by John Maley
Yet here he was on a blind date. He had, after months of soul-searching, placed a contact ad in Get Out, a trendy listings magazine that was not identifiably gay. Pat had deliberated carefully over the composition of his ad. He was satisfied with the final result and hoped he would attract suitable candidates to compete for his heart. ‘Attractive, intelligent, straight-acting, thirty-something, gay man seeks long-term relationship with handsome, discreet man. Photo and detailed letter. No fats or fems.’
The response was disappointing. A couple of the dials looked as if they were awaiting their invitations to the Ugly Bug Ball. Photo booths made everybody ugly but these were something else. One letter had stood out though. Or maybe it was the photo, which made Rick stand out. A young, sexy, muscular guy. A university graduate working for some kind of training agency. Pat responded immediately, pouring out his heart to the handsome stranger. He anticipated the date they had made with a combination of lust, excitement, hysteria, guilt and shame. The worrying aspect for him was the proposed venue of the date: Delilah’s. Delilah’s revolted Pat. He had dragged himself, drunk and despairing, into the hellhole a few times, and was nauseated by the gaudy, brazen queerness of the place. But Rick, his date, had insisted.
Pat accepted there were advantages in meeting at Delilah’s – he knew where it was and no one really knew him there. There would be anonymity. The idea of being discovered, of being uncovered, made him shake violently.
Pat had prepared well for the date. He had bought new underwear. He had washed his bed linen and spring-cleaned the flat. He had gargled with mouthwash and flossed his teeth. He had had his hair cut and polished his shoes, and agonised over what to wear, what to say. He had plotted conversations. He had fantasised about the sex. The sex with Rick. Another man. For a week he had wondered and wanked about this man. Now was the moment. The moment he had waited for all his life. The moment had come.
‘Hi doll!’
The greeting was yelled from behind Pat. The two words revealed a multitude of sins, bleated in a shrill, camp voice that made bile rise in Pat’s throat. Fairy. Screamer. The sooner Rick arrived and they could get out of here the better.
‘Hiya doll!’
Pat turned and saw Rick standing there at the side of his booth. He looked even better in the flesh. He was wearing a light blue shirt and a pair of Levis. He beamed broadly at Pat.
‘Thought you’d stood me up there, doll.’
Rick flounced forward and squeezed in beside Pat.
‘Were you waiting long, pet?’
Pat couldn’t believe his ears. He couldn’t believe that this horrendously poofy voice belonged to handsome, hunky Rick. It was as if an evil queen was using Rick’s beautiful body like a ventriloquist’s dummy. It could not be true.
‘Cat got your tongue, love? Lucky old cat.’
Pat stammered.
‘– I – I’m nervous.’
‘You need a stiff one, doll. But I’ll get you a drink first. What’re you drinking? Lager? I’ll be right back.’
Rick tiptoed up to the bar. Pat surveyed his surroundings looking for an escape route. There was a bottleneck at the exit. The nosiest customers would stand there, constantly complaining of cold draughts, but eager to see who was coming and going and who would stay. Pat closed his eyes and sighed. Was there a man amongst them? He decided he would sweat it out for a few pints. If he ever needed a drink, then it surely was now.
Rick came back with a coo-ee and squeezed in beside Pat. He put the two pints of lager in front of them and purred softly.
‘So here we are, doll.’
‘Here we are.’
It was hopeless. Pat knew they had nothing to say to each other. He’d been in this position before – with a woman. They had sat on her sofa sipping coffee. In silence. Eventually she rose majestically and put on the TV. Later that evening they had brought the date to a harrowing conclusion by having a mannered, laboured, dry-hump on the sofa, both of them faking any feeling. A dangerous thought cruised in the bushes of Pat’s tortured mind. Yes, Rick was a poofter, but he still looked fantastic. Handsome as fuck. Firm, muscular body. Was a shag out of the question? Pat mulled this over. He could never possibly be seen out with Rick or introduce him to friends or workmates. As soon as he opened his mouth a neon sign declaring FAIRY would appear above his glorious head. He would drag Pat down with him, guilt by association.
