by Ned Williams
“So I noticed. Good luck.”
“Thanks. I might have to call on you again – and soon.” He never did. Although he paid me more than I originally asked, I would have gladly done it for free, the boys were so much fun but lord help the gay scene when they felt ready to blast onto it.
This was not to be the last time Colin and I would cross paths and I didn’t know how useful he would prove in the not too distant future. Little did I realise it but, almost outside of my control, fate was steadily gathering together pieces of the jigsaw puzzle that was my life and my meeting with Colin would become a vital part of that puzzle.
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One Saturday I was sitting in ‘Hell’ and I happened to look around at some of the rents. Although I had for some time realised that I was getting to be old hat, this was the day when the full realisation hit me brutally and impacted on all my thoughts. I was watching some of the new rents as they went about their business. I knew quite a few by name but, as I was frequently away from the scene, I had never bothered to develop much of a relationship with any of them. In any case, each time I went to the centre, there were newer and even younger faces. Because of this unrequested revelation, for the first time for ages, I actually took a long and hard audit of my friends. We were all getting to be and actually looked too old. I had come to a point where I couldn’t avoid it any more. At seventeen years of age, was it now the time to zip up my flies and retire? This apocalyptic idea was to haunt me each time I returned to our meeting places.
‡‡‡
One Monday in work Sheba came up to me and invited me to join her in a new coffee bar she had discovered which was lively and, she thought, probably leaned towards the gay side of things. Always on the lookout for fresh and fertile hunting grounds, I gladly accepted the invitation.
We alighted at an area I knew as I passed it every day on my way to work. “I don’t remember a coffee bar round here,” I complained.
She grabbed my hand and dragged me to an old three story semi–detached house where one had to climb steps to get to the front door. “Where are we going?” I was getting wary of what she might have planned.
At the top of the steps, beside the main door was a large sash window upon which Sheba rapped. “All right, what’s going on?” Before she could answer, the door was opened and a young woman was standing there.
“Carl, this is Lorna.” So, the little minx had kidnapped me.
“I’m pleased to meet you – at last.”
“Likewise,” I said, not meaning a word of it. “I can only stay for about an hour.” This, I thought would be my excuse to get out without appearing too rude. As we entered a room which led off a sparely furnished hall, I managed to hiss at Sheba, “I’ll get you for this.” She knew that I wasn’t being serious but I impressed upon her, in no uncertain terms, my disapproval of the abduction. I quickly spotted that the window upon which Sheba had tapped belonged to Lorna’s room. If this was the routine then it certainly wouldn’t disturb any other tenants who might live in the house.
Sheba and I tried to make ourselves comfortable on an uncomfortable sofa whilst Lorna sat herself in a battered arm chair by a dangerously spluttering gas fire. She was shivering – although it wasn’t cold. During our stay, she never moved away from that fire. I wondered if it might be the effects of drugs. I had encountered such problems before and I thought I recognised the symptoms.
I looked around her room and marvelled at the high ceiling with its once elaborately decorative plaster work that was now in a dilapidated state of non–preservation. The bed–sit was large but poorly furnished. The landlord was plainly trying to rake in the maximum of profits with the minimum of outlay. Sheba offered to make a coffee.
“I don’t have any,” Lorna said apologetically. Sheba now took it upon herself to go out to the local shop to stock up on Lorna’s coffee, milk and sugar. Whilst she was out, Lorna spoke to me in a gentle voice which was soothing yet commanding. I quickly comprehended that she was a serious, intelligent girl who, at the age of eighteen was already showing signs of being rather world weary.
“Myrna tells me that you are an artist.” It was strange to hear, outside of work, Sheba being called by her proper name.
“I try.”
“Who is your influence?”
