Shameless (13 page)

He left the dance floor and headed back to the café-bar, half expecting to find John and the others sitting at their table. There was no sign of them, so he turned and walked the length of the club, past the main bar and the groups of latecomers frantically searching for a dealer until he reached the stairs that led up to the chill-out room and the upper bar. That was where he needed to be. If he went to the upstairs bar, he’d be able to look out over the dance floor and hopefully spot the others. But first he had to climb the stairs. Could it still be the effects of the K, or were the stairs carved out of marshmallows? They didn’t look much like marshmallows, but every time he placed a foot on the stairs, it seemed to sink into the polished surface. Still, at least he could now feel his feet, which was a vast improvement. Finally struggling to the top of the stairs, he pushed his way through the double set of fire doors and stumbled into the bar, immediately colliding with two girls in matching shiny bra tops and tiny backpacks shaped like koala bears. The Fridge had always attracted its fair share of straight girls, and for some reason the majority of them seemed to hail from Australia.

Apologizing to the giggling girls, he made his way over to the balcony and was suddenly overcome by the urge to pee. Spotting a sign in the far corner, he turned and headed straight for the toilet. Clearly he wasn’t the only one desperate for the bathroom because there was already a queue of men so long it stretched right back out the door. He waited patiently for five minutes or so, until two men emerged from the toilet dripping with sweat and proceeded to squeeze their way through the waiting hordes. As they slid past, Martin felt a sudden surge of movement, not dissimilar to a rugby scrum, and a tide of tightly packed bodies lifted him off his feet and carried him through the dimly lit doorway ahead. The first thing that struck him was how dark it was. The next thing he noticed was just how many men were squashed into such a small space. There must have been thirty of them at least, all crammed up against one another in a shadowy mass. Surely they couldn’t all be waiting for a stall? Pushing through the crowd, he felt his way to the urinal, unbuttoned his fly, and began to pee. The sense of relief was so great, he rested his head against the wall and heaved a sigh of satisfaction.

Someone’s hand slid down the back of Martin’s trousers. His first instinct was to pull away, only he had his nose pressed to the wall and was flanked on both sides, making any sudden movement impossible. Looking down out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the men on either side of him were holding their penises in their hands, and that neither one of them seemed particularly intent on peeing. Frantically buttoning up his fly, he reached behind him to remove the hand that was now busy massaging his buttocks, only instead of finding an arm to latch onto, his fingers closed around someone’s penis. Someone’s very large penis. Someone’s very large, very erect penis. In spite of himself, he felt his own cock stiffen, and slowly turned around to face his seducer.

He had a great face—dark hair and eyes, a strong nose, full lips, swarthy-looking, possibly Brazilian. He had a great body, too—a broad chest, damp with sweat and a scattering of curly black hair, tapering down to a six-pack stomach. And below it, poking out through what felt like leather biker’s trousers, there was that enormous cock. It must have been eight inches at least, possibly even nine. Even allowing for the poor light and the distorting effects of the drugs, that was a pretty impressive package by anyone’s standards.

Martin couldn’t believe his luck. “I can’t do this in here,” he whispered. “Do you want to come home with me?”

Much to his surprise, Mr. Big Cock Brazilian smiled and nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

Twelve

C
aroline’s taxi
pulled up outside the Fridge just as the unlicensed minicab containing Martin and Mr. Big Cock Brazilian sped off down Brixton High Street. Oblivious to the fact that her one link to the world behind those doors had just left the building, Caroline paid the driver, stepped out of the taxi, and joined the dwindling queue of men in skimpy T-shirts, shivering stoically in the early-morning fog. She couldn’t help but be impressed by the way gay men stubbornly refused to acknowledge the passing of time. It wasn’t just the years they chose to ignore—it was the seasons, too. It didn’t matter what time of year it was—if you were gay, it was always summer, and you dressed accordingly. It was a very un-British attitude to have, and she admired it immensely. She smiled to herself, thinking what her mother would make of it all. “Just look at them,” she would say if she were here now. “They’ll catch their death of cold dressed like that. Still, I’ve always said it wasn’t natural, two men together. Flying in the face of nature, that’s what they are.” Her mother, bless her, had never fully recovered from the news that Rock Hudson was homosexual. To this day, she refused to accept that any of the fey young men who hosted her favorite television shows might be anything less than 100 percent straight. She was probably the only viewer in the country who still thought that Graham Norton was a red-blooded heterosexual and that Edna Everedge was a woman.

