Nomads on the Amstel
26. Jacco learns the meaning of pain
Arjan laughed at Onno’s expression,
“I can’t believe you’ve never had an E; you’ll be telling me you’ve never tried Viagra next.”
“I haven’t. I may not be thirty any more but I’ve never had any trouble getting it up; especially faced with the juicy prospect of this sort of meat. Anyway, I’m a happy bunny on Coke; no need for anything else really and it is the drug of choice at work!”
He looked across the room at the doe-eyed Eurasian, writhing under the administrations of two other guests, on the examination table Arjan had set up especially for the occasion.
“He’s a good one Arjan, I don’t know where you find them and it’s amazing how you get them to be compliant so quickly but the tall serving boy interest me most. When are you going to bring him into the action? He’s cute, really cute and looks virginal, though I’m sure he’s not. Now I think I need another line.”
“All part of the service Onno, all part of the service. The boy will come later, you’ll just have to be patient.”
Arjan tipped out a little more of the white powder from his wrap and carefully arranged it into a long, fat and extremely generous line. Just as Onno’s eyes were about to pop, he chopped it in two and quickly snorted the smaller half before offering the note to his guest.
“Thanks,” Onno grinned, “You’re too kind.”
He hoovered up the remaining half and ran the tip of his finger over the glass tabletop before licking it clean, like a kid licking the bowl after his mother had prepared a cake.
‘I am aren’t I,’ thought Arjan contentedly, ‘but then again, you’re paying for all this my friend, not me.’
For Jacco, it had begun innocently enough, only by now he wasn’t that innocent any more. He knew what he was here for and if he didn’t know the details before, he’d had a pretty good idea. He served drinks and drugs in equal measure and relished both the tips and the hands that roamed over his body as he moved around. He was good at this, he knew he was and had taken to the art of flirting and seduction as if born to it. It never entered his head that his parents wouldn’t recognise him, or that his bright academic future was dimming by the hour. He was able to divorce the one from the other with consummate ease and because he loved the attention so much, became the role he played to the exclusion of all else. He occasionally caught Arjan’s eye and blushed at the clear glances of approval; his mentor was pleased, so he must be doing a good job.
As the evening progressed, the other two boys that Arjan had brought in for the evening were gradually swallowed up by small groups of admirers and Jacco was confused when Arjan’s fierce glare warned him not to succumb to the same. He watched with increasing excitement as the debauchery became more extreme and twitched with jealousy as the other two gave pleasure to what were now Arjan’s variously unclothed but nonetheless influential guests. He longed to strip off and join the fun but was certain that in his case, it was not allowed. Eventually, he leaned against the desk and merely observed. He’d cleared a few glasses and emptied some ashtrays and had no more drinks to serve. People were either helping themselves or too absorbed in the games being played and he was left frustratingly bored. As was usually the case, Arjan seemed to appear at his shoulder from nowhere.
“You’ve done a good job tonight Jacco, I’m proud of you. Here, a little reward.”
Jacco took the straw gratefully and struggled to get the crumbly white powder up his nose with short, clumsy sniffs. He still wasn’t used to the mechanics of Coke, though he relished the feeling it gave him and saw it as no worse on its own than alcohol. It certainly didn’t seem to have done those around him in his new life any harm and nothing but nothing made him hornier. Arjan unexpectedly goosed him causing him to scatter the remains of the line across the tabletop.
“Wasteful Jacco, wasteful.”
Jacco hastily dabbed at the grains with his finger and rubbed it against his gums. He sniffed deeply, feeling the drug hitting the back of his throat and the tip of his tongue going numb. The last thing he wanted to do was appear gauche in front of Arjan and that was exactly what he was doing, though the man himself didn’t seem to notice. Actually, it wasn’t long before Jacco began to feel more self-confident
than he had felt for a long time and found himself greatly turned on by the various activities in the room. The desire to join in was greater than ever; he felt like he could fuck for hours. He even ventured a hand onto Arjan’s thigh and waited for rejection while wanting to rip the man’s clothes off. Arjan merely smiled but Jacco didn’t try anything further as the lure of another treat on the table proved stronger. He’d started the evening with an E from Arjan’s leather clad box and now he was persuaded to pop another into his mouth.
“I think you’d better do some clearing up, it’s looking a bit messy.”
Arjan indicated the empty glasses, ashtrays and dirty surfaces although it wasn’t that bad and Jacco felt he was being given something to do.
He had no idea what the time was, or how long he had been serving drinks, drugs and poppers and clearing up after the various men who had seemed to come and go during the evening but eventually he realised there was hardly anyone left to entertain. The other boys were gone and all that were left were two men he didn’t know, Onno and Arjan. One of the men was particularly attractive and had manipulated him into a corner and undone his trousers, which he was quite willing to let happen but a stern look and a beckoning finger from Arjan told him to pull away.
“Sorry,” he grinned, “the boss wants me.”
He made his way across the room feeling really strange. ‘God, that E was strong,’ He suddenly felt drained and yet full of energy at the same time and incredibly thirsty. He reached for what he thought was a long glass of water on a table and drained it. The fact that it turned out to be alcoholic didn’t bother him, it barely assuaged his thirst. A well-known song was playing in the background and it became vitally important that he remembered who was singing it but couldn’t. There was a strange tingle in the pit of his stomach and he felt himself flush deeply as his temperature seemed to rise. Suddenly, he had an inexplicable urge to tell Arjan that his flat needed redecorating and that he knew just exactly how it should be done. He knew it was chemically induced but at that moment he felt happier than he had ever felt in his life. He stared at the porn video flickering monotonously on the large screen in the corner. It seemed to open up to let him in and he became transfixed. He wanted to reach out and caress the goodies on offer, slide his body in between the action, taste what the actors tasted. It was a bit like watching a 3-D movie without the special glasses but this image was playing out in his head and gradually, as the focus became clearer and the edges stopped blurring, everything became flat and two-dimensional. He chuckled at the thought that the world was, after all the argument and Christopher Columbus and everything, flat as a pancake. He wanted to walk to the edge and step off. Suddenly distances around him became very confused. He could see Onno advancing towards him, yet not coming any closer. How far away was he, a metre, ten metres? He heard his name being called but how far away was the voice? Only when he felt himself being led by the arm did he realise that Arjan was talking softly into his ear. They went through the door into the bedroom but it felt as if he was walking downhill. Yet despite the disorientation, despite the fact that everything appeared to be seen from a different angle, he still felt in control; still felt ecstatically happy. He felt his clothes being removed, felt himself being lifted onto Arjan’s massage table and was aware of four leering figures looking down on him. It wasn’t scary, it was thrilling and determined to capture every minute in his memory, he readied himself for the pleasures to come.
“Is he ready?”
“He’s ready doctor. Where do you want to begin?”
Although he was aware of everything that was happening, Jacco felt removed from the scene. He could elevate himself above the huddled group and through the physical sensations his body was undergoing, observe what was happening from above. He saw himself lying there, a pale skinned figure under a strong light in an otherwise darkened room. Onno, wearing a white doctor’s gown and surgical gloves seemed to be directing operations. The two men whose names Jacco didn’t know stood either side of the table, stripped to their underwear, acting as assistants in the role-play. Arjan was still fully clothed and stood back a little, watching and occasionally licking his lips and stroking himself absent-mindedly. Jacco didn’t protest as the straps were tightened around his body; he’d played these games before with Arjan and expected pain; excruciatingly pleasurable pain. When the mask was fitted over his face, he felt he was forced to return to his body, his extra alertness momentarily stifled. Everything closed in on him. He could see through the eye slits but had no peripheral vision and he could breathe through the nose and mouth holes but artificially stimulated as he was, he found it unpleasant and struggled a little.
‘Relax;’ he told himself, ‘everything will be fine, Arjan will see to that. Relax. Enjoy it.’
His head was lifted up so that a straw could be inserted in his nostril and he sniffed deeply, at the point now where he got an instant hit which seemed to explode in his sinuses and then his brain. He was pushed back down and everything from that point blurred into a meaningless time frame during which his whole life changed once again.
He’d felt the warm liquid trickling into his mouth and down the back of his throat and thought at first his raging thirst was being satisfied with warm beer but it wasn’t warm beer, he could smell it wasn’t warm beer! He had to fight the urge to gag. He felt his nipples being teased at first and then tweaked, then grasped between rough fingers and squeezed so hard he yelped. This was followed by the unmistakeable metallic grip of clamps and he felt himself being raised bodily off the table.
“Anybody see that film with Richard Harris being initiated by the Indians?”
