London Triptych (12 page)

1954

I was working on
some preliminary sketches of Gore this afternoon, selecting which of these sinewy charcoal outlines would translate best to oil on canvas, when I was assaulted by a memory I haven’t recalled for a long time. It seems like a lifetime ago, a different person altogether. I was thirty-nine years old, and Joan and I had been married for about eight years. It was early 1939, and I’d just started working for an advertising company near Charing Cross. It was my first managerial post, and I was doing remarkably well. We had our art supplies, pens and inks and so forth, supplied by a company based in Long Acre, around the corner from our offices. This meant they could deliver at a moment’s notice, which was very handy. One of the delivery boys, Billy, was a handsome youth in his early twenties, and I took a shine to his rugged and uncultured appeal. He must have been about six feet, four inches tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair, and the most dazzling black eyes. Many a time I had a vision of him in my head as I masturbated.

One evening, working overtime, I needed some supplies, and so I telephoned to order what I required. They were just about to close, but promised to deliver within the half-hour. Billy arrived with the order. I was in the office alone. It was February, I think, definitely the winter months, the sun long since set, the office shrouded in shadows, and I thanked him for staying late, gave him a tip as usual. He said, “You look like you could do with a drink, my friend.” I agreed, but said I needed to finish this job by the morning. He held up the money I had just given him and offered to buy me a drink. I declined, stressing the urgency of the job. He smiled and held my gaze, and I faltered, flustered. “One drink won’t do any harm,” he goaded.

I sat in the pub, waiting for him to return from the bar, wondering what on earth I was doing, cursing myself for my lack of resolve but excited to be in his company, thrilled he wanted mine. If I didn’t deliver this job the next morning, I was in danger of losing one of my top clients, and here I was drinking with some bit of rough, and loving every minute of it. The risk made me feel alive in a way I’d never felt before.

When he returned with the drinks—a gin and tonic for me, a pint of bitter for him—we made some small talk about the business. He told a funny story about the warehouse boys. Then he turned to me and said, “There’s one or two of them lads’d do anything for a bit of extra cash. Anything.” The mood of the conversation changed with that statement. I tried not to look as flustered as I felt. Was he soliciting? And if so, what about me had given the game away? I modelled myself on all the other men I met. I dressed soberly, perhaps too soberly. I policed every gesture, every intonation. I never lisped or acted effeminately, never went to queer pubs, nor had any queer friends. I was impeccably ordinary, even dull, priding myself on my mediocrity.

He continued, leaning forward conspiratorially. “A couple of ’em reckons to know gentlemen who pay a fair price if a lad is willing.” His eyes held mine. “What do you say to that, Mr Read?”

“Each to his own,” I replied, averting my gaze.

He changed his tack. “I could tell straight away the first time I saw you.”

“Tell what?” I stuttered.

“What you like.”

I stood up to go. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me back into my seat.

“What do you want?” I whispered. “Money?” Suddenly angry at having been coaxed into this situation, I growled at him, “I will not be intimidated like this.”

He laughed at that. “You wanna know what I want?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, rubbing a hand on his belly, a lascivious grin on his face. “I wanna fuck you.”

I could hardly believe my ears, but his words hung between the two of us in that smoky pub like a cloud of gun smoke rising from an emptied barrel. I didn’t know what to do. Was it a trap? If I admitted that I wanted him too, would I be lost, imprisoned, shamed by all society—or would I find the love I could not even dare to admit I craved?

My initial response was to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Then, without responding to what he’d just said, I stood up and told him I had to return to work. I was terrified. This was wrong. All wrong. He asked if he could walk back with me. Of course I agreed. Some terrible, overwhelming desire made me agree. When we got to the front door of the office, he asked if he could come upstairs. He came back up to the office, and before I had even switched on a light he had grabbed me and was kissing me. He tasted of cigarettes and beer. He told me to leave the light off. The street-lamps cast a dim light by which we made our way over to my office. Once there, he removed my glasses and my jacket and kissed me again.

