by Ned Williams
Rick gradually introduced me to more friends of his. For each person I had to perform the polite thing and stand up, which caused me even more discomfort. I assume Rick wanted to show off his partner and let them all have a gawp at the barely concealed cock and balls. They gave me strange but interested looks. If it hadn’t been for Rick, I believe I could have earned a small fortune out of them. Ah well, that’s life!
I quickly gathered that not all Marti’s guests were gay. There were many individuals and couples who were plainly as straight as a die but with an open turn of mind. Naturally, these sympathetic allies drew wrathful expositions from my temporary employer. He spat out his anti–straight venom to anyone that was gay and had the misfortune to be close enough to receive the full wisdom of his ire.
One aspect of these straight men amused me immensely. Some of them decided that they would come in drag. They tended to be better looking and more outrageous than the queens. It was a delight to see these men being so comfortable with their own sexuality. They could arrive at a party in drag and carry it off with such relish. These particular gentlemen really got up Rick’s nose. He actually found the courage to verbally attack one or two of them to their faces. Strangely, he received as good as he gave, which disturbed him considerably. Straights weren’t supposed to be able to out–bitch a bitch.
There was, however, one sore thumbed exception.
A quiet, simpering, pasty faced young man with a particularly gormless expression had in tow an extraordinarily hard faced girl who piercingly protested in a cut–glass voice, “Aren’t there any real men around here?” Adding, “All I see are a load of queers, over–painted butterflies and perverts!”
The straight members of the party threw warning remarks at her in a vain attempt to shut her up but her determination was not to be so easily halted.
“Thank the Lord for my friends. Not a single abomination amongst them, I’m pleased to announce.”
“Are you sure?” asked a youthful and extremely handsome butch guy with whom I had already exchanged knowing looks.
“They should leave their mother’s dresses alone and take a leaf out of your book. I mean – look at them! And where’s their sense of taste and style? They should all learn to start being real men.” Her remark was too grand to be aimed solely at Mister Stunning.
A wry grin could be detected on his lips. “Isn’t personal happiness more important?” She shrugged. “I wish I could act with your superiority.”
“Don’t tell me you feel any sympathy for all these shirt lifting subversives?”
“Well, I...”
“For instance,” she cut in, “look at that thing over there. What on earth does he think he looks like? If he’s a sailor then I’m Fanny Craddock!”
‘Hang on a moment,’ I thought. ‘She's means me!’
Unfortunately for her, Rick overheard her and was having none of it. Though his eyes narrowed, there was a delightful twinkle in them. He was about to enjoy himself. “I don’t know about being Fanny Craddock, but it certainly appears that you’ve tried to copy her sartorial look. What are you, some sort of battered centipede? Tell me, who’s in charge of the whore house whilst you are here? Oh, and my dear, those shoes! They make you walk like a pregnant old sow. What were you thinking?” Rick’s remarks were delivered at top speed and elicited a huge guffaw from the rest of the revellers.
When the mirth had died a little, ‘Mouthy’ deserted her wimp of a boyfriend and linked arms with butch, snuggling into his shoulder, saying, “If I were you, gorgeous, I’d keep my back against the wall in case Pope Joan there decides to thrust his Benediction into you.” She was hoisting herself by her own petard.
Her leaning post gave a radiant smile of utter glee. “Oh, I’ve had bigger, older and uglier cocks up my arse than that. How about you?”
Elvis yelled, “Great floorshow, Marti.”
“Nothing’s too good for my guests,” she yelled back. It was fairly obvious that Marti disapproved of her guest’s unwelcome battle.
After quickly fortifying herself by hastily downing a neat vodka, ‘Mouthy’ seemed determined to revive the standing of her dying ego. Her next big mistake was in taking on Queen Elizabeth I. She had chosen to do battle with an expert. She was no match.
“Tell me, sweetheart, I must know who does your makeup – so that I can avoid them?”
‘Mouthy’, taken aback replied, “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Yes… thought as much. The colour goes so well with your yellow teeth.”