There was raucous laughter but Jacco didn’t know what they were talking about until one clamp gave way under the weight and he was left swinging by one breast until they let him down. He felt the wetness dribbling down his side and the almost gentle caress of a finger swirling it around and knew it was blood and not sweat. He could hear the warning voices at the back of his mind and knew he should be resisting. This was not a session with Arjan; rough as that might be; this felt more threatening, dangerous even but although one side of his brain was dealing with logic and intuition, the other side was high, incredibly high and oblivious to reason.
Next, he found out what the gloves were for, as fingers, instruments and eventually the invasion of a whole hand subjected him to what they called a ‘rectal examination’. The pain was almost unbearable, as first one hand and then another invaded him and roughly withdrew. His legs were high in the air and he was completely powerless. His screams and shouts were to no avail, it only seemed to excite the perpetrators more and stimulate more abuse. When the incessant slaps across his buttocks were replaced by the unmistakeable and ferocious sting of leather, he seemed to awake from the nightmare and make a serious effort to struggle. It was no good, there was no escape and as the pain from all sources and in all areas increased, just before he lost consciousness, he came to the fundamental realisation that he wasn’t seen as human, he was an animal and was being humiliated and used as flesh. Personality, intelligence, position in society meant absolutely nothing; he was here to be used and abused and consideration for his own feelings didn’t figure.
He awoke in a room without light, slumped on an old beanbag, still naked but free of his shackles. He knew where he was; this was Arjan’s spare box room in which he kept all his old junk. ‘How appropriate!’ he thought bitterly, ‘chucked in here with the rest of his used up stuff.’ His whole body hurt and he touched himself delicately in the dark, hardly daring to apply any pressure anywhere, in case he discovered something he couldn’t deal with just yet. His head was throbbing from the chemicals and the claustrophobia of the mask and an overwhelming misery washed over him as the realisation of what had happened began to sink in. There were no hidden thrills this time, no secret and shameful feelings of illicit pleasure behind the pain. Slowly and persistently, the guilt wrapped him in a non-comforting blanket. There was no going any lower than this. Images of his family shimmered in his mind; childhood play with his father, Sunday meals around the big table, sitting in the classroom playing with clay in Primary school. No comfort there, instead, accusing, angry looks jabbed at his conscience and the tears once more, uncontrollably streamed out of stinging eyes and ran down his cheeks. He didn’t know what to do next. The pain wasn’t so bad, just insistent and humiliating. Worse were the secretions he could sense were soiling him further. Blood, shit, piss, saliva, he felt overwhelmed by human excretia and the feeling of it creeping all over his skin. He didn’t dare look at his body, preferring to imagine the worst. After that, nothing he might find would be able to shock him any more. Part of him wanted to lie there in the pools of his own misery and just let whatever was going to happen happen. Only a tiny voice urged him to get up, get out and later, get even. He tried to rationalise his position; wondered if his clothes were nearby and asked himself if he could get out and get back to the bed-sit without too much fuss. In a desperate quest for justification, he even searched his subconscious for hidden feelings of pleasure but felt nothing. Gradually, he became aware that his personal limits had been far surpassed. In a flash of insight, he realised the extent of his masochism and understood that pleasure only came with implicit compliance. What had happened to him had been forced and brutal and against his will. The first healing waves of anger flushed through his body and shocked him into action.
27. Arend in despair
Amsterdam
Dear Rob,
Another letter begging for sympathy I’m afraid. Sorry, I know I’m stretching the tenuous bonds of our friendship to snapping point but you’re the only one I can really talk to. Is that pathetic or what! Last week I felt like catching the next plane to Vancouver but was just sane enough to realise that a temporary transfer of my problems across an ocean and a whole continent, is no solution whatever. That of course, is aside from the mental anguish it would place on your sturdy shoulders. No, to your undoubted relief, I decided to stay here and re-evaluate what’s left of my emotional life.
I’d better explain. I know it’s only a week since my last letter but as usual in my topsy-turvy existence, it’s been painfully eventful. I think I signed off my last letter by telling you that Dennis was on his way round. Well, in short, he arrived, told me it couldn’t go on any longer, seduced me (no contest of course) and left. It was a mercy fuck on his part but I wasn’t complaining. I haven’t heard a word. It’s final this time, I just know it! It’s not as if he was dishonest about it and I know the reason lies in his domestic situation but that doesn’t make it easier. Actually, I’ve done a complete about-turn and have now come to the conclusion that I’d prefer it if they were complete bastards. At least I’d have something to focus my frustration on. Is that perverse?
I’m no stranger to this of course and am well aware that gay rejection can come at any time and for any reason but this one hurt more than I care to admit. Mid life crises are bad enough but gay mid life crises are the pits. For a start, when does middle age begin for gays? In the middle of your chronological life span, like with normal people, or in the middle of your gay age span, which for some people can be as early as the mid twenties? Well, I know it’s arrived for me, with a vengeance! My normal optimistic outlook on life has deserted me. I feel abandoned by my peers, totally unattractive and without a steady income of any worth. The family has got fed up and pissed off on various holidays, so I’m rattling around the house like the last biscuit in the barrel, going steadily stale and soft in the middle. I didn’t give up without a fight though. I’ve spent the last week reinventing my early years as a total slut. I’ve trawled the Internet every day for dates, meeting fakers at every turn and occasionally shamelessly faking myself. I’ve schlepped around the saunas, the sex cinemas and even attended a gay night at a sex club hidden deep in rural North Holland. Sex, sex and more sex; been there, done it and taken no prisoners, you know what I mean! I really thought it would help drive out the loneliness and really began to think that sex addiction wasn’t too bad an affliction to have but instead I’m all gayed-out! Apart from the fact that I think my appendage will soon become detached from its moorings and my balls have shrunk to the size of peanuts, my intellectual capacity has all but disappeared. This letter is making my brain hurt but I’m forcing myself to write it before I go out and hit the bars just one more time. If I’m found shrivelled up in a corner of a darkroom somewhere, my life-force sucked out and in a totally vegetative state, then this letter will bear testament to the reasons why. Someone will know why yet another over-the-hill gay Lothario has burned himself out.
It’s pathetic, I know but I need to wallow publicly or at least in print. I know you’ll understand because that’s what you do so well and why I love you. I don’t want saving either but you know that too don’t you. It’ll pass; like all my depressions do and I’ll probably return to some semblance of normality soon but at the moment I hate myself with a loathing rarely seen, even in my long history of self-abasement. Can you believe I’m actually shedding tears at the moment! That’s how sorry for myself I’m feeling. It’s great; I finally get to play Judy Garland, having despised the mother all my life and loved the daughter so much more. Oh fuck! I’m not going to re-read this before sending it off. I know it’s so much bullshit but it reflects the moment. You can throw it back at me as often as suits your purpose; I know I’m the silliest queen in Christendom!
Okay, time for one of mother’s little helpers, (God that phrase dates me – pre Pleistocene wasn’t it!) and some decisions on what to wear tonight. Same as last night and the four nights before that I suppose. 501’s, polo shirt and sneakers; never change a winning formula. Thank god I’ve got more than one of each; rank smells are not de rigueur these days! The burning question of the moment is of course; underwear, or not!
Okay, I realise that you don’t need to know every sordid detail; I’m just thinking out loud, which is a sure sign that I’d better sign off and let you get back to your life.
Hopefully, the next letter will be full of optimism and joyous thoughts of how wonderful life is but don’t hold your breath!
Wistfully yours,
Arend
Arjan laughed at Onno’s expression,
“I can’t believe you’ve never had an E; you’ll be telling me you’ve never tried Viagra next.”
“I haven’t. I may not be thirty any more but I’ve never had any trouble getting it up; especially faced with the juicy prospect of this sort of meat. Anyway, I’m a happy bunny on Coke; no need for anything else really and it is the drug of choice at work!”
He looked across the room at the doe-eyed Eurasian, writhing under the administrations of two other guests, on the examination table Arjan had set up especially for the occasion.
“He’s a good one Arjan, I don’t know where you find them and it’s amazing how you get them to be compliant so quickly but the tall serving boy interest me most. When are you going to bring him into the action? He’s cute, really cute and looks virginal, though I’m sure he’s not. Now I think I need another line.”
“All part of the service Onno, all part of the service. The boy will come later, you’ll just have to be patient.”
Arjan tipped out a little more of the white powder from his wrap and carefully arranged it into a long, fat and extremely generous line. Just as Onno’s eyes were about to pop, he chopped it in two and quickly snorted the smaller half before offering the note to his guest.
“Thanks,” Onno grinned, “You’re too kind.”
He hoovered up the remaining half and ran the tip of his finger over the glass tabletop before licking it clean, like a kid licking the bowl after his mother had prepared a cake.
