Not A Usual Love Story - Part 3 (Patreon)

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That Friday.  1981.  back at work in Birmingham. Then that Saturday. I was uneasy the whole time. Would I really go in the evening? I went to the Hostaria, a wine bar I had never been to, on my own, to meet a boy who dressed like a girl. Would I really do that? A wine bar on my own was easy enough. It was the last bit that was unsettling. I wasn't meeting a girl.

I was expecting to meet a boy, and that made me uneasy. Was I really going to do that? I was straight. Or so I thought. At least, I wasn't gay. Or was I?

Actually, I didn't know. How do you know? I was good-looking. I'd had great-looking girlfriends. but never a boyfriend. I'd never wanted one, either. So yes, I was straight. But I also knew that I didn't care. I just didn't. My parents were easygoing and brought me up the same way.

It may not have been the same for others, but for me, if I found someone attractive, I found them attractive. Did it matter what was between their legs? It wasn't about that. And I had felt that way ever since I could remember. More of that million-year-old man inside me, perhaps.  All the same, I had never before even seen a boy that I fancied. Nor had I

ever looked.  And I had definitely never had any sort of date with a boy. not that this was a date. We were just going to meet up, and, actually, I didn't know what we were going to do. Would we get on? We had gotten on fine on the train. Though the way he'd appeared to flirt with me... with those shoes That was strange. Why did he do that? I didn't know that, either.

Later, I would understand. All I knew for sure was that if someone had asked me right then, I guess I would have said that I was pretty unsure of any boy, especially this one. But maybe I was even more unsure about myself. Yes.  That was it. I was confused. all of it. So.  Would I go? Saturday night came around. And at about 7 p.m. or so, I went upstairs to get ready. I hadn't ever answered the question, "Would I go?" But I had not stopped expecting to do so. Getting changed and listening to different bits of music, nothing felt right. I didn't know what to listen to. I didn't know what to wear.

In the end, I wore those same old, battered suede boots that I had worn on the train. I tied up my longish hair. Put on tight, pale blue jeans and a white t-shirt. I knew I was more than just good-looking; I even dressed plainly like that, and, in any case, there was no point wearing anything else. Anything else next to him would have just been a waste of effort. So that was it. I planned to go. And I was ready. Then a bus. First, a long wait created more tension. Then a protracted journey seemed to stop every few hundred meters.

On that bus, I sat reading an old hardback copy of Pascal's 'Provincial Letters', and more than once I glazed over, couldn't see the words, and asked myself what the fuck I was doing on that bus to town that night. I didn't know where the wine bar was. I didn't even know for sure where the Aussie Bar was. At one point on that long, slow journey, I looked out of the window at the dark, industrial Saltley Viaduct. Old houses stood empty all around them.

waiting to be demolished. old factories too. Remnants of a world order that seemed to be neat and tidy—a world where men had been men and women had done as they were told Of course, it hadn't really been like that. But somehow it shouted at me, "Look how we were. What are you doing? "Where do you think you're going?" Finally, the city center. Town.  I went into one of the first pubs I came to and had a pint. I told myself I didn't need a drink and that I was only in there to ask someone for directions. And, after a second drink, I did ask someone.

It turned out that I was going to Digbeth, more or less. a gloomy area on the edge of the city. The Aussie Bar was hard to miss, apparently. And the wine bar? It was just a few doors further up from the Aussie. That walk over through town in a cool dusk felt awfully long, and I felt ever more nervous the closer I got. No, I felt much more than nervous.

Again.  the same thing. This wasn't a date with a girl. This was a date with a boy. Or a meeting anyway, if not exactly a date. Was it a date? What the fuck was I doing? I had never looked at a boy twice before. Was I being teased or laughed at by life? I even asked myself some half-arsed questions, such as: did I hold doors open for him? I swore at myself for asking them. Nevertheless, all sorts of similarly dumb and naive questions still came into my mind.

