Behind Bars:
Part One
by Kevin Crowe
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: Take a walk on the wild side of Birmingham in 1974. Meet closet gay barman Brendan and prostitute Kathleen, both of Irish extraction.
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: Take a walk on the wild side of Birmingham in 1974. Meet closet gay barman Brendan and prostitute Kathleen, both of Irish extraction.
Chapter One: Brendan
1
On my first night there was a fight. The first we knew was when we heard the racket. We dashed to the toilet and saw two men squaring up to each other, one black and one white, both waving knives. The landlord told us to get back to work – one of his few instructions I was happy to obey.
When he returned, he said: “They're both banned for life.”
He saw me shaking. “What's up?” he asked. “This is a tough pub, you know. If you can't stand the heat, get another job.” Still, he poured me a brandy to calm me down – the first and last drink he ever gave me. He smiled and said: “Don't worry. They've never touched a member of staff.”
My voice unsteady, I asked if there were lots of fights.
He shook his head. “The fucking paddies and wogs hate each other, but generally they keep their fighting to elsewhere. They know this is one of the few places many of them can get served.” He left the bar for the comfort of his first floor flat.
The pub was in a red light area of Birmingham, with a brewery and a prison nearby. Surrounded by small shops, terraced housing, a few small engineering firms and a potent aromatic mix of shit, curry, fried fish, metal shavings and used condoms, the “Star” was an unimposing two storey red brick building, with the entrances painted in the blood red colour scheme at that time favoured by the brewery owners.
Both the public bar and lounge contained the same dark wooden tables pockmarked with cigarette burns, scratched symbols and alcohol stains; inadequate glass ashtrays with ingrained stains covering the beer logos; crimson seats with the stuffing escaping from tears and knife slashes. Both rooms had a jukebox and slot machine. The bar had a lino floor and the lounge a crimson carpet, both worn with cigarette burns and ingrained dirt.
The two jukeboxes catered for different tastes. The one in the bar was full of country music, sentimental ballads and Irish rebel songs. In the lounge the musical choices were reggae, soul and rhythm and blues. The only white people who used the lounge were prostitutes, their customers and those looking to score drugs. Any black people who wandered into the bar were made to feel unwelcome.
2
It was 1974. Conservative Prime Minister Edward Heath had earlier in the year called a general election after a miners' strike had led to power cuts and a three day working week. Heath lost. I too lost – my job as a labourer in a small engineering factory. I couldn’t really complain: I thought it would be more fun to get away for a while and on my return forged a sick note. Instant dismissal. Mind you, those two weeks away were certainly fun, particularly hitchhiking and getting picked up by an older man who had a fancy for youths like me, though at 21 I may have been a few years too old for him. Still, I was a virgin, and he drooled at the prospect of deflowering me.
After my adventures, I was looking for work. I saw the barman’s job advertised, applied and was the only candidate. I soon found out why.
Norman was tall, lean, middle aged and almost bald apart from his grey sideburns. He had a deep booming voice with the sort of Brummie accent comedians sometimes mock. He called himself Head Barman, which may be why the boss was always shouting at him, tearing a strip off him in front of the other staff and customers.
These days he would probably be diagnosed as bi-polar: one moment he would be as high as a kite, laughing and thinking everyone his best friend; the next no-one could do a thing right, and even an apology was taken the wrong way. Or perhaps it was just the crap job in a crap pub with crap customers working for a crap boss.
Regardless of his mood, he always dressed the same: immaculately polished black shoes, perfectly pressed dark trousers, crisply ironed white shirt and a bow tie. The only thing that changed from day to day was the colour of the bow tie.
It was one of Norman’s good days. I asked him why the boss let the prostitutes use the pub.
“God, you are green, aren’t you?” He laughed. “Why do you think?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Think about it son. Nobody gets anything for nothing, now do they?” He winked at me. I hoped the wink wasn’t a come-on: I’d have had to be desperate to go for him. And then the penny dropped.
“Oh, you mean backhanders?”
“Not quite,” he said, “And keep your voice down, we don’t want anyone hearing.” He looked up. “Someone wants serving.”
After I had pulled a couple of pints, I asked him: “So if it’s not backhanders, then what is it?”
“Payment in kind,” he whispered, tapping his nose, “payment in kind. Get my meaning?”
“Oh, you mean…”
He winked again. “You’ve got it.” He was silent for a few moments, and then continued: “In fact, you can get it.”
I must have looked puzzled. “You really are naïve, aren’t you? It’s a perk of the job. Anyone who works here – well, the men at least – can get a free fuck for keeping their mouths shut. If you like, I could arrange it for you.”
