Call Me Read online

  I really like those narrow Bike jockstraps too. There’s a shop in Covent Garden which I go into on the weekend for my weekly “fix”. The photo enclosed was taken in Spain recently. I would be grateful if you could return it with your reply. Anyway, I look forward to hearing from you.

  Cheers,

  Tony

  Verdict: On the one hand he sounded a bit naff, on the other there was this image of him canoeing along in the shadow of the Harrow Road which appealed to the romantic in me. A Maybe.

  Black ink on top of the range beige aroused the whore in me. First class stamped addressed envelope plus a ten-unit phone card enclosed.

  ––––––.

  –, ––––––Avenue,

  South Harrow

  0181 422 ––

  Dear Bike Boy,

  Your advertisement in Boyz has certainly struck a chord in this committed mountain bikist. Although 52 I’m passionate for everything to do with them and believe your form of dress to be the only civilised one!

  Do come and see me as soon as poss’. Tel: 0181 422 ––. (As above.)

  I’ve lots of other interests too: music, photography, videos etc. I commute to London daily on my Muddy Fox Monarch or my Saracen, (improved!). I travel to and from Hong Kong a lot on business.

  I’ve been thinking about you ever since a friend rang, informing me of the ad. It’s a fabulous advertisement, you make yourself sound perfect.

  I hope to hear from you soon, you delicious horny devil!

  Greetings,

  Phu Mok

  PS Garden is big.

  Verdict: Yes. I fancied seeing the garden.

  The glossy colour photograph might have been the Bike Boy I’d imagined when writing the ad. A Stephen from Richmond, standing alongside his Saracen in full gear, displaying thick muscled legs and small hips. Though suffering from an unfortunate hairdo, perhaps betraying a leaning towards heavy metal, he managed a smile, bottom lip glistening in the sun. Two silver chains in a tangle around his neck. Quite a cock, judging by the shiny contours of his cycle shorts. Untidy writing on paper which bore the imprint of a previous, longer letter. Enclosed, a second class envelope.

  –B, –––– Avenue,

  Richmond.

  0181 940 ––

  Dear Bike Boy,

  I am writing to you because of our similar interests.

  I am also into skin shorts, lycra, smooth muscular legs, horny action.

  I am quite a keen cyclist as well!

  I train a lot when weather permits so I am reasonably fit.

  I am 23 years, 5′ 11″, slim built.

  It would be nice if you replied, you can phone me in the evenings and I enclose an SAE.

  I hope to hear from you soon, one way or another.

  (Sorry about the writing.)

  Stephen.

  PS Photo was taken one year ago. My hair’s a lot shorter now.

  Verdict: Yes. A safe enough start, I thought. He turned out to be the first person I called.

  Oh, there were more; page after page, life after life. Letters scented with risk and the rawness of possibility. Invariably these absolute strangers wanted to do those four-lettered verbs: lick, suck, bite, fuck, wank, chew, kiss and—in the case of Charles from Brockley—draw Bike Boy. I decided to deal with a few, do some phone tests—maybe meet one or two. The cheap little cartoon gay slag/Adonis I’d invented had become the object of much frenzied nocturnal contemplation.

  I could picture them busy behind piles of stationery, with chequebooks and postal orders at the ready. Folding replies neatly, tucking snapshots in carefully. Paper clipping, stapling, moistening stamps, pressing down, licking envelopes, sealing themselves in.

  Ages ranged from the sixteen-year-old schoolboy (was that to be believed?) to a fifty-six-year-old barrister’s clerk recovering from a heart by-pass op’. A medical student from SE17, leaning back against a radiator—jeans around his ankles—had a particularly nasty spot of ringworm, guess where. A solicitor from Parsons Green sent three used, cellophane-wrapped tissues for me to sniff.

  All kinds of names for all kinds of games. Photos of men in rubber, leather, baths, showers, not forgetting Anthony Beckett in Seville. A newsagent from Birmingham, an acupuncturist over in Hammersmith, a bored school teacher in Nepal, a curly-haired hypnotist and an Anglican priest. Holy cock. All felt like pawns for me to control as I wished.

