Cock-Sucker: Fortune Teller

Being Gay and twenty-one years old in 1962 is not always easy...

Of course, the Fortune Teller lied. Down a Walton Street edged with stalls, sideshows and gaudily beckoning caravans, strolling the chill illuminated darkness where it erupts into the fairground. The smoky spun-sugar aroma of candy-floss, hot dogs that drip with ketchup-blood, brittle golden curls of brandy-snap, polystyrene-white nougat slabs (pronounced 'nuggit'), and the fat round pomegranates that only emerge for these two weeks. Pause at the freak show, reading the comic-strip of pictures outside. The Barker calling, advertising unmissable once-in-a-lifetime attractions to be ogled behind the gaudy side-show facades, the Bearded Lady, A Calf With Two Heads, The Strong-Man in a Leopard-Skin, The Fire-Eater, The Contortionist, 'The Man Who Eats Lightbulbs and Impales His Face With Rods Of Steel', step right this way. Then, drawn back to the fortune-teller. 'Madame Lavinia, Daughter of the original Romany Clairvoyant Gipsy Petrulengo'. I was killing time. I have time to kill. Why not? Two steps up. Into a bright gloom. She wears gold hoop earrings and a scarf glittering with sequins.

'Your future foretold, let Lavinia read your destiny...' You cross her palm with silver. A spread of cards slurred in a half-circle. 'I sense you have many questions...', and she starts into telling me I'm about to meet my true love.

Stepping back into the whirling night I sneer, little can she know the real nature of my desires, but at the same time... yes, there's something that almost believes. After all, at eight o' clock, I'm going round to his house. The night makes me anonymous. I walk the slow jostling circle where a flashing haze of brightly-lit faces scream as the Shamrock plummets, where the Ferris Wheel scrapes the stars, past the thunder from the switchback, the smack and clang of the shooting gallery, where the big-cc bikes rev up outside the Wall of Death. The gilded Galloping Horses Carousel in the rich din of piped organs, while above me, the gargoyle clown-faces leer down past the Cakewalk, the Flea Circus, the Ghost Train, the Waltzers, Helter-Skelter, and Bingo stalls. Eyed by the sad goldfish that circle endlessly in their distorting bulges of plastic as Hook-A-Duck prizes. The Hall of Mirrors, in each mirror, an incident, in each mirror a dream, a fantasy.

I hang around the gold-painted pillars, watching the Dodgem Cars weave and impact, their tall poles sparking as they thrip across the grid. Watching the attendant ride the cars with easy loping leaps from one to the other, the girls shrieking as he leans over them. Talking at them. The words lost by the slightly out-of-phase treble-drenched records, Neil Sedaka's "Oh Carol", Del Shannon's "Runaway", Connie Francis' "Stupid Cupid". I love those singles, but they come vividly alive in new more raucous ways, the bass-lines thrumming up through buckboards with the reverberation of the cars. The attendants, they're like cowboys. Vagabonds. Diddycoys. Untamed gypsies who restlessly move from town to town as the fair circulates, roustabouts in faded jeans and scuffed jackets, neckerchief, oil-slips of night-black greasy hair that shimmers in the pulsing lights as they ride the cars.

As I'm stepping down I glance off across the crowd, and there's a bunch of giggling sniggering girls from work. They've not seen me, yet. And I don't want them to see that I'm here alone. Without a friend. They'll talk about it at work tomorrow. I slide down beside the rides. There's a slim path between, sided with rainwater-beaded gloss-painted panels and the spread dark fingers of loose tarpaulin sheets, it throbs with power-cables and storage-drums. I shove my way through. The whirring noise dims a little. A tar-black darkness draws in around me with a night-moistened scent. I pause. I can wait here till they've passed. No, I'll just go a little further, see what's there, it should lead back to Walton Street. Back to where my pushbike is chained to the lamppost. There's a generator almost up to my chest, it vibrates with energy and exhales dust. There's a telegraph pole with cables attached. And a small enclosed space scrubby with weed and sickly crushed grass. A piece of night that trembles beneath the ice-blue weight of stars.

There's someone else here. I draw back, out of sightlines. He's stood facing the Dodgem's back-partition, bracing himself up against it with one hand, legs spread, so I can see him side-on. At first I can't quite... yes, it's the cowboy, taking a piss. I daren't breathe. As the starlight freezes, as the world recedes, I see the luminous arc of yellow piss begin sluicing patterns across the wooden panel, following it back I glimpse the dark tip of his penis standing proud from his fist. He stands head back as the seconds extend. He doesn't know I'm here, doesn't know I'm watching... or perhaps he does? Maybe he noticed the way I was watching him on the cars, and interpreted my exaggerated interest? Maybe he's doing this deliberately? What if he turns around now, and our eyes meet? What if he takes the few strides necessary to cross to where I'm standing, and forces me down onto my knees in front of him? He's bigger than I am, I'd be helpless to resist, even if I wanted to. What if he makes me... do things to him?

