Carnivorous Butterflies - 2. Chapter 2

London, 1987

They had gathered in the park to commemorate my death — or rather, my life. Don’t you just love it when you’re the centre of attention? Even when it means dying to achieve it. Joking aside, it’s gratifying to know that people still love you, foibles, and all, even after we have departed this good Earth. I think it’s arguable whether their memories are, how can I put it — economical with the truth? But who am I to argue? I’ll let you decide on that! I’ve often wondered whether the memory of a departed person becomes more important than the actual living corporeal self? Do we love the memory more — like those macabre Victorian lockets made with human hair. Of one thing I can be certain, the few close friends I did have, were true, steadfast and unequalled. You can’t ask for much more really.

Hannah, my oldest friend, and Julian, my closest friend, lay on the grass in Hyde Park, discussing my short life. The London weather, thankfully, had cleared to leave a pale sky in which the mid-summer noon sun cast short shadows on the turf and high clouds blew ragged from the west. There was no hint of rain, and the fine weather meant that they could do what they and everyone else in the park had come here to do — honour the dead — and gossip.

The idea began in New York a month earlier when six thousand pink and lavender balloons had been released over Fifth Avenue. And now here in London, people wept openly as they watched their sweethearts float skyward, many of the balloons bearing notes of remembrance for people who had died from AIDS. Hannah had hastily written on our balloon with a sharpie: Todd – see you on the flip side. Love ya babe. J & H. Personally, their lack of creativity made me smile. It was the gesture that was important. It was quite moving, don’t you think?

“Do you believe in love at first sight?” Hannah was looking at Julian who was sprawled on his back, chewing on a blade of grass.

He glanced at Hannah and laughed, “hmmm … yes, but only if you factor in the next three years of abject misery,” Julian replied.

“Ouch! That bad huh,” Hannah responded. She sat up, leaning on her elbows to get a clearer view of her surroundings. “I’m being serious Julian,” she said.

“So am I,” he countered. “I mean, my ephemeral love affair with Todd was like a lightning bolt, and it just left me a burnt-out shell. It devoured me. And it was exhausting, volatile and bloody fantastic, but it was also electrifying — while it lasted.” He laughed. Julian was lying on his back, arms folded behind his head. He gestured towards the sky. Towards a scattering of pink balloons wobbling against the pale blue.

“Is that ours?” he asked, trying to change the subject, “shit, quickly —which one is our balloon, Hannah?” He felt an odd sensation of panic. Afterall, the balloon represented me, and he was determined to keep me in sight for as long as possible. Silly sentimental boy. At first the balloon just seemed to hover a few feet above their heads. Suspended like a fat blot in the warm summer air. A pink spot against a smoggy London firmament. Worlds away at the other end of Hyde Park, Julian and Hannah could hear the muted throb of cars and buses, the occasional hoot from an irascible driver trying to navigate the endless one-way system around Hyde Park Corner. Ancient oaks and horse chestnuts hemmed the edge of the green lungs of the city, shielding them from the purring urban sprawl beyond. Julian could smell the sweet hint of freshly mown grass and the spiced base notes from Hannah’s perfume—what was it? Ah yes. He remembered. Opium by YSL. Or was it Poison by Dior?

Julian was not a classically handsome man, but his features were comfortable, useful-looking, kind and approachable. Years of country life had left his cheeks florid and bursting in rude health. His teeth were straight, except for a chip in his left incisor — an accident with a cricket ball, giving him a kind, disarming toothy smile. Sticky-out ears, a strong jawline and a shock of unruly, curly dirty blonde hair completed a look that might have been taken from an E.M. Forster novel. It was a face that attracted both men and women; the men found his casual, masculinity comforting and safe, even around their girlfriends, which often confused them, and the women saw him as a keeper, a man who cared, a man who could protect and provide for the family. In both cases, they were largely misguided.

