Shameless (14 page)

Oh shit. There was something very wrong with this picture. It had to be some weird trick of the light, but right now, from this angle, Mr. Big Cock Brazilian appeared to have a leg missing. Martin stared hard at the ten-inch stump where his left leg ought to have been and blinked several times. It must be the drugs. The K was making him see things that weren’t really there. Or rather, it was making him not see things that were really there. Whatever, it was the drugs. It had to be. He would have noticed something earlier. And besides, what amputee in his right mind would go home with someone without once mentioning the fact that he had the best part of a limb missing? It didn’t make any sense. Why spring something like that on somebody, when there was a very strong possibility that he might just freak out?

Mr. Big Cock Brazilian’s face was giving nothing away. “Come on, then,” he said, reaching up and pulling Martin toward him. “Are we going to fuck or what?”

Martin was lost for words. Should he say something, mention that his eyes were playing tricks on him, try to relieve the tension with a joke? But what if the joke backfired? What if his eyes weren’t deceiving him? What if this was real and rejection was something Mr. Big Cock Brazilian suffered every day? Maybe if he just ignored the missing leg, it would go away—or come back, or whatever it was that limbs did in this situation. Carefully averting his eyes and vowing never to touch K again, Martin climbed into bed and switched off the light.

Caroline had watched Fernando’s performance with a growing, inexplicable desire to jump up on the stage with him and tear all her clothes off. Never having met Fernando, she had no idea that he was in any way linked with Martin, although it would be fair to say that by the time the performance had ended, she wasn’t really aware of her own link with Martin and had certainly given up all thought of looking for him. The Ecstasy had lifted her up to a place she had never been to before, and she threw herself onto the dance floor with a feeling of complete abandon. She loved this place. She loved the music, and the lights, and the muscle boys with their oiled bodies and even the drag queen with her dopey tiara. And she loved Phil, too. She loved him for standing up for her when the sour-faced queen was about to turn her away, and she loved him for administering the pill that had made her feel happier than she had ever felt before. But mostly she loved him for the way he felt, dancing close to her as he was now.

“Feel my skirt,” she said, and shivered with excitement as Phil responded by placing his hands on her hips. It felt so good, being with Phil like this, knowing that he was gay and that nothing sexual was about to happen, but still enjoying the feeling of his body pressed against hers. For years she had assumed that straight girls who hung out at gay clubs every weekend were simply afraid of straight men. They went to gay clubs to escape from all that male attention, all that testosterone. Now it suddenly dawned on her that, on the contrary, the reason they went to gay clubs was to get off on the testosterone, just as she was doing now. It made so much sense. It was physically stimulating without being overtly sexual, titillating without being threatening. And of course it was flattering that a man as gorgeous as Phil had chosen her as his dancing partner for the night, even if he had no intention of fucking her afterward.

“Come with me to the toilet,” Phil said suddenly.

Caroline looked at him blankly. “What for?”

“I’ve just remembered I’ve got a bit of coke in my wallet. We can’t do it here in full view of everybody.”

Caroline smiled. All this and coke, too. It was turning out to be quite a night. She took Phil’s hand and allowed him to lead her across the dance floor, through the heaving mass of muscle and past the occasional girl in a glittery top, until finally they reached the men’s toilets, where, a couple of hours earlier, Martin had been given his first taste of K. Finding an empty stall, he ushered her in with him and locked the door.

“I can see you’ve done this before,” she said as Phil tore off what remained of the toilet roll, wiped down the toilet seat, and set about chopping two fat lines.

“There you go,” he said, standing up and handing her a rolled-up note. “Ladies first.”

Caroline crouched over the toilet and snorted one of the lines. The sharp burning sensation took her completely by surprise. If this was coke, then it was like no coke she had ever tried before. What was it? Speed? As she struggled to her feet, she felt stranger still. Her vision blurred and suddenly she felt incredibly light-headed. “My God,” she said, reaching out to steady herself. “What the hell was that?”

Phil took her by the arms and smiled. Then, without a word of warning, he pressed her up against the wall and forced his tongue into her mouth.

