London Triptych (3 page)

1894

There was this other
older lad who also worked the ’grams; Terence Thickbroom was his name. Handsome as they come and charming as the devil with it. He was always larking about and we soon became good friends and then one day he took me to the water closet in the Post Office on the Strand to show me how nice it is to have yourself touched by another’s hand and though I knew well enough already, truth be told, having shared a bed with three older brothers, still I quite liked the look of him and was curious besides to see what his yard looked like so I pretended not to know and let him show me anyhow. And he wasn’t called Thickbroom for nothing, either.

We met frequently after that and I looked forward to it, I’m not ashamed to admit. And then one day he told me about the money I could make if I were to go to bed with a man.

I said no.

He said, “You’ll get four shillings.”

So I said yes.

That very afternoon he introduced me to this older fellow named Taylor who runs a boyhouse in Fitzroy Street in Bloomsbury. It was nothing compared to some houses I’ve seen since, but on my first visit there I thought it was a palace. The carpets in the hallway weren’t exactly new but at least he had them—gaslights too. And a bog out the back. Luxury.

He’s a fuckin’ odd little bugger, is Taylor. I’d never seen the like. Thin as a rail with sunken cheeks and no eyebrows and, I swear on my life, face powder. Pinched little lips, beaky nose and restless eyes, his gaze never quite meeting your own. But he was friendly enough, giving me a big toothsome grin when Thickbroom introduced me, his eyes roving up and down my self in a look of exaggerated delight. “’Ello, ’andsome,” he chirped.

He was dressed in turquoise silk pyjamas underneath a red silk kimono covered with silver birds, and a pair of jewelled golden slippers on his feet. I was mesmerised and horrified in equal measure. He ushered me into the parlour before turning to Thickbroom and saying, “Make yerself scarce, ducky, and well done.”

Despite it being bright daylight outside, the thick dirty gold velvet curtains were drawn and the room was dimly lit by gas lamps. The flames were encased in red glass bulbs, which made the whole place blush. Perfume clouded out from brass burners and filled the room with a vicious musky scent that did nothing to cover the stench of burnt onions. Despite the poor light, I could make out a few old armchairs and a long, battered and stained divan which Taylor gestured at for me to sit on. He immediately squeezed himself down right next to me, practically foaming at the mouth. He said, “Terence said you was good-looking, and he wasn’t wrong. You know, you could make lots of money if you cared to.”

I said that I did. “If any old gentleman with money takes a fancy to me,” I said, “I shan’t mind. I’m terribly hard up.”

At this, he arched an eyebrow.

“The extra money will be most welcome, Mister Taylor, sir,” I explained further.

“
Extra
money?” he said. “No, dearie, you misunderstand me. You’ll live here and work here with me and the girls. No more running the
’
grams for you, my fine Ganymede. You’re far too good for that.”

Well, I’d never considered I had any particular value, so this was news to me, and so, while I knew it would break Ma’s heart to see me leave (though she’d be grateful for one less mouth to fill), all the same I also knew that I’d be able to earn much more working for Taylor than I would running
’
grams. I’d have much more fun, too. The situation with my father had made living at home hell and so it didn’t take much reflection before I agreed. Besides, having worked the West End enough times to know it felt like the centre of the universe, I liked the idea of living near there. Liked it a lot.

Taylor pushed ever so close to me and said in that hissy way of speaking he has, “Young man, whoring is a calling, a talent, an art of the highest order. There’s a fine tradition to be upheld in the giving of pleasure for money. A fine tradition. It’s not called the oldest profession for nothing.” And he licked his lips and grinned before continuing. “Thankfully this knowledge has been passed down from cock to mouth for generations. But only the chosen few have been bestowed with the knowledge of this esoteric and erotic art. These keepers of the flame are amongst the most talented givers of pleasure the world has ever known, the most gifted of whores. In this house, this
temple,
you shall in time join their number and become one of the anointed. You shall know that power. You shall know it well.”

He suddenly clutched together the folds of his kimono, which had fallen open to reveal his pale white chest where the pyjamas were unbuttoned underneath. I could hear laughter coming from the kitchen, where Terence and the other boys were.

“Yet forget this at your peril,” he said, tapping a bony fingertip on my sternum. “There are those in this world who’ll condemn you, condemn you as fiercely as they condemn their own bodies, for what you do. There are those’ll tell you that pleasure is
bad
and that giving it for money is the work of the devil himself. But know that they are
fools.
And no sane man listens to a fool. There are those who believe that only pain can give pleasure—and indeed, aren’t a good deal of ’em the very swells you’ll be servicing, giving ’em a fair crack of the whip for the pure hell of it?—but sure they are worse than the fools, they are hypocrites and you’ll come to recognize them soon enough. For aren’t they running the country, the most of ’em? And doesn’t each and every one of them pass through that door, or one as like it as to make no difference, at some time or other in their miserable, Janus-faced lives?”

