Near closing time, Sean worries: pairs have matched up and gone home, the ones left (clothes disheveled, hair greasy) look like they couldn't afford a pint, much less his company, and he doesn't want to turn tricks in the loo again. His jaw has been feeling sore, and most guys want him to swallow. "Eat it up," they tell him, but he dislikes the taste. "Rather like moldy cream cheese," he thinks, "without the nutritional value." All he wants is to go home to his stash - the longing in the pit of his stomach crawls into his arms, legs, head, but, "I owe Scary Lester, don't I? Better find someone before he gets a craving for some soup." In the bars, as shy as everyone is, he can size up who he's picking up, figure out how much money they've got or if he can take them in a fight - he's been in dangerous situations before, knows better than to let a trick tie him up or do bondage no matter how much they offer, because, he hears, once you get tied up, it's curtains. Never hear from that person again. Less competition, he thinks. Hustlers disappear regularly. Last week, he heard that Davis, a familiar face who hadn't been seen for months, finally turned up. In pieces. He'd been dead weeks, apparently, and animals had gotten to him. The police identified him by a tattoo that hadn't been chewed off. Someone said his body looked like a potted ham that had been pried loose and rolled down a steep hill into a briar patch.

Craig, Sean's mate, has already hooked up with some poof sporting a bad hairpiece. "Look at him," said Craig, as the guy, late forties, powder-blue weatherman's leisure suit, winked their way. "Had him before," Sean said. "What did he tell you his name was?" "Harris." "Bollocks. He told me Henry. Tame shag, though." Craig nodded, "He wants me back now, I'll catch you tomorrow." "Tomorrow, right, cheers," said Sean as Craig and Harris/Harold went off. He and Craig are good mates, and refer men to each other or have an occasional three-way if the price is right, but now, Craig gone and the last few patrons stingy with their beers, he hits the streets. Summertime: he'll get lucky straight away, plenty of tourists looking for a quick wank, blowjob; they stay in swank hotels, and Sean overcharges them - if they're traveling, they should have extra cash. Most Americans forget exchange rates, don't realize that fifty pounds translates into eighty dollars an orgasm. Of course there are typical patrons, too: businessmen, bankers, judges, husbands who take off their rings when they go out at night, who don't carry identification in case the MPs decide to bust the park or invade the tea-rooms, as the authorities do regularly when public morals are on the decline. His run-in with the coppers last month leaves him wary of the toilets - at least, he thinks it was a copper, because Sean got off, so to speak, by sucking the guy's dick. He had been sitting in the stall, caught the chap peering through the gaps between doors. Next thing, he was in the stall, throwing Sean against the sides, flashing an authentic-looking badge, whispering, "You'd better get me off or else I'm taking you in." As Sean wiped his mouth, finished, the man growled, "Don't let me catch you here again, you hear?" and Sean had been too scared to argue. "Damn them anyway," he thinks, "they have no right poking around when I'm trying to make a decent living. I'm working. Not on the dole like Mom, old leech." He tried getting on the dole, actually, but the guy at the help window recognized him as someone he had serviced in the park and closed his station.

Most of his income goes to smack, the latest shipment flattened into a seat cushion at Craig's flat. How Craig manages to keep a pad like that he doesn't know and doesn't think about too much; he crashes there when Craig isn't conducting business, sometimes when he is, and pays rent (in his mind, at least) by sharing his stash. Miss Candace, a drag queen/dominatrix, also stays there. Being a dominatrix pays better than turning tricks, she says, but Sean isn't convinced. Dominating seems like difficult work. Sean does better acting as trade. "I'm not a faggot, man, but I'll let you suck me," sneering as the guy eagerly pretends to seduce a straight man, but Sean hasn't been "straight" since his older cousin Rupert fucked him when he was thirteen. Rupert, eighteen at the time, going to school, kept screwing him until, five years later, Sean's mother caught the two of them. Walked right on in, didn't knock or anything, started screaming, "Oh my God, what are you doing?" but it was obvious: Rupert was about to shoot his load into Sean's ass. His mother threatened to tell the police, threatened to have Rupert thrown in jail, but as Sean was pulling up his trousers, Rupert mentioned, "Remember who pays your lease." That sent his mother raging, and she threw out her own son, her only son, who never understood what was going on.