‘I am aren’t I,’ thought Arjan contentedly, ‘but then again, you’re paying for all this my friend, not me.’
For Jacco, it had begun innocently enough, only by now he wasn’t that innocent any more. He knew what he was here for and if he didn’t know the details before, he’d had a pretty good idea. He served drinks and drugs in equal measure and relished both the tips and the hands that roamed over his body as he moved around. He was good at this, he knew he was and had taken to the art of flirting and seduction as if born to it. It never entered his head that his parents wouldn’t recognise him, or that his bright academic future was dimming by the hour. He was able to divorce the one from the other with consummate ease and because he loved the attention so much, became the role he played to the exclusion of all else. He occasionally caught Arjan’s eye and blushed at the clear glances of approval; his mentor was pleased, so he must be doing a good job.
As the evening progressed, the other two boys that Arjan had brought in for the evening were gradually swallowed up by small groups of admirers and Jacco was confused when Arjan’s fierce glare warned him not to succumb to the same. He watched with increasing excitement as the debauchery became more extreme and twitched with jealousy as the other two gave pleasure to what were now Arjan’s variously unclothed but nonetheless influential guests. He longed to strip off and join the fun but was certain that in his case, it was not allowed. Eventually, he leaned against the desk and merely observed. He’d cleared a few glasses and emptied some ashtrays and had no more drinks to serve. People were either helping themselves or too absorbed in the games being played and he was left frustratingly bored. As was usually the case, Arjan seemed to appear at his shoulder from nowhere.
“You’ve done a good job tonight Jacco, I’m proud of you. Here, a little reward.”
Jacco took the straw gratefully and struggled to get the crumbly white powder up his nose with short, clumsy sniffs. He still wasn’t used to the mechanics of Coke, though he relished the feeling it gave him and saw it as no worse on its own than alcohol. It certainly didn’t seem to have done those around him in his new life any harm and nothing but nothing made him hornier. Arjan unexpectedly goosed him causing him to scatter the remains of the line across the tabletop.
“Wasteful Jacco, wasteful.”
Jacco hastily dabbed at the grains with his finger and rubbed it against his gums. He sniffed deeply, feeling the drug hitting the back of his throat and the tip of his tongue going numb. The last thing he wanted to do was appear gauche in front of Arjan and that was exactly what he was doing, though the man himself didn’t seem to notice. Actually, it wasn’t long before Jacco began to feel more self-confident
than he had felt for a long time and found himself greatly turned on by the various activities in the room. The desire to join in was greater than ever; he felt like he could fuck for hours. He even ventured a hand onto Arjan’s thigh and waited for rejection while wanting to rip the man’s clothes off. Arjan merely smiled but Jacco didn’t try anything further as the lure of another treat on the table proved stronger. He’d started the evening with an E from Arjan’s leather clad box and now he was persuaded to pop another into his mouth.
“I think you’d better do some clearing up, it’s looking a bit messy.”
Arjan indicated the empty glasses, ashtrays and dirty surfaces although it wasn’t that bad and Jacco felt he was being given something to do.
He had no idea what the time was, or how long he had been serving drinks, drugs and poppers and clearing up after the various men who had seemed to come and go during the evening but eventually he realised there was hardly anyone left to entertain. The other boys were gone and all that were left were two men he didn’t know, Onno and Arjan. One of the men was particularly attractive and had manipulated him into a corner and undone his trousers, which he was quite willing to let happen but a stern look and a beckoning finger from Arjan told him to pull away.
“Sorry,” he grinned, “the boss wants me.”
He made his way across the room feeling really strange. ‘God, that E was strong,’ He suddenly felt drained and yet full of energy at the same time and incredibly thirsty. He reached for what he thought was a long glass of water on a table and drained it. The fact that it turned out to be alcoholic didn’t bother him, it barely assuaged his thirst. A well-known song was playing in the background and it became vitally important that he remembered who was singing it but couldn’t. There was a strange tingle in the pit of his stomach and he felt himself flush deeply as his temperature seemed to rise. Suddenly, he had an inexplicable urge to tell Arjan that his flat needed redecorating and that he knew just exactly how it should be done. He knew it was chemically induced but at that moment he felt happier than he had ever felt in his life. He stared at the porn video flickering monotonously on the large screen in the corner. It seemed to open up to let him in and he became transfixed. He wanted to reach out and caress the goodies on offer, slide his body in between the action, taste what the actors tasted. It was a bit like watching a 3-D movie without the special glasses but this image was playing out in his head and gradually, as the focus became clearer and the edges stopped blurring, everything became flat and two-dimensional. He chuckled at the thought that the world was, after all the argument and Christopher Columbus and everything, flat as a pancake. He wanted to walk to the edge and step off. Suddenly distances around him became very confused. He could see Onno advancing towards him, yet not coming any closer. How far away was he, a metre, ten metres? He heard his name being called but how far away was the voice? Only when he felt himself being led by the arm did he realise that Arjan was talking softly into his ear. They went through the door into the bedroom but it felt as if he was walking downhill. Yet despite the disorientation, despite the fact that everything appeared to be seen from a different angle, he still felt in control; still felt ecstatically happy. He felt his clothes being removed, felt himself being lifted onto Arjan’s massage table and was aware of four leering figures looking down on him. It wasn’t scary, it was thrilling and determined to capture every minute in his memory, he readied himself for the pleasures to come.
“Is he ready?”
“He’s ready doctor. Where do you want to begin?”
Although he was aware of everything that was happening, Jacco felt removed from the scene. He could elevate himself above the huddled group and through the physical sensations his body was undergoing, observe what was happening from above. He saw himself lying there, a pale skinned figure under a strong light in an otherwise darkened room. Onno, wearing a white doctor’s gown and surgical gloves seemed to be directing operations. The two men whose names Jacco didn’t know stood either side of the table, stripped to their underwear, acting as assistants in the role-play. Arjan was still fully clothed and stood back a little, watching and occasionally licking his lips and stroking himself absent-mindedly. Jacco didn’t protest as the straps were tightened around his body; he’d played these games before with Arjan and expected pain; excruciatingly pleasurable pain. When the mask was fitted over his face, he felt he was forced to return to his body, his extra alertness momentarily stifled. Everything closed in on him. He could see through the eye slits but had no peripheral vision and he could breathe through the nose and mouth holes but artificially stimulated as he was, he found it unpleasant and struggled a little.
‘Relax;’ he told himself, ‘everything will be fine, Arjan will see to that. Relax. Enjoy it.’
His head was lifted up so that a straw could be inserted in his nostril and he sniffed deeply, at the point now where he got an instant hit which seemed to explode in his sinuses and then his brain. He was pushed back down and everything from that point blurred into a meaningless time frame during which his whole life changed once again.
He’d felt the warm liquid trickling into his mouth and down the back of his throat and thought at first his raging thirst was being satisfied with warm beer but it wasn’t warm beer, he could smell it wasn’t warm beer! He had to fight the urge to gag. He felt his nipples being teased at first and then tweaked, then grasped between rough fingers and squeezed so hard he yelped. This was followed by the unmistakeable metallic grip of clamps and he felt himself being raised bodily off the table.
“Anybody see that film with Richard Harris being initiated by the Indians?”
There was raucous laughter but Jacco didn’t know what they were talking about until one clamp gave way under the weight and he was left swinging by one breast until they let him down. He felt the wetness dribbling down his side and the almost gentle caress of a finger swirling it around and knew it was blood and not sweat. He could hear the warning voices at the back of his mind and knew he should be resisting. This was not a session with Arjan; rough as that might be; this felt more threatening, dangerous even but although one side of his brain was dealing with logic and intuition, the other side was high, incredibly high and oblivious to reason.
Next, he found out what the gloves were for, as fingers, instruments and eventually the invasion of a whole hand subjected him to what they called a ‘rectal examination’. The pain was almost unbearable, as first one hand and then another invaded him and roughly withdrew. His legs were high in the air and he was completely powerless. His screams and shouts were to no avail, it only seemed to excite the perpetrators more and stimulate more abuse. When the incessant slaps across his buttocks were replaced by the unmistakeable and ferocious sting of leather, he seemed to awake from the nightmare and make a serious effort to struggle. It was no good, there was no escape and as the pain from all sources and in all areas increased, just before he lost consciousness, he came to the fundamental realisation that he wasn’t seen as human, he was an animal and was being humiliated and used as flesh. Personality, intelligence, position in society meant absolutely nothing; he was here to be used and abused and consideration for his own feelings didn’t figure.
