GROUPIE
by
Johnny Byrne and Jenny Fabian

     A Bantam Book

     PRINTING HISTORY New English Library edition published 1969

     Bantam edition published April 1970

     Cover painting by Jim Bama, based on a photograph of Sally Matin
by Baron Wolman All rights reserved.
     Copyright (C) Johnny Byrne and Jenny Fabian for Shel Talmy
Productions Ltd 1969.  First published in Great Britain 1969 by New
English Library, Ltd Barnard's Inn, Holborn, London EC1

     This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph
or any other means, without permission.
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     PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

     by Johnny Myrne & Jenny Tabian P.M so 0 -4
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KATIE

     Katie is a groupie.  An innocently abandoned child of the
rock-pop-pill scene.  Katie doesn't have many hangUPS ... at least, not
about sex and drugs-both of which she dispenses with startling
generosity to:

DAVEY-"He plays lead with The Transfer Project and his skinny arms
coming out of his tee shirt really turn me on.  Davey's into Timothy
Leary.  He says tripping is a ritual not a groove."

and

REGINALD-"A
well-known free-lance writer who helped us when our flat was busted.
     When he started hanging around, I thought, a good pull, even
though he's not heavy into the music scene, I could hustle some
connections through him .  . ."

and

JUBAL EARLY-"He's somewhat ugly but a good drummer.
     Anyway, it's really his bass player I dig.  But Mara's freaking
out on the whole group.  All of a sudden she's up and screaming, 'Hi,
I'm Mara.  I'm a virgin and I dance .  .

and

THEO-"Theo says everyone has homosexual tendencies.
     Except him.  He's a-sexual.  But, now that he's on speed, the
paranoid fantasies are really happening

and

THE RELATION-"Really weird
faces-all battered and sharp, but beautiful.
     Everyone on the scene digs them and reckons they'll make it.
     Anyone of them is definitely a good pull

and .  . .

     I realized soon after pulling Nigel Bishop that I'd done something
very clever.  It was a much better scene to turn up at clubs with the
group than being one of many in the audience.  It wasn't that I had
minded being part of an audience, I just hadn't known any better.  Now
I had the privilege of the dressing-rooms I also seemed to have a new
identity.  I knew The Satin Odyssey, and that was a pretty cool thing
to be able to say.  The Satin Odyssey were the first underground group
to get anywhere.  They started down at UFO, which was an underground
club for people on that scene, like me.
     In fact, it was the only club where you could hear the really
original groups like The Satin play.  They were the first group to open
people up to sound and color, and I took my first trip down there when
The Satin were playing.  The experience took my mind right out and I
don't think it came back the same.
     Nigel was their manager.  I hadn't really felt like being pulled
by him until I found out who he was.  I had been impressed, and thought
what a groove to get backstage and meet The Satin-Ben in particular.
     Everybody was talking about him and saying how weird he was.  He
wrote for the group, and his mind, through his words and music, came
over in fragments; like signals from a freaked-out fairyland, where
nothing made sense and everything held meaning.
     I used to watch his shadowy figure on stage, and wonder about him.
     It had been difficult to see his face with all those colors
flashing and swirling over him, but what I saw I liked.
     And when I saw it in the bare light of the dressing-room I liked
it even more.  He had this thin nose which separated the sunken circles
under his very dark eyes, and pale skin that was stretched almost
unbearably tight over the bones of his face.  He was tall and thin, and
his eyes had the polished look I'd seen in other people who had taken
too many trips in too short a time.
     I found him completely removed from the other three in the group.
     He was very withdrawn and smiled a lot to himself.
     As I got to know them all better I realized that the others and
Nigel were worried about him.  They muttered that he might freak right
out soon if he didn't watch it, and complained that it was impossible
to get new group things together with him when he was in this state.
     They weren't the only ones failing to get through to Ben.  I was
trying to let him know I fancied him, but it seemed hopeless, so I
didn't push it.
     Anyway, I was enjoying this new scene I found myself involved
with.
     The Satin had started making real bread now, and their shows were
always packed.  Underground groups were.  suddenly commercial, and
straight industry people were moving into our scene and exploiting it.
     Imitators changed their equipment, got light shows, followed where
The Satin led.  The Satin were important, and there I was, being seen
around with them.  With Nigel, that is.  I didn't know many of the
faces yet, so I kept myself in the background, or stuck with Nigel and
listened to him talk business.  Everyone seemed to talk business, and I
wished I knew more about it all.  But I gradually started sussing
things out, fitting names to faces and picking up little -bits of
knowledge here and there.
     And it made me feel one-up that I knew about the-se things.
     Some of the group's image and importance rubbed off onto me, and
my friends and people like that were always asking me questions about
The Satin.  I had a sort of status, because now they could say they
knew someone who knew The Satin.
     When Nigel took me on gigs I could feel the stage-door groupies'
envy, and I found I liked to be envied.  I was different to them,
because I was with the group and they weren't and wanted to be.  I was
well aware that without Nigel I would be back in the audience again,
for on my own, what was I-a 19-year-old groover who had just happened
to pull a "face."
     I'd sussed out the competition from the senior groupies the type
of chicks I saw at places like The Joint.  The Joint is a nightclub for
the pop-elite where nearly everybody is somebody.  Ben didn't seem to
notice all the pretty chicks that managed to find some excuse to talk
to the group, but I watched the others getting it together, and I
noticed that the girls had got classier now the group was bigger.  One
or two of these chicks lasted, but more came and went.  I wondered what
happened to them.  Maybe they ended up like Roxanna, a very obviously
senior groupie I met at The Joint one night when The Satin were playing
down there.
     She came over to our table and said, "Hello, great to see you
all."
     She obviously knew them, but I didn't know her.
     She sat down and I watched.  She had long dark hair and a
fantastic figure, though her face wasn't all that special.  She spoke
fast with a rather obvious educated accent, in a very decisive way, as
though she really knew what she was talking about.  I was a bit knocked
out by her, by her confidence and the way she seemed to know everyone
down there.
     "Hello, Tony," she would call out to some shadowy figure sitting
at another table, "I want to talk to you in a minute."
     Then she would dash off and sit at this table and that, engrossed
in conversation with these different faces.  I could never have done
that.
     It made me realize there was a long way to go before I could be
like her, and when I realized that, I also realized that I envied her
just like the stage-door groupies envied me.  I wanted to leap about
saying hi to everyone too.  I wanted to call these famous people by
their first names, speak to them in their own language.  She seemed
pretty flash, and I wondered if she was for real.  I asked Nigel what
her scene was and he said she pulled pop musicians, the best and
grooviest around.  Did she have a job, I asked.  No, he told me.
     Chicks like Roxanna didn't have jobs, unless it was something in
the pop business.
     Their's was a full-time occupation.
     I wondered if she got hung up on the guys she pulled, and if so,
what happened then.  I mean, I get hung up on guys, and if I had to
dash about pulling groovy musicians I'd probably get hung up on someone
somewhere along the way.  I'm gullible, I believe things people say to
me.  I mean I even believe telly ads and things like that.  Anyway, I
was impressed.
     I envied her scene and wondered how I would do if I tried.
     During all the gigs Nigel took me to I made as much contact as I
could with Ben.  Nigel often left me alone in the dressing-rooms while
he hustled with promoters and stage managers, and Ben would sometimes
talk to me.  He showed me how to roll spliffs-as he called them-so I
could roll for him.  Though I was still Nigel's chick I tried very hard
to let Ben know how I felt about him, without being completely uncool.
     But he was so stoned all the time that I doubt if my message got
across.  He may well have interpreted my longing eyes as transitory
hallucinations or something.  And I really did want him.  To me he was
the actual thing that Nigel only represented.  Although I dug the
status I got from being Nigel's -chick, there was even more prestige in
being Ben's.  But only an incident of some kind could make that happen,
and I just had to wait for my opportunity.  At the Oxford Summer Ball
it happened.
     All in all it was a pretty busy day.  Our flat got busted in the
afternoon.  I live in a large pad with two guys and another chick.  One
of the guys does light shows at UFO and the other is a recently
dropped-out encyclopedia salesman who now manages a bad nowhere group.
     The chick is called Wendy, and she does nothing in particular
except loon about.
     But she's very intelligent, and I get on well with her.
     I suppose we looked pretty suspect-the guys with their long hair
and acid clothes, me with my Jim Hendrix head, and all the people
going in and out late at night.  It was a nuisance getting busted.  It
meant wasting time and bread on solicitors, appearing in court and the
nagging thought at the back of my mind that I might be treated as an
example and put away.  Although it was quite fashionable to be busted
everyone groovy seemed to be having the same trouble.  And ours was a
dramatic bust-nine fuzz, two women fuzz and two hash hounds.  It took
them ages to search the place and I was the only one who had anything.
     The others were just lucky not to have had anything around that
day.
     After I'd been through all the bad scenes at the police station
and I had been bailed, I found that I'd missed my lift to the gig.
     Nigel rang up from Oxford and told me to come up by train.  He
said he would send Bat, the second roadie, to meet me at the station.
     It was quite late when Bat took me to the college where it was all
happening.  There were all these student and deb chicks in long dresses
lounging about with guys in DJs, all getting stoned on strawberries and
cream and champers.  Nigel was grooving around with some people he had
been to college with, so I got Bat to take me to where the group was.
     They said the whole thing was too much for them, and as they had
plenty of time before they were due to play, we decided to split down
to the river and turn on.  I managed to sit with Ben on a punt somewhat
apart from the others and roll some spliffs for him.
     There was this warm mist creeping along the river, and the sounds
of the water lapping against the sides of the boat made us both feel
relaxed and peaceful.  I told Ben how groovy it was to be there with
him, and quite suddenly he put his arm round me and started talking
about Japanese temples.
     I sat leaning against him, and wondered if I was getting anywhere.
     I was afraid to speak.  I didn't want to interrupt his voice or
spoil the almost transcendental mood I was in though maybe I felt more
on the edge of victory than transcendental.  I didn't really understand
what Ben was talking about, but it didn't matter.  We stayed there
until it was time for them to go back and play.
     Nigel was a bit uptight when I got back, and wanted to know what
was going on between me, and Ben.  I handed him a flower that someone
had given me, and that seemed to do instead of an explanation.  Then I
escaped to watch the show from the light tower.  The Satin were pretty
good, and had quite an effect on the students, who probably hadn't seen
anything like them before.  As I was a bit stoned, the strobes seemed
especially effective.  From where I watched it was like the entire
concert platform lifted into the air and jerked sideways in movements
of sudden frenzy.  The contrast of the quiet electronic pluckings of
Ben's guitar and the sheer volume they worked up to as they all
gradually joined in to form a tune left me breathless.
     I managed to get it together to go over and stand by the stage
just before they finished.  But I had to fight my way through a mob of
long-dressed chicks who had gathered there, saying how super, and
trying to attract the group's attention.  I was sure there was very
little holding them back from grabbing at the group like out-of-town
groupies.
     When it was time to go, the distribution of the passengers between
car and van had to be decided.  Normally I traveled in the car with
Nigel, but I knew Ben would be in the van, so I hid behind a hot dog
stand outside and watched Nigel drive furiously away without me.  Then
I emerged and said, "Oh, has the car gone?"
     "You're in the van with us," Ben said.
     The back of the van was full, so I sat in the front with Ben and
Boris, the roadie.  I could feel the curious eyes of the others on us
from the back.  This was my first ride in a group van, but I was so
hung up on wanting Ben that I forgot to savor it.  Side by side we sat,
with a silent Boris driving very fast.  The night was finishing now and
we were into the early morning, with a huge red sun climbing its way up
in front of US.
     "Lean on my shoulder if you're tired," Ben said, and incredibly
wide awake I leaned and closed my eyes.  We stayed like that for a long
time.  Then as we neared London I realized that I would have to.  get
something more positive together, for nothing was settled yet except
that I was blowing my scene with Nigel.  I sat up and felt a little
panicky.  I alternated between looking grimly ahead and then
questioningly at Ben.  He didn't even seem to notice me, and I just
didn't know what to do.  Then, blowing my cool completely, I leaned
over and asked him straight out if he was going to stay at my place,
but he just gave a sort of ethereally superior smile and stayed dwna.
     Boris knew where I lived and made for my place first.  The van
drew up so I slid the door open and climbed reluctantly out.  Ben moved
over into my place and then casually swung his legs to the ground.  Too
much, my mind flashed.  He's coming with me!  With the others staring
at us out of the windows we waved our goodbyes and went into the house.
     We went upstairs and into the flat, then down the passage and into
my room.  And now, having wanted him for such a long time, there he
was-alone with me in my room.
     We wasted time exchanging vague remarks and smoking a couple of
joints.
     Finally Ben reached down and untied his gymshoes.  He always wore
gymshoes, as a sort of protest about all the money they were making.
     "Let's go to bed," he said.
     We undressed silently and got in beside each other.  At first we
just lay there, him on his back, me on my side looking at him.  I
pulled back the covers and ran my hand over his body.  In the
half-light of the room his long thin body looked longer and thinner,
and his paleness was emphasized by the absence of hair.  I kissed his
nipples and ran my tongue gently round his navel.  He liked it.  I felt
his body stiffen and his erection came rising up hard.  He shoved his
hands into my hair and held my head steady.  I wondered whether I
should plate him.  I hadn't done much of that, but I knew guys on the
scene liked it because Nigel had told me so.  So I covered him with my
mouth, and started doing things with my lips and tongue.
     His hands, still in my hair, seemed to lose their strength.
     He never spoke or made a sound.  He hardly moved; just lay flat on
his back with his eyes wide open and kind of blank.  It took a long
time and I enjoyed every minute of it.
     Not like with Nigel, who used to go berserk every time he got me
into bed and fuck me so hard I'd sometimes end up on the floor.  This
was cool and somehow much sexier, and I really worked at controlling it
for him.  I'd take him to the edge and, feeling the tension rising in
his body, I'd bring him right back and circle him around and then up
again and back again and so on for a long, long time.  Then it happened
and I thought his body would crack under the strain, the way it
buckled.  He tasted sweet.  When it finished I found there were tears
in my eyes.
     He lay in exactly the same position he had started in and still he
hadn't spoken.  It didn't matter.  I didn't know where Ben's mind was
at, it was enough to be lying there beside him.  When I woke up early
in the afternoon he had gone.
     It was just as well it happened when it did with Ben, because soon
after our night together he freaked out completely.  He turned up at my
place to take me on a gig, without any warning and looking really ill.
     He wasn't speaking to anyone and his face was deathly white and
beaded with sweat.  He went on to play and I noticed halfway through
the first set that he wasn't singing and hardly played a note.  The
bass player was covering up for him well, so not many people noticed.
     I just had to ask someone about him, so I cornered Nigel.  Nigel
had accepted the new situation with me rather sourly, but he didn't
mind telling me.
     "Nobody's talking about it," Nigel said.  "We've been expecting
something like this to happen.  His mind is blown to pieces by all the
acid he's dropped this summer.  You won't be able to help him," he
added, "though I wish somebody could."
     After the first set Ben said he wanted to get away from the club
and sit somewhere quiet, so we took a taxi back to my flat, promising
to return in time for the second set.  He sat down and suddenly started
talking about all the people who were putting down the group because
they had made it.  I told him there would always be people like that.
     But he believed the group had sold out, and he couldn't reconcile
what he wanted to -do with what he was actually doing.  Commercialism
had nothing to do with being a religious artist, he said.
     I wanted to help, but didn't really understand what was wrong.
     They were the best and grooviest musicians around.
     They could play where they liked and what they liked, and still
make more bread than they needed.  They were in a position to
experiment with new musical ideas, and there was nothing Ben couldn't
do if he had just half a mind to get it together.  I just didn't
understand.  It was like his mind was burning up right in front of my
eyes.  I'd tripped and turned on-perhaps not enough to realize what he
was going through, but certainly enough to know what acid did to minds.
     But this beautiful pop musician, shivering and pouring out his
torture and miseries, was something else.  He seemed to have lost touch
with reality- and there's no convincing someone like that.  So I kept
silent and just listened.
     When it was time to go he rose without argument and we went back
for the second set.
     This time he made no bones- about his problem, nor the effects it
was having on him.  He went on stage, silent, pale and sweaty again,
and just sat on the floor with his guitar in his lap.  He stayed like
that for the whole set.  It was the last time he played for The Satin,
and the last time I saw him.  He left for some Spanish monastery to
find himself.  The Satin got themselves a new lead guitarist.  They
were established and could do without Ben.  For me, The Satin's magic
went with him.

