old cunt!’ gasped Mickey.

  The boat cost eighty guilders for an hour, which worked out at ten guilders each. Apart from Joanie, Mickey and the sailing Dutchmen, there were Shuki, Umberto, Juliana and Pedro, all workmates of Mickey’s. It was a dull, overcast day but the air was mild and spirits were high, helped by some space cakes they had munched in a brown café with steaming, hot coffee. Pedro took charge of steering the small white boat.

  Joanie loved the hour-long sail, which Mickey said was as smooth as a rent-boy’s arse. Amsterdam looked even more impressive from the canals. They admired its narrow buildings, topped by fancy gables; waved and yelled at boating neighbours they passed on the canals; swigged cans of Heineken and sang and whooped under the myriad bridges. Joanie stood up now and again to get a better view and appreciate the sail. At one point he could see the red light district again. The black prostitutes in their white bras and knickers seemed to be moving in slow motion in their shop windows. Joanie thought they looked graceful.

  That night they were meant to be going to a nightclub, a queer shop called Troot. Joanie and Mickey stood in the middle of the queue. Joanie had changed out of his trouser suit and opted for jeans and a white shirt. Mickey wore jeans with a tee shirt and a leather jacket. Joanie looked up and down the queue. There were guys in tuxedos and big cocktail dresses and women in evening gowns. A young queen in front of them said something in Dutch to Mickey, who gave a weary sigh.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ asked Joanie.

  ‘No jeans,’ said Mickey. ‘It’s a special dress code for the Queen’s birthday.’

  Just then a huge, hairy man in a tutu, with a fairy wand in his hand, stopped beside Mickey. He pointed at his jeans with the wand and shook his head, rolling his big, heavily made-up eyes. Joanie urged Mickey to wait and chance it, but then they saw other denim-clad queers being turned away at the door ten yards in front of them. They accepted defeat and left the queue.

  ‘What a cruel irony,’ mused Joanie as they walked along the canal side. ‘I, queen of glamour, refused admittance to a club for being too dowdy.’

  The city looked prettier at night, or maybe it was just the beer they’d drunk. Joanie gazed at the lights on the canal bridges and sighed.

  ‘Let’s go to Soho,’ said Mickey, emphatically.

  He led the way through the crowded street level bar to the upstairs bar. The stairway seemed to be floodlit, exposing a tatty, old, formerly bright, red carpet that looked to Joanie like it had been found in a rubbish skip outside an old cinema and recycled. They stood at the end of the bar, and after an eternity, managed to get served. They discussed their shared history, their love lives (or lack of them) and Joanie ordered the beers four at a time. On the way home Joanie pissed in a canal. Mickey warned against it, saying the police could fine him. Joanie simply giggled as his pee arced into the dark waterway below.

  On Monday Joanie wanted to go to the Van Gogh Museum, and threatened to cut off an ear if Mickey didn’t take him. But when they got to the Van Gogh there was an intimidatingly long queue. Mickey suggested they go to the Rijksmuseum as a compromise. Joanie paid them in and they wandered around the huge museum admiring the exhibits. Mickey’s favourite was a 17th century snuffbox inlaid with mother of pearl.

  ‘I could keep my johnny bags in there,’ he sighed, wistfully.

  Joanie admired a three-thousand-year-old bronze Chinese mask, which he thought looked like an ex of his. But his favourite, however, was a Rembrandt. Hendrickje asleep, it was called, and was meant to be a drawing of Rembrandt’s lover. Joanie thought it was angelic, but Mickey said when it came to drawing, Rembrandt wasn’t a patch on Rolf Harris.

  They had a nice lunch in De Jaren and then Mickey coaxed Joanie into a sex shop where they gawked and giggled at the various sex aids. Mickey howled at something called a pussy stick. They couldn’t quite see (it was concealed by a wrapper), but the label said the stick was to be inserted in the pussy before intercourse to regain ‘virgin excitement.’ Joanie handled the plethora of vibrating dildos.

  There was a red rubber one they both thought particularly fetching.

