by Ned Williams
My unpaid sex life was going from strength to strength. I was seeing Paul on a regular and decidedly intense basis. Simultaneously, I think that Mickey was slowly making his feelings towards me known – not that it had gone any further than me talking to him with him grunting in return. I had the distinct idea, though I couldn’t be sure, that he was dropping hints that he would like to get to know me better.
My association with camp Ben bumbled along in a somewhat haphazard way. The end came when, one evening at Adam’s flat, one of the regular boys proclaimed joyously that he was sure that he’d bumped into ‘Grapefruit Gerty’. To confirm it was he, Adam asked for a description. As the lad painted a verbal portrait, the description sounded rather familiar. They knew I was seeing a chap called Ben and wickedly joked that it could be the same person. I finally made the connection. They were, indeed, one and the same.
“But,” I complained, “Ben’s only eighteen.”
“That’s what he tells everyone, dear but, believe me, she’s thirty–five if she’s a day.”
Seeing that I still looked sceptical, Adam continued, “Why do you think she wears so much make–up? It’s to hide all those tell tale wrinkles and crow’s feet.”
“A Brillo Pad would be more effective,” added another.
A few days later, when Ben and I went out for a drink – he said, “Actually, I have a confession to make. I don’t really enjoy alcohol. What I’d really like is a small grapefruit juice.” I didn’t tell him that I knew his nick–name. Totally unsolicited, he actually joked about it, confessing that he was perfectly aware that other gays called him ‘Grapefruit Gerty’. This moniker hurt him terribly but he accepted the insult with some dignity. So, apparently, the abusive term was general knowledge. This meeting managed to turn me right off him and, that evening, I found a pathetic excuse to terminate our relationship. I felt sorry for him but I could no longer take him seriously.
To restore my standing with my new friends and to wipe Ben from my memory, I took along to Adam’s a strange obsessive lad I dubbed ‘Scottish Angus’ for a very unsubtle reason.
In all honesty, I don’t quite remember how or when we first met. I think it was through a friend at a club but I can’t be sure. One day, he just seemed to be there and it was as if he had always been in my life. Although he wasn’t for hire, he started to hang around with us rents. Rarely speaking to anyone, he was simply there.
“The sightseer’s back,” commented Zenda, eyeing the young man. I looked and recognised the lad but my memory of him was rather hazy.
“What’s he want with us?” groused the ever suspicious Paolo.
“Who is he, anyway?” added Jacko.
“Fuck off!” Paolo yelled and Scottish Angus moved off only to return ten minutes later.
As there was little in the way of trade to be had and becoming bored with watching the antics of the rest of the gang as they entertained themselves by imitating in an exaggerated form various female pop singers and girl singing groups, I made my way over to ‘The Green Goddess’. With my mind elsewhere, I became aware of the seat beside me becoming occupied.
“Mind if I join you, Carl?”
“Not at all. Angus, isn’t it?”
He flashed a charming smile and spoke with an even more charming Scottish lilt, “Aye. You can never seem to remember my name.”
“Yes. Sorry about that. It must be a disease of mine.”
“I remembered your name as soon as I found it out.” Under the table, he rubbed my knee with his. To me it would have been impolite to move mine away. “Is it okay to talk?”
“Fine by me.” I was puzzled. Was I being cruised?
“Here, let me get you another coffee.” When he returned he disclosed fully why he was finally able to sit beside me.
I am not sure whether what he then told me was immensely complimentary or exceptionally disturbing. Six months before, he had come to visit a gay friend (who I didn’t know) who lived locally. During their pub crawl, Angus had spotted and, for some inexplicable reason, desired me. Since then, every weekend, he had been surreptitiously shadowing me. He was so proficient at keeping a low profile, most of the time I hadn’t even noticed him. He must have been spending a small fortune going to and fro from his little village to come and observe me. A couple of times he’d managed to wangle a seat at a table where I was socialising with friends. As he continued it started to sink in that I was actually being stalked. For some odd reason, this realisation didn’t bother me in fact, I felt rather flattered.
