Sottopassaggio Read online

  I note a few people watching me. I guess that Brighton remains a small town, and I am fresh meat after all.

  “Here we go again,” I think. The thought depresses me.

  I glance around the room again and my eyes settle on a couple against the opposite wall. They are the most identical pair I have ever seen, the same height, the same shaved heads, matching goatee beards. Even their jeans are the same tone of blue. They look slightly ridiculous but, it has to be said, cute.

  One of them winks at me and, slightly embarrassed to have been caught staring, I turn away and face the other side of the bar.

  I end up wedged between a fit-but-knows-it guy in cycle shorts on the left, a very ugly man in beautiful one-piece motorcycle leathers behind, and a diverse group of slightly drunken men in front.

  To distract myself from the two clones and they from me, I stare vaguely into the group in front as though I am involved in their conversation. They are talking about someone’s holiday plans and whether his boyfriend will cancel just before the departure. Most people seem to think that this is what will happen.

  I’m so pushed into the group I start to feel as though I am involved and the main man, a big guy with a beard and a beer gut glances at me with smiling eyes as he entertains everyone with his spiel. After a while I realise that he does think that I am with them.

  His neighbour – a thin guy in a suit – asks him how the man in question managed to take four weeks leave.

  “Well exactly!” the big guy laughs. “Especially because his boss is his ex … I mean, they’re not exactly on the best of terms.”

  “Apparently he put the form in on the day Joe went on holiday, so it just slipped in without anyone noticing,” comments an older guy in a leather jacket.

  Without thinking, I lean forward and comment, “fnarr, fnarr,” a mocking laugh I recall from way back that indicates an unintended double entendre.

  It’s the beer talking, and I immediately realise how rude this is, especially as I don’t know anyone in the group or even who they are talking about. But a couple of the guys laugh heartily and the others smile at me.

  “Try that in France and you’re dead,” I think.

  The guy in the suit says, “I can’t believe you missed that one Burt; you’re losing your touch.”

  The group opens to let me in; I feel I have to say something.

  “Hey, do you know how they say double entendre in French?” I ask.

  “Um, double entendre?” asks one.

  “Nah, I know this one,” says the fat guy. “Jean told me.” The guy glances behind him, then shrugs and continues. “Apparently they don’t have a word for it in French.”

  “They don’t,” I agree.

  A man appears at his side. It is one of the clones. His double is just behind him holding two pints of beer.

  “We say double-sense, but that isn’t necessarily rude, so it’s not really the same,” he says, his voice smooth, his accent French.

  “We don’t really use what you call double entendres in French humour.”

  “So what you’re saying,” laughs the guy in the suit, “is that we use your language better than you do.”

  Jean smiles wryly. “Maybe,” he laughs.

  The conversation drifts around France and the French. Jean and his twin partner – who amusingly turns out to be called John – take position either side of me and chat. I can feel a move coming and I find the idea amusing and actually quite flattering.

  By my third pint I am feeling amazingly relaxed, and this in turn has created a happy feeling of homecoming. It’s a surprise to me, but I am realising that despite fifteen years in France it is still only in England that I can strike up an instant rapport, only in England that I can feel comfortable enough to join in an overheard conversation.

  As I start my fourth pint, the crowd is diminishing, and the clones are standing either side of me, touching me regularly as they talk, a prod here, a playful punch there.

  John tells me that they have been together for eleven years.

  I nod impressed. “I don’t know how you do it,” I say.

  Jean winks at me. “We’ll show you if you want.”

  I laugh. “No, I meant how do you stay together so long.”

  Jean smiles at me. “We’ll show you if you want,” he deadpans. “The thing is to keep the sex life healthy, the rest is following.”

  John leans in and says “And our sex life is very healthy. With a little help from our friends.”

  “Here it comes,” I think, and I wonder how I will reply.

  A strange feeling comes over me. A sensation that I am not myself, or rather that I am watching myself.

