Fidel - 3. Bart's Enterprise & Robert's Advice

When the owner of Bart and Robert’s small apartment decided to refurbish it, Fidel insisted they come and stay. In return they insisted that Fidel would join them for meals and evenings so they could be a family; not feel like boarders. Thus the kitchen came to life, the dining table a place for chatter, and the lounge somewhere to relax and feel at home—something Fidel had never felt. Much nicer than living like a hermit crab in the shell of his little flat.

On the first morning, however, Fidel had a few fantasies shattered. While preparing breakfast loud voices erupted from Robert and Bart’s bedroom. The door was ajar so there was no avoiding overhearing. He froze. Shocked. Robert was shouting. Something slammed to the floor. Bart’s softer voice replied. An unwilling eavesdropper, Fidel listened in dismay.

‘You're always telling me what to do!’

‘No, I'm merely pointing out possible consequences.’

‘Ever since I moved in with you you’ve thought you knew more than…’

Fidel closed his ears and was on the point of returning to his room when Robert stormed out, slammed the bedroom door and stomped to the bathroom, slamming that door as well. Embarrassed, Fidel continued preparing breakfast. A few minutes later, Bart wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water. He looked at Fidel's face and frowned.

‘What’s the matter? You look upset. Would you prefer me to wear clothes between the bedroom and shower?’

‘No! No, of course not. Its just that… you and Robert were arguing!’

‘Yeah. We sometimes piss each other off. This morning it was my turn to be the irritant. It shouldn’t upset you, it means nothing.’

‘But… I thought you two were in love. I’ve always pictured lovers living in constant bliss and harmony and never arguing. You know… the prince and princess lived happily ever after?’

‘Ah, the power of fiction. Have you ever considered how mind bogglingly boring life would be if you never argued with the person you share you life with? If you agreed on everything, you’d never grow, never have new experiences, never question your own character or behaviour. Robert is right, I'm inclined to nag a bit and repeat things I've mentioned before as if he hasn’t understood, and as if there's no other way to do things. But that's okay. I’ll improve and now I've an excuse for making up and promising to be perfect for the next thousand years.’

‘But don’t you worry that if you argue one day he’ll leave you?’

‘It’s because people love each other that they argue, Fidel. We care so much we become over-protective. We want them to have a soft ride through life. We care if they are on what we consider to be the wrong track. People who don’t care about their lover and best friend also don’t care if they ruin their lives or make bad choices. We know and trust that no matter what we do and say, it is from love; even though we’re misguided sometimes.’ Bart’s ears pricked. ‘Ah, the shower’s stopped. He’ll be out soon. Must go and mend fences.’

A few minutes later the unmistakeable sounds of reconciliation arrived in the kitchen, and shortly after Robert followed, sporting magnificent evidence of it.

‘Bart says you're easy about clothes. That’s a relief. I hate them. Always have done. What about you? What do you wear to bed?’

‘What you're wearing.’

Robert’s grin was disarming. ‘Bart also said our little contretemps upset you. Sorry about that. We bicker constantly some days, and then not for weeks. It means nothing except that we’re human with most of the failings that go with it.’

Fidel couldn’t stop grinning. ‘You have the most perfect body I’ve ever seen.’

‘Robert looked down as if surprised. ‘What—this old thing? It’s twenty years old! But it’s nice of you to say so. I imagine you're not too dusty yourself under your baggy shorts and T-shirt.’

Fidel smiled his embarrassment and poured boiling water into the teapot.

‘What're you doing tonight, Fidel?’ Bart asked during breakfast.

‘Nothing special, why?’

‘It's the debut of a group I've started that I hope will bring more clients; it’d be great if you'd come to swell the numbers.’

‘Are you going, Robert?’

‘Reluctantly.’ Robert laughed. ‘Of course you're coming, Fidel. You never go out, you know no one socially apart from us, and you sit and dream for hours. You’re in danger of becoming a recluse.’

‘Ok, but what am I letting myself in for?’