     My drug case came and went.  I got off with a small fine by
playing it very straight; saying that I had just been trying to find
out what it was all about; that I didn't like it; and I was sorry and
never again.
     I had crammed a hat over my hair, which resembled an exploded soap
pad, and I wore a sensible dress.  But it was a pretty scary experience
that I wouldn't like to go through again in a hurry.  A few days later
I got the sack from my job-a junior post on a newspaper.  Although I
was good at my job I used to take the occasional day off to groove,
which made them a bit uptight with me.  When the news of my trial came
through the editor flipped -because it gave the name of the paper I
worked for.  He didn't dig that at all.  He said by keeping me on it
looked as though he was condoning pot-smoking, which he couldn't afford
to do in these controversial times.  "OK," I said, "you'd better fire
me."
     It wasn't that I sympathized with his problem or anything.
     It was just that I would be quite glad to get away from working
with all those straight people, who were now looking at me as though I
had committed a real crime.  I had been working there for nearly a
year, and although I was sorry to leave the few people I liked, I
didn't really mind because I felt I had to move on.  I wanted a job on
the pop scene that might bring me the sort of Roxanna-power I wanted.
     I had enough money to keep me going until something turned up.
     On my last day I bumped into Reginald Chatterton outside the
darkroom.
     He's a well-known freelance writer on the glossies, and did the
occasional piece for our paper, so I'd met him around the office a few
times.  Although he looked very straight he was- nice to talk to.  He's
-rather a witty writer, and I dug him because he had everything going
for him.  When I told him what had happened he said he was sorry, and
asked me out to dinner that night.  I thought that would be a groove.
     He'd be bound to take me somewhere trendy, and maybe I could
hustle some connections and work through him.  He'd be quite a good
pull, even though he wasn't on the music scene.
     I split from the office immediately.  I reckoned it was time to do
something with my hair, so I went and talked it over with Gavin.  He
said my frizz had just about had it, and anyway, too many people had
Hendrix heads now.  He suggested a Brian Jones.  Gavin's always one
step in front, he has to be, working at one of the best salons in
London.  So Brian Jones it was.  For the first time in months I was
aware of my hair hanging round my face, and when I swung it, it fell
across my eyes.  I had this long fringe that I could look out of but
which people couldn't look in through.  The hours spent going through
the straightening out process had been well worth it.
     I also blew a lot of bread at Thea Porter's, my favorite shop, as
yet undiscovered by too many people.  I bought some crushed velvet
trousers and a thin silk shirt with enormous sleeves.
     Reginald took me to Cosimos on the King's Road, where all the
clientele were faces on his particular scene.  Every time a face
entered the waiters exploded into a sort of servile minuet of bowing
and scraping which didn't stop until the face was seated.  Reginald and
I got the same treatment, and I really dug it.  Although it had been
great going out to eat with The Satin, there were always so many of us
that I felt I might have escaped attention.  This time they had to
notice me.
     Conversation was roared from table to table and waiters glided
about with notes from faces trying to pull other faces chicks.  This is
where it all happened for these types.
     Reginald had put on a pair of sunglasses to look cool, so I
retaliated by wearing these evil - shades with reflecting lens which
looked like an American cop's sunglasses.  Nobody could see where I was
looking, and it really freaked them out.
     I didn't say much at dinner because guys kept coming up to
Reginald and saying, "Hello there," and talking shop.  He was getting
pissed and shouting jolly remarks to different tables.
     When we got back to his pad-a groovy split level place on the
Embankment-he started going through this terribly dated seduction
scene, feeling around on the top of my clothes and trying to force his
hand down my new trousers, which cant take all that much strain.  So I
said hang about, and took a layer off, leaving on my bra and knickers.
     It was obvious that Reginald was one of those guys who had a fixed
laying routine and I might just be spoiling things for him with too
many premature actions.  Well, he could fumble away for all he liked at
my bra and knickers, but my Thea Porter trousers were something else.
     Reginald got to work again as soon as I lay down, and sure enough
I was right about him.  It took him hours to get it all together.  He
went through these really wild routines with his trousers on and almost
came several times before actually getting out of them.  Not having me
to undress I suppose the compulsion was still there, for he started to
undress himself by degrees.  After a bout of rubbing, groaning and
fumbling, he sat upright quite suddenly and took off his watch.  Then
back to me, and more of the same before he shot up again to remove his
shirt.  It took him ages to get down to his underpants, and they took
the longest to come off.  In the process my knickers were a write-off
and my bra was without hooks, but there he was kneeling beside me, his
underpants, sagging under the weight of his erection.  It seemed huge.
     I reached out and felt it.  It was the largest one I'd ever seen.
     I tried to pull his pants down to get a good look, but Reginald
jibbed a bit and said something about it being unendurable.
     Unendurable!
     What was he talking about?  I was the one who was going to have to
endure that inside me.  -But when we finally made it to the bed, and it
was right there between my legs and inside me, it wasn't so bad.  It
only hurt when it was going in and when he occasionally thrust it hard
inside me.
     It was all terribly conventional and well-behaved in bed with
Reginald.
     He murmured fond words and called me darling as he worked at it.
     His was a well-bred passion which rose to a text book climax and
stifled cries of, "I'm coming, my darling, I'm coming."  Then hoarse
gasps, after which he held me suffocatingly close and fondled my back,
telling me, "how super and right it had all -seemed."  I had never
known anything like it in my life.  I mean, the guys I slept with were
just not like Reginald.  Few of them ever spoke while making it, and
none of them were romantic in the phony but nice way he was.  But it
was a new scene and a weird groove that rather appealed to me.  I had
my doubts about being able to plate him without choking, but tried to
have a go all the same.  Before I could get anything together he
stopped me, saying, "Sorry darling, kinky sex isn't for me.  Come up
now."  I dutifully moved up beside him.
     "Don't you like that sort of thing, Reginald?"  I asked.
     "It's perversion, darling, I cant stand it."  I was amazed.
     Surely plating wasn't perverted?
     "Do you think I'm perverted, then?"  I asked him.
     "Not really, just a trifle misled."
     "But why do you think plating is perverted?  Everyone I know does
it."
     "Well, I don't know the type of people that you go around with,
but I'm obviously not like them.  I think it's a beastly thing."
     "Why?"  I wanted to know, and he told me why.  Apparently he had
the horrors when some chick had freaked out and had insisted on licking
him all over-I mean an over-in an unstoppable way.  He was too much,
this Reginald.  I decided I would see him again.
     So we start going out a bit together, and although I dig him for
what he is, he's not my romantic scene at all.  Meanwhile, a lot of
changes were happening on the scene.  UFO was dead, closed down by the
fuzz and various other pressures.  But there was a new underground
music scene happening, a sort of breadhead's version of UFO called The
Other Kingdom.  It's rather grim and sordid down there at the
beginning, and people aren't too happy with the stone floor, but it's
the only place of its kind around.  Some really incredible new groups
appear down there, including The Transfer Project and Relation.  I
spend quite a lot of time down there grooving and getting to know the
management.
     They're the sort of people that might be able to help me get the
sort of job I want.  I don't feel like trying to make The Joint scene
on ray own yet, and I don't like going round with other chicks.
     Be-sides I don't know any chicks who go down to The Joint.
     And then I came across Roxanna again.  It must have been a couple
of months since I'd last seen her.  She had been so together and sure
of herself at The Joint that it was a shock to see her now, pale and
hollow-eyed, wearing nondescript clothes.  Ted, the guy who lived in my
flat and managed the group, had met her at some function or other.  She
was in trouble.  She said she had nowhere to stay, so Ted had brought
her back to our pad.  I mean, she was a good pull from any guy's point
of view.  He left her in my room while he went to buy some food to feed
her.  She remembered me alright, and I was curious to know what had
brought her down so much in such a short time.  She was tense and
shivered a lot, but her voice still had an artificial edge to it.  She
didn't look at all well.  I made her some coffee, and that broke the
ice between us a little.
     "I feel terrible," she said.
     I agreed she didn't look too hot, and then asked what had
happened.
     "I took this OD," she explained.
     "Is that an overdose?"  I asked.
     "What else?"  She looked at me sharply as though I should have
known better.
     "What did you do that for?"
     "I was down, really down .  She laughed a little hysterically.
     "I'm always trying to kill myself."  But making sure she didn't
succeed, I thought.  Anyhow, I couldn't imagine why she wanted to kill
herself when she seemed to have so many things together.
     "It's that bastard Roger," she went on.  "He's thrown me out and
is refusing to speak to me."
     Roger led one of the best groups on the scene.  He was a groupie's
El Dorado, and she had been living with him for over a year.
     "That's bad," I said, and the silence and a sympathetic ear
prodded her on.
     "Oh, I'm used to it, you know, but he's never gone so far before.
     He's really putting me through it this time, changing the lock and
putting my cases outside."  Roxanna paused, and then laughed
confidently.
     "I'll give him three weeks."
     "Three weeks?"  I asked.
     "Yeah, three weeks before he wants me back.  He'll soon get tired
of that Swedish bird .  . . do you know, he flew her over just because
she's got big boobs .  . ."
     She seemed very matter-of-fact about it all, and I wondered what
was the point of an overdose.  She started telling me about her scene
with Roger, but it didn't quite ring true, and I started seeing through
all her cool talk.  She had been living with him for about a year and a
half, but the relationship had broken down about six months ago.  It
seemed that she refused to admit this, claiming that it had changed
into something different.  Like she didn't mind him having other chicks
around, but she always made sure he came back to her.  You have to be
pretty cool to take that sort of scene, I thought.
     Then she went into her groupie thing.  in the groupie sta'kes, she
told me, you usually started small and ended up with the biggest-that
is, if you made it.  And by that time the ones you had had when they
were small had often made it big, so you'd have quite a few good names
to your credit.
     She had made it because she had the looks and was groovy with the
confidence to get it together.  She seemed to have pulled all the best
musicians around.  I noticed it was always the leader of the group.  I
liked the way she called all these guys by their Christian names,
assuming that I just had to know who she was talking about.
     It made me wonder whether I'd ever be in a position to.  do that,
though now I was beginning to wonder whether her particular position
was as cool as I had first thought.  Here she was, she had pulled them
all and ended up living with one of the best known.  But it seemed that
underneath it all she was a terrified chick.  She couldn't hold her
scenes together any more, and having had the best, she couldn't start
downgrading her pulls now.  From the way she told it, it struck me that
something else was needed to successfully get things together, apart
from looks and being groovy.  Grooving around with lots of famous guys
who lived constantly in the public eye and spent enormous amounts of
bread didn't mean that you were equal to them, like she thought.  She
was twenty-three, I am nineteen, so I have, plenty of time to try her
scene.
     However, it was interesting to listen to Roxanna talking about
these guys, even if she did seem to have missed out somewhere along the
way.
     And she did know them, and she had slept with them-which was more
than I had.  Apart from Nigel, I'd only had Ben, and nobody knew about
that.
     It hadn't- lasted long enough.  She told me how this one wowdn't
make it with the light on, and that one had it eight times a night, and
another only wanted it once a week.  And she even knew about the ones
she hadn't had, because groupies like to tell other groupies who
they've scored and what they are like.
     "I'm really messed up now, though, " she continued.  "It's like
I've got a frozen mind.  As for sex, forget it.  I stopped sleeping
with Roger ages ago."
     I didn't have much to say.  I'm no good at offering sympathy,
because I rarely feel it.  I personally try to work out all my problems
for myself, without talking about them too much.  I know what most of
these problems are, but it takes more than knowing to overcome them.
     I'm apt to be uncool with guys I like, giving myself away so that
they can take advantage of me.  And even when they know, and make me
suffer all kinds of paranoid lieU, I still go on taking it from them.
     that's the way I am and it's a problem.  Though there's nothing
like a bit of paranoia to keep one in one's place-at least, that's what
I've been told by guys I liked enough to make me feel that way.  Still,
I hoped I'd never delude myself the way she seemed to.  I reckoned it
was no good putting on a together image if you were all screwed up
inside, because people would soon suss you out and drop you.  Be
yourself until you could afford the luxury of being the person you
wanted to be.  And you couldn't be the person you wanted to be until
you had a certain amount of power and bread and the right kind of
confidence.  You wouldn't get these until you learned through
experience.  That's how it is on most scenes, and mine was no
different.
     Roxanna was still explaining things.  "Everyone thinks of me as
Roger's chick, you know, which annoys him," she said.
     "He won't take me round with him any more because he doesn't want
people to think we are having a scene.  But I still use his surname
when I sign myself in anywhere, just to let them know.  He'll have me
back soon, wait and see.  He always takes care of me when I'm down.  He
took care of me when I had the baby.  . ."
     "Was it his?"  I asked.
     Roxanna shook her head.  "I cant tell you that.  Anyway, it's with
foster parents now.  I've given up a lot for that guy.
     He'll remember that as soon as he's fed up with the Swedish
chick's -boobs."
     She seemed overconfident to me.  Putting her cases outside the
door and changing the lock struck me as a pretty strong hint.  Then Ted
came back with some frozen food, and started chatting her up.  But she
kept putting him down.  She had a very sharp tongue.  I suppose he was
far too small a face for her to bother with.
     "I cant bear being touched," she confided to me when he was out of
the room.  "Would you mind if I stayed in here tonight?"
     "Of course not," I said, looking forward to more revelations.
     Better than the music papers any time.

     Ted made another attempt to pull Roxanna.  They had the flat to
themselves all day because I'd gone to do some typing for some Bohemian
poet I knew.  when I got home in the evening he was still at it,
following her from room to room, making tea and generally chatting her
up.  I don't know how Roxanna had acted before I came home, but as soon
as I was in and we were lying on my double mattress watching telly, she
started putting him down.  Maybe she was doing it because I was around,
or maybe, like she said, sex didn't turn her on.  What ever the reason,
it was fascinating to watch her at it.  The nastier she became the less
Ted seemed to notice.
     He laughed at her and thought she was really witty.  She put him
down because of his age and his looks.  And when he started
name-dropping and coming on about how good his group was, she really
let fly.
     "Look," she said, "I don't want to know about you because you're a
loser and I haven't got time for people like that.
     Now leave me alone, there's a darling.  You're hanging me up."
     It was rude and patronizing all at once.  It rather shook him, and
threw him into an offended silence.  Then I joined forces with her.
     His big talk really did seem pathetic in comparison to the scene
she'd been on, and I don't like people to talk big unless they are big.
     It sounds so foolish.  Ted got uptight and left us.
     "He's OK really," Roxanna said, after he'd gone, "but he's a drag
. .
     . I mean where is he?"
     "I'm not interested.."  I said.  "I think he was uncool because he
fancied you."
     Roxanna tossed the hair out of her face disdainfully.
     "Yeah well let him go and pull some scrubber that's more his
thing.  I couldn't possibly sleep with him."  She paused.
     "Have you had him?"  ' "No, he's not my scene," I told her, which
was true.  I regarded Ted as a mildly irritating friend.  Roxanna
turned and looked me straight in the face.
     "What is your scene?"
     Group members are my scene, I thought.  But I couldn't tell her
that because she'd ask me who I'd had and I'd only had Ben.  I didn't
want her to think me a failed groupie or something.
     "Not guys like Ted.  I used to go out with one of The Satin," I
said.
     I felt I had to let her know about The Satin at least, because
they were big.
     "Yes that's right," she said, "It was The Satin I saw you with
that time down at The Joint."
     "Yes, that was me.  I wasn't sure if you'd remembered me."
     "Oh, I remembered seeing you, but I wasn't sure who you were with
at the time.  The Satin are groovy .  . . which one was yours?"
     "Ben," I said, "lead guitarist."
     "That guy was too much .  . . Roger knew him.  I never quite got
it together-I was going through some bad scenes at that time-he freaked
out, didia't he?"
     "Yes," I said.
     "And what now?"  she asked.
     "Oh, there are guys around," I said casually, "people mostly on
the scene.  Do you know a guy called Reginald Chatterton?"
     "Is he a group?"  she asked.
     "No, he's a writer," I said defensively.
     "Oh, well then, I haven't heard of him."
     I'd have to learn not to drop Reginald's name, I thought.
     Maybe it would be better to drop Reginald.
     "So you only sleep with guys?"  she said.
     "Well .  . . yes," I said, thoughtfully.  I wasn't quite sure what
she meant.
     "What about chicks?"  she asked.
     "What about them?"
     "Do you go with chicks?"
     "Sometimes," I lied.  Although I'd never gone with a chick.
     I'd thought about it often enough, and the way she spoke made it
sound as if I should know about chicks.
     "Yes, I thought so," she said, "most chicks on the group scene go
with other chicks-and you're on the group scene, aren't you?"
     "Not really," I said, feeling a little out of my depth now.
     She was surprised.  "Oh, I thought you were.  You look the type."
     Did I?  Were people able to point at me and say "there's a
groupie"?  I didn't think that would be a good thing.
     "Why do I look the type?"  I asked.
     "Nearly everything about you.  Your friends, your hair, your
clothes .
     . . though I must admit that you don't talk like one."
     "Just as well," I said.  No names to drop, I thought.
     "Yeah, I know what you mean."  She yawned and stretched.  "God,
I'm tired.  Let's watch telly in bed."
     So we rather coyly undressed with our backs to each other.
     This might be interesting, I thought.  Last night she'd slept on a
mattress we'd brought in from another room; tonight it seemed things
would be different.  In a weird kind of way I began to look forward to
what was going to happen.  Also, I was curious to see what her body
looked like naked-I had to admit she had an incredible figure dressed.
     I've often wondered about other chicks' bodies because I have
hangups about mine.  I think most chicks have this feeling.  Although g
myself in I put my nightgown on and turned round to see Roxanna still
naked.
     I caught a glimpse of her breasts.  They were wider and flatter
than mine, with more at each side, and her nipples stood out more than
mine did.  My eyes moved -down over her body.  She seemed to have more
actual curves and was definitely more voluptuous than me.  I could
understand how she managed to pull a lot of groovy guys with a body
like that.  Then she slipped on the nightgown I had lent her and smiled
at me.
     "What are you staring at?"
     "You," I said.  I had never seen a chick naked before, but she
wasn't to know that.
     Roxanna peered at herself down her nightgown, and then up at me
again.
     "You've seen it before, haven't you?"
     "Each body is different," I said, and didn't like how that
sounded.
     I've never had any complaints and I like ex full length mirrors, I
still had doubts.
     "Let's have a look at you," she said.
     Terrified to be uncool about it, I lifted up my nightgown and held
it above my head.  My face was hidden by the material, but I could feel
her eyes probe my body with a sense of almost physical contact.  After
a moment I let my nightgown drop.
     "It's cold," I said, and made for the bed.  I wasn't sure what
Roxanna was up to.  She made it sound as though she went for chicks,
though she hadn't actually said so.  She now assumed that I did the
same, and I wondered what was going to happen.  I mean, she'd told me
that she didn't dig sex any more.  Perhaps she meant with guys.
     Anyway, I was far too shy to make the first move and I rather
hoped she would do it for me.  What a groove, I thought, to sleep with
a chick who had had all those faces.  I might even get to meet some of
them through her.
     Third hand glory.  But it was a start.
     In bed I noticed that our legs were touching, and from time to
time she moved hers up and down against mine.
     When something on the telly made her laugh she would lean right
against me, and hang her head in front of me, giggling.
     And she'd never quite move back to where she'd come from.
     "Where do.  you have your hair done?"  she asked me suddenly.
     "At Leonard's .  why?"
     "I've never seen hair cut quite like that before," she said, and
ran her fingers along my cheek where my hair ended.
     She would have known it if she'd pulled Brian Jones, I thought.
     "You've got freckles too," she went on, peering at my nose.
     "Yes, I know," I said.
     "I've got a terrible nose," she confessed.
     "You can hang your clothes on it," I said, trying a nervous joke,
because her nose did turn up in a very pronounced way.
     "Very funny," she said, and pushed me.  She was still treating me
in a very superior manner, and didn't like it at all when I got at her.
     "Do you get excited when you have a chick next to you, I mean in
bed?"
     Roxanna let her hand slide down my belly, and I could feel my
muscles tighten reflexively.
     "Sure," I said, "but I feel like that when I'm with a guy too."
     She put her hand between my legs.  "Are you excited now?"  "I am a
bit, I suppose."
     "It doesn't feel like you are," she said, rubbing her hand against
me.
     "Well, I am," I said.  And when I thought about it I was.
     Because a hand is a hand and a clitoris is a clitoris and when you
can feel the pleasure beginning to rise up inside you, it doesn't
really matter about the sex of the hand.
     "I'm only saying it because you're not very wet," she went On.
     "Well, it takes a bit of time," I explained.
     "I don't," she said, and moved my hand towards her.  "Feel it?"  I
put my hand between her legs and applied the tiniest pressure.  She was
much wetter than me, and her cunt felt fleshier than mine, and further
back.
     "Have you ever made it with ales .  a real les?"  I asked her.
     She pulled back a little way from me and laughed.
     "You mean a short-back-and-sides, pepper-and-mustard-tweed dike .
     . .
     is that what you mean?"
     "Yes," I said, "that's the kind I mean."
     "Not on your life .  . ."  She paused and gave me one of her sharp
looks.  "Hey, you don't think I'm a dike, do you?"
     "No, of course not," I said.  Well, she couldn't be a real dike,
not after all the scenes she'd had with guys.
     "And I don't dig dikes," she said, "I think they're sick.  I cant
be doing it with the rubber things they strap on.  No, making it with a
chick for me is like making it with a guy without the hangups."
     "So how do you do it, then?"  I asked.
     Without warning she kissed me.  I was glad her breath didn't
smell.  I hate smelly breath After a bit I kissed her back, and it was
weird.  I had to keep telling myself that it was a chick I held in my
arms, that this was a chick's mouth against mine.  The pleasure I could
feel was the same I felt when I was with a guy and it rather amazed me.
     The pressure of our hands and mouths was different, however, more
gentle, less urgent.
     "Come on," she said, and took her nightgown off.
     This is it, I told myself, I hope she doesn't suss me.  I stripped
as well, -and before I knew what was happening she was down between my
legs and her tongue was inside me.  It took me some time to get into it
because I'm rather inhibited about being plated.  I usually only enjoy
it when I've been going with someone for a long time and we know each
other's habits.  I had to close my eyes and concentrate on the feeling.
     I could vaguely feel Roxanna moving about -and she was making
small liquid sounds which seemed to carry around the room.  My body
began to move too, gradually at first, then more as the feeling began
to overpower me.  Roxanna's hands shot up and tightened painfully on my
breasts.
     She was almost as frenzied as me now, and feeling the tension
gathering in me, she began to rake my body with her fingers.  I
couldn't take much more of it.  It was driving me mad, and she never
let up for a moment.  Finally it happened.
     I gave myself up to it and my mind went blank for a moment.
     When I'd recovered a little she pushed me down and I followed her
example.  I used my tongue tentatively at first, but even this was
enough to make her writhe and groan.  It tasted different to a man, it
was more salty.  And I thought this is what a man must taste.  Then I
explored deeper.  It was like a mouth at first, until you noticed how
the hair got in the way.
     And the deeper you went in the more lumps and corners you found.
     I tried sucking very hard to vary things and it sounded terrible.
     This seemed to be too much for her and she started yelling.
     She pulled me away from her and brought her mouth down on mine,
kissing me frantically.  Her hips were still grinding away
spasmodically and I put my hand down there and found the right place
for my finger.  But she was moving around so much it was difficult to
keep it in position.
     When she came it was very dramatic.  She squealed, gasped and
flung herself into the air.  She was very noisy as she lay heaving
beside me, saying "Oh, oh, oh," over and over again.  It's almost like
doing it to yourself, I thought.  There's nothing to it.  And I felt
quite pleased that I'd managed so well.
     After a while Roxanna resumed her poise, and, back in our
nightgowns again, we lay down to sleep.  But she felt very talkative,
and started repeating stories she had already told me.  Although it was
interesting at first, it soon became very boring.  It was another one
of her Roger stories, and the way she told it made it sound so false,
like she was exaggerating the whole thing.  I fell asleep at the point
where he'd decided to take her shopping in the Edgware Road.
     Roxanna stayed three weeks, though we never made it again.  It
wasn't that I hadn't liked her.  I had-it was just that I was starting
not to dig her.  She continued to put Ted down, and she was rude to
Wendy and John, the light show guy, as well.  And I was bored with
hearing how Jimmy insisted on g out the light before he got undressed.
     I was bored with shopping expeditions in the King's Road.  I was
fed up with Eddie's moodiness, and I was thoroughly pissed-off with
Roger.  I noticed that she never once mentioned their music, which was
surely one of the most interesting things about these guys.  Sure, she
went on gigs, but only to groove around backstage, it seemed.  If I was
going to be a groupie I wasn't going to be like her.  She was really
only a star-fucker.
     I had to be turned on to a guy's music before I could be turned on
to him, because the sound he was making was part of his whole thing.
     And if I couldn't groove to his music I didn't think I could
groove to him.
     That was one of the important reasons why I had dug Ben so
much-his incredible sounds.  Though maybe if I met a musician and got
turned on to him as a person his music would automatically turn me on.
     I didn't really know, but I wanted to find out about it all.  I
also wanted to get rid of Roxanna, who was now hanging me up and hadn't
even introduced me to anybody.  So I started putting out offhand
vibrations, criticizing her, and telling her she should get herself
together and find a pad.
     "I'll have some money from Roger tomorrow," she would promise, and
"Roger will have me back soon, don't worry."  I told her bullshit!  If
she wanted Roger back she'd get him quicker if she showed that she
didn't really need him-though I didn't think he wanted her back at all
and I didn't blame him.  Finally, after three weeks, instead of moving
back with Roger as she had originally predicted, she met a large,
promoter somewhere, and he offered her a job and a room in his pad.
     That sounded pretty suspect to me, but she was full of herself
now.
     Telling me over and over again how pleased she was to be able to
graft again.
     "So many times I've almost got it together and somehow just not
making it, 'I, she said.  "Like when I was producing for the Rainbow
People."
     Never heard of them, I thought.  And until she moved out I got the
complete history of her failed business career.  This she managed to
tell as if it were a success story or something.  More name-dropping.
     "People in the business" this time, but it made little impact with
me.
     By now I thought of her as a failure.  To me she was a chick who
had little except her body, and those who had used it didn't seem to
want it any more.

