by Zack
On the first page Eric Pendelton stands at the edge of a road, provocatively posed with legs spread apart, left arm outstretched, thumb held out. He has his right hand hooked in his jeans pocket, pulling at the front so the big bulge of his package stands out.
It’s the spitting image of Eric! So fucking sexy. His slightly long blond hair is flipped up, caught in the slipstream of passing cars, which aren’t stopping for him. His thought balloons are sad. “If I were a sexy female I wouldn’t have to wait to be picked up! But who wants a boy?”
In the next frame the young hitchhiker’s ass fills most of the picture and beyond a man leers from his car window. “I’ll take you,” he says.
“Thanks,” says the hitchhiker.
The pleasure’s all mine, the driver thinks.
The boy explains he’s going to London… “Want to see what the world has to offer, gain experience—”
Over the two following pages, the driver offers experiences in plenty, just not quite the kind the boy anticipated, delivered with pithy explanations which make clear what’s happening. Ecstasy overcomes any chaste reluctance. In the final frame, the boy is on his back, stark naked, legs splayed, looking up with wide innocent eyes (and perhaps a hint of twinkle?). His ravisher says, “Did you get some of that?”
“Yes,” says the boy, “but… well, I’d love to go over one or two points again!”
Mike read it through three times, and then he buried his head in the pillow beside the magazine. He writhed hard against the bed until he came off, not caring that he was still fully clothed and made a mess of himself. It wasn’t as though the drawings even showed much. In keeping with the modesty of the photographs, the comic only hinted at sex between man and hitchhiker boy. The artist drew this for me, he thought over and again. He must have. The hitchhiker, blond, leggy, fit, cute as Eric Pendelton pie, was an absolute dream. But then the vision of Manners, the prefect, floated before his inner gaze. Another god, older than Eric and sadly—unlike Eric and the hitchhiker—utterly unobtainable. He examined the drawings again. I’ll bet the Hitchhiker even has blue eyes. What would his cock look like hard? The black-and-white strip gave no hint to either thought; the only cock shot, in the final frame, had it in post-coital repose. Fuck Jez McGowran! A fictional comic-strip figure had now become Mike’s jerk-off fantasy, which he could meld in reality with Eric and hopeless longing with Manners. He checked the credit at the end. Oliver Frey, it said. Seemed like artist and reader shared the same vision.
Later, after beating off again, he heated some spaghetti Bolognese left over from yesterday. He still felt incredibly randy. Reading through Playguy had been like opening a previously undreamt of door to a world he never knew existed. Perhaps, too, it would prove to be a Pandora’s box because what had been let out would never fit back in. He now knew with certainty that there were others, many others just like him, who knew that a sexual interest in other guys outlasted the proto-homosexuality of a hothouse boarding school. In A Hand-Reared Boy, Aldiss wrote Horatio Stubbs as a scallywag who outgrew having it off with other boys and turned eagerly to girls. Mike knew that wasn’t for him. Question was, what next?
“Tomorrow is Friday,” he addressed his flushed reflection in the hallway mirror. “So I can ring Jim.” And start the rest of my life…?
CHAPTER FIVE
Breaking In
“A galette with petit suisse, chives, and ham, please.” Jim leaned back so his companion could order. Mike, seated opposite them, was uncertain what to eat, partly because he didn’t really feel hungry and partly because he was uncomfortable at the situation. He ducked his head at Donny, who sat huddled against Jim’s arm.
“I divn’t knaa… mebbies… Aye, Ah’ll hev the cream dee pollette arla sib… sib—”
“Crème de poulet à la ciboulette,” Jim broke in crisply with a placatory smile at the amazingly tall and thin young man in his striped apron, his pale Gallic face topped by a shock of stacked black hair backing up the possibility that his accent wasn’t fake. He could have been the doppelgänger of Daphne but for hair color and broken English.
“Comme une galette, s’il vous plait,” Jim added imperiously.
“Merci.” The garçon bowed ever so slightly and raised an eyebrow indicative of French disdain for les rosbifs as he turned an enquiring look on Mike. “Et ce qui va prendre, monsieur?”