I realized I had no idea what I was doing. I stopped.  Should I just go home? Go to an ordinary pub and maybe chat up a girl. I didn't know what to do. I was out of my depth. Yet despite all that, something was making me do it. There was a pull. and I couldn't resist it. And I remembered those words from the train. "Isn't life strange?" And I wanted to do it too; I wanted to. Then, suddenly, there it was. A wine bar called the Hostaria

The sky overhead was just beginning to darken as I went in. Inside, there was a long corridor. Brickwork walls are painted white. That was the first thing. A corridor with glass panels overhead was made to look like the courtyard of some Spanish tavern. I liked it, and it worked. The place did seem to be indoors and outdoors at the same time. And it did resemble a Spanish or Italian cafe. Something like that. The kind of place that might have been in a spaghetti western At the far end of the corridor, I could see a large crowd of people. Darkness.

Orange lights.  And there was music. Chatter.  A bar.  That was obviously the main room. But to my immediate left, as I began to walk along the corridor, there was something darker. spaces underneath a lower ceiling. People are seated and standing. They were alcoves. Alcoves with tables clouds of smoke. Sounds of laughter Drinking.  What should I do? Go and look in there. No.  That was out of the question. So I kept walking straight along the corridor. toward the main bar.

There were only a few tables and chairs in the corridor. And maybe a dozen or so people are standing. They had just come in, perhaps, and were saying hello to friends. Everyone else was "inside," and that had the effect of making any entrance all the more conspicuous. And as I walked along, I felt exactly that—conspicuous. Bastard.  I said to myself, What am I doing? In my own place, I was often pushy, talkative, and confident. But here?

I wouldn't have agreed to come if I'd known it was laid out like this. I'd need to search the dark spaces with a torch like a fucking cinema usherette to find my blonde boy in here. And I obviously wasn't going to do that or anything like it. All the more so, as he probably wouldn't even be there. Could I change my mind and leave? Turn around and walk back down that long corridor. No.  That was no good. I could feel people starting to look at me already.

I couldn't do that. So I walked on. It was too late to turn back. I would buy a drink. Stand at the bar and drink it. Then go.  That would be fine. I'd be alright. And that was exactly what I did. As I was being served, I glanced at the faces around me. There was some bleached hair, but no one shone in the way my boy had done.

In fact, no boys seemed to be wearing girls' clothes. There were one or two odd outfits, but if the boy from the train used this place, he was a one-off. This was not about cross-dressing. Nothing like that. New Romantics?  Yes.  But that was just fashion.

Or so I thought. I stood there for maybe 20 minutes or so. Carefully, but without moving from the bar, to which I felt safely anchored, I also tried to look into the darkness of the alcoves, but they were too crowded and, in any case, they disappeared off into the distance. I couldn't see all of them.

I can't do this, I told myself finally. And I finished my wine and left. That long walk back down the corridor Feeling flat.  Hugely disappointed.  I was within two meters of the exit when, from the last of the alcoves, now to my right, I heard a voice I thought was somehow familiar. And I hesitated. Taking the chance to light a cigarette and look up, just a little, at the shadowy figures in the dark "Hey!" said the voice. I did know it. "Hello!"  I peered into the crowd.

And there, emerging from a haze of orange light, a haze of blue smoke, and appearing in a haze of blondeness, was the boy from the train. very heavily made-up with eye shadow, eye liner, and mascara, all exaggerating his naturally striking almond-shaped eyes.

Blusher emphasized his already fine cheekbones, a cream foundation that made him look even more feminine, and a bold red lipstick that drew the eye to his pouting lips. He looked gorgeous. every bit a girl. "Hello!" he said again, squeezing past a few people to get to me, and then, once free of them, half dancing up closer to me and stumbling a little as one heel slipped on the tiled floor. "Hello!"  He adjusted his shoe, stood up straight, and looked at me.

I was surprised to find his eyes almost level with mine. "Are you leaving?" You're not leaving?" "Noo," I lied, "I was just... I was..." "Had I missed you? Were you leaving? Deserting me?"  I nodded.  "Yeah.  I didn't think you were here."

