6. Porno Kiss No.3
In Brentwich, Burton Street is where you go if you need something: groceries, aspirin, a cup of tea and a bacon roll. Yarborough Road is where you go if you want something. The two roads meet in the centre of town, Yarborough tapping itself onto the middle of Burton like a leech on a vein, sucking out a steady trickle of people. It is altogether more pretty than Burton - none of the shops are closed down, the buildings have more charm. Yarborough generally attracts a younger, louder clientele.
At the junction with Burton are the shops. Not the practical kind, nor the trendy big businesses of the High Street, but quaint independent shops selling wooden toys, one-of-a-kind clothes, custom jewellery, second hand books. Eventually the shops give way to restaurants where couples meet on first dates, get engaged and celebrate anniversaries. A phoenix splashed over gold Chinese writing, wine racks behind counters, vines crawling up a staircase, the smell of garlic and ginger. Then bars of every type - trendy, smoke-filled, attic, brand name, cluttered, chilled. People outside on mobile phones calling taxis, looking for friends, shouting at boyfriends. Then the clubs: the neon throb of Mist; the red-carpet cheese of Jack’s; the blare of metal pounding from Cube. Bouncers stand superciliously beside each door, filtering in queues of over-friendly men and under-dressed, shivering women. By the exits, two girls are arguing about who met ‘him’ first, a young man is curled up in a foetal position vomiting black bile while his mates film it on their phones, and a young couple are grinding against an emergency exit door, her legs raised off the ground.
And then darkness. The glare and glow and sounds fade into a background thumping like an old headache as the buildings give way to Yarborough Park. Randomly planted trees and bushes beckon into darkness, lit only by the odd park light. Benches dedicated to forgotten men line a haphazard path that snakes under willow fountains and curves around crumbling bandstands. A deserted play area carpeted with scattered bark sits forlorn, the swings swaying gently to and fro, empty. And over the dry stone wall, a hundred ancient graves rise out of the ground like wonky teeth (‘In memory of… beloved husband and father… on the 22nd day of October 1846...’), all in reverence of the Church of Saint Jude, lit up from below like Boris Karloff. Beyond the churchyard, a small residential area, a supermarket, and then fields, fields, fields.
Now the road is bridged by a ceiling of Christmas decorations, not the faded tinsel and stars of Burton, but a flashing, pulsing sea of lights in gold, red, green, reindeers leaping from building to building, snowmen bowing from the rooftops, Father Christmases hauling sacks of toys. It is quite a spectacle if you take the time to stop and look up.
Michael and Gabriel did not take the time to stop and look up.
Instead they ambled along Yarbrough Road, past an art boutique, away from the waving fist of Ali Yusuf. Both walked with their hands buried deep in their pockets, Michael’s hood up, Gabriel’s mouth muffled under his jacket, clenching their arms inwards to fight off the bitter cold that was crystallising under their feet. They walked in silence. Not the companionable quiet of friends, but the awkward lull of two people that don’t really know what to say to each other. Gabriel considered raising the issue of aspirin again, but decided against it in case Mike got pissed off. For his part, Michael was wondering about Gabe’s apparent experience with shoplifting, but decided perhaps talking to someone about their expertise in breaking the law was a bit of a faux pas. But still, that awkwardness bore down relentlessly on them, and the snap of footsteps and the hum of distant bass seemed indecently loud.
Michael cracked first.
“So what now?” No one ever said Michael was a brilliant conversationalist, least of all himself. He hated that he was never able to think of something exciting, interesting or witty to say. But at least he’d had a go at chipping the wall of ice between him and Gabriel.
“Don’t know,” came Gabriel’s enthralling reply a few seconds later (he had been so surprised to hear Michael speak, his brain hadn’t registered the question at first). “We can’t really get any decent pills this time of night. Unless you fancy going back to Ali’s?” He flashed a grin to Michael, who smiled weakly back. “We could go to Tesco’s, it’s open late near Christmas. Might find something there. Razors maybe? Won’t be much, but we might get an idea.” He shrugged genially.
A pause.
“I’m sorry for getting the wrong type of medicine,” Michael murmured. “I mean, I didn’t realise what sort…. Sorry.”
“S’okay,” Gabriel shrugged again. “Honest mistake.”
A longer pause.
“I should just go home, you’d be better off,” Michael said, this time slowing down so he dropped behind.
