The Pocket Piece, Part 3
The Pocket Piece, Part 2
Only a few steps inside the club, Jim and I had to spend a moment blinking and swallowing as we were assaulted by a thick melange of fumes. Cigarette smoke (did EVERY Brit smoke?), disco fog, stale beer, and the unmistakable sting of amyl nitrate hung close to our faces under the low ceiling.
To our left, on a slightly sunken dancefloor, tightly packed shadowy figures moved to the beat of the EXTREMELY LOUD sound system. We traced the edges of the dance floor with our fingers in our ears and headed for a long bar, where several bartenders were feverishly at work ignoring the patrons.
At the bar, we flailed our arms comically to attract the bartender's attention. Jim looked around, 'So much for finding a place to sit down.'
'Well, the last place was too bright, and this place is TOO LOUD!', I said to Jim.
'WHAT?', Jim shouted back.
'I said if we expected to find a place to sit and talk, we're gonna be out of luck!'
Jim look horrified.
'Madonna was HIT BY A TRUCK???'
'What? Who told you that?,' I asked, looking at the bartender.
'Didn't you just say something about Madonna getting hit by a truck?'
'Oh brother, honey. I said that we're GONNA BE OUT OF LUCK, if we expected to sit down. You've got your disco ears on already, and we've only been here ten minutes!', I snickered.
The sexy but unsmiling barman brought over two lukewarm Red Stripes. Jim counted out several pound coins and dropped them into the hand of the barman, brightly saying, 'Well, thank you VERY MUCH!'
'You tipped him, didn't you?' I asked for the tenth time this trip.
'Well, just a pound. Shut up. You know I just can't NOT tip a bartender.'
We'd been teasing Jim about that all week, although we'd all been quietly tipping them ourselves.
We drifted around the inside of club, getting our bearings and checking out the crowd. The dancefloor was jammed, mostly with younger club kids. Lurking around the bar and in the darker parts of the club were an odd mix of punks, skinheads, art fags and a few drag queens.
A handful of leathermen, probably refugees from The Coleherne, were posed in a corner, trying to maintain an aloof masculinity, but still occasionally succumbing to the insistent beat, carelessly allowing themselves a fleeting disco flourish, which they would immediately quell, then compensate for with an even more exaggerated swagger.
Jim left me standing near the leathermen and went in search of the restroom. A minute later he was back, breathless.
'Guess who I saw in the bathroom?'
I said, 'Were you looking though a gloryhole again?'
'Not THIS time, very funny. No, I walked up to the urinal, which by the way is JUST this huge tiled wall with a drain running along the bottom, that goes the entire length of the room, no privacy WHAT-so-ever. What is UP with this country and the public restrooms? If I was slightest bit pee-shy, I'd prob-'
I cut him off, 'Jim, who was in the bathroom?'
'Oh, it was London Losira.'
'Oh, no way!'
Now, the 'Losira' moniker requires a bit of explanation. Jim and I were both huge Star Trek geeks. In one episode, Kirk, McCoy and Sulu are stranded on a deserted planet. The planet is defended by a computer program that sends a beautiful but deadly female alien, named Losira (played by the lovely former Miss America, Lee Meriwether), to attack the crew. Each time she appeared, Losira's touch was fatal, but only for whomever the computer sent her on that occasion. Kirk and crew would form a circle around her, shouting, 'Who are you for? Who are you for?'
So, whenever Jim and I couldn't figure out which of us was being cruised, (and we were most definitely NOT a package deal) we'd name the cruiser in question 'Losira', until we knew who he WAS for, or no longer cared.
'London Losira' had been cruising one or the both of us all week long, in several bars and discos from Soho to Earl's Court. He was strikingly handsome, with a jet-black crewcut, pale skin, and a bit of a superior smirk. We never spoke to him, never figured out who he 'was for.' We had danced near him at Love Muscle, the previous Saturday, and purred approvingly when he removed his shirt on the dancefloor, but still never got past the 'Losira' stage.
Jim and I waited near the restroom, and about a minute later London Losira walked out, doing a comical double-take upon seeing us. Giving us several backwards glances, he pushed through the crowd and took up position edge of the dance floor.
Jim said, 'Ok, let's settle this.'
He pulled me behind him, following Losira. Jim took up a position a few feet to the right of Losira, and I took one a few feet to the left. Losira cast glances in both our directions and jumped down to the dancefloor, alone. Jim looked at me and rolled his eyes. I shrugged and we both joined Losira. After a few minutes of, at first, 'accidental', then not-so-accidental bumping into Losira, it became clear.
Losira was for me.
Jim abandoned us and went to do his own thing. I introduced myself to Losira, trying to be heard over the clanging music.
'Hi! I'm Joe!,' I shouted, extending my hand.
Losira grabbed my hand and yanked my body against his.
'Snrufl glelm flwro mrrumr!', he growled, as he shoved his palm against my crotch.
'OK.' I smiled idiotically. 'What's your name?'
More incomprehensible grunting, delivered in that sexy Losira way. I pulled him off the dancefloor and down a hallway, as far away from the speakers as we could get. That's where I learned that Losira was, in fact, named Fred. Fred was from France, working illegally in London as a waiter at a French restaurant. I wasn't entirely confident with any of this information, as it was largely gleaned through pantomime.
French Fred and I hung out at the bar for an hour or so, slamming more Red Stripes, and making out a little bit. I had to restrain him a few times, or he'd have had my cock out right there. Not that that's a bad thing, mind you, I just didn't know about local custom. Right.
Finally, Jim walked up and I gave him a ten-second recap. Jim tried to be bored with it all.
'So, are you going home with him?'
'I don't know, we haven't talked about it. Or maybe we HAVE, who knows, I can't understand a thing he says.'
Jim made a big show of getting out the claim tickets for our coats, and headed down the hall to the coat check. French Fred gave me a sly look, fumbled in his pockets for his claim ticket, murmured in my ear, then followed Jim.
Jim came back with our coats and asked, 'Well, what's the story?'
'Don't get mad, but I still don't know.'
'How can you NOT know?,' Jim snapped.
'Well, after you went to get our coats, I think he said 'I want you to fuck my hole.'
Jim rolled his eyes, 'Well, that sounds pretty definite!'
'Or, he MIGHT have said, 'I want to get my mink stole.'
Jim snorted. 'So, I guess if he DOESN'T come back with wearing fur, you're fucking him.'
French Fred reappeared a moment later. He was wearing a black leather jacket.
- to be continued-