Mike may have been proficient at Latin but his few French lessons hadn’t yet equipped him to deal with much more than the state of his tante’s plume when it came to conversation. Wracking his poor brain, he remembered a whole series of daft Q&As involving exchanged pleasantries about the weather, the food, how to order a meal (unfortunately for the present circumstances that had been a fillet steak and chi—French fries, so not much help in a crêperie). “Spinach and ham galette, please.”
A haughty sniff and a quick scribble in the outstretched pad. “Épinards et jambon. Merci,” the garçon said, and added another sniff for good measure.
“Poncy feckwit,” Donny said too loudly as the tall Gall went to tower over another table.
Jim smiled indulgently, winked fractionally at Mike across the table. “Now, Donald—”
“Ah hate them frogs, and diven’t call us Donald, fer chrissakes.” He gave a half-laugh which deprecated his outburst, and then grinned. “Did yee hear the one aboot the gadgie whee answered a dating agency question thingy?”
Mike, who was having trouble with Donny’s Newcastle patois, shook his head, and Jim looked sideways with a go-on chin jerk.
“This twat got a letter back saying, ‘Sorry, yer application to join wor match-making service has been rejected. Yee failed question 14: What dyer myset liek in a woman?’” He paused for effect.
“And?” Jim said in a rising inflection.
Donny almost spoiled his own punch line by chuckling. “‘ Me Dick wez not an acceptable answer!’”
Donny looked about Mike’s age, younger than Jim for sure. He certainly liked school-kid humor. He had a triangular face framed by short-cropped hair, small ears, and wide mouth with thin lips, which at times made him frog-like (in spite of his dislike of the creatures and a thick Geordie accent, which Mike thought of as being the opposite of French). Mike couldn’t quite work out the relationship between Donny and Jim, but he sensed that the BBC floor manager held the whip hand. It had been Jim who settled on meeting at Asterix, a crêperie on Westbourne Grove, not an area of London very familiar to Mike. Jim had first suggested the Markham Arms on King’s Road, then changed his mind. “You look too young to drink in a pub.”
Mike protested.
“It’ll be better somewhere else.”
So here they were. The why came up as they waited for the galettes to arrive.
“Tell us, Mike, how much you’re pulling down at that photo shop?” Jim tipped his head back and half-closed his eyelids in a knowing way when Mike told him what they paid him. “See Donny here, he makes three times that in an hour.”
“I mean, it’s only a vacation job.” Mike lifted his iced coffee and sipped while dragging his index finger to and fro in the condensation the glass left behind on the table top. He wanted it spelled out, but he wasn’t that naïve and thought he knew where this was heading. Mayfair came to mind. “How?”
“Tell him.”
Donny squeezed one side of his mouth so the lips disappeared altogether. He sniffed like not much mattered. “Ah gan doon the Dilly.”
Mike frowned. “You mean Piccadilly?”
“Yeah.”
“The Circus, to be precise,” Jim said. “North side, between Regents Street and Glasshouse Street, a bit on the Shaftesbury Avenue side as well, and certainly down in the tube station. The gents loos,” he added.
“Right. I don’t think it’s for me—”
He broke off as le grand garçon arrived armed with huge plates bearing their selection of galettes.
“I mean—” he started as the waiter swept off, head thrown high.
“Do
n’t knock it till you’ve tried it.” Jim gazed sternly at Mike, who felt absurdly like he was getting a facedown from a master at school. “It’s a lot better than getting shagged after Top Of The Pops by some jumped up idol who expects everything for free because he’s top of the chart.”
Mike tried the creamed spinach and had to admit it tasted good with the crispy buckwheat galette. He cleared his mouth. “But… I mean, where do you go?”
Donny shoveled a forkful of pollette down, and swallowed. “Myest o the steamers are staying in a hotel or such. Ah diven’t bother wi ’em if they divn’t hev a room. Get lucky wi some lercal spiv whee lives nearby, tha’s the best.”
Mike thought he understood this, but one word floored him. “Steamers?”