I shuddered, and must have looked a bit shocked. He stared at me. “Don’t fancy it? Why not? You’re in full working order I take it.” After a moment’s silence, he whispered: “Unless of course you’re queer. You’re not a pansy boy, are you?”
“Nnno” I stammered, “Nnno, of course not. It’s just, well, they’re probably not clean.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. They take precautions and have regular check ups at the clap clinic. They’re probably cleaner than some bitch you might pick up in a pub on a Saturday night.”
I still demurred. “Oh come on, now! You’d turn down a free fuck! You must be a fairy. Come Christmas we’ll put you on top of the tree, shall we?” He started cackling. “Wait till I tell ‘em all you’re queer. You know what they do to queers in Jamaica, don’t you? And the Paddies are no better: they’d probably knee cap you, after cutting it off.”
“No, it’s okay, I’m as normal as the next man. It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“Oh, okay. Why not? As you say, a free fuck…” I tried to smile.
He winked at me again. “When you finish tonight, she’ll be waiting for you outside. Enjoy yourself.”
Sure enough, she was there. Her blonde hair looked like it had come out of a bottle. High heels, mini skirt, breasts almost escaping from her skimpy top: she was certainly under dressed for a cool autumn night. No wonder her nose kept running, no matter how much she sniffed. It was difficult to tell her age – she could be anywhere between 18 and 28.
“So you’re the new boy,” she said. I wasn’t sure whether her husky voice was supposed to be sexy or whether she’d just smoked too many cigarettes. “Well, I’ll show you a good time and you’ll help me get punters. Okay?” I nodded. She smiled, displaying nicotine coloured teeth. “Okay, follow me but – no kissing, mind.” That was a relief: the thought of kissing her really wasn’t a turn on. In fact, nothing about her was a turn on. I shivered.
“Are you cold, love? Well, perhaps we’d better get inside, hadn’t we?”
I followed her along a side street and down a filthy dark alley. For a moment I thought I was about to get mugged. But then she took me through a gate, unlocked a back door and took me up a flight of stairs to her room – or at least the room she used for work.
While she removed what little she was wearing, I remained fully clothed.
“What’s up, love?” she asked, sitting next to me and allowing her hand to touch my groin, “A bit shy are we? Okay, there’s no rush. Just let me undress you.” She started to unbutton my shirt, but I couldn’t bear the thought of her touching my clothes, so I brushed her hand away and quickly undressed myself, until I stood before her, naked, shivering and limp. She looked down, and smiled.
“I see we’re a bit nervous. Never mind love, I know what to do about that.”
She manipulated me with her mouth and fingers. By concentrating I managed to get an erection. “That’s better,” she said, “Now down to business.” She put a condom on me and then lay on the bed. “This must be your first time, love. You won’t forget this, I can promise you. Now just lie on top of me, and I’ll do the rest.” As I clumsily tried to get on her, I realised I couldn’t go through with it. I stood up, removed the condom and started to get dressed.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I can’t do it. I just can’t.”
She sat up and sighed. “Okay, I know I’m no great beauty…”
“It’s not that,” I reassured her, “it’s just…”
“No need to say anything. Just promise me one thing. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“What!” I exclaimed.
“Please don’t tell anyone. If they thought I hadn’t been able to satisfy a young man like you, I’d be a laughing stock. I’d probably never get another punter, and I’d probably get a slap. So please, please don’t say anything about it.”
I laughed with relief. “I was going to ask you the same thing. I don’t want people to think I can’t get it up or that I’m queer, or anything, not that I am of course, but…”
She smiled at me, this time a genuine smile. “It’ll be our secret. And I like you. Actually,” and at this point she looked away, avoiding eye contact, “I do know someone – a man – who’s on the game. If you’d like to meet him, I’m sure as a favour to me he would – not that you’re queer or anything, but if you’d like to, I can fix it up.”
I gulped, and at the thought felt myself begin to stiffen. She noticed and laughed. “I see you would.”
3
“How d’you get on?”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
“Only okay? Come on!”
“Well, I’m looking forward to next time.”
Norman leered at me. “A bit of what you fancy, hey?” He winked and nudged me with his elbow.
“Yeah.” I began to move away. “I’d better do the bottling up before we get busy.”
Sometimes I thought I preferred Norman in his nasty moods. When he was on a high he could be unbearable. He wanted to know all about my “night of passion” with Michelle (as she called herself). What could I say? I made a few things up, and that served to satisfy him for a while. Then he’d come back with nasty questions like “How tight was her cunt?” I wanted to shout “How the fuck should I know? I couldn’t get it up.”
Instead, I kept as far away as was possible in a two bar pub. Any excuse to restock the shelves, empty the drip trays into the bucket that went back into the Mild barrel, wipe counters and check the spirits on the optics, collect glasses and empty ashtrays.
