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ASTABGAY BLACKPOOL
THE BLACKPOOL
GAY DIRECTORY
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A STORY OF: ONE GAY LIFE
JOHNNY’S
JOURNAL
Chapter
1
My Daddy Was A Drag Queen!
  Born
in April of 1943 and labelled: Johnny Oberon Fairy, I
guess I was never destined to grow up as normal – whatever
that is! My mother was responsible for the Johnny part,
and I have little doubt that is because she would have
preferred Tarzan (Johnny Weismuller) over my father any
day. She was a fan big-style, and we would never miss an
opportunity to see one of his films should it be on at a
nearby cinema, no matter how many times we had seen it
before.
My father was perhaps the furthest anyone could become
from being a Tarzan, and so how my parents ever came to
hit it off and produce me remains a mystery to this day. I
am given to suspect the local Palais needed to shift a
couple of date-sensitive barrels of Charringtons and put
on a cheap drinks night. What other reason could there be?
Merry Michaels, a never-to-make-it-big-time comedian
travelling mostly around South London from one working
men’s club to another to suffer ridicule and abuse may
have kept the wolf from the door, but it was a heavy cross
for me to bear at school whenever I was asked what my
father did for a living. Giving me Oberon, after the King
of the Fairies, as my second name was possibly his finest
joke. It took me a long time to forgive him for that one!
Strangely it was not until after my father’s death, only a
few years ago, that I learned the real truth about Merry
Michaels. He was only Merry at some of the clubs. At
others, apparently the ones that paid the most, for many
years although still billed under that name as times
demanded, he became the: Impersonator Extraordinaire, Mary
Michaels – in today’s terms: he was a Drag Queen! O.M.G! I
never knew, and I now admire him more than ever. I only
wish we could have talked of those times when so much had
to be in secret.
Of course my father was not gay - a word still to be
adopted in my childhood days - or even remotely bisexual.
Far from it, he was quite a womaniser, and over time he
must have used every excuse possible not to return home
after a booking. Mother knew, of course she did, not least
because he was a great confessor, but somehow they made
the marriage work and stuck together to the end. Knowing
they did not just stay together throughout my childhood,
maintaining an act to protect me, comes with some relief.
They must have been gaining something from each other, and
I am happy about that.
So as I grew up unaware of all of this, none of it can
explain my own sexuality - one that made itself known to
me long before puberty. Maybe mother had something to do
with it by dragging me along to see all those Tarzan
movies, I don’t know, but I did not need dragging for
long. Soon I was looking forward to them as much as she.
Whilst she was undoubtedly becoming damp watching Johnny
Weismuller cavorting in the trees, I was suffering some
painful yearnings for Tarzan’s sidekick – and I don’t mean
Jane! Johnny Sheffield, who played Boy, began to do
strange things to me, things I could not understand as I
must only have been around eight-years-old at that time.
Roy Rogers, the King of the Cowboys, was another who would
produce those strange yearnings, but for what I had no
idea. I would lie on my bed and spend hours drooling over
the full page pictures of him in the Annuals, touching his
face, kissing the pictures, yet I was still many years
away from becoming sexually active.
 Sexuality
is inbuilt, without a doubt one is born what they are to
become, for even before these times I had a strong
preference. I can remember pre-school days, and in those
days that was before five-years-old, once being told to
give Sally, the daughter of family friends, a kiss goodbye
as they left after one of their many visits. Repulsion is
perhaps too strong a word to use, but attraction is not
because I ran over and, jumping up, threw my arms around
her older brother, David, kissing him madly instead. He
would have been about ten or eleven then, and (as I
realised only later from the fast growing lump my knees
questioned at the time) already sexually aware and very
easily aroused. I would not let go of him, and he became
deeply embarrassed, turning bright red. I used to think of
him a lot. Even at that age I knew exactly what I wanted,
though I may not have known why.
When I did finally know why, I lost no time in making up
for all those years in ignorance. From eleven-years-old
there cannot be a school chum I did not try it on with,
and there were not many where I did not succeed in having
my wicked way, some many times. My schooldays were amongst
the best days of my life, and certainly the ones when I
was the most sexually active.
