the f-world
20 april

London
Today I did something I had been meaning to do ever since I left Gatwick. But I need to back up to the 6th, and my date with the curly haired guy...

6 April
After a pleasant flight and a descent through two layers of clouds, the plane landed with a remarkable gentleness. Because I was able to grab a small bit of sleep, I thought I'd barely notice the jet lag this time. I stretched out in my seat and let the other passengers stand and huff while waiting for everyone else to deplane.

I patiently waited for my red suitcase while recalling how to catch the train into the city. Last time I bought my train ticket at one of the machines instead of waiting in the long line to speak to a human- I was a seasoned traveller, I collected such time saving tips.

That other time, a woman was throwing a tantrum because she couldn't get the ticket machine to work. The kind of whining you'd expect from a kid who couldn't get the seamonkees from the gumball machine no matter how many nickles. Having already gleaned the information from a poster on each and every ticket dispenser, I kindly clued her in that the machines couldn't take the new ten pound notes, and traded one of my old ones for one of her new ones. I did this not so much out of altruism, I just couldn't take her brand of self-expression at that hour. Maybe she sensed this and thus withheld a thank you.

At last my little red suitcase poked its face out of the heap on the conveyor belt and it was time to get the first stamp on my brand new passport.

And five hours later I did get my first stamp, plus an additional cryptic one. First, the annoying questions, like 'do you have a return ticket?', 'how much money do you have?', and 'would you sit back down in the waiting room again, please?'

It seemed so straight forward to me, I was going to buy my return ticket after I learned how long I'd be needed at my friend's house (thank god he's a doctor friend and not one of my hooker gilfriends). I didn't tell them that because my US trip was a financial failure that I'd need to turn some tricks first before I could afford to return home.

After they decided to detain me for questioning, I was escorted to a room where a youngster 'searched' through my luggage. I quickly ran through a mental list of items for any that might cause me trouble. Would they think my vitamins were camoflaged cocaine? Was my copy of Whorezine obscene? Why was I bringing all my tax books? What were all those free escort advertising sites doing on my week list? And what about all those naked men in my datebook?

There was my Lex Kyler notebook, where I track the things I've done to improve business. There was the Lex Kyler to do list. A porn star calendar, a pile of hand written notes, client phone numbers. Enough to keep me barred from entering the USA if I did get sent stateside, so from there where?

Yet, the young bag checker did little more than remove everything and put it on a table. He'd ask a question about something, accepting my answer without follow up. I wondered if he was really listening. Was it his first day on the job? Was I being watched for some kind of guilty looking reaction to his inaction? When that part of the ordeal was finished I repacked my luggage.

An official led me to an office, patted down, and showed me the waiting room which earily resembled a holding cell I occupied in a San Francisco jail. Inside were three other questionables, two Latin Americans and an Arab man. No one said anything to anyone. On the television (part of the punitive measure) George W. stammered that it was time to bring our servicemen and women home. On the home front, more mass burnings of animal carcasses. None of us said anything when the woman detainee began crying.

Then, the first of several interviews with the curly haired guy. Another young lad, but serious and much more probing than the bag handler. He'd ask questions, send me back to the waiting room, call me out again. In between interrogations I sat with my head down, earplugs in, and while the jet lag caught up with me I tried to formulate contingency plans in case I was sent back to the US.

My financial situation was of much interest to the curly haired guy and his superior. Finally, a chance to explain myself: I came to England to escape the slow gardening season in Los Angeles, had my rent there taken care of by subletters, and was taking the opportunity to live on the cheap housitting for a friend (a doctor, remember) in England. I was sent back to the waiting room and in came a new couple, a young Latin guy and an older white American man. I was too tired to try to evesdrop on what I assumed was a go-go boy and his uncle.

Curly haired guy peeped his head inside the waiting room and asked, in front of everybody, how I would get to London from the airport. I answered by train, this time too tired to keep from making a 'what the hell kind of stupid question is that?' face.