I was disoriented with desire. I became someone else entirely, someone who could touch another man’s body, respond to another man’s body, unreservedly, and without shame. But that feeling didn’t last long. The minute the act was over, I found myself overcome with remorse and was incapable of looking him in the eye. I could barely bring myself to speak to him, this being with whom I had just seconds earlier known such intimacy. The joy his body had given me evaporated into a shame in which I sweated and steamed. We dressed wordlessly, and I let him out, feeling almost physically sick with disgust at myself. He went to kiss me, but I backed off callously. I knew that I wanted to, but knew equally well that I could never allow myself even to register that wish. I knew I must kill it, as I had killed all the other wishes I had ever had. My parents had trained me well. I went back to my drawing board and finished my work.

I never spoke to Billy again, and began sending one of the office juniors around to collect our supplies rather than have them delivered. On the rare occasions when this was not possible, I would get someone else to take the delivery, and would make myself busy if it was Billy. I wanted to avoid him at all costs, though at the same time I longed to see him. I was a coward, and that cowardice shames me now. I think eventually he must have left, because someone new started to appear before long. Then, of course, the war began, and I’ve no idea what happened to him, whether he survived or not.

Despite my closeness to Joan, this was one episode I kept to myself. Emotions were not a topic of conversation for Joan and me. I wonder whether I should tell Gore about Billy, about my one attempt at taking a risk, my one grab at pleasure.

When Gore arrived, I didn’t feel like drawing straight away so I suggested we take a trip to Kew Gardens. I’d mentioned it last week and he’d remarked that he’d never been. The weather was glorious so I took along my box Brownie and snapped some pictures of him amongst the flowers as we walked and talked. He wanted one of us together and asked a passing stranger, a middle-aged man, to take it. Boldly, Gore placed his arm across my shoulder and, whilst it thrilled me to feel it there, I felt self-conscious in front of this stranger, scared that my joy, my love, would show too clearly on my face. I dread seeing the developed photograph, though Gore insists he wants a copy.

I mentioned I’d started preparing to do some oil paintings, and he got very excited at the idea. I said I wanted to do a triptych of him, though of course he had no idea what one is. I explained, telling him about the symbolic and spiritual significance of the number three: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, for example, or the three kingdoms of matter; animal, mineral, vegetable. He seemed genuinely intrigued and interested. I said I’d show him when the three canvases were finished.

When we got back and started drawing, Gore dropped off to sleep as I sketched. His breathing changed, becoming shallower—and I stopped sketching and watched him sleeping, wondering what he was dreaming about and thinking about whether any of my dreams could ever have come true, if maybe I’d believed in them a bit more, been a little braver. It is wonderful to be able to witness someone you love sleeping, naked, before you. It’s a joyous sight. As quietly as I could, I collected the camera from downstairs and sneaked a photograph of him.

1998

I didn’t see you
again for about a month after that first encounter. Harry, the man in Clapham for whom I had already done several videos and photo shoots over the years, booked me to do a group video, something I always enjoyed doing. I was horny and anxious for days leading up to it, wondering if you would be there, though I tried my best not to raise my hopes.

Harry led me into the lounge, where several boys were sitting around smoking and drinking, all naked. I was introduced to the other three boys in the room. I felt a jolt of disappointment that you weren’t there and decided I didn’t fancy any of the others much. In the centre of the room, on a white sheepskin rug, there was a smoked-glass-topped table, upon which stood a large brass ashtray and a marble cigarette holder. Along one wall, there was a unit holding an expensive hi-fi and several reproductions of Greco-Roman busts and bronzes of naked young men, individually lit from above. Harry began pouring me a drink. In one corner of the room, a large cheese plant stood in a copper pot. A labyrinthine hallway, its walls mirrored, led to the bedroom, which also contained one wall of mirrors. Classical music was always playing and this was also piped into the bedroom. Harry always had plenty of cigarettes and alcohol. Once I’d stripped off and plonked myself down he handed me a large whisky and I helped myself to one of the cigarettes from the ornate silver box on the glass coffee table.