Although he was extremely good looking, he really wasn’t my type. We only ever had a one night stand and, as far as I was concerned, that was it. It was a bit of fooling fun but nothing more. However, he saw it differently and thought that we were quickly becoming an item. He soon became a bit of a nuisance hence my decision to introduce him to Adam’s set.
When we arrived, Scottish Angus insisted on being highly unsociable. Because of his good looks, a few of the boys tried to chat him up to get off with him at the end of the evening. My Scottish friend would have none of it. Paul, because of Angus’ obvious infatuation for me, saw him as a threat and made it clear that he wasn’t welcome. He openly and unmercifully took the piss out of him. It wasn’t until Angus realised that I was starting to see a ‘regular’ that he gave up on his quest. I could see that Angus was getting upset and told Paul to go easy on him. I didn’t realise, but Paul and Angus were having quiet meetings and each was warning the other off. Apparently, the confrontations became quite acrimonious and actual physical threats were made on both sides. Both had the sort of stature which would have caused some major facial rearranging. Later that evening, Angus left in tears. My pleasure at Angus leaving the scene was somewhat tempered when I learned of Paul and Angus’ secret meetings. I became quite angry.
“No one queers my queer pitch!” countered Paul. Mollified, I sort of forgave him.
Adam was one of those people who, if there was anything going to happen, it would happen around him. This strange infirmity also infected anyone who was involved in his life. His phone number was very similar to a local department store and it frequently rang with enquiries from would be customers who had carelessly dialled the wrong number. Most of these wrong numbers were truthfully, respectfully and politely answered. However, as the flat was full of youths and he had a ready audience; Adam couldn’t resist one particular wrong number from an irate woman. She was phoning to complain how a carpet she had ordered had yet to be delivered and did we know how much time she had wasted in hanging around for the recalcitrant delivery man? With a wicked glint in his eye, Adam played the part of the perfect store trouble shooter and consoled her by promising the company would send a replacement carpet immediately. She rang off, satisfied and happy. We enjoyed a merry hour, fantasising what the reaction from the firm would be when the promised second carpet didn’t arrive either and she had to phone again. To be honest, I thought it was a rather rotten thing to do but it didn’t stop me laughing a great deal.
There was one piece of gossip which puzzled me. Paul often mentioned his brother. His complaints were frequent and delivered in a disparaging way. He painted a dark picture of sibling rivalry to match any opera plot you care to mention. His brother’s actual name was taboo from any conversation and I couldn’t be bothered to find out what it actually was. The only person who had met this mysterious brother was Adam and he just sighed, “Ah,” and smiled in a knowing way and said nothing.
Sheba’s Quest
Meanwhile, back in my workplace things carried on much the same as before. Sheba was definitely not a Monday morning work person. She usually broadcast her ‘start the week’ arrival with a loud groan of mock despair. So, when one Monday she came bouncing in, I knew that something major had happened in her life. Although she had only just made it in time for the beginning of her (and my) day’s monotony, she couldn’t wait until lunchtime to tell me her latest news. Initially, I wondered if she’d come into a couple of million quid o
r something. She physically manhandled me out into the corridor and, in a squeaked whisper which could be heard all over the building, told me that she had finally lost her virginity – up against a brick wall.
“A what wall?” I grinned.
“Brick, dear. Brick – with a B!”
It had happened on Saturday evening, at a party. The man had been a lot older than she. It actually occurred when he invited her out into a back alley for a heavy snogging session. They were standing and leaning against the fateful brick wall – with a B. It seemed to me to be the most cold and awkward position in which to lose it, but, as she assured me, that’s how it happened. Hardly the most salubrious and romantic situations (I could hardly talk!). She, however, didn’t give a damn. When the man realised that she was still a virgin, he became very upset and actually burst into tears (how sweet).