While I was clearing tables in the lounge, Michelle smiled and nodded for me to come over. I made my way there, emptying ashtrays into a filthy metal bin.
“It’s on,” She whispered. “Can you remember how to get to my place?”
I nodded.
“Good. He’ll be waiting there for you after you’ve finished your shift.”
She was about to move on when I said: “Michelle.” She turned to look at me. “Thanks”.
She grinned, touched my arm and said: “No problem. Just enjoy yourself.”
Next morning I went in for my lunchtime shift. Norman must have noticed the swagger in my step and the smile on my face. “My, you’re looking pleased with yourself today.”
I blushed. I hate it when that happens – it is something I seem to have no control over. He nudged me. “Aha! Michelle again?”
I just shrugged.
“Come on, tell me all about it. Hey, you shouldn’t keep her away from her work too often, you know. Her old man might not like it.”
“Her old man? She’s got a boy friend?”
“You’re not getting jealous, are you? She’s only a tart, and there’s plenty more like her. I wouldn’t actually call him a boy friend. He hangs around with her and he sends her out to work. Most of the girls have got men to keep – niggers mostly. What can you expect of the black bastards: taking white girls and turning them into tarts. Mind you, the white girls are no better. Anyone who goes with a black deserves anything they get. Once they’ve had a black cock, the cunts are ruined for decent men.”
“Why does she stay with him?”
A loud guffaw escaped his lips. “Christ, you are naïve aren’t you? These niggers, they take all the girls’ earnings, hardly give them enough to live on. And they beat them, sometimes. Some of the girls are junkies, as well. And a lot of the pimps are.”
“What about Michelle?”
Norman shrugged. “I don’t think she shoots up. But her old man certainly beats her. He’s a nasty piece of work. Best avoid him. And best not expect too many freebies from her, if you know what’s good for you. Plenty more fish, as they say.”
I wondered if the rent boys also had pimps.
Part of me had really enjoyed it, but part of me was disgusted. I’d always thought paying for sex was a sign of a loser, and anyway I still felt my desire for other men was something to be ashamed of. But there was no doubt: I was queer, and I would have to learn to live with it. In any case, I couldn’t help smiling when I thought of the sensations that had rippled through me. I wanted to do it again and again – just not with a rent boy.
Chapter Two: Kathleen
1
Perhaps my mother was right, and it was all my fault. It was my fault my father kept raping me. It was my fault he couldn't control himself. I must have been looking at him the wrong way, must have been wearing the wrong clothes, must have led him on.
When mum found out, she told me she'd seen me flirting with him. She slapped me and called me a dirty slut, told me I was evil and I was going to Hell for seducing my own father, said she should have called me Jezebel. I burst into tears, but the more I cried the louder she yelled at me, the harder she slapped me.
Later as I was lying on my bed, face smeared with tears and snot, dad came into my bedroom. He took hold of me and yanked me into a sitting position. “You really shouldn't have told her,” he said, “I told you not to tell her, didn't I?”
I tried to speak: “I didn't...” Before I could say anything else, he hit me. “Shut the fuck up!” He said. “Less of your lies. First you lead me on, then you try and blame me. You're a disgrace. You're a disgrace to your family, you're a disgrace to the church. You disgust me. You don't deserve all we've done for you.”
He pulled me to my feet. “Now, get yourself cleaned up. And not another word.” He dragged me to the bathroom, came in with me and locked the door.
As soon as he'd finished with me, he left me alone. Later when they had gone to bed, I packed a few clothes as quietly as I could and crept out. In the morning, cold and hungry, I stole a bread roll from a shop. I had hardly taken a bite when I was grabbed by the angry shopkeeper. He called the police. They took me to the local station. Then they took me home. Then I got another beating.
I kept running away. I kept getting taken back home. I kept getting beatings. I kept saying I was sorry, and that I would try to be a better girl.
The day came when my parents refused to take me back, so the social worker took me away. I told her how sorry I was. She smiled at me, but her eyes were sad. In my childish mind I took her sadness as further proof of just how bad a girl I was. I looked away so she wouldn't see my tears.
She must have noticed me crying anyway, because she put her arms round me. I flinched: the only time dad did that was just before raping me, and mum had never hugged me, at least not as far back as I can remember. She must have done so at one time, I suppose.
The social worker put me in a children's home. At least that meant I didn't have to go to Mass any more. I knew I was going to Hell. I knew this because the priest told me I wasn't telling the truth when I told him about dad. He said dad was a good Catholic and did a lot of work for the church.
2
There was another good thing about the children's home: I learnt to play the guitar. But even that came at a price. Every so often – in between the beatings and the abuse and the lock ups – a member of staff would entertain us by playing his guitar. One day I hung about after the rest had gone and asked him if I could hold the guitar. I started plucking the strings, but the sound I made was a noise, not the music he'd got out of the instrument.
