Now, I suppose you're wondering why I'm shivering on a creaky stage, wearing a skimpy toga that totally does not want to keep my essentials covered, whilst Julius Caesar winds up an inebriated and decidedly boisterous crowd.
Well, where does one fucking start? Okay, let's go back to April 1987. There was nothing quite like a trip to Camden on a sunny Thursday afternoon. It was the number one place to be seen in London, and what you wore required just as much attention to detail as any Saturday night out. Oh, I know. You see a pair of goth girls wandering round the market and you think nothing of it, past the short skirts and kinky boots. But, oh no, there's a bit more to it than that. Ally and I had spent nearly three hours that morning establishing precisely what we were going to wear. Ally was my best friend. My absolute bestest friend in the whole world, and I totally loved her to bits. She was beautiful, funny, compassionate, loyal, and took sexy to a whole new level. Seriously, she was the sexiest person I had ever met, male or female. Men just couldn't help but stare at her (for stare, read ogle) and women either loved her (because she was so easy to love) or hated her (because jealousy is a cruel mistress). As our sizes were similar, our wardrobes were pretty much interchangeable. But the question on this day was: do we go grungy and cool or glammed up and eye-catching. There was always a chance that a photographer from The Face would be around and want us to model for them. Okay, unlikely, but not impossible, surely? It wouldn't be the first time a photographer on the street had stopped her and begged to take her picture. Things like that didn't seem to happen to me. Okay, I don't think I looked terrible, but Ally was on a whole another level. Hell, she was on a whole another planet! Suffice it to say, glam won by a mile. Ally, after two hours of deliberation, had gone for the little flexi floozy skirt, boob tube and heels. When I saw her, I knew I had to go one better, and went for the black short shorts, lace up top and knee-high boots. Whenever I was with Ally, I knew I had to up my game. Damn, but no one was going to miss us! Camden Market was the coolest of the cool back then, an indoor edifice packed with tiny shops and stalls. Everyone who was anyone shopped there. And it's to my eternal frustration that the last time I had been there I had been chatted up by none other than the drummer from Siouxsie and the Banshees – not that I had realised this. Actually, I think he was shagging Siouxsie around this time, so it was probably best that nothing happened. I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of her. She was seriously scary. But I did hear that they split up some years later, so, Budgie, if you're reading this, I'm still available if you're interested. Ally and I wandered round the market, looking cool and whispering out of the corners of our mouths: 'Does my hair still look okay?' and 'was that Johnny Marr?' or 'these fucking boots are killing me!' But to the outside world we were just two more cool chicks posing in the coolest market in the coolest city in the world. After an hour or so I stopped at Oktober Revolution (yes, that Oktober Revolution. This was their humble beginnings) and agonised over whether to part with eighty pounds for this frilly lace cropped top. I looked at the boots as well. Oh my God, they were just the most exquisite footwear ever conceived by human hand. Shiny black leather that would just come up to my knees, buckles, studs, chains, and the most gorgeous heels I had ever seen: six inches that looked as if they had been grown from the base of the boots, tapering to a fine crescent moon tip. I wanted these boots so badly. It was almost as if they were crying out to me. 'Jessica, Jessica, come and buy us. Slip your delicate feet inside and experience true nirvana.' Honestly, that's what they were cooing at me. I swear, no word of a lie. Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration, but you should have seen them! Suffice it to say, I desired these boots and, by extension, was certain that I would become irresistibly desirable to sexy men as well. Because obviously that's how life works in magical kinky boot land. There was just one teensy-weensy little fly in the ointment. Can you tell what that was? Yes, of course you can because you're clever and discerning. A little strand of red cotton had been tied to one of the shiny buckles, and from this hung a discreet tag, with the price handwritten: £699.99. I could afford these. I could absolutely afford these. I had the money in my bank account, so if I lived on dust mites and bedbugs for the next nine months, these boots could be mine. 'You can't afford them so why are you torturing yourself?' Ally asked with annoying reasonableness. 