  I thought graphology was a pile of shite until the fan mail started. The slant, slope, pressure, spacing, choice of pen—all gave an impression. Even the final signature to a word-processed piece held a message as it diminished into threadlike strokes or pierced the page with fierce triangular loops and stabbing “i” dots.

  Few were genuine friendship seekers, but then the ad was of the raunchy variety. I neither liked nor disliked these needy characters, all after a spot of reasonably safe sex at little expense. What remote feeling I did have might be likened to the dispassion with which non-animal lovers view cats and dogs.

  Tearing the corners off the stamped-addressed envelopes, I soaked them in a small bowl of warm water. With a dab of Pritt Stick, they could be recycled.

  * * *

  I’d never had a problem with my Yamaha. I kept it dry, cool and dust free, cleaning the exterior with a soft cloth. It had never been jolted or dropped. I took the greatest of care when plugging cords into the rear panel jacks, as excessive force can damage the terminals.

  I knew it was going to rain, I could feel it in the air, cumulonimbus clouds approaching eastwards.

  My Yamaha looked so black against the fresh whiteness of the balcony door, venetian blinds angled just so to protect it from the early morning sun. All numbers and symbols on the buttons of the VOICE/STYLE group had faded away from wear long ago, its only imperfection. The stereo headphones were always plugged in; I’d only used the internal speaker system once and I didn’t like it. The internal circuitry featured a maximum polyphony of twenty eight notes which could be played simultaneously, with extra notes when the automatic accompaniment, split, or duel voice features were used. I’d never used more than ten notes in any of my home recordings.

  The PSR 300 had touch response—that is, the volume of the sound could to a certain degree be controlled by how hard you played the keys. I preferred sliding the master volume control right up to a position which would win over the Goswell Road. That day I didn’t slide the volume up too high. I wanted to hear the rain when it fell. Even with the headphones on I could hear background sound like white noise. I hoped for thunder.

  When I pressed the SUSTAIN button, the indicator lit up welcomingly. I selected the fretless bass sound, then improvised on the lower end of the keyboard. Sounds decayed gradually as my fingers lifted from the keys. I liked the way the notes hummed and slurred. The SUSTAIN effect could not be applied to accompaniment or rhythm, which was a shame. I always imagined the drums treated. Unfortunately the SUSTAIN effect didn’t sound as deep as usual when it was used during accompaniment.

  When I heard thunder I opened the door, emptying out paid-for heat to smell rain on cold wet concrete. Pulse slow, I stood steady and cold against the wind, in awe of the day. My hanging arms, limp and heavy, conducted a low dull tune in my head. A cigarette tossed from the balcony would have have gone out before reaching the ground.

  I like the rain in cities, angled in headlights, backlit by advertising and silly windows, raindrops like long silver needles. I saw a woman running for the number 4 bus, handbag on head, left hand holding her wet skirt away from her body so it wouldn’t cling. The bus made a rare exception, pulling up fifteen yards or so from the stop and I smiled and shivered as she looked for loose change.

  When it rains I like to think of rivulets refreshing bugs under logs, stones and pebbles, sinking down to roots … dragging Kentucky Fried Chicken packaging and shit down efficient drains.

  I’d sat down again by the time the woman would have reached The Angel. I searched through my favourite sounds for someth
ing suited to my mood: synth piano, synth strings, cello. FANTASY 1 AND 2 were particular favourites back then. The rhythms I used most often were NEW JACK SWING and EURO BEAT. Awful names. I usually set the tempo, ranged from 40-240 beats per minute, to low. Nice and slow. It was a rare occasion when I didn’t use the out jack to deliver the output to the tape recorder in my stereo.

  I’d never had a problem with my Yamaha, not once.

  * * *

  The merry-go-round of insincerity started off with phone calls, exploratory dialogue.

  “He’s not up yet but I’ll give him a shout. Hold on,” said Stephen’s mother.

  A bell-ringing budgie could be heard in the background, talking rubbish.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi.” (Pause) “This is…” (Slightest pause) “… Bike Boy.” I hadn’t suffered a three year teacher-training course, specialising in drama, without some gains.

  “Oh, hi! Sorry. Just woken up and I’m still half asleep.” Over the next few minutes his groggy voice would steadily climb the scale in camp. “What kind of bike have you got?”

