by Ned Williams
I was letting her side down. I think she thought I was going to stay with her for the rest of my life. She needed someone to dominate and, more and more, I was refusing to go along with it.
The following Saturday Paul came to get my stuff in a car which he had borrowed. The way she treated him, one would have thought he had contracted the bubonic plague. Just because she thought it would be awkward for me and upset me the most, my mother insisted I leave my record player behind.
“But it was a gift for me,” which it was.
“No. When you were given it, it was something for the whole house to use.” This was news to me. By the ‘whole house’, she meant herself. She never played it.
“What will I have to play my records on?”
“You should have thought of that before, shouldn’t you?” This didn’t help.
“Don’t worry, Steven, I’ve got one at home, you can use that.”
Thus stung, my mother went with, “Well that’s all right then. It looks like your little friend here has it all sorted out and I must say, I’m not surprised.
As we loaded the car, my mother kept a hawkish eye on what I was taking just to make sure I wasn’t exceeding my allocation. After the car was loaded it was time for the final test. She was now doing the washing up which she must have saved for this exact moment. “Right, well, that’s it,” I said, “Everything is loaded. If I’ve forgotten anything, will it be alright to collect it later?”
“You do as you please,” she dismissed.
“Okay, well, see you.” I watched her sloshing cups around in the sink. She made no effort to stop. I put my hand in my pocket.
Out of the blue, she turned to me. “Key!” she thrust out her open wet palm.
“I was just about to give it to you.”
“Hmm!” Did she doubt me?
After snatching her precious key she went back to her washing up.
“I’ll come and visit soon.”
“I won’t hold my breath.”
“Come on, Steven,” Paul rescued.
As I got into the car, I didn’t look back. Paul squeezed my thigh, “Are you all right?”
“I will be. Let’s get out of here.” I wasn’t upset – just very angry.
That first afternoon and evening away from my mother’s was strange. I had to keep on repeating to myself that this was where I now lived and that I didn’t have to keep on rushing back to her place.
With most of my worldly possessions around me, I perched on the edge of the bed and seriously wondered if I’d made a huge mistake. Was this a step too far? Would I be able to cope with being a free soul?
Paul came in and stood there for a while, contemplating the miserable wretch who was depressed and on the verge of going deeper. After a moment he came over and stood right in front of me and lifted my head. “You need a bit of entertainment.” To do this he began to hum a nameless tune and to perform a highly erotic striptease. When he was fully stripped, he sat beside me and held me in a long, warm embrace. “Feeling a little better?” I nodded. He knew what I needed for comfort and this he did – for an hour.
As soon as we had cleaned up and dressed, Paul said, “Well, you must certainly feel better after that.”
“Much.” I smiled at him in gratitude. “Thanks.”
“And, precious one, that’s just for starters!” He then cheerfully exclaimed, “Starters? Now, that’s a thought. I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
In a flash, a horrible thought occurred to me. I had no aptitude whatsoever in the kitchen. The only skill I possessed was how to make a coffee (instant!) and throw together some breakfast cereal. Let’s face it, most people can drop Corn Flakes into a bowl, add milk and sugar, then eat. At my mother’s place, as I was already beginning to think of it, the kitchen was her domain and no one was permitted to know how she managed to conjure up roast dinners, egg and chips, pork chops or, indeed, anything else that graced our dinner table. With some trepidation I mentioned this gap in my education to Paul.
“Don’t worry, dear. I’m a dab hand at omelettes. That will be our day’s fare.” He went out into the kitchen and, in no time at all, came back and presented me with my cheese omelette. It wasn’t very good but, psychologically, it was one of the most welcome meals that I’ve ever eaten.
As a house warming gift, Paul had secretly arranged that some of our friends would drop by for an evening of fun and frolic. So, later, a mob of about ten happy teenagers barged into our room and, complete with loads of wine and beer, managed to take my mind off all my concerns and sadness – yes, sadness. One of them brought me a length of chain.
“Here you are, my sweet, your shackles are broken and you can keep this as a souvenir.” Had he read my mind? Only a few days ago this same image had been part of my inspiration to leave my mother’s.
Another uttered a shriek and clapped his hands, “Girls, we have to celebrate the unholy union of these two darling dick munchers.”
There then followed a mock wedding. Paul went into the bathroom and returned without his jeans and wearing a dress which was a towel wrapped around his waist. For that extra bit of refinement, he’d draped a tea towel over his head for a substitute long haired wig. I burst out laughing. “Christ, if that’s what you look like in drag...”
“It isn’t – and one day I might show you the real thing.”
“Let’s get the groom ready.” The lads set upon me and, with much happy shouting from me and even more squealed laughter from them; I was divested of all my clothes except my pants. A right wedding couple we made. Our ‘Wedding Guests’ then dressed, or more correctly, undressed; ready for our solemn occasion. If anyone had looked in on this, they must have wondered what the hell was going on: a gang of youths, all in their underpants, and an odd one out who was dressed in bad drag.