A tart? I was much more than that, I was a whole bakery
load of tarts rolled into one, and so when I hit the
all-boys school after the eleven-plus it was sheer Heaven
for me! Thirty-three other guys in my first class there,
and that year I copped off with thirty of them. I wonder:
is that some kind of a record? It sure was fun!
However long before that, in a junior school in the Forest
Hill area of London, there were a lot of strange
happenings. No woman will ever know, or could possibly
understand, the thrill a boy can get out of being the one
able to pee the highest up a wall. It is something many an
older man now thankful for the force of gravity will look
back on, and sigh. A dozen or so young lads stood
bare-arsed in a long line, each with their trousers around
their knees and pissing up a wall for all their life’s
worth, is a sight to behold, I can tell you!
And what usually followed on afterwards, the comparisons
and all that involved, was hilarious to all of us, but to
someone growing up gay it was also nothing short of
mind-blowing. More on that next time, as we further
explore my riotous schooldays.
Johnny.
Copyright ©Michael
Knell 2008.
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JOHNNY’S JOURNAL
Chapter 2
Does A Finger Count?
 With
the name Johnny, I was quite used to being ribbed.
Otherwise friends at primary school would sometimes
gleefully dance around me in the playground, pointing
and chanting out I was a French Letter. I think now I
am amazed at just how much we knew at that early age.
Of course, Fairy was a regular target for ridicule
too, though at the time none of us appreciated all of
its connotations.
Today such behaviour would be called bullying, and
provide employment for dozens of people in all kinds
of social service departments that cost an absolute
fortune to run. But then it was all a part and parcel
of growing up, everybody was subjected to it at one
time or another, and nobody thought that much of it.
It was annoying when you were the subject, but you
knew it would pass and were eager to come up with
something that would make someone else become the
target. I think we were all a lot more sensible in
those days.
All the kids at our school certainly had mathematics
down to a fine art, that’s for sure. The average age
was probably about ten when the exposures started.
Behind our desks, with all the angles of possible view
by the teacher worked out to perfection and avoided,
the short trousers we wore were pulled up, usually the
left leg, to expose all our naughty bits to the girls.
They in turn were wriggling around, lifting up their
skirts and pulling aside their knickers, in an attempt
to show us a smile.
Already close friends with Peter, who always sat next
to me, we soon became much closer as we noticed that
neither of us were getting whatever it was the other
boys were getting out of seeing the girls’ gashes. We
were both spending our time looking around at the
boys’ bits, not that we hadn’t seen them all many
times before in the high peeing contests. Were there
to have been a “Pop A Percy Through A Screen”
competition we could have named every single one, from
the thin and knobbly David right through to the short,
fat and the brightest red bell end imaginable,
Geoffrey!
Peter lived near to the school in a prefab on a small
estate just off the Dartmouth Road, whilst I lived in
a house a fair distance away, past the railway
station, in Pearcefield Avenue - one that a nostalgic
visit in 1998 revealed had long gone to be replaced by
a supermarket car park. Nevertheless in those bygone
days we spent most of our time together despite the
distance. We did just about everything together. And I
do mean just about everything!
The cinema was a great pastime in the fifties. Few
people had television sets, and neither of our
families did, so like most local kids Saturday
mornings at the Capitol Cinema in London Road, often
called “the sixpenny rush”, was on our agenda. It may
seem strange now, but we found a lot of enjoyment in
singing the patriarchal songs of the day along to the
ball which bounced in time over the words on the
screen before the films started. We each had a badge
with the ABC triangle on it, and like thousands of
other kids we wore it with pride. You could have
caught any one of us at some time or another marching
down a street giving it the: “We are the Minors of the
ABC . . .” at the top of our voice. They were good
days.
Several cartoons, a serial, and a feature film, it was
great entertainment for sixpence. However by the time
we were ten-years-old or so, the entertainment on the
screen had started to become secondary to many as boys
and girls progressed from sitting together in gender
separate giggling groups to pairing off and sitting in
the back rows, where exploratory excursions in the
dark were undertaken. Within a very few minutes of the
lights extinguishing for the show there were slaps and
squeals to be heard, all intermingled with roars of
hysterical laughter. So everyone was far too busy to
notice what Peter and I were doing!