"Oh no," he said. "You nearly left. If I hadn't seen you at the last moment," There it was again. Life was strange. Wasn't that what we said on the train? It kept happening. The night had only been saved at the very last moment. But it had been saved. And that was what really mattered. "I did keep watching out for you," the boy continued, speaking quickly. "But we must have missed each other." He laughed.  That same small, delicate, and fast laugh that I had heard on the train

Almost shy.  Almost nervous.  a little giggle. He held a cigarette for me to light, and I lit it for him. He took a long draw on it, then slowly blew out a huge cloud of smoke. "I knew you'd come, though." He smiled—a sexy smile. "I just knew it!" I laughed.

feeling rather unsure and nervous, yet wanting to say something positive. I did feel positive. Very.  I had been so looking forward to meeting this boy again ever since that train journey. "Er, I had to come," I said. And then added, "I had to." I wanted to see what you'd Anyway, the other day, it was so strange. Good.  Good strange.

We can't ignore life when it offers... And you made me laugh, anyway. You did.  Thank you.  I'd had a terrible day. "Really boring, and you lit it up." He smiled.  Then I offered a hand. just like that. And to my surprise, I took it. "Come on, come and buy me a drink. "Buy me a drink for making you smile and getting you out of your usual routine on a Saturday night." And with that, he led me back along the corridor to the main room. past some faces who were, I'm sure, very green with envy. "Stop," I said. And we stopped.

If my blonde boy was a bit of a show-off, so was I in my own way.

I could see that, ahead of us, the main room was packed. But here, at the end of the corridor, everyone could see us clearly, and I wanted those envious looks to last a little longer. "I don't even know your name." Those heavily mascara eyes blinked back at me. "What's yours?"  I told him. "Mine is Alley," he said. "As in alley cat." I laughed.  "As in alley cat?" "Yes!"

He nodded, then meowed and scratched the air in a feline fashion. "Well, no.  "It's short for Alexander." He paused.  "Or Alexandria.  Take your pick. It was how I spelled it at school anyway, and it kind of stuck." And with that, he gave me a huge smile and then tugged on my hand, and we were off, squeezing between people as we entered the main room.

We stood at the bar and didn't talk. The music was loud. It was stuff I didn't know. But I liked it all the same. It worked.  The whole place worked, and I was already hooked. Suddenly, a cigarette was put in my mouth. But it wasn't the same cigarette I had just lit for him; it was a joint. He had been passed it by one of the door staff. I took it. Smoked it.  "What can I get you?" I said. "Anything white.  by the bottle. Then come down to where we all are," he said.

And with that, he whirled around on the spot and disappeared towards the alcoves again. I stood there for a moment, took another draw on the joint, and wondered if I had died. How had life suddenly and so miraculously taken this strange turn?

Had I really just walked into a wine bar holding hands with a gorgeous blonde boy, dressed as a girl and wearing red lipstick? Inside I fizzed with excitement, and it probably showed on the outside too. I think if someone had asked me, right there and right then, where the hell I was, I wouldn’t really have been able to answer them.

I wouldn’t have been able to say how old I was. Or who I was. One meeting on a train and then all this? I should catch the train more often. That was the only clear thought I had right then. Then, suddenly a line of music cut into my thought: I will be king, and you, you will be queen... I knew the track. It was David Bowie.

Heroes. The line stopped me. Froze me. This really was something else. It was. Queen. Queen. All the connotations of that word. What the fuck was I doing there? I was straight. Since Thursday, when we met, I had been sleepwalking. What was I doing here? At that moment I think I might have walked out. But right then, cutting into those shocked thoughts, I realized that the man behind the bar was asking me what I wanted to drink.

Maybe my natural politeness got the better of me, I don’t know, but I forgot my panicked thoughts and asked for a bottle of white wine. I had no idea what. They suggested something Italian and I bought a bottle of white wine in a tall, oddly shaped bottle.

“Two glasses, please”, I said. And they passed me a second glass. By now the place was really quite crowded. All sorts of faces and styles. I didn’t look too hard but I saw that there were other men in make-up. That was fine. I was fine with that. Though none of these others looked like a girl. Unlike Alley.

