Street Kid

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Street Kid Page 24

by Ned Williams


  The front door was pulled wide open and there stood, with huge, welcoming smiles and offered hands, Sophie’s Uncle and Aunt.

  I surmised that, unlike Sophie, the family was pure, black African. They were both tall and looked in their mid to late forties.

  “I’m Winston, and this is my wife, Barbara.”

  “Hello.” They looked a charming couple.

  “Let’s not stand out here. Do come in. You too, Sophie.”

  Sensing there was going to be no foreseeable problems, Sophie frowned and said, “Well, I can only stay for a second or two.”

  We were shown into a large lounge. As I entered, a young man and woman rose from one of the three couches.

  Barbara introduced me. “These are our children. Our son, Leonard and daughter, Tamara.”

  They both greeted me with warm handshakes and invited me to sit. They both looked in their late teens, but I could have been wrong. It certainly was a good–looking family.

  Before Sophie left and the rest of us went into dinner, I learned a great deal about them.

  Although Winston was primarily interested in music, Barbara was smitten with art and the theatre. (Why didn’t I have a family like this?) They were both doctors. Contrary to my misgivings, I felt I was in for a delectably affable evening.

  As we sat down to our meal, it became steadily evident that we were all going to get along splendidly. From another room came the sound of a record player. Winston told me it was Mahler’s ‘Ninth Symphony’ which, up to that time, I didn’t know. Although recordings and performances of Mahler’s symphonies now clog the CD catalogues and concert halls, this was a period when his music was still fairly unknown.

  It must have been blatantly obvious to Winston that I was under age but it didn’t stop him offering me a glass of vintage wine.

  As both our meal and the Mahler Symphony slowly progressed, Winston began to relax and speak with even more candour. With cool eloquence, he gave vent to his frustration at not being able to attend live concerts because of his colour. His family must have heard this same lament many times before but they joined me in listening in silence as Winston relived his subtle humiliation. How could white people show such arrant and arrogant bigotry? To me, it was such a tragedy that a music lover could suffer such blatant hostility and intimidation when attending a concert simply because he was black.

  Being a shy and retiring man, Winston didn’t care to be stared at. “It makes me edgy,” he groaned. “I feel it impossible to concentrate on, or enjoy any of the music I’ve come to hear.”

  I felt comfortable enough to venture an impertinent question. “Don’t you feel at all angry about it? I think I would.”

  “Good question, Steve,” Barbara slipped in as she gave her husband a significant look. When he only smiled an answer, she emitted a disparaging snort and went out into the kitchen to bring in a gigantic, homemade mixed–fruit pie.

  “Not anger, especially,” he finally responded.

  “Well, you should!” Barbara yelled from the next room. Leonard and Tamara, who had said very little since I arrived, nodded and smiled in mutual agreement.

  “I know I should, but I can’t.” He thought for a moment. “I’ll admit a certain sense of disappointment. And, yes, it does hurt me deeply.”

  He found his comprehension well and truly challenged. Like him, I found it difficult to get my mind around the fact that, just because he was a different colour, white people couldn’t conceive that he could love European music. What did they expect – all Africans to bang drums and chant?

  “Are they this prejudiced when they see you at the hospital for medical help?” I asked.

  He nearly let out an expletive but stopped himself. “Hardly,” he substituted. “Then it doesn’t matter.”

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” put in Leonard.

  “How about if we go to a concert together?” I offered. This was met with an indulgent smile. “I don’t mind. It certainly doesn’t bother me.”

  “Thanks, but I wouldn’t want you to come to any harm.”

  I let the remark pass. I didn’t fully understand what he was talking about but, I could understand a little of what he must be feeling. In my limited experience of ethnic minorities, I hadn’t come across the actual physical danger they faced on a regular basis. When, eventually, I saw and heard at first hand what they were subjected to, it made me very angry. At the time of our meeting, however, because gays were treated as ‘outsiders’, we frequently faced prejudice and often experienced being both verbally and physically attacked. Thus, I could understand a little of his fears. He was a gentle soul who was being totally wronged.

