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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Without Ray

  Abuser Friendly

  Absolutely

  A-Z Understanding the Terms

  Stonewall Inn Editions

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Michael Cashmore

  1958-1971

  WITHOUT RAY

  The barboy had skin still tanned from weeks on a beach all by himself. Ivory toenails, perfect fingernails, prepared for compliments. A handsome, sharply groomed, gym-trained young man who gave off a whiff of ‘the game’. Very Euro Boy. Security Sex Style .

  Village was one of those Soho faggot bars that went to town pretending to be laid-back in a New Age kind of way. Lots of varnished wood, stainless steel and lighting you wouldn’t notice. Very Amsterdam. The colour scheme was suited to a multi-ethnic reception class.

  I had spent the past two weeks decorating my flat, and was feeling fragile. Painting the walls therapeutic colours, Clearly Pink in the bedroom, bathroom and hall, Sweet Apricot in the living-room and kitchen, had ground me down—even though the paint spread with a lovely thickness. Ray had been there to help the last time.

  My hands were dried out, there was Polyfilla under the nails and deep in the cuticles. I was exhausted but knew that every last job had been done and when I returned with fruit from Berwick Street I’d soak in the bath before working on my body. It was a comfort to be wearing clean clothes, even though they were Ray’s. I fancied a drink, but when the barboy cocked his ear to my mouth I asked for a peppermint tea. A tea-bag was flung into a stained stainless steel teapot desperately needing an overnight soak in bleach.

  It was shortly after four, the place had only just opened for business. The music was on low. Without it, the only sound would have been the swallowing of adam’s apples and the creaking of necks as heads swivelled in synchrony, following the progress of anything TBH. Village: an unlikely place to have met a real blokish bloke.

  An anonymous sexual compulsive in search of a fresh face, a new body—some magical quality to feel complete—fixed his sad eyes on me. In hopeful anticipation, he sat up, leaning slightly forward like a proud little boy on his potty, smiling my way as I fixed on the surely-bad-for-business state of the teaspoon slung alongside my cup. The state of anticipation he was trapped in was exhausting the poor soul. He’d perfected that wanna-suck-you-right-this-minute look with years of practice, it was flashing across his forehead more garishly than the neon of Ginza.

  As Madonna finished singing about the mystery of life he removed his glasses gingerly, from one ear at a time, staring hard at me. Gently massaging the sore and reddened hollows at the side of his nose, he began to gobble up every curve in my boil-washed Levi’s.

  I looked away. I wasn’t happy with my reflection in the perfect silver disc, a downward-looking me. The special-offer sticker had left a smudge on the case. The CD failed to fill me with the excitement of vinyl; the cover photo of Morrissey seemed so small and there was no shiny new smell. Replacing my record collection was proving a costly process.

  The distraction failed. When I looked up he was still staring, glass in hand, tapping a tired foot along to simple thudding computer pop courtesy of The Pet Shop Boys. I prayed he’d soon be hovering up and down Old Compton Street, in and out of pubs and bookshops, stumbling on his way to the attractions of toilets, car parks, cemeteries, cellars, saunas and places of wild natural beauty all in the name of a bit of fun; seeking the mirage of an orgasm.

  If he had a job I’m sure there was a pattern to his excessive absenteeism. Fridays: starting the fun early. Mondays: recovering, home alone in Wembley Park or Stockwell feeling ugly, disgusting and unlovable. A headache after so much amyl and the bother of Canesten applications to that lengthy foreskin rubbed raw. The boot-licking, piss-drinking, finger-frigging, tit-tweaking, love-biting, arse-licking, shit-stabbing, mother-fucking, spunk-loving, ball-busting, cock-sucking, fist-fucking, lip-smacking, thirst-quenching, cool-living, ever-giving useless man.

  I could have been wrong about him. Could have been wrong about the barboy on the beach all by himself and the occasional vocational calling of his colleagues—I tend to think the worst of people. I’m full of simpleton assumptions, that’s just the way the good Lord made me. Often cruel, cold and lacking in humanity. (“Sneery, superior gay men are probably my least favourite type,” a features editor once exhaled at me over a light-box, “even if they are really very nice people underneath.”) Maybe he was just killing time, awaiting the approaching hour of his second Twelve Step meeting of the day.