Instead, he just grunts. Shakes it. Tucks it away and zips up. For a moment it's as though he's coming this way, but no, just as quickly he's gone, and I can breathe again. Scared and excited in equal part, as though I've shared something. I've always been curious about what men have concealed in their pants, but have seldom had the opportunity of finding out. Now, I daren't stop until my fingers coil in around the chill steel handlebars of my bicycle. Breathing deep with my eyes slammed shut. And I cycle hurriedly all the way. It's almost eight o' clock...

--- 0 ---

While I'm precariously negotiating crossing the boundaries of language, silence, and shyness... He just blurts out 'Is it true that you're queer? I've always wondered what it'd be like to be sucked-off by a queer.'

I was embarrassed and confused, 'you can't say a thing like that.'

'Why not? It's true, isn't it?'

'It might be.' I couldn't say 'you're not my type' -- because he is, admit it, I've got the hots for him, and have had for a long while, secretly (arguing with myself, within my head -- 'so why don't you do something about it?' 'Afraid, I guess.' 'Of what?' 'Of rejection. That he might turn me down. And tell the others').

Me, on the print-works shop-floor, I was always the nervous tongue-tied kid. The shy misfit. In the odour of paper-dust, grease and ink I imagine the factory-girls in their curlers and head-scarves talking about me conspiratorially behind my back, laughing behind their hands, the sound lost in the rhythmic thump of presses. The older guys in boiler suits who talk endlessly about cars and sport, they just shake their heads in dismay. They can never work me out. But Vince had never been like that. Sure, he can join in with them in ways I never can, he has a kind of swaggering self-confidence that works when he talks trash to the girls, or TV-football to the older guys. But he never condescends to me either. He took care to include me, and that meant a lot.

'Stupid Cupid' indeed. He asked me what I was into. Music? Yes. And later, when he told me he had some Buddy Holly records, and if I wanted I could come around to his place to listen to them, I couldn't believe my luck. I listened to Ricky Nelson and Elvis more -- of course, but if Buddy Holly was all the excuse I needed, overnight I became a fan. The evening was slow, the TV flat and monochrome in contrast to my garish anticipations. Then I get my bicycle out, almost casually, and pedal across the estate, passing through the fairground. My heart in my mouth. Then I was here, in his room in his parent's house, studiously checking out the books on his shelf -- some James Bond paperbacks, a couple of science fiction anthologies, and an 'Eagle Annual 1964'. There's a Leeds United poster on his wall still betraying the pin-pricks where the staples had been prised open allowing it to be torn out of a magazine. Flipping through the singles in his record cabinet I make appropriately approving noises, and then I'm sitting beside him on the bed. He's wearing blue jeans, with scuffed pointed-toe shoes, buckles down the side.

That's when he asks the 'Is it true that you're queer?' question.

But be careful, 'anyway, I don't like that word' I manage at length.

'What word would you prefer -- poofter? Shirt-lifter? Fairy? Bum-boy? Homo?'

'They all sound like words from a dirty joke. They describe the camp comedians you hear on the radio. Kenneth Williams doing 'Julian & Sandy' in 'Round The Horne'. They don't describe me. They're nothing to do with me. I'm just me, that's all. And you're not... that way, are you?'

'No. Course not. But I just thought -- you know, it'd be interesting to try it. It's different with girls. You have to take them out, to the pictures, buy them drinks, then -- when you walk them home, you might get to kiss them goodnight. Perhaps a squeeze of tit through their blouse, and that's it. Only slags might do dirty stuff like that -- but only once you've shown them a really good time, and then its like they're doing you a big favour, but well, you must have done it before, you must do it all the time, so it's no big deal.'

I turn away, scarcely daring to breath, 'I might have. Is that the only reason you asked me to come round? To tease me? Is that what you really wanted? Just so you could tell.'

He turns to put a record on the Dansette turn-table, dropping the stylus into the play-in groove. The strings of "I Guess It Doesn't Matter Anymore". 'This wasn't released until after he died. And then it got to no.1 on the charts. Did you know that? And no, I'm not teasing you. I think you're OK. And I wouldn't tell. It'd be our secret. Just you and me. Here -- put your hand on it through my pants.'

