Street Kid Page 19

  After a further five minutes of this staccato walking up and down, we came face to face. I desperately searched my brain, wondering what to say. Yes, it certainly was a massive first for me.

  “I’m Pam. How long have you been working?” She certainly wasn’t reticent in finding out details.

  “Well...” I felt like the tongue–tied schoolboy I should have been.

  Without further preliminaries, she invited me back to her place. I was like an explorer who’d mislaid his map and was going into the hinterland without any idea of what mysteries might lay in store.

  I burbled and gurgled all my replies to the drenching hail of questions she threw. Because of my stammering, she only managed to extract the vaguest idea of who or what I was.

  On the up side, I discovered a great deal about her. Pam was a lot more forthcoming. She was thirty–five (and looked good for her age) and was married but her violent husband was banged up in clink for “A crime he didn't commit.” He was going to be in there for a very long time. Before he was sent down, his affection for her veered from passionate love making to even more passionate wife beating. He hadn’t been able to sire children. Highly frustrated with life, she now wanted a little excitement. Finding herself attracted to boys, she didn’t bother fighting it. I now realised the lack of both children and husband must have, somehow, become mixed up in her brain. She wanted the two missing things in her life in one, neat package.

  Her flat was functional and clean. She didn’t bother with any of that ‘getting to know you’ rubbish. Immediately, I was ushered into the bedroom. It percolated the smell of perfume – of hairspray – of something, I don’t know what, but it was overpowering.

  She firmly, but gently, pushed me down onto the bed and delighted me by performing a highly erotic striptease for my benefit. It did the trick.

  As she began to undress me, she asked, “Are you still a virgin?”

  “Well, that depends,” I replied.

  “Let me teach you.”

  For the next couple of hours, I was allowed, without any inhibition, to satisfy my curiosity about women. I felt, looked at and explored many of her mysteries. She guided my fumbling fingers and straining penis in such a way that I soon lost any embarrassment I might have felt. I was able to peer, at close quarters, at each of her private areas. Pam was a talented instructor and I was an even more enthusiastic pupil. All my theoretical questions were given practical answers.

  Over the years I have reached the strong conclusion that older women should seduce virtually all young men. In France it’s a fairly acceptable part of growing up but in good, old fashioned, prudish England, we turn up our noses with a smug, ‘holier than thou’, bad smelling sniff. I believe it did me the power of good. If it became acceptable as a regular initiation for our lads, I think it could substantially reduce this country’s divorce rate as well as drastically redefining the Englishman’s reputation as a lousy lover.

  As I walked away from her flat, I remembered the trick I was supposed to have seen. I ran to ‘The Steps’, but there was no sign of him.

  Ian called, “If you're looking for Freddie, you're too late. He's gone off with one of ‘The Temps’ instead.”

  “Shit!”

  “Yep, that’s much the same thing as what he said.”

  There was every chance I’d bump into Freddie again and it wouldn't be too difficult to make amends. A complimentary blowjob should do the trick. And, for once, I would suffer his farting and insults without complaint.

  Over the next few months, Pam and I saw one another on a fairly regular basis. We started to become friends. It was a lot of fun but I soon became restless – bored. Unbeknownst to her, she was unable to fulfil what I desperately wanted from life.

  The end came swiftly. One day we had a small tiff and I used this petty disagreement as an excuse to get away. I know it was unkind of me, but knowing I wanted to follow a different path, it was cruel to be kind. Years later, I saw a film called ‘The Last Picture Show’ and it cut me up as it made me relive much of this unhappy saga. I loved Pam in my own way but I couldn’t give her everything she wanted.

  Over the next few years I saw her with various youths. She refused to acknowledge me and l, with no reason, felt hurt. Was I being jealous of the other boys? No, l was being a selfish bastard.

  Pam had given me more than I realised. She taught me a great deal about women. It helped me, in a very small way, to understand a little of their needs.