“No, no,” he said, “that's not the way you play.” He took the guitar from me. “Here let me show you.” He played a tune that was in the charts at that time. “I'll teach you how to play, if you like.”
I nodded.
“Okay. But you'll have to pay me. Music lessons don't come cheap.”
I looked downcast. “But I've got no money.”
He looked thoughtful for a moment, then said: “Okay, I tell you what. You can pay me in kind.”
And so each lesson cost me a blow job. I can't remember how many it took before I mastered the instrument. I decided I wanted my own guitar and I paid for it in the same way I had for lessons. I was still a young girl, barely in my teens, and I spent evenings satisfying pervy dirty old men, until I had enough money to buy a second hand guitar.
I didn't stop. I had found a way to earn money by selling the only thing I had that seemed to interest others. There was a curfew at the home, but it was so easy to get round – there were enough pervs on the staff to keep me out of trouble.
Some of the other kids sometimes looked at me as if I had an infectious disease. In the main, they kept away from me, particularly after the incident. One of the other girls stole my guitar. I went mad. I stormed from room to room searching for it. I lashed out at anyone who tried to stop me, whether kids or staff. It took several of the staff to restrain me, but I didn't care: I'd got my guitar back.
No-one dared touch it after that, and they all kept clear of me. That suited me fine.
I saved quite a bit of money. As soon as I was able to, I opened a post office savings account. I bought myself some nice clothes – the sort of things that would make the pervs drool – showing my legs and cleavage. I learned how to smile at them, even as I despised them. Perhaps I was lucky I came to no harm, but I like to think it was more than luck. I was careful, and I learnt quickly: always have an escape route, get the money in advance, make it clear I was street wise. I could look after myself.
Then the day came when I left the home. Or rather ran away the day before my 16th birthday and never returned. I rented a tiny bedsit. It was damp and draughty, and in need of repair, but it was cheap, and it was mine – for as long as I paid the rent.
I was good at my job. I hated it, but it was all I knew, it was the only skill I had and it kept a roof over my head.
3
And I had my guitar. I played for relaxation. No-one at the home thought me much good and they used to laugh at my efforts to play the latest hits, but not to my face: they knew better than that. I played for myself, and didn't care what anyone thought.
When I was learning, the perv who taught me showed me the chords for one of the Beatles' songs: “Michelle”. He said he liked the name, and he'd sometimes call me it when I was blowing him. It stuck and became my working name.
Without the guitar, I reckon I would have gone mad or killed myself or ended up addicted to smack – though that last one is unlikely, given I hate needles. But you don't need a syringe to kill yourself with drugs. The longer I worked the streets, the more drug addled faces I saw: women whose bodies were ravaged by smack, sex and sadistic pimps. I promised myself I would never become one of them, but promises are easy to make and hard to keep. I did manage to avoid smack, probably because of my fear of needles, but I saw no harm in a few joints and a bit of speed.
It was rough. At first, other girls tried to stop me, told me I was taking money away from them. But, hey, I've got the temper as well as the looks of an Irish redhead (though I generally dyed my hair blonde: men seemed to prefer that) and I've got the attitude to back it up. It didn't take the other girls long to decide it was more trouble than it was worth to try and stop me.
It wasn't safe working the streets and it certainly wasn't safe taking punters back to my flat, but I didn't have much choice at first: it was either that or a quick fuck in an alley. Once I'd made it clear I wasn't going anywhere, some of the girls began to show me a bit of respect – particularly as I refused to let the dealers and pimps bully me. I tell you: standing up to some six foot fucker waving a knife at you takes some doing, but I did it. And I refused to show the fear that was wrenching my guts. I knew I either stood up to these people or I'd end up as hollow eyed as many of the other girls.
I still had my post office savings account and when I could I squirrelled bits of money into it. I wasn't above taking cash from the pockets of punters while they were otherwise distracted. I'm not proud of myself, but needs must, as they say, and I only stole from them occasionally, usually the ones who treated me badly. And lots of punters did treat us girls badly: we were all beaten up or raped or ripped off from time to time – often by the police who got free fucks not to arrest us.
That was why I decided I needed some protection. I got myself a boyfriend – a euphemism if ever there was one. I let him fuck me and pretended I liked him, and in return he made sure I was safe, or at least as safe as a working girl could be. Sure, he took his cut from my earnings, but keeping it all myself was useless if I were lying dead in the gutter. He had a flat he let working girls and rent boys use for their tricks – at a price, of course. It was a price worth paying: it meant I didn't have to take punters back to my place.
I tell you, he was paranoid and jealous. As far as he was concerned, I was his property, and he wouldn't let me forget it.
