The Sexual Compass Page 5

When everybody's tryin' to please me.”

  My brother, Steven, has a kid, and he carries out his paternal access visits at my place. Attempting to stage the whole thing at his own flat would be laughable. For one thing, Steven is constantly surrounded by fellow druggies. For another, Steven's skills with a vacuum cleaner leave something to be desired.

  I once asked him: “Do you own a vacuum cleaner?” He didn't seem sure.

  I have to hand it to Susan and Steven, they cooperate to ensure that the visits run smoothly. Steven is always on time, always presentable. I don't know why that surprises me. Some people with a lifestyle like his can't cope with the implicit responsibilities of normal life, but that isn't the case with Steven. Things are easy for him, when he wants to do them.

  Steven was like a wild animal that I had convinced to take food from my hand. We're not that close, but we did have a relationship that worked. Ironically, I bet there are families that are much closer and less functional than ours.

  That morning, he knocked on the door, a few minutes early, as usual.

  “Hey, bro!” he said before heading off for a slash.

  While he was doing that, I put the kettle on and made the first mugs of tea. When Susan arrives with Tom, Steven likes to be in the lounge, PlayStation on the go. He looked up as the kid runs into the room.

  Upon seeing him, Tom ran over and shouted, “Dad!”

  “Watch out, you're gonna make me crash,” said Steven before pausing the game and planting a kiss on the little chap. “Now, you just sit here…” before lifting the lad up onto the arm of the chair “…and we'll show your uncle John how to do it. He's a bit of a crafty one; he has more time to play it than me because I'm always out making ends meet.”

  Steven, what a fuck-up you are in life, and what an acceptable dad you are, given the circumstances. Ten times what you yourself had.

  What does little Tom think the set up is? Children as young as him aren't as binary as adults. He accepts that this is my house, and it is his dad's house, and yet his dad lives somewhere else.

  “Where do you work, Dad?” he asked once. I bet that if you added it up, he'd sometimes ask fifty questions of his idol in a typical visit.

  “All over the place, son. Every hour that God sends.” From the beginning, the father was instilling a work ethic in his son, thanks to the magical power of pure bullshit.

  “Tom! If you're holding my arm, I can't play the game!” Steven pretended to bellow at the kid to be rewarded with a giggle. Another hour of this and then off to McDonald's for the three of us.

  Susan made herself at home in the kitchen for a quick chat with me. I am fine. Work is fine. I asked her about her Uni work and it's always fascinating. I prided myself that I always had something to say in return as I read a lot of books, but I was jealous of her studies.

  At one point she said, “Oh, you need to be doing this”. And I supposed that she was right. Was Susan, my secret crush? Not really. My mind wouldn't go there because it shouldn't. My ideal, I suppose. Beautiful, clever and kind. God, she's clever, and that can be intimidating because she's so young. But daft. Why does she go after someone like Steven? That's something I knew about her: Susan's type was the opposite of me.

  Abruptly she said, “Right, I'm off, then. And you know what that means.”

  Apparently, early in our acquaintance, I had blushed when she kissed me on the cheek. Subsequently, we had to go through a teasing ritual.

  “Now, I don't want you getting aroused!” she mocked. Smirking away, she gave me a bear hug, and finished with a “There you go. That was nice, wasn't it?” in a baby voice.

  Like every humiliation I suffered, I had to take this one with a laugh and smile. How deliberately cruel she was being I couldn't say. Thinking about it, along with the boob lady, these experiences were the closest I had ever come to having sex with a woman.

  Susan could have sex any time she liked, as much as she liked. She was one of the sexually rich. In all fairness, she had earned her position of high sexual status. Oh, wait, no she hadn't.

  Why shouldn't she make fun of one of the sexually impoverished if it pleased her Ladyship? At the very least, it was not a joke between equals. It was a cruel and condescending ritual that I'd probably never be able to shake off. In addition, it had its compensations. Maybe I was getting something out of it that I wasn't supposed to; if so, good.