  “A Rock Hopper Comp. Cantilever brakes, thick knobby Cannibal tyres and all the gear from Avis in Clerkenwell.”

  “Oh, I know the shop. You’ve got a lovely voice, really … Oh, hold on.”

  Mother was on the prowl. “Sorry. You still there?”

  “Yep.”

  “You went all quiet.”

  I took the direct approach: “So, want to meet up? Any suggestions?”

  “Do you go to any of the places on Old Compton Street?”

  “Not if I can help it. You’re in Richmond. Kew Gardens is near. We could meet by the main gates.”

  “What if it’s raining? And in the gear?”

  “If it rains, Stephen, we get wet.”

  Then he did it for the first time. His squishy titter. Gluey bubbles of fluid forced and sucked through clenched teeth.

  “Well,” I continued, “can you think of an alternative?”

  During a silence in which I imagined him enjoying long masturbatory sessions with the aid of three mirrors whenever his mother was out, Stephen’s brain ticked over.

  “No, that’ll be fine. Just hope the weather’s good.”

  “Okay. Let’s say Friday then. Good Friday. Main gates at noon. There’s just one thing though Stephen.”

  (Quickly/anxious/interested) “Yeah?”

  (GBH manner) “I’ll only wait till a quarter past. If you’re more than fifteen minutes late I’ll assume you’ve chickened out and I’ll be off.”

  Felt I was botching it up. But he was loving it, he told me so when we met up. Again he laughed. That breathy, soppy-mouthed short inhaling-exhaling gasping laugh.

  “Hey,” he said, shifting gear. “What are you, kind of, you know … into?”

  “Well Stephen, since you ask, I’m an apprentice serial killer. I’m hoping you’re going to help me get started with the most historic statistic. One of my new year’s resolutions was to kill a human being.”

  That laugh. Squelch, squelch, squelch. Maybe he hadn’t heard of Colin Ireland’s realised dream.

  “Noon then,” he agreed, smiling. “Come rain or shine.”

  “Come rain or shine, Stephen.”

  I terminated, pressing a finger down hard. He didn’t even know my name. (This is normal.)

  * * *

  Lifting the finger I dialled my next potential victim. 0181-422 ——, Phu Mok in South Harrow. The phone rang for ages before being picked up. The cockney accent came as a shock, I thought I had the wrong number for a minute.

  “’Ello?”

  “Phu?”

  “Just a sec.”

  The phone was picked up a minute later. At the other end I could hear someone breathing. Nothing was said.

  “Mr Mok?”

  “Speaking.”

  An aged yet sparkling voice with more of an American accent than Chinese.

  “Hi.” (Pause) “This is…” (Slightest pause) “… Bike Boy.” “Well! Hello. Thank you so very much for calling,” said almost gasping, another one at it. “How nice. Er, when can we meet up?” (Keen.) “I am so looking forward to seeing you.” (Very keen.) “I’m so pleased to hear your voice. I really am. When can you come over?” (Desperate.)

  He sounded like lots of money.

  “When do you suggest, Mr Mok?”

  “Right now would be lovely. Would you? Could you?”

  Did he think I was a new recruit at his usual escort service?

  “Oh, I’m probably rushing you. Forgive me. Um … maybe I should think of a time when we could … you know…”

  “How about tea-time on Good Friday?”

  Having dispensed with one cycle fetishist I could travel north for a little light refreshment, meeting another.

  “Good Friday, yes. Now that would put the Good in it. I’ll be in all day. All day. It’s so nice to hear your young voice. It really is. So many of these advertisers are timewasters, you know. Yes, I’m so looking forward to seeing you.”

  “In my shiny black skin-tight cycle shorts.”

  “Oh, you sweet monster, yes! I’m so looking forward to the vision of you. Shall we say fourish then … and what do I call you? Love you calling me Mr Mok. It’s so very…”

  I knew exactly what it was and the effect it was having.

  “Call me…” (slightest pause, continuing in a whisper) “… call me Bike Boy.”

  “Actually I really like that, it’s so…”

  I knew exactly what it was, cheap and instant.

  “Got a pen? I’ll give you my address. No, silly me. You have it, of course. Well, let me give you directions then.”

