Street Kid Page 22

  I have never got over what I did to him. I was too young to commit myself to a regular relationship. He wanted something I wasn’t prepared to give – my complete self.

  The Clinic

  Then, for the first time, I caught the clap. Considering how much I’d done, how often and with so many, I thought I had been fairly lucky.

  The knowledge that something was wrong came about an hour after I had seen a client. There was a strange feeling in the tip of my penis. I put it down to the strain and thought no more about it – but not for long. Within a couple of days this unpleasant sensation didn’t go away – in fact, it was getting worse. I suspected what the cause was but, foolishly, believed that if I ignored it then somehow, it would magically go away of its own accord. Naturally, it didn’t. Straight away, I stopped working the racks. Then, after another couple of days had passed, it began to hurt when I urinated. A nasty deposit was secreting from the end of my cock and marked my underpants. My mother began to notice that they weren’t as spotless as she usually demanded. She advised me to go to the doctor. I don’t think she realised what my possible problem might be and, even after it was all sorted out, never mentioned it again. It was, after all, to do with ‘naughty bits’ of the body and, as such, unseemly to be discussed.

  The time had come to seek the advice of an expert. Our rather ancient family doctor was a non–starter, so where was I to go? It was obvious.

  Full of apprehension and embarrassment, I made a special trip to the centre of town to confide in my old mate, Andy. I found him decorating ‘The Steps’.

  “Andy?”

  He took one look at my worried face. “Let’s get away for a bit. I fancy a quick leg stretch.”

  After a few false starts, I blurted out my problem.

  His first reaction was surprise. Like me, he was surprised I hadn’t caught it before. Then, bless him, he laughed away all my fears and, by dismissing them so lightly, put everything into sharp perspective. I began to cheer up a little.

  “Come on,” he winked, “let’s get you to The Clinic.”

  “Clinic?” It sounded decidedly ominous. “Now?”

  “Soonest visited – soonest cured!”

  Before I had time to get anxious, Andy whisked off a reluctant youth to the local ‘Clap Club’.

  All the way there, he assured me that, apart from the very first contact, my name wouldn’t be used again. In fact, if I so wished, I could take a nom de plume. From then on I would be given a number and that would remain my identity throughout the whole healing process. Contrary to my usual desire to be seen as an individual, this anonymity appeared highly attractive.

  “They don’t give a shit who you are or what you’ve done. All they’re interested in is getting you fixed.”

  “Fixed?” Jesus, he made it sound as though I was about to be castrated.

  “You know what I mean!” he laughed.

  Before ascending the steps, I looked up and down the road – knowing my luck, this would be the one moment when half the members of my vast family would be passing by on a shopping trip. I saw no one familiar. Andy had a last minute booking so, after giving a final booster pep talk and reassuring grin, left me to my fate. As he walked away, Andy yelled, “Give my good wishes to Doctor Jacobs!”

  I entered this New World completely alone. Strangely, because of Andy’s many words of comfort, I didn’t mind in the slightest. I felt empowered to overcome whatever trial I might have to face.

  After the preliminary interview with a nurse who, guaranteeing me that any information would be treated as highly confidential, asked nothing more than my name and address. I was given a small card with my expected number identification stamped on it. There was no indication on the card as to what the number related. I half expected it to have ‘V. D. CLINIC’ emblazoned all over the bloody thing. But Andy had been right. From that moment on I was known as this one letter and four digits.

  Although the nurses ignored the fact that I was very young, I did get some strange looks from the other patients who were waiting their turn.

