He could be as gentle as a breeze or he could fling me on to the mattress in a tornado of violence. One time my head smashed against the bedpost and blood flowed from a gash on my forehead down on to the pillow. Then in a shocking change of mood he became all tenderness and drew a finger of the red liquid, gently tracing patterns on my chest and on his chest like body-paint in some ancient ceremony. Time stood still as he, as if in a trance, kept circling his wet finger between our bodies until the blood had caked dry. It was weird and uncomfortable. A strange chord had been struck, out of context, in a familiar hymn tune, yet its jarring harmony seemed somehow perfect. And when the brown crust of blood liquified again later with sweat and a spurt of my semen it seemed as if I had become pagan, had gone native, was a witness to bodily fluid’s irresistible reincarnation.
Sex can be repetitive, mechanical and lifeless, or it can be as varied as two faces are varied. Every movement with William was a freckle in a different place. His leg sliding against mine was never quite the same twice. The act of intercourse was always a surprise, as if he discovered a different set of nerve endings each time, as if he had a hundred different penises with which to penetrate. Even his smell changed during sex, as if the increasing heat of his body was an oven containing a casserole edged towards burning.
Nevertheless I usually left his flat with feelings of sadness. Erotic sensation had been a temporary dwelling place which, once left behind, created an intense homesickness. As I drove home the memories flashed with nostalgia, fluorescent then fading, and each stop at each traffic light (then past the shuttered supermarkets, past the endless rows of houses, past the litter-infested parks, past the empty school playgrounds) was a step down a ladder to mundanity. Pleasure’s gash quickly formed a scab.
54 Discovery
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I always kept my priesthood and my real name secret from my hook-ups. I was usually Peter. ‘A teacher and writer,’ I would say when conversation arose about my job. ‘Oh, I write for obscure journals about various things, theology, literature’, topics I could fake if necessary. Being a writer sometimes aroused curiosity: ‘Can I find your stuff online?’ But mostly the interest died after I sidestepped the direct questions and as the minutes ticked away. I stayed anonymous by making the arrangements on the internet with a private email address, and if I needed to contact the guy at the last minute to change the time or check an address I kept my phone number blocked. Until William.
I’m not sure when I first suspected that drugs were part of William’s life. He always had a wildness in his eyes when we had sex, a finger-to-the-wound kind of intensity. Even when we spoke afterwards, lying next to each other on the bed, legs entwined, heads close, there was a febrile energy underneath the surface. His words tumbled out just a little too quickly. His thoughts were just a little too disjointed. Then I found a syringe. I was getting dressed to leave on one occasion and my phone slipped out of my trouser pocket. As I reached for it under the bed I felt a plastic tube with a sharp point. I said nothing but I started to worry about him.
One evening after sex as we lay together he was less talkative than usual and was shaking with small convulsive twitches every few seconds. Then he began to cry. I’d never seen this side of him before and I was scared. ‘Hey, William. What’s the matter?’ He said nothing but the convulsions became more violent and in the end the whole bed was shaking. In my desire to help him, to get closer, to share his vulnerability, and knowing at that point that he probably had a serious drug problem, I let down my guard. I held him close and began stroking his hair, then I came out with it: ‘You know, there’s something I haven’t told you.’ He looked up at me, still crying. ‘In addition to teaching and writing... well, I’m a Catholic priest.’ He sniffed loudly and gradually stopped crying, his red eyes wide open with surprise.
‘Wow! Why didn’t you tell me?’ There was a sudden change of mood, even though he was still twitching. He wiped his eyes and nose with the back of his hand. ‘I’ve had a few priests in this bed. Where are you based?’
Instantly my pastoral instinct cooled, my safety valve re-engaged, and I knew I couldn’t tell him, couldn’t have him arriving at the presbytery or at Mass or at the Parish Hall. ‘Oh, a church in the area,’ I replied, sheepish at my own change of mood from confessional to defensive, my urge to protect him switching to an urge to protect myself.
