Be Careful What You Wish For - 4. Chapter 4 'Musical Chairs'

‘It’s crap. You must do better’

Roberto closed his laptop and looked at Greene,

‘You don’t understand. This needs analysis. I need evidence for each side of the argument; why animals have to be tortured for the sake of scientific research, and, conversely, why that position is intolerable, unacceptable’

Greene looked winded. It was bruising enough that his first foray into studying the media had been so comprehensively rubbished, but the humiliation felt all the worse, coming from a man ten years his junior. Roberto Subero could often look sophisticated and mature, but right now he looked younger even than his 28 years.

Subero gazed out of the window for a while as Greene gathered up his papers and case. The would-be student was just on the point of leaving when his mentor turned,

‘Wait! I realise that I have a responsibility to guide, encourage and sustain as well as criticise. I’ve been a bit harsh. This is a complex brief’

He walked over to Greene and stood in front of him. Being slightly smaller than his student Roberto was obliged to look up at him. Greene put his bag down on the desk and looked into Roberto’s eyes. It was true, they weren’t brown, but black! black as Hell and devoid of warmth, compassion, even lust. Greene studied his seducer, powerless to escape or resist. The Latino’s features were near perfect, the voluptuous lips, faultless, white teeth and finely trimmed goatee. When his lips met Greene’s the latter’s fate was sealed.

They kissed long and hard, then fell to the floor, undressing, enjoying each other, arousing, pleasuring and being aroused and pleasured in turn. But deep in his heart Greene knew how it would end. Almost without warning Roberto sprang up and sat astride Greene. The mood had changed,

‘Stay where you are, don’t move’

His face was frozen into a mask of arrogance.

Roberto reached over with his left hand and held Greene’s head down firmly to the floor. With his free hand he continued to stroke himself until his carefully planned moment. And when the time came his urgent pumping delivered full and equal measures of satisfaction and humiliation.

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Few drinking establishments on the Manchester gay scene are as celebrated as ‘Twisted Fister’ or ‘The Fist’ as it is known locally. The bar was the brainchild of Frank McBride, businessman, developer, and avid follower of the American heavy metal band of similar name. Nobody knew how ‘Sister’ managed to become ‘Fister’. Some argued it was the natural consequence of a bad speech impediment Frank had, others, that the painter was pissed the day he did the sign. But all were agreed that whilst the bar had never been graced by the presence of the band Twisted Sister, numerous fisters, twisted and otherwise had made the pub their home. Kris, too, was no stranger to ‘The Fist’ so when his late night caller Roberto suggested meeting up in that very place, he raised no objections.

Kris arrived first and breezed through the door, confident of recognition by staff and clientele alike: the barman greeted him,

‘Hi Kris, what’ll it be? your usual?’

‘Usual? There’s nothing usual about me, lover. I’ll have a cider’

‘I have a nice pear?’

‘I’ve heard. OK, I’ll try your nice pair’

Ripple of laughter.

‘Shall I fill it right up?’

‘Many have tried that, and failed’

Machine gun laughter.

Cabaret over, Kris walked to a window seat and sat down. He positioned himself so that he could survey the entire bar and keep an eye on the entrance.

He reflected on recent events. My Lord, what a week it had been, and how unfair of everybody to blame him! Jezebel Roth had been enough to cause the PR Officer at work – the only member of the team trained to deal with the media - to flee to the toilets, where he’d barricaded himself in. Kris had been their second choice, and his encounter with Jezebel was now history. The doyenne of American networks was a laughing stock, images of her puke-soaked garments topping over five million hits on YouTube.

And it wasn’t just that he’d used her legs as a vomitorium, more importantly, nobody had got the message that animals must suffer if research into cures for human disease is to make progress. The whole horrible affair had been death to Kris’s career; the managing director had given him a dressing down, ordered him to take time off - which he never ordinarily did - and to keep his head down, which he often gladly did!

Kris took another gulp of his cider. The minutes ticked by. All about him, The Fist’s customers were resorting to time honoured devices to mask the awkwardness of being there alone. Mobile phones were checked and re-examined, cigarettes lit, magazines perused. From time to time eyes would look up as a newcomer entered the bar.

But nobody caused more eyebrows to rise than the next customer.

Roberto Subero walked through the door and paused for the briefest of moments. It gave him all the time he needed to take stock of his new surroundings. Scanning the room, he identified his target and, displaying no emotion walked directly towards him,

‘Campo Amor?’ he queried, stretching out his hand,

Kris almost choked when he saw the apparition in a suit.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ Kris responded,

‘That would be very nice. A small New World Chardonnay in a chilled glass, if it’s no problem’

It wasn’t a problem, it was impossible! Kris made a rapid calculation that the only bit of that order The Fist’s bar staff would understand was ‘glass’

Roberto, sensing at once Kris’s discomfort, amended his order, and in a scathing tone added,

‘OK, how about water, sparkling or still, no ice, warm or very warm, with a dirty glass, and slice of day old lemon, à la your wonderful British customer service?’

Kris walked to the counter, aware that he was colouring. He liked the idea that the most glamorous man for miles around was sitting at his table, but he was stinging from the barbed tongue.

