GENTLEMEN

It’s a hot summer’s day. The kind when sweat trickles down his back and oozes from his armpits, making his white nylon shirt damp. Walking down Swan Lane a little after 4pm he takes off his blazer, loosens his tie and undoes the collar. He feels the relief as the restriction eases and runs a hand around the open neck, feeling the bumps of bone. There is a sense of pleasure in the simple gesture, a hint of something raw and sensuous. He likes this sticky heat. It leads to relaxation of rules, freedom from the routine; it brings out a recklessness in him.

Someone shouts his name across the road: ‘Gray!’ He pretends not to hear. There is another agenda calling him.

The bus takes him half way as usual. It’s a raucous ride, surrounded by restless schoolchildren making too much noise, calling and joking, swearing and cackling, released like swarms of insects into the late afternoon sunshine but confined to this claustrophobic tin box.

Just after they pass the cattle trough on Rosemount Street he gets up and pushes his way towards the door, pressing the orange button to make the ring for the driver to stop. He nods his thanks as he descends onto the pavement, expecting fresh air but finding only a sickly heaviness that invades his lungs. Normally he’d wait in the shelter for the 159 to take him on the second leg of his journey home.

Not today. Today Graham Hughes has other plans.

He turns away from the bus shelter, follows the path across the scrubby grass, dry and brown in the summer’s blast, across the creaky wooden bridge over the stream and onto the patch of gravel where a dozen vehicles are parked, their owners probably visiting the castle. Either that or they’re here for the other reason, the one they share with him. He doesn’t look but he knows some cars have occupants – an occupant – and eyes will be following him as he strides across their line of sight. He isn’t confident but determined and he hopes one could be mistaken for the other. He imagines himself a bullfighter stepping into the ring.

In the corner furthest from the road another path, less clearly defined, dips down past some scruffy gorse bushes and a huge bramble that will bear plump blackberries in a few months. It’s so tall and unkempt that it has virtually enveloped the wooden board pointing towards the facilities. He shifts his bag from one shoulder to the other; it’s heavy with the books he needs for the evening’s work. But that’s later; first he has this other matter to get out of the way.

Tucked discreetly out of sight as befits its function, nestled at the foot of the imposing walls of the twelfth century castle rising like a cliff behind it, is the small, plain brick building with its two blue doors and frosted glass windows. Ugly and practical. He ignores the door on the left and goes to the other on the right. There is a sign but a letter has fallen off. It looks like GENTLE ME.

It’s one step up into the dimly lit space. The acrid stench instantly assaults his nostrils; bleach and piss and danger. A pause to get his bearings. Three cubicles on his left, four tall urinals to the right, their shape reminiscent of tombstones. Next to him a grubby basin with a dripping tap, above it, impaled on a spike, a slab of white soap, dry and cracked like the cuttlefish in the budgie’s cage at home. One man is standing at the far end, pretending to have a pee.

Graham takes up position at the other end of the line, pushing his bag back with an elbow, and unzips to empty his bladder. He’s glad his trousers aren’t the ones with buttons, they’d be too fiddly and efficiency matters here. For access and to cover up fast if necessary. You never know. Is danger part of the excitement? No, the attraction is simply doing this at last, whatever ‘this’ turns out to be. It’s a necessary milestone, a coming-of-age thing. Bloody hell, it’s time.

The pee is a genuine need. He’s surprised at the duration of the flow; nerves perhaps. He finishes, shakes but doesn’t put his dick away. He glances to his left. The guy is old, over fifty at a guess, wearing a loose jacket that hides a lot. He returns the look, his eyes flick down to Graham’s crotch and then anxiously check the door. He seems to make a decision, twitches his hips as he tucks himself away and walks past with no eye contact, out into the innocent sunshine.

Graham’s not offended or surprised by the rejection. He’s used to it and aware of the probable reason, what it is about him that turns men away. Or has done before on the occasions he’s ventured into such places, hoping for action but cautious, unsure of the rules. Today is different; he’s not taking no for an answer.

He waits, soft cock in his hand, certain that he’s being observed. The walls have eyes, or rather tiny holes scraped out so that occupants of the cubicles can spy on potential… victims? No. Partners? No. ‘Tricks’, that’s the term in the American books he’s read but those stories are about muscled men in leather at clubs in San Francisco or the cruising area of the ‘meat-packing district’ of New York. Can that really be its name? It seems unlikely. ‘Tricks’ doesn’t seem to fit leafy Worcestershire on a sunny afternoon.

