The Cutting Room (13 page)

the rearview mirror and the heavy city traffic. Willing to risk a crash, blood and carnage and the death of us all, for a glimpse of her trembling cleavage.

The Chelsea Lounge looks like a club for dubious gentlemen,

designed by a Georgian poof with a Homeric bent. The walls are lined with mauve and cream striped wallpaper, the floor tiled, with a sober brown/beige compass at its centre. Chaises longues and high-backed sofas, upholstered in wine velvet, group round tables. Corinthian columns flower into the fondant cornicing of the high ceiling. The effect is expensive, somewhat austere, and spoilt by the sheer twenty-first-centuryness of its clientele.

Some people hold that ancient Greece was a golden age for

inverts. Old men and boys walked hand in hand through

Elysian fields, and Sapphic love flourished in an island

paradise. Personally, I see many reasons youth should be

attracted to old age; all of them can be folded and put in your wallet. I also know that there are not a few who would

happily transport all the dykes to some Hebridean colony. So, unlike Mr Wilde, I am cynical about Greek motifs. Still, I

cannot walk into the Chelsea Lounge without feeling that the look of the place would be enhanced by a toga-only dress

code, some laurel leaves and a few naked, curly-haired youths in the mould of Caravaggio’s young Bacchus. As it was, two bouncers in anonymous dark suits nodded us through.

`Do you think they thought I was a lady-boy?’ asked Rose.

`Always possible.’

I was scanning the room looking for a familiar face. `They are beautiful aren’t they?’

`Who? The bouncers?’

`Stop being annoying. Thai lady-boys.’

`Not my thing, Rose.’

`I know, but you can appreciate that they’re lovely.’

I could see my quarry on the mezzanine above the bar. `Do

you want to look like a lady-boy?’

`I can think of worse things.’

`Rose, they all want to look like you.’

She edged through the crowd to the bar, cutting in front of

young, fresh-shaven office types, clearing her way with a

smile, a turn of the hips and an elbow. These are the men your mother should have warned you about. The look these days is smart-casual, a sporty James Dean meets a corporate Rock. The cowpoke is back on the range and the leather queen has hung up his handcuffs. No more kerchiefs of many colours

flouncing from back pockets. It’s got so that my anonymous charcoal is in fashion. But make no mistake. Everyone is here for the same reason.

`Honestly,’ Rose turned to me, `some of these men are so

arrogant you have to push them out of the way to get by.’

The barman moved towards her, compelled by the

strength of her stare. Rose beamed at me. `It’s half-price

cocktails. Let me buy you a drink.’

While my employer instructed the barman to make our

pink gins with double gin -‘Pub measures are a waste of time’ - I stepped backwards and stared towards the mezzanine.

This is a good trick. Try it if you don’t believe me. Stare at someone for long enough and I guarantee they will turn and

look at you. Leslie twisted in his chair, peered through the wrought-iron banister, frowned, then smiled and waved me

up.

`Rilke, and you’ve brought Rose with you.’ Leslie shook my hand and stretched towards Rose, air-kissing her like an LA star. `What brings you to this den of iniquity? Does he need you along for bait these days, Rose?’

`Don’t be crude, Les. I was looking for you.’

`And you remembered it was my group night, I didn’t

know you cared.’

He shifted along the settee and we slid in beside him.

On the third Wednesday of every month those transvestites

who desire like-minded company convene in the Gay and

Lesbian Centre, a dreary meeting house with the air of a jaded youth club. They sit under fluorescent lights in a spartan

classroom, discuss matters of style, swap fashion tips, debate the desirability of `passing’ and generally relax, unmolested.

Copies of The Tartan Skirt, the TV fanzine, featuring a fresh, kilted cover-girl every issue, are distributed. Perhaps there will be a guest speaker, or one of the ranks will give a talk of TV interest. The meeting closes at nine and those who wish to prolong the ecstasy retire to the Chelsea Lounge.