She giggled. “What are you doing? Oh, my God! You’re not supposed to be doing that. Naughty boy. Stop it. This is silly.”

But even as she protested, she was kissing him back. And when he reached under her skirt and peeled down her panties, she didn’t raise any objections. As she felt him slide inside her, it suddenly struck Caroline that Phil wasn’t quite the man he appeared to be.

Neil arrived home at 6:30
A.M.
, red-faced and open-pored from a visit to the all-night sauna in Waterloo. Before driving to the sauna, he had spent a couple of frustrating hours at Crash, listening to John natter on about Fernando’s impromptu stage performance and how he had never been so embarrassed in his life, except possibly for the time his mother caught him masturbating over the men’s underwear pages in her catalog. When Fernando finally put in an appearance, shortly after three, he and John launched into a fight the likes of which Neil hadn’t witnessed since
Dynasty
was taken off the air. Ignoring John’s plea that he drive them all to Trade, he had made his excuses and left. “I suppose you’re off to be a floozy in a Jacuzzi,” John had said as they parted company.

In actual fact, Neil only decided to visit the sauna when he got into his car, drove up South Lambeth Road, and spotted the leather men pouring out of the Hoist. Realizing that his sexual frustration was about to get the better of him, he turned the car around and headed down toward Waterloo Bridge. As was so often the case, the pickings at the sauna had been pretty slim. There were the usual assortment of fat old men and young Asians, plus the odd E head who had wandered in full of love and spunk, but who couldn’t maintain an erection long enough to express much of either. Still, Neil had long since learned to make do with whatever was available. He also knew that, in the competitive world of gay casual sex, a plain face such as his could be forgiven provided certain rules were observed. In a fetish club, this meant appealing to the particular tastes of others by dressing in an appropriate manner or otherwise indicating his readiness to act out whatever fantasy was required. In a situation such as this, it meant making the most of his main asset—his body—and being prepared to take a few knocks before finding a willing partner, as he knew he would eventually. In this respect a gay sauna wasn’t so different from a straight nightclub—in either case, a decent pair of tits went a long way. After several unsuccessful attempts to muscle in on a gang bang involving four skinheads in the steam room, he settled for a skinny lad with nervous eyes and an enormous cock who reminded him of one of those dogs you saw being led around on a rope by a beggar with a bag filled with copies of the
Big Issue
and a burger in his pocket. The sex had been adequate if a little perfunctory. But at least he knew he would sleep better tonight.

Creeping past Martin’s door, he made his way into the living room, eager to check if there were any messages from Brian, thanking him for driving him to Ikea this afternoon or enlisting his help with some other errand that required an ex-boyfriend with a set of wheels. Switching on the living-room light, he was a little surprised to find an artificial leg propped up behind the sofa.

Thirteen

T
he first thing John wanted
to know when he phoned on Monday morning was whether Martin had suddenly developed a passion for acrotomophilia.

“What’s that?” Martin asked, although he had a rough idea.

John sniggered. “I looked it up in the
Encyclopedia of Unusual Sex Practices.
Apparently, it means people who get a kick from having sex with amputees. I knew you were off your face on Saturday, but I had no idea you were planning to get quite so legless.”

Martin was at his desk, working on the packaging design for a new line of 95 percent fat-free desserts, and still feeling bloated from the pepperoni pizza with extra cheese, followed by half a carton of Belgian Chocolate Häagen-Dazs, which Neil had encouraged him to tuck into the night before. All things considered, he was in no mood for John’s sadistic sense of humor. “It wasn’t funny, John,” he snapped. “If you must know, I found the whole thing quite traumatic. One minute he was just this normal-looking guy, the next minute he was in bed, waving his stump at me. He should have warned me. He could have said something.”

“No, you’re absolutely right,” John said, stifling his giggles. “There are some queens out there who should carry a public-health warning. ‘I’ve only got one leg.’ Or ‘I live in Zone Three.’ It isn’t right, springing surprises on people like that.”