From Speakers Corner to the Serpentine, hundreds of queens and their coterie were gathered. Not the fabulous, hyperactive pandemonium of a Gay Pride, nor the inflamed pressure of recent protests against Section 28, which Margaret Thatcher was so eager to push through, but in small, camp, tribal groups, huddled on the grass to bid farewell to loved ones. The shrill greetings, the laughter, the ghetto blasters churning out Tom Robinson, The Pet Shop Boys and HiNRG somehow appeared more subdued and sober. Were it not for the large bunches of balloons, the bunting and of course the banners proudly displaying the pink triangles, it might have resembled just another Saturday in the park. It’s hard to keep a good queer down but on this occasion, even the most hardened homosexual felt compelled to rein in the flamboyance, to a degree.

A light breeze caught the balloon and slowly it began to float upwards into an aqueous summer sky. Julian glanced across at his companion. They had come here today to send me off. Hannah was lying on her back in the grass, her eyes shiny with tears. An aquiline profile framed by a mass of black, crimped, braided hair extensions, courtesy of Vidal Sassoon and magnificently shaped eyebrows.

“You would have made a perfect Cleopatra,” Julian told her. She hesitated, then roared with laughter.

“Not with this skin colour and my fat ass!”

“Hannah, my darling,” Julian continued, entwining his fingers in hers, “Cleopatra was probably brown skinned and as for her arse, she was fed on goats’ milk, mead, honey and olive oil. I’m sure no-one was looking at her backside.” He leant into her and in his best Richard Burton voice growled into her ear the only line he knew from Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra; “Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety.”

“Yup. That’s me. Infinite variety — forsooth!”

Hannah was an inspirited, budding actress with a loud voice and a louder personality. At five and a half feet tall, she needed it. Having just completed a term at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, which was where we first met, and hoping to get her big break, she was taking ‘time out’ as a waitress in a poorly paid Covent Garden restaurant. It would have been difficult to place Hannah in any generic role. Raised by a single mum in South London, she had grown up on the streets of Brixton, ready to defend herself against anyone who dared contradict her. Loyal, uncompromising, and mercurial when tested, she was suspicious of people who were pretentious and hollow, essentially ruling out most of her theatrical peers as people she could trust. Despite her height, she wasn't exactly someone you missed in the crowd. Hardly a shrinking violet, what she lacked in stature, she sure as hell made up for in personality. Hannah claimed her ancestors were Tuareg warriors from the Sahara. Whilst the truth was probably much more mundane — she knew nothing about her father — she was undoubtedly, striking. Her nut-brown complexion was flawless, her face proud, sculptured, but not pretty. She was loud, and she was outrageously funny, but she was disarmingly self-deprecating and had a sensitive side which she showed on rare occasions, and only to her close friends. Prone to moods, she had a neurotic habit of constantly twisting her extensions on her head, launching into political diatribes, particularly when discussing her bête noir, Maggie Thatcher. In essence, Hannah was a hot mess and because of that, was adored by most of the gay men in their circle, me included.

“I'm going to be a famous singer,” she kept reminding anyone who cared to listen. “You know the type,” she would go on, “the foil to Diana Ross. Or Whitney’s sidekick!” If truth be told, Hannah would make a perfect drag queen, which I’m happy to tell now that I’m dead. Hannah would kill me if she knew.

Having grown up in a rough Stockwell housing estate off the South Lambeth Road, Hannah loved nothing more than taking the mickey out of my ancestry by regaling her friends with stories about my white, privileged childhood growing up on the East Coast of America. Despite never having met them, she was opinionated about my snobbish parents. Not to mention, my ancestors who came over to America on the Mayflower. Hannah always had something critical to say, often correctly, I might add, about my wealthy family and especially my grandmother, who had a house on Rhode Island right next to the property where they filmed The Great Gatsby.

“If everyone who claimed to be on the Mayflower were true, the bloody ship would have been as big as the Titanic!” Hannah would often joke to me. She did have a point.

When I left America, I had a small allowance which hardly made ends meet. The fact that I didn't have a pot to piss in, had hardly mattered to Hannah. If anything, it endeared me to her. She was wary of rich people. Her friendly ribbing trod a fine line between jealousy and admiration. Everyone loves a loser down on their luck and Hannah was the maestra at collecting poor, broken men. I’m the first to admit that I was certainly broken — but hardly a loser! Hannah — and Julian — we mustn’t forget him, loved me for my faults, nonetheless.