“I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you say something?” he’d sobbed. “Why didn’t you stop me?”
“Well, to be frank, you looked so happy, I didn’t like to interrupt.”
He actually began to talk about putting their relationship onto a more permanent basis. Unfortunately, she laughed right in his face. For some strange reason, he didn’t appear to take very kindly to this.
To make him feel better, she reassured him with, “Don’t worry about it. All I can say is – thank God it’s all over – now I can start living.” She couldn’t understand why this seemed to make matters worse. To mollify his hurt feelings she added, “You were the best I’ve ever had.” For a moment he looked pleased until the full meaning of her comment sank in.
Now that Sheba’s quest to lose her virginity was out of the way, my reluctance to have sex with her evaporated quickly. She and I began an open, fun affair. She made it clear that she didn’t particularly fancy me and I felt the same in return. We had occasional sex as friends. During work, she would give me a signal if she was feeling randy. She began to get sweaty palms each time she became frustrated and knew she could have sex with me without the emotional involvement. The rest of our work mates soon put two and two together and we delighted in neither confirming nor denying their curiosity.
One day I was ill and in bed with a stinking cold and Sheba came over and visited me. My mother was even dubious about letting her into the house let alone seeing me in my sick bed. Eventually, she allowed access but insisted that my bedroom door should be kept open. All the time Sheba was there, mother kept hovering outside the open door. Sheba, at a convenient moment, took something out of her bag and surreptitiously thrust it under my pillow. “Being as I can’t get in there with you to keep you warm, here’s something for you to cuddle which I’ve had since I was small. Don’t look at it until after I’ve gone.”
When I was alone, I pulled out from under my pillow a cute little teddy bear. It was such a sweet thought. Naturally, this delightful gift didn’t escape my mother’s ever vigilant eye and she demanded to know from where it came. I answered evasively. Even today, that enchanting little bear is still one of my prized possessions.
Throughout all my adolescence, I can only assume that my mother believed that I was leading the pure life of a fervent monk. Not long after the bear incident, she was rudely brought up to date. Sheba sent me, for a laugh, a passionate love letter. Very passionate! My mother, one day when I was out, ‘just happened to came across it’ and read the thing. She was shocked but thought it more fantasy than reality. In the letter, Sheba had been pretty blatant about our relationship. If my mother still managed to convince herself that I could put a lid on desire then it was short lived because this, too, was about to be well and truly knocked out of her.
On this particular occasion, I was caught in bed with Sheba by my mother who was supposed to be at work all day. Sheba, herself, was rostered to work on this particular Saturday morning – I was not and we arranged for her to come over afterwards.
“Stay in bed Carl and leave your back door unlocked. I’ll come up and join you.”
As per instructions, I stayed in my pit. At the appointed time, in she came, locking the back door behind her. When we were in the middle of it, I heard a key turn in the front door. Sheba squealed, picked up her clothes and rushed into the bathroom just as my mother scaled the stairs. She caught sight of a naked female backside disappearing through the bathroom door. By her instant reaction, one would have thought I’d committed every hanging offence there ever had been. Instantly, I had revealed myself as a cross between Casanova and Vlad the Impaler. All that really concerned her were the many love bites on my neck and what on earth the neighbours would think. Being that her little charge was sixteen and just about legal didn’t seem to bother her. I also wondered what would have happened had she come in and found me in the same compromising position with a boy. She called the pair of us some choice names. Sheba was accused of some especially sordid practices. I was furious – but what could I say? I was about to have a blazing row when she flew down the stairs and rushed out of the front door. This was so she didn’t immediately have to face anything so sordid but to get her mind geared up for a subsequent row. I was well brought up and, once I had calmed down, a few days later, we were able to come to some sort of point where a reasonably civil series of sentences could be exchanged. She, however, was determined not to listen to either my feelings or point of view.