By the time we were eleven-years-old, we were doing it
everywhere! I can remember once, a very special once,
making our way through Mayow Park on the way to
Sydenham where there were three picture houses we
would often visit, boisterously fooling around as kids
do, the mood suddenly changed into tenderly exploring
each other and some long meaningful looks. Those
hormones don’t care where they are when they decide to
kick off, do they?
A few moments later, and in broad daylight, we were at
it on the grass in the middle of the far from empty
park. Until then our encounters had always been simply
fun driven. But that afternoon was the first time it
became a lot more than fun, and we kissed. Oh, Boy!
How we kissed! Only the threat of some much older
boys, jeering and breaking off from their game of
football to chase us, forced us to flee from the park.
It was later that afternoon, in a toilet cubicle in
the Century Cinema, that at eleven-years-old we both
lost our anal virginity - but only if fingers count.
If they don’t, then it would have been a few weeks
later on the last day I ever saw Peter. A tearful,
painful day. The day before I had to leave to stay
with relatives many miles away in order to attend the
prestigious school my parents had picked for me as a
day boy, rather than as an expensive boarder.
We had prepared everything for our last time together.
Several bottles of brown ale and loads of cigarettes,
along with cloths for wipes (I don’t recall tissues at
that time, but maybe I’m wrong!), and old coats to lie
down on were ready and waiting in our den in the large
and wild untended wooded garden behind the Capitol
Cinema. Determined to go all the way this memorable
time, we had a jar of Vaseline there too in the hope
that all the jokes we had heard were based on some
truth.
 After
a strange kind of day spent together, not an unhappy
one but one full of despair for we knew nothing could
stop us from being pulled apart, we both went to our
separate homes for tea and met up again later, at
seven o’clock outside the café, a Teddy Boy joint
then, next to the cinema. Several frothy coffees were
stared into at the table by the door before we left to
make our way down the side of the cinema, where at the
back we jumped up the low wall into the garden.
We had a great time that evening, discovered the jokes
were based on fact, and made fantastic love several
times. We cried a lot too. Late, at nine o’clock, we
kissed and cuddled for the last time, before rushing
off in our different directions, both of us fighting
to hold back the tears.
I never saw Peter again, although I often think of
him. I sometimes wonder if he ever went back and
tidied up that den, or perhaps used it again with
someone else. Maybe it is still there, untouched, just
as we left it to this very day. Who knows?
Peter was my first lover. He, and those wonderful
times we spent together, will always mean a great deal
to me. But he was not my first true-love; a lover I
would die for if it were needed. I met him later at
the all-boys school I was to attend in Winchester, and
everything that Peter and I had done together put me
in good stead for my time there.
When I look back on that school now, I seem to recall
we did do a few lessons in between all the wild sex
and partying, but how we managed to still escapes me.
More on that next time, when I shall also tell you how
I came to hate William Shakespeare.
Johnny.
Copyright ©Michael
Knell 2008.
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JOHNNY’S JOURNAL
Chapter 3
Cock-a-doodle-do!
 As
the train pulled into the station to stop amidst great
swathes of steam and hissing noises, “Winchester
City” the announcer felt the need to stress, and I
alighted struggling with my two heavy suitcases, I was
more than apprehensive. I was terrified. Who in
tarnation were the Uncle Sam and Aunty Beryl I was to
meet here?
Eleven-and-a-half-years-old and I had never heard of
them until recently. To my knowledge they had never
visited, they were in none of the family photographs,
and I could not recall any Birthday or Christmas
presents either. How was I to recognise them?
And then, as the crowd dispersed from the platform, my
eyes fell on the middle-aged, portly, moustached,
balding, ginger-haired guy exploding out of a far too
tight green-chequered suit by the exit. High in the
air above him he held a white placard on which in bold
letters was scrawled: FAIRY. Well, at least he looked
a fun guy!
The short journey in the impressive brand new Morris
Traveller to my home for the next five years in Middle
Brook Street took only a few minutes, but it was long
enough for me to learn I had no relations in
Winchester. Sam and Beryl, a brother and sister both
still single, were performing artistes that my father
often met on the club circuit. For an undisclosed sum
of money, obviously a lot less than the school’s
boarding fees, they had readily agreed I could stay
with them at their large terraced house within walking
distance of my much-envied place of education. The
fact that this “public” school only took private
pupils, and a few like myself able to pass an entrance
exam, was confusing enough to me – but now all this
subterfuge? What kind of a strange world was I getting
into?