I recall spending many, largely happy, hours huddled around a two-bar electric heater, mug of Nesquik nestled in my hands, yarning about my family and why I was the poor relation. My grandma was wildly wealthy, you see. I used to tell them somewhat disdainfully, that she farted gold dust! Of course, she frittered the entire family fortune away and by the time I arrived on the scene, there was fuck all left, except for that grandfather clock! Did you know, she once pissed in Jackie O’s swimming pool? Well, it was at the home of Hugh Dudley Auchincloss Jr. on Rhode Island. He was Jackie’s stepfather. Grannie didn't know it at the time, but of course they had that dye in the water, and there she was swimming merrily away with a trail of violet pee swirling out behind her. Everyone disliked her so much, they weren't going to tell her. God forbid!

I grew up in the well-heeled world of Chestnut Hill in Philadelphia, attending Brown on Rhode Island for a short spell, before setting my eyes upon London’s West End. I was always one for being centre stage. It was at RADA where I met Hannah and the two of us had become inseparable. She was always the better actor, but I was prettier and got all the boys! I’m sure that’s why she hung out with me.

Hannah reached into her handbag, fished out a Silk Cut and a Zippo and without taking her eyes off the sky, flipped the lighter and lit up. Skilfully, she let the smoke curl from her mouth and up her nose. Her eyes closed momentarily as she savoured the acrid nicotine rush, then she pointed skywards, waving the cigarette above her head.

“Goodbye Todd,” she whispered – so quietly, Julian would not have heard had he been looking away. A single tear broke free from her eye and ran down her cheek. She suddenly became all self-conscious, running her hand across her runny nose. “Look up goddammit. You’ll miss it.” Then her voice softened. She quickly looked across at her friend, “you can let go, if you want sweetie,” she said, dabbing her eyes. Her hand found his shoulder, but he gently shrugged it off. He frowned, squinting into the sun. Julian knew his clenched jaw and inability to grieve openly might be misconstrued as cold and unyielding. He was done with grief. The days following my death, Julian had spent hours bawling copiously into his pillow, great heaving, wet sobs, until he had little left to give, except empty, silent screams of despair. If only he had been quite so demonstrative and less reserved when I was alive, our relationship might have stood a chance. But hey ho. Poor Julian. All he wanted was to be light years away from here. He wanted to be in another universe. Anywhere but in this place, surrounded by faux-pleasantness, sadness and memories. Instead, he hugged her. Awkwardly.

Julian craned his neck upwards to take in the skyline – their small pink balloon had now been joined by more — hundreds more, bunching together as if there was safety in numbers. As more and more caught the breeze, their strings became entangled, one moment apart, then the next together, higher and higher.

“It’s a pink cluster fuck.”

As each individual balloon grew smaller and smaller, the bunch began to swell. The cluster pulsed and heaved in the wind and by the time it was floating over Park Lane, it resembled a surreal pop-art, pink cloud, bobbing and swaying in the pea-soup sky. As the cotton candy mass climbed higher, a few rogue balloons began leaving the group — going it alone across Green Park.

“All those queens heading to Buckingham Palace,” Julian said, “Princess Di will be happy.” This time she did laugh.

“I’m sure the Queen Mum will enjoy the spectacle,” she responded, “I hear she’s a confirmed fag hag. Only employs gays in Clarence House.” The crowd was now largely silent as they observed the balloons floating away. Each balloon represented a human soul — a friend, a lover, a son, a daughter, a soulmate. Hundreds of balloons for the hundreds of people who had died of AIDS-related illnesses in London.

“God, it’s incredible to think how many of those lost souls died without their families even knowing about them,” Hannah observed. “What a fucking crying shame.”

They watched a group of men dressed as nuns on roller skates handing out pink balloons to bemused passers-by near Marble Arch.

