Paulyanna, page 21
It became apparent that they had a reputation as a couple of hard men. Big strapping blokes joked with trepidation and handled them delicately. They were wary. It was so obvious I was gay but none of the usual inquisitive questions followed. It was as if it didn’t bother anybody. Once again I suspected I was part of some unspoken secret, especially when I noticed Patrick with a doe-eyed girl draped around his neck. I was unnerved by his disregard and the distance between us. I’d come all this way and it wasn’t to watch rugby. I was annoyed and felt insulted for being played. I had to squash my petulant urge to shatter the illusion.
Later I had to share a bed with Jeff, who became domineering and lustful. I resented Patrick for placing me in a situation I didn’t want to be in. I was fearful. I could have stormed out I suppose, but it was late and bitingly cold out there. I was worried about antagonising a horny drunken hard man. So I kept my cool, played a role and gave a little so he didn’t take a lot. Jeff chatted some crazy deluded shit afterwards. Suggested that I should move to Wigan and the two of us set up home together. It was all a bit too psycho and this notion frightened me even more. I couldn’t believe the front of him talking like we’d just made love. To me it was closer to sexual assault. In the cold light of day, knowing I’d survived the night, I was a lot braver. I put on a right stroppy face, acted really precious and demanded he drove me to the train station. I pushed my luck further and told him I wanted some money for the sex. He gave me twenty quid and I swiftly returned to London.
I’m the sort of person who has to make their own mistakes: I even learn from some of them. Occasionally.
I never asked for money up front; ironically I thought it was crude and reeked of desperation. I met a Nigerian man outside the entrance to The Palace Theatre on Cambridge Circus. Les Misérables was still running there. I knew I didn’t fancy black people as they never fuelled any of my fantasies. Nevertheless, there was always so much talk of racism that even though I was proud to lay claim to a couple of ethnic DNA strands on my dad’s side, I felt I had to prove to myself I wasn’t one. In doing so I was probably countering that, but hey. I also wanted to test my prowess to see if I could do him. He spoke ever so poshly, much more eloquently than anyone I knew. Dressed in traditional Nigerian attire he was graceful and appeared kind of regal. I was taken aback when the taxi-cab pulled up beneath a rougher than rough block of council flats in the Elephant and Castle.
Once we got down to it I wasn’t fully turned on so it was not easy to perform. It was, however, crucial that my customer remained unaware of my mental struggle. I now knew some people were thinkers whilst other, easier ones were feelers. I had learnt traffic sometimes needed to flow both ways as clients travelling along a one-way street didn’t always reach their destination. If punters didn’t climax within the allotted fifteen-minute time frame of an average trick, it was a good indicator that they were having difficulties. For me this was awkward as it meant putting in more effort, but on this occasion I was lucky. Afterwards he started to write out a cheque. I knew it was a con straight away. He insisted he had no cash in the flat. There was plenty of evidence of a wife though. I was pissed off as I knew the cheque wouldn’t clear.
I borrowed a bit of Sue’s persona and picked up a gold chain. It was broken.
“Well, I want this then! And taxi fare too!”
I was only being petulant because the situation demanded it from a character like me. I did not want to anger him. It was dark outside and I was aware that the area I was in had a reputation for being dangerous. I felt vulnerable. I had read about a gay man who had recently been stabbed to death in a park not too far away. He, my so called customer, scraped together around eight pounds, which I accepted as brusquely as I dared and insisted he escort me to the busy main road, where I hailed a cab.
When I got back I filled Richard in on everything. I knew he’d laugh – that was the only reason I told him things like that. When the cheque did bounce, Deirdre was livid. She wanted me to kick up a fuss, if for no other reason than to let the bank know that he ripped off rent-boys. I couldn’t see the point in it and marked it down to experience. An occupational hazard. I learned nothing from the incident I didn’t already know. The mask of a villain can also contain a smile. I left alone my policy of not asking for cash up front.