He returned with a fairy respectable attempt at the refreshment, and set it down before Roberto. The Latino barely acknowledged, took a tissue from his pocket and dusted the table. Kris responded feebly,

‘We can always go somewhere else if you’d prefer’

‘You mean you can take me to another festering shithole?’

Kris remained silent, Señor Subero continued,

‘Now tell me about ‘Campo Amor’

Kris felt on safer ground and began to gush,

‘Well, that comes from my love of Spain, I’m sure you can appreciate that’

‘You think so, considering what Spain has done to my country over the course of the last four hundred and fifty years?

If ever there was a non sequitur this was it so Kris gave no reply. Roberto stood up, stifling his irritation,

‘Let’s go for a walk, along the side of your city’s delightful canal, and we can talk’

Kris dutifully followed. For the first few moments nothing was said, the Latino glancing up at the buildings, down at the cobbles, into the murky water,

‘So have things settled down after the debacle at Canis?’

Kris was rather startled but could hardly be surprised that his contretemps with Ms Roth had reached the ears of his companion. Roberto went in for the kill,

‘It really seemed like you weren’t prepared for that interview’

Kris came to life,

‘It’s not my brief. I was pulled in at the last minute. And nobody told me I’d get that harpy for the first interview. I’ve met some hard boiled eggs but she’s ten minutes!’

Had Kris taken the trouble to look into Roberto’s eyes at that moment he’d have seen a light of recognition at the mention of her name. But none of that mattered after the next communication.

‘My apartment’s just along here. Maybe you’d like to join me?’

The Latino stud had already been through his paces earlier that day with Greene. But he was still up for more. And for Kris it couldn’t be simpler; when would he ever get a chance like this again?

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Elsewhere, another meeting of gay men was taking place. At Levenshawe Community Centre the monthly gathering known as ‘Man Overboard’ was getting underway. This forum existed to provide comfort, advice and practical help to gay men who’d been abused at home and, in some cases, thrown out. Amongst the benefactors present was Kris’s partner Gordon.

And tonight the victim was Justin, a seventeen year old who’d been badly beaten by his mother’s boyfriend. The police had refused to help and there’d been nobody else to turn to. Gordon had already spoken to Justin and decided that he must offer the boy shelter for the night. He tried contacting Kris at home and by mobile to clear this with him, but he could not get through.

Other members of the group too were showing concern for Justin, one of the most prominent and influential of them being Horst Von Hung, principal flautist with the Royal Manchester Philharmonic Orchestra. Horst had an impressive record for rescuing young men; his opulent residence lay close to the city centre and boasted, among other things, an indoor pool and sauna. In Horst’s mind only one thing was better than sharing his Jacuzzi with a sixteen year old, and that was sharing it with two.

The flautist was born in Bavaria, and raised in a rather austere Catholic family. He’d grown up believing that the performance of good works can improve the condition of one’s soul, and he was determined from a young age to help his gay brothers. His devoutly held belief was that, though any gay man in desperate need was worthy of help, special priority must be given to those who were under twenty and cute. And he had the support of many of his brothers in this noble notion.

Gordon was no stranger to the wiles of Herr Von Hung and had in the past offered his own humble, but safe alternative to the lecherous, old musician’s. Horst had of course already sounded out the young man, so Gordon realised that urgent action was required, and it was his plan to spirit Justin away during the break. Nine o’clock came and cups of tea and watery orange were handed around. Gordon broke through the throng engulfing Justin and whispered,

‘After the break Horst presents a slide show. Tonight, it’s ‘Cottages and Public Toilets of the North West’ He’ll be trapped, operating his projector, that’s when we’ll nip out’

And that’s exactly what they did, though Gordon’s exit was not quite as stealthy as he’d have liked. Horst Von Hung saw it all. He pursed his lips in suppressed rage, as though he were about to blow a high ‘c’ but there was nothing he could do.

Justin was happy to accompany Gordon. Though the boy was young and inexperienced an inner voice was guiding him. He compared in his mind the different initial approaches to him that evening by both Gordon and Horst.

Gordon’s first question to him had been ‘How’s your mother coping?’ whereas Horst’s was ‘Have you ever tried a water bed?’ Justin made the right choice.

When they arrived home Gordon braced himself for the frosty reception that awaited him whenever he turned up with ‘waifs and strays’ as Kris put it. But to his surprise he found that his partner was relaxing in the lounge, watching comedy on the television and sipping a gin and tonic. Kris turned in his comfortable chair, his little bespectacled head popping up above the arm,

‘Oh hello love, I see you’ve got a friend’

Gordon was taken aback.

‘Yes, it’s Justin. I’ve told him we’ll shelter him for a few days, till he can contact his mother and get himself sorted’

‘Of course, the spare room’s ready, and I can make some tea if you like. Hello, Justin’

Gordon was relieved but puzzled. This wasn’t how it normally went, but he was grateful anyway. Justin declined the offer of tea and said he just wanted to turn in.

Gordon returned downstairs and grabbed a beer from the fridge. He sat in silence in the kitchen while in the next room his partner sniggered at some banal sitcom. He felt that something wasn’t quite right.

Oh Gordon, if only you knew!