Martin quickly changed the subject. “You sound a bit blocked up. Are you sure you’re not coming down with the flu or something?”

“Just a little Colombian cold,” John replied dismissively. “One of the few drawbacks of dating a coke dealer. Believe me, it was a lot worse yesterday. I woke up thinking my nose was having a period. By lunchtime it was more like a miscarriage. Still, better out than in.”

“How are things with you and Fernando?” Martin asked, seizing an opportunity to give John a taste of his own medicine. “Neil said you two had quite a falling-out on Saturday.”

Now it was John’s turn to become defensive. “Neil doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” He sniffed. “Anyway, I’ve got a bone to pick with Neil. Did she tell you she refused to drive us to Trade? Well, you’ll never guess who was there. Only Tom Cruise.”

“Really?” Martin said doubtfully. Completely unverified rumors that Tom Cruise had been spotted at Trade circulated the London gay scene all the time, stirred up at regular intervals by people who firmly believed that
Top Gun
was a gay love story and that Nicole Kidman was a lesbian. In fact, the only rumor more persistent was the one that claimed that Madonna was booked to perform a surprise gig at Heaven. So far, neither rumor had been confirmed.

“Yes,” John went on excitedly. “You know Fernando’s friend Roberto? Well, he was at Trade on Saturday and he says he saw him with his own eyes.”

“Is this the same Roberto who once claimed that he saw the Virgin Mary at Salvation?” Martin scoffed. “And didn’t it turn out to be some drag queen dancing with too many glow sticks? And what about the time he went to that swish party in Chelsea and swore that he saw Brad Pitt having sex with the host on the stairs? Or the time he said Jean-Claude Van Damme flashed his cock at him at the Oasis? Or how about that morning he was leaving the Dorchester Hotel after spending the night with that businessman, and Ricky Martin cruised him in the lobby? Don’t you think it’s a bit odd that the only famous people Roberto ever claims to have met are the ones he also happens to fancy? I suppose you’ll be telling me Tom Cruise chatted him up next.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, he did say that Tom cruised him.”

Martin laughed. “Honestly, John, you can’t believe a word Roberto says. Anyone who does that many drugs is hardly a reliable source of information.”

“Maybe not,” John shot back. “But I’m sure Roberto wouldn’t have waited until he got home to discover that the hunk he had picked up for the night was one leg short of a pair. Anyway, never mind all that. I can’t talk for long. You know what they say—life and Tom Cruise are too short. The reason I’m calling is that Fernando has some tickets for the Posh Spice launch party tonight and I was wondering if you fancied coming along. The album’s crap apparently, but it’s at this really cool new place in Leicester Square called Red Cube. Plus David Beckham might be there and there’s bound to be loads of free drink.”

“Hang on a minute,” Martin said. “How come Fernando gets invited to record company parties all of a sudden?”

John slipped into his New York sassy black bitch mode. “Er, hello? Honestly, daughter! I swear I don’t know where you’re coming from sometimes. Let’s just say he has a lot of contacts in the music industry, okay? Now, do you want to come or not?”

“I suppose so. I mean, yes. Thanks.”

“Good. We’re meeting in the Box at nine. Don’t be late. Oh, and Martin?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t get into a panic over what to wear. If you get really stumped, at least you know who to call.”

Caroline woke up feeling sick to her stomach. By the time she arrived at work, the sensation had crept down to her lower abdomen. By lunchtime, it had settled in her groin, which seemed to indicate that the nausea was in some way related to the events of Saturday night. Sitting with some of the girls from the agency in the local Italian restaurant, picking at her chef’s salad and fielding questions about what sort of weekend she’d had, she could barely muster enough enthusiasm to make her lies sound even remotely convincing. The longer it dragged on, the more she regretted not having come up with a convenient excuse for skipping this week’s female-bonding session. A long lunch with a particularly demanding client would have been less grueling. Listening to Paula, Sophie and Tamsin as they swapped stories about romantic dinners and early nights and breakfasts in bed and brisk walks in the country, she felt every bit as much of a freak as she had felt at fifteen. It didn’t matter that she no longer looked the part. It didn’t matter that she had sweated, starved, and shelled out vast sums of money to become the sleek, sophisticated woman she was today. Inside this carefully conditioned body, there was the mind of a fat fifteen-year-old girl struggling to get out, and if she didn’t get a hold of herself soon, that teenager was going to blow her cover once and for all.

