Geoff Ryman - Lust Or No Harm Done

The number of times Michael had brought men back: how often had any of them left an address? What a difference Viagra makes, eh? Chris liked being fucked and I could fuck him. That's a big difference. Chris had confused the Viagra for genuine sexual interest, perhaps even personal interest.

Chris was nice in a way that did not engage Michael. Michael suspected that he was boring. Chris would want cuddles and blockbuster videos on the telly in front of the sofa and would have even less to say about Michael's work than Philip.

But Chris had left a business card. A business card meant trust. It meant that he thought you could ring back and not be an embarrassment. He might even be slightly proud of you ringing back. The middle-aged women he so enjoyed working with might guess, and raise an eyebrow. 'He seemed rather nice,' they might say, wishing Chris well. A steadily maintained smile and a flick of the eyebrow could more or less reply: well yes, actually, he is rather nice. Guess my luck must have changed.

Has it, Chris?

Did Michael really want an affair with a bar manager on Euston Road? Michael could have a love affair with the young Rock Hudson, or Steve Reeves who played Hercules, or Henry James. Did Michael really want that everyday ordinariness: the quick hug, the bland well-meant concern. Hiya, how did it go today?

Do you like him, Michael?

Michael heard the very quiet sound of the battery-operated clock on the bedside table. He didn't know.

Viagra was like impotency. You didn't know where it stopped and you began. If Michael had really been able to fuck someone for hours, it would mean something. It would mean that the heart and body were both engaged. Chris had a right not to be misled. He had dilated like his arse; opened up and welcomed and taken a risk. Michael couldn't trust his body to tell him anything. All he could do was take a gamble, a flutter the English called it, a flutter of wings, of the pulse, of the heart.

He could call Chris's work now and leave a message. It would be there when he arrived in the morning.

Quick, Michael, before you lose the card and it drifts out of existence as surely as if it had come from an Angel.

'Hello, you've reached the Milliner's Arms, thirty-seven Euston Road. There's nobody here right now, but if you'd like to leave a message…' Chris's voice.

We'll get back to you.

Beep, beep, beep, beep.

'Hi. Um, this is a message for Chris, from Michael. Your card was not wasted. Can you call me at… '

They went to a movie together.

It was an American blockbuster, with a soundtrack of wailing Irish pipes. Halfway through it, the American heroine got real and danced a jig with down-home Irish, who were just so authentic, because they were poor and unselfconscious.

Chris was outraged. 'It's the bloody Americans being more Irish than the Irish again. Why do they always show us like that, like we're all fucking Leprechauns and can't go to the supermarket without dancing a jig.'

They went to a Pizza Express and Michael confirmed that Chris was a man without ambition. He talked about fridge freezers and plumbing. He talked about his Mum moving in with his sister. Michael's heart went out to him, because he knew that this was a man who wanted to set up a home with someone.

Chris probably saw that. 'I thought I might like to go to India, when I've saved up enough,' he said, a gesture towards the exotic. He still looked hopeful. Michael wanted to say something clever and a bit acid like, 'Travel narrows the mind.'

There was an awkwardness in the conversation where the laughs should have been. Unambitious people want comfort and fun: a bit of a laugh. Michael didn't do bits of laughs. Maybe I'm the boring one, he thought. He dredged deep to find something amusing to say.

He came up with his nest of stories about the Sacramento River delta: his hilarious boating holiday with his Dad. The story got interrupted because Chris wanted to know more about shopping malls and California dope. The story got going again, and Michael told him how they had boated off and forgot the dog on a country dock. Chris failed to see any humour. 'The poor thing,' he said.

'Wait a second. We came back, and saw a pooch running up and down the dock. And Dad said, Gosh, that looks just like Peaches the Pooch and I said Dad, that is Peaches the Pooch.'

'She was desperate, then, wasn't she?'

'Yeah, well, there was this sorta moment when we both realized what had happened. I stuck my head out of the cabin and called Peaches, thinking she'd be on deck, but it was the pooch on the dock that barked at me.'

Chris tutted and shook his head. 'Awww,' he said.

Michael persevered. He and Dad had dropped anchor out in the middle of the river. The next morning was the lowest tide of the year. They woke up to find themselves miles from land on a mud flat that reached the horizon. The boat was sinking in it. It leaned to one side and the kitchen cupboard sprang open, and all these tins spilled out and rolled all over the place like bowling balls.

'Anyway Peaches started running round and round the deck, and we couldn't figure out why. And suddenly I said, Dad, she needs to go for a walk!'

'Well, she was a poor little thing then, wasn't she? Why take her with you on a houseboat? Couldn't you have left her with friends?'

Michael relented. 'You know, most people find this story funny. I don't know many funny stories, and this is my effort to, like, be amusing.'

'Thank you,' said Chris perfectly seriously.

Michael took a deep breath. 'Yeah. You're welcome. Anyway, the dog can't take it any more and suddenly she just jumps off the deck and jumps into the marsh. And she disappears. She just completely sinks into the mud.'

Chris covered his mouth. 'Oh my God, what did you do?'

Michael was still waiting for laughs. 'I jumped in after her. And I sank too.'

Bubbles of marsh gas had tickled his feet and smelled like farts. Michael reached into the ooze and pulled poor Peaches out. They both emerged stinking with no way to wash. Chris reacted as if Michael was describing a friend's death from cancer.

'Anyway, Dad said you're not coming onto my boat. I mean we smelled like a sewer. And so we climbed into the dinghy and just sat there.'

'Oh, it sounds disgusting,' said Chris.

'Actually, I still find it kind of funny.'

'Oh.'

'I was telling it as a joke.'

'Were you? I was thinking it didn't sound too funny at the time, being banished by your Dad.'

'I wasn't being banished. I mean, I couldn't go on board, that was all.'

'Sorry.'

So much for telling jokes.

'Actually, I was bloody angry,' said Michael.

And that made Chris laugh. 'I'd have fucking laid one on him.'

'Oh no you wouldn't. Not if you saw my Dad. My Dad was a really big guy. In fact, he was a Marine, which is why we lived where we lived near Camp Pendleton. No, he was a really big man.'

'He sounds fanciable, your father. Do you think you could introduce us?'

And Michael heard himself say, 'I did fancy him, actually.'

Yup. There you go. Chris's face froze.

Michael kept on like it was a funny story. It was some kind of revenge for the funny story. Part of Chris made him angry. 'Well, I didn't see him a lot; he never felt like my father and he was built like, whatever, and he was really handsome, and competent, and smart and I just fell in love… and one night… I made a pass at him.'

Chris went rather still. 'What did he do?'

Michael smiled. 'He went berserk. He rang my Mom.'

Chris saw the humour. He chuckled. 'That sounds awful. That sounds beyond awful.'

Michael didn't. 'It was a laugh riot.'

'I'm… I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh, but it does sound like some kind of living end.'

'That and more. I'm impotent, Chris. Last night was a fake. It was a pill, it was Viagra.'