     So, one night, there I am down at The Kingdom to see The Transfer
Project-this incredible group Zach Franks formed from his Big Sound
Bank after he took acid.  They have really got the light show scene
together too, and were the first in England to use overhead projectors.
     The great swirls of primary colors racing round behind them, plus
their enormous sound, hits you so hard you almost fall over.
     I'm talking to The Other Kingdom DJ-who is small and pretty and
has blond hair cut exactly like one-when I become aware of one of The
Transfer staring at me.  He is standing in the opening to the stage
ferociously eating a huge ham roll.  He has rather a long nose and is
small and skinny.
     This staring goes on for quite a while, and I'm rather intrigued.
     When they go on to play I give him an all-over scrutiny.  I'm
sitting on the side of the stage so I can watch him without him
noticing.  I like what I see; he's girlish and his fair hair curls onto
his shoulders.  He plays lead and his skinny arms coming out of his tee
shirt really Turn me on.
     . When they finish their set he comes over to where I am and
starts staring again.  Suddenly he says hello.
     "Hello."  I say.
     "I'm Davey," he says, and I notice quiet cockney overtones to his
voice.
     "I'm Katie," I say, without taking my eyes off him.
     "You look sad," he says, looking pretty glum himself.
     "Do I?"
     "Yeah," he says, "you don't look happy."
     "Well,'I'm not sad."
     His eyes widen while he thinks of something to say.
     They're beautiful eyes.  I want to have eyes like that.
     "Maybe it's the natural repose of my features."
     "I like that."  he says, dead serious.
     "Like what?"
     "The natural repose of your features," he says, savoring the feel
of the words in his mouth.
     "It's true," I say.
     He smiles at me, thoughtfully.  "I know what you mean.  I do have
the same problem."  And I think, wow I want to see him again.  So I
casually tell him that I've been invited to this new boutique opening
and would he like to come along.  He says yes and we arrange to meet.
     Before he came to take me to the opening I wondered whether I
would still like him in broad daylight.  Although I quite dug him, he
struck me as being slightly faded and weedy.  However, when he turned
up I still found him attractive, though I couldn't quite work out why.
     It wasn't just that he was in a group, either.  His clothes were
great.
     Although they were obviously carefully thought out they didn't
look contrived in the fashionable sense.  He had this great Afghan
jacket, faded rust velvet trousers and skinny black tee shirt.
     And his boots were a good shape and didn't look too new.
     His hair was so soft it looked almost unreal.
     I rolled a couple of joints for us before going, and we
tentatively chatted.  He was polite and straightforward and didn't seem
to have any particular image-none of Ben's romantic despair.  In fact
he put down the talented freaks on the scene because they were
destroying themselves and their music in the process.  He reckoned that
living was the most important thing that had to be done, and admired
people with systematic life plans, people who were complete and very
much together.
     He was very pragmatic and treated pop music as a job rather than
artistic creation.  But he was good at his job and he dug his work, and
that was a good way to be.  So here was a member of one of the
underground's currently most popular groups talking in such a together
way that it rather unnerved me.  And fascinated me.
     It was good when people at the boutique recognized him with me.
     Both of us stayed quietly with our backs to a wall, slightly
stoned, while it happened all around us.  Then I felt his arm around my
waist.
     No mental blocks about this one I thought.  We split.  After a
somewhat self-conscious meal we went back to my place and slowly felt
our way into each other's minds.  He was very self-assured and worked
out, with no hangups that I could find.  His blue-green eyes
concentrated on me while he spoke.  I wondered what he saw.
     By the time we got into bed I was nervous.  His confidence and
coolness were making me feel gauche and useless.  So I was dry and
tight and reluctant to respond-never mind about initiatives.  I was
knocked out by the perfection of his genitals.  They were compact and
beautifully symmetrical, and I reflected that this was the first time I
had ever found genitals worth looking at with appreciation.
     The second time it was more relaxed and our movements coincided
well.
     His strength was strange coming from such a frail body.  He really
knew what it was all about.  Afterwards I sat up and examined him while
he lay slightly curled up and lost in the proportions of the bed.  I
flattened my face on his shoulder and breathed in his smell.  It was a
lovely smell and it was mingled with bath oil.  That was a coincidence,
because I used the same oil in my bath.  Then I stared at his face.
     Lying in repose I found his features faultless.  His mouth,
slightly parted, was soft and girlish.  That was it: instant
infatuation.
     From then on he came round constantly.  He even dropped in on the
way back from gigs if they passed by before about half-past three in
the morning.  We didn't go out much, except sometimes to eat or to a
movie.
     We spent a lot of time in bed.  And our bed scene was becoming
incredible.
     Davey destroyed whatever hangups I might have had about sex and my
body.  He made me very aware of my body and turned me on to pleasure in
a way no one had before.  He liked being plated, so I really got down
to it.  He said I was the best plater he had ever met.  Maybe he was
right.  There was nothing I couldn't do with his erection, hard or
soft, once I got it into my mouth.  I swallowed so much of him that
even when he was away on gigs the taste of him would stay in my mouth
for days.  We had discussed the taste of sperm.  I told him everyone's
was different.  He wondered if he ate bananas for a week whether his
sperm would taste of bananas.  We did crazy things like dip his penis
in strawberry yogurt and then I'd lick it all off .  He never bothered
to plate me, but that didn't worry me.  I reckon now it cant be as
groovy to plate a chick.
     I adored him.  I would spend hours looking at his face and
wondering what was so beautiful about it.  His nose was too long and
his eyes too weak (he wore contact lenses to strengthen them and also
darken them) but the whole combination with that incredible mouth and
soft hair was faultless.
     There was not one thing I could fault on him physically, and naked
he was as sure of himself as when clothed.  I loved just gazing at him
and touching him.  It was unbelievable.
     He liked sexual diversions.  He hit me with his leather belt one
night to see if I liked it.  I did, because it was him hitting me.  But
he found he didn't like hitting me, so that was abandoned.  He said I
generated a crudeness in him he hadn't noticed before and it was one of
the things which he really dug about me.  We played a lot of games in
bed.  We worked out some strange new positions and had competitions to
see which one of us could come up with the most interesting and
practical one.  We sometimes sat for hours with his erection inside me,
just staring into eachother's faces without moving.
     He said it was a yoga form of lovemaking.  We pretended it was the
first night again, and the last.  I had to seduce him, then he would
seduce me, each of us seeing how long we could resist the other.  I'd
touch him up while he watched the television to see if I could make him
come during the commercials.  He got me to masturbate while he watched,
then he'd do the same.  Sometimes we masturbated together to see who
would come first.
     This masturbation scene was something I had been into before.  I
mean, I was taught to masturbate by a far-out guy who studied William
Reich.
     He attended Reichian courses, and had built himself an Orgone
Accumulater-whatever that was.  To Reich, and his followers the orgasm
was all important.  When this guy discovered that I wasn't having
orgasms with him he became very concerned in a crusading sort of way to
rescue me from my plight.  For weeks he tried to make it happen for me.
     We tried control, positions, suggestion, but everything
failed-perhaps I was trying too hard.
     Then one night, with the desperation of defeat beginning to haunt
him, he grabbed hold of my clitoris and started working on it with his
fingers and thumb.  At first it was uncomfortable and irritating.  I
suffered it silently for the sake of the experiment, and because of the
prospect of a future without orgasms, as sketched out by this guy, was
pretty grim.  Then something different began to happen.  He must have
been touching me in a slightly different place because sensation began
spreading through my body and flooding my mind until I became all
sensation and blank-dedIt nearly finished me when I came.  I was
holding my breath, concentrating on this incredible feeling until I
nearly burst.  When it became too much there was not only what felt
like a vaginal explosion but an oral one as well.  I let go of my
breath with a high-pitched gasp.
     I lay there panting.  Then he did it again, just to make sure that
it wasn't an isolated accident.  He now had to persuade me to do it for
myself.  I was shocked, and put up a stubborn resistance.  I had never
played with myself and really believed it wasn't a nice thing to do.
     But the temptation to recapture the sensations sensation that
shredded my mind and senses -was too great.  I started doing it alone.
     I soon got it all worked out.  and it was such a groove-almost
therapeutic like the guy had said.  I was rushing to my room at all
hours of the day, locking the door and masturbating.  I shunned
everyone, including the guy who had taught me, and just worked on
myself in private.  And when it was all over, when the need began to
wane, I was more than a little relieved that my skin hadn't turned
blotchy and pitted.  Nor had my nose fallen off-dark forbodings which
had troubled me just below the surface of things.  Well.  I was only
just 15 at the time.
     I still haven't had orgasms in the normal way-I mean lots of
chicks claim they come the first time round.  Sometimes it happens when
guys masturbate me, but they have to learn the right way to do, it.  If
they can, they're away.  But not many do and I won't show them how.
     This doesn't mean that I don't get pleasure from sex.  I love the
physical contact and giving pleasure.  And I'm good at it.  It gives me
almost a feeling of artistic achievement when I know I have really
satisfied someone.
     But it does take a long time for me to get a compatible sex scene
together.  I know I'm not frigid, but I also know I haven't got a great
capacity.  If the person I'm having a scene with insists on it every
night it becomes a mechanical process, inevitably turning me right off.
     But I never have the courage to tell them, and when they suspect
and insist on trying to make it happen for me I get uptight.  It's
usually an ego thing with them.  Most guys are obsessed with making
chicks have orgasms, and it's a big let-down for them when they cant
get it together.  It takes someone I really dig and who really wants to
understand to make it good for me.  Davey was like that.  He used
frankness to the point of crudity to find out, and he had to worm the
information out of me.  It's very rare for a guy to take the trouble to
do that, and this was the first time a guy got that deeply into me.
     Anyhow, I felt very self-conscious with Davey at first, but when I
saw how much it excited him I started to dig it.  We reached a peak one
week when we did nothing but masturbate when we were in bed together.
     We talked a lot as well.  We talked about his spiritual scene and
how is and Nirvana.  I didn't know too much about all this.
     There were a lot of plausible theories around these days, but the
way Davey laid his down they just had to be the right ones.  He
sometimes got uptight when talking about souls, saying I was laughing
at him.
     But I wasn't; I just found it so strange that he should be so
intense about it all.
     He told me that the only proper way to trip was, to follow Timothy
Leary's book, Psychedelic Experience, and move from phase to phase.
     If you do this properly you will reach the point where this White
Light is supposed to hit you in a blinding flash of self-realization.
     Everything is wiped out by this White Light and your body and soul
are atomized and flow into the life energy force.  I've felt my soul
leave my body on quite a few trips, but hadn't noticed this
accompanying White Light that he was talking about.  He accused me of
never having tripped properly."
     So we took a trip together, and a very solemn affair it was too.
     Davey read the changes from Psychedelic Experience.
     He was trance-like and intent on reaching his mind climax, but I
couldn't concentrate.  Too many walls were bending and colors changing,
and I couldn't get the words or ideas together in my mind.  I had all
these important things to say, and Davey's enraptured voice sounded all
wrong.  What was he going on about?
     He advised me about the horrors and what to do if I got them.  But
I don't get the horrors, they just don't seem to be my scene.  The
really screwed-up ones inside, these are your horror candidates.  Acid
melts their defenses and everything bad inside begins to feed on
itself.
     That's when the mind is jolted into an attack of the
unmentionables.
     We spoke about this for what seemed to be a long time, but you can
never be sure about things when you trip out.  Then we quarreled about
it, and began in rapid alternations to hate and love each other with
great intensity.
     Davey got annoyed with me because I was distracting him from
concentrating on reaching the white Light.  He said tripping was a
ritual, not a groove, and people who lounged about on trips didn't know
where it was at.  He set such high standards of performance for himself
in everything that even his tripping had to be as perfect as possible.
     Anyway, he finally got there, and stood up with his arms
outstretched to greet his White Light.  It didn't matter that his
trousers suddenly descended around his ankles.  He wasn't there.  He
was distributed into everything everywhere and I knew how he felt.  all
in all it was a groovy trip and I came out of it feeling closer to him
than ever.
     In order to impress Davey I made an intense effort to get a work
scene together.  "Getting it together" was his favorite expression.  He
couldn't stand chicks who weren't together.
     He made no allowances for chicks who failed in this respect.
     So get it together I did.  Using the contacts I had kept from the
newspaper I managed to get commissioned by a glossy magazine to do a
feature on the nippy boutiques that were springing up everywhere.  I
didn't have much to do as it was mainly photos,- but it impressed
Davey.  He got his sitar and played to give me inspiration while I
brooded over my typewriter.  He was also pleased when I hustled a job
working for the Rome Festival, a week-long festival of pop music to be
held in Rome.  I was given the job of writing and editing the weekly
newsletter and doing publicity, which meant I would be grooving around
meeting important people on the scene.
     But the Festival soon ran into financial trouble.  The groups were
cut from 50 to 20, the week to four days.  I ended up as the equipment
manager, trying to get PAs and amplifiers together to satisfy all the
groups.  I didn't know the difference between a Farfisa and a duck's
arse before I started, but what I didn't know I bluffed and caught on
fast.  I learned to lie tolerably well, and the Festival people found
me indispensible for soothing the ragged nerves.  of conned
businessmen.
     Sometimes Davey came with me as I went round agencies on Festival
business.  He'd watch silently while I went through my hustles, and
when I'd got what I'd come for he would nod gravely at me, pleased at
my ability to handle these tough, experienced guys.
     The more I got into Davey the more I felt I loved him and depended
on him.  As this gradually happened my hangups began to assert
themselves.
     I couldn't believe that he felt the same way about me, and I was
terrified that he might find another chick.  I got quite desperate
about this, and suffered paranoid fantasies about him pulling lots of
teeny-boppers and groupies when he was away on gigs.  He never made any
bones about being attracted to other chicks.  And the thought of this
when he was away, and I was missing him, made me jealous and evil.  He
knew it too, and didn't dig it-coolness was his motto-but that only
made me worse.  I couldn't help it.  Finally it began to bring him
down, and a lot of the initial happiness went out of our scene.  He
began to criticize my attitude and often complained that he felt guilty
if he didn't spend every spare evening with me.  He didn't see why he
should feel guilty, especially as he loved me and would be getting a
flat together for us.  I knew if I was making him feel like that I must
cool it, and I tried.  But I wasn't very successful.  I couldn't stop
myself from telling him how I felt, and he couldn't believe I loved him
as much as I claimed to.
     Going on gigs with Davey didn't help much either.  It was a
different scene from The Satin.  The Transfer didn't dress up or
groove, they were just doing a job.  Davey could never understand why I
wanted to come along with him.  But he took me to most of the local
gigs, and I'd stand in the audience while they played.  I'd hear the
suburban groupies discussing which one they dug most, and it was nearly
always Davey.  This bed me up even more.  Of course I was proud that
they fancied him, but a bit jealously uptight to hear them discussing
him like he was a prize stallion.  He's mine, I'd think grimly And when
he wasn't on stage I'd stick as close to him as possible to let them
know.  Davey dug his fans, and told me not to make it so obvious that
we were together.  In the dressing-rooms I'd have to sit in a corner
and watch him chatting them up while he signed autographs.  That really
annoyed me.  Then something happened which really put us through some
changes.
     Davey's group, The Transfer Project-although favored by the
underground and doing very well around London-just weren't making
enough bread or getting the required number of bookings out of town.
     Zach, the leader of the group, had been asked by Den Casey to join
The Savage on one of their big American tours.  He had refused.
     However, when pressured again on Den's latest visit he accepted,
and that meant the end of The Transfer.  Although Zach really dug the
music he was making with The Transfer, the money and travel abroad were
too tempting.  Besides, they didn't seem to be getting anywhere.
     Without Zach the group would be lost.  Everyone dug the way he
played the organ and his freaky performance on stage really knocked the
audiences out.
     It would be impossible to replace him, so the group would have to
disband.  This made everyone on the scene sad and angry at the
unawareness of the provincial people who couldn't groove to his music.
     In a few weeks Davey would be out of work.  He started talking in
a worried way about his future.  He, got offers from middling groups
but turned them all down.  His idea was to either make a lot of money
and travel, or play with people who were making a sound he really dug.
     The Dream Battery filled both these requirements.  They were going
over really big in the States, and as they were friends of his and due
back in England soon, he intended to approach them.  But he was worried
and moody.  He even hinted darkly that he would flee to this remote
island called the Bird of Paradise Isle which he'd hankered after ever
since he'd seen Swiss Family Robinson.  And all these possibilities of
him going away made me moody too.  We weren't much help to each other
and had quite a few cold scenes.
     It didn't help, either, that the Rome Festival had turned into a
complete fiasco.  The Americans who had come over to set it up, waving
impressive contracts and spouting millions, turned out to be nothing
more than untogether freaks.  Everybody in sight was being sued and the
whole situation was getting out of hand.  A lot of money went down the
drain and underground prestige suffered a setback.  It was sad because
the original conception was brilliant and with real organization and
more front money it could have worked.
     The idea was to fill a huge sports stadium with 18,000 people
listening to nonstop sounds for a week by groups from practically every
country in the world.  Fleets of airplanes would shuttle people to and
fro, and it was intended to airlift the entire West Coast music scene
en bloc to Europe.  A wild shout which bled out with a whimper.
     Everyone associated with it felt very brought down.  It would have
been great to be able to say one had worked for a successful festival.
     I didn't even make it to Rome.  The ticket I was given I sold to
Wendy because I didn't want to leave Davey.  I wanted to go just to see
what it was like-it's groovy to go to things-but I just couldn't go
without Davey, especially with his mutterings about going away soon.
     When The Dream Battery arrived in England, Davey got it all
together in his efficient way and came bouncing in one evening, all
pleased with himself.
     "I'm joining The Dream Battery."
     My heart clumped to the bottom of my expensive boots.
     "That's great, Davey," I said.
     "Yeah, we're going to the States."
     He must have seen something in my face because he came over and
put his arms round me.
     me."
     "I am happy."
     "Be honest, you're not."
     "When are you going?"  I asked desperately.
     He let go of me and threw himself down on the bed.
     "In about a month."
     "A month?"  I repeated stupidly.
     "You're not happy at all, and that's a drag.  You know it's the
best thing that could happen for me."
     He was right.  I had known it was coming and I'd tried to prepare
myself.  But he was right, I felt very brought down.
     How could we groove together if I knew he was going away?
     Faithfulness and I'll write and everything will be the same when I
get back didn't come into it.  We could both have said these things,
but they would have been false.  Davey and I had always been straight
with each other.
     It took me two doomy weeks to get myself together.  Davey
complained that I was bringing him down.  He started sleeping nights at
his pad, saying he had a lot to get together.  So I decided I must get
a new scene as soon as Davey went to the States, and a new guy-or maybe
I'd have lots.  But I couldn't do this with him still around and I made
a strong effort to pull myself together.  I started asserting myself in
various ways.  I dressed the way I really wanted to.  Davey hated me
wearing long dresses and freaky clothes and had me shorten skirts and
dresses to ridiculous heights.  He really dug legs and as I have good
ones he said I should show as much of them as possible.
     When he began rehearsing with The Battery I stayed away, despite
the fact he actually invited me along once or twice and I wanted to go.
     Even my way of talking to him changed.
     It seemed important to me that he shouldn't go away thinking that
I'd fallen to pieces just because he was leaving.  I had to show him
that I could take his absence as much as I dug his presence.  Big
things were going to happen to him in the States which meant that he
would be moving on in status as well as experience.  He would not be
the same Davey when he came back, and he wouldn't be back for six
months.  I dimly realized that I would have to move in the same
direction if there was going to be any scene between us in the future.
     Contacts I had made working for the Rome Festival were useful for
getting a new job, and I started pursuing some of them.
     Davey obviously noticed the change in me but said nothing.  He
sussed out what was going through my mind and understood why I should
wish to get new things together for myself.  What he dug most of all he
told me, was that he wouldn't have to leave with the memory of bad
scenes fresh in his mind.  We would write to each other-that much we
were sure of.  The rest would have to wait and see.  But underneath it
all I was -desolate at the knowledge that he was leaving me.  Once he'd
gone I'd work it all out on some new guy, but meanwhile he was here.
     With him I was OK, but a few times I went out on my own and got
very confused about guys chatting me up.  Though unresponsive, I don''t
think I could have resisted a serious sex pull from somebody really
determined.
     And that's how things were until I contacted this guy at the Fund
Agency.  His name was Pat Blessing, a straight hustler of about thirty
who spoke very fast coclmey.  He had offered me a job while I was doing
the rounds of the Festival, and here I was coming back to see if the
offer was still open.  One of the reasons why I hadn't been round to
see him earlier was because I knew he fancied me.  that was cool, but
he knew some of Davey's friends and that sort of made me wary.  I knew
there was the possibility of a serious pull, but thought so what?  The
money and the position he was offering as his assistant would be worth
whatever momentary shit he threw at me.
     The Fund offices are in the West End.  There are about six offices
in all, with lots of groups, personal managers, roadies, producers,
pluggers and bookers grooving around.  They drink coffee, play sounds
and make interminable phone calls in an atmosphere of paranoid
competition.
     I found Pat in his office.  There was a gold carpet on the floor,
a sofa, two enormous stereos speakers and this specially built desk
right-angled in shape, with sound equipment set down into the surface.
     And there was a framed series of gold and silver discs hanging
against William Morris wallpaper.
     Pat was swiveling gently from side to side in his director-type
chair and was wearing some groovy shades.  I sat on the sofa while he
rang through on the intercom for some coffee.  By the time the coffee
arrived, we'd talked and I'd managed to suss out a few things.
     He seemed keen for me to start work, but said it all depended on
the guy who owned the Agency.  This guy was in the States, but would be
back soon.  I was not to worry, everything was cool.  Then he turned to
sex and started talking very frankly about his birds.  Between sips of
coffee and drags at my gold-tipped menthol I made my little
contribution and that encouraged him.  He leant back in his swivel
chair and stared contemplatively at the ceiling.
     "Me-I don't charver girls."
     That must have been a lie.  "I wouldn't have thought that," I
said.
     "No, straight."  He gave me a very serious look.  "I like to
charver birds, but I never do."
     "Why not?"
     He shrugged.  "Well, you cant tell these days, can you?"
     "I don't know," I said.  "Tell me why not."
     "Well, I'm telling you you cant because all these flower children
are pored up.  You just cant tell where they've been, can you?"  And he
was still staring hard at me.
     "That's the chance you take," I said.  "Besides, who gives it to
them-and stop staring at me."  .
     "I don't take that chance," he said.
     "Well, I'm not pored up.  In fact, I've never had it."
     "I didn't mean that," he said swiftly.
     "Neither did I," I said.
     He paused and looked at me intently.
     "But I'm not against the occasional plate."
     I said nothing.
     "Do you plate, Katie?"
     "Of course,-" I said.  I cannot see any reason for lying about my
sex habits, even to a virtual stranger.  To be able to talk about sex
in a completely frank way is a help, but it doesn't mean that much in
the long run.
     "Plating without sex is just the thing for me," he said.
     I said I knew what he meant.
     "Yes," he went on, "it keeps it all on a fairly impersonal basis"
"That's often a good thing," I said.
     "I wouldn't mind if you plated me," he said significantly.
     I said nothing.  His eyes went back to the ceiling, which he
frowned at this time.  After a pause which I got through by sipping
cold coffee, he suddenly swiveled down on me again.
     "Would you like a massage, then?"
     I didn't want to be unfriendly-and I really liked being
massaged-so I calmly said yes.  He sprang from his chair and came round
to me, making me lie face down on the sofa.
     He began to knead my neck and shoulders.  Then he got me to open
my blouse so that he could get at my bare skin.  He was brilliant with
his hands.  It made me tingle all over.  I felt the least I could do in
return was to plate him, which I did swiftly and efficiently.  He
complimented me as he did up his trousers and asked me to come round
again in a few days.
     He hoped he could get me the job as he thought I would be a cool
and discreet chick to have around the office.  Not that he cared about
anything people said of him-he knew where he was at-but all the same we
needn't be indiscreet, need we?
     Nodding his head wisely he showed me out of his office.
     I stopped to chat to one of The Ghost Engine in reception, and
while he was raving on about his latest record scene I became aware of
a sharp-featured face watching me from behind a partially closed door.
     I asked the telephone chick who it was, but before she could
answer the intercom went and I heard her say, "Yes, OK, Ray, I'll send
her in."
     She turned to me.  "That's Ray, he wants you to go in."
     "Who's Ray?"  I asked.  I guessed it was the one in the door.
     Sure enough, the telephone chick pointed out the door from which
the face had appeared.
     "Who is he?"  I asked again.  "I don't remember seeing him around
here before."
     "That's Ray Laurel," she said.  "He's our publicist.  He's new."
     I was suspicious.  "What does he, want?"
     The telephone chick smiled quite mindlessly and said "I don't know
really.  He says to go in f or coffee and chocolate biscuits."
     "Oh, does he?  Well, that's -all right then, I like coffee and
chocolate biscuits.  See you," I said to The Ghost Engine guy, and went
in.
     Ray was thin and had a sharp nose that looked as if it would
strike oil if he fell over.  He darted about in short stabbing bouts of
movement, sitting me down, introducing himself and handing me the
promised coffee and biscuits.  His office was identical to Pat's,
except that it had framed glossy photos of himself with groups of
famous and groovy people taken at important show biz functions.  He
flopped down onto his swivel chair and began to rock to and fro in a
fretful way.
     "Tell me, Katie," he said, "what did Pat want with you?"
     "Just business," I said warily.
     He gave me a frustrated look.  "Don't give me that, love.
     He was talking about me, wasn't he?"
     "No."
     "It's all right, I know.  He was putting me down, wasn't he?"
     "Look," I said firmly, "I don't even know you.  Why should he talk
about you?"
     "Don't you see," he said, all fast and desperate, "that's what I
don't know.  I mean, I'm new here, aren't I .  . .
     competition .  . . see?"
     "He said nothing about you."
     "Did he try to pull you?"  he asked worriedly.
     "You mind your own business," I said without malice.
     "Did he tell you to watch out for me?"
     "Why should he have done that?"
     "He always does, you know.  He always warns the chicks against
me."
     "Well, he didn't."
     Ray stopped rocking and went into broody silence.  This guy was
too much.  I couldn't keep up with him.
     "Don't get uptight," I said encouragingly, "He never mentioned
you."
     He sprang and paced.  "I'll tell you I won't stand for it.  This
plotting.  This aggravation has to stop or I'll split and take my
contacts with me.  Then where will they be."  He paused and fixed me
with a burning look.  "What fantastic bristols you have."
     I looked down at them in surprise.  They were hardly noticeable
under my loose waistcoat.
     "Do you really think so?"
     "Yes, I do," he said, all tense.
     "Why do you call them bristols?"  I asked.
     "It's just the way I talk," he said.  "Tell me, did he plate you?"
     "It's none of your business," I said priraly.
     "Did you plate him?"
     "I told you .  . ."  I said.
     "Do you plate?"  he asked.
     "Yes."
     "Shall I plate you?"  he asked, nose pointed in the air as sharp
as a guillotine.
     "No," I said.
     "Will you plate me?"
     "Why should I?"  I said.
     "Did you plate him?"
     "Oh, forget it," I said impatiently, and made a move to go.
     "Alright," he said, and unzipped his fly.  It came tumbling out
all hot and gorged.
     "There you are," he said with satisfaction.  "Let's see what you
can do with that."
     "You'd better put it back," I said, uneasily.  "Someone might come
in."
     I mean, the door was open!  Ray didn't seem to hear.  He looked
down at himself in dismay.  "What .  . .
     Put that back?"
     "Yes, you'd better," I said.
     Ray gave me an aggrieved look.  "You didn't tell him to put it
back."
     "I didn't ask him to take it out either."
     "You mean you took it out for him?"  Ray said swiftly.  I remained
silent.  The room seemed full of his erection, and it was a magnet for
my eyes.  But I still hoped that it would collapse back out of sight.
     "Look at the state you've got me into," Ray said dolefully.
     "Why won't you anyway?"
     "Why should I?"
     "You did it for him."
     "He's the boss," I said, and walked out.
     I continued to call around at the office, although under no
illusions about the job.  It was good for me to move around on that
scene and get my face and name known.  Ray never tried it on me again,
and we got on all right from then on.
     However, Pat demanded his due from time to time.  Although it
didn't hang me up, it was all rather uninteresting for me-a means to an
end.
     I dug being around the offices, and I was driven home in the
management car, given meals, records and posters.  I didn't feel any
shame when I was with Davey.  Like one of them said, plating can be one
of those scenes that works on an impersonal level.  I mean, there are
some guys I would plate but never hold hands with-like these guys for
example.
     My only worry was that sperm might be fattening.

