Making Beds in Brothels Read online

  Mick’s bags were the secret of his success. He had a selection of black bags suited to the needs of whatever product he was lifting that day. Holdalls for larger things, portfolios for CDs, VHS and DVDs, small sports bags that could be worn around the waist for jewellery and make-up; all nice quality and discreet.

  These were not ordinary bags. He carefully removed the fabric inside, lining it with the metallic lining from freezer bags, tin foil, or anything that would prevent security alarms being set off, then carefully replaced the fabric, stitching it neatly back into place. He was very professional.

  His small flat, rank with the smell of overflowing litter trays for the two, matted, long-haired Persian cats he shared it with, was packed full of stolen goods. It was a warehouse of his ill-gotten gains, an Aladdin’s Cave. The merchandise would either be sold on the black market or he would return to the store he had stolen it from saying he had lost his receipt, for a cash refund. This was long before the days when every purchase was recorded digitally on computer, and although it didn’t work every time, it worked enough to be worthwhile and he made a lot of money this way.

  He took me out shoplifting once, to Stockport a market town to the south of Manchester, and I was caught. That was the end of my career as shoplifter for Mick, actually or for anyone. I don’t think I bothered again after that one abortive attempt. He had other uses for me.

  Mitchell, however, was a natural shoplifter, although not on the same industrial scale as Mick. At sixteen, Mitchell was already a well-seasoned thief and an efficient, willing accomplice. Nothing was safe around Mitchell. He robbed everyone blind, including memorably, the entire contents of my flat that I had foolishly stored at Ellen’s. He would steal the clothing off your back. “Where’s that shirt I was wearing last night?” I asked once, waking up in hung-over daze. Looking perplexed Mitchell shrugged, “What shirt?”, then later I caught sight of him wearing it. In bars people would be rifling through their bags looking for their purses or wallets as Mitchell sat there, his face the picture of concerned innocence, knowing full well that the item was stashed away safely somewhere for him to collect later.

  I’m not judging Mitchell. That would be hypocritical because I emptied enough wallets too, usually those of punters when I was working the streets. We were all scamming and didn’t give a second thought about stuff like that, it was part of the life we lived. Both of us had been handed the sticky end of the lollipop and felt the world owed us something but we owed it nothing. And you know what? Perhaps at that stage we were right.

  Mick knew what use he could put those in his sphere to, particularly how to manipulate Mitchell’s natural gift for theft to his own ends. I suspect he had me worked out in precisely the same way from the moment he met me. There were more sinister reasons than shoplifting for Mick to stay interested in me, money was everything to him and he had no boundaries around how he could earn it.

  I was fifteen when he took me to London to meet with André Mer. André drove a limo for a living. He was a short man with a noticeably twisted spine, large nose, fleshy lips, and hair carefully brushed in a side parting. My instinct tells me he was also probably a prolific paedophile, I’m certain that there had been many before me. Mick arranged for André to collect me, and we drove to his flat in Brentford Dock, West London. What arrangement had been made behind the scenes, I don’t know, but we drove around London. He took me to the West End and bought me a T-shirt, then later to the Hard Rock Café, where I had a cocktail and felt very grown up.

  After the day’s excursion, we went back to André’s flat and I was told by Mick to go into the bedroom for a chat with André. What occurred next needs no explanation. Whatever the financial arrangements, they were sorted out away from me.

  I saw André several more times until somehow my family found out, I was periodically staying with them and was going missing for days at end, then would turn up with money. After one grilling it all came flooding out. The police were called and it went to court, where André was charged. It was the only time anyone was convicted of any offence in relation to my sexual exploitation as a child.

  André wasn’t the only time I was taken to other parts of Britain. I remember excursions to North Wales, although other places have faded or been suppressed. I was always left in a room with the man, but I was never the one who was materially better off; I never saw a penny. That always was Mick – whatever money was made went straight into his pocket.