He awoke in a room without light, slumped on an old beanbag, still naked but free of his shackles. He knew where he was; this was Arjan’s spare box room in which he kept all his old junk. ‘How appropriate!’ he thought bitterly, ‘chucked in here with the rest of his used up stuff.’ His whole body hurt and he touched himself delicately in the dark, hardly daring to apply any pressure anywhere, in case he discovered something he couldn’t deal with just yet. His head was throbbing from the chemicals and the claustrophobia of the mask and an overwhelming misery washed over him as the realisation of what had happened began to sink in. There were no hidden thrills this time, no secret and shameful feelings of illicit pleasure behind the pain. Slowly and persistently, the guilt wrapped him in a non-comforting blanket. There was no going any lower than this. Images of his family shimmered in his mind; childhood play with his father, Sunday meals around the big table, sitting in the classroom playing with clay in Primary school. No comfort there, instead, accusing, angry looks jabbed at his conscience and the tears once more, uncontrollably streamed out of stinging eyes and ran down his cheeks. He didn’t know what to do next. The pain wasn’t so bad, just insistent and humiliating. Worse were the secretions he could sense were soiling him further. Blood, shit, piss, saliva, he felt overwhelmed by human excretia and the feeling of it creeping all over his skin. He didn’t dare look at his body, preferring to imagine the worst. After that, nothing he might find would be able to shock him any more. Part of him wanted to lie there in the pools of his own misery and just let whatever was going to happen happen. Only a tiny voice urged him to get up, get out and later, get even. He tried to rationalise his position; wondered if his clothes were nearby and asked himself if he could get out and get back to the bed-sit without too much fuss. In a desperate quest for justification, he even searched his subconscious for hidden feelings of pleasure but felt nothing. Gradually, he became aware that his personal limits had been far surpassed. In a flash of insight, he realised the extent of his masochism and understood that pleasure only came with implicit compliance. What had happened to him had been forced and brutal and against his will. The first healing waves of anger flushed through his body and shocked him into action.
27. Arend in despair
Amsterdam
Dear Rob,
Another letter begging for sympathy I’m afraid. Sorry, I know I’m stretching the tenuous bonds of our friendship to snapping point but you’re the only one I can really talk to. Is that pathetic or what! Last week I felt like catching the next plane to Vancouver but was just sane enough to realise that a temporary transfer of my problems across an ocean and a whole continent, is no solution whatever. That of course, is aside from the mental anguish it would place on your sturdy shoulders. No, to your undoubted relief, I decided to stay here and re-evaluate what’s left of my emotional life.
I’d better explain. I know it’s only a week since my last letter but as usual in my topsy-turvy existence, it’s been painfully eventful. I think I signed off my last letter by telling you that Dennis was on his way round. Well, in short, he arrived, told me it couldn’t go on any longer, seduced me (no contest of course) and left. It was a mercy fuck on his part but I wasn’t complaining. I haven’t heard a word. It’s final this time, I just know it! It’s not as if he was dishonest about it and I know the reason lies in his domestic situation but that doesn’t make it easier. Actually, I’ve done a complete about-turn and have now come to the conclusion that I’d prefer it if they were complete bastards. At least I’d have something to focus my frustration on. Is that perverse?
I’m no stranger to this of course and am well aware that gay rejection can come at any time and for any reason but this one hurt more than I care to admit. Mid life crises are bad enough but gay mid life crises are the pits. For a start, when does middle age begin for gays? In the middle of your chronological life span, like with normal people, or in the middle of your gay age span, which for some people can be as early as the mid twenties? Well, I know it’s arrived for me, with a vengeance! My normal optimistic outlook on life has deserted me. I feel abandoned by my peers, totally unattractive and without a steady income of any worth. The family has got fed up and pissed off on various holidays, so I’m rattling around the house like the last biscuit in the barrel, going steadily stale and soft in the middle. I didn’t give up without a fight though. I’ve spent the last week reinventing my early years as a total slut. I’ve trawled the Internet every day for dates, meeting fakers at every turn and occasionally shamelessly faking myself. I’ve schlepped around the saunas, the sex cinemas and even attended a gay night at a sex club hidden deep in rural North Holland. Sex, sex and more sex; been there, done it and taken no prisoners, you know what I mean! I really thought it would help drive out the loneliness and really began to think that sex addiction wasn’t too bad an affliction to have but instead I’m all gayed-out! Apart from the fact that I think my appendage will soon become detached from its moorings and my balls have shrunk to the size of peanuts, my intellectual capacity has all but disappeared. This letter is making my brain hurt but I’m forcing myself to write it before I go out and hit the bars just one more time. If I’m found shrivelled up in a corner of a darkroom somewhere, my life-force sucked out and in a totally vegetative state, then this letter will bear testament to the reasons why. Someone will know why yet another over-the-hill gay Lothario has burned himself out.
It’s pathetic, I know but I need to wallow publicly or at least in print. I know you’ll understand because that’s what you do so well and why I love you. I don’t want saving either but you know that too don’t you. It’ll pass; like all my depressions do and I’ll probably return to some semblance of normality soon but at the moment I hate myself with a loathing rarely seen, even in my long history of self-abasement. Can you believe I’m actually shedding tears at the moment! That’s how sorry for myself I’m feeling. It’s great; I finally get to play Judy Garland, having despised the mother all my life and loved the daughter so much more. Oh fuck! I’m not going to re-read this before sending it off. I know it’s so much bullshit but it reflects the moment. You can throw it back at me as often as suits your purpose; I know I’m the silliest queen in Christendom!
Okay, time for one of mother’s little helpers, (God that phrase dates me – pre Pleistocene wasn’t it!) and some decisions on what to wear tonight. Same as last night and the four nights before that I suppose. 501’s, polo shirt and sneakers; never change a winning formula. Thank god I’ve got more than one of each; rank smells are not de rigueur these days! The burning question of the moment is of course; underwear, or not!
Okay, I realise that you don’t need to know every sordid detail; I’m just thinking out loud, which is a sure sign that I’d better sign off and let you get back to your life.
Hopefully, the next letter will be full of optimism and joyous thoughts of how wonderful life is but don’t hold your breath!
Wistfully yours,
Arend
28. The Anvil
The city thronged with people as darkness finally fell and brought a modicum of relief from the heat. Most needed to escape the claustrophobia of their homes in the hope of finding some cheer in the cool of the evening. Shirt-sleeved police on bikes, in vans and on foot wove in and out of the crowds seeking out hot spots and flash points amongst so many people and in such clammy conditions. There was good reason, as the street artists, petty dealers and assorted homeless were out in force, sniffing out opportunities. First-time tourists couldn’t believe their eyes and hastily scribbled postcards bemoaning the fact that Birmingham, Gothenburg, or Boise, Indiana never had nightlife like this; though it had to be said that a coach trip of Catalans from Barcelona took it completely for granted.
Arjan stepped inside the Anvil and with a critical eye, assessed the evening’s potential. Despite the crowds elsewhere, his bar, as a living entity, had taken on its usual Friday night character. The walls sweated loaded droplets of nicotine, beer and poppers and the assorted collection of Amsterdam’s lower-caste gays merely sweated – profusely! He took his irritation out on the barman.
“For fuck’s sake Joop, do something about that ventilator. It’s no fucking wonder there’s nobody in; it’s hot as hell in here. God knows what it’s like downstairs!”
Whilst serving a customer, Joop cast a laconic eye in his boss’s direction.
“It probably won’t surprise you to know that it’s broken again and I’m on my own here as you well know! Anyway, it seems to suit the customers. Most of them are downstairs already. Look at the coat racks, they look like the changing rooms at the swimming pool!”
Joop was too good a barman to risk losing and Arjan knew it. Not many would work as hard and as honestly as he did and although Arjan made it worth his while he refused to hire more staff. The Anvil was his primary money-spinner only for as long as he kept a tight ship. He glared at the gnarled pot man, who hurriedly looked away. It was little use bellowing at him. He was Arjan’s contribution to equal opportunities employment; physically strong but not up to much mentally. Instead, he tried a more conciliatory tone with his barman.
“Listen Joop, try to do something if you get a moment. You’re a magician with that thing.”
Joop’s withering look was enough to tell him he was wasting his time and clutching the bag with the takings, Arjan turned on his heel and left the bar in exasperation. In the background he heard the barman’s familiar bellow;
“Hallo, hallo! Yes you sir! Where do you think you’re going? At least have the decency to buy a drink before you drop your pants!”
Arjan smiled. Nobody got away with a free fuck in Joop’s bar and he knew it was in safe hands. He’d have to invest in some sort of decent air conditioning eventually, he knew it but at the moment he had other things on his mind. Where was Jacco for instance?