'I know, I know. I just want to spend a little time with them.' After ten minutes of this, Ally was bored stiff and wandered off to concentrate on buying things for herself. At least, that was what she said. I knew better, though. I'd also seen the smouldering guy with the long black coat and black Stetson. The poor bloke didn't stand a cat in hell's chance. I just wanted to ogle these boots a little while longer, and dream of what might have been – if I happened to be rich, which I clearly wasn't. I reluctantly returned my attention to the lace top. It was beautiful as well: cropped to show off a healthy amount of bare midriff, with fine black lace covering blood-red satin. Low cut as well, in a shape perfectly designed to accentuate the boobular area. I wanted it. Okay, I wanted the boots more, but there was the slight issue of them being almost nine times the price of the top. I ummed and ahed for a while longer and the seller eventually wore me down, gleefully relieving me of my eighty pounds and getting my phone number into the bargain. Cheeky bugger. 'That's going to look utterly splendid on you,' I heard a male voice whisper in my ear. Was that the little voice in my head that always tried to steer me away from trouble and generally failed? No, no, this was an actual voice from an actual person. I looked round and saw Robert Smith of The Cure smiling at me. No, my mistake. It was just someone who had absolutely nailed the look, right down to the backcombed hair, smudged red lipstick and floppy limbs. I wondered if everything was floppy… No, Jessica, don't go there. 'Thank you,' I said, favouring him with a demure smile. Well, I was going for demure, but would probably be a finalist in the UK gurning championships. 'Just speaking the truth. You'll look amazing.' The weird thing was, faux Robert Smith's lips didn't move as he said this, and I had this all too familiar sensation that I had just made a monumental twat of myself. 'Over here,' the voice said again, and now my eyes fell upon a guy just behind the imitation goth god. Well, he's rather cute, the aforementioned little voice in my head whispered. It seemed the invisible man was not invisible after all, which, I have to say, was a very good thing. It would've been nothing short of a crime to conceal looks like that. 'Of course, there you are!' I gushed, giggling like an idiot. He smiled back at me, and had the good grace not to point out that I appeared to be in need of sectioning under the 1963 Mental Health Act, or whatever it was. 'Do you have an occasion lined up for wearing that top?' he enquired, and I finally managed to get control of myself. Well, a bit. 'No, nothing imminent. But it's just so pretty. I'm sure I'll find a use for it soon enough.' 'I'm Hugo, by the way.' He held out his hand and I extended mine, and he kissed the back lightly. Oh, smooth, I thought. Hugo was probably about five-ten, stocky but not fat, square-jawed with curly brown hair. Black suit, black button-down shirt and black tie. Not too shabby. 'I'm Jessica.' He glanced across at the market stall. 'I noticed you were looking at those boots.' I followed his gaze and sighed. 'I know,' I lamented. 'I'm wondering whether to turn to prostitution to buy them. That's a joke by the way!' I added hastily, in case he thought I was serious and offered to hire me for a couple of hours. 'Well, I hope it doesn't come to that. Listen, Jessica, I haven't got long. I'm having a bit of a do tomorrow night. Only beautiful, interesting people can come, and as luck would have it, you tick both boxes.' He reached into his jacket pocket, retrieved a leaflet and handed it to me. 'It should be a lot of fun.' The leaflet had been professionally printed. Not a cheap photocopy, but glossy full colour. In the centre was a stylised art deco image of a tall, elegant woman, a shawl draped over one shoulder leaving a single breast exposed. Behind her were ornate columns and other, similarly attired characters. 'Hugo Devere's Vesuvius Ball!' was proudly emblazoned in the middle, along with an address: 26 Montpelier Mews, Blackheath, Londinium. At the bottom was a footnote: 'Extensive supply of slightly soiled, second-hand vestal virgins guaranteed. No eunuchs, because everyone knows eunuchs don't have balls.' Despite the cringeworthy humour, I had to smile. 'So, basically a toga party, yes?' 'Oh, but it'll be far more than just a toga party. This will be the social event of the year!' I seriously doubted that, but there was no denying that there was something innately likeable about Hugo. 'Thank you,' I said, folding the sheet in half and slipping it into my bag. 'I'll think about it.' 'I would very much like to see you there, Jessica.' 'No, I really will think about it. Can my friend come too?' 'The rather striking young lady who was here earlier?' 'Yes, Ally. I wouldn't want to go without her.' 'Oh, of course she can come. So you'll definitely be there?' 'I said I'd think about it,' I said with a chuckle. 'Thank you, Hugo. I may see you tomorrow.' With that, I turned on my heel and went off in search of my friend. Ten minutes later I found Ally, laden down with designer bags and looking very pleased with herself. 