  I surprise myself by wondering what he would have done, the he in question, being Mark.

  Mark didn’t do threesomes. He may have fantasised about them, sometimes he even almost got involved in one, but he never quite did it. I wonder, what with life being so fragile, and what with everything Mark thought so important turning out so elusive and temporary, well, I wonder if he was right.

  “We have a great set-up,” Jean is telling me with a salacious smile, adding in French, “Notre cave est un veritable Disneyland.” – Our cellar is a veritable Disneyland.

  John, feigning surprise at an idea that has supposedly just popped into his head, exclaims, “Hey! Why don’t we go back and have a drink there now?”

  Though intrigued by the idea of visiting Disneyland and turned on by the idea of having sex with the identical clone-show, I don’t feel ready for anonymous sex. It would somehow seem disrespectful of Steve. Plus a voice within is outraged and imploring me to say no to the proposition. “Have a threesome?” It says. “You are joking?”

  “But maybe random sex would be the best cure for my blues,” I tell it. “Maybe it’s just what the doctor ordered, maybe it would close a chapter. Don’t be so judgemental.”

  John frowns at me as my weird internal dialogue continues.

  “People always say don’t be judgemental,” I think. “But aren’t our judgements about what’s good and what’s bad precisely what defines who we are? Without judgement who am I?”

  I open my mouth to say, “Maybe another time,” but Jean interrupts.

  “Jees, it’s nothing heavy you know,” he says. “It’s only fun. It’s only sex.”

  And for some strange reason, that clinches it. It strikes me as the most honest statement of intent I have ever heard.

  Disneyland

  During the walk, the mirror-couple march either side of me.

  I could feel as if I have a bodyguard, or perhaps as if I am surrounded, and in different circumstances that could be scary, or exciting, but the air of camp lingering behind their every word, is anything but virile, anything but scary.

  Jean is telling me that the lounge still smells of paint, that they only just finished decorating it. John is interrupting him like an excited puppy to tell me that he chose all of the furnishings and made the curtains and cushion covers himself.

  My fantasy world is evaporating fast and yet strangely, the simple idea that empty sex with these two might fill some void within me, that it may just help me reconnect with my sense of me; the idea that a threesome with John and Jean might act as a kind of unauthorised electric shock therapy is becoming ever more compelling.

  “Here we are,” John says, indicating with a flourish of his hand that we have arrived.

  The house is in the middle of an elegant two-storey crescent. We climb the steps to the front door and as Jean opens the door he places a hand on my arse pushing me across the threshold.

  John, who is behind, says, “Ta Da!”

  I bet that a few people have balked and run away at this point, not through fear but in sheer revulsion.

  The curtains, heavy Dralon, are peach coloured, as is the deep pile nylon wall-to-wall carpet and the enormous sofa.

  The cushions have been covered, by John’s own fair hands so he tells me, with thick canvas carrying an ethnic print.
They would be tasteful were they not, also, peach.

  “Sit there,” Jean instructs, pointing me to the sofa.

  John winks at me and says, “We’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  I force a grin and sit in the sea of peach wondering just how long it is since I last heard the phrase, back in a jiffy.

  The lounge has been knocked through to the dining room, which has the same colour carpet occupied by glass and wrought iron dining table and chairs.

  The bookcases contain sets of identical spines which say more about misplaced ideas of interior design than culture, whilst the surfaces are occupied by a tidily arranged series of geometrically modern candle holders, vases and paperweights; generic items from Habitat or Ikea. Part of the sea of consumer junk that those stores throw at us every year, the same stuff people always seem to give me at Christmas and which I have to wait until springtime to bin.

  When the twins return, their outfits, leather chaps, studded posing pouches, big motorcycle boots and harnesses, are so incongruous with the surroundings that it is as much as I can do not to snigger.

  They sit either side of me and serve drinks from a pseudo antique bar, which for some reason has mock leaded windows.

