by Ned Williams
Fallon went over to Skip and tidied his hair by running his fingers through it. Skip closed his eyes and responded as if he were a cat being lovingly stroked. “If you really must try your luck, and to be quite frank, sweetie, with that face of yours I’d think you are definitely onto a losing wicket, then visit…” They then dispensed another list, this time, of places, some of which were familiar, others more obscure to which these pop–gods would head so that they could relax and be themselves.
Leaving Skip and Fallon to continue decorating their pitching post, I went on to the ‘Green Goddess’ where I found Ian and Jacko who were not speaking to one another because of some ridiculous slight each felt the other had inflicted. Although they were sitting at the same table, they were facing in opposite directions.
As I approached their table I blurted, “Hi, slags.” They answered with an unmusical croak of disdain. “What’s wrong now?” I sighed.
“It’s ‘er!” Ian sneered, jerking his head in Jacko’s direction.
“It is not me! It’s ‘er.” Came the reply along with a mirror image of the head movement.
Simultaneously, they turned to face one another. I was now caught in the middle.
Ian: “You’re the one who went off and left me with that idiot.”
Jacko: “I thought you were enjoying yerself.”
Ian: “What, with Smegma–Breath?”
Jacko: “Yeh.”
Me: “Who’s Smegma–Breath?”
Jacko: (To me) “What?”
Ian: “I can’t stand him. He’s disgusting”
Jacko: “That’s why I thought you were okay with him!”
Ian: “Oh, you bitch!”
Me: “Who’s Smegma–Breath?”
Ian: (To me) “You don’t want to know!”
But I did.
Ian: “Well, you’ll be pleased to know that he wanted to perform his usual trick”
Me: “What trick?”
Jacko: “What, with the...:
Ian: “Exactly! What a freak!”
Jacko: “I thought you liked it.”
Me: “Liked what?”
Jacko: (To me) “It!”
Me: “What?”
Ian: “Well, I didn’t and I don’t.”
Jacko: “That’s not what I heard. It’s common knowledge that...” It wasn’t to me.
Ian: “I don’t have to sit here and...” He rose grandly from his seat.
Jacko: “Go on, dear. Sod off as usual.”
Ian: “Whore!” And out he went.
Jacko: (Standing) “Ian, I’m sorry...” and out he went as well.
I never discovered what the hell the row was about or who Smegma–Breath was even though I asked them many times. They always made a point of changing the subject as quickly as possible.
Looking around, I noticed that the confrontation had attracted a lot of attention from the few other customers who had paused in their consuming of comestibles to witness the situation. I smiled wanly. “It’s all right; they often carry on like this. Really, they’re the best of friends.” No one believed me and the café returned to its quiet wash of sound except for Renata’s husband who eyeballed his customers and started to mutter darkly in Italian.
Over the next few days I digested all Skip and Fallon had divulged and soon became interested in finding out about the pop singers touring dates and when they would visit the city. Once again, the office girls’ magazines came in handy.
Still, the big question insisted on bugging me: how could I actually meet them in person. The more the answer eluded me, the more desperate I became in wanting to ‘hang out’ on the scene. I started by making a tour of the various pubs and clubs which my informants had mentioned – at least, those I either knew or remembered. If any of these ‘stars’ did visit the places Skip and Fallon had listed, I never came across them. I wondered why they had so easily volunteered the list of names. Were they deliberately laying a false trail so they could corner this illusive market? God, what a little tart I was becoming!
A more concrete lead came about a week later when, with Zenda, I was on a double date hiring to a client who was into threesomes. The client bore a vague resemblance to a lead singer in one of the pop groups and, on the way back to the centre, I commented on this to my companion.
“Yeh, I suppose he does but the trick gives better sex. T’other one is lousy at it.”
I gulped. “You’ve had him?”
“I’m not sure if what we did was ‘had him’. He didn’t seem to know which way to turn and, as you know my dear, I only turn one way.”
I wasn’t going to let this pass. “How did you meet him?”
“The usual.”
Resisting the temptation of giving Zenda a good slapping, I continued, “And what’s that?”
“Write him a letter, care of the place he’s playing, and offer to meet up.”
“A letter? Is that all?”
“Well, yes; but there’s a bit more to it than that. You have to use the word ‘gay’ a few times. Say his songs are catchy and gay. That his singing makes you feel gay – stuff like that.”
“And that’ll do the trick?”
“Yep – in more ways than one.” It must be remembered that the word ‘gay’ as a homosexual term was only in common usage in our community and was still fairly unknown to the straights. “It’s always worked with me, that is, if they are up for it. In the letter you say you will be at the stage door after the show for an autograph and you will be wearing such and such. There you are! You’ve chucked out the line and you go to see if the fish has bit.”
I was impressed. “It’s as simple as that?” I couldn’t wait to try it.
“Don’t forget – don’t say anything to anyone about anyone, anyone(!) you may get to have. It aren’t the done thing. Mum’s the word.” As this was one of the most important unwritten laws of the racks, it appeared a rather unnecessary piece of advice.