The ‘ceremony’ and ‘sermon’ were so crude that I think it best to let it pass.
Eventually, at about 2a.m, the party broke up and Paul and I were left alone for our first night together. It then really hit home to me that I didn’t have to dash off to catch a last bus or worry about the following morning and my mother’s reaction to my staying out all night. For a brief moment I wondered how she had spent her first night alone.
Having consummated our relationship earlier and, what with the excitement of the party, we both fell into bed and, after a very brief show of affection and a quick, “Happy?” from Paul
And an “Extremely,” from me, we were soon fast asleep.
The following morning, I awoke knowing exactly where I was and the larger portion of my doubts and fears had vanished.
Flat Life
Within a matter of days, I started to go gently mad. Like the child left alone in a sweet shop and being told to help himself to anything he wants, I embraced my freedom by blazing the candle, not only at both ends, but in the middle as well. Right from the start, the hours Paul and I kept were exhausting. Each night, if I managed to grab three hours sleep, then I was lucky. Were we, subconsciously, trying to out–do Adam’s previous routine? We were both determined to turn our bed–sit into the sort of place where things, happenings and events were always going on. Aside from the boys with whom I was already acquainted, Paul knew a lot of lads and they were duly added to our regulars. Naturally, through Natural Selection, we lost a few of our visitors who were totally loyal to Adam, and steadfastly refused to have anything to do with us, but, to be, honest, their absence was hardly noticed and, after a few weeks, were almost forgotten.
We were to create something very different from the previous regime and, to a certain extent, I think we succeeded. To a select group of juveniles, we became the ‘In’ place to be.
One major setback which we still had to endure was our almost complete lack of knowledge and experience in the area of cooking. Our first evening at the flat should have given us some idea of the problem – it didn’t – but it soon did. To be blunt, as I have said, I couldn’t cook to save my life. As Paul was almost in the same boat,
apart from his frequently served mediocre omelettes, we were virtually living on toasted cheese and coffee. This toasted cheese was the only speciality from my menu choice of nil. Finally, and in absolute desperation, I bought the most basic cook book I could find and started experimenting and to try out some new things. My instant success as a chef forced Paul and I to dine for a while on ‘take–away’. We soon discovered that this was far too expensive to be a practical long term solution, so we both took this cooking lark more seriously and began to learn the baffling art of culinary sophistication. It was either that or we would soon starve. Paul quickly gave up on the project but I managed to stick with it. Most of my attempts were pretty disastrous but somehow we managed to survive.
One day Paul asked why I didn’t invite any of my gay friends along, “I don’t have any,” I hastily replied. From his look I knew that he didn’t believe me.
I was still managing to both juggle my various lives and, with increasing difficulty, to lock them in their separate boxes. Paul knew nothing of this darker side to my life and I had no inclination to tell him. Besides, as I have said before, my visits to the racks were certainly becoming less frequent – there simply wasn’t enough time. With each return I found that there were more and more newcomers who, naturally, were in great demand. Many of these lads were about the same age as myself when I made those first, tentative steps into that chaotic life. Mentally, I wished them well and lots of luck.
A few of the old crowd had either given up the scene or had simply moved on to another city where they would be the new faces and, potentially, be more in demand. All my old gang were still there except Sandy who had finally been talked into giving up the sexually vagabond life and to settle down with Will. Andy and all my other closest friends seem to have accepted the fact that my life and times on the racks was getting decidedly intermittent. They asked what I was up to but I don’t think they were particularly bothered or interested in my replies.
After Paul’s question, I wondered what would happen if I did invite them along. I don’t think it would have worked because the sort of friends we had and what Paul and I were trying to create wouldn’t have been to their collective tastes. They would soon have become bored and drifted away.
One thing that threw me off my guard was that, now and then, Mickey attended our evenings. Goodness knows how he found out when we were having a get together. Perhaps Adam, trying to make mischief, contacted him to let spill the beans. Each time he came I tried, in vain, to engage him in conversation. Now and then he did manage to gurgle up a few remarks each of which seemed to have a slight edge to them.
“S’pose you’re happy now,” was one such remark.
“Yes. Look, Mickey, I’m sorry that things have gone a bit sour between us. I still like you – a lot and...”
“No need.”
“No need to what?”
“You – explaining. I’m with it.”
In his corner Mickey seemed to watch every move that both Paul and I made. Why did he bother to come? Was he looking for some sign of cracks in our relationship? Was he there simply to cause discomfort and trouble? He refused all offers of drink and food with a terse, “No, thanks you.” Paul didn’t help matters by calling him either ‘Mike’ or ‘Michael’. I asked him to stop it and he replied loudly with, “He lost. I won. I like to preen. He can take it – although, you’d know more about that than me.” I couldn’t believe that this was how Paul viewed our relationship.
I couldn’t help but admire the resilience of Mickey.