  After the meal, Barbara and Tamara excused themselves. Winston and his near mute son guided me into yet another part of the ground floor. This, I discovered, was Winston’s private kingdom; his ‘music room’. Dumbly, I stared around at the walls. The whole room was an Aladdin’s Cave. Every spare inch was lined with designer record cabinets – and they were almost full! Winston revelled in my childish delight. With shining eyes, he proudly displayed his considerable record and reel–to–reel tape collection. Quite a few of them were of the long–playing variety. These were Winston’s surrogate ‘live concerts’. At this point, I produced the pathetic selection I’d brought with me for his opinion and approval. He nodded and told me that he had the self–same recordings. How could he know, with so many records to memorise?

  Against the wall, diametrically opposite from a pair of colossal speakers were some comfortable chairs. Leonard and I sat down whilst Winston drew out and put onto his turntable, a recording of Brahms’ ‘Second Symphony’, followed by Beethoven's ‘Emperor Concerto’. Apart from a small break for coffee, we half ignored the music and talked solidly for a couple of hours. Actually, that’s not strictly true – Winston and I talked, Leonard sat and smiled a lot. He sprawled in his armchair. He made it clear that, although not particularly interested in our type of music, he was more than happy to watch his father enjoy himself. And enjoy himself, he did. Our sole topic of conversation was music. It made us both very happy. Winston was as enthusiastic as I, but a great deal more knowledgeable.

  Eventually, this delectable evening came to a reluctant end and we made another date. Winston generously gave me a lift home in a massive car.

  As we approached the end of my road, I panicked. “Here will do just fine, thanks.”

  “Are you sure?” Did he suspect that I lived a couple of hundred yards away?

  “Yes. Thanks for a wonderful evening.” I watched him drive away.

  Walking home, I became pensive. Why couldn’t I allow him to drop me outside my house? It wasn’t, I don’t think, through any prejudice on my part that made me act this way. I believe I was worried my mother would catch sight of him and make a serious bid to try and stop me seeing ‘Those sort of people.’

  The next day, being Saturday, Sophie and I were both rostered to work. She couldn’t wait to find out how her uncle and I had got along. When I told her, she was elated. She had a great affection for her Uncle Winston’s family and was thrilled that he now had someone with whom he could talk music.

  Marti and Matthew

  Whilst I was becoming musically involved with Winston’s family, I had a semi–regular engagement with a youngish client called Rick. He was in his late twenties, tall, painfully thin and cursed with one of the most naturally unfortunate faces that I have ever seen. Almost devoid of hair, his complexion was so severely pock marked from an inordinate number of childhood diseases and adolescent skin complaints that he looked like a figure used by malicious parents to terrify naughty children. An enormous nose divided his two deep set, squinting eyes and his large teeth constantly drew attention to a markedly hair lip. His gait and manner was lumbering, awkward and very high camp.

  These numerous physical setbacks inevitably forced him to hire young men for specific escort purposes. Every time he was invited to a social event, he wanted someone to accompany him as a decorative
accessory.

  Luckily, there were never any sexual requirements demanded but, in company, he insisted I pay court to him as if we were the most loving and devoted couple there had ever been. Fortunately, he was as pleasant as he was ugly. He was easy going, intelligent and extremely funny. The work wasn’t at all arduous. The places he usually went tended to be both interesting and varied so, for each booking he made with me, I knew that I would be in for a pleasurable time.

  On one particular evening, he told me how he’d been invited to a fancy dress party given by an Italian friend of his called Marti. Would I accompany him?

  “What’s he like?”

  “A friend of mine and therefore, understandably, utterly delectable.”

  Having foolishly agreed to join him in donning a fancy dress costume, I was stuck with a serious dilemma. What the fuck could I go as?

  “Don’t worry yourself about it, dear. I have the very thing for you. It will suit you a treat.”

  “Er – I hope it’s nothing too obvious.” I’d been caught out like this before.

  “No, dear,” he smiled. “You’ll be my youthful studley matelot.”

  On the day of the party I went around to Rick’s over the top, pink fluffy flat to get changed. “Do me an itsy–bitsy favour, dear – and remove all of your under–garments before you don the gear. I must have you looking the part to perfection.”

