50 Reasons to Say Goodbye (7 page)

“I'm not into anal,” he says.

I close my eyes and try not to get annoyed, but it's
too late, the moment has passed. I give up and roll off him.

“What's wrong?” he asks.

“Thirsty,” I say.

I stand, go through to the kitchen and fill a glass with water from the tap.

When I come back he's standing up. He still looks great.

“So?” he asks.

“So …” I take a deep breath. I sip my water. “Look, I erm … well I don't really get what you
do
do in bed, I mean, you don't suck, you virtually can't be sucked with that thing through your dick, you can't fuck, you don't like to be fucked, you barely kiss. Sorry, but what
do
you do?”

Pierre moves towards me. He takes my hand, kisses it, and slides it to his cheek. He stares into my eyes; his dick hardens. His pupils seem huge, black and bottomless.

“Slap me,” he says.

I frown.

“Slap my face.”

I pull my hand away from his cheek in horror. “No!”

“Just gently if you want, but slap my face.”

I shrug again. “But I don't want to.”

He grabs my two hands. “Please, slap me,” he implores me. “I like it.”

For a moment I think,
“What the hell! Why not?”
I actually try to move my arm to do it, but strangely, in the end I am physically incapable. Something within me won't let me do it – my arm blocks.

“I can't.” I move away. “I need to piss,” I say.

He holds on tightly to my arms. “No, stay,” he says.

“But I need to piss.”

He grins. “Exactly …” He kneels before me.

I close my eyes to try to think. I laugh.

I say, “OK! Look! This is ridiculous.”

He looks at me questioningly.

“This isn't going to work at all,” I say. I push his hands away; walk through to the bathroom.

When I return he has dressed. “I think I better go,” he says.

He walks to the front door, pecks me on the cheek. “Shame,” he says grinning.

He looks like the man I brought here half an hour ago. The well dressed funny, good-looking, normal man. “Yes,” I agree. “A real shame.”

He opens the door, steps out, and then turns back. “If you ever …” he pauses.

I smile. “Yes?”

“Well … if you ever, you know, mellow out – I mean about your sexuality.”

I take a breath. “I wasn't aware I had a problem with my sexuality,” I say.

“Well, no,” he laughs. “Apart from the fact that that you have like this medieval oral-anal obsession.”

I lift a hand and wave at him.

I say, “Au revoir.” I say it gently, and with extreme concentration I manage to quietly close the door in his face.

It takes a few
minutes
for me to get really angry, to wish that I
had
slapped him. Medieval oral-anal obsession indeed!

I am standing at the bar, waiting to be served. I hate the Blue Boy, hate the dingy corners, the tiny dance floor, and the steps that I am forever tripping up and down, but Le Klub is closed for their annual holiday, so I have no choice.

I wave my banknote; try to squeeze in a little closer to the bar. The guy to my right blows cigarette smoke up into the air, but the air conditioning pushes it down into my eyes.

It looks like a bar from another era, from a time when bars were illegal, and so, by definition, underground and grotty. I look to my right – a Dame Edna Everage look-alike is sitting at the bar with a poodle. I scan to the left – a few guys are lined up against the wall, leaning, waiting, watching.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, I run a hand across them.

The barman tugs at the banknote in my hand to get my attention.

I order a gin and tonic and look behind me and see why I have been feeling uncomfortable – he's leaning against the wall behind me. He's staring at me, at me alone. I glance back to the barman, hand over my banknote; pick up my drink.

As I turn, he grins at me, raises his eyebrows and raises his glass. He seems huge, a great larger than life, brick-chicken-shed of a man.

I feel very tarty, very direct, but, as Nick used to say,
“I just can't help myself.”

Once I cross the bar he's not as big as he seemed – my height, but oh, what a body! I nod, slightly
embarrassed. “Bonsoir,” I say.

He's Italian. He introduces himself as, “Roberto. Roberto
di Milano
.”

I don't know if he's from Milan, or if that's his surname, or maybe both. I resist the temptation to introduce myself as,
Marco. Marco di Eastbourne.