1
On my first night there was a fight. The first we knew was when we heard the racket. We dashed to the toilet and saw two men squaring up to each other, one black and one white, both waving knives. The landlord told us to get back to work – one of his few instructions I was happy to obey.
When he returned, he said: “They're both banned for life.”
He saw me shaking. “What's up?” he asked. “This is a tough pub, you know. If you can't stand the heat, get another job.” Still, he poured me a brandy to calm me down – the first and last drink he ever gave me. He smiled and said: “Don't worry. They've never touched a member of staff.”
My voice unsteady, I asked if there were lots of fights.
He shook his head. “The fucking paddies and wogs hate each other, but generally they keep their fighting to elsewhere. They know this is one of the few places many of them can get served.” He left the bar for the comfort of his first floor flat.
The pub was in a red light area of Birmingham, with a brewery and a prison nearby. Surrounded by small shops, terraced housing, a few small engineering firms and a potent aromatic mix of shit, curry, fried fish, metal shavings and used condoms, the “Star” was an unimposing two storey red brick building, with the entrances painted in the blood red colour scheme at that time favoured by the brewery owners.
Both the public bar and lounge contained the same dark wooden tables pockmarked with cigarette burns, scratched symbols and alcohol stains; inadequate glass ashtrays with ingrained stains covering the beer logos; crimson seats with the stuffing escaping from tears and knife slashes. Both rooms had a jukebox and slot machine. The bar had a lino floor and the lounge a crimson carpet, both worn with cigarette burns and ingrained dirt.
The two jukeboxes catered for different tastes. The one in the bar was full of country music, sentimental ballads and Irish rebel songs. In the lounge the musical choices were reggae, soul and rhythm and blues. The only white people who used the lounge were prostitutes, their customers and those looking to score drugs. Any black people who wandered into the bar were made to feel unwelcome.
2
It was 1974. Conservative Prime Minister Edward Heath had earlier in the year called a general election after a miners' strike had led to power cuts and a three day working week. Heath lost. I too lost – my job as a labourer in a small engineering factory. I couldn’t really complain: I thought it would be more fun to get away for a while and on my return forged a sick note. Instant dismissal. Mind you, those two weeks away were certainly fun, particularly hitchhiking and getting picked up by an older man who had a fancy for youths like me, though at 21 I may have been a few years too old for him. Still, I was a virgin, and he drooled at the prospect of deflowering me.
After my adventures, I was looking for work. I saw the barman’s job advertised, applied and was the only candidate. I soon found out why.
Norman was tall, lean, middle aged and almost bald apart from his grey sideburns. He had a deep booming voice with the sort of Brummie accent comedians sometimes mock. He called himself Head Barman, which may be why the boss was always shouting at him, tearing a strip off him in front of the other staff and customers.
These days he would probably be diagnosed as bi-polar: one moment he would be as high as a kite, laughing and thinking everyone his best friend; the next no-one could do a thing right, and even an apology was taken the wrong way. Or perhaps it was just the crap job in a crap pub with crap customers working for a crap boss.
Regardless of his mood, he always dressed the same: immaculately polished black shoes, perfectly pressed dark trousers, crisply ironed white shirt and a bow tie. The only thing that changed from day to day was the colour of the bow tie.
It was one of Norman’s good days. I asked him why the boss let the prostitutes use the pub.
“God, you are green, aren’t you?” He laughed. “Why do you think?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Think about it son. Nobody gets anything for nothing, now do they?” He winked at me. I hoped the wink wasn’t a come-on: I’d have had to be desperate to go for him. And then the penny dropped.
“Oh, you mean backhanders?”
“Not quite,” he said, “And keep your voice down, we don’t want anyone hearing.” He looked up. “Someone wants serving.”
After I had pulled a couple of pints, I asked him: “So if it’s not backhanders, then what is it?”
“Payment in kind,” he whispered, tapping his nose, “payment in kind. Get my meaning?”
“Oh, you mean…”
He winked again. “You’ve got it.” He was silent for a few moments, and then continued: “In fact, you can get it.”
I must have looked puzzled. “You really are naïve, aren’t you? It’s a perk of the job. Anyone who works here – well, the men at least – can get a free fuck for keeping their mouths shut. If you like, I could arrange it for you.”
I shuddered, and must have looked a bit shocked. He stared at me. “Don’t fancy it? Why not? You’re in full working order I take it.” After a moment’s silence, he whispered: “Unless of course you’re queer. You’re not a pansy boy, are you?”
“Nnno” I stammered, “Nnno, of course not. It’s just, well, they’re probably not clean.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. They take precautions and have regular check ups at the clap clinic. They’re probably cleaner than some bitch you might pick up in a pub on a Saturday night.”