‘Yes, but where? That’s really cool. I wanna come and see you at your church.’ He reached over for a Kleenex to blow his nose. ‘Is it a big, fancy place with lots of candles? My mum used to take me to church when I was little. I liked it at Christmas with all the lights in the dark and the crib and carols and stuff.’
Now I really regretted opening up. He continued, ‘But what we did earlier. Do you not feel guilty? Isn’t it, like, a sin? Can’t you go to hell for that?’ I looked over at the empty tube of lubricant on the bedside table and the used condom lying next to it like a squashed slug. I felt weird and uneasy and embarrassed. I was suddenly ashamed to be a priest. It seemed a stupid phantom life, like being an actor in some pathetic play for which no one had bought tickets. Reality was an erect penis entering my rectum.
‘Oh well, it’s just one of those things,’ I said with a small, tight voice. ‘As long as you love people I... I don’t think God minds. And as long as no one is hurt.’ The lameness of my response made me blush. I was shocked at the trite, imbecilic words I’d just spoken. I was sitting on a broken moral fence between the Church and the brothel and I hadn’t the courage to make a decision one way or the other. He said nothing but looked unconvinced, unimpressed. Of course he did. In making such excuses I had made myself appear vastly more pathetic.
After that evening our relationship changed. He would tease me and call me Father. I hated it but obviously it amused him. ‘I really wanna fuck you hard... Father. I’m feeling really horny... Father. Where’s your dog-collar... Father?’
‘Doesn’t it bother you that I’m a priest? Don’t you find it a turn-off?’ I asked. I just couldn’t grasp that this was all about money. Nothing I said or did or wore would increase or decrease my attractiveness to him — which was nil.
‘Oh no, it’s a turn-on. I think of you giving a sermon to all those old ladies and me under the pulpit giving you a blow-job, head under your robes, your cock down my throat.’ It was a cruel taunting, but by that point in the evening I was already too far gone with desire to stop him. I just waited for him to run out of steam, then take off his clothes and get down to business. I just swallowed the blasphemies. I just sank deeper into the mud, under the water, no riverbank within reach.
55 Father Chiwetel
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About a month later, at the end of one of our sessions, William asked me for money beyond the usual rate. He pleaded debts, and said that he was getting tired of prostitution, that he had no other way of earning a living, that he was thinking of going back to college. I didn’t mind helping him this one time so I left his flat, walked the short distance to a bank machine, then returned and pressed the familiar buzzer. How strange it was to do this in a sated state, no longer fired up with desire, no longer with finger trembling and cock stiffening. Now, in the cool of the night and the glow of the yellow street lamps, I just wanted to go home and take a shower. My hair was tousled and greasy, my body smelled of massage oil, my anus was raw and felt as if cored like an apple. I gave him three hundred pounds.
Of course, it was not the last time he asked for money.
‘William, I just can’t afford to keep doing this. I’m only a priest. We get a small salary and some money for weddings and funerals and so on.’
‘Oh, come off it, Father. The Church is bloody loaded. Look, I’m really in a tight spot at the moment. I need some cash. Can you just go and fucking get me some money.’
His voice flashed with fury. I wasn’t scared of him but I was annoyed, at his demands and at my weakness. ‘OK, one last time. But you’ve got to get out the
re and find a proper job, William. You can’t rely on me to keep giving you money. I just don’t have it.’
‘I fucking look for a fucking job every fucking... ’ His anger erupted but then he suddenly paused, sighed and walked over to me, slowly, heavily. ‘I’m really sorry, Peter. I dunno what came over me.’ He had morphed in seconds from rage to gentleness. ‘But you’re the only person I can ask. I really care about you and I know you want to help me get through this.’ He stood close and put his arm around me, caressing my neck. ‘It’s tough at the moment. There are no jobs and I have bills, the rent, electricity... ’ He kissed my cheek as he looked at his watch, which was next to my ear. He then quickly removed his arm and walked across the room to the window, where he started to type a text on his phone. The light from its screen made an eerie shadow across his face.