The boyfriend must have known that ‘Mouthy’ was onto a loser and was desperately trying his best to stop her. It was to no avail. On she ploughed.
“And what about yours? I’ve seen better makeup on – on – on a window dummy”
“Ooh, aren’t you the vicious one? Actually, academically speaking, it is generally assumed that ‘Good Queen Bess’ was unable to take full advantage of Coco Chanel’s expertise. Thus, my studied and careful creation, is my humble attempt at historical accuracy. Not that I’d expect you to know anything about that. Education doesn’t appear to be a particularly strong point of yours, does it? It does strike me that you have all the potential and intellectual capabilities of a gnat.”
“And I suppose that’s supposed to be some sort of clever remark, is it?” asked she.
“Well, in all seriousness and modesty, I must confess that I was once ‘Brain of Britain’. And what’s your claim to fame? Slag heap of the century?”
We could see her smart under that one. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you!”
“No, my precious – just scrupulously honest.”
Utterly demolished, she burst into tears and fled the party.
“Has she gone or is she still here? One can never tell!”
Uproarious laughter and applause accompanied her departure. Her boyfriend chose not to follow. He spent the rest of the evening quietly taking people to one side and apologising to them for his girlfriend’s lack of tact. Most people didn’t care but it was a nice thought.
About an hour later I had my first encounter, totally unwittingly on my part, with Marti’s boyfriend, Matthew. Rick had minced off to the toilet to wrestle with his costume in an attempt to relieve himself. Matthew, as soon as Rick was out of sight, came over, pulled up his pink taffeta dress and joined me on the floor.
“Hi.” I nodded my response. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to you all evening.” I smiled and looked to see if Rick was returning. “Is he your steady?”
“Not really.”
“So, you’re foot loose and fanny free?”
“Not really,” I repeated.
He leaned back and started chatting me up. Although he was with Marti, it turned out that he was openly gay – and Marti knew all about it.
For the party, Matthew was wearing exceedingly bad drag. I wasn’t absolutely sure who or what he was supposed to be. He saw Rick returning and stood up to leave, whispering, “Meet me in the kitchen, I want to talk to you,” as he did so.
Nothing evaded the ever–vigilant eye of Rick. “What did she want?”
“Nothing. He was just playing the host.”
“Hmm! I wonder.” I felt it was tactful to say no more. He brightened. “My dear, you are proving decidedly remiss. My glass is empty – yet again!” I was being gently scolded. Was fate conspiring for me to meet up with Matthew?
I went out to the kitchen to get Rick his refill. True to his word, Matthew was out there and waiting for me.
“Hiya, big boy. Glad you could make it.”
“Rick wants a top–up,” I mumbled. “I must get back.”
“Allow me.” He took the glass. “Here, how about this?” He held up a bottle of Domestos. “It might improve her complexion. What d’you think?”
“I think that’s a little unkind.” I was uncertain whether I liked this guy or not.
“Is it?” He sounded as though, to him, it was a completely alien thought.
“Yes,” I s
napped. “As a matter of fact, he’s a very nice chap.”
Matthew shrugged. “If you say so. But,” he pressed, “I’m sure you can do a lot better for yourself.” His hand, reaching for and then caressing my crutch accompanied this. I pulled back – slightly.
“I told you – I’m with someone.”
“Oh, come on. You know you want it.”
I raised my eyebrows in mock surprise. “Do I?”
“I can see you getting excited.” I silently cursed the all–revealing trousers. Matthew pointed to a door. “How about we go into the spare bedroom and sort it out for you. I’m sure we won’t be missed for a couple of hours.”
I thought, ‘a couple of hours? There’s a boast!’ Aloud I merely muttered, “I can’t.” He was about to speak. I got in first. “Not tonight, anyway. How about tomorrow?”
We made arrangements and I returned to a darkly brooding Rick.