“Don’t be silly, I like the company,” pleaded Gabriel, stopping in front of Pizzeria Italiano. Seeing Michael’s unconvinced expression, he tried another tack. “Look, you don’t have to do it if you don’t want, I understand. But why don’t you-”
“I do want to,” Michael interrupted. “I just…”
“Well then, come on.” Gabriel’s turn to interrupt, indicating the direction with a jut of his head.
Michael complied, and they both continued walking past Tequila Joe’s, a group of girls sitting by the window drinking shots like a synchronised team.
“And I do like the company,” ventured Gabriel.
A longer pause, one that slowed down time so the tapping footsteps and bass beats came in delirious stutters. Eventually, after an eternity of silence:
“Cold, eh?” Michael winced inwardly at resorting to that most English of conversation fillers, the weather.
“Yeah, freezing,” Gabriel replied, taking the bait. “Makes me wish I had a few more layers on. At least if worst comes to worst we could huddle for warmth.” He sensed, rather than saw, Michael tense up. “If only there were some Dalmatian puppies around…”
“You’d never be cold again,” Michael finished, almost laughing.
“And I’d look stunning,” chuckled Gabriel.
Michael laughed. “I didn’t realise I was with an evil puppy killer.”
“Oh I wouldn’t kill them, I’d leave that to my minions.”
“Meaning me?”
“I didn’t say that, but if you want to be my minion, I won’t stop you.”
“I’m nobody’s minion!”
They both laughed easy laughs, their arms loosening slightly. The ice wall was melted enough to punch a hole through, dripping onto the pavement.
“So where are you from, anyway?” Michael asked, emboldened. “Anywhere around here?” As he spoke, the sound of a glass bottle breaking shattered along the street.
“Near here. On Freedom Road, not far from the bridge.”
“Oh,” replied Michael, politely not commenting on the less than respectable reputation of that area. “You live with your family?”
“No,” replied Gabriel with a stiffness that carried more than just the word.
“You’ve got your own place? Lucky!”
“Yeah, it’s really not that impressive…”
“It is to me, I’d love my own place. I mean, you’re only - what? Twenty? ”
“Nineteen. It’s no big deal.” Gabriel moved on quickly, “How about you? You live around here?”
“Longsdale Square,” Michael muttered.
Gabriel knew of Longsdale Square. One of the few places in Brentwich where the streets were lined with trees. People there were respectable. They owned nice cars, and led happy, well-off lives.
Gabriel was disappointed.
“Aw, don’t tell me you’re one of them.”
“One of what?” Michael’s arms stiffened.
Gabriel sighed bitterly. “Emo rich boys. Have everything they ever wanted, but go on about how hard their life is. Then one day Daddy tells ‘em they can’t have a pony, and it’s suicide time.”
“I’m not an emo rich boy,” Michael grumbled, his pace slowing down threateningly.
“Yeah right,” Gabriel rolled his eyes to himself and turned to face his companion. “Longsdale Square? Look, I can tell you’re not serious. I should’ve known.”
The ice cracked into glistening splinters. “You are so up your own arse! You don’t know a thing about me!”
Gabriel, wide eyes, eyebrows cocked like a shotgun: “I know you’re not serious about killing yourself.”
Sometimes in life, Fate, the Divine, or Sod’s Law (whichever you believe in) will intervene and throw you a sign. For Michael, this came in the form of a black (or blue? Hard to tell) Ford Escort, making it’s way innocently down Yarborough Road.
“I’ll show you who’s not serious,” Michael muttered, and stepped out into the road.
Gabriel was unimpressed. “What are you doing?”
“Getting run over, what does it look like?” He stopped in the beam of the fast approaching car, opening his arms in a Christ-like pose and closing his eyes.
“Move you idiot!” Gabriel shouted, but this only made Michael more determined. “Mike, get out the road!”
It’s true what they say about car accidents: you do have to look. Gabriel heard the screech of tyres on a damp road, saw the driver wrestle with the steering wheel, noticed Michael flinch into himself as the car rocked dangerously into the other lane, narrowly avoiding the maniac in the road, and swerved back and forth in an equilibrium, beeping the horn and throwing a variety of swearwords from the rolled-down window.
Michael opened his eyes.
Gabriel felt something between relief , exasperation and anger. “For fucks’ sake, will you get off the road, you retard!”