  First Love

  Ithen met Peter who managed to gently confuse my reasonably ordered life. He was destined to become my first real, serious love. Once again, Kismet, that one constant in my existence, made itself known. I wasn't doing anything special when he arrived on my scene. We met casually whilst I was walking home from an Art Class. It had been a difficult lesson and I was brooding over some of the seriously valid criticisms I'd received. When lost in thought, I have always tended to travel from A to B without taking too much notice of my surroundings. My journey home took me past a public loo that, as far as action for trade went, was positively Alaska. There were none of the tell–tale inscriptions on the tiled walls and was, for the most part, deserted. A young man was loitering at its entrance.

  In spite of my blinkered journey, habit and instinct forced me to survey any and every public toilet that I passed. Even though I knew the place was unlikely to have anything on offer, each time I walked by, it always received a swift glance. He caught my eye, smiled, and went inside. I did a double take and followed.

  As I entered, he was leaning against a wash basin. He smiled again. There was something pleasantly disturbing about him. He wasn't especially good looking. I estimated he was about seventeen and standing about five–eleven with brown hair and eyes. A thumb nail sketch would probably have given him as being ‘slim and confident’. Even so, to me, there was something about him, which was immensely irresistible. Was it he – or I? So far, I had been with some fairly ugly people. When they pay, you can’t be too choosy but I'd also been with some absolute stunners who could easily have become role models for any man. ‘Farmer Joe’, to name but one. This sweet youth wasn’t anywhere near Farmer Joe’s league, so why was I so intoxicated? We had yet to speak but I was feeling things that I didn’t understand. Quite simply, I had never met anyone like him.

  Finally, after what appeared to be an eternity, he extended a hand. “Peter.”

  “Carl.” Why were we talking in shorthand?

  “Karl, eh?” he repeated. “Hmm. Great name. Reminds me of Karl Marx. Any relation?”

  ‘Enough of the chat,’ I thought, ‘let’s get down to it.’ I unzipped my jeans and produced my fast–growing boyhood. He stared at it in amusement. I had assumed we’d start straight away – after all, it was the way of the world – my world. Obviously, in Peter’s world, it was nothing of the kind.

  He shook his head and told me to “Put it away. Later, perhaps. Let’s go for a bit of a stroll and have a talk.” He wanted to talk?!

  Filled with embarrassment, I made myself decent. What was wrong? Didn’t he fancy me? What was it about me that he didn’t like? Was I losing it?

  “Were you in a hurry to go somewhere, Karl?” he asked.

  “Well, I have to be home fairly soon.”

  “Even so, you've got time for a walk?” It struck me he might have a place and our stroll would end up there.

  I was wrong – again. We simply went for a walk. The snag was; he lived with his parents and, like myself, was an only child. He was sixteen and appeared to have no problem with his sexuality. The only thing that marred him was a slight leaning towards the precious. He was, ever so slightly, camp – but only ever so slightly. Half way through our amble beside the railway lines, we sat down. I noticed we were within sight of the station which had featured so much in my years of puberty. It was all so long ago – an eternity. Was it really only a couple of years since I served various members of my class in that drab waiting room? In the interim, I had liv
ed a lifetime and a half.

  “What are you looking at?” He was following my wrapt gaze.

  “The station.” I couldn’t drag my eyes away from it. Ever since those heady schoolboy games, I’d not set foot in the place.

  “Don't worry. It closes at about nine. There's no one around.”

  Old news, chum. “Really?” I couldn't help smiling.

  “Want to go up there for a while? It’s quiet. We won't be disturbed.” I didn't need a second asking. We clambered over a small wall and made a beeline for the familiar, self–same waiting room.