Beryl, with the same kind of ginger hair and equally
as large as her brother, was waiting for us by the
front door at the top of some steps to the
four-storied building, and so I was quickly whisked
inside what one would have to be forgiven for
mistaking as a theatrical museum,
one complete with an evil looking rooster costume,
which gave me a start, at the end of the hallway.
Within the next few minutes I was
 shown
my room, rushed around the rest of the building, told
to unpack and make myself at home, and then left as
they explained they had a booking and would possibly
see me in the morning. I was not to worry as Tommy
would be home soon to ensure I was okay. Tommy?
After unpacking I went off to explore the house again.
The guided tour had been far too rushed for me to take
it all in. Next to the bathroom I discovered a large
shower room. I had never seen one before. They were
certainly not common in my part of London - not that I
knew of, anyway. So feeling grubby from the travelling
I decided to try it out whilst I waited for Tommy,
whoever he was!
No doubt it was the roar of the giant Ascot water
heater that prevented me from hearing someone come
into the shower room, and I must have been turned away
from the door. The first I knew I was not alone was
when an arm reached over my shoulder to wet a bar of
soap. I jumped, physically, and turned to see the
naked young lad, a little older than me I guessed,
grinning at me. Oh, God! He was stunning!
And Percy thought so too, for there was nothing I
could do to prevent him from popping up to take a look
for himself. Dying with the embarrassment, I quickly
dropped my hands in an attempt to hide him, and then I
noticed this guy wasn’t hiding any of his
embarrassment, which was undoubtedly larger than mine!
The heat and steam, the roaring of the gas, the shock
of finding him in there with me, his stunning beauty,
the searching looks, or his wonderful endowment, I
don’t know what it was that started it off, but within
seconds we had both silently exchanged all the
communication necessary to be hugging each other
tightly, and kissing and fondling each other as if
there were no tomorrow. God! There just HAD to be
tomorrows with this guy, and many of them!
Turning off the water, the guy explained he was Tommy.
Holding my hand, he then nodded for me to follow him
as naked he led me out along the passageway and into
the bedroom next door. I can remember being overjoyed
– it was next to my bedroom, and all kinds of things
flew through my mind.
I learned a lot that afternoon, not least that there
was better than Vaseline. Before and afterwards we
smoked a roll-up that made me feel giggly and very
happy - I later discovered this was called a reefer,
and then there was this magic tin that you had to
close the lid on once you had taken an enormous sniff.
“Burroughs Wellcome”, it said on it – and it was
definitely welcome for without its mind-blowing and
muscle-relaxing effects I don’t think I could have
experienced Tommy in the way I did.
 Things
just got better and better, and all these years later
I still feel a little guilty for so quickly forgetting
about Peter, my only lover until then. But this new
life was becoming unbelievable. Tommy went to the same
school, would be in the year above me, and promised to
look after me. It turned out he was the only child of
Sam and Beryl’s brother, and the only survivor of the
horrific traffic accident five years ago. Technically
they were now his guardians and looking after him, but
in reality they were rarely there because of their
theatrical engagements and he quite capably looked
after himself. It was every young guy’s dream!
A Londoner and streetwise I may have been, a bit of a
flyboy even, but Tommy thoroughly outclassed me. That
Saturday, before school started on the Monday, there
was a basement party. These events, I learned, were
pretty regular. About twenty lads, aged anything
between thirteen and twenty-years-old, turned up
around seven o’clock laden with bottles and, each
handing over a pound note, were invited in. Some had
apparently come from as far away as Southampton. I
hadn’t a clue how far that was at the time, but it
sounded impressive.
The blaring pop music, darkness apart from a few
coloured bulbs - mostly red, mattresses and giant
cushions strewn about madly, the flowing drink, and
the fumes from an obvious proliferation of reefers
ensured that within an hour there was nobody who had
not at least got down to their underpants. Mostly, in
the subdued lighting, all that could be seen were
parts of entwined writhing bodies. I was the new boy –
“fresh meat” as they called me – and very quickly
pulled into the melee to be enjoyed. It was a
fantastic night, and I have no idea how or when it
finished. I woke up Sunday morning in bed next to
Tommy. He grinned across at me, and asked if I thought
I would like living there. I can remember just
giggling back, and kissing him like crazy!