  When my number was called, I was directed into a small cubicle where a handsome young male doctor was to give a preliminary examination. When he saw me, we exchanged that infamous eye lock but, other than that moment of mutual recognition, he didn’t bat an eyelid. All he saw was an exceedingly nervous adolescent with a medical problem. With broad smiles and inoffensively lewd, gay banter and backchat, he put me at ease. Before he did anything, he carefully explained precisely what the procedure was and why. When he reached forward to take hold of my penis, he gave it a friendly flick to show that there was nothing to be self–conscious over or ashamed about. I wasn’t naturally reserved about my private parts but this was a very different kettle of fish. He gave me a phial and asked me to relieve myself into it. As he took a sample of the discharge from the tip of my penis with a swab, he made remarks like; “Well, I wonder how many willing bodies this has been stuffed into?” and, “If I had a pound for every cock I’d had to manipulate, I wouldn’t need to do this fucking job.” He joked about my age but in a very gentle way and certainly gave no indication that he was being judgmental. To him, I was suffering from a medical condition and his job was merely to cure it. Months later we met again in an underground gay club. We talked and I went back to his place. I happily gave him a freebee because he had been so good at putting me at my ease.

  After waiting for a small eternity, the preliminary results came back from the lab. Yes, I had gonorrhoea. My friendly doctor gave me a jab in my rear. He also told me not to have sex for at least a fortnight (!) and to stay off alcohol. Next, he informed me that I would have to see the resident social worker. Although he laughed, I didn’t like the knowing look he gave. I didn’t realise it but I was about to receive the only jolt throughout my whole ordeal.

  He’d directed me down a long, dark corridor and told me to knock on the door labelled ‘Virginia Gladly (Miss)’. I smiled, as it reminded me of the sort of name Charles Dickens might have concocted.

  Gently, I knocked.

  An authoritarian voice boomed, “NEXT!! COME IN!!” It was too deep; most men would have been proud to own it. Timidly I entered. Miss Gladly had her nose buried in some form of report, presumably on her last victim. I knew it would be a cardinal sin to interrupt her studies so I waited for her to acknowledge my existence.

  I guessed she was in her mid–fifties with a severe weight problem. Even so, she attempted to look thinner by cramming her bulk into a tight, grey suit. She looked as though she ought to be a member of some right wing club whose duty it was to bring the fear of God and the dread of Damnation on all her debauched scum clients. She was unnerving and I was suitably unnerved.

  Finally, she slapped the file shut and, pointing with her black fountain pen, commanded me to sit. I dropped into the chair so fast; I think I must have broken a world record.

  At last, she deigned to look up at her latest client. Her utter shock and unabashed disapproval could almost be felt. To underline her point, she didn’t say anything for ages but her grey eyes continued to hold my gaze. She sighed and shook her head in superior melancholy and tutted a great deal. I gave a wan smile. I think she was suffering from an attack of extremely high–minded pique.

  “How old are you?” She finally barked.

  “Eighteen, miss.”

  “Oh yes? And I’m twelve!”

  “And you look it!” I was so tense, I blurted out the first thing that came into my mind.

  “That’ll do, thank you!” She held my eye with another steely look. I thought I might turn to stone at any moment. “There are some questions I must ask you – and, be warned, I insist on the truth – at all times!”

  What was I going to do? If I let slip that I was a rent boy, would she be duty bound to inform the police? I didn’t know. When Andy and the nurse told me that there was complete anonymity with the medical side of things, they said nothing about whether it applied to this particular interview. I de
cided to play it safe and become straight.

  Under the harridan’s penetrating eye and inquisitorial examination, I nearly buckled. I had to think on my seat. However, the fear of borstal as a young offender kept my mind sharp enough to cope.

  She demanded full details of the circumstances that led to my ignominious visit to her field of operation.

  For the location of my fictitious misdemeanour, I chose a known area where girls ‘of easy virtue’ could be found. When I mentioned the place, she nodded with knowing solemnity and, pen at the ready, asked for the girl’s description. I tried to be as general and vague as I could.

  “And did she give a name?”

  “Carol. But I get the feeling that she was lying.” I enjoyed that little embellishment.

  “Do you know where she lives? Did you go back to her place?”

  “No. We did it in a dark alley.” I knew there were such places near to where I claimed the incident took place.