“Bosch and Bruegel; among many others.” Answers like this usually elicited a blank stare but Lorna knew both artists and began speaking about their influence on the surrealists – especially Bosch. I was impressed. There was a tap on the window. Sheba had returned and, upon Lorna’s request, I went out to let her in. Sheba headed towards a cupboard which was in the corner of Lorna’s room. Inside this cubbyhole I could see there was a small area for cooking. It had a tiny sink and a minute fridge. At one time, this cupboard must have been a connecting passageway between Lorna’s room and the next one. There was a recently added partition within the passageway which allowed a similar kitchen to be built for the other flat. This partition didn’t reach the ceiling and stopped some three feet short. Anyone could easily climb over the top to gain access to the other flat. Indeed, the man who lived next to Lorna often stood on a chair and indulged in animated and drawn–out conversations with her over the barrier.
Lorna smoked but couldn’t afford cigarettes. She wouldn’t accept any whole ones that were offered but always begged the dog–ends so she could draw in a few drags.
As we talked and I began to get to know her, my previous determination to loathe her soon began to vanish. She was funny, serious, thoughtful and philosophical, often in quick succession.
Like Sheba before me, I was beginning to fall under her spell. She gave me an open invitation to visit her at any time and, by ‘any time’, she really meant it as she told me that she didn’t care to go out too much. I think she had a tendency towards agoraphobia – causing her to be reclusive.
Although I said that I could only stay for an hour, I was still there four hours later. Little did I realise, that evening, how much that almost casual meeting would change my life – AGAIN! Another piece of the puzzle had dropped into place yet I was still oblivious of the dawn that was starting to reveal itself.
“Did you like her?” asked Sheba as we left, knowing what my answer would be.
“Very much and, before you say anything, you were right – she is excellent company.”
It was soon after this meeting, I caught VD for the second time. Considering how many of my friends had to go and seek out the cure, I considered myself very lucky to have escaped so lightly.
I was pretty sure I knew the charitable person who had given it to me but I refused to harbour any ill feeling. It was one of the prices one had to pay for the life I was leading. By now, I knew the ropes and went through the clinic’s procedures like an old pro (if you will forgive the expression). It helped that I was of a more acceptable age to have fallen for the clap. I don’t think any of my previous doctors were there – certainly not the young man who had been such a comfort on my first visit. After being ‘fixed’, I went around to see Mickey. He was up for a session and was both puzzled and upset at the way I distanced myself from his affections. I told him that I was not feeling too good and left so that I didn’t insult him further by withholding the intimate cuddles that he so adored.
A Motley Crew
Like waiting for a bus on a cold, damp night, there are long periods of inactivity and then a whole convoy arrives together. The same thing seems to happen to me on the game. I had weathered an extended period of routine antics on the racks where very little happened in the way of hiring that were out of the exceptionally ordinary and dreary. This changed when there occurred a series of mad episodes which both amused and in a couple of cases, repulsed me. True, there were some minor events which broke the monotony of ‘straight’ gay sex like the man who, in a spare room in his house, built a false wall of plywood and bored a glory hole in it. This was to make his desire for anonymous sex safe from the sudden exposure by ‘Lily Law’. The flaw in this idea wa
s that he would have seen what his hole–plugger must have looked like when he made the pick–up so it was hardly totally incognito. Then there was another guy who wanted to photograph both me and another in explicit poses – I refused. He vowed on his mother’s grave that they would only be for his private perusal but I couldn’t be sure. Even before the days of the Internet and Social Sharing Sites, I didn’t want my wobbly bits being viewed for free by total strangers.
In quick succession I then experienced a variety of modest oddities that constitute man’s desire for the exotic erotic.
The first really strange meeting was with a gentleman who kept a room in his house which sported a single bed. However, the room wasn’t empty as it was full to overflowing with fluffy toys of various sizes. He had even more child knickknacks than my sweet little Dave. My job was to strip off and to lie on the bed whilst he was out of the room. I then had to bury myself under an enormous stack of these pastel coloured playthings. When ready I had to let out a wail and in he came, dressed as Andy Pandy (for those who can remember that obnoxious little puppet). He then began to play with his toys until he ‘discovered’ me. I then had to cuddle an enormous stuffed dog and simulate having sex with it. There was never any full sex involved in the meeting. He simply stroked both me and the toy whilst he finished himself off. I was never quite sure if it was me or the dozy looking dog that turned him on the most.
