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"The bugger in the short sleeves f**ked my wife
Did it quick and split
Back home, fresh as a daisy to maisy, oh maisy
Holes in the body, holes in the legs
Holes in the forehead, holes in the head
Holes in the body, holes in the legs
There should never be holes at all"
- John Cale, "Guts"
John Cale knocked on the door to Kevin Ayers' suite with considerable violence. He had been let in after the lobby staff had phoned Ayers to see if he approved--something that irrationally irritated John. He had kept calm until he had reached the sixth floor where Kevin's rooms were--then his eyes had narrowed and his mouth set and his pace had quickened with the anger he felt as he had charged towards the correct door. He stared at the white-painted door with its gilt number hard and fixedly, his breaths deepening as he prepared himself for the confrontation.
It did not take Kevin long to answer the door--soon John heard his languid footsteps approaching and the door was opened with a sweep. Already John could smell a faded odour of weed-smoke drifting faintly through the doorway and that was precisely as he had expected only it annoyed him more. He was surprised, however, when he saw Kevin appear from behind the door, wearing only a paisley dressing gown of a shiny, light fabric which fell to his calves in clinging folds. He stood with his hand limp on the door, looking at John with a vacuous look in his blue eyes.
John set his jaw even tighter. Kevin was looking beautiful, so beautiful John's hate just increased tenfold. John hated him. He hated his beauty, he hated his laziness, he hated the way he always got what he wanted, he hated his hair, he hated his stupid habit of wearing white because it was flattering, he hated the languid ease in the way he moved, he hated his droning low voice, he hated the whimsy in his songs, he hated the friendly passivity he exuded, he hated him and the way he had betrayed his trust.
But still, as soon as Kevin appeared before him, John felt himself retreat slightly, as if scared. Why? He was not scared. He was not scared of this lazy lying faggot, he told himself. John was not scared, and he glared at Kevin. "I need to talk to you alone," he said in a terrible voice.
Kevin's expression did not change. He nodded, still looking utterly blank, then lounged away and shouted something at somebody in the next room. John took the opportunity to go into the suite, closing the door behind him with a slam. He did not sit down on one of the satin-upholstered chairs or sofas, but instead wandered around the spacious living room, now bathed in the rich golden light of a summer afternoon.
The sun gave an even deeper hue to the beige and white used to decorate it, a sharper glint to the gilding of the furniture. John's cold stare glided over all the beauty around him with a complete lack of interest, only a slight disgust rising in him at how nice and comfortable everything was. He was too absorbed in his thoughts to really care about what he saw. Occasionally he threw up his head spasmodically as if to shake off a particularly troublesome thought, or dug his shoe into the thick carpet.
After a while a small girl with a lot of bleached hair flitted into the room, looking at him curiously, and went out. Kevin followed her silently, and, looking after her a moment, shut the door with a click. He went back and flopped down on a sofa, fumbling for a cigarette in the pocket of his dressing gown.
Then, searching for a lighter, he turned to look at John, who was still pacing the room like a neurotic zoo animal. His strange behaviour immediately interested Kevin. The way John's back was curved and the way he held his head low, dark eyes burning from the shadows of their sunken sockets, his drawn face tightened with anger--all these things, to Kevin's admittedly addled brain, seemed to hold some kind of sexual promise.
Of course, it was just a feeling, and he never thought about his feelings much, so that he only became dimly aware of a desire within himself entirely novel with regards to John. Glancing at him furtively he felt a thrill in the thought of John's anger and new physical presence. He had never seen John so clearly before, so undeniably there. Previously, John had been a hazy figure at the edge of his vision, there as part of the scenery, as a part of the people around him. John had kept aloof, and Kevin, not assertive, had not done anything to change that. People sought out him--it was only rarely that he approached them.
But now he felt a pressing need to satisfy this new desire that had emerged in him. The tension between them only sharpened his newfound interest. But John turned and noticed the blank stare Kevin had fixed on him for the last minute or so, and it incensed him so much he was roused into action.
John came wandering over to him with a slowness that was supposed to be intimidating, and staring down at him with eyes hard and black as coal, said: "I suppose you can guess why I came to see you?"