Sean figured that, given their intimacy, Rupert, who had a job pushing papers somewhere ("A miserable government job, a bloody bureaucrat. It's enough to drive a man crazy," he said once), could help him. He went to Rupert's flat, rang the bell, and Rupert invited him in, started unbuckling his trousers. "No, wait," said Sean, "I need your help." "Help?" said Rupert. "Mum kicked me out, and I've got no place to stay." "You want to stay here?" asked Rupert. "Yes," said Sean, "I don't know what to do." Rupert paused, hands on his pants as if he were about to pull them up, and said, "Look, I'm in no position to help you. I'm in enough trouble as it is," fucked him again, and shoved fifty pounds into his pants on the way out.

The streets aren't busy tonight. "Good," he thinks. "I'll probably drum up business in no time -" but bad: empty streets give him the creeps when he's by himself. He leans against a lamppost, preparing his excuse of "I'm waiting for a ride": translation: "I'm working." He strolls up the street, as if marking his territory, but he isn't really, the regional pimps have muscle that they aren't afraid to flex. They can put a body out of commission for months; or if they're really unhappy, they ruin a guy by smashing his face into bloody sludge. Sean keeps out of their hair by trial-and-error mapping (other people's errors and none his own so far because he's a fast runner). "It's hard business," Sean thinks, "why am I doing this?" and he remembers, "Oh yeah, I've got to pay Scary Lester," his brutish Jamaican dealer whom, he hears, makes soup bowls out of people's skulls.

He's hungry. Maybe he can rustle up a bag of crisps in addition to keeping Scary Lester off his back. He doesn't owe too much, and his stash should tide him over until the end of the week, unless Craig or Miss Candace discover it and throw a party - it's an unwritten rule: hide it or it's fair game. This has driven him to the depths of creativity. Miss Candace rendered the couch more or less off-limits when she whipped a piss-freak there who enjoyed himself to the point of no control. Craig was less amused, but since he'd found the couch on the street, no love lost. Miss Candace opted to sleep on the floor rather than touch the sour cushions, dark-stained, ever-damp.

He passes a tourist couple, obviously lost in the wrong neighborhood, wearing the wrong clothes, the guy dangling a camera, a camera for Christ's sake, around his neck. "Walking victims," he thinks, "and they don't even know it." Sean gauges how many blocks until they get jumped - he would do it himself, but without back-up, he isn't violent, just horny. Not that desperate. The more desperate the person, the quicker he comes: case in point, the headmaster in the broom closet. A big scandal, the headmaster caught with his pants down, shagging a sixth-form, resigning in a fit of parental anger. The kid, Sean imagines, probably advanced to a profitable career in politics. "Poor bugger," he thinks, "poor Master Barton." Sean didn't know the kid (most likely kids), but didn't pity him, since Master Barton "could never get it in for three minutes without popping off," the fault, in no small part, of Missus Barton, a forty-five year old shrew with pinched, suspicious eyes. No doubt a most unpleasant fuck.

Speaking of fucks, he's not paying attention when a man comes up beside him and slips him the standard line, "Are you busy?" "Depends," Sean responds, caught unaware, "what do you have in mind?" "Would you like some company for the evening?" "Would you?" The guy pushes forth, brings his face close, "Yes, please, I would very much." Sean pulls back; people come on strong, but this guy has an aura like flypaper: the closer he comes, the harder it is to pull away, even when he wants to. He's unattractive, uncompelling face, looks like a computer nerd, frankly, and his body… - "I could take him in a fair fight," Sean thinks. "What's your name?" he asks, and Sean replies, "Geoff," because it sounds faux-distinguished, as in "I'm Geoff, your gentleman for the evening." Besides, Geoff was a wanker at school who teased him for being queer. "Nice to meet you, I'm Dennis." Sean hesitates before shaking hands, doesn't want to seem too easy, too eager. Dennis looks around, skittish. "Must be high up on society's ladder," he thinks, "probably has a kid, a wife, a house decorated with antique lamps, can't afford being seen with a rent boy." "So do you want to go back to my place?" Dennis asks, and Sean shrugs, "I was just out for a stroll. Sure, why not?" They walk towards a beat-up beige mini, and he thinks, "So much for him being high in society."

