Shameless (3 page)

To make matters worse, Kudos had never been one of Martin’s favorite gay bars. Some years before, it had been the setting for one of the biggest rows he had ever had with Christopher. It started when Christopher kept going on about how attractive all the bar staff were. Martin had responded by asking if he thought the management might consider giving him a job behind the bar—not that he wanted one, but since Christopher clearly found the bar staff here so desirable, he wanted to know where he rated in the scheme of things. Christopher had laughed and said that Martin was a little too old and a little too overweight for that kind of opportunity to ever come his way. John had heard this story several times, but that hadn’t stopped him from insisting that Kudos would be the ideal place to meet.

“I think rent boys should be forced to pay back some of their earnings to the gay community,” John went on. “I mean, they don’t pay any income tax, so they should pay some sort of community tax. God knows, they make enough money out of other gay men. It wouldn’t hurt them to give something back. And the pressure they put on the rest of us is so unfair. I mean, it’s easy to have a perfect body when you don’t have a proper job and can spend every waking hour at the gym. And the attitude of some of them! You’d swear they were pop stars or something, the way they swan around the place. There was this one holding up the queue for the loos in the Departure Lounge at Heaven the other week. We got into a right slanging match. She told me, ‘Prostitution is the oldest profession.’ I said, ‘Yes, dear, and you’ve obviously been in it since the beginning.’”

“I thought you had to be some sort of VIP to get into the Departure Lounge,” Martin said. “Isn’t it supposed to be members only?”

“Oh, they’ll let anyone in these days,” John replied airily, oblivious to the fact that he didn’t exactly qualify as a VIP himself. “Someone told me they saw the Pet Shop Boys in there once, but I’ve never seen anyone remotely famous. Just a few dried-up club promoters, a couple of ‘scene celebrities’ and a load of old whores reeking of Kouros.” He paused to inspect his stomach, which was virtually nonexistent beneath a white ribbed T-shirt. “Do you think I need to lose a bit of weight?”

“You look fine,” Martin said, wondering when the conversation was going to get back to him and his painfully new single status.

John smiled. “Yeah, I suppose so. It’s probably just the lager. It really bloats me up. I’ll tell you what I need—a weekend of serious drug abuse and plenty of sex. That should soon sort me out.” He stopped and looked disapprovingly at Martin’s paunch. “Actually, it wouldn’t do you any harm, either. Remember, you’re single again now. And you know what they say—no pecs, no sex. By the way, what’s with the baseball cap?”

“Bad haircut,” Martin said, gritting his teeth. He really wasn’t in the mood for fashion advice.

“Give us a look, then,” John said, whipping off the cap before Martin could stop him. “Oh yes, very butch. Actually, it quite suits you short. It makes your eyes look bigger.”

Martin smiled halfheartedly and glanced around the bar. The early-evening office crowd was beginning to thin out, the young fruits in suits making their way back to their designer flats and designer boyfriends, the older, shabbier types sneaking off to Charing Cross station for a train back to suburbia and the wife. Soon the bar would start filling up with bright young things in combat trousers and tight T-shirts, gearing up for a night of clubbing and endless sexual possibilities. God, it was unbearable!

“Time for another, I think,” John chirped suddenly, rising from the table. “Another Budweiser? Or shall we move onto the vodka? Yes, I think a large vodka and Red Bull is what you need. It gives you wings, you know. Not that I don’t see enough of those at work. Back in a tick.”

Martin watched John disappear in the direction of the bar and wondered whether it was worth making a quick escape. What time was it? Just about nine. If he left now, he could be back home in time for
Frasier.
This was assuming there were no delays on the Northern Line, of course. Still, maybe there’d be a film on later, some old horror movie or something. Or one of those really tacky telemovies with Barbara Eden playing a woman half her age. They were usually good for a laugh. Or maybe one of those “Ibiza Uncovered” type programs, with lots of sex-crazed straight people on holiday behaving the way most gay men behaved every week of the year.

“Look who I bumped into!” Martin looked up to see John swinging off some guy in a T-shirt two sizes too small. He was cute, though, there was no denying that—quite beefy, with short dark hair that showed no sign of receding and solid black eyebrows over the bluest eyes. He looked a bit like Christopher, in fact. Other than that, Martin had absolutely no idea who this person was. Of course John wasted no time in introducing him. The guy’s name was Matthew, and he and John had met in a chat room on the Internet.