Michael spun on his foot, embarrassed at the second failed attempt of the night, but with an air of triumph.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing!?”
“You think I’m just messing about? Well there you are! Haven’t seen you do anything like that!”
“That’s cuz I’m not a prat. You wanna end up in a wheelchair, fine by me!”
“Whatever! I don’t need you!” Michael crossed his arms. “I was fine before you came along!”
“Yeah, choking yourself on a bit of old string, good one!”
“Oh, go back to shoplifting!”
“Piss off!”
“Piss off yourself!”
An awkward pause. Both stood resolute, daring the other one to move. Michael cracked first, turning and stamping towards the park, shoulders in a determined slump. Gabriel hesitated, then began to make his way back towards Burton Street, not because there was anything there, but because the etiquette of arguing demands that both competitors walk in opposite directions.
Even in his irritated state, Gabriel couldn’t shove away that nagging thought that he had just blown it. What ‘it’ was, he didn’t know, but he was certain ‘it’ was blown, and suspected that, as usual, it was his fault. Maybe he had been harsh calling him a rich emo boy? Yes, that was definitely harsh, and he was right, Gabriel didn’t know him…
…but Mike had said Gabriel was up his own arse, which wasn’t exactly nice. And what was that, standing in front of a car, what was he thinking? Prick. But it didn’t matter, because chances are, he wouldn’t be seeing the ‘prick’ again, so well done Gabriel, bravo, pat on the back for you.
It was as Gabriel was strolling back past Tequila Joe’s, absent mindedly scratching a fingernail into his palm as punishment, that he heard the obnoxious call echoing down the street.
“Ey! It’s queer boy!”
Gabriel turned around, automatically assuming that he was the one being addressed. ‘Queer boy’ had not been a common name for him at school - most of the boys preferred Gay Gabe, or a drawn out Gayyyyybriel - but the sentiment was the same, and he prepared himself for the usual verbal barrage and maybe random punch to the stomach. Instead he saw a small group around the fire exit of Mist (the grinding couple had, at last, got a room), and beyond them, a figure in a black hoodie, head down and shoulders in.
“Backs against the wall lads, don’t want Mike on your arse!” guffawed Grant, the ringleader.
Gabriel could hear the group’s tide of laughter swelling, and saw Michael shrinking down inch by inch. He paused, his foot half-raised from the chewing gum-mottled concrete. Then he walked forward, head high and shoulders back, towards the mob.
Grant Everson was wearing a pink-printed designer shirt, trendy-scuffed jeans, and a new white pair of trainers that glowed red, green, blue under Mist’s neon lights. He was a tall, good looking boy with short hair, spiked stylishly, his smile charming. He was intelligent, good at English and the sciences, polite to teachers (to their face), good at sports. At one time - although he couldn’t remember it - Michael had quite fancied him, as most of the girls did. That crush had evaporated quite rapidly, however, once Michael had got to know Grant’s personality.
The first sign that Grant might not be a ‘nice’ person had come to Michael’s attention when he was twelve. A rumour had circulated around the students (as petty rumours often do in school) that Luciana Martinelli, a delicate girl with slightly buck teeth who sat at the front of class, ‘liked’ Grant Everson. The rumour had naturally gone full circle back to Grant, who showed his reaction by slapping Luciana on the buttocks before class, and telling everyone how he wouldn’t ‘have that’ in a million years. Luciana sat with her head down and didn’t look up until she was fifteen.
Then there was Kevin Wong, whose surname gave Grant a great deal of amusement. A speciality of Grant’s was speaking in a nasal Chinese stereotypical accent (despite the fact Kevin sounded more like a cockney) and stretching his eyes sideways into a grotesque mock-oriental shape. Kevin Wong changed schools.
Then came the GCSE years, and Grant was about to discover his greatest source of entertainment when he was placed in many of the same classes as Michael Clements. It was around this age that the word ‘gay’ went from being a general insult to Grant, to something more specific and sinister, and there was no better target for it than Michael. Michael didn’t have many friends, he never talked about girls, he was quiet, he was good at art, he wasn’t threatening: these facts formed conclusive proof that he was a shirt lifter, and ever since Grant had found amusement in Michael in the same way a small child finds amusement in poking dead jellyfishes at the beach. And best of all, Michael never said anything, he just lay back and took it like the bum boy he was. Even now, the last year of sixth form, there was still a nonchalant joy in insulting Michael whenever their paths crossed. It gave Grant a pleasant feeling, a pep for the day.