He asked me some inane questions about my life, to which I responded with the minimum of detail and truth. While this was going on, the other three continued a conversation they’d evidently been having prior to my arrival. They were discussing a book one of them had read, some New Age nonsense. Harry refuted every single “argument” the boys had been making in a loud and pompous, though highly logical, manner. Before he’d retired, he’d been a physicist. Did you ever notice the way he slapped his lips together—only he doesn’t actually have any lips, just these hard edges to his mouth which, when he smacks them together, make a noise like a pop or a click? He disagreed with nearly everything the three boys said. The boys argued back. He interrupted by standing up excitedly and clapping his hands together, turning to me, and saying, “David, follow me.” I put my drink down and followed him out of the room. He led me to the bedroom, where on the bed lay a naked man, spread-eagled on his back, his hands and feet bound to the bedposts, his eyes hidden beneath a black leather blindfold. It was you. Even with the blindfold on, I could see it was you.

“Suck him off,” Harry said, fiddling with the video camera.

In the mirrored wall, I watched myself crawl onto the bed and take your already hard dick in my mouth, recognizing its taste and shape. I could see Harry behind me, switching on a spotlight that flashed back from the mirrored wall in front of me, blinding me momentarily. I closed my eyes and continued sucking. You started to groan.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Harry barked, and I reluctantly stopped. I looked at your face—what I could see of it beneath the blindfold. Your strong nose. Your Cupid’s bow mouth. A rosebud pushed from between your lips and burst into vibrant colour. I imagined that you were falling in love with me, and pretended I could hear you gasp my name. I wanted to take the blindfold off. I wanted to see your eyes.

I wanted you to see me. I suddenly wished we were alone.

“Send Darren in,” Harry said officiously.

I returned to the living room and told Darren to go to the bedroom. I lit a cigarette and refilled my glass, my erection wilting. The other boys had clearly been getting down to something while I’d been out of the room, as all three of them now had hard-ons. When Darren had gone, the other two asked me what went on in the bedroom. I told them. They started to kiss, and I walked over and joined in, thinking to myself, at least they’re not still discussing that stupid book.

One of the boys rummaged in his jacket and pulled a joint from one of the pockets. After a couple of drags he passed it around. The two boys kissed and played with each other while I stood there smoking. I crushed the finished joint into the ashtray and half-heartedly joined in.

Shortly, we were all called into the bedroom, and I was glad that I wouldn’t have to wait while they all went in one by one until I could see you again.

When we got to the bedroom, the blindfold was off. Our eyes met and smiled. That same look of brand-new recognition. The same face, the same response.

Harry said, “Jake, this is David.” We shook hands, and I was struck by the absurdity of the situation around the same time that you were. Our grins were equally broad.

Afterward, you and I shared a cab with one of the other boys, and you got out first. I wanted to ask for your number, but not in front of him. I felt a sudden irrational hatred for this boy. I didn’t say a word to him during the rest of the journey, other than, “See you,” when he climbed out. I stayed on to Soho, seeking something other than rest. It’s not difficult to find in this city. Not if you are restless enough.

The day after, I rang Harry to get your phone number, and when he started asking questions I wished I’d been bold enough to ask you myself the previous evening. I felt vulnerable, as if Harry knew how much I wanted the number, and I was annoyed that I had to rely on him to get it. He mentioned getting the two of us to do a video together, and I said that I’d like that and hung up. I rolled a joint and wondered how long I could reasonably leave it before ringing you. As I sat there, playing with the piece of paper bearing your number, I started to imagine you in my life, dreaming of the two of us beginning a career together, only doing films with each other, only doing escort work as a duo. I had turned into something I was not. It wasn’t long then before I realized that I didn’t want you to touch anyone else, and that this meant I was possessive, even though I remain unsure exactly what that means. Jealousy is not good in this game. Of course, it happens. I’ve seen rent boys tear each other’s hair out over a man, thinking to myself, why bother? Sometimes it feels as if I have spent my entire life thinking, why bother?

