An indirect journey

I half expected the husband to stay in bed until I left the house, so I was surprised to find him in the garden drinking coffee when I got up. We chatted a little about nothing, before I got up to get ready for the journey to London.

I’d packed the night before. Somehow I didn’t want my husband to see my bag ready to go. I think that I was protecting his feelings, even though I didn’t really understand them. I walked to the station, practicing a little Spanish on my phone and trying not to get too hot.

I was able to find a forward facing seat on the train, and started reading. It wasn’t too long before the gentle rocking and the regular clicking of the track made me drowsy. I put the book down and tipped my hat over my eyes and dozed lightly, knowing that I durst sleep in case I missed my change.

From time to time I’d look out the window at the beautiful countryside, taking in the rivers, woodland, and grazing cattle, but semi-napping in urban areas.

The first change was at Barnham. I had a coffee and a short wait for the next train.

The carriage filled up on the leg from Barnham to Clapham Junction. Various people sat next to me for one or two hops. The last few stops before Clapham, this smelly twenty-something sat next to me. I can’t talk though, despite trying to not overheat on my walk to the station, I had got a little sweaty myself!

Maybe the smell wasn’t either of us, but the smell of humanity in a warm, non-air-conditioned train. Maybe we all stink in here.

As I travelled, from time to time Cicero and I would message. Seconds after I reported that all was going smoothly, I discovered that my connection between Clapham and Waterloo had been cancelled. Such fun.

I asked a guard what to do. “Platform 10,” he said. The train was already there, so I ran through the station like the Millennium Falcon through an asteroid field, dodging other passengers like I was evading spinning rocks in space … and I’m on the train seconds before the doors close. I checked with a passenger “Waterloo?” I’m back on course!

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A warm welcome

It took us a while to connect. Cicero had gone to Waterloo East, whereas my train had pulled into the main Waterloo station.

When I saw him come towards me,  beaming cheekily, I ran towards him, arms wide and embraced him like a long lost relative.

“Cicero!” I said, exuberantly, throwing my arms around him.

If he was overwhelmed or startled by my greeting, he hid it well.

His return hug was warm.

The plan was to go to the Tate Modern and see the AIDS Quilt. Also we would meet up with his “boy” (in BDSM terms). This was going to be interesting.

We stopped on the way for a bite to eat. Chinese. Very nice, although I have no idea how I’m supposed to eat rice with chopsticks and no gloopy sauce. He was in the same boat: we both reverted to the spoons.

He paid for lunch.

Then we walked to the Modern.

Many Meetings

The Tate Modern is a gorgeous brutalist structure, full of polished concrete. At once both heavy in structure and airy in space.

We were there to see the AIDS Quilt, but in the vast hall in the centre, we saw a group of Cicero’s leather friends.

What a wonderfully warm group of people!

They introduced themselves and I even managed to catch a few names and remember to whom they belonged!

They made me feel very welcome.

Then Cicero’s “boy” and his mother arrived (a “boy” in BDSM terms is a word for submissive – they don’t actually have to be younger than the Dominant). The boy is a twenty-something trans guy, kinda sweet with a great mop of hair and proudly showing off a hairy chest.

Everybody was all hugs and warmth.

The Quilt

The Quilt, huge in its own right, occupied one half of this massive hall.

There were three double rows of quilts, each section being perhaps as wide as a snooker table. I could not estimate the length.

Most quilts had names on.

Every single one was unique.

Some were works of pure artistry.

Others were bleak in their starkness.

It was overwhelming, and I wasn’t far from tears.

I will write more on it another time: it deserves its own space.

Frazzled!

I was pretty frazzled after an afternoon of socialising and emotional stimulation, not to mention the journey itself. I was glad of a doze on the sofa!

Cicero and I talked for a while about our respective relationships and how they’d gone wrong. There was a lot we had in common.

Body positive

After Cicero and I shared a pizza, we walked to the club.

I was wearing my Pride kilt and I felt confident and powerful in my expression of myself. I felt right.

I had not expected to feel so good!

I also felt the cold metal seat on my bare arse: in completing the cultural approptiation I’d decided to go “commando”. I think that contributed to the feelings of confidence!

On entering the club, the eyes were immediately arrested by the confidence and power of larger gentlemen enjoying the freedom to wear minimal clothing and being admired for who and what they are.

Everybody likes – maybe even needs – to feel desirable from time to time.

This was their night in their space – and I was welcomed by everybody who spoke to me. Cicero had a number of friends in this club and their greeting of him was warm and authentic. They were very sweet towards me and respected my need to only engage in voyeurism – as it’s said in the film Short Bus: “remember, voyeurism is participation!”

There was a joy there, and a interest that was curious and respectful, but completely non-judgemental towards our eunuch status.

It was at the same time seedy and grotty and beautiful and utterly free.

Maybe one day I will go back and more actively participate!