by Ned Williams
Andy filled me in on the state of play. There was a distinct possibility that another couple of attacks had been perpetrated. If the reports were true then it was ‘The Temps’ who had proved to be a particularly vulnerable group. We couldn't be absolutely certain, but those were the rumours. The authenticating factor for these reports was – two ‘Temps’ had been propositioned separately on ‘The Hill’. The descriptions matched up with our reports. Another unifying factor was that each of these alleged victims looked a little like Sandy. Aside from these suspect anecdotes, there had been no more reported attacks for over a fortnight. Everyone on the racks was waiting with some misgiving for the next blow. It was the current, dominant topic of conversation with everyone. The monster continued his haunting of our deepest, darkest fears.
We rents kept an ever–closer vigilance over one another. Andy had ‘done the rounds’ of ‘The Temps’ in a futile effort at giving them advice on setting up a network to protect themselves. Sad to say, most of them didn't want to know.
Andy was stunned. “It’s bloody ridiculous. They don't want to admit to each other what they're up to. It's fucking obvious. Is their pride more important than their personal safety? I mean to say, who are they kidding? It’s like some sort of sick joke.” We agreed.
On a regular basis, ‘The Temps’ frequented exactly the same places as the legitimate rents. There could be only one reason why they were there – prostitution! Why did they insist on running away from anything that might show them up for what they were? Did they think, because they charged, they weren't gay? What sort of denial game were they playing? Did they believe a cloak of invisibility descended which would render them transparent to their fellow students? God knows, but in the face of ‘The Evil’, they must have all turned blind or become plain doltish. Undaunted by the enthusiastic apathy, Andy had made it a cause to explain the benefits of working as a unit. He put a series of powerful arguments in an attempt to try and persuade them to get their acts together. He even offered an open invitation to use our system. Nothing! They didn't want to know. Andy actually received heaps of verbal abuse for even suggesting such an idea. He was quite taken aback by their vehemence. One of them did make a valid point. If the rents, with our super efficient loyalty thing, failed to protect our own kind, why should ‘The Temps’ bother with us? In the end, Andy had to admit defeat and gave up on them.
As the months went by, there were no more attacks. Either ‘The Evil’ was lying low, or he had gone back to the dung heap from whence he sprang. We worried what had happened to him. What made him start? Why had he stopped? Had he stopped? Has he stopped? And, more disturbingly, where is he now?
From then on, and indeed, right up to the time I finally left the rent scene, ‘The Hill’ was always cruised in pairs or groups.
In the early autumn, Sandy made his welcome return. Andy found out from Will the exact time and place where he would arrive. We rents gave him a huge reception and he was smothered with hugs and kisses. His triumphal entry bemused him. I don't think he had any idea how popular he was. The whole gang elevated him to the status of ‘hero’. Even the self–centred, professional pimps had to grudgingly acknowledge his courage. I, as his accidental rescuer, bathed in the reflected glow of our war veteran. I kept thinking, ‘If my family and school friends could only see me now!’
Sandy had made a complete recovery although the scarring from the attack was plainly visible. He delighted in taking the odd select few to a secluded area and proudly display the white scar tissue on his body. They still looked new but were healing quickly. Actually, the scarring didn't seem to affect his appeal; for his demand among the clients grew and grew. It made him butch. He started to affect the look and attitude of ‘rough trade’ and it worked like a charm. For the final touch, he reinforced his new image by finding a good tattoo artist who lovingly adorned his forearms, chest and back with a number of carefully chosen, if somewhat gruesome designs. Goodness knows what Will thought about that!
Aftermath
My fifteenth year was already proving eventful – yet there was still a lot more to come!
The next upheaval to hit the fan of my life was lurking just around a dark corner – waiting to pounce. It was something I had been expecting for some time but I never believed it would actually happen. I looked forward to its prospect with mixed feelings. My school leaving age had arrived!
There was only a couple of month's worth of state schooling left. At the time, the minimum age one could leave school was fifteen. However, many people stayed on for more advanced education or G.C.E’s, as they were then called.
As usual, at home, this impending milestone became a millstone to my parents because it was greeted with arguments. My mother had a problem. Because I had developed a very moderate skill in draughtsmanship, she immediately visualised my becoming a mediocre architect (naturally, she refused to see me as a good, let alone a great one). Therefore, she wished me to stay on to continue my studies. She shouldn't have bothered. True, I loved the lessons at school, but the thought of spending the rest of my life sitting behind a drawing board in a drawing office merely drew the fear of God in me. Again, she needn't have bothered as the decision was taken out of both our hands by her beloved spouse. My father gleefully informed her that he was fed up with supporting his darling offspring. He insisted I went out into the workplace to increase the family coffers (ha–ha). There was a terrific row that I endeavoured to avoid but didn't succeed. All of my mother's reasoning was to no avail as my father's mind was set. It gave my mother a huge gift for emotional blackmail. Because the majority of the housekeeping came from him – my father's word was law. He used this as a lever to castrate her. Now she had another cause to resent him. He, I suspect, was getting his own back at me, for being so sexually uncooperative. As for me, not that anyone bothered to ask, there was a complete lack of interest. I can say in all honesty, I didn't give a pissed fart.