He couldn’t remember whether he’d told the boy that he could take a few days off. The clients had been very pleased with the previous evening’s work and he’d already had a couple of calls requesting a repeat performance. Onno Huizinga had practically begged him. That creep had the potential to be really nasty he thought. One day, the potential to ruin his career might come in handy.
He’d been to the club but Jacco hadn’t been seen and he’d checked out the boarding house but his room was empty and the other boys hadn’t seen him all day. Arjan was only slightly concerned. Although he was fairly sure of the boy, he had a sneaking suspicion that he might have run home to mummy and daddy although there was little likelihood of a problem there. These boys never spilled their guts after they’d gone so far; they were too ashamed. If Jacco had abandoned him, it would be a shame; the boy was certainly quality material but then again, it wasn’t the end of the world. There were always plenty more to choose from.
With that, he put his new star out of his mind and headed towards the Reguliersdwarsstraat and his flat. He felt unusually tired; it must be the heat. A stiff drink and his favourite chair in the dark were what he needed.
Marcel shifted uncomfortably on his stool, in the corner where he could see everything and everybody. He was already slightly drunk, having come out far too early and it was questionable if sitting alone in the bar was preferable to sitting alone at home. An older guy persistently smiled and nodded at him from the other side of the room. Marcel felt sure he knew the face but couldn’t place him at all. He was with a rather good-looking Mediterranean guy who was much more his type but he didn’t seem interested and was staring blankly at the faded posters on the wall. The older man looked slightly perplexed and even hurt when Marcel stared through him and although under certain circumstances he might have been tempted, tonight he was after total anonymity and meaningless encounters. He didn’t need conversation and the odd familiarity of this man meant that there was almost certainly a story to be told. No thanks. To avoid a possible meeting, he decided to cut his losses and head down to the darkroom earlier than he’d intended. Not that he’d seen anything worth pursuing but there was always the chance that something nice was already there. Some people spent hours in the gloom just waiting for the right one, or sometimes, just anyone. Marcel didn’t have that sort of patience and reasoned that the quicker he got this over with and dealt with his basic urges, the quicker he could go home. Ordering another beer and sliding less than elegantly off his perch, he threaded his way through the posing, waxwork like figures at the end of the bar and made his way gingerly down the stairs.
One of those figures thought about following him.
‘Well, he’s decent enough’, Arend thought, ‘but he hasn’t given me a second glance in the last half hour.’
The last thing he needed was rejection in a darkroom; he felt fragile enough. He decided that sub-standard or not, he’d only go for certainties tonight and fell back on his favourite old adage that ‘every man has something to offer’. Looking round as surreptitiously as possible, he knew he was only convincing himself. He’d placed himself in the group between the stairs and the bar, partly so that all new arrivals could be seen and appraised before they saw him and partly so that he wouldn’t have to stare at his fellow hunters. Some of them exuded such desperation; their body language virtually ensured failure. What really depressed him was the absolute certainty that if he stayed here long enough and drank at his present rate, he’d end up being only too glad to fall into their arms!
‘Oh how the mighty are fallen,’ he mused. ‘Is it only a few years ago that I still had standards!’ He moved towards the bar and caught the barman’s eye, indicating that he wanted another beer. A young man in a sweat-stained T-shirt turned round on his stool and stared, his bleary eyes giving away his drunkenness. He could only have been in his twenties but the demeanour was depressingly familiar. This one had already been around the block a few times and was not growing old gracefully.
“You’re nice. Why haven’t I seen you before?”
Before Arend could retreat, a sweaty hand gripped his arm.
“Sorry, I’m with a friend,” he lied and tried to extricate himself as elegantly as possible. Fortunately, Joop arrived with his beer and he was able to pay and let the barman deal with the drunk.
His previous spot was, of course taken. It never looked as though there was much movement but the jockeying for places was often a fast-moving and carefully choreographed ballet. Depending on your age and physique, brightly lit areas were either avoided or claimed. The same went for stools and benches. The exhibitionists and the well-endowed preferred to splay their legs wide open, thus restricting seating access for others who were forced to perch on corners, or edges and try to appear as relaxed and cool as possible. To find a space, Arend found himself shuffling to the back, near the toilets and the stairs. Of course, that could also be a profitable viewing point though if someone nice went into the toilets, you could be sure it was out of absolute necessity and by no means a cruising opportunity. Nobody voluntarily sloshed their way through the detritus floating on those toilet floors without being desperate. Arend had learned his lesson a long time ago, after he had emerged with a disposable nappy attached to his boot. ‘A disposable nappy for God’s sake! The mind boggles!’ Tales of the various life forms witnessed in the Anvil toilets were the stuff of legend. Arend had never understood why the place wasn’t closed down on health grounds alone!
“Hallo there handsome sir. Do you mind if I stand here for a while?”
Arend came out of his daydream to find a chubby, brown face with black eyes and impossibly long eyelashes leering at him at very close quarters. Indian or Pakistani he guessed but you could never be sure and the age was equally hard to fathom. As he was already standing with his back to the cabinet stuffed with Anvil T-shirts and the latest plastic leather men, he had little choice but to nod. Actually, most of the time he was a very tolerant person until that is, someone invaded his personal space. He didn’t need much but objected to people crowding him, or touching him when there was plenty of room elsewhere. It was bad enough in the street but in a bar he found it particularly irritating. On top of that, the man was sweating profusely and revealing particular details of his diet in his body odour. Arend visibly recoiled as he decided to do a little jig in time to the music.
“Would you mind…” he tapped him on the shoulder, “moving just a little bit that way?”
“I’m sorry sir, I’m from Sri Lanka and I can’t stop my feet from moving. It’s the rhythm you know, isn’t it?”
For the second time that evening Arend found his arms being grabbed as the man tried to coerce him to join his dance. Whether it was the splashes of sweat, or the fact that he spilled half his beer on the floor, it was the final straw. Retreat was the only option. Rather more brusquely than he’d intended, he shook off the hands and stalked off towards the stairs and the hoped-for relative peace down below. A flash of guilt at his own rudeness made him look back but the dancing Asian had clearly hardly noticed his departure and was performing pirouettes in a world of his own. In the light, the swathes of sweat spun around him like the costume of a whirling Dervish and he was quickly creating his own private space as people tried to avoid the shower. Arend shrugged, took a deep breath, clutched his bottle and descended into the depths.
John couldn’t quite understand why but he was more than a little disappointed. In fact, the whole evening was not really living up to expectations. He’d been as excited as he could ever remember at the thought of exploring Amsterdam’s gay scene; imagining… well, he didn’t really know what to expect but the prospect had given him two days of nervous tension. When Guido had picked him up, he’d felt like the sort of angst that he hadn’t felt since his teenage years but from the moment they had walked into the first bar, he’d suspected that the reality was far removed from the fantasy. He’d expected a world full of handsome men, smart dressers; glamour even. Instead he saw a cross section of society, much of it shabby and by no means exciting. There were a couple of men he thought he could share a bed with but the vast majority were singularly unattractive, as were the surroundings. He couldn’t understand why gay men put up with the dirty bars and high prices. Surely the homosexual world was a fashion trendsetter, or so he’d been led to believe but the places Guido had taken him so far were in no way conducive to comfortable social interaction. Perhaps they wanted it that way but he was fairly sure that it didn’t appeal to him. Nevertheless, he determined to keep an open mind. The evening was still young and Guido had said he was going to show him a bit of everything. Perhaps the best was yet to come.
Guido himself, despite his exorbitant fee, was less enthusiastic than before and despite John’s best efforts at starting discussions, he was not very forthcoming. It was irritating; as was the fact that the man from the fitness club was clearly ignoring him. Why was that? They’d had a good time, or so John thought but the guy was clearly not interested in polite conversation, or anything else for that matter. Was that how it was on the gay scene; quick anonymous contacts with little chance of making friends? Was it that shallow? John began to convince himself that he’d started something that was going to be very unsatisfying indeed. Two meetings thus far; one only interested because he was being paid and the other not interested at all. The growing feeling in the pit of his stomach was deeply unsettling. Perhaps it was time to move on to the next place. Guido shrugged his shoulders and said they would go after the next drink. John wondered whether to cut his losses and head home.
The cellars of the Anvil would doubtless have reminded the uninitiated of a panel from Bosch’s ‘Garden of Earthly Delights’. As the evening wore on, the beast was taking over and in the stifling heat, men of all sizes and shapes were frantically grasping each other, coupling for a few intense moments and moving on. In such situations, gay men had long since abandoned the mores and expectations of society. The male sexual urge was accepted, embraced and paramount. The accountants, managers, bus drivers and social workers, who normally wore the uniforms of conformity, were made egalitarian by nudity and sexual frenzy.