“Alright, shit poker?” Grant grinned, the pleasant feeling rising.
“Go away,” Michael mumbled feebly.
“Ooooooooh,” minced the stocky boy behind Grant, David Britton. “Somebody’s got his knickers in a twist!”
It was well known the David adored Grant (in a completely heterosexual way, of course), and anything Grant found funny, David was soon joining in with the jokes. He was in Michael’s biology class, his defining moment having been linking ‘homo erectus’ to ‘Mike in the changing rooms’, which made even the teacher smile.
With them was the rat-faced Tom Sweeny, whose freckles made him look as though he had been flicked across the face with a spatter of orange paint. He was a poor art student, but what he lacked in talent, he made up for in brown nosing. Tom never had the guts to insult Michael when he was alone, and Michael was grateful for the reprieve. Art was the only subject where he could concentrate on his work. Of course, he could always rely on Tom to recount anything he did or said in class, so he kept his head down all the same.
Standing behind the boys were two girls. Hannah Hughes was a pretty, round faced girl who was currently going out with Grant. As is so often the case with the girlfriends of not-very-nice people, she was quite pleasant, with a peaceful, mother-earth quality. Her hair hung in long waves, and she smiled at Michael if she crossed paths in the hallway (Michael didn‘t smile back). Whenever the boys ganged up on him, she stood arms folded with a look of distaste. But she never said anything. With her was her friend, Eliza Bennet, a black girl with very straight hair, underdressed and shivering, eyes looking around for someone to blame for the cold. Both girls looked unimpressed: Hannah out of mild sympathy, Eliza out of boredom.
“What are you doing out tonight?” Grant sneered. “Waiting for your boyfriend?”
It was during the ensuing laughter that Michael spotted the dyed-blond hair approaching, and felt his stomach drop.
“Mike, there you are!” Gabriel grinned, flashing a delicious smile. “I lost you for a minute!”
And before David could grunt that Mike’s boyfriend was here, Gabriel kissed Michael.
In Gabriel’s mind, much like the interior of a small warehouse, were shelves of filed kisses. Kisses for every occasion: seductive kisses, sympathy kisses, apologetic kisses, I-can’t-really-be-bothered-with-this kisses (there was an equivalent filing system for sex). This particular kiss was a speciality of Gabriel’s: Porno Kiss No. 3.
The whole purpose of the Porno Kiss was that it was designed for the enjoyment (or otherwise) of those watching. Gabriel reached up and held Michael’s face, in what looked to the casual observer as a show of tenderness, but which actually acted as a vice to keep Michael from pulling away. He leaned up kissed once, briefly, just lips, eyes open, then closed his eyes to deliver the climax of the show, his tongue sliding over Michael’s and lingering on his lips just long enough for anyone watching to see. Then he reached round to slide his hand into Michael’s back pocket, and leaned his head lazily on Michael’s shoulder.
It was a stunning performance, perfectly pitched at the two month stage where lust and intimacy overlap. Of course, he couldn’t choose his acting partner - Michael stood stock still throughout, still in ‘deer caught in headlights’ mode. The only problem with the Porno Kiss is, like it’s blonde, surgically enhanced, fake lesbian inventors, the performers are under the spotlight, and it’s very hard to enjoy a performed kiss.
“You must be Michael’s friends from college,” he smiled, and offered his hand to Grant.
Grant didn’t take it. Instead he stood open-mouthed, apparently trying to form some sort of verbal reaction, but finding himself momentarily incapacitated, a look of disgust pressing down on his forehead and flaring his nostrils. David and Tom, equally reviled, were lost without Grant’s example to follow. Behind them, both girls watched wide eyed and open mouthed at the happy couple, Hannah’s mouth curling up slightly at the sides.
Awkward pause.
Gabriel was unfazed. “Well, nice to meet you all,” he chirped, and guided Michael in the other direction, towards the park, giving his bum a little squeeze on the way.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Gabriel whispered up into Michael’s ear. “Sorry for calling you an emo rich boy.”
Michael, forcing himself to produce a coherent sentence, muttered, “I’m sorry for saying you’re up your own arse.”
