Markowa

Few would believe that this common park queen with slicked-back hair on an almost bald skull now lives in a place like this.

— Wanna go to my place? — Markowa teased, squinting his eyes. He wasn’t mincing, he had a fit body and always hung around proper rough lads. We went.

I didn’t know the neighbourhood. He swaggered ahead, cracking jokes and pointing out hot guys. I could barely keep up with him.

At the entrance of one of those massive panel blocks he punched in the code and led me toward the stairs. Suddenly he stopped by the dark blue door on the right, yanked the handle, turned around, grabbed me by the collar and yanked me in like a stray cat. He stepped in right after me and locked the door.

— You’re gonna kill me! — I squealed.

— I’m not one of those… — he put his finger on my lips, warm and male, stinking of cigarettes, and with his other hand grabbed mine.

He led me down the corridor, hunched over, lighting the way with a lighter. The Tesco bag kept banging against his thighs. Every few steps he let out a low, throaty cackle.

We walked on bare concrete, with a forest of pipes and cables overhead. The stench of mould, earth, wood, piss and something animal hit my nostrils — like wet fur.

He stopped at the metal door, took a key from his pocket, fiddled with the lock and removed the padlock.

Inside the stuffy little den a string of Christmas lights threw coloured patches across the yellowed posters from Bravo and Popcorn. From the barred window a fake fuchsia hung on fishing line. In the middle stood a low table covered with a flowery oilcloth and a huge, overflowing ashtray. From the corner Roxette’s “Joyride” rasped. Against the wall stood a night lamp with a cracked shade. It reeked of old dust and cheap tobacco.

— What the fuck is this place? — I blurted out.

— Residents’ club — he said gravely.

To the right, on a stained rug, lay a huge mattress straight from a skip. Above it ran thick pipes with peeling paint. On that mattress, wrapped in a brown, threadbare blanket, lounged a guy with the shoulders of a wrestler. There was a specific sweetish smell in the air — sweat mixed with cheap market perfume.

— Andrzej! — Markowa poked the sleeping man.

A face appeared — a stubbly brunette with an earthy complexion. He slowly lifted his heavy eyelids and immediately fixed his gaze on Markowa. A lazy, blissful smile spread across his face.

— This is Mati — Markowa introduced me.

Only then did Andrzej glance at me with a cloudy look.

— Next one… — he mumbled, barely opening his eyes, and drifted off again.

— So? — Markowa lifted his chin with that sly, wet smirk of his.

— Well… gorgeous — I admitted.

He pulled two bottles of beer from the bag. He handed one to me, opened the other and started gulping, grinning so wide you could see all the gaps in his teeth.

— Nice and cosy you’ve got it here — I nodded at the heating pipes.

— Sit on the bed — he lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

— Thanks, I’m afraid something will crawl on me.

— Don’t think about it — he cackled from behind a cloud of smoke.

Andrzej lazily licked his lips once and muttered something under his breath — it sounded like “come on then”.

The toilet was in the old laundry room at the end of the corridor. There was no light. A tall metal cabinet with a basin stood there, filled to the brim with piss. The stream hit blindly and splashed everywhere. I felt the warm wetness soaking straight into my shoes.

— So how much you gonna pay for the show? — Markowa asked straight out.

— Twenty, mate, the guy’s a bit off. I don’t even know if we’re allowed…

— Fifty! Top lad!

— Yeah, right — I laughed, fishing a twenty out of my pocket.

— You always try to get something for nothing — he muttered, grabbing the note.

— But is everything okay with him in general? — I wouldn’t drop it.

— Fuck, you and your fucking suspicions! He’s a normal guy with minor issues. Can’t he get fucked like everyone else? — he snapped, his eyes flashing with anger.

— Okay, since he’s conscious, I guess it’s fine.

— Exactly, thanks for permission, Mr Normal — he tapped his forehead.

We went back to Andrzej. There was nowhere to wash my hands. My socks were wet.

Markowa sat on the mattress and started taking off his shoes. Then in one motion he pulled off his T-shirt. In the dim light of the basement bulb his body looked perfect — broad shoulders, a six-pack on his belly, a masculine chest. He turned his back to me. I saw them. In the small of his back, just above the waistband of his trousers, a white web of old stretch marks. Loads of them. They didn’t ruin him. Quite the opposite. Something tightened inside me. I had exactly the same. I used to be ashamed of them like hell. He wore them like something completely normal. I wanted to run my tongue over them. I wanted to kiss them.

I held back.

Markowa unbuckled his belt, slid everything down and kicked the clothes into the corner. Andrzej rolled onto his stomach and pulled his boxers down to his knees. Silence. Just the mattress creaking. Andrzej buried his face in the blanket. A thick, bluish vein throbbed on Markowa's temple. It ended in a short, stifled growl. He wiped his face.

Andrzej turned and looked at me. He was waiting.

I was already drunk and I really wanted to be with them. I tried. I lay on top of him. I started doing it. I felt his massive, warm body, his calm breathing, the smell of old cigarettes and sweaty skin. For a moment everything was fine.

Suddenly something inside me gave way, deep down. The clinic came back, the needle in the vein, those days waiting for the result, the blister packs of Valium. I lost strength, my legs started shaking, I went soft.

I pulled away.

Andrzej looked at me for a long time. The cloudiness disappeared from his eyes. In his wide, awake eyes I saw only one thing — disappointment.

Markowa’s face hardened.

— Get the fuck out of here, you faggot! — he roared.

He pushed me out into the corridor. The padlock clicked, then the bolt. I was left in the darkness.

— Marek, who was that? — came from behind the door.

— Nobody! — Markowa thundered. — Just some slut that hangs around parks chasing some guy! Cries and writes little poems. Fucking drama queen!

I pressed my forehead against the wooden grate of one of the storage cages. They really live here. Without drama. Without fear. Without fucking poems. They go downstairs, fuck, smoke and sleep.

I wanted the same. I wanted to stop being this pathetic faggot who doesn’t know how to live.