Crossing the line - 1. Starting in the middle

The party was lively, Tony and Judith's always were, albeit full of a rather haphazard assortment of people. However, there were few of my close friends there, so I was thinking of escaping and had started to ease myself into the garden to grab some fresh air. An attractive man in his early 30s, cropped blond hair, tall, well put together, detached himself from the group around Judith and came over towards me with remarkable efficiency. I knew him from somewhere.

“I enjoyed the article; I thought it a strong response to what happened.”

It hit me. We hadn’t met for over a year, but I knew exactly the event and the article that he was referring to. And was mortified.

I stared at him, Dan. He was still alarmingly sexy, smiling and his eyes twinkling yet that event, a year ago, had simply been horrible.

--oOo—oOo—

It had all started with my bike, a rather swish electric one, expensive. I’d been contacted by the police, ‘to help with their enquiries’ about an incident the previous week.

Shit.

It proved to be a scary time, but luckily, I had documented movements for the date in question when, according to the police, I was supposed to have been elsewhere. Thankfully, I could prove I was at drinks to launch a book, a cycle ride across town and then a concert with friends. And the on-board computer on my bike had logged my movements.

There was a lot of questioning, many sleepless nights. But it became apparent to the police, that I was where I said I was. Which begged the question, who on earth was the culprit, who had been pretending to be me in Kensal Rise that evening. One of the policemen who questioned me was a very sexy man with the unlikely name tag of Sergeant Dante McNamara, ‘call me Dan’. He was the most approachable of the police that I met in connection with the case. It was he who phoned me to let me know that the culprit had been apprehended; it turned out to be an ex-lodger of mine forging documents.

When Dan had appeared at my front door a few days later, my heart sank. What now? But he wasn’t in uniform, he was in a polo shirt and chinos, and he looked uncharacteristically nervous. He didn’t stand out, my street in Brixton was full of men vaguely like him. I could hardly keep him standing on the doorstep though, my instinct was to ask him in.

We couldn’t use my study, it was full of papers; I was having an office day and filing my bills, receipts, invoices and such. The study floor, along with every other available flat surface, was covered in papers as I sorted them. I hate paperwork, and inevitably leave it until things get desperate. Perhaps a sign of how much I disliked doing filing was the simple fact me of agreeing to see the policeman again; it couldn’t be good news, could it?

So, the kitchen it was. Which meant we had to walk past the bike, parked in the hall. Dan stopped next to it. There wasn’t lots of space, but he stayed put, staring at it with interest. Finally, he admitted that he’d not come about the case, he’d come to see the bike. So, we had a show and tell with the bike; I even let him try it up and down the road, on the rather old-fashioned basis that you could trust policemen!

When we finished, I stared at him; did he really come just for the bike? I imagined some sort of covert police activity, but instead he went bright red (which I discovered to be one of his most endearing traits) and looked guilty.

No, he’d come to ask me on a date! And when was he going to ask me? He smiled, shamefaced (and looked cute), admitting he’d chickened out.

We did end up meeting up to have a drink, and just a drink. I was around 10 years older, had an activist past which meant I had friends for whom the police were an enemy (perhaps the enemy), yet the date was a success. We’d agreed beforehand to keep it short, and no sex. But afterwards, I knew that I wanted to do it. Thankfully, so did he. We planned to meet up for a second date; drinks in town, dinner at my place and….

Only, I was invited to a private view. This was par for the course; I write about contemporary art, and I get invited to a lot of shows, but this one was being put on by an old mate. Dan was game, so off we went to the Tramshed Gallery, run in a former tram shed by my friend Amanda. What could go wrong?

The exhibition was of paintings by an abstract artist called Arthur Winston, whose work I enjoyed. Only, I should have done my homework better; Winston had taken part in the 1968 student riots and once been highly political. The gallery was a sequence of neutral white rooms which sadly hid the original tram shed structure. On the walls that evening were some of Winston’s large vibrant canvases; some were, indeed, in his familiar abstract style, but others were full of highly political slogans and some of the abstraction seemed to shade into stylised violence. It seemed that Winston was returning to his political roots, in response to contemporary events such as Black Lives Matter and the other political actions in the USA and elsewhere.

Amanda greeted us, her glasses twinkling; she and I went way, way back and her events at the gallery were always fun. I politely chatted to Winston, a surprisingly small and insignificant-seeming man of around 70 yet from whom came all these vivid images. Dan had retired discreetly, and finally I joined him. I just needed to see the pictures, then we could leave.

