100% Pure fiction. Thanks for reading.
For Federico.
Sholto's Surprise. Chapter 2.
I was ill and out of it for the first few days. My medication was slowly reduced. I was being weaned. At the ripe old age of 27. And my body protested. It ached and groaned and shat and puked. It was in revolt. But however ill you were feeling you had to take part. Join the community'. Even if you had to be supported around the building. As I was. I did not remember the faces of those that helped me and I did not thank them. I could not form thoughts, let alone words. And if I could there would have been little gratitude. More likely a fuck you'. Every minute of every day was accounted for. No books (apart from AA/NA literature), no music, no t.v, no films, nothing to divert us was allowed. Up at 7.00, breakfast (all meals had to be attended); group therapy until lunch, then exercise which meant walking around the grounds in groups of 3 or more. Then more therapy; then some kind of activity ^Ö painting; lectures, presentations. All about the evils of addiction and how to live in the REAL WORLD. Supper. Homework. An hour off where everybody smoked themselves silly. Bed. Day in, day out. Day in, day out. The rules; well there were two cardinal ones ^Ö no mood altering substances of any kind to be taken and no sexual contact. Break those and you were out. Immediately. The rest you could play a bit more by ear and depending who was on duty. If you dared slip out for an evening stroll, stuff like that. Petty things but that took on immense importance in the claustrophobia of that doomy house and all us desperate people. All clean. All raw. All hurt. All full of rage and shame and regret. Once the bravado and bullshit had been cleared out. All babies, whatever the age.
It took me a while to get into a rhythm. To understand how the place worked. But slowly it happened. With each day the edges got a little sharper, I ached a little less, I began to remember names, I stopped getting lost in the building. I still would not talk. Unless spoken to and then I was monosyllabic. I drifted in and out of the therapy sessions. When I did listen I was shocked by how open people were. I thought they should shut up. But even though I rarely used my voice, I did begin to use my eyes. I watched. At first I pretended it was because I was so bored and had to do something. Darling. Viewing how the other half lived. But that was just veneer. I watched because I became fascinated and then I became jealous. Two very unfamiliar emotions. How everybody tried to get on, how they listened, how they did not plot to get drugs in or how to get themselves out, how they made their own entertainment, how they supported each other, how they really wanted to learn, and how much they wanted to change their lives. Not everybody of course. There were troublemakers and some who had so thoroughly fried their brains there was no way back. But the core bunch, they were getting on with it. They were going for it.
And from that bunch individuals began to emerge. There was Stuart, my mentor'; Mary, the mother hen of the group who had been a shit mother to her own kids; then a group of girls, they had been prostitutes to fund their habits, 5 of them, all sweet, all sad. Although they seemed no more than children themselves, they all had kids. All in care. All five from different places but same story. Also Siobhan a copper on sick leave. Sick leave brought on by the bottle of vodka she drank before she went to work everyday. She made everybody else nervous. Most had form, all had broken the law. But soon she stopped being referred to as oink, oink'. Different job, same story. And there were others. But I won't go on. This story is not about them. It's about Paul. Paul and me.
And so to him. He was part of a group dubbed the lads'. 6 of them, all from East London, all in their twenties, all wide boys and had spent their lives ducking and diving. None had ever had a proper job. Bright eyed and funny. Laugh out loud funny. Cheeky and sharp. Clever. Not that any of them had been given a chance to use their brains. Most of their parents had been junkies and all had been using for as long as they could remember. Togs was the leader. His real name was Tarquin. Which he hated. His father had been at the races the day he was born and won on a horse called Blue Tarquin'. Hence the totally inappropriate name `Another reason to hate the cunt' as Togs so eloquently put it. He was tall and broad with close cropped hair. His face was worn but still handsome. Tough looking. There was also Colin, Mark, Dez and Mac. And then there was Paul.
At first he did not stand out for me. But Paul was in my group therapy, the only one of the lads who was. It was his kindness that I noticed (never a characteristic that I had much time for). He took the piss and called anyone up who was spending too much time on their `pity pot' (his phrase; it still makes me smile) but he was also very kind. He could not help himself. Despite everything. He had a horrible upbringing and had been a heroin addict since he was 13; he began smoking pot when he was 8 having learnt to roll joints for his mother. He had been in prison twice and hospital more times than he could remember from overdosing. He had never been anything else except a junkie. He had a daughter he never saw. He still lived at home in his mother's tiny council flat. He was a dealer and everybody he knew was a dealer or a user. Usually both. But he was brimming with intelligence; unformed, untutored but razor sharp (.He could have ruled the world if he had been given my chances. The chances I had pissed away). And he wanted this. He knew that this was his last chance to change his life; before he got too old or died. He was scared but he wanted it. He kept to every rule, he did all his homework and he was totally honest in group. No machismo, no bravado, just straight forward, telling it how it was and how he did not want it to be anymore. And I started to admire him. As well as like him. Not that I thought about him much, but when I did it was with respect.