“Punters, johns, tricks. Clients,” Jim elaborated carefully. “The word’s local to London, I think”
None of this matched Mike’s fond mental ramblings of being an escort, wined and dined in exclusive Mayfair hotels or somewhere posh like Quo Vadis or Quaglino’s or Quirinale or almost anything beginning with Q, taking in a West End musical or maybe a movie premiere after. He switched his gaze from Donny to Jim, who as he ate his galette was guardedly watching Mike’s reaction. He engaged eye contact more fully when Mike lifted his eyebrows in an unspoken but obvious question. When it came, the answer began off center.
“Look. I don’t know how long I’ll be an A.F.M. before I get promotion, possibly into vision mixing. Maybe I could try for a camera operator’s job or go into production. Meantime, a man has his expenses, you know. I might be the Jim who fixes things for people, like I did you, but you kids don’t think beyond it’s, like, free. And the knobs beyond the Green Rooms expect it as a fucking courtesy, a sort of ‘with compliments of the management,’ not as a paying occupation. Out on the street it’s different. With the likes of Donny, here, I offer essential help. Guidance, advice on who’s a likely customer, do a bit of pre-order leaning on them to make sure no one’s going to get hurt… or go unpaid. You know?”
“And you take a cut, I guess?”
Jim managed to look hurt. “Only a stipend. Donny gets to keep the most of what he makes, don’t you?”
Donny nodded vigorously over a final mouthful of galette. “Mmmm…” He swallowed. “Yeah. Myest o it.”
Mike wasn’t sure how certain Donny was of this. “And you want to look after me?”
Jim shrugged in a non-committal way. “Up to you, sunshine. You obviously pleased Jez McGowran—”
“Feckin faberoony assholes!”
Both pairs of eyes fixed on goggling Donny.
“Yee had it off wi Jez McGowran? You feckin lucky bersterd!”
“He didn’t get paid anything,” Jim broke in. “And that’s the point. While Mike here is giving it away, you, my dear Donny, get the moolah for your wonderful efforts.”
“I’d a not gi’en flying fig for money if’n I could hev shagged wi that cool bersterd. What wez he liek? Is it a big dick? Did he feck yee, or wez he one o’ them lieks te tyek it?”
Mike reeled from the barrage with smiles and waved hands. And he didn’t believe Jim’s assertion that it would be up to him. He believed Jim had his claws dug in before they had even gone into TC8 for the recording that Wednesday.
“Calm down, Donny.” Jim grinned at Mike. “See the enthusiasm? Tell you what. Donny and me, we’ll take you down the Dilly, show you the ropes, and you can watch Donny hook a john, a steamer. See how it goes.”
Mike shuffled uncomfortably on the hard chair and stilled the jiggling of his right leg. Always a sign he was nervous. Everything about this screamed No! The jerk in his stomach, though, hadn’t anything to do with the épinards et jambon ; it felt very similar to the flip-flop that assailed him whenever Eric asked if later on he was up for a Spanish.
“What, now?” he said huskily.
Jim grinned triumphantly, but deflated any anticipation. “Not now, lover-boy.” He inclined his head at Donny. “I’m gunna take him home and flick his bean tonight.” He leaned across the table confidentially. “Kid’s like he’s on a hair trigger sometimes. Like the speaking clock, he comes at the third stroke.”
Donny smirked and rolled his eyes.
“How about tomorrow? Saturday night’s best anyway. There’ll be a horde of randy men cruising the Dilly.”
Mike felt numb and Jim barely caught his short mumble.
“When? Let’s say not too late. About nine. We’ll meet you at the Shaftesbury Avenue exit of the tube station. At the foot of the steps, not up top.”
Mike nodded. He pushed the last quarter of his galette aside, no longer having the appetite for it.
According to the deal with Daniel Jude, Mike only worked alternate Saturdays, and this one he was off. Thinking about it, he’d have rather worked to take his mind off the coming evening, so Julian’s phone call was welcome. They agreed to meet at the top of Parliament Hill to mooch around and just chill.
“Looking fit, man,” Mike said as he eyed Julian’s apparel. A clinging apricot-hued tee-shirt didn’t quite cover the tall, white leather belt holding up fawn-colored jeans with indigo-effect stitching from his ass cheeks down the back quarter of the leg to where they flared at the hem. Small oval shades in deep blue reflected the cloudless sky back. He’d let his hair grow out over the weeks of vacation and looked a bit Bee-Gee-ish. By mutual unspoken agreement neither mentioned waiting for exam results.