     So Davey is going to the States any day now, though there seem to
be various hangups over visas.  Also, He has moved out to Dulwich with
one of the group so that he can practise.
     He's got so much to do that I really feel left behind.  I feel
restless and lost and cant stand being alone in my room any more.  The
other people in the flat are not much help either.
     John is setting up this light and sound plastic dome scene for
some grooving deb friend, so he's busy at that.  Ted is hustling 24
hours a day to promote his group, Wendy is having an intense scene with
some drummer and isn't at home much.
     I'm very down, all tensed up with Davey's imminent departure.  I'm
hating him for going, but wanting him gone and sort of not knowing what
to do with myself.
     I go and suss out the scene at Theo's pad.  Theo is a writer I
used to go out with.  He has this big incredible pad in Kensington
where elite and semi-elite film people, writers and scene people
generally pour in and out.  Theo has two of his friends from way back
living there with him.  These three have been writing and grooving
together for about eight years.  Theo made a lot of bread with his
first book last year and immediately moved himself and his friends into
this mansion pad-all balconies, big rooms, fitted carpets, cool sounds
and groovy distracting objects.  One of these guys is a writer called
Johnny.
     We're good friends, though we've never had scenes together.  The
other guy, Mark, is also an old boy friend.  But that's been finished a
long time now.  He's a poet and lives with his tall blonde American
chick he usually calls B.G. or Blonde Giant.
     Though I like Theo and have known him a long time, it's difficult
to be real friends with him because he's on such an ego trip.  If I
didn't know him as well as I do I would consider him an unpleasant
power head, despite all his groovy superficialities.  All three are
such different types.  Each is talented and imaginative in his own
particular way.  They have this close affection for each other which
comes across and sets- them slightly apart from other scenes.  If they
didn't have this going for them it's doubtful whether they could
survive the paranoia and savage uptighties which come from three such
guys living on top of each other and attempting to lead very together
type lives while being stoned most of the time.
     However, there is no doubt who is king of the castle.  Theo has
all the bread, and is making more by writing film scripts.
     He has assumed the mantle of responsibility for what he calls his
"family," which is cool.  So he makes the bread, pays the rent, seeks
the credit and works hard at allowing the others to bask but not shine.
     While I'm -not absolutely convinced that I want to get myself into
all that, I reckon I'll suss it out anyway.
     Anyway, Theo and Johnny think it would be -nice if I moved in
because I'm cool and I can help Blonde Giant make tea, tidy up after
smoking scenes and generally be a groovy accessory.  Johnny intends to
go away for a while very soon and when he does I can have his big room.
     Until then I can stay in the small room which has the color telly,
because the people in there are going.  These people are two of Theo's
freaky proteges.  One is a 22-year-old who can do incredible things
with wires andtelephones.  At the moment he is making a computer in the
kitchen.
     Theo has persuaded a young millionaire to put the bread into this
wire genius.  The computer will be able to forecast horse results,
stock market trends and useful things like that.  However, he is
sharing the kitchen space with Theo's second protege who is a speed
freak and looks like one of the Tolkien hobbits.  This guy invents
light machines and his mind cant seem to get it together with his
mouth, because nobody can understand what he says.  These two are
unbelievably jealous of each other and have the wildest territorial
wars in the kitchen area-not to mention the sabotage which goes on
whenever one or the other is not around.  They are moving out -and
getting separate work scenes because people are afraid of what they
might do to each other if things get worse.  So I've come at a good
time.
     I tell Davey what I intend to do.  He's quite impressed, but
disapproves at the same time.  Meanwhile I rent my room at Queens
Gardens to some struggling musician on a temporary basis, because I
feel I may well want to retreat back to my own company.
     Though I reckon to stay at Theo's long enough for something to
happen.
     Things always happen at Theo's.  There's only one hangup.  Theo
hates pop musicians -except people like The Beatles and Stones, that
is.
     They're on a different scene.  They've got real power, not just
the sex power of some group on the make.  So I'm not reckoning on
meeting any group members there, but maybe that's just as well.  After
Davey a change of profession might be cool for a time.
     The first week I'm there I have to sleep in Theo's room.
     He's away visiting, some titled groovers in Scotland.  He has this
enormous low bed made out of antique worm-eaten wood.  It has black
sheets and a white fur cover, and takes up a lot of the floor space.
     The floor is covered by a fluffy white carpet.  The walls are
white too-at least those parts of the walls that aren't covered by
tinted mirrors Johnny hasn't gone away yet.  He's having a fragmented
scene with this young chick called Mara.  She wants to be a dancer and
walks around the flat showing her middle and a lot of her
black-knickered bottom.  She speaks in this terribly loud upper-class
voice, which is really weird.
     She only came to the country five years ago when her diplomat
father defected from somewhere in Eastern Europe.  Theo cant stand her
because she rejected him, and I think she's driving Johnny mad.
     Before Davey leaves-he's really going in a couple of days -we go
out for the last time.  We're going to see 2001, so to really blow our
minds we take some tincture.  We can hardly speak when we come out of
the cinema, and just sit overcome while we eat.
     Back at Theo's we get stoned some more and dropped some Mandrax.
     I think we both feel like wiping the last few hours we have
together clean out of our minds.  Davey seems a bit out of place there
and is rather reserved.  He reckons the atmosphere in Theo's pad is a
bit too hedonistic, and could see me getting carried away.  Why should
he care, I say, he's going away.  Yes, he says, he supposes he is.  But
he warns me to think about things and to get myself together.  I tell
him that moving out of Bayswater and onto a new scene is the first step
in getting myself together.  I was being cool about it all and speaking
to him in my new detached way.  I had to let him know I wasn't going to
vegetate, in England and cry over him.
     I'd -got over the initial shock and almost didn't care what effect
my words had on him.
     We watched ourselves making it in the mirrors.  I was so stoned
that it was like I was watching vaguely familiar people going through
their paces in a blue movie.  I noticed bow Davey dilated his nostrils
like he does when he plays the guitar.  And I noticed for the millionth
time how beautiful I found his skinny little body, and for the first
time how interesting it was to see his erection going in and out of me.
     I arranged myself so that I looked good in the mirror, and watched
the expression on my face.  I tried making it look kind of ecstatic and
sexy and then I'd look at him and he'd be looking at me, and our eyes
would meet in the mirror.
     The Mandrax were really doing some weird things to me now.
     Often during the long time it took us to do all our different
things together, my mind switched off and my body took over completely.
     Sensations built up and splashed around inside me as I lay with my
eyes closed, my body moving involuntarily and my mind a warm quiet
presence inside my head.
     Davey asked me once why I was crying, but I wasn't crying and I
told him so.  Whereupon he -suddenly became incredibly tender and began
kissing my face and my eyes.  The images in the mirrors became confused
and there -seemed to be a time lapse between what was happening here
and what I was seeing over there.  I couldn't work out which came
first, but then it wouldn't matter any more.  I'd be back in my body
again with my open eyes just seeing the mirror images as freaky
hallucinations.  I tried to watch myself plating him-I'd always
wondered what I looked like with my mouth full -. and when I caught a
glimpse it looked strange and unnatural.
     We talked afterwards.  I think Davey was a trifle disappointed I
was taking his departure so well, having made so many bad scenes
before.
     I'm sure he expected tears and drama, but I'd used them all up.  I
often find I cant cry at the right moment, though when the moment and
the person are gone the tears come.  When Davey left the following
morning after fond clutchings and farewells, they still hadn't come.  I
knew I'd miss him, but already I was getting over round one.
     The weeks of waiting had been agony; now it was almost a relief.
     We would have to go right back to the beginning and start again
when he came back.  I would be ready for him.

