I was up in Liverpool for the conference. You know the sort of thing—rows of bums on hard plastic chairs, trying to stay awake while some geek in a striped shirt quotes soundbites at them. I mean, just what the hell is a 'project mission statement', anyway? And they always hold the damned things in the stuffiest hotel they can find, in the middle of a heatwave. This was the third one I'd been to in as many weeks and I'd sweltered at all of them. What a choice—cook in your suit jacket or take it off and let the sweat stains show.

The only reason I go along at all is the men. I won't hunt on home turf—call it caution, call it self-preservation—but out here, in a new city where nobody knows or cares, that's different. The minute the last screaming-tedious session was done I went out on the prowl.

Down by the docks the streets stank, ankle deep in filth, piles of rotting garbage magnetising the rats. In the brown dancing haze of heat the narrow lanes were like canyons, the brick warehouse walls rising sheer like cliffs. It was a bad area for all sorts of reasons, but it was where the men went, or so I'd heard. Vermin, stench, flies, I'll ignore a lot if it means finding a bloke for an hour or two.

High on the hill the cathedrals tolled the hour; in the hot still air the notes rang and fell, sounding a death-knell in my heart. I shook myself and carried on, and had my just reward. There he was, propped in a doorway, full lips round a newly-lighted cigarette that left a little gap I wanted to lick. He was simply dressed—jeans, white t, sunglasses half way down his nose, and it was the sight of his eyes that did for me. Incredible eyes, they were—pallid, mossy green, big, slanted upwards like a cat's. Cat's eyes, cat's strength and grace, I thought, and followed him without a word.

He took me indoors and up a flight of damp and dusty stairs, but the room was clean and the door had a lock. All the way up the stairs I'd had his bum in my face, watching the muscles clench, always just one step up and out of reach. No more. Now I put a hand on it, feeling the curves through the soft layers of cotton, using it to draw him close.

"I don't kiss," he said, and it was the first time he'd spoken. His voice was gruff—too much tobacco, I thought through the fog in my brain.

I shrugged. "Fair enough. I'm not here for the kissing."

He grinned, then, and undressed me, taking his time, folding my clothes, before shucking his own things off and dropping them in a heap. We fell on the bed, arms and legs tangling, sweat already slicking our skin, and he pushed and pulled until he was on top and I was buried underneath. His chest hair tickled my nose, I grated my beard across his nipple and heard him moan, and that was all it took. Capturing his roaming hand I imprisoned it against my cock, bucking against the palm, warm and calloused against me. And all the while those pale eyes watched me, staring right through me, as though they would learn every bad thing I'd ever done. I came looking at his eyes, and had to turn away lest he see the raw emotion in mine.

I had to see him again. Two whole days of heat and boredom—I'd go crazy if I couldn't let off steam. The next day I had to present a session myself, but the day after that? "Will you be here on Thursday?"

"I'm here most days," he replied with a smile.

And with that I had to be content.

Wednesday was hell. The hottest day of the year, ninety degrees in the shade, and the slide projector broke down. By five o'clock I'd had enough. I ditched the suit at my hotel room, showered and dug out fresh clothes, and headed straight for the docks. But I'd reckoned without clocking off; hordes of workers streamed ant-like down every street on route to the bus or the pub, and my friend was nowhere to be seen. I spent a lonely night in the hotel bar instead, drank far too much, and got reacquainted with my right hand under the sheets. It was messy and unsatisfying and afterwards I couldn't sleep, but kept seeing those green cat's eyes mocking me in the dark.

By Thursday I was strung tight as a violin—one more push and I'd snap with a twang. The morning session dragged, some drivel about targets, and I kept my mind on lunchtime and escape.

And—thank Christ—he was back at his post by the door, sunglasses up but cigarette dangling just as before. He grinned when he saw me and my stomach flipped—until I remembered the tip I'd left last time, large enough to put a smile on most men's faces. Ah, well, I could always dream that he was pleased to see me for my own sake....

I undressed myself while he stripped and lay naked on the bed, peering over his shoulder in mute appeal. I answered his demand and took him hard and fast, using the condom and cream but too impatient to bother with anything else. He groaned under me just before I came, and I shot my load so hard I swear I saw stars, and afterwards lay with my chest hammering while I fought for every breath. One of these days I swear I'll kill myself with this—heart-attack hump, they call it, and by Christ they've got it right.

I'd slid out of him but he didn't push me off, just lay acquiescent beneath me, one hand stroking the back of my thigh. The slow steady movement of his fingers against my skin lulled me; I drifted, thinking of others before him, of whole nights spent like this under the covers, drowsy and sated and sad. Sad that this was all it ever was, that by morning they'd leave and I'd never see them again, that I'd be in a different town and our paths would never cross. It's tough being queer at the top.

He seemed to sense my mood; his fingers became more insistent, digging into my flesh, rubbing and bruising and rousing me all over again in a way I'd never thought possible. "God, yeah," I groaned and rolled over and off to give my cock room to breathe. He flipped onto his back like a fish, exposing himself to my gaze; nice view, I thought, and it had nothing to do with the city laid out beyond the window.

