Paulyanna, page 38
As it happened the party was a lot less stiff than I had anticipated. As always, once people had wetted their whistles the formal atmosphere gave way to fun and laughter. I saw some famous faces there and also a newly-outed game show host whom I had seen a few times surrounded by rent-boys in one of my locals. Although I did find him physically attractive and could have introduced myself, I showed great restraint and remained professional, at least on that score. I also regarded him as a randy dog that was most probably used to taking a lot more than I was willing to give.
I had a brilliant night in the end and think I could have got away with wearing my fuck top after all. Later a group of seven new friends and I went on to another bar where we shot some pool then all ended up back at mine. They only came because I had a gramme of cocaine. Eventually when everyone left I noticed someone had swiped the ten pound note we were using to snort the stuff. Classy posh people robbing off commoners: nothing changes.
Life moved at a fast pace. The new millennium arrived and, considering all the hype and excitement, I’d say it was a total flop. When Big Ben struck twelve, there were no major disasters. Not a single airplane or satellite fell out of the sky. The prediction of a worldwide system failure named the Y2K bug failed to materialise. A glitch, we were told, that would disrupt computers and cause untold technical problems. Something to do with programming using only the last two digits to indicate the year, like 99 instead of the full four as would be required in 2000. Perhaps it was all simply a sales ploy – a scare tactic to create a huge sales boost in the latest edition of software, who knows.
Traditionally our New Year’s Eve celebrations were spent at the same place, The Phoenix. So I didn’t want to go anywhere else and certainly not to Trafalgar Square. More than a decade living in London and never once had I felt compelled to join the masses in their chaotic revelling beneath Nelson’s column. This was the only night of the year I actually wanted to hear the ‘Birdie Song’ and the ‘Hokey Cokey’. Embracing the tacky and twee like the Eurovision Song Contest can often be enormous fun. Strangely on this night The Phoenix was quieter than all previous years and by four thirty the place closed. Outside the streets were buzzing with strangers screaming Happy New Year to anyone that passed. That sort of group hugging and false joviality always annoyed me. I knew that come next week, everyday life would return and those very same people would go back to pushing, grabbing and, in some cases, stabbing one another.
When I eventually returned home Deirdre, David and baby Jasmine were fast asleep in my flat. They had come to watch the fireworks display over the Thames and I had given them my keys so they didn’t have to traipse all the way across town afterwards.
On the third of January, Wayne had telephoned to let me know Tom committed suicide three days prior to the new millennium. He had confided in Wayne that he was lonely. The day before, the two of them had collected hire costumes to celebrate the New Year. Even with all the hope and expectation the dawn of a new era brought, it was not sufficient enough to give optimism to Tom. We had become friends, not close, but pally enough to stop for a drink and a chat whenever our paths crossed. I felt such remorse for always regarding him like my adversary and constantly boasting about my exploits whenever we met. Thankfully we lived in different parts of town so didn’t run into each other that often. I’d hate to imagine, although it may be presumptuous, that I could have added to his woes. Also it had come to my attention that Peggy had died from old age and Eddie from a heart attack. Out of respect for the dead, I greeted the news with indifference. Russell had been good friends with all three, so was naturally really upset.
It seemed like everything around me was slowly starting to wind down. Neil, who was now back in London, had introduced me to his new boyfriend. As I shook his hand, an image of the guy flashed into my mind. I had once seen him in a packed-out bar, sitting back and receiving a blow job without a care in the world. I didn’t tell Neil as it may have come across as sour grapes and, to be honest, I didn’t think that it was really that much of a big deal.
In April Richard reported that he had something wrong with his left kidney. I was worried and for two weeks I asked God to make everything all right but he didn’t hear me. Richard, as well as having HIV, was now diagnosed with cancer. The news hit me hard. I sobbed a lot that day and expected him to die sometime soon. Two weeks after that Deirdre announced she was pregnant with her second child and was making plans to return to Australia.