I had to acclimatise my squeamish, often prissy, hang-ups towards sex. After all, I was pretty conservative in a non-political sense when it came to my own preferences. There were some demands that bordered towards fetishes, but thankfully nothing too extreme. A French guy requested I sat at his dining table in my underwear. It had a fine lace tablecloth. He was obscured underneath the table and although I couldn’t see him, I could both smell and hear him. Long deep inhalations through his nostrils. He sniffed from a bottle of poppers, also known as amyl-nitrite, which creates an instant euphoria and rushing sensation that allows the user to lose themselves in the moment. Also works as a muscle relaxant. It doesn’t last long but it is intense. The downside is it gives you headaches and a red face. Oh yeah, and my gut instinct tells me it’s probably dangerous too. However, I know how the world is and I’m not here to nanny you, so if you really have to try it know this – it really stinks and is highly flammable. The French guy would pass up a Post-it note with written instructions for me to follow. All very slight and precise movements to satisfy a voyeuristic fantasy. Uncross your legs, scratch your balls, sit back in your chair, lean forward, and so on. For me it was harmless, easy money and just another quirky story to tell later. Minus certain specifics to protect client confidentiality.
One gent insisted I didn’t shower before I visited and spent the whole time sniffing me. Thinking of it still draws a smile. Comical because I am so ticklish and had to try really hard not to laugh. You quickly get to know which clients enjoy laughter and which desire a more moody atmosphere during sex. He saw me as his bit of rough trade, which in itself is laughable, and not some giggling girl. I assume I must have satisfied him to some degree as I saw him again. Oh yeah and Mr Spitty. You can guess what he wanted. I had to tower over him menacingly like a skinhead and cough up phlegm. He wanted me to spit in his face. I made all the right noises but couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’d always fake it and deliver a less disgusting one. He wanted me to do this from an even greater height and I stood on furniture and he lay on the floor. So high up I doubted he could see I wasn’t into it. He lived about an hour’s train journey from Charing Cross so every visit cost him a train ticket also. I think I was a bit too expensive.
I never considered myself to be good at sex: how could I be with such strict self-imposed restrictions. But even after I laid down my terms it was obvious the majority of pick-ups still expected to get more. Blinded by lust, I manipulated these assumptions – I was, after all, a whore. Most prospectives conned themselves once, and a few of them, urged on by the thought of what should have been, a second time. Three or more visits meant they accepted my deal and I then classed them as regulars.
I began to excel in people skills. As far as I can remember once I’d found my feet I usually had one short-term regular on the go. Still most of them didn’t last long – four or five times maximum. When I guessed they were about to lose interest I'd step up my search for a replacement. It was not hard to do in a city so busy. I liked to give my regulars the impression I was only a part-timer and exclusive when seeing them. Of course, that was not true and many times regulars would overlap. I would have been a real idiot to rely solely on the good graces of these transient punters. They may have thought their financial contribution sustained me, but in reality it was only a drip in a small trickle of water. I had to continuously seize every opportunity if I was to quench my thirst for wealth.
Besides olden-day Shaftesbury Avenue, I didn’t know any place where renters actually hung out on the street. I checked out a few train stations, but saw nothing. Charing Cross Station looked promising but it felt ominous, like it was under surveillance. I avoided King’s Cross like the plague – way too many pimps, girls and junkies. I tried around Earls Court. Some bars looked like they had potential but there were no areas or corners where I could hang around.
One sunny afternoon I scouted Brompton Cemetery, a beautiful walled graveyard. In there people could stroll beneath the central avenue of trees to admire the grade two listed chapel at one end. Perambulate the circular sandstone colonnades and descend steps to peer into ancient decaying catacombs. Or pick up a stranger, nip into bushes to investigate other hidden passageways that are open to the public, free of charge. This didn’t serve my agenda, neither did oh never mind, gotta leave a few secret cruising areas out.
There were dry periods too. Mid-seasons tended to be slack, perhaps in sync with weather patterns. In those times I would have to eat sushi. No, it is not a euphemism. Mitsu worked at a sushi kiosk in Piccadilly’s underground station. She would bring stuff home; I would never have eaten it by choice. But if I did have the choice, I’d opt for hoso maki, which is mainly rice, or roast beef. I know, hard to believe there is beef sushi.
Some of the girls also waitressed at a local Japanese restaurant. I got to see them being all Japanese-like, holding brollies in the rain for Japanese businessmen, dressed in all the get-up. It was quite cute. Of course I took the mickey out of them.