His cock was up and weeping, salt drops pooling on his belly below. I knelt over him and licked the very tip, then took the head in my mouth. I'm told I give good head, but he pulled back and frowned. "Do me again," he said, and it was as much an order as a plea. "Need it—need you in me."

Well, who among us could resist that? I scrabbled to prepare us, draped his legs over my shoulders, pushed myself back in. My cock sighed with relief, happy to be home—the heat, the tight walls, the muscles rippling back and forth, up and down like a hand in a latex glove. Pure unadulterated bliss. Upping the tempo, I felt him reach and hold my face, kissing me on the side of the mouth. He didn't kiss, he'd said. He must like me after all. I came gazing into those pale green eyes, just like the first time I'd had him. Except this time he smiled at me, a wide, happy smile that welcomed me in. I smiled back, rolled off, gazed down at him in tender delight... and saw he hadn't come.

My brain stopped. Why would he smile if I hadn't pleased him? If I'd left him high and dry, aching and unsatisfied? Was he even smiling at me, or at the dark shadow I sensed behind me, looming over my shoulder? I turned to see for myself.

And felt all the air in my lungs whoosh out.

We'd locked the door behind us, I was certain of that, but now it hung open on its hinges, the lock kicked straight through. And sat in a chair at the end of the bed was a stranger, big and dark and smiling with glee. The chair hadn't been there an hour ago, and neither had he. He smiled all the wider when he saw me—I must have been gaping like a guppy by then. Funniest thing he'd seen all day.

"I trust you've had a pleasant half hour," he said in a mild and musical voice that didn't match the agate of his eyes. "Joe's got a nice arse, hasn't he? Nice and tight. Been there a few times myself."

"You—you're—" I struggled for air and tried again. "Are you his pimp?"

The bedclothes erupted beside me in fury. "No he bloody well isn't. He's my fella. Jason takes care of me."

"I'm sorry," I said, and aimed it at both of them. "I didn't mean to intrude. I'll just leave the money and go...." But I'd no sooner sat up than Jason pushed me down.

"Oh, no, you can't go yet. You haven't seen the pictures."

"Pictures? You mean—" My vision clouded with red—the so-called mist of rage. I'd never realised how accurate the description was, until now. "You've taken photographs? Of me and him?"

The smile was so wide I could see all his teeth. "Oh, not just photographs. We've got a whole fuckin' videotape of you and him. Here, take a look at this for starters. Plenty more where that came from."

The polaroid burned my fingers, the colour from my face leaching into the print blurring to life before my eyes. Full glorious technicolour, my bum, his legs, his ankles locked round my neck, his face blankly staring, his hands turning my face towards the hidden lens. Such detail, seared onto the paper. My last hope lay in bluff.

"If it's money you're after you've got the wrong bloke. I'm not married, nobody'll care if you publish this."

"Oh, but that's where you're wrong, Mister Drake." Now the smile was almost splitting his skull. "Lucky for us that Joe here reads the papers. Recognised you straight off, he did—thought all our Christmases had come at once. Couple of days to set this up and—well, here's the result. Nobody to care, eh? Nobody to care when the harshest Chief Constable in the country's got his prick shoved up some rent-boy's arse? Joe's got form, you know. Nothing much, soliciting, indecency, enough to give your precious police force something to think about."

I shook my head and damned myself for a fool. One pretty face too many, that was to be my disgrace. "How much do you want?" I asked, reaching for my shirt.

"We're not greedy. Couple of thousand a month should do. Just enough to set me and Joe here up in our own little place, get him off the streets. Cutting crime, really - small price to pay when you think about it."

"Two thousand pounds a month? Do you think I'm made of money?"

"You don't mind paying fifty an hour for him, do you?" A jerk of the thumb indicated Joe, balanced stork-like and scowling as he yanked on his jeans.

Well, that was true enough, and there wasn't much more to be said. Not now, not here.... In silence I stumbled out of bed, in silence I gathered my clothes, in silence I dressed and peeled two twenties and a ten out of my wallet and laid them on the bed. From outside came the crash of distant thunder; the weather had broken, the heat boiling up into a storm. I could hear the rain already, drumming on the roof above our heads.

"I'll need an address," I said at last. "To send the money each month." And had to bite my lip when the fool wrote it down. Don't give yourself away, not yet, don't let him see what you've done—you want to get out of here in one piece, don't you? I took the paper, slipped it into my pocket, praying all the while that he wasn't telepathic. I'd no intention of sending them money, not now, not ever. This paper, the polaroid he'd given me 'as a souvenir', my report, were going straight to the police. Blackmail's a disgusting crime and no way was I letting them get away with it, no matter what the cost to me. They could publish and be damned. My resignation would be on the Minister's desk in the morning; I'd have cleared my desk and gone, long before the shit hit the fan. And hopefully the next callers on Jason and Joe would be the local cops. Those two would get their just reward, come what may.

The last session of the conference was on new ways of reducing crime. I'd just make it if I ran. I turned up my collar against the rain and set off, hopping puddles, without a backward glance. And I thought of all the years of lying, of the deceit and dishonesty and pretence, and knew I had my just reward, as well.

 

©2003 Fiona Glass - Contributor's Bio