Our new Best British Guyd Warwick Priestley offers up a serial blog of sex and lust and, fun!, in London Times. Read on…
Oscar Wilde said that it is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances, and as usual he was right. My potential business partners looked so much like con artists from central casting that I made a special effort to trust them, especially since they were Australian. They were called Tom and Harry, which I suppose made me Dick. I met one of them in a gay nightclub called Trade. He told me, by way of introduction, that he had been abused by a clown. Although a small voice at the back of my head shouted “Run for Your Life!” I’m afraid, dear reader, that my lust got the better of me.
The circus indeed had come to town. The business in question was a magazine – an eclectic blend of polysexual shenanigans during which time I learned to tell the difference between a dwarf and a midget and was slowly parted from my money. The fact that the last issue actually fell apart in your hands I think is all that needs to be said.
It left me penniless and homeless. “Friends” who had been so helpful during the flush years disappeared along with my Breitling watch, my gold signet ring, some jewellery, and a much loved cheese plant. Frankly, I was on my uppers.
As I sat on a park bench in the rain cursing myself, Kat came to my rescue. Kat is the ultimate Dark Mother Fantasy. Wicked and fabulous, she is the widow of a famous British actor and hell raiser, so she’s seen a few things and lives in some style in a huge mansion near Harvey Nichols in Knightsbridge, London. I poured out my heart.
“Darling,” She said “why don’t you come and live with me? I need someone to spy on the Russians. They’re behind on the rent, and, frankly, darling, I think there is something very peculiar going on. Do we have a deal?”
To make ends meet Kat rents out the top three floors for a modest sum. The floorboards might slope and squeak a little, the sash windows might operate like guillotines on unsuspecting fingers, and it can be rather cold in winter. But then you get to live next to the Queen and share the same tap water with her Majesty, so it’s not all doom and gloom. Besides, they do say that living well is the best revenge. I told my mother, who said something about the Devil looking after his own.
Kat introduced me to Tom and Oksana. He was a big, ugly, gentle brute into “green energy,” and Oksana was a blond, wild feline from Moscow who towered over her husband. “You don’t look gay to me,” she said. “I can smell these things … you see, I have inclinations.”
And so I moved into the top floor, and, indeed, there was something very peculiar going on. Something not even the magazine had prepared me for…
…to be continued.
(NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED TO PROTECT THE GUILTY)