[Fiction]

From Section One of Call Me,"Without Ray"

By P-P Hartnett

The barboy had skin still tanned from weeks on a beach all by himself. Ivory toenails, perfect fingernails, prepared for compliments. A handsome, sharply groomed, gym-trained young man who gave off a whiff of 'the game'. Very Euro Boy.

Village was one of those Soho faggot bars that went to town pretending to be laid-back in a New Age kind of way. Lots of varnished wood, stainless steel and lighting you wouldn't notice. Very Amsterdam. The colour scheme was suited to a multi-ethnic reception class.

I had spent the past two weeks decorating my flat and was feeling fragile. Painting the walls therapeutic colors, Clearly Pink in the bedroom, bathroom and hall, Sweet Apricot in the living-room and kitchen, had ground me down -- even though the paint spread with a lovely thickness. Ray had been there to help the last time.

It was shortly after four, the place had only just opened for business. The music was on low. Without it, the only sound would have been the swallowing of adam's apples and the creaking of necks as heads swivelled in synchrony, following the progress of anything TBH. Village: an unlikely place to have met a real blokish bloke.

An anonymous sexual compulsive in search of a fresh face, a new body -- some magical quality to feel complete -- fixed his sad eyes on me. In hopeful anticipation, he sat up, leaning slightly forward like a proud little boy on his potty, smiling my way as I fixed on the surely-bad-for-business state of the teaspoon slung alongside my cup. The state of anticipation he was trapped in was exhausting the poor soul. He'd perfected that wanna-suck-you-right-this-minute look with years of practice, it was flashing across his forehead more garishly than the neon of Ginza.

As Madonna finished singing about the mystery of life he removed his glasses gingerly, from one ear at a time, staring hard at me. Gently massaging the sore and reddened hollows at the side of his nose, he began to gobble up every curve in my boil-washed Levi's.

I looked away. I wasn't happy with my reflection in the perfect silver disc, a downward-looking me. The special offer sticker had left a smudge on the case. The CD failed to fill me with the excitement of vinyl; the cover photo of Morrissey seemed so small and there was no shiny new smell. Replacing my record collection was proving a costly process.

The distraction failed. When I looked up he was still staring, glass in hand, tapping a tired foot along to simple thudding computer pop courtesy of the Pet Shop Boys. I prayed he'd soon be hovering up and down Old Compton Street, in and out of pubs and bookshops, stumbling on his way to the attractions of toilets, car parks, cemeteries, cellars, saunas and places of wild natural beauty all in the name of a bit of fun; seeking the mirage of an orgasm.

I could have been wrong about him. Could have been wrong about the barboy on the beach all by himself and the occasional vocational calling of his colleagues--I tend to think the worst of people. I'm full of simple assumptions, that's just the way the good Lord made me. Often cruel, cold and lacking in humanity. Maybe he was just killing time, awaiting the approaching hour of his second Twelve Step meeting of the day.

A delivery of free papers created a little movement in the place. To avoid further eye contact I made for them, then moved into an alcove beyond his line of vision. The Pink Paper, Capital Gay, Boyz and something I hadn't seen before called Link Up kept my eyes busy as the peppermint tea cooled.

Avoiding the obituaries in Capital Gay, I made for the back to have my usual laugh at the small ads. Week after week so many people offered themselves up for grabs with their unique selling points. All human life was there, held in those pages, trying to shrug off the stigma of inadequacy and failure. The straw-grabbing opportunities had always held an odd sort of fascination for me. Ever since flicking through my elder sister's copy of Time Out at the age of thirteen I'd been struck by the touches of poignancy, humour and revealing hints at life's drama. Week by week those puzzle pieces filled my teenage head with images and mystery that went on to direct and, in a way, destroy my life.

Until that moment I'd never thought of answering a personal ad, never mind placing one. Maybe it was because the week's selection was so dull that I was almost prompted to say aloud: I could do better than that! This set me thinking. It would be intriguing to see the replies, what people said, and how they said it. I was curious to see the stationery, the photographs, the handwriting . . . the spelling, even. I wanted to see their fantasies. I wasn't searching for love -- I'd stopped being boyfriend-oriented with a jolt three years back. Definitely free from that shackle of hope. I was in the mood for some good, dirty, voyeuristic fun. That's all.

Back to Call Me

Back to the Stonewall Inn