by Julian Clary
While Sammy was organized and business-like, almost in a hurry to get the sordid proceedings over with, Georgie wanted to savour every moment and made sure he got his money’s worth. He’d be excited and a little tipsy when I arrived and I never knew what he’d have in store for me. He got into the habit of handing me a piece of paper with instructions on it when I arrived, and then he would go upstairs to prepare himself while I digested his requirements — burglar, pizza-delivery boy, sex fiend on the run following a prison escape, whatever the mood of the day demanded. It wasn’t always sex as we know it. In fact, within a few months it was fairly full on S and M, with verbal and physical abuse, candle wax, clothes pegs, hoods, masks, and so on. Georgie always wanted to go one step further.
After we’d finished and tidied ourselves up, we would go next door to Sammy’s for a drink and a chat, which became the part of the evening I most looked forward to. Often, when the weather was fine, we sat out on Sammy’s veranda. The old boys would be giggly and relaxed in their dressing-gowns, telling me stories of their youth on the underground gay scene of fifties London and candidly (or, in Georgie’s case, bitterly) analysing their current status in the spectrum of gay desirability.
Gradually, through these post-coital chats, I gleaned an insight into gay life in their heyday.
‘There used to be a pub in Percy Street that was wall-to-wall guardsmen,’ said Georgie. ‘I was voted “Fuck of the Week” for two months in a row — and look at me now! Opening my purse before I can open my legs!’
‘Do you remember that man called Rob?’ asked Sammy, drunk but not delirious. ‘He drove a cab, but if he didn’t have a punter at the end of the evening he’d drive you home. “I’m not queer,” he’d always say, “but I need some relief.” He epitomized the type of man I liked in those days. Straight, but willing to engage if all else failed. After a come-on like that you were home and dry …’
‘The glass collectors were always up for it at the Marquis of Granby,’ added Georgie, ‘but you had to follow them out to the dustbins with two pound notes at the ready. No money, no honey. I remember seeing John Gielgud standing in the saloon bar with spunk on his bow-tie.’
‘Do you remember the police raids?’ asked Sammy.
Georgie groaned appreciatively. ‘Constables in those days knew how to take down a girl’s particulars! Those Bow Street boys spit-roasted me in the snug on more than one occasion.
Sometimes their conversations escalated into animated spats that left me all but forgotten.
‘I’ve been lucky in love,’ said Sammy, ‘but Georgie … let’s just say the hummingbird of love hovered over her upturned trumpet and moved swiftly on.’
‘Excuse me!’ protested Georgie. ‘I’ll have you know that more men have declared their love for me than have for you!’
‘But isn’t that my point?’ argued Sammy. ‘I deal in quality, not quantity. Your statement alone points to your foolish promiscuity. You cannot sustain a relationship so you move on. It’s not a question of conquering and collecting hearts engorged with passion. The pursuit of real love means delving somewhat deeper into the bowels of an intimate relationship than you appear capable of doing.’
‘Oh, do shut up. Just because you’ve wasted your life hankering after the unattainable it doesn’t give you the right to pity me.’
‘I have no right to pity you. I just have the inclination. Based purely on the observations of forty-odd years. Face it, darling, you’re an emotional cripple!’
‘You talk about the pursuit of love, Samuel …‘ said Georgie. He stood up, moved behind my chair and cupped my head between his hands as if it was an exhibit in a court case and he the prosecuting lawyer. ‘… but how do you explain this?’
‘Being in love doesn’t mean you stop appreciating the aesthetic beauty of those around you.’
‘Around you and inside you, I expect you mean,’ said Georgie, with disgust.
‘I see no point in us trying to score points over each other. ‘Sammy flicked him away. ‘We’re both in the same boat, quite literally. Don’t be so annoying. We’ve been round the block enough times to have — finally — separated love from lust. Our lovely JD here,’ he gestured towards me, ‘must not be confused with the real thing. His carnal deliveries may keep us going, but he’s just the irrigation system while we await the inevitable, deadly drought.’
‘From the look of your skin that drought arrived some time ago,’ spat Georgie.
Sammy’s eyes were full of tears. ‘You always have confused wit and cruelty,’ he said.