  On this occasion, Susan had to take a trip out of town to attend a lecture that coincided with her parents going on holiday. After some discussion, we decided that Steven and I could look after the kid for one night.

  After much PlayStation (tried not to thrash Steven too much in front of the kid), we took Tom up to bed. Steven had never been upstairs in my house before.

  “Ah, this is pretty good, isn't it, mate? Look, you've got a tree outside the window,” Steven began to tell his ever attentive son. “You're a bit too young at the moment, but in a few years time you'll go out for a pint with your old man, and we'll all stay here after the pub. But you, you'll be able to sneak back early with a chick, and then you can take her up that tree and through the window.” He then adopted a conspiratorial tone. “Keep it nice and quiet. That way, me and your uncle John won't get a bollocking from yer mam.” At that, he winked and Tom giggled, obviously not understanding much of what was said.

  Tom had fallen asleep before his dad had finished making his daft but entertaining remarks about the room, and it occurred to me that it was Steven and I who were headed for a difficult night. I saw a fair bit of Steven, but only before, during or after a visit with Tom. Now we were tasked with spending an evening together, and basically, enjoying each other's company.

  Steven tapped his fingers as we sat through a film, some of James Cameron's finest sci-fi, a film that we would have loved when we were kids. Now it was the wrong choice because he'd grown out of it. He was the childish adult and I was boring grown-up who was into childish things. He looked around and sighed, knowing better than to ask if he could have a cigarette. Steven and I got on as well as we did because we had become experts at avoiding awkwardness.

  The love scene came up on screen.

  “Knockers, mate. Lovely!” said Steven with a wink.

  Why did I disapprove of that? I had certainly been admiring Linda Hamilton's topless scene just as much as him, probably more. I suppose I felt that it was all right to think it, but breaking the rules to say it. What a pathetic wimp I was.

  Steven surprised me with a personal question, the one I dreaded. He pointed at the screen and asked,“Do you ever shag anyone?”

  “Not really,” I said without elaborating. And without saying, about as often as I fight a robot from the future to protect humankind.

  “Get yerself a prozzy, mate, and get in there. I can tell you a good one.”

  “Right…” I said, trying to leave it at that.

  So, Steven (and presumably everyone who knew me) knew that I lived a sex-free life. He also knew, somehow, that I was interested in sex. My old plan, that I had never dared to carry out, was an everyday occurrence to him. I presumed that was what he meant: that he was a frequenter of prostitutes. That was a bit surprising. As a complete arsehole to everyone, Pharaoh had constant stream of willing young women in his thrall. Yet, it seemed that he was paying for it as well. What would be enough for that guy? Then again, if it's enjoyable, why not do it, Steven? There will be practically no consequences, as it's you.

  What did “get in there” mean in that context? A crude sexual point about penetration was part of what it meant. It also meant, to take part in an activity, one that I should have been involved in all along as a human man. It also meant “get with the program”. I'd not had a very good experience with quick fixes lately, but on the other hand, maybe one artificial success would help me to drag myself away from a sexless existence?

  The conversation stopped dead at that point, and I began to feel guilty. I had implied disapproval of something that I would take part in if I had the
guts. There was, however, a shade of ethical difference, as I hadn't planned to betray a current partner, as I bet Steven was always doing. Also, I only wanted to do it because I was absolutely desperate.

  I was just about to attempt a light-hearted comment, when Steven could take no more. Watching The Terminator on a Sunday night with me was beyond what he could stand. He was as desperate to be out on the street as a tomcat in the middle of summer, so he stood up.

  “Look, is it going to throw you out if I pop out for an hour or so?” He had reached for his jacket before I could reply.

  I had a constitutional advantage over Steven. I was, basically, content to spend an evening in my living room, reading books and watching science fiction films, and he wasn't. It wasn't his fault that he couldn't handle a situation like that. But look at the end result. He had escaped the nine-to-five drudgery of the rat race, and he had an unlimited number of sexual partners. Who was the winner? Maybe it was a problem with society itself. He did everything wrong and got rewarded at every turn; I did everything right and spent my evenings with James Cameron.