Graham glances down and slightly behind him to indicate to the owners of any observing eyes that he knows the game. And he’s fine with it, despite the obvious reason for alarm bells to ring. It looks as if the third cubicle, the one at the far end, is occupied; the doors of the first two are ajar.

It’s only a couple of minutes until someone else enters. Younger and Graham is on alert but he guesses from the man’s green shirt and cap that he’s a tourist, here for the historic sights, not extra-curricular stuff. He has a wee, doesn’t delay or look anywhere other than at what he’s doing. Probably unaware of the clandestine business carried out here. Brief and efficient. Boring. These people are a necessary intrusion on the serious matter of ‘cottaging’, as Graham has learned to call it. Not that he discusses it with anyone; his secret desires are confined only to the pages of a diary hidden under his mattress.

No sooner has the man left – even pausing to wet his hands at the basin and shake them dry – than someone else arrives. Hard to give an age; thirty maybe? Shortish, stone-washed denim jacket and blonde, very blonde. He stands two stalls down from Graham ; not the furthest away, that’s a signal already. Almost at once he risks a furtive peek across and they make eye contact for the tiniest moment. They both know what this means: yes.

Blondie leans back and turns a few degrees to show himself. He’s hard already. Graham does likewise; he’s not. But Blondie doesn’t care. His eyes flick to the door, to the cubicles and back to Graham. He flips his dick away and goes into the end stall, slamming the door. And now? What’s expected? Are there rules and conventions he doesn’t know, being a novice in this pursuit? What if he gets it wrong? He steps across the floor and pushes on the door that’s just banged closed; it doesn’t give. What’s going on? He expected this to be straightforward once the engagement was clear. He goes into the middle one and waits for his eyes to adjust to the even gloomier gloom. Invitations are scribbled and slogans daubed across the walls. ‘Meet here Friday 11.35.’ ‘FUCKING QUEERS.’ ‘me 35 hung you 20 suck me have car.’ ‘DIRTY FAGOTS ROT IN HELL.’

‘Have car’, muses Graham . Is that an abbreviated possessive or a vocative instruction? I do... or you’d better...? Best to be clear about these things.

He puts his bag on the closed toilet lid, thinking that’ll be the least disgusting place for it. Who knows what might be lurking on the floor?

The hushed atmosphere reminds him of his weekly enforced visits to church. A wary reverence and the tranquillity of devotion. One or two sounds nudge their way into the oppressive silence. The hiss of a cistern and a few snatches of other lives floating in from the car park: a revving engine, a laugh, a yapping dog. But nothing disturbs the concentration inside this smelly brick box, the air of potential, the lust for carnal connection.

On one wall Graham notices a piece of toilet paper stuck, with spit probably, by someone who just wanted to have a dump in private. He knows why it’s there, what it hides. He pulls the paper away to reveal a hole neatly gouged at just the right height. Within seconds a dick is pushed through. Graham doesn’t hesitate; he holds it and pulls on it for a while. It feels more like a duty than a thrill but it’s not unpleasant. The cock has no foreskin, which he is used to by now from the few others he’s been allowed to touch and the many more he’s seen in the changing rooms. He’s wondering whether to bend down and do more, the other thing he’s had a brief go at a couple of times with Phil Tregunter. But while he’s deciding the dick is pulled away and disappears. Has something happened, Graham thinks. Did I do it wrong? But then fingers, small and pale, almost feminine, reach through and open up, an anemone seeking sustenance.

Graham knows he’s expected to reciprocate and is eager to. He unzips and places his cock in the hand, which closes around it, tugs it a few times and pulls him closer into the glory-hole. What a term. He presses his hips forward, his chest against the pink pitted plaster, to give as much access as possible. He has a fleeting thought that the blonde man through the wall might have destructive intent... with teeth... or a knife... But the thrill outweighs the risk. Blondie gives some squeezes and tugs. Then comes the other thing, the warmth and wetness of a mouth.

Oh, this is good. This is very good. It has all the sensual pleasure of doing it with Tregunter but without the imminent danger of being exposed and punished.

But it stops. Too soon. Why?