I giggle, 'no, I can't.'

'C'mon, don't be shy. You've done it before, I know you have.'

'Who said? Who told you I had?'

'So you don't deny it.'

'Well -- I might have. But only with someone I really, y'know, like. And someone who respects me.'

'I respect you. I'd respect you even more afterwards.'

'No kidding?'

'Cross my heart.'

'Well, it's true that I do... you know, like you' I blurt out.

'And if you liked somebody enough you'd suck their cock.'

'I didn't say that.'

'You did. You said you'd only suck someone's cock if you liked them enough.'

By now he's sat down on the bed beside me again. He takes my hand and, unresisting, lays it on his groin. I notice he has black half-moons of ink-pigment beneath his nails. Even without trying I can feel the hard outline of his cock.

'There, you like it?'

'Yes, no, you're confusing me.' My throat feels dry with fear and apprehension. But I leave my hand where it is. I was torn. Easily led, but scared to follow. I thought I'd be prepared for this. I wasn't. Suddenly he makes it twitch, and we both laugh at my startled reaction. Then, before I realise what he's doing, he's unfastening his belt, unfastening his fly-buttons and folding his pants aside. I can see the hard shape outlined by his underpants.

'No, you mustn't.' The record fades to a close, the needle revolving aimlessly in the play-out groove without lifting, making a ptick-ptick-ptick repetition. A flip, and he'd hooked his y-fronts down, his stiff penis springing up for my attention. I swallow hard. This is agonising. This is so close to what I'd lain awake at night and fantasised about. But it was so real. So scary. He takes my hand again, and moves it across to him, folding my fingers in around it. It was firm, I was weak. I let him do it, and -- scarcely daring, squeezed the hot cock gently.

'There, that's not so bad is it. You like it?'

'It's big,' I manage. My voice husky with emotion. I sit there, holding it stupidly, my heart hopping like a kangaroo.

'You can kiss it if you like' he urged.

'This is only between the two of us, no-one else must know.'

'Know what? You've not done anything yet. Go on, give it a kiss. You know you want to.'

Inside my head a voice is screaming STOP, whatever are you doing, why don't you STOP doing it? get out now, run away, but instead, 'Well, perhaps. Just once, if you are sure,' my head ducks down in a blur of embarrassment, quickly, quickly, before I lose my nerve and back off. It seems so big. Intimidatingly so. But I'm breathless with excitement. My lips lightly brush its tip. Taste its salt. Its warmth. Its peach-soft texture. He grunts appreciatively. I begin to come back up but his hand is resting gently on my shoulder. Not forcing me, just coaxing, encouraging. I extend my tongue, licking across its bloated knob-end, its spreading apricot-blush. The voice in my head says no, but what could be more natural than taking it that one step further? One quick suck at his bell-end, it'd be me teasing him, wouldn't it? Then quickly, before I have chance to change my mind, I slip the glans between my lips, into my mouth, and suck at it.

'Holy shit' he says. I come up quickly, wiping my mouth. 'That was fucking fantastic' he says, 'you can't stop now. You can't prick-tease me then leave me like this.'

I turn away, ashamed of what I've done, more ashamed by the fact that I'd enjoyed doing it, and by what he expects me to do now. 'No' I sob emotionally, 'it's not fair. You can't ask me to.'

He raised his hips, easing his pants down to his knees, his fat balls lolling out so I can't help but see it all. Breathing in my fearful desire. 'It's not fair for you to leave me in this state' he cajoled, 'look at me.'

I look. God, did I look. And actually -- admit it, it's quite a nice cock, a big 'roundhead' without being too big, clean -- no 'cavalier' foreskin to conceal nasty infections. No reason why you wouldn't want to suck it, if that's what you had in mind. If that's what you wanted to do. It was a big persuader. If you were a lusty male with a healthy curiosity, anxious to explore and experience what sex could do for you, it formed an enticing tempter. I know I shouldn't. Is it so wrong? So OK, one quick suck... or perhaps just a little longer. It's me playing with him. Getting him excited, getting him worked up, showing I'm in control.

Then something like a dam breaks inside of me. Refuse now, and he'll never look at me again. Refuse now, and I might regret it forever. What can I do? Dear god, if this is a test, I fear I'm about to fail. What can a poor boy do? There's only me and him here. No-one else will ever know. If he tells anybody else they'll not believe him. Anyway, he won't want them to know any more than I do. He'd be tarred by the same brush. I look at him, and smile. He smiles back, with his slow lazy smile, and nods downwards. And meekly I do as he indicates.