‘OK. Just this once, William. I’ll go and get you some cash. I can only manage one hundred today though.’ He finished texting and looked over at me in a slightly vacant, distracted way.
‘Er... oh alright. Thanks.’ His phone buzzed and he looked down again, away from me, his attention entirely consumed. I left without saying anything more and returned a few minutes later with the money. Then we parted and I walked back down the path again out to my car. As I slid my legs under the wheel and got ready to turn on the ignition to drive home I was suddenly overcome with curiosity. The texting was almost certainly an exchange with another trick arranging another encounter. As I was parked directly outside I decided to wait for a while to see what the guy looked like.
It had been a difficult day. I’d spent an hour at the hospital with a parishioner who was in a serious condition after an unsuccessful operation. I was tired. But I was curious. I would wait it out. I turned on the radio and a pert, pretty voice filled the car like a giant bouquet of flowers. I quickly turned down the volume to a level when she was just a faint aroma from the speakers. Was it Peggy Lee? The street was deserted except for a few cars which intermittently whined past.
Then after a few minutes I saw a man walking along the pavement towards my car. I hurriedly switched off the radio and sat still as he came closer and eventually arrived at the gate of William’s building. I couldn’t believe it! It was Father Chiwetel. He glanced at my car briefly but seemed nervous and didn’t seem to notice me inside. He walked up the short path to the front door and I watched as he pressed William’s buzzer, the isolated, stainless steel one underneath the others, there was no mistaking it. Then he turned around and looked back at my car which was bathed in a pool of light from the street lamp and this time our eyes met, his flashing to white, startled circles of horror in the middle of his face as he recognized me. Immediately the buzzer sounded and he disappeared inside the door like a mouse scurrying behind a skirting board. I could imagine the panic he must have been feeling. What could he do? He couldn’t walk back out to the street pretending that he’d been at the wrong house. I suppose, if challenged, his defence might have been that he was visiting another flat in the building.
I’d only met him once, a few months after his arrival as a supply priest. It was at a reception after a Mass for the Family Association’s annual day of recollection at the cathedral. Bishop Bernard had asked him to preach and we were all a bit surprised at this show of confidence as Chiwetel’s English was fairly limited, but nevertheless the sermon proved to be impressive. He was fiery and charismatic, and he completely held our attention. I especially remember his rallying call towards the end: ‘Have lots of babies! Every son or daughter is a blessing directly from God. Fill your homes with children!’ This sticks in my mind because I looked around the cathedral at that point and imagined that if all the couples present were to put his exhortation into practice we would have to have mass-baptisms in nine months’ time. But then he dropped a bombshell as his tone darkened. ‘Let contraceptives be banished. They are rat-traps and pills of poison. More evil than abortion itself.’ He paused and looked slowly around, seemingly at every individual face, inquiringly, accusingly. Even this gathering of faithful Catholics was taken aback by his directness. And now, here he was, inside William’s flat, about to (it is to be hoped) roll a condom over an erect penis before engaging in acts which would fill no one’s home with children.
I sat there in shock in the cold car for a minute or two and then something inside me snapped. I realized that I was not only flabbergasted at Father Chiwetel’s duplicity but that I was actually jealous of, because attracted to, both of them: promiscuity’s irrational code of honour, its random taboos. I looked up at the curtains. I knew the window. I could see shadows inside, the unmistakable jerking shapes of erotic encounter. I wanted desperately to be up there with both of them, one in front of me, one behind me, gorging on genitals until I choked. What a joke, with my lifeless, drained-dry dick, my varicose veins, my bunions... and twice their age? Like a spoilt child I was furious — with William, with Father Chiwetel, but most of all with myself.