Jacco had got there early and claimed a cabin under the stairs as his own. He had little idea where he was, how long he’d been there and how many men he’d already entertained. What was done to him was of little consequence; he only knew he felt no pain, no remorse and no pleasure. Everything happened in a dull haze of semi-consciousness induced by the drugs he’d taken. There’d been enough left over from the night before in his pockets, to render himself immune to anything except his prime purpose. That burned with a fierce clarity. He knew what he was going to do and knew precisely why. He’d planned it in the chilling surety that hate and revenge were the only possible purification for his sins.
Two more grunting figures discharged themselves on his chest and face and disappeared. For the first time in a while, he was alone. He closed the door and leaned against it to prevent further incursion. His head swam and his body began to spasm but a tiny part of his consciousness saw everything with clarity. Reaching into his pile of clothes neatly stacked in the corner, he fumbled for the toilet roll, the box and the can he had brought with him. Someone shoved hard against the door and he stumbled, banging his head against the wooden bench opposite.
“Fuck off! Just fuck off will you!” he screamed.
The intruder retreated and he painfully picked himself up and resumed his task. There was no question of guilt, remorse, or conscience. In fact there was no feeling at all; he was beyond all control.
In his own way, Marcel was also succumbing to the communal lust. His chest glistened with sweat and his jeans were crumpled around his ankles, as he accepted the embraces of two more heavily tattooed strangers. At this stage, four hands and two mouths exploring his body were just what he needed and sensation after sensation melted his defences. Groaning, he looked up at the slats in the ceiling as one guy knelt before him and one behind. They were taking him near to the edge; he could feel it and pulling the man in front to his feet, he prevented his own climax by bending forward himself and used his mouth in a way he hadn’t done for years. The fact that the guy was pierced, normally a big turn-off, was now of little consequence as his tongue swirled and teased. Behind, he could feel himself being less than gently prepared but if he had a moment of guilt and doubt, it was fleeting and he willingly accepted an invasion of hot and thrilling flesh.
Arend was disappointed but not surprised. After all, the guy hadn’t given him the time of day but he didn’t look the type to do that in public. He looked more sophisticated. No, that wasn’t right either; he was too good-looking to need an orgy in a darkroom wasn’t he? He berated himself for being so naïve. You didn’t have to be a particular type to indulge in group sex for God’s sake! He’d done it himself just half an hour earlier. Was some other guy standing there, thinking that he didn’t look the type? He secretly hoped so. He was tempted to move closer and join in but the fear of brusque rejection was far too great. God, where had his self-confidence gone!
Instead, he stood near the entrance to the darkest side room and watched to see if anything was worth dropping his pants for. It was getting late; he knew that. He’d already been down here far longer than he’d hoped he needed to be. Normally, if nothing attractive was around, he was in and out quite quickly but tonight he was particularly horny. He could smell the testosterone in the heavy air. He couldn’t leave yet; this sort of sexually charged atmosphere meant he had to get off, come what may. After a few minutes, during which nobody showed any interest, frustration got the better of him. Checking that his money was safely in his shoe, Arend took the bull by the horns and plunged into the anonymity and total darkness of the orgy room.
29. Tinnie tells it like it is
Tinnie struggled with the lobster. The plate was enormous but the crustacean seemed bigger and somehow, seemingly preserving a will of its own, it resisted her attempts to extract its meat in a civilised fashion. As more pieces of shell and flakes of flesh found their way outside the confines of the porcelain, her face coloured to a shade akin to her culinary opponent.
“Okay, I give up. Fuck! You can tell that lobster and fancy brasseries aren’t an everyday experience for me can’t you!”
To her credit, Amália had resisted intervention, although she had itched to offer help and save embarrassment. She knew enough about Tinnie to wait until her assistance was asked for. Now seemed an opportune moment for a tactful suggestion.
“If you give me your plate and take mine, the problem’s solved eh? You seem to have a particularly tough one to deal with.”
Tinnie smiled meekly and swapped her plate of lobster mash for Amália’s neatly dissected and clearly ready-to-eat version.
“Thanks, you’re really sweet. I don’t know why you put up with me, I’m such a klutz!”
“Why, just because you aren’t used to lobsters? Don’t be silly. Most people would have exactly the same problem. One day, I’ll show you an easy way to prepare them but not in public; that’s what my mother did for me.”
“Why am I here Amália? What do you want from me? What do you possible imagine I can give you?”
“I might ask you the same things.” Amália rested her chin on her hands and stared meaningfully into Tinnie’s eyes.
“Oh come on, drop the hooded eyes and enigmatic smile act. You may think you look like the Mona Lisa but I need straight answers not mysterious looks. You love playing these games don’t you? I think you just live to flirt with people; you think it keeps you sexy and keeps you young. Anyway, let me remind you; you invited me, not the other way around!”
“My, my, that lobster certainly got under your skin didn’t it?”
Tinnie’s frustration was evident but before she could retort, Amália grasped her hand.
“Listen Tinnie, I didn’t invite you here to fight. On the contrary, I think there’s a good chance that we like each other enough to build a lasting relationship but it has to be a relationship based on the way things are. I’ve never tried to hide anything from you. You know I’m married but you know how I feel about you and I’m pretty sure you feel the same way about me. There’s something between us that’s more than just a quick fling isn’t there? You may not like it; I’m not sure I do either but it’s a fact. I won’t leave my husband but if we’re together, I won’t be unfaithful to you either. The question is, can you accept the fact that I share my life with someone else; accept me for who I am and still get enough pleasure for yourself out of what we have?”
Tinnie’s fork hovered long enough in front of her mouth for the flakes of lobster to drop off and bounce into her wine. It was a telling sign.
“You just don’t get it do you! Of course you’ll be unfaithful to me; every time you climb into the marital bed. Just who do you think I am? You think I need a relationship so badly that I’ll accept half measures like this? God Amália, I can’t make up my mind whether you’re thick, or just so damned arrogant you think everybody has to adapt to your philosophy of life. You seem to think that I’m so in love with you that I’ll do anything to keep you! Well yes, I may be a little in love, or have a bad case of infatuation but I can be just as stubborn as you. There’s no way I would accept a partner who could only give me half of her time, if I was lucky. Thanks for the meal but now I know exactly how I feel and I’m sorry, you’ll have to find someone else to play your little games with.”
Intending that as her parting shot and this time meaning it, Tinnie got up rather more hurriedly than she’d intended and knocked her chair over in the process. Blushing furiously, she apologised to the people behind and gathering what dignity she could still muster, headed for the door. Only after she’d got outside, did she realise she’d left her bum bag on the floor by the table. There was no getting out of it; she had to go back. Her keys and money were inside.
The sudden and chilling sound of sirens caused her to stop for a second. Before she knew it, fire engines, police cars and ambulances were sweeping past, scattering people foolish enough to be wandering in the road. This wasn’t unusual of course, sirens were part of the normal sounds of the city, especially in the heat of this year’s Summer but this time there were so many of them. Along with everyone else, she stood and stared at the frantic activity and felt a shudder of fear down her spine. Ever since a child, she’d been afraid of the mercilessness of fire.
She felt a hand on her shoulder.
“I think you forgot something,” Amália shouted in her ear.
The city thronged with people as darkness finally fell and brought a modicum of relief from the heat. Most needed to escape the claustrophobia of their homes in the hope of finding some cheer in the cool of the evening. Shirt-sleeved police on bikes, in vans and on foot wove in and out of the crowds seeking out hot spots and flash points amongst so many people and in such clammy conditions. There was good reason, as the street artists, petty dealers and assorted homeless were out in force, sniffing out opportunities. First-time tourists couldn’t believe their eyes and hastily scribbled postcards bemoaning the fact that Birmingham, Gothenburg, or Boise, Indiana never had nightlife like this; though it had to be said that a coach trip of Catalans from Barcelona took it completely for granted.
Arjan stepped inside the Anvil and with a critical eye, assessed the evening’s potential. Despite the crowds elsewhere, his bar, as a living entity, had taken on its usual Friday night character. The walls sweated loaded droplets of nicotine, beer and poppers and the assorted collection of Amsterdam’s lower-caste gays merely sweated – profusely! He took his irritation out on the barman.
“For fuck’s sake Joop, do something about that ventilator. It’s no fucking wonder there’s nobody in; it’s hot as hell in here. God knows what it’s like downstairs!”
Whilst serving a customer, Joop cast a laconic eye in his boss’s direction.