  A delivery of free papers created a little movement in the place. To avoid further eye contact I made for them, then moved into an alcove beyond his line of vision. The Pink Paper, Capital Gay, Boyz and something I hadn’t seen before called Link Up kept my eyes busy as the peppermint tea cooled.

  Avoiding the obituaries in Capital Gay, I made for the back to have my usual laugh at the small ads. Week after week so many people offered themselves up for grabs with their unique selling points. All human life was there, held in those pages, trying to shrug off the stigma of inadequacy and failure. The straw-grabbing opportunities had always held an odd sort of fascination for me. Ever since flicking through my elder sister’s copy of Time Out at the age of thirteen I’d been struck by the touches of poignancy, humour and revealing hints at life’s drama. Week by week those puzzle pieces filled my teenage head with images and mystery that went on to direct and, in a way, destroy my life.

  The abbreviations, once obscure, had become almost universally accepted, as if the vernacular had been absorbed through osmosis. Once contact ads were the exclusive domain of the sexual fringe, the suicidal and homicidal, but times had changed. Now, people who would never have dreamed of responding to ads did so regularly. Everyone has read them at some time or other.

  Videos, massage, coffee … in Camden Town. Young, slim, smooth, professional? Write today. Simon. Box 79.79

  Amputee? Couple seek amputee friends. Nothing heavy. You probably wouldn’t normally reply to ads. How about now? ALA. Box 81.53

  Double bed has only one partner, 35 yo, hairy chested, fit. Into lycra, jocks, pillow fights and more. Shirtless photo helps. No fats, fems or Maria Callas fans. Box 73.49

  Mud-soaked footballer seeks fit, slim, straight-acting guys up to 30 to score with. Do you secretly enjoy getting muddy in football shorts? Playing on swamp-like pitches essential. Non-scene preferred. London only. Box 87.58

  RUA Big Boy? Me, gorgeous looks, smooth muscular body, 25. You: WE, active. Size guarantees reply. Box 83.48

  American Serviceman, stationed over here. Do you want a discreet friend (30s) on South Coast? (Non smoker. Black/white.) Photo. Box 78.41

  Millionaire wanted, 50+, by Dale. (Tall, passive, 19 yo.) Straightlooking + acting. GSOH, loving, loyal and gorgeous for eternal 1-1. Box 83.55

  Formal reprimand available from youngish authority figure. Appropriate dress: smart business suit, tie, white shirt. Inexperienced welcome. Discretion assured. ALAWP. Norwich. Box 80.90

  Until that moment I’d never thought of answering a personal ad, never mind placing one. Maybe it was because the week’s selection was so dull that I was almost prompted to say aloud: I could do better than that! This set me thinking. It would be intriguing to see the replies, what people said and how they said it. I was curious to see the stationery, the photograp
hs, the handwriting … the spelling even. I wanted to see their fantasies. I wasn’t searching for love—I’d stopped being boyfriend-orientated with a jolt three years back. Definitely free from that shackle of hope. I was in the mood for some good, dirty, voyeuristic fun. That’s all.

  Although familiar with the ads, I’d never looked into the mechanics of it all. I hadn’t realised it was so cheap to advertise; just three pounds for a box number open for a month, and up to twenty words, every word thereafter costing fifty pence. The arrangement was more or less the same in The Pink Paper and Link Up. Boyz was way ahead of the rest on categorisation: ‘One to One, Pen Pals, Professional Men, Boots and Braces, Locker Room, Leather, Firm Hand, DIY’ and several other sections to sadden many a mother. At that time of instability in my life it was free to advertise in Boyz, maximum thirty words. People responding to bait laid paid one pound fifty to reply to a single ad, or five pounds for four. Scanning the pages, absorbing the ads in a new way, the ball began to roll.

