:: Article

The Intimate Adventures of a London Eunuch III

By Gavin James Bower.

Read Part One here.
Read Part Two here.

Part Three: Man Down

In some cultures — or so I’ve read as part of my healing process — it was customary to make a small incision to the male genitalia while on the brink of orgasm, just before engaging in a sort of vampiric fellatio.

The blood rushing to your head, as it were, the ritual rendered altogether more thrilling — for both parties; heightened, or so they say, by visceral passion, blood lust, and a very real sense of danger.

It’s thoughts like these that preoccupy me now, on my way to the house off Brewer Street, where I first met the Brazilian.

Revenge, or so they don’t say, is a dish best served hard.

****

My mother is dead. I’ll admit that much.

I lied about the hospital, the sleeping in the lounge, the waking up with her at my bedside — even the grapes; all of it, a lie. Somehow, it was easier. Simpler. Somehow, it was all just a lot more fucking convenient. Losing her, in that same hospital, felt like falling flat on your face with your hands in your pockets.

This time, I didn’t want to fall alone.

****

The house is sandwiched between an oyster bar and an off licence. I remember the door: red, with peeling paint, a letter but no number; simply, ‘K’.

I buzz and wait, bullied and bruised — no wait, exposed — after my ordeal with Sandy at the club. Then the door opens, a face appears.

It’s the boy.

He doesn’t know me — not even the faintest flicker of recognition — but I still want to scream at him, to further impregnate the pause, ‘It should have been you!’

But I don’t.

‘I’m…erm…John,’ I say, avoiding prolonged eye contact — just in case. ‘I’m looking for someone.’

I can feel his eyes on my body, looking me up and down — the flirt. I don’t know whether to be flattered by his glare, or offended that he clearly doesn’t remember me; worse, that he has no idea just how lucky he is to be standing there, perfectly formed. Intact.

‘Oh yeah?’ he answers, smirking. ‘Looks like you’ve found someone…’

‘The man I’m looking for is Brazilian,’ I interrupt, ignoring his come-on then realising something. ‘Actually, he could be Portuguese…’

There’s another pause, as the boy goes pale. Now he remembers.

‘I’m sorry but you have to leave —’

I wedge my foot inside the door frame before he has chance to close it, then push my way inside.

‘Look, boy,’ I growl, taken aback by my own brutality, as the boy is my shove. ‘I need to know what you know. And I need to know, now.’

****

The doctors think that they know everything. That they have it all figured out. That they can simply diagnose what’s wrong with me — or not, as is apparently the case — then send me off with some pills and a course of therapy.

When I regained consciousness, after that night, they told me that everything would work out — even, that I’m fine.

‘You’re fine,’ they said, specialist after specialist — all in agreement. ‘And you’ll be back to normal in no time.’

What they don’t realise, what they have so far either ignored or simply failed to comprehend, is that I was never normal to begin with.

****

The Fitness First in Victoria is one of London’s most notorious haunts; a bastion for men of all ages, straight and gay, to come and cum and come again — without recourse to admissions of embarrassment, regret, or guilt. What happens in Fitness First, stays in Fitness First. Or so they say.

My first experience with a man happened in the sauna, but I haven’t been back for years. Until now, that is; all alone — save, of course, for a familiar face.

The boy told me what I needed to know. That I’d find the Brazilian, who is in fact called Steve and decidedly not Brazilian, in only one place this time of night.

It is a Monday, the new Friday; at least, it’s that for serious gym-goers like the Brazilian, who’s free to work out, sauna then shower, without the distraction of all those men working out on each other.

I should’ve known it would end this way.

****

He’s on his back, a towel draped low and loose on his hips. I’m directly opposite, legs crossed to conceal my weapon, biding my time.

I’m waiting for the steam to rise, fill the room just a little more — before I strike. But I’m growing restless, too, worried that someone might enter, even though there’s nobody in the changing rooms.

‘You don’t mind do you?’ I say, after a mere moment.

I’m now starting to quietly panic, enveloped by sauna sweat, choked with anxiety; every sensation at once, I sense that the time is now, roused and rallied by the pressure.

This, as they say, is it.

There’s no reply from the Brazilian, but I’m already gliding towards the heat and pouring another bucket on the stones, a sizzle of steam my accomplice as I swiftly lock the door from the inside — a faux pas in any sauna but this.

Invigorated by what’s about to happen, what I know must be done, I feel my nipples harden, my eyes begin to water, as I unleash and unveil — my truth, my beauty, my revenge. Then, at the climax — cocked and ready to take from he that which was taken from me — a stir.

Turning to face him, a sharpened blade to allay, my towel drops, and I gently sway.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gavin James Bower is the author of Dazed & Aroused. He is interviewed in 3:AM here.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Tuesday, March 15th, 2011.