It is a sober grouping. Its manner at odds with the party

frocks. They sip ladylike drinks, a single G & T, or perhaps a spritzer, followed by sparkling mineral waters. They will

leave early, long before raucous drunks stream from pubs,

walk briskly to nearby parked cars then drive home, within

the speed limit, uncomfortable at those long red-light pauses.

Somewhere on the journey, they may pull into a lay-by, or

perhaps a deserted alleyway, remove their wig, ease out of

their carefully selected frock, the satin slip, so nice to the touch, the constricting nylons, brassiere swollen with silicone mounds and bought mail order, the package collected from a

PO box hired for the purpose and opened with quick

anticipation; they strip themselves of the tight knickers that squeeze their genitals so pleasantly, and resume the rough

fabric of their man-clothes. Last of all, they open the glove compartment, remove a moist wipe and, in the dim glow of

the car’s interior light, clean away the face they put on for a night. But while they are in the Chelsea Lounge, dressed with care, they. are the girls.

Most of the girls are not gay. They are part of what we call the transgender community, and good luck to them. Dressing

up never hurt anyone, except perhaps Gianni Versace, and

according to Les he was asking for it.

Rose was talking to the girl next to her. They looked like

they were having a good time, Rose fingering the fabric of her new friend’s skirt admiringly, knocking back the gin. Any

minute now they would be visiting the powder room together.

`So

what do you think?

Les raised his hands in a to da! showgirl gesture, giving me a full-toothed smile, opening his eyes wide as Josephine Baker.

His white-blond wig was layered into soft ringlets which

sprawled in artful disarray across his shoulders. His red dress had a 1940s feel, broad shoulders tapering into an alarmingly tight waist, cinched by a black patent belt, a plunging neckline with the illusion of a significant bust. No one would mistake him for a woman, but, for a man in a dress, the effect was

pretty smooth.

`Aye, very nice. Are you on the hormones??

‘No, dinnae be daft. I’m dedicated but I’m not ready to die

for the cause yet. Anyway, what’s all this about? You needing to score? You know I never carry any when I’m out dressed.

Can you imagine getting busted and thrown in the cells in this get-up? Some six-foot shirt-lifter trying to shove it up my

arse? No thank you.’

`You flatter yourself sometimes.’

`Ach, don’t be so touchy. I’m just having a laugh, you

know that. So twice in one week, eh? And you don’t want to

score. Let me guess, it has something to do with the

introduction I gave you.’

`Bright boy.’

`Girl.’

`Okay, then, clever girl.’

`Well, I’m not_ interested. You wanted an intro. I gave

you an intro. This is R & R time, Rilke. Have a few drinks

and forget about it.’

`I’ll buy you a drink. I just wanted to know a wee bit about the setup.’

`How old do you think I am??

‘I know better than to answer a question like that.’ I knew

Les was ages with me.

`Come on, how old?

`Twenty-nine.’

`Aye, very good, nice to see you settling into the spirit of

things for once. I’m a wee bit beyond twenty-nine.’ He

smiled. `No that much, mind. But I think I look okay for my

age, don’t you??

‘I already said.’

He lit a cigarette and drew hard; razor cheekbones sharp

against hollow cheeks.

`And, at the risk of flattering myself, as you would put it, I’d say I looked not bad for someone heading towards their mid-thirties.’ He broke into a hacking cough. I sipped my

drink and rolled my eyes at him. `None of your cheek. I’ve

kept my girlish figure.’ He smoothed his hands down his

curves. `That comes from watching what I eat. I’ve got a

lovely head of hair.’ He toyed playfully with his curls. `That’s due to never scrimping on stylists or hair-care products. And, best of all, I have a lovely, unlined complexion.’ He zigzagged his index fingers down his face, over the tributaries of laughter lines and wrinkles. `Specifically, no scars. I owe that to

maintaining a regular skin-care regime and knowing when

to zip the lip.’

`So they’re a heavy mob.’

`You don’t give up, do you? I must have been high as a kite

to give you his number in the first place. Let’s just leave it at that. No harm done, eh? Sometimes Rilke, it’s best not to

know.’