     A couple of nights later Mara wants me to go to The Joint with
her.
     She often goes grooving off without Johnny.  She claims she's
meeting producers and people who want her to dance for them.  I hadn't
been to The Joint for a long time (since The Satin) and the thought of
all those groovy group members I would see down there was too tempting.
     It's good to go out, I tell myself-and I know I'm still hung up on
the group scene.  So I dress up and wear a Japanese robe with long
hanging sleeves.  It's very short and held together with a brooch, with
calico shorts underneath.  It's all rather sexy because it's always
falling open.
     Anyway, we get into The Joint.  It's Sunday, drag night.
     There's nobody I recognize from groups or anything.  Mara's like a
bait.  She is wearing thin silk trousers which are rolled down low over
her hips, so low you can almost see her crotch.  Then there is a large
flesh gap all the way up to her breasts, which are just about contained
by a tiny sleeveless halter thing-all sequins and colored threads.  She
sits there moving to the music, her breasts coming at you from all
directions, almost with a life of their own.  You just have to watch.
     The group an that night are The Jubal Early Blowback.
     I've heard of them because they were booked to play at the Rome
Festival, but never got there on account of all the cancellation
hangups on the last day.  I see them setting their gear up on stage,
and I notice this guy with a mustache and an interesting face-a typical
blues player's face.  Blues players are a different breed to pop
musicians.  They all have untidy hair, Zapata moustaches and
indifferent clothes.  And this is a Blues group.  I really don't know
anything about them.
     I've never seen any of these guys before and I wonder if the guy I
am looking at is Jubal Early.  But it turns out that Jubal Early is the
drummer; this guy is the bass.
     They come on and play and they're not bad.  I fancy this guy with
the mustache.  Actually they've all got moustaches except Jubal Early,
who's somewhat ugly, but a good drummer.
     They have this funny little singer called Hector who stands at the
organ and sings in a croaky soulful voice.  He's got gray in his hair
but he's sweet.  Their lead guitarist wears a snakeskin jacket and he
is attractive.  But I dig the bass player most.
     He's called Max, and I decide to stare at him.
     We were sitting at a table quite close to the stage so I stared at
him, just stared.  I did nothing else but stare, and every time he
looked -up from his guitar he noticed me, because he noticed Mara.
     Like, you'd notice Mara, then you'd look on and you'd notice me.
     It was good.  He starts getting uptight on stage, trying not to
look, then looking furtively.
     There I'd be, still staring.  They finish their first set, and now
he's at the bar having a drink-.  So I go up and talk to Jill, the
chick behind the bar, and sort of brush against him so he notices me
again.
     But now I'm pretending I don't notice him and that confuses him.
     He thinks maybe he's imagining things.  He should be assertive and
ask if I want a drink or something, but he doesn't, and that's the way
it stays until he goes back to play the second set.  I start staring
all over again.
     About halfway through, a group of rather noisy guys come in and
sit at the table opposite.  I look over and there's some of The
Relation.  I recognize them because I've seen them play down at The
Kingdom.  Though somewhat new to London, they have got off to a good
start.  Everyone on the scene digs them and reckons they will make it.
     The Relation are really weird to look at.  Their clothes aren't
wild, but there is a bizarre touch about them that's interesting.
     They've got the kind of faces I don't suppose I'd look at twice if
they didn't belong to The Relation-all battered and sharp.  It's
difficult to explain.  They are making a lot of noise and drinking.
     People are saying hi to them, and they wave to Jubal Early, who
wave back.  Then Spike.  vocalist with The Relation, gets up, to sing
with them.  He looks tall, spasmodic and stroby on stage, and has this
groovy strained voice.  It's so great to hear that I forget to stare
for a while.
     When the set finishes, everyone leaves.  We're just sitting there
with some guys talking to us, when suddenly all The Relation are around
us.
     They sit down too.  Then The Jubal Early appear and they gather
round The Relation.  Suddenly it's all happening, and it's freaking
Mara out.  She's saying to everyone, "Hi, I'm Mara.  I'm a virgin and I
dance!  I'm going to America to dance in a new star-studded
production," and of course she's not going to do any such thing.  They
look and listen and cant believe that there's a chick like this.  Their
eyes go kind of blank when she speaks and they cant decide whether
she's a joke or a groovy freak.
     They turn to me, wondering if I'm a joke too.  I say, "HeBo
Relation.
     I used to work for the Rome Festival and I had a terrible hustle
getting all your equipment together."  This gets them all excited and
they tell me how they met The Byrds in Rome and what a groovy time they
had, even if the Festival was a flop.
     I am talking away to their bass, Joe.  He's got blue twinkling
eyes, a slightly beaky nose and lots of soft curls.  Natural ones.  I
reckon I prefer him to Max, who close up is a bit heavy-featured, and
anyway, The Relation are a better group than Jubal Early Blowback.
     By now Max has got into staring at me, and I'm staring at Joe, and
The Joint is closing around us.  Mara is telling everyone what a groovy
pad she has, and invites them back for a smoke.  But nobody can make up
their minds except Joe and Max.  We finally end up with them, and set
off walking.  Joe keeps talking away to me and Max is trying to join in
without much success.  He got my message all right.  The only trouble
is that it has ended, and he doesn't know yet.  Neither of them are
paying much attention to Mara who is gliding and swooping about, quite
out of her skull with excitement and being much too freaky for either
of these guys to even think about getting her together.
     We become very silent as we creep into Theo's.  We both know that
if Johnny is awake he's going to be very uptight with Mara because she
said she'd be back by two and it's now half-past five.  This is a scene
they have had many times before.  However, everything is quiet inside,
and we put some sounds on and set the light machine going.  So far
everything is cool.  Mara and I are looking for some smoke, but there
doesn't seem to be any about.  We go into the kitchen where the
anti-bust stash is kept, but there's none there either.  But it's all
right because Max remembers that he has some, and he starts rolling.
     That gives me a chance to sit back on the sofa and talk to Joe,
while Max, ignored, gets the joint together We smoke and watch Mara,
who is grooving alone to the sounds.
     She twists her body and spreads and flicks her hair with a sort of
naive abandon, while at the same time jiggling her breasts and sticking
her little cunt out like she's asking for it.
     Then suddenly Johnny comes rushing in wearing a chick's
green-striped beach robe and a hat.  He takes an amazed glance round
the room and calls Mara outside in a very weird voice.  Mara is
immediately nervous and very uptight.
     She pales and flounces after him, saying, "Oh bother Johnny," to
no one in particular.  We settle back uneasily and I tell Joe what the
scene is between them.  We hear their voices raised in the passage and
after a while they peter out as they drift down to the other end of the
flat.
     After half-an hour they don't seem to be coming back and now Max
is getting fidgety because I'm not taking any notice of him.  He stands
up and looks at me accusingly.  "You shouldn't be like that when I'm
like this, he announces, and disappears.  I cant imagine what he means,
but it leaves Joe and me alone, which is cool.  In pretty quick time we
end up in Theo's bed.
     Maybe the skin cover, fluffy carpets and tinted mirrors put him
off because he's not very good at it, but he's nice and warm and I go
to sleep digging him just the same.
     Next morning I try to get him up and out before Theo comes back.
     But Joe has to go to some photographic session and it's taking him
ages to get himself together.  He moans because he's still wearing the
clothes he had on last night.
     Then he starts fiddling, around with his hair, back-coming it and
pushing it into shape until he is finally satisfied.  We are still
there when Theo wanders into the room and takes in the scene with a
sweep of his tinted specs.  He always wears tinted specs, and he has a
full, broody face.  Theo puts down his small suitcase, and starts
pacing round the room.  Joe stares at him, not understanding this scene
at all.
     "Who's he?"  Theo asked, not looking at Joe.
     "That's Joe," I told him, "I hope you don't mind."  Pulling
something on, I got up and started making Theo's bed.  Joe looked even
more bewildered.  I hadn't told him anything about Theo, and all sorts
of things were going through his mind.  Theo paced on, grumbling.
     "I wish you wouldn't bring people like that around here .
     especially not in my bed .  . ."
     "Oh well, I'm sorry, Theodore," I said.  I always call him
Theodore when I'm annoyed with him, because he doesn't like it.
     "I'm very cross," he said.  "I've had a bad journey, and I want
some tea, immediately .  . ."  Theo abruptly went out.
     Joe made some kind of stifled sound and said he'd split and ring
me later.  I gave him my number just before he got out of the door.
     When I took Theo his tea, I had to tell him who Joe was and which
group he played for.  He listened superciliously and said, "Really
Katie," and spreading his legs he asked me to suck him off to make him
less uptight.  Maybe if he'd asked me to plate him, I might just have
obliged, feeling guilty as I did about the bed.  But I hate the "suck
me off" expression and together with the cracks about Joe, I didn't
feel very cooperative.  So I told Theo, no, I couldn't really manage it
right now.  He gave me a disappointed look and asked me to roll him a
joint instead, which I did.  I wandered off for a bath, hoping Theo
would forget about Joe.
     I rang the bell.  The door was opened by this guy wearing a straw
hat with untidy black hair sticking out under it.  His eyes were
obscured by steel-rimmed shades.  I said hello, and asked if Joe was
in.  He considered cautiously for a moment.
     "No," he said.
     What was this?  "Look," I explained, "I arranged with Joe to come
round at six and it's six now so surely he's in?"
     "Well, he's not."
     "How should I know?"  he said, raising his eyebrows.
     I felt at a loss.  "Well, can I wait then?"
     "There's nowhere to wait."
     I looked behind him.  The hall was full of equipment, surely I
could wait there.  "I'll wait in the hall," I said.  Who was this guy,
and who did he think he was, putting me through all this, like I was
begging for Joe's company?  He certainly wasn't in the group, so who
was he?
     "Oh very well," he said, "You can wait in Wank's room.
     He doesn't matter because he's just been sacked."
     He let me inside.  I'd barely closed the door behind ms when he
turned and said, "We've just been busted."
     "That's terrible," I said.  "Did they find anything?"
     I got uptight.  "Why not?"
     "They said they found a piece of charge on Joe's mantelpiece.
     He's at the station now, being bailed out."
     "What a drag," I said.  "Why didn't you tell me all this to start
with?"  He didn't answer, just stared at me.  "What's your name?"  I
asked.
     "Grant."  And he marched to the end of the gall and pushed into a
small room which was in absolute chaos, as though the fuzz had just
turned it over.
     "That'sWank .  . . and his room is always like this Grant turned
to Wank, who rose up off the mattress pit and stared at us.
     "Go to the kitchen and clear it out," Grant said.  Wank slid out
of the room without a word.  This guy seemed to have authority, whoever
he was.
     "We're spring-cleaning, that's why you cant wait in my room and
Grant sniffed distastefully several times at Wank's odorous room and
disappeared.
     Keeping the door open, I balanced myself precariously on the
mattress, which seemed to have something immovable like a large rock
under it, and waited.  This was the house where the group and their
roadies lived.  It was a small terrace thing, in very bad nick.  From
where, I sat I could see the narrow hall, with walls all swirling
color, exploding women and acid flowers, plus the odd monster or two.
     After a while I heard someone coming softly down the stairs and
looked out.  It was a quiet, abstracted looking guy, with a bucket in
one hand and a bobbled hat on his head.  He said hello very politely,
and I said I was Katie and I was waiting for Joe.  He said he was Wyatt
and that he was painting his room.  I recognized him as the one in the
group who played the wind instruments.  He went off and I went back to
the mattress.
     Shortly after that, Grant came stomping down the stairs and into
the room.  He stared at me for a moment, and then said grudgingly that
I could now wait in his room as he was finished spring-cleaning.  I got
up and followed him upstairs, and he plunged into this sort of boxroom
about the size of a large cupboard.  I went in after him and found
myself treading mattress.  There was no.  floor space at all.  A double
mattress took up the entire floor, and covering the ceiling and
curtaining the door were these large printed squares which come from
the Antique Market in the Kings Road.  Bits of material cut off some of
the walls here and there.  Peering behind them I found rows of clothing
hanging from hooks screwed into the wall.  I also found a disconnected
sink, a telly facing the wrong way and a small record player, all of
which just fitted into the tiny space between the mattress and the
wall.  On one corner of the mattress a small square table was lodged
securely, full of books, boxes of sixpence-s and general things.  There
was a large gaily painted steam radio hanging in a corner blaring forth
music, and a heavy electric heater in another corner gave out heat.
     The rest of the wall space was covered with lots of posters and
cartoons of Peanuts and things like that.  I was told to take my boots
off the mattress, so I sat with my feet sticking out into the landing.
     "Unless you want to take your bootsoff," Grant added generously.
     He was floundering around on the mattress, straightening corners,
and throwing bits of rubbish out of the window.  I couldn't believe
this guy.  He was so unfriendly that he intrigued me.  But I didn't dig
him at all.  He hadn't even asked my name, and it was really like he
didn't care about letting you know he didn't care.  I noticed he had a
broken front tooth.
     I could see Wyatt balanced on a ladder in his room on the first
floor, and I was watching him painting his room slowly as this
obnoxious guy kept fidgeting behind me.  I heard the front door open
and looking down I was in time to see Joe unlocking his door and go
into his room.
     Grant looked as well and then glared at me through his glasses.
     "You'd better not let Joe catch you up here with me "Why's that?"
     I asked.
     "He might think I was trying to pull you."  And with that silly
remark Grant turned his back on me.
     "Rubbish," I said, and tried to rise with dignity from the
mattress.  I went downstairs and into Joe's room.
     Joe seemed pleased to see me.  He kissed me and said hello several
times.  He said that he'd been planted and that he was worried about t
case.  But he was soon smiling again after he'd changed his sweater and
put on a record.  His room is much larger than Grant's, all dark tones
in different colors.
     He has a small narrow bed, a little wooden table, some shelves
with a lot of rather pointless objects littering them and a few trashy
books.
     Then he flashed out a bottle of wine-to be legal-he said, and
before I had finished my first glass, he's trying to make it with me.
     I cant understand the hurry.  I mean, he had me last night, so why
cant he wait until later when we get into bed?  It's not like he's got
to prove anything.  But saying no is a hangup, so I let him.  It's not
much better than the first time-too quick, too mechanical and with no
variation at all.
     But lying beside him after-wards, I still found that I liked him.
     He got out some digestives, and we sat around eating them and
finishing the wine.  He told me, that the others would be coming back
soon, so I got my knickers and boots on before they all came pouring
into his room wanting to know what had happened at the station.  Nobody
paid any attention to me as I finished dressing, and I kept my mouth
shut and listened as they went on to talk about music in their funny
provincial accents.  I'm knocked out to be surrounded by them all, and
I'm getting quite hung up on Joe.
     So we start having this scene, and I'm hardly at Theo's at all.
     And when I am it's a drag because everybody is always quarreling.
     Johnny has finally broken with Mara, and he's uptight and so is
everybody else.  There's an air of gathering crisis about the place
that makes it very difficult to be there.
     So I see a lot of Joe, and although I dig him, it's not the same
as Davey.  We don't seem very together, and I'm having a hard time
trying to suss him out.  There isn't any mind probing or discovering,
only grooving and sex, and that still isn't very interesting with Joe.
     We never talk about it, we just do it, silently and without
passion, in his narrow little bed which has too many covers and only
one pillow that he has to have on account of his asthmatic
tendencies-or so he says.
     I cant understand why I'm so fond of him.  I wash his socks, mend
his trousers, make sure he takes his allergy pills and make love to
him.
     All in all he isn't very healthy, and he looks as if he takes too
many drugs, though his mind is far from being freaked out.
     The Relation have been in London for about six months and they
have come a long way already.  Joe, like most of the guys in his group,
is beginning to play the pop star bit, and he digs it.  He's very cool,
a bit too cool perhaps.  It's not that he's mysterious with it or
anything, he hasn't got that kind of depth.  Being what he is, he.
     accepts that he, doesn't have to Put himself out to get groovy
chicks-they come to him, and take him or leave him.  That's where Joe
is at, I decide, when I think about it.
     Spike, the singer, seems to be the weirdest of the lot.  He's
always darting about making strange remarks, like he's on a permanent
trip or something.  All of them are from the same district in
Nottingham, and there's a closeness between them that comes from
knowing each other inside-out.
     I enjoyed being a part of their scene.  Everybody was talking
about the sound they made.  As a group their music was very distinctive
and different, though before they could hit it really big they had to
get through to a wider audience.
     Spike's incredible voice played a big part in their sound effect
-harmony teetering on the edge of hysteria-and Joe's electric violin
and Wyatt's various wind instruments added a strangeness that hadn't
been heard before.  No one else had a line-up like theirs.
     I liked watching Joe play.  On stage he was very cool.
     When he wasn't playing his violin he would lean against his amps,
while he plucked his bass, his body still, His fingers barely moving,
and one foot tapping out the rhythm.  Spike did a lot of arm-waving,
side-stepping and gyrating, all of which was pretty freaky to watch.
     He looked like he was under a strobe, but he wasn't.  Paul, the
drummer, was very energetic, and kept his head constantly turned to one
side as if it had been stuck on wrong.  But he was really watching
Eric, the lead, for the changes.  Eric and Wyatt made occasional
trance-like movements-all the action was left to Spike.  Grant would
sit behind them on the stage, wearing his shades-which were in fact
real specs-and a stop-watch in his hand, presumably timing the numbers.
     What he had to time the numbers for, I just don't know.
     I had discovered Grant's scene by now.  He was their personal
manager, doing for them what Nigel had done for The Satin Odyssey.  He
hustled about on gigs making sure they got the right billing,
collecting money, and-keeping accounts.
     He was always very officious, and carried an expensive leather
attache case wherever he went.  He was very difficult to get on with,
being aggressive to the point of rudeness, not just to me, but to
anyone he felt like.  But I'd seen his charming side too, when he was
buttering up promoters and trying to get favors done.  This used to
make me giggle, because it seemed so out of character.  I had to admit,
though, that he did get things done, and always made sure that the
group were together when there was work to do.  Whenever he came across
me at the house, or at gigs, he'd say, "Hello, here's the hippy."
     Apart from that he'd ignore me, when he wasn't obstructing me by
refusing to get Joe to come to the phone whenever Iran up.