So they went on, with their Oscar-Wilde-on-gin dialogue. Every week I gave them exactly an hour of my time each, rarely interjecting, then stood up and said how lovely the evening had been.
‘See you next Friday,’ Georgie would say.
‘I’ll see you out.’ Sammy would pat my shoulder and lead the way to the front door.
I suspected that the conversations continued long after my departure, never resolved, never producing a victor, never giving way to silence.
‘More whisky? You might be dead tomorrow.’
‘You might be dead in half an hour, sister.
‘What on earth happened to you, Georgie?’ I said, horrified by the swollen black eye he was sporting when he opened the door.
‘Oh, don’t.’ Georgie rolled his other, still mobile, eye to heaven. ‘Come in. We might have to be rather gentler than normal tonight. I’ve been in the wars.’
‘What happened?’ We sat down under framed photographs of the sparking eyes and perfect complexions of Greer Garson, loan Greenwood and Hermione Gingold.
Georgie looked rueful as he crossed his ankles. ‘I was feeling a bit frisky so Sammy lent me some of his old videos. His tapes are never quite to my taste — he likes straight men being seduced by gay men, the less romance the better. I favour a story I can believe in. Call me old-fashioned but I like to see car mechanics understandably overcome with lust while working overtime in a greasy garage, or Ancient Greek slaves forced to perform sex acts in front of their sadistic but nevertheless gorgeous young emperor, that sort of thing.’
‘Very plausible,’ I said.
‘Well, I watched a few of these with a bottle of Gordon’s London Dry by my side and, after a while, it occurred to me to relive my glory days and go trolling.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I know it was stupid. Even in my youth, I wasn’t exactly the pick of the bunch. I was never as good-looking as Sammy. But I went out pissed and took a walk along the towpath by Barnes Bridge, and when I saw a really lovely big chap, I asked him how about it. It turned out I’d misjudged the situation. He wasn’t in the market for fun and games. In fact, he took offence.’ Georgie touched his big purple eye. ‘Ouch.’
‘Oh, Georgie,’ I said, concerned. ‘Gay-bashed at your age! Why did you put yourself in that situation? You don’t need to any more, not now there’s me.’
‘I know. That’s what Sammy said. He said, “The next time you want to prove there’s still life in the old dog wait till Friday. JD won’t beat you up. For a mere hundred pounds he’ll have sex with you and enjoy it. You can’t troll down the towpath any more. You’re past it.” He’s right, I am.’
‘You’re not past it. Coming up towards it, maybe …’
‘Oh, thank you, dear! How comforting.’ Georgie leant towards me. ‘Listen, JD. I want you to find that animal for me and give him a taste of what he gave me. Would you do that?’
I was astonished. There was a light in Georgie’s eyes I had never seen before: a nasty glint of anger and glee. ‘But how would I find him? The chances of meeting him are very small.’
‘No, no,’ Georgie insisted. ‘I’m sure he’s a regular. I’ve got a very good description. Give him a taste of his own medicine.’
‘I’m going to, mate,’ I said. I understood my punters’ needs.
‘Thank you, JD. You’re a star.’
I knew there wasn’t a hope of finding the man but it was clearly a fantasy Georgie wanted enacted, so I wen
t down to the towpath and punched a brick wall a couple of times, then showed
Georgie my bloody knuckles. He almost came in his pants. ‘Oh,’ he sighed, ‘you’re a marvel, you really are. I shan’t forget this, JD. Here — this is a tip for you.’
He handed over an envelope that contained two hundred pounds.
‘Just be careful,’ I said. ‘You might not be so lucky next time.’
‘Anything you say. You know how I love it when you come over all masterful …’
When I got home, I told Catherine the story. She didn’t find it as funny as I did, and she wasn’t impressed. ‘Two hundred is acceptable, Cowboy, but unless they’re going to hand over the money they’ve earmarked for the cats’ home I wouldn’t waste my saliva on them,’ she said decisively. ‘Small potatoes like them might do for now, but do bear in mind that you and I have bigger fish to fry. Their days are numbered.’
