It’s In His Kiss (Kissing In Dagenham #2)

Chapter 1

DOWNTOWN

MICK

The thunderous sound of the London Underground comforted me, not because it was a nice sound–it bloody wasn’t–but for what it meant.

If I was on the tube, then I wasn’t in one of my dad’s vans, which meant I wasn’t working and my time was my own.

The earsplitting noise of tons of metal careening through concrete tunnels was the sound of freedom.

It was Saturday night and I was headed into town ready to have a bloody good night out. I couldn’t keep still, tapping my hands on my thighs and bouncing on the souls of my feet. The anticipation coursing through my body couldn’t be contained, it needed to escape through my limbs.

Even the ripe smell of a hundred Londoners crammed into a metal tube couldn’t bring down my spirits. A bloke sitting near me lit a cigarette, and I edged away from the burning tip, not wanting it to catch on my mohair trousers which cost a bloody fortune.

I didn’t get to wear my tailor-made suits very often, spending most of my time in brown overalls. Having an opportunity to show off my nicest gear was one of the reasons I lived for these nights.

The train crawled closer to our stop, and I bounced on my heels while holding on to the metal pole overhead.

I loved going out in London, especially when I got to strut my stuff in one of the Scene clubs.

Squeezed onto the sweltering tube train with dozens of other Londoners, I felt like I was keeping a dirty secret right under their noses.

I was in a way, because Le Duce wasn’t just a mod club; it was a queer mod club. Spending the night in the company of fellas just like me was as exciting and terrifying as it had been the first time I’d done it a year ago.

Peeking through the stretched arms of other passengers, I sought out Tommy and gave him a smile.

He was hanging onto a strap above his head and taking advantage of the busy train carriage by standing incredibly close to his partner, Eric.

They were making eyes at each other as their chests touched and snickered every time a bit of turbulence forced them closer together.

They were a pair of lovesick fools; you’d never catch me behaving like that. Although, if I was being honest with myself, it wasn’t for lack of trying. I’d be secretly chuffed to find someone who looked at me like those two idiots looked at each other. It just wasn’t bloody likely to happen.

I wasn’t ashamed of who I was or who I fancied. Maybe I should have been; Lord knew my parents would disown me if they ever found out. But the people who mattered–my friends–didn’t give a toss about who I shagged, and they were my real family.

Someone special to spend time with would be nice, but I couldn’t see it happening. The world hated men like us, and I’d never understood why. Whatever the reason, it meant most would never find love or companionship, and if we did, we’d have to keep it hidden like a shameful secret.

I tried not to let it bother me. I had my friends for love and laughter, and I got a good seeing to every few weeks from a handsome stranger when the fancy took me.

Wouldn’t it be nice to have something more?

The carriage jolted and the hydraulic breaks hissed as the train came to a standstill. I glanced out the window to check which stop we were at. Tottenham Court Road was printed in bold white letters on the blue bar crossing the red circle of the familiar underground sign.

“Oh shit! We’re here,” I blurted. More than one disapproving head snapped to look at me, but I didn’t have time to care.

“Come on gents, look lively!”

Eric and Tommy heard me, shoved their way through the crowd, and jumped off the train. On the platform, I stood between them, linked my arms with theirs, and grinned widely.

“Let’s go and paint the town red, darlings.”

“Splendid idea,” Eric agreed, but Tommy wriggled out of my hold.

“Get off!” He was so uptight sometimes.

That wasn’t fair, he was just terrified of being found out. He worked in a library and was around kids all day; if they found out, he’d get the sack. I hated how everyone assumed just because you were queer you were also a pervert. It made my blood boil.

“Nobody you know is going to see you,” I said, trying not to sound too pissed off.

“You don’t know that. What if Charlie Martin sees me again?”

“For fuck’s sake, Tommy, that happened once. Besides, I don’t think he’ll mess with you again in a hurry.”

The image of the weasel-faced git nearly shitting himself after Tommy thumped him at the Frankies’ Christmas party would stay with me ‘til my dying day. Smarmy little shit got what was coming to him.

“Yeah, alright,” Tommy admitted. “But someone else could see us. Just lay off all the touching until we get into the club, alright?”

Boarding the escalator to get out of the station, we were far too eager to stand around, so we stepped to the right and climbed up the moving stairs. Near the top, we passed a group of girls dressed to the nines in mini skirts and gogo boots.

When Eric strode passed them, they all blushed and giggled.

I couldn’t blame them; with his wavy blonde hair and aristocratic features, he looked like a film star.

He flashed them his debonair smile, and one of the girls squealed.

Tommy followed him, and the giggling increased as they whispered behind their hands.

