Making Shaw by Paul Drakeford
He had the habit of mixing business with pleasure. He would read in the toilet. And if the reading were cerebrally stimulating, he could in time become fundamentally numbed.
He was more than halfway through The Mammoth book of gay short stories.
"A gay vampire? How bizarre! Well. A clever idea but ... Now, what's next? Prostitution by Aiden Shaw. Aiden Shaw? That must be a rather common name. There's an Aiden Shaw in Grease guns, and a very upstanding young man at that."
He turned to the back pages for a thumb-nail bio.
`Aiden Shaw is a porn movie star and prostitute, poet and performer and author of the novel Brutal. He lives in London, England.'
The same! He almost fell off his perch. He read on. The story, such as it was a story, consisted of excerpts from the story of a life as a call boy. Interesting. Fluent. Well written. Constructed. Politically incorrect. Probing. Stimulating. Brilliant.
He was warming to Aiden Shaw.
"This guy's more than just a hot number."
And he wondered in what other video heavens this star had sparkled. The only other he could immediately recall was Command performance, full of black Bechsteins. This was a job for an expert, a porn broker. He would ring his friend Bernie.
At the gym he remembered those grey eyes, that rose tattoo, segue to precious orbs, those strong thighs, that curving sti ...
"My my! I think I'm in love."
He was certainly swelling, with more passion than pride. He decided to think instead about lat pull downs.
He rang his friend Bernie.
"Aiden Shaw? I'll just check my records." And then "Well he's in the Adam video guides" and he began to read the list. There were so many. Black leather, Danger alley, Hot pursuit, Night force. The list went on and on. Almost thirty titles. This Aiden Shaw certainly had some accomplishment under his belt, something to be proud of.
"Bernie I'm sure I'm in love."
"Well he doesn't do all that much for me."
So much the better. One fewer in the queue.
The tyranny of distance mitigates against profitable hanky waving. How was he to attract attention so far? Perhaps he could write a poem, compose a song. B flat. His favourite key.
Aiden
always comes before Baden
and I'd never trade Aiden
for Hayden.
Or perhaps
Play your cards right with Aiden
there's a laid down misère to be made in
diamonds and spades you could trade in.
"Needs a bit of work."
Perhaps a letter would be more appropriate. But what address? Well the publisher's would do. 7 Kensington Church Court. And what better place for serious romance than a Church Court.
Dear Aiden Shaw,
Unaccustomed as I am to corresponding with poets of any kind, whether kind or unkind, and never having known a novelist, not even Biblically, and notwithstanding the fact that porn stars never brighten my firmament, nevertheless I take this opportunity ....
[Yadee Yadee Yadee]
... and am therefore convinced that by pooling our considerable talents, perhaps even rubbing them together, and by mixing passions with metaphors, we might compose such an angelic chorale would bring the very heavens to account. In short, will you make an honest fellow of me? Will you, in a manner of speaking, marry me?
He kissed the envelope with very pretty stamps.
And discovered that love is a waiting game.
It was all of three weeks before the reply came back
Yes.
"Hallelujah!" he ejaculated.
They were destined to live happily and promiscuously ever after.
Bernie, with an embarrassment of flowers, caught the bus. Perhaps he could hide the blooms folding the tissue paper so. Or if he held them upside down, thus, the others might think it a bunch of celery. After all, they were all of them off to the mental hospital. They'd probably believe in celery.
He was given instructions. He followed the yellow brick road signs. The ward was snow white. The nurse smiled an off-white smile as she took charge of the flowers. She arranged them in a cracked vase, carelessly, as though they were sticks of celery.
"So how are they treating you?"
"Pills."
"Pills?"
"Yes. Green ones in the morning, and blue ones at night."
"Ah. Pills of a different colour. And what are you in for?"
"Destiny."
"For ever? Surely not for ever!"
"No. For designing destiny. They won't believe I can make things happen. They won't believe I can determine destinies. They say I'm deluded. Irresponsible. Even dangerous."
"Well what did you do?"
"It was the cat next door. You know, the one that came in to get my peaceful doves. I'd feed them crumbs. The next thing that bloody cat would be in. I told the woman. I said I had a strong feeling, in fact I felt sure her cat would meet its destiny the following week."
"And did it?"
"Yes. It did."
"How?"
"I hit it with a spade."
"And have you destined anything else recently?"
"Well yes, as a matter of fact. But I'm not saying what. You wouldn't believe me anyway. Now you could do me a favour Bernie. Would you take this gold ring. Keep it for me. I know that nurse has other ideas. Put it in a safe place where no one will find it. Put it in your underpants perhaps."
"Richard, they're Calvin Kleins ..."
"Well give them back."
"... and I don't want dirty verdigris marks. What would people think?"
Bernie's eyes had never been good. They had not improved with years. Under a strong magnifying glass he could make out the ring was twenty-two carat and was inscribed
Eternal love. A.S.
Just then the phone rang.
"Bernie? Aidan Shaw. Just in by Qantas. The house is deserted. I'm ringing a few likely numbers. Have you seen my Dick?"
Bernie wasn't sure, couldn't help wondering if that was spelt with a capital `D'.
And if he were destined to find out. Copyright 1998 Paul Drakeford