He speaks a little French, but with an accent and oh what an accent! A thick, rich, deep, luxurious, velvet-pile-carpet of an accent. It's on the edge, almost too much, slightly too greasy, like a three cheese pizza – delicious but just a bit indigestible.

I ask him what sport he does; use the occasion to touch a finger against his chest. It has been calling to me, whispering to me through the semi-transparent linen.

“Negation,” he says, apparently mixing his words. After a brief mime I understand that he's a swimmer. That he's a member of the Milan gay swimming team. His three-quarter length trousers reveal calves to match his torso. He grins revealing perfect white teeth.

“J'aime les inglésé,” he says.

It seems obvious that we will sleep together, it's buzzing around in the air between us. His perfection annoys me slightly, or is it the fact that he knows it, the fact of his arrogance?

“Where do you live?” I ask. “I bet you live with your mother.” I am intentionally teasing him, trying to see what happens if we sidestep the smooth talk.

He frowns at me. “Why should I live with my mother?” he asks.

I shrug. “Every Italian man I ever met lives with his mother,” I say, matching his grin.

Roberto shakes his head. “It's just a stereotype. It's not true.”

I nod. “So where do you live?”

“In Milan. With my mother.” Apparently he sees no
irony in this reply. He smiles at me, runs the back of his hand down the front of my shirt.

“And you?” he asks.

“In Nice,” I reply. “Alone.”

Roberto winks at me. “Maybe you show me?” he says.

I go to the toilet. I calculate the pros and cons: a bit of a slime ball, very good-looking, very good body, very keen. In the end the calculation doesn't take long – I can't resist.

“So you show me?” he repeats when I return.

I laugh at the directness of it all.

Roberto frowns. “You don't want maybe?”

It is the final disarming straw. He is human. I smile to reassure him. “Don't worry,” I say. “
I
want!”

Roberto is
hot
. Roberto is in a hurry.

With his hand constantly hovering around my crotch it's hard to drive. With his face constantly stuffing itself in front of mine it is difficult to see the road. I push him away; I try to do it jokingly.

“We'll be home in minutes,” I tell him.

He slides a hand over my thigh. I pick it up, move it back onto his own lap. “Mamma Mia!” I say. “Will you please wait?”

Roberto giggles. He grabs my hand, places it on his own crotch – I discover that he's terrifyingly well endowed.

“There has to be a problem,”
I say to myself, glancing across at him. There's always a problem, it just takes a moment before you find it.

“I want you to suck me,” Roberto says in a perfect American accent.

Amazing how many people around the world speak perfect porno-film English. I laugh and put the car into reverse. “We're home,” I say. “WAIT!”

I turn off the engine. Roberto leans over, places a hand behind my head and thrusts his tongue down my throat; his hand fumbles with my zip. I pull away again; push out through the door of the car. I sigh at him, shake my head.

Roberto jumps out too. His eyes glint madly at me and I realise that he's wearing coloured contact lenses. His eyes have taken on a zombie shine in the orange light of the street. I walk towards the house.

“I want you to suck me!” he repeats.

I laugh to myself. “It's just not possible,” I say under my breath.

He repeats himself, louder, “I want you to suck me!”

I bite my lip. I grin at him. “Quiet!” I look around at my neighbours' windows.
“Please?”

The street is silent and empty. A single man is walking towards us, head down. I fumble with the key in the glass door and then push it open. I turn to Roberto to let him enter. His trousers have dropped to half way down his thighs. His dick is jutting out at me, huge and proud.

“Jesus!” I exclaim. I glance nervously at the guy coming along the street, grab Roberto's arm and pull him into the lobby.

The glass door closes slowly behind him.

“What is wrong with you?” I shake my head.

“I like,” says Roberto, grinning, leaning back against the glass door.

“Please, pull your …” I reach down to pull his trousers back up.

He grabs my head, pulls it towards him.

“Yeah, suck that big fat dick,” he says.