  “Save the dictation, Mr Mok. I have an A-Z.”

  “Oh, you do sound like a cheeky chap! I am so looking forward to meeting you. You sound like quite a handful!”

  “Fantasies become reality on Good Friday at four.”

  Again I terminated.

  * * *

  They were all so keen to meet Bike Boy. Leading the way, they followed so easily. Any questions asked of me were teasingly deflected. All that mattered was that I came across as a sane, semi-erect, genuine and discreet large penis owner with nothing infectious to worry about. It was like making arrangements for someone else. Not myself.

  Jack in Hampstead, an architect with a faintly Scottish accent, anarchic sense of humour and occasional smoker’s cough, was fixed in the diary for Bank Holiday Monday. His place, four. I’d decided I would probably go ahead and have some sort of sexual experience. Allan, supposedly sixteen, was eating toast when I phoned. He was slotted in for the Tuesday, by the Peter Pan statue in Kensington Park Gardens. That was enough to be getting on with, easy as ordering pizza. Phoning the others from the Yes and Maybe selections, I said I was off on a week’s cycling tour of Devon and would contact them upon my return. They loved the idea of Bike Boy braving the elements, alone in a tent by the sea. Boy Scout appeal. I had a long chat with Charles of Brockley. Bike Boy was to have his portrait done. I didn’t know what to wear.

  It was time to acquire a whole new skin, time to go shopping.

  Morning

  The downward-looking me knew that shopping was not enough: there were so many disparities between that reflection in the dusty upturned changing room mirror and the smiling Campagnolo team in the poster taped to the back of the door. Sharp, defined, glowing, with shining smooth legs glistening in the sunlight, they were a total contrast to me in that tiny cubicle in the basement of the Clerkenwell Road cycle shop that stank of damp and oil.

  Unlike the cycle racing team in the Ever-Ready vests, I had shoulder-length hair, worn loose that day, plus horribly hairy arms and legs. I looked heavy, weighed down and uncomfortable. To make the transformation into fantasy Bike Boy I had to do much more than shop.

  My bike was spot on. I’d bought it from the same place only weeks before on a day I vowed never to use London Transport again. Selecting the right cycle shorts took longer than choosing
the maximum protection Oakley “M Frames”; the leather-palmed fingerless gloves; the sky-blue Giro helmet; the black baseball cap; the white Sidi socks (which hardly covered my ankles) and the black and blue Sidi Dominator shoes complete with ratchet straps. I tried on nine pairs of shorts in all, like some sort of pedantic fetishist. Eventually I got a perfect fit, like they were made for me: 80% Poliamide, 20% Elastan, made in Italy. Gorgeous.

  I didn’t like the tops. They all looked too much with the shorts, like a uniform. I chose a silver-grey racing vest from a bargain box, purely because the rayon sheen was like lightning. There wasn’t much in the line of cotton but I wasn’t worried. I had an idea at the back of my mind.

  Funnily enough, it was while hooking up a new water bottle to the bike frame that I felt the first step into character. I could imagine sunlight, heat, summer thirst; light glinting off my glasses as I swallowed noisily, watched by someone, somewhere, some time in the near future.

  In the shop I absorbed new information like an actor going through the Stanislavskian approach. Gears by Shimano, Japanese. A Flite saddle. I’d chosen a larger than average frame, 23″, got myself a ‘D’ lock—before I’d just thought of it as a big black thing that was a bugger to get the knack of. I could name-drop. I’d acquired sexy smokescreen language.

  The large wrap-around Oakley glasses had the effect of a black mask. When I put them on I kind of blanked. I liked the feeling.

  Afternoon

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. Elvis looked his best then, you’re right. So, a number two at the back, tapering up to a three here, longer on top, bit longer than a flat-top, even longer at the front, like so. And the sideburns to … here? Right. I’ll just get you washed.”

  Rox was an Old Compton Street poof parlour where Soho habitués used to get their regimented looks crafted. It was my first haircut in three years. I wanted to look like Elvis when he joined the army, a tall order. Shaun, a black guy, Irish name and ginger dreadlocks, suggested a surplus of oil to give it a sheen once the clipping and fussing had finished.