As my head goes down I catch its stale eager aroma. My lips go in around it, now -- slip more of it in this time, just to prove that I can, just to show that I can do it, all the way in, or as much as I can accommodate, and sink it down all the way, as far as I can without gagging, and when I suck I hold nothing back. I can feel his body stiffen, hear his sharp intake of breath, and suck again so that simultaneously it seems to draw all the breath out of his body. It feels so naughty. So dangerous. It's a game, that's all. A cock-sucking game. Once begun, it's impossible to stop. This'll really make his toes curl. And now I'm down here doing it to him, I can keep doing it for a while, for as long as I like. Just to see if I like doing it. It feels so daring. I'm sucking steadily and enthusiastically now, running my tongue around the underside of its raised rim.

'Oh shit' he gasped, 'don't stop', his hips coming up to meet me. I feel powerful now, he's no longer in control of the situation, I am. My own body furiously reacting to what I'm doing. My own breath racing. The sense of warmth, of secret shared intimacy overwhelming. We're almost... like lovers, this act is binding us together. I groan low in my throat as it swells and expands up against the roof of my mouth, reacting to what I'm doing. It seems to fill me up. To dominate me with its pure naked maleness. Past the point of no return, I'm sucking because I'm helpless to do otherwise. His hands almost restraining me now, warning me, but I nuzzle in deeper. Incapable of relinquishing it. Feasting on it. This shared moment of intimacy is so precious.

'Oh shit' -- he's trying to pull me away, I refuse to be moved. What if he starts coming? Well -- it must be hard to keep control when your cock's being enthusiastically and vigorously sucked. You can't really blame him. It's only natural. And after all, I've already tasted seminal fluid, it'll not be that much different to tasting your own -- if cautiously, on the end of your finger, nevertheless I've done that. I've tasted it once, so another spurt won't make much difference. So what's the big deal? By now I've talked myself around so convincingly there's no way I can stop.

His hips move up and down involuntarily, his cock swelling in my mouth, it jerks and I almost lose it, but concentrate hard, and I taste spunk. The salt spurt on my tongue, the secret fluid from deep inside him that no-one else has ever tasted. His gift to me. So soon. I've hardly begun. I come up sheepishly. Blood roaring. Sure that my face is glowing red with charged emotion.

He holds out a crumpled handkerchief. 'It's gone. I must have swallowed it' I say defiantly, adding a throaty cough to emphasise what I've done.

A pause. His cock wet and red, wilting now. 'Are you alright?' he asks with something approaching genuine concern.

I nod. Slow at first. Then more emphatically, 'yes.' Another long pause. He watches me intently, scrutinising me, with a strange quizzical expression. I watch back.

'Tell me, what's it like when a bloke comes off in your mouth like that, for the first time?'

I smile coy-like. How can I say that he's my first? 'Nice, kinda warm.' And it's like I'm saying, don't be deceived by appearances, I can do things like you won't believe.

'If you were to get a girl to do that, it would mean a life-time commitment thing. With guys it's different. With guy's it's just cock-fun. It's not important in the same way.'

'Perhaps not. But it's still special.'

A pause, 'oh yeah, I suppose so', and he looks away. Stands up to take the 45rpm single off the turn-table where it's still circling, pulling his pants back into place as he does so.

The next day passed in a blur. All day long I'm unable concentrate on my work, or on anything, just going over in my mind what had occurred, and my anticipations of what is certain to happen again, tonight. At intervals I could see him across the shopfloor, he never looks across at me, but whenever it seems as though he was about to, I'd look hastily away in delighted confusion, my heart aflutter like a teenage girl. So hopeful, so scared that our eyes might meet. My trousers distorted by a heavy and inflamed hard-on that refuses to subside. Rude images of a carnal nature storming my head, images I can't get rid of. Conjuring outrageous scenarios I'd never be confident enough to actually act out. But always involving me, with his thick cock in my mouth again. The feel of it in my hand, the faint aroma of it as I go down, the taste of it between my lips. I'd not be too eager. I'd play it cool. Make out I wasn't too bothered, as though his need is greater than mine. As though all I was there for was to listen to music. And... oh, sex? almost as an after-thought. As though I didn't care. Even though it's all I can think about. That image in my head. That stiffness in my pants. What we'd shared, what I breathlessly anticipate doing again, is the kind of forbidden activity that gets men arrested and jailed as 'inverts'. The genetic proclivity that makes them social outlaws. Destined to live lives in the shadow of repression and shame. Well, if that's the way it must be, so be it.