‘To continued funding,’ toasted Michael. They all laughed.
The first shipment of eggs arrived in a box marked FRAGILE COMPUTERS. This was to fox the animal rights activists. The eggs were packed in grey foam like recording equipment. Ebru and Michael laid them out in the darkroom, on straw, to hatch. Everything was in place.
‘This is going to work,’ said Michael.
In the evening Michael went to his gym. He saw Tony. Tony was a trainer and Michael had a crush on him. Tony was tall and sleek and so innocent in his manner that Michael’s nickname for him was the Cherub. Tony had a radiant announcement to make.
‘I decided to take the plunge,’ Tony said. ‘Jacqui and I are going to get married.’ He had the eyes of a happy schoolboy.
‘Aw, that’s fantastic. Well done!’ said Michael and they did an old-fashioned hand slap. Tony’s hair was cut short and dressed in spikes. Everything about him took Michael back to his youth. Tony talked a little bit about how he had realized he didn’t want anyone else. ‘It’ll mean moving up north, but hey, she’s worth it.’
That’s what I want, thought Michael. I want a beautiful love.
Inspired in his heart and in his belly, Michael decided to visit the sauna in Alaska Street.
The smell of the place – hot pinewood, steam and bodies – produced an undertow of excitement as if something were pulling insistently downwards on his stomach. Naked men circulated in the steam in early evening.
Stripped of his glasses and lab coat, Michael was tall and athletic. A young Sikh with his hair tied at the top of his head in a bun saw Michael and did an almost comic double take. He was hairy and running slightly to fat, but the face, Michael suddenly saw, was smooth as marble. This was a young man with a fatherly body.
Michael followed the Sikh into the steam room with its benches. The Sikh looked at him with a teasing smile. They moved towards each other.
Michael didn’t trust kissing. He knew people often brushed their teeth before cruising. Brushing teeth always produced blood; blood carried the virus. When the boy leaned towards him, Michael turned his head away and pressed his cheek against his. Michael gave him quick, dishonest pecks on the lips, pretending to be romantic and playful instead of merely safe.
Even this was enough for the young man. They sat down and Michael leaned back on the bench as they embraced. Briefly they made a shape together like a poster for Gone with the Wind. Then the Sikh slipped lower and went to work (work was the only word for it) on Michael’s cock.
Michael’s cock stayed dead. All the young man’s ministrations only made it worse. It retreated further, back up and away. Not again, thought Michael, not again. It always happened, and it was always worse than Michael remembered. It was always worse with someone he liked. Most especially it happened with people he liked. The Sikh stopped, and looked up. He turned down his mouth in a show of childish disappointment.
Michael asked, ‘Are you too hot? Would you like something to drink?’
It was a way of saving face.
On the mezzanine, there were free drinks in the fridge and smelly beanbags on the floor. Michael poured them each a glass of spring water. Perched on a beanbag like a Buddha, the boy shook down his long glossy hair and began to retie it. Michael wanted to take him home and watch him wind it in his turban.
Michael passed him the water and the young man gave him a sharp little smile of thanks. When Michael lay down next to him, the Sikh stayed seated upright. In his heart, Michael knew what that meant, but yearning and hope persisted.
The young man talked politely. He was a medical doctor, a specialist in tropical diseases. He had been working in Africa and was back home to see his family. His name was Deep.
Michael asked him: did he work for Médecins sans Frontières?
‘No, I don’t like those organizations. They are too Western. They go there thinking they will show the natives how to do it. But, you know, they have no experience of infectious disease. I apply for the same jobs as the local doctors. I learn more that way.’
He was pleased to talk about his time there. The lack of roads, the digging of wells. Suddenly Deep lay back and let Michael rest his head on his fatherly bosom. Deep’s breath smelled of liquorice. ‘You know, I was working in a hospital in Malawi, by a lake. I was sitting out by myself drinking a beer. And I could see the animals come down to drink. The deer and the lions. And I could watch the deer as they kept watch. They kept flicking their ears. There was a moon on the lake.’
I’d go there with you, thought Michael. For just a moment he glimpsed another life. He was by that lake with Deep and they were together and Michael was doing … what? Michael was binding an antelope’s broken shin.
Michael ventured forth. ‘I, uh, have a boyfriend, but he won’t be there now. I don’t live very far from here.’
Despite his size, Dr Deep’s face was thin, slightly cynical, and it did not respond to the suggestion.
Michael endeavoured. ‘Would you like to come back with me?’
Dr Deep shook his head. ‘I’m not what you’re looking for.’
Oh, oh, but you are, thought Michael. ‘You’re sure?’ he asked and tried to engineer a winning smile.
Dr Deep was sure. ‘You know, I have been very tired and tense coming back here to see my family. I’m about to change countries again. So I just came here for the sex.’
They kissed and parted company. Deep was one of those perennial boys who only like older men. Over the next 45 minutes Michael watched Dr Deep kneel in front of one middle-aged man after another, his head bobbing away and then abruptly withdrawing, like a bee gathering honey. A medically trained bee who must know the risks.
The last Michael saw of Dr Deep, he was standing utterly alone, having sucked off every older man who wanted sucking. Dr Deep held up his towel, masturbating on show. Only one person was watching, but Dr Deep was looking pointedly away from Michael.
It’s all you want, Michael thought in disappointment. And if I’d been able to give you that, would you have talked to me? Gone out to a movie with me? Become friends? Do you want to die that badly, that you can’t even take time to talk? No one ever even talks. No one ever rings back. Is a hard dick really that important to you faggots?
How could I be stupid enough to get emotional? I know the score; I can’t get it up, so I either put up or dry up. I know what will happen, it always happens and I always forget. I always keep thinking it’s not that bad. But it is that bad. It’s like I think it will clear up by itself if I leave it alone. Like a sock that loses its other half. You put it back in the drawer, hoping it’ll find the other half by itself.
Well, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I look like such a big butch man who’ll slap you and then fuck you silly. I’m sorry that I got a bit romantic. I won’t do it again. I keep forgetting what you guys are like.
Michael dragged his ass back into his underwear and out to Waterloo station, and on the underground platform. He cursed sex. He cursed the need for it, and how men wanted it. He cursed being gay. He cursed all other gay men. He cursed his dick and he cursed himself. As all the day’s happiness crushed around him like ruins in an aftershock, he prayed, or came as close to praying as he could get.
Michael pleaded for all the weary dead weight of his sexual desire to be taken from him. ‘Look, just castrate me, get rid of it, please, please just take it all away!’
Was a train coming? Wind blew along the platform; a newspaper rose up by itself into the air.
And Michael noticed