Kevin, staring up at him placidly, could not guess. Had something happened? He tried to gather memories connected to John and failed to find anything that seemed likely to answer this. He shook his head, giving a silly look that was meant to placate John. John's mouth worked, painfully, and his frown deepened.
"Look," he said, voice deep with sarcasm, "as a gentleman, did you fuck her?" Kevin thought for a moment, sorting through his thoughts. Finally, he alighted on something related to John--Cindy.
Relieved he was able to return an answer, he replied, maybe a little too happily: "Yes."
The next moment he saw John's fist flying at him, and he dodged it. John, cursing, grabbed his shoulder instead and, pinching it hard, tried to make him get up, but Kevin simply curled up a bit and lay like a dead weight on the sofa. He perceived John probably wanted to punish him for sleeping with his wife, which certainly explained a lot. But it did not alarm him. Kevin had avoided so many beatings in his lifetime he could do it now with a sort of routine.
But he remembered the look in John's eyes, and in this light the feel of his hand digging into his shoulder felt very different to him now. It felt full of potential. Kevin turned his head a little, looking at John from the corner of his eye.
"If I'd known you would be so jealous I would have invited you, too," he said, in his dark, sardonic voice.
"Fucking faggot," John hissed under his breath, looking murderous.
Kevin nodded, but the movement was lost as John grabbed him by the neck and pulled him off the sofa with unexpected force, falling down himself with the shift of weight. If he could have, Kevin would have giggled at the sight of it but John's grip was so tight he could barely even breathe let alone speak. Instead, he kicked him in the guts very hard with one knee, and John released him. The sudden violence and the sheer pain shocked John and he was very still for a few moments, as he recovered from both. Kevin looked at him, his blue eyes wide, not moving away but wondering what would happen next.
Suddenly, John looked up into his eyes with a look of such intense anger that fear flared up in Kevin's mind for a second and he thought of running away. The next thing he knew, John was on top of him, trying to twist his body round. Kevin did not struggle, merely lay still and looked at John, oddly exhilarated. His breathing was now short and shallow with excitement, though his body was still limp and he let himself be pushed over by John's bony hands, until he was facing the floor and felt dizzy with anticipation.
The drugs he'd had--or was it the wine--made all the physical strain too intense and he could only keep himself from passing out by concentrating on the pain coming from whatever the hell John was doing to him. His whole mind was taken up by what could what must what he wanted to happen next but he could only wait for it to happen. He felt John's hands on his back somewhere and heard his breathing--rasping and low like a snarl--behind his head, and then his body so thin and hard pushed against him with first the light force of his weight and then harder as John spat words at him in a voice so distorted he could not understand it.
He pulled up his legs slowly along his sides and the pressure disappeared, only one of John's hands grabbing at his hair and pushing down his head weakly. Then he felt the scramble of fingers along his thighs, his back, his cock, and finally a muted groan as John pushed inside him. It hurt and it was strange and good at the same time--he shut his eyes and tried to relax but the sensation was so great and
so needle-sharp and made so much greater by the drugs it felt like too much and he struggled and shouted until he thought he'd pass out. But too soon it was over and John twisted the skin of his back between his fingers as he came, then suddenly, with some screaming and kicking of furniture, was gone.
Kevin lay there, wrapped up on the colours and the noises still echoing through his mind for some time before he regained his full consciousness. Sitting up and wincing at the pain that was already beginning, he ran a hand through his hair and wrapped his now spoilt dressing gown around himself. He noticed he was still half-hard, and wondered vaguely what to do about it, as he looked around.
The room was silent now, so silent and empty it depressed him, despite its beauty and its luxury. He thought about what had just happened, and it seemed so unlikely and strange he wondered for a moment if he'd imagined it. But thinking about it made him horny again, and he made up his mind to do something about it. So he got up, slowly and painfully, and waddled to the telephone to dial a number.
"Oh hey Richard," he said into the receiver, "do you feel like coming over later? Well, sure, bring Kristen. And some wine, if you've got any..."
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