To the Ends of the Earth

by Michael Gouda

  It was my gain, and I only found this out when I got there, and a good thing, too, because had the paper known beforehand, they’d have sent someone more experienced. However, they didn’t and therefore my good fortune.

  The lovely creature, star of screen, stage, and internet, gave a brilliant, funny speech, which I recorded verbatim, and then with great kindness agreed to have a few words with humble old me.

  She was obviously enchanted by my devastatingly good looks, or perhaps she realized I was gay, and she really opened up, told me of her immediate future, the film she was about to start working on, and what she thought of various directors. This last she asked me not to publish, but I stored it up for possible future use.

  When I got back, the editors (bastards) tried to take the scoop off me and give it to someone else, but I had the speech, I had the notes of her interview, and finally, and it merely needed a hint that I wouldn’t give up my info to anyone else, they let me write it up.

  Naturally they criticized the result, fiddled around with it, but essentially it was the same and under my byline. My first fucking byline! Shit a brick! Who to tell? Jacob, obviously.

  I got out my phone and punched his speed-dial number. It was switched off. Bloody hell, it was fucking switched off. But then I thought, Of course, it’s switched off. He’s at work. Oh well, I’d tell him later.

  I decided to tell my parents. They’d be excited, probably go out and buy the newsagent’s whole stock of papers. They don’t have a mobile phone. As my mother said, “Don’t hold with them things; they frazzle your brains.”

  Where she got that from, I’ve no idea. Probably off the radio, which tells you on Tuesday that eating celery is good for you and on Friday that celery is responsible for more than one genetic disorder. But they were out. Their landline rang and rang and rang. Bloody hell, they hadn’t even got an answering service.

  I casually glanced down the list of my latest entries. The latest one caught my eye: Lex W and then a cell number.

  Who the hell was Lex W?

  And then I remembered it was the nice guy I’d slept with (slept, huh!) a week or so before. He’d been, between bouts of enthusiastic coitus, interested in my planned choice of career. Would he be interested in my first scoop? Would he be at home in the middle of the day? Would he, in fact, even remember me?

  Well, it seemed so, he was, and he did.

  “That’s great. I must get a copy.” He hesitated. “I’ve been meaning to ring you, but I wasn’t sure how keen you were on a return match.”

  I thought for just a fraction of a second, but it must have been obvious to Lex, for he said, “Sorry, I’m being too forward. You’ve probably got other commitments.”

  “No, I was just thinking if I’ve got any, and the answer is I haven’t. Are you free tonight?”

  “Sure.”

  “And what do you say to going out for a meal first? My shout. I haven’t had a real date for yonks.” I wondered if I’d gone too far, calling it a date, but apparently not.

  “Great, and no way will I let you pay. It’s you we’ve got to celebrate, and I know a really swish place to do it. Can we meet up somewhere for a drink and then go on from there?”

  When I got home, I told my parents and presented them with a souvenir copy, which they said they’d frame. I was after all on the front page. I told them not to be daft, but I was pleased they were so happy for me.

  I decided to spruce myself up for the evening. I even wondered about a tux—you have to have one at some events at uni—dithered, but in the end just a good suit, shirt, and tie. We wouldn’t be clubbing, or at least I assumed we wouldn’t, so I didn’t need my gay gear. You know, a T-shirt that only comes down just below your nipples and shows off your belly button, and tight jeans that rest low upon your hips and might reveal a bit of pubic hair.

  I was glad that I’d chosen what I had because when I saw Lex (my big fear was that I wouldn’t recognize him), I saw this really, really attractive young man with gorgeous dark hair and grey eyes you could get lost in. Stop it, you’re getting soppy. The very last impression you want to give.

  There he was in a suit not dissimilar to mine but cut rather better, and the smile he gave me when he turned and saw me would have melted a Popsicle. We met with a hug, which lasted rather longer than normal, not that I minded.

