by Unknown
I apply moisturiser to my face, a little make-up, and throw on my clothes, taking the stuff for my shift at the sauna out with me in a holdall. I’m heading across the Meadows at speed, only occasionally aware of the cold, stiff wind as it bends back the essay paper I’m trying to read. I realise that the American word-processing-package spell check has corrected in American English: ‘z’s’ everywhere and ‘u’s’ thrown away, something that inordinately irritates McClymont and will probably negate the gains made by the sychophantic comments. If this is a pass, then it’s a bare one.
I hand it in to the departmental secretary’s office at 11.47 a.m. and after a coffee and a sandwich I head for the library where I spend the afternoon reading film texts before getting down to the sauna round teatime.
The sauna is on a dirty, narrow, gloomy main road which serves traffic coming into town. The smell of the hops from the nearby brewery is seedy if you’ve been drinking, like the dregs of last night thrown back in your face. The grime from the buses and lorries blackens most of the shopfronts permanently and the ‘Miss Argentina Latin Sauna and Massage Parlour’ is no exception. Inside, however, everything is pristine. — Mind n wipe up, Bobby Keats, the proprietor, always tells us with great urgency. There are more cleaning fluids than massage oils and we’re all urged to use them as liberally. The laundry bill for the fresh towels alone must be astronomical.
There’s a permanent, synthetic scent in the air. Yet the soaps, mouthwashes, lotions, oils, talcs and fragrances, unsparingly applied to cover the trail of stale cum and sweat, oddly just seem to complement the rank atmosphere outside.
We have to look and act like air hostesses. In keeping with the theme of the sauna, Bobby employs girls he considers have Latin looks. Professionalism is the name of the game. My first client is a small, grey-haired man called Alfred. After I give him a deep aromatherapy massage using copious amounts of lavender oil on his tight, knotted back, he nervously asks for ‘extras’ and I offer him a ‘special massage’.
I get a hold of his penis under the towel and begin to stroke him slowly, conscious of my poor wanking skills. I only hold down this job because Bobby fancies me. I’m thinking back to de Sade’s writings where the young kidnapped girls are trained in the art of male masturbation by old men. But I think about my own experiences, and I’ve only ever wanked off my first two boyfriends, Jon and Richard, whom I didn’t fuck. Since then I associated wanking a boy with not fucking him, and it sort of slipped off my sexual menu before it properly went on.
Sometimes clients do complain and I get the odd threat of dismissal. After a while though, I discovered Bobby was all mouth and no trousers on this issue. He regularly invites me out to various events: parties, casinos, big football games, cinema premieres, boxing matches, the races, the dog track or simply ‘a drink’ or ‘a bite to eat’ at a ‘smart restaurant run by a good friend’. I always make an excuse or politely decline.
Fortunately, Alfred is too ecstatic to even notice, let alone complain. Any sexual contact is enough to send him off and he spurts his load in no time, paying me with gratitude. Many of the other girls, who do blow jobs and full sex, they don’t make as much as me, a bad wanker, I know that for a fact. My pal Jayne, who’s been here a lot longer than I have, smugly says that I’ll go all the way before long. I rap back ‘no chance’ but there’s some days when I feel that she’s right, that it’s inevitable, just a matter of time.
When I finish my shift, I check the message service on my mobile. Lauren tells me that they’re out drinking so I bell her back and meet them in a Cowgate pub. Along with Lauren is Dianne and also Lynda and Coral, two girls from the uni. The Bacardi Breezers flow and pretty soon we’re all quite pissed again. At closing time Dianne, Lauren and I head back to our Tollcross flat. — Are you seeing anybody, Dianne? I ask as we walk up towards Chambers Street.
— No, I’m finishing my dissertation before I get into that, she says quite primly, and Lauren’s nodding in approbation only to be cut to the quick when Dianne adds, — then I’ll be shagging anything that’s got a cock, because celibacy’s fuckin well killing me! I snigger, and she throws her head back in laughter. — Cocks! Big cocks, small cocks, thick cocks, thin cocks. Circumcised, uncircumcised! White, black, yellow, red. When I hand that dissertation in it’ll be a new dawn and heralded by COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO! She cups her hands and crows into the night air outside the museum as Lauren wilts and I laugh. I’m going to enjoy living with this girl.
