On the Night Stand

Who is playing whom, and who is left On the Night Stand?

I. Foreplay

I’ve blown too many Tories to really believe they’re special any more. Still, I expected the Housing Minister might spring for somewhere nicer than a West London Travelodge: so much for the parliamentary standards authority. Then again, I was a “replaceable whore”–an escort–so I wasn’t supposed to ask about that sort of stuff.

‘Not bad, Thomas,’ he growled. It was such a politician’s trait, to deliberately use a person’s name. It was supposed to make me feel special. It mostly just annoyed me. Anyway, my name wasn’t really Thomas, so I instead refocused myself on the task at hand. After all, I was on the clock.

The tool in question wasn’t particularly impressive but leaned to the right, so despite my best attempts, my eyes were left watering when it was in my windpipe. I tried not to draw conclusions as I let him finish over my face.

‘Fuck,’ he groaned and fell back onto the bed. ‘That was good. Bloody amazing.’

I grabbed his shirt from the floor, where it lay in a crumple next to my slumped body, and wiped myself clean. I made sure to raise my eyebrow at him so that he’d notice, like I was daring him to object, and he didn’t. That was the start of my ongoing association with Michael Knowles, MP for Dartmouth and Kingsbridge.

I didn’t normally keep regulars, but keeping Michael intoxicated me. For one, he was adamant I refer to him only as Michael, but would himself call me Tom without my permission. For another, Wikipedia told me he was a notable public figure, so my own standing improved by having him in my portfolio.

Sex work was common among the people I knew. We weren’t proud of it, but we didn’t feel shame, either. People expected me to: I was a politics student at King’s, and it’s not as though my family were poor. But, even as I kept every obligation on my side of the bargain, somehow London didn’t keep hers, and my savings shrank a little every month until they didn’t exist, and then my overdraft didn’t exist any more either, until I was advertising myself – first on apps, then on websites – like every other twenty-something twink who couldn’t bear to leave Zone 1. Still, I didn’t dwell. I had money to make.

I slept with many people, and most of them didn’t even realise they were clients. But whether I got paid in money or drinks, or just a good conversation, it was always transactional. Recognising this just made me honest.

The first time we fucked, Michael had awkwardly handed over the money – in cash, of course – and asked when I’d be available again. The next, he told me when we’d next meet. By the third, we had dinner first: after that, I didn’t need any other clients.

‘Well,’ I said, perplexed at his question. ‘I live in Paddington. Obviously.’

‘Obviously?’

‘Yes, it’s where all the male escorts live.’

‘That can’t be true.’

‘You’re right. It’s where all the high-end male escorts live.’

Michael laughed, and raised his glass. ‘Well, here’s to the high-end male escorts all being on my daily commute.’

I raised my own, but didn’t make contact with his. Our dinners were always this pretentious.

‘You commute every day to Devon?’ I asked. He shook his head.

‘Only weekends – to see the missus of course. Apart from that I have a flat in Brent. Not as glamorous as Paddington, but the public hates glamour. They want to maintain their fantasy we’re the same as them.’

I smiled and took another bite. If only you knew, I thought, how unglamorous my life is.

‘Is that why you see me?’ I asked casually, ‘to compensate for not seeing your wife?’ The air between us grew heavy with unsaid implication.

‘I’m not gay.’

He looked at me, each intense syllable cleaving the air as it struck me.

‘I didn’t say you were,’ I hastened. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s fine,’ he said, tersely. ‘Now take off your trousers and get on that bed.’

‘Shit,’ he concluded, ‘that was fucking incredible.’

Political affiliation told you nothing about a person’s politics but everything else about them. For example, when having sex, Tories swore more than Labour, but both swore less than the SNP. Greens swore the least but were best in bed. Lib Dems mostly didn’t know what to do with themselves.

I exaggerated my chest movements, so it appeared I too was panting.

‘Yeah,’ I lied, ‘you were brilliant.’

He sat up, and I felt my own body shift in the bed as he moved. He didn’t offer me a towel, though he reached over and wiped himself.

‘Would it shock you,’ he said portentously, ‘if I said you’d just been fucked by the future Prime Minister of Great Britain?’

I believed most of the country had been fucked by the present Prime Minister of Great Britain, so the answer was “no.” But British politics was psychosexual in its dysfunction, and my job was to facilitate fetishes, so I indulged him on this one and widened my eyes in studied amazement.

Michael smirked, satisfied. ‘Don’t be surprised. I’m very ambitious. Shall we open a bottle of wine?’

He threw his towel over to me, and I tried not to wince as I felt its wetness against my dry skin. Michael had insisted that I come to Manchester for conference, and I had complied – but now his time was up.

‘Not really. Thank you for the offer, though. The rate is four-fifty.’

‘How often will you get to have wine with an MP?’

‘It’s conference season, I could fuck another MP in twenty minutes if I hopped on Grindr.’

‘I like it when you get spiky,’ he teased, as though we were in on some mutual joke. I relented.

‘It’ll cost you,’ I said, though I began to suspect I would stay for free if he asked.

‘I’ll pay,’ he told me. ‘I’m the next fucking PM.’

II. Afterglow

In Manchester, Michael and I had only each other, so red lines became grey areas. We always fucked, but now, somehow, we were sleeping together, too.

‘Tell me about you, Thomas,’ he whispered one night, in the dark. ‘I want to know you.’