In Brentwich, Burton Street is where you go if you need something: groceries, aspirin, a cup of tea and a bacon roll. Yarborough Road is where you go if you want something. The two roads meet in the centre of town, Yarborough tapping itself onto the middle of Burton like a leech on a vein, sucking out a steady trickle of people. It is altogether more pretty than Burton - none of the shops are closed down, the buildings have more charm. Yarborough generally attracts a younger, louder clientele.
At the junction with Burton are the shops. Not the practical kind, nor the trendy big businesses of the High Street, but quaint independent shops selling wooden toys, one-of-a-kind clothes, custom jewellery, second hand books. Eventually the shops give way to restaurants where couples meet on first dates, get engaged and celebrate anniversaries. A phoenix splashed over gold Chinese writing, wine racks behind counters, vines crawling up a staircase, the smell of garlic and ginger. Then bars of every type - trendy, smoke-filled, attic, brand name, cluttered, chilled. People outside on mobile phones calling taxis, looking for friends, shouting at boyfriends. Then the clubs: the neon throb of Mist; the red-carpet cheese of Jack’s; the blare of metal pounding from Cube. Bouncers stand superciliously beside each door, filtering in queues of over-friendly men and under-dressed, shivering women. By the exits, two girls are arguing about who met ‘him’ first, a young man is curled up in a foetal position vomiting black bile while his mates film it on their phones, and a young couple are grinding against an emergency exit door, her legs raised off the ground.
And then darkness. The glare and glow and sounds fade into a background thumping like an old headache as the buildings give way to Yarborough Park. Randomly planted trees and bushes beckon into darkness, lit only by the odd park light. Benches dedicated to forgotten men line a haphazard path that snakes under willow fountains and curves around crumbling bandstands. A deserted play area carpeted with scattered bark sits forlorn, the swings swaying gently to and fro, empty. And over the dry stone wall, a hundred ancient graves rise out of the ground like wonky teeth (‘In memory of… beloved husband and father… on the 22nd day of October 1846...’), all in reverence of the Church of Saint Jude, lit up from below like Boris Karloff. Beyond the churchyard, a small residential area, a supermarket, and then fields, fields, fields.
Now the road is bridged by a ceiling of Christmas decorations, not the faded tinsel and stars of Burton, but a flashing, pulsing sea of lights in gold, red, green, reindeers leaping from building to building, snowmen bowing from the rooftops, Father Christmases hauling sacks of toys. It is quite a spectacle if you take the time to stop and look up.
Michael and Gabriel did not take the time to stop and look up.
Instead they ambled along Yarbrough Road, past an art boutique, away from the waving fist of Ali Yusuf. Both walked with their hands buried deep in their pockets, Michael’s hood up, Gabriel’s mouth muffled under his jacket, clenching their arms inwards to fight off the bitter cold that was crystallising under their feet. They walked in silence. Not the companionable quiet of friends, but the awkward lull of two people that don’t really know what to say to each other. Gabriel considered raising the issue of aspirin again, but decided against it in case Mike got pissed off. For his part, Michael was wondering about Gabe’s apparent experience with shoplifting, but decided perhaps talking to someone about their expertise in breaking the law was a bit of a faux pas. But still, that awkwardness bore down relentlessly on them, and the snap of footsteps and the hum of distant bass seemed indecently loud.
Michael cracked first.
“So what now?” No one ever said Michael was a brilliant conversationalist, least of all himself. He hated that he was never able to think of something exciting, interesting or witty to say. But at least he’d had a go at chipping the wall of ice between him and Gabriel.
“Don’t know,” came Gabriel’s enthralling reply a few seconds later (he had been so surprised to hear Michael speak, his brain hadn’t registered the question at first). “We can’t really get any decent pills this time of night. Unless you fancy going back to Ali’s?” He flashed a grin to Michael, who smiled weakly back. “We could go to Tesco’s, it’s open late near Christmas. Might find something there. Razors maybe? Won’t be much, but we might get an idea.” He shrugged genially.
A pause.
“I’m sorry for getting the wrong type of medicine,” Michael murmured. “I mean, I didn’t realise what sort…. Sorry.”
“S’okay,” Gabriel shrugged again. “Honest mistake.”
A longer pause.
“I should just go home, you’d be better off,” Michael said, this time slowing down so he dropped behind.