'I think I need a break,' she said, and I was more than ready for a sit down. 'Tart & Vicar?' This was a pub on Chalk Farm Road, just round the corner. It was a favourite haunt of goths, metalheads, rock chicks, weirdos and anyone a bit peculiar. We fitted right in. 'Oh yeah.' 'Excuse me,' came a breathless voice from behind us, and we both turned around to see the floppy-limbed, faux Robert Smith bustling toward us. It was weird. He even walked like the lead singer of The Cure, like a marionette underwater. Now, Robert Smith was on my list of celebrity shags if I ever got the chance, regardless of whether I was in a relationship at the time. But this character – no, this caricature – was just plain peculiar. He was clutching a large Oktober Revolution bag in one hand, which smashed into every person he got anywhere near. Peculiar and clumsy then. 'The fe-heh-heh-heh-hair-heh-ler… fella back there asked me to give you this.' Did he just sing 'fella' in the style of Bob Smith in the 'Catch' video? Jeez, you can take hero worship a bit too far, can't you? 'For me?' Ally asked. 'No, the Other Voices… Sorry, other lady.' He flopped around, holding the carrier bag out limply. It was a large bag, and contained a white box with the Oktober Revolution logo on the side. I looked around but he must have meant me. 'What is it?' I asked warily. It could be a bomb, I thought. Well, I know he didn't exactly fit the stereotype of the archetypal IRA terrorist, but you never could tell. I tentatively plucked the bag from his limp fingers and gave it a little shake. It was quite heavy. And jangly? Did bombs jangle? 'What've you been buying, eh?' Ally asked, peering into the bag and giving it a sniff. 'Nothing. Well, I got this top.' I gave my much smaller bag a shake to demonstrate – just in case the concept of a new top was a little too complex for her. 'But nothing else. This isn't mine,' I told faux Robert Smith.' He shrugged. 'Dunno about that. Fella said it was for you. Gave me twenty quid to catch up and give it to you.' I stared at him, looking for some sort of trick, but there was a strange detachment from him, as if he was kind of there, but mostly not. Ally had another sniff. 'I smell leather,' she said, eyes narrowed. Apparently, Inspector Ally was on the case. I reached in and opened the end of the box, just a little. Just enough for a furtive peek inside. Then I shut it again quickly, almost dropping the bag with shock. 'Oh my God,' I mouthed, no sound coming out (which, frankly, is a first for me). 'What?' Ally demanded, and flipped open the end of the box herself. 'Holy fucking shit! Aren't they…?' I nodded like one of those toy dogs you see hanging in the back windows of cars. 'Those boots I was looking at.' 'Looking at? I was surprised you didn't shove one up your fanny and hump it there and then.' I thrust the bag back toward Flopert Smith. 'I'm not taking this.' He stepped back, holding his hands up in front of him. 'I can't take that, either,' he squeaked. 'Are you fucking kidding me?' Ally demanded. 'Some idiot with more money than sense buys you a… How much were they?' '£699.99.' 'He bought you seven hundred pounds in boots? You do realise that's three-fifty each, huh? And you want to give them back? You're off your bloody trolley, woman!' Well, putting it in those terms, there was some merit in the notion of keeping them. I mean, I had no idea what I would have to do to pay my mysterious benefactor back, but a thank-you-kindly-I'll-take-those-boots-if-it's-all-the-same-to-you shag didn't sound like a bad bargain. Looking a little more closely, as I luxuriated in the scent of carefully polished leather, I noticed a scrap of paper stuffed into the box and withdrew it. 'Ooh, a love letter to boot,' Ally said. 'Well, love letter to seven-hundred-pound kinky boot.' Unfolding it, I saw that it was one of the leaflets that Hugo had given me. Had he really just spent £699.99 on a complete stranger? On the back of the sheet, a few lines had been hurriedly scrawled. Jessica, 'Well, I never,' Ally said with a grin, and went on to add in a sing-song voice: 'Jessica's got a boyfriend.'
'I have not got a boyfriend,' I countered. 'Oh, you have so got a boyfriend. Jessie and Hugo, sitting in a tree…' 'Now would be a good time for you to shut up.' Ally gave up, dissolved into a fit of giggles and wrapped an arm around me. 'You want to go to the pub now?' 'Oh, do I ever. I think I need a drink after that.' On a Saturday night, the Tartan Vicar (this was its actual name, but everyone – everyone – called it the Tart & Vicar) would be heaving with hundreds of writhing, sweating students, misfits and misanthropes, intent on extreme inebriation and guilt-free coupling, and a couple of hundred more spilling out onto Chalk Farm Road. But on a weekday afternoon it was quiet, with hardly a hint of its reputation as a Mecca for the disillusioned youths of London.