We were about halfway round when were approached by an elderly guy. His stringy grey hair, straggly beard, half-glasses, and clothes suggested he’d never stopped being a hippie. I suspected he was a friend of Winston’s, and certainly there were a number of similar figures at the event.

“What is a pig doing here?”, the guy thrust his face forward right at Dan.

Dan stared at him, “I’m not in the police, I’m in security.”

The man spat, on the floor, “Once a pig, always a pig. And Arthur hasn’t struggled against you lot all his life for a pig to simply turn up and gloat.”

I was completely frozen; we should have walked away. But then, the man did something I could not have expected, which probably says a lot for my lack of imagination and innate politeness (thank you, Mother!) He spat at Dan, hitting him securely on the cheek, and then again on the forehead. We turned and left.

I knew Amanda would be furious.

Outside, Dan wiped his face, and thanked me. I apologised, but though we parted politely we made no further plans. I returned home, had a stiff drink or two and went to bed. I woke early the next morning and knew exactly what I should do. In the face of most problems, my first instinct is always to write about the issue.

There were three versions of the resulting article, the full one on my blog and two that I submitted to my editor. To give her credit, she chose the more hard-hitting one. The point of all three articles was the same, what is the point of protest art if those you are protesting against are not allowed to see it. Without people who don’t agree with you seeing the work, it all becomes masturbatory fantasy. I was rather pleased with the article, and not for the first time, real life found its way into my professional life. But Dan and I hadn’t been in contact since.

--oOo—oOo—

As we stood there, I forgot all about leaving Tony and Judith’s party. My focus was entirely on Dan as he followed up his first comment about my article.

“I took a copy of your blog into the nick and showed it to the lads, we ended up going to see the show.”

“To the Tramshed?” Dan nodded in reply to my question. “Yours was one of the parties, Amanda said there’d been a few, including some policemen.”

He smiled, “Caused quite a stir, lots of banter. Interesting what the guys made of the pictures, some surprises.”

“No repeats of you know what?”

He grinned, “No. Not at all. You didn’t have problems with your review?”

“Quite the opposite, lots of good feedback, and Amanda had a terrific amount of interest.

"That's something, I suppose."

"Thing was, Winston withdrew his pictures from sale.”

“Fuck me.”

I’d forgotten his habit of using ‘fuck’ as a comment. I looked up at him and felt amused, it was worth the risk, “Was that a comment or an invitation?”

He went bright pink, embarrassed and cute. I know it sounds crazy to describe a six-foot robust police sergeant as cute, but that’s what first attracted me to him. We stared at each other, his eyes sparkled, and we both hesitated, and then I kissed him or perhaps he kissed me. Whatever. We ended up in a clinch.

We had slipped out into the garden; with the benefit of shadows, hedges, trees, and Tony’s precious topiary, there were plenty of places to hide. I’d already noticed one or two couples disappearing into the darker corners. But he was a policeman, and we were in full view, in the middle of the lawn. We came up for air and he grinned at me,

“If we go on any longer, we’ll be giving these folk a show they didn’t expect.”

I grinned back, “Tony and Judith are quite relaxed about these things. But should a police sergeant be doing things like this in public?”

He gave a self-satisfied smirk, “I’m not a copper anymore, I’m in security!”

I laughed, “You've gone private”, and we both laughed at the joke; thank god we could laugh about it now.

He cocked his head, “Fancy slipping away elsewhere?”

Do I? Could I wait? “There’s a hedge back there with a nice little sheltered nook, real private.”

His eyes widened, “You’ve had practice, have you?”

“Not like that”, I play-punched him, “Tony often works there when he’s at home. Nice spot.”

It was a nice spot, not that we noticed, and we went a lot further than I expected. A lot, lot further. Our clothes ended up in a pile on the ground, and if anyone had popped their head round the entrance arch, they’d have seen two naked, 30-something men intent on exploring each other.

There was a moment’s pause when it came to the ultimate. Who was going to be active and who passive, him or he me? I was open to either, or neither, I certainly wasn’t hung up on penetration as a means of intimacy on the first date or even subsequently. What were his expectations? He sensed my hesitation.

“Go for it, I’ll fuck you the next time.”

“So, there’ll be a next time?”

I could see him grin, even in the shadow, “You bet!”

That’s what happened, and yes, I had lube and the necessary with me, you don’t go to a party unprepared. Afterwards we stood there, still naked and in no hurry to dress. I could just make out the outlines of his body, not too thin, trim, fit without being exaggerated; I wondered if that was just down to his job or whether a gym was involved. Smooth skin, just a sprinkling of hair in his groin, medium size equipment, but thick and full of personality. Just right in fact.