He stared at me with eyes wide, and I was unsure for a minute whether or not he was waiting for me to answer. But he had only paused to inhale enough breath to fuel the next onslaught. I had never known anyone talk so much; not even Pa in his cups went on so.

“These fools preach not what they practice,” he said, “and they must be held by each and every whore in the greatest contempt. For the fools and the hypocrites know
nothing
of joy and would have you know nothing of it too. They have the body for a dirty thing, an animal thing, and place it second to the soul or mind or whatever else they call it.”

His finger pointed at the window, as if those he spoke of were stood behind the closed curtains.

“They find the body ugly and its parts despicable,” he said. “They curse the body and wish it dead. For only in death, or so they claim, can the spirit live in all its purity. What bollocks! And they spread this ignorance of theirs wherever they can. And they will try all they can to spread it upon you, young man, and make no mistake. But don’t you listen to a word they say, for whatever they say, they are doing the opposite themselves. You know they are. You know it better than most. You know that they are not to be listened to, only laughed at, exposed and ignored. The Establishment—for it is they I talk of—will use us, will use
you
, as often as it suits them, but it is for no one to know but themselves.”

He placed a hand on my knee.

“A whore’s life is no easy thing and is not to be embarked upon lightly.” He moved in closer, narrowing his eyes to slits like a sly cat, and said, “But they are all wrong, see. They are all so wrong. And their mistake is your reward.”

He rubbed his hand against my thigh.

“Because pleasure is the greatest gift God gave you, so it is. Pleasure is divine. To give pleasure is to spread joy, and to spread joy is godly, isn’t that the truth? Now aren’t we doing God’s work right here, aren’t we spreading joy? I think you’ll find we are. Just look at the smiles on the faces of those that leave.”

He grinned, revealing yellow, crooked teeth.

“In ’ere you’ll learn the ancient knowledge of whorecraft: the art of giving pleasure will be yours. Didn’t the Whore of Babylon alone leave enough volumes to keep you busy in your studies for years? Not to mention Nell Gwynn or Lucrezia Borgia? And that Emma Hamilton passed on a trick or two. The boys may be less famous, but they are there if you care to look. Sporus, the beautiful slave boy who was castrated and dressed as a woman in order to marry Nero. What he didn’t know about sucking cock isn’t worth knowing, believe you me. Why do you think Nero wanted to marry him so desperately that he chopped off the poor boy’s knackers to make him resemble a girl? And those lovely boys that serviced King James I—they have passed on their wisdom, too. How to make a man feel like a king, or even like a queen if needs must. And it can be yours, that knowledge, all yours.”

He then took hold of my chin and turned my face toward a pool of red light, examining my face with screwed-up eyes. “What did you say your name was, dollface?” he asked, running his calloused thumb across my lips.

“Jack, sir,” I replied.

He let his hand drop into my lap, his gaze scanning the room as if he was suddenly not sure where he was.

“Yes,” he said at last, “it can all be yours, Jack, this wisdom. You will learn the secrets of your body; you will scale its heights and move beyond its limits. You’ll experience new pleasures,
forbidden
pleasures—pleasures beyond anything else you’ve known. You’ll understand completely what it means to be taken into another dimension. All the distinctions you’ve so far relied upon to give the world meaning will be destroyed and replaced by new ones. A new world will begin to emerge before your eyes. A world of brighter colours and fresher smells, a world of joy and perfection. All the things that aren’t usually allowed to make sense will
make sense,
finally and joyously. You are a chosen child, my boy, one of the blessed.”

He moved his hand further up my leg and continued, “There are things about the human body only a few people are allowed to comprehend, secrets the body keeps locked deep within. Things about its limits and how to move beyond them, things about the edges of pleasure and how to transgress their boundaries. You’ll understand every organ and orifice and surface of your flesh so much more than you do now, in ways you are currently incapable of even imagining. You’ll unearth an entire archaeology of pleasure as yet buried beneath the shifting sands of philistine opinion. A palace lies beneath those sands, Jack, a beautiful glittering palace.”

He emitted a faint gasp as if this palace had erected itself right there in his front room. He held a hand out as if to touch it, then turned to me and laid his clammy palm across my cheek.

“The perfection of its structure will leave you breathless, lad, but you’ll not be able to resist entering and exploring every room, every corridor, every crevice of its domain. You’ll be a slave to its spaces, its rhythms, its commands. You’ll shiver as you perform every exploration. You may even on occasion suffer most profoundly. But over time, if you succeed, you’ll learn your way around its labyrinthine interior, room by room, secret by secret. And when you know all there is to know about the vagaries and potencies of pleasure, well then, Jack, my lad, you’ll be the master of that palace, lord of all you survey!