I catch a glimpse of the man in the street peering in at us, then hurrying by. I imagine what he sees – Roberto's butt against the glass, me bending down before him.
“Must look well dodgy,”
I think.
“It is well
dodgy,”
I think.

I stand; fight to pull his trousers up. He laughs hysterically.

A door opens upstairs, a woman's voice says, “OK then. See you later.” –
“A toute à l'heure.”

“Shit, my neighbour! Will you just?”

Roberto grins madly at me, his eyes flash. “I like!” he repeats.

I pull away; start to walk up the stairs. I hope he will dress and follow me. On the landing I meet my neighbour, the schoolteacher.

We say, “Bonsoir.” We smile politely.

I try to sound as low key as possible. If Roberto is still nude maybe she'll think he's nothing to do with me. I open my apartment door listening for news from below. I hear nothing.

The front door opens, closes. I wait in the doorway – nothing.

I quietly climb back down the stairs, peer around the corner into the entrance-hall – no one.

I open the front door; look right then left. I am just in time to see Roberto di Milano round the corner with my neighbour; I can hear that they are talking. I lie awake till five a.m. wondering what about.

I sit in front of the boss. I fiddle with a cufflink – they are shaped like taps; they turn. I watch him humbly wring his hands in pseudo anguish. It's a ridiculous game; he knows I have been travelling too much, that I am exhausted. I know that he's building up to send me somewhere else, probably too soon, too far and that I will refuse.

He already knows what he will offer me to make me accept, but in the meantime we have to play The Game.

“And so you see,” he says re-wringing his hands, “some of these newer clients could turn out to be very important for us.”

I stare out of the window at the clear blue sky. I watch the leaves fluttering in the midday sunlight. It's so hard to work down here when you're used to one sunny day a month, so hard to remember that everyday is a sunny day. I wonder why we have to work, why we can't spend our days wandering through the forest gathering nuts.

“Progress!”
I think.

He's trying to make me feel important now. Anyone listening would imagine I am James Bond instead of a bank-note distributor salesman.

“And so you see,” he continues, “you're the only person I can count on.”

I glance at my watch, smooth my shirt-cuff back over it. “Look. Mr Soda,” I interrupt.

He folds his hands on the desk, leans forward earnestly. “Tell me what's on your mind Mark,” he says.

It reminds me of a computer program we used to have at college, Eliza. It gave the resemblance of a
conversation by saying, “Tell me about it,” and “How do you feel about it?” and other such inanities. I wonder briefly if my boss is an android. The thought makes me smirk; I stifle it.

“Could we just get to the where and the when? You know I only got back from Hong Kong yesterday. I'm extremely tired. I haven't even
unpacked
yet!”

He nods. “Of course, Mark, sorry. Los Angeles,” he says. “Now they're very …”

I stop listening and think of Dirk. Even now, years later, say,
America
, or
tall
, or
California
, or
love of my life
, and I think of Dirk.

I wonder how I can get his address, wonder if he's still in L.A. I say, “Sure, when?”

Mr Soda frowns at me. “Oh, erm, Wednesday.”

I groan. “Wednesday! What,
this
Wednesday?”

He clenches his teeth, nods as if to say,
I'm really sorry about this
.

I shrug. “OK.”

He looks at me like a kid who just found out he's getting a bicycle for Christmas.

“But I need two things,” I say.

He nods again.

“I need today and tomorrow to rest, I need sleep, so you'll have to get someone else to finish the Hong Kong stuff.”

He nods. “That's fair.”

“And I need Carol to track down an old friend of mine in Los Angeles. I don't have his number any more.”

He nods. “Give me the name,” he says, “I'll make sure she does it.”

I pull his Post-It pad towards me. I write,
Dirk Flaubert
. “Shouldn't be too hard,” I say. “I don't suppose that there are a lot of Flauberts in Los Angeles. I'm sure Moneypenny can handle it.”

He frowns at me. “Sorry?”

I shrug. “Nothing.” I straighten my tie. I stand. “I'll call in tomorrow to pick up the sales packs,” I say.