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If one should like to enter into a debate of near poetical and philosophical nature – this is a sanctuary of a certain kind. A haven for those who practise their religion in secret confinement, a last resort for the infinitely shameful, and an anonymous shelter for the diffident. If, however, one wishes to stay clear from poetic dribble – this is a place where men come to get fucked. And it is extremely effective in its delivery of such services.
Effective, not only because of its perfect location and its sheltered existence, far from the blinding street lights, but also because of the certain palpable air it gives off when the strong arm of the law is nigh. This is not necessarily a bad thing, as even the law is sometimes simply looking for an alternate us for its strong arm. But when they’re after arrests, it can certainly be perceived. Its surroundings are noticeably calmer, the only few souls who do dare approach pass the sign and set of steps without even a stray glance in its direction, and one might even suggest that the scent enfolding its vicinity is slightly altered.
I wonder if they realise that their luring about at the least suspected times, with their neatly polished insignia and truncheons only adds to the appeal of coming here. A sense of danger, the rush of adrenaline increasing with each blink, with each smile with hidden meaning, with every word spoken if it ever comes to words or a conversation, which it seldom does. The knowledge that, in essence, all will be lost if one is caught. The precedents are very clear on that. It’s a risk, but one with a profoundly rewarding price when overcome. That makes it a game worth playing. A game with players clad in the subtlest of uniforms –united not by clothing, but by mere eyes looking and mouths lightly smirking. Slight facial changes that indicate a variety of meanings, ranging from ‘I know what you want and I have it’ to ‘Come get me’ and even to ‘My god, what on earth am I doing here? Can I still leave without looking like a complete ars- no I mustn’t think of arses. Oh god, I should leave.’. I’m particularly fond or the last type of facial expressions. Terribly amusing.
For some reason as I step down, my attention is not drawn to the surroundings, but to the large sign indicating where it is I’m treading. I’ve always found it of some irony that the sign says ‘gentlemen’, for the accidental purposes of these kinds of places are never quoted to be very gentlemanly at all.
My attention should not have been drawn to that sign. My thoughts should not have strayed to finding a fitting comparison between the Reform and a public lavatory. My eyes should have been less wanting and more perceptive of what was in front of me. Or rather who it was.
That would have avoided this nasty predicament. Nasty only because the man holding my hand behind my back whilst pressing me rather harshly against the murky wall has just made it quite clear he’s a police officer. To compress my thoughts in one all-encompassing word: fuck. But there’s no time for any of that now. It’s time to put on an act.
“Might one inquire as to the nature of this rather unnecessarily harsh behaviour?” I ask with a purposeful insulted posh voice. Ironically, my voice sounds snootier when my face is half pressed against a wall. I do not expect this man to appreciate the irony, though.
“Shut up. Whatever you got to say, you say it at the station, bloody ponce.”
“I don’t think that will happen. Since when does,” I refrain from saying ‘taking a piss’, though that would be my natural vocabulary. Yes, I was born to be a spy. “making use of a public lavatory contradict justice?”
“Since it meant you were trying to pick me up.” He says, twisting my arm lightly further as he searches for a set of cuffs.
“Excuse me?!” I cry, most insulted. “Are you out of your mind? I would do no such thing!”
“Yeah, explain that to the court, wanker.” I refrain from mentioning anything regarding that insult and why it simply is neither true nor the point at the moment.
Court, that’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid here. An infamous reputation matters not, but a criminal record would compromise everything we planned for the future. I don’t need the trouble and I don’t need Kim’s sermon on dominos.
“And whilst I explain to the court about what is essentially your word against mine-” I say, turning a bit, nearly snapping my back, to face him, while I desperately try to find some excuse. And then I find it. More or less. “Is that liquor I smell? Have you been drinking? Do you know what that does to ones perception; you have been seeing things that weren’t there. This is preposterous, I demand you release me!” I should point out that I am guessing. It’s a well-educated guess; I am very familiar with the many faces of light to obscene intoxication, but it is still very much a guess. I do smell alcohol, but it might as well be the lingering air of booze forever persisting in this confined space and permanently locked in the concrete walls, or, indeed, the smell of my own breath (though I did eat a chocolate - much more effective in removing the smell of liquor in ones breath than mints). And I do feel what could be the outlines of a hip flask pressing onto my leg in order to immobilize me, but it might well be something else entirely. Really, the only reliable fact I have to go on is that no police officer goes out on guard on cold nights like these without a spot of alcohol to warm the blood. And I’m afraid that is a reliable fact I’ve made up some time ago.
“I’m not drunk, I’ve seen perfectly well.” He says angrily, but his answer and voice indicate I’m right. I suppress sighing in relief - I’ve got him cornered (figuratively speaking, of course). It may have just been a sip of warmth against the cold, but it doesn’t matter one bit. He drank.
“A drunken police officer dares to arrest a perfectly respectable member of society in need of relief? How do you suppose that will look in court? Your word against mine. A drunken bobby against a Cambridge scholar. I have half a mind to report you!” The offended front does seem to fit me like a glove. I wanted to throw in some comments about the BBC and how I am of influence there, but I’ll leave them as a last resort. I don’t want him to remember me too well if not necessary.
“Smart little queer, are we?” He says highly annoyed and realising his problem. If he would just loosen his grip a bit.
“Well, I don’t know about you…” The words escape my mouth before they’ve been considered bad words to say, but I’ve managed to say them with enough annoyance to make them appropriate. “Now if you would be so kind to release me, I am late for an appointment.”
He doesn’t release me. In stead, he closes in until his mouth is next to my ear. “If I catch you in here again, filthy ponce,” He whispers menacingly. “rest assure you will find no easy way out.” The way he speaks makes it sound as though the words he meant to say were ‘no one will hear you scream’. It’s rather frightful actually.
He releases me, casts a disapproving glare at me and waits for me to leave, which I do, calmly and still with an offended look – a facade I do not discard until I’m safely at the club – the other gentleman’s club where I know I shall probably spend the night in a comfortable leather armchair, in drunken sleep.