OUTING MY SHAMELESS VOICE [3]

28/06/2013 17:45

SAVING A LIFE

It was a late rehearsal. Past midnight it was way too late to let her walk home from the theatre on her own.

 

Morgan Minerson is recalling a former bisexual boyfriend’s latest girlfriend. A colorful blonde she was, almost his mirror image but with spinnaker tits and a voracious clitoris, full of youth and the same exploratory fearlessness. Shriekingly unfaithful to the confused besotted lad she had actually hit on Morgan, his former lover, in a very big reality show way.

 

Morgan blamed his social ineptitude with women, he had always been half blind to any insights concerning their sexual machinations.

 

Morgan thought that a coffee back at his place meant exactly that- a cup of coffee and a chat in his post divorce flat, the venue of many an extraordinary and odd escapade. He believed that the very weasily Kenton had finally been gotten shot of.

How greedy of the uppity little shit to believe there was such a thing as bisexuality.

 

What had the ridiculous boy been- oh yes, one of the very few fleshed out bridging points between living a heterosexual life and a homosexual one. At least he was not a fantasy- he had been real and ridiculously pro-active.

Gosh!

Where do the young and nubile get all this useful and pleasurable information from- internet porn sites? He had certainly rubbished the old adage that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

 

Not that Morgan was an old dog- though in some ways he always wished he had been. Never an STD. No visits to a GUM clinic ever.

This was a new life, it was just being freshly mapped, no more complicated than that.

Maria had said something about needing an agony uncle.

 

Morgan shared the top floor of a recently converted house in an army town. Across the hall from him there did live what you could describe as an old dog though she was not yet thirty. Sandy, just like drag-queens, could easily have done pantomime at Christmas- big hair, big make-up, a mouth like a fog-horn. Men, they were always behind her on her heat- whole squadrons of them but she was built like a shit house door and had taken it upon herself to be Morgan’s minder. It was kindness personified.

 

Morgan had never had a streetwise prostitute as a pugilist friend before- the novelty for her undoubted protection was a fair exchange. It made downing pints in local pubs a whole lot safer and she was interesting

 

Morgan joked with me- so the dream of being gang buggered by men in camouflage and fatigues went straight out of the window.

Did you ever dream that?

No?

 

I saw a gay porno once. I like the gang bang genre- you get a lot more cock for your money. More often than not all the colours in all the sizes. It certainly opened my eyes.

I must have looked a tad disapproving because he then added ‘Well. I didn’t know that exactly then but I do know it now. One of my favourite weeklies as a boy was Look And Learn. And porn, if it does nothing else, certainly makes you look. I’m bored of it now of course.’

 

Bored.

Yes dear, bored rigid. Seen it all. The appalling lot.

We’ll get to that later.

Hang on.

 

I was in James Street Brighton- slap bang in the middle of the gay quarter of ‘London by The Sea’. Loathe ghettoes me but I had a camera in my pocket and a full battery.

One of the drawbacks of Brighton is its pebble beach. At least there’s never any danger of getting sand trapped under your foreskin. Imagine the DNA that gets washed out into the briny every single day. No temperature is too low for the rainbow babes.

All the full moons of summer draw herds of gay pigs who just love it in the raw. Bears too.

That’s humans for you.

One whiff of opportunistic sex and they become a collective zoo of animals aching for release. They go clubbing just to wind up their greed for endorphins.

Oh, I do so recommend a long-term relationship- they generally hold the key to taming the unbridled beast.

I met my man, the love of my life, in a gay pub- The  Greyhound it was, all the locals referred to the place dryly as The Whippet Inn. That’s a whole new can of sins, a whole other story.

 

Sandy or James Street?

 

Sandy would take ages to get herself all dolled up to go out on the pull, a big girl on a mission, she knew how to say available loudly with remarkably sparse clothing, virtuality stage makeup and body language readable in any language.

She’d been with Gurkhas, fierce height-challenged men who always hunted cunt in packs.

It was Sandy who knew the town’s reputation in almost every detail.

 

Some prostitute held the current record then at fourteen Gurkhas in one night. Telling that story people always added- well she obviously had a load of spunk and they were virtually midgets. [For any Americans reading, that means in English English- come, cum, gizzum, jizz,semen, ejaculate, balls, bravery or chutzpah; all of the above.] Yes I am mildly fascinated by midgets.