  And he treated me terribly. One incident sticks in my mind, on the way home from a ‘excursion’, Mick, Mitchell and I were sitting in a train when Mick took my ticket, ripped it up and threw it out of the window. When the ticket collector came, I was removed from the train. I had no money. This was years before mobile phones were ubiquitous, so I was left on a platform miles from Manchester, without any means of getting home with the sound of Mitchell’s and Mick’s laughter in my ears.

  Trafficking is better understood nowadays, although there is still the perception that only women are people-trafficked, or that all those trafficked were born in Eastern Europe or Africa. That simply isn’t true. There is an internal trade that deals in males. I know I was part of it.

  I don’t know how organised Mick was; if he approached supplying paedophiles with children in the same business-like way as he approached shoplifting, he was probably very well organised indeed. I don’t know if he was part of a bigger network because naturally he wasn’t going to share that information with me, although it begs the question of where he was meeting these men. If he was a paedophile himself, I’m unsure, though he certainly had sexual interest in young men (Mitchell was only sixteen). At least he never touched me and that I am eternally grateful for.

  The hardest part for me to make sense of is the role Mitchell played in it. He wasn’t being sold, that was me. Mitchell watched as a bystander, at Mick’s side. He would stand blankly and watch, smiling; if I looked towards him, he would just shrug. That was quite a painful thing to accept, and it felt like betrayal. Mitchell was on the payroll; he was getting something in return. If you think that should be considered the least of my worries, take a walk in my shoes for a moment: I had nothing, I was feeding myself, I needed something to survive on – and I was being shafted.

  The period I spent working on the streets was intermittent. Aged sixteen I took a break and did what I normally did during a break: found a man to support me for a while. I was occupying a type of hinterland that was inhabited by other petty criminals, dealers, thieves, and it was inevitable that I would meet someone from among them.

  Phil was a well-known drug dealer on the dance scene who I had seen about in the clubs, and who had occasionally given me drugs. Aged around thirty-three when I met him, he was a slim balding guy, not unpleasant looking, and seemed likeable and friendly. He had been raised in a nice semi-detached middle-class home in Cheshire.

  For years he had worked in London, in the music industry. He told me that seven years previously he had been at the party aboard the Marchioness when it collided with another ship on the River Thames, in London, killing fifty-one people. This had a massive impact on him, leading to a mental breakdown in which he quit his job and moved back up North.

  He had a smart car and smart flat and he offered me somewhere to live for a while, and there were plenty of drugs, which I was just getting acquainted with. I was easily impressed by bright shiny things and ready money, and Phil flashed his cash around.

  Phil had a good friend, from the music industry. This man was one half of an internationally famous ‘synth-pop’ duo, then at the zenith of their careers. He supplied this gentleman and his girlfriend with the copious amounts of coke they inhaled, and we would hang out, sometimes at Phil’s flat, sometimes visiting this guy in his house not far from Windsor Castle, or party at the guy’s girlfriend’s bar in the Gay Village, getting wasted. It was all very exciting for me.

  A few years later that bar became the locally famous Dance Revue Bar. It was owned by a famous tra
nsgender pioneer, Gloria, well-known for her televised transition, one of the first in British history. The documentary followed Gloria as she went through her sex change, and it was ground-breaking at the time.

  Mitchell worked behind the bar, on and off, for a few years. Gloria was notorious for not paying her staff on time, so she and Mitchell got into huge rows when his wages failed to appear in his bank. “Woman!”, he would roar at her. “You’re no fucking woman… you look like a bleeding hod carrier… you’re built like the proverbial brick shithouse… get back to Marrakesh and ask for your fucking money back!” She would yell back, “Right, you’re sacked, you dirty rent boy. Get out!” And Mitchell would stalk out, furious. The following weekend Gloria would rustle up his wages from somewhere and he would be back behind the bar, everything forgiven.

  One day Phil told me to get a passport as he wanted to take me holiday. I was thrilled at the prospect. We went to some cheap resort in the Balearics for a lacklustre week, which was my first holiday abroad. After that he took me away quite frequently, never anywhere warm or anywhere I actually wanted to go. Instead we drove to odd places in rural France, pull up on a roadside where he would get out, open the boot, talking in hushed tones to people I never saw. Once, on the way back, he stopped in Paris. I still wasn’t that quick to catch on at this time but long after we had split up it dawned on me that Phil was using me as a drugs mule.

