Bokassa's Last Apostle - 7. Chapter 7

Cut From Chapter 1: In the Old Bull and Bush

It was a hot and stuffy August night and the bus ride from Birmingham had been a nightmare: a howling child and roadworks on the M1, but at last it was over, thought Everton Jones to himself, as he hauled a heavy leather bag from the boot of the bus onto the dirty pavement and lit a much needed fag; and then, glancing at his watch, just time for a quick one before the pubs close, and then I can think about finding the Hotel.

He had been looking forward to his trip for weeks, London, the gay capital, a paradise compared with Dudley. What wouldn’t he get up to? He hoisted the bag over his shoulder and headed randomly up the hill to find a pub. Maybe he would find his ideal man in London? Sure, he was alright looking, actually more than alright he kept being told, though so far as he could see he was nothing special. Tall, slim, fair skinned, long curly afro and, yes, he did know how to dress and he looked after himself fine, he’d just finished a degree in Chemistry and had all his life ahead of him. Surely he would find that special man in London? He breathed in the night air and trudged on up the hill.

As Golder’s Green moved slowly into the background, the neighbourhood was getting more bourgeois, and the far side of the road had given way to a park. 'Fuck, I should have gone the other way,' he thought to himself, and was close to deciding to turn back when, at last he found what he was looking-for, a large, Victorian building set back slightly from the road with a traditional sign swinging in front of it announcing 'The Old Bull and Bush'. The seats outside were empty, but the lights were on and, anyway, it was already half-past ten, so this was his last chance. Inside, the carpet was old-fashioned and flowery, the place smelt of stale beer and cigarettes but it would do, he thought, as he struggled through the tables over to the bar, slumped his bag onto the floor and ordered a pint. The unfamiliar taste of Stella lingered in his mouth; it was alright, he supposed, he already knew better than to try any of the London bitters. And he swirled around on the bar stool to take a good look at the pub.

Apart from him there weren’t many people there, just a few guys playing pool. They didn’t look English, somehow, were they Turkish? Everton wasn’t sure. One of them was quite attractive, shorter than him, but with an athletic build and a very firm behind which was pointing his way as he bent over the table to make his shot. He missed, exciting noisy derision from his friends, who clapped him on the back exaggeratedly. He stood up and chalked the end of his cue, and simultaneously aimed a look straight at him from under a shock of open black curls. He took his time running his hand over the end, then blew off a big cloud of chalk. His gaze fixed Everton through it. Was that meant to be suggestive? Was he making eyes? Everton blushed and looked away, feeling the pulsebeat heavy in his neck.

He pulled the scrap of paper out of his pocket with the name of the hotel on it, turned to the barman and asked him for directions.

'You’re bloody miles away, mate, come from the Bus Station ‘ave yer?' he said. 'Should ’ave turned the other way, you’ll ‘ave ter go back an’ carry-on goin’, it’s a fair old walk though, d’you wanna get a cab, I can call yer one? But it’s gonna be a while, this time o’night,' he added.

'No it’s alright,' said Everton, 'I can manage. Can you watch my bag? I’m just going to find the loo.'

'OK mate,' said the barman, 'It’s over there, by the fag machine.'

'Thanks,' Everton replied, as he got down from the stool.

The toilet was dirty, the stainless steel urinals caked in rusty stains, used tissue paper and discarded chewing-gum lay swimming in the gutter and the broken black tiles on the floor pooled with what he hoped was water. The sharp smell of stale urine rose from the blocked channel. The wall in front of him had obscene graffiti all over it. 'TV slut gives head' 'Call 07535585398 for cock' '10pm Thursday'. As he unzipped his jeans and got ready to pee, he heard the outside door swing open. It was the guy from the pool table. He came and stood right next to him, even though the place was otherwise completely empty, hoooked out his dick and then, quite deliberately, stared him straight in his eyes. Then he looked down to Everton’s dick, and his gaze stayed there. Everton froze in mid-stream. The boy’s eyes opened wide, passed on to his own cock and then slowly, oh so slowly, retraced their steps, back up Everton’s belly and chest, finally returning to stare him right back in his startled face.

It was as though the boy had run his hand the length of his body. He had been frozen to the spot in terror whilst the boy had been scrutinizing him, but now he looked away in sheer panic, morbidly embarrassed, desperately hoping he didn’t think he wanted to do anything, and tried to gush out the last few drops as quickly as he could. As he looked down to zip himeslf up, he saw that the guy had stopped pissing, and was now stroking a nascent erection. With caterpillars crawling up his spine, he all but ran out of the loo and back to the safety of the bar, he didn’t dare stay even long enough to wash his hands.

He just wasn’t used to this. You didn’t do that in Dudley! Sure, he liked looking at guy’s dicks, who didn't? But he always tried hard to pretend he wasn’t doing it deliberately! This guy was just shameless! In a straight bar? Weren’t there places to go? And in a toilet? But he was kind of sexy. He couldn’t deny that. Could he have had the courage to risk? What, exactly? What, was he supposed to do… back? He had no idea! He lit a fag and took a deep puff and blew the smoke out in a kind of a sigh, flexing his shoulders with relief.

Mr. Interested came out of the loo and went over to the crowd by the pool table casting a long glance in Everton’s direction. The babble in a language he didn’t understand got louder, and laughter rang-out. Fuck, they’re talking about me, he thought, and glugged-down the last of his pint. Catching the barman’s eye wasn’t hard; apart from him the bar was completely empty.

'Have I got time for another one?' he asked.