“What about you telling me about matey’s double?”
“I told you, he was so crap in bed, he deserves to be named – but don’t you go telling anyone about him – not even the other slags. It just slipped out.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“Unlike half an hour ago, eh?” he grinned.
“Yes, and unlike your ass–hole, too.”
The next day, in our local paper, I looked up the forthcoming events section and made a note of the groups/solo singers and the venues which were scheduled for them to appear. That night, I carefully crafted a slightly suggestive missive to a fairly indifferent looking singer who was appearing in a fairly small venue two nights later. This action was something of an experiment – to see if Zenda’s advice was on the ball and that my hoped for fish would bite.
Standing outside the Stage Door, or what passed for it, I was full of both anticipation and trepidation. Was I about to make an utter fool of myself or worse? Could the object of my letter have read accurately between the lines and reported me to the cops? The object of my attention came out of the Stage Door and looked around. I was one of about twenty fans and he singled me out immediately and approached. Almost unbelievably, the ruse worked a treat. The resulting date was a complete failure as the singer was looking for someone to poke and not to be poked. Many subsequent dates which came my way were extremely variable but there was always one thing in common. Their weeks seemed to consist entirely of rehearsals, touring, concerts, parties, drink, sex, smoking ‘pot’, as it was then called, and sleeping. In most cases, they didn’t seem to be particularly good at any of it – certainly not, as Zenda had hinted, the ‘sex’ part.
Over the next few weeks I repeated this ruse on a regular basis. Not all my unsolicited letters received a result but enough did. Thus I began meeting various famous people from this curious world, and, as one of the perks, obtained a number of free tickets for some of the best seats at their concerts so that they could show off to me. I was expected to praise their performances to the hilt and convince them that the
y are the biggest star of all time and one only wished that the public and critics agreed with the monumentally exaggerated assessment I gave.
There was one particular ballad singer who I managed to get to know very well. Indeed, I became his boy in our particular port. During one concert, he announced that his next song was to be dedicated to someone special who was “sitting in the audience, tonight.” He looked over in my direction and everyone in the vicinity craned their necks to see if they could spot the object of this dedication. He then went on to sing a love song and kept looking across to where I was squirming. Still the local members of the audience craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the ‘someone special’. I nearly crawled under my seat. Luckily, there were quite a few screaming girls around me, so when he later claimed that he did it to embarrass me (not to mention the potential of embarrassing himself by risking being so open with his desires) it went by largely unnoticed as, I suspect, the whole audience concluded it was one of these frantically screeching girls he was serenading.
After a month or two, from my privileged position, I delighted in hearing my work mates frequently indulging in waxing a desire of meeting this or that singer and to seduce them. I held my tongue and gave no indication that I had beaten them to it. They would have been very disappointed at many of the sessions as famed objects of their desires just weren’t very good at sex with guys let alone what they could have done with a girl.
Also, this was about the time, it became quite trendy for the more open minded youth to try all forms of sex and in any combination. The emancipation of women with the pill and its subsequent gift of sexual freedom had, to a certain degree, extended to a lot of males who wanted to and were now able to explore their sexuality and experiment. I had discovered that the pop world was no exception.
During the interval of a concert Andy and I had decided to attend, one of the supporting solo singers, who was at the very start of his hoped for career and had sung in the first part of the concert thereby completing his set for the evening, was slumming it with his anticipated future adoring fans who were mobbing him in their ones. He saw me and his eyes lit up. The next thing I knew, I was being chased round a pillar by the obnoxious singer who, as it turned out, was definitely a one hit wonder – in more ways than one! Andy saw what was happening and, grinning, came over.
“Andy, if I have ever meant anything to you,” I begged, “then get this lanky, slimy shit out of my hair, will you?”
Andy, bless him, assumed instantly the role of a jealous lover and glared at my would be molester who murmured an indistinct apology and moved away. Thanks to my friend, I was then left alone. We next saw him chasing after Zenda and this time he won the race. They left together. Later, Zenda moaned what an utter waste of time it was. “A couple of strained thrusts and it was all over! My ring hardly had time to blossom”
To my utter shame I must confess that I actually began to like a lot of music from the sixties. I even started to buy the odd single.
Once, I was invited to a party which was given after one of these pop concerts. A particularly well known and rather ugly solo singer, presumably begging a compliment, asked me a rather leading question. “Who’s your favourite Pop group?”
“The Philharmonia.” I answered in my best dry voice.
He laughed. I stared. “Oh, you’re being serious.”
“Yes.”
“If you like that sort of crap, what are you doing here?” He sidled up closer.
“To have sex,” I grunted, “with someone gorgeous.”
He ran his hand up my leg and whispered, “Is that right?” And he licked my face.
“Yes. Like, him over there.” And off I swaggered.
I didn’t succeed with the object of my choice but I did with a couple of others. Each time I returned, my ugly singer glared.
I was surprised and delighted to find that I was being recommended by one singer to another when they next had a concert in the city. Was I becoming another Skip and Fallon?