“I didn’t know you came here,” John said. He was looking at Matthew, although his remark was clearly for Martin’s benefit. “Have a seat,” John went on, gesturing to Matthew to join them at the table. “You don’t mind, do you, Martin?”

“No, of course not.” Martin smiled feebly. He was frequently amazed at how little time it took for John to get his claws into someone. One night of passion, and they were joined at the hip for the next three weeks—which was about as long as any of John’s relationships ever lasted. Trust him to throw himself into a new relationship just as Martin’s was ending, and with someone guaranteed to remind Martin of Christopher.

Several vodka and Red Bulls later, Martin was starting to feel a lot better. Matthew was really quite nice—far nicer than the men John usually went for. He was obviously intelligent, which was always an unexpected bonus where John’s sexual conquests were concerned, and considering how attractive he was, he didn’t seem too full of himself. What’s more, Martin had a suspicion that Matthew liked him, too. He was very chatty, and even quite flirtatious at one point. John had gone to the bar and Martin was telling Matthew about Christopher and the way he had just upped and left, omitting the bit about the unfashionable Italian prostitute and the possibility that he may have given him crabs.

“If you ask me, it’s his loss,” Matthew said. “You’re in pretty good shape. You seem like a decent guy. I’d say you were quite a catch.”

He smiled at Martin as he said this, and for a split second their eyes locked. There was an awkward pause while Martin considered the possibility that Matthew was going to kiss him. Part of him secretly wished he would. Matthew was far too nice for John anyway, and it hardly seemed fair that John should be with him while Martin was faced with being alone. It was probably the drink, but he was about to blurt this out to Matthew when suddenly John arrived back from the bar, clutching a round of drinks. He stopped abruptly and gave an awkward smile, as though he were embarrassed at having interrupted the conversation. Martin had seen this routine before. John was the only person he knew who was capable of looking slightly bashful and extremely full of himself at the same time.

“Been talking about me, then?” John said, looking first at Martin and then at Matthew.

“Of course,” Matthew replied, sliding an arm around his waist and giving him a little squeeze. “Who else?”

Martin smiled sheepishly and wondered what on earth someone with Matthew’s many attributes could possibly see in someone like John. Not that John wasn’t fairly attractive—in a bland, blond sort of way. He had pale blue eyes, which he sometimes darkened with the aid of colored contact lenses, and lashes that were tinted once a month to emphasize their length. He worked out regularly and never seemed to put on weight, no matter what he ate—unlike Martin, who only had to look at a Quarter Pounder and regular fries to start piling on the pounds. But John certainly wasn’t anything special. He didn’t have a particularly handsome face, and unlike Martin, nobody had ever mistaken John for being a decent guy. Take his behavior tonight, for instance. Martin doubted whether it had even crossed John’s mind that seeing him together with his latest catch might be the very last thing Martin needed right now.

For the next hour, he watched with growing irritation as John draped himself around Matthew at every opportunity, laughing at everything he said and generally behaving like a love-struck teenager. He even nibbled his ear once, though Martin noticed with some satisfaction that Matthew didn’t seem too pleased. By the time they called last orders, Martin was left feeling like a complete goose and wishing that he had just kissed Matthew himself when he’d had the chance. He vowed that, should the opportunity ever arise again, he would grab it by both ears.

As they left Kudos and began walking in the direction of Leicester Square, John announced that he and Matthew were heading on to a club.

“We thought we might try G.A.Y.,” he said, looking back at Martin over his shoulder. “Come with us, if you like.” Martin could detect from the tone of his voice that John was simply being polite—for Matthew’s benefit more than his. He toyed with the idea of accepting John’s halfhearted invitation, just to annoy him, but decided against it.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’m feeling pretty tired. I think I’d rather just go home.”

They said their good-byes outside Leicester Square tube station, and Martin watched as John and Matthew headed up Charing Cross Road. He was feeling tired, but the mere thought of going home alone at 11:00
P.M.
on a Friday night was too depressing to contemplate. Besides, all the vodka and beer he had knocked back in the past two hours was making him horny. Caroline had once joked that this was the one thing the entire male species had in common, whether they were gay or straight—give them a few drinks and their bodies turn into life-support machines for their penises. Martin smiled to himself as he turned and started walking in the direction of Charing Cross.