Even though we had barely spent more than a few hours together in total, I had mapped out an entire life together, with the colours and trajectory of a rainbow. The greatest thing about being a prostitute was the freedom. I couldn’t imagine having to explain myself to anyone. Perhaps your being a whore too made me think it would somehow be easier, I don’t know. I can’t really remember how I justified calling you. But I remember that the second I decided to dial your number my telephone rang and I was required elsewhere. A distraction. Calling you would have to wait.

I arrived back at the flat around midnight, and as I approached the entrance to my block I heard a car horn beep behind me and saw the momentary flash of headlights. I turned around, and there you were, in a red Porsche, beaming your biggest smile. I walked over to the car, and you wound the window down.

“Hey there, handsome.”

“Hi.”

“I’ve just watched a girl and her client fucking over there by your bins,” you said, laughing. “It was hot.”

“That goes on all the time,” I said.

“How you doin’?”

“Fine,” I replied. “You?”

“Yeah, great.” You banged the steering wheel. “Listen, I’ve got this beauty for the night—gotta deliver it in the morning. Fancy a spin?”

I walked around to the passenger door and, as I did so, you reached across and opened it. I climbed in. You leant over and kissed me. As we left my road behind us you said, “Open your mouth,” and popped in a tab of acid. I immediately thought of Spike and our acid-fuelled joy-rides to the moor a hundred years ago. I was already stoned and relaxed back into the smell of the leather and the thrill of being with you, embracing like a lover the night to come.

“I thought we’d go up to Highgate Cemetery,” you said. “Ever been?”

“Not at night,” I said.

“You’re in for a treat,” you said, grinning to yourself, your hand squeezing my knee on its way to the gearstick. Hole’s
Live Through This
was playing.

The cemetery was locked, of course, but after parking the car by the main gates and waiting for a clear road, you hoisted yourself up the wall and I followed. We dropped down into the shadows. The moonlight painted each leaf fluorescent till the trees glowed enough to light our way, and you led me through the labyrinth of trees and headstones to a sunken circular arena of private mausoleums. Graves yawned. The darkness was thick with the sounds of the night: with owls and silence, the occasional fox crying like some abandoned baby. You pulled me to you, drawing my face close to yours till our mouths met in a kiss that made lights appear in my head. It was a cold night, but when your hands reached under my clothes to touch the small of my back, they were warm and massive, and I responded by holding your head in my hands and eating your kisses as a starving man might wolf down his first food for weeks. And the sky was made of amethyst, and all the stars were just like little fish. Not feeling the cold, we unfastened our trousers and pushed them to our ankles, grabbing and tasting each other’s flesh. This cannibalism made time itself more edible a concept. Nipple, belly, cock, scrotum, armpit, arsehole. I wanted to eat you as badly as you wanted to eat me. Waves broke against me in sudden splashes. Sea-spray flecked my hair. Salt stung my skin. Your warm hands passed over me and your mouth tasted good. Your hair smelt atomic. A bright forest of tall white candles grew up around us, lighting up the sky.
Go on, take everything, take everything, I want you to
. When you pulled away, silver webs appeared between us, which dissolved almost as soon as they were spun. It was suddenly as bright as day and a shoal of stars swam off into this vast sea of light, leaving trails of bubbles that rose and burst. My hands passed right through you. We walked through each other’s bodies like walking through corridors, opening doors that led to other corridors and other doors. Your moans transformed into a flotilla of butterflies, and as they flew away they spelled out the word “danger” with their dark bodies. I am here without knowing how. Suddenly, terrifyingly present. Here, now, lost and hot, my heart in my head, and my cock warm and wet in your mouth. I held your head in my hands, your black curls thick between my fingers, and as I slid down your throat toward my orgasm, I remembered who I was, who you were, and I didn’t know whether to feel safety or fear.

In bed, afterward, we stayed up until sunrise, describing to each other the visions we could see.