There were plenty of tables free outside, and on a sunny late summer's day like this, I would have loved to lounge around on a wooden bench and get some sun on my legs, but Ally wanted to go inside. In fact, she was quite insistent, and had disappeared through the door before I could say 'two hot guys, two o' clock'. So, with drinks in hand, Ally and I took one of the small alcoves, nicely separated from the rest of the pub. Apart from a group of city bankers (I'll leave you to work out whether that's Cockney rhyming slang) standing at the bar making a lot of noise, we were the only ones in there. Ally took a swig of her half pint of lager and looked disapprovingly at my pint. 'Oh,' she said, 'you are such a lady.' 'It's a hot day!' I protested, unashamed and proud that I could drink a pint. I looked at the pile of bags she had accumulated in the market, and at my one small bag with my precious little blouse. I had the fancy box with my shiny new kinky boots on the seat next to me. I wasn't letting those out of my sight. 'Have you been holding up banks again?' 'I've been saving up.' Something in her tone tweaked my suspicious bone and I narrowed my eyes, peering at her with 'the look'. This was the special look I always wore when interrogating a victim. 'Saving up? With what?' I peered into several of the bags, my eyes going wide at some of the price tags. 'There must be five hundred pounds worth of stuff here!' I whispered. 'Umm, nearer six hundred.' 'But how can you… Are you on the game?' 'Certainly not!' She couldn't have looked more scandalised if I'd suggested we strip off and have a sixty-nine here on the table. 'Well…' She gulped and reached into her shoulder bag, withdrawing a rolled-up magazine. From the adverts on the glossy back cover, I could see this wasn't going to be Cosmo or Elle. She glanced around to make sure no one was looking, and with a deep breath unrolled the magazine. I stared at it blankly as Ally held the curled edges down beneath her fingers. It was called Men's Revue, the cover sporting an image of a big haired model (it was the 80s – we all had big hair) cupping her breasts with her hands and smiling gleefully at the camera. And the banner headline proclaimed: 'CLARISSA BARES ALL!!!' I bet she does, I thought. Pretty pointless exercise if she didn't, what with this being a top shelf porn magazine and all. Glancing round again, Ally peered under a corner of the brochure, flicking through the pages quickly until she found the one she was looking for. She turned the magazine around and opened it up for me to see clearly. And there she was. My friend. My best friend. The main picture on the front page of the feature showed Ally dressed in a red chiffon babydoll, red stockings and matching high heels, smiling warmly at the camera. On the facing page were a series of images, showing her slowly divesting herself of the flimsy garment. First her breasts were exposed, then her pert, silky white bum and in the final image she stood, legs spread wide and hands on hips, naked but for the stockings and heels as she pouted seductively at the camera. I turned the page and the pictures became increasingly graphic as Ally draped herself over an elegant chaise longue. Her eyes were closed in ecstasy as she tweaked a nipple. The next image showed her with her hands on her knees, her legs spread wide to leave her pussy fully exposed for all to see. The next one was a close up of her apparently no longer very private private parts, one scarlet-nailed finger poised over it, ready to delve inside. The images of Ally purred at me from the page as I stared at her in wonder. 'You look amazing,' I said quietly, my eyes not leaving the photographs. Every coquettish smile, every yearning pout, every lick of her lips with her glistening pink tongue, every cheeky wink was utter perfection. She wasn't just naked as someone took pictures of her. She was performing. Actually performing, every image a work of art as her irresistible personality burst from the page. 'You think so? You're not… angry with me?' There was a note of pleading in her voice. 'You look so beautiful.' I reluctantly tore my eyes from the magazine to stare at her, as if seeing her for the first time. 'Why would I be angry? I'm just… I don't know, surprised. Scratch that; I'm totally gobsmacked. You look incredible.' Her head sagged with relief, long, dark hair obscuring her face until she flicked it back with her hand. 'There's just one thing,' I added, and she looked at me expectantly. 'You utter, utter tart!' She giggled animatedly as the tension ebbed away. 'It was unbelievable doing that the first time. I was so scared; I nearly wet myself! Maybe I should've. They pay extra for that sort of thing. But it pays really well anyway, and at the end of the day, I'm just naked. I didn't get paid to have sex or any funny business. It's all perfectly natural.' 'Hey, I'm not judging you, I think it's great that you could do that. If you got it, hon, flaunt it. Hang on – the first time? You've done more of these?' 