Chapter 8 Dancing In The Street #2
“His name’s Alistair, tall bloke with pale blonde hair. If you see him, tell him you’re a friend of David at Togs, and he might have something to show you.”
David grinned wide, showing off his gold fillings, and winked at me.
Steady on, I thought. We’re out on the street in broad daylight. I decided it would be safer if I got myself out of here. I finished my ciggy and stubbed it out in the gutter.
“Cheers, David. If I see him, I’ll ask about the singles.
” There, that was innocent and gave no indication that I understood him.
“Later, fellas.” I said to the others who’d returned to watching the dancing girls.
I walked a couple of steps backwards, gave a mock salute, turned around, and carried on on my way.
He wasn’t a bad looking bloke, to be honest. If I’d met him at a club, or somewhere, I would have ended up on my knees for him. He was at least ten years older, but that was my type–the older blokes knew what they were doing.
Like Michael. Michael had definitely known what he was doing.
Fuck, that had been such a good night. He was sexy and confident and being in his bedroom had let us take our time and enjoy each other.
Not to mention I got to fuck him. That hardly ever happened for me because of the type of bloke I went for.
There was none of that macho bollocks with Michael.
He knew exactly who he was and made no attempt to hide it.
When some posh older bloke with a moustache picked me up, nine times out of ten, they hated themselves for who they were and that showed in the way they shagged.
Aggressive, controlling, and never affectionate.
Michael had been the exact opposite of that. Generous and giving, bothered about my pleasure as much as he was his own. Not for the first time, I wondered if I could wangle another night with him.
Ambling down Carnaby Street, there were more people about since my stop at Togs.
I kept my pace slow so I could ogle the men.
It was fifty/fifty whether I was looking at the clothes or the fella in them, but the great thing about mod men was they wanted to be ogled.
Well, they wanted to be looked at. They pranced around like peacocks in their fashionable clothes and wanted everyone to see them and admire them.
It didn’t hurt them if I also copped a look at their arses as I admired their nice trousers.
I’d perfected looking just long enough to get an eyeful but not a slap.
When I reached the end of the street, I turned right towards Dean Street with that money burning a hole in my pocket, heading to the Soho Record Centre with a plan to find this Alistair bloke.
It wasn’t my favourite record shop, being a bit too popular for my taste. There were a few of them around London now, and it felt a bit like going into Woollies or British Home Stores. But if there was a fella there who knew about soul music, then it might be worth a look.
From Carnaby Street, it was about a ten minute stroll to the Record Centre.
I took my time, enjoying the sunshine and a bit of people-watching as I walked.
There were fewer mods in the rest of Soho than on Carnaby Street, but there were still a few around.
A hell of a lot more than you saw on Dagenham High Street, at any rate.
Before I knew it, I was on the corner of Old Compton Street on the doorstep of the busy record shop.
I hadn’t expected it to be quiet on a Saturday afternoon, but it was chock-a-block in there.
I was about to walk away, deciding that no discount or rare records were worth the hassle when I saw a familiar face–a face that had been in my mind a lot of late.
Slender fingers flicked through the seven inch singles in a rack facing the front door, while the pale, high-cheekboned face above was scrunched up in concentration.
Avoiding the other shoppers, I wove in between the display units and stepped behind Michael.
I tapped on the shoulder of his violet paisley shirt that felt so soft it must have been real silk.
“Fancy seeing you here,” I said.
Michael yanked his head around and opened his mouth like he was about to tell me off.
I flashed my biggest, most idiotic grin at him, and his features softened into a smile, a warm, welcoming smile that lit up his whole face.
It was so beautiful it took my breath away.
And just like that I was in his bedroom again, underneath him as he rode me into oblivion.
“Looking for anything specific?” he asked.
“What?” My eyes snapped back to his, I’d been lost in a filthy memory.
“Are you after a particular record?”
“Record?”
“Yes. Records. Flat round things that you put on a turntable and music comes out.”
“What?”
“Mick, are you okay?”
Was I? What the hell was wrong with me? Why did seeing Michael turn me into a complete idiot?
I mean, it wasn’t that hard. I was always fairly close to idiocy on a normal day.
But not like this. I’d seen him twice in a week, and you’d think I’d bumped into Paul Newman based on the way I acted.
I needed to pull myself together. It wasn’t that great a shag.
“Yeah, sorry, bit of a shock bumping into you, that’s all.”
He laughed. “You came up to me! I was busy minding my own business looking at records and you accosted me.”
He was right–I had seen him first and I had approached him. His beauty was distracting. How had I never noticed how gorgeous he was until we had sex?
His hair was styled like it normally was, thick dark waves pushed into a neat side parting.
I loved the messy mop I and a lot of mods wore, but his classic style reminded me of Sean Connery or Steve McQueen.
His face was the same–high cheekbones and a delicate nose with a strong chin–a perfect mix of masculine and feminine.
His eyes were the same cobalt blue they’d always been.
But there was a sparkle behind them I hadn’t noticed before.
He looked the same as he always did, and yet I saw him in a whole new light. I knew what that face looked like contorted in pleasure. I knew what his beautiful body looked like beneath his stylish clothes.
I shook my head. I was being ridiculous. He was my friend. My friend who I just happened to have slept with. I needed to pull myself together.
“Um, yeah. I mean no. No, I’m not looking for anything specific. I don’t usually come in here actually. It’s a bit… I don’t know… mainstream?”
“Oh, alright, Andy Warhol. Which exclusive and private shops do you go to then?”
I laughed. “Behave. It’s just that this place is big. And busy.”
“Oh, God help us! It’s not a bad thing when people like what you like, you know. That means that you have more access to it.”
“It’s not like that.”
He arched an eyebrow and pursed his lips. “No?”
“Alright, it is a bit. I don’t know. It’s just that when everyone knows about a thing, it makes it feel less… special?”
“I suppose. But it’s not like everyone here is buying soul records, look.”
He pushed out his chin in the direction of a middle-aged lady in a tweed suit. “I don’t imagine she’s looking for the latest Motown album, is she?”
“No.” I snorted a laugh.
“But she has every right to be here, buying her…” he stood up on his toes to get a look at the records in her hand. “Marching band classics.”
“Yeah, she does,” I agreed.
“Anyway, why are you in this den of capitalism?”
“Um, I was looking for Alistair.”
Michael’s whole demeanour changed in an instant. He straightened up, and his body stiffened, all traces of humour gone from his face.
“How do you know Alistair?” He sounded strange. His voice was deeper than usual, serious and laced with a hint of anger.
“I don’t.”
His shoulders dropped and his features softened.
“David, who works at Togs, told me he works here and that he knows about soul and stuff. So I came here to find him and ask him if there was anything new in,” I explained.
“He’s not here,” Michael said, his voice cold and his features unreadable.
“How do you know that?”
“Because if he were here, I wouldn’t be.”
“Oh.” What else could I say to that?
“Come on, let’s go and get a drink, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Yeah, Okay. Lead the way.”
For the second time in a month, I found myself following Michael at his command, and I didn’t mind one bit.