Brian, in the meantime, was getting seriously concerned about the substantial amount of money he was holding on my behalf. For the first time, he began asking veiled questions as to its origin. I instantly spotted the danger signs and took the money back. He gave a sigh of relief. I think he was concerned in case his stepmother took it into her head to tidy his room and thus discover my little hoard. By expending my ever growing stamp collection and buying a few small, expensive presents for a chosen minority, I managed to dispose of the bulk of the cash. For some time now, I had been collecting records of classical music and opera. I knew their numbers could safely increase as both my parents were utterly devoid of any interest in my artistic passions. When my mother suddenly thought the size of my collection was getting suspiciously larger; I told her I’d found a good second hand shop that was practically giving them away. And she believed me.
My association with Brian was about to change. He'd started a relationship with a regular girl friend so I saw less of him than before. One day, he mentioned they were sleeping together.
“Great,” I said, genuinely pleased. “There’s nothing better than getting your oats on a regular basis.”
“Yes,” he slowly answered. “It’s all going very well.” He wasn't convincing me. “But..., er – um – she – er – um – can't – er – won’t – um... suck my dick and – er – would – um – you – er – um –...” You know the sort of thing. Yes! Oh, yes, yes, yes!! But aside from these infrequent, private sessions, we began to drift apart. It was a natural break up. At the beginning I missed the closeness we had enjoyed but l accepted the inevitable. The final break came a little later.
When I left school, Brian stayed on to further his education. His parents were encouraging. This caused the forced severance of the bond between us. There was no huge, tearful separation rather, we merely drifted into our separate existences. Even now, I still miss him and, of all the people I knew at the time, he's the one person I hope is the happiest.
There was nothing left but to endure the final mechanics of the final thr
oes of my schooling. Now the decision had been made, there was nothing to prevent me from going down to the town centre more often.
By far the majority of the encounters I had were pretty routine and boring. The most popular demand was for oral sex. The rest split into two main categories – either to fuck the tricks or mutually wank. I have refrained from describing any of these many thousands of meetings – after all, how many different ways can one describe the same thing?
Looking back, I frightened myself at the amount of sex I was getting. By visiting the racks roughly two nights a week and every weekend, the numbers mounted up at an alarming rate. On a slack night, the evenings produced about five to ten punters. On a busy one, I could get through as many as twenty or thirty. Weekends were even worse (or better!) and, what's more, they were always bouncing.
I had inherited two regular punters from a lad called Terry, who was going to try new horizons by moving down to London. Where we lived, London held an attraction which nowhere else in the country could rival. It was our Mecca. We worshipped the place. Amongst the boys, fables were rife about some legendary male prostitute who'd gone there and hit the big time. He'd bunked down with a famous, stinking rich pop singer, film star or some other such seemingly inaccessibly fabulous person. I suspect many of these stories were untrue, but there must have been the odd few who had actually managed it.
Terry, my benefactor, wouldn't say what my bequests were into, he merely smirked and told me they were easy money and would be something a bit different.
The first was an attractive looking man in his early forties. I was completely thrown when, as he began undressing me with trembling hands, he intoned breathily the immortal terms of endearment – “I want to brush you all over – with my eyelashes!” He did. (This was his catchphrase because he used it on each of our dates.) For me, it was completely devoid of even the tiniest thrill. I had to resort to good old–fashioned self–stimulation to show I was still interested.
The other, a young man in his early twenties, always hired an hotel room for his unique little quirk. I remained fully dressed and had to lightly and rhythmically tap the tip of his nose whilst he, with eyes closed, eagerly jerked himself off. If the sessions had been recorded, the noises he made would make one think I had the biggest cock in the world and, with agony and ecstasy, he was taking the lot.
Both these clients paid over the odds. I was grateful to Terry in bequeathing them to me. I only wished all my clients could be so easily satisfied.
Around this time, ‘Lily Law’ must have developed a sense of social responsibility. Maybe because news of ‘The Evil’ had eventually filtered through to them, but it appeared they’d finally been instructed to clamp down on the flesh business. There was a noticeable increase in their unwelcome presence. They began using selected, young coppers for the purpose of entrapment. That is to say, some poor sod was compulsorily volunteered. After ‘dressing down’ for the purpose, they had to haunt known fleshpots. Depending upon what they were targeting on any particular day's blitz, they posed as either rents or tricks. You could easily spot them a mile off. If there was still some doubt, an exchange of a few words condemned them to being sprung. Another delicious irony we enjoyed was when our gay copper friends told us where and when these futile events were due for scheduling. Also, I don't know what ‘Lily’ thought rent boys and/or tricks looked like, but they invariably managed to choose the wrong type to pose in each category.
