by Ned Williams
This carton was a present from the gang who had gleefully clubbed together and paid for it to be delivered. To this day, I still don’t know how they found out about my tissue issue because, as far as I knew, they didn’t know anyone from the other side of my life. All they would say was, “We have ways and means.”
Waiting
As soon as I could and for reasons which somewhat confused me, I went to visit Mickey. Why, I wondered, did I feel that decisive inclination to see him? I am sure that if I had told him when I was arriving on my coach he would have wanted to meet me. The thought of Mickey and Sheba together made me smile. Talk about a pair of prickly pears. He wanted to know everything. ‘No you don’t,’ I thought wryly. I told him of the places I’d been and what I’d seen and he listened silently and absorbed everything. I even went as far as to hint that I hadn’t been exactly celibate on the trip but thought it unwise to elaborate and, as he showed no interest in that side of my adventure, I deliberately became rather circumspect with the information.
About a month later, and I don’t think it had anything to do with my trip, I started having an unpleasant itching in my groin. At first, I didn’t think too much about it. I merely assumed that I’d been rather remiss and not washed properly after a session with a client. For me this was especially important as my uncut dick, if unattended, could hide a nasty accumulation of gunk.
Washing after paid sex was a habit I’d developed from my earliest days on the racks. After each session I always rinsed myself thoroughly. If there wasn’t anywhere to clean up, I waited until I found a quiet toilet and performed a simple ablution before returning to be re–hired. Sad to say, most of our pieces of trade didn’t bother with this basic form of cleanliness. Some thought it was perfectly acceptable and, indeed, inclusive in the price, to let their pick–ups clean their private parts with their tongues. I usually refused. Many times I actually walked out on some clients because, when they undressed, it was obvious by the rank stink they were too filthy to service comfortably. Some actually apologised and said they hadn’t given it much thought. Charming! If they went out and tended to their ‘affliction’, then it was usually somewhat acceptable, but I still remained a little turned off. On such occasions, I couldn’t wait to leave.
Pretty soon I began to realise my itching must be something else – something rather more serious.
It didn’t take long before I reached the stage where I was administering a scrubbing to my pubic area as if I were a starving anteater gouging energetically at a sun baked termite’s nest.
Immediately, as with every time I’d thought there was something wrong with my moving parts, I kept away from the racks. Others may have no qualms or show any remorse about giving unwanted problems to innocent participants, but my conscience simply wouldn’t allow it.
More days went by and the itching became even more insistent. I found that I was beginning to claw at myself when asleep. I was regularly waking in the middle of the night raw and bleeding from too much scratching. To protect the sheets from my mother’s vigilance, I took to wearing underpants whilst I slept and washing the blood out when awake.
By now, I had a pretty good idea what was wrong. Crabs! (For the first time!) Even in my distress, I could still find amusement in the fact that I had contracted VD before my little helpers chose to enjoy a vacation in my pubes. For most people, I subsequently learned, it was usually the other way around and that crabs took priority. I was quite amazed that it had taken so long to catch them. Trust me to be different! Although I knew what was wrong foolishly, I still didn’t try to do anything about it for a few more days. Did I honestly believe that they would finish their holiday, pack their bags and leave of their own accord? When my discomfort and clawing became utterly unbearable, I decided more drastic action would be required.
My first, pathetic attempt at affecting a cure was to lay in a hot bath for over two hours thinking, in my totally green mind, that this would drown the pernicious little sods. When it didn’t, I resorted to even more drastic methods. I had seen adverts where I was informed dramatically that ‘Dettol Kills 99% Of All Known Germs – DEAD!’ What degenerate brain cell convinced me that if it worked on 99% of all known germs, it should have no trouble working on my home grown pests? Raking through the bathroom cupboards I found a small bottle of my presumed salvation. I grabbed it eagerly, and poured a liberal quantity on a spare handkerchief and applied the undiluted stuff to my nether regions. Luckily, when it soaked on to my scrotum there was no one at home as my screams would have demanded an instant and detailed explanation from my ever suspicious mother. My tortured testicles appeared to shrivel at an alarming rate and degree. Immediately, I splashed and poured tap water all over my bollocks. After the excruciating, fiery sensation had receded a little, I lay down to recover.
The skin must have been burned for, after a few days my balls began to peel. Talk about embarrassing. I still held to my resolve and stayed off the racks, now not only because of the crabs but, with my peeling balls, customers would probably think I had contracted some obscure skin contagion and be thoroughly turned off – I know I would be!
After all this effort and pain – I made a scientific discovery which will benefit the whole of mankind: crabs are one of the 1% of germs which Dettol doesn’t kill – DEAD!! Please accept this painfully acquired piece of advice; if you ever get crabs never, ever, under any circumstances whatsoever, use neat Dettol on your testicles.
