by Ned Williams
I had managed to keep out of it but I felt something needed to be said. “You know, Lorna, I find it really hard to believe that Larry would come in and steal anything from you.”
She yelled at the cupboard door, “I’m going to get the landlord to fix a fucking lock on the door!” She then addressed me directly. “It must have been him. You wouldn’t and Roger’s too fucking dim to even think about it.” She raised her voice again, “I tell you, it was him!” And on she raged.
Whilst Lorna was still alternately seething and blowing her top, Roger walked in carrying more fish to replace another carnival of death. “What’s going on?”
“Lena Horne in there has stolen some money from me,” she yelled loud enough for Larry to hear.
“You don’t mean the money in that tin box on the mantelpiece?”
“Yes, damn it!”
“But I took it – borrowed it. Here,” and Roger produced the replacement cash from his pocket.
I won’t go into the tongue lashing Roger received from the now deflated Lorna but Roger backed away and sat on the bed in an almighty and tearful sulk. “I know I should have told you,” he kept repeating over and over as the tears fell profusely.
After a day or two Lorna managed to forgive Roger but, much to my surprise, she couldn’t say, ‘Sorry’ to Larry.
“I think Larry should know that he’s in the clear – that everything has been sorted out,” I ventured.
“You tell him. I want nothing more to do with the camp ponce.”
The next day Lorna went out to meet either a client or a lover, I can’t remember which so I had a chance to have a chat with Larry.
“I’d never have done anything like that to any of you. You’re my friends.”
“I know, Larry.”
“I earn enough with drag, I don’t need any more.”
“Yes, Larry. Look, I think Lorna is embarrassed.”
“I understand,” and he did.
A couple of days later Lorna made a rather pathetic gesture of reconciliation when she offered to make Larry a coffee. Graciously, he accepted and, to a certain degree, things went back to something resembling normality but it was never quite the same again.
One evening when Roger was out somewhere mysterious on the pull, Lorna and I were at a loose end so we decided to go to a club. I think there might have been a slight ulterior motive to the idea as Lorna was hoping to date a woman who frequented it. As we walked in she scanned the place but there was no sign of the object of her desire – but she did spot someone else. Gripping my arm, she dragged me over to an occupied table. There were two young men ensconced with a couple of pints and one of them was the elusive and highly desirable Terry.
“Terry? Joe? This is Carl.” Following Lorna’s lead, we hailed one another. Once more, there was the glint of recognition between Terry and I but neither of us mentioned the fact that we’d seen each other before. I think Terry was a little on edge as he kept giving his companion furtive sidelong glances. Once he realised that I wasn’t going to say anything he visibly relaxed.
So, finally Lorna had been able to keep her word – well, sort of – and introduced me to Terry. It was a decidedly mixed blessing. Joe, I soon discovered, was Terry’s live–in lover. Lorna, Terry and Joe talked whilst I merely sat there staring boggle–eyed at the oh so voluptuous Terry. Very soon Joe began to notice so I moderated my gaze a little.
From their far ranging conversation I managed to glean some more information about Terry and Joe’s living arrangements. They lived in the ground floor flat in a large Victorian terraced house in the centre of the city. They had been together for about two years and were extremely contented (bastards!).
From then on, for a short while, we all started hanging around together. I hadn’t particularly pushed myself forward but Lorna always made sure that I was included in many of their gatherings. On one of these excursions, we were all on a bus and Terry dropped a three penny bit. It clattered noisily onto the floor. Without pausing for breath, he complained, “Damn, there goes another earring!”
‡‡‡
Even amidst all the turmoil that was battering my life, I was still able to find time to pop round and see Marti and Dave. The child was now growing at a satisfying yet alarming rate. I decided against arriving armed with more stuffed toys but, instead a little gift for mummy and some ducks for Dave to play with in his bath. I saw immediately that our baby had numerous other aquatic animals and miscellaneous items for him to try and either eat or drown.
“I don’t seem to be able to get anything right, do I?”
“I always give your gifts priority.” To prove her point she directed my attention to his cot where one of my fluffy toys was ready for him to either cuddle or kick, depending on his mood.
On one visit I was afforded a special treat. Under Marti’s benevolent supervision I was allowed to bath my darling son. I was told off for treating him like a piece of fragile Lalique and soon got to work in cleaning the little angel. As both Marti and I had a fairly dark olive coloured skin, we had managed to cause Dave to inherit these traits. His eye pupils were almost black, this from Marti, and his hair was developing into a wonderful blond mop – also from Marti. At one point Dave started to cry and, predictably, so did I.
“What a pair of softies,” sympathised Marti. “What am I going to do with you both?”
As mother and son were so far removed from my day to day life, my visits, though infrequent, were turning into an oasis of simplicity and calm. I was still managing to keep this side of my life completely under wraps from everyone else.
Returning from my latest trip to Marti’s I bumped into Lorna who was heading off to a gay club. Roger had managed to worm his way into joining her. Her face revealed that he was an unwelcome companion.
“Why not join us?” She then pleaded, “Please?” As I was now at a loose end I was able to tag along.
“Been anywhere nice?” asked Lorna.