It was a big year for change after all. All the thirty-somethings I knew were either getting married and making babies or leaving the city. Clive and Simon had also moved out of central London. I dwelled on being left behind in what I saw as the end of an era.
CHAPTER 40 Unsettling Times
I may have painted the picture that I was some sort of super-hot, good-looking slut machine. In truth that was not how I saw myself. Skin and bones would have been an apt description of my physique and I never considered myself attractive. For years I had wanted to trade in my broken nose for a less defined and more refined straight one. As for being anything other than mediocre in bed, I was not deluded. I didn’t buy into my own hype. Like tennis, regardless of the amount of practice, if you’re unwilling to exert yourself how can you expect to become an ace player.
Throughout life I heard many people claiming to be sex gods, but in reality they were more noticeable by their absence. So if paying customers came back for more, I couldn’t be too bad. Also cock size – I suppose I’d better mention it. Even in that department I wasn’t packing anything to brag about, although, from experience, I was not at all concerned about mine. Funny things that they are, coming in all shapes and sizes, some can be quite ugly and others really scary. I’d seen one the size of a button mushroom, another skinny like a pencil, and a curved one that resembled a small red chilli pepper. On the flip side, one with the dimensions of a can of cola caused my jaw to lock open. Now that was scary and could have been embarrassing. Luckily I managed to force it to unlock without drawing any attention. Some are just cumbersome and way too big. Not the imagined gift one may think. One owner confided in me about how difficult it was to find a suitable sex partner and lover. His tale of woe evoked no sympathy in me and his presumptuous hopes were inevitably dashed. “Just keep that thing away from me,” was what I thought.
My days working behind the bar had taught me something. I was most definitely a people person and my special talent was in making folks feel at ease. Keeping things light-hearted and relieving mental pressures, whether by redirection or feigned ignorance. I used these same skills in my other work; when deadlines loomed and colleagues flapped around, I remained calm and unflustered but that was, of course, a bluff. I constantly felt the need to prove my worth and show I was capable of doing my job. I still didn’t consider myself a proper prostitute. Saw it more like my expenses were being paid in the form of a fee.
Although I still did Mr Monday, I stopped actively soliciting. I made a conscious effort to drop most of the flirtatious actions that had become entwined within my character. I no longer leaned up against walls and chewed on a drinking straw to give the impression I was hot and horny. My girlie, oversized tops that fell off the shoulder and my Alice-bands had long gone. So too had the flashy trainers and baseball caps worn at a hip-hop angle. I now dressed smart casual. I also ditched the animated, fresh faced and full of beans display I did to appear exciting and approachable. I could relax without having to constantly survey the room. I went on nights out like everyone else to get pissed and stoned.
At first it was a novelty to fool around with attractive men and choose people for my own amusement and nothing more. The secret symbol at the top of my diary pages reflected a rapid increase in my dalliances. I visited a couple of local gay saunas. I had not previously explored any in London. I needed Neil’s support as I still lacked the courage to enter alone, although only on the first occasion. There were two saunas in my area. One was next to Waterloo Bridge and was dark and seedy. Basically it was like an orgy in steam where you would meet people incognito for instant gratification and could leave without uttering a word. This was fine for sexual encounters but useless if you wanted to make new friends. The one in Covent Garden was, in contrast, tiny in size, well lit and clean. It was not really the place to go for anonymous sex with strangers, being such an intimate space with not enough lockable cubicles and many prying eyes. But it was great for socialising, either by the pool or in the comfortable lounge-bar that served alcohol. Each place had its merits.
I remember sitting in the café of the Waterloo one and seeing this extremely buff guy getting checked out by many people. I also fancied him; he was well cute. As he made his way over to me I was flattered and thought, “You’ve still got it, gal.” He was a middle-aged Brazilian man named Eduardo, with tanned skin, and even in only a towel he oozed charisma. I was quite taken by him. He seemed refined, sort of polished, and had an arse that felt like stone. I gave him my details and waited in hope for a whole week, imagining all sorts and obsessively checking my emails. He obviously wasn’t that interested. The following week I bumped into him again at the sauna, and again we got off with each other in one of the private booths, which was nice enough. Only this time I noticed he had a slight podge and decided he was not so gorgeous, only cute, and I no longer minded whether if he contacted me or not. Casual flings were not hard to come by; it was London after all.
