THE  DILLYBOY  FROM  BUCHAREST.

I  crossed  over  the  road  to  the  Burger  King, he  wasn’t in his normal window seat, so  I  walked  around  into  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  past  the  rent boy  bus-stop.  He  wasn’t  there  either. 

The  automatic  doors  opened  as  I  passed   Wonderland.   I  did  a  double-take  but  it  was  just  some  Japanese  hippie  kid  with  hideously  peroxided  hair  shooting  at Virtua  Cop  2’s  big  screen…  how  wrong  could  you  be?

Maybe  he’d  found  a  punter  early,  or  “caught  one  customer”,  as  he  liked  put  it.

I  nodded  to  the  doorman  outside  the  Yard  and  blanked  out  all  the  other nonentities  on  the  cobblestones  of  Rupert  St.  and  cut  down  Rupert  Ct. past  the   big  picture  windows  of  the  Village … just  a  cursory  glance to  check  if  there  was  anyone  that  I  knew  propping  up  the  bar … there  wasn’t.  The,  not  particularly  appealing,  woman  behind  the  mirrored  tiled counter  of  the  live  show  asked  me  for  the  millionth  time  if  I  was  interested  in  “GIRLS”  …  I  still wasn’t  and  she  didn’t  sound  that  curious  to  find  out  one way or the other,  if  there  was  a  verbal  equivalent  of  an  automatic  door,  her  voice  was  it.

I  nodded  across  the  road  at  Paul  on  the  door  at  Compton’s  as  I  walked  down  queer  street  and  made  my  way to   Charing  Cross  Road  and  the  CrossBar. I  don’t  know  why.  Just  the  usual  cheapskate  nouveau-clones  swilling  down  bargain  priced ( for  the  West  End )  pints.  I  did  the  usual  circuit …  through  the  main  bar  up  the  stairs  through  the  upper  bar  down  the  rear  stairs  checked  the   toilets  back  through  the  bar  and  out  onto  the  street.  It  was  extremely  rare  that  I  ever  came  across  anybody  that  I  knew  in  the  CrossBar  and  even  rarer  that  I  came across  anybody  that  I  actually  wanted  to  know.

But  I  sort  of  credited  myself  with  inventing  the  CrossBar,  inasmuch  as  I  often  walked  past  it  when  it  was  a  concrete  cave  of  an  unlet  shop  and  thought  that  would  make  a  profitable  gay  bar.  And  what  do  you  know ?  Some  devious  cunt  lifted  my  idea  before  I  could  do  so  much  as  tell  anybody  and  be  wise  before  the  fact.

The  location  proved  to  be  so  popular  that  an equally devious cunt took the lease on the unlet cave etc. two doors along and turned that into another equally profitable gay bar : The X-bar. The whole gay scene was mushrooming, I liked the fungal analogy but wasn’t too struck on the idea that there was an almost endless supply of nouveau-clones to fill bar after bar, I was waiting for the bubble to burst : a bar too far as it were.  Not that there seemed any sign of it at present.

I swallowed my ever growing distaste of all things gay and nudged my way through the crowd to the rear of the X-bar, which unlike its utilitarian  stack ‘em high swill ‘em cheap precursor  two doors away, had had quite some dough and artistic thought put into its refurbishment : much wrought iron post industrial smelter and dripping altar candles.

I spotted Cameron propping up the bar, just shortly before he spotted me, which checked my instinctive urge to perform a swift U-turn. I’d sponged a score off of him, my taxi fare home, last time we’d been at Q.A.F. a few weeks previously.

He greeted me with a bucked tooth smile, and a raised glass:     he was drunk. If he had any recollection of the outstanding ‘loan’ then he didn’t mention it, which displayed some class, I thought. I settled down for an evening of heavy drinking, at his expense.

I related the more titivating details of my trip to Prague,  he ordered Champagne by the bottle and tequila by the slammer. I wanted to settle him into amused admiring drink purchasing mode before I asked him about Gabby.

“ The young one?” He questioned. Who else could I have meant, but I let his drunken stupidity pass.

“ Yeah, I haven’t seen him since I got back.” “ Didn’t you know ?” He slurred. Get on with you stupid pissed Scottish idiot, I thought, but managed to resist the temptation to verbalize it. “ He’s away back to France.” “ What? He’s gone already?” I needed clarification of the colloquialism.

“ Aye, more than a week back.” His speech was getting very Whisky Galore in some form of alcohol induced mawkishness “ You sure.”

“ I should be, I paid for his ticket.” I didn’t much like the tone of pride in his voice.

“ That’ll be right.” I scoffed without any attempt at concealing  my contempt. I saw the look pass over his face and my evening of free drinking fly out the window. But I didn’t care it was a Sunday and the town closed at 10:30. He’d played the generous benefactor card and I’d thrown the mug punter flush back in his face.

He un-propped himself from the bar and made his way unsteadily towards the bogs, I poured myself a generous glass of his bubbly, necked it, and cleared.

I had enough small change for a couple of cans of White Lightening from the Seven-Eleven so I made my way on foot to Waterloo  with them to keep company.

The cider had run out by the time my train reached Wimbledon, leaving me with a few stops to ride dry, and a feeling of regret that I hadn’t had the cash to buy an extra can. Now it was my turn to get maudlin, I couldn’t picture Gabby’s face, and of course I had no photos or video of him.

It struck me that that was the way with rentboys, they were convenient because you could pick them up or put them down as it suited you. Well that was how it was supposed to work. But then again, because of the lack of connection they could just up and leave … disappear. Just stop showing up on the Dilly. With no way of making contact with them … finding them. It reminded me of this girl I’d met on a family holiday in Minorca when I’d been fifteen. She’d flown back to Hamburg a week before the end of my holiday fortnight and I hadn’t bothered to get her address. She’d looked like a thirteen year old Brook Shields (Blue Lagoon). I noticed  that I still had the empty can in my hand, this I crumpled and tossed out of the window as Raynes Park sped past.

I should have fucked her, I could have done. Too late. Never mind.