Blame - Sex in The Back Room 1

Sex in a Back-room, with Optional Condoms? It's twenty past twelve. It's hot, it's steamy, and above all it's sexy. The barman is hassled though, too many customers and the bar is too small. He should have had help tonight, but the other barman has called in sick again. There's not a lot he can say. It's to be expected. Some people think he's quite cute, fuckable. But he's not interested in picking-up tonight.

He's got a sore arse from last night. He told me. We're friends. He works on the scene because he's a bit of a tease, and likes the attention. Since he started work here, wearing his skimpy shorts and vests he's never looked back. Never had so much trade in his life, he says. He told me once he gets a real buzz when he bends over - to get a bottle out the fridge, or to pick-up change he's dropped. He likes to show people his best asset, doesn't like to leave anything to the imagination. Talking of assets, he's also been known to get the odd hard-on. They're a bit of a spectacle, make some peoples night. He's not shy about getting rid of them either. He nips over the bar and goes glass collecting, in the back-room. There are two glasses next to the till. One is nearly full with Michael's tips.

The one for the Rubberstuffers money - subsidised packs of condoms and lube - is empty but for a pound. The crowd's younger than usual tonight. I think some of them are students. There's also been more than the usual amount of drinking. It looks as though there's a fair bit of Dutch courage floating around. One week, about six months ago, this young guy was so drunk he couldn't stand without help. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five. Some lads helped him into the back. Held him up as they fucked him.

Five or six of them. The room was packed. Couldn't move to get near him. I got involved in something after that and lost sight of him. He'd gone by the time I came out. He wouldn't have done that unless he were pissed. The regulars are here. Don't know their names, but recognise them. Hardly ever see them anywhere but here. I bumped into one in the bank one day. He recognised me but didn't say a word. He shot off as soon as he could. Later, when I saw him here, he smiled and gave me a knod. It was as if he were saying 'You know how it is, can't say hello...'. I shouldn't say this, but most of the people here fall into types. It's not a politically correct thing to say, but then I don't think of myself as a politically correct person.

The tired, thick waisted business men, with their grey faces and out-moded hairstyles always want to kiss you then fuck you. The hard-core skinheads in combat fatigues and heavey boots are nearly always passive. The students either want blow jobs or want to give them. And the ones who get themselves shit-faced don't know what the fuck they want - you can usually give them what you like. There's a guy at the end of the bar looks like some kind of drama student. His clothes don't match, they're all a bit warn and scruffy.

He's wearing a squalid pair of bermuda shorts with some kind of African pattern on them. His T-shirt's tie-died, blue and white. The only nearly trendy thing about him is his boots, but even they look like they're a couple of sizes too large. It's cruel to say, but when he turns side-ways he looks like a sledge-hammer. He's been standing there all night with a hand in his pocket. Earlier I thought he was having a little seruptitious wank. This place is strange sometimes, when it comes to sex. If a couple come in and have a kiss people get really pissed-off.

But if two strangers hit it off and end up down each others throats everyone either gets jealous or horny. Now and again two people will stand front to back, the one in front giving the one behind a wank. No-one minds, but if anything else happens they'll be asked to stop. And all of this, even though, thirty feet away, people are screwing themselves senseless. I don't understand it, don't think I ever will. It's a crazy kind of double standard. There's a pub in Peckham that's got it right; once in, anything goes.

Anyway, he's been dancing from foot to foot all night. He's given nearly everyone in the bar the eye, been scanning backwards and forwards since I came in at least. There's no-one near him now. He's chased them all off, been trying too hard. He's begging for it, and it's kind of embarrassing. I'd even say he's so desperate he's insidious. I can't make up my mind what he needs most; a therapist, boyfriend or fuck. I might be able to help with the former, but as for the latter two... I've come across his type before.

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Terminally desperate for affection. He's the sort of guy who tries to kiss you in Russell Square after he's sucked you off. He thinks most gay men are callous and insensitive, and if we were all just a little bit more understanding we'd all get along so much better. Makes me wonder what's brought him here. Still probably thinks sex is a purely divine experience - practically it's physical, essentially it's spiritual - and all of that middle-class Christian stuff. I'd like to think if he made it out back his problems would be solved. But I'm sure they wouldn't. He'd walk away feeling guilty.

Talking of guilt, reminds me of a joke a good Christian friend once played on me. 'Could you sleep with a Fundamentalist Christian?' he asked. 'Yes, I could,' I said. 'So long as I thought he was cute...' 'So you don't think the guilt would be difficult to handle?' At this I let slip my set piece about sex being something to be proud of; 'If two people are acting maturely, know what they're doing, and aren't going to hurt anybody, I just don't see where guilt comes into it. I certainly wouldn't feel guilty,' I said, and so on.

At this point he let a big grin slip across his face. 'I wasn't talking about yours,' he said. 'I meant theirs!' Not all my friends get this. I think it's one of those jokes that only Christians find really funny. There's a couple of skinheads leaving the back room. On their way home by the looks of things. I can't make out whether they're friends or have just met. Well, as they've made space, I think it's time for me to see what's happening. It's time for me to go on that long walk. I must admit, this is the bit I find hardest. It's not that I'm embarrassed, it's just I don't like such a knowing audience. I think backrooms should have backdoors for people like me - well it's just an idea.

Before I face the crowds, I'll get Michael to give me another drink. Well, here goes. It's just you and your hard-on and as much as you can take. That's the point of anonymous sex. It's quick, it's easy, and when you're out and about - at the Square say - it unnerving. Ever had an orgasm when you're nearly sick with fright? You should do, it's fabulous. It'd be a bit much to tell you what went on. I'm not into all that voyeuristic stuff. And anyway, towards the end it all went wrong. It's clouded everything. A guy wanted to fuck me. He was nudging around my arse with his cock. I felt behind to check him out.

Nice cock, but he didn't have a condom on. So I whisper to him to put a condom on. He says 'What?' and I think he hasn't heard me. So, I tell him again to put a condom on. Then he tells me 'No. Why should I?' I hit the fucking roof. You can imagine. I think I made a bit of a fool of myself. Everyone turned to look at us, moved away. 'Why the fuck not? Why the fuck not?' I shouted. As if he had to fucking ask!

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