‘Student. Good in bed. Real name isn’t Tom.’ I summarised the necessities.

‘Your name isn’t Thomas?’ Michael seemed genuinely surprised. Then I realised what I’d revealed and felt genuinely surprised, too. Breaking the illusion was an escort’s cardinal sin. Now we were beyond illusions and sins.

‘I understand,’ he said, finally. ‘I’m not Michael: that’s my middle name. I’m actually Andrew. Andrew Michael Knowles.’

‘Are you telling me because you think I want to know, or because you want me to ask you about it?’

Michael laughed, and he stroked my arm gently. It itched where he touched me

‘Both.’

‘Michael,’ I took a dramatic breath, ‘please tell me why you don’t go by Andrew.’

‘People might call me Andy. Like I was in Labour. And there’s too many Andrews in British politics.’ I could hear the scowl within the vibrations of his tone

‘Thirteen in Parliament alone,’ I murmured, contentedly.

‘How do you know that?’

‘I’m fundamentally sad.’ I quipped. Michael rolled over to look at me. His eyes sparkled through the gloom. They weren’t unkind. They were confused, like he was observing a little pebble he found on a beach. Enough to occupy his interest for a moment, and then lost beneath the foam.

‘What do you mean, sad?’

I paused. What did I mean?

‘I mean sad,’ I emphasised, eventually. ‘I couldn’t put it any more simply.’

‘Young people these days are always convinced they’re sad.’

‘Maybe. I think we’re just sadder.’

His hand traced my arm. When he reached my shoulder, he pulled me into him and held me tightly.

‘You shouldn’t be.’

I felt his warmth, and inhaled him as my face pressed into his chest, clammy with sweat.

‘My sadness comes in waves,’ I whispered, my lips against his sternum. ‘Like it’s the tide; and I’m a starfish embracing the sun that knows I cannot breathe until I’m drowned again.’

He said nothing, so I continued.

‘It’s like oxygen. I don’t even notice it until someone points it out, then I can’t stop noticing how I breathe it in. It’s been around me so long, it’s just a part of who I am - the way every body has a smell, or every throat has its own voice. I could speak in higher pitches if I tried hard enough, but my throat would scratch and I’d be left hoarser than I started. Sadness doesn’t happen to me, it’s inseparable to who I am.’

‘That’s heavy for a rent boy,’ he said, enveloping me in his arms. I laughed so he’d feel better. I felt better, too. When I thought he wasn’t listening to me any more, I mouthed against his chest. Don’t call me that.

I used to worry sadness was contagious, and feared I would ruin other people if they got too close. I kept them afar and ruined everything anyway. Everyone kept trying to fix me, too. Earnest Flatmate wanted things to seem nice more than be nice. She would cook me dinner when I was in a lull; or knock on my door and sit on my bed, her grey eyes straining as the bulbs in my room warmed up after another day spent dormant. I’d spend all the emotional currency I had squirrelled away to avoid hurting her feelings, and end up broke. There was Client Jesus, too. He fancied us as Richard Gere and Julia Roberts. He needed me to be broken not to help me, but because he needed himself to be my saviour. Don’t get me started on Feckless Parents.

Michael was different. Maybe he better understood me, or maybe he just cared less about me. Either way, the effect was identical, and we had in common a fundamental indifference towards my happiness.

‘You did ask me what I meant. I was just making a joke.’

‘Luckily, your arse is perfect, so I’ll let you off,’ he grinned, and I sensed his breathing deepen as he eased into the mattress, letting the bedding cocoon us.

‘Well, now you know me,’ I replied, but now even the words I intended him to hear were now nearly soundless, and Michael was already asleep.

I stayed awake until enough time passed that it felt like I had always lain there, alert while he held me, oblivious.

I believed I was there to use people like Michael, and to let them believe they were using me, instead. I fell asleep wondering if I’d finally found something deeper. He was a pretender. He, too, lived dual lives. That’s why he could make me feel understood without trying. Maybe that’s why I wanted to keep him, for we merely chose different ways to be the same.

I awoke alone in the bed, the covers pulled back. It was still dark outside, but the room was fully lit. I heard a flush from the en-suite, and Michael emerged, naked except for a t-shirt.

‘You’re awake,’ he declared, cheerfully. ‘That was fun. You can leave now.’

I grasped for my phone, but it was dead. I tapped the screen of his, and held it up to him. ‘It’s four.’

Michael shrugged.

‘Money’s on the night stand, in the usual envelope.’

My nakedness consumed me. My clothes lay strewn across the room. I realised that he meant me to collect them, one by one, while he watched.

When I could bring myself to look at him, his eyes didn’t sparkle any more. Instead, they were uncaring and cold.

‘I said,’ he smiled, ‘you can leave.’

My body burned hot as I returned to my own hotel, until I no longer controlled my limbs and hurled his envelope away from me. Banknotes slipped from it, until they had found new homes, like wedding confetti, on every conceivable surface. I looked at my window, and saw myself half-formed against the nascent dawn, straining to birth a new day. I screamed as loud as I could until my lungs were empty and my breaths were gasping in between little sobs. No-one heard me.

When it was time, I collected those bills and packed the envelope next to the others: each one, unspent, measuring the seconds we had used each other. Then I zipped up my suitcase, and went home.

We had been the same, after all.