Another meaty bloke, who looked like a tattooed navvy, was also into baby themed fantasies and had an even more peculiar turn–on than the fluffy toy guy. He was another trick who had created a play room for himself. The first time I saw the nursery with its outsized cot, I nearly laughed. I guessed what was coming but not to the degree that he was expecting. He left the room and I had to strip and lay, baby–like in the cot making goo–goo noises. As soon as he heard this, my client came in and slowly dressed me in nappy, bonnet, bib and dummy. What really pissed me off was that they were all in matching pink. Why not blue? Even yellow would have been more tolerable. Each time I went for this appointment I had to be prepared because he wanted me to ‘dirty’ my nappy. This duty was not to be simulated but performed for real. He then, accompanied by gentle admonitions, lovingly cleaned, changed and powdered me before he could perform. Sadly, the talcum powder always made me sneeze which didn’t please him too much but he wasn’t too put off continuing. I must confess that, categorically, this did absolutely nothing for me in fact, I was a little sickened at having to perform my more intimate toilet processes in a nappied display for the benefit of the client. I shudder to think what he was sublimating. Each time I dated him, he paid treble for this particular little joy.
I never minded dressing up in fantasy gear for people. It was fun and, as I used to like dressing up when a child, it kept me in touch with my earlier years. I always drew the line at drag. I never did it and always turned down clients who wanted me to mince about in a skirt – or whatever. Even today, I still don’t fully understand how men can be turned on by this image of parody.
The next on this brief list didn’t involve dressing up but occurred on the back seat of a single–decker bus. I was travelling to a nearby town so the journey was going to be long and exceptionally tedious. There were plenty of travellers but most were sitting down at the front. As soon as I had paid my fare, I stomped to the back seat where I could be alone. At the very next stop a stylish, youngish man got on and, after surveying the passengers, headed towards me and sat at the other end of the long back seat. After a few sidelong glances had flickered across the gap, he slid over to sit beside me. Not far into our verbal exchanges he revealed that he was a Bishop who, at the moment, was dressed in ‘civvies’. He began to rub the top of my thigh.
“It’s too dangerous,” I burbled.
“Rubbish. The other passengers aren’t looking.” Somehow we managed to have some sort of sex – not that it was particularly satisfying for me but my ecclesiastical friend appeared quite happy. Even though I wasn’t looking for any sort of reward – he gave me a couple of pounds.
I must confess that, at the time I didn’t believe he really was a Bishop but, some days later, when I mentioned him to the gang and described him, they confirmed that indeed he was what he claimed. He was well known. Paolo even went to his church – which surprised me – I didn’t take Paolo as being a believer.
“Oh, but you must believe, my dear. Our souls may be already damned but there’s always hope. Best to be on the safe side, I say – besides, he’s a brilliant fuck!” I was gratified to know that we didn’t get anywhere near to that on the single decker.
The last strange and highly disturbing event concerned my being hired by a pair of identical twins who must have been in their late teens. We met during the day in a club where anything went – including rooms for hire. They sat beside one another, drinking. To anyone who was verging on having too much to drink, the sight of them would have probably caused great confusion as one could almost make the mistake of thinking that they were seeing double. The twins were reasonably good looking – in a boyish kind of way. Now and then we had caught one another’s eye and, eventually, they beckoned me over. They didn’t stand up but invited me to sit. I parked myself on a stool opposite my two new friends. They were willing to pay a fee because they had problems finding partners. Most people found them worrying as they insisted on sharing their pickups.
“It certainly doesn’t bother me,” I countered.