After 5 days I was `officially' clean. I had finished my medication and my junkie drugs were out of my system. So I was told. And I was becoming more alert and more with it. And I began to concentrate. Especially in group. That morning Paul was talking. He was remembering his needle fixation. That even if he could not get hold of smack he would inject himself anyway. With whatever he could find; ground up aspirin, whiskey, sleeping pills. He was as addicted to shooting up as he was to the drugs he used the needle for. And then he began to describe in detail shooting up in his cock. I won't repeat what he said. Trust me, every man in the room was squirming. But then I began to squirm for a different reason. I began to squirm because I was turned on. Not by the needles or the pain. None of that; I had used needles but never liked them. They were just a necessary evil. No I began to squirm because I had a sudden picture of Paul, his hand and his cock. And I felt myself begin to go hard for the first time in months. It was strange and disconcerting. I was odd about sex at the best of times. And I was taken aback to be aroused in such an unlikely place by such an unlikely person. Because Paul was just not my type.
He was shorter than me and redhaired. Both no-nos. His body was compact and wiry; I liked long and lean. But here I was, turned on. Turned on by him. I looked at him again, at his face. It was fine featured with amazing eyes. They were bright green with long lashes. Girl lashes. And I liked his mouth, red and rich, malleable and expressive with small teeth and a tongue that flicked out when he was thinking. He was covered in freckles, but only faintly, so you had to look to find them. As if they were your own discovery. And he had an ease about him. Like he knew himself and he knew his body. He was all of apiece and that's always sexy. But where he transformed and suddenly, out of the blue, took my breath away, was when he smiled. And that morning he smiled at me. Directly. For the first time. He saw me staring and flashed this dazzling, open, bewitching smile. I felt breathless and elated. And I smiled back. The first genuine, spontaneous thing I had done in months.
I suddenly realised the group leader was talking to me
`Sholto, do you relate to what Paul just said? About drugs and sex, becoming linked. What was your experience of drugs and sex.'
I hated being put on the spot. Especially when it interrupted my musings on Paul's smile. What I now think of as my first moment of innocent pleasure. And when I started to get better.
I did not want to talk. I had nothing to say. But suddenly it felt rude and childish not to after Paul's frankness. I began to mumble. `Well, umm, umm you know (this from a previously articulate person) umm by the end, you know the end of my using I didn't have sex. It didn't feature. Umm, well, I lost my sex drive, just wasn't interested (nods from around the room). Just sort of forgot about it. Ummm, Uh. Didn't feel horny. And also, nobody was wanting it with me anyway' (a few laughs this time)'
I had been staring at my feet as I talked. I looked up. Paul was staring at me intently. I realised he was trying to encourage me. I made a decision. I stopped being coy and childish and began to talk. Properly, like a grown up. I carried on, my voice was hesitant but clearer.
The first time I had sex, I took drugs. I had sex and then heroin. Both from the same person. This person, this person. Well it was a man. All men, always men. I like to have sex with men. Only men. And this man he went down on me and then injected me. I wanted both. I was 14, out from boarding school for the day. He must have been in his late twenties. He picked me up next to Russell Square. I had gone to Russell Square to have sex. To have sex for the first time. I wanted it to be anonymous and I wanted it to be rough' I was talking fast now. Fast and fluid. And that is how I continued to have sex for years. Finding men, big men, tough men. I thought I was a fucking gift to them. I thought that when they saw me all their Christmases had come at once. Lucky, lucky them.' The room was totally silent. I could not stop talking. And I suddenly understood something. For the first time in my short, wasted, vain life. But that first man. He saw me coming. I thought I was doing him the favour. Gracing his life. But it was the other round. There were no spoils, I was the spoils. I was a sitting duck. I was the fool, not him' I did not know if I was making sense any more but I did not care. I had always been rather proud of myself that I had never had sex for money. Never sold myself but at that moment I knew I had sold myself, again and again and again. I kept this thought silent but then carried on I always played around with sex. I have never had it sober. I have always been high. And I remember being surprised that when my libido went I was relieved. Which was odd for me, `cause I had always put sex so near the surface of everything. But I was relieved because sex for me had always been about power. Never about connection. The opposite. The fucking opposite. And love. Never been in love. No way. Where I come from love is a bad thing, a dirty word. My family, our friends we were all too rich, too special, too worldly to fall in love You had arrangements, you had partnerships, you had dalliances, even obsessions (because they were about drama and what YOU wanted) but not love. Oh No. And if you felt it, if you felt the tendrils of caring curling round you you stamped on it. Hard. And punished the person, the person who might have made you feel something. Love was too vulnerable, too needy, too human by half.' Suddenly the flood of words stopped. And I began to cry, me, who never cried. Weeping in a room full of strangers. Now I really was the poor little rich boy.
Mary got up and gave me a hug. The rest of the group, instead of avoiding my eyes were looking at me with pity but also with love. And care. It made me cross and embarrassed. Defensive. I wanted to find a rewind button, Take it all back. But I could not, it was out there.
Alright, mate' It was Paul. Smiling. Next to me. I began to feel better. You've done it mate, you've started. Got to get all the shit out. Or why fucking bother' He put his arms around me, hugging me tight and close. I hugged back, exhausted and lost. He lead me down to lunch.
And that is how and that is when I fell in love. For the first time in my life. But he didn't fall in love with me. Not then anyway.