If she suspected that I was gay, because of the two very different ‘friends’ she’d met, i.e. Sheba and Peter, she now must have come to some very confusing conclusions. I was resolved to let her stew.
Now that my mother was suspicious of Sheba coming around – she actually had the cheek to say that I couldn’t see her. She certainly never wanted to see her, ever again. I pointed out that it was difficult to obey her edict as Sheba worked in the same office as myself. This irony was totally lost on her and she merely went ape–shit at my ‘clever’ remark.
To solve the problem which my mother had created for Sheba and I, I asked Adam if we could meet up at his flat when he wasn’t using it.
“No problem.” He even went so far as to give me a key which, because I had become such a good companion of his, I didn’t have to return. Unfortunately, one evening, when Sheba and I were thrashing around on the floor with the last two movements of Sibelius’ ‘Second Symphony’ adding to our grunts and groans, Adam forgot that we had made an arrangement and, complete with a young man he had just picked up, came walking in on us.
“Oops. Sorry I forgot. We’ll come back later.” And out he went, shoving his trade, who appeared interested, back out into the hall.
Even today, every time I listen to that symphony, I always think of her. Our other favourite piece which accompanied our romping was Richard Strauss’ ‘Tod und Verklärung’. Being as the translation of the work is ‘Death and Transfiguration’, I’m not sure if it was very appropriate – but it sure did a lot for me – and for Sheba as well. I had to take the two discs (Sibelius and Strauss) over to Adam’s flat, every time Sheba and I met. My mother once asked me why I kept taking those two particular recordings out with me – if she only knew.
One day, my mother read another letter from Sheba. Unlike the first, this dispatch was full of sincere thoughts and feelings. To find it, she really must have had to go on a major mining expedition! From the letter’s contents, she quickly gathered that the affair was still going on. Her temper was totally disproportionate to my crime and, once again, she tried to ban me from seeing Sheba. I managed not to laugh out loud. This time I stood up for myself. She was shocked. There were tears all over the place – my mother’s biggest weapon.
Because I was getting more and more involved with Paul, I wanted Sheba to meet him. I thought that they wouldn’t get on very well, but it was important to me that they met. The event happened about a week later in a trendy coffee bar. As soon as they clapped eyes on one another they got on like a house on fire. Trivia, gossip, clothes and boys soon became the driving force in their relationship. Soon, Sheba began to advise him on what best attire suited h
im and what went with what. They were like a couple of long lost sisters.
Very soon Sheba, under Paul’s supervision, began to accompany him to various gay bars. I was happy to be excluded from these excursions as I was worried about bumping into some of my rent friends and that would have involved some searching and rather embarrassing questioning which I didn’t feel up to answering.
One morning, Sheba came into work in yet another high state of excitement. On the previous evening, she and Paul went on one of their gay trips and she met and became involved with a young lady called Lorna. Sheba became obsessed with her and, falling heavily under Lorna’s spell, talked about her constantly. I was dubious. Sheba’s choice of friends wasn’t exactly reliable. Take me for example. Sheba insisted that I meet her. She was a poet prostitute fag–hag lesbian junkie. ‘Just the sort of person,’ I thought, ‘to run a Sunday school or troupe of Girl Guides’. I deftly side–stepped the offer.
“You must meet her, Carl. You’d get on famously. You have so much in common.”
“You mean that I’m also a poet prostitute...”
“Shut up.”
Whenever anyone enthused about someone else and insisted that I would get on with them, I rebelled instantly. I knew I would dislike her (was this a shadow of my mother’s attitude?). But more of Lorna later.
Perhaps I’d become too confident with her open–mindedness. If she liked the brash Paul so much, she was bound to adore the retiring Mickey. I arranged that the three of us would meet up in a coffee bar not far from where we worked. As Mickey had to get there from where he worked, Sheba and I went on ahead, sipped the frothy gloop and waited. I had great expectations for the meeting because, when I suggested it to Mickey, he jumped at the chance.