I feel rough in the morning and I’m a bit narky and nippy in the lectures, short with this guy Dave, who’s clumsily trying to chat me up. There’s no Lauren to be seen, she must’ve been drunker than I thought. I catch up with Rab, holding court in the Square with that Dave and another guy, Chris. We walk across George Square towards the library, Rab’s profile edged in a burst of sunlight.
— I’m not going to the library, I’m going home for a bit, I tell him.
He looks slightly hurt. Abandoned, even. — Right . . . he goes.
— I’m going up to mine for a blow. You coming? I offer. I know that Dianne said she’d be out all day, and I’m hoping Lauren’s not in either.
— Aye, awright, he says. Rab’s a bit of a hash-head.
We’re up in the flat and I’ve skinned up and put on a Macy Gray CD. Rab’s got the telly on with the sound turned down. Seems he needs as many reference points as possible. There’s a session tonight in a Grassmarket pub as it’s Chris’s birthday. Rab doesn’t really like drinking with the other students too much. He’s social and affable enough with them, but you can tell he thinks they’re wankers. I agree. I want, not so much into Rab’s keks, but into his world. I know that he’s seen and done a lot more than he lets on about. It fascinates me to think of there being this zone he inhabits that I know so little about. People like Juice Terry open up another, strange place. — Is everybody going straight out after the workshop? I ask him. The workshop’s a joke, our one concession on the course to real film-making. And it’s optional. But I don’t want to get Rab started on that.
— Aye, according to Dave, he tells me, taking a long toke and keeping it in his lungs for an implausible amount of time.
— I’d better change, I announce and I go through to the bedroom and take off my jeans. I look at myself in the mirror then decide to head out to the kitchen. Then I come into the lounge and I’m standing behind him. His hair is sticking up a bit, or at least a tuft of it is. It’s been bothering me all day. After we’ve made love, after I’ve earned the right to such intimacy, I’ll wet it and smooth it down. I sit down on the couch next to him wearing just my red sleeveless top and white cotton knickers. He’s watching the television. Cricket with the sound turned down. — I’ll just get a toke first, I tell him, sweeping my hair back.
Rab’s still looking at the soundless fucking cricket.
— That mate of yours, that Terry, he’s a monster, I laugh. It sounds a bit forced.
Rab shrugs. He seems to do that a lot. Shrugs it off. What is he shrugging off? Embarrassment? Discomfort? Now he’s handing me the joint, trying not to stare at my legs, at my white cotton pants, but he seems to be managing. He fucking well seems to be managing to be so fucking cool about it all. It’s not as if he’s gay; he’s got a girlfriend and he’s ignoring me . . .
I feel my voice getting a notch higher, a touch desperate. — You think we’re sluts, don’t you, the likes of me and Terry? Like me going along to get into it? You know I didn’t do anything, well, not this time anyway, I giggle.
— Naw . . . ah mean, it’s up tae you, Rab says. — Ah telt ye what he was intae. Ah telt ye he’d want tae get ye involved. It’s up tae you whether you go along and what ye dae.
— But you disapprove, just like Lauren. She’s been avoiding me, you know, I say, taking another toke.
— I know Terry. He’s been my mate for donkey’s years. I ken what eh’s like, aye, but if I’d disapproved I wouldnae have got ye tae meet him, Rab says matter-of-factly, displaying a
casual maturity which is making me feel young and silly.
— You know it’s just fucking, just a laugh though. I could never be into him, I explain, feeling all the more stupid and weak for doing so.
— That’s you . . . he starts, then stops, and turns to me, his head still back hard against the couch. — Ah mean, it’s up tae you who you shag.
I’m looking him right in the eye as I put the joint in the ashtray. — I wish it was, I tell him.
But Rab remains silent, turning his face away and looking straight at the screen. The fucking stupid cricket on the telly. Scots are supposed to hate cricket, I always considered that one of their great virtues.
He’s not getting off that easy. — I said I wish it was.
— What dae ye mean? He says, and there’s a slight quaver in his voice.
I nudge his leg with mine. — I’m sitting here in a pair of knickers and I want you to take them off me and fuck me.
I feel him tensing under my touch. He looks at me, then, in a sudden violent movement pulls me to him and he’s snogging me but it’s stiff and harsh and hateful, all anger and no passion and it dissipates and then he pulls away.