'Yeah, that was my third shoot, but it's the only one that's been published so far. I get my fee doubled if it's taken up by a glamour mag. I got five hundred pounds for doing that. Five hundred!' I looked back at the images. They were certainly graphic, leaving nothing to the imagination. In one of the final images – a small inset photograph – Ally's delicate fingers had pulled back her lips to fully expose her glistening pink pussy. I knew that pussy, had even explored it myself as she had explored mine. Not in a sexual way (though I can't deny I had been just a little turned on by the experience), but this was just to see someone else's vagina close up. There's only so much you can see by staring in the mirror at your own private parts, and it's always useful to have someone else's bits to compare to your own. When you're young and nervous and inexperienced, you wonder whether your own bits are, well, normal. Should it be that colour? Should the lips flop about like a nun's habit? Should a whole 29p courgette from Sainsbury's fit inside? It's good to get some reassurance regarding these things. 'Can I keep this?' I asked. 'Sure, I've got half a dozen copies. Oh, I'm so relieved you're okay with this.' She downed her drink in one and stood to get another round. By the time she got back, having skilfully evaded the drunken advances of the bankers, I had closed the magazine and tucked it safely away in my Oktober Revolution bag. 'I've got another shoot next weekend. This one's a video shoot. Eek!' She pulled an 'Oh shit' face. 'Not done one of those before.' She took another swig of her drink. 'Hey, why don't you come and watch?' 'Watch?' I wasn't sure what to say. Did I want to see her performing for the camera? Did I want to see her stripping off, playing with herself, teasing herself, pleasuring herself? Hell, yes! But it just felt so weird, the thought of watching my best friend in this way. 'Oh come on, you'll love it. Come with me. Pwease? Pwetty pwease?' She gave me that coquettish Lady Di look, the one she always used when she wanted someone to accede to her wishes – and it never failed. 'Okay,' I smiled. 'Sure, why not?' I took another swig of my drink, but then had a thought. 'On one condition.' 'If you want to join in, I think we'll have to share the fee.' 'No, I don't want to join in!' I squeaked. Getting naked was fine. Getting naked and playful with Ally was fine. Getting naked and playful with Ally, in front of a bunch of strangers and then having the images put in a magazine with a circulation of 60,000 was most definitely not fine. 'There's this party tomorrow night.' 'Party?' Her eyes lit up, glittering like sparkling sapphires. 'I think you're aware that I'm quite fond of parties.' I slid the now slightly crumpled leaflet that Hugo had given to me across the table, avoiding soggy glass rings. ''Hugo Devere's Vesuvius Ball'? Who the hell is Hugo Devere when he's at home with his wig off?' I tapped the Oktober Revolution bag on the seat beside me. 'Boot guy,' I said, as if this explained everything. 'Ahh. Would we qualify as second-hand vestal virgins?' 'Hardly virgins, vestal or otherwise. And you do realise, this means togas?' 'Oh I love toga parties! I am totally up for this. When is it, tomorrow night? Count me in.' I wondered whether there was any kind of party Ally didn't like. Funeral party? Nope – Goths like funerals. Liberal Party? Yes. Too many socks with sandals and V-necked cardigans. 'There's just one tiny problem.' Ally's attention was diverted by a group of burly builders who noisily entered the pub at that moment. I'll say one thing for her; she didn't discriminate against anyone. It wasn't quite a case of 'if he has a pulse, he's fair game', but it wasn't far off. Burly builders with bulging biceps and a firm set of abs were right up her street. Or, to put it another way, right up Ally's alley if they played their cards right. 'Hmm? Problem?' she asked absently. 'No costumes.' 'Oh, we don't have to worry about that. We can knock something up during the day tomorrow. You know how clever you are at that sort of thing.' It was amazing how clever I was when she wanted something. I mean, it wasn't as if I was some kind of expert seamstress. I could barely sew a button on. No, my 'talents' lay elsewhere. But the ability to sew a button on badly put me one level above Ally. Honestly, if she weren't blessed with a body to die for, the face of a goddess and being the best shag in London, she would be in real trouble. 'Fine, fine,' I conceded. 'We'll just have to sacrifice a couple of bedsheets tomorrow, and hope that no one puts us through any kind of toga test.' 'You see? I keep saying you're brilliant!' Well, that was our Friday sorted. We could just catch up with whatever we missed at uni next week. Again. We did a lot of catching up. Or rather, intending to catch up. We never seemed to actually get much done. We would, eventually, I was sure. I thought we would. Well, maybe. Oh, we'd wing it and hope for the best – just like we always did. |