We had a mini-sushi party at 114. A young sushi chef from their restaurant was invited, and he came prepared for the typical uncouth Brit. He slightly seared slivers of beef and made some sushi with it. I did try some of the other things, a minute speck, but I didn’t even like smoked salmon. My fish normally came from a plastic bag and in parsley sauce.
Where was I? Bit stoned. Richard once suggested I try an escort agency that he said he had worked at. I thought of the brothel I had seen in Amsterdam. I wasn’t interested in organisations. The thought of being in a viewing room with other boys – what then? Look slutty and be chosen by someone you can’t do, or worse, not get chosen at all? No, I liked my control, my choice, my rules, my customers and my profits. Don’t be mistaken in thinking currency was my only driving force. I needed constant reassurance of my worth. This I got when people paid me in cash. I probably would have done it for a large sack of potatoes.
I wanted adventure and entertainment also, I had a zest for life. There were many chance meetings with foreign tourists. A German book dealer I gave my copy of Satanic Verses to. British folk in London for a short weekend break. My moments with them were all easily forgettable and if I mention any more of the memorable ones I might further damage my image.
CHAPTER 23 Florida
I had been seeing Andrew a while and had asked him not to step foot in the Carpenters. I didn’t need the hassle of explaining who the man with the flash car was. He shocked me once by parking directly outside and popping in for a drink when I was working one Saturday afternoon. Nobody noticed me quickly usher him back out and send him off with a flea in his ear. He was aware of my situation and knew better than to encroach on this part of my personal life. I knew he wouldn’t have appreciated it if I’d suddenly popped up around his workplace. Besides Richard, nobody knew I had a fancy man, as we sometimes liked to call them.
Andrew asked if I wanted to go away with him for ten days. He was jetting off to sunny Florida. As Russell and Tom were going to Amsterdam for a long weekend I thought it was the perfect way to illustrate to the crony onlookers that I was having an excellent time of it too. So of course I accepted. Funny thing was I forgot to broadcast my plans around the bar.
Andrew had suggested we go halves on the holiday expenses and I agreed. He picked me up at 114. We drove to the airport and he left his motor in the departures car-park. We flew off and landed at Orlando International Airport over nine hours later. In the near distance palm trees shimmered in the tropical heat. However, I shivered under a chilly air-conditioned environment waiting on our luggage. Outside it was certainly hotter and also a lot more humid in comparison to the West Coast. I could smell water on the air but not the ocean; this wasn’t like a Blackpool whiff of cold wet rocks with a touch of barnacles. It was less bracing and more encasing, it was musky and warm. It was the scent of the Everglades.
We leased a vehicle. I was given the choice and I preferred the look of a two-door white convertible. Andrew obliged my wish and we were off. With the audio system blasting Bomb the Bass ‘Winter in July’, we cruised towards the highway with the top down. Off to nowhere in particular. It felt fantastic to be back in America and driving through such immenseness, to daydream and gaze out across vast amounts of open sky and space broken only by white fluffy clouds and the occasional manmade structure. It was the perfect place to rest the thoughts of a city person.
The lack of mass European-style urbanisation and architecture made the structural scenery I did pass by appear somewhat flimsy and makeshift. Signposts were randomly dotted around, advertising hundreds of holiday things to do. The hospitality industry really knows how to service visitors to Florida.
The first thing I wanted to do was visit Disney World. I once posted off a coupon from the newspaper to win a dream vacation for the whole family. The competition entry date didn’t expire until the following year. I knew as long as the reused stamp remained attached to the envelope it would get there in plenty of time. Every morning my optimism sent me flying downstairs. I really expected to win. Time and time again the floor beneath the letterbox bore no envelopes stamped with the Mickey Mouse logo. I was around seven years old and, for more than two years, the beginning of every new day started by having my hopes dashed. My disappointment was unnecessarily prolonged because I had forgotten the cut-off-date.