Monday morning, and dressed in Tommy’s school clothes
from the previous year – even that had been worked out
for economy, but they were in excellent condition! –
we walked the ten minutes to the school. Thankfully
Tommy saw I was spared the kick up the arse for bowing
to a sewerage vent that new boys were told was the
founder’s grave, and after a very quick trip around
the outside of the main building so I could be told
what was where, we went in to assembly. The smell of
five hundred boys immediately made me horny, but I was
not the only one!
Standing about four rows from the front with my hands
loosely in front of me to hide a suddenly arisen
embarrassment, I became aware of a hand sliding into
my left trouser pocket. Turning my head rapidly, Tommy
smiled back at me and pushed his hand in further.
There was no pocket, and he had hold of me. I grinned
at him, and then had to spin my head in the opposite
direction – someone was now in that pocket too, and
likewise it had a hole in it. Looking around I
noticed: apart from the newcomers at the front, there
were a lot of hands in a lot of pockets. Putting my
own hands, one in each of their pockets, I realised
this school was going to be fun with a capital F!
Then came something I hadn’t bargained for – nobody
called anyone by their Christian name at this type of
school. It was always surnames only, so I cringed
imagining the number of times there would be laughter
as “Fairy” was shouted out. With the first lesson
being English Literature my heart sunk even lower. The
book to be studied for the year was: “A Midsummer
Night’s Dream” by William Shakespeare. Wasn’t that the
one about fairies, bottoms and the fairy king, Oberon?
The Hell it was! Porky, that was the nickname given to
the English tutor, enjoyed himself no end at my
expense that year. I have never forgiven him for that
– or William Shakespeare!
However for what this school offered me, along with
being shacked up with a dishy guy like Tommy, it was a
small price to pay. This school made the world its
pupils’ oyster, but first it was going to be my
oyster! More on this next time.
Johnny.
Copyright ©Michael
Knell 2008.
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JOHNNY’S JOURNAL
Chapter 4
Gorging On Turkeys In Denial!
 I
think same-sex schools are wonderful. It is a shame there are
so few left today. They are great for gay kids, but more than
that they are living proof that although sexuality may adapt
to a situation, it cannot be changed. I believe it is far
better to accept a bit of same-sex fun between kids, than all
the homophobia and unwanted pregnancies suffered today.
Obviously most of the kids at the all-boys school I attended
were heterosexual. That, statistically, is always the natural
majority. However there was another majority: those of them
living in a state of denial about what they did to relieve
their sexual frustration. Of course their denials mattered not
one iota to a grateful young gay guy like me. I was in Heaven!
There were thirty-three other kids in my first form and, to
varying degrees, I had the pleasure of thirty of them. All
these years later, those I have managed to re-establish
contact with on the Internet are, as I expected, married and
have families. It is quite strange when I hear all about their
“normal” lives when (like Mr Chips) the only way I am able to
picture them is as the kids I once knew: some with tool in
hand positively oozing to find relief, and others with legs in
the air like a trussed turkey, complete with a head that
screamed for more!
As one of them told me, they blocked out boys from their minds
at the time and imagined they were doing all those things we
did with girls. I believe him, but it still leaves me
wondering how those who enjoyed being the lunchtime trussed-up
turkey, one often stuffed several times over, managed to
relate that to being male in heterosexual lovemaking!
Being a day boy I am not exactly au fait with what went on in
the dormitories of a night. The boarders would never reveal
much, however I suspect it may have been made deliberately
awkward for them to get up to anything elaborate. Suffice to
say they were never behind at coming forward for “a walk up
the field”. We called the boarders “rabbits”, because you
might say they were always gagging for it and needed a lot of
satisfying!
Apart from the common practice of sharing pockets in
classrooms - and in geometrically suitable ones the full-blown
meat-and-two-veg in the lap where a love message was
frequently deposited inside some unknown boy’s desk! - there
were well-worn paths up the large playing field to where its
shrubbery perimeter became a hive of sexual activity. Lunch
money was pooled to be spent on something from the tuck shop,
a packet of cigarettes, and perhaps a bottle of cider if
someone was flush, all to be enjoyed along with copious
amounts of sex in the bushes, behind the pavilion, or in an
old air-raid shelter, depending on the weather. If we were
still hungry there were the orchards of all the large houses
that backed on to the field.
