Crossing the line - 35. The Last Party

What we started to refer to as The Last Party came at the end, for me, of a busy and lucrative week as if fates wanted to emphasise the positives in the air. There was even a job for Dan to apply for; he’d started scanning for them, but most had been too lowly or in other ways unsuitable.

After our previous experience, we had seriously considered not going to the party but talked ourselves into it. For a start, as Dan was fond of pointing out, though we suspected Francis Heyward might cut and run, there was so far no proof that he had lied to us at all. That neither of us trusted him an inch was certainly no consolation.

But here we were, in a cab going to The Manor. Again. And it seemed as if plenty of people had accepted the invitation. I had been much exercised about what I was going to wear. Oh, I know, it was naked, but that covered all sorts of things. I reckoned that as long as my bum, my bits and my chest were unclad, then I could get away with wearing something.

So, I was wearing back in the oriental waistcoat, with oriental slippers and a silk scarf.

Dan smiled, “You look like a character from The Arabian Nights who has lost his trousers.”

“Cheek. I can think of worse looks.”

Spurred on by my search for a suitable naked look, Dan had put together a leather waistcoat, a heavy cock-ring, heavy boots, and a leather strap around his arm.

“All you need is a pair of dark glasses, and you’d fit in a Tom of Finland picture.”

He grinned, and we walked up the grand staircase. There was a bit of a breeze that evening, and it played around our naked bits in a way which made me hope that The Manor would be suitably warm!

What to say about the party? It was pretty much as you’d imagine it might be. The guests were largely on the young side, though not exclusively so; many were trim and fit with a smattering of bears, unashamed dad-bods and such. Quite who they were, goodness knows, certainly we didn’t recognise many, and Dan sniffed and whispered, ‘definitely D list’.

The security and the waiters were all contract, and the security were all impressive muscle Marys, the waiters by contrast were trim and winsome. Both groups were deft at avoiding unwanted attention. In the show rooms it was all decorous cocktail party, but the food and drink were served on the terrace and the main party seemed to congregate out there.

Yes, everyone eyed everyone else up. But after a while, you got used to it. Francis Heyward and Tim were wandering around, being gracious hosts and flirting with all and sundry. They insisted on introducing us to all sorts of luminaries, from various branches of the arts, though no visual artists, sculptors, or journos. No-one from my world.

People slipped off into the gardens, where the shadows provided cover for intimate games. Then music started in the basement; now that this had been cleared, it was being used for its original function as an additional entertainment space. It was dark, disco-like and appealed to neither of us. If we wanted some nookie, we’d use the garden.

We never saw anyone actually having sex, but plenty of people in a state of semi-arousal or post-coital tumescence; including Francis Heyward who saw us looking and smiled. We didn’t respond; whatever charms there had been to the idea of a threesome (or foursome!) had long evaporated.

We left relatively early, pleased we had gone but feeling somewhat disconnected from the rather fin-de-siecle glee of it all. As we left, we caught an off-duty security guard in a clinch with a young man. Dan grinned, “Would have never happened with my lads.”

After the event, what stayed in my mind was a sense of desperation and disappointment. I don’t mean the dancing on the edge of the volcano sort of thing, but more the feeling of the guests going through the motions. There might be no other chances for them to take advantage of Francis Heyward’s outrageous hospitality. What would I have done differently, if I had been in charge; what would we have done differently?

Dan and I discussed this endlessly in the days after the party. I think we both agreed that the naked thing took the imagination out of it and made it seem like a high-class sex party. And we both decided that if we wanted that then we’d do the boots only event at a gay bar. Dan’s idea was that the guests should have had no dress code but there should have been extras, actors, rent-boys and such, who were unclothed, whilst my variant of it was clothed guests and unclothed waiters. You get the drift, a mix to make it seem more exotic. But perhaps we were just not on Heyward’s wavelength.

--oOo—oOo—

The removal vans started a few days later and Dan reported a steady progression of them, first special art handlers, then specialist removers, then the hoi polloi. Dan had said goodbye to several senior colleagues, and then suddenly things were quiet.

We had removals of our own. Dan’s landlord had proved profoundly unhelpful, no subletting allowed, so Dan gave notice and moved out. This time we hired a van, and he spent a weekend sorting stuff into his new den in the shed. This looked surprisingly satisfactory and quickly became a feature. Our life together moved on to a new phase. And yes, we argued. A lot. Settling in together was a messy business, but we persevered and wouldn’t have had it any other way.