The two surly black bouncers at the door greeted Caroline’s arrival with fierce stares and sharp sucking of teeth. Unfamiliar with life south of the river and completely nonplussed, she smiled sweetly and flicked her hair back over her shoulder, allowing her coat to fall open and treating the bouncers to an eyeful of her impossibly pert cleavage. This was a technique she had perfected over many years spent queuing outside exclusive West End nightclubs, and she saw no reason why it shouldn’t stand her in equally good stead in Brixton. Bouncers were the same the world over, and since very few gay clubs employed gay security staff, feminine wiles were no less effective there than anywhere else. Sure enough, the bouncers quickly ushered her in with a chorus of slapping hands and a flash of gold fillings. Unfortunately, the sour-faced queen in the ticket office wasn’t so easily impressed.

“You do know this is a gay club?” he said, scanning his beady eyes up and down her outfit with a look of barely concealed contempt.

“Of course,” she replied quickly.

“Well, judging by the way you’re dressed, I assume you’re not gay yourself. And I don’t see you here with any gay friends, so . . .”

Caroline was about to point out that she was meeting her friends inside when a voice spoke up from behind her. “Actually, she’s with me.”

She turned to find an extremely cute guy of about thirty, dressed in a pale blue T-shirt and raw denim jeans, smiling at her with a twinkle in his eye. His hair was a dirty blond and cut into a short crop that made the most of his high cheekbones, thick neck and bright cornflower blue eyes. Caroline thought he looked just like the man from the Tommy Hilfiger ad. She didn’t care what anybody said. It was true—all the best-looking men were gay.

“That’s right,” she said, turning back to her inquisitor and grinning triumphantly. “I’m with him.”

The sour-faced queen stared at her doubtfully for a moment, then caved in. “That’ll be ten pounds each, please.”

Inside the club, the man introduced himself as Phil and showed Caroline the way to the coat check before offering to buy her a drink.

“So how come you’re here on your own?” he asked as they stood waiting at the bar.

“I was hoping to meet up with a friend,” Caroline explained, suddenly thinking that Phil would be the ideal man to introduce to Martin. “How about you?” she asked. “Not here with your boyfriend?”

“No, I’m single. As a matter of fact, I was supposed to be meeting some friends, too, but I’ve got a feeling I might have missed them. Mind if I tag along with you for a bit?”

Caroline smiled. “Of course not.”

“Great,” he said, turning to pay the barman and then handing her a vodka and tonic. “So, shall we go and have a wander?”

Caroline nodded. “If we could wander in the direction of a dealer, I’d be eternally grateful. I’d kill for a gram of coke.”

Phil looked doubtful. “You’ll be lucky if you find any coke in here,” he said as they headed toward the café-bar. “The police raided the place a few months ago and all the regular dealers were busted. If you do find someone selling coke, you can bet it’ll be cut with cheap speed. Trust me, it’s a complete waste of money. You’re far better off with pills. I’ve got a couple on me. You’re welcome to have one.”

“You mean Ecstasy?”

He grinned. “Yes, I mean Ecstasy.”

Caroline shook her head. “I’m not sure about that. I usually just stick with coke.”

“Are you telling me you’ve never tried Ecstasy?” Phil’s expression couldn’t have been more incredulous if she had just said that she had never tasted chocolate or had never watched a single episode of
Coronation Street.
“You surprise me. I had you down for a party girl!”

Caroline blushed. “Of course I have,” she lied. “It’s been a while, that’s all.”