A rectangular block tucked under the short sleeve of Julian’s shirt stood out from the bicep. He fished out a gold box of Benson & Hedges and offered it.
Mike hesitated, then took one. “Color goes with your shirt.”
Julian placed the box against his breast like a medal and admired the combination. “Hmmm.” He tucked the cigarettes back and produced a Zippo from his jeans pocket. “Is there anyone in the swimming club who doesn’t smoke?” he smirked.
“You know I hardly ever do.” Mike ducked down and cupped the flame. “How much are these, Jules?” he asked as he straightened up and blew out smoke.
“One-twenty-five.”
“Far out! That’s why I don’t smoke much. Can’t afford it.”
“Dig it, man. Such poor parents.” Julian’s wink spoiled the deadpan. “Aren’t you working, earning some bread?”
Mike ignored the rhetorical question. He followed Julian along the crest of the hilltop to one of the benches which looked down the steep grassy incline to Parliament Hill Fields and the athletic track at Gospel Oak. Below them, numerous couples and family groups occupied the south-facing bank, enjoying the sun. They sat and smoked quietly, while Julian remarked on each micro-skirted, minimally halter-topped feminine form to pass by on the nearby ridge-top path. “Christ! Will you gander that one, down there, the one in the bright yellow top. Her farkin legs stretch all the way up to her bottom.”
“You’re sex-obsessed.”
“So? Don’t be such a spaz, Smith,” Julian said affectionately. He blew out a long thin stream of smoke, and leaned back, legs stretched out in front, toes pointed, and sighed contentedly.
Mike tried to avoid crotch staring, but Julian’s posture emphasized the lump of his dick and balls in the stretched-tight pants. It felt wrong perving his best friend but the briefly glimpsed sight flashed across some synapses and lit up the forbidden image.
“Anyway, I wasn’t the one who went to Top Of The Pops to get down with the screaming groupies. Did you get any?”
Mike choked out a mouthful of smoke. “Wh-what?”
“Did you get laid?”
More coughing.
“Isn’t that the real point of going to the thing, to take advantage of reduced female responsibility due to being star-stricken so you can stick ’em one while they’re still under the influence of, who was it? Bay Area Transport?”
“Transit. And no. I didn’t. It wasn’t like that.” It certainly fucking wasn’t at all like that.
“I should have thought a quick knee-trembler amid all that shaking on the dance f
loor would have been a twiddle.”
Talking about sex with Jules made him uncomfortable. Sex simply wasn’t something they really talked about. He put down this sudden outburst to the unusual warmth of the day.
Accepting he wasn’t going to get any more out of Mike, Julian changed tack. “How’s the photo job going?”
Mike looked around guiltily before dropping his cigarette and grinding it under foot. Julian simply flicked his away into the longer grass where the regular mowing couldn’t reach around the bench legs. Mike sighed. “Okay, I guess. I mean, it earns me some bread, as you pointed out.”
“Doing anything tonight? I was thinking of going into town to see Hennessy. It’s got Rod Steiger, Lee Remick, and Trevor Howard in it. It should be funky.”
“I didn’t think you liked Rod Steiger. ‘Overblown mannerist,’ I recall you said of his Napoleon.”
Julian sat forward, puffed out his chest, and orated in a deep growly Steiger-as-Napoleon imitation. “‘The most important thing is to be whatever you are without shame.’ I like Lee Remick. Will you come?”
“I can’t.”
“Got a better offer, hey?” Julian laughed and patted Mike’s knee.
Mike joined in, shaking his head. “No. It’s… oh, you know, a family thing,” he lied—and thought unhappily about the Steiger quote.
Saturday evening in the middle of summer; Piccadilly Circus station concourse, a circus itself of revolving people, bewildered tourists, impatient Londoners using the subway connections from one side of Eros to the other, shoulders bumping in confusion at the numerous exits. He hung about near the exit to Shaftesbury Avenue and watched the continuous shuffle up the steps to the street, and the stream coming down, most to head for the ticket booths. A few minutes after nine, Jim tapped him on the shoulder. He whipped around, startled, and then relaxed.