I felt rather crushed. I was fond of Sammy and Georgie, and didn’t like to think of our arrangement coming to an end, but I didn’t tell Catherine that. Instead I wondered if anything I did would ever be good enough for her. My own achievements were so often dismissed, waved away with a perfectly manicured hand or snuffed out in an abrupt change of subject. She was hard to please, that much was for sure, but she was like my older, street-wise sister and it remained my ambition to win her approval.
Since our move Catherine’s confidence had soared. She flourished as a high-calibre call girl. She was passed between businessmen, recommended to first-time callers by Madame as ‘Employee of the Month’ and retained for a second hour by those who had enjoyed the first. The move upscale suited her, and her image evolved from dolly-bird nurse to sophisticated girl-about-town. Her clothes were still understated, but expensive and better fitting, while her makeup became bold but never tarty — russet tones took over from the frosted pastels and she styled her hair in loose ash-blonde ringlets instead of the old candyfloss bouffant. Several times a week she went for expensive facials, and her cabinet in our marble bathroom was full of expensive lotions, scents and scrubs.
‘I wax the gash, Cowboy. My Arab gentlemen wouldn’t go near me if there was a whisper of a pube.’
Once a month we went to be checked by a private doctor in Harley Street.
‘Clean as a whistle, apart from the cystitis,’ Catherine would declare afterwards, ‘but that’s an occupational hazard.’
Another occupational hazard, it seemed, was cocaine. We had long been accustomed to downers like dope, Valium and temazepam, but our new lifestyle required uppers, too, Catherine said. I’d had my first experience of cocaine on the day we moved to Camden. When we had unpacked our meagre possessions Catherine called me into the kitchen where six lines of white powder were lined up on a Tupperware plate.
‘Prepare to snort your first line of cocaine, Cowboy,’ she announced. ‘Watch and learn.’
She inserted a rolled-up ten-pound note in her right nostril and blocked off the left with the forefinger of her other hand. She hoovered up the line with a flourish, then threw back her head, inhaling until her lungs could accommodate no more air. She froze, holding her breath for several seconds, then exhaled luxuriously through her mouth. She stood up, tall and suddenly Amazonian. ‘Fucking fantastic,’ she said. ‘Now you.’
It took me a few attempts to grasp that I had to lower the rolled-up note to the end of the white line while my lungs were empty. To blow instead of suck was very messy. Blocking off the other nostril and keeping my mouth closed was another lesson. To get the powder up your snout and hitting the back of the nasal cavity with a satisfying thud, an enthusiastic whoosh was required. At last I got a proper hit, and seconds later I was enjoying my first high. I felt regal and energetic. Suddenly I found it terribly urgent to articulate my euphoria.
‘Do you know something, Catherine?’ I said earnestly. ‘You and I are fabulous. Let’s face it, we’re amazing.’
‘I know, babe,’ Catherine agreed. ‘I’ve always known it.
We chattered away, describing visions of our high-flying futures, fantasies of success that led, ultimately, to our joint master-plan for the saving of mankind. We were still talking at dawn, convinced we were going to change the world and that nothing else was as important. Until we ran out of cocaine.
‘That’s the last of the gear,’ said Catherine. We’d been talking for twelve hours. ‘Shall I phone up and get some more?’
‘Has Robert Kilroy-Silk got a sun tan?’ I replied.
After that I don’t remember ever being without cocaine. Mind you, we only indulged in all-night binges once in a while. On a day-to-day basis we were far less greedy. We just topped ourselves up when necessary Our cocaine supply was stored in a silver heart kept in a kitchen cupboard, and we would help ourselves to a line whenever we felt the need of a pick-me-up. Breakfast, even if it was in the middle of the afternoon, consisted of a cup of tea, a line of coke and a cigarette. It wasn’t long before we had runny noses and suspicious minds, but fabulous cheekbones.
‘I don’t generally pay compliments,’ said Catherine, one night when we’d got home from our respective jobs and were delving in the cupboard for our reward, ‘and it might be the drugs speaking, but you kook fucking gorgeous, Cowboy. I reckon you’ve lost half a stone.’
‘I wasn’t aware that I was overweight,’ I said indignantly.
‘You weren’t. But it’s a London thing. You can’t be too thin or too rich in this town. I think it’s more than that, though.’
‘Am I pregnant?’ I wondered.
‘No. It’s better news, even. You’ve aborted.’
