LOVE MANAGEMENT [story 90322 new version]

Remember your joke Steve? ‘What’s the difference between a wife and a prostitute? One’s Contract and the other’s Pay As You Go’.

You know what? I think that was the gag that set me off on this nightmare. Not that I’m laying anything on you. But you know what they say: ‘Loose talk costs lives’. ‘Cost’ being the operative word. I think I owe Love Ltd three grand and the boys at the Management don’t fuck about. You’re lucky with a broken leg.

We’ve not spoken for a while. Most probably that was about the last thing you said. That gag. And now Facebook reunites us. Aren’t we too old? Think I might be. By a decade. Two. Three…

You asked me how things are. You must have meant ‘are you getting laid yet?’ or ‘have you got a new boyfriend?’ or am I just projecting?

By last summer I was sick of all this being alone in my ivory tower bullshit. I got sex at sauna’s but I was bored of the lucky dip. I never knew what might be bobbing round in the cum scummed jacussi. If anything. I wanted something steady, something a little bit regular.

I don’t know why but true love just hadn’t come knocking. We’re talking about last summer mind. Things have changed. Or rather they had changed. But now they’ve changed back to not having changed. Or at least that’s what I’m worried about. Well actually everything’s changed and it’s all much worse than before. But I’m running away from myself here.

It’s last summer. Which, if you remember Steve, consisted of about six days of sun. Anyway. You remember. Cloudy. And I just started thinking to myself,

‘Enough!’

Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this. Especially on Facebook. They own us, don’t they?

The point is it occurred to me that I could simply find love ‘pay as you go’. Get a nice lad out of Boyz and run up a tab with him. Twice a month. More if I had the money. A nice steady rent boy. Good plan I hear you say.

At first it went well. Morizio. Done time in Milan for drug dealing. Left him a bit bitter. But in September he got pneumonia and they put him under heavy sedation for seven weeks. I know Steve. It sounds a bit… I dunno. But basically they keep you sleeping till you’ve recovered. Less a cure and more just switching you off and switching you back on again. It works for computers.

So anyhow. Morizio had been switched off so I didn’t have my ‘pay as you go’. What to do? Buy another of course. I was following a natural logic, except I hadn’t thought it through.

This one was more pushy. This ‘pay as you go’. He started buzzing me in the middle of the night and asking for sex. Rather he wanted money for which he’d bend over any which way. Sorry Steve. I promised not to be graphic. But you know: take it up the shitter. That kind of thing.

The trouble was this: the more I said ‘no’ the more Dobby would start slashing prices. It was like DFS in January. What would you do? £20 doesn’t buy much sofa but if you’re faced with a desperate rent boy at four in the morning. Take it from me. After that first night I didn’t shit straight for a week. I got quite a bang for my buck. But you didn’t want to know that, did you?

So I’m starting to make sure I have a spare twenty tucked away under my pillow. I just can’t say ‘no’ to someone in need. unless they’re cold and hungry. But I suppose that’s city living.

The point is I’ve got Dobby. He’s Russian or Baltic or something. Lots of J’s and other low use consonants all pushed together. He said he didn’t mind being called Dobby. Don’t think he’s read Harry Potter. Not sure he can read. Anyhow. I’ve got him popping up like some strung out jack in the box at all hours when what should happen but Sleeping Beauty reawakens. This is the beginning of November. I’m thinking to myself:

‘I’ve got Dobby. I don’t need this shit.’

To be honest with you Steve, I’d forgotten how beautiful the beaut was. Suddenly I could see Dobby for what he was. Drug addiction close up lacks a certain glamour, like the veneer coming off a kitchenette.

Desperation might make you affordable but worthless too. Is that harsh? I despised him.

So I’ve got Dobby and then, ding dang dong here’s Morizio again. Another ‘pay as you go’. And suddenly it hits me: You only have one contract at a time but with ‘pay as you go’ the sky’s the fucking limit. Dozens of them why not? Hundreds and thousands.

Well. Maybe not the sprinkles but there’s no ceiling. And what’s more, it doesn’t seem to matter how often you say ‘no, no, no’. They just… you just can’t turn them off or send them away. They are always there. Just coming round uninvited swinging from my doorknob.

