Page 9 of Torn
I knew something earth-shattering could happen—even if it was only a fleeting moment that shook the earth. I had a portent that what would happen on this trip might affect me profoundly for the rest of my life.
All the faces of strangers passing me right now were smiling, laughing, chattering, cares tossed effortlessly on the summer breeze. Boutros would say this was on account of them being “on holiday.” But for me this was a special moment in time, a revelation of the joy always there for us beneath the surface. These happy people were merely leaning into it.
Whatever the reason, I felt like Tony inWest Side Storywhen he sings about something coming, something good. Who knew?
My dirty mind veered off in the direction of “coming” and “good,” and I told myself it was time to get to the bed and breakfast. Undoubtedly, Boutros would wonder where I was. Or he would assume I’d picked up a trick on the street or in one of the public men’s rooms that lined the beach. (Boutros called them cottages and said that they, too, promised seamy and semeny sexual delights that would make my head spin and possibly, later on, my dick burn when I peed.) Yeah, he’d probably imagine me bent over in some toilet stall, trying to hold in my moans, since he thought so highly of me.
Still I wanted to see this “dump” we were staying in and begin our “holiday” in earnest. Or in Ernest, should I run into him in one of Brighton’s many gay bars. In Ernest, Phil, Clive, Trevor, Julian—the possibilities were simply endless and mind-boggling.
I set off for the B&B with an optimistic grin on my face.
“MR. BINBINhas already taken care of everything. Your room is all prepared for your comfort.” He pointed toward the curving mahogany staircase behind us. “Climb the stairs to the third floor, make a left, and go all the way down the hall. Yours is the last on the right. I believe Mr. BinBin is waiting.”
The front-desk clerk, who I assumed was one half of the Egyptian/Brit couple who owned the place, handed over a key. His hand was very soft. He reminded me very much of Mr. Humphries from the old British situation comedyAre You Being Served?. He was a little younger, and his hair hadn’t yet turned completely gray, but he had the same fussy manner about him. He wore a lavender linen shirt with a paisley scarf in shades of yellow and purple tucked in around his collar. A diamond stud winked at me from his left earlobe. I could imagine him, decades ago, as a young twink in the Swinging Sixties, pairing that lavender shirt with striped bell bottoms and a wide white belt.
“Breakfast commences promptly at 7:00 a.m. and ends around tennish. But if you’re famished, I’d advise you to get to the dining room on the early side. Regrettably, we sometimes run out of things, like rashers of bacon.” He beamed at me. “Get here early, and you’ll enjoy a full English.” He smiled and cocked his head; then he dismissed me. “Now, I would imagine you’d like to get settled in.”
I nodded and thanked him. I wanted to ask what his definition of “full English” was, but I could leave it until the morning, when I could see with my very own eyes.
If I’m not up until the crack of dawn with some gorgeous hunk….
I lifted my duffel bag and headed toward the staircase.
When I reached our door, I heard a scuffling noise inside. The creaking of bed springs. Laughter. Furious whispering. Now, a more considerate friend might have been discreet, dropping his bag outside the door and heading back downstairs for, perhaps, a cuppa. But that wasn’t me. And it wouldn’t have been Boutros either, if the tables, or in this case, the bed, had been turned. I grinned, raised my hand, and rewarded the old door with a resounding chorus of blows, hard enough to make it quiver in its frame. I snickered.
All went silent for a moment, and then there was that same frantic whispering. I wished for a glass to hold to the door so I could hear what was being said.
I’d raised my hand to knock once more when the door swung open. A swarthy type greeted me, all wide dark brown eyes, disheveled black hair, and a forefinger stuck in his mouth. He pulled it out with a popping sound akin to a champagne cork being released. He winked and regarded his finger and said, “Mmm… curry.” And then he brushed past me to hurry down the stairs.
For once in his life, Boutros lay prone—and, I assume, helpless—on the bed. His jeans were around his ankles and his shocking yellow T-shirt was bunched up to just below his armpits. He eyed me over one shoulder.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“For what?” I sauntered into the room and dropped my bag on the floor. I stood and watched as Boutros sat up and readjusted his clothing. He lit a cigarette.
“That man is very forceful. He was about to take my honor.”
I turned to look at “that man” as he hurried down the stairs. Then I crossed the room to close the door. “Are you okay?”
Boutros laughed, scooching up so he could lean against the headboard. “Well, I would have been, if you hadn’t come along. That was one of our hosts, by the way. Anwar something-or-other.”
I nodded, understanding Boutros’s earlier reference to the owners fighting like George and Martha inWho’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?but unable to imagine the swarthy Egyptian paired with the effete host I’d just met.
Curry? I shuddered.
I did a quick survey of our room. Was nothing ever updated in this country? Flocked red wallpaper, dusty rose carpeting, and a cherry dresser and chest of drawers filled the cramped space and tore a page out of a 1930s history book. The furniture was dwarfed by the free-standing fiberglass shower in the corner.
“What was he talking about? Curry?”
Boutros rolled his eyes. “He’d just had his finger up my arse, stupid.”
“Ugh.” I shook my head and joined him on the bed. “Leave it to me to ask all the silly questions.” I nudged Boutros with one shoulder. “I’m up for a nap. But then what will you feel like for dinner?”
“I fancy a curry,” he said, and we both collapsed simultaneously into giggles and each other’s arms.
AFTER OURnap, which was long and delicious, much like the cock I’d glimpsed aboard the train here, we took a detour down to the waterfront before heading out in search of sustenance, Indian or otherwise.
Boutros said, “I want to show you the nude beach. It’s just along the way, down from the regular, clothed beach. There’s a sign that tells you it’s nude.”