  “So what do you think?” asks Jean proudly.

  “Yeah, great I say,” perusing the two.

  If one can just ignore the fact that we’re sitting in a sea of peach drinking sherry from a mock antique bar, the boys look pretty sexy, but truth be told, I’m having trouble ignoring.

  “I’m glad you like it,” John says. “It’s always so nice when people appreciate all the hard work.” He plumps a cushion as he says this.

  I assume he has misunderstood. We are talking not about the room but about the outfits they have put on for my benefit, but the couple, at least, seem in tune.

  “Took ages to choose the sofa though,” Jean says.

  I think, “No. I can’t do this.” I will make my excuses and leave.

  But as I open my mouth to say so, Jean interrupts.

  “We spotted you straight away,” he says. “The second you walked in we both thought, wow!”

  “You’re new to Brighton aren’t you?” John asks.

  The flattery calms my nerves. I even blush as I thank them, and start to explain how I came here less than a month ago.

  John asks concernedly if I know anyone in Brighton.

  “Moving to a new place is hard,” he says. “We can introduce you to lots of people.”

  As I start to forget the peach surrounding me, Jean swigs the last of his sherry and nudges his partner.

  “Time to take the prisoner downstairs I think,” he says.

  John stands. “Indeed,” he agrees standing.

  “Look. Guys …” I say as they each grab an elbow. “Maybe we can do the downstairs thing another time.”

  Jean laughs at me. “Relax, there’s no pressure. Just come and look, you have to see our setup, we’re not going to jump you or anything.”

  I am intrigued to see their set-up, and they are so un-scary except in terms of their taste in furnishings that I decide to go see. I’m pretty sure I could take on the two of them if I needed to, even with my dodgy leg.

  So I follow John to the door under the stairs and then on, down into the dimly lit cellar.

  “Best room in the house,” he says as he descends before me.

  Jean rests a hand on my shoulder as he climbs down behind.

  The cellar is fabulous and I am truly dumb struck. Were these not Mr and Mr Peach, I would be afraid.

  The rough stone walls are dimly lit by the flickering light of fake torches. In the middle of the room, suspended from the ceiling, is a complex set of pulleys and chains, the kind of thing you see at a Kwik-Fit garage.

  Along the wall is a huge tool rack containing a selection of toys worthy of any sex shop: clamps, rings, leather gear, hand-cuffs and a full set of dildos, carefully laid out from small to large.

  It reminds me of my father’s tool bench and spanner sets, and I briefly wonder if the one dildo the boys can never find is the one they use the most.

  “Wow,” I say, touching a hanging chain. “What’s all this for?”

  Jean laughs and slides a hand to my arse.

  “If you want to know that then you are obliged to participate!” he laughs, his French accent suddenly quite strong.

  I laugh nervously but pull gently away. “I’m not sure that right now is …”

  “Lache toi!” he says. – Let yourself go! “It’s just a new experience.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not sure it’s an experience I want to have,” I say. “I’m not sure that this kind of sex is …”

  “Who said anything about sex?” he says. “Just try on the gear and we’ll show you how the pulley works. You decide where you want to stop.”

  For the first time since the accident my dick twitches, and bizarrely there are no voices in my mind raising objections, so as Jean lifts a huge mass of leather straps and buckles, I shrug.

  “It’s amazing being suspended in this thing I promise you,” he says.

  “We’ll just put it on, and other than that we won’t even touch you,” John insists.

  I look at the complex harness and remember when I was in New York, remember saying no to exactly this. I remember wondering ever since just what it would have been like.

  My hesitation is a giveaway and the boys nod and smile as if a decision has been reached.

  “I guess …” I say vaguely. “But I’m not sure I want to go any further, really I’m not.”

  Jean winks at his partner who grins back. “That’s no problem,” he says.

  A wave of heat ripples through my body. It starts at my brow and sweeps down, a wave of panic.