“What about the neighbours?” I hear you ask.

In the end I had not only both of them turning up willy nilly, but also their friends and fucking relations. I was like a brothel in reverse. Twenty whores. One client.

If I don’t pay those uber pimps at Love Management £800 by the weekend things could get very sticky.

This isn’t a begging letter. I’m just saying I’m in a scrape. I’m up to my fucking neck in scrape.

Apart from that everything’s fine. How about you?

THE REST CURE

It had barely been a moment before I was awake again. There must have been some glitch. I had had serious reservations in the first place and this just clinched it. I wanted out. Then Dr Ramsey wandered in, brushing between the curtains that surrounded my bed. The place had the feel of NHS with the price tag of BUPA.

“Doctor,” I said, raising myself partly on my elbows. “You’re fucking this up a bit. I think I want my money back.” I was surprised to find I had a broad grin on my face. This wasn’t funny.

“How do you feel?” the Doctor asked in his broadest Irish.

“I feel great!” I replied. It was supposed to be sarcastic, but he dusted it away with a simple and satisfied “good.”

“We did some tests on you while you were out,” he continued. “All the indicators are normalised. You should be feeling 100%.” There was a short pause while I said nothing. I’d arrived for the procedure feeling hysterical.

“On the verge of a nervous breakdown,” my GP had said. But now I felt fine. More than fine. Embarrassingly, even my libido seemed to have returned. Part of me knew the procedure must have been completed, but the rational part wouldn’t believe. Had two weeks really passed in the past 30 seconds? “By all accounts,” he continued, “you’re flying.”

I lay back and closed my eyes. I could feel the tears starting to well up inside me. I slid my hand down between my legs to feel if the implant was still there, but it had gone.

“I must be off the Sonambulate,” I thought. The Doctor had left me to it. Suddenly I wondered if he was still wearing those hideous, grey, patent leather slip-ons. Maybe I’d like him better if he wasn’t. He was smug and arrogant. I got out of bed and put on my clothes. They, and some possessions, had been placed on a chair next to me. There was a new mobile phone and an A5 desk diary along with my keys and wallet. I flipped the diary. It was full of my own writing. Almost unconsciously I opened the phone and an image of a dog appeared on the bright new screen. It was mine.

“OK,” I thought. “Right!”

The stress from the death of my mother and a hundred other sores that had reopened with the trauma, had pushed me to the edge. It was only my sense of duty toward Simba, my mothers’ dog, that had kept me getting up in the morning, even though the dog was to blame for the accident, running out in front of my mother like that. But my mother had loved that dog so much and it had meant so much to her that I couldn’t do anything but take her in. I suppose it was the hound too that led me to this type of therapy. She was in mourning too and I just didn’t feel I could leave her in kennels while I went on respite or took a holiday or whatever it was I thought I needed.

“Two weeks gone and what have I done?” I wondered. Maybe I’d find the mutt dead on my kitchen floor. Maybe I’d find myself fired. I left the bed and walked across to reception to book a follow up appointment. Then I went out into the street and walked the three miles home. Since when had I taken to walking?

The dog was fine. I walked with her down to the coffee shop on Cleveland Street where I usually got my breakfast before work. There was an old man talking with a small boy, maybe his grandson. He spoke in some Indian type language while the little boy replied with the occasional earnest “yes” in English. Sometimes the boy would shake his head a little before saying “yes” and I wondered if he was really saying “no” to the old man. I suppressed a smile and flipped open my new diary.

I was a popular guy it seemed. In the past two weeks I’d obviously been painting the town red. I’d even drawn smiley faces next to a couple of dinner dates, one at a swanky place in Soho and the other at somewhere I’d never heard of. The smiles took me back to my dim and distant past where I’d used them to indicate a successful fuck. I wondered if I might have reverted to the adolescent script. Had I got laid in the last couple of weeks? And I was thinking that dry spell would never end. I checked the names in the diary. Had I had sex with Hilary and/or Vanessa? If I had, then I had no idea who they were or what they looked like. I scrolled down the phone book to H and found a Hilary. A picture of her popped up with her details. I did the same for V and there she was too. Vanessa. I recognised them both from work. Other departments, different buildings. I flipped through the diary further; out into the future. Improbably, I had a promotion interview the following Wednesday. On the Monday before that, in three days time, I had a meeting with someone called Bob. “Pick up script,” it said. Pick up script? I thought it best to investigate and popping a B into the phone found Bob’s number. No photo.