‘Well, that’s nice talk.’
‘Tim. You’ve aborted Tim at last. The sadness in your eyes has gone. That boring old toff has finally left the building. He slipped out when you weren’t watching and now you’re free.’
‘Am I?’ I asked doubtfully, reaching for the cupboard. I didn’t feel as though that was true, but I’d been dwelling on Tim a lot less recently. I feared that meant he was only embedded all the more deeply in my heart.
As our drug consumption increased, the only real serenity in my life came from my Friday afternoons in Barnes. The fresh air, the predictability of my clients’ demands and the regular financial rewards that came from such ordered lives gave a timetable, albeit vague, to my chaotic existence. It benefited me, I felt sure.
As the months passed we became comfortable with the routine. Relaxed after my clients’ sexual needs had been seen to, I took an interest in the prodigious growth of Sammy’s passion-flower and expressed concern about the greenfly problem with regard to Georgie’s mesembryanthemums. My knowledge of plants impressed the old boys. We sipped our drinks and chewed the cud, much like regulars at a country pub. We were a happy, carefree threesome, we enjoyed life in the moment, and by the time I left Barnes I had no doubt that I’d improved the quality of all our lives.
But not all of my clients were as easy or comfortable to deal with as Sammy and Georgie. By far the worst was another regular, a Mr Brown. He was a very troubled man and a bit of a psycho. For him, sex was an angry matter, and, for the hour he paid me, I was the focus of his fury. Spanking and restraint, bondage and S and M I could handle, but Mr Brown overstepped the mark. When he hit me it didn’t feel like role-play. It felt like he wanted to beat the living daylights out of me.
He booked me through Madame, and always stayed in room 510 at Claridges. He was a handsome, well-groomed man in his early fifties. He was invariably naked when I arrived (apart from his wedding ring), and he handed me my money in silence. Then it was straight down to business. He made it clear that he preferred me not to speak. Not a hello or a goodbye.
‘Come in, undress, bend over. You know what this is about,’ was all he said. The punishment was administered with his bare hand. He slapped my naked bottom harder and harder until his palm was slippery with perspiration. Then he slid one, two and finally three fingers up my anus, swirling and jabbing them about like an angry plumber trying t
o unblock a sink. I could tell when he had come by his gorilla-like grunts, and sometimes from the splash of semen on my back. ‘Now get out, you filthy slut,’ he’d say, as if he meant it. His breathing would remain agitated while I dressed hurriedly, and left the room feeling that Mr Brown might lash out at me.
I muttered the traditional ‘Remember me,’ once I’d closed the door behind me.
‘Look at the state of you,’ said Catherine, when I got in one night, rubbing my tender rump. ‘Life’s tough enough without spending an hour with Jeffrey Dahmer every week. I’ll phone Madame and tell her it’s not on.’
‘No, don’t do that,’ I said. ‘It’s only his fantasy. I can handle him.’
In fact, it wasn’t anything to do with professional pride that made me carry on with my visits to Mr Brown. It was his connection to my true love. Although he clearly had no idea who I was, I knew him. Mr Brown was no less a person than Timothy’s father, Lord Thornchurch.
My life had settled into quite a comfortable routine, with my regulars, my one-offs and my group bookings filling my days and nights nicely.
I didn’t tell Catherine that I was servicing Tim’s father. I hadn’t realized it myself until the third visit, although I had thought he looked vaguely familiar. It was only when I was bent over the trouser press that I saw the label on his suitcase. He had obviously forgotten to hide it and I saw, plain as day, the words ‘Lord Thornchurch’.
I almost collapsed with shock but remained professional. By the time he’d finished, I was fascinated by the idea of sleeping with Tim’s father. It was both horrible and erotic — and also the perfect way to get even with Tim, despite his knowing nothing about it.
When I wasn’t doing tricks, I was with Catherine, shopping, chatting or going out on the town. She enjoyed coming with me to the classier gay clubs. She would sweet-talk the bouncers into letting us into the VIP lounges, and while I went trolling about to see if there was anyone I fancied, she would order an expensive bottle of champagne and tell anyone who chatted to her ridiculous lies for her own amusement. When I returned to her, I had to catch on quickly or I might give the game away.