I still demurred. “Oh come on, now! You’d turn down a free fuck! You must be a fairy. Come Christmas we’ll put you on top of the tree, shall we?” He started cackling. “Wait till I tell ‘em all you’re queer. You know what they do to queers in Jamaica, don’t you? And the Paddies are no better: they’d probably knee cap you, after cutting it off.”
“No, it’s okay, I’m as normal as the next man. It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“Oh, okay. Why not? As you say, a free fuck…” I tried to smile.
He winked at me again. “When you finish tonight, she’ll be waiting for you outside. Enjoy yourself.”
Sure enough, she was there. Her blonde hair looked like it had come out of a bottle. High heels, mini skirt, breasts almost escaping from her skimpy top: she was certainly under dressed for a cool autumn night. No wonder her nose kept running, no matter how much she sniffed. It was difficult to tell her age – she could be anywhere between 18 and 28.
“So you’re the new boy,” she said. I wasn’t sure whether her husky voice was supposed to be sexy or whether she’d just smoked too many cigarettes. “Well, I’ll show you a good time and you’ll help me get punters. Okay?” I nodded. She smiled, displaying nicotine coloured teeth. “Okay, follow me but – no kissing, mind.” That was a relief: the thought of kissing her really wasn’t a turn on. In fact, nothing about her was a turn on. I shivered.
“Are you cold, love? Well, perhaps we’d better get inside, hadn’t we?”
I followed her along a side street and down a filthy dark alley. For a moment I thought I was about to get mugged. But then she took me through a gate, unlocked a back door and took me up a flight of stairs to her room – or at least the room she used for work.
While she removed what little she was wearing, I remained fully clothed.
“What’s up, love?” she asked, sitting next to me and allowing her hand to touch my groin, “A bit shy are we? Okay, there’s no rush. Just let me undress you.” She started to unbutton my shirt, but I couldn’t bear the thought of her touching my clothes, so I brushed her hand away and quickly undressed myself, until I stood before her, naked, shivering and limp. She looked down, and smiled.
“I see we’re a bit nervous. Never mind love, I know what to do about that.”
She manipulated me with her mouth and fingers. By concentrating I managed to get an erection. “That’s better,” she said, “Now down to business.” She put a condom on me and then lay on the bed. “This must be your first time, love. You won’t forget this, I can promise you. Now just lie on top of me, and I’ll do the rest.” As I clumsily tried to get on her, I realised I couldn’t go through with it. I stood up, removed the condom and started to get dressed.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I can’t do it. I just can’t.”
She sat up and sighed. “Okay, I know I’m no great beauty…”
“It’s not that,” I reassured her, “it’s just…”
“No need to say anything. Just promise me one thing. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“What!” I exclaimed.
“Please don’t tell anyone. If they thought I hadn’t been able to satisfy a young man like you, I’d be a laughing stock. I’d probably never get another punter, and I’d probably get a slap. So please, please don’t say anything about it.”
I laughed with relief. “I was going to ask you the same thing. I don’t want people to think I can’t get it up or that I’m queer, or anything, not that I am of course, but…”
She smiled at me, this time a genuine smile. “It’ll be our secret. And I like you. Actually,” and at this point she looked away, avoiding eye contact, “I do know someone – a man – who’s on the game. If you’d like to meet him, I’m sure as a favour to me he would – not that you’re queer or anything, but if you’d like to, I can fix it up.”
I gulped, and at the thought felt myself begin to stiffen. She noticed and laughed. “I see you would.”
3
“How d’you get on?”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
“Only okay? Come on!”
“Well, I’m looking forward to next time.”
Norman leered at me. “A bit of what you fancy, hey?” He winked and nudged me with his elbow.
“Yeah.” I began to move away. “I’d better do the bottling up before we get busy.”
Sometimes I thought I preferred Norman in his nasty moods. When he was on a high he could be unbearable. He wanted to know all about my “night of passion” with Michelle (as she called herself). What could I say? I made a few things up, and that served to satisfy him for a while. Then he’d come back with nasty questions like “How tight was her cunt?” I wanted to shout “How the fuck should I know? I couldn’t get it up.”
Instead, I kept as far away as was possible in a two bar pub. Any excuse to restock the shelves, empty the drip trays into the bucket that went back into the Mild barrel, wipe counters and check the spirits on the optics, collect glasses and empty ashtrays.
While I was clearing tables in the lounge, Michelle smiled and nodded for me to come over. I made my way there, emptying ashtrays into a filthy metal bin.
“It’s on,” She whispered. “Can you remember how to get to my place?”
I nodded.
“Good. He’ll be waiting there for you after you’ve finished your shift.”
She was about to move on when I said: “Michelle.” She turned to look at me. “Thanks”.
