Date: Sat, 24 Dec 2022 22:57:36 +0000 (UTC) From: derek Subject: Rose Cottage - A Love Story ROSE COTTAGE: A LOVE STORY PART 1 - 1980. Eric stamped on the floor two or three times. Not in anger. Not in frustration. But he'd been standing in virtually the same spot for the last couple of hours and his foot had gone to sleep. He studied the wall in front of him - painted in an unsympathetic shade of public-utility green, albeit many years ago, and in most places almost invisible underneath all the graffiti. "I wish my wife was this durty", he read, and immediately below, "I wish my husband could spell". Normally enough to cause him to grin wryly, except he'd read it a hundred times before. That, and all the other blindly optimistic messages, needy phone numbers and general insults, aimed at no one in particular, aimed at everyone in general. Oh, and several Picasso inspired drawings, all, apparently, of the same rather well-endowed model. Welcome to Rose Cottage. So named by the local clientèle because of the things inside that 'rose', because of the young men who had been 'de-flowered' and because of the older men who had been not so much 'de-flowered' as 'dead-headed'! It certainly wasn't because of anything growing around the entrance. That was just mould and moss. And it certainly wasn't because of any fragrance. Quite the opposite, in fact. A heady mixture of yesterday's unflushed curry, sprayed piss that had missed its target and dried spunk, all hosed down once a week by the Council with a tsunami of diluted Jeyes disinfectant. It was enough to make your eyes smart and catch the back of your throat if you weren't used to it. Eric had been going there for well over 5 years. He still wasn't used to it. Approximately 30ft by 17ft, 5 dirty white, cracked enamel urinals, one wash-hand basin (minus plug) with cold and cold running water and a soap dispenser clogged up through lack of use; when you're swimming in urine, is anybody going to bother to wash their hands? One lock-up toilet, wooden door, no bolt, with a large glory hole whose edges had been worn smooth over generations - splinters, no doubt, that had been passed down from father to son. And several smaller peep-holes - one, curiously, about 10 inches off the floor. Eric had never quite been able to work that one out - possibly for those into limbo dancing? There was absolutely no reason to suspect that this evening would be more auspicious than any other visit on any other evening. And yet there he was. Standing, pins and needles in his foot. Just like all the times before. Was it out of habit, was it out of boredom, was it out of a desperate need to make some form of physical connection, if only for a few, stolen moments? He didn't know himself. --xxx-- First in had been one of the regulars, a traffic warden coming off the 10am - 6pm shift, still in uniform, and known to most as 'Rita the Meter". Eric had sucked him off a couple of years ago, as payment in kind for a parking ticket he'd received. In hindsight, it would have been better just to have paid the £30.00 - reduced to £15.00 if paid within 14 days - and put it down to experience; it certainly hadn't been his finest hour. Ever since then, they'd been on 'nodding terms' and Rita had made it quite clear that he'd like a repeat performance but Eric preferred to just take a bit more care where he parked. --xxx-- Eric was a pleasant enough looking younger man, in a rather nondescript sort of way - mousy coloured hair which was cut quite short, clean shaven and, unusually for an Englishman, had nice teeth when he smiled. Which wasn't too often. 5'10" tall and of average build, he dressed to blend in rather than stand out. And in the trouser department, when he unzipped and eased it out - which was most evenings, his cock would usually elicit a "Wow, that's nice" response rather than a "Fucking Hell, that's huge" and was totally in keeping with everything you might have thought about him, if, indeed, you ever thought about him at all - nice, reliable, safe but unremarkable. The 'Toyota' of Rose Cottage. Eric, partly because of his willingness to play 'lookout' for other guys who were getting down to business but mainly because of his own - although not exclusive - preference to be 'on the outside of any action, looking in', was known as 'The Watcher' possibly because no one in Foxton was quite sure how to pronounce Voyeur! He didn't mind. As sobriquets go, it could have been a lot worse. --xxx-- Seconds after Rita, a lorry driver in his mid-fifties came in, unshaven and in greasy overalls with 'Lovelace Transport Solutions' stenciled across the back in cracked day-glo orange letters. "Just when did 'Haulage' re-invent itself as 'Transport Solutions'", Eric wondered? It wasn't a local firm, so he was presumably just making a piss-stop. He wasted no time in getting a wholly unremarkable cock out and flashed it to the traffic warden and Eric. Both looked at it with something approaching indifference but when he got down on his knees - his overalls couldn't really get any dirtier - and opened his mouth, in some perverse parody of Holy Communion, Rita shuffled across, grasped the back of his neck and started to face-fuck him. Eric kept an eye on the door whilst musing at the irony of a man working for a firm named Lovelace giving a blow-job. Not that such expertise would have been called on