“Those must be The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence,” noted Hannah. “I saw them once in San Francisco careering down Castro. I was there with Todd funnily enough. God, what a fun holiday that was.”

Julian laughed. “Blimey, what a sight!” he remarked, “they look bloody fabulous. Like crazy flying nuns.”

“Oh, don’t be so quick to dismiss them as crazy,” continued Hannah, “they do incredible charity work promoting safe sex. But it’s their names that I love. Let me see if I can remember — it was a while ago. I know there’s a Sister Florence Nightmare, but I think she died of AIDS in 1984 or five. Sister Risque of the Sissytine Chapel might still be around, also Sister Anita Blowjob, Sister GladAss of the Joyous Reserectum, and Sister Hellena Handbasket. There’s also a Pope Dementia the Last, but I haven’t a clue who’s who. Who knows — maybe they’ve all kicked the bucket?”

“How the bloody hell do you even know their names? That’s insane.”

Hannah laughed.

“I wish I could say it comes from years of learning my lines. But it doesn’t. My sister knew most of them from the San Francisco order. She’s Chief Lesbian in California. Moved there when I was a young girl. Her diesel dyke groupies raise a ton of money through their charity work.”

“Chief Lesbian?” Julian enquired, trying to hold in the laughter.

“Don’t fucking laugh,” Hannah cut in. “If ever the media need a quote from the lesbian and gay community, they ask my sister. She’s always on CNN. But it is funny, isn’t it?”

“Well, I think they’re fabulous,” Julian said, gesturing towards the nuns. “I could hazard a guess that the seven foot one dressed in white is The Pope — what was his name? Pope Dementia the Last?” he said, pointing to an apparition with a mitre perched on her head.

“Jesus. Look at that one!” Hannah exclaimed. “Who on earth is she?” Hannah pointed to a drag queen dressed in a tattered silk frock, smudged mascara, and a misshapen platinum blonde wig.

“Ah! Now I know who she is. I’ve actually met her at The Bell on Pentonville Road. Or was it at Bar Italia late one night? It’s the one and only Dead Marylin!”

“Dead Marylin?” Hannah looked askance at Julian. “Is that really a thing?”

Julian giggled.

“Well, it is now.” Dead Marylin held a fluffy Pomeranian, also dressed up in gay ribbons and was surrounded by a group of largely leather clad clones. Empty lager cans lay strewn at their feet.

They were silent for a while, both lost in thought.

“Christ,” Hannah broke the silence, “I miss him. To think how vibrant and fun Todd was? When that boy was on form, he was just the best.”

“And gone way before his time. He was so fucking young.”

“Todd’s parents knew he had AIDS, didn’t they?” Julian asked.

“Yeah. He told them in the end. I mean, it’s not something you can hide, is it?” Hannah sighed and waved her empty paper cup at Julian, “fill me up,” she demanded. He poured her a few slugs of cheap Chianti, which he had in his backpack. “Thanks sweetie. You’ll make a fab barman.”

“I am a fab barman!” Julian countered.

She continued, “His parents almost disowned him when he confronted them. Can you believe it? It couldn't have been easy for poor little Todd. They knew he was gay. It was the whole AIDS thing that freaked them out. Christ, they come from such a bloody posh Philadelphia family. And there their son was wasting away from some uncurable plague. They were more interested in their reputation within their cloistered bridge community, than the health of their own son. Or his happiness for that matter.” She let out a deep sigh. “I'm probably not being very fair, am I? I don’t really suppose it’s their fault, but he was their only child for God’s sake! The apple of their eye. It must have been terrifying for poor Todd, having to face it all alone.” She pulled out a used tissue from her pocket and blew her nose.

“I’m pretty certain my dad would react in the same manner, Hannah,” Julian said. “At best he would disown me. At worst he would fucking shoot me — and that’s just for being gay. Actually, I malign the poor bugger. He’s okay about me being gay, but God only knows what the reaction would be if I had AIDS?” They stared at the sky, lost in their own thoughts. Julian’s mind with his family back on the farm in the West Country. “I mean think about it,” Julian went on, “the Gay Pride movement has made great strides since those Stonewall riots of—when was it—1969? Or Pride 85 come to think of it — remember that day? At least great strides in mega-cities like New York, Paris and of course, here in London. But beyond the M6 it’s still positively bloody medieval. I shudder to think what they must be saying about my lifestyle back at the country club. My poor mum.”

