Crossing the line - 28. No dangly bits on duty

The party was on – finally. Francis Heyward was having a celebratory Lawrence of Arabia themed bash. Quite what it was celebrating wasn’t clear and more than one person at The Manor, including Dudley who would be helping to organise it, suggested that it was the last big bash before Francis Heyward scaled things back. It was funny how the vague rumours, and more, that I had been picking up seemed to have percolated through to Francis Heyward’s staff.

Dan was clear that he was not going to work on the night of the party and so was furiously going over rotas to ensure adequate cover and back up. Early on in the planning, he had batted away suggestions of nudity from a couple of his guys. Dan had told Francis Heyward to his face, ‘No dangly bits on duty’ to which Francis Heyward, to his credit, had laughed and agreed.

It seemed as if the party would pass by as just one more event, larger and more complex, but nothing special. Dan and I even had plans to use the evening for a meal out somewhere. Then Francis Heyward asked Dan to come into his office.

“I fully appreciate your wish for the staff to be professional, ‘No dangly bits on duty’ I think you said”, a dry smile, “and having discussed it, we agree.” Dan wanted to ask who ‘we’ were but stayed silent. “So, I have a proposal. I invite you and Vaughan as my guests on the evening. You receive an honorarium; it is good after all for my head of security to experience things from the guests’ point of view. You and Vaughan undertake to be in suitable fancy dress, and I am sure Vaughan is perfectly capable of coming up with imaginative costume”, another thin smile, “and you undertake that your costume will be revealing. Completely revealing, if you get my drift. I might add, by way of reassurance, that I too will be wearing, shall we say, the bare minimum.”

I stared at Dan as he recounted everything to me that evening and we both laughed.

“So, it’s Dangly bits not on duty?”

“Something like.”

“Still, we’ve already seen what Francis Heyward has to offer. So much for his little chat with me and an invitation to discreet, small events. Discreet my arse.”

Dan laughed, “Well, I think the party’s sort of a last-minute idea.”

“Some extravaganza to have last minute. Will you want to do it?”

He looked at me, “Do I have a choice?”

“Yes. You can say you feel it’s not appropriate. And then take the hit, whatever that is.”

“I asked the guys.”

I raised an eyebrow, “And?”

“They say I should be up for it. Call Mr H’s bluff. Jack said that it wasn’t much worse than showing your naked bum on duty.”

“He has a point. And you?”

He gave a cock-eyed grin, “I reckon I’m curious about Mr H’s parties. Might be fun?”

I smiled, “And no worse than a boots-only evening.”

“Maybe see some familiar faces?”

“Faces?” We laughed.

It was perhaps a red line to cross, but we were tempted. We sat, drinking our wine, contemplating the sunset.

“What will I wear?”

I laughed, “Fuck knows. Lawrence of Arabia is hardly a recipe for revealing costumes, is it?”

We pulled up the film on my phone, images of Peter O’Toole as TE Lawrence and various Arabs, nary a naked bum in sight, of course.

“Remember the porn video collage at the last party?”

I rolled my eyes, “Let me think about it, but I’d prefer something a bit more imaginative.”

We accepted the invitation, and Dan promptly had the jitters, but was boosted by the delighted support of the guys at work who seemed to take the nudity in their stride and felt that it was a price worth paying for Dan getting to see what actually went on behind those doors.

I was walking to Victoria tube one day, having been to a gallery in Knightsbridge (a dead loss in fact) and approaching Elizabeth Street when I remembered a couple of shops in Eccleston Street that used to do interesting decorative artefacts and costumes from world cultures. I went along, just in case. I hit the jackpot. I managed to avoid letting on to the helpful young woman what I really wanted the clothes for, and afterwards diverted to Sloane Square to buy one or two pieces to complete the outfits from Peter Jones.

We had a show and tell that evening. We didn’t look like refugees from Lawrence of Arabia but there was something exotic enough in the results. Dan wore a long sleeveless tapestry waistcoat, the sort that came down to his thighs. Nothing underneath, so he definitely dangled and as he walked you got tempting glimpses of his bum. Someone had customised the waistcoat with two big inside pockets. Convenient! One for his phone (for emergency contact), and one for a pair of black boxer briefs to pull on in case of emergencies. He was delighted.

I had a similar, shorter waistcoat and matching hat – a little pillbox thing (I didn’t have Dan’s hat size, so he had escaped). I had managed to find a pair of flesh-coloured briefs (far briefer than the style I usually wear) and had a length of pale silk to wrap around as a sarong. An odd cross-cultural look, I know, but there was flexibility – nothing, just sarong, or sarong and briefs, depending on how brave I felt.

“The guys want a picture.”