‘A blast from the past. When women’s lib got under way, lots of men became depressed because females reckoned males were no longer any use, just about every natural masculine behaviour was rubbished, and men had a crisis of confidence. “All men are rapists” became the feminist catch cry. Eventually, concerned men realised that men need safe, male-only environments from time to time. But laws now give women the right to join all men’s organisations such as bowling and other sports and recreation clubs, changing the atmosphere so radically that men can no longer relax and bond in those places. They’ve even demanded the right to enter men’s changing rooms, destroying after-match bonding. Most schools are co-educational with mainly female teachers. Women became psychologists and counsellors in schools and workplaces with little if any understanding of what men and boys in trouble need. To counter increasing depression, SNAGS—sensitive new-age guys—used to hold weekend touchy-feely male bonding sessions where, naked in dark, heated tents they sweated, talked, listened and felt each other up. It sounds kinky, but in fact it was therapeutic. They discovered that other men are as ordinary as themselves; that there’s nothing wrong or kinky or queer with physical and mental bonding with other men. It doesn't mean you're a pervert or queer, and a lot of good came of it until feminists began publicly pouring scorn on the sessions, and embarrassed and still angry men crept back into their shells and became aggressive and depressed with the result that more wives are bashed, and three out of four suicides are by men.’

‘That is so depressing! ‘

‘Only if you think about it.’

‘So you're resurrecting the touchy-feely sessions?’

‘Fidel, you're a mind reader. Yes, with the hope that those who need individual help as well as group therapy, will ask for private sessions and pay me for it. The first few sessions will be free, but if they prove successful there’ll be a charge. What do you reckon?’

‘Worth a try. What do I have to do?’

‘Pretend you’re ordinary and join in.’

‘You do pile on the difficulties.’

While the owners of the old gymnasium were waiting for a sale, instead of closing it down they appointed Bart as interim manager overseeing the training of the dozens of clients who were understandably upset at losing their refuge from domestic disharmony. For his meetings he’d appropriated two empty rooms in the vast old ex warehouse—a small one with a convection heater and wrestling mats on the wooden floor, and a larger one he left empty.

Fifteen men of varying ages and types turned up, mostly looking embarrassed, shy, hopeful, nervous and mildly sceptical. Bart gave them his spiel and three rules: first names only, no rude comments, and only do what you're comfortable with. With a certain amount of reluctant suspicion they entered the warm small room, made silly jokes about the very dim amber light, removed some or all their clothes, and stood in a group on the mats. Bart’s initial instructions to stretch, touch their toes, heads, chests, bellies, groins [self-conscious laughs] thighs, calves and feet, were followed by a casual suggestion that they turn to their nearest neighbour, tell him their name, then either talk or remained silent while touching the other person’s body in the same way they’d touched their own. After two minutes Bart called ‘change’ and they found someone else to talk with and repeat the process. By the third change embarrassment had evaporated, they laughed and chatted easily, became more daring in their physical explorations, and by the time the session concluded everyone reckoned they now felt pretty easy about talking and touching another male. It wasn’t as revolting as they'd expected. Actually, it made them feel less vulnerable—almost powerful.

Warm and relaxed, they moved to the larger room for exercises suitable for all ages and strengths. Individual calisthenics, then movements requiring a partner to maintain balance. Creativity was encouraged by Bart’s often crazy-sounding suggestions, which caused lots of laughter and sometimes fairly intimate bodily contact. After an hour all faces were smiling, everyone insisted they hadn't felt so free and liberated for years—if ever, and all promised to come to the next session.

‘That was brilliant, Bart,’ Fidel declared in the car on the way home. ‘Wasn’t it Robert?’

‘Sure was! I thought it’d be a huge flop, but it’s brilliant. The odd thing is that it was sensual but not sexy in the darkened room. Seriously, I'm amazed that all those guys who didn’t know each other did as you told them and even seemed easy about it by the end. I've never felt so unthreatened among men before.’

‘Yeah,’ Fidel added. ‘It’s as if removing the clothes also removed aggression and competitiveness.’

‘So, you're both on for next week?’

‘I reckon. But what’s it called?’

‘What's what called?’

‘Your club. Tonight. What we did. It has to have a name.’

Bart turned to Robert. ‘He’s right. My mind’s a blank. Any ideas?’

‘Vaselly’s Vigorous Virtuous Vitality Venture?’

‘Very droll, but I don’t want my name on it, and no one wants to be virtuous.’

‘Fair enough, how about Vigorous Vitality Venture?’

‘I read about a Canadian exercise regimen called 4BX the other day,’ Fidel said diffidently. ‘It sounded cool. So what about the Three Vees Club?’

‘A brilliant idea. You're a genius Fidel. What about dropping the Club and calling it simply ‘ThreeVees’, and let people wonder what it stands for.’

