Darryl’s Diary
– or: Life on the Edge at a Gay Guest House
in Southtrend-On-Sea
.

 

Chapter Number 12
 

It was great having my former colleagues and friends staying over for a night last week, and I appreciated their invaluable help in getting rid of the family from Hell for me. They too had all enjoyed their trip and after breakfast distributed the flowers they had brought between Cynthia next door and the old people's rest home almost opposite me, leaving me with just a discreet few to decorate my hall.

 

 I had to bin the wreath though. Dave, the builder, arrived just before they were leaving and shared an enjoyable pot of tea with them - afterwards even managing to persuade them to pick up his ladders from my yard and run them round to his house in the back of the hearse on their way home.

 

Lance was a star, helping me with the breakfast that morning. He had clearly enjoyed all the fun of the previous evening. We agreed that wearing whatever he liked was okay with me, just so long as there were no guests or visitors around. For the rest of the week, after helping me with making up the rooms, he spent a lot of time helping Dave make good the yard following the demolition of the outside loo and the building of my covered walkway from the kitchen door to my private bedroom door. Completely covered in, and looking every bit like a corridor, it was a grand job.

 

Having worked so well together, Dave offered Lance at least 3 days work a week. He is putting him on his books and going to train him to be a bricklayer. On the other two days Lance said he would like to continue helping me run the guest house whilst he was staying with me, and if it was alright he did not even want to look for anywhere else at the moment. Of course, I agreed - it was a fabulous arrangement!

 

Slowly bookings started coming in, mainly being passed on from the guys I had gone to Blackpool with even though I know they are not all full themselves at the weekends yet. I decided to meet them all at The Freedom Tavern one evening a few days later, when they had arranged to discuss getting a group started just for gay hoteliers. On arriving I got myself a drink and then updated them on all that had happened, not forgetting to thank everyone for the bookings they had sent me. Before getting down to the business they had planned for the evening, we all settled down for a bit of a gossip first - doesn’t everyone?

 

It transpires that whilst we were all away in Blackpool, Julian and Tristan were quite busy for the weekend. We guessed they had picked up a lot of the business that we had missed through being away, and it so happened that weekend had clashed with one of their Nudist Art Weekends. They had decided to capitalise on this as much as possible and so told as many rent boys as they knew there could be a lot of business for them at their place that weekend.

 

Now it had always grieved Julian and Tristan that when one of their punters went off with one of these boys upstairs to the punter's room, for whatever reason, the boys - who were supposed to give Julian and Tristan 10% of the take later on or at breakfast the next day - being boys, especially these boys, weren’t always so forthcoming, or indeed forthright about the level of service they had provided and the amount earned.

 

 To overcome this problem, Julian and Tristan decided to print a menu of services that the rent boys could provide on to individual cards with tick boxes and the prices. The guests could fill these out on arrival and make their payment in advance, so leaving the hosts to pass them on along with the money - less their 10%, of course - to the allocated rent boys. They knew they had to tread carefully in designing the menus, just in case they fell into the wrong hands, so they went something like this:

 

Art Class Extras, booking on arrival, sorry no cheques.

 

Private sitting   per hour  £12.50
Brass Rubbing   £20.00
Canvas Blow Dry    £25.00
Penetrating Ink     £40.00
Water Mixing Techniques   £45.00
Class Discipline Techniques    £30.00
Brown and Yellow Sheeting ask at reception. £5.00

   

That Friday evening the guests had all arrived and Julian and Tristan were very pleased with the numbers, and with the range of services ordered. The cards they duly gave out to the rent boys as they arrived, and strictly on a first come, first served basis - no pun intended. The evening started very well, the bar was busy in expectation, the harp in the corner hadn’t seen so many lemons pushed through it for the gin and tonics since New Years Eve, and those guests that were just voyeurs had taken their places naked at the easels ready to watch the first model perform. Suddenly all hell broke loose as two of the guests began to argue over which rent boy they wanted.

 

 Each of them had hold of one of the boy's arms and was attempting to tug the lad away from the other. Meanwhile the rent boy that neither of them wanted was left standing there, card in hand. Bemused and offended, he was questioning what was wrong with him - apparently, he was in fact a bit of a minger who usually slept rough on the promenade between tricks!

 

With all the pushing and shoving going on, the melee that ensued progressed through the lounge, scattering easels, stools, paper and pencils, to the sound of ample rolls of naked flesh slapping against each other as people tried to get out of the way. In an attempt to pick up all that had been scattered, the voyeurs seemed to bend over all at once, the sight resulting resembling a host of lemon jellies fresh out of their moulds, all wobbling almost in unison. The fracas then moved on out into the hallway, where with a hefty push from one of the aggrieved guys on the other, and with a swift movement of his hand on the door, he had the other one pushed outside on his own and the door slammed shut on him.