Heaven was the first gay club he had ever gone to. He was nineteen at the time, new to London, and only out to two people—his personal tutor at college and Caroline, who was renting a room in the same house as him. Both fugitives from towns they vowed never to return to, both eager to make a new life for themselves, they hit it off immediately and quickly became friends. It was Caroline who had encouraged Martin to “go out and paint the town pink,” although that hardly described his frame of mind at the time. He had stood outside the club for over an hour, chain-smoking his way through an entire pack of cigarettes before finally summoning up the courage to go in. Once inside, he had stood frozen to the same spot for half an hour, terrified that someone might talk to him, equally terrified that they might not, before finally leaving, alone, but feeling strangely proud of himself, as though he had achieved something small but significant. The following week he was back again, a little more relaxed and high on the sheer number of sexually available men all under one roof. That was Heaven’s main appeal. In those days, sooner or later every gay man in London ended up there. And while this no longer held true, it was a reputation the club was only too happy to trade on.

It was almost five years since he’d last been to Heaven. Not a lot had changed. The club was still as busy and the staff were just as surly. Trying to bullshit his way into the Departure Lounge, he was turned away by a bolshie lesbian with a walkie-talkie, who took great pleasure in informing him that this area was for members only. He considered asking whether she would allow him in if he said he was a hooker, but thought better of it. Wandering back toward the main dance floor, he noticed there were a few more women than he remembered. And if he wasn’t very much mistaken, there were a few more drugs in circulation, too. Back in the days when he used to hang around Heaven every week, looking for love and picking up fashion tips, the only drugs you ever saw were poppers. Actually, you usually smelled them long before you saw them. Some of the older cloney types would soak their bandannas in the stuff and then leave them hanging around their necks so they could inhale the fumes without constantly having to fiddle about with those little bottles. Now everyone was on E, and the smell came from the toilets and all those drug-induced bowel movements. Why were the toilets always so disgusting in gay clubs? There was never enough toilet paper, the doors on the stalls never locked properly, and there was always a horrible stench coming from somewhere. How anyone could even think of having sex in a place like that was beyond him.

Nobody seemed to mind, though. They were all running around rolling on E or dancing with their shirts off. He spotted a few faces he vaguely recognized, only they looked as if someone had surgically removed their heads and sewn them back onto different bodies. Potbellies and skinny, sunken chests had been replaced with glistening six-packs and gleaming great slabs of muscle. Martin didn’t need to be told why this sudden transformation had taken place. Ever since the arrival of AIDS, gay men had been piling into the gym in ever greater numbers, desperate to be seen as healthy, or to build up a solid mass of muscle as security in the event of being struck down by a wasting disease. In an age of sexual anxiety, a strong body was like an insurance policy. Still, he felt intimidated by the amount of muscle on display. He remembered the first time he took Caroline to Heaven. She spent the whole night commenting on how attractive the men were—and those were the days before every gay man in London started going to the gym and having his chest waxed. Suddenly Martin found himself wishing that Caroline were here with him. Gay clubs never seemed half as scary with her by his side.

He bought a bottle of water from the sullen hunk behind the bar and wandered around for a bit, trying desperately to sober up. He hated that feeling, when you suddenly realize that you’re too drunk to do anything, and nothing you do seems to make it any better. He staggered to the toilets and stood at the urinal for a full ten minutes, silently debating whether or not he was about to throw up. Suddenly he became aware of someone hovering next to him. He turned to find an old queen with a jet black comb-over hairdo standing at the urinal with his penis in his hand, staring at Martin’s crotch and gently playing with himself. Martin gave him a dirty look. Some people had absolutely no dignity. Here he was, practically on the verge of vomiting, and all this queen could see was the opportunity for a quick fiddle. He lurched out of the toilets and along the main corridor, knocking into a few people who were either as pissed as he was or too high on drugs to notice. Finally, he found a space at the edge of the dance floor and stood there for a while, leaning against the wall, taking it all in.