So we drove to the ‘Magic Kingdom’. When I saw the Disney Castle from afar, my inner child was instantly placated. A promise I hadn’t really made to myself was delivered upon nonetheless. But perhaps it was a bit of a wasted journey as Mickey Mouse wasn’t even in when we called. Minnie Mouse was. Silly deluded doe hid behind her hand and just giggled demurely. As if I’d be interested in her. I had my photo taken with Goofy; he was a good laugh, slightly loony, but harmless enough. There was no lingering in long lines because when we turned up at each attraction we were given a designated ride-time. Whilst waiting we could partake of some of the less popular activities. I must have been trying to impress that day as I braved the innocuous pink tea-cups. I thought I could handle the gentle swirling. My pride then fell in a steady stream of vomit right in front of some passers-by. However, it didn’t deter me from enjoying myself.
A little later, with hardly any persuasion at all, I was coaxed into riding two roller-coasters – Thunder Mountain and Space Mountain. It confirmed what I had previously discovered: erratic and terrifying rides were more conducive to me than the repetitive motion attractions.
We enjoyed what I liked to believe was a typical American day, eating burgers, drinking cola and watching the Disney parade go by. I would also like to say I was truly satisfied although I couldn’t help but ponder the enhancing effects a big fat joint would have had. I reckoned it would have been even more magical.
Andrew was true to his word and, much to my displeasure, we went halves on everything, in a manner of speaking. I had assumed, as he was considerably more affluent than I, that he was going to show more benevolence. In my deluded egotistical fantasy, no wealthy playmate of mine would be that mean or discourteous. I didn’t mind thrifty but I couldn’t abide tightfistedness, especially in those that boasted frivolity. I never voiced my displeasure as I had spending money of my own. Instead I begrudgingly wiped the blemish off my spectacles and placed them back on my nose.
I would book us into a Holiday Inn or some alternative accommodation of an equivalent low charge. There were numerous reasonably-priced rooms to choose from, as the hotels often appeared to be trying to undercut one another. The further we drove out of town, the cheaper the tariff became. Keep driving and eventually we would near the next major populated area and the cost would begin to increase again. On average I paid something like twenty pounds a night, for the both of us. When it came Andrew’s time to pay, he splashed out on luxurious suites and smart restaurants. Ones with good reputations, albeit from sponsored tourist brochures. Flyers, pamphlets and visitor guides packed full of entertaining events were also obtainable everywhere. You could arrive without any planned itinerary – only a toothbrush and some dollars – and still be fully equipped for an excellent vacation.
Andrew took me to the fully air-conditioned Kennedy Space Centre. It seemed as if the whole of America was chilling; nothing was beyond cooling. It would be safe to say that energy and environmental conservation were, at this time, still mainly regarded like mythological subjects. I was uninterested in viewing the remnants of a bygone space-race. One that, as far as I knew, yielded nothing but a few rock fragments and dust particles. Even with the vivid imagination of the television series Star Trek, which they enthusiastically added to their rhetoric, I saw no evidence of a far-off cosmic future. If anything, the archaic rockets and crude engines I saw only reinforced my scepticism that proper space travel would only exist as flighty notions on a TV screen. I played along and feigned interest, posed for photographs stood alongside various oversized bullets. I sat in a replica of the Space Shuttle. Also a flight simulation machine that rocked around whilst we watched a video. However, the highlight of my day was when I saw a real alligator in the murky water just outside.
Hovering over a small region of the Everglades on an airboat was a thrilling experience and such a hoot. Whenever we got stuck on a muddy bank or ran aground, we had to push off really quickly, anxious that danger was lurking just out of sight below the waterline. I wasn’t too concerned, even if I couldn’t swim. In fact, I think that only added to the thrill.
Apparently both alligators and crocodiles live in the Florida Everglades. This two million acre ecosystem of uninterrupted flow provides some of the planet’s wildlife a haven from the relentlessly developing world. Swimming amongst the tangled roots of the mangrove trees could have been otters. A coastal dwelling herd of manatees may well have been the cause of the rustling saw grass. Life thrived, camouflaged beneath the rippling murky waters. Dragonflies weaved through the reeds that bobbed upon a silent breeze. I saw some white egrets, large heron-type birds, wade along on skinny long legs. Their lengthy yellow bills swept through the bladderworts and floating lily pads in search of small fish and amphibians. Despite our petrol-propulsion intrusion, it was beautifully silent and peaceful. An awe inspiring excursion that reminded me I was but a minuscule component of the Almighty’s magnificent creation.