in the current circumstances - Rita was unlikely to have gone much beyond his first set of fillings. With his meter duly expired to the accompaniment of small grunts of satisfaction, Rita buttoned up, and hurried out, ready to slap more tickets on unsuspecting motorists on his next shift. Lovelace, still on his knees, turned his head, mouth wide and tongue flapping - an open invitation to Eric, which was declined with a barely perceptible shake of the head. Rising off his knees, the lorry driver leaned over the sink, hawked and left. About 30 seconds later, he heard the clunk of a door slamming, then the clatter of a diesel engine and, just like that, Linda 'transport solutioned' off to places unknown, probably never to be seen again. Part of the fascination for Eric had always been the strange mix of intimacy and anonymity on display at Rose Cottage and, undoubtedly, repeated thousands of times, the entire length and breadth of the country. A secret world hidden in plain sight. --xxx-- Eric was hoping that he'd bump into Colin at some point during the evening. Not that there was anything 'going on' between them. Well, not in that respect. But he had a soft spot for Colin - a kind, inoffensive, older man with false teeth and a penchant for sporting colourful cravattes. Colin had been badly beaten up several years ago which had left him with a limp and a legacy of mistrust. No one knew for certain whether it was queer-bashing but the lack of interest shown by the local Police in following up the assault tended to suggest as much. Ever since then, he had kept a eye open for Colin, in a low-key sort of way, as he was reasonably sure there wasn't anyone else who was worrying on his behalf. In truth, he came into Rose Cottage more for a bit of company than for a bit of sex, which Eric found so dreadfully, dreadfully sad. Once, when it had been cold and trade was non-existent, they'd gone round the corner to 'El Sombrero', a linguistically confused Moroccan cafe where the cleanliness was only marginally better than at Rose Cottage, and shared a pot of tea and a large (at least according to the description on the menu-cum-blackboard behind the counter) - tea cake swimming in 'I can't believe it's not Butter' - which neither man had any difficulty not believing! Still, it was dry and warm and they passed an hour in friendly, if inconsequential, chatter before Eric offered to give Colin a lift home - which was a retirement complex on the other side of town with a soulless view of the ring road and, if you stood on tip-toes, a tyre-recycling plant. In other circumstances, he would have been known as 'Colin the Gimp' but in light of his misfortune and the Mercian Police's unsolved crime statistics, it didn't seem very appropriate, so he was always simply referred to as 'Gentle Colin'; Eric didn't have many morals, but he did have standards! But Colin was, for the sixth week running, a no-show and Eric wondered whether he shouldn't make a detour on his way home, although it was rather breaking one of the many unwritten rules of Rose Cottage etiquette - don't ask questions, don't acknowledge in the street, don't follow outside - unless clearly invited. Maybe he would just drive by and see if there was a light on in the sitting room window. Thinking back over the years, there had been quite a few men, exceptional and unexceptional alike, who had been 'regulars' and then had simply disappeared. Had they moved? Had they met someone? Had they found 'God' and seen the light? Had they passed away? And in years to come, would there be someone sticking to the floor at this same urinal, cock hanging out with no-one to see it, who might, in turn, think to themselves, "I wonder what ever happened to 'The Watcher'?". But he seriously doubted it. It was a depressing thought to add to an already depressing evening. --xxx-- Footsteps! Quick, stand up straight. Pull your stomach in. Lean slightly back from the porcelain and, if he looks across, he might give some sign of encouragement. But it was a younger man, possibly around Eric's age, in a badly fitting suit, with a filofax under his arm and pretentions. He looked distastefully at the surroundings and approached the first urinal, nearest to the door. Rather than get his cock out, he just stood there leafing through his busy schedule. "August 7th, 18.10 - Memo to Self - Go to the toilet", Eric thought sarcastically. "What can be so important that it can't wait till you've had a pee?". But pee he eventually did, noisily and with all the exaggerated gestures of the self-important, then pulled it and shook it three times - four or more and it counted as wanking - zipped up and walked out without washing his hands. Eric settled back down again. --xxx-- No, Eric's type was altogether different; older, wiser, fatherly even. Someone that he might look up to, someone that might give him a bit of encouragement, an ounce of praise for some small achievement, someone to 'out' the introvert in him. Mr. Right was 6ft tall, 180lbs, grey haired, blue eyes and a dab of 'eau de cologne'. In five years, there'd been nothing but a series of Mr. Wrongs - 5ft tall, 280lbs, greasy haired, blood-shot eyes and a daub of 'odour last-week'! --xxx-- Eric heard the whine of a two-stroke engine, gasping up the slight hill outside and asthmatically squeal to a halt. "Bugger" he muttered, "that'll be