‘Yeah. Add a bit of mystery.’

‘I can imagine the scene; Where are you going Harry? To Three Vees, Myrtle. What’s that? A club for Victims Venturing into Vice. With other women? No, Myrtle, men only. You're not going queer on me? No Myrtle.’

‘I love it. And as it’s your brilliant idea, Fidel, you can design the logo.’

Within a couple of days all three felt as if they’d been living together their entire lives. Evenings were usually spent in study, homework, reading and conversation. Bart was a computer bridge addict and Robert was learning classical guitar. At least once a week they went to a film, concert or the theatre, all activities that were revelatory to Fidel—especially live theatre and an opera, which he considered insanely expensive. He wasn’t impressed with Janacek’s music, the sets or the wobbly female voices, deciding to stick with the Karims CD collection of classical works in future.

After teaching Fidel to dance, Bart suggested going to a club.

Fidel was doubtful. ‘I’m not good enough to dance in public and I've nothing to wear.’

‘You are, and there's no dress code so it’s become popular with eccentrics who like to dress up or down to reveal their inner personalities and fantasies. It’s therapeutic, harmless and fun. After our first visit Robert said that next time he’d wear his gold chain.’

‘And?’

‘That’s it.’

Fidel couldn’t stop giggling. He turned to Robert. ‘And did you?’

‘Yeah,’ Robert replied laconically. ‘I get sweaty dancing, so it seemed the best outfit. Bart joined me.’

Fidel’s eyes popped. ‘Bart! You seem so… so sensible. Almost severe and proper. You were a school teacher. I can’t imagine…’

Bart laughed easily. ‘Neither could I, but Robert can be very persuasive and I must admit it was liberating to be starkers in a room full of more or less dressed men.’

‘Not embarrassing?’

‘The opposite. I felt powerful.’

‘What did the owners say?’

‘They loved it; promised us free tickets if we did it again.’

‘And did you?’

‘No. It’d become a performance; a duty we might fail, rather than fun. Neither of us want to be performers; we do what we do to satisfy ourselves. The mere idea of being dependent on others’ approval would kill the pleasure.’

‘Do you still go there?’

‘About once a month. It’s the only place with a decent sized dance floor where we can really get going. So, are you up for it?’

‘Yeah I’d love to, but what'll I wear?’

‘Whatever expresses the inner man.’

Having Fidel with them made it feel like it was their first time again, so they dined at the same bistro on the waterfront and at ten o'clock ascended the stairs, removed their outer garments in the cloakroom and stuffed them in a locker, then after checking themselves in a mirror, wandered nonchalantly into a large, dim space illuminated by four gigantic mirror-balls. Loud music blasted from a dozen speakers. Hunky waiters in skimpy leather waistcoats, torn-off jeans and work boots were serving at the bar and clearing tables. Four guys in suits perched on bar stools, revealing bare buttocks when they stood up to dance. Guys in speedos chatted to jeans and T-shirts. A pair in leopard-skin tights and elfin boots gyrated wildly. A ball gown hovered in the corner. Bronzed bodies in sequinned Lycra. A hooded caftan swung open to reveal optically white underpants glowing in the beam of an ultraviolet spot. Sailor suits with tattoos. Leather boys. Army uniforms and battle-boots… whatever getup the wearer thought would prove he wasn’t the boring little clerk, waiter, shop assistant or student that he pretended to be during the day.

‘This is liberated!’ Fidel shouted through the wall of sound as the lights flickered and coloured spotlights splashed over the centre of the dance floor.

Bart, at ease in a soft leather pouch, matching plaited leather head and arm bands, soft leather sandals, every muscle visible, not an ounce of fat, light all-over tan, firm buttocks, powerful legs, generous package and severe yet amused expression, inserted himself into the throng of dancing men, joined by Robert; sleek, amused, broad of shoulder, strong legs and arms, a bunch of grapes at his groin, circlets of plastic wildflowers on head, wrists, ankles. Young Bacchus incarnate.

They pulled Fidel in his running shorts and trainers onto the floor and danced together—three free spirits in a room full of individuals rejoicing in being true to themselves.

Fidel’s face lit with a dreamy smile as he drifted into another realm, moving instinctively to the wild beat. After dancing for a few minutes with Robert and Bart he was delighted to be asked to dance by a slim man who looked to be in his thirties. He remained in demand for the rest of the evening; always by slightly older men who proved to be pleasant flatterers and good dancers.