By now I was becoming desperate. When I went to visit Mickey, he made the usual advances and, although I wanted to respond, I couldn’t. He looked upset so I knew I would have to come clean. My discomfort made me lay aside my embarrassment and ask him if he knew what the hell I could do about it. Laughing and without batting so much as an eyelid, he went over to his clothes cupboard and produced a small bottle of a biliously yellow solution. He unscrewed the top. It smelt foul.
“Spread this on as soon as maybe and you start feeling much better in hours.”
“Really?”
“Really. Here, I show you.” He came towards me. “Drop your jeans.”
“Any old excuse,” I grinned.
He then delighted in slowly and lovingly applying the slop to my pubic hair. “I see you got it real bad,” he laughed. The little bastard was being provocative.
The solution certainly did the trick. As he predicted, within a few hours I was feeling a lot more comfortable. After a couple of days, I only had the scabs from my finger nail lacerating to deal with.
‡‡‡
During my period of communing with my malevolent invaders, I took the opportunity to visit Marti and the little David – who was now known as Dave. I arrived with two large bags of toys and Marti added them to the extensive collection she had already accumulated from friends, relations and herself. Dave was constantly dwarfed by these outsized teddy bears, rabbits and the like. My selection mainly consisted of sea creatures including whales, seals and totally unrealistic fish. He looked so cute when Marti placed him amongst them. Although I had managed to pay quite a few fleeting trips to see them, this day I was in no hurry and we went out for a walk – the three of us – well, Marti and I walked, Dave just lay there and seemed to cast a disdainfully critical eye over our choice of route. I strutted like the proud father that I was and I began to wish that I could be more involved in the baby’s life. Marti told me that she understood my feelings but our agreement still held true. My job was done though she still hoped that I wouldn’t be too hurt and decide to wash my hands of everything and stay away forever. Marti convinced me that my presence was still welcome and that she wanted little David to grow up knowing his father. Later, I held him and looked into his dark eyes and, as always seemed to happen, tears started to fall.
‡‡‡
Almost imperceptibly I realised that I was becoming more and more involved with Mickey. I still can’t work out how this happened but I was thinking about him most of the time and missing him when we weren’t together. My art
class was putting on one of its exhibitions of our work and I mentioned it to Mickey.
“I’m coming to it.” He’d only ever seen a few incomplete drawings of mine and I was reticent about allowing him to see more of my work.
“Don’t care. I’ll find out where it is on and I’m coming.”
Mickey was one of those people who, once he made up his mind, nothing in the world would budge him.
“It’s near to where I live...”
“Fine. I’ll come and collect you and we go together.”
Up until then, I had managed to keep Mickey away from my mother. A strange thought came to me. My mind was telling me that I needed approval from my mother for my friendship. I have no idea from where this mad idea originated but, even though everything yelled at me that it was a notion doomed to disaster, I couldn’t get this brainstorm to depart. “Okay” I found my mouth saying. “My address is...”
“I know it. Letters? Remember?” In my panic, our exchange of letters had receded from my immediate memory.
The day came for the exhibition and, right on time, the door received a polite knock.
“Your friend’s here,” declared my mother who I had informed that an acquaintance of mine was coming around to meet me.
I opened the door to my date and was taken aback by what I saw. Mickey was dressed to kill. He always dressed immaculately and with matchless taste but this... He’d had his hair styled and it offset his handsome face to perfection. His white shirt, which discreetly showed off his magnificent physique, acted as an ideal backdrop for a bright red tie. Goodness knows where he found it but he also wore a red leather jacket of the exact same colour and tone. His black trousers were a perfect fit as, I suspected, they must have been made to measure.
I managed to stammer, “Mickey, you look...” Words failed me and I merely shook my head in wonder. He grinned in boyish delight.
“Glad you like it. I did it for you.”
We entered the living room and I introduced him to my mother who was busy knitting – again! Mickey extended a friendly hand but had to wait until she had balled up the excess wool and placed it meticulously on her needles before she decided to shake Mickey’s hand. She eyed his apparel with an insultingly slow and lingering review of the ensemble and then sniffed. I searched her face to see if the young man met with her approval. All was enigmatic. It hurt me that she not only ignored him but acted as if he was invisible. I had so many high hopes for this encounter and I was deeply hurt by Mickey’s rude reception.
“A good luck present.” From behind his back Mickey produced a flat package which was plainly an LP. I could see my mother look out of the corner of her eye to catch a glimpse of the gift. I opened it and laughed.
“Thanks.” I took it to my room and returned as quickly as I could to cover the silence which my mother cast over the meeting.
“Let’s go,” I said, to try and repair some of the damage my mother had inflicted on Mickey’s welcome.
“Good luck for what?” blurted out my mother, thus halting our exit. I explained briefly where we were going. “You never said anything to me about it.” She made to continue her knitting.
I should have said, ‘Well, let’s face it dear; you’re hardly interested, are you?’ Instead I apologised and Mickey and I left quickly before my mother could delay us further.