  They spent half an hour in the shop, Mickey trying on some rubber shorts and pouches, before stepping out into what was becoming another sunny afternoon. Joanie said he wanted to do some shopping and they agreed to split up and meet later at the flat.

  Mickey decided to stay in that night. He said he had a headache and retired at eleven o’clock, advising Joanie to go to the sauna. Joanie settled down for the night in the dining-room. What happened next was so unexpected that he later wondered if he had dreamt it. He had awoken to find the enigmatic Herman standing above him, wearing only black leather shorts. Herman’s face, at least what could be made out in the darkness, was expressionless.

  ‘You want to fuck?’ asked Herman, tenderly.

  Joanie sat up, leaning on one elbow. He reached through the night until his fingers traced Herman’s hard-on through the smooth leather.

  ‘No,’ said Joanie, as gently as he could. In the blink of an eye Herman was gone.

  Although Mickey was gracious enough to escort Joanie to the airport, he was in a foul mood. Joanie wondered if it was just that sad awkwardness of saying goodbye, or if Mickey was feeling homesick. They kissed at the airport then Joanie marched through to his gate, clutching his boarding pass, not even looking back to wave.

  Unpacking that evening, Joanie reflected on his long weekend in Amsterdam. It hadn’t been the sexy, sauna-filled, wild weekend other guys often came home talking about. It had been a more refined experience altogether, the only real cruising he’d done was on the canals. Maybe he was getting old. What he couldn’t work out was why he’d turned down the horny Herman. He hadn’t fancied him, but God knows it hadn’t stopped him before. Not so long ago he would’ve sat on that Dutch Master’s cock and sung like a soprano. But Joanie wasn’t looking for sex anymore. Or drugs, or rock’n’roll, or money, or fame. The only thing worth looking for was love. It was then that he found the long, thin, parcel at the bottom of his bag. Sellotaped to the wrapping paper was a small white envelope with ‘Joanie’ written on it. He recognised Mickey’s handwriting. He unwrapped the package and smiled. It was the red rubber dildo. Joanie sat on the bed and opened the card.

  ‘Sit on this, bitch,’ Mickey had written. Joanie turned the control dial at the bottom of the dildo and felt the rubber reverberate in his fist. He thought of sweet, silly Mickey, of horny Herman, the black whores, Hendrickje sleeping, and he blessed them all.

  Bobbie and the Womyn

  One night Bobbie came into Delilah’s with a womyn. They had met at a lesbian disco in Clyde Street. It was a monthly thing, cans and bottles on a couple of long tables serving as a bar, a di
sc jockey who played scratchy vinyl records that kept jumping or stopping altogether. There had been a dancing free-for-all at the end of it and, somehow in the crowd, Bobbie and the womyn found each other. They had danced to some old punky classics, Siouxsie and the Banshees, the Cure, before ending up locked in an embrace on the creaky, slippy, floor.

  Although Bobbie talked a good game when it came to sex, even she was more than a little intimidated when the womyn advanced menacingly on her, sporting a strap-on dildo, in the womyn’s cramped one-bedroom flat just off the Gallowgate.

  ‘If I want a cock I’ll go an’ get a real wan,’ said Bobbie.

  The womyn had reluctantly taken off the dildo and they made do with what God gave them, searching each other with fingers and tongues. As they turned in the womyn’s bed, Bobbie felt she had finally met the one she had been longing for, someone handsome and headstrong like her.

  In the morning they sat in the wee living-room with coffee and cigarettes. Bobbie noticed a bookcase in a corner, crammed full of well-thumbed paperbacks.

  ‘I paint, sculpt, devise movement pieces and rage against injustice. What do you do?’ the womyn demanded.

  She was staring at Bobbie as if she didn’t quite believe she was there.

  ‘I work in a fruit and veg shop,’ said Bobbie. The womyn nodded; an accepting, supportive nod.

  ‘That’s good,’ she said, in her strange, strong voice. ‘Fruit and vegetables are healthy.’ She fixed Bobbie with a look. ‘You’re a vegetarian, right? Because if you eat dead animals I never want to touch you again,’ said the womyn.