‘I’m glad you showed up, lover-boy. If you hadn’t I was gonnae throw myself off the Kingston Bridge.’
‘I’m a man of my word.’
‘Words are fine and dandy. But actions speak louder.’
Rick rubbed Pat’s thigh with a warm, purposeful hand. Pat laughed nervously, blushing. Rick removed his hand and winked at him.
‘Don’t worry, love. I’m no gonnae bite you. Just suck you.’
Pat found himself on the defensive.
‘I’m not really into one-night stands.’
Rick blinked his big brown eyes.
‘A puppy’s for life, doll, not just for Christmas.’
They drank their lager. The music was more poppy then usual in Delilah’s. Not the hideous robotic techno that Pat hated with a vengeance. He felt aroused by the presence of Rick beside him and tried to fight it. It was a man he was looking for, not a mutant. He looked shyly at Rick, whose eyes were elsewhere. Pat’s face was wounded with disgust. He tried to smile and failed miserably. Rick was mouthing the words to some poofy disco song and nodding his head from left to right, like a ten-year-old girl trapped in a twenty-five-year old man’s body. Pat craned his neck towards the exit. No way out. Rick turned to him suddenly, as though snapping out of a trance.
‘D’you like karaoke, baby love?’
Pat mumbled and shook his head. He hated it.
‘I do a fantastic version of My Guy. They’re getting the karaoke on later. I’ll sing it for you, pet’
He sung a few bars right in Pat’s mortified face.
‘I’ll save the best for last.’
Another dirty wink.
Rick asked him about his work. Pat had invented a fictitious job in a fictitious workplace. He reckoned if things turned out okay he could always come clean to the right guy, and if it was the wrong guy, lies covered his tracks when he escaped. Pat struggled to answer Rick with more than one syllable. All the while he was having nightmares about a chance encounter sometime in the future with Rick, when he was with family or friends or workmates. Pat wasn’t sure if he could live with this possibility. He decided he would have to leave town. Rick, of course, was an open book.
‘Everybody and his granny knows about me.’
How could they have possibly guessed, thought Pat. Rick went on about how everybody knew he was gay, he didn’t give a fuck, and if they had a problem with it then that was their problem. Closets were for hanging your coat, not yourself. Rick’s mother had met all his boyfriends and up until recently had exercised a final veto on his choices. Now Rick felt he was old enough and pretty enough to make his own mistakes. Occasionally he gave Pat’s thigh a stroke. Pat found these strokes unbearable and felt he would come if Rick touched him again.
‘I see you’ve got yerself a husband at last. Is there a man in this pub you’ve no shagged?’
It was Joanie, butting in as usual, and teasing Rick, who laughed like a hyena, and slapped the air with his free hand, his other hand now placed firmly between Pat’s aching thighs. It was then Pat made a break for it. He was desperate for a pee, and possibly a wank. He stammered something and squeezed by Rick, who pinched his bum.
‘Missin’ you already, doll.’
Pat fought his way upstairs to the safety of a cubicle. He sighed and pulled down his zip. It was then he realised he would have to wait a bit. He had a rock-hard cock to contend with. He stood before the lavatory pan and read the dirty and hilarious graffiti on the wall. But he did not, could not laugh.
He thought of Rick, Rick’s body, and his sweet brown eyes. Physically, he was everything Pat ad
ored in a man. He was broad and dark and handsome. Pat had seen that he was also hirsute, a veritable rug of a hairy chest was bursting over his loosened shirt. Yet he could not think of Rick. His horrendous, camp voice and demeanour. He was a ridiculous queen. Pat resisted further thought of Rick and gradually he was softening, and able to pee. But when he finished, he could not move. He shook his dick, put it away, zipped up, pulled the plug, and stood in the cubicle, unsure whether to stay or go. Could he get drunk and bury his sad and desperate face in Rick’s hairy chest? Or should he run out of the pub, the stinking fairy grotto of a shirtlifting dive, into the night and home to the merciless loneliness of his bachelor pad? He hated Rick and he hated himself.
