intoxication, which swept over him like bleach on a greasy floor every
time he had a large glass of Chardonnay. That was what Simon lived for. The
liberating douche. That, and urgent sexual gratification.
‘It
sounds horribly primitive,’ said Molly, when he tried to explain it to her.
‘It
is,’ agreed Simon.
‘And I
worry about you. I worry that one day you’ll meet the straight man who takes
real offence when you make a pass and decides to duff you up.’
‘I’ve
had the odd unfortunate encounter but I can run fast. I want you to understand.
You like safe, steady men and I like dangerous, unsteady men. Each to their
own.‘
That
Christmas, Molly gave Simon a St Christopher medal with his initials engraved
on the back. ‘To keep you safe on your travels,’ she told him. Simon laughed,
but he promised to keep it with him just in case.
Molly
soon acquired another boyfriend and entered into another, what he called
‘warts-and-all’, relationship. And then another. Simon would meet them, shake
their hands limply and suffer their company at the occasional party, but he was
resolutely cool with them. He much preferred to meet Molly alone because he
hated to see how needy and loved-up she got, forever leaning into her boyfriend
for a reassuring peck and gazing longingly at him across a crowded room if they
should be separated for more than a few seconds. It never rang true to Simon.
Molly was a vivacious, sexy woman. Why was she squandering her charisma on
these dreadful men? She devoted so much energy and emotion to each relationship
that she must be exhausted! Given how predictable the eventual outcome was, it
didn’t seem like a wise investment to Simon. If that was the price you had to
pay to get a cup of tea made for you in the morning and have someone to rub
your feet when they were sore, it wasn’t worth it.
One
night the following spring they fell out of Heaven nightclub at three in the
morning and Simon insisted they go for a stroll by the river. Molly was more
street-wise than Simon, but they linked arms as they walked over a deserted
Charing Cross Bridge and were soon sitting on a bench by the inky Thames just
in front of the National Theatre. Everything seemed incredibly peaceful. They
could see and hear traffic crossing the bridge to their left and the distant
whoops of other late-night revellers. Even faraway sirens seemed just a part of
the great cacophony of the metropolis.
‘Do you
ever wonder where we’ll be in ten years’ time?’ asked Simon. ‘Or twenty? Or
thirty?’
‘We’d
be in our fifties,’ said Molly, sounding appalled at the very thought.
‘Grey
hair and grey skin,’ said Simon. ‘If we’ve been successful in life we’ll be
trying to cling on to what we’ve achieved, fighting off young pretenders. If
we’ve failed to make our mark we’ll be full of self-loathing and
disappointment.’
‘That
depends at which point you give up on life, I guess,’ replied Molly, resting
her head on Simon’s shoulder as she looked at the streetlights reflected in the
water.
‘I
imagine it’s a gradual procedure,’ said Simon. ‘Preceded by a period of
self-delusion. I’ve always thought the ageing process is far worse for
beautiful people.’
‘Are
there any preparations I should be making?’
‘I
somehow think you’ll manage,’ said Simon tartly.
‘Well,
there’s no shame in getting older. It happens to everyone.’
‘It
does. But there’s no one so self-aware as a homosexual. We tick off every day,
watching for decay — little signs of death. We welcome them home like stray
dogs. It’s thought we party more than other folk because we have no breeding
responsibilities. We don’t live in supportive family groups so we seek and
satisfy our human social needs through the so-called gay community. We’re also
the lucky dispensers of the mythical pink pound, so it’s assumed we can afford
to go out swinging from the chandeliers every night of the
time he had a large glass of Chardonnay. That was what Simon lived for. The
liberating douche. That, and urgent sexual gratification.
‘It
sounds horribly primitive,’ said Molly, when he tried to explain it to her.
‘It
is,’ agreed Simon.
‘And I
worry about you. I worry that one day you’ll meet the straight man who takes
real offence when you make a pass and decides to duff you up.’
‘I’ve
had the odd unfortunate encounter but I can run fast. I want you to understand.
You like safe, steady men and I like dangerous, unsteady men. Each to their
own.‘
That
Christmas, Molly gave Simon a St Christopher medal with his initials engraved
on the back. ‘To keep you safe on your travels,’ she told him. Simon laughed,
but he promised to keep it with him just in case.
Molly
soon acquired another boyfriend and entered into another, what he called
‘warts-and-all’, relationship. And then another. Simon would meet them, shake
their hands limply and suffer their company at the occasional party, but he was
resolutely cool with them. He much preferred to meet Molly alone because he
hated to see how needy and loved-up she got, forever leaning into her boyfriend
for a reassuring peck and gazing longingly at him across a crowded room if they
should be separated for more than a few seconds. It never rang true to Simon.
Molly was a vivacious, sexy woman. Why was she squandering her charisma on
these dreadful men? She devoted so much energy and emotion to each relationship
that she must be exhausted! Given how predictable the eventual outcome was, it
didn’t seem like a wise investment to Simon. If that was the price you had to
pay to get a cup of tea made for you in the morning and have someone to rub
your feet when they were sore, it wasn’t worth it.
One
night the following spring they fell out of Heaven nightclub at three in the
morning and Simon insisted they go for a stroll by the river. Molly was more
street-wise than Simon, but they linked arms as they walked over a deserted
Charing Cross Bridge and were soon sitting on a bench by the inky Thames just
in front of the National Theatre. Everything seemed incredibly peaceful. They
could see and hear traffic crossing the bridge to their left and the distant
whoops of other late-night revellers. Even faraway sirens seemed just a part of
the great cacophony of the metropolis.
‘Do you
ever wonder where we’ll be in ten years’ time?’ asked Simon. ‘Or twenty? Or
thirty?’
‘We’d
be in our fifties,’ said Molly, sounding appalled at the very thought.
‘Grey
hair and grey skin,’ said Simon. ‘If we’ve been successful in life we’ll be
trying to cling on to what we’ve achieved, fighting off young pretenders. If
we’ve failed to make our mark we’ll be full of self-loathing and
disappointment.’
‘That
depends at which point you give up on life, I guess,’ replied Molly, resting
her head on Simon’s shoulder as she looked at the streetlights reflected in the
water.
‘I
imagine it’s a gradual procedure,’ said Simon. ‘Preceded by a period of
self-delusion. I’ve always thought the ageing process is far worse for
beautiful people.’
‘Are
there any preparations I should be making?’
‘I
somehow think you’ll manage,’ said Simon tartly.
‘Well,
there’s no shame in getting older. It happens to everyone.’
‘It
does. But there’s no one so self-aware as a homosexual. We tick off every day,
watching for decay — little signs of death. We welcome them home like stray
dogs. It’s thought we party more than other folk because we have no breeding
responsibilities. We don’t live in supportive family groups so we seek and
satisfy our human social needs through the so-called gay community. We’re also
the lucky dispensers of the mythical pink pound, so it’s assumed we can afford
to go out swinging from the chandeliers every night of the
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