Flash Harry". Harry had been convicted, several years ago, to 18 months in Bransthorpe prison for committing an act of gross indecency although his sentence had been later reduced to 12 months for good behaviour, although the mind boggles slightly at what that might have actually constituted. Caught by an undercover policeman in that very toilet, he had maintained his innocence throughout his trial and claimed he'd been 'stitched up' but it's hard to argue when a policeman has got hold of your cock through the glory hole - the evidence was hardly circumstantial, even if it was circumsized. Rumour had it that he was now actually trying to get caught again so he could return to jail where a middle-aged plumber, half way through a 12 year stretch for wife-beating, was waiting for him. Harry still lived at home with his doting mother and had explained his temporary absence by inventing a job in Thailand, teaching English to foreign language students. Mrs 'Flash' was overweight with a lazy eye (Eric had seen and avoided them by swerving into Woolworths in the local shopping centre a year or so earlier) and possessed so little curiosity that she never once questioned why his letters were delivered with a postmark from somewhere in rural Somerset. But now he was back, standing two urinals away from Eric, and, true to his moniker, flashing. Harry was wearing a motorcycle outfit - leatherette jacket, all zips and a Hampton Court maze of chains, and a pair of chaps with tassels that could have been straight out of a 'Village People' video; it was his 'scene' apparently, although it was a party that no one else had been invited to, and had they been, wouldn't have bothered to attend. Eric stared straight ahead and offered him no encouragement, but it still made no difference. "What do you reckon to that?", hissed Harry, waggling his cock from left to right and back again. Eric ignored him, feigning deafness. "You got somewhere else to go?", he persisted. "Oh, you've no idea how much I wish I did," replied Eric, which Harry mistook for a modicum of interest; Eric should have known that irony would be lost on Harry and so he really only had himself to blame. Their 'dance' continued for a few more minutes, Harry strutting his stuff under the glitter-ball, whilst Eric sat alone at the table minding the coats and handbags. "It's no wonder you're always on your own," Harry grumbled. "Fucking Snob". He tucked his cock back into his trousers, zipped up, then zipped up the right zip, and stomped out. His moped coughed back into life and Flash Harry was gone in 50cc's of pre-cum and frustration. Eric shrugged his shoulders. He'd been called worse. --xxx-- "If the next man that comes in is half-ways decent, I'll make a play for him', Eric promised himself, "otherwise, I'm off. I've wasted enough time here this evening already". Which was fair enough, except, of course, it was exactly the same promise he'd made to himself an hour ago too. And, with one or two notable exceptions, exactly the same promise he'd been making to himself since he'd first made his Rose Cottage 'debut'. --xxx-- "Interesting", thought Eric. A rather distinguished man - in a rugged way - early fifties and wearing a smart grey suit, walked past the urinals and went into the 'lock-up', or to be more accurate, the 'no-lock lock-up'. Eric's ears strained - trained for the familiar sounds; jacket being hung up, the jangle of a trouser belt being unbuckled, the rustle of trousers against hairy legs, the dull thump of arse hitting plastic toilet seat . And then, of course, it was always a toss-up - no pun intended - between a gruffly masculine 'Nnneeeeaahrg', as a precursor to a brisk dump, or silence. And on this occasion, it was silence. After a couple of minutes, Eric moved quietly - or at least as quietly as the sticky floor would allow - and stood in front of the toilet door. No bung of paper had been screwed into a ball and wedged into the glory-hole - always a good sign. He glanced across to the entrance; no one was coming although that could change in a matter of seconds. He, of all people knew that. He asked himself, and not for the first time, "Who watches out for the Watcher?" He crouched down to peer through the glory-hole, cursing as his knee cracked loudly. But still no sound nor movement on the other side of the door. Tentatively, he put his eye to the hole and peered in. The stranger was looking directly back at him. Eric swayed away and waited for a few seconds. But no reaction from within. No shouts of "Fuck Off, Queer". Eric looked again. The man had lent back, legs stretched out in front and almost reaching the door. His trousers were round his ankles, his tie was off and his shirt unbuttoned. He smiled - not quite an embarrassed smile, certainly not a leer, just a nice, kind smile as he took hold of his cock and started to stroke it. It was far from hard and yet was already thicker and longer than any that Eric had seen recently, except, of course, in those 'continental' magazines that he occasionally bought - at some personal risk - from a mail-order company in Brighton. Cut, and nicely shaped, it was complimented by a pair of heavy balls that splayed across the stranger's left thigh. He had a handsome face, framed by closely cropped grey hair and a hint of 5-o'clock shadow round his jaw line. His stomach down to his groin was a mass