  In retrospect, the whole point of me getting a passport was undoubtedly a means of using me. This wasn’t that unusual; he wasn’t the first person to look at me and see a means of lining his own pockets. Frankly, I wasn’t the brightest button at this stage, and I suppose certain people are quick to pick up on who they can easily exploit.

  This turned out to be a good life lesson anyway. Don’t trust anyone with your body, with your money, or with anything else, whether that be a friend, family, lover or colleague. You either learn from your mistakes or keep making them until they kill you. That lesson stood me in good stead so that nobody like Mick or Phil ever happened to me again. I become circumspect, viewed men I met more critically, and when a man made my heckles rise, I politely declined and moved on. I had learned who not to trust, which is a good thing in our business, something else that secured my survival. From then on I managed myself, which I did with some success for years.

  Chapter 11

  A few years passed. I was living in Newcastle Upon Tyne trying to straighten myself out, get away from the Micks and other bad influences of Manchester. The idea was to get into a more stable environment. I was attending college and living in a shared flat.

  It wasn’t going well. I was bored. I quickly found the small rent scene; the usual men with drugs and drink. One day, in a drunken rage, I wrecked the flat. The building was built over one of the artery roads of the city, after smashing all the windows, they had to close the road. I had brought the city to a standstill.

  It was time to move, and I needed to get out of Britain. My eighteenth birthday was fast approaching and, with my coming of age, full autonomy, I was going professional. I had found a copy of The Spartacus Gay Guide 1997. This venerable tome, about the same size and weight as a bible, with the same thin paper and small letters but with decidedly unholy contents, and was a directory for every gay business in the world. It was very comprehensive.

  I had always enjoyed reading travel books, so I would flick through it looking at all the places in the world, daydreaming of how I would love to visit this place or that place one day. Flicking through, absentmindedly, I came across a full-page spread that read:

  [LET’S GO and BOY BOY CLUB]. Amsterdam’s Totally Unique House of Boys. Go-Go Boys, Semi-Nude Boys, Live on Stage, Every Day: 18:00–19:00h to 22:00–23:00h. FREE ENTRY. LIVE SEX SHOWS: 2 BOYS IN EROTIC SEX SHOWS. BOYS * BOYS * BOYS. (Good-Looking Guys Always – Unique Massage Service. Escort & Call Boy Service.)

  I knew this was the place for me. People here had already got my number. I was tarnished, my reputation was appalling, I had nothing left to lose. Not that I cared, my opinion of myself by this point was so low that I whole-heartedly agreed with them. If I was to be considered a stain on society, I might as well go the whole hog and do it professionally.

  There were a few logistics to sort out first: I had absolutely no money; I could just about afford the coach and ferry fare on my meagre benefits; but I couldn’t afford to pay for accommodation.

  I met an older guy called Eric and made him feel I was interested. Using men was second nature to me by now, and I suggested he come to Amsterdam where I was meeting some friends, so we could spend the night together. He was up for it. I took the coach over, met Eric and went back to his room in the Amsterdam IBIS. That evening I said I wanted to go out for a walk on my own.

  Tracking the building down was no problem at all. It was situated on the Nieuwezijds Voorburgwal, one of the two main streets from Central Station leading directly to Dam Square and the Royal Palace. The Let’s Go Bar, was lit up for the entire world to see, wedged between restaurants, pubs and sex cinemas, right opposite a posh hotel. I entered, ignoring the door to my left that seemed to open into a bar, and followed the red lit sign pointing towards the Boy Boy Club.

  Melvin, the portly middle-aged American proprietor, stood in reception.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” I replied, “I was hoping I could get a job here?”

  He looked me up and down, grinning broadly, “How old are you?”

  “I just turned eighteen.”

  His grin grew even wider. “I will need proof of age. Otherwise – when can you start?”.