  And the conversation wasn’t difficult or embarrassing. Lex started it off well by saying, “I thought you might not recognize me,” then laughed.

  He was funny, clever, urbane, strikingly handsome with the looks that really turn me on—black hair with a slight wave to it, blue-grey eyes, (not the brilliant blue that are spectacularly striking but somehow too beautiful), high cheekbones over the flat planes of his face, a smiling, smiling mouth, and teeth perfectly white with just one front tooth slightly out of alignment. The tiny imperfection, which to me, at least, adds to rather than detracts from perfection.

  We chatted about the scoop (of course) and I admitted I was a new boy at the game. We talked of uni—he’d been to Cambridge, Christ’s College, not quite the oldest to be founded but not far off.

  “1505,” he confided, “and the most expensive.”

  “Jesus, you must be rich.”

  “I can keep myself in toothpaste.”

  We talked of our schools—his Eton, mine Elmbridge—and then transferred, still chatting vociferously, to the restaurant, a tiny but exclusive place that hadn’t been “discovered” by the Michelin guide but served the most divine food.

  I remember that first meal, food from all over the world. We had massaman curry from Thailand for starters, piri-piri chicken from Mozambique as the main meal, and pastel de nata from Portugal as dessert. Even the names made my mouth water. (Talk about Pavlov’s dogs! They weren’t in it.)

  Wines from everywhere, a different one for every dish. It sounds, doesn’t it, as if we finished as bloated lumps, but the restaurant knew its customers, just so much for every course, so that we were left with that feeling we could have eaten just one more bite or spoonful.

  Eventually we were satisfied if not satiated, and we talked about the rest of the night. Lex wanted me to come back with him. I wondered if we were not rushing things. Of course we’d had sex before, a one-night stand. Now I felt, and tried to explain to him, that I wanted to slow things down, become friends, perhaps to lead on to lovers. He put his hand on top of mine and looked into my eyes, and I was lost. Bed and sex would be part of the loving.

  And it was.

  He was in turn tender and gentle, passionate and sometimes almost violent. We held off the final orgasmic climax as long as we could. Eventually, though, I could control it no longer, and I came and came and came. Lex lasted for a few more seconds, then responded in kind. Christ, what a night! I’d never experienced anything like it before in my whole sexually orientated life.

  And afterwards, as we lay in each other’s arms in postcoital languor, we murmured words that, if not precisely of love, were dangerously close to it.

  Morning came and work was insistent, me to the paper, he to—what did he do? In all that talking we had indulged in the night before, he’d never mentioned his job, or rather, from the evidence of his flat and the way he had signed off that superexpensive meal with a flourish and a platinum credit card, profession.

  And now was no time to ask. We had to arrange another meeting, obviously. He traveled, that was admitted, and he was off to Spain for some sort of conference, so it would have to be next week. My job might send me anywhere. I felt that getting that scoop would probably mean I’d be off the trivial and on to the unusual. I blissfully thought of becoming a foreign correspondent, but of course a local paper doesn’t have one of those, and anyway it would take me away from Lex.

  With my first month’s pay and some parental generosity, I had bought myself a super-duper camera, a Nikon D7200, and hoping to find an opportunity to use it, I went back to the usual grind as before, though now I was allowed to cover accidents (with fata
lities), house fires (with victims on the critical list), and sports coverage.

  This last was a bit difficult. I knew zilch about most sports. I spent most of my time at school in the long grass at cricket matches or behind the fives court rather than in it.

  But Jacob knew about football. He had often tried to persuade me to accompany him to the Saturday match and I’d always refused. Now I could use his expertise—and also get in touch again. I felt rather guilty that I’d ignored Jacob recently. In fact, ever since that first night when he’d gone home and I’d copped off with Lex. I didn’t think it would be a wise move, though, to mention Lex to Jacob. I remembered the look of hostility when I’d introduced Jacob to John Hornby and we’d been to see Oklahoma when I really should have taken Jacob.