  Gay prisoner, good looking, straight-acting, seeks contacts. It’s a lonely life, I need cheering up. Any age will do. Curious? Get writing! Photo please. ALA with SAE. Box PP2006

  Group fun your scene? Sunday afternoons come alive just north of M25! (20 mins Kings Cross.) Photo gets reply. Box DIY3801

  Pretty boy, 18+, unwashed in dirty underpants, sought by attractive uncle, 40. Raunchy safe fun, poppers, toys, videos. Expenses. ALAWP. Box SP351

  Jewish Y-fronts enthusiast WLTM discreet non scene young guy (18-35) wearing white Y-fronts. ALA. London/Anywhere. Uncut welcome! Box LR3139

  Scottish guy, new to London and lonely, looking for cool mate to hang out with, club with. Also: concerts, museums, discovering London’s parks. Friendship first. Box 003739

  Steve. Horny blond boy, 20, seeks beautiful sexy lads in frocks for divine London romance. Photo? Box 003783

  Nappies? Plastic pants? Sounds exciting? 28 years old. Box PP 5041

  Rubber Alien. Completely concealed inside heavy-duty black frogman’s suit and full head mask seeks fellow aliens into similar gear to explore magic of total coverage. Bournemouth/Anywhere. Box NS3096

  Distracted by the arrival of a gang of fellow disco sodomites making a Big Entrance replete with tasteful tattoos, jolly piercings and jism-spattered combats (dressing up as men but totally Nelly in that khaki drag), screaming their blissed-out tits off and almost losing their gum in the process (a little bit Dean, a little bit Cruise), boys who measure their pleasure in beats per minute but still share their ol’ mum’s taste in music, boys with heads for business and bods for sin, (stripping off their D&G an’ Arsenal away strips at the drop of a clapper-board), boys who just wanna have fun fun fun—goatee beards and sheep mentality—nothing like a little bit of empty-headed hedonism, eh?… but, oh … shouldn’t queerbash the sweethearts or plagiarise the odd fag hack with a big nose who knows … When my eyes went back to the page before me, I focussed on a grouping of 0898+ titles in the XXX rated American Style phone sex section howling in chorus just to the left of a selection in lavish italics entitled Specials: Intercity Sex, Toilet Trio, Hole Sucking Slave, Hung Like A Donkey, just to the right of a block boasting Active: Building Site Erections, Young And Easy, Sauna Room Sex, Shoot Over My Face, just above a collection teasing with Hot Sex Only: Skin-Tight Jeans, Prxxks On Parade, Inflatory Bum Stretcher, and just below the whispered Non-Scene South: City Cottage Cruising, Don’t Tell My Wife, Cross Dress And Confess. Alongside each title sat a six digit sex code number in neat double sets of three.

  The grouping of titles that really caught my eye came under Lycra: Sportswear, Bulging Pants/Bulging Weapon, Boys On Bikes, Thick Muscular Legs/Thick Muscled Meat. I’d only bought my mountain bike a few weeks before this, so Boys On Bikes had a certain appeal. Sure, the titles were real dial-a-cliché but better designed to provoke a reaction than the contact ads. My eyes scanned, intent.

  Bouncing heavily on the springboard of fantasy, I thought I’d paint a horny picture to turn them on out there. I decided it should be very visual, thirty dirty words reading more like a phone-sex line description than a personal ad. With just a little browsing through the queer image bank I was ready. From the moment my ball point touched the paper serviette I’d entered the arena. Lopping four years off my age and pouring myself into a pair of cycle shorts I didn’t possess, I wrote the ad all in one go.

  Bike Boy: delicious derrière under shiny black skin-tight cycle shorts. (Long smooth muscular legs. 22/Slim/Safe/WE/Wicked smile.) Horny devil seeking adventure. Any time/Any place/Anywhere. Genuine.

  Genuine my arse. Cycle shorts, lycra: how naff. And how fabulous. The ideal hook for provincial schoolboys and hideous queens.

  Swallowing my tea in gulps, I loaded my pannier with a shove. My admirer gulped down a rear view. Gay love is not blind. He would have recoiled at the sight of a concave chest, double chin or absence of copious bulge in the dong department. He wanted prime, pumped, waxed, tanned, moisturised boy-flesh. A nice bit of muscle drag. No short-dicked man. I gave him a wink and a winning smile as I left, hoping it would make his day, fuel a noisy wank or two.

  * * *

  When I got back to the gloss-stinking flat, I checked the wording, filled in the word-space boxes in capital letters as requested, ticked the ‘No Strings’ box and tucked it in an envelope with a first-class stamp.