of soft, dark hair and likewise around his throat and upper torso. Eric presumed it was the same in the middle of his chest and around his nipples but couldn't be sure as the area was obscured by a red satin basque. Eric was mildly surprised but had always accepted that 'vanilla was not the only flavour', even if some things weren't quite to his own personal taste. Not particularly religious, he was, nevertheless, in total agreement with St John that 'in my Father's house are many mansions', although there was no specific mention of cottages - something that he was sure had simply got lost in translation. He pushed the door and it slowly swung open, creaking, till the bottom corner caught the stranger rather painfully on his outstretched ankle. Not the best of starts. Eric apologised with a slight raise of the hand and the faintest of smiles. The man continued to slowly wank, pausing now and again to run his hands over the shiny, smooth boddice, all the time with an expression on his face that almost ached for acceptance of his particular peccadillo. Eric, for his part, wondered just how many times the stranger's confidence had been knocked by ridicule and smirking pre-judgement to the point where simply revealing himself like this was an act of personal bravery. Standing in the doorway, neither in nor out and ready to hurry back to the closest urinal if footsteps were heard coming along the path, Eric unzipped his trousers, pulled down the front of his white underpants and pulled out his cock, already semi-stiff, and started to encourage the stranger, matching him - if not inch for inch - then at least stroke for stroke; mutual desire to accompany their mutual masturbation. "I'm sorry," whispered the stranger, "but i can't get it properly hard. These places make me so nervous." "Well, to be fair to you, that's rather a lot to try and get hard," replied Eric softly, trying to find a tone that was encouraging and, at the same time, understanding. "Do you want to go somewhere else?" "Actually, I'm a bit pressed for time", replied the man. "I'm in town for a couple of nights on business and I'm supposed to be having dinner with a client shortly." Eric hoped for his sake that he wasn't staying at 'The Grosvenor', one of only two hotels in Foxton and so bad that it even warranted a disclaimer in the town's Tourist Guide. Rooms were available for hire by the hour. Enough said. "What about later, after dinner?", he continued, " I should be free by about 9.30pm. We could meet up here again, maybe go for a drink and then find somewhere more..... conducive" Eric smiled equably. "Yes, of course, why not?" He knew that the chances of the stranger turning up were minimal, that was why not! He zipped up and hovered around, waiting for the stranger to re-dress himself. "About 9.30 then," said Eric. The man nodded, smiled disarmingly and said, "My name's Pat. Listen, even if you can't make it later, for whatever reason, thanks for being so nice ....... you know ........ ummm .... about the basque". He then took Eric's face in his two hands, pulled him close and kissed him full on the mouth. And before Eric had time to even react, let alone think 'tongues' or 'no-tongues', he'd turned and was gone. --xxx-- "Well, that was a turn up for the books," thought Eric, as he eased into his car. Pat didn't have the slightest intention of turning up, of course, and neither did Eric. It was all just a game, where it was easier to make an arrangement and break it than to say "no thanks" in the first place. When he was younger, and after being stood-up quite a few times, Eric had learnt that one the hard way. Now he just played along to the same rules as everyone else - disappointing others and being disappointed himself, in equal measure. "But damn, he certainly was attractive", he mused, wondering whether, if just this once, his weary cynicism wasn't misplaced. But, more likely, his judgement was simply being swayed by the size of what was between the stranger's legs. And not for the first time. --xxx-- He glanced at his watch. 7.15pm. He reasoned that as he had nothing else planned for the evening - nor any other evening, come to think of it - there was more than enough time to head over to 'Kensington Court' and see if there was any sign, at least from the outside, of Colin, and still be back at Rose Cottage for 9.30pm, in plenty of time to have his faith in human nature dashed - once again! He cut through the middle of town rather than use the ring road, which, like most ring roads was twice as far and took three times as long. But at least it wasn't quite as grim as Aston Raines, the area he was now driving through - a procession of Kebab fast food outlets interspersed with rows of terraced houses, whose inhabitants dreamed of 'Opportunity Knocks' fame and fortune behind their closed curtains, except on Thursdays when they went to sign-on. Turn left by the the prostitutes (long passed their sell-by-dates) and carry on as far as Carters - 'The Midlands Largest Dealership for Pre-Owned Mercedes'. "Pre-owned, my arse!", snorted Eric, "why don't you just say second-hand". And there was Kensington Court, dead ahead. He slowed down and counted along the ground floor windows; Colin's apartment was third from the end - chintzy curtains, flock wallpaper and an oversized print of Tretchikoff's 'The Green Lady' above the mantelpiece. Ever