“It probably won’t surprise you to know that it’s broken again and I’m on my own here as you well know! Anyway, it seems to suit the customers. Most of them are downstairs already. Look at the coat racks, they look like the changing rooms at the swimming pool!”
Joop was too good a barman to risk losing and Arjan knew it. Not many would work as hard and as honestly as he did and although Arjan made it worth his while he refused to hire more staff. The Anvil was his primary money-spinner only for as long as he kept a tight ship. He glared at the gnarled pot man, who hurriedly looked away. It was little use bellowing at him. He was Arjan’s contribution to equal opportunities employment; physically strong but not up to much mentally. Instead, he tried a more conciliatory tone with his barman.
“Listen Joop, try to do something if you get a moment. You’re a magician with that thing.”
Joop’s withering look was enough to tell him he was wasting his time and clutching the bag with the takings, Arjan turned on his heel and left the bar in exasperation. In the background he heard the barman’s familiar bellow;
“Hallo, hallo! Yes you sir! Where do you think you’re going? At least have the decency to buy a drink before you drop your pants!”
Arjan smiled. Nobody got away with a free fuck in Joop’s bar and he knew it was in safe hands. He’d have to invest in some sort of decent air conditioning eventually, he knew it but at the moment he had other things on his mind. Where was Jacco for instance?
He couldn’t remember whether he’d told the boy that he could take a few days off. The clients had been very pleased with the previous evening’s work and he’d already had a couple of calls requesting a repeat performance. Onno Huizinga had practically begged him. That creep had the potential to be really nasty he thought. One day, the potential to ruin his career might come in handy.
He’d been to the club but Jacco hadn’t been seen and he’d checked out the boarding house but his room was empty and the other boys hadn’t seen him all day. Arjan was only slightly concerned. Although he was fairly sure of the boy, he had a sneaking suspicion that he might have run home to mummy and daddy although there was little likelihood of a problem there. These boys never spilled their guts after they’d gone so far; they were too ashamed. If Jacco had abandoned him, it would be a shame; the boy was certainly quality material but then again, it wasn’t the end of the world. There were always plenty more to choose from.
With that, he put his new star out of his mind and headed towards the Reguliersdwarsstraat and his flat. He felt unusually tired; it must be the heat. A stiff drink and his favourite chair in the dark were what he needed.
Marcel shifted uncomfortably on his stool, in the corner where he could see everything and everybody. He was already slightly drunk, having come out far too early and it was questionable if sitting alone in the bar was preferable to sitting alone at home. An older guy persistently smiled and nodded at him from the other side of the room. Marcel felt sure he knew the face but couldn’t place him at all. He was with a rather good-looking Mediterranean guy who was much more his type but he didn’t seem interested and was staring blankly at the faded posters on the wall. The older man looked slightly perplexed and even hurt when Marcel stared through him and although under certain circumstances he might have been tempted, tonight he was after total anonymity and meaningless encounters. He didn’t need conversation and the odd familiarity of this man meant that there was almost certainly a story to be told. No thanks. To avoid a possible meeting, he decided to cut his losses and head down to the darkroom earlier than he’d intended. Not that he’d seen anything worth pursuing but there was always the chance that something nice was already there. Some people spent hours in the gloom just waiting for the right one, or sometimes, just anyone. Marcel didn’t have that sort of patience and reasoned that the quicker he got this over with and dealt with his basic urges, the quicker he could go home. Ordering another beer and sliding less than elegantly off his perch, he threaded his way through the posing, waxwork like figures at the end of the bar and made his way gingerly down the stairs.
One of those figures thought about following him.
‘Well, he’s decent enough’, Arend thought, ‘but he hasn’t given me a second glance in the last half hour.’
The last thing he needed was rejection in a darkroom; he felt fragile enough. He decided that sub-standard or not, he’d only go for certainties tonight and fell back on his favourite old adage that ‘every man has something to offer’. Looking round as surreptitiously as possible, he knew he was only convincing himself. He’d placed himself in the group between the stairs and the bar, partly so that all new arrivals could be seen and appraised before they saw him and partly so that he wouldn’t have to stare at his fellow hunters. Some of them exuded such desperation; their body language virtually ensured failure. What really depressed him was the absolute certainty that if he stayed here long enough and drank at his present rate, he’d end up being only too glad to fall into their arms!
‘Oh how the mighty are fallen,’ he mused. ‘Is it only a few years ago that I still had standards!’ He moved towards the bar and caught the barman’s eye, indicating that he wanted another beer. A young man in a sweat-stained T-shirt turned round on his stool and stared, his bleary eyes giving away his drunkenness. He could only have been in his twenties but the demeanour was depressingly familiar. This one had already been around the block a few times and was not growing old gracefully.
“You’re nice. Why haven’t I seen you before?”
Before Arend could retreat, a sweaty hand gripped his arm.
“Sorry, I’m with a friend,” he lied and tried to extricate himself as elegantly as possible. Fortunately, Joop arrived with his beer and he was able to pay and let the barman deal with the drunk.
His previous spot was, of course taken. It never looked as though there was much movement but the jockeying for places was often a fast-moving and carefully choreographed ballet. Depending on your age and physique, brightly lit areas were either avoided or claimed. The same went for stools and benches. The exhibitionists and the well-endowed preferred to splay their legs wide open, thus restricting seating access for others who were forced to perch on corners, or edges and try to appear as relaxed and cool as possible. To find a space, Arend found himself shuffling to the back, near the toilets and the stairs. Of course, that could also be a profitable viewing point though if someone nice went into the toilets, you could be sure it was out of absolute necessity and by no means a cruising opportunity. Nobody voluntarily sloshed their way through the detritus floating on those toilet floors without being desperate. Arend had learned his lesson a long time ago, after he had emerged with a disposable nappy attached to his boot. ‘A disposable nappy for God’s sake! The mind boggles!’ Tales of the various life forms witnessed in the Anvil toilets were the stuff of legend. Arend had never understood why the place wasn’t closed down on health grounds alone!
“Hallo there handsome sir. Do you mind if I stand here for a while?”
Arend came out of his daydream to find a chubby, brown face with black eyes and impossibly long eyelashes leering at him at very close quarters. Indian or Pakistani he guessed but you could never be sure and the age was equally hard to fathom. As he was already standing with his back to the cabinet stuffed with Anvil T-shirts and the latest plastic leather men, he had little choice but to nod. Actually, most of the time he was a very tolerant person until that is, someone invaded his personal space. He didn’t need much but objected to people crowding him, or touching him when there was plenty of room elsewhere. It was bad enough in the street but in a bar he found it particularly irritating. On top of that, the man was sweating profusely and revealing particular details of his diet in his body odour. Arend visibly recoiled as he decided to do a little jig in time to the music.
“Would you mind…” he tapped him on the shoulder, “moving just a little bit that way?”
“I’m sorry sir, I’m from Sri Lanka and I can’t stop my feet from moving. It’s the rhythm you know, isn’t it?”
For the second time that evening Arend found his arms being grabbed as the man tried to coerce him to join his dance. Whether it was the splashes of sweat, or the fact that he spilled half his beer on the floor, it was the final straw. Retreat was the only option. Rather more brusquely than he’d intended, he shook off the hands and stalked off towards the stairs and the hoped-for relative peace down below. A flash of guilt at his own rudeness made him look back but the dancing Asian had clearly hardly noticed his departure and was performing pirouettes in a world of his own. In the light, the swathes of sweat spun around him like the costume of a whirling Dervish and he was quickly creating his own private space as people tried to avoid the shower. Arend shrugged, took a deep breath, clutched his bottle and descended into the depths.
John couldn’t quite understand why but he was more than a little disappointed. In fact, the whole evening was not really living up to expectations. He’d been as excited as he could ever remember at the thought of exploring Amsterdam’s gay scene; imagining… well, he didn’t really know what to expect but the prospect had given him two days of nervous tension. When Guido had picked him up, he’d felt like the sort of angst that he hadn’t felt since his teenage years but from the moment they had walked into the first bar, he’d suspected that the reality was far removed from the fantasy. He’d expected a world full of handsome men, smart dressers; glamour even. Instead he saw a cross section of society, much of it shabby and by no means exciting. There were a couple of men he thought he could share a bed with but the vast majority were singularly unattractive, as were the surroundings. He couldn’t understand why gay men put up with the dirty bars and high prices. Surely the homosexual world was a fashion trendsetter, or so he’d been led to believe but the places Guido had taken him so far were in no way conducive to comfortable social interaction. Perhaps they wanted it that way but he was fairly sure that it didn’t appeal to him. Nevertheless, he determined to keep an open mind. The evening was still young and Guido had said he was going to show him a bit of everything. Perhaps the best was yet to come.