  But Jacob was being a bit difficult to locate. I phoned the supermarket headquarters and asked, in my best managerial voice, if I could speak to the local branch manager.

  “Who would that be?” asked a suspicious female voice as if I was trying to steal commercial secrets.

  “Mr Levin. Mr Jacob Levin.”

  “I regret”—though there was no sound of regret in her voice—“that Mr Levin is no longer in our employ.”

  That was a real facer. I didn’t want to ask whether he’d been sacked or had got a job with another supermarket chain.

  “I suppose you don’t know where he is working now.”

  “That’s quite correct. I don’t.” She put the receiver down.

  The bitch! The arch bitch!

  Okay, well, I’ll try his mobile number. He never used to like me ringing him at work, but well, he might not have any work. I got the familiar, “I regret… unavailable… leave message… back to you.” Beep.

  “Jacob, where are you? I need to speak to you urgently. Sorry I haven’t been in touch, but I’ve been so busy. Did you see my article? Ring me ASAP.”

  I’d scarcely put the phone down when it rang. Jacob the caller.

  “Jacob, where are you? They told me you’d left your job. Have you got another one, a better one?”

  He sounded down. “Things got complicated. There was a problem with a young guy in delivery. Claimed I’d made lewd advances to him. And they believed him and not my denial. He wouldn’t take it to court, so it shows he was lying or they paid him off.”

  “Oh shit, that’s really bad.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Of course you didn’t. I know that. Have you got anything else?”

  He sounded vague. “A few irons in the fire.”

  “Look, you need a break, and I need your help, Jacob. You still interested in football?”

  “I guess so,” he said listlessly.

  “Come to the match with me Saturday. It’s a job, and I can pay you as an expert. ‘Football from the stands’ sort of thing. ‘The fan’s POV.’ It’s a new idea. And it’ll be really good meeting up with you again.”

  “Okay.”

  We met up just outside the grounds. Jacob looked drawn but had a big smile on his face when he saw me. I was glad to see him. We shook hands. You don’t hug one another unless you’re a footballer on the field.

  “Tell me about Bristol Rovers. I’ve looked up something—founded in 1883, owned by some Middle East bugger, known as ‘the Pirates’ in League One, that’s the third tier of English football.”

  “We call them the Gas.”

  “Heavens, why?”

  “The original team was based at Eastville Stadium, which was near the gasworks, but now we’re here at Horfield and the gasworks are long gone.”

  “See how I need you, Jacob.”

  “Do you? Do you really?”

  “Of course I do. You’re a mate.” And I ruffled his hair affectionately. “Come on. Let’s get some seats.”

  Jacob looked horrified. “You can’t watch from seats. You’ve gotta be in the stands to really appreciate the game.”

  So it was in the stands that we stood, amidst the sweaty hoi polloi, and cheered and groaned at the right moments, or at least when the others did, as I had no idea of what was going on. But Jacob was a fount of knowledge and explained the offside rule and why the referee must be totally blind not to have seen it when the opponents, Swindon Town, scored. I surreptitiously noted all this down and explained to a curious fellow stander that I was making notes for my son who was at home with a bad cold and was so upset at missing the match. At this the guy started telling me his views, which sometimes corresponded with Jacob’s and at others were diametrically opposed. So we swayed and chanted and raised the roof, except of course there wasn’t one when Bristol Rovers equalized.

  “We were Football League Trophy finalists in 2007,” said my new friend.

  “And in 1990,” added Jacob.

  “That’s a long time back,” I said, which didn’t go down too well, as both of them thought it sounded like a criticism. Then Bristol scored again and all was forgotten in the general jubilation.

  And that’s how it remained. Bristol Rovers 2, Swindon Town 1.