Another hour and a half later I was called out again, this time handed back my passport and told I was allowed back into the country for another six months. I chalked it up to pity and luck. I picked up my luggage, sitting oddly out in the open, and was told I just needed to go through customs. The extra stamp on my passport meant I would have to explain in the future that there was an incident but it was all taken care of. Great. And curly haired guy said he didn't know the significance of the yellow dot on my passport cover. Smoking Man, oh where can you be?

I walked past customs without incident, and made my way down to the commuter train ticket machines, all available since commuters generally don't take trains that early in the afternoon. Bitter, rain bearing winds filled the shelter on the waiting platform. I would soon be on a train, then the tube, then walking to my unheated destination. California dreaming, on such a winter day... but it was supposed to be April. When I got home, I called Cy first thing, as I had promised.

The next day I saw a client and was quite grateful; he was so nice and the trip out wasn't as scary this time. The next day I met with Paulo in the morning before his English classes, we sat in chilly Soho Square Park. He sent me e-mails during my trip to the states to say he was waiting for me to return. Very sweet. I didn't intentionally take him to a park just a couple blocks from Cy's place, or did I?

After seeing him off I checked my e-mail then took the bus home. While I sat in the kitchen catching up on my writing someone tried to break in, putting three holes in the window before I rushed outside to find a group of local adolescents, each feigning innocence. I called the police, while the kids sat on a bench only a few meters away, as if nothing had happened. Inside I was panicking. None of our windows were barred, would they come back later that night, when the football pitches were closed? Sometime when I was away?

Having been on the victim end of two muggings, an attempted gay bashing, and a half dozen home robberies back in the states, and watching drug dealers wage war in front of my house, I had not developed a thick skin in dealing with crime. Two hours later a pair of policemen knocked at the door, an hour and a half after the kids had walked away. One asked questions, the other stood impassive except to add a comment regarding yobs's predilection for clothes from the Gap. I was assured that the kids probably would not come back and actually weren't planning to break in.

This did little to allay my fears. The aggressive rudeness of London's children continues to prove frustrating and frightening: they run right up to you and say the most obscene things, flaunt their lack of respect and concern for others, every other word is fuck- it's Clockwork Orange. No one will raise a question, let alone a finger. I was determined to leave the country before school let out for summer. That first night I barely slept, getting out of bed several times to see where that noise came from. My mantra became 'you can't live in fear'.

The next day I sent a two month notice to my subletters, and e-mailed several friends that I had enough of London and would be coming home soon. I went to the flat I worked out of (where a month prior I had confronted a group of children who were throwing eggs from the top of my building), found an extra 260 pounds I had hidden away, and my outlook began to brighten. I had more money than I thought, and enough for a one way ticket home. Maybe I would go visit my friend in Barcelona, and grab a quick dash back to Paris. It's amazing how a little found money can change my mood.

And even more amazing was how week after week, the Dame Edna Experience continued to wow the crowds at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern. After the week's window smashing, I really needed a good laugh. I ran into my friend Ggreg who held the going away party in San Francisco a few weeks ago, and he was already a fan. DE Experience started late, and blamed it on a car accident caused by running over a bottle. About five minutes later she elaborated: "Remarkably- or unfortunately, it was under a push chair."

After the show, with my earplugs still in, I bid Ggreg goodbye and pointed out a cute ginger guy I recognized from the sidelines of the last rugby match I attended. The next day Ggreg text messaged me to let me know he took the guy home.

A workless week passed (Cy called on one of those days but couldn't see me and said he'd call when he got things together) and then, boom, three clients on Saturday. I didn't come for any of them because I needed to maintain my energy for my date with Paulo. I met him after he got out of work and had him stay over, and as much as I love his company, during sex I said to myself this would be the last time. At one point while we were lying quietly (and under the protective warmth of a duvet) he asked what I was thinking and I should of have just said, 'I don't want to have sex with you anymore', but I didn't have the courage. I'd have to break it to him eventually.