For a period I continued to have half-hearted puppy sex without real intimacy. I never allowed kissing. I still regarded myself as relatively unspoilt and decided that my retained innocence was worth preserving. Technically, I had only ever had full-on sex with two people: my husbands. And in truth, for pleasure or payment I couldn’t see a difference from what I had been doing for years. I still wasn’t willing or perhaps able to fully submit, especially for a one-off. It made no difference that the people were what I considered cute. After every apathetic encounter I still came away untouched. The whole casual fling thing was pointless; any instant gratification I did experience ended even before the post-orgasmic chill washed over me. I couldn’t get rid of them quickly enough: splish-splash-splosh and they were off, leaving no dosh. I decided to forget one night stands and make a concerted effort to find a lover, a new husband.
My third husband had to fulfil a certain criteria. I had developed quite a low opinion when it came to the morals of men. I reckoned when it really came down to it all men were arseholes who would inevitably screw up. (If you haven’t already noticed, I tend to generalise until proved wrong.) So if I was going to have endure some grief, I’d be a fool to aim low and deprive myself by choosing one that didn’t come up to scratch. As I didn’t have any overbearing, well-meaning parents to vet possible suitors. It was down to myself to say who or what was good enough for me.
Therefore, I set my own standards. Firstly, he needed to be fully employed with a decent income. Secondly, he had to be strong minded and not dependent on drugs or alcohol. Social users like myself were fine. More importantly he had to be generous, and finally, intelligent. My inquisitive mind desired nourishment also. My next hubby needed to be able to answer all my endless questions about the world and everything in it. It was shocking the amount of things I didn’t know. My appetite for knowledge and newly-developed ability to comprehend and retain information was at an all-time high. I preferred ruggedly handsome and not pretty: I was to be the pretty one. He just had to be strong enough to lug around heavy objects and manly enough treat me like a lady at all times. A confident guy with maybe a touch of arrogance, as I regarded self-assurance to be an attractive feature in a mate. That was about it really. Not much to ask for but I was adamant that I would accept nothing less.
Rather than first having a sexual encounter then judging whether we were a fit, I went on proper dates and chatted. I even offered to pay half the bill, which was really a test. Accepting my offer would not see them through to the next round. It’s not easy to find compatible partners on the gay scene, where ninety percent of unattached men tended to be narcissistic and vain or just plain weird. The other ten percent were usually just passing through and had preferences of their own. But I stuck to my guns and continued to play the dating game. Pizza Express on the Strand was a favourite eatery of mine and always a safe bet as ten quid would easily cover my portion of the meal. If necessary.
I had a few dates there, but nothing too exciting. One was another barrister from St John’s Wood whom I met twice. On the first date I told him I had a friend who lived in the same area. Straight away he mentioned the name of Richard’s council estate. His voice couldn’t hide his disdain upon uttering the name of the abscess in what was otherwise regarded as a very desirable location. How fucking presumptuous of him and there I was, putting on my classiest persona. I could often kid the working classes and even some of the middle classes that I wasn’t a commoner, but never high society.
The rest of my dates were unimpressive and forgettable except one, Eric. He had masses of potential. Different from the type of people I normally met and very foreign. He was a Dutch naval officer who worked for NATO. Around twenty-five years old, he liked snowboarding. We met in the pool at the Covent Garden Sauna. I look good wet. He had dark eyes and hair and was tall with a hard muscular body. I couldn’t help but notice his large package. I knew I didn’t want sex to be a dominant feature. If I was to begin a new relationship, I wanted to be seen as something more than a cheap thrill. I’m sure he expected us to get it on in there, such is the promiscuous nature of the gay scene. Instead we drank and chatted in the bar, with a measured amount of flirting on my part. He was charming in conversation and I quickly became seduced by his confident manner. Afterwards we swapped details.