Graham draws himself back into his own cubicle, ready to accept that’s all that was on offer. Well, OK. It was new, which was his intention, after all.

‘Open the door.’

What? It’s a whisper nearby.

‘Open your door.’ Louder now and urgent.

Graham pulls back the bolt and the door is pushed wide. Blondie bundles in, locks it, squirms around him to sit on the toilet, his bum pushed against the school bag, and pulls Graham forward to continue what he’d started, without the limitation of a wall.

Graham can’t believe his luck. It’s what he wanted, the thing he’d speculated about and hoped for. And now it’s happening. He’s never been brave enough to take this step before. Now he has and, look: this man – this grown-up man - is doing the thing, the thing he’s only ever tentatively fooled around at. And he’s doing it with passion and relish and skill.

He looks down at the head bobbing back and forth in a regular rhythm. What to do? What’s expected of him? It seems jolly selfish to be on the receiving end of such a good feeling and offer nothing in return. He rests his hands on the shoulders of the other man, hoping to imply support and gratitude. But Blondie needs no encouragement, he’s working to the beat of his own drum. So Graham allows it to happen, watching that scruffy mop of hair flopping as his accomplice nods on with determination. He’s about to grab the head to engage more fully in the process, be less passive, when he notices something. Under the startlingly yellow tresses, at the temples and around the neck, are a few other hairs, wisps of grey and white as if... as if...…

Shit. It’s a wig!

Graham lifts his hands up and apart as if around an expanding balloon, frightened that he’ll catch a fibre and whisk the thing off.

Then comes a sound he can’t identify. It’s not outside, a carefree soul going about some chaste and humdrum task, but closer. Is it the man expertly devouring him? No, he’s almost silent despite his assiduous energy. It’s a scuffling noise. A rat? Could be, but up the wall... He catches sight of a movement and flinches. Blondie mistakes this for a twitch of pleasure in response to his efforts and grabs Graham’s buttocks to help him maintain his tempo.

What he’s heard is the scrabble of feet and what he now sees is a head appear over a wall. It’s a long face with glasses and a mop of dark curls. He hooks himself onto the top of the partition with his arms so he can watch the action, expressionless. Graham is unsure what the etiquette is: to greet or ignore him? Speak or stay silent? So he tries both, to pretend there’s no-one watching but also put on a bit of a show. He exaggerates his pleasure with suggestive slinks of his body and half-closes his eyes to indicate titillation. He even sucks his index finger in a way that’s intended to signal erotic ecstasy but might just look as if he’s picking a morsel of lunch out of his teeth.

Blondie senses something change and stops. He looks up and around, sees the long face.

‘Fuck off, Baldwin,’ he hisses. ‘This one’s mine.’

But the face stays there, leering now and displaying a gummy grin.

Blondie stands up and puts his face close to Graham’s. There is an overpowering tang of aftershave, lemon mixed with something sweet and sickly. It’s all Graham can do to avoid retching. He tries not to look too closely at the wig.

‘Follow me in two minutes, Michael. I know somewhere.’

Michael? Did he say Michael?

He manoeuvres round, unbolts the door and squeezes out. The long face drops down and there are footsteps on the concrete floor. Graham zips up his detumescent cock, waits for what he calculates is the right time and leaves. A few yards beyond the door marked ‘GENTLEME’ Blondie is waiting, fag in mouth. His absurd hair looks even less convincing in the relentless glare of the sun. It sparkles and glimmers with fake vitality. He indicates with a nod to follow him, which Graham does, having already abandoned his own agency and letting events take their course.

Blondie leads the way, further along the path away from the carpark, brushing through bushes and ducking under swishing branches of saplings. The momentary thought resurfaces: is this when the knife comes out? Another thought follows: isn’t this exactly what I want?

After a minute they come to a hollow in the ground the size of a sofa where the tall grass has been crushed down. They are surrounded by vegetation and seem to be hidden from view. Perfect for a weird and grubby tryst.

Graham puts his bag on the ground. Blondie’s scent isn’t quite so astringent here, which is a blessing. The sounds now include birdsong and, confusingly, people’s voices. Graham checks around; the space is open to the sky and the castle wall is not far away. Anyone at the top, thirty feet up on the rampart, could, in theory, look right down on them. Maybe the tourist in his cap and green shirt.