My mother always loathed short men- her father was short and a right cunt.

 

Sandy could not process herself however from a drab into a diva without listening to the irritating rock ballad The Power Of Love, at full volume, over and over. It did everyone’s head in except hers.

She was ready when silence overcame the house like a lewd fog.

She’d carry her scarlet high heels down the stairs and click her heels in the small hallway.

 

There was an avid budgie keeper in the ground floor flat, someone short of a few cells, just a few but it was massively noticeable. He would always hear her going out of an evening and I imagined him grinning with an audible purr and slightly dribbling.

Of course he did, he’d rock in his arm chair, rubbing his thighs.

 

Sandy would always return at about midnight and not bother to take off her shoes. She wouldn’t bother to make the punter a coffee.

Often it was punters plural. I can count footsteps on stairways without much bother.

Within six feet of me she’d be being fucked for money by maybe three army blokes who had no pubic secrets from each other.

I reckoned as much. It was a thrill reckoning that. They wanked each other off on occasion- circumstantial homosexualty. They probably enjoyed the odd prostrate gland massage from some killing tool.

 

Rationalising her prostitution to me once she told me, in a pub, that it was strictly business- no-one ever saw her tits, no-one ever kissed her.

That was pure class.

On that occasion she pointed out a short silent type to me brooding over his pint. “ See him” she said, “He doesn’t look much but he’s hung like a donkey.”

It was hard for me to disguise a brief flicker of interest.

She went on- “Now, my cunt’s a bit on the small side, as some are, we don’t all come out of the same box and that session with him, I shall never forget it, it was painful, gruelling.”

Sandy- life love her, if she’s still alive and I hope she is, then I also hope she got her wish and married a millionaire.

She did play a key part in my courtship of Paulo Delio. It’s for another day.

 

James Street.

Oh I was there one day shopping with my man Paulo. We popped into Prowler- a chain of stores that specialises in retailing what gay men want; always with a rather diminutive lesbian section.

Paulo wanted designer underpants, kecks with high tech specifications.

I wanted a Gay Times and some gay club flyers- serious all that flyer artwork in Brighton and free in Prowler along with The Pink Paper.

I wanted to peruse the very adult porn hoping for something dedicating itself to an all man gang-bang in Brazil. Brazil the biggest melting pot of human genes on the planet.

 

Well, in behind us had slipped this couple- a fit bit of gay eyecandy accompanied by his almost worshipful fag-hag; a boring woman trying to spice her life up with a walk on the almost but not quite wild side.

He was clearly no stranger to the gym. Ripped muscles, chiselled features, dark and brooding but although looking like Tarzan, inevitably talking like Jane.

 

We’d had a similar encounter in Hollywood- later.

This young guy in Brighton was pointing out with pretentiously loud glee which of the porn movies on the shelves he had actually starred in. Just a lad really, probably driving an Aston Martin.

Not a bad career move if you are addicted to consumer stuff.

 

On Melrose Avenue in Hollywood, I seldom break a promise, we’d gone into an innocuous  postcard shop- very tiny. Once we were in we spotted a Narnia doorway- no door, announcing that you had to be over eighteen years to enter.

You could not resist. A Narnia for adults.

 

Through there it opened up to something the size of an aircraft hangar which was full to bursting with every imaginable item of gay porn accessories. Now that was a hoot. Though there was something gob-stopping in a glass cabinet- it was the size and shape of a traffic cone. I found that profoundly disturbing.

 

We decided to buy one of the ubiquitous or iconic, depending which way you look at it, souvenier male dolls called Billy. The Billy dolls are supplied in a multiple of types. I chose the Banker Billy, the repro of a stud Wall Street wanker, in a grey flannel suit.

Consistent with the whole range of Billy doll’s is their improbable plastic genitalia, highly exaggerated in a Tom Of Finland way and barely hidden behind a fully working zipper. Cool. Packaged nicely. An ice-breaker for family parties.

 

We took the empty package to the till and asked if we could purchase one of these. Serving behind the counter was a huge guy- obviously no stranger to the Muscle Beach in Santa Monica. All he was wearing, besides his tan, was a white wife-beater T and black shorts, a mountain of a man.