Maybe it would be better if she did. At least it would take away the strain of all this pretending. And it would certainly make for a more interesting lunch. She tried to imagine how the conversation would go if she just cut through all the bullshit and came out with the truth.

“So how was your weekend?” Paula would say.

“Well, Paula,” she would reply. “First I was paid a hundred pounds by an ex-boyfriend to let him go down on me in the ladies’ lavatory at the Sanderson Hotel. Have you been to the Sanderson? Oh, you really must. It’s terribly chic. You’d love it, Paula, you really would. And after that, what did I do? Oh yes, that’s right. Then I went to a gay club in Brixton, where I took Ecstasy and watched a drag queen perform fellatio on half a dozen male strippers, before being led into the men’s toilets by a gay man who actually turned out to be straight and proved it by fucking me senseless.”

“And is this something you do often?” Sophie would ask. “Only I don’t think my Justin would be at all happy if I got up to anything like that.”

“Quite often, yes,” she would answer. “When I’m not rolling around on crisp Versace sheets with my adoring boyfriend, planning our wedding day and debating whether to have the honeymoon in Bali or the Seychelles, there’s nothing I like more than sex with strangers in public places. Toilets are a particular favorite. It’s the smell, you see. That, and the fact that I could get caught at any moment. Turns me on like nobody’s business. I think it stems back to my childhood, when the window cleaner caught me masturbating in the bath with a loofah. Luckily for me, Graham is very broad-minded about these things. In fact, we were thinking of canceling our wedding reception and having an orgy instead. My gay boyfriend will be invited to attend, of course, along with Graham’s latest bit on the side. It should be quite a night.”

“And did you make it over to Richmond to visit the in-laws on Sunday?” Tamsin would inquire. “Or were you too tired after all that fucking?”

“As a matter of fact, I
was
a little tired,” she would say. “But I usually find that if I shove half a gram of cocaine up my nose before breakfast, that pretty much sets me up for the day. And you know how Sunday lunch can wreak havoc with a girl’s figure? Well, with coke it needn’t be a problem. Just one little line before lunch is guaranteed to take the edge off your appetite. Then after lunch, another little line ensures that any nasty bits of food left in your stomach are flushed down the toilet in a matter of minutes, leaving you free to drink as many vodka and tonics as you want without worrying about the calories. It couldn’t be simpler.”

Actually, it could be—a lot simpler. She could joke about it all she wanted, but the truth was that right now her life was a complete mess. She only had to consider the evidence. First she had broken up with Graham because she had mistakenly believed that he was a gay man passing himself off as straight, and using her as a cover for his shameful existence. Then she had been taken advantage of by Phil, who had turned out to be a straight man passing himself off as gay, and used her as a receptacle for his shameless desires. Not that she hadn’t enjoyed her brief coupling with Phil—in a dirty, druggy, “If my mother could see me now, she’d probably faint” kind of a way. But coming so soon after her equally dirty if not quite so druggy coupling with Dylan, it did make her wonder whether her sex life wasn’t spinning ever-so-slightly out of control, and whether her mother’s imagined response might not be entirely justified. Two casual encounters in two toilets in one night. George Michael was arrested for less than that.

“So what do you think?” Sophie said.

Caroline looked up. “What?”

“About Sophie’s proposal,” Paula said, widening her eyes and grinning madly.

Caroline looked blank.

“Justin has asked Sophie to marry him,” Tamsin explained helpfully. “And they’ve already booked the church and everything. Isn’t that just the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?”

Caroline forced a smile. “Yes, that’s wonderful,” she said. “Congratulations, Sophie. You must be thrilled.”