Suddenly he heard a burst of song from behind the cubicle door. It was Rick giving a heartfelt rendition of My Guy. He finished abruptly and gave the cubicle door a brisk rap.
‘How’s yer arse for love bites?’
Pat opened the cubicle door, dragged Rick inside, snibbed the door, and kissed him passionately on the mouth. It was to be the first of a million kisses.
Papa and the Golden Shower
Papa took off his clothes and lay down naked in the cool dry bath. He closed his eyes and sighed. He opened them again and looked at his pick-up, a serious young guy who couldn’t be more than twenty-five. The guy unzipped his jeans, pulled out his prick, and peed on Papa. The pee was yellow in colour and as it splashed and dappled Papa’s bare skin he could smell it and feel its soothing warmth.
He wasn’t sure how long he was out for but guessed it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes. He sat up in the bath and called ‘Heah’ to the guy. There was no sound. Papa stood up and turned on the shower. He gasped as the cold water washed away the pee and woke him from his drunken stupor. ‘Heah,’ he called again above the rush of water. No reply. Papa turned off the shower and yanked a towel from the rail. He dried himself roughly, tucking the damp towel round his waist.
‘Heah.’
Nothing.
Papa padded down the hall and into the living-room. Nobody there. He tried the bedroom, the kitchen. Nobody.
‘Heah,’ he called again. He was alone. At first Papa thought the guy had just gone home when he’d fallen asleep in the bath. That was all there was to it. It happened. He’d had guys conk out on him. Once he thought he was getting the blow job of his life until he realised the guy’s head was a dead weight in his lap. He’d fallen asleep.
Papa switched the kettle on for coffee. It was then he recalled seeing a drawer open in his bedroom. He went back to the room and over to the bedside cabinet. Papa could see nothing missing from the drawer. He closed it. He looked around the room and went into the living-room. Small things began to grab his attention. Wee gaps in his rows of CDs. The way his jacket lay on the sofa. Papa checked the pockets. His wallet and mobile phone were missing.
‘Fuck,’ he said to himself. He was shaking. He went over to the old 1940s sideboard and opened the drawers there. He rummaged through them. Right away he noticed a few items missing – a watch and a ring. The watch was a present from his old firm, the ring had been his father’s.
In his bedroom Papa hurriedly put on his clothes. Halfway through dressing he went briskly to the front door and fixed the bolt and chain, frightened the guy would come back. He had found his house keys and car keys behind the sofa and wondered whether they had fallen out of his jacket when he took it off or when the guy frisked it. When he was fully dressed Papa sat hunched on the sofa, mumbling to himself. He was in that strange place between drunkenness and sobriety. He tried to piece together the events of the evening. He had gone to Delilah’s, drank like a fish, talked to everybody and trusted everybody.
Memories came back in flashes. He remembered kissing a man on the stairway. That was all, just kissing. But it wasn’t the guy he came home with. He remembered, too, sitting in a booth with two lesbians talking about old movie stars. Then he remembered his pick-up. He remembered odd things about his behaviour. The hesitancy of his speech, the way he took his arm at the elbow and had guided him out of the pub and into a taxi. He had been sober and serious. There had been something methodical, purposeful, about his behaviour.
After he had cancelled his credit cards, stammering down the mouthpiece to the 24-hour call centre, Papa made himself a cup of strong coffee. He sat with it in his living-room, perched on the sofa. He felt lonely. Papa prided himself on having a busy social life and wasn’t normally lonely. But things like this made him feel lonely. Not just bad things but good things too. He wanted to say to someone ‘Wasn’t that hilarious?’ or ‘Isn’t that terrible?’ He rang Mama, crying down the phone. She came over.
‘Did you call the police?’ asked Mama, holding Papa’s hand.
‘It never occurred to me.’
‘You’ve been robbed,’ said Mama. ‘I think you should let the police handle this.’
But Papa wouldn’t phone the cops or let Mama phone them. He told her about the golden shower and his blackout and then his discovery of the theft. Mama listened quietly, shaking her head.
‘You guys are playing with fire,’ she said.
‘I get drunk,’ said Papa.