Matthew still had trouble understanding why we were unable to simply disappear for a while. How could I explain to him that I couldn’t allow it? We rents maintained an unwritten, strict code of conduct. When we were with a trick, it was unthinkable to desert him for someone else. It just wasn’t the done thing. When on a job, it was unseemly to moonlight on our moonlighting.
The party ground on. Towards the end, when the poopers had left and everyone had relaxed, Rick was having a short, drunken nap on an old man’s shoulder. All conversations were being conducted in hushed voices. I found myself sitting beside Marti who asked, “Have you enjoyed yourself?”
“Very much, thank you.”
I stared into her smiling, dark, mysterious eyes. “Good.” She looked contented. “I hope this isn’t the last we see of you.”
“I hope so too.” To keep the conversation going, I threw in a compliment. It never failed. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you have beautiful hair.”
“Thank you. It’s hell to manage.” She shook her head, allowing the blond locks to flow. “I’d love to have it cut short and...”
“No,” I interrupted, “you can’t. It looks wonderful.”
“That’s a matter of opinion. Anyway, all my friends have threatened to desert me if I ever did.” The lilt in her voice was driving me insane.
“And a good thing, too.” Was I talking about her hair or her voice? She gave me a quizzical look.
“That’s very kind of you,” she purred.
This insignificant exchange was the prelude to a long discussion. During the course of our rambling chat she, totally unabashed, volunteered information as if it were the most natural thing in the world. We were relaxed and I soon began to feel that I had known her all my life.
Her family was ‘something big in finance’ and had moved to London from Turin – or Torino, as she called it – to further their business interests. Marti’s fascination with the world of international high finance was a massive nil, so she moved right away from them to live her own life in her own way. Although her family gave a substantial allowance to enable Marti to live comfortably, she still felt the need for a little show of independence. Consequently, she took some part–time work at a local bookshop. Matthew was indeed her boyfriend (!). I refrained from telling her about our little encounter in the kitchen.
When she tried to find out about me, I stuck to my art study, love of theatre and music, and the more normal aspects of my life. I couldn’t have fooled her, after all, what was I doing there with Rick? If Marti did think it odd, she tactfully chose to ignore it.
Before Rick and I finally left, she pulled me to one side. “I’m giving you an open invitation to come ’round and see me any time you want.”
Rick, sensing that something was going on, moved in closer. “I’d like that, if you really mean it.”
She gave me a knowing smile. “Oh, believe me, I never say anything I don’t mean”
As we climbed into the taxi, Rick threw, “As someone once said, ‘Beware of Greeks bearing gifts’! Watch yourself, little man. Look out for those still waters. They really do run deep.”
I couldn’t be bothered to work out what the hell he was talking about.
The following evening I met Matthew and we went back to the house he shared with three others. Our session wasn’t particularly memorable but afterwards, as we lounged, he told me a lot more about his relationship with Marti.
Matthew was a high flyer in the fashion industry. Surprisingly, he felt the need to hide his proclivities from his clients. He needed a cover. Marti was his willing alibi. As far as he was concerned, it was a matter of ‘convenience’. Marti, however, saw it in a little more serious light. Just how serious, I was to find out later. From what I was able to gather, it appeared that their whole liaison was built on very soggy sand.
During our short fling, Matthew and I only had sex a few times. He was a bit too camp for my liking. Although he was good looking, he appeared to have plucked eyebrows. Proudly, he told me that he practised this self–mutilation for a drag act he performed in straight, working men’s clubs. Funnily enough this small confession, almost immediately, put me right off him. Another thing that turned me off was a singular and highly peculiar obsession he had.
After we’d been seeing one another a couple of times, he assumed I was ready for it. We were about to get down to it when he went out into the kitchen. He brought in from the freezer two trays of ice cubes.
“I want you to make use of these.”
Puzzled, I said, “Okay.” He knelt on the floor. I thought a little clarification was needed. “Um, Matthew. I hate to sound completely stupid but – what do I do with them?”
He bent over and spread his legs. “Shove ’em, one by one, up where the sun don’t shine – right up inside me.” Luckily, he was facing away so he couldn’t see the horrified look of revulsion that I must have worn.