I switched on the ignition and the radio and drove away, gradually calming down in my state of utter exhaustion. The cheery music (from the same singer as before) was a distraction and I was looking forward to taking a long, hot shower at home. Then, strangely, I began to feel pity for Chiwetel, conscious of the turmoil which must have been raging inside him and aware that those who fulminate most vehemently against sins of the flesh are often those most likely to be indulging in them. Being discovered visiting a male prostitute would almost certainly have meant him being sent back to Nigeria where he could have faced prison or worse. A significant financial commitment must have been made to enable him to move to England in the first place and I’m sure he was the pride of his community back home. Now I started to worry about him. I wondered if I should phone the next day and reassure him that I wouldn’t tell anyone. But that would mean revealing my own relationship with William, which I wasn’t prepared to do. As it stood he could always claim that it was another man standing in the porch that evening, and I could always claim that I was visiting someone else in the neighbourhood — my word against his word. Best to leave it.
The song finished. The announcer’s voice. It was Peggy Lee.
56 Blackmail
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I didn’t contact William for a couple of weeks after that evening but then one afternoon the presbytery landline phone rang. It was him. I felt a chill.
‘How did you get this number, William?’
‘Google. I just went through every priest in the area and checked out photos. It was easy. Why haven’t you phoned? I miss you, Peter... er, Father. When are you coming over again? I’m feeling really horny right now. You make me so hard. I want you to suck my big dick.’ I was scared. Now he knew where I lived. Now I had lost control of the situation which I had so carefully managed with private emails and blocked phone numbers. I got in touch with him when I wanted to see him. I drove over. I took off my clothes. We had sex. I paid him. I left and drove home. But now he was in the driving seat.
‘William, I’ve decided that I’m not going to see you anymore. Please don’t call me again or get in touch.’ I was shaking as I put down the phone.
I heard nothing from him for a few days but I was in a constant state of dread in case he knocked on my door or even appeared at Mass, sitting in the congregation, smirking, leering, coming up for Communion, confronting me afterwards at the back of the church. Every time I left the presbytery I feared seeing him outside on the street. I didn’t fear him physically but I was terrified at the thought of the embarrassment he could cause me.
Then one afternoon the phone rang again.
‘Hi Father, how are you? Hey, I’m... I’m really in a bad way. I need some money. I could always come over to your place.’
I sat at my desk, weighing up the situation. There was no way I was going to invite him to the presbytery, but what could he really do to harm me? He could be a nuisance but there was no evidence that we had even met, and priests meet all sorts of strange characters in the
course of their ministry. No one had seen me at his flat, except that one client who was arriving early as I was leaving late, and Father Chiwetel of course. There was no proof. I decided to tough it out.
‘Listen William, it is over between us. I want you to stop phoning me. I’m not going to give you any more money and I don’t want to see you for sex again. It’s finished. I really wish you well but you must stop getting in touch. OK... bye.’ I put down the phone and felt a relief. Five minutes later it rang again.
‘Father Joseph?’ The voice was cheerful and confident.
‘William, I thought I told... ’
‘There’s something I want you to hear, Father.’
‘I’m not interested, William. I’m going to put down the phone now. Please stop bothering... ’
‘Father, I think you... might want to hear this.’ There was a brief pause, a soft click, and then I listened in absolute horror. I heard my voice, and my groans: ‘Fuck me, fuck me, oh yeah, oh fuck, oh that feels so good.’ The puerile chant of primeval lust. It was definitely my voice. How on earth had he recorded us having sex? The sound faded as he lifted the phone back up to his ear but I could still hear the inane words continuing in the distance.
‘Sounds good, doesn’t it! You were really into it. My hot fucking priest. Do you know what’s really cool?’ He paused, then laughed. ‘That’s just the soundtrack. There are images too. I filmed us a few times on my laptop. You know how it was always open on my desk? Well, the camera was pointing at the bed and I got some really good footage of you. Really close shots! “Fuck me, fuck me” with your face in full view.’ He laughed loudly and in the background I could hear more sounds of me shouting, ‘Oh yeah, oh yeah.’
The Final Retreat Page 12