Breaks and free periods were commonly spent “up the field”,
and even those forced to watch cricket matches there could
never become bored. At one such cricket match on a sweltering
hot afternoon I copped off seven times in the bushes – once
even with the guy who was supposed to be keeping the score,
but who convinced someone else to do it for ten minutes,
making a complete balls up of it!
 As
only to be expected, the traditions of debagging and
pill-grabbing were rife. Any kid giving us grief would be
debagged and their clothes thrown away, however debagging was
more readily carried out simply to satisfy curiosity about a
cute guy not one of our sexual partners, with the clothes in
this case being returned afterwards. Pill grabbing was a weird
and painful sport which entailed trying to grab another’s
testicles to force a submission. If nothing else, it was very
good for the eyesight and guaranteed to remove all earwax!
Today both practices are considered a criminal assault, but
then they were merely long-standing traditions boys enjoyed.
Pill-grabbing was sometimes also a way of letting a kid from a
different class know you were sexually interested in him. As
one form filed out of a room, the next class would be filing
in. One would grab at someone they wished to know better as
they passed. If the next time you passed they grabbed you
back, then you could bet you were home and dry! So it was with
Tony.
I had seen him around and appreciated all his cuteness, though
I did not know him. He lived in the next street to where I was
staying, Lower Brook Street, and was possibly two years
younger. Nervous about joining the school, one day he plucked
up the courage to ask me – a total stranger, but one seen
locally in the right school uniform – whether I would take him
and “show him the ropes” on his first day.
He was nervous? God! I almost died when he spoke to me! I
stuttered – and I don’t! – and was hardly able to put two
words together. Here was someone so stunning, so absolutely
perfect in every way, I would die for him! Smart, clean,
bright, polite, good physique, symmetrical face, wonderful
eyes, and a built-in cheeky grin. He was everything anybody
could want. Why did he have to be younger?
Of course I took him. He joined me regularly on the walk to
school. But as wonderful as he was, I made no advances.
Firstly, it wasn’t the done thing to go with someone two years
your junior at school, and secondly I was frightened he might
reject me and I would not see so much of him. Just catching
sight of him was to have an immediate high.
It must have taken Tony a full month to learn all “the ropes”.
I still remember perfectly the Tuesday morning when, filing
out after a history lesson I had slept through contentedly and
smiling at him in the queue waiting to enter the room next,
with a larger than usual cheeky grin he winked up at me and
gently grabbed my balls as he passed by, allowing his not
wanting to let go hand drag behind him as he went on forward
in the queue. I can remember wondering: was I still asleep and
dreaming?
I wasn’t, and it was the start of a strange and unforgettable
time in my life. The free and easy sex didn’t entirely stop,
at school or at those basement parties, but it became heavily
curtailed as the two of us embarked on a secret love affair.
It was intense, and nothing like the simple gratifying
encounters normally undertaken to bash the hormones into
submission. Much more than them, this was meaningful, deeply
tender, loving and romantic, and it lasted until I was forced
to leave Winchester.
 The
five years spent at this school were mostly filled with
drunken wild parties, mind-boggling amounts of sex, having
lots of fun, the new thing called Rock & Roll, and that
intense secret love affair with Tony which took precedence
over everything. There was not a lot of time for anything
else, like studying. The not so good GCE results did still
mean a couple more years there and on to university was
attainable - just, however the amount of money needed to do
that was more than the family could afford.
By now, Merry Michaels had given up treading the boards. I did
not learn the real reason for this until recently, having been
given an entirely different story at the time, but the truth
is following an accident where as Mary he had fallen badly on
a bottle used in the act (don’t ask!), damaging and scarring a
leg so now he walked with a noticeable limp – not the best
asset for a drag queen! – he could no longer continue in that
line of work. So the house in Pearcefield Avenue was sold and
a newsagent shop bought a few streets away. One, as it turned
out, not very profitable.
That being the case, at the end of my time at this school I
was destined to go home to live with my parents above this
shop in Forest Hill, and to look for some suitable employment.