  ‘I’m a vegetarian,’ lied Bobbie. She rifted and tasted the ghost of last night’s Big Mac in her mouth. She quickly dragged on a cigarette.

  ‘I’m a womyn,’ said the womyn.

  Bobbie smiled. ‘I noticed,’ she said, admiringly.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said the womyn. ‘I’m a womyn. It’s spelled W-O-M-Y-N. There’s no ‘man’ in it. I’m a lesbian feminist.’

  Bobbie looked at the womyn and felt curiously excited.

  The womyn had never been in Delilah’s before. She despised the commercial gay scene and it took a lot of persuading to coax her in. It was like trying to get a reluctant five-year-old to start school. Eventually Bobbie got her to Delilah’s and manoeuvred her into a booth. The womyn took in Delilah’s with her sad, searching eyes. Bobbie said she would go to the bar and get the drinks. She wondered if the womyn would feel okay about being left on her own.

  ‘Don’t be so insecure,’ said the womyn, coldly.

  This hurt Bobbie, because she was insecure. She was worried that this sexy, sullen, mysterious womyn would abandon her for somebody else.

  They had shared a passionate week together in the womyn’s flat (which smelled of rising damp and patchouli). Now and again the womyn would snatch a book from her bookshelf and read a passage to Bobbie. There were tirades against the patriarchy and fragments of lesbian erotica and poetry recitals interspersed with strange, almost menacing, silences and fantastic sex on the womyn’s bed with incense and candles and the two of them burning. Bobbie had never felt so turned on or glad to be gay before. But it wasn’t all exhilaration. The womyn was strange, intense and possibly a bit too full of herself.

  Bobbie stood at the bar, anxious to be served and get back to her new found love. She glanced back to make sure the womyn was unmolested. The womyn had both arms crossed over her belly and was surveying the scene, poker-faced. Bobbie got the drinks, a pint of lager for herself and a rum and coke for her partner. When she got back to the table and sat down, the womyn didn’t acknowledge her presence. She was still inspecting the bar.

  ‘There’s yer rum and coke,’ said Bobbie. The womyn grunted. Then she turned suddenly and stared at Bobbie.

  ‘Is it always this busy?’ she asked. Bobbie was glad that there was no hostility in the question. She didn’t want the womyn to dislike Delilah’s too much. As much as Bobbie liked the womyn, she couldn’t really envisage a time when she wouldn’t be going to Delilah’s. Yet she knew this thinking was crap, as the pub could be taken over and turned into a straight place, or she could move away or outgrow it. She even began to think that the womyn might take her away from all this and she wouldn’t need Delilah’s any more. She began to relax.

  ‘It’s busier at weekends,’ she said, responding to the womyn’s question. She felt slightly uncomfortable with the womyn looking at her. She seemed to be staring more out of curiosity than admiration. The womyn sipped her drink and gave a weary sigh.

  ‘So this is where you waste your time,’ she said, almost to herself. Bobbie tried not to let the comment rile her.

  ‘It’s a good place tae meet other women,’ she countered.

  ‘It’s a man’s pub,’ retorted the womyn.

  ‘No, honestly, it’s mixed. It’s usually sixty-forty. Sixty percent men, forty percent women.’

  The womyn swept the pub with her fierce brown eyes. ‘It looks more like eighty-twenty to me,’ she said, coolly.

  After a couple of drinks, bought and paid for by Bobbie, the womyn seemed to warm a little. She even bobbed her head to some of the music and smiled. She smiled yet more when one of Bobbie’s pals came over to speak to them. Her name was Joyce and she had big hair, big tits and a big mouth. Bobbie liked Joyce but she didn’t like the way the womyn was looking at her. Bobbie had never seen her hold a smile for so long. Bobbie tried to make secret, scary eyes at Joyce to get rid of her. Eventually she did leave and the womyn’s smile faded from her face. There was a silence, and Bobbie gulped at her lager and tried not to appear jealous.