‘Well,’ I thought, ‘this will be a first.’
As he wiggled his posterior in delicious anticipation, he gasped, “I simply adore the coldness. The pressure on my colon slowly being eased as the ice melts is very satisfying. You should try it.”
“Thanks, but if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll give it a miss.”
It was strangely phenomenal to observe the cubes being sucked up into his ring. His muscular control to keep the frozen enema inside was admirable. I wondered if Matthew’s little bottom abuse with the ice cold mini–dildo’s was healthy and what internal damage he might be doing to his body in the long term. I also considered how he would explain to a doctor how he managed to get frostbite in such a bizarre place.
I could only manage to cater to this odd foible on two occasions. The first time I was hypnotically fascinated; the second made me feel ill. On one visit, I caught him in full drag. He was trying on a new outfit for his show. That finished me.
“Do you like them?” He was wearing a new pair of giant, untrimmed false eyelashes, which he fluttered suggestively at me. This single act demolished any feeling that I might have had for him.
There was a pleasing consequence to this meeting. I received from him a message from Marti. “She wants me to remind you about her invitation for you to go around for a visit.” Matthew had a strange edge to his voice. Didn’t he approve?
A couple of days later, I rang the doorbell of Marti’s flat.
We sat and talked for a whole evening. The topics were fairly inconsequential but she had a penetrating and humorous way of observing life. When I left, she insisted we make another date and that, I happily agreed to. I liked Marti and soon began visiting her on a fairly regular basis. I adored her candid honesty. She had the ability to expound on the most involved theories of art as well as utter trivia. No matter what the subject, she had at least a working knowledge of it. She made everything sound enchanting. The only thing that marred this near perfect person, at least for me, was a comparative indifference to the arts. Actually, she wasn’t particularly interested in anything. She just was.
It soon became clear to me that there was a disti
nct possibility that we could become intimate. Her body language appeared to speak to me in volumes. And then there were the looks. Knowing. Was I simply kidding myself? Could it all be in my imagination? Was I only seeing what I wanted to see? For a while, I decided to ignore any perceived ‘come on’ and so I let it ride.
All in the Family
Whilst all this involvement with Marti and Matthew was developing, my visits to Winston and Barbara’s home continued. They became regular and much anticipated. Each fortnightly appointment had settled down to a routine, pleasing evening. They all followed much the same pattern as our first. I took to giving them the occasional present of records as a ‘thank you’ for all the quality food that they supplied and which I eagerly consumed. There were many times when I made the mistake of purchasing the odd record that Winston already had in his vast collection. Because, at the time, it was impossible to return records to the shops, I had to keep them. Consequently, my own comparatively small collection (when placed against his) began to grow and become more varied.
On one of these evenings, after a couple of months, I was well in front of myself and arrived early. This coincided with a message that was waiting for me. It was Leonard who delivered it.
“Mum phoned, then Dad. They’ve both been slightly delayed at work and are running late.” My disappointment showed. “Don’t worry, they’re not cancelling. I’m to make you comfortable until they arrive.”
Immediately, Tamara said how she couldn’t stay as she had a date. Just before she closed the door on us, she gave Leonard a puzzling, massive, knowing wink.
For the first time since I’d been entertained by the family, I found myself alone with Leonard. Acting the part of a perfect host, he invited me to sit down on one of the sofas and went out to make us a cup of coffee. There was a brief, yelled conversation between the two rooms. When he returned, he carried a tray with the required coffees and a plate of biscuits. Was I seeing things? Was it a trick of the light? From the look of the bulge in his ice blue jeans, I could have sworn he was sporting a half–erection. Impossible. He placed the tray on the coffee table and stood up. He looked around for a seat but remained facing me. Was it the fold of the material? I endeavoured to make out that I hadn’t noticed anything. He gave up his search for another seat – although there were plenty, and with a great show of athleticism, he threw himself down on the other end of the sofa from myself.