He’s expecting the action to continue from the moment of interruption, like that ITV comedy does after the ad-break. The one his mum likes. But he’s wrong.

‘Fuck me.’

‘What?’

Blondie gets Graham’s zip undone and grabs his cock which, of course, responds. He bends down, sucks him for a minute, then pulls his own jeans down and his blue y-fronts, turns away and gets onto all fours.

‘Fuck me, Michael.’

This wasn’t part of the plan. Graham looks at the white flesh speckled with red blotches and says, ‘Um, I’m a virgin.’

Blondie reaches back, grabs Graham’s dick and backs himself onto it. Graham is expecting difficulty or pain; there is neither. He’s instantly inside. He’s fucking another man.

I’m fucking a man. Isn’t this what I wanted, something new? I’m fucking another man.

‘Fuck me, Michael!’

‘Actually, my name’s Graham.’

‘Shut up. It’s Michael. Fuck me!’

So Graham fucks him while Blondie calls him by a different name. The stench of cheap cologne is in his nostrils and he watches the wig jounce and jiggle. And he doesn’t care about the name or the wig or the pungent stink because he’s doing this. Just like in the American magazines. Meat-packing. He almost doesn’t care if a tourist looks over the edge and spots them rutting like animals in the undergrowth. Almost.

He’s never done this before but, unlike cricket or archery or the other physical disciplines they try to teach at school, it’s a straightforward and instinctive technique. Reasonably pleasurable too.

He fucks Blondie until he cums. He knows that’s OK because he’s already been instructed: ‘Dump your load in me, Michael!’

Ten minutes after they got there, it’s over. Blondie stands, pulls up his clothes up and turns around. He is quite a bit shorter than Graham now; maybe it’s the dip in the ground.

Graham is expecting a smile or a word of thanks. But neither of those is forthcoming. Blondie gives him a quizzical look.

‘How old are you?’

Graham hesitates.

‘Tell me you’re eighteen.’

‘I’m eighteen,’ says Graham.

Blondie nods and is about to leave.

‘That was really... um... What’s your name?’ Graham asks pleasantly, zipping up.

Blondie’s chin recoils and a frown of incomprehension flutters over his face. ‘Whatever you like.’

Graham watches him take a few steps along the path, pushing aside foliage and letting it spring back, masking his exit.

‘You’re late,’ says Graham’s mum as he goes in through the back door. ‘I was going to send out a search party.’ Her laugh disguises real concern.

‘Had to stay behind for... for volleyball practice.’ He chucks his satchel on the floor.

‘Without your games kit?’

‘I borrowed some.’

‘Well, your tea’s spoiled. I’ll warm it up. Why didn’t you ring, let us know?’

‘Didn’t have the right coins for the phone box. Anyway I got the later bus. No sweat.’

She tuts and goes to the fridge, her movements casual and confident, in her domain.

‘Ooh, you smell nice, Gray. New deodorant?’

‘Yeh. I’ll just have a quick shower.’

Can she tell? I’m sure she can tell. Do I look different now I’ve fucked a man?

Tea that night is chicken with potatoes, broccoli and a pale brown gravy. Plus two glasses of Corona Orangeade. He has it on a tray on his lap in front of the telly, watching Top of the Pops with his brother Barry, examining every face and body on the screen to see if he fancies them. Would he fuck them the same way? Maybe one or two, the drummer in this group, the bass player in that one. Not the presenter; he’s a spaz. Graham starts to get aroused when Andy Kim is singing ‘Rock Me Gently’, imagining him coming to the public toilets by the castle. He’s glad the tray covers his tumescence.

He looks at Barry and wonders: has he fucked someone? He’s probably done it with Avril Carter or Tina Brierley in his Triumph Herald. But Barry hasn’t fucked another man, not like he fucked Blondie.

‘Roly-poly for you?’ His mum has put her head round the door.

‘What?’ he snaps, thinking, ‘rumpy-pumpy’.

‘Do you want some roly-poly? It’s only shop-bought.’

Graham nods. ‘Cheers.’

‘And then you’d better crack on with your homework. Did you enjoy it?’

‘What?’

‘The volleyball?’

‘The - ? Oh, yeh, volleyball. It was... a good session. Just what I wanted.’

‘Good. Do you want custard with that?’