‘You’re going to be the centre piece.’
‘Am I, now?’
‘Yup. I want your cock to be the anchor. I want it to look earth-bound. I want to adorn it with grass and soil and flowers. And I can tell people: it’s my boyfriend, actually. It will all be terribly Gilbert-and-Georgeish.’
Philip. Phil, you are 31 years old. Shouldn’t you be getting beyond this?
‘Are you trying to get into advertising or something? It won’t work, Phil. If advertising agencies like your stuff, they just steal it and call it a quote.’
‘And that promotes you too. Just hear me out.’ Philip shifted, smiling on the arm of the sofa. ‘I haven’t pitched it to you properly.’
Pitch? What are you, a filmmaker?
‘Everything is a branch of pornography, including religion.’
‘No, Phil, it’s not.’
‘In this sense. It uses the same techniques as pornography. Nothing to do with sex. Pornography is to do with keeping people comfortable and managing their disappointment. You cannot give someone sex except by giving them sex. But you can give them a substitute, and make sure it’s barely just good enough. So they’re not satisfied and have to come back for another fix. McDonald’s hamburgers are pornography. Blockbuster movies are pornography. The key to their success is that they don’t offend and never satisfy. The other thing is that nobody gets hurt. Or rather they get hurt, but there’s no real pain. So, in The English Patient you can set people on fire and cut off their thumbs and everything still reads like a Fiat ad.’
‘So. How are you going to demonstrate this intellectual point using craft skills? Which, as I understand it, is your definition of art.’
Philip was grinning. ‘I’m going to photograph your cock in a McDonald’s bun.’
Michael couldn’t resist. ‘It will certainly be an improvement on their usual fare.’
‘I’m going to photograph you as Billy Graham preaching, but with your cock hanging out.’
See what an education in the arts can do for you? ‘What about lawsuits?’
‘You want lawsuits? I’m going to dress your member up as Monica Lewinsky.’
‘How? How are you going to do that?’
‘I’ll put a beret on it, and stick it in a weight watchers ad. I’ll wrap it up as a cigar. I dunno.’
‘Phil. This is not art. These are ideas for joke greetings cards. You know, courgettes standing in for dicks. And why pick on poor Monica?’
‘Because she got hurt. The Republicans got it wrong. They thought pornography meant sex rather than harmlessness. They wrecked a nice, modern girl’s life and people hated it. I mean, would Republicans understand pornography? Politics is pornography. Will the Right Honourable Member for Finchley East please stand?’ Phil flickered like a candle about to go out.
Michael was smiling. In many ways, this was the best conversation they had had in years. ‘Phil. You are not going to photograph my dick. Use someone else’s, but not mine, OK?’
‘Why not?’
Partly, Michael thought, because it’s so ugly. ‘Well aside from putting your audience off their dinner … I just don’t want to. I’d be embarrassed. I’m a lecturer, I’ve got students. It might cause trouble at work. OK?’
‘All right.’ Philip stared at his knees. He looked genuinely disappointed. ‘I just thought that for once you might like to share in my life.’ His voice went even quieter and he muttered, ‘Instead of me always having to share in yours.’
This was neither jovial nor seductive. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand that last remark, Phil.’
Philip stood up, disconsolate. ‘Look around you, then. The flat’s yours, everything in it’s yours.’
‘You’re perfectly welcome to buy something, Phil.’
Philip said very softly, ‘I don’t have any money.’ And he went out to the kitchen.
Somewhere in there, Michael sensed, there had been a wasted opportunity.
Lovers come and lovers go. Usually they leave by the door. Sometimes, very occasionally, they just disappear.
Philip did not come back until gone 2.00 AM.
All lights were out and Michael was nearly asleep when he heard the front door wheeze and grumble its way open. Phil let it swing back and slam. It took him forever to lay out his keys, undress, have a glass of water, pee, flush, belch. My God, how long can it take someone to get to bed? Perhaps he was just washing himself after sex.
When he finally lay down next to Michael, Philip fell instantly asleep. His breath rattled out of him like leaves blown along a sidewalk. He smelled of cheap red wine.
Michael was left awake, full of lust, but not for Phil.
He thought of the Cherub: the smooth pink arms, the smooth pink face, the ready smile. Michael saw him again, prone on the platform, undignified, head over heels and his face sad with questions, as if he had learned about death for the first time.
I won’t sleep, thought Michael.
It is bad behaviour to wank in the same bed as your partner. Michael got up and went to the bathroom. Michael tried to ease the bathroom light on soundlessly, but it snapped anyway. It sounded as loud as a gunshot.
And there, standing in the shower-bath as Michael had really rather known he would be, was Tony.
The Cherub looked like he had been scanned in from a photograph and pasted onto another image. His back was towards Michael. He was drying himself with a white gym towel. Michael did not own any white towels. His scientific mind clocked: towels are part of the deal.
So was the perfect, pink, hairless bottom, rounded muscle so lean that the cheeks were parted even standing up. The anus was visible, pouting as if for a kiss. Michael touched Tony’s shoulder, and he turned around. His face had the same baffled expression. Michael wanted him to smile. Smile, he yearned.
The Cherub smiled in delight. Michael kissed his cheek. Tony’s smile did not respond. It remained fixed and dazzling.
Michael sat down on the lid of the toilet. Tony’s penis was still recognizably stale from being swaddled all day, even in the most evenly white, clean briefs. Michael checked that the head was dry, permitted it to enter his mouth once. The penis swelled, lengthened, and went bulbous at the head. Michael pulled back.
Michael touched Tony’s body, started to masturbate and told Tony to do the same. Tony leaned back against the bathroom door, head thrown back, eyes closed, as he would have done if he were alone. Michael looked at his beautiful body as if it were a photograph in a magazine. The Cherub came arching into space.
Then the room cleared as if a mist had been burned off. Michael padded back into the darkened bedroom where Phil still snored. Michael had a moment’s worry: he’ll smell it on me. Then he realized the tastes and smells on his tongue and fingers had all evaporated. Leaving nothing.
In the morning, the mystery remained.
As always Philip slept on while Michael prepared instant coffee and granola. I must have dreamed it, thought Michael. He picked up his filofax and looked at his notes from the night before. There was hardly anything useful except for one clear question.
Was the guard hit?
He walked to Goodge Street tube. There must have been an unusual shift pattern, because the same guard was lurking behind the barriers. Or maybe he just needed the money.