“You could say that,” I replied.
Roger couldn’t resist it, “Is he still able to sit down comfortably?” I ignored him.
In the club, which was quite a plush venue, Lorna spotted Terry and Joe with a couple of their friends. She ushered us over to their table where I received a cursory nod from Terry (and Joe) and Roger was given an, “Oh, it’s you,” from Terry.
“Yes, Tel, boy.”
“Drop the abbreviation, if you don’t mind. I was Tel as a schoolboy, now I’m Terry and a man – which is more than can be said of you.”
“I just know what to do with them,” Roger retorted.
“Oh, you do get the chance now and then, do you? Blind school, was it?”
“All right, girls, sheath your claws and let’s cool it, shall we?” interjected Joe. I was quite sorry for, to me, the verbal fencing match was great fun.
With Roger and Terry now being so overtly pleasant to one another, we spent a tense hour until Joe suddenly said, “This place is dead, let’s all repair to our place,” then, “what do you say?” he asked of Terry.
Terry raised one eyebrow and looked at Roger, “That depends on who’s invited.”
“Everyone!” Joe said pointedly. Terry shrugged nonchalantly and turned to talk to one of his friends who had been totally sidelined.
On the way to our new sphere of fun, Lorna slipped, fell over and hurt herself. We were walking along calmly and down she went. No one noticed that she was missing and we happily continued on our way. Limping up to us she complained, “I’ll bet if I’d been a man, you’d have been all concern.” Guilt made us show compassion but there was very little real interest as we were all rather merry from the beer and one another’s company.
T. and J’s place was on the ground floor and consisted of a long corridor with rooms off to one side. The lounge was half way down and must have been a parlour as the fourth wall was never built but Terry and Joe had erected a curtain across the open space which could be drawn together for privacy from anyone walking through
to the back door.
As soon as I walked into their ‘parlour’, my heart sank. Against the right hand wall was an enormous fish tank. Another bleedin’ fish tank! Yep, they too kept fish! What was it with all these gay guys and their fucking aquaria?
Straight away Lorna asked to use the lavatory and, after she had gone Terry moaned, “Why is it that women always have to leave the seat down?”
When she returned, Lorna commented, “You know I heard what you said about the toilet seat and I think you’re being a male chauvinist pig.”
“That’s all right,” answered Terry, “because I know you’re a female bigoted sow!”
This exchange didn’t please Lorna and she was totally at a loss for an instant riposte.
Roger, though uninvited, had tagged along and immediately noticed that Terry’s fish tank was decidedly murky. He was dramatically horrified.
“Terry, what happened? Your water’s all cloudy.”
“I must change my brand of coffee.”
“No. The water in your fish tank.”
“Where?” Terry peered at the murky distillation of piceous porridge. “Oh yes, so it is.”
“What have you been doing?”
“Well, you see, this morning we ran out of fish food, so I fed them Weetabix.”
Roger choked, squeaked and screamed – in quick succession – it was very impressive. “What?!” Terry looked happily puzzled. “Sieve!”
“What?”
“Sieve! A sieve! I must strain the water. Try to get out some of the lumps. I need a sieve.”
Terry was totally nonplussed and expressionless. “Through there. Top drawer – on the right. He then carried on a conversation he was having as if a fly had needed brushing away.
As Roger poked, prodded and strained with his kitchen utensil, the small party got underway. Lorna, shaking her head in mock sympathy, muttered sarcastically, “How come Terry is able to keep his fish alive and healthy whilst you act like an aquatic mass exterminator.” She went over to stand beside Roger and joined him in peering into the dismal depths of the tank. “Perhaps you should take lessons from Terry and feed your fish Weetabix as well.”
“Shut up,” was all Roger could muster in response.
“His fish seem to survive much better by not bothering about them whereas yours keel over and float, belly up, without the slightest provocation.”
“Shut up,” repeated Roger, still searching in vain for an effective come back.
The evening soon turned into a party and, along with plenty of beer, Terry and Joe unearthed a load of pot from somewhere and began a production line of rolling joints for everyone. Forgive the rather dated terminology but it is in keeping with the period. The air became heavy with the smell and, though Roger refused to join the rest of us, he must have been affected by the smoke for he knelt tearfully beside the fish and seemed to contemplate the pitiful quality of both his life and that of his swimming friends. Conversation ranged from the serious to the barmy. Terry brought in a selection of ‘bits’ in case we needed to eat something – anything!
“Here we are,” he said, “pabulonic sustenance.”
“What?” managed Roger.
“Food, dear. Food. God, don’t you ever read?”
Later, I actually managed to have a conversation with Terry which confirmed that either I was not his type or he thought that I wasn’t worth the bother.
After a while, one of their ‘guests’, who was a guy who must have been in his late forties, stood up and declared that he wanted to unburden himself. We sat there smiling and listening as he boasted that he sported a gargantuan cock. He must have been very proud of his member because, without any prompting from us, he produced the monster for everyone to view. With the exception of Roger who wiggled in hope, we were both fascinated and horrified by what was being waved about.
Terry spoke for all of us, “Christ, that thing would bring tears to anyone’s eyes.”