Who did? And there were lots of women too. So it wasn’t just a gay club. That was fine too. And hairstyles of all kinds. I liked that. On the one hand, it all made me feel very plain and out of place. Yet, somehow, in plain jeans and a white t-shirt, I also felt I stood out a little. One of the few not trying to be other than I was.

I squeezed past various groups of people and then walked down towards the alcoves. I could see Alley’s blond hair and I was sure I could hear his voice above the others. Was that because I already recognized his voice and was drawn to it? Or was it because he was a bit loud and showy? Both. I decided it was both. Seated and standing, Alley and his friends were all in and around two alcoves. Dark wood. Dark tables. Benches.

White plaster walls. And fake windows with orange lamps inside them. As I got closer, I had to stop as someone squeezed past me with a handful of glasses. I looked up. One of the boys standing by Alley’s alcove seemed to be almost two meters tall, with his hair tied up vertically and bound up with ribbons. It was pretty impressive. Another was dressed entirely in yellow.

A yellow suit. And thick yellow make-up. A third, a woman, was all in leather and wearing a heavy German peaked cap from the war. She appeared to be trying clothes on another woman who was, in effect, topless. I laughed.

I couldn’t help myself. Not because I was laughing at them, but because I had been reading a book about Hieronymus Bosch a week or so before, and the whole scene vaguely reminded me of one of his pieces. And perhaps that was it, perhaps I had died in a train crash last Thursday and now I was up in heaven or down in hell. All of this couldn’t be real, could it?

Alley, though, was on another level to the others. She shone. She was beautiful. More than beautiful. And as I thought that, I realized that I now thought of him as her. Quite suddenly. Why had I done that? I didn’t know, but it made me smile to myself. Just then he looked up and smiled hugely back at me. She nudged someone sitting next to her to move over, patted the bench beside her and I squeezed in and sat down. I held out a glass for her. She took it, and I poured her a glassful of wine.

I looked around well, sort of half looked around and realized that not everyone in the company was quite so Boschlike. There were boys in bizarre clothes, yes, but some others were in relatively normal suits and plain thick cotton shirts. And one man, who must have been nearly 60, was even wearing a threadbare tweed jacket. I figured he was the father of one of them.

And I guess that made me feel a little easier. For a while, I had actually felt conspicuous because I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt! I turned to look at Alley, but she was talking to someone else. Then she sat back holding one of her wrists and rocked slowly from side to side, as if she was waiting for something. And then, suddenly, something arrived.

A cigar packet flew through the air from somewhere and landed right beside her. She glanced up, waved at a face I hadn’t seen, and then turned to me. She opened the packet and inside were two ridiculously long and fat, but tidily rolled, joints. She offered one of them to me. I took it. She put the other in her mouth and lit it, and then she lit mine for me.

For the next hour or so I watched, learned and laughed. There was quite a bit of a cattiness between Alley and some of the others, and a lot of that made us both laugh too. I noticed just how sharp she could be at times. Almost too much with some people.

But I already felt that she didn’t mean to hurt, it wasn’t that, not at all. She was just on a different level. Then I offered to get some more wine. And she clapped her hands and said “Yes, yes please”, like a child asking for an ice cream. I liked that about her. Her every gesture seemed designed to be attractive, and I wondered if she practiced any of them in front of a mirror somewhere. Going away from the alcove felt cold, though.

I didn’t like it. Sure, the whole place was full of strange-looking folk, but there was something, somehow, not right about most of them. I could see that now. Yes, they wore make-up, but they didn’t seem to have the same body language as those in the alcoves, who all seemed at ease and to know one another. As I stood at the bar I looked around more. It struck me that the whole thing wasn’t about clothes or make-up. It wasn’t just about that.

There was no harm in doing any of that, but the people in the alcoves, they weren’t doing this for the weekend. It wasn’t just a fashion for them. Unlike the rest of the crowd, this was how they really were. That was the difference I saw. What about me? Did I fit? No. I wasn’t any of them. Neither in fashion nor yet like the ones who lived like this all the time. To be a weekend would have been too shallow for me. Too inauthentic. But to be like it all the time? I didn’t have that need. Or that desire. Or those balls.