“Are you game?”

And with that he grabbed my privates and moved his face so close to mine that I could smell his hellish breath. Stifling a response to retch, I nodded most eagerly, looked him straight in the eye, and said with a smile, “Aye, sir, aye, I’m game.”

For didn’t I want to know everything? Who doesn’t dream of knowing everything?

“Come on then, handsome, show us what you’re made of. What can you do with this?” And he whipped out a stand that gave off a stink like a latrine, and then he leaned back with his hands behind his head. I knew this was a test and that I had to pass it—I had to impress the bastard. The smell was making my eyes sting. I don’t think he’d washed the damned thing since the day his mother stopped doing it for him.

I slid onto my knees and turned toward him—toward it—trying to look as pleased to be doing so as I could. By the time my mouth had reached it, bile had risen and a watery mouthful spilled out onto his cock. I rubbed it in and he sighed. I spat some more and rubbed some more and washed the bugger down in my own spittle before letting it anywhere near my mouth. My ingenuity paid off, for he groaned all the while and I slipped the whole thing into my mouth now that it smelled slightly sweeter, or at least of myself, and the cheesy muck had for the most part been washed clean away. He only once barked at me the word “
Teeth!
,” clipping the side of my head as he did so. It was a job well done, and he said I could work for him.

I moved in there and then.

1954

I should explain how
I came to meet Gore, for I’m afraid that the impression I have given of my life is one of self-imposed exile, which is not far from the truth, but is not the absolute truth either. Once a month on a Friday afternoon for the past six months, I’ve been attending a life-drawing group run by Miss Wilkes, a large, exuberant woman with the kind of scatter-brain so characteristic of those members of the aristocracy who have fallen foul of the arts, or “living
la vie de Bohème
,” as she puts it. She’s a retired art teacher from one of the private girls’ schools in the Home Counties. And it shows. She treats us like schoolgirls. There are five of us, all middle-aged men or older, and all, I imagine, of the same persuasion as myself. Maurice calls everybody “dear,” and I’m convinced he wears rouge. Kenneth is a retired navigator from the Royal Navy, though how he ever navigated a ship is anyone’s guess. He’s late every single week, having got lost walking from the station to Miss Wilkes’ house, even though it’s less than a minute’s journey. He stands incredibly close to the male models during the tea break, cornering them so they can’t get away and then boring them with stories about his life at sea, poor things. (He completely loses interest when it’s a female model.) Malcolm is the most verbally explicit. He has a code for rating the standard of the male models’ backsides. The ones he likes best he calls Harrods. He does tiny, cramped watercolours—two squashed onto each page of his small sketchbook—and has a nasty habit of sucking on his paintbrush, which makes a repulsive sound and leaves him with a black tongue. Peter is like me, hardly says a word. We’ve chatted alone on occasion—though, as is the way with two shy people, it’s a bit like pulling teeth.

Every first Friday of the month, come hell or high water, the six of us gather in Miss Wilkes’ large cluttered house in Mortlake. Many of the surrounding houses were bombed during the war, but Miss Wilkes’ house, much like Miss Wilkes herself, stands defiantly upright amidst the rubble. We congregate in the spacious sitting room to draw from a live model. We have male and female models, though the male models are never completely naked, their genitals always tucked into white posing pouches. It might be art, but we don’t want to scandalise the community. I met Gore when he came to model for the group last month and, chatting alone with him during the tea break, I found myself arranging for him to model for me privately. I have done this occasionally with models from the group, though none ever came more than once or twice. They can be terribly unreliable—sometimes not showing up at all. But Gore has been three times now and is always spot on time. I do hope he continues to come, because I find that the drawings he inspires are far superior to any others I have ever done. I feel I am on a journey with this—with him—and I like the look of where it’s going. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say I like where it’s been. I like the journey so far. I don’t know yet where, if anywhere, it is going. But if he were suddenly to stop coming I know I should be most annoyed. He has awoken something in me, something that, whilst unsettling in the extreme, is not entirely unpleasant.