“Bob,” came a voice after a couple or rings.

“It’s Niles,” I said, hoping that would mean something to him.

“Miles of smiles Niles,” he said, but I didn’t recognise the description of myself. “Hellooooooo…” he intoned.

“Hi,” I replied.

“You’ll be wanting your Sonambulate prescription for that job interview,” he said matter of factly. “I’ve got it now, if you want,” he offered helpfully. I didn’t say anything. I could think of nothing to say. After what felt like an eternity, I hung up. It struck me then that there were implications. They made me anxious.

“No granddad,” the little boy must have been saying. “I don’t what to.”

IS THIS YOURS?

“Sorry I’m late honey.” He plonked himself down on the seat beside her and gave her a quick and slightly awkward peck on the cheek. They had been going out for three months but still had not sorted out that initial greeting. “I have lost my mobile. I’ve looked everywhere. I give up. Unless it’s at mums.”
“It’s alright,” she replied. “I was just reading a message from a friend. She reminded me of a lover I once had.”
“We’re going to talk about the past now are we,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “I thought all that was verboten!”
“Nothing is forbidden Mark. Not really.”
“So tell me about him,” he said, edging a bit closer for intimacy. “Assuming it was a him. Not that lesbian phase.” Charlotte looked at him coolly. She neither smiled nor looked annoyed.
“After the lesbian phase,” she said, deadpan. Mark had been joking of course and he put the reply down to her dry wit.
“And?” he prompted.
“He was one of the few I dumped. Usually it is me who is getting the old heave hoe. Not that it’s happened that often.” She looked down at her drink. Mark saw that it had hardly been touched.
“Looks like it’s still your round,” he observed. “Mine’s a bitter.”
“You missed my round Mark.” He smiled congenially and got up to go to the bar. He gave her the I’m offering you a drink but I know you won’t really want one yet look which she shook her head at.
“I’ll be back in a mo,” he said and headed off.
A couple of minutes later he had returned and taken a seat opposite her. It wasn’t as intimate but he could see her better. He was looking forward to hearing about the looser she had dumped. He might even learn something.
“He used to wear the same socks day in and day out until the whole bedroom stunk.”
“Oh come on,” Mark retorted. “I do that. You are not going to fire me for that.” He realised immediately the slip of the tongue. Charlotte didn’t seem to notice.
“And it wasn’t just his feet,” she continued oblivious. “His pits, were the pits.”
“Yeah!” he agreed. “Sometimes on the tube… There was this guy last week. Fuck only knows what he’d been eating. Aquaphobic.”
“Is that a word?” she said engaging him for the first time directly with her eyes. “Deoderphobic too.”
“I hate those sprays,” Mark said. “They make your clothes all white.”
“Plus,” she continued, “he seemed to have an unhealthy relationship with his mother.”
“Oh shit!” Mark spluttered. “That’s gross. How long did that relationship last?”
“Until she dies I suppose.”
“Not with the mum. Between you and him.”
“Let’s see,” she said looking up into the middle distance, remembering it all again. “Three or four months I suppose.”
“I hope I last a hell of a lot longer than that,” he smiled.
“But what really did it for me Mark,” she continued without missing a beat, “was him being a liar. If you are going to have deceit in a relationship it has to be by mutual consent, right? No good one of you being all open and honest while the other scurries around all cloak and daggers.” Mark looked at her and wondered if the unease growing in him was showing in his eyes. “Oh! By the way,” she went on, starting to rummage around in her handbag. ”Did you say you lost your mobile?”
“Well yes,” he said, peering down into her bag. Suddenly she stopped.
“And another thing,” she said, looking up to gaze earnestly into his eyes. “It turned out he was fucking his ex the whole time?” Mark felt the icy finger of fate trace a path, from the nape of his neck, down his spine, to his scrotum. His bowls loosened. “Is this it?” she said flourishing is Nokia.
“Oh Charlotte,” he said. “Of course it fucking is. Where did you find it?” She leant over and tossed the machine into the faux fire, at the same time getting to her feet and blocking his way to his melting mobile.
“Now fuck off,” she said. “And take that meddling mother of yours with you.”

