Boys In Heat, page 9
I left after that, kicked up my heels and headed home. Vijay had been right. At that moment, my soul was feeling pretty darn good.
INTIMACY
Drew Gummerson
But why me?” I asked.
I was sitting at the desk on the opposite side of the captain. The captain was a large corpulent man given to sudden bouts of anger. The other officers said it was best to butter him up, but I had always found him very fair, without having to slip into sycophancy.
“Why can’t Simmons go?” I said. “Or Dorchester?”
The captain raised his hands once from the desk and dropped them again, palms first. It was a gesture of irritation.
“If the face fits,” he said.
He pushed an orange oblong pouch toward me.
“The plane leaves at seven A.M. Don’t miss it. Be at the airport at least two hours beforehand.” He made a show of looking at his watch. “Perhaps three.” He gave a little laugh. “We don’t want any mishaps, do we? I want to show our Polish brethren what a tight little force we run here. Our reputation for efficacy runs right throughout the EC.”
I picked up the pouch and stood from the desk. As my hand was on the door to leave the captain called me back.
“And no funny business,” he said. “There’s talk.”
That night in the barracks I lay awake. The captain’s words echoed in my head. “Funny business” were the ones that reverberated. They seemed such a strange choice, ones laid down almost as a gauntlet.
Over by the window, under the gentle glare of a low-wattage bulb, the other officers sat playing cards. They were wearing only underpants and because today was a Tuesday, and underpants were changed on Wednesdays, at 0945, the pants were more than usually stained.
There was the sound of a card being laid down followed by others. Finally, a number of cards were gathered up.
I never joined in these games. It wasn’t that congenitally I was a loner, it was more that I liked my own company. If I had been one of those true outsiders, I would have joined a profession that would have allowed me, more often than not, to be on my own; a traveling salesman, or a farmer on a remote oyster farm somewhere.
Another card was laid down, then another, and then I looked at my watch and it was past midnight and I needed to urinate. As I was making my way back to my bed I was stopped short by a burst of conversation that was obviously directed at me. I turned and found myself eye to eye with Dorchester.
“So, you’re going to Poland.”
It wasn’t a question, more a statement of fact, so I merely nodded and made my way back to my bed.
“Hey, you fancy a game?”
I paused for a moment and then, thinking that as I was due at the airport in only a few hours and sleep seemed far away, just this once I might as well join the group.
Simmons collected the cards up and dealt them out again. He had a neat way of doing things that belied his farmhand origins.
“I’ve heard about Polish women,” said Dorchester. “Large thighs and big tits.”
“I think that’s Russian women,” said Smith. “At least, that’s what I’ve heard.”
“Shit cards,” said Dorchester. “Simmons. It’s your start, I think.”
The game moved at a frenetic pace. Pretty soon I found myself the only one holding any cards.
“You win,” said Dorchester to me. He put his hand down the front of his pants and scratched furiously. “And you were last, Smith. Take your pants off.”
Smith looked as if he was about to say something rude but then he merely glared at Dorchester and shrugged. “It’s shit,” he said.
“Okay,” said Dorchester. “Two fingers.”
“Two?” said Smith. Now he was angry.
“We always double up in the last game,” said Dorchester. “You know the rules.”
“But you didn’t actually say it was the last game,” said Smith.
Now Johnson piped up for the first time. “It is getting on. Come on. We all need our sleep. Don’t be a spoilsport.”
Smith looked like he had a lot to say to this but as obviously everyone was against him he lowered his pants and bent over.
I knew what to do from my nights lying awake in bed. I sucked both fingers and placed them against Smith’s sphincter.
“Hurry up,” said Johnson. “Don’t be scared. He hasn’t used it for anything except a couple of farts all night.”
With a giving of skin I pushed inside. The sensation was at once both of physical connection and emotional distance.
“Thirty seconds,” said Dorchester. “Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven…”
“Give it a bit of wellie,” said Simmons. “See if you can bend your fingers. Smith’s had a whole fist up there before.”
“Fuck off, Simmons,” said Smith.
“Now now,” said Johnson. “Take it like a man. You know the rules.”
“Ten,” said Dorchester, “nine, eight, seven…”
“It hurts like shit,” said Smith.
“Like shit,” said Johnson, smiling. “I like that.”
“Three,” said Dorchester, “two, one.”
With a sucking sound, I pulled out my fingers. Smith let out a sigh. I looked around for a towel and again found myself locking eyes with Dorchester.
“So you’re going to Poland,” he said. “It makes me wonder why they chose you. That’s what I’m thinking, why did they choose you?”
And then, as if as one and it was all prearranged, the four of them leapt up. I felt myself falling back and they were on top of me and I felt my dirtied fingers being pushed into my mouth.
The taste was acrid, as was the smell.
The man on the plane next to me was both very tall and very fat. He was holding a large broadsheet newspaper, the pages of which brushed against me each time he turned a page.
I was in that space between sleep and wakefulness when I realized the man was speaking to me.
“Your first time in Poland?”