“Let’s go, then.” They stood up... and I received a bit of a shock.
I had gathered that they were on the short side but I hadn’t realised how diminutive they actually were. Both were about three and a half feet tall. I suppose that they could best be described as ‘dwarf’ or whatever the politically correct phrase is currently in vogue and both perfectly formed and in proportion.
We walked towards the exit and I noticed that others in the bar were smirking. They all must have known what I didn’t.
The short walk back to their flat was decidedly odd and I kept looking around to see if any members of the public found the situation as bizarre as I.
It was an extremely peculiar session. To be with two people who were so diminutive and yet had normal adult sex organs was weird. After it was all over, they curled up and took a short nap. They were snuggled in on either side of me with one on each of my arms. It felt like I was cuddling a couple of animated dolls. I was still bothered with the whole encounter as it made me feel uncomfortably like a paedophile.
Whilst we are on the subject; one winter a non payment encounter happened one freezing evening when I was on my way home from seeing a friend. I was walking along a road and I spotted this gorgeous young man. He was tall, blond and available. He didn’t have anywhere for us to go and I certainly didn’t want to miss the opportunity. He was far too good looking to let that pass. There was a park nearby and we made for it. There, in the frozen snow we, somehow, managed to perform. We ended up soaking wet. The next day I had to go through this same area and there, on the ground, was the indentation in the snow which our frolics had caused. If the other pedestrians who were walking through the snow only knew what that bare patch of ground indicated, well, I’m sure we would have been condemned to be cast into the fiery pit.
Talking of the fiery pit, it triggers a memory of an event that happened in an openly gay basement club called ‘Fire and Brimstone’ which, by its name, should have been exceedingly attractive to our kind. The reason I have not mentioned this facility before is that the place was infrequently frequented by the likes of us. The owner, George, was exceptionally generous to anyone who chose to descend into the cannabis perfumed depths of his emporium. Although we were always afforded an open armed welcome the atmosphere of the place smacked of desperation. We rents tended to feel rather sorry for the affable ageing George and, about once a month, we made a point of, as a body, patronising his joint just to keep him thinking that all his efforts were worthwhile. On one such evening we were lounging in the otherwise empty ba
r when Jacko came in full of excitement. He told us that one of his clients had recently introduced him to a new game called ‘Suggestive Biscuit’ and that we all must try it. The first rule was that we all stand up and gather around a low stool which he had dragged to the centre of the bar.
“Very nice. Now what?” asked Paolo.
“Wait a sec,” responded a puffed up Jacko and, from his pocket, he produced a large but indeterminate looking flat pastry like thing which he placed lovingly in the middle of the stool.
“What the fuck is that?” threw in an irritated Zenda.
“That’s the Biscuit bit of the game.”
“I think we’d managed to work that out. What’s next?” Andy looked at the door as if he were calculating how fast he could make his escape.
“You’ll see,” and Jacko stepped back to view his handy work.
Spotty Oliver, a new addition to our inner circle, grunted, “Well, this is certainly spellbinding for anyone who lacks a life.”
“All will be made clear when I explain the simple rules,” defended Jacko.
“Can’t wait,” returned Spotty Oliver.
Ignoring the jibe Jacko ploughed on, “Right, girls, form a circle around the stool.” We obeyed. “Now, get yer cocks out.”
“I beg your pardon?” threw in a lightly shocked Zenda.
“Drop yer jeans and get out yer cocks,” clarified Jacko.
George, now both fascinated and keenly interested, deserted his counter and came over for a better look.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Groaned Spotty Oliver.
Jacko was not to be thwarted. “It’ll be fun, I promise.” With varying degrees of enthusiasm, we did as Jacko ordered. “Pants as well.” George became even more interested.
“Now what?” asked Zenda.
“It’s a competition. Everyone jacks off and unloads onto the biscuit. The last one to finish has to eat it.”
“Can I join in?” asked a sparkling eyed George.
