Chapter 57
Sunny
In a bid to cheer me up after the shittiest day of my life, the Brent Boys descended on Crucifix in Vauxhall—a twenty-four-seven homosexual meat market.
The club lights were pulsing in time with the banging beats.
The dance floor was a sweaty mass of shirtless, muscular, hairy men.
Some bald, some with beards, some sweating their faces off in puppy masks.
A couple of blokes beside us were making out, hands groping at flesh, boners stretching against tiny pleather shorts.
“But why are you leaving?” Dav said, shouting to be heard over the thumping bass. “Bit of a knee-jerk reaction, isn’t it? Why not stick around and try some of the other papers?”
“Or TV,” Petey added. “You’ve got a good face for TV, bruv. I’ve always said that. Believe.”
“Would you employ someone who was sacked by the Bulletin for unethical behaviour?”
Stavros returned from the bar, fingers stretched around the base of four plastic cups, the liquid in each swirling and lapping and spilling.
“Thanks for the help, boys.” Such sarcasm. We each grabbed a cup.
“What am I, chopped liver?” Nick rolled into a clear space to join the group, plucked a cup from between his legs, and handed it to Dav. We cheersed.
“I just can’t believe you’re choosing to go back to Leicester,” Dav said. “We spent our entire lives trying to get out of there.”
“At least you can take the people there at their word.”
“Yeah,” Dav said. “If they say they’re going to lamp you, they lamp you.”
“Let’s just dance,” I said. “I’ve got a train to catch in eight hours.”
* * *
Was it an hour later? Two hours? I don’t know. Time had ceased to mean anything. I was so smashed I’d peeled my T-shirt off and tucked it into my joggers—a skinny, translucent ginger boy among all the muscle Marys and leather bears.
“Here we go, lads!” Petey said, adding a “whoop, whoop” and a finger point. I grabbed his hand and dragged him towards the mysterious black vinyl curtain that led to the dark room.
“No, no, no. You’re not going in there. Are you even on PrEP, babes?” Petey said.
I marched on in. Inside it was inky black. The music pulsed through from the dance floor, but the sound was deadened, muffled. I blinked while my eyes adjusted.
“Seriously, though?” Petey said.
I looked at him, smiled, squeezed his hand, and let it go. I knocked back the last of my drink and threw the cup on the floor. A swarm of men huddled in front of me came into focus, their flesh a mass of swaying and writhing. I walked slowly over towards them, my legs feeling heavy, my brain foggy.
At the centre of the crowd of men, a muscled lad with a horse cock was getting a blow job from yet another guy in a mask pretending to be a dog.
Did the RSPCA know about these people? I felt a hand on my arse, looked around, and followed the arm up to a shirtless guy with thick stubble and black curls that were slick with sweat.
They tumbled across his face, and an image flashed into my mind: me trying to push Ludo’s ungovernable curls behind his ears, his blue eyes looking tenderly into mine.
The hand on my arse worked its way up to the back of my neck, and I realised I was staring into the brown eyes of the man whose hand was on me.
He glanced down at his cock, which, I hadn’t realised, was hard, in his other hand, and leaking.
His hand on my neck gripped tighter, the pressure an attempt to coax me to my knees.
I was wasted. I was hurting. I thought this was what I wanted. Confronted with it, however, it was the last thing I wanted. I shook my head, expecting the lad to be pissed off. My hands tightened into fists, ready to square up to him if I had to.
As it happened, he pulled a sad face, removed his hand, and whispered into my ear, “It’s a shame, because you’re very beautiful.
” His accent was Spanish, I think. Wherever he came from, he understood consent.
I thanked him, said goodbye, and went to sit down on the edge of a nearby box.
Before my bum could touch the surface, a hand grabbed my arm.
“For Christ’s sake, don’t sit down in here,” Petey said. “God knows what you’ll sit in. You can catch super-gonorrhoea from the handrails, babes. Believe.” He yanked me up to my feet.
“I don’t feel well,” I said.
“OK, soldier. I think it’s time we took you home.”
I nodded. When Petey Boy was calling time on a night out, it was definitely time to go home.
It was time to go home, full stop.