“Don’t be silly, I like the company,” pleaded Gabriel, stopping in front of Pizzeria Italiano. Seeing Michael’s unconvinced expression, he tried another tack. “Look, you don’t have to do it if you don’t want, I understand. But why don’t you-”
“I do want to,” Michael interrupted. “I just…”
“Well then, come on.” Gabriel’s turn to interrupt, indicating the direction with a jut of his head.
Michael complied, and they both continued walking past Tequila Joe’s, a group of girls sitting by the window drinking shots like a synchronised team.
“And I do like the company,” ventured Gabriel.
A longer pause, one that slowed down time so the tapping footsteps and bass beats came in delirious stutters. Eventually, after an eternity of silence:
“Cold, eh?” Michael winced inwardly at resorting to that most English of conversation fillers, the weather.
“Yeah, freezing,” Gabriel replied, taking the bait. “Makes me wish I had a few more layers on. At least if worst comes to worst we could huddle for warmth.” He sensed, rather than saw, Michael tense up. “If only there were some Dalmatian puppies around…”
“You’d never be cold again,” Michael finished, almost laughing.
“And I’d look stunning,” chuckled Gabriel.
Michael laughed. “I didn’t realise I was with an evil puppy killer.”
“Oh I wouldn’t kill them, I’d leave that to my minions.”
“Meaning me?”
“I didn’t say that, but if you want to be my minion, I won’t stop you.”
“I’m nobody’s minion!”
They both laughed easy laughs, their arms loosening slightly. The ice wall was melted enough to punch a hole through, dripping onto the pavement.
“So where are you from, anyway?” Michael asked, emboldened. “Anywhere around here?” As he spoke, the sound of a glass bottle breaking shattered along the street.
“Near here. On Freedom Road, not far from the bridge.”
“Oh,” replied Michael, politely not commenting on the less than respectable reputation of that area. “You live with your family?”
“No,” replied Gabriel with a stiffness that carried more than just the word.
“You’ve got your own place? Lucky!”
“Yeah, it’s really not that impressive…”
“It is to me, I’d love my own place. I mean, you’re only - what? Twenty? ”
“Nineteen. It’s no big deal.” Gabriel moved on quickly, “How about you? You live around here?”
“Longsdale Square,” Michael muttered.
Gabriel knew of Longsdale Square. One of the few places in Brentwich where the streets were lined with trees. People there were respectable. They owned nice cars, and led happy, well-off lives.
Gabriel was disappointed.
“Aw, don’t tell me you’re one of them.”
“One of what?” Michael’s arms stiffened.
Gabriel sighed bitterly. “Emo rich boys. Have everything they ever wanted, but go on about how hard their life is. Then one day Daddy tells ‘em they can’t have a pony, and it’s suicide time.”
“I’m not an emo rich boy,” Michael grumbled, his pace slowing down threateningly.
“Yeah right,” Gabriel rolled his eyes to himself and turned to face his companion. “Longsdale Square? Look, I can tell you’re not serious. I should’ve known.”
The ice cracked into glistening splinters. “You are so up your own arse! You don’t know a thing about me!”
Gabriel, wide eyes, eyebrows cocked like a shotgun: “I know you’re not serious about killing yourself.”
Sometimes in life, Fate, the Divine, or Sod’s Law (whichever you believe in) will intervene and throw you a sign. For Michael, this came in the form of a black (or blue? Hard to tell) Ford Escort, making it’s way innocently down Yarborough Road.
“I’ll show you who’s not serious,” Michael muttered, and stepped out into the road.
Gabriel was unimpressed. “What are you doing?”
“Getting run over, what does it look like?” He stopped in the beam of the fast approaching car, opening his arms in a Christ-like pose and closing his eyes.
“Move you idiot!” Gabriel shouted, but this only made Michael more determined. “Mike, get out the road!”
It’s true what they say about car accidents: you do have to look. Gabriel heard the screech of tyres on a damp road, saw the driver wrestle with the steering wheel, noticed Michael flinch into himself as the car rocked dangerously into the other lane, narrowly avoiding the maniac in the road, and swerved back and forth in an equilibrium, beeping the horn and throwing a variety of swearwords from the rolled-down window.
Michael opened his eyes.
Gabriel felt something between relief , exasperation and anger. “For fucks’ sake, will you get off the road, you retard!”