Perhaps he realised I was staring, “You weren’t … disappointed?”

“Disappointed? Hell no! Why?”

He shrugged, “It’s just. I get comments."

I still wasn't following, "About?"

"For a big bloke, I’m a bit small down there.”

“They expect a huge power top?”

He nodded, I kissed him and gently tweaked his dick, “Everything was perfect. Just perfect. I’m looking forward to that next time.”

We kissed but were startled by noise.

“Look, my place isn’t far away, do you fancy dipping out?”

He nodded, and that was enough.

We probably looked a sight; disreputable crumpled clothes, neither very tidily dressed and with grass stains on pale shirts. But we made it home. Home being a small, terraced house ten minutes’ walk from Brixton Tube. We got through the door, just. Our clothes in a heap on the hall floor, we had round two on the study carpet and when it came to his turn to fuck me, he certainly didn’t disappoint.

“How come you were at the party?”

He shrugged, “Girl friend of an ex-flatmate of mine did an art class, Tony and Judith were there and they hit it off. The couple sort of gathered her up.”

I laughed, “They do rather collect people."

"Right mixture at the party, wasn't quite what I expected."

"Their dos are often a bit mixed, from arty types, to the downright objectionable."

"You know them through your work?"

"Sort of. Judith took an adult education class I taught and like your friend, I was gathered up and invited in.”

“Sheila, the girl friend, dragged me along, reckoned I needed to get out and about a bit. Now I’m in the new job, there’s less pressure and”, he hesitated, “I thought I ought to put myself back on the market.” He stopped, “Sorry, I’m wittering.”

“You fancy that drink?”

He nodded and made to put his clothes back on.

“This place is surprisingly private. I often wander round in the buff and”, I grinned, “I prefer you that way."

We ended up on the comfy chairs in the study (the only other entertaining place being the kitchen which was hardly conducive). In the low light I could see his skin was pale all over (fore-arms apart) and seriously hairless, yum. His pubes were perhaps a touch too profuse for my tastes, but his dick nestled nicely on a pair a decent-sized balls.

“I’m not used to doing this.” I looked puzzled and he continued, “Usually, guys freak out when they learn you’re a copper or do a disappearing act.”

“Well, believe it or not I’m hardly a seasoned seducer myself. I spent my twenties haunting back rooms of clubs and have had to learn about”, I shrugged, “all this.”

He smiled, “Relationships and such.”

What could have been an awkward moment turned into a shared intimacy; then without thinking, I opened my big mouth.

“You fancy staying over?”

“The night?”

“That’s generally the idea.”

“Those clothes look a bit grim”.

I smiled, “Then you’ll have to spend the whole weekend naked!”

“The weekend?”

I nodded, he thought about it, “OK.”

It took time to get as far as bed. Drink led to another round, slower this time, more exploring. I discovered Dan could do things with his tongue; amazing things, he certainly did not disappoint. And then we got peckish and ended up with wine, cold meat and cheese in the kitchen. There was something rather disreputable yet sexy about the whole setup.

“Why go private, I thought you’d be a copper for life”. He dipped his head a bit, and I felt annoyed with myself for asking the question; it was just idle curiosity, “It’s not important, I’m just being nosey.”

"I was having problems at the station, with being out and all that. I could’ve coped with some of the guys being on the make, but one or two were real wankers as well."

"I thought the force was meant to be inclusive now?"

He gave a dry laugh, "Depends. My old nick was OK, we had a great bunch of guys."

"But …"

"New one was hell, didn’t like a ‘little gay boy’. The boss was like, ‘deal with it’.”

“Couldn’t you have made a complaint?”

He shrugged, “Thought about it…”

“Too much hassle?”

He frowned, “Does something to you. Wasn’t just me, there was another guy, and ‘little Jew boy’ was one of the nicer things.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, very unregenerated. Dinosaurs really.”

“So, how come the new post?”

He shrugged, “No idea. I was approached.”

My response was a to widen my eyes in mock alarm.

He smiled, “Oh, I did the research. The bloke was pretty clean. Seriously loaded, known for his parties.”

I grinned, “Do you get invited to said parties?”

“Not a bit, I’m strictly outside staff."

"Bit of a change. You enjoy it?"

"It's a leg up. A team of guys to look after and some serious security kit to play with. Overtime for special events only, planned well in advance.” His eyes sparkled, “No more cancelled leave, double shifts and working weekends at the drop of a hat.”