He still ranks as the worst case of ‘looks like Tarzan but sounds like Jane’ my man and I have ever encountered.

“Oh my dear boys” he falsettoed, “The Banker’s been so popular we’re all out of him. It must be the cut of his clothes- very Tom Ford.”

 

Suppressing fits of giggles, we quickly bought a Sailor Billy instead because he was dressed in an authentic vintage uniform like someone out of a story by Jean Genet.

My choice- literary.

Now and and again we get him out for visitors- just for the shock value. Every woman who has ever encountered him just couldn’t wait to spy behind his fly. Why are their hetero husbands keeping them all so hungry?

Or did they take it as a yardstick?

In that case I feel sorry for their husbands because no man in the world has ever wielded the semi-erect proportions of Sailor Billy.

That’s a lot of cock to live up to.

In that sense all porn, straight or gay, is a minefield for men to watch.

If their dick is not going to seem inadequate, their staying power and technique is going to be.

It is a very distorted tool for sex education.

Parents beware or at least have the good sense to be aware.

Porn is always at the extreme edges of what it is to be normal. But do bear in mind that mankind and womankind has always been and will be, forever and a day, in love with freak shows.

 

So the guy in the shop in St James Street has a big cock. So what. I guess he imagines he has been blessed.

Plain fact is he was boring and did not tick any one of my pleasure boxes.

It takes all sorts. It certainly does.

The one great satisfaction I got from reading a victorian edition of the Karma Sutra was the discovery that cocks and cunts come in a whole variety of shapes and sizes. I was a boy, eleven or thereabouts. A recidivist masturbator. Slightly puzzled, just like today, that people rattle on so about cock size but almost never a mention of cunt variables- lengths, widths, fat pads, hair and lip dangles.

Totally mad, sexist, unequal.

But the Indians of the sub-continent- they had it all sussed and not even in their religions or the decorations to their temples did the subject of sex ever non-plus them.

I must have fallen in love with India when I was eleven.

 

The former bi-sexual boyfriend’s, inquisitive girl-friend.

Oh she stayed the night.

 

I slept on the floor. All desire took flight, as I knew it would, when I told her rudely that unless she took it up the arse I wasn’t the least interested.

 

The odd thing was that she kept on prying about my dick- what was in it that had held Kenton’s interest for so long, and clearly still did, off and on?

I remember saying- “It’s a man thing. You would just never understand.”

 

She must have slept a venomous and shameful sleep.

 

I took her to the railway station the following morning and, being the gentleman that I am, I pecked her on the cheek goodbye.

One of my ex-wife’s knitting mates spotted that kiss. I saw her spot it, watched the glee light up her ugly face. You just knew she couldn’t wait to spread it around that I was playing the field with both genders.

Somedays you see only what you want to see.

A lot of times people misread what is printed in front of them.

 

On another late night after another late rehearsal I followed that same girl- not deliberately.

A car had cruised her, it had two guys in it, they stopped to invite her to a party.

I grabbed her from their dark clutches.

She didn’t know them. They could have been anybody with a myriad of unknown intentions. They drove off.

Maybe I saved her life.

 

No this wasn’t in LA, this was at home, in an army town, and how many ex-soldiers have turned to recreational killing just for the crack?

The chilly memory of it makes me feel unsafe even today.

What kind of a girl would be stupid enough to get into a car with two strange men that had cruised her, obviously targeted her?

Sad to say any one of my three daughters if they were drunk enough or drugged up enough.

 

Hey, so maybe, that’s why I watch cop shows and have an ambition to write one.

Criminal Minds- Behavioural Analysis Unit.

Luther.

Silent Witness.

 

I do like a spot of physical and psychological forensics. Have I been honing my parenting skills? What for?

My offspring don’t need me. They never contact me.

I think girls in particular have great trouble having a gay dad. And a successful gay dad in a very long term relationship- they must think that is just taking the piss.

They’ve all made bad choices, taken dangerous roads.

 

People should really take immense care not to become a victim, whatever it takes. Nobody goes scuba-diving without the training and an oxygen tank.

Kids these days, they have no idea when they are getting out of their depth.

And you can’t tell them.

You are not permitted to tell them a thing.