  “No matter. I think I know the girl in question.” From the way she sat back and sniffed, one would think I’d just smashed a half–dozen stink bombs.

  ‘Shit,’ I panicked, ‘have I dropped some poor innocent girl into deep trouble with the authorities?’ Or was she merely attempting to establish her credentials as an authority on the red light goings on of the city?

  I don’t know that I convinced her with my story but she gave me a postcard to pass on to my sexual contact, should I ever see her again. (Thank goodness I hadn’t told her the truth or I’d have been walking out with a whole box, full of the fucking things.)

  “Not that I think you should have been there in the first place, but I’d advise you to stay away from there in the future. Act your age and grow up a bit before trying anything like this ever again.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Miss. I’ve well and truly learned my lesson. I will never go with a woman until I’m much older.” God, I was good!

  For the first time, her face crumbled and she actually gave me a smile. She had converted a wayward soul and set them back on the path of virtue. Huh, some hopes.

  “That’s all!” She terminated our meeting by embarking on her notes in my file. I rose and went to the door. “And, hereafter, I’d stay at home if I were you. Try transferring your energies into some sort of sport to keep your mind off – er... this sort of thing. Much better for you. Or you might think about a hobby – collecting toy soldiers, for instance.” She hadn’t looked up.

  ‘I’d rather collect real ones,’ I mused to myself. Through an aching face I managed, “Good idea,” before rushing out to allow my amusement full reign.

  The receptionist informed me that l would get another appointment in a few months to monitor the progress of the treatment.

  And that was it. I was cured.

  Walking down the steps from the building, it occurred to me that I hadn’t given Andy’s best wishes to Doctor Jacobs. I wondered if he was the self–same friendly medic who treated me. Later, when I described my doctor to Andy, it turned out that it wasn’t he.

  Although I was apprehensive throughout my ordeal, I was aware enough to notice something strange. Watching people, whilst waiting my turn with the doctor, my results and the meeting with the social worker, there appeared to be a high proportion of gay men amongst my fellow patients. Was here, of all places, yet another place where potential clients congregated? Andy and many of the others confirmed my observation.

  “But,” they warned unanimously, “for fuck’s sake go careful. Remember why they’re there. You don’t want to end up with another dose, do you! They might name a clap booth after you.”

  The odd time I chose to visit the place for business rather than the cure, I took their advice extremely seriously.

  At work, Sheba and I had become ever closer. I don’t think she especially fancied me but there was definitely a mutual attraction. I had told her a little about my life and myself but, as I had still yet to ‘come out’ I found it easier to change the sex of my pick–ups. I thought I was doing a pretty good job at hiding the truth.

  Sheba’s finely honed, suspicious nature soon told her that something had been recently troubling me.

  When I had been ‘fixed’ and arrived at work in a better mood, she harried and badgered me like crazy until I gave in and told her about my little problem. I also stuck to the story that I’d spun to Miss Gladly.

  “So, you’re still persisting with that load of old guff, are you?” she sneered.

  “It’s not old guff!”

  Sheba shrieked with laughter. “Come clean, darling. You may have noticed, I’m quite broad minded, you know?”

  I began to wonder if the time had come for me to be completely honest with her. “Maybe soon, I’ll tell you something that may surprise you.”

  “I doubt it.” She tittered.

  Update

  Apart from the worry of my recent trip to ‘The Clinic’, my life was visibly heading in the right direction. I was reasonably contented and beginning to enjoy myself. The only major exception to this state of near perfection was my home life, which still had to be endured.