I look away, out the window. I can see some people in the flat opposite having a conversation. Of course. I stand up and pull the blinds. — Is it the blinds?
— It’s no the blinds, he snaps. — I’ve got a girlfriend. She’s having our kid. He goes silent for a bit, then adds: — That might no mean nowt tae you but it doesnae mean nowt tae me.
I feel a surge of anger, feel like saying, yes, you’re fucking correct. It does mean ‘nowt’ to me. Less than nothing. — I want to fuck you, that’s all. I don’t want to marry you. If you’d rather watch the cricket, that’s fine.
Rab says nothing, but there’s a tension in his face and his eyes glint a little bit. I get up, experiencing the pain of rejection, feeling it right in the core of my self.
— It’s no that ah dinnae fancy ye, Nikki, he says. — Fuckin hell, I’d be mad no tae. It’s just . . .
— I’m going to get changed, I tell him sharply, and head into the bedroom. I hear the door, it must be Lauren.
9
Scam # 18,736
The hallway smells of cat’s pish as I go to retrieve the morning post at the foot of the door, but the good news cheers me somewhat. It’s official! I’m legit. At long fucking last, Simon David Williamson, local businessman, is returning to his Leith roots, courtesy of Edinburgh Council. I always said that Leith was the place to be, and SDW can play a significant part in the regeneration of the Port area.
I can see the Evening News now: Williamson, one of the dynamic new breed of Edinburgh entrepreneurs talks to the News’s very own John Gibson, a fellow Leither.
JG: Simon, what is it about Leith that makes people like yourself and Terence Conran, archetypal London success stories, want to invest so heavily in the area?
SDW: Well, John, funnily enough, I was speaking to Terry about this at a charity lunch recently and we both came to the same conclusion: Leith is on the way up, and we want to be part of the success story. It’s especially poignant for me, being a local boy. My aim is to keep the Port Sunshine as a traditional pub, but be poised to upgrade it to a restaurant when the area finally takes off. It won’t happen overnight, but I see my actions as an act of faith in Leith. It’s no hyperbole to state: I love the old port. I like to think that Leith’s been good to me and I’ve been good to her.
JG: So this is the way forward for Leith?
SDW: John, Leith’s been a grand old lady far too long. Yes, we love her, as she’s warm and maternal; a heavy, soft bosom to curl into on those cold, dark winter nights. But I want to reinvent her as a sexy, hot young bitch and pimp that dirty wee hoor oot for aw she’s fuckin worth. In a word: business. I want Leith to be about business. Whenever people hear the word ‘Leith’, I want them to think, ‘business’. Port of Leith, Port of Business.
I scrutinise the letter from Councillor Tom Mason, the chair of the licensing board for the city council.
City of Edinburgh
Licensing Committee
17 January
Dear Mr Williamson,
I am pleased to inform you that your application for a licence to sell alcoholic beverages for the premises at 56 Murray Street, Edinburgh EH6 7ED, known as the Port Sunshine Arms has been granted. This licence is conditional on acceptance of the terms and conditions detailed in the enclosed contract.
Please sign both copies of this contract and return it to us by Monday, 8 February.
Yours sincerely
Cllr T.J. Mason
Chair, Licensing Committee
Tom and I should get together soon, a round of golf at Gleneagles wish Sean perhapsh, when heash nexsht in town. We may stall and linger a while on the nineteenth, where I’ll bend Tom’s ear about my plansh for a shecond café-bar, further up the Walk. Perhaps Sean might also be persuaded to make an investment in helping to drag his city out of the fucking mediocrity it’s been steeped in for decades.
Yesh, Shimon, there’sh definite inveshtment potential there. But fursht we musht rid ourshelves of the underclash that comprishes the current clientele of thish pub.
Exshachtly, Shean. Theesh people have no playsh in the new Leesh.
10
Counselling
It’s like when the Avril lassie says tae us what brings ye doon, and ah think, well, Hibs and rain likesay. Then ah think, well, naw, cause when Hibs are daein well ah’m still doon sometimes so it disnae always match up. Obviously but, I’d rather see the cats in emerald green daein the biz, likes. But it’s an excuse really, well, maybe no rain, cause rain eywis gies me the blues. When ah wis younger pittin oan a tune used tae help, but that’s a no-go now cause maist ay the auld vinyl’s gone, man, it’s been sold off tae the second-hand record shops, that trek up the Walk tae Vinyl Villains, the proceeds used tae score broon and cook it up and stick it intae ma veins. Even Zappa’s gone, man, that’s Frank Zappa, no Zappa ma pet cat likesay. I’m tryin so hard tae keep away fae the broon, but ah like ma speed n thir’s loads ay base gaun roond here right now n see when yir oan a comedoon wi it, ye really crave a nice bit ay broon tae take the edge offay it, likes.