But first there were a lot of tearful goodbyes. Throughout
life there are never bonds to equal some of those made in
one’s schooldays. Leaving Tommy, his guardians, and all those
great friends I had made, let alone my happy home for the past
five years, was simply awful. And then, of course, there was
Tony. Oh, God! The crying we did! Days of it! It was a
terrible, terrible time.
The biggest regret I have of my life, and there are many, is
not having the guts to find a way of staying in Winchester to
let that love run its course. Before, then, or after – I have
never found anyone to equal Tony, not by a mile! All these
years later I still miss him deeply.
But little did I know it then, life had far worse in store for
me as I sought to make my living in a heterosexual world. A
world that would not understand me, and were it to discover
the truth, the secret I held, would delight in persecuting me.
More next time when I tell you how I tried to play it straight
in a straight world. A story of pretence, and of consequences!
Johnny.
Copyright ©Michael
Knell 2008.
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JOHNNY’S JOURNAL
Chapter 5
From Heaven To Hell!
Of course I had been
back to Forest Hill many times throughout my schooling in
Winchester. Every holiday I spent a few days with my parents,
but no more than that after discovering on my first visit
everything had moved on. Peter was no longer around, having
moved, and all my friends were involved in things of great
importance to them, mostly girls. Although still friendly,
they did not have a lot of time for me. So returning home for
good, or at least for the foreseeable future, was not
something I welcomed.
After enjoying five carefree years in spacious modernised
accommodation, the small and dingy living quarters above the
shop were claustrophobic. The bathroom, a downstairs extension
to the building, was nothing short of primitive, and my own
room overlooking the railway line was cold, pokey and in
serious need of decorating. Oh, and the bed squeaked too! I
might have been home, but my home was Hell.
Several weeks passed, and I remained unsuccessful in securing
suitable employment. The only money I had, a considerable
amount Tommy forced me to take as I boarded the train to
depart Winchester, was nearly all gone. I really missed Tommy.
He was a great guy who could fix anything, and there was a
whole lot that needed fixing right then.
I missed Tony too, of course. Terribly. I loved him so much.
My mind never stopped drifting away to wonder what he might be
doing, right then, and the tears would return. Brisk walks
taken in an attempt to put such thoughts out of my mind, only
changed the focus. Everywhere I went, for miles around, I was
haunted by memories of better times, many of these with Peter.
Then one morning my luck changed. Father called upstairs to
say he had found me a job. An old friend contacted from the
Merry days, Ted Shields, had written back. His company owned
some provincial theatres, a number of nightclubs, and several
small cinemas. The deal
 was
for me to start at the bottom, in the projection room of one
of the cinemas, and should I show promise I would be trained
firstly in cinema management and then, if I was up to it,
company management.
It sounded far better than anything I had been offered so far
and declined, so I made no objections. Then I was told exactly
where I was to go, and my heart missed a beat. It was the
Century Cinema in Sydenham - a place with a lot of history for
me. As the name rattled through my brain I pictured that time
in the toilet cubicle with Peter, and I swear I felt his
finger. Nevertheless I was there the following Monday morning
at ten o’clock as arranged.
I soon learned this was not so much a job as a way of life. To
be there by ten in the morning I needed to leave home by
nine-thirty, earlier on Saturdays when there was a kids'
morning show, and it was eleven-thirty before I arrived home
at night. But all the staff were friendly, like some big happy
family, so I was no longer lonely - though what they sometimes
talked about frightened me.
As the newbie I had to be filled in on the gossip, and there
sure was a lot of it. It seemed everybody there spent all
their time getting off with everybody else of the opposite
sex. With so little time away from the cinema it was their
whole world, and I began to wonder: what would I do if one of
the girls tried it on with me? Noting the way in which they
referred to a previous manager, one apparently with “men
friends”, there was no way I was going to let on I too
preferred a bum chum to fish dish! However, as I discovered,
playing it straight is not always that easy for a young,
randy, gay guy.
Thankfully, being the junior – technical name: Fourth
projectionist – I was always kept busy. The hierarchy was: the
Chief did very little except walk about sighing (the days when
the Chief was God and more important than the House Manager
had passed, hurting the man); the Second had conversations
with him whilst watching over the Third who ran the show
almost single-handed, and would only assist him if there was a
rapid succession of machine changes required to cope with a
short Cinemascope trailer; and the Fourth made the tea.