‘Why don’t they ask the other young guys?’ he asked Bart in a break. ‘They're much better looking than me but they almost never dance.’

‘You look approachable and friendly,’ Bart explained. ‘Most of the other gays as handsome and young as you, act as if they think they're too good for anyone even approaching thirty. Take a look at them; they're stuck in small groups they know and feel safe with, ostentatiously laughing and chatting and watching to see who’s looking at them, but they won’t move outside the group. Even if you asked one to dance he’d probably refuse. It’s the underlying and unacknowledged fear of others that gays feel most of the time. Perhaps they're worried their friends will think they're sluts, or criticise their taste if they accept a dance with someone older. According to gay law, thirty is old. I'm on the borderline of gay decrepitude.’

‘You're joking.’

‘No. Age and looks are everything. And that’s one of many problems that still beset us.’

‘If looks are important, why are half the patrons overweight?’

‘They're the ones too old to be considered attractive so they give up on body image.’

‘I won’t. I want to be like you.’

‘You're such a sweetie.’

‘Can we come here again? I really love dancing. I had no idea how sensual it is.’

‘Of course.’

One evening in the lounge, Fidel was revising maths, Robert was practising chord changes, and Bart was playing Bridge. He closed his laptop with a sigh.’

‘How could that idiot have left me in three hearts? Everyone else made four.’ He looked up at a grinning Fidel. You think I'm nuts playing this game, don’t you?’

‘Nothing you do is nuts. One day I’ll learn to play too. Do you play, Robert?’

‘Na, I read comics, Bridge is for brainy types, I relax by getting physical. Fancy a jog?’

‘Yeah. What'll I wear?’

‘The new shorts and trainers we got you—that's what they're for. But we won’t go far. Tomorrow we’ll start some serious running. Coming, Bart?’

‘I’ll have hot chocolate ready when you return.’

‘Lazy bugger.’

They jogged along quiet, tree-lined streets past windows of dark houses lit by flickering TV screens. After crossing a busy road they sprinted past half a dozen apartment blocks standing in concrete car parks, loud music pounding from several open balcony doors, then up a narrow, leafy lane that ended in a tree-filled park.

‘Race you,’ Robert called, sprinting the two hundred metres up to the monument at the top where Fidel found him five seconds later. They stood on the plinth, backs to the monolith, catching their breath and gazing across at the city lights.

‘All those towers have lights on, what a waste of electricity.’

‘Better than aeroplanes running into them.’

‘Yeah, I suppose so. Do you often come up here?’

‘It was the first place I jogged to when we moved to this area. Had an unpleasant experience so hardly ever come back.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing really. A woman reckoned I was a child molester. Felt sick at the time—actually still do, which is odd. You never forget your past. I guess you’ve a lot of things you don’t want to remember.’

‘Yeah. Got pretty lonely till your parents rescued me.’

‘You're seventeen, fit and sexy, I reckon it’s time you met a few more people, Fidel.’

‘I don’t need them, I have you two, and I’m going to Bart’s classes, that’s enough.’

‘Perhaps,’ Robert said doubtfully, ‘but if you don’t explore the possibilities of a more social life you’ll never be certain. And if you don’t test the waters while you're young and handsome you could end up alone, wondering what might have happened if you'd been a little more adventurous.’

‘I’m not an adventurous type.’

‘You took off alone into the world aged fifteen. That’s adventurous. Don’t you want a boyfriend?’

‘What for?’

‘Sex, companionship, someone to go places with.’

‘Yeah, it'd be nice, but I’ve looked around at school and there's no one I would want to get too friendly with. And no one at Bart’s group interests me, or is interested in me. All the men who danced with me at the club were older than Bart. I’d want someone my own age, unless he was as gorgeous as Bart. I wank loads. I can’t see how doing it with someone else would be better. I’d want someone a bit like me who likes to be fit but also likes to think and be quiet. Where will I meet that sort, Robert? Not at school that’s for sure.’

‘Perhaps someone sexy will come to Bart’s sessions.’

‘Unlikely. They’ve all got problems.’

‘And you have none?’

‘Thanks to you and your parents, nothing important—apart from finding a job soon.’

‘Well if someone you fancy does turn up, don’t wait for him to make the first move, because he's probably doing the same thing—waiting for you to show interest. We have to take charge of our own lives.’

‘Thanks. I’ll remember that.’