Call Me (19 page)

One of them said, “I'm putting on a condom, alright?”

And I said, “Yeah.” I was so stoned I couldn't have moved if the place was on fire.

Left alone for maybe as long as thirty minutes, I drank more than half a bottle of Vodka. By the phone lay a pile of those lurid kinky cards you see in phone booths. Dragging a wet finger over the mirror, catching the last of the cocaine to spread over my gums, I was well out of it by the time they returned dressed in see-through nighties.

It was like the bathroom was on fire. Candles on all levels flickered through the steam. The water was warm to hot. They put me in the bath to soak, then took it in turns to attend to my body. Sarah washed my cropped head softly, rinsing more carefully than a midwife. The gentle, stroking combing of my eyebrows and eyelashes was sweet. Her tongue licked my lips in a sideways figure of eight, over and over.

Glenda sang a rugby song, circling my nipples with a red-glossed nail.

Bobbie sat watching for a long while before a manicure which gave me the shivers.

Hold me down, I thought. Hold me down under these shiny silvery bubbles. No one knows where I am. No one cares, certainly not me.

“You're a very beautiful young man,” Bobbie whispered.

Tears came to my eyes. Of all the things in the whole, narrow-minded world, I was thinking of a scrawny green budgie named Hamish.

Once towelled by all three sisters, I was tied to a post in another room, empty but for one red bulb.

Through half-closed eyes Glenda put on a generous amount of dark red Avon lipstick and placed a slow, soft kiss over my pumping heart. Bobbie followed, lips brimming with Chanel pink and placed two lipstick kisses on my neck, transforming the foul love bite. Sarah busied herself with a purple by Shiseido, leaving imprints above my navel, right nipple and forehead. They all reapplied with equal generosity, with staggered timing, each having a fair share of their captive human canvas. Soon every inch of my body was covered with lipstick kisses.

“Put a record on,” I demanded of anyone.

Somebody did me the favour. It was the Blur single I'd had in my head since the time with the boy by the bins.

The colour at the base of my penis was dark red. Fuschia, I suppose. Thoughtful improvements to neck, bite and scar on the lower left abdomen were a candyish pink. Lips and eyes purple. Probably colours with exotic names like ‘Sheer Midnight'.

*   *   *

Along the King's Road and through Hyde Park to turn heads in Piccadilly, I pedalled smooth, muscular legs covered with lipstick marks like bullet holes.

A light shower around 4am brought dust and pollen down, improving the air quality. The Goswell Road was quiet.

I found a postcard in my pannier, a picture of the Royal Family. On the back was a telephone number and Glenda's signature in large, right slanting loops. More interestingly, a neatly folded fifty pound note plus a small transparent plastic sachet of white powder sellotaped to the corner. From the mouth of Queen Elizabeth II came a speech bubble: ‘Hope to see you again!'

It was great to return to a blank answerphone. Unplugging that and the phone was a new claim on my right to silence. I was tired of raspberries, silly little messages and hopeful voices leaving numbers twice in their best voice and manners. And Dai's late-night, long-distance static, crackle, grit and tell-tale pips.

Opening the balcony door to check that Hamish was in his cage, I remembered Jessie was back and Hamish had gone. I kind of laughed to myself about how I'd cried only yesterday, or the day before. Whenever. Birds were already singing but not my Hamish. It was dawn.

I did the cocaine then switched on. When the
DRUMS
voice was selected (voice number ninety nine), twenty five different drum and percussion instruments could be played on the black keys. I mainly used the same sounds:

C#1 … Bass Drum Reverb

D#1 … Bass Drum

G#1 … Lo Tom

D#2 … Snare Reverb

C#..… Snare Closed Rim

F#3 … Hi-Hat Open

A#3 … Crash

C#4 … Splash Cymbal

D#4 … Ride Cymbal

The accompaniment was very well behaved. Pressing the
SYNCHRO START/ENDING
button started the accompaniment off perfectly every time I played the first note on the keyboard. The three red dots along the bottom of the
MULTI DISPLAY
flashed at the selected tempo, helping me keep time.

The left side of my face often looked bruised after I'd been behind my Yamaha for an hour or two. I leaned that side of my head heavily on my left arm, fingering the keys in
SINGLE FINGER
mode.