  My mother was in the nearest thing to which she conceived as seventh heaven. Without my father’s oppressive shadow stalking her, she was becoming hysterically happy. Before my father left, a legal and binding separation settlement had been agreed between them which added to her financial security. This, along with the large portion of my wages which she snatched each week, made her life style ever more comfortable. With this comfort came an appalling outlook. She now saw herself as the ‘queen bee’ of her hive with myself cast as a mere ‘worker’. I still had problems reconciling being an adult both at work and on the racks whilst being treated as a mere child when at home. Away from the hive, I was, even if only in a small way, listened to and consulted. If I had something to say, people took me fairly seriously. Yet, at home, ‘little children should be seen and not heard’ was still the rule. If I foolishly pressed on with some idea or other, I was indulged – and then promptly ignored.

  Friday evening had become the highlight of mother’s week. To start with, I arrived home with my (unopened) wage packet. Then, my father delivered the maintenance money. He never knocked on the front door but posted it through the letterbox. Hiding behind the net curtains on the landing, I always tried to watch him. To me, this ritual was extremely important as it managed to reinforce my resolve to continue my rack–life.

  My working hours rolled on in much the same way as they had since my engagement. With the exception of the occasional office wedding and birthdays, once the clock slithered around to five, we all went our separate ways. To most of my fellow beaverers, I was a straight, virgin lad who loved the arts. I still hid my sexuality from them, as, at the time, it was impossible to do otherwise. But, I knew what I was and to which school I subscribed. Even so, I refused to join in with the anti–gay banter that sometimes pervaded the office. I didn’t show any irritation, but simply found something I had to do elsewhere and walked away. Jimmy, however, still rebuffed any idea of, or even admit to himself, any suggestion as to what he was. What made me angry was that, although he wished to continue our relationship on the same basis as before, he couldn’t be honest with me. I could understand, utterly, his desire to keep the whole thing quiet but, even when we were alone in his bed and I’d made it impossible for him to sit down comfortably for a while, he continued with this foolishness. I was tired of being his surrogate lover. In the mean time, Good Old Solid Sam had finally ditched his dominating girlfriend and had taken up with an even more pernicious spawn of the devil. His new girl, who, fortunately I never met, was an even more possessive bitch. The stress of his new relationship caused him to have frequent bouts of depression. Eventually, because Sam worked with a load of young ladies, she insisted that he give notice and to go and work at the same place as herself. Thus, she could keep an eye on him. After he left, I never saw him again. I pray he didn’t marry her. What is it about some people? What on earth gets into them
? They appear determined to run, wide–awake, into a totally unsuitable relationship and dive bomb from the frying pan into a raging inferno.

  Paula, I still adored and, not only did I suspect that she was aware of this but Sheba had digested the telltale signs.

  One lunch hour, Paula and I were exchanging some happy remarks when Sheba returned. She stared at us with a wry smile on her lips. I spotted it although, I’m pleased to say, Paula didn’t. As soon as I returned to my desk, Sheba ambled over.

  “Hedging our bets, are we?” she whispered.

  “Pardon?”

  “Steve, baby, how much longer are we going to play this silly game? I know, you see.”

  I was wary. I stared around to see if anyone was listening. “Know what?” I almost choked.

  She leaned and caressed my ear with her voice. “You’re gay, aren’t you?”

  “NO!!”

  “l know what we’ll do. After work, let’s go for a walk. I want to tell you something.” Before I could answer, she moved off.

  For the rest of the afternoon, I indulged in a silent debate with myself as to whether I should come clean with her or not. I was so preoccupied with this thought, I couldn’t find the inspiration to add to my ever growing wad of secret drawings. When five o’clock came and we started to go down the stairs to the street, I still didn’t know what to do. We walked for about a quarter of an hour and engaged in some pretty meaningless small talk. Finally, she pulled me down onto a bench. ‘This is it,’ I thought. ‘Here we go.’

  “Steven!” She was sounding determined.

  “Hmmm?” I hoped I was being effectively vague.

  “To get you to tell me, I’m going to trust you with a secret of my own. If it ever got out, it would make me keel over and die. I will expect you to return the compliment. Is it a deal?”

  “Okay. That is, if I had a secret worth...”