Although not as handsome as his fella, Tommy was good looking in a rough-around-the-edges sort of way. Not that I’d ever thought about him like that. It was hard to fancy someone who you first remember seeing naked when you were both three years old and shared a bath together.

Emerging onto the street, there was a sense of something brewing. The spring sun was setting, and the city was transitioning from the bustling, bright metropolis of the daytime into the seedier, sexier place it became at night.

One or two families could still be seen, trudging back to their lodgings after a day of sightseeing.

But most of the people on the street were in their twenties in small single-sex groups.

Bright coloured clothes were the order of the day, a stark contrast to the sensible suits and dresses of our parents.

Eric had taken charge and was leading us to our destination. I reckoned this was so he could put a hand on Tommy’s back to guide him through the streets. Any excuse to touch him, Eric would take. Soppy bugger.

The unassuming black door looked the same as any other night club in Soho, with a big geezer in a monkey suit standing outside.

He looked us up and down, nodded, and opened the door.

There was a dress code here, though not an official one.

It was a mod club, and you had to look the part to be let in.

That meant the right people got in, but also the wrong people stayed out.

Undercover coppers weren’t going to go to the effort of dressing like us, so they wouldn’t get in.

Nor would creepy old blokes looking to find fresh meat.

The Who’s “I’m a Boy” blared up the stairs, and the three of us shared a grin.

Descending into the club, we were met with the heat of dozens of men, and the smell of smoke, aftershave, and sweat permeated the air.

With its massive fish tank separating the entrance from the dance floor, Le Duce was a strange old place.

On our first visit here, we were told the aquarium offered the protection of a few seconds’ notice when the coppers turned up.

Loads of fish were swimming about, which meant it must have been a while since there had been a raid.

If there had been one recently, all the fish would’ve copped it from everyone flinging their drugs into the tank.

Poor things. At least they died tripping off their fins.

The clientele of Le Duce was men who fancied men (with a couple of friendly girls hanging around). So everywhere you looked was the unfamiliar and thrilling sight of blokes being affectionate with each other. Nothing filthy, mind. It wasn’t a knocking shop.

If you wanted a stranger to toss you off, there were cinemas just up the road you could go to.

Or the public toilets on Oxford Street. Or Hampstead Heath.

Not that any of them were safe. You could end up with a kick in the teeth or spending a night in the hospitality of Her Majesty’s Government. Or both, if you were very unlucky.

The place was packed to the rafters with gorgeous blokes in gorgeous clothes, and I hardly knew where to look. I felt a hand brush over my arse as someone walked past me, followed by a firm squeeze that made me jump.

“Be My Baby” started playing on the juke box and the mood shifted.

Something about the beat of that song was so sensual that the dancers responded to it right away.

Everyone had been bouncing around in groups to the slightly silly song before.

But when the new track came on, everyone instinctively partnered up.

Men draped their arms around their partners’ necks or waist, clinging to each other as if they feared being separated, and moved sinuously to the soulful music.

Hands slipped down to loosely hold the backsides of their lovers.

The dancers caressed each other, shared passionate kisses or laid their heads on each other’s shoulders as they gyrated and swayed in time.

In the corner of my eye, I saw Tommy lead Eric onto the dance floor, and they fell into each other’s arms like they belonged there.

With their legs slotted together, they rotated their joined hips rhythmically to the hypnotic beat.

Tommy grasped Eric’s neck, and they danced with their foreheads touching, loving smiles lighting their faces while they rocked on the spot.

My heart filled with joy at seeing my friends–and other men like me–live and love so freely.

But alongside that was a pang of jealousy and a feeling of emptiness.

I wanted what they had. I wanted it so badly it kept me up at night.

I wanted someone to look at me like I meant the whole world to them.

I was sick and tired of anonymous blow jobs and one-night stands.

“Care to dance, darling?” said a voice over my shoulder. My heart skipped a beat, anticipation flooding my veins as I cautiously turned around and then chuffed out a great big laugh.

“Oh it’s you, Michael!” A friend I’d made the first time I came to Le Duce stood behind me, grinning. “I thought a handsome stranger had come to sweep me off my feet.”

The grin grew into a giggle. “Afraid not, dearie. Just your Auntie Michael. Do you want to dance or not?”

“Not with you, you daft sod!”

“And what exactly is wrong with me, young man?” He placed his hand outstretched on his chest in mock-offense.

“Absolutely nothing, darling. I simply choose to fill my dance card with the names of men who actually fancy me.”

His smile wavered. “Fair point. Shall we have a drink, instead?”

“You buying?” I put on my cheekiest smile.

“Aren’t I always?” He raised one perfectly plucked dark eyebrow.

“Then I’d love one, cheers.” I put out my arm for him to link with, and he led the way.