“Of you like that?” He did indeed look very splendid. “I don’t think you should be showing pictures of your willy to your staff, if might be misconstrued. Think how it’d read in the Daily Mail?”

“Bugger. It’ll have to be the black briefs then.”

“I have an idea.”

We took it side on, a hint of things and nothing more. Suggestive enough to make the guys laugh, but I don’t think it was dodgy. I did, however, take a couple of frontal ones for my own fun, and laughingly said I might use one as wallpaper on my phone.

A former workmate of Dan’s, Morty, now ran a limo firm, and Dan called in a favour; in fact, we got Morty himself in a plush black Audi. Even wearing cotton trousers, we were quite a sight and Morty had a good stare. So much so, I wondered whether his interest was more than mere curiosity. But the journey there turned into one of those narratives where Dan and Morty swapped news about former mates, people I had never heard of and was unlikely to encounter. I tuned out.

The house was handsomely lit up, a light-show rather than simple floodlighting, and this time it did look as if someone had listened to my advice, there was a sense of anticipation in the way the lights played on the house and the colours changed. On the lawn was a group of marquees acting as cloakroom and changing areas so that guests could make their ceremonial entrance up the stairs and into the Marble Hall looking their best, and this time the portico steps were simply and effectively lit.

We encountered a couple leaving the marquee who dispelled any doubts that we might have had about our costumes. Two men in their mid-30s, with 1940s RAF uniforms painted in body paint on their naked bodies, with no concessions to modesty and with one man clearly excited, perhaps at the idea of having everything on display. After they passed us, Dan turned to me and grinned. I didn’t bother with my flesh-colour underpants.

A couple of Dan’s guys were on duty, checking for phones and cameras (and I suspect drugs), courteous but determined.

We might not have had the most expensive costumes, but we certainly caused a reaction when entering the Marble Hall. There, stood a double line of Dan’s guys lining the walls, looking particularly beefy in their jockstraps and with a remarkable display of body art of varying quality. All reacted, from outright amazement to grins and smiles with a couple of discreet thumbs up, and one mouthing ‘nice one, boss’.

There was no particular reason to remain in the hall, but there was a couple of knots of people chatting to each other and staring at the Norman James. Costumes varied from the expensive to the imaginative to the downright dull. Most were revealing in some way, if not completely though I suspected that things would get raunchier as the night progressed.

In the Staircase Hall there were naked men serving drinks, actors I learned, impressively trim and with substantial genital endowments; I would love to have seen the advert! There were no tables this time, perhaps discouraging lingering? However, the dramatic lighting really made the Mitchells stand out, though faced with the reality of naked flesh, the paintings perhaps seemed less startling.

We were greeted by Francis Heyward and Tim, no question but they were a couple, in matching costumes. Full Lawrence of Arabia robes that at first sight seemed rather discreet, until you realised that they were slit up the front, top to bottom, held by a fancy tie round the waist. Francis Heyward had everything on show and Tim, surprisingly, was similar. He’d been so retiring generally; I’d not expected this. I realised I’d been staring too long, Francis Heyward was smiling amusedly, yet he and Tim were eyeing us up too.

Dan seemed to take it all in his stride and we made our way into the Drawing Room.

“Phew. Thank fuck that’s over. Can we try and keep out of his way till we have to leave, do you think?”

“What do you suggest, lurking at the bottom of the garden?”

“Not far enough away”, he grinned. “But didn’t you think he was hitting on us? That, looking forward to seeing more of you later spiel?”

“Do you think he and Tim hunt as a pair, or do they split up?”

“No way. A foursome with the boss and his boyfriend. Fucking scary.”

I shrugged, “Well it was on the cards, let’s face it.”

“Sorry, I know it was”, he sagged a bit. “It’s just when we came face to face with it, so to speak, the idea seemed to be so much more gross.”

“Oh, come on. He and Tim aren’t that bad looking.”

Dan stared, checking I was joking, before he laughed. “Did you notice Tim?”

“Yeah, he and Francis certainly like the manscaping. I think Tim was shaved all over and wearing a cock-ring too.”

“I thought he might be a bit excited?”

“Pleased to see us?”

“Look let’s treat this as an ordinary party. Keep in the well-lit rooms.”

“And no orgies! Yeah!”

We looked around, it was quite a transformation. Drawing Room, Long Gallery and Ante Room were each elaborately tented. You felt as if you were in an exotic sheikh’s tent; more Rudolph Valentino than Peter O’Toole, but what the hell? Flickering images from the film played on the draped walls, the furniture was gone.

The Ante Room had the lowest light level and it led to the Dining Room, now empty of any dining furniture and with the lighting turned really low. We never ventured in properly; it was dark and secluded, seemingly designed for those who wanted real intimacy.

