Hard Tail(45)

Then I had a moment of crippling doubt-maybe the place would have a no-jeans policy? I ditched the jeans and put on some chinos. Great. Now I looked like my mother had dressed me. I sighed and changed back into the jeans. Everyone wore jeans everywhere these days, didn't they? In fact, thinking about it, I couldn't believe I'd managed so long without a pair. Wolverine padded noiselessly into the room and wound his way between my legs, the combination of weight and sheer feline bulk nearly making me do a Matt and land on my arse on the carpet. If I'd kept the chinos on, they'd have been a mess, what with all the ginger fur Wolverine was shedding, but luckily it didn't really show on denim. I decided to take this as the gods' approval of my sartorial choices.

"You'll be on your own this evening," I told Wolverine. "The can opener operator is off for a night out." He stretched and yawned, as if my presence or absence was a matter of supreme indifference to him, which it probably was. So long as I fed him before I left, at any rate.

I thought about taking the BMW, but would the parking by these places be safe? Cars were just as likely to be gay-bashed by homophobic thugs as their owners were, if Queer as Folk was to be believed. I squirmed at the memory of the infamous show, which Kate had been given a box set of by a friend and become inexplicably hooked on. I'd suffered agonies on the sofa beside her, trying not to show I was turned on by the naughty bits and dreading she'd notice similarities between me and the characters and guess my secret.

In any case, I was fairly certain I wouldn't make it through the door of a gay bar without a bit of good old-fashioned Dutch courage, or at least the prospect thereof. So I did a bit more Googling and found the name of a taxi firm. When the cab arrived, I cautiously gave the driver the name of a pub Google had helpfully informed me was over the road from my actual destination. "The Ship Inn, Jeffrey Street, please."




 

 

He pursed his lips in a manner I swear they must teach them in taxi driver school. "Jeffrey Street? You want to watch out around there, mate. There's one of them pansy bars-well, it's everywhere now, innit? Queers. Run the bloody country, they do. If you ask me"-not that I had, or ever would-"they'll end up making it compulsory one of these days. The only straight people left'll be the bloody rag heads, and gawd help us all when that happens."

It was refreshing to discover he was, at least, an equal opportunities bigot. Unaccountably, though, I quite forgot to tip him when we got to the Ship. He drove off, muttering, "Bloody queers" under his breath, and I looked over the road to the appropriately named Cock Inn.

It didn't look like a queer pub. It looked like a perfectly ordinary English drinking establishment. There were even fewer hanging baskets of flowers out than you'd expect.

Actually, in my admittedly limited experience, the more flowers there are, the rougher the venue tends to be. Perhaps the patrons feel the need to compensate-as if their masculinity has been impugned by all the girly stuff hanging off the place.

Maybe here, the drinkers were pretty enough the pub didn't need flowers. I smiled at the thought, still standing on the kerb like I was waiting for a bus, and a passing bruiser in motorbike leathers gave me the eye. I blushed like a girl and looked away hurriedly. Maybe I should pop into the Ship after all-just for my first drink of the night. Pushing open the heavy door, I stepped inside the pub.

The Ship Inn, which had seemed like such a safe option compared to the Cock, revealed itself to be one of those aggressively macho pubs I normally give a wide berth to. It was a dingy place with a low ceiling and a sort of spit-and-sawdust floor, only without the sawdust. It was deathly quiet, although I could have sworn I'd heard the buzz of conversation as I opened the door. It smelled of stale beer and the sour disinfectant odour you get in public toilets. As I walked in, every eye turned in my direction, and it wasn't so they could smile and bid me welcome. The clientele was exclusively male, the bar staff consisting of a bald-headed man-mountain and a hard-faced woman in a push-up bra wearing clothes that were too tight and too young for her. Also, too leopard-spotted.

There was even a grim, unshaven man propping up the bar with a pit bull at his feet, for all the world a modern-day Bill Sykes. I really hoped I was wrong as to who might be cast in the role of Nancy.

I swallowed. No way could I order a glass of wine in a place like this. It was probably a lynching offence for a bloke.

The dog growled as if in confirmation. I wasn't sure, but I thought I heard its owner growl too.

"You want the Cock-over the road, love," the barmaid said, not unkindly. 

"Thank you," I squeaked in tones a three-year-old girl would be embarrassed to own, and fled. Once outside, I checked myself to make sure I still had all my limbs, and leaned against the wall, breathing hard.