“So, what’s the catch?”

He shrugged, “Fuck me!”

So, I did. In bed. Then we snuggled down. He didn’t snore, wasn’t restless and didn’t cling; a pleasure to sleep with, in other words and, frankly, it was a lovely novelty to have a sexy, warm body in bed with me.

--oOo—oOo—

But I woke early, in a cold sweat. I had this semi-stranger in the house. When would he wake up, what was I going to do with him? I still remember a bloke I met in Amsterdam; big, sexy guy and we got on great. But he came over to see me, slept till well beyond noon and didn’t want to do anything I suggested.

So, now what?

When faced with a dilemma, I usually put it to one side and work; that’s what I did here. When Dan appeared, I was in the study finishing an article. It was still quite early.

“Good morning, you didn’t have to get up because of me.”

He shrugged; he was rather sexy with his sleep tousled hair and bleary eyes. “I’ve never learned to sleep late”, he looked rueful, “not a good trait in a copper. Look, I don’t want to disturb you.”

“It’s OK”, I turned away from the computer, “This can wait and even when working I can talk.”

“Is there coffee?”

“A pot in the kitchen.”

“Look, is this really OK?”, he held his arms open, displaying his naked body.

“Well, as long as you don’t go answering the door”, I grinned, “Besides, I like you like that.”

He went off to find coffee and I returned to the article. Then, I heard his voice from next door. The house was built with a pair of interconnecting principal rooms on the ground floor, presumably reception and dining room, now a great place for parties. Generally, the front room was my study, and the back devoted to my books, I laughably called it the library. Dan was standing in the middle of the back room, coffee in hand.

“All these books, do you read them?”

“Well. The art and art history ones; some I’ve reviewed, others are for reference. But I’m embarrassed to say that I’ve not made much headway with the history books.”

“There’s quite a selection!”

“They were Dad’s, and he was very proud of them.”

“He was a historian, then?”

“Not at all. He was a librarian but loved history. I was a great disappointment to him; as a child I hardly read, I looked at things.” I shrugged, “So, there they are, making me feel guilty.”

Dan had disappeared from sight; so, he must have been standing in front of the wall of history books. Modern, custom-built shelves full of books that were old and showed their age.

“Wow, Greville’s diaries, Macaulay’s History, Gibbons, Lytton Strachey, the lot. Seriously, you never read them?”

“Well, I’ve tried but I’ve never got beyond the first chapters of Macaulay and Gibbon. Greville is impossible and Strachey too arch. I’ve dipped into others but never got far. Sorry.”

“Do you mind if I….”

I shrugged, “Not at all.”

That was how we woke up. My copy edited and submitted, I found him sitting in the kitchen concentrating on a book, so absorbed that he didn’t notice me at first. He looked up and grinned, “Sorry, I love books and it’s so great reading history in a lovely old one.”

“It’s probably not worth much.”

He shrugged, “That’s not the point. It’s the thought that so many people have read it before you.”

“Breakfast?” He looked at me quizzically. “Ok, Breakfast? Shower? Sex? And in which order?”

A suggestive smile and a look exchanged, we ended up on the bed, our good-morning sex.

We did dress for breakfast, well at least notionally, me in t-shirt and cotton trousers, Dan in an old dressing gown of mine that just about fitted him; a nod to decency as we ate in the garden.

“Do you enjoy gardening?”

I laughed, by now I was immune to people’s comments, “Can’t you tell. I’m rubbish at it. If I plant something, it dies. I am a big disappointment to my Mother, who is a keen gardener. All I grow is weeds.” He looked at me, assessing, wondering how far he could go, I think. “Go on, say it. I can cope”, I grinned.

He shook his head, “No, not that. How about this afternoon we go and buy you some plants and get a bit of this sorted?”

“But if you plant them, I’ll just kill them later.”

He smiled suggestively, “Then I’ll have to come back to check on them won’t I? How about I pop back on Wednesday to water the plants?”

I returned his smile, “That’s a new word for it, ‘Watering my plants’. If you’re popping round, you could stay, couldn’t you?”

He flushed but nodded. Wow, this was going fast. Faster than I’d experienced before. And I didn’t care.

--oOo—oOo—

“How come you don’t have any pictures on your walls?”

We were sitting in Brockwell Park, outside the café in the middle of the park. We were having coffee and one of the café’s wonderful scones, my regular Saturday treat. It had taken us a ridiculous amount of time to get out of the house; the morning had been comfortable and relaxed. Our walk had been an excuse to stretch our legs and chat, nothing heavy, the history of the area, the interesting shops, the importance of a good deli.