Before Leaving Home
By now, my life was getting so full it was becoming a challenge to fit everything in. My work, art studies and rack haunting lives were bad enough but, added to this, was also my new found interest in the world of popular music or, at least, the people involved in it. Although it was never expected, I still managed to find time to visit contented Marti and her ever growing tummy.
As for my dearest mother... because her brat of a son was steadily finding his feet and place in the world, she attempted to clip my wings in every way possible. She developed the idea that her health was suffering to such a degree that, to hear her talk, she was in danger of becoming permanently house bound. Her deterioration was so fast that it appeared that she would require and expect full time care from her nearest and dearest. What confirmed that this was all a ploy to get at me was when she heard that someone needed help. If something happened with one of her many family members or if a supposed friend had either an emotional or genuine medical problem, she felt duty bound to get involved. At such times she made a truly miraculous recovery and she would trot off, moving down the road like an eager teenager. Once the crisis was over, her sickness returned with even greater force. Another trick she created was to lock the door when I was out and leave her key on the inside which made mine obsolete. I had to knock on the door to be let in. Even so, deep down, she knew that she was on to a loser. This whole set–up was getting me really down. All she was managing to achieve was to drive me away even further. Something had to be done – and soon.
Never one for half measures, my already overflowing calendar had to make space for a mini–fling which I began with a cute but overly camp boyish guy called Ben. He was a good looking eighteen year old blonde who, for reasons best known to himself and which bewildered me, always wore light make–up whenever he and we went out. He was good looking enough not to require such facial adornment, but, I suppose, each youth to his own. The only time I ever saw him as nature intended was during a one–off visit I made to his place of work. He was the manager of the china department in a large department store. At the time, this was quite a prestigious appointment for an eighteen year old. In his au naturale state his face revealed that he suffered from dry skin. Perhaps it wasn’t make–up he wore but a skin preparation or moisturiser. I later discovered that there was indeed nothing medical in the adornment but pure Max Factor. Our dates were usually spent in pubs where he regaled me with his admiration for Marlene Dietrich. His admiration for this icon verged on being unhealthy and bordered on obsession. Although pretty intense in our relationship, we only had sex a couple of times.
Soon after meeting Ben, a circuitous chain of events began which would give me the opportunity for leaving the home which was weighing upon me like a lead–lined stone coffin. Little did I realise it at the time but this almost insignificant and casual meeting was destined to change the whole course of my life that, after many false starts, would bring me to where I am today. It was as if I was about to be given a present wrapped in plain brown paper. I was soon to discover that it contained a jigsaw puzzle but with no picture on the box to advise and guide me.
It all began one evening when I was exploring a part of the city which was totally unknown to me. I can’t remember the circumstances which led me there but there I was. My testosterone must have gone into overdrive as I was feeling just plain randy. As a stranger, I had no idea if I was near a known trolling area or ‘busy’ cottage where, with comparative ease, I could quickly relieve my sudden urge. After a short ramble, I spotted a lone park with a small toilet on the edge and I went in to investigate on the off–chance that I might bump into a like minded soul.
The place was empty and after waiting a few minutes, I made to leave. As I was washing my hands at the basin, a guy, well into his thirties, came in, ambled over to the stand–ups, looked at me and smiled.
I later discovered that he had been standing on the other side of the road, watching to see if there was any potential
trade. His name was Adam. He insisted on having a drink at a local pub before going back to his place for my desired quickie.
After finally convincing the barman that I was eighteen, Adam bought me a beer and we settled down to talk. To sit and simply talk with a pick up before having sex was fairly unusual so the interlude was refreshing and his company enjoyable, I almost forgot the reason why we met in the first place. The only thing which marred our meeting was his insistence on telling me a whole catalogue of unfunny dirty jokes which mainly centred on male masturbation. Our socialising was not for too long and it was only a short walk from the pub to Adam’s bed–sit. On the way, he told me that he was a teacher and was ‘out’ at his school. At the time, this was a brave and somewhat dangerous thing to do.
The house, which contained his modest room, was situated on a frighteningly steep hill. In icy weather to scale this formidable north face, it must have proved an almost impossibility to ascend or descend without either substantial assistance or damage to one’s self. We entered on the ground floor and went down a flight of stairs. His room was at the back of the house and, because of the buildings alignment and the hill, it was disorienting to look out of his window to find, from this point of view, we were still on the first floor. I never got used to this cock–eyed, architectural quirk.
The room itself, though small, was efficiently compact. As Adam considered himself a single, professional man, he didn’t feel the need to own too many possessions. It was a base for him to hang his hat, call ‘home’, bring trade back and very little else. There was plenty of space. In one corner was a brightly illuminated and well stocked fish tank which Adam used as his main source of lighting. Beside it, on the floor, there was a small record player with a few records of differing styles. Two single beds, which doubled as couches and hid some boxes that contained his clothes. The rest of the furnishings consisted of a modest coffee table, a single armchair, a neat, well stocked bookcase constructed of bricks and planks and a bedside cabinet upon which squatted his personal pink telephone.