  I suggested tomorrow afternoon. Mel nodded and told me to be back at twelve noon sharp, and he would show me the ropes.

  That night, sleep didn’t come easy. Eric was pawing me, confused about why our relations had suddenly turned chilly, and it was difficult to brush off his advances. I was in no mood for his sexual shenanigans, so I turned over and went to sleep. I had a big day tomorrow and Eric had served his purpose. The next morning, I waited till he was showering, threw my few belongings together, and bolted out the door.

  There were still a few hours before my planned starting time, and I wandered the streets, feeling increasingly nervous as it neared midday. I was having terrible premonitions of returning to the Let’s Go, expecting to be told there had been a mistake, there was no work, then finding myself broke and stranded in Amsterdam. What if I couldn’t dance, what if my dance moves failed to arouse Mel and I was sent packing?

  I needn’t have worried. Like the bookshops of Shudehill that advertised one thing while selling another, all promises in the advertisement were secondary to the main business. It was essentially one enormous knocking shop, a brothel. Everything else was evidently auxiliary. That’s how Mel made his money, through the sale of man flesh. This personable middle-aged man in his check shirt and beige chinos was the male equivalent of a madam.

  On the ground floor was the Let’s Go Bar, which served as a venue for dancing, a local pub for Dutch gays who lived in the area, and a place where we worked and could take the men upstairs to the Boy Boy Club. You could walk in straight off the street, an odd set up in retrospect. “Hé, lekker ding jonguh!” they would ask. “You wanna drink?”

  You went up a steep flight of stairs and entered the Boy Boy Club, a long darkly-lit space with red lights, the walls lined with smoked mirrors, a bar on one side and a stage in the far corner. Billy held court behind the bar, the Indonesian barman who was outgoing and attractive with thick blue-black hair cut below his chin; he was proud of his mane which he flicked with a flourish as he spoke to you. On this floor were half a dozen rooms and a pornographic cinema. Above were two more floors; the first with more rooms and the (supposedly) luxurious ‘Thai Suite’, which wasn’t – it was dark, poorly decorated, and always a suspicious smell in the air, like blocked drains. I have a photograph of myself in this room, one of my few surviving concrete relics of that time. I look pale and thin and terribly young
and vulnerable, which of course I was.

  It was a vast place, rough and ready, with no pretensions to luxury, very much a functional place where men came to drink, socialise and meet prostitutes. It wasn’t that different from working on the streets. You had to do the work yourselves and chat the customers up, but it was safe, and we were registered at the town hall. Everything was above board and legit at that time in liberal Amsterdam.

  You sat at the bar, a client entered, you beckoned over Billy, “This gentleman would like a drink”. He might ask if you too wanted one, then a connection was made, that might or might not end in business. If it did, then you would take him into the lobby and ask reception for a key to an available room. You took the money as they left, and paid reception; the cash being split fifty-fifty each way.

  I knew how to work a room. I was an expert. My speciality was encouraging people to drink while keeping my own head clear. Part of our job in Amsterdam’s Lets Go and Boy Boy Club was to encourage a festive atmosphere. Amsterdam was an international vacation destination and drew men from all over the world. Just like the red-light district drew in heterosexuals for the women who sold themselves in the windows there was a male equivalent. On a Saturday night the club was thronged with men coming to see the strippers and the live sex show upstairs in the Boy Boy.

  We would mingle, scantily clad in shorts and vest, and lough and giggle and chat. If they asked me if I wanted a drink I would ask the bar man to pour me my usual ‘cocktail’ which was simply orange juice, however it was priced the same as an alcoholic drink and I kept sixty percent of the price the rest being the prerequisite of the barman, who was in cahoots. The drinks in the club where expensive but not exploitatively so, so customers would splash out and you could earn quite a lot simply from chatting. The idea was to encourage them to drink, if they were not interested in going up stairs. While we were not really interested in what was going on around us, as we still had[AB1] [AB2] to keep our wits sharp, one eye on the men, one eye out for each other.