During the ride, Sean divides the world into two groups: talkers and non-talkers. Talkers babble about their jobs, hobbies, cat's recent ailments, anything to fill the silence; non-talkers don't open their lips to breathe. In bed, however, they switch roles: talkers clam up, don't even grunt or moan; non-talkers curse up a storm, talk dirty: "You like it, don't you, slut?" "Come on, give it to me," other phrases ripe from smut mags. Dennis is both: he drones on about his love of bird-watching, how he sits hours on the moors waiting for a blue-spotted heron, and then, as if throwing a switch, shuts up mid-sentence, realizing that he's talking to himself. Sean isn't sure how to classify him, turns and looks out the window. As expected, a few blocks down, he feels a hand on his knee that's soon rubbing his crotch, and he responds by shifting away - 'no handling the merchandise unless you plan to pay.' The vinyl seat makes him sweat, "Can't this guy buy seat covers or something?" and after a long, looping route - the guy's been driving in circles, what, does he think someone's following him? - they arrive. The welcome light has been smashed out, none of his neighbors are home, the whole street abandoned. "Here we are," he says cheerily. "Fourth floor." The stairwell guides, similarly burnt out, look like clutched fists; Sean listens his way upstairs, Dennis chittering about his Manpower Services Commission job. "Not another boring government wanker," Sean thinks. "Maybe I could find you a job," Dennis continues, and Sean says "Yes" and "That'd be fantastic" at appropriate times, keeping his eyes open for quick ways out, in case he needs it, places to hide, windows he can jump through, neighbors he can call on for help, shadows where, he hopes, he won't be noticed. Dennis' apartment door has three locks, which he methodically relocks and chains after entering.

"So much for a potential Sugar Daddy," thinks Sean, assessing the shabby apartment, decorated with models of birds frozen mid-flight and framed pictures of the same. "He'd have no place to put me. The government pays shite." "Sorry if my apartment is kind of a mess," Dennis says, "but I don't have company very often." Everything seems in order: frames square, dust vanquished, grime banished. "I'm really glad you could come," Dennis continues, "I hate sleeping alone," and Sean thinks, "We haven't even negotiated the price and already he's picked out curtains." He imagines Craig or Miss Candace braving the stench of urine to look through the couch or, worse, throw it out entirely - thinking about it makes him itch. "Make yourself comfortable," Dennis says. Sean goes to the bookshelf. The birds perch precariously on twig-like legs, feet fastened onto boards with what looks like ossified snot, feathers trim, eyes dull and black like roly-poly bugs, the ones he pokes because they don't bite or sting. He cranes his head to read the titles, mostly bird watching, taxing something-or-other, when he steps on a creaky floorboard, letting out an awful sound and worse smell. He thinks, "God, I hope he's not into scat." Sean gave up sexual inhibitions early on, but the only time he walked out on a client was when he couldn't bring himself to smear shit over the guy's chest, despite the good money. Dennis, alerted by the squeak, says, "Geoff, come over here," and ushers him (rather forcefully, Sean thinks, "maybe this guy isn't a limp-wristed poofter after all,") to the sofa, a shabby affair that had seen better reupholstering days.

"I see you hunt," Sean says, delaying the inevitable. Sometimes serious talkers blabber until they fall asleep, at which point he nicks their wallets. Dennis shakes his head, pursing his lips. "Hunting is wrong," he says matter-of-factly, "I like looking instead." "A camera person, a photographer," Sean thinks. "I can charge him extra for that," but he doesn't feel like anything except leaving for his junk -- "So do you like your job?" Dennis replies, "Yes. Very much so. I enjoy taking care of bright young men like yourself," and he puts his hand on Sean's thigh and squeezes, as if assessing a loaf of bread's freshness. Sean pulls away. "What's wrong?" Dennis asks, "I just want some company, that's all." "Well, company isn't cheap," and Dennis fidgets some more, twisting his shoulders back and forth, not answering. "This is going to take all night," he thinks, "and I don't want to be here all night if I can help it." Dennis walks to the kitchen and calls out, "Do you want something to drink?" and he answers, "No," but hears a spoon tinkling against glass anyway. Dennis brings out two glasses of water, "Here you are," he says. Sean sips. "Can't he afford a water filter or something?" Sean thinks. "London municipal is always kind of salty," and says, "Thank you."