However he also did all the machine cleaning before the show,
maintained the lighting and fans whilst at the same time
sweeping the floor with the broom stuck up his arse, and was
responsible for rewinding the reels (that flew off the
machines every twenty minutes) not forgetting to repair any
bad joints or broken sprocket holes. If anything ever went
wrong it was always the fault of the Fourth.
Nevertheless I survived it, and little more than a year later
I was running the whole shebang. A talking point for many
months: after not turning up for work one day, the Chief was
discovered dead at home – in his armchair with cock in hand
and a dirty magazine nearby on the floor! Only days later the
new House Manageress, a first for the company, Barbara
call-me-Babs Bloomfield, and the Second fell out.
 They
had never seen eye to eye, so he wasn’t going to make Chief.
She wanted modern changes; he, an “old cinema” conformist, did
not. After an enormous row it was goodbye to him. Then as fate
would have it, the very same week the Third discovered the ice
cream girl-come-usherette, Janet, was up the duff and quickly
did a runner. I alone was left.
Luckily I had spent my time there gainfully. By then I knew
everything there was to know about Kalee arcs, Simplex
machines and RCA sound systems, and had a good grounding in
all the electrics too, so for a whole month I was left to run
the box, doing everything, entirely on my own – there was
nobody else. It was hard work, but it came with a lot of
kudos.
This situation, however, was against all the rules and
regulations. Made in the days before safety film, they
required two people to be in the box at all times, not even
allowed to venture even momentarily into the attached rewind
room. So, in case we should suffer a visit from the Fire
Chief, a side-splitting routine was worked out involving
usherettes and doormen changing in and out of uniforms and
dashing up and down different staircases, like something out
of a Whitehall farce, to give the appearance all legal
requirements were covered. I’m not sure we would have got away
with it, all the practice runs collapsed in hilarity, so
perhaps it was just as well it never had to be enacted for
real.
Becoming Acting Chief (apparently I couldn’t be a Chief so
young), as soon as we had a full complement of staff again –
all of them picked by me and dependant as much on their looks
as their skills! - I was left with a lot of spare time on my
hands, and that was dangerous. Visits from Head Office often
involved a ploughman’s lunch in the pub on the bridge whilst
business was discussed, with me having to attend. This soon
progressed, on some very flimsy excuses, to me having lunch
with Babs on a daily basis.
Not encouraging them, but feeling unable to rebuke them in
case I should blow my cover of normality, her advances became
more and more pronounced. Barely eighteen, and out of my depth
in a heterosexual world, I didn’t stand a chance against the
will of this experienced older woman who was also my boss, and
so one day, unsurprisingly I suppose, it had to happen. And it
went on happening for another two years during which time I
moved into her house, a semi-detached in nearby Knighton Park
Road. There were some advantages to this, of course: it was
only a two minute walk to work, and it had an irresistible
upstairs bathroom!
 With
no male lovers in my life, the regular sex obviously gave some
relief. However there was no “turn on” for me from a female
body, so I could never do it alone with her. Tony especially,
but often Peter and Tommy too, always had to be there with me
in my mind. It was the only way it would or could happen.
I guess on the whole my “straight” life wasn’t too bad, though
me living with a much older woman – and unmarried too! - was
upsetting my parents. But it all rolled along, day in, day
out, being nothing special or exciting. Reasonably well paid
and holding down a decent job, it began to look as if this was
it for me - my pigeonhole for life.
And then one day, whilst I was sitting on my stool savouring
the buns of the rather delicious but profoundly straight Third
as he peered through the porthole waiting for the change-over
marks, with a smile large enough to smother a company of
marines Babs exploded through the door of the projection box
to tell me she was pregnant. It was most off-putting.
More on that next time, when I find out things ain’t what they
seem to be – and I land up with a sugar daddy?
Johnny.
Copyright ©Michael
Knell 2008.
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Many
of the storylines in Johnny's Journal are based on actual
events which have then been fictionalised. Where necessary
names, locations and dates have been changed to protect
anonymity. All pictures are stock photography and employed
only for effect. Michael Knell.
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