  Jacob wanted to go somewhere else afterwards, but I explained how I had to go back to write up my/our story. I was genuinely disappointed, but it was a valid excuse. So I paid him £30, which he was very reluctant to take, but I told him the “story” was really his and he should be paid for it, not by me but by the paper. So he took it, and I wondered if he was really hard up but just too proud to admit it.

  As we parted, I said, “Jacob, you’re my oldest and dearest friend. If there’s anything I can do or if you just want to talk, I’m here to listen whenever I can.”

  He gave me a playful punch on the shoulder, but I swear there were some embryonic tears in his eyes as he wandered away.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow. Perhaps we can meet up,” I shouted at his retreating back, and he waved without turning around.

  I phoned in my copy to the paper. “It’s a bit unusual,” said the editor, “but who knows, it might catch on. ‘Football from the Stands.’” He rang off.

  Now I genuinely meant to meet up with Jacob, but in the middle of the day, my phone rang.

  “Bristol Gazette,” I said.

  “Look,” said a voice. “This Spanish do was a complete and utter washout. I’m flying back first thing tomorrow. Are you free, and if so, can we meet?”

  “Lex! Of course I’m free, or if not I’ll make myself free.”

  “My car’s at Heathrow, so I’ll pick it up and hopefully see you early in the afternoon. To save you hanging around, there’s a spare key with the woman next door. Just say ‘Lex expects’ and she’ll let you have it. If, as you say, you’re free, we can drive out somewhere and spend the rest of the day together.”

  There was a pause, which I filled. “And the night.”

  “Ça va sans dire.” Which was okay by me.

  It all went like clockwork, and I was sitting in his flat with the cafetière bubbling away and a specially purchased cake just aching to be consumed. I didn’t have long to wait, and I heard the car, a BMW iPerformance hybrid, draw up outside, then steps running upstairs, and I had the door open before he reached the top. He looked a bit jaded, but that all added to his charm.

  “God, I stink” were his first words. “Keep away from me.”

  “I love it,” I said, and held him close. He did smell a bit ripe, but that was almost a turn-on.

  “Let me get in the shower. That coffee smells marvelous. I guess you wouldn’t mind bringing a cup in with me?”

  I didn’t mind of course but decided that a cup wasn’t the only thing he needed, so I stripped and took the coffee, and myself, in to him. He turned and enveloped me in a shower of desire and a cock so hard that I could barely squeeze past it. So what I did was turn and let it find its own welcoming and compliant place. He didn’t need to touch me, but as the rush of liquid sex entered me, I spouted up the shower wall, once, twice, three times. And then he was clasping me, and I came again. I was saying his name over and over.

  Then he gasped and re
peated, “I love you. I love you. If you ever leave me, I will follow you to the ends of the earth.”

  It was such an easy thing to say in the heat of passion or just after. I wondered afterwards if he would repeat it as we ate cake and drank coffee and then went out into the sunshine.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Devon.”

  It was one hour forty-four minutes via the M5 (roughly a hundred and ten miles), and we made it in one hour thirty. The evening sun was shining in our eyes and a stall holder was just shutting up but opened again to give us some sandwiches and buns that, he said, he wouldn’t be able to sell the following day. The tea samovar had been emptied, but there were plenty of bottles of water, both flat and sparkling, to quench our thirst.

  We wandered into the edge of Dartmoor. Obviously it was too late to make a real expedition, so we roamed across the level but strangely beautiful landscapes. There was a bridge across the stream just made of smooth stones, which might have stood there for aeons. More of the same or similar flat rocks were piled up in higgledy-piggledy mounds. They were surely too heavy to be lifted there by passing tourists, and Lex wondered if they’d been left there after the ice sheets and glaciers melted at the end of the Paleolithic period, when man first was able to roam north and not starve to death from lack of game.

  “Which included woolly mammoths and saber-toothed tigers.”

  “Possibly, but doubtful,” said Lex, who probably knew a great deal more about these things than I did. “I expect groups of guys manhandled them on top of each other.”