She grinned, touched my arm and said: “No problem. Just enjoy yourself.”
Next morning I went in for my lunchtime shift. Norman must have noticed the swagger in my step and the smile on my face. “My, you’re looking pleased with yourself today.”
I blushed. I hate it when that happens – it is something I seem to have no control over. He nudged me. “Aha! Michelle again?”
I just shrugged.
“Come on, tell me all about it. Hey, you shouldn’t keep her away from her work too often, you know. Her old man might not like it.”
“Her old man? She’s got a boy friend?”
“You’re not getting jealous, are you? She’s only a tart, and there’s plenty more like her. I wouldn’t actually call him a boy friend. He hangs around with her and he sends her out to work. Most of the girls have got men to keep – niggers mostly. What can you expect of the black bastards: taking white girls and turning them into tarts. Mind you, the white girls are no better. Anyone who goes with a black deserves anything they get. Once they’ve had a black cock, the cunts are ruined for decent men.”
“Why does she stay with him?”
A loud guffaw escaped his lips. “Christ, you are naïve aren’t you? These niggers, they take all the girls’ earnings, hardly give them enough to live on. And they beat them, sometimes. Some of the girls are junkies, as well. And a lot of the pimps are.”
“What about Michelle?”
Norman shrugged. “I don’t think she shoots up. But her old man certainly beats her. He’s a nasty piece of work. Best avoid him. And best not expect too many freebies from her, if you know what’s good for you. Plenty more fish, as they say.”
I wondered if the rent boys also had pimps.
Part of me had really enjoyed it, but part of me was disgusted. I’d always thought paying for sex was a sign of a loser, and anyway I still felt my desire for other men was something to be ashamed of. But there was no doubt: I was queer, and I would have to learn to live with it. In any case, I couldn’t help smiling when I thought of the sensations that had rippled through me. I wanted to do it again and again – just not with a rent boy.
Chapter Two: Kathleen
1
Perhaps my mother was right, and it was all my fault. It was my fault my father kept raping me. It was my fault he couldn't control himself. I must have been looking at him the wrong way, must have been wearing the wrong clothes, must have led him on.
When mum found out, she told me she'd seen me flirting with him. She slapped me and called me a dirty slut, told me I was evil and I was going to Hell for seducing my own father, said she should have called me Jezebel. I burst into tears, but the more I cried the louder she yelled at me, the harder she slapped me.
Later as I was lying on my bed, face smeared with tears and snot, dad came into my bedroom. He took hold of me and yanked me into a sitting position. “You really shouldn't have told her,” he said, “I told you not to tell her, didn't I?”
I tried to speak: “I didn't...” Before I could say anything else, he hit me. “Shut the fuck up!” He said. “Less of your lies. First you lead me on, then you try and blame me. You're a disgrace. You're a disgrace to your family, you're a disgrace to the church. You disgust me. You don't deserve all we've done for you.”
He pulled me to my feet. “Now, get yourself cleaned up. And not another word.” He dragged me to the bathroom, came in with me and locked the door.
As soon as he'd finished with me, he left me alone. Later when they had gone to bed, I packed a few clothes as quietly as I could and crept out. In the morning, cold and hungry, I stole a bread roll from a shop. I had hardly taken a bite when I was grabbed by the angry shopkeeper. He called the police. They took me to the local station. Then they took me home. Then I got another beating.
I kept running away. I kept getting taken back home. I kept getting beatings. I kept saying I was sorry, and that I would try to be a better girl.
The day came when my parents refused to take me back, so the social worker took me away. I told her how sorry I was. She smiled at me, but her eyes were sad. In my childish mind I took her sadness as further proof of just how bad a girl I was. I looked away so she wouldn't see my tears.
She must have noticed me crying anyway, because she put her arms round me. I flinched: the only time dad did that was just before raping me, and mum had never hugged me, at least not as far back as I can remember. She must have done so at one time, I suppose.
The social worker put me in a children's home. At least that meant I didn't have to go to Mass any more. I knew I was going to Hell. I knew this because the priest told me I wasn't telling the truth when I told him about dad. He said dad was a good Catholic and did a lot of work for the church.
2
There was another good thing about the children's home: I learnt to play the guitar. But even that came at a price. Every so often – in between the beatings and the abuse and the lock ups – a member of staff would entertain us by playing his guitar. One day I hung about after the rest had gone and asked him if I could hold the guitar. I started plucking the strings, but the sound I made was a noise, not the music he'd got out of the instrument.
“No, no,” he said, “that's not the way you play.” He took the guitar from me. “Here let me show you.” He played a tune that was in the charts at that time. “I'll teach you how to play, if you like.”
I nodded.