The Avril chick here at the group reckons that every cat present needs a project, man, something tae stop the boredom, tae gie they listless lives a bit ay structure n direction. Cannae really spraff against the concept, man; wi aw need it, it simply hus tae be hud. — The next time you come, I want you to think of something you can do, she sais, drummin the pen oaf that set ay pearly-white front teeth.
Whoah, man, they gnashers pure pit bad thoughts intae ma heid, but ah shouldnae be thinkin that wey aboot Avs, cause she’s a nice lassie, likes.
It’s good though tae be thinkin aboot somethin sortay upbeat cause the thoughts recently huv been pure dark spooky black, likes. The thing is, what ah’ve been thinkin mair n mair aboot is, like, leavin this toon for good, as that Vic Godard cat said aboot the Johnny Thunders boy. It’s an obsession now, man, especially whin the blues kick in. It first came tae ays when ah wis in the nick, readin this book. Ah’ve never really been a cat ay letters, but ah wis readin this Crime and Punishment book by that Russian gadgie.
Thing is but, man, it defo took ays a while tae get intae it but. It’s like aw they Russian punters seemed tae huv two names, so it wis likesay, dead confusin. Funny, cause ower here, since way back tae the poll tax, loads ay gadges dinnae huv any names, at least no officially, so it aw sort ay evens itself oot.
There’s me stuck in a cell wi thon auld bit ay deid tree but, and eventually ah really dug it. Thing wis, it sort ay got me thinkin ay a scam, likes. A fiddle tae sort oot aw the problems, the ones ah’ve caused by likesay, just being me, ah suppose. Aye, the modern world hus a kind ay natural selection and it’s no really the sort ay gig where ah fit in. Cats like me have become extinct. Cannae adapt, so cannae survive. Sortay like the sabre-toothed tiger. The funny thing but, is that ah nev
er really dug how that species became extinct, when less hard cats survived. Ah mean likesay, in a heid-tae-heid tussle n that, ye’d huv tae pit yir dough on the sabre-toothed gadgie tae pagger any common-or-gairdin other cat, even just an ordinary tiger. Answers oan a postcaird, man, answers right oan the dotted line.
Thing is, as ye git aulder, this character-deficiency gig becomes mair sapping. Thir wis a time ah used tae say tae aw the teachers, bosses, dole punters, poll-tax guys, magistrates, when they telt me ah was deficient: ‘Hi, cool it, gadge, ah’m jist me, jist intae a different sort ay gig fae youse but, ken?’ Now though, ah’ve goat tae concede thit mibee they cats had it sussed. Ye take a healthier slapping the aulder ye git. The blows hit hame mair. It’s like yon Mike Tyson boy at the boxing, ken? Every time ye git it thegither tae make a comeback, thir’s jist a wee bit mair missin. So ye fuck up again. Yip, ah’m jist no a gadge cut oot fir modern life n that’s aw thir is tae it, man. Sometimes the gig goes smooth, then ah jist pure panic n it’s back tae the auld weys. What kin ah dae?
Loadsay us have faults, man. Mine is gear, gear and gear. It’s just likes a shame that one person hus tae pey so many times ower for the one fault. Of course, ah’ve goat chorin n aw, but if ah kicked the collies seriously, then the chorin might stop, or at least slow doon a bit.
The counsellin gig is somethin that ah dinnae really think is daein me much good. Ah mean, every time ah talk wi these dudes ah still feel the pull ay the junk, man. It never goes. We can likesay, rationalise it and look at it, but as soon as ye leave the room, yir thinkin aboot scorin. One time ah left a meeting and ah wis walkin in a haze and before ah knew where ah wis, ah wis bangin oan Seeker’s door. Ah just sortay jolted into consciousness, and there ah wis, jist sortay rappin on that blue door. Ah fairly nashed doon that road before any cat answered it.