  “Not at all,” I said. I didn't add, Look Steven, I'm not above going with a prostitute, and I'm sorry if I acted like I disapproved of your suggestion. In fact, I'd like any advice you could offer on the matter, as you seem to be an expert.

  Off Steven went.

  “I'll leave the door unlocked. Just give it a bit of a shove,” I said, knowing that I wouldn't see him before it was time for me to get up. Truth be known, I felt relieved that he was going. I did wonder where the hell he would go in an unfamiliar part of town at 10pm on a Sunday night. Not that I was worried; he'd find some fellow ne'er-do-wells to take drugs with and shag.

  Chapter 11 - The experiment

  A few nights later, I threw a bit of jelly (jello, for Americans) in with the weekly shop. The till operator didn't suspect a thing.

  You're not planning on doing something you shouldn't with this? she didn't ask when she picked it up.

  Erm, no! I just fancied a bit of jelly. You know, for a change, I didn't have to reply.

  On instinct, as a highly trained futuristic secret agent, I didn't lean over the side of the till to notice her holding down a little red button. Subsequently, half a dozen security guards didn't come piling out of a side-door brandishing shotguns.

  You sold me out! I didn't shout at the woman.

  My sudden inexplicable laughter did catch her attention though.

  Careful, John. Suddenly laughing in Tesco is breaking The Rules, old man.

  Telling myself to stop laughing worked, for once, and I left her to wonder what I had found so amusing about the grocery shop.

  ***

  I had done enough chemistry to understand what I was doing; a bit of searching around on a dodgy druggie forum on the Internet filled in the missing details. I had enough insulin to concentrate it and a put it in with some jelly, and the end result was an ice cube tray full of green jelly that I left to cool. I'd put a paper towel over it and hide it in the back of fridge later.

  “Don't touch the jelly, it's gone off, I'm afraid,” I practised saying to myself, as there was a slight chance that one of the lads from work might come by. On the other hand, saying: Help yourself to the jelly, there's plenty more where that came from! would have been expedient but unethical.

  No Steven and the kid this Saturday, so I'd test it over the weekend, starting on Friday night. According to an account on the forum, within half an hour, I would feel a shift in my perception of other people, on a sexual level. The effect would apparently last well into the next day. I was surprised that I managed to sleep at all that night.

  ***

  Friday morning–off to work. My first job took me to one of my regular ports of call, a large high street pharmacist.

  “Hi, ladies!” I said with a grin and a wobble of eyebrows. Giggles of acknowledgement. I'm “nice” and they “like” me. I spent most of my working life interacting with women as these back-room positions in chemists tend to be a somewhat female domain. As usual, a bit of test gear wasn't reading right.

  “How long before it's fixed, John?” one of the women asked me, hopefully.

  I got some more giggles with: “To be honest with you: it's a quick fix. The problem is, it takes me bit longer to make sure it'll break again so that I can come back and see you all.” Yes, it was a prepared line, but I had only used it twice that year.

  Sorry if I looked too serious while I was working on it. I was pretending that I was a secret agent dismantling a nuclear bomb.

  Typical work day over–back to the house. I had worked out two tests that I could carry out tonight. First, I planned to compare my relative reactions to gay and straight porn. Then, a quick shower and into the town for more experimentation. I'm a Saturday night man, and going out on a Friday night reduced my chances of seeing anyone I knew. Not that it would matter. It's not as though I would be tripping my head off on psychedelic drugs or anything. It wouldn't matter if I saw someone I knew while I was secretly gay. Besides, I'd go somewhere I didn't normally go, somewhere with a younger and gayer-looking crowd.

  A bit of jelly, and then, I forced myself to wait half an hour. No obvious effects so far. I examined the back of my hand. Certainly, something had changed in my perception of things. “Heightened” is the word I would use. But was I gay?

  First the porn. I set myself up in the usual position in my bedroom and drew the curtains. As usual, I imagined an old dear gesturing towards my house and saying, “He's wanking again!”