Michael spun on his foot, embarrassed at the second failed attempt of the night, but with an air of triumph.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing!?”
“You think I’m just messing about? Well there you are! Haven’t seen you do anything like that!”
“That’s cuz I’m not a prat. You wanna end up in a wheelchair, fine by me!”
“Whatever! I don’t need you!” Michael crossed his arms. “I was fine before you came along!”
“Yeah, choking yourself on a bit of old string, good one!”
“Oh, go back to shoplifting!”
“Piss off!”
“Piss off yourself!”
An awkward pause. Both stood resolute, daring the other one to move. Michael cracked first, turning and stamping towards the park, shoulders in a determined slump. Gabriel hesitated, then began to make his way back towards Burton Street, not because there was anything there, but because the etiquette of arguing demands that both competitors walk in opposite directions.
Even in his irritated state, Gabriel couldn’t shove away that nagging thought that he had just blown it. What ‘it’ was, he didn’t know, but he was certain ‘it’ was blown, and suspected that, as usual, it was his fault. Maybe he had been harsh calling him a rich emo boy? Yes, that was definitely harsh, and he was right, Gabriel didn’t know him…
…but Mike had said Gabriel was up his own arse, which wasn’t exactly nice. And what was that, standing in front of a car, what was he thinking? Prick. But it didn’t matter, because chances are, he wouldn’t be seeing the ‘prick’ again, so well done Gabriel, bravo, pat on the back for you.
It was as Gabriel was strolling back past Tequila Joe’s, absent mindedly scratching a fingernail into his palm as punishment, that he heard the obnoxious call echoing down the street.
“Ey! It’s queer boy!”
Gabriel turned around, automatically assuming that he was the one being addressed. ‘Queer boy’ had not been a common name for him at school - most of the boys preferred Gay Gabe, or a drawn out Gayyyyybriel - but the sentiment was the same, and he prepared himself for the usual verbal barrage and maybe random punch to the stomach. Instead he saw a small group around the fire exit of Mist (the grinding couple had, at last, got a room), and beyond them, a figure in a black hoodie, head down and shoulders in.
“Backs against the wall lads, don’t want Mike on your arse!” guffawed Grant, the ringleader.
Gabriel could hear the group’s tide of laughter swelling, and saw Michael shrinking down inch by inch. He paused, his foot half-raised from the chewing gum-mottled concrete. Then he walked forward, head high and shoulders back, towards the mob.
Grant Everson was wearing a pink-printed designer shirt, trendy-scuffed jeans, and a new white pair of trainers that glowed red, green, blue under Mist’s neon lights. He was a tall, good looking boy with short hair, spiked stylishly, his smile charming. He was intelligent, good at English and the sciences, polite to teachers (to their face), good at sports. At one time - although he couldn’t remember it - Michael had quite fancied him, as most of the girls did. That crush had evaporated quite rapidly, however, once Michael had got to know Grant’s personality.
The first sign that Grant might not be a ‘nice’ person had come to Michael’s attention when he was twelve. A rumour had circulated around the students (as petty rumours often do in school) that Luciana Martinelli, a delicate girl with slightly buck teeth who sat at the front of class, ‘liked’ Grant Everson. The rumour had naturally gone full circle back to Grant, who showed his reaction by slapping Luciana on the buttocks before class, and telling everyone how he wouldn’t ‘have that’ in a million years. Luciana sat with her head down and didn’t look up until she was fifteen.
Then there was Kevin Wong, whose surname gave Grant a great deal of amusement. A speciality of Grant’s was speaking in a nasal Chinese stereotypical accent (despite the fact Kevin sounded more like a cockney) and stretching his eyes sideways into a grotesque mock-oriental shape. Kevin Wong changed schools.
Then came the GCSE years, and Grant was about to discover his greatest source of entertainment when he was placed in many of the same classes as Michael Clements. It was around this age that the word ‘gay’ went from being a general insult to Grant, to something more specific and sinister, and there was no better target for it than Michael. Michael didn’t have many friends, he never talked about girls, he was quiet, he was good at art, he wasn’t threatening: these facts formed conclusive proof that he was a shirt lifter, and ever since Grant had found amusement in Michael in the same way a small child finds amusement in poking dead jellyfishes at the beach. And best of all, Michael never said anything, he just lay back and took it like the bum boy he was. Even now, the last year of sixth form, there was still a nonchalant joy in insulting Michael whenever their paths crossed. It gave Grant a pleasant feeling, a pep for the day.