“Winner doesn’t take all, you know. I’m not a fucking trophy.” I hissed at Paul.
“You are to me, sweetie.”
I went over to Mickey, “I’m so sorry.”
“’s all right.”
Mickey never stayed very long. It really was almost as if he were checking in to see how things were going. Each time he left, Paul called out in a whiney, camp voice, “Bye’ee, Michael!”
Adam, even though he had now officially moved out, saw all this new trade and had become a little jealous – not that he should have been what with all the debauchery that was being acted out at Churcham. Didn’t he have enough? Perhaps he was begrudging what was going on at his old place. He also took every opportunity to be disrespectful. He came in and, instantly, took over. It was almost as if he had never left. I didn’t mind too much but it riled the shit out of Paul.
The major problem we had, and the one which really got up Paul’s nose also concerned Adam who had managed to keep hold of his key to our flat. Each time he arrived at the bed–sit for a social evening and to boast of his new life, he never knocked but merely let himself in so as to make a grand entrance. Paul asked continuously for the return of the precious key. No such luck. Adam always looked surprised and became dismissive as he honestly believed he still had a right to retain it. He always found an excuse to keep it and then we wouldn’t see him for a week or so. When we finally put on an uncompromisingly united front and he found himself cornered, he grudgingly gave in and handed it over. There then followed another appalling row. I stayed out of it as Paul was not only perfectly able to fight his corner but, as he was so loud and on such a hot roll, I couldn’t have wedged a word in anyway. Even Adam was finally beaten down. Instantly, he took umbrage and deliberately became so involved with Henry’s Churcham that he didn’t bother with us too much anymore.
We soon discovered that Adam bequeathed us yet another headache. It seems that he must have been involved in some sort of pretty sharp and shady dealings because both Paul and I became disturbed by the number of times police kept calling at the flat and asking for him or his whereabouts. Loyalty demanded that we had to make numerous excuses and play dumb all over the place.
When we had the chance to question him about it, Adam cast aside the whole thing as if it were nothing special yet the noticeable panic in his eyes told a different story. Was it something to do with the school? We never managed to unravel this particular riddle and I don’t think we wanted to. Let sleeping dogs lie, and all that. Perhaps this was another reason why he was so eager to move to Churcham. Was he still up to something and giving our address as his place of residence? Whatever the truth behind it all, something must have changed as, after about two months of this, and much to our relief, the constabulary visits slowed down and finally stopped.
Our communal kitchen was quite useful, not only for our entertaining but for the other tenants as well. The rest of the few house–mates we had were all broad minded and a right mixed lot they were, too. They never commented on the constant goings on with our friends and, if ever they had the need to use the kitchen whilst one of our gatherings was in full swing, they were in and out as quickly as possible. We always primed our guests to respect these ‘strangers’ and to calm the camp if they were ever around. Apart from a few slips, our proclamation was obeyed.
At the top of the house, in her lofty garret, lived a delightful girl, Sally, who labelled herself as a follower of “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints”, as she insisted on calling it. To her face we always used the more familiar ‘Mormon’ epithet and behind her back it became, ‘The Morons’. As she rarely went out, we wondered when she was managing to spread the Word of the Lord. She didn’t appear to have a job so that became another subject of many happy hours visualising how she earned her rent money. Jokes aside, she not only followed her own religion but had a healthy interest in comparative ones. She had a large circle of friends from other faiths and, in the kitchen; they would have long and fascinating conversations and discussions on both the merits and flaws of their own particular calling. As far as I can recall, I never heard or saw anything which could remotely be described as irritation, let alone anger. Everyone had their faith but respected one another’s particular path.
I first discovered this side of the house one Saturday evening when Paul was performing his duties at the pub. I went into the kitchen to make myself a coffee and there they all were.
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��This is Carl,” introduced Sally.
“Hi!” I smiled and flapped a wave in the general direction of everyone. Whilst I was waiting for the kettle to boil, I listened casually to the topic which was under the microscope. A self professed White Wizard was banging on about the Great Powers which Nature is able to make available for our use. I was about to hoot with laughter when I had to pinch myself to remain serious as none of the others thought it at all strange or funny.
Sally must have seen I was curious and asked, “Would you like to join us?”
“Don’t worry, no one is going to try and convert you and, if you get fed up, just leave.” This was said by a charming girl who looked as if she could do with a good feed. I wondered if she was a vegan.
So I stayed. For an hour I sat in the corner, Mickey style, and listened. It was all new to me and the people were so gracious that I was hooked. Eventually, and it had to happen, I was asked which faith I followed.
“Uuuuuum,” I intoned.
“Atheists are just as welcome as anyone else.”
The warmth and understanding which emanated from this circle of friends gave me the confidence to add my little contribution to the debate. “Well, if I had to give myself a label then, I think, at the moment, I would consider myself a fluctuating Agnostic.” This caused much laughter yet it wasn’t aimed at me personally but at my choice of words.
