It is 9 pm on a Saturday night and you are in the mood to go out, but your boyfriend is too tired. You insist. He refuses. Instead he suggests a Daniel Craig DVD and a tub of Strawberry Häagen-Dazs. You don’t even bother.

You go to the kitchen and grab a can of beer from the fridge. Alcohol is what you want and what you need. And a fag but you gave them up since the ban. You plan to buy a pack of Marlboro Lights on your way to the bus stop; you have just made the decision to go out. You pick up the phone and dial your best friend. He is already with some mates in a Vauxhall bar. You can be there in less than 30 minutes.

You can smell your armpits. Your smell is sexy so you don’t wash. You drink another beer to calm your nerves after a tiff with the boyfriend. You head for the bathroom where you strip naked. You put on a cock-ring, brush your teeth and splash cold water on your face. No aftershave. You walk to the bedroom and open the sex drawer where you find your rubber shorts. You put a pair of jeans over them and pull on a tee-shirt. It is fairly mild for mid-September so you don’t need a jacket. You slip your keys, some cash and a bottle of poppers in your pockets and slam the front door to end the argument. You finish the can of beer and toss it in a bin before reaching the newsagent. On the way to the bus stop you light up a cigarette. You feel alive again; alive because you are about to do something bad. You feel drunk on ill-gotten freedom.

On the 185 bus to Vauxhall you watch lonely people waiting for a different bus, clutching Tesco bags. You see the inside of lit living rooms with families watching reality on TV. You hear sirens and people shouting. You notice a few lads with short hair like you, heading to the clubs, like you.

Your mates in the bar are pissed. You need to catch up and order a beer with a shot. The barman with only a pair of trunks on is hot. Nipples pierced, a tattoo above his crotch. He notices you adjusting your erection. Your mates are on their way to another bar. You drink your beer in the street and have another cigarette. Your mates haven’t bothered hiding their outfits: leather chaps, chains, cop caps, harnesses. They sniff poppers and smoke cigars.

In the next bar, you head for the loo. The ladies’ is empty but you prefer queuing for the gents’. The music fades when the door is shut. Some men check their hair, others linger. You head for a urinal. You manage to piss despite your semi-erection, eyeing both sides at what’s on offer. The man on your right has a full erection. You step back and leave. Your fourth beer and a shot numb your inhibition.

It is past 11:30 pm, time for the Pig.

There is a queue. Your mates crack jokes. You laugh. Other strangers laugh, too. You suddenly remember that you belonged to this community. You have missed it. Your recent life in your cosy home with your doctor boyfriend isn’t for you. You offer cigarettes all around. You smoke your last one before you go in.

You split from your mates and find a locker in a quiet corner. You take off your jeans and tee-shirt. You keep the key in your boots with some cash. You put the bottle of poppers inside your rubber shorts.

Your mates have bought you a beer. You explore the place under the arches with them. The last tube can be heard.

There’s barely any light. You see giant screens with sadomasochistic porn. Your mates carry on. You stay. This is when the other side of you truly comes to life. There is a grin on your face while watching the film. Yeah. You are no longer a punter having a beer in a seedy London club. You are the fucker on the screen. It is you out there on the giant porn screen. You are the porn star. Your darkest fantasies have been unleashed.

You finish your beer in sloppy gulps, drop the empty can and head for the stairs.

You feel the sweaty bodies against your skin. You feel extremely horny, but you resist. It is part of the fun. Your insides burn with such vivacity that it is almost painful. Your blood is pumping so violently that you can hear it in your head, but you resist. You kiss lips and bite nipples. You touch erect dicks in the semi-darkness. You join orgies. You slap chests, bums, backs. Yet you resist. You push away those hands that try and enter your rubber pants, those fingers that stroke your dick. You resist because you are in control. You float on the surface of pure pleasure, that ocean of sensations and anticipation. You help men come. Their spunk trickles down your bare legs. They groan in your ear. They beg on their knees but you still resist.

You leave the space and go downstairs, in the basement. There is a maze in front of you. You assume there are areas with slings, baths, glory holes and other instruments of torture/ pleasure. You are right. There is no music, only the symphony of moans mingled with whispers.

You head for the maze. Your body exudes virility as your muscles are pumped up, your skin shines with sweat and semen and your erection peaking the black rubber of your shorts. A guy asks you for some poppers. You sniff and share and then walk into the sexual inferno.

You touch and smell but push bodies away because you can’t find the fantasy trapped in your head. Let it fly out for you to see it better. From a distance you see it.

From a distance you see him.

He is not alone. He is surrounded by older men who piss on him. One has his dick shoved inside his mouth. The young lad is choking on it. You find that exciting. A fist is being inserted inside him. His face is contorted. You move closer. The older men move away. The young lad, give him 18, is choking on his leash. You pull your shorts down and grab him from behind, holding him by his leather collar. You tighten your grip. You thrust. The smell of poppers is intoxicating. You hold life in your hands; living flesh between your fingers.

His hands reach for buckle he can’t unfasten. He inserts his fingers behind it. He has no desire to take it off. His head rolls; the dizziness is part of the game. You know at this point that climax could be murderous but you don’t care. You could ruin your entire life for a few seconds of pure ecstasy and yet you do not let go. It feels so good, so good that you come inside the young lad. He turns around and cleans the spunk off your hard dick with his tongue.

You are alive.

 

© 2008 Richard Hennebert

Richard Hennebert was born in France but is currently living in London, England, with his husband Alan B whom he met 14 years ago. Richard teaches French and writes short-stories including "Dying to Love" available from www.laurahird.com/gayreadcomp1stprize.html.