     During this time I got a phone call from this guy who manages The
Other Kingdom.  He's fired a whole lot of people, for fiddling on the
door, and he needs a new secretary, though it's hardly secretarial
work, and includes working weekends on the door, selling entrance
tickets.  I reckon that would be a cool job, and it's on the scene.
     This manager guy is called Jason Wylie, he's a young charging
hustler who's got himself a good position.  He's what you'd call a
groovy guy, with long hair and a Procol Harum mustache.  Lots of chicks
find him attractive, but I get rather negative vibrations from him
myself.  I soon get into the job, and really start digging my new
position.
     Joe had given me the key to his room while he was away up North
with the group.  He must have had an idea of the uncertainty I was
feeling about being in Theo's pad because I still hadn't got my own
room yet, but I'm sure he also wanted me to wash his things and
generally clean his room up.  Joe was very lazy about things like that.
     So, two nights after he'd gone, I went over there straight from
work, and took all his things to the Speed Queen launderette and went
through the whole domestic scene.
     I was just about to go to bed when I heard someone coming into the
house.  I went into the hall and bumped into Wank.  He said
hello-saying hello in that house is like a reflex action, it's as if
they're perpetually surprised to find each other.  I said hello.  Wank
grinned and asked me if I was alone.  He knew I was, and followed me
into Joe's room.  Although he had been fired for various misdemeanors,
he was still living in the house.  He stood there looking me up and
down, a very assured grin pasted to his lumpy face.  His hair is thin
and flat, and so is his body.
     "I'm busy," I said, sitting down and giving him what I thought was
a hostile look.
     His grin .  widened into something really evil.  "Don't give me
that."
     His eyes darted about the room looking for somewhere to fix.
     "Besides, I'm looking for something."
     Right, I thought.  And I know what it is, you rat-faced shit.
     "What do you want?"
     Wank pointed to Joe's lampshade.  "That's mine for a start.
     Joe pinched it out of my room."
     "I wouldn't know about that," I said.
     "I wonder what else he's nicked," Wank said, and started examining
the mantelpiece and going through Joe's pockets.  I kept silent and
disapproving watch as he searched.  I didn't say anything.  I thought
maybe this was usual procedure.  I was also a bit frightened by Wank.
     I had sussed him out as one of those unpredictable freaks who
really don't care what they do.  Wank pulled a ball-point triumphantly
out of the pockets and shouted: "Aha, ball-point!"  Then he fell silent
and stared at me, making me more scared and uptight.
     "Well, what are you doing?"  he said meaningfully.
     "I'm going to bed."
     "Alone?"  he asked nasally.
     "Yes, I'm tired."
     He laughed.  "Don't give me that."
     "I mean it."
     "Chicks never mean what they say," Wank said.
     "Well, I do."
     "I don't want anything from you," he said.
     "You won't get anything."
     "I just want to do something for you," he said, grinning
mindlessly.
     "Something groovy before you retire to bed."
     "You have nothing that I want," I said, all icy and uptight.
     Wank cocked his head sideways-which with his long crooked nose
gave him the look of a demented vulture.  He slapped his hands
together, and although he was smiling there was a lot of tension about.
     "I just want to get my mouth around you," he said, "to suck, and
that."
     I was horrified.  "I'll tell Joe."  I was beginning to feel really
scared but trying not to let him know it.
     "Joe won't mind, he said.
     This immediately made me very paranoid about Joe's feelings for
me.
     "You want me to," Wank insisted.  "Go on, admit it."
     "I've told you, I don't want anything from you."  What was the
matter with him, wasn't he getting the message?  How was I going to get
rid of him?
     "Of course you do.  Why don't chicks admit things?  You want to do
things that you don't usually do with your boyfriends.  You want your
clothes ripped off and your face punched.  You want me to scratch away
your feelings because feelings are a drag.  And feelings are a drag
because they interfere with sensations."  He paused.  "So how about
being honest and admitting it?"  Wank was really worked up now, his
body was twitching, and it seemed to be getting closer.  He's mad, I
thought.
     "Get out," I said.
     He gave me a sinister look.  "I could have you.  I could do
anything I want to you because nobody would care; not Joe, not the
others, not even you."
     "We'll see what Joe says when he comes back," I said, trying to
appear nonchalant.
     "Anyway," he said, decisively, "I don't want to really.  It's just
as groovy for me to talk about it and watch your reactions, you see."
     "Get out," I said, hating him.
     He went, and I sat there listening to him crashing all over the
house, my mind an icy blank.  Did he really believe the things he had
said?
     How could he think Like that?  What he'd said about chicks really
wanting those things to happen to them might be true for some, but not
for me.  I dug feelings for people more than sensation, at least I had
always thought so.  But I certainly wasn't going to find out from him,
ugly bastard.
     I had left my bag down in the basement, so I crept out to get it.
     As I was supping upstairs again Wank suddenly came rushing out of
Spike's room shouting things at me.  I accelerated, and stabbed my foot
on something, but dared not stop until I was inside Joe's room with the
door locked behind me.
     I extracted what looked like a broken plectrum, and started
getting undressed.  I froze when there was a knock at the door.  It was
him again.
     "Hello," he shouted.  "Let me in.  I've left my cigarettes in
there."
     I couldn't see them, so I shouted that he hadn't.
     "Let me in to see," he yelled.
     "You haven't left any bloody cigarettes in here, I tell you."
     I was determined not to let him in again.  Maybe he had had second
thoughts about talking being just as groovy and was really going to
have a go at me this time.
     "Well, give me some of yours," he shouted.
     I glanced at my packet of gold-tipped menthols.  "I've only got
two left," I said loudly.
     "Give me one, then."
     I took one out of the packet and slipped it through the keyhole.
     "Open up," he said, all aggrieved.
     "I've told you, I'm going to bed."
     "You're just a slag," he shouted, going away.  "Just like the rest
of them.  And if I get my hands on you, you'll soon find out."
     I sat thinking about it before I got into bed.  Do all the chicks
who come to this house have to go through the same scenes?  Or was it
just my bad luck?
     All in all it was a pretty grim week while Joe was away.
     There were problems at The Other Kingdom.  The license expired
soon and Jason and Wally didn't reckon on getting it renewed, what with
the premises being busted for drugs earlier in the year and all the
complaints from the Covent Garden authorities.  The fuzz just didn't
like us, and wanted us out.  But there didn't seem to be anywhere to
go, and to do our thing properly we needed our own premises.  I got on
well with Jason, but I didn't want a scene with him, I don't like
sleeping with guys who pay my -wage.
     The day after the bad scene with Wank be took me and Lenny, the
pretty DJ from The Kingdom, out to eat.  We had to go to the
Macrobiotic Restaurant, because that's all Lenny will eat.  After that
we went back to Jason's pad and got stoned.  I thought that he was
going to make a really determined effort to pull me, all the
indications were there, he was staring at me and leaning against me.  I
rather dug all this and let him think it was all going his way.  But I
was going to show him I wasn't Like all the other chicks he found so
easy to pull, and split with Lenny.  He was so pretty I just had to
have him.
     Lenny had a groovy little room in Fulham, full of star charts and
cosmological prints.  He's one of those guys who is very hung up on
UFO's and chases off to Ireland with lots of similar groovers at
propitious moments to trip and watch the sky for omens.  We got into
bed and he started telling me about Messages.  These Messages are in
the form of topographical contours, and ancient monuments like the
Pyramids, Stonehenge and Glastonbury, are some form of instructions to
super-groovy UFO voyagers, he said, and would be acted upon in due
course.  He reckoned that there were about a million like himself
around the world who knew and believed in all this and that they were
the Select.  When it was time for the instructions to be carried out,
the UFO's would land and cart off the Select to some place he simply
called "There", while the rest of us egged on by faultily coded genes,
spun into our inevitable destruction cycle.  He also warned me about
asbestos, he was mortally afraid of it, but wouldn't tell me why, and
almost begged me not to press him too closely about it.  I knew he was
hung up on Macrobiotic food, but it brought me down when he started to
talk about it, because that was a scene I went through last summer.
     However, I cooled it and listened to him, because Lenny is very
sweet and only seventeen.  He looked like an angel in National Health
glasses, lying beside me with his long straight hair, and his very
white body was glowing in the shifting changes of his trip lighting.
     To change the subject I started stroking him, and he became alive
and kissed me rather passionately, but he wasn't having an erection.  I
slid down and took it in my mouth, but after working at that for some
time I begin to get very frustrated because nothing was happening,
except he clutched me hard once or twice and groaned, but maybe that
was just my teeth.  Presently I gave it up and just lay beside him with
my arms around his shoulder.  He was very wry and embarrassed and
seriously reckoned that he was going, through a sex change and was
impotent because of it.  But he didn't fancy guys either, so didn't
really know what was happening.  Anyway, he said he'd plate me if I
wanted him to, not that he dug it all that much, but he liked me and
thought I was groovy and that maybe I'd like him to.  He was nice, and
I said no, leave it, he didn't have to do anything.  And that's how we
slept, just touching, with no- hangups or come-downs the following
morning.
     The next night we all had a frightening experience at The Other
Kingdom.  As part of the responsibility of making a lot of money from
underground support, we often give the use of The Other Kingdom free
to, put on benefits for the various underground interests.  Everybody
gets their chance sooner or later to make some bread.  The underground
press use us, the Diggers (those who have dropped out into rural
bliss), the politicals, the anti-drug law people, the Underground Arts
Council Anti-University freaks, all sorts of them-they all use us and
get their whack.  And the Underground Legal Service gets a rake off the
top of all our takings.  Because the music scene is probably the most
commercially successful aspect of the underground they all reckon we've
got money to spare, which isn't always true because we have immense
overheads.  Groups like The Satin Odyssey were now costing L 350
instead of R, 35.
     Anyway, tonight it was the turn of The Oaxaquahatl Peyote
People-known to their friends as the O.P.P.a community of bearded
freaks who are trying, to find themselves through the ritual of
mystical expression.  I personally find them squalid and messy, but
went down to work because I got paid just the same.  There they all
were, in long robes, painted faces and full of stuck-on stars.
     Although I was outside in the box office it sounded very much as I
had expected, a lot of chanting and wailing and ceremonious
announcements.
     Reed pipers, finger cymbalists, temple bell ringers and bongos
added to the already incredible sound.
     About halfway through the evening a distraught grandmother came
rushing down looking for her granddaughter.
     Apparently one of The People has a kid of eight who is a ward of
court to the grandmother.  This People freak had snatched the kid away
to bring her to this scene.  Granny didn't think the place or the
company was right for the kid and tore inside looking for her.  We
followed her inside and sure enough, there was the kid all decked out
in headband and robes, really grooving with her mum and the others.
     Granny made a grab for the kid, who ran off to hide.
     Granny and Mum stood screaming at each other, and the rest of The
O.P.P thinking this was all part of the TitU,-d, joined in.  Granny
decided to go and get some help, and arrived back with a couple of
fuzz.  They decided reinforcements were necessary, and reappeared with
fifty more fuzz.  But instead of being cool, talking to Jason and
getting us to cooperate, they just roared in, stopping the whole show
and making us turn on the house lights.  They crashed around, knocking
over equipment and giving The Tribe horror visions.
     When they had readjusted their perspectives they started getting
uptight, especially when they found their Trip Machine had been
smashed.  So abuse and scuffling broke out, until after an ugly
half-hour the child was found hidden under the stage.  She was carried
out, followed by screaming Mum, grim Granny and irate chanters.
     When they'd all finally gone we started to close up.  There were
about half-a-dozen of The Other Kingdom staff left around, including
Jason, Wally and Lenny.  I was in the office counting money when this
persistent hammering started at the front doors.  One of our doormen
came rushing into the office saying there were thousands of Covent
Garden truck drivers with hammers and bars outside, trying to get in.
     We didn't have time to wonder why, because there was Wally rushing
across the hall for the back exit shouting, "Everyone, out!"  I swept
all the money off the table and locked it in the safe.  I wondered
whether everyone had already split as I ran.
     I looked back as I reached the exit, and there were all these
overalled savages spilling into the hall, shouting, "Get the bearded
nits!"  I couldn't close the back door from the outside, so I ran up a
side street until I found some of the others.  After a while we decided
to go back and see what was happening.  We cautiously went inside.
     There seemed to be quite a bit of damage don cigarette machines
kicked in, projectors and lighting equipment smashed, and the telephone
ripped off the wall.  Jason and Lenny had locked themselves in the
office after I had run off, and put an armchair against the door while
they phoned for the police.  It had taken three calls before any
appeared, and then it was only two constables.  They claimed to have
been too busy to send any more.  I wooden what had happened to the
fifty that had appeared so eagerly -an hour earlier?
     When things had calmed down a bit, we discovered the cause of the
lorry drivers' freak out.  Apparently someone (a fuzz?) had told them
that we were holding a child sacrifice.
     They had held a quick union meeting and decided to suss us out.
     Eventually we managed to explain to them what had really happened
and they grumbled off.  I was still shaking when I got back to Theo's,
but nobody there wanted to listen to my story because there was a
bigger drama in process.
     Mark has discovered homosexual tendencies within himself and has
fallen in love with Jerome Charles, a friend of Theo's, who's been
coming round to see him a lot lately and doing all sorts of research
and taking notes which finally seem to have boiled down to a page of
typing.  Jerome is about twenty-four, slender and his dark hair is
already going gray.
     He wears those little round.  steel-rimmed glasses and his face is
handsome in a desperate sort of way.  Jerome has apparently indicated
similar feelings to Mark, and has left him sitting on the floor of the
bathroom to sort himself out.  Theo was all in favour of him
consummating the relationship, reckoning it would either put Mark right
off any future physical scene with a guy, or show him where he was
really at.  Blonde Giant was being loving and sympathetic.  She knew
Mark's dramatic personality and sussed the whole thing would calm down
in a day or so-anyway, they were due to leave for the States in a
couple of weeks.  But Mark was shaking his head and saying, "All I want
to do is be with Jerome and hold him."  I talked with him alone for a
while, he was staring into my eyes like a lost soul but I'd seen that
look before.  Suddenly he grabbed me, kissed me violently and said in a
broken voice that I was good.  Then he downed a few Mandrax and Blonde
Giant hustled him off to bed.
     Theo came striding into the room, looking important.  I tried to
tell him about the attack of the truck drivers, but he found Mark's
dilemma far more titillating and started going through all the possible
behavior patterns that Mark should adopt.  It was no big drama really,
Theo said, because everybody has homosexual tendencies.  "Except me,"
he added, "I'm asexual."
     "But that's because you're on speed," I told him.  Theo had been
at the methedrine because he had to meet a deadline with the script he
was doing.
     "Perhaps.  But I rarely put myself out to do my best for any
chick.  I just haven't met any that turn me on enough.
     Except one, and that was a long time ago."  Then he started
talking about himself, and the sort of chick he might marry.
     He reckoned he'd never find physical perfection, so he'd either
have to marry for money and looks, or preferably someone
well-known-either an actress or a successful career woman.  Anyway, it
all boiled down to someone that would add to his image.  He wants
people to say, "Thco's got a groovy wife."  He went on and on about
himself, asking me questions, like did I think he was a reasonable guy
(I didn't), and was he good in bed, and did I like his script?  I find
that Theo needs constant confirmation that he's an OK guy, and now he
was on speed the paranoid fantasies were really beginning.  I was quite
bored with him by the time I escaped to bed.

