Be Careful What You Wish For - 1. Chapter 1 'Campo Amor is born'

Kris Karton MD, is 49 and lives in the North West of England with his partner Gordon. He works for Canis Carcinoma UK, a local pharmaceutical company that develops drugs by - amongst other things - forcing dogs to smoke themselves to death. It’s Kris’s unhappy task to disembowel and analyse these poor creatures, but the Company pays him well, so that’s OK. Kris is a smart little fellow, wearing only the best clothes and always appearing turned out immaculately. His trademark is his John Lennon specs, which make him look like a cross between Charles Hawtrey and Harry Potter’s grandfather. But he’s nobody’s fool!

Kris has been partnered to Gordon for almost twenty years, though it should be pointed out that the last eighteen and a half have been free from any sort of sexual contact. Gordon Chapman is Kris’s opposite. He’s a big, shambling bear of a man, with a craggy, but kind face and a welcoming personality. Also, he has many friends. Or as Kris sourly puts it, ‘You have a wide circle of acquaintances whereas I just have a wide circle’ Gordon is a schoolteacher and earns much less than Kris, something the latter manages to slide into their conversation daily.

Last summer, something changed; maybe the prospect of spending another holiday in Southport with Gordon’s mother finished Kris off. He decided to holiday alone for the first time in twenty years. He visited Spain and it worked out better than he could have expected. But once he’d got back to work he felt stuck in the same old rut. His 50^th birthday fast approaching, it was time to take stock of his life. And so one day at work, a few weeks ago, having just terminated the lives of several beagles, (a mercy as their seventy a day habit had given them voices rougher than Lee Marvin’s) it was time to make that leap. He grabbed a coffee, put the ‘do not disturb’ sign on his door, and logged onto ‘MINCE-MEET’

Kris felt he still had a lot of love to give and that he deserved a second chance. He was going to set up a profile and put himself on the market once more. Soon, he was deep in concentration.....

‘First things first, I need a good profile name. Get this right, and I’ll be inundated with cock for the foreseeable future. Now what can I call myself? What name works and sounds good?'

Kris tapped the desk rythmically, Tra la la lá, Tra la la lá.

'Man-ches-ter-whore, O-pen-back-door, Cam-po-a-mor,

Campo Amor? God, how that name takes me back! Has it been a year already since that seminal holiday in Spain? How I remember those mornings, as Luis and I woke to see the sun rise over the Mediterranean. The Nicaraguan gardener had only entered my rented villa to water the pot plants but he stayed over and ended up fertilising my man-garden. Pity he stole the laptop!

Now concentrate Kris. You need a profile name that speaks eloquently of who you are, the essential you,

Face-to-the-floor, I-can-take-four, Cam-po-a-mor,

Campo Amor? Field of Love. Oh, those afternoons on the beach, when the cute deckchair attendant would call by for the chair rent. And the odd way he thought I was some Spanish celebrity or other, Juan Kerr, wasn’t it? and, how I finally had to ask him to spell out the name in the sand. ‘OUANQUER!’ he wrote; I still don’t know who that is.

Come on, think hard. What is it you seek, your dreams, your innermost cravings?

O-lym-pic-jaw, Blow-till-it’s-sore, Cam-po-a-mor,

Campo Amor! Sounds so right: I cherished those evenings in town, the smell of the jasmine on the cool night air, and that woman in the funny little tapas bar who told me I looked like Ricky Martin’s brother. Well, she actually said ‘Dean Martin’s mother’ but I think she was pissed.

Yes, CAMPO AMOR it is! That’s my lucky new profile name’

And with that key decision taken, Kris launched himself into the murky waters of Mince-Meet whose pitch was ‘Our mission is your emission!’, unless, of course, you opted for their ‘platinum service’ in which case it was simply ‘a fuck within 24 hours or your money back’ Can’t say fairer that that!

But now Kris was confronted with the difficult business of completing the rest of the profile.

He’d heard that, on sites like Mince-Meet, truth and declared age rarely sit side by side. He was nearly 50, two thirds through his life. If he truly wished to appear younger, he could either move to Harrogate, where he’d be less than half the median age, or stay put, and tell the cyber-world he was 39. It was a no brainer really.

There was a sharp knock on the door of Kris’s office,

‘Oh for God’s sake’

Kris minimised the page and defaulted to a screensaver of hamsters playing in the sunshine. He stood up, pulled on his immaculate Valentino jacket, straightened his specs, then called,

‘Come on in’

The door opened hesitantly, a coffee tray acting as a battering ram,

‘Oh you, Miss Haggard, I thought I said I didn’t want coffee this morning’

‘I realise that, Mr Karton, sir, but I thought I’d bring it just the same: I’ve got some news’

Kris was only mildly interested. He raised his eyesbrows.