Elsewhere, you either stood or lounged on cushions which seemed designed to give you a clear glimpse of what the reclining figures had to offer, and as the lighting was at a decent level, there was no question about that. Two guys were openly kissing and fondly, both proudly on display, though the result was a bit weird too, thanks to the flickering of the films projected on the walls.

“Wow, they’ve started early.”

Dan smiled, “Let’s go into the garden, it’s giving me ideas.”

Outside it was cooler and calmer. The gardens were lit in a spectacular fashion, we stood watching as the lights changed and moved, and I felt Dan pressing against me. And yes, he was definitely getting ideas. The advantage of being an employee was that Dan knew where to go and we had some fun, safely away from anyone else.

After that it was pretty much like any other party. We wandered round, checking other people out, receiving plenty of curious glances as few recognised us. Once you forgot you were in effect naked, it was sort of fun. And there was a smattering of well-known names, some of whom were completely shameless (one minor TV celebrity wearing nothing but an Arab head-dress). I’ve never been a star-fucker and it turned out that neither was Dan. Instead, we had an enjoyable bitch as we wandered round.

“Bloody hell. Vaughan, you old sod. What are you doing here?”

I’d known Darius since student days. He’d had a somewhat stellar career as an artist. He’d created a mix of conceptual stuff and painted images; the conceptual work had created the buzz, but this had calmed down of late as he did more painting. But, as far as I was concerned his work was as vivid as ever.

“Darius. Pleased to see a familiar face.”

“And more by the looks of it”, he smirked.

Introductions were made. Darius had had a similar idea to us, waistcoat, and elaborate harem pants in a transparent fabric. He looked like an odalisque, except they were rarely 6 ft, broad, with a hairy chest and the pants did nothing to hide what was underneath. Darius was, as they say, packing.

“So, Dan? You on duty?”

Dan shook his head, “No. I wouldn’t be dressed like this if I was”, and he gestured at his naked bits.

“Quite right too.”

“We’re here by special request.”

“Of Francis? Got his eye on you, has he? You have to watch that one.”

I smiled, “So we gathered, this is the second time he’s got us naked. I reckon the third time…”

Darius laughed, “Bingo!”

“And you?”

“Nah. Not his taste. Thankfully. Though he tried it on something rotten with a mate I shared a studio with. Poor sod, ran a mile and stayed hiding.”

“So, Francis Heyward has some of your stuff?”

He wrinkled his nose, “Fraid so. Was a good year or so back and I gather it’s still not been hung. Rather proud of them.”

“I gather he has a ton of stuff in storage.”

Darius stared at me, “Oh aye? You seen it?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. He’s rather taken a shine to me, for some reason. Likes talking art, getting me to advise him. I got roped in when he bought the Norman James.”

“Christ, that’s something, isn’t it? But be very afraid. Heyward has a reputation for hiring and firing. He falls out with his artistic advisors regularly.”

“So I’ve heard. Make hay while the sun shines.”

“Look, let’s meet for a proper drink. Now excuse me, a nice young dancer has reappeared and I’m keen to make his acquaintance”, Darius smiled and was gone.

“Quite a character.”

“Fine painter, though. Interesting comments about Francis Heyward.”

Dan smiled, “You bet.”

There were others. A minor actor who’d made my acquaintance at a party or two, and whose costume involved a sparkly jock strap that Dan swore was heavily padded. I’d grinned at this, commenting ‘Expert, are you?’ and he’d smirked. There was also a gallery owner wearing yet more body paint, but this time with a modesty pouch that hid nothing.

We saw Francis Heyward once more, full divested of his robes and magnificently tumescent, unashamedly leaning over in intimate conversation with a decorative young man in the low lighting of the Ante Room, and I suspected that they were about to disappear into the gloom of the Dining Room.

We slipped away and enjoyed a final wander, then Dan put on his black pants and went to say goodbye to his guys, who of course were all eager to find out if Dan had enjoyed the party. I collected our stuff from the cloakroom, and we spent a magical half-hour sitting on the steps up to the portico with the strays, smokers, and such. It was quiet, the view was lovely with all the lights in the distance and the glow of the floodlighting. Then Morty arrived and we were off home.

“I’m glad we did it, but I don’t think I need to do that again. I don’t know about you, but that party just wasn’t me.” Dan sighed.

“Too many people showing off, and the whole Francis Heyward thing.”

“Do you really reckon he wanted to get us into bed?”

I laughed, “Not bed, I suspect. But a nice grapple in a dark corner.”

“Not so dark, I reckon.”

“You think that’s what this is, power play, look at me I can have who I want?”

“Maybe. But I want none of it.”

“Knickers firmly on, in future.”

“Definitely.”