     When Joe came back he had to appear in court for his drug charge.
     He pleaded guilty and got off with a #30 fine and a warning from
his manager.  The group decided not to take any chances in the future
and appointed Ruby-the new junior roadie from Newcastle-to be stash
man, so that if the house got raided again none of the musicians would
get busted.  It would be a terrible drag if one of the group got put
inside.
     I mentioned the Wank incident to Joe, but he was so cool and
indifferent about it that I flared up.  "You don't care what I do, Joe,
do you?  I don't think you care, and I don't dig that at all."
     "Well, did you let him?"
     "Of course I didn't," I shouted indignantly.  "Did you think I
would .
     . . with him?"
     "I don't know, do I?"
     "Do you really think I would?"  I insisted.
     "There was nothing stopping you," Joe said, matter of factly.
     I felt really injured that Joe should think that I might sleep
with one of his friends while I was his chick.  And it really insulted
my pride that he should think I'd let someone like Wank pull me.
     "I mean," he went on, "if you wanted to, why not?"
     If I had been reasonable I would have admitted that there was a
lot of truth in what he said.  I mean, if Wank was not such an
evil-faced, screwed-up drag with no status at all, my scene with him
might have taken a different turn and added a spicy twist to my whole
relationship with Joe.  But I hadn't because I dug Joe and felt rather
faithful to him.  So I didn't feel like being reasonable and cool about
Joe's non-reaction, and thought, oh, you're too cool Joe.  Maybe I'm
right in thinking that you don't dig me ' so much.  I started brooding
about this, which is bad, because when I brood I become sulky and even
more clinging.
     However, when we were, at The Marquee things seemed to be a bit
better.
     the Relation had been there rehearsing all afternoon and Joe had
left my name at the door.  I'd just scored some incredible black
trousers with gold embroidery from Thea Porter, and had my hair
straightened to its limit by Gavin.  Inside The Marquee the first
person I see is Grant, tearing about with his attache case.  "Hello,
where's Joe?"  I ask.  Grant pulls a disgusted face and heaves me in
the direction of a red and white striped door.  I open it cautiously
and there they all are, in various stages of undress.  Hello, hello,
they all say, which is a groove and makes me feel easier already.  I'd
hate to feel they didn't like having me around.  But they are always
very friendly and always chatter away to me, especially when Joe
wanders off, which he frequently does when I go on gigs with him.  And
he does it at The Joint too, sitting in corners with other guys from
groups, he -knows it makes me uptight, but doesn't seem to worry about
it very much.  I challenged him about this once, and He looked at me
thoughtfully and said, "I suppose you want me to sit and hold your hand
all evening."  I said not to exaggerate, but it would be nice if he
could demonstrate some affection.  "Well, you know I'm not like that.
if you want to go out with me you'll just have to put up with things
the way they are.
     Maybe you've got the wrong guy."  I said I hadn't got the wrong
guy and fell into a doomy sulk.
     Anyway, there I was sitting in The Marquee dressing-room which is
very narrow with a bright naked bulb and the wars all covered with
obscene graffitti, when The Relation's manager, Roland Johns, comes in.
     I've seen him around so I recognize him, but I've never met him.
     He sits down beside Joe and Joe introduces me.  He gives me a curt
nod, which immediately makes me uptight because I think he doesn't like
me, or rather he doesn't like me being in a dressing-room with his
group.
     I go outside to watch them play and I'm grooving away to their
music when someone touches my shoulder.  I look round and there's Max
from the Jubal Early Blowback.  This is the first time I've seen him
since the night he disappeared from Theo's.  He seemed too stoned to
remember all that, and just asked me if I've come with The Relation.  I
say yes, I've come with Joe.  Max looks rather good in a plum velvet
jacket with red squiggles sown on.  After the first set Joe, Spike, Max
and I go to a pub for a drinl.  I'm sitting squashed between them,
fully aware of all the glances they are getting from the chicks there.
     A blonde comes up and accosts Max and we all giggle while he plays
a little indecisive game of to pull or not to pull with her.  Finally
he docsa't pull, and we go back for the second set.  Max must realize
by now that I'm having a scene with Joe, but he's very cool, and says
to come round for a smoke some time.  I decide he's a good guy.  Then
we all go down to The Joint for a meal.  It's good to be the only chick
going in with them all but I have to go through more paranoia as Joe
loons off to talk to other musicians.  His coolness is really
aggravating me.
     I bring the subject up again as we are walling home.  I'm really
ip on things, having to break my cool like
this.  My complaints must have brought himdown, because he started
grumbling that chicks shouldn't come on gigs anyway.  It's a drag
having someone sitting in a corner watching you with a possessive glint
in her eye.
     "OK, I'll wait at home," I said, desperate to please.
     "Is that what you want to do, sit at home playing little mother,
warming the bed and darning my socks?"
     "Yes, I suppose I do."
     "Well, that's very nice, but it's not really my scene.  It's too
domestic, and I'd feel tied down."
     "Oh, you needn't feel that," I said.  "But do you like me, Joe?"
     "Yes, of course I do.  But it's getting rather involved."
     "You're so cool, I really think you don't care."
     "I'm not one for showing feelings.  You just have to suss them
out."
     "Well, I cant."  I said.  "what do you feel for me?"
     "You're a groove in bed."  What an answer, I thought.
     "Do you like screwing all that much?"
     "I'm easy," said Joe.  "I make out with you alright."
     "Just about," I said bitterly.  "And that's only because I work so
hard at it."
     "That's what you're there for."
     "Is that all?"  I felt really brought down.
     "Look, Katie," he said with finality.  "It doesn't matter to me
whether a chick screws or not.  What is important is how she screws.
     Now you're a groove in bed, and I dig that very much, but don't
start asking me for deep meanings or reasons.  I honestly don't know
anything beyond what I've told you.  I don't look for anything in my
scenes with chicks, it either is or isn't.  Now let's forget it."
     I wanted to have it out with him, but he seemed so noncommittal
either way that I didn't seem to be getting anywhere.  And I'm cowardly
about showdown scenes, so I shut up.  But I was dissatisfied with
things the way they were.
     We got in about four-thirty and I had to go through the usual
acrobatics to get into bed.  Our recent scene must have put an edge to
Joe's responses because he was much better that night and actually
seemed to enjoy whit we did.  After we had made it a couple of times
Joe fell asleep, but I couldn't.  Feeling the need to pee I tried to
clamber out of bed.  I barely made it without disturbing him, but when
I try to get back I lose my footing and grab at the bookshelf, and the
whole thing only comes away from the wall, showering Joe with all the
books and things on it.  His eyes blink open in surprise.  I pretend I
have just woken up too, and say falsely, "Oh, look the shelf has fallen
down!"
     "What do you mean, just fallen down?"  he says grumpily.
     "Do you mean it just fell down on its own?"
     "It must have done," I -say, and foolishly start picking up the
things off the bed.  He shrugs his shoulders and goes back to sleep.
     Got away with that one, I thought.  I didn't want Joe to get
annoyed and think it was a nuisance having me there.
     I was shattered the next morning, I hadn't had enough sleep and I
felt grotty.  Sleeping so close to Joe in that tiny bed I woke up
smelling of him and feeling sticky.  Even though it was summer he
wouldn't reduce the number of blankets.  I certainly didn't feel like
coping with Grant when I found him getting onto the same bus as me.  We
went on top and sat down together.  I kept an uneasy silence, not
wanting to say something and have him put me down, with me feeling so
fragile.  Then amazingly Grant launched into what I suppose was some
kind of explanation about the aggressive side of his personality.
     After speaking about his aggro, as he called it, in general, he
shot me an accusing look and said, "You think I'm flash, don't you?
     Well, that's the way to be.  People take notice of you if you're
flash.
     The trouble is, I'm not really flash because I cant carry it right
through, like with chicks, for instance.  I'm flash with them, but I
cant pull them.
     I'm really waiting for one to come up and wrap herself around me
and take me home to bed."
     The idea of some chick raving up to Grant, oozing motherly
instinct and leading him off to bed just like that was too hysterical
to even think about.  I kept quiet and he went on.
     "It never seems to happen, you know.  Chicks aren't like that.
     You have to go through all kinds of hustles to pull them and who
needs them that much?"
     That Grant was revealing a vulnerable streak made him more human
to me, in fact I almost liked him.  We chatted about Group Members
having more pulling power than Personal Managers.  He said that there
were three different scenes, GMs, PMs and RMs. I was on a GM scene,
explaining that it stood for Group Members, and the next two categories
were Personal Managers and Road Managers.  Group Members got the best
chicks, and these chicks had to keep the status thing going by not
dropping into one of the other categories.
     "They're all slags, anyway," Grant concluded.
     "It's really just coincidence that Joe's a Group Member," I said
defensively, though I knew in my heart it did have added attraction.
     "Don't tell me he's the only Group Member you've had?"
     Grant challenged.
     "No," I admitted, knowing my case was lost.  Before Grant could
bring me down further, his attache case fell onto the floor and all his
little chitties and football pools flew everywhere.  I had to laugh at
him crawling around gathering them up.  When everything was in order
again he launched into another attack, criticizing me for being far too
possessive about Joe.  This rather annoyed me, because I thought I was
being cooler with him than I had been with Davey.  However cool I
reckoned I was, it obviously wasn't cool enough by Grant's standards.
     I wondered whether I'd become so hung up on the status thing that
group members were the only guys I could dig.  That I couldn't
appreciate a guy for himself, only for what he stood for.  Was I on an
ego-trip?  I knew I had rather launched myself in a certain direction
that had meant changing my priorities, and there was a certain position
to be reached before I could sit back and sort things out like that.  I
just hoped this position could be reached before the whole thing I was
into twisted me like Roxanna, making me blind to the false values that
I was accepting as the real thing and unable to come down off my
ego-trip.
     Anyway, I was glad I'd had a talk with Grant, and grateful in a
way that he had pointed out to me what was happening, so that I Could
brood about it.  And maybe he'd be nicer to me on the phone now.
     A few days later it's my birthday, and I'm hustling Joe to take me
to The Joint with them, where they're playing.  I'm having a bit of
trouble with him.  He's been saying I go on too many gigs with them,
and really chicks shouldn't come -bad for the image, I suppose.
     Even Grant was starting to say, "Oh, you again," whenever I turned
up to watch them play, though he hadn't been rude to me on the phone
lately.
     And you don't want to get in Grant's bad books, because he'll
start putting you down behind your back and turn you into a joke.
     So I knew I had to cool it.  But I badly wanted to come on this
gig and I stuck at it, laying it on about it being my birthday.  He
finally give in, and rather huffily agreed for me to come round later.
     But he rings me -up later at 'flico's and says he's got to meet
some guys first, and will leave my name at the door.  I don't like that
arrangement, but it has to do and I set out for The Joint.
     I find all of The Relation sitting at a table.  There's no room
beside Joe anyway Roland Johns is talking to him so I sit at the other
end with Grant, Wyatt and Paul.  After about half an hour I get acute
paranoia because Joe hasn't made any attempt to speak to me or anytlg.
     They all go into the dressing-room.
     The dressing-room at The Joint.  is even worse than The
Marquee-there's hardly anywhere to sit and it's full of discarded
pianos and tubas.
     Bill, the roadie, buys me a drink.
     I'm rapidly losing my cool because I start bleating to him that
everyone treats me better than Joe, and it's not fair.  He nods his
head wisely, but doesn't offer much consolation.  He is plump and sweet
with an interesting face and a very soft voice, so it was hard to hear
him when he did speak.  They start playing, and I sit at the table
watching, feeling very brought down.
     Toward the end of the second set Spike starts freaking around with
his microphone, kicking it offstage and throwing it around.  He decides
that this has quite a good effect and he's going to do it more often.
     I watch Grant chatting up some spade chick.  They're both being
very flash, and I wonder whether he's trying to get it together to pull
her.  When they finish Joe comes and sits opposite, me and eats a steak
sandwich rather gloomily.
     Gradually they all appear, and then Joe disappears.
     But I keep my cool and talk to the others, until they too wander
off.
     So I walk round, and come across Grant, standing in his
multi-colored striped leather jacket, watching the roadies clear the
equipment.
     "Where's Joe?"  I demand.
     "How should I know?"  he replies, not looking at me.
     "You don't think he's gone, do you?"  I feel I'm losing my cool
again.
     "He might have done," says Grant, unhelpfully.
     "Oh , that's a drag, that's really a nuisance," I say, because
although I could easily sleep at Thco's, I'd given my bed to some
American chick, reckoning on staying with Joe.  Besides, I wanted to
stay with Joe.
     "Why, do you need somewhere to sleep?"  asks Grant, still not
looking at me.
     "Well, it's not that exactly, it's just a drag."  I didn't really
know what to say.
     "Well, if you need somewhere to sleep, you can stay in my room."
     And as Grant's room consists entirely of mattress, that meant his
bed.
     With him, I supposed.  I couldn't believe he was just being kind.
     "That's very nice of you," I said.  "But I'm not quite sure what
to do."
     "Well, he said, if you need somewhere to sleep This presented a
new twist which I didn't know how to meet.  I didn't really want to
sleep with Grant.  On the other hand I wanted to go back with them and
it would serve Joe right for going without me if I slept with Grant.
     On the other hand', if I slept with Grant, maybe Joe would
consider that was that and wouldn't take me back.  It hadn't really
occurred to me that Grant was trying to pull me, which was an
interesting situation on it's own.  Anyway, I said, "Thank you, Grant,
I might just do that."
     "Yes," he said, "you do that.  Stick around, I'll help them load
the gear so, we can get off faster."  And he put his leather jacket
round my shoulders.  Well, I thought, that's really something.  Grant
never touches the equipment, and here he was rushing around with
speakers on his back, humping amplifiers and things.  But I was feeling
a bit dubious about the whole change of events, and still wishing I
could find Joe.
     I decide to go into the dressing-room, Grant's jacket must have
given me confidence.  And there's Joel I feel all glad and rush over to
him -and put my arms round him.  He says, "Hey, what's all this?"  And
I say, "I thought you'd gone without me."
     "Well, I haven't," he said, "And what's that?"  indicating
Grant'sjacket.
     "Oh that's Grant's jacket," I say, -and throw it onto a chair,
thinking, good, I won't have to sleep with Grant now.
     Then Grant comes through the dressing-room with some equipment.
     Joe says "Whatcha doing, Grant?"  and Grant says he's loading the
van because Bill and Ruby are so slow.  I giggle because I know the
real reason.  He snatches his jacket and tells us to hurry up.
     Joe and I sit in the back of the van on some cushions and hold
hands, while the others get in.  There's this chick who cant make up
her mind whether to come with us or not.  She seems to be somebody
Wyatt knows, -and has a knitted dress on.  Grant's being aggressive to
her, telling her to get in if she's coming because we're going.  She
says she'll only come if there's no funny business.  Grant tells her to
get in and shut up.  She has to sit next to him in the front, and he
sticks his nose in the air and maintains a disdainful silence.
     Back at the house we all disperse into our various rooms, but I
feel I should say something to Grant before going to bed.  So I go up
to the landing and knock on his door.  He asks who it is and I say
Katie.  The door opens and there's Grant without any trousers on.  It
hits me suddenly that maybe he thinks I am going to sleep with him
after all, so I quickly say, "I wanted to thank you for being nice."
     He says casually, "Oh, that's ah right."
     "Well, goodnight," I say, and rush back downstairs.