  What happened in that dark space was so new; it left me utterly disoriented. I didn't have sex with a body – no – for the first time in my life – I actually made love to a person. Peter stirred and opened inside me emotions I didn’t realise existed. It left me confused and more than a little frightened. I suspected what these feelings were. I’d seen and done enough to know something was happening to my emotions that caused me to tremble. And all this from one, brief meeting. I was experiencing love. How could I be capable of such feelings? I never believed it would hit me so completely. Wasn’t I immune? Like any young teenager, I thought, if I fell in love, it would be identical to the romantic novelist’s view. I was fool enough to be convinced by every idealistic word. This was nothing like that. I think it would be impossible to say what it was like. All I knew was – it was different. And that’s what frightened me. So far, my main role model for love and relationships had been my parents. I knew there were other couples who were happy, contented and loving but, even then, I’d only seen the effect after many happy years – not the original flush. Brian’s parents being a case in point.

  Apart from this first rushed encounter with him (it was getting a bit late for me), nothing very intimate ever happened again.

  Over the next couple of weeks, we met regularly. If we went out for a meal, we alternated in paying the bill. This was another first for me. Because we had nowhere to go, we spent most of our time together on our railway bank, sitting and talking. We didn't want to return to the waiting room as it felt too sordid for the emotions we shared. I was supremely happy.

  Peter was, inadvertently, the cause of yet another row between my mother and myself. One evening we were due to go out for a meal but we realised that the timing was cutting the reservation a little fine.

  “Don't worry,” he said, “I’ll call for you.”

  Peter knew where I lived but hadn’t actually been there. I could see no problem in the arrangement. “Good idea.”

  “I’ll be round at about seven. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I hesitated. “There’s something you ought to know. My real name isn’t Carl – it's Steven.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Why?”

  I felt a little foolish. “I use the name ‘Carl’ for my secret life.”

  “Haven't you told your parents?”

  “Good God, no!” My mind raced at the very idea of telling anyone in the family that I was gay. “Does your family know about you?”

  “Told them when I was fourteen.”

  “Fuckin’ ’ell! What did they say?” I couldn't believe it.

  “Not much. What could they say? They’d suspected anyway – so it didn’t come as much of a surprise.”

  “Yes, but fourteen?”

  “Best get it over with, that’s what I say.” He could have been talking about the weather.

  I changed the subject back to my worry, “Anyway, when you call for me, don’t forget, I’m Steven.” He nodded. “And it’s the only time I ever want to hear you use that name. The rest of the time, I’m Carl!”

  He gave a sympathetic frown. “Isn’t it a crying shame you’re forced to play stupid games like this to live your life.” I wholeheartedly agreed – but what could I do?

  As I went out a lot, my mother resented my mixing with people she knew nothing about. It was a complaint she often threw at me. When l told her that a friend would be coming to pick me up, she set about getting her mind ready not to like him.

  The evening came and she instantly became busy in the kitchen. This was for a double purpose. First, she could look out of the window to view him better before he saw her; and second, by being so busy, she could demonstrate what a good mother she was.

  I heard the gate squeak, followed by another from my mother. It was her way of telling me that he’d arrived.

  “Hello, dear. You must be Peter,” I could hear her gushing. I didn’t catch Peter’s reply but it caused her much hilarity. He was off to a good start. I waited for him to be shown into the living room.

  As he entered, my mother followed – all smiles and fawning. She was playing the part of a loving, perfect, if rather possessive mother. Peter, I was pleased to note, had gone to town. He looked radiant. Dressed immaculately in a suit, he exuded confidence, which would have won the hardest of hearts. I almost blew him a kiss. Almost!

  “Steven, here's your little friend.” She used her best ‘put him down’ voice. I cringed. Peter deliberately ignored the patronising remark. Instead, he made a few light comments which forced her to laugh with gay abandon (if you'll forgive the phrase). She was determined to make a good impression whilst making sure he knew his place in the pecking order of the household.

  “Hi, Steve,” he said with a massive smile. He’d remembered the change of name, bless him. “Ready, chum?”

  “You bet.”

  Mother instantly and pointedly went po–faced and told me that Peter would love a cup of coffee before we went out.