The flasher told us that, in public, he had to wear tight underpants and tuck the thing between his legs so that it wasn’t too obvious. I happily ruminated that, with his dick where it was, he could accidentally screw himself and not realise it. Joe was so impressed with the bulky object he asked to touch it after which he challenged the guest to display his tool in all its rampant glory. After a few minutes manipulation, he was standing fully to attention. Joe’s wish was fulfilled and I noticed that Roger seemed to be having an attack of the vapours. We were all reduced to silent admiration and awe. Lorna, using a little prudence, was discreetly and industriously going through her handbag and merely gave the swollen member a cursory glance.
“Okay, it’s impressive,” no modesty with this chap, “but you try and have sex with the bloody thing. Men think they can take it but soon give up trying. And mouths are not made big enough for a decent blow job.”
“I’d love to have a bash,” cooed Joe and Terry hit him. So, Terry was the giver and not the receiver – well, that was another mystery solved. Even so, with Terry’s heavenly shaped posterior, I found it hard to believe that nothing had ever wormed its way up there at some time or other. “I must get a tape measure.”
“You do and I’ll wrap the thing around your head,” snapped Terry.
“And I think it would fit.”
“I meant the tape measure, idiot!”
Like a frightened Rabbit who was sensing danger, Terry was instantly alert. “Oh, fuck.” He jumped up and moved towards the open curtains which sealed off the rooms. “Fucketty, fuck, fuck,” he kept on.
Joe rose and rushed to his side, “What’s the matter?” There was the sound of a door closing. “Oh, fuck!” Then, as an explanation, he muttered, “Our landlady’s come home early.”
Terry began closing the curtains and told us to keep quiet whilst he got rid of her. With the drapes closed, the room became cosy and rather intimate. Terry and Joe were standing in the hallway and we could hear the landlady approach. Terry’s arm snaked through the gap in the cloth holding an aerosol can of what smelt like fly killer. We all watched and listened in fascination as Terry spoke lightly to the landlady with his hand sticking through the dividing curtain, furiously strafing the air with the stinking stuff. To hear his calm, pleasant voice, you wouldn’t believe what his hand was doing frantically. The spray was certainly effective in smothering the smell of the drugs – in fact it nearly smothered us as well.
When they had disposed of the intruder someone asked why they had used fly spray.
“It was the first thing which came to hand,” smiled Terry he then gave Roger a hefty squirt.
During the evening, it soon became clear that Terry found Roger somewhat egregious. In fact, I was quickly learning that very few people liked Roger. I couldn’t understand why as, although he had his quirks, he was reasonably good looking and, to my eyes, seemed pleasant enough.
At one point, Terry saw Roger using a mirror to adjust his hair for the umpteenth time in an hour. Terry mocked, “Oh, Roger, you look beautiful. Still fussing about our Brillo pad, are we? And your sartorial splendour! As always, you manage to look both extraordinary and unforgettable.”
“I like to dress well.”
“I don’t know why you bother. I mean, look at you!”
“I’ll have you know, I’m proud that I never spent more than a couple of pounds on any of my outfits.”
“Yeh, we noticed,” and Terry looked him up and down is if he was a badly dressed scarecrow.
The next evening I was to meet up with Mickey and we were due to go out for a meal. When I arrived at the restaurant, he was standing outside with a dark expression on his face.
“I saw you last night – with all your friends.”
“Did you? I didn’t see you.” I was worried as to where this might be heading.
“It didn’t look as if you’d’ve had the time.”
“Why didn’t you come over and say “hello”?”
“You looked like you were having too good a time to be bothered
by the likes of me.”
“Shall we go in?” I moved to the restaurant door.
“No. We’ll walk for a bit and you can say who they were.”
It took some explaining but I managed. I told him that they were friends of Lorna’s and that we’d happened to bump into one another.
“That girl was Lorna?”
“Yes.”
It began to rain so we repaired to a quiet pub and talked for a while. I was concerned that he still exhibited his black looks. Somewhat fearfully, I asked “Are you having second thoughts about us moving in together?” Mentally, I quickly prepared myself for an unwelcome answer.
“Don’t think so. You?”
“Not at all,” but his question set me to thinking. With all my, yes, let’s use the term, whoring around, it occurred to me that I might not be quite ready for a permanent relationship. I shivered at the thought. If I wasn’t and we went ahead with my dreams then it wouldn’t be just me that would be hurt. Mickey was too nice a person for me to damage emotionally. His trust and affection for me was extremely flattering but was I fooling myself and playing on this for selfish reasons?
We decided to give the meal a miss and went back to his room. By the time I left to go home things had returned to normal but he did express the hope that I wouldn’t spend too much time with, “them people.”
That night I was to sleep with Roger and, for the first time when sex was offered and expected, I didn’t want to respond. My troubled mind needed time to sort itself out. Roger got up and spent the night curled up on the battered sofa.
The next evening I had another scare. Roger, Lorna and I were passing The Green Goddess when Roger took it into his head to go in for a coffee.
“I’ve heard about this place. It’s supposed to be good.” I panicked.