I nodded, hopeful that this lack of verbal communication would dissuade any more attempts at what would no doubt be inane conversation.
“Quite a time to be going, what with all this happening….”
I noticed that he had folded the newspaper into a perfect square, highlighting a particular story. The words were in Polish.
“This serial killer has struck again. Always the same, always young men and always he cuts off their penises.”
“Penises?” I sat up straighter and felt my scrotum retract itself in my underpants.
“The penises are never found,” said the man. “Some say he keeps them as trophies. Others say it is not the penis he revels in, merely the act of cutting. Still others say he eats them. Of course, Poland is a very Catholic country.”
“What?” I was surprised at this change of tack.
“If you repress,” said the man, “then it will come out in other ways. Look at the Pope. And Al Qaeda, it’s the same.”
I asked what he meant by this but he wouldn’t say anything more. Instead he unfolded the newspaper and moved on to the next story.
Sergeant Drogovich was waiting for me at the airport. I recognized him straightaway, both from the uniform he was wearing and the sign he was holding with my name scrawled across it. The spelling was incorrect.
I guessed Sergeant Drogovich was roughly the same age as me, late twenties, but at the same time, he had a face that was difficult to pin an age on, having a large bushy moustache extending all the way along his upper lip and ending at little points on each side. There was something cavalier about this that I liked.
We shook hands and he led me out to a small, pale blue car. I had seen its like before in early seventies British spy films set almost entirely in the Eastern Bloc. Inside it smelt of petrol and vodka and indeed I could see a bottle neck poking out of the glove compartment.
“We’ll go straight to the training ground,” said Sergeant Drogovich, “introduce you to the boys and after we can drop off your luggage. I’m putting you up, is that okay? I don’t know if they informed you of the accommodation arrangements.”
I nodded my head okay and gazed out of the window. I had expected everything to be gray but it wasn’t. Tall buildings loomed impressively showing blank windows to the world.
“What exactly is it that I’ll be doing?” I asked. The captain had been somewhat stony faced about the actual nature of my assignment.
“Cycling proficiency,” said Sergeant Drogovich. “And call me Petr. Except in front of the lads, okay?”
“Cycling proficiency?”
“As a force we’ve invested quite some money in our cycle task force. We can’t afford to let anything go wrong. You are a keen cyclist, I take it?”
Outside four women dressed in black lay a perfectly cylindrical bouquet of flowers at what appeared to me to be a random spot on the pavement.
“Oh yes,” I said, “quite keen.” Although, in reality, it was quite some time since I had ridden a bike at all.
The lads numbered eight in total. Each was dressed in a neat white T-shirt and tight black trousers that showed off powerful thighs. Overhead, clouds were gathering and the wind had picked up. As Sergeant Drogovich—Petr—spoke to me, some of his words seemed to be carried away across the field.
“Eight weeks on step machines, then we moved on to the bikes themselves. We got them from the Dutch. Since we’ve joined the EU we’ve seen all sorts of benefits. Of course, the communist press often made digs about the wastefulness of Western policies, the butter mountain and all that, but it seems the last laugh is on us.”
“Sorry?” I said.
“The Dutch donated the bikes. Seems they are from the bike mountain. As opposed to mountain bikes.”
I wondered if this was a joke, then I said, “But you said you’ve invested a lot of money.”
Petr moved his hand up to his moustache. “In the training. And recruiting these guys, they are the cream of the crop. A bicycle task force. We will be the envy of the rest of Europe.”
It seemed that that was the end of the speech, for Petr reached into his pocket and took out a large blue whistle. He blew into it three times and the lads turned and jogged off to a wooden shed I hadn’t noticed before on the edge of the field.
“That’s where we keep the bikes,” said Petr. “It’s quite secure. It’s guarded by a dog. She’s a bitch and very ferocious. There’s a lot riding on this project. No stone has been left unturned.”
“How do you get them to train so hard?” I said.
I had hardly needed to blow the whistle Petr had given me. I was amazed at the eight lads’ enthusiasm, never having seen a group of people cycle with such verve.
“What is it you people say?” said Petr. “The proof is in the pudding. Look. Today, Ivan is last.”
I had noticed that as the lads were completing each of the cycle tasks we set them Petr had been making notes in a little hardback book he carried. I could now see that the notes were in a series of tables, or more precisely, a set of numbers entered onto these tables.
“Wait here,” said Petr.
The lads were huddled in a group. While earlier they had been laughing, boisterous even, now the silence of expectation had fallen over them. Petr opened up the book and puffs of frosted air appeared from his mouth which indicated he was speaking, although because of his moustache, I was not actually able to see his lips move.
As the puffs stopped all of the lads bar one leapt into the air and there was much laughing and clapping of hands. The single remaining boy, Ivan I guessed, looked disconsolate and with a stamp of his feet made his way solitarily to the bike shed. Intrigued by what was happening I moved toward the group.
“Sergeant Drogovich,” I started to say but Petr held up a hand to silence me.
“There is something of a ceremony about this,” he said and gave a laugh. “We are a Catholic country, after all.”