“Well, that battle isn’t over, even in London,” responded Hannah, “sometimes I think we are going backwards.”

In 1987, the gay community fought, unsuccessfully, against Margaret Thatcher’s Conservative government’s introduction of Section 28 — a series of laws across Britain that prohibited the ‘promotion of homosexuality’ by local authorities. It caused many LGBT support groups to close or limit their activities or self-censor.

“It insinuates that queers are not born into it but nurtured through education and liberal propaganda. Like being gay is a choice. But I knew I was a poofter at six years old for Christ’s sake.” Julian was getting angry. “It’s not like I had any role models brainwashing me how to fancy a bit of cock. Really, it beggars’ belief.” He paused, “oh, look. Is that Johnnie? He looks completely different. Bloody hell, it’s been years since we last saw him. He’s aged well, hasn’t he? Hey, Johnnie! Over here.”

Johnnie looked up, smiled and sauntered over.

“He’s clearly had a nip and tuck,” Hannah whispered dryly, giving Julian a nudge.

“Oh my god, Johnnie boy — you look incredible,” Julian exclaimed, “how long has it been?”

“Two- and a-bit years,” Johnnie answered. He laughed. “That’s a long time in the queer world!” He folded his tall, slim frame onto the grass and hugged both of his friends. “I hated London in the end. I needed a change. I had to get out.”

“Whatever ‘getting out’ means,” Hannah ventured, “it’s done you a world of good. You look as healthy as an ox.” She glanced slyly at Julian.

“I moved to Florida. Palm Beach. It’s everything London is not. I love it, but there are so many things I miss about this town.” He pulled out a spliff and lit it with a sleek lighter. “In Florida I can be myself – a new me.” He paused. Julian was half expecting Hannah to slap the ground and shout I knew it!

“I’m not on the game anymore by the way. It was too stressful, not to mention dangerous. AIDS is everywhere in the US.” Johnnie continued, “besides, being a call boy is for the younger generation. There’s a lot of competition out there.”

Julian studied Johnnie’s get up. Gone were his vulgar gold chains and silk Versace shirts, carefully lacquered hairstyle and the fake tan. In its place was a comfortable cotton T-shirt, loose shoulder length hair and a natural sun kissed beach tan.

“I dabble in real estate now. It’s fucking boring but keeps me alive. And at last, I have dosh in my pocket,” he passed the joint to Julian. “You look different too babe. Almost sexy!” He rubbed Julian’s short precision cut hair. “No longer the naïve country yuppie huh?” Julian laughed.

“We’ve just released a balloon for Todd,” Hannah mentioned.

“I released two balloons,” Johnnie said. “But I swear I could’ve released a few more. This fucking awful disease man.”

Rolling over, Julian leaned on one elbow, looking for the balloons. He strained to see the departing pink cloud as it started to dip out of sight over the horizon of crenelated grey rooftops and chimneys. Only now did the crowd begin to murmur, to laugh, to greet each other in high pitched shrieks and to strut about, like the peacocks they were supposed to be. You could almost hear the collective sigh. As if their duty done, the really serious business of being outrageous and camp was now paramount. The expurgation of sadness now behind them, it was time to flirt, cruise, drink and get high. Someone cranked up the music. The Weather Girls began belting out It’s Raining Men.

“Guess who I bumped into over that side of the park?” Johnnie cut into their reveries.

“Who?” Hannah and Julian chorused.

“Youngblood!”

They groaned in unison.

“Sir Thomas Youngblood? You’ve gotta be kidding right?” Hannah remarked.

“Of course. SIR Thomas Youngblood. I had forgotten that he’d received a Knighthood — remind me what great deed he did for humankind?