Guido himself, despite his exorbitant fee, was less enthusiastic than before and despite John’s best efforts at starting discussions, he was not very forthcoming. It was irritating; as was the fact that the man from the fitness club was clearly ignoring him. Why was that? They’d had a good time, or so John thought but the guy was clearly not interested in polite conversation, or anything else for that matter. Was that how it was on the gay scene; quick anonymous contacts with little chance of making friends? Was it that shallow? John began to convince himself that he’d started something that was going to be very unsatisfying indeed. Two meetings thus far; one only interested because he was being paid and the other not interested at all. The growing feeling in the pit of his stomach was deeply unsettling. Perhaps it was time to move on to the next place. Guido shrugged his shoulders and said they would go after the next drink. John wondered whether to cut his losses and head home.
The cellars of the Anvil would doubtless have reminded the uninitiated of a panel from Bosch’s ‘Garden of Earthly Delights’. As the evening wore on, the beast was taking over and in the stifling heat, men of all sizes and shapes were frantically grasping each other, coupling for a few intense moments and moving on. In such situations, gay men had long since abandoned the mores and expectations of society. The male sexual urge was accepted, embraced and paramount. The accountants, managers, bus drivers and social workers, who normally wore the uniforms of conformity, were made egalitarian by nudity and sexual frenzy.
Jacco had got there early and claimed a cabin under the stairs as his own. He had little idea where he was, how long he’d been there and how many men he’d already entertained. What was done to him was of little consequence; he only knew he felt no pain, no remorse and no pleasure. Everything happened in a dull haze of semi-consciousness induced by the drugs he’d taken. There’d been enough left over from the night before in his pockets, to render himself immune to anything except his prime purpose. That burned with a fierce clarity. He knew what he was going to do and knew precisely why. He’d planned it in the chilling surety that hate and revenge were the only possible purification for his sins.
Two more grunting figures discharged themselves on his chest and face and disappeared. For the first time in a while, he was alone. He closed the door and leaned against it to prevent further incursion. His head swam and his body began to spasm but a tiny part of his consciousness saw everything with clarity. Reaching into his pile of clothes neatly stacked in the corner, he fumbled for the toilet roll, the box and the can he had brought with him. Someone shoved hard against the door and he stumbled, banging his head against the wooden bench opposite.
“Fuck off! Just fuck off will you!” he screamed.
The intruder retreated and he painfully picked himself up and resumed his task. There was no question of guilt, remorse, or conscience. In fact there was no feeling at all; he was beyond all control.
In his own way, Marcel was also succumbing to the communal lust. His chest glistened with sweat and his jeans were crumpled around his ankles, as he accepted the embraces of two more heavily tattooed strangers. At this stage, four hands and two mouths exploring his body were just what he needed and sensation after sensation melted his defences. Groaning, he looked up at the slats in the ceiling as one guy knelt before him and one behind. They were taking him near to the edge; he could feel it and pulling the man in front to his feet, he prevented his own climax by bending forward himself and used his mouth in a way he hadn’t done for years. The fact that the guy was pierced, normally a big turn-off, was now of little consequence as his tongue swirled and teased. Behind, he could feel himself being less than gently prepared but if he had a moment of guilt and doubt, it was fleeting and he willingly accepted an invasion of hot and thrilling flesh.
Arend was disappointed but not surprised. After all, the guy hadn’t given him the time of day but he didn’t look the type to do that in public. He looked more sophisticated. No, that wasn’t right either; he was too good-looking to need an orgy in a darkroom wasn’t he? He berated himself for being so naïve. You didn’t have to be a particular type to indulge in group sex for God’s sake! He’d done it himself just half an hour earlier. Was some other guy standing there, thinking that he didn’t look the type? He secretly hoped so. He was tempted to move closer and join in but the fear of brusque rejection was far too great. God, where had his self-confidence gone!
Instead, he stood near the entrance to the darkest side room and watched to see if anything was worth dropping his pants for. It was getting late; he knew that. He’d already been down here far longer than he’d hoped he needed to be. Normally, if nothing attractive was around, he was in and out quite quickly but tonight he was particularly horny. He could smell the testosterone in the heavy air. He couldn’t leave yet; this sort of sexually charged atmosphere meant he had to get off, come what may. After a few minutes, during which nobody showed any interest, frustration got the better of him. Checking that his money was safely in his shoe, Arend took the bull by the horns and plunged into the anonymity and total darkness of the orgy room.
29. Tinnie tells it like it is
Tinnie struggled with the lobster. The plate was enormous but the crustacean seemed bigger and somehow, seemingly preserving a will of its own, it resisted her attempts to extract its meat in a civilised fashion. As more pieces of shell and flakes of flesh found their way outside the confines of the porcelain, her face coloured to a shade akin to her culinary opponent.
“Okay, I give up. Fuck! You can tell that lobster and fancy brasseries aren’t an everyday experience for me can’t you!”
To her credit, Amália had resisted intervention, although she had itched to offer help and save embarrassment. She knew enough about Tinnie to wait until her assistance was asked for. Now seemed an opportune moment for a tactful suggestion.
“If you give me your plate and take mine, the problem’s solved eh? You seem to have a particularly tough one to deal with.”
Tinnie smiled meekly and swapped her plate of lobster mash for Amália’s neatly dissected and clearly ready-to-eat version.
“Thanks, you’re really sweet. I don’t know why you put up with me, I’m such a klutz!”
“Why, just because you aren’t used to lobsters? Don’t be silly. Most people would have exactly the same problem. One day, I’ll show you an easy way to prepare them but not in public; that’s what my mother did for me.”
“Why am I here Amália? What do you want from me? What do you possible imagine I can give you?”
“I might ask you the same things.” Amália rested her chin on her hands and stared meaningfully into Tinnie’s eyes.
“Oh come on, drop the hooded eyes and enigmatic smile act. You may think you look like the Mona Lisa but I need straight answers not mysterious looks. You love playing these games don’t you? I think you just live to flirt with people; you think it keeps you sexy and keeps you young. Anyway, let me remind you; you invited me, not the other way around!”
“My, my, that lobster certainly got under your skin didn’t it?”
Tinnie’s frustration was evident but before she could retort, Amália grasped her hand.
“Listen Tinnie, I didn’t invite you here to fight. On the contrary, I think there’s a good chance that we like each other enough to build a lasting relationship but it has to be a relationship based on the way things are. I’ve never tried to hide anything from you. You know I’m married but you know how I feel about you and I’m pretty sure you feel the same way about me. There’s something between us that’s more than just a quick fling isn’t there? You may not like it; I’m not sure I do either but it’s a fact. I won’t leave my husband but if we’re together, I won’t be unfaithful to you either. The question is, can you accept the fact that I share my life with someone else; accept me for who I am and still get enough pleasure for yourself out of what we have?”
Tinnie’s fork hovered long enough in front of her mouth for the flakes of lobster to drop off and bounce into her wine. It was a telling sign.
“You just don’t get it do you! Of course you’ll be unfaithful to me; every time you climb into the marital bed. Just who do you think I am? You think I need a relationship so badly that I’ll accept half measures like this? God Amália, I can’t make up my mind whether you’re thick, or just so damned arrogant you think everybody has to adapt to your philosophy of life. You seem to think that I’m so in love with you that I’ll do anything to keep you! Well yes, I may be a little in love, or have a bad case of infatuation but I can be just as stubborn as you. There’s no way I would accept a partner who could only give me half of her time, if I was lucky. Thanks for the meal but now I know exactly how I feel and I’m sorry, you’ll have to find someone else to play your little games with.”
Intending that as her parting shot and this time meaning it, Tinnie got up rather more hurriedly than she’d intended and knocked her chair over in the process. Blushing furiously, she apologised to the people behind and gathering what dignity she could still muster, headed for the door. Only after she’d got outside, did she realise she’d left her bum bag on the floor by the table. There was no getting out of it; she had to go back. Her keys and money were inside.
The sudden and chilling sound of sirens caused her to stop for a second. Before she knew it, fire engines, police cars and ambulances were sweeping past, scattering people foolish enough to be wandering in the road. This wasn’t unusual of course, sirens were part of the normal sounds of the city, especially in the heat of this year’s Summer but this time there were so many of them. Along with everyone else, she stood and stared at the frantic activity and felt a shudder of fear down her spine. Ever since a child, she’d been afraid of the mercilessness of fire.
She felt a hand on her shoulder.
“I think you forgot something,” Amália shouted in her ear.
The Amsterdam Series
Home
- Jacco learns the meaning of pain
- Arend in despair
- The Anvil
- Tinnie tells it like it is