I missed Hamish landing on my head, chewing the cord, banging his beak against the headphones. I wrote ‘Invasion Of The Dark Kisses' on the cassette label, then slept. In the morning red, brown and deep purple clotted the sheets.

Jessie came knocking around nine, but I couldn't open the door, not looking like the ‘After' in a belt up campaign. I could see another delivery had come. I crept into the bathroom to have my second long soak of the day.

Jessie came knocking again at noon.

“These came for you yesterday, round five, you were out. Aren't they lovely? What it is to be popular!”

“How's Hamish?”

“Oh, fine. You okay? You're a bit purple around the eyes.”

I sniffed a bit and smiled.

“Bloody hayfever's doing me in!” I said sweetly. She looked at the black polo neck I was wearing, dressed far too warmly for the day.

Dai had sent another wicker basket, this time with a dainty handle and housing four little plants. ‘Summer Delights'. They'd sweated in polythene overnight.

D.

Placing the basket on the floor of the lift, I waved goodbye to it as the doors shut and the lift was called to the fourteenth floor.

*   *   *

“Hello. Is that 0171 608 ––––? Roger?”

I was taken aback by the ancient tones of another era.

“Uh-huh.”

“Ah. I've had this note from you in response to an ad I think I had in
Capital Gay.
Is that right and you are Roger?”

“Yes, I replied!”

“To my ad!”

“For one-legged guys!”

“That I wanted to meet one. My name is Glancey, the Christian name is Gerald.”

“Gerald Glancey.”

“Well, Gerald is one of my names. Actually it's Henry. My little code system. So I know, you know. Well, I've had this kink, if you can call it so, all my life. I'm attracted to one-legged guys, amputees. I wonder, are you an amputee?”

“No, fortunately I've got both. Sorry!”

“No, don't apologise. It's a good thing, for you … unfortunate for moi. Are you inclined towards amputees?”

“I've never admitted this to anyone before, always felt kind of ashamed of it. Tried not to think of it even.”

(Pause.)

“Go on.”

“A couple of years ago, I saw this boy my age at Trade, a queer club round the corner from where I live. Really cute he was, too. Fancied him rotten.”

“Oh yes?”

“Young boy, blond boy, sexy boy.”

(Like the start of an ad.)

“Mmm. Continue.”

“I sat and watched him dance, a bouncing head amongst the crowd.”

“Dancing, yes.”

“Then I spotted he was Thalidomide. He had these stumpy arms. I found him more attractive when I discovered that. I don't know. Maybe it's a domination thing. I really don't know, just don't understand myself. Well, when I saw your ad I thought maybe you'd understand. Do you understand? I'm frightened of this fascination. But, secretly, Henry, I love every minute of it.”

This was punctuated by the occasional sniff. He thought I was getting all emotional. It was, of course, the after-effect of a night in with the girls.

“I see,” he said, slowly.

“We've got a kind of … similar sort of … interest.”

“Except yours is arms. You are interested in amputated arms, or the lack of them. With me it's legs. You're obviously very young.”

“Twenty one, just recently.”

“Knew it, could tell by your voice. Well, if you'd like to talk to me I'm always here. You must understand that you are not a pervert. Lots of people have kinks. I like one-legged guys. Simple. I know a doctor who does. It doesn't mean you're insane. Enjoy it!” (Pause) “I belong to the British Amputee Sports Association. They have a sports day at Stoke Mandeville Hospital every year. There are people doing all sorts of things, high jumps and all sorts. Last year the weather was perfect, everyone stripped off. We're going on the last Saturday of June, a one-legged friend and myself. Would you like to come along?”

“Sounds very exciting, Henry.”

“Oh, it is. I get very excited by amputees, their hopping about. I want an affair with one. It's lovely speaking to you Roger … Are you normal otherwise? Do you go with girls?”

“No. Queer as fuck, your honour.”

“I'm very pleased to hear that. Women can't be trusted, you know. Turn your back for a moment and they're soaking their knickers in the bidet. You sound nice and butch. Are you well-endowed? You know, I'm only asking.”