“Wasn’t it for services to the performing arts? Despite being a bottom feeder, you have to hand it him. He is a bloody good actor. Still, it must seem weird calling him a Sir.”

“I think he would be better suited as a Dame,” Hannah remarked. “What was he doing over that side of the park? Trying to pick up trade?”

“He was on his soapbox espousing some gay cause. Can you believe it? After the way he treated the gay community. He sure as hell got his come-uppance.”

Julian shrugged. “Well, I’m glad I didn’t bump into the arsehole,” he responded, “but you can’t get away from the fucker these days. The Brit public have very short memories. He’s in all the tabloids these days. Ironic how he goes on about the LGB community as if he discovered us. What a sodding hypocrite!”

“T,” responded Hannah.

“Come again?” Julian asked.

“LGB-T. It’s no longer just LGB.”

“What’s the T for? Trainwrecks?”

Hannah laughed. “Nope. It’s for trans. Anyway, the point is Thomas Youngblood is an arsehole.”

Now please forgive me, but I feel I owe you an explanation. You’re probably wondering who the hell this divisive, knighted thespian is? Sir Thomas Youngblood is one of those rare treasures who comes along every generation and ingrains himself onto the psyche of the British public. An actor of note, he used his platform to give spirited speeches about the importance of family values, the church and immorality in society. He was also my sugar daddy. So why, you might ask, is he now on his soapbox championing the queer community? It’s a good question, but more of that later.

“When did he come out? Last time we spoke he was so frickin’ far inside the closet, he was in Narnia,” asked Johnnie.

“Come out?” Hannah snorted, “he had the shit kicked out of him when he was cruising. Had his face rearranged by some anti-gay agent provocateur in a park. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person!” she said sarcastically. “He would never have had the guts to come out otherwise.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Julian commented. “That’s the line he gave the press. I heard a different story. He was beaten up by gay guys who wanted revenge. You can’t blame them. I would have done the same. He made such divisive and damaging comments against the LGB community.”

“It made global headlines. The Mirror headline was National Treasure exposes crown jewels!” Hannah continued, with a laugh.

“Just call me Sir! That was The Sun.” Julian followed, “oh, but the News of the Screws was also too funny, King Leery! It happened after his success at playing King Lear. Anyway, can we change the subject please? I might not ever want to see him again, but those tabloids can be cruel.” Julian asked.

Johnnie nodded in agreement.

“Even stateside the LGB magazine The Advocate got in on the act, albeit less nasty. Their piece was all about gays being arrested for soliciting. A man more sinned against than sinning? It was catchy, if you knew Shakespeare.”

Hannah looked about her – such a variety of people. So typical of London. There were men and women of all ages holding hands or arms draped across shoulders, fingertips lightly touching, elderly couples sat on tartan blankets or in deckchairs, perhaps here to see off a son, a sprinkling of drag queens, some unashamedly crying, their mascara smudged down their cheeks, their heels discarded in the grass. A group of women held hands in a circle; they may have been praying or chanting. A middle-aged couple, probably more at home on Hampstead High Street, shared the contents from a hip flask. The woman leant down and nuzzled a bull terrier. She still held onto a balloon. The man gently encouraged her to let go. At first, she was reticent.

“We can’t darling!” the lady said, holding the balloon to her chest in a maternal manner.

“Come on now dear. Please …”

She released it into the air. A high-pitched whoop broke out from a group of men nearby. The circle of women were clapping enthusiastically. Dead Marilyn let forth a high-pitched whistle. One of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence pumped up the volume on her ghetto blaster. Halleluiah! chorused The Weather Girls whilst across the park Tom Waits gravelly voice crooned about Blind Love. The elderly couple looked at the gathering of people and smiled. As their balloon pitched and weaved in the late afternoon air, they began to laugh.

“Goodbye son,” they shouted, “see you soon.”

Hannah, Julian and Johnnie lay on their backs, hands touching. They were smiling. Julian squeezed Hannah’s hand.

“Come along,” he said, stashing the empty wine bottle in his bag, “we’re meeting people at Brief Encounter. It’s time to go.”