For Dennis: fifty flat, sleeping-over privileges extra. "Damn!" says Sean, "my rent is due and I'm short fifty," hoping he doesn't sound too obvious, "can you spare it?" Dennis looks hurt. "I think I can dig up fifty for you," he says - and unzips his fly, pulls out his cock, starts stroking himself. "Not a terribly impressive specimen," thinks Sean, producing his own penis, thinking of Rupert, of all people, Rupert, whom he saw six months ago with his girlfriend, a matronly woman who reminded him of Missus Barton. As his girl continued shopping, he and Rupert popped into a lav. Rupert, insulted when Sean asked him for money, said, "I don't ever want to see you again," scornfully, but paid him. Sean didn't believe him: he had made similar statements before, and his familiar cock ended up warm inside him every meeting thereafter.

Dennis freezes, a look Sean recognizes from his mother, a look he imagines on the face of Hailey Barton, caught playing a game of hide-the-sausage. "Don't!" Dennis says. Sean stops, startled. "Don't do anything. Let me do it all." Sean drops his arms to his sides, thinks, "He'd better do something or else I'm going to lose my erection," and Dennis drapes him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, totes him to bed. He removes Sean's clothing, shoes first, untying them with great care, sets the laces inside, rolls the socks into a ball, any movement Sean making to expedite the process met with a harsh "Don't move!" His pants slide down his legs, shirt comes off, Dennis positioning his limp arms like a mannequin's, running his hand down the length of Sean's skin, masturbating himself. "Might as well get it over with," Sean thinks, wishing Dennis would hurry, "because once you start, there's no turning back," not that he cares about his own orgasm: those are a dime a dozen. Dennis turns him over. "At last," he thinks, "we'll have some action," and grits his teeth as Dennis slides into him, faking a moan of pleasure that's answered by "No noise!" "Next he'll be bathing me in ice water," he thinks, "but whatever." Dennis pounds against him; he feels numb from the waist down, the sensation no longer holding his interest. "Maybe I'll go into film," he thinks, dreaming, dozing off at times; eyes closed, he's anywhere but this nutter's apartment, but awakens to warm pitter-patter on his back, "and it's about damn time, too." Then he realizes it's been a minute, at most.

Dennis lays and pants, puts his arm around Sean, but - that's quite enough of that - Sean unwraps the arm from his torso, grabs a fistful of sheet, wipes himself off, pulls on his clothes. "What are you doing?" Dennis asks. "Getting dressed," he says, "Got to go home. Sorry, mate." Dennis seems flustered, "Why don't you stay the night?" "Nothing personal, I just -" floundering for an excuse - "have to check up on me Mum. She's in the hospital, awful sick," (but not so sick that the magic words 'I-will-pay-extra' wouldn't cure her). "I can drive you, if you want. I can drop you off anywhere you want. Just stay the night, please?" "Sorry," he says, buttoning up, "but I need to get home. Her doctor will be ringing tomorrow, most likely with a bill." There. If that isn't a hint, nothing is; his head buzzes, the noise reminding him pleasantly of his stash. "Are you sure? Don't go. You can't. Stay," Dennis says, pulling back the comforter, revealing his naked body. "As if that's going to convince me to stay," he thinks as he says, "I've got to go," resolute.

"Stay long enough to eat, at least," Dennis says, hopping out of bed. "I haven't had company in a while. I can make you breakfast." In the kitchen, he opens cabinets: cereal boxes lined up in decreasing size, jars neatly labeled and sealed, cans stacked so solidly that a cricket ball couldn't knock them over. Sean is hungry, hasn't eaten anything since the half a bag of chips he'd found in the park at noon; he hadn't found them, actually, the woman eating them had gone for a drink of water and he grabbed them. Breakfast, bacon, eggs, the whole deal, would fill him for the day. Dennis has a package of bacon in one hand, frying pan in the other, "I'm going to have some anyway, it's no problem," and Sean thinks, "This guy is really hard-up. But it's going to take more than some scrambled eggs if he wants my company," and yawns, "No, you go ahead." "Last chance," Dennis insists, "Come on. Don't make me beg. Or do you want me to beg? Is that it?" Dennis gets on his knees and shuffles towards Sean, hands clasped, whining, "Please, please stay." Sean backs away towards the door, "Don't have a fit, man," he says, and that quells Dennis, who gets on his feet and says, "Fine. Have it your way. I'll get your money." He turns halfway. "Can I at least give you a little gift?" and Sean sighs, exhausted, ready to go. His chest heaves out tension, "Sure, whatever."