“Oh, I am,” Sophie cooed, all damp-eyed. “And naturally you’re invited to the wedding. And that mysterious boyfriend of yours. You know we’re all just dying to meet him.”

Caroline barely skipped a beat. “Of course,” she said. “We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Martin arrived home early from work to find Neil spread out on the living-room floor, watching an episode of
Ricki Lake
entitled “I Want a Real Man, Not a Queen.” The studio was filled with some of the more outlandish examples of American gay manhood, namely those poor lost souls who would never make it into a Gap ad or a Madonna video and consoled themselves by plucking their eyebrows into oblivion and appearing on TV talk shows where they played to the cameras by snapping their fingers and calling each other “girlfriend.” The audience’s sympathies were clearly on the side of the long-suffering, “straight-acting” boyfriends, who in any other context would have come across as the hissy queens they clearly were, but who benefited hugely from the fact that their partners wore far more makeup than they did and weren’t the least bit embarrassed about putting on a performance for the straight folks watching at home.

“I don’t know why I watch this show,” Neil complained as Martin walked into the room. “I thought Ricki was supposed to be on our side, but I don’t see how a freak show like this is meant to help anyone. It just gives them even more ammunition to throw at us.” Neil often referred to the gulf of misunderstanding between gay and straight people as a simple matter of sides, a battle between “them” and “us.” This went some way toward explaining why he couldn’t count a single straight woman or man among his circle of friends, which was mainly comprised of ex-boyfriends, fellow fetishists and a couple of guys from the gym. Neil’s social circle was even considered a little strange by John, though for rather different reasons. John thought Neil’s habit of remaining friends with former lovers was a sign that Neil was turning into a lesbian.

“John phoned earlier,” Martin said.

Neil didn’t look up. “Really?” he said quickly. “And how is the Wicked Witch of the West End?”

Martin paused. “He’s fine. Only I do wish you hadn’t told him about that guy only having one leg. You know what he’s like.”

“Sorry,” Neil replied sulkily. “I didn’t realize it was such a big secret.”

“It isn’t,” Martin said calmly. “I just wish there were some things I could keep to myself, that’s all.”

Neil’s customary wounded look became positively pitiful, until it resembled something you’d expect to see on
Pet Rescue,
rather than on the face of a man in his early thirties. “If you want me to move out, you only have to say the word. I don’t want to stay where I’m not wanted.”

Martin took a deep breath. “I never said I wanted you to move out, Neil. I like having you here. All I said was that I’d like a little privacy.”

“Fine,” Neil said huffily and turned back to
Ricki Lake.

Martin hovered in the doorway for a moment, eager to avoid any unnecessary unpleasantness. Given the opportunity, Neil could sulk for days on end, and with his roommate’s midweek comedown still to come, Martin didn’t want to start the week off on the wrong foot. “I’m going to make some tea,” he said eventually. “Do you want some?”

“No thanks,” Neil answered crisply. “By the way, a package arrived for you this morning. I left it in the kitchen. I wouldn’t want you thinking I’m prying or anything, but I’ve got a funny feeling it’s from your dad.”

“Thanks,” Martin said and headed into the kitchen. The large, oblong package was sitting on the kitchen table. He could tell straightaway that Neil’s assumption had been correct. If nothing else, the wrapping paper was a dead giveaway. Who else would wrap a parcel with pages torn from the
Brighton Parishioners News
? Only his father, who was far more concerned with saving trees than saving souls, would see this as the proper recycling of natural resources. God knows he must have been leading the local parishioners in a merry little dance over the past few months, because these packages had become as regular as church bells. The first one had arrived a week after Pride. Unaccustomed to receiving anything other than household bills and the occasional postcard through the post, Martin had torn into it with glee, and was a little disappointed to find the first of many self-help books, together with a packet of condoms and a brief note from his father thanking him for a wonderful day out and explaining the thinking behind his choice of gift. “I hope you don’t think I’m interfering,” he had written, “but I had the strong sense last weekend that you weren’t very happy and I thought this might help.” Beneath the note was a book entitled
How to Be a Happy Homosexual.