“Okay. But you'll have to pay me. Music lessons don't come cheap.”
I looked downcast. “But I've got no money.”
He looked thoughtful for a moment, then said: “Okay, I tell you what. You can pay me in kind.”
And so each lesson cost me a blow job. I can't remember how many it took before I mastered the instrument. I decided I wanted my own guitar and I paid for it in the same way I had for lessons. I was still a young girl, barely in my teens, and I spent evenings satisfying pervy dirty old men, until I had enough money to buy a second hand guitar.
I didn't stop. I had found a way to earn money by selling the only thing I had that seemed to interest others. There was a curfew at the home, but it was so easy to get round – there were enough pervs on the staff to keep me out of trouble.
Some of the other kids sometimes looked at me as if I had an infectious disease. In the main, they kept away from me, particularly after the incident. One of the other girls stole my guitar. I went mad. I stormed from room to room searching for it. I lashed out at anyone who tried to stop me, whether kids or staff. It took several of the staff to restrain me, but I didn't care: I'd got my guitar back.
No-one dared touch it after that, and they all kept clear of me. That suited me fine.
I saved quite a bit of money. As soon as I was able to, I opened a post office savings account. I bought myself some nice clothes – the sort of things that would make the pervs drool – showing my legs and cleavage. I learned how to smile at them, even as I despised them. Perhaps I was lucky I came to no harm, but I like to think it was more than luck. I was careful, and I learnt quickly: always have an escape route, get the money in advance, make it clear I was street wise. I could look after myself.
Then the day came when I left the home. Or rather ran away the day before my 16th birthday and never returned. I rented a tiny bedsit. It was damp and draughty, and in need of repair, but it was cheap, and it was mine – for as long as I paid the rent.
I was good at my job. I hated it, but it was all I knew, it was the only skill I had and it kept a roof over my head.
3
And I had my guitar. I played for relaxation. No-one at the home thought me much good and they used to laugh at my efforts to play the latest hits, but not to my face: they knew better than that. I played for myself, and didn't care what anyone thought.
When I was learning, the perv who taught me showed me the chords for one of the Beatles' songs: “Michelle”. He said he liked the name, and he'd sometimes call me it when I was blowing him. It stuck and became my working name.
Without the guitar, I reckon I would have gone mad or killed myself or ended up addicted to smack – though that last one is unlikely, given I hate needles. But you don't need a syringe to kill yourself with drugs. The longer I worked the streets, the more drug addled faces I saw: women whose bodies were ravaged by smack, sex and sadistic pimps. I promised myself I would never become one of them, but promises are easy to make and hard to keep. I did manage to avoid smack, probably because of my fear of needles, but I saw no harm in a few joints and a bit of speed.
It was rough. At first, other girls tried to stop me, told me I was taking money away from them. But, hey, I've got the temper as well as the looks of an Irish redhead (though I generally dyed my hair blonde: men seemed to prefer that) and I've got the attitude to back it up. It didn't take the other girls long to decide it was more trouble than it was worth to try and stop me.
It wasn't safe working the streets and it certainly wasn't safe taking punters back to my flat, but I didn't have much choice at first: it was either that or a quick fuck in an alley. Once I'd made it clear I wasn't going anywhere, some of the girls began to show me a bit of respect – particularly as I refused to let the dealers and pimps bully me. I tell you: standing up to some six foot fucker waving a knife at you takes some doing, but I did it. And I refused to show the fear that was wrenching my guts. I knew I either stood up to these people or I'd end up as hollow eyed as many of the other girls.
I still had my post office savings account and when I could I squirrelled bits of money into it. I wasn't above taking cash from the pockets of punters while they were otherwise distracted. I'm not proud of myself, but needs must, as they say, and I only stole from them occasionally, usually the ones who treated me badly. And lots of punters did treat us girls badly: we were all beaten up or raped or ripped off from time to time – often by the police who got free fucks not to arrest us.
That was why I decided I needed some protection. I got myself a boyfriend – a euphemism if ever there was one. I let him fuck me and pretended I liked him, and in return he made sure I was safe, or at least as safe as a working girl could be. Sure, he took his cut from my earnings, but keeping it all myself was useless if I were lying dead in the gutter. He had a flat he let working girls and rent boys use for their tricks – at a price, of course. It was a price worth paying: it meant I didn't have to take punters back to my place.
I tell you, he was paranoid and jealous. As far as he was concerned, I was his property, and he wouldn't let me forget it.
About the Author
Born in Manchester in 1951, Kevin Crowe has lived in the Highlands since 1999. A writer of fiction, poetry and non-fiction, he has had his work published in various magazines, journals and websites. He also writes regularly for the Highland monthly community magazine Am Bratach and for the Highland LGBT magazine UnDividing Lines.