 

The elderly balding guy marooned on the street, dressed only in the lightest and shortest of white smocks with his blue-veined legs poking from beneath, pummelled on the door to be let in whilst screaming at the top of his voice, presumably to the boy inside, that the other guy had a much smaller donger than him and couldn’t get it up if he tried! It was definitely the last time he would ever loan him his lube, he shouted!

 

 Inside there was as much noise as there was outside as Tristan and Julian tried to wrestle the other guy away from keeping the door shut, and meanwhile back in the lounge, from behind the velvet drapes, a gaggle of elderly naked gentleman all with the top half of their meat and veg just visible over the window sill, were vociferously giving the man outside some encouragement.

 

This scene of pandemonium carried on for but just a couple of minutes before the police van arrived. It had been patrolling in the area, when a complaint from a neighbour about all the noise had been relayed to it. Quick as a flash the velvet curtains were yanked shut, the door was thrown open by Tristan, and naked bodies could be seen rushing along the hall and upstairs, with the guy from outside in his mad scramble to get back inside and up the stairs stumbling and tumbling over so mooning to the officers arriving at the door.

 

The four police officers, all dressed in their riot gear, were greeted by a very flushed Tristan who was trying to pull the door almost closed behind him. He explained it was just a stag do that had got a bit out of hand, and apologised profusely.

 

 That might have been the end of the matter, were he not to have been standing there dressed only in a very large nappy held together by an even larger safety pin. Not satisfied, the officers insisted on going inside to check that everything was okay for themselves, and in spite of Tristan’s protestations pushed past him and went into the lounge.

 

In their haste to get away upstairs, no-one had thought to switch off the television which continued to show a very graphic porn video with the sound down. Julian immediately started rushing around in an attempt to straighten the room. He at least had his skimpy tight khaki shorts on, although as he was in the habit at these nudist art weekends of putting something large inside them and had no time to remove it, it could be seen teasingly hanging down just below the hem. Still it probably impressed the officers, who it seemed were trying to stifle their mirth at the scene in front of them.

 

One police officer picked up a menu from off the floor and proceeded to question Julian about the price structure, whilst at the same time studying some of the pencil drawings lying around. Another, on his haunches, thumbed through the pile of videos scattered on the floor.

 

 However it seems that Julian and Tristan may have got away with just a very severe lecture, at least for now, although they were informed the matter would be investigated further. The riot van outside with its blue lights flashing had alerted half the street, and once it had gone for the next hour a steady exodus of guests from the hotel could be seen.

 

 Apparently Julian and Tristan have abandoned their art classes for the foreseeable future - and I never did get to see one of them for myself.

 

The evening in the pub just flew by, and not very much was really discussed about the new group except that we would indeed do it. I offered to look after the web side of things for the time being because Lance had told me his hobby, apart from the Steiff Bears, was computing. He was already going to sort out my internet connection when my new computer arrived the next week so, I thought, why not get him to set it all up for us. After agreeing who was going to do what, and the date for another meeting, it was time to depart.

 

I did walk home past Julian and Tristan’s place with the intention of seeing how they were, but the curtains were closed and all the lights were out. However whilst I do not agree with their lifestyle, I was concerned for them and felt sorry for the hassle and embarrassment they must have gone through. So I rang the doorbell.

 

Julian answered it and seemed genuinely pleased to see me, inviting me in. They both relayed the story, more or less word for word, as we had heard it at the pub. Clearly they were shocked at what had happened and had resolved to think of another idea to bring in the business. They wanted to know what I thought about cookery classes, as you could do a lot of things with a bit of pastry. Pottery was another option, if they could get hold of a kiln that would sit in the patio area at the back. I did reluctantly point out that both these ideas were particularly messy and perhaps they might like to think about running the guest house as just that - a guest house.

 

There was little business about at the moment, they were at pains to point out, and me refurbishing my place and opening up hadn't helped that situation. Further bad news was that Julian had lost his part-time job in London, and the café on the promenade didn't want any more cakes from them - whether this was because of the incident that weekend or the fact that sometimes Julian bought the cakes from Tesco’s and unwrapped them pretending them to be his, I didn't know. Clearly they were having difficulties, but because of the late hour I had to make my excuses and leave for home - however I did promise to return later in the week at a time when we could sit down and discuss sensibly their ideas for the future.

Darryl.   Copyright ©Chaucer Guest House.  

 

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