The very next day we met up for dinner at Pizza Express, and he paid. In theory this was our second date which meant I could now sleep with him. Back at mine we got intimate for the first time. I was so used to outlining a list of my dos and don’ts when hooking up with prospective clients but I hadn’t done that with him. So keeping to my safe sex policy was a little more awkward than I would have wanted. I may have come across as a total prude, deflecting his kisses and refusing to give more. Truth be told, it had been a long time since I’d been fully submissive: for me it was the ultimate sacrifice not to be bestowed on just anyone, and I needed to be sure he was worth it. There was also a rather large issue regarding penis size. I couldn’t see it working myself and was terrified to even contemplate an attempt. Regardless that I thought he was really hot, there was no way I was about to launch myself upon him.
So began my brief, one-sided love affair with Eric. I wrote poems and emailed pictures to him that I’d drawn on the computer at work. The girls in the office said I should ease up or else I might come across as desperate. I didn’t care to listen or to curtail my enthusiasm, which is a major part of my personality. I wanted him to know what I was really like. I didn’t want to lie to him or be false. Still, I made no mention of my client.
Eric’s maritime duties meant he was not back in London until ten days later. In that time, as a kind of symbolic gesture, I put my search for a husband on hold and saw only Mr Monday. I wanted to give us a fair chance because I hoped that something may develop. When he returned he took me out for a drink to a small place I never knew existed less than a five-minute walk from my flat: The Retro Bar. Despite being centrally located, it had managed to avoid the generic transformation from old English pub to chrome bar as befell so many gay places at that time. This pub had character in both clientele and decor. Its hard-core customers of morphed punks and evolved goths had a different kind of attitude. Refreshingly unpretentious, if you discount pretending to be scary. Extreme tattoos and gaping hole piercings were commonplace. We may have looked out of place, being clean shaven with short natural-coloured hair, but it was so comfortable.
I was aware that Eric, being a handsome fella, turned a few heads and I was proud to show him off. I confided in Neil that I really liked Eric and wanted to give a relationship a go. He said if that was the case, I should put out for him. I ignored his advice also. After another month of correspondence and one final brief visit, Eric informed me he wasn’t interested in a relationship. I had obviously viewed the whole episode with my rose-tinted spectacles. I was so gutted. Indefinite optimism can be so exhausting. After being blown out, I decided I hadn’t the energy to begin all that dating malarkey again, so I thought fuck it and gave up on the whole notion of hunting for a husband.
Tom’s proclamation of loneliness still echoed in my ears. These were very unsettling times and the wind of change was tangible. Sometimes so blustery it literally took my breath away. Those rare moments of realisation – the ones that could make me physically gasp as if I’d stuck my head out of a speeding car window – became more frequent.
Richard was extremely ill, so bad he had a medical tube sticking out of his nose and his hair had fallen out due to the chemo. He looked like shit. Richard the warrior stuck two fingers up to fate, donned his designer baseball cap and had me wheel him down to Selfridges so he could buy some sunglasses. The doctors had given him permission to go out. He was also permitted a couple of drinks. That’s how dire his prospects were. I dutifully pushed him around and enjoyed watching him shout at people who got in our way along Oxford Street. He was very demanding. Like a true diva, he had the sales assistants running around after him. I imagined we were on a glamorous excursion, a day out from the Betty Ford Clinic.
Which leads onto drugs. Richard was on plenty of them, all of which were prescribed, excluding the cocaine. I was horrified to see him chopping out lines in the bathroom of his hospice room. I didn’t agree with him snorting it but I neither encouraged nor chastised him. I only joined in so there’d be less for him. This was not always convenient as it often disrupted my plans. Also, my relationship with cocaine had begun to sour. I didn’t like how falsely confident it made people. Turned everyone into student debaters who sat around and chatted about profound spiritual ideologies, then congratulated themselves for cracking a hidden code to life. This was usually based around fulfilment and karma and how to obtain the key by simply being nice to people. This philosophy was then completely lost the following morning on the come-down.