I didn't answer. A number of options came to mind at this point: he was getting a hard-on/had a hard-on and was getting playful/was into a full-scale wank and looking for something absorbent to come on.

“Are you nice looking?” said in a horror film whisper.

“I'm just a normal boy, really.”

The telephone manner of a future well-heeled hooker.

“Do you wear glasses?”

“Not yet.”

“I'm just trying to get a picture of you, Roger. You see … I live quite alone. I know lots of people. I was visiting friends in the country only yesterday. I'm not a person who'd take advantage of you in any way. So, how's about getting your young arse round as soon as possible then?” (Laughs) “Or would you feel it was like walking into a lion's den? Promise not to gobble you up, unless you want me to!” (Pause.) “I'm in Islington, North London. N1.”

“Really? That's close. I live near Angel tube.”

“Walking distance, even with one leg. Just a hop and a skip away,” the old fuck said. He laughed alone. “I'm behind Camden Passage, Duncan Terrace. Just off Upper Street.”

“I know it, off Colebrooke Row, near the Orton and Halliwell residence.”

“Ah, yes. It's become quite a queer landmark has that.”

*   *   *

I stopped off at Chapel Market on the way. There's this barrow boy on the corner, absolutely skeletal—pale as a ghost. Works on the fruit stall outside Marks & Spencers. He's that sexy anything age between sixteen and nineteen. A reformed Geordie layabout in a baseball cap who always asks if I'm “Alright?” Bleary-eyed on Sunday mornings from being up all night. I'd like to cut that down-to-his-arse hair off while he's sleeping. And it's—naturally—an arse to die for in tight, faded Levi's: firm young buttocks nicely lifted and separated. Cool, white, marvellously rounded, just the way I like them. A Steve or Adam, Spencer or Jason. “Anything else?” he always asks with the cheekiest smile on his face. Gorgeous … Straight as anything, of course.

*   *   *

When he saw me leaning against the wall, waiting for the front door of the basement flat to open, my right leg tucked up under my knee, the old boy thought he had a legless lovely before him for one sweet second. There was a beat in which he looked me over, from Blondie teeshirt to ankles.

“You've got a nice pair of legs, Roger. Shame you've got two of them.”

Henry. God had a wild time making the mould for that one's face. He had one of those big ugly heads that you get sitting right in front of you at the cinema. This head was mounted on the neck of an aging labrador. Nose hairs you could make tooth-brushes out of. He was breathless, seventy seven and smelly.

As he let me in his eyes savoured the fading love bite while his nose sniffed the ripe pineapple I handed him.

He'd lived a full life down in that basement. The kitchen area had something, somewhere that stank. It might have come from the towels, floorboards or drains. Perhaps a combination. Whatever, wherever, it needed sorting out.

Henry didn't sit but fell backwards into the chair, looking like a fresh delivery to Casualty. He'd worked hard paying contributions towards the National Health Service and now it had let him down.

Punctuating the mantelpiece were postcards, many from Greece. They all featured remnants of human shapes in stone. I could imagine him circling long, cool halls, caressing the collections of Greek statuary, Kouroi artfully placed on pedestals, casting elegant shadows. I bet he'd kissed cool nipples, slid his hands over lovely pale buttocks, fingered the mutilated groins of stony youths.

I wanted the promised coffee but he'd started the tour of Olympia. We'd already visited the Doric temple of Zeus. The pages were marked and ready for staring eyes. He talked in snatches, presuming I knew who and what these sculptures represented.

“Kiadeos, east pediment, ah yes … the river-god, just look at that stretching forth, there's an absolutely armless one for you! Oinomaos, Myrtilos, the kneeling youth, Lapith youth … Oh, that headless, armless, penisless Centaur is mine, if you don't mind. Ha! Take your eyes off him, he's mine! Oh, you'd adore Apollo from The Tiber in El Museo Nazionale delle Terme in Rome. Absolutely stumpy, Roger. I've travelled a bit. I know what I like,” he said clutching my right knee.

“There was a report, Roger, of three puritanical shits—English of course—who, when visiting a museum in Athens at the turn of the century, brandished hammers and chisels and chopped off two hundred and thirty one penises and God knows how many pairs of balls before the authorities, two attendants in their seventies in this case, got the situation in hand.”