‘I know you do,’ said Mama, sternly. She petted his hand. ‘You lose your judgement. But if that ring means anything to you, phone the police.’
‘It was my daddy’s ring,’ said Papa, crying again.
‘You need to take more care of yourself,’ said Mama.
Her arms made a strong, sure ring around her friend.
Ellen’s Degenerates
‘My mother can fuck a broomstick.’
Caroline would always say that whenever her lover Denise suggested Caroline tell her mother she was a lesbian. It would usually start with Caroline going on about her mother, how she’d rejected her as a child, had never shown her any affection, and had ruined her life. Caroline even said she thought her mother might be autistic. You couldn’t get eye contact with her. Denise was tired of her moaning, though she didn’t want to tell Caroline this. But Caroline had been on this mother-bashing trip for a while. Her favourite book was Toxic Parents: Overcoming Their Hurtful Legacy and Reclaiming Your Life.
She used to tell Denise stories about her mother. Once, when Caroline was eight years old, she was in the school play. She was really excited and had begged her mother to come and see it. Grudgingly, her mother had gone but after the show had shook her head and told Caroline she had looked silly, ‘standing there like a block of wood.’ Caroline had been a tree in the enchanted forest.
Another story from Caroline’s rosy childhood was that her mother used to jam her fingers in a bedroom drawer. If Caroline did anything ‘naughty’, her mother told her to put her hand in the drawer of her bedside cabinet and then close it on her wee fingers. Denise said it sounded like Carrie.
The other story Caroline was fond of telling was how on her twelfth birthday her mother had hit her over the head with a jigsaw. Denise was puzzled. Wouldn’t a jigsaw be too flimsy and just break? Caroline explained it was still in the box.
At first when Caroline told these stories Denise tried to look sympathetic, sighed and shook her head disapprovingly. But after the hundredth time she couldn’t bear to listen. Denise knew that some people had shitey parents – her own father was a tyrannical alcoholic – but she felt adulthood brought its own responsibilities and you couldn’t blame your parents – toxic or otherwise – for everything. Barely a week went by without Caroline trashing her mother. Denise felt that Caroline needed to break the hold her mother seemed to have over her. She felt that Caroline should let her know that she was gay, in a relationship, and had found her own way in the world. But Caroline would only say, ‘my mother can fuck a broomstick.’
‘I wish you’d let go of this victim thing.’
‘Victim thing?’
‘You’re a grown woman, not a helpless child anymore.’
Caroline would fall silent for a while then come back with something like, ‘One of these days I�
��m going to walk into a police station and tell them the whole fuckin’ story.’
‘What?’ Denise would ask. ‘That you’re a lesbian?’
It had become a source of tension and conflict between them, Caroline’s bitterness towards her mother.
They were sitting in a booth in Delilah’s one Saturday afternoon after a shopping trip. They had mainly been window-shopping but Caroline had bought a blouse in Next and Denise had bought a few things from the Body Shop. Delilah’s was quite relaxing at this time of day. They played mellow music and had kind of billed Saturday afternoons as chill-out times. Caroline and Denise drank warm, milky coffee and chatted. Joanie came over from the bar and told them that tonight Delilah’s was having a special Ellen Degeneres night. Channel Four was hosting a coming out party and broadcasting the episode where Ellen finally comes bursting out of the closet. Delilah’s was showing the episode on a big screen with free glasses of wine, chocolates and party hats. The girls said they were keen and took a flyer from Joanie but they had already decided between themselves to have a cosy night in to watch the show. Denise loved Ellen but Caroline didn’t really ‘get’ her. However, Caroline said she would love to get her mitts on Anne Heche, Ellen’s lover. She had seen her in Volcano and said Heche really got her lava flowing.
They had gone to Safeway that morning to get the weekly shopping and had bought some wine, crisps, tortilla chips, grapes and chocolate. They intended to pig out as Ellen came out. It had been a tough decision. The idea of being in a gay bar with a lot of other gay people, celebrating together, was very appealing. But Caroline felt that this was a time to listen and reflect and feared that things would get too rowdy and trashy in Delilah’s. So they decided they would be home birds that night and celebrate their lesbian love together.