Mickey was effusive over my paintings but made a few deeply penetrating observations which revealed in him a natural understanding of art and its form. I was both surprised and delighted.
The next day I tried to bring up the subject of Mickey. “It was nice of Mickey to bring that gift, wasn’t it?” She gave an offhanded shrug.
“What was it?”
“A record of rugby songs,” which it was.
“And what was it called?” From her question, I knew that she had gone into my room and looked at it.
“‘Why was he born so beautiful.’” She gave me one of her looks.
“Yes. It looks like he’s trying to tell you something. You know what? I think he’s after you. You’d better watch yourself.” Her perspicacity was unerring.
How should I answer this attack? “No. It’s just Mickey. A joke.”
“It all seems a bit queer, if you ask me.” She’d had the time to choose her words with premeditated care.
“What did you think of him?”
“The way he dresses, he looked like a poof.”
“Nonsense. He’s got loads of girlfriends.”
“Well, if you say so.” And she walked away as the subject was blatantly distasteful to her delicate feelings.
Later she added, “I never want him here in this house again – ever.” From that moment on, I thought it unwise to mention him and she never, ever could bring herself to utter his name.
‡‡‡
It was about this time that, through one of my regular, trusted clients, I was introduced to an ageing guy called Colin who, in turn, wanted to hire me for a couple of his friends. I knew of this man and his reputation because he had been mentioned by both Paul and Adam. Every time his name came up a kind of awe came into their voices. Further, many of Paul’s friends knew of him – and I was about to join the elite group. Any doubts about meeting him and my personal safety were dispelled quickly when the client assured me that Colin was totally trustworthy. I wondered, to begin with, if I was being hired as a present. This was something which happened frequently. When gay men are rich and have everything, what present can his friends buy him for his birthday? A rent boy. Colin was not a good looking man and was slightly portly. He took me back to his flat and I had to sit and wait whilst he made a phone call for the real clients. I marked time by looking around his lounge. My host watched me with some indifference. The room was dominated by an enormous collection of classical music recordings. I was impressed and asked him which was his favourite.
“Dunno. I never play them. I bought them ’cause I liked the covers and people who come here seem impressed.”
“And what about your paintings?”
“Same.” Within a few minutes I had worked out that he was all surface and as I got to know him better there was nothing which made me change my mind.
There was another thing which made Colin a total enigma; he had the ability to get boys – lots of them. I had learned this from everyone who knew him. For some strange reason, presumably because he had such an incredible personality, young men found him totally irresistible. I couldn’t understand why. I am still puzzled over what exactly there was about him that gave him the ability to cast a blanket spell over all his lads. To be fair, he always had one association at a time and once that had run its natural course, he soon found a replacement young man to satisfy his appetites. Colin told me that, at this particular time, he was involved with two youngsters and as they had only recently ‘come out’ he, generously, thought they should have sex with someone more their own age and was willing to pay for their education. So, I was the gift but with an interesting twist to the usual transaction.
His door bell rang and he returned with two cute youths who were in their mid teens and would have turned anyone’s head. They both had an impish look as if they could get up to some harmless mischief at any moment. I don’t know if they were on anything but they had boundless energy and appeared to almost bounce around the room. Colin was like a serene mother cat watching her kittens play energetically. I was introduced and they both shot over to where I was sitting on a couch and threw themselves down, sitting either side of me. Their warmth and vitality was infectious and made one feel instantly relaxed. There was something else that they had in common. They were both short and slightly built.
“This is Carl. I told you I’d be getting you a little something.”
“Ta, Colin,” said one.
“Do you like us, Carl?” said the other with a mock sulk on his face.
“I hope so, because we like you.”
I felt I had to say something so, “You should be jockeys,” came out.
“We are.”
“They are,” added Colin.
“Really? You’re not pulling my leg?”
“Or anything else – yet!” said one.
“We’re trainees,” said the other, “but very willing to learn.”
“Are you going to teach us?”
“They’re attached to the stable on the heath,” added Colin, trying to bring a note of seriousness to the profusion of innuendo.
They both dragged me to my feet. “Come on, Carl. Can we use your bedroom, Colin?” We were already heading to what I assumed was the room in question.
“That’s what it’s there for. Go ahead and take your time.”
For two young gays who were new to the scene, they had certainly absorbed a great deal. The energy they displayed in the lounge was transferred to the bedroom. They could hardly keep still but wanted to try out as much as possible in the minimum amount of time and with much laughter. At each stage I was instructed on what they wanted to do and attempt. They kept on changing their minds and held a running commentary on how they liked or disliked any particular position. After about an hour of this I was utterly drained – in every sense of the word.
Colin gave me my fee and, as I was leaving, the two boys, who were still in the bedroom, began pestering Colin to join them.
He raised his eyes to the heavens. “They’re insatiable.”