since the one and only time that Eric had been inside, he'd been trying to work out whether Colin's interior decor was merely locked in a mid 1950's time warp or whether it was one gigantic feng-shui piss take. Light streamed out across the front lawns, split at the railings and then re-assembled itself on the street. Ultra modern and somewhat clinical metallic-silver venetian blinds were now hanging in Colin's bay window instead, and, on closer inspection, the whole lounge now appeared rather more 'Habitat' than 'Berni Inn Steak House'. Eric turned off the engine and sat for a few moments, debating what to do for the best. Then he took a deep breath, got out of the car, walked into Kensington Court and approached the Reception Desk. It was not good news. Back in the car, he actually shed a few tears. Not just for Colin, not just for every other gay man that had been victimised, not even just for every other elderly person who might have suffered a stroke and not been found for five days. No, he was crying for himself and what his own future held. --xxx-- At 9.25pm, Eric pulled up to the kerb, about 30 yards or so from Rose Cottage at a spot that afforded him a good view of the entrance. He crossed the road and went in, partly for a pee, but mainly to have his cynicism confirmed. It duly was. He returned to the car and settled down to wait. "Poor, Gentle Colin," he thought. "I never knew if he'd ever had a partner, I never knew if he'd ever really been happy." In fact, he hadn't even known his surname until half an hour ago, when the receptionist had told him about Mr McCuddin. "Yes, such a shock ....... a kind gentleman ......... kept himself to himself .......... to the local hospice shop, i believe .......... yes, a couple of the residents went to pay their respects .......... no, no one else". Eric was deep in thought. "You're born and then you go through life with nothing to look forward to except death. So in the end, I guess you're not disappointed". He wondered whether it was worth all the effort, for so little reward? Well, was it? A sudden tap on the driver's side window, made him jump and bang his knee against the steering wheel. He wound down the window a few inches, cautiously, and peered out. "Good Evening," said a voice. --xxx-- PART 2 - 2014 It took Eric a while to get his bearings. He hadn't driven up Castle Street in over 30 years. He hadn't even realised that it was now one-way until a twenty-something with a regulation, backward-facing baseball cap had flashed his lights and gestured obscenely through the windscreen. Welcome Home. He found somewhere to park and got out. The hill had seemed steeper back in 1980 but he reckoned that time, if not a great healer, was at least a great leveller. And it wasn't the only thing that had been levelled - Rose Cottage was a thing of the past - demolished - and now a Wine Bar-cum-Cocktail Lounge going by the name of 'Le Raisin D'Être'. Not even a plaque on the wall to commemorate the loss of an institution - not to mention the loss of Eric's cherry! Now the only cherries were those added to 'Harvey Wallzingers' and 'Twisted Malibus' being served inside. He glanced through the open doorway but the only clientèle was a young couple on their first date and already furiously texting. "I wonder if they're going to stick to their bar stools when they try to get up," Eric smiled. It was just about the exact spot! He walked slowly on, turned left and stood outside where El Sombrero's menu had put so many lives at risk, all those years ago. It too, had gone, but in a bizarre twist of fate - or was it black humour - it had been replaced by a modern descendant of Rose Cottage - a stainless steel, self-cleansing turdis, with two security cameras as an attendant. It could be hired for the princely sum of £1.00 for a 5 minute sojourn and tough shit if you were constipated, literally and metaphorically. Eric shook his head; he wasn't sure what would have been the greater of two evils back then - the video footage that would have convicted him or the cost of all those misspent evenings that would have bankrupted him. He wondered what had become of all the old 'regulars'. But he would never know, because he'd never really known them back then either; everyone's anonymity protected, everyone's anonymity preserved. Except 'Flash's' - Eric had read many years earlier in the local newspaper that one 'Harold Cavendish' had been sentenced to a further 5 years in prison for persistent acts of gross indecency. There had been an accompanying picture - not very flattering - and a further article a couple of months later, reporting that his mother had been hounded out of her council house by local vigilantes, revelling in their 15 minutes of notoriety. All rather depressing. --xxx-- And what of Pat? Pat did, in fact, turn up after all, on that evening back in 1980, restoring Eric's faith in human nature in the process and the pair of them became inseparable. They moved and settled in Brewster-on-the-Hill, a small village about 20 miles away and lived quietly and happily for many, many years, together with a dog of dubious lineage that they, tongue in cheek, named 'Rosie', for old time's sake. Sadly, Pat passed away in 2012 and although Eric carried on for another year or so, friends could tell that his heart wasn't really in it. In August 2014, he gave up trying.