It took me a moment to realize what was different about the bike Ivan was wheeling out of the shed, and then I noticed the seat. Instead of the usual triangular leather design, there was a large purple phallus.
Petr leant over and whispered in my ear. “This one came from the Dutch sex museum. Another donation. We didn’t have this kind of thing under communism. We much more had to just ‘make do.’”
The lads had formed a circle and into the center of this Ivan wheeled the bike. The earlier jollity had now been replaced by a somber silence. Ivan looked toward Petr, perhaps hoping for some kind of reprieve, but as none was apparently forthcoming, he carefully laid down the bike and removed his clothes item by item.
His body was perfectly white, almost marblelike, and as defined as a statue. Petr had stated they were cream of the crop and I wondered under what conditions exactly they were recruited. The clouds had moved in closer and it was about dark.
“If you would, as our guest, do the honors,” said Petr and he passed me an open tub of what I guessed must be some kind of lubricant.
Ivan had cupped his hands over his penis and as I approached he turned slightly and bent at the waist, offering up his backside.
I thought how it was only the night before when I had put my fingers up Smith’s arse. And here I was again.
“If I put a lot on,” I whispered, “it won’t hurt so much.”
Ivan nodded very slightly. “Thank you,” he said. “You are very kind.”
We were back in the car and Petr was talking although my mind was elsewhere. I was thinking of Ivan as he sat on the phallus, the way once it was inside him, it looked like he was riding a regular bike. I recalled the officers back at the barracks putting their fingers up each other’s arses on a nightly basis under the guise of a game. Everything was something under something else and I was trying to decipher the exact significance of this, if indeed there was any, when I realized the car had stopped and Petr was saying something to me.
“A drink before we return home?”
On each side of the car loomed the gray façades of three-storey buildings. The street was empty and I noticed a gentle snow had started to fall. Flakes were clinging like tiny white insects to the windscreen of the car.
“A regular haunt of mine,” said Petr. “I’m sure you’ll like it.”
My eyes were heavy but it seemed the drink was already a foregone conclusion, like everything else that had happened over the previous two days.
I followed Petr out of the car and up to an unobtrusive iron gate. Petr pushed a button, a buzzer sounded and we gained access to a courtyard. At the end of this was a staircase, hewn from the concrete, leading down to a door.
“I found this place quite by chance,” said Petr and he rapped on the door with his knuckles.
The door was opened by a burly man in a thick, ribbed jumper. From inside I sensed a warm fug of smoke, the cozy chatter of intimate friends and the gentle beat of music.
The ceiling was not much higher than my own head, and radiating from the main body of the bar were a number of alcoves. We were led to one of these and within seconds two beers were placed in front of us.
“It’s always good to relax after a long day,” said Petr. “And I wanted a chance to talk to you properly.”
From the corner of my eye I noticed a door opening on a side wall. Through it came a youth dressed only in a pair of white underpants. For a second I thought it was Ivan and then I saw the face was different. There was a smattering of applause as the youth stepped onto a low-rise stage.
“You’ve heard about our serial killer, have you?” said Petr.
“What?” I said. And then, “Oh yes, I see.” I clearly remembered the fat man on the plane although that seemed a while ago now. “He cuts off their penises, doesn’t he?”
On the stage the youth was gyrating his hips. Someone passed him a bottle of oil or something and he held it vertically, squirted the liquid on his chest. It made the already taut muscles glisten, even in the half-light.
“It’s our Catholic heritage,” said Petr. “Where you have rituals, you also have a perversion of them. That was one of the plus points of communism. It didn’t stand for all that. You knew where you were with communism.”
A barman appeared and replaced our two empty glasses with two full ones. It was odd as I couldn’t remember taking a drink. The youth beckoned someone onto the stage with him, a muscular compact man from a table near the entrance.
The youth pushed the man to his knees in front of him and carefully took off his own underpants, revealing a large penis that was quickly growing erect. The man took the oil from the youth and started to rub it into the shaft of the penis, performing a slow masturbation.
“I wanted to bring you here,” said Petr, “away from the hurly-burly, to explain the true nature of our task force. Can you keep a secret?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I wouldn’t want this getting back to the captain.”
“I keep myself to myself,” I said.
The youth was sliding his hips slowly backward and forward, his penis slipping and sliding out of the O the man had made with his hand. On his face was a look of ecstasy.
“The main reason our bicycle task force has been set up is to catch this serial killer. Traditional methods have failed. The powers that be want to try something new. Are you willing to help?”
The muscular man, while keeping one hand in a perfect O, reached into a pocket and pulled out a small circular cracker. He held this near to the head of the penis. The youth gave one final thrust and came, the cum splashing onto the cracker. There was a loud round of applause and Petr asked me to repeat what I had said, my words obviously having been drowned out in the din.
“But why me?” I said again.
I couldn’t remember the drive back to Petr’s apartment. Our initial two beers had turned into seven or eight and the effect of the alcohol had only been intensified by my extreme tiredness. The lift smelt of stale urine. Petr’s door was at the end of a long corridor. I had the sense that we were very high up.