“Alright, shit poker?” Grant grinned, the pleasant feeling rising.
“Go away,” Michael mumbled feebly.
“Ooooooooh,” minced the stocky boy behind Grant, David Britton. “Somebody’s got his knickers in a twist!”
It was well known the David adored Grant (in a completely heterosexual way, of course), and anything Grant found funny, David was soon joining in with the jokes. He was in Michael’s biology class, his defining moment having been linking ‘homo erectus’ to ‘Mike in the changing rooms’, which made even the teacher smile.
With them was the rat-faced Tom Sweeny, whose freckles made him look as though he had been flicked across the face with a spatter of orange paint. He was a poor art student, but what he lacked in talent, he made up for in brown nosing. Tom never had the guts to insult Michael when he was alone, and Michael was grateful for the reprieve. Art was the only subject where he could concentrate on his work. Of course, he could always rely on Tom to recount anything he did or said in class, so he kept his head down all the same.
Standing behind the boys were two girls. Hannah Hughes was a pretty, round faced girl who was currently going out with Grant. As is so often the case with the girlfriends of not-very-nice people, she was quite pleasant, with a peaceful, mother-earth quality. Her hair hung in long waves, and she smiled at Michael if she crossed paths in the hallway (Michael didn‘t smile back). Whenever the boys ganged up on him, she stood arms folded with a look of distaste. But she never said anything. With her was her friend, Eliza Bennet, a black girl with very straight hair, underdressed and shivering, eyes looking around for someone to blame for the cold. Both girls looked unimpressed: Hannah out of mild sympathy, Eliza out of boredom.
“What are you doing out tonight?” Grant sneered. “Waiting for your boyfriend?”
It was during the ensuing laughter that Michael spotted the dyed-blond hair approaching, and felt his stomach drop.
“Mike, there you are!” Gabriel grinned, flashing a delicious smile. “I lost you for a minute!”
And before David could grunt that Mike’s boyfriend was here, Gabriel kissed Michael.
In Gabriel’s mind, much like the interior of a small warehouse, were shelves of filed kisses. Kisses for every occasion: seductive kisses, sympathy kisses, apologetic kisses, I-can’t-really-be-bothered-with-this kisses (there was an equivalent filing system for sex). This particular kiss was a speciality of Gabriel’s: Porno Kiss No. 3.
The whole purpose of the Porno Kiss was that it was designed for the enjoyment (or otherwise) of those watching. Gabriel reached up and held Michael’s face, in what looked to the casual observer as a show of tenderness, but which actually acted as a vice to keep Michael from pulling away. He leaned up kissed once, briefly, just lips, eyes open, then closed his eyes to deliver the climax of the show, his tongue sliding over Michael’s and lingering on his lips just long enough for anyone watching to see. Then he reached round to slide his hand into Michael’s back pocket, and leaned his head lazily on Michael’s shoulder.
It was a stunning performance, perfectly pitched at the two month stage where lust and intimacy overlap. Of course, he couldn’t choose his acting partner - Michael stood stock still throughout, still in ‘deer caught in headlights’ mode. The only problem with the Porno Kiss is, like it’s blonde, surgically enhanced, fake lesbian inventors, the performers are under the spotlight, and it’s very hard to enjoy a performed kiss.
“You must be Michael’s friends from college,” he smiled, and offered his hand to Grant.
Grant didn’t take it. Instead he stood open-mouthed, apparently trying to form some sort of verbal reaction, but finding himself momentarily incapacitated, a look of disgust pressing down on his forehead and flaring his nostrils. David and Tom, equally reviled, were lost without Grant’s example to follow. Behind them, both girls watched wide eyed and open mouthed at the happy couple, Hannah’s mouth curling up slightly at the sides.
Awkward pause.
Gabriel was unfazed. “Well, nice to meet you all,” he chirped, and guided Michael in the other direction, towards the park, giving his bum a little squeeze on the way.
As soon as they were out of earshot, Gabriel whispered up into Michael’s ear. “Sorry for calling you an emo rich boy.”
Michael, forcing himself to produce a coherent sentence, muttered, “I’m sorry for saying you’re up your own arse.”
Gabriel smiled to himself and leaned his head back on Michael's shoulder.