  “Fine.” This was quite a usual request. When I pulled on the white trousers, I quickly discovered that they were so tight, there wouldn’t have been any room for underwear anyway! I looked in his bedroom mirror. I was showing everything I had. Returning to the lounge, I paraded around and threw off a quick hornpipe for him to allow any critical comment.

  “Divine, darling. Absolutely, positively, deliciously, tortuously and totally scandalously divine,” he cooed.

  “I hope I don’t come adrift.”

  “Wear it with utter confidence, my dear. I have diligently double stitched every seam.” His pride in his needlework was palpable.

  Dressed in this white, bell bottomed, ball busting uniform, as we walked down the road to pick up a taxi, I felt a bit of a fool. It wasn’t so much my costume, although that was embarrassing enough, but the fact that Rick had chosen for his own ensemble, a bishop in full regalia complete with mitre and crosier! We were a walking joke; ‘Have you heard the one about the Bishop and the sea cadet...?’

  Our taxi driver neither flinched nor batted an eyelid as we clambered in.

  The flat in which the party was held resided in one of the more select areas of the city. It was huge. Its high ceilings and massive doors hinted at its obvious wealthy and opulent past.

  The room was crowded but it was possible to move around without too much trouble. Soft, sensual music underpinned the gay conversation and mood of the party.

  Unusually, there wasn’t a single person there that I knew.

  “My dear, before we get stuck into the social bit, come and meet our host.” Rick swept me over to a radiant young man who was dressed as a milkmaid. He was talking to an effective Viking and an abysmal Elvis.

  As we approached, the ‘milkmaid’ turned to face us and gave the sweetest of smiles. Extending a tiny, delicate hand, he said, “I’m Lucia Martinelli – but please, call me Marti.” (Not another Italian!!)

  For a moment I was dumbfounded. “Oh, you’re a girl.” I winced at my inane comment.

  Her eyes crinkled into a smile. “Very observant of you, I’m sure.”

  Rick was grinning at his little joke. “My dear, never assume anything,” he proclaimed.

  Attempting to recover my composure, I asked Marti, “Are you any relation to the opera singer?” Rick gave me a blank look.

  Surprised, Marti smiled again. “None that I know of. How come you’ve heard of him?” Her voice sang with a slight Italianate lilt.

  “He’s famous.”

  “Only to some.”

  I could see that Rick was starting to look a little grim. He was loudly ‘huffing’ as his eyes were intently scanning the other guests. Suddenly he swept over to a comfortable chair on the other side of the room that a ‘Little Orphan Annie’ had briefly and foolishly vacated. Ostentatiously, Rick staked his claim to the chair. I knew it was time to terminate my brief conversation with the hostess.

  I glanced over at Rick. From the daggered looks I was getting back from across the crowded room, he plainly thought I was neglecting my duty. “Perhaps we can talk later?”

  “Perhaps.” She raised her eyebrows in amusement and turned away to continue her conversation with Thor and Elvis.

  Sensing the end of our exchange, Rick rose and swept over. Grabbing my arm he dragged me back to his seat. ‘Little Orphan Annie’ was attempting to reclaim his lost pitch. Rick was not to be thwarted. “Hey, bud, park your droopy arse somewhere else, will you? This throne is taken!” ‘Annie’ didn’t take up the challenge but, instead, made a beeline for an imitation Hepplewhite that a seventy year old ‘Cliff Richard’ had just deserted.

  Rick leaned over to a ‘Marlene Dietrich’ and ordered him to ensure that the chair would still be free when he returned. The poor guy was so shy, even under the thick make up he could be seen to blush. Knowing the young man would obey orders, Rick hustled me across the room and announced, “Food and drink – in the kitchen, dear!”

  Before following Rick through the kitchen door, I couldn’t resist a glance back at Marti. She had moved away from ‘Elvis’ and the Viking and was now talking to a fluttering, glamorous and bearded ‘Queen Elizabeth I’.