  Bobbie was scared she’d get too drunk and lose control of the situation. Dating was so hard, you had to be vigilant. The early weeks were crucial. It had been a tumultuous first week with the womyn. Bobbie hadn’t realised just how much she needed love in her life right now. Drinking and carrying-on and fucking about were all very well but she was getting older. It was harder to pretend to be happy when you got older. The way the womyn had held her, that first night in her bed, had left its’ mark. Sure, she was strange, who wasn’t? Bobbie felt time would smooth over these teething troubles.

  ‘Who’s the drag queen?’ asked the womyn tersely, nodding towards the bar. As she had made no attempt to go to the bar, she had only seen Joanie from a distance.

  ‘That’s John … Joanie. He’s been here since it opened.’

  The womyn’s displeasure was unnervingly obvious. ‘I find that offensive,’ said the womyn.

  ‘He doesn’t do an act or anything,’ said Bobbie apologetically. ‘He just dresses up for a laugh really.’

  The womyn glanced across at Joanie. ‘A laugh? At womynkind’s expense!’ snarled the womyn.

  ‘Nobody thinks anything of it,’ said Bobbie, in a conciliatory tone.

  ‘Nobody thinks. Period,’ said the womyn. ‘That’s the whole trouble with the gay scene. It’s just a predatory sexual playground for men. That’s why we womyn need our own space. To get away from crap like that.’ She nodded over in Joanie’s direction. Bobbie struggled valiantly to steer the subject away from Delilah’s. She looked at the womyn, who seemed more relaxed now. She had an elbow up over the back of the seat and was looking over at the bar. She turned to catch Bobbie’s eye.

  ‘I just hate to see people painting themselves into a corner,’ she said, exasperated. She got up and fumbled in her jacket pocket. Then she started walking away from the booth.

  ‘Where are ye goin’?’ blurted Bobbie.

  ‘The toilet,’ the womyn snapped back.

  She headed in the wrong direction, spoke briefly to another woman, then turned and walked in the right direction and disappeared up the stairs. Bobbie was tempted to follow her. She knew the womyn had a formidable sexual appetite. She was also a new face in Delilah’s, that had pulling power in itself. Then there was the way she had looked at Joyce, so obviously flirting, fancying her. Bobbie checked herself, smiled at her own insecurities. She felt a bit light-he
aded now. The music was good, the atmosphere was buoyant, and she was in with a brand new lover.

  Bobbie kept watch for the womyn. Eventually she materialised again. She didn’t look over at Bobbie but instead went to the bar. Bobbie watched her being served by Joanie. A tall queen obscured her view and then she was suddenly alarmed to find the womyn leaning over the table, a crazed look in her eyes.

  ‘Give me some money,’ she growled. Bobbie fumbled for her purse like she was being held at gunpoint. She handed the womyn a fiver.

  ‘Fuckin’ drag queen,’ said the womyn, and headed back to the bar. Bobbie saw the womyn and Joanie exchange money and poisonous looks. Then the womyn came back over to the booth. She sat down and put a solitary drink, a rum and coke, on the table. Bobbie looked at the half-inch of beer she had left in her glass.

  ‘Didn’t ye get me a drink?’ she asked.

  ‘I think you’ve had enough,’ retorted the womyn, nostrils flaring.

  Bobbie was too frightened to ask for her change. It wasn’t that she was physically scared of her. Although the womyn was lean and wiry, Bobbie felt she could probably wipe the floor with her. She was afraid of being dumped, not thumped.

  Glancing across at the bar, Bobbie saw Joanie watching them. He was giving her a strange, pitiful look. Embarrassed, she turned away.

  ‘What happened at the bar?’ she asked.

  ‘That freak – that monstrosity – tried to rip me off. The fuckin’ prices in here. Rip-off merchants.’

  Bobbie almost smiled at that. The womyn hadn’t spent a penny at the bar and had moaned all night.

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ said Bobbie. ‘They have happy hours in here. Wan twenty a pint. That’s not bad.’