  “Would you?” I asked.

  “Um... Not really. We’re late as it is.”

  My mother went all defensive. “Oh?” Her lips pursed in irritation. “Where are you going? Anywhere nice?” She was fishing and her question had an edge that, thankfully, Peter picked up.

  “No,” he answered before I had a chance, “just hanging around with some friends. Come on, Carl, or we’ll be late.”

  It was air cutting with a knife time. Peter, as soon as the ill–fated name left his lips, froze in horror. He looked at me with eyes pleading, ‘Forgive me.’

  After a beautifully calculated pause, my mother quietly hissed – “Carl?” She let another beautifully calculated pause pass. “And who’s this Carl person?”

  I opened and closed my mouth. For once, I didn't have a single excuse.

  Peter faced her. “It’s a joke. I mean to say, don’t you think Steve here, looks like a young Karl Marx?” I could see from her expression that my mother was totally at sea. She was trying to remember who Karl Marx was. One of the Marx Brothers, perhaps? She knew the name but couldn’t place him. “That's how he got the nick–name. Gosh, Steve, didn’t you tell your mum?” Even I wasn’t convinced.

  He was desperately turning somersaults to extricate himself. I could see my mother wasn’t buying a word of it, but she let it pass – for the moment. When I came home, I knew there’d be a game of twenty thousand questions.

  She almost threw us out. “And don’t you be late home!” was her punctuating remark as she firmly banged the door on us. She didn’t want to know any more. This boy, Peter, was plainly on my side. If she couldn’t win his loyalty from me then she lost all interest and gained antagonism.

  “Oh, Carl, I’m so sorry,” Peter cringed as we walked to the bus stop. “It just slipped out.” I refrained from making the obviously crude response and reassured him everything was okay. He believed me – I didn’t. I pictured my mother, looking at the clock and getting herself ready for a fine confrontation. I could see her now, pretending to read a book whilst firing off questions in her casual but persistent way.

  During the evening I was slightly on edge. Peter tried to take my mind off it – but he couldn’t. I wasn’t being good company and he frantically tried to make up for his gaffe. His constant requests for forgiveness began to irritate.

  Later that night, when I alighted from the bus, Peter, who was travelling further on, wished me luck.

  As I w
alked into the living room, my mother didn’t wait for her usual unpleasantries. She started straight in. Whilst reading her ubiquitous book, she did her finest Torquemada impersonation. I stuck to the story Peter had invented. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t break it. She became ever angrier. Finally, I was dismissed to my room.

  I didn’t get another word from her for a week. There were lots of fierce looks and significant bouts of thrashing around in the kitchen, but no direct acknowledgement.

  After the week had passed when she had decided I’d been punished enough, I asked her opinion of Peter. Will I never learn? She turned the corners of her mouth down and in her best condescending voice proclaimed, “Well, if you ask me, he looks a bit of a bum–boy.”

  I was furious – but what could l say? Nothing! It would have been too risky. I might give too much away. She would never have let me proclaim my love in my own way. I wouldn’t have been allowed the time to tell her everything. The safe way out of my dilemma was to invent a multitude of girlfriends for Peter. I decided to take this cowardly angle through expediency – it was safer. I felt like an apostate. Even with all my protestations, she refused to entertain such a notion. She had labelled Peter ‘a bum–boy’, and so, to her, he would remain. The fact that she was offensively correct didn’t help matters.

  After this little encounter, I vowed never to take any more of my ‘friends’ home. For many years, I managed to keep this vow. Once or twice, in the street, she stumbled upon me, talking with other friends. I always introduced her but ‘bum–boy’ comments always fell from her lips as soon as she felt free to drop them. Even my straight acquaintances were pushed under the same blanket. This offensive branding of each of my friends had become a catchphrase. She even made a point of telling her cronies in front of my face so I could be belittled. Though I still hated the man, I began to understand a little of what my father had gone through.