  I wonder if I can trust them, I wonder if they will balk at the sight of the scars on my knee and my arm, I wonder if my knee will hurt, I wonder …

  But strangely I stay silent. I stand and watch myself let John pull my T-shirt over my head.

  “It’ll be fine,” he says, and for some reason, I believe him.

  Jean moves behind me, takes my wrist and starts to buckle a leather wristband around it.

  “What’s this?” he asks, running a finger along my scar.

  “Bad car accident,” I say, suddenly embarrassed.

  “Don’t blush,” Jean says. “It’s sexy.”

  “And no risks!” I say. “I’m negative OK?”

  John crouches before me and starts to remove my trainers.

  Jean, behind me, says, “You don’t listen. We already agreed, no sex, nothing but suspension. Relax.”

  John removes the second trainer and pulls down my jeans and my boxer shorts. My dick springs erect. I feel myself blush.

  “Hmm, you’re enjoying this aren’t you!” he laughs.

  Jean leans around me and peers at my dick.

  “Hmmm, shame to put that to waste,” he says.

  They remove my jeans and clip restraints to my ankles. John stands and lifts my arms. His partner, still behind, immediately clips the d-rings of the bracelets to two chains hanging from the ceiling.

  It’s all strangely business-like, a well rehearsed ritual that feels anything but sexual. As he tugs on the pulleys, stretching my arms taut, I start to feel fear again.

  “Look,” I say. “I’m not sure actually that I feel that comfortable with this whole …”

  As I say this, John clips my feet to two floor chains, completely immobilising me.

  “Hey!” I say. “Is anyone listening to me?”

  Jean speaks quietly into my right ear. “Just calm down,” he says. “No-one’s doing anything you haven’t given permission for, so relax and enjoy.”

  “But …”

  In a surprise movement, Jean slaps my arse. Hard.

  As I open my mouth to shout, he pulls a gag between my teeth.

  “Umm,” I protest.

  “Now shut up and relax,” he says, buckling the gag behind my head.

  I protest as
loudly as I can but Jean just laughs.

  “There’s nothing you can do now, nothing you can say, so just relax, give in,” he says.

  For a while I protest through my nose. I thrash around too, but it only makes the men laugh all the more, and slowly an unexpected, nervy calm comes over me. I have given in. I have resigned myself to whatever is going to happen.

  Jean pulls a hood over my head. I can still see through the eyeholes but my hearing becomes muffled. Images of the gimp in Pulp Fiction come to mind and I wonder if I will be living in a box from now on. Terrifyingly my dick twitches at the idea. Obtusely I think, “Thank god my mother can’t see me now.”

  John stands in front and looks into my eyes while Jean, behind, finishes lacing the hood and moves yet another chain into place, clipping it to a ring on the top, holding my head upright.

  It’s weird. I feel like a museum exhibit being dispassionately tended to.

  I hold my breath to listen to them speaking.

  “In a minute, once he relaxes …” I hear Jean say. “He’ll be begging …”

  Then, one after the other, Jean covers my eyes.

  I hold my breath for a moment, considering the new leathery dark. I shift my weight, trying different ways of standing and hanging on the wrist restraints. My heart is racing and I am sweating in fear.

  At the same time, the taste of the gag, the smell of the hood, the very idea of my nakedness hanging before them arouses me.

  Nothing happens for a while, and then I feel hands fastening a new series of straps around my legs.

  A finger runs along the outline of the scar on my knee; they re-position the strap lower to avoid it. For some reason this attention to detail reassures me. My heart starts to slow.

  Someone reaches from behind and fastens straps around my waist and my torso, then another around my neck.

  The feeling of skin on skin contact is magnified by the darkness. Just the sensation of their hands endlessly fiddling with straps and buckles feels incredible.

  Someone’s leg brushes my dick and instinctively I writhe towards the contact eliciting a laugh that penetrates the muffled silence.