‘Yes, sir, they’re slaying a batch of gerbils this morning and I thought Lady Gaga might like the livers’

Kris pondered, finger to his lips,

‘Mmm, it’s a tough one. She was poorly for weeks after I took her that pig’s penis’

Kris’s mind wandered back to the incident. There’d been quite a rumpus when their cat was found tearing around Didsbury with swine genitalia trailing from its jaw. It was hard enough for an established gay couple to live in any mixed community, but when the locals raised particular objections because it was a pig’s cock and balls, that was the limit. Their next door neighbour Mrs Hussein put it more succinctly,

‘Pleese, Mr Karton, not a peeg, never a peeg! Anything else, but make it halal if you can. Think of the cheel-dren’

Oh dear. That was another time when he and Gordon had argued. His partner got on well with the neighbours and wanted very much to stay where they’d lived for twelve years. Kris on the other hand was always unsettled, and was constantly on the lookout for a house move that would take them upmarket, city central, away from prying eyes.

‘Mr Karton!’

Miss Haggard was still holding the tray,

‘OK, just put it down. Tell despatch they can donate their gerbil livers to a worthier cause. You may go now. And make sure that ‘do not disturb’ sign is in place’

And he waved his hand in the direction of the door. His personal assistant tossed her head and left.

Privacy restored Kris resumed completion of the profile. The pig’s penis incident segued neatly into the next part of the profile; what was his penis size?

Kris felt his face grow warm, ‘extra large, please’ he muttered under his breath, reflecting, sadly that the question referred not to his stated preference but rather what he was putting on the table. But here, we should add Kris had two invaluable weapons at his disposal. Firstly, he was a dab hand with the camera, and secondly, he possessed a puny physique. The first of these attributes meant that if anyone could photograph a dick and make it look larger then it was he. And the second attribute meant that his knob appeared larger when dangling south of that 28’’ waist of his.

Lord, how he hoped these questions weren’t going to get any worse; just one more hurdle to leap, what was his sexual role?. A deft click on ‘I’m a bottom only’ ended Kris’s ordeal and he proceeded to upload the photographs that were going to be the finishing touch, and raise his profile above the sea of anonymity. Of course, I must not go too far – absolutely NO face pics!

The phone rang. Kris snatched it angrily,

‘Pathology. Kris Karton here, don’t tell me you’ve run out of Marlboros again!’

‘Kris, it’s me’

‘Gordon?’

‘Yes, what were you talking about just then?’

‘Oh, that doesn’t matter, what is it anyway? You know I’d prefer you not to call me at work’

‘Well, yes, I know you’ve told me more than once. But I just needed to tell you that I’ve been called in to a parent teacher thing tonight’

‘But you assured me you weren’t involved in that’ added Kris sharply.

‘And I shouldn’t be, by rights, but I subbed so much in physics last term that I’ve got to show up. I should be home by ten at the latest’

Secretly, Kris was delighted with this turn of events, but, practised as he was in the art of turning any situation into one where he was the victim and the other person a shit, he whined,

‘I suppose it’ll have to be; and I’d planned some nice liver for tea’

‘Sorry, Kris; shall I bring something in?’

‘No, you just sort yourself out, I suppose I can manage. I just wish you’d given me more notice. I’ve got to go now, some of us have real jobs you know? unlike you teachers, catch you later’

And he crashed the phone down.

At the other end Gordon blinked, looking mildly surprised. He was used to this. Alison, Head of the English Department and his best friend in school looked up from her ‘Guardian’

‘Everything, OK?’

‘I think so’

‘I can get cover for you tonight, if it’s really urgent’

‘No, no. I’ll manage. But thanks Alison.’

--------------------------------------

The afternoon wore on. To his considerable satisfaction, Kris successfully uploaded many flattering images onto his profile, including some impressive rear shots. The day was going well and he felt he was on a roll. He rang maintenance and gave instructions for his car to be washed and made ready his departure at 3.30 pm at the latest. Cancelling lunch, he surfed a number of sites ranging from Spanish resorts to Brazilian rent boys, and soon it was time to head home.

Even the appalling traffic chaos of North West England could not dampen Kris’s mood. He piloted his BMW 8 series through the snarl ups, graciously giving way to white van men, old ladies, bus drivers and others who, on a more typical day, he’d have wished dead. When he finally reached the large comfortable mid-war semi that was the home he shared with Gordon, he parked on the drive just as Mrs Hussein was bundling her three children out of the family people carrier.

‘Hi, lovely day, isn’t it?’ he grinned.

Mrs Hussein, clearly in shock, replied inaudibly and shepherded the kids indoors quickly. Kris was carrying a large bag and she didn’t dare think what might be inside.

He entered the house, smiling broadly, his whole demeanour that of someone anticipating a treat, an uncertain pleasure, something that grows in the waiting. Lady gaga came down the stairs to meet him, howling balefully,

‘I’ll feed you in a minute, sweetheart, let’s just get the mail’

Kris went to the door at the end of the hall and gathered up the post. Top of the pile was the local newspaper. The headline read,

‘Animal activists plan action against Canis Carcinoma!’

Kris’s smile had given way to a look of disgust.

‘Why can’t they leave us alone? Let them campaign around the council estates, there’s enough animal abuse there to keep them busy, damn trouble makers’

Lady gaga was surveying her master with narrowed, jade eyes. She always knew when he was upset - didn’t care, of course - but knew.

And this had given Kris the excuse he needed to get online, ostensibly to check out the activists, but also to see how things were progressing on his social networking site. He unpacked his laptop and switched it on.

Frantically stabbing at the buttons, he logged onto Mince-Meet and checked his profile. Each second he waited seemed like eternity.

Then ping! Up it came. He had messages!