I’ve been trying this past week, without success, to recall who it is that Gore reminds me of. For there is something familiar about him I cannot quite place. In the way that people sometimes do, he brings to mind another face, another person. And it finally came to me today, as I was drawing. Rather disconcertingly, Gore is the spitting image of a young man I met once thirty years ago, under the following circumstances. Since leaving art school at twenty-one, I had been working for three years at an advertising studio in Regent Street run by an acquaintance of my father’s—a man called Frank Symonds. On this particular occasion, I had been assigned a job that involved drawing the male figure. I think it was a catalogue of some description, a men’s clothing catalogue, as I recall. During the briefing, Symonds told me he thought I should brush up on my figure drawing. That afternoon he asked me to stay behind after work, and once everyone had gone, he explained that he had arranged for a model to come round whom I was to draw for a couple of hours while he did some paperwork. As he finished explaining this, the bell rang and he went to answer the door, coming back with a beautiful young man, whom he introduced as Trevor. Tall, broad-shouldered, with black hair and green, cheerful eyes. Symonds took us down to a store-room in the basement, where he’d set up some anglepoise lamps and some cushions, a white sheet thrown over them rather maladroitly. There was no heating, and the subterranean room was cold, but all the same my heart raced at the prospect of this boy disrobing before me. I felt no concern for his possible discomfort, I must admit. Symonds and the lad were clearly familiar, and they joked while Trevor removed his clothes. “I’ll try and locate a heater,” Symonds said, “otherwise your shivering will be most distracting.” Symonds looked at me and said, “Don’t worry, it gets bigger,” and gave a wink before leaving. It was a side of him I had never seen before, slightly effeminate, slightly repulsive, in thrall to this boy in a way that I was too, I’ll admit, though I’d never have dared let another human being know what thoughts assailed me. Never.

Trevor stepped out of his undershorts and appeared before me in all his glory. I’d only ever seen the life models at art school, in their coy little posing pouches, like a handkerchief tied to a runaway’s stick. He didn’t seem at all shy about his body but stood there proudly, hands by his sides.

“Where do you want me, mister?”

I found my mouth dry and had to swallow before replying. “Just stand over there to begin with,” I muttered, pointing vaguely to a pool of light between the two lamps.

He stepped over to the spot and stood stock still, arms behind his back, legs slightly apart, feet firmly set on the floor, looking into the far left-hand corner behind me.

“This do?”

“Perfect,” I said, sitting down and grabbing my paper and pencils with sweaty hands. Symonds came back, carrying a three-bar electric fire, which he plugged into a socket and aimed in Trevor’s direction. “This’ll ensure it doesn’t shrink to nothing, eh, lad?” he chuckled, before turning to me. “Fine figure of a man, isn’t he? Such stature, such masculine grace. He should be cast in bronze, don’t you think?” That wink again. The penny suddenly dropped that he knew all about me, could see right through whatever disguise I thought I wore, right down to the deepest recesses of my dampened desire. I felt myself blushing.

“Yes,” I said, looking down at the blank sheet on my knee, “perfect.”

“Mmm, he most certainly is,” Symonds drooled, staring openly at the young man’s genitals. “Anyway,” he chirped, dragging his gaze away reluctantly, “you’ve got him for two hours, so make the most of him. I’ll be upstairs should you need me. Be good.” Then he was gone.

I don’t know whether those first drawings were any good. I’m sure they weren’t. I seem to remember spending long stretches of time just drinking in that body, my hand making random marks on the paper that bore little resemblance to the vision before me. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

At one point he got an erection and laughed an apology.

“No, no, it’s fine, don’t worry about it,” I said breathlessly, trying desperately to capture its likeness on paper.

After the two hours, he climbed back into his clothes and we walked silently upstairs. The three of us left the building and Symonds hailed a taxi into which he and Trevor clambered, and my imagination has reconstructed many times in the intervening years what they went off to do that night, always with the same mixture of jealousy and admiration. I went home and pored over the sketches I had made, my heart racing.

Every evening after work for the next two weeks Symonds would present me with a different boy, but it is Trevor’s ash-white body and crow-black hair, Trevor’s pale tan nipples and pale green eyes, that remain for me the indelible memory of that time. I never saw him again. I drew ten different young men in as many days, and yet only that first one registers with me now. The others, beautiful as they were, have faded in my memory, so that Trevor’s has become the face and body I attribute to each of them. He has, I suppose, delineated my desire.

Symonds never made any reference to these boys, never told me how or where he found them, nor disclosed the precise nature of his relationship with them, yet he drooled after each and every one in my presence, and always disappeared with them afterward into the shadowed interior of a black cab and off into the foggy darkness of a London night. And, far from reassuring me that there were others like me, instead the knowledge of Symonds’ true nature made me more resolute than ever to quell this thirst, not quench it; to stamp out this fire, not feed it.

There began my pact with solitude.

There began my road to hell.

Looking at Gore this morning, it was like looking back across the years and seeing Trevor once more, the same green eyes and boxer’s nose, the same angle of the shoulders, even the same pucker to the foreskin.

I think about all those men arrested and imprisoned for doing what I dare not bring myself to do, and in some strange way I envy them. If I myself actually had the courage to do it, I tell myself I shouldn’t at all mind a spell in prison, though I know in truth that my fear of the place is precisely what stops me.