Dorian: An Imitation by Self Will

Author:Self, Will [Self, Will]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Contemporary, Historical, gay
ISBN: 9780141960975
Goodreads: 35051625
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2002-09-26T07:00:00+00:00

12

Once they were in the street Baz wanted to make conversation, the way normal people do when they leave a dinner party, but Dorian was having none of this. He tucked Baz into the supine passenger seat of his MG sports car, while he busied himself removing the canvas top and stashing it away. In the immediate vicinity the night-time city was quiescent, but over towards the King’s Road, Baz could hear the rev and bray and hooray of wealthy fun. He felt tired, so very tired. He’d had no time for his routines today, his meditation, his infusions. He didn’t place much faith in any of these procedures singly; it was the combination that let him know that he was looking after himself, that he cared about Baz. And what could this signify, this spontaneous decision to stay at Dorian’s? Nothing good. Nothing healthy. Baz’s life was now one of sobriety, of sticking to the straight and narrow. Now, for the first time in five years, he found himself cannoning on to the cold hard shoulder of existence.

This wasn’t even a metaphor, because when Dorian flung himself down in the driver’s seat and goaded the little car until it bucked, then flew off down the road, Baz discovered that by comparison with his protégé, Wotton was a considerate and careful driver. As the little skateboard of a car skidded around the first corner, Baz reached behind to check that his bag was shoved down tightly behind the seat; as they screeched to a halt at the next junction he fumbled to tighten his seat belt. For fuck’s sake, Dorian, he shouted above the wind, slow down!

—Why?

—Because you’re gonna fucking kill us, that’s why.

—You’re going to die anyway, Baz, but your spiritual convictions will ensure that there’s always a soupçon of Bazness around in the atmosphere to make everyone else sneeze.

—You’re a cruel bastard, Dorian.

—Cruel maybe, but I’m very much alive, Baz – you know that better than most.

Next they were at the lights beside Harrods. It was curious how so many important exchanges between these men transpired in the shadow of this opulent mart, which now loomed out of the darkness, its lineaments picked out with glow globes. One possible explanation was that the god of Dorian and Baz and Wotton’s world was a somnolent deity, who, like the Ferret, slumbered while his creations revolved in ever diminishing circles, tangling themselves up in still tighter conga lines of buggery. In the dark confines of the little car, Dorian’s hand, like a pale tarantula, had crept into Baz’s crotch. What’s this about, Dorian? he said, capturing it with his own.

—This is about sex, Baz – you remember that? Or have the two serpents of AIDS and faith twined themselves around your cock and turned it into a useless caduceus? The lights changed, the car pulled away, the hand remained. Dorian piloted with the other. You should let me look after you, Baz, he said.

—Whaddya mean? Baz was incredulous.

—I have the money, I have the time.

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