David Morriss - Lovecot: A Life in the Closet

LOVECOT a life in thecloset

By David Morriss

Copyright David Morriss2016

Smashwords edition

LOVECOT

My visits had growngradually less frequent over the last few years, down from once ortwice daily to barely once in a fortnight. Then even less untilbarely at all. Once when I simply couldn't help myself.

Since I was last therethe walls had been covered in a different type of graffiti, "thereain't no black in the union jack", "you nigger loving bastards" andso on. And there were small stickers with the same kind ofsentiment. Gone were the "age... likes... meet... genuine", or atleast the few remaining messages were faint and dated over a yearago. Some of the stickers had been partly ripped off, enough toerase the offensive part of the slogans they carried. But therewere too many to rip them all down.

Most times it had beenshut lately. Shut down because of cuts no doubt, and because ofAids. I hadn't seen him since just before Christmas when he waswith some white kid in glasses. He crouched and his head went backand forth at the kid's groin, and the kid placed a hand on eitherside of his head. And I had always thought I was the only one, thathe waited in there all day and all week just for me. Romantic oldfool that I am. An old man watched on, but it was really too darkfor him to see anything.

Jealousy led me over tothe place they were engaged, and my presence drew them apart. Myold lover stood aside and watched as the white kid took me out andwent down. The old man looked on, I was out in under two minutes.The next time I passed the place was shut.

Shut for all of theSummer and part of the Autumn. I thought it was shut for good. The"closed for repair" sign gradually faded and fell into a large poolof water that had gathered beneath the locked iron gate. Weedsclimbed the old damp walls and the branches of a nearby tree drapedgracefully over the roof. A sad old monument to my unknownsoldier.

Perhaps he was still inthere, all locked up and nothing but bone, the jaws of his skullstill open and waiting. Or perhaps he crawled the night streetslike a wolf, fists pocketed, all hunched in his old leather jacketand ten to two feet.

Some of us took to theparks or the bus shelters, and some stayed at home and becamefaithful and frustrated husbands. Some even dared to ask thosequestions in an open street, "do you have the time" followed ifanswered appropriately by "do you want a fuck". I learned early notto trust a man who was bold enough to ask such questions in public.Once in a moonlit field and once behind a bush on a Saturdayafternoon.

Then tonight, aftergiving up all hope, I walked past to see the old iron gates flungopen and wide. Each time I passed I prayed they would still beshut. Shut so I could carry on in the direction of home and anormal wholesome life. Each time for nearly a year. And each time Ipassed I sighed to see that my prayers had been answered. Buttonight it was open and I entered.

____

Through that familiarstench of human waste and disinfectant I had learned over the yearshow to smell him. And although he was all locked up in anger andshame, I knew he was there.

I knew that on theother side of a thick marble wall and behind a closed wooden doorhe sat waiting, breathing controlled, eyes wide and skyward andmouth open and desperate. I would take off my jacket to sit besidehim, and for a few moments our hot secret hearts would beattogether in silence. I knew what to expect as I waited. And he knewit was I, because I waited. But tonight was different.

Tonight I sat andwaited, and he smelled and he shuffled and waited. Perhaps hewaited for my blind arm to reach up for him instead of his for me.But I never did. So I waited and so did he. And on the other sideof a lonely wall, he waited and so did I. But nothing happened.

Then I heard him move.He normally moved first to wipe the cold and clammy floor before helay upon it. Then he would beckon me down to his searching hand,which would find the naked and kneeling thighs I offered him andwork up toward me, find its grip and shake. He wore a gold ring onhis finger set with a solitary small diamond. And as his ringfingered hand shook fast and furious I would reel backwards andgape, eyes closed and hands clasped upon his twisted forearm.

Sometimes he would leadme through a dark and dangerous hole into a moist welcome mouth.And I would rest the side of my face against the smooth marble andpress my body and arms tight against the cold wall, crucified inspunk and shit and fuck.

And once I felt hissoft breath beat against my skin as we nearly kissed. His blackfuck hand pressed me to his proud dying chest and I loved him withall my heart.

We used to meet face toface. He would invite me into his place and I would go, albeitafraid. And when I was there he would loosen my belt and let mytrousers fall, sit down before me, a hand upon each of my hips.Then he would suck as though suck he must, for suck was all he was.And I would rock and sway and tilt and finally come. Then rush awayin my stinking shame.

But overwhelmed by thefear of arrest I stopped going to his place, as I promised I wouldevery time. Arrest as deterrent. Sometimes I would meet him outsideand he would invite me back, but I would not. And many times Iwalked past or went by on a bus to see his lonesome eye clamberedup perilously onto a broken seat and peeping hopefully out of aslightly opened window.

Then I started goingnext door. He knew it was I and I knew it was he. Me for his smell,his ring fingered shake and his black twisted arm, and he for myfat white naked belly and open bended legs. And so it continued. Weknew it was us but I never ventured into his home, and only his armand grip ventured into mine. Safe sex. But tonight wasdifferent.

Tonight he just stoodand left. I saw the shadow of an opening door. Perhaps, I thought,he has gone to the walls, where his arms will join his taught andtangled body again. And where I can close my eyes and swim.

I waited for a minute,but he didn't come back, and his smell was gone. Perhaps, I thoughtto the great outside where there was traffic and noise and air.Where we were to become lovers who knew eachothers' face. But Iopened the door and he was gone. Gone fast down some sad cold roadand into the distance where I could no longer see him. So I waited,and he didn't come back, and for the first time I missed him. Butsomeone else did.

I thought he was apoliceman (he probably was), as he was wearing a crisp white shirtand dark pressed trousers, as policemen do when they don't wish tobe recognised. Waiting to arrest a cunt like me, I thought. But hestood on the cold tiled stage, porcelain backdrop, and graduallyturned to me. I stepped down and went into my old friends'home.

He stood firm and tall,but I was stronger. And eventually he walked over to myneighbouring cell and in he went. For some time he stood andwaited. Two could play at this game. And two did, for some time.But he gave in first, to the come hither smell of my over the wall.And so he did, hand by arm. He wasn't very interesting, I can tellyou that now. But what happened next was.

Now it was I who left,but as I left a stranger entered, small and fat with wet weak lipsand tell-tale eyes. I didn't even like him, but after a littleforeplay he invited me back to his sister's home on a large andugly grey estate. "What about your sister?" I asked. "She's atwork". I didn't ask her line of work, it didn't seem important.

I didn't trust himeither, but I said yes. And so we went back to his sister's place,and climbed a piss-fuck staircase into a stinking alley full ofclosed and frightened piss-fuck doors.

Walk ahead, he said,there's people I know. So walk ahead I did, like a fool in astrange dark alley, full of fear and hate and death. I toyed withthe idea of attempting to escape, but it seemed futile, and anyhowmy great sense of adventure got the better of me.