`They didn’t look that heavy to me.’

`What do you want? A sign above the door? He put a hand

on my wrist; his nails were painted the same shade of red as his dress. `Listen to Aunty Les and drop the Philip Marlowe

impersonation. Okay, so you may not carry your age as well as I do, but there’s no need to make it worse.’ He laughed.

`This is getting a bit heavy. Where’s that drink you promised me?

Downstairs I ordered a swift Jack Daniel’s and knocked it

back while the barman made up a jug of the gin fizz everyone seemed to be drinking. The staff were easy on the eye. They

swift-stepped behind the cramped bar, avoiding collision like a long-rehearsed variety act. The preparation of cocktails involved a lot of shaking and stirring. In the charged atmosphere

of the lounge every action had a sexual gravity. I watched

while a bar girl dipped the dampened rim of a glass in salt. A punter leant towards me, his leg pressed against mine. I

turned and met his gaze. Broad black pupils, hazel irises,

heavy lids fringed with dark lashes.

I gestured towards the frosted glass. `That looks like it

might sting the lips.’

He smiled. `It might prick a little, but you know, it can be a lovely sensation, a prickling against the lips.’

His name was Ross and he worked with computers. Who

cared? I told him that a prickling sounded too small and he said that hey preferred full size himself. I delivered the tray of drinks, then met him down in the basement toilets.

We stood close. Our alcohol breath merged, hot and heavy

in the sanitised cubicle. I held him with both hands, kneading his balls, warm and moist, with my left, while I pulled at his prick with my right. He felt me gently, then hard, easing my foreskin to and fro, up and down, our fists keeping time with each other and the music from the bar above. He came first,

spurting against the cistern, cream spunk on white porcelain. I cradled his wilting penis in my hand until I climaxed, sperm fountaining from me in quick muscle pulses; then dripping,

slow and viscous, onto his black trousers. There was no toilet paper, so I handed him my cotton handkerchief. He swore

softly, then laughed at the albumen stains silvering the fabric.

`Never mind, they were due for the wash anyway.’ The

material rasped as he tried to clean it. I could smell the piss and spunk beneath the mask of disinfectant and suddenly the

cubicle seemed too small, the music from the bar above too

loud. The bright light stung my eyes. I rubbed my temple and he touched my arm.

`You all right??

‘Aye, fine.’

`Takes it out of you a wee bit these days??

‘Perhaps.’

I’d done with him. The only cheeky banter I engage in

comes before the act. I gave him a chill smile, then followed him up the stairs to the bar, noting the marks on his trousers: drink and spunk and sweat.

`You took your time.’

`D’you think so?’

`Not if it annoys you. Here, get some of this down you.’

Les poured a tumbler of cocktail and pushed it towards me. I thought these were meant to be sipped elegantly from champagne flutes.’

`They’re meant to get you pissed.’

Les is an exception to the sobriety of the other TVs. For

some, living life to the full involves hill walking, poetry

readings, bungee jumping in the interest of charitable causes.

For Les it means dressing as he likes and a regular high.

I looked around, taking in the crowd on the mezzanine.

There were about fifteen of them grouped round a large table.

Some would do fine, at certain angles, in sympathetic lightingA couple of the girls could pass you by on the street and you’d be none the wiser. One could take a man home, blow him and

he’d be thankful. Others could pass for large matrons,

accepting that no one really looks at large matrons anyway.

But some were fooling nobody. There are things that cannot

be hidden; the forty-inch barrel chest, the large hands, sizeeleven feet. They could stare at fashion plates, visit the beauty

salon, buff their body bare of hair, but they would never be anything but a man in a dress. Poor Cinderellas, never to be transformed. It was enough to make you weep. I refilled my

glass.

The company had splintered into small groups, like with

like. There appeared to be a hierarchy, with those who could pass for women at the top. Leslie could pass at a distance - a hundred yards, say - and he had a confidence, a certain

toughness, which counted almost as much as a pretty face. He crossed his legs and his dress rode up, high black boots and sheer stockings.