  Then I rolled the dustsheets away and removed any lingering drips of pink and apricot paint with a dab of turps on my newly retired Nobody Knows I’m A Lesbian teeshirt. I like things tidy: balanced chequebooks, punctuality, polished shoes lined up under the bed, shoelaces exactly even. Well-maintained graveyards.

  * * *

  Up till then I’d led the average life of the average unhealthy young man. With my camera I froze people, proclaimed ownership over their images, put words into their mouths then sold them to tacky fashion and music magazines. I’d done well for myself, made quite a name for myself. I didn’t care. I was bored.

  Work had become uninspiring and undemanding but not financially unrewarding. Fashion and music in the giddy, topsy-turvy, pervy Nineties: always changing, always moving. Fashions adopted then discarded. Knowledge gained then outdated. Ideas created only to be burned up. At twenty six, the curvaceous rises and falls of the record sales charts no longer gripped me. I no longer wanted my place in that world of mass hypnotism with ever faster pulsing cycles of nostalgia, buzzwords and panty-dampening boy bands with unbroken voices in leather chaps and nipple rings. I didn’t even find Vivienne Westwood funny any more.

  I had some money in the bank, not a lot, but enough to glide by for a while, so I decided to pack my cameras and portfolio away and glide on by—just for a while. Having at long last got the flat into order was my only accomplishment in months. I’d finally boxed away Ray’s bits and pieces; what had once been his flat, then ours, was now all mine. My few friendships were all worn down and Ray’s friends had stopped checking in to see if I was okay. Nobody had a clue about the mood percolating in my seventh floor flat.

  It was as if whole sides of myself were shutting down. Taking life five times slower than the national average, I wasn’t up to much except sleeping. I am a man who has slept years of daylight. The invitations and press passes piled up, then dried up. That’s what happens if you fail to RSVP. Sometimes, for light relief, I’d make popcorn, have a wank or shop at Sainsbury’s for exotic items never sampled before. I was at that stage in my life where a quick read of How To Be A Happy Homosexual might have proved inspirational. I felt I had two options, emigration or suicide.

  * * *

  Waking later and later each day a sadder self arose to make the tea. Eventually I’d manage to be up around eleven, having rarely slept well. Mornings were worst.

  It happened the day after I’d shampooed the carpets in the hope of turning over a new leaf. The overstuffed envelope didn’t fit the letter-box but my plodding, polyester postman wasn’t going to ring, wait and deal with someone, especially someone like m
e. He had a round to get done, letter-boxes to violate. After noisy pushing and shoving it finally landed like an abandoned origami effort. The letterbox let in a chill, smelly breeze which swept into the bathroom, directly opposite the front door.

  The thin, brown stationery tore easily and Bike Boy replies cascaded to the bathroom floor. As with exam results and private letters I sat naked, on the toilet, to read sackfuls of desire, a whole pot pourri of emotions, stamps licked by the psychologically wounded, the emotionally bankrupt and fun seekers. I was to become a receptacle for first impressions to all sorts making life-directing bungee jumps.

  Counting the small envelopes contained within, thirty eight, I felt quite a thrill. I classified the envelopes before opening, stacking the coloured envelopes in one pile, the cheap little crushed envelopes in another, leaving the fine quality Queen’s Velvet sort of stuff to one side. As I read, I sorted the letters into Yes, No and Maybe piles around my feet. I felt like an impartial party sent to observe. Bike Boy had hit the crackpot jackpot.

  A pre-war Remington had typed the first man’s desires. The capitals jumped into the course above on all three sheets of expensive cream coloured Conqueror paper. A first class stamped addressed envelope was optimistically enclosed. Also enclosed was a photograph, taken against a white wall reflecting noon sunlight. His face wore an expression of determination to look good on photographic paper but the overhead light cast shadows which didn’t do any favours. His plain body was dressed sensibly.

  The sample of pubic hair attached to the left of his address, brown to ginger, was crudely attached with a strip of sellotape bearing one clear fingerprint.

  —, —— ——,

  Market Bosworth,

  Nuneaton,

  Warwickshire

  Tel: 01455———

  Hi, handsome Bike Boy—my name’s Michael and as you can see I live in Market Bosworth near Leicester. I see from your ad in BOYZ that you’re “Any place/Anywhere”, so I hope this letter isn’t a complete waste of time.