“I do have pictures. There’s one in my study, and plenty in the upstairs lounge.” (in fact the front bedroom, repurposed).

He laughed, “Which you never use.”

The lounge was next to my bedroom, and inevitably we’d looked into it, and I’d commented that I used it for entertaining, which happened rarely.

“I do have plenty of pictures. Only, I choose a couple and by the time I get around to hanging them, I change my mind.” I shrugged, “So, nothing gets put up.”

“You like the blank walls?”

“I look at so much stuff professionally, it’s a bit nice to have a blank wall as long as it’s the right colour.”

We smiled at each other and sat quietly for a moment.

“And what about your flat?”

He gave something between a laugh and a sigh of exasperation, “The new job means I’ve graduated to renting my own flat.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s nothing to write home about. Three rooms including the bathroom. The decoration is the landlord’s, all off white, and I don’t have much stuff. But it’s mine. You ever shared?”

“Not for a long time, for a year at university and then a few years after I left.”

“Then you got your own place?”

“Mother and Father got so fed up with my problems with flatmates and landlords that they helped me buy.”

“Nice!”

“Hardly. Practical. I got chucked out of one place because I was gay.”

“Shit. You don’t think that sort of thing would happen anymore.”

“Oh, it was all very civilised, but I had to leave. Another flatmate didn’t seem to understand the difference between mine and thine, if I couldn’t find something it was bound to be in his room.”

“So you know what I mean, sharing with a bunch of blokes who are barely housetrained. Mind, I can’t afford to buy my own place, at least not round here.”

“I was lucky, my first place was in a rather dodgy area, but it meant I could afford a whole house.”

“Round here?”

“That was a few years ago. Gentrification happened, prices skyrocketed, so here I am. Still rather bijou. But all mine!”

As we walked back to the house I thought of Dan’s promise (or threat) to do something about the garden, but before I could mention it, he brought up another subject.

“Do you cook?”

I laughed, “Thinking of your stomach, already?”

He looked a bit shamefaced, “Not really, I just wondered what we were doing about food. If you’ve no plans, perhaps we could find a deli on the way to the garden centre.”

It was a tentative suggestion, but a sensible and concrete plan. I wanted to laugh, I rarely planned in such detail. Without a deadline to work to, I was something of a dead loss. I realised I’d paused too long, Dan was looking somewhat nervous, “Sorry, if you’ve got plans.”

“Quite the opposite. The closest to a plan was to go to Cook in Clapham and hope they had a frozen fish pie! You cook?”

“Gran says not, but her standards are exacting. If there’s an Italian deli somewhere….”

“There’s bound to be. We can ask Mr Google when we get home.”

“You have one of those things you can ask?”

I laughed, “Not at all, I hate asking a machine. Web pages are good enough for me.”

“I don’t even have a laptop.”

“Then what do you use, your phone?”

He gave me a funny look and produced a phone that certainly wasn’t smart at all, “It makes calls and sends texts; that’s enough.”

I smiled and shook my head, “My life is governed by technology now, jobs, schedules, blog, the lot. Perhaps it would be nice to step back.”

--oOo—oOo—

The weekend unfolded in a relaxed, yet unreal manner. We visited both garden centre and deli. I had kittens at having an ex-policeman in my car, convinced he was clutching the seat and marking my driving. We had great fun yet did nothing out of the ordinary, except that I never spent so much time in bed (and elsewhere) with one guy. We both seemed to know how to punch the right buttons on the other.

Only late on Sunday night did we get to the crux of things.

“You didn’t ask me out again after the gallery, but you fancied me?”

I shook my head, “Chagrin, embarrassment, sheer cowardice. It was easier to put it to one side.”

“You wrote about it”, I nodded, “I read everything and more.”

“I’ve never been one for confrontation and I’m not good at handling it, face to face. Writing is a lot easier.”

“I was so angry, at first. Not at you. But I went to the exhibition, properly, read all the stuff about the pictures, your stuff and saw other sides to it. Helps to have some sort of certainty, laws, in my job; grey areas are disconcerting.”

“So, you understood?”

“Sort of. And”, he gave an embarrassed shrug. “Well, I chickened out too. Didn’t contact you. We’re a couple of idiots really.”

That’s how it started. Sort of in the middle; somehow, we missed a bit out. Dan came back, tended the plants, did some weeding and we had that fish pie from Cook. And, of course, he had to come back at the weekend, and again.

We told no-one, met no-one, our own little bubble.