     Next day The Relation went off to the provinces for a few days.  I
hadn't stayed at Theo's for three days, and when I got there I found
him sitting alone in the big front room, with the sounds and light
machine switched off, and a tense white look on his face.  Since he had
started his script Theo was up on speed all the time now.  He had
rapidly begun to lose weight, and he was behaving more erratically than
usual.  When he wasn't uptight and aggressively silent he was garrulous
and full of obsessive fantasies about his life, work and friends.  As
the others had their problems too, everyone was having a difficult
time.  The quiet in the flat was unnatural.  Theo didn't speak and
hardly moved when I went into the room.  I sat down beside him.
     "Johnny's gone," he said abruptly.
     "Where?"  I asked.
     "I threw him out," Theo said grimly.
     "What happened?"  I asked.  I wasn't surprised really.
     "they're all gone," he said.  "Johnny, Mark, Blonde Giant .  the
freaks in the kitchen .  . . I threw them -all out."
     "But Mark and Blonde Giant went to America," I said.
     "Yes, I made them go."  Theo turned and gave me a frozen snarl
which I suppose was just a very uptight grin.
     "A clean sweep, I decided, was best for all concerned."
     "But they're your friends," I said.
     "I don't have friends," he said.  "Correction, I cant afford
friends I sat silently, digesting all this.
     "What about me?"  I said finally.
     "A clean sweep is what I said."
     "You mean you want me to go too?"  I asked.
     "I'm not telling you to go.  I just want everyone out."
     "OK," I said, and went out of the room.  I left Theo sitting as
still as a statue on the sofa.
     I moved back into my room in Bayswater with a sense of profound
relief.
     It was all very trendy and sceney at Theo's and a groove when
things were going all right, but I wanted a place I could call my own.
     Joe had been back a couple of days by the time I got things sorted
out.  I rang him up as soon as I thought it was cool to do so, and he
didn't sound very pleased to hear from me.  He was very down and
depressed, and said he was busy, could I ring him in a day or two?
     This would have made me extremely uptight if I hadn't been so busy
moving my things and getting back into my old flat.  But when that was
done I decide that he is just going to have to see me, whether he likes
it or not.  So I ring again.  Grant answers the phone and is
surprisingly helpful when he discovers it is me.  He tells me Joe isn't
in yet, but will be back soon because they all have to go to this
reception in an hour.
     Taking advantage of a pleasant Grant for once, I suggested that if
I came round now I would catch Joe before they left.
     Grant said OK, and if Joe hadn't come back by the time I arrived I
was to go up and see him.  Alright I said, and set off from work
feeling quite cheerful.
     Grant answered the door for me.  As I followed him into the house
I noticed that Joe's room was locked and presumed he had not come back
yet.  I followed Grant up to his funny little room on the landing.
     It's quite convenient in his room; you can see everything that is
happening on the ground floor where Joe lives and also the first floor
above us.  You can hear telephone conversations as well, because the
phone is on the landing outside Grant's room.  And even with the door
closed you can still see what is going on because Grant has
strategically made a spyhole, which he peers through whenever he wants
to be certain about things.
     I sat there listening to the radio while Grant dodged about
putting on his business gear.  He wore a dark purple collarless shirt,
a terrible gray suit with braces, and white plimsous.  I gave his suit
some very doubtful looks and he aggressively asked me what I was making
faces at.
     I told him that his suit was awful, and he snapped back that along
with his attache case it was a vital part of his image.  "But it's an
awful suit," I said.
     "I don't want no hippy telling me what to wear," he muttered .
     "You don't expect me to dress like one of the group, do you?
     That's not the image I want."
     "But you could get something better than that.  I mean, it's a
good shirt and the suit spoils it."
     "Well, that's too bad," he said, and proceeded to- go through the
contents of his attache case, throwing scraps of paper out of the
window.
     I sat there listening for the front door to open and Joe to come
back.
     I wanted to see him, but was suddenly scared of facing him in case
he thought it presumptuous of me to come round just like this.
     Suddenly Spike darted up the stairs and said hello in a surprised
voice when he saw me in Grant's room.  "Joe's in the basement," he
remarked, and nodded his head a couple of times before disappearing
upstairs.  I gave Grant a suspicious look and wondered if he had known
all the time that Joe was down there.  "It's nothing to do with me," he
said airily, when he saw me looking at him.  I really didn't know what
to do.
     Obviously I should go down and announce my presence to Joe, but I
was scared that he was going to be all cool and disinterested.  I was
sure he was going to drop me, -and couldn't face that, knowing the way
he'd do it to me-leaving me all stranded and neutral in the house,
while he went through a long withdrawn moody on me.
     As I thought about this the panic built up inside me.  I
considered that I might be cooler to switch to Grant before Joe got his
message across.  That might be better for my ego, rather than being
dropped and picked up again.  At least it would appear to have been my
decision.
     But the hangup was that I still dug Joe so much.  I sat there
silent and incapable of deciding anything.
     When Spike went past again I stopped him and told him to tell Joe
that I was in Grant's room, thinking that he would come up if he really
wanted to see me.  Spike's eyes jiggled about and he said yes, OK, but
he cowdn't understand why I just didn't go down myself.  When he went
off I realized that as Joe didn't know I'd telephoned for him-and also
didn't know that I'd thought he was out-it might seem as if I'd come
over specially to see Grant.  I thought, oh fuck, when he didn't appear
and it was time for them all to go.  They weren't playing at this
reception, just going to promote themselves and meet people.
     Grant started to hustle me about my movements later in the
evening, but I couldn't decide.  I wanted to see Joe, but the longer I
sat there the more impossible it became to go down into the basement..
     What I wanted to say to Joe was quite simply, do you want me or
not?
     Because if you don't, I'll go with Grant, even though I like you
best.
     But I knew I'd never get that together.  Grant suggested that I
wait until they all came back.  I said I wanted to speak to Joe.  "I'm
not stopping you," he snapped.
     "Will you go down and ask him to come up and speak to me?"  I
asked.
     "I'm not having anything to do with it," he said.
     "But I want to explain," I said.  "Please tell him to come up."
     "There's nothing to explain," said Grant, matter-of-factly.
     "You're building your scene with Joe into something more important
than it actually is."
     That surprised me.  "Am I?"  I asked.  "Do you think I should just
drop it?"
     "Don't ask me questions like that.  I don't want to get involved
in your affairs."
     "You bloody well have," I raised my voice at him.  "You got me to
come up here in the first place."
     "You didn't have to, you know."
     "Well, what shall I do, now that I have?"
     "that's up to.  you.  I'm not going to make any decisions for you.
     But I'll tell you something-I dig you."  Meaning, I thought, that
Joe didn't.
     "Yes," I said, because I'd sussed that anyway.  "But I'm still not
sure what to do.  I'd like to have a word with Joe."
     "Do what you like."
     "I'm not waiting here for hours until you come back.  Ring me at
Theo's, that's where I'm going to be later on.  I've got some records
to pick up.  I'll have decided by then."  I knew I was only putting the
decision off for a while, but that was all I could do right then.
     "Alright," said Grant, gathering up his attache case.  "See you
later."  I sat there turning, my mind spinning with worries as I hear
them all clattering out of the house.
     I get myself together to go round to Theo's, and am going down the
stairs when the front door opens.  It's Joe coming back in for
something.  I leap back into Grant's room.  I don't want to see him.
     In fact this was an opportunity to.  have it out with him, except
there wasn't really time.  Anyway, I'm a coward.  I let instinct take
over and cower in Grant's room until I hear him go out again.  I set
off cautiously this time and have just reached the hall when I hear a
voice from the basement stairs saying, "Hello, who's there?"  Bill and
Ruby appear with cups of coffee.  I'd forgotten that there was no need
for the roadies to go along as the group weren't playing.
     They look surprised to see me furtively sneaking off, and ask me
up for a coffee in Bill's room.  I go up because I want to ask Bill's
advice.
     In his very untidy room I tell him what's happened, but he's
reluctant to pass comment.  He sits there smiling enigmatically while
He rolls a joint.  "It's really up to you," is all he says.  "Do what
you think is best."
     "But I don't know what's best, I want to to know what you think.
     Do you reckon I'd like Grant?"  I knew that was a silly question
as soon as I'd asked it-how can somebody know who somebody else would
like?
     But I was half hoping that Bill would say yes, Grant is groovier
than Joe, I'd go for Grant if I were you.  But all he suggested was
that I'd find out by trying him.
     He isn't really any help at all, so I sort of dismiss Grant and
Joe by telling them that my real boyfriend is in the States.  Bill asks
me who he is, and I tell him it's Davey in The Dream Battery.  Bill
knows him and says Grant does too and that they used to spend a lot of
time lounging about with Zach Franks.  So we sit there talking and
smoking.
     I'm digging Bill because he's quiet and wise.  Ruby doesn't say
anything, but he's new and hardly counts.  He's only a second roadie
and totally unattractive anyway, with mangy hair and a low-slung
bottom.  He's called Ruby because he has these big red lips that pout
outwards at you, and everyone laughs at his Newcastle accent.
     Before I know what has happened the front door bursts open and the
others are back again-and with them my problems.  I haven't got any
kind of decision together, and vaguely wonder what will happen.  I'm a
bit stoned, and decide to let circumstances take over.  Bill and Ruby
are watching me to see what I'm going to do.  I know I still want to
see Joe, but cant think how to get to him, because I'll have to pass
Grant on the landing.  I Then I hear Grant making a phone call.  I
realize he's calling me at Theo's, and I'm still sitting there.  And I
think: this is ridiculous, I have retreated from the ground floor to
the top of the house all in one day.  I've, hidden from Joe in Grant's
room and now I'm hiding from Grant in Bill's room.
     There's Grant phoning me and I'm still here.  So I stand up.
     I've obviously got to speak to him, and I'll probably end up in
bed with him.
     I put my head out of Bill's door and called, "Here I am, I'm still
here."  Then I darted down past Grant into his cubby hole, still not
wanting Joe to see me.  He came in and wedged his door shut.  And I
thought, right, done it, I cant back out now.
     I tell him how I bumped into Bill and Ruby and didn't seem to get
round to Theo's.  He doesn't say anything.  He reckons he's scored me
now, and starts rolling a joint.  I listen to all the different sounds
coming out of the other rooms and wonder what Joe's doing and whether
Grant has told him I was here earlier.  I'll never be able to face Joe
again, and I start thinking about how I dig him, yet here I am sitting
in Grant's room.  I've committed myself.
     We smoke the joint in silence, and then someone comes marching up
the stairs.  A familiar voice says, "Grant?"  and Grant raises his
eyebrows and smiles.  "Hello, it seems to be Joe," he says casually.
     And I think, Oh God, no, this is really it.  I try to make myself
milimeters small and hiss dramatically, "Don't open that door!"  But
Grant takes no notice and pushes it open, leaning across me to do so.
     I hang my head so that my hair completely covers my face, which I
can feel blushing, and Joe leans in.  "Hello," he says, quite
cheerfully, though a little surprised.  I squirm and say nothing.  He
asks Grant for a sixpence for the phone.  Grant says he hasn't got any,
so he asks me.  I cant answer, but glance up through my hair and
there's his face all lit up in Grant's orange light, which shines
upwards from the floor.  I wish he'd go away.
     "what's the matter aren't you talking to me?"  asks Joe.
     "Yes, what's the matter with you?"  Grant says.  I just give him a
filthy look.  "She doesn't seem to be talking to me either."
     "I haven't got any sixpences," I say, still hanging my head.
     After a pause Joe disappears and I can breathe again.  But I feel
very shaken.  Grant demands to know what's the matter -as if he didn't
know-but I'm bloody well not going to tell him.  I just tell him to
shut up -and leave me alone.  But now he's really won, and he sits
there looking all smug and triumphant.  He's not as groovy as Joe-and
anyway Joe is a group member-but I'll have, to make do with him ' I
think, he starts to kiss me.  And I'm surprised, because I would never
have thought he could kiss in such a nice affectionate way.
     After a bit we -undress to go to bed, and it's weird.  The only
place to move about on is the mattress, and I have to stuff my clothes
in the hole at the end of the bed.  I tell him to put the light out.
     I'm not having him looking at me.  In bed he starts kissing me
again, and after a bit we start making it.
     Even though I'm thinking about Joe, I notice that he's very
good-much better than Joe.  He's really got it together, vigorously
changing positions and all that.
     This goes on for quite a while until it turns me on in spite of
myself, and we have this wild scene which is totally satisfactory.
     After that I plate him.  I want to show him I'm good too.  He
really likes it, becoming all tender and affectionate while I'm down
between his legs.  We don't say anything afterwards.  My body is
slack-jointed and curiously light.  My mind is churning out corny
thoughts like "my body is on the landing, but my heart is on the ground
floor," and it's groovy feeling so sad without being uptight.
     Next morning Grant is up early, bashing at doors and telling them
to be ready to leave by lunchtime.  He comes back into the room
muttering that things will have to change, like he always does.  I
watch from a corner of the bed while he shaves and gets himself
together.  He's really got his room worked out, making use of every
corner and wall.
     When he's ready to go to the office he tells me to padlock the
door when I go.  I nod and then he says this thing which blows my mind.
     He says, "You can phone me next week," and leans over to pick up
his attache case.  "But .  . ."  I open my mouth to protest because I
thought he'd be sure to want to see me but he said.  "If you want a
relationship fore that.  "No buts, with me, my girl, you do as I say.
     That's what went wrong with you and Joe.  You've got to learn to
be cool-none of phoning up and holding hands all the time-none of that.
     You phone when I tell you and not before.  I'm not going to be
bullied like you bullied Joe.  It doesn't matter what you want, it's
what I decide that counts."
     I just said alright, but I was thinking that I wasn't bargaining
for anything like this.  I had thought that I would have been able to
do what I wanted with him-that he'd be glad to have a chick-but here he
was telling me what to do.  Who did he think he was, with his
uneducated accent, laying down the law for me when I can pull GM's and
he's only a PM?  I was really taken aback.  Maybe there was more to him
than I had thought, and this wasn't going to be so easy.
     While I was getting up Spike appears, with eyes blinking.
     Talking very fast he tells me that he's had a black bomber and
cant steep and needs someone to talk to while he's writing a song he's
had an idea for, and would I come down.  I say, OK, make the bed and
lock up.
     Spike is fiddling about with his electric piano and guitar, which
he cant play very well, and humming the tune he is working on.  For a
bit I try to help, but my mind keeps wandering over what has happened
and I still want to talk to Joe.  I get bored with Spike's song, and
wonder whether Joe will appear before I have to go.  Suddenly I
interrupt Spike, who's forgotten I was there, and ask him if Joe is
awake.  He looks a bit alarmed, and says he doesn't know.  "Please go
and wake him for me," I plead.  "I've got to.
     speak to him."  Spike goes and comes back, saying Joe is still
asleep, and that he wouldn't wake him up if he were me because Joe's
always bad-tempered in the morning.  I said that I hadn't noticed Joe
being bad-tempered when I'd been with him, and Spike said, "Well, you'd
slept with him then, this time you didn't, did you?"
     "I'm going," I said decisively, and went and stood outside Joe's
room.
     I wondered whether to knock, but that meant he would have to get
up and unlock the door, and maybe he wouldn't want to see me anyway.
     Maybe it was cooler just to split and let him wonder why I'd done
it.
     It was easier to do that than to confront him about it-I night
have come off rather badly.  So that's what I did.  I just split.
     I went to Gavin to have my hair cut-I could hardly see it was so
long-and came out with my hair all spiky and wispy and streaked with
gray.  Gavin had said, after nicking my hair disparagingly, that I'd
had my Brian Jones cut long enough and should change my hair image more
frequently.
     As usual he had his way, but I wondered what Grant would say when
he saw me.  I was meeting him at the Kingdom that night; The Relation
were playing there.  This would be the first time I'd seen him since
I'd slept with him.  I had rung him, but because I'd broken my cool, as
he put it, he wouldn't have time to see me until Saturday.
     I'm sitting in the box office that night, and Grant suddenly
appears.
     He stares at my hair, then nods his approval.  He even ruffled it,
saying yes, it was an improvement on the other rubbish.  He'd got his
multi-striped leather jacket on and, of course, was carrying the
attache case.  It was a groove having Grant so nice to me.  Just before
he swung off on a business circuit of the club I grabbed his arm and
asked him if I was coming back with him that night.  He considered for
a moment and then gave me a grudging nod.
     Much later, when The Relation had done their set, he came into the
office to collect the bread.  He made a big show, all for my benefit, I
thought, of counting it into piles of singles and storing it away into
the confines of his case.
     That done, he told me to be ready to leave very shortly, and went
off to supervise the loading of the gear.  He came back into the office
about half an hour later and summoned me out with a nod of his head.
     We picked up a cab and the Sunday papers-that really started his
aggro going because I bought the Observer and he got the News of the
World and People-and went back to his pad.  We got into bed, still
arguing.  We'd already read the papers and made it when the others
started pouring in.  I heard this chick's voice which sounded familiar
and recognized it as Wendy's, the chick who shared my flat.  I knew she
fancied Spike and reckoned that she had pulled him.  I vaguely wondered
what Joe was doing.  At least, I thought, as I curled up beside Grant,
it was easier to sleep here than in Joe's room -more bed and less
noise.
     Grant's crashing around on the mattress woke me up at 12 the
following morning.  He was already dressed, and bent down in a corner
pulling piles of shirts -and socks out of seemingly invisible holes and
corners as if by magic.  All this was done with frantic energy.
     "What are you doing?"  I complained.
     "None of your business, you," he said, -not at all nicely.
     "Thank you, Grant," I said.  I was learning how to cope with him
by now.
     He twisted round and said, "If you must know, Sunday is washing
day.
     Some people are not too groovy to let things like their washing
slip, you know.  Some people can groove and still be clean, some people
can't."
     "I'm notdirty," I said, thinking he was having a go at me.
     "Maybe you're not.  But this room smells."
     "Well, if it does, it's your smell.  You and your dirty washing
are smelling."
     "You know what to do if you don't like it," he retorted, misting
the whole issue round.  I didn't answer, and he reached over, took a
pill out of a bottle and swallowed it dramatically.
     "What's that?"  I asked.
     "A leaper," he said, and gathering up his dirty clothes he stomped
down the stairs, making a lot of unnecessary noise.
     Everyone else was asleep, and , I dozed off again.
     It seemed ages later when he came back and woke me up to say that
it was very strange, but he was having incredible difficulty staying
awake over his washing.  With that, he fell down on the bed.  I asked
him to describe the kind of pill he had taken and realized from the
description that he had taken a downer instead of a keep-awake.  He had
in fact taken a Mandrax, which is a sleeper-not a barbiturate, but
strong nevertheless.  I told him about the Mandrax kick.  You're
supposed to fight off the initial sleepiness until you can groove on
the feeling that floors have turned to cotton wool and your body to
fluff.  You zigzag about, bumping into things, and it's all very
hilarious.  Grant dug this idea, and lounged about all afternoon like a
sleepy bear.  He instructed me to get him some more, and then launched
into another lecture of cool.
     He said I was uncool.  I'd already phoned him up, and it didn't do
to let people know I liked them.  As for being possessive, well, he
wasn't having any of that.  And definitely no affection in front of
other people.  Anyway, he was going to teach me.  I'd have to learn to
wait until he phoned me, because I was only to see him when he decided.
     When I like someone I sometimes phone them just on impulse, and
what was so wrong in being a bit uncool?
     "Well, you'll have to watch your impulses, won't you?"  he said.
     "And I tell you something else: every time you're uncool I'm going
to give you a black mark.  Enough black marks and I'll punish you.
     Nothing physical, more psychological.  Yes, that's the kind of
punishment I favor.  But if you're cool and do as you're told Imight
let you come and see me again as a reward."
     I realized that he had been reading my copy of Catch-22 that I had
left behind last time.  I wanted to tell him that all these games of
being cool were really a drag, at least taken to this extent.  I mean,
maybe it's really uncool to be so cool, I wouldn't know.  But I
seriously considered what he said, and thought what a groove to be cool
and careless and not get hung up on emotions.  But I couldn't say any
of this to Grant because he had passed out.  The Mandrax had got him.
     I'm only a beginner, and when it comes to Wednesday I feel I want
to talk to Grant.  I sit and argue with myself.
     Look, I've got to be cool.  I don't want to get a black mark,
especially with this concert at the Albert Hall coming up that I want
him to take me to.  But why shouldn't I phone him?
     Why cant I break my cool, whatever that is!  Is it so cool to be
cool?
     So I phone him and he blisters my ear with shouted taunts and
insults.  But I think he is really pleased that I'm so weak, it puts
him one up and he likes that.  "I just phoned to say hello," I protest,
when he pauses.  "I'm not after anything."
     "Yes you are," he retorts.  "Else you wouldn't have phoned.
     What did I tell you?  I try to teach you and look what happens."
     I said I didn't see anything wrong in phoning to say hello, but he
has me sussed out.  "I suppose you want to come over," he says, all
silkily, "don't you?"
     "Well, what if I do, what's so wrong in that?  You're not busy,
are you?"
     "I'm too busy to see you, that's for sure.  So you cant come," he
said.
     "But I want to see you.  Why cant I come?"  I felt extremely
peeved.
     "Because I say so," he paused for a moment.  "Tell you what, I'll
ring you Sunday."  I give up, He rings off, and that's that.
     And so the game progresses.  I am getting very involved in it,
really trying to suss Grant out; to discover why he is so aggressive to
talk to and yet so tender and groovy in bed.
     And our bed scene is getting better all the time.  Grant works
very hard at making it good for me, and he really appreciates my skill
at plating.  He's started making me plate him the morning after, if I'm
still there when he comes back from the office toward midday.  Although
I still get a bit uptight when I bump into Joe, and haven't spoken to
him except for hellos, Grant is almost totally absorbing me.  Another
thing is that Grant always rings when he says he will-although he's
forever aggressive on the phone, demanding that I get there
immediately, and reading off lists of things he wants me to take over
to him.  I always go, because I cant bear to miss a single game.
     Wendy and I are given tickets for the concert The Relation are
doing with a big American folk singer at the Albert Hall.
     Wendy has had no luck with Spike, so she has switched to Bill, the
roadie.  Which is fair enough if that's her scene.  We get to the
dressing-room and Grant stops to chat to me.  He mutters something
about having a lot of aggro to cope with and then dashes off like a
demented speed freak.  I talk to Paul, the dnunmer, who's on a
looking-like-Paul-McCartney kick.  And he calls me a schmock when I
won't agree with him.
     The rest of the group are in there as well.  It's not like most of
the dressing-rooms.  It's really classy, with lots of armchairs and
tables with glasses and champagne.  I furtively watch Joe struggling
with the zipper on a new pair of tight white trousers.  I want to go
and help him, but I'm not that presumptuous.  I really want to speak to
Joe about what I did, but never seem to find the chance.
     They've all had their hair done for the occasion, and Joe's hasn't
come out too groovy.  I make a sarcastic remark about his hair to Bill,
who only turns to Joe and says, "Katie thinks your hair looks like a
suburban housewife's."  Joe's face goes very tight and he pauses before
saying rather bitterly, "So now I know what you really think- of me."
     I can't say much to that, but I can feel myself blushing.  I seem
to blush very easily.  It's a real drag and a disadvantage.  I get
Wendy to come and find our seats because it's about to start.
     Our seats are not all that good-a bit too far back.  Wendy seems a
bit pissed, and she's behaving very strangely.  She sits there looking
moody and fed-up, and cracking her knuckles, I reckon she's still hung
up on Spike.