  In that moment, I drank in Marti’s charm and beauty. Her blonde hair looked out of place on an Italian. In my rather limited experience of the continentals, I assumed all Italians were dark – so it came as a complete surprise to see her ample blonde hair tumbling over her delicate shoulders. I seriously wondered if it was a wig. Even more startling about her that would have been impossible to hide, were her eyes. They were jet black. The contrast with her hair was magical.

  When we had returned with small plates of ‘ickle things’, Rick threw a look at Miss Dietrich to confirm that he was still guarding the disputed chair and, satisfied that all was well, began dragging me around the assembled horde to show me off. After I had been introduced to a few dreary people, Rick parked me on his throne so that he could ‘do the rounds’ on his own for a while. I took the opportunity to stare, once again, at our utterly bewitching and captivating hostess. She was slim, well endowed in the bosom department, and, I estimated, stood about 5'4". Although she looked about sixteen years old, her whole demeanour signified a girl who was clearly mature for her years. Unexpectedly, her little milkmaid’s bonnet slipped and she ran her fingers through her hair before replacing it. It was no wig. It was plain that most men would find her highly desirable.

  I turned to a ‘Cleopatra’, who was sitting on the other side of Rick’s chair from ‘Marlene’ and asked if he knew Marti well.

  “As well as I know the size of any cock that I can take,” he hinted.

  “Sorry, I’m on a date.”

  He accepted the ‘put down’ and answered my questions.

  I discovered that she lived on her own. Her family paid all the expenses for her flat. Rick returned from his tour and, with one thunderous look, despatched Cleo. “Rick?” I ventured.

  He dragged his eyes away from a beautiful, teenage ‘Greek Slave Boy’ and gave me a stare which told me that I didn’t measure up to the looks of this Irish ‘Greek’ boy. “Yes, my sweet?”

  “Marti’s Italian, right?”

  “Right, my little one. From the north, I believe.”

  “Is her hair colour natural?”

  “So I am given to understand,” he sniffed. “Mind you, I haven’t seen her lower portions to ascertain the absolute truth of the matter. And, I can assure you, my dear, I have no desire to do so!” He gave me a frozen smile. “Why, my sweet, may I ask, are you so interested?”

  I wasn’t sure why he should be so determined
that I should know that he wasn’t interested sexually in her. From what I knew of Rick, that was a foregone conclusion. “I thought all Italians were black–haired.”

  “Well, my dear, now you know otherwise, don’t you?” He replied, shortly. Blatantly, he was upset and wanted to be sure that his feelings were being communicated. Talking about a woman, I was skating on thin ice – but I couldn’t help myself. Marti was so magnetic that I wanted to know everything about her. Later, perhaps. For the moment, the time wasn’t right so I tore my mind away from her and devoted all my concentration on Rick and the job for which I’d been hired.

  Once Rick had done a little more of his socialising, he pitched himself on what was fast becoming ‘his’ chair and resumed his surveillance of the party guests to see what was going on and to enjoy any potential ‘scenes’ that might break out. To make up for my previous slip in rent etiquette, I made sure I acted the part of personal attendant to perfection. I fetched his drinks and ensured that his food demands were thoroughly catered for.

  “Carl, my dear child, don’t just stand there looking like a sailor out of water – why not park your sweet little behind on the floor? Here, at my feet!”

  “I’m not sure if I can.” Because of the constriction and compression that my testicles were suffering, I was beginning to experience real discomfort. The thought of testing the strength of Rick’s sailor’s outfit and its resultant extra pressure on my nether regions didn’t exactly fill me with joy.

  Rick pursed his lips. “Oh come on. Be a good little altar boy.”

  Gingerly, I eased myself onto the floor. “Altar boy? I’m dressed as a sailor!”

  “You didn’t have time to change before you came to the service.” He savoured the thought. “Oh, yes. A longshoreman by day and an altar boy at night! Delicious!” He shivered with delight.

  “But I’m dressed as a sailor!” Couldn’t he hear me?

  “Oh, shut your gob! Let me luxuriate, for a blissful while, in my glad thoughts.” I giggled, shook my head and painfully took my position on the floor to join Rick in observing the party. It certainly was a strange affair.

 

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