'Well I was gonner call time,' he replied, 'But go on, and don’t worry about hurrying to finish it.'

'Wow, thanks,' said Everton, 'They’re usually quite strict in Dudley.'

'Well, it’s quiet tonight,' he replied, 'Same again?'

'Please,' Everton replied.

He didn’t notice them coming over, but suddenly he became aware of someone standing on either side of him. To his right he could feel the jeans of the guy from the loo brushing his knee a little bit too closely to be an accident. ‘Christ almighty he’s pushy’ he thought and turned the other way to break the contact, but the guy on his left was also looking at him. He had a swarthy unshaven face spattered with big pock-marks, a shaved head and generous tufts of long straight black hair poking up at the neck of his tee shirt and along his rather muscular arms. His eyes were a piercing blue. As Everton's eyes met his, he turned to the guy from the toilet and said something in his language, looking at him over Everton’s head. Again, no clue as to what he was saying. Everton wanted to check-out the crotch of his shell-suit pants, but didn’t dare. He looked straight ahead of him. He was trapped. Sat in between two sexy guys he wanted, but too scared to do anything about it. If truth were known, he simply didn’t know what to do, even if he did have the courage. His blood-pressure rose uncomfortably.

After they had taken their drinks away with them, he let a decent interval elapse before turning around to see what they were doing. Despite himself, he sat with his legs open, lit another fag and arranged himself in what he hoped was a casual pose. The two boys were talking to each other and looking over at him from time-to time. He was getting more confident, they were up for it, he thought. But what to do? He glanced down to check that he was nicely arranged in his trousers, and then back to them. If they could do it, so could he!

The boys seemed to be sharing a joke, slapping each other on the back doubled-over, choking with peals of raucous laughter. The guy with the shaved head ruffled the other’s hair and sort-of pushed him in the direction of the door. He patted his bum and again broke down into fits of laughter. He waved, spat out a few guttaral syllables and headed out. On the way he turned to Everton and again looked him up and down. Everton’s eyes went down this time to his crotch, but froze there, unable to complete the gesture. But he was, now, very excited. The boy wants me, he thought! Throwing caution to the winds, he emptied his glass, picked up his bag and followed him a minute later.

'Got a light, mate?' was the first thing he heard as the door closed behind him. Looking around, he saw a figure outlined by the streetlights in the entrance to an alleyway on the other side of the road. He was leaning against a wall with one leg outstretched, the other at an angle. 'Me lighter’s run-out,' he added. A car whooshed past and the guy moved further back into the shadows of the alleyway. Everton’s cock tightened in his trousers and he crossed the road. Was it really this easy in London? Electricity filled the air. The guy had vanished into the alley. Everton followed, his heart beating like a drum.

There, captured in the security light of the nearest house was the outline of the Turkish guy who had cruised him in the toilet.

'Can’t get the damn thing to work' he said, waving a plastic lighter by way of explanation.

'OK' Everton replied, though he thought it unlikely it could have broken so quickly, and fumbled in his jeans pocket for his own. The guy held onto Everton's hand as the lighter was offered and looked him straight in the eyes.

'You were just in the pub' he said, without relaxing his gaze or offering any other explanation. He had lovely green eyes, thought Everton. 'Thanks for the light' he said as, finally, he let his hand go. 'You have gorgeous hair'.

The boy was lean and muscular and had a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Not to mention the suggestive conversation. His hand was in his trouser pocket.

'Thankyou', Everton replied, 'You have gorgeous eyes'. Mr. fixed him and, once again, looked slowly down to his crotch and back up to fix him again.

'And you have a gorgeous cock' he said. Just like that, he just came out with it! 'Come on,' he said, 'Follow me,' and made a slight gesture in the direction of the alley. 'There’s a bend further down.' After a brief hesitation, Everton followed.

As he turned a slight angle in the path, the security light winked out, abruptly plunging the alley into darkness. He looked around. An owl hooted in the distance. Everton winced. The boy seemed to have disappeared. Then, as his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he saw him, just the faintest silhouette in a deep shadow underneath a big bush which burst over the wall of someone’s garden. Christ it was dark. How close dare he get? Everton stood inches in front of him, uncertain of what to do next. The smell of garlic on his breath was overpowering. The guy said nothing, but undid his belt, then dropped his trousers and pants. Everton got on the ground and began to suck his cock. His hands reached for the guy’s bum. The boy grabbed the back of his head and pulled him onto his dick. He struggled, but the grasp was firm.

'Go on, take it! suck my cock, battyman!' the guy sneered, and thrust his cock deeper into his mouth and, at the same time, pulled his head onto it with his hands. Everton grabbed at his waist and pushed back as hard as he could, but the boy was too strong and he was pulled closer, the guy’s cock gagging in his throat, making him retch. Then he felt a blinding flash in his skull as the guy punched him hard on the head.

Slowly he came around. His head was pounding. It was dark; night time. He was naked. What had happened? ‘Fuck, I’ve been gay bashed!’ he thought, as he gradually pieced together what had happened to him. And then ‘my stuff!’, but, looking around, he realised that his clothes, bag, everything had gone. He was completely alone, had no money, was stark naked, in a city he didn’t know and had even lost the address of the hotel he’d booked. What time was it? ‘He even took my watch!’ he thought, as he looked down at his bare wrist. He stood up and brushed the dry dust from his body.

As he made his way back to the road and turned the corner, the security light flashed brightly into life again, and he ran back into the shadows, both his hands now between his legs in a vain attempt to cover himself. The alley continued into what seemed like woodland and he headed for safety up a stony path which led off to the left.