“All the more reason for you to try one of these,” Phil said, digging into his pocket and producing two fat white pills. “A mate of mine gets them from Amsterdam. Trust me, they’re the best there is.”

“Maybe when I’ve found my friend,” Caroline replied, wavering slightly.

“It makes far more sense to take it now,” Phil said. “It’ll take an hour for you to come up anyway, and by then we’ll have found your friend. Go on, I dare you.”

Never one to resist a dare, least of all when it involved a handsome man and the promise of a chemical high, Caroline took one of the pills and popped it into her mouth.

“Okay,” she said, washing it down with a mouthful of vodka and tonic. “You win. Now, how about a dance?”

At the far corner of the dance floor, John was trying to get an answer out of Fernando as to whether they should go to Crash for a couple of hours or just head straight to Trade. He had been trying for the best part of half an hour, with no success. The situation wasn’t helped by the fact that Fernando on K was even less communicative than Fernando not on K. To make matters worse, Neil had just returned from the toilets, where he had shoved a combination of K and coke up his nose and seemed hell-bent on complicating matters even further.

“But what about Martin?” Neil said, gnawing at his lower lip and staring frantically around the dance floor. “Don’t you think we should look for him? I really think we should, you know. I think we should look for him.”

“We’ve been looking for him for over an hour,” John replied tartly. “He’s probably gone home with someone and is in bed right now, having a lot more fun than we are. I say we go to Crash. It’s a lot nearer than Trade, and with the state you’re in, I’d feel just that little bit safer driving a few miles down the road than going all the way across town.”

Neil looked as if he were about to pop a blood vessel. “What do you mean, the state I’m in?” he screeched. “I’m not in any kind of state. I’m quite capable of driving us to Trade.”

Fernando opened his mouth as if he were finally about to say something, but before he could get a word out, Neil was off again. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this! I didn’t hear you complaining about my driving when I came to pick you up tonight! But if you’d rather pay one of those unlicensed minicab drivers to take you to Trade and probably mug you on the way there, that’s fine with me!”

Sensing that he wasn’t about to get his way and feeling his temper rise at the injustice of it all, John looked to Fernando to back him up, only Fernando was no longer paying attention. He had turned his back and was now staring at the stage, where this evening’s performance was about to begin. Announced by the familiar holler of the club’s drag queen hostess, which sounded remarkably like someone herding cattle, half a dozen muscle boys in various stages of undress strutted out onto the stage and began gyrating in time to the music. Next the drag queen herself appeared, tottering on in an outfit that made her look like a cross between Cyndi Lauper in her “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” video and an explosion in a textile factory—long blond wig topped off with her trademark dopey tiara, metallic silver dress mismatched with a purple fake-fur wrap, black Lycra leggings holding in her thighs and pink platform boots chunky enough to support her not inconsiderable weight. Soon the scene had degenerated into one of unadulterated debauchery as the drag shuffled around the stage on her knees, servicing each of the muscle boys in strict rotation before turning to the audience with a look of smug satisfaction plastered across her face and a drop of what could either have been sweat or semen dribbling down her chin.

Fernando, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the stage for even a second, suddenly raised his arms in the air and began applauding wildly. Knowing an appreciative fan when she saw one (which clearly wasn’t very often), and understandably grateful for any male attention she could muster, the drag queen gestured to him to join her onstage. Before John knew what was happening, Fernando had climbed up onto the stage, peeled off his T-shirt, and was unbuttoning his trousers, cheered on by the drag queen and a fair portion of the audience. They evidently found the amateurish antics of a drug-fucked nonentity infinitely more appealing than the slightly more polished performances they had witnessed so far from boys whose bodies may have been the best in the business, but whose overexposure in the classified pages of the gay press had gradually diminished their erotic appeal. Furious at the way they had been upstaged, and never ones to take rejection lightly, the muscle boys stomped off into the wings, leaving Fernando and the drag queen the sole focus of the audience’s attention and one man’s mounting indignation.