  I typed in one of the usual phrases. I'd managed to hold off on this stuff for a couple of evenings, in the interest of science.

  My reaction to straight porn seemed unaffected; although, let's be honest, it's never going to induce the heart-pounding reaction that those early, grainy clips did in the 90s. This time, it was as mildly arousing, as usual.

  Right, swap to gay porn. Some men would screw their faces up at the slightest suggestion of seeing homosexual sex, but it's never bothered me. It always amazed me that I was completely secure in my heterosexuality, as I know that it's an area in which most men are a bit wobbly. Y'know–men who do it with loads of women. Admittedly, at that moment, the idea of kissing a man was “icky”. However, if this stuff worked, I presumed I would find the idea alluring and even arousing.

  But, what now? I wondered what to type in, as I'd never gone looking for gay porn before. In the end, the phrase “gay porn” showed a variation on the sites that I was used to. It was time to check out the scene.

  I've never been that partial to a body-builder physique in men, and that was dominant in the commercial fare, it seemed. On the other hand, I didn't think I'd want to look at a splodge like myself. Typing in “amateur gay porn” produced some better results. I spotted a few of the aforementioned splodge type bodies in the thumbnails, and then, a nice looking young British couple going at it. Ordinary looking, but “fit”, in both senses of the word.

  All in all, it was the type of scene that I usually go for: natural bodies and an obviously amateur shoot. Realism is what I like. The two guys both looked mischievous. For porn to work, it has to break some rules, and what was going on in this scene was that the two guys were obviously a real couple. That was the line that was being crossed: seeing a couple in a private moment.

  They sucked, they wanked, they fucked a bit. Still, it didn't really do it for me. They had the camera balanced on a surface just beyond the bed. At one point, most of what I could see was the foot of one of the men. Not particularly appealing. That was odd. I'm not a foot fetishist, but I've often liked seeing a woman's bare foot in a scene like this. How would I feel if that man's foot were thrust into my hand? Ugh.

  I tried to masturbate a little, and I've no doubt that I could have let nature take its course, but equally, I could have got myself off looking at a blank wall, if I had to.

  It hadn't worked. And yet, things did feel different. There was a possible explanation. Sexuality must be
formed over the course of a lifetime, and I hadn't reacted to this stimulus because I had no precedents. For example, let's say I had a crush on a girl when I was ten. Perhaps that, along with millions of other relatively insignificant events, shaped what I was into, sexually.

  Something was definitely different, though, I was sure of that.

  Time for part two of the experiment.

  Getting dressed presented a question: what should I wear? I have absolutely no sense of style and a short-sleeved button-up shirt along with my brown leather jacket is my usual choice. Should I dress gay? As part of the clear-out from a late relative that I had never met, I had inherited a few items that were outside my usual drab style. If my body has an attractive attribute, and I'm not arguing that it does, I have fairly thick arms. I selected a red t-shirt with gold fleck.

  Thanks, uncle whoever-you-were.

  As luck would have it, I also had some white jeans that I had bought on a whim and regretted. Then, the Brylcreem! Where the hell had that come from? From when I lived at home, obviously, but why had I brought it with me?

  It must be at least fifteen years old by now.

  I went into the bathroom to give it a little sniff. It seemed all right. I tried not to use too much and gave myself a side-parting for a change.

  Whether talking about web design or painting and decorating, the trick is to keep things as simple as possible when dabbling in an unfamiliar field. Until then, that had been my policy with dress. Checking myself out in the mirror, I looked like someone making a bit of a statement rather than someone who wanted to disappear. I looked like I might be gay without looking daft.

  Feeling a bit precocious, I added a condom to the condom pouch of my wallet. It was the first time it had contained one. I knew that the condom was still good, as I had refreshed the packet earlier in the year, surreptitiously, while I was out of town. I'd bought a quite a few over the years, each time a somewhat sad duty. Occasionally, I had got one out for a look and a play around with, but mostly, they went out of date. I wrapped them up when throwing them out, so that they wouldn't be seen by the bin men.

  A couple of years earlier, that twat Steven had needed some of my condoms.