"Poor, pathetic chap," thinks Sean as Dennis ruffles his pants, loose change jingling. He hears drawers opening and closing, a hollow noise, rather like the time when he was fifteen and was playing hide-and-go-seek in a graveyard - huge mausoleum on the hill - his friends dared him to knock on the door, and he was frightened, but Rupert egged him on, so he walked up the steps, five of them, he remembers clearly because they were half-draped in fog, and he had to tread carefully otherwise he'd fall and everyone would laugh, but they all seemed impressed when he reached the top and took the heavy brass knocker in hand and started banging, the sound echoing through the whole cemetery, and he would have gone back and bragged when the door opened, opened inwards, his hand still on the knocker, making him stumble towards the dark where he fumbled in the dust, disoriented, eyes unable to adjust black from black; he lay on the floor and heard Rupert laughing, laughing at him, low and guttural, something out of a horror movie, the door shut, sealing out light, and Rupert grabbed him, hoisted him onto a cold stone slab and had him, had him even as he protested, "Not here, it's not right," but Rupert, relentless, unstoppable even to "No, please!" spilt his seed on the crypt, someone's resting place, Sean didn't know whose since he didn't bother to read the inscription on the way out, running, away, finding his friends huddled on the outskirts of the cemetery, "We thought a ghoul got you, man," they said, and he thought, "Yes," but kept a blank forward stare. "Compared to that," he thinks, "Dennis isn't so bad, is he? He's not that bad."

Dennis came up behind him and gave him his gift. Do you like it? he asked. I picked it out just for you. I don't know if you need one or not, but I thought you'd look good in it. Besides, I have plenty of neckties. Dennis asked again, So, do you want to spend the night with me? I mean, you don't have to because I gave you something. You can keep it anyway. He reached over and unbuttoned Geoff's shirt, exposing his chest. He stroked it tenderly.

He brought Geoff to the bathtub and immersed him in water. Tell me if it's too cold, said Dennis, washing Geoff's skin, splashing water onto the floor. He scrubbed Geoff's neck, crotch, ass, any place that might be dirty, then took him out and patted him dry. Time for bed, he said, and fell asleep holding Geoff.

Breakfast was already set out when Geoff arrived at the table. Eat as much as you want, said Dennis, I know you're hungry. Dennis sat across from Geoff and stared at him, cutting his ham, breaking open his yolks. Geoff hadn't finished breakfast by the time he dressed, ready for work. I've got to go, said Dennis, but you can stay here if you want. I haven't known you long, but I… I trust you. Hardly anyone spends the night with me. Dennis glanced back at him. You'll stay, right?

He couldn't concentrate at work. No one seemed to notice, though, since he performed his duties as if they were second nature. One gentleman, a new client, wondered aloud if Dennis were paying attention. Dennis, thinking of home. What am I going to do when I get back? What am I going to do? The man's voice was a soft tape loop, whispering into the background. Don't you even care about me? Don't you care what happens to me?

Geoff was still there when he got home. I'm glad you decided to stay, said Dennis. And, as if to prove his pleasure, made dinner. Geoff didn't eat much. Dennis proposed a toast. To us, he said, and clinked the glasses together. He retired, Geoff in tow, and had terrific sex. Three times.

After a week, Dennis noticed a change in Geoff. A change difficult, if not impossible, to overlook. I know things aren't the way they used to be, said Dennis, but I hope that we can work through them. I don't want you to go. But he knew it wouldn't be long. Let's go for a picnic, said Dennis.

Dennis spent most of the night slicing meat for sandwiches and packing it into the large plastic-lined picnic basket. Are you ready? he asked. The apartment seemed lonelier already. Where do you want to go, then? he asked. Geoff didn't seem to care. Dennis drove for hours, the empty road that much further. No opposing headlights. No animal eyes flashing in the bushes. He stopped, found a comfortable place, had a quick nibble, and left Geoff with the basket.

No, he thought, Geoff left him.

He returned to the car. The pops and coughs of the engine were swallowed by the dark, the marsh. It's unfair, Dennis thought, eyes squinting, avoiding the shoulders, making out the lane dividers. He drove three kilometers before turning on his headlights. They always have to leave. He started to cry. The road fell apart in his vision and failed to reassemble. So unfair.

 

©2001 Viet Dinh - Contributor's Bio