“Right,” said John, turning to Neil with a face that said he wasn’t willing to be messed with. “I don’t care where we go, just so long as we go now. Crash or Trade, I don’t care. Anywhere there’s decent music. Just not here, okay?”

“But what about Fernando?” Neil asked meekly.

John looked up at the stage as Fernando dropped his trousers and the drag queen licked her chops in anticipation of a glimpse of a penis she hadn’t seen or sucked a dozen times before. “Fernando can take a minicab,” John said flatly.

Mr. Big Cock Brazilian was sprawled on Martin’s sofa, stripped to the waist with a sizable erection clearly visible through his black leather trousers. Martin nuzzled his chest contentedly. Mr. Big Cock Brazilian wasn’t actually Brazilian. In the cab on the way home, he had told Martin that his name was Clive and that he actually came from Barrow-in-Furness. But so far as Martin was concerned, the fantasy of the man he had been groped by in the packed toilet at the Fridge was still very much alive and lying on his sofa, waiting to have sex with him. So what if he didn’t come from Brazil? He still looked the part, and considering the amount of drugs Martin had put away tonight, he knew it wouldn’t be long before any piece of information that threatened to spoil the fantasy was conveniently erased from his memory.

That was the great thing about drugs. Whether you liked it or not, they forced you to live in the moment. And Martin liked it very much. He liked the way drugs made him feel. And he liked the way they made him behave, like someone who knew how to have a good time and wasn’t worried about making the right impression, or obsessed with meeting the perfect boyfriend and settling down to a life of domestic bliss and dinner parties and dogs. With drugs, he could forget about Mr. Right and make the most of Mr. Right Now. With drugs, he lost all his inhibitions. With drugs, he didn’t even know what inhibitions were anymore. With drugs, even the word sounded alien to him. “Inhibition.” What a strange word it was. “In-hib-ition.”

“What did you say?” Mr. Big Cock Brazilian’s voice boomed in his ear.

Martin lifted his head and looked up at him. “What?”

“You said something, just now.”

“Did I?” Martin thought for a moment. “Oh, right. No, I was just going to say, do you fancy a drink or something? Or maybe a line of coke?”

Mr. Big Cock Brazilian smiled and produced a bottle from his trouser pocket. “I’d rather do K if it’s all the same to you. I find it’s better for sex. Coke just makes me want to shit. You want some?”

Martin looked confused.

“I meant, do you want some K?”

Martin laughed. “Oh, right. Yes, sure.”

They spent the next few minutes passing the little bottle back and forth between them, until finally the K kicked in and the desire to have sex as pornographic and as uninhibited as any early ’80s, pre-AIDS, hard-core gay porn movie became almost too much for Martin to bear. He slid down onto the floor until he was kneeling between Mr. Big Cock Brazilian’s legs and slowly began unbuttoning his leather trousers. There was no telling exactly how long this task took, but once it was complete and Mr. Big Cock Brazilian’s cock was unveiled in all its tumescent glory, Martin reached farther down and began unlacing his big, black and really rather hard left boot.

“Let me do that,” Mr. Big Cock Brazilian said, grabbing Martin’s hand and pushing it away.

Martin tried to disguise the injured tone in his voice. “Okay. I need to go to the toilet anyway.”

He lurched into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, rummaged in the bathroom cabinet for some condoms and lube, and returned to the living room minutes later only to discover that Mr. Big Cock Brazilian had mysteriously disappeared. Typical. The best-looking man he had managed to drag home in weeks, and he had gone and done a runner.

“I’m in here,” a voice called from up the hall.

Silently praying that his fantasy man hadn’t climbed into Neil’s bed by mistake—or worse, climbed into Neil’s bed on purpose—Martin followed the sound of the voice up the hall, past the door to Neil’s room, and into his own bedroom. The bedside lamp was on and Mr. Big Cock Brazilian was under the covers, his clothes arranged in a neat pile on the floor. Overcome by a mixture of relief, excitement, nervous anticipation and physical disorientation, Martin placed the condoms and lube on the floor next to the bed, quickly undressed, and pulled back the covers.