There are always exceptions to any rule and ‘Lily Law’ wasn't exempt. From what we could gather, one particular flatfoot was having considerable success at running in some of our tricks. Worse, a substantial number of the boys had been rounded up and gleefully paraded through the judicial system. The various descriptions of ‘Little Miss Zealous’ tallied. Everyone agreed that he must have been in his early twenties, but looking younger. He was a stereotypical blonde, with blue eyes and the body of a swimmer. His height must have put him on the absolute minimum for a copper (even with his helmet). He drove a small, white, soft topped sports car. The only strange thing was the circumstance of each arrest. He always allowed the chosen victim to go a great deal further than was absolutely necessary to effect an arrest. His various quarries tended to be on the right side of good looking. ‘Hmm,’ was our knowingly unanimous response. None of our pink boys in blue knew who he was or where he was stationed. A real mystery man.
Like many of the real criminals, which the limited police resources should have been productively chasing, with us, he made one major error.
By collecting and studying the disparate reports from those he had booked, it soon became apparent he was working to a strict rota and highly rigid timetable. Each weekly period found him being rostered on the same shift. We even suspected that he could be requesting this normally unpopular duty. ‘Hmm,’ we again agreed. Of course, there were some notable exceptions to this unpopularity. There was some hard core, boorish homophobes who delighted in picking on easy targets to give vent to their desires by throwing their bullish, gay bashing weight around.
After collating all the scattered fragments of information, we noticed a specific pattern to his beat. We soon worked out all the details of his routes and the times for each of his ‘surprise’ visits.
A few days later I arrived in ‘Hell’ and found the whole place humming with the latest gossip. Much to everyone’s delight and approval, six rents had struck a clenched fist for gay pride and freedom. Because I was ignorant of the event, they fell over themselves to be the first to impart the delectable saga.
On the previous evening a carefully worked out trap was hatched, planned and put into action. If it worked, our poor unsuspecting tormentor wouldn't know what had hit him. The conspirators selected our prettiest lad, a blonde, tousled haired youth of about sixteen years of age to be the decoy. Ian, as he was called, was so stunning he could and should have been a youthful top model. They chose a toilet that everyone had calculated ‘Little Miss Zealous’ would be visiting and deliberately planted a blatantly loitering Ian outside.
As was hoped, our Bobby kept religiously to his schedule and, almost to the anticipated minute, pulled up outside the selected loo in his instantly recognisable car. Ian went into action and began lurking suspiciously. As their victim went up to the toilet entrance, he flashed a bright smile at Ian who returned a calculatedly coy response, which only he could bring off. The five other attendant conspirators watched at a safe distance from a concealed vantage point. The object of their scrutiny walked through the door and unwittingly into the trap. Ian gave a ‘thumbs up’ sign to the rest of the lads thus giving them the ‘all clear’ to move in closer. Satisfied the back up had received the message, Ian followed to spring the trap. What happened then was as much a surprise to the six avengers as to their prey.
“Come on, let’s go,” one had said.
“No. It's too soon. We must wait,” came the reply. “Remember Ian’s signals.”
“And how are we going to hear them from here, you silly tart?” said the first. “We’ve got to get closer.”
Another of the boys looked at his watch and grunted. “Okay guys, I think that should do it. Operation ‘Back Passage’ is about to commence.”
By the time they’d ambled up to the entrance of the toilet, things inside must have started happening for they didn’t have to wait long for the first of Ian’s prearranged vocal signals. They waited and listened in silence at the door for the second signal. Ian’s loud “OOH!” erupted from inside. Then the gang, taking this as their cue, rushed in and struck. As they turned the corner they saw the copper hadn’t wasted much time. He was bending over and pulling the cheeks of his arse apart in readiness for being rammed by the length of Ian’s bulky weapon. When the prone figure saw the others hurrying towards him, he attempted to pull up his jeans. Too late! The young man was strong but he was no match for a screaming gang of rampaging queens who were determined to wreak revenge. They held him down and between them completely divested him o
f his clothing. He may have been scared but his dick was getting harder by the second and he didn’t appear to be putting up too much of a fight. With great skill and enthusiasm he was subjected to a ritual gang bang with each person taking his turn. And what wasn't at any precise moment being burrowed into his arse was massaging his larynx or being rolled around his face.
Then Ian took centre stage. He was famed for his high class blowjobs and using all his well honed skills, went to work on the poor, unsuspecting bastard. Ian deftly teased and tormented the poor sod’s cock until the pressure became almost too much. Ian later claimed that without having to use his hands once he'd coaxed the quivering copper into delivering not one, not two but three large warrants down his throat. When the boys had been fully satisfied, (and, they suspected, so had ‘Mr Plod’) they ran out and left him – taking his clothes with them.
“Jeez. How did he get home?” I asked.
“Who gives a fuck?” came the reply.
I scratched my ear, “Perhaps, we should.”
Ian laughed. “Oh balls!! What’s it matter? He's hardly likely to complain is he? I’d love to be a fly on that wall if he tried to explain this to his superiors.”