A few days later he'd be leaving for ten days in Spain to visit his family, and I should have spoken to him before then, or maybe not, I just couldn't decide the best way to do this, and Judith Martin was simply not handy. Paulo went off to work, and later that day, being Sunday, I went off for another dose of Dame Edna Experience.

Bank Holiday Monday
I spent the day exploring the Epping Forest. I had been there once before, and mentioned the twisted old trees to my mother. She wanted pictures so off I went. Walking so far north off the safety of the 'A to Z' grid excited me. I saw real foot and mouth signs, wandered past farms, nursereys and stables, and had no idea where I'd get the bus out of Essex. I stopped at one of the stables for directions and learned of a bus that probably did not run on holidays, but if I kept walking, I'd eventually find a red metro bus.

They didn't tell me about the wildflowers or the big resevoir, and the clouds cooperated by spreading themselves thinly and scattering at times. I found the bus outpost and waited, on the ground a hand written poster advertised the availability of a friendly white ferret in need of a home. I was so happy to get on the bus, my link back to civilization, the reminder of which was a water balloon attack on the driver by, you won't believe this, adolescent males.

The day after Liz Sherlock was killed, I started making a list of things I wanted to do before leaving, and had yet to choose an exit date when I learned of an international gay rugby tournament being held in Washington, DC. All I needed were the exact dates, then I'd book my ticket.

Tuesday morning: a newspaper cover story about council youths in my area egging firemen. That afternoon, an interesting client. His role playing fantasy was for me to play a military doctor giving him a humiliating physical. Initially I couldn't really think of what might make a physical embarrassing except insulting his body and I couldn't bring myself to do that so I told him, if he was accepted into the army, he'd be assigned to the secret group of recruits used to pleasure the officers. Then we switched roles and he pretended to be a GP giving me a civilian physical. He got off really quickly, so I must have been a good 'patient'.

That night, I decided to venture into unknown north London territory to check out a bar reputed to feature gloryholes upstairs. I memorized the route from my 'A to Z' and walked off into the night.

The neighborhood went from questionable to dodgy within seconds. I'd walked out of worse projects in the states, but I just didn't want any trouble. When I saw a group of young men turn onto the street ahead of me, wearing Gap-like clothes, I hung back, then crossed the street. I saw the bar at the end of the block.

A waitress counted heaping piles of coins that crowded a low slung table, two cute Italian guys sat on a love seat and a couple other men who didn't interest me parked themselves at opposite ends of the small room. I was delighted to find 'The Last Action Hero', a pin ball machine, and started to play.

When I lived in San Francisco, I spent many nocturnal hours in front of various pinball games, preferring the older ones like Cyclone and Adams Family. I wasn't very good, but that didn't matter, it was totally engrossing fun. Besides, several times, maybe due to the inevitable bumping and grinding one does to try to influence the ball, I ended up going home with someone. Tonight would be no exception.

Somewhere between the third and forth game I turned around to see a pair of eyes burning off my clothes. Noted, but I had to finish with Arnold first. I made multi-ball twice, and hit two jackpots. Still, I was way short of a replay score, so at the end of the last game I went in search of the fabled upstairs. Laser Eyes followed.

My departure from the front bar started a slow migration by the others, now numbering about seven. Huh, I had initiated the sex dance for the evening, how special. At the top of the stairs was a banquette just outside the entrance to Gloryland. In a bit of uncharacteristic shyness, I didn't venture in, and sat down on the banquette to finish my water. Laser Eyes came to the top of the stairs, and stopped. We passed glances and I scooted myself to the left, patted my right hand down on the banquette and invited trouble to sit down.

And so began my affair with Chris.

what defines London for me right now: Spooks 'Karma Hotel', child slave ship hoax, a dance remix of Stevie Wonder's 'Too High', London Live, marathon hype.

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