FOR SALE

The strains of Mendelssohn were wafting through the mocked up French windows and over the entwined couple. The eventual sound track would be anything but, however Steve Delaney, the director, was a Classic FM freak so they had to pump and grind to whatever. Even the adverts.

“OK,” Steve shouted, having eschewed the ‘cut and action’ shibboleths of the industry.

‘MONEYSHOT’ was still in its infancy, this indeed being the pilot, but it would go on to become the super long runner of Reality TV. It bonded home makeover with porn and the ubiquitous gambling of ‘now it’s time for you to have your say’ at 25p a word.

Daytime TV with a watershed twist.

The show claimed to rejuvenate the flagging sex life of a hapless couple by turning their tired old home into a sexy love nest. The live sex sequences that book ended the show were always filmed first in a mock up of the couples ‘new’ and sexy bedroom.

“Alex, darling,” Steve opined, “you look like you are having a baby, not making one. It’s supposed to be enjoyable.” Hapless husband Alex had grunted and strained his way through their first full on porn sequence only to shoot unexpectedly when the floor manager carelessly brushed his arse with her clipboard. It was these odd casual encounters that were setting his heart racing. When Peter from ‘makeup’ had shaved his sack, crack and back, his wet hard-on had screamed humiliation.

“Relax, relax,” Peter from ‘makeup’ had said, throwing him a lifeline. “It’s the same for everyone the first time. It’s all right. You’re not gay.” That day Alex had been close to tears so many times that ‘makeup’ was having trouble hiding the puffiness. “When it comes to porn,” Steve the Director had once said, “you just can’t hide that look of humiliation.” That is why he always did the face shots first.

The loss of the ‘cum shot’ or ‘reveal’ as they were choosing to call it, had caused widespread consternation amongst the production team. They would now either have to buy a cum sequence to superimpose over the bedroom ‘reveal’ (costly) or the flailing and ailing cock of our hapless husband would have to be pressed into service one more time at the end of the day. They had failed to get a decent penetration sequence and Beryl was resistant to a retake with a stunt cock.

“Amateurs,” Steve had grumbled, rather missing the point. One of the runners had agreed to fill in for Alex as a cock shaft but not for the cum sequence as they had a circumcision mismatch. There was also the condom issue. What had made the show such hot property was its’ bareback credentials without the whiff of snuff movie about it. Benjamin, the stunt cock had been certified HIV negative earlier that day but everyone knew that in this scenario it meant nothing. “I’m straight,” he kept saying until finally someone told him to shut it.

“If we can’t get this down in the next twenty minutes, it’s a no go. We’ll move onto Tracy and Dave.” Beryl’s eyes flickered like she was waking from a long dream. Their make over was about to be cancelled. She bit her lip and looked across at the runner and stand in dick; a tall, lean 20 something with an Australian accent and no foreskin.

“Alex,” Beryl whispered desperately. “I’ll do the penetration shot, but,” she said, grim determination lining her face, “you have to do that jack off shot before we finish.” Alex could feel his dick shrivelling beneath him, despite the head splitting effects of the two Viagra. “Get off me,” she hissed. Alex clamped a hand over his dick and struggled with the other to push himself free. He looked across at the Director. Steve could see he was close to tears and it pissed him off. Porn was for pro’s.

“She’s doing the stunt shot,” Alex said and stumbled off set.

“The stunt shot?” Steve said.

“The cunt stunt shot,” Beryl tried to clarify. She’d said the C word and she was mortified. She was also not making sense. She was sweating now and the body makeup was starting to run.

“Right!” Steve said, but now Australian Benjamin, the cock de jour, was nowhere to be seen, apparently off making tea for the crew.

“Right,” Steve said again about ten minutes later. “We are going to make this short and sweet.” He was looking down at Beryl. Body makeup was being reapplied. “We will pan down from a side shot of your face and in one take swing found the back for the penetration. So keep your legs wide. As soon as Benjamin is in position we will start. 20 seconds and you are done.” Beryl was flooded with hope. It could all be over sooner rather than later. Benjamin had been whitened to the same skin tone as her husband and was none too pleased about it.

“Keep your stomach relaxed,” Steve warned dick stand in. “I don’t want hubby ending up with too much of a six pack.” The lights were in place and as they burned into life Beryl started to fry. She closed her eyes and for a moment was able to blot everything out. Nothing had meaning. Everything was purely sensation. A clock started to tick in her mind like the last scene from Village of the Damned and she could no longer hold back the thought:

“When will he start?” She felt ‘makeup’ mopping the sweat from her left armpit and in the same instant became aware of the pain in her lower back. She had been arching it for what seemed like an age in order to lengthen her stomach, giving her a leaner look, but now she seemed to be going into spasm. She opened her eyes and glanced amongst the constellation of lights for Ben. He was nowhere to be seen?

“For fuck sake!” she could here the director saying just inches away. He had started out all smiles and niceties. Now he was irritable and cruising the borders of vindictiveness. “Fluffer,” he shouted. “Any takers?” Beryl raised her head and could see an anxious looking Ben in a bathrobe. She glanced about till she caught the eye of ‘makeup’. He raised his eyebrows and drooped is lower lip but Beryl was non the wiser.

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

“Ben’s as soft as your husband, Beryl. We are getting nowhere at eight grand an hour.” Steve seemed all at once to have given up. You can’t fake a hard on, and without one to hand, hard porn was just sitting around with cups of tea.

Much later in the series most of the hardcore sequences were patched in from HD home video recorded by the couple in private. This was Beryls’ idea and she never got a penny for it. But until her innovation was introduced the set could be a living hell.

“What is a ‘fluffer’,” Beryl asked to no one in particular.

“The lucky boy or girl who gets to blow the porn star till he’s hard.” Peter in ‘makeup’ was looking disconsolately over at Benjamin and almost imperceptibly shaking his head. Beryl looked at him and wondered.

“Peter,” she said. “What are you thinking?” He twisted his mouth round to one side in a lopsided pout and bit the inside of his lower lip. He seemed to be wondering the same himself. He flashed her a roguish smile but said nothing. Beryl wondered if Peter would stretch to a bit of ‘fluffing’ but then thought better of it. “Fuck it,” she thought to herself. “I’ll ‘fluff’ it.”

At that moment the lights went and the cramped studio was thrown into stygian gloom. While the sparkies set to work the happy home makers convened for a quick quarrel.

“Look,” hapless husband Alex was saying. “You are letting that Aussie bloke fuck you, why give him a blow job as well?”

“I’m not ‘letting him fuck me’,” she retorted. “You are.” Beryl’s face was red and Peter in ‘makeup’ was eyeing her nervously, a powder puff at the ready. “You’re impotent Alex,” she blurted out half under her breath and just for emphasis she lowered her voice further: “You’re fucking impotent,” she repeated. Alex’s face went slack and for a moment his mouth fell slightly open.

“What the fuck are we doing?” Alex asked rhetorically.

“We’re getting our house redecorated. What do you think?” Beryl retorted. “We’re having a makeover. So,” she continued, “instead of standing there like a prize cunt get on with it and give that boy a blow job.”

“Oh fuck off,” Alex said. He was as happy as the next man to think outside the box but this was a box too far. “And,” he continued, “I am not impotent. You are just sex mad.”

“I don’t think so Alex,” she said, a tinge of defeat in her voice. “Twice a week?”

“Well,” he replied. “Usually it’s not with a caste of thousands.” Alex glanced across at Peter and Beryl followed his gaze.

“What are you looking at?” Peter said, springing out of some private reverie. The earlier unspoken suggestion seemed to be back in the air and everyone could smell it. Peter batted it away.

“I’d do it of course but me and your husband are not compatible in this one I suspect.” It was an excuse, but true too.

“Well,” said Alex grasping the wrong end of the stick, “I’d much prefer Peter to have his way than bloody blond boy Ben.”

“Yes,” Peter in ‘makeup’ said. “There is something about me that’s just less threatening. Must be my bald patch.” As he spoke a contingent was making it’s way over from the Ben camp.

“Could you help out?” It was the director speaking and he was pointing his question at Beryl. “We don’t have another woman available.” Ben was enjoying his new role of porn star and unbelievably was now chewing gum and nodding his head in agreement. Alex coughed to get attention.

“Peter has very kindly agreed to step in,” Alex said.

“No way José,” Ben replied. “I’m not gay.”

“No,” said Alex. “That’s not what I meant.” There was an audible sense of relief all round. “I think Peter said he’d be the stunt cock.”

“I said no such thing,” Peter responded. “When did I say that?” He caste his head about, as if expecting to hear the echo of some earlier incriminating conversation.

“Right!” said Beryl. “I’m sick of this. Alex… You give Peter a blow job and let’s get this over with.”

“I happen to be in a monogamous relationship,” Peter stated flatly.

“So am I,” said Alex.

“Right,” said Beryl, “and I’m the Virgin fucking Mary.” Nobody moved. “Oh come on Peter,” she wheedled. “No one will ever know.” Another moment passed while this small group tried to process that last concept and then, with perfect timing, the Director spoke.

“Agreed,” he said and turned from the group. “I want the whole bed area screened off,” he shouted. “And everybody, bar lighting and camera… Out!”

Later it occurred to all and sundry that if Alex needed a blow job then Beryl could have provided. Rationality had however been in short supply and had finally dried up all together.

Three days later when the production company called to arrange the home makeover, they found the place empty. In the middle of the garden was planted a large and new looking sign. It read: ‘For Sale. Vacant Possession.’

ALL TALK STOPS

The long, cold winter had preserved her. Now that the ground was softening, I was to cut her free and bury her.

In my loneliness I had lathed down the river’s surface to within a breath of her. By February I had polished the ice until her entire nakedness was under glass. There I would stand until the edge of death.

Now I must free her if she is not to be discovered, gas bloated, bobbing at the water’s edge down stream.

THREE DAYS TO DIE

THREE DAYS TO DIE

You know how it is. A sudden tiny increment of knowledge comes to you and you think ‘Ah! That’s what that means.’ That’s why I’m in a hurry.

There’s that thing they say about three days before you die. I was reading in the Metro News about a nursing home in South America. They had a dog who would go and sit on the bed of those inmates who were close to the end. I thought the dog might be giving them something; an infection or what not; that maybe the cause and effect were reversed. But no. This dog had a death hunch. The trouble was it made no sense. How could your death be foretold three days ago?

Now I understand. I’ve had that incremental shift. I’ve got something. I’ve got a grasp of something I didn’t have before. Sometimes it’s only being in a given situation that permits you to understand it. It’s not until you fight a dog that it bites you on the bum. And last night something happened. Now I know. I know I have just three days to live.

Tuesday night or Wednesday morning, I’ll be dead. While I’m writing, something is withdrawing.

It’s not a premonition. You must understand that. It is a decision. Something deep down says ‘enough is enough’ and that is it. Enough actually does end up being enough and from that moment the inexplicable countdown begins. Why it’s three days and not weeks, minutes or seconds I have no idea. But that it’s to do with a personal decision, I now realise.

Years ago, back in 1995 when Chris learned for certain that he would never walk again. That was on the Wednesday and Saturday night he was up and gone. But I never put the two together. But for Chris it was clear. He had give up the ghost. Throughout his illness it was the one hope that kept him alive and when that nurse spelled it out for him, delineated the grim truth… Well. That was it: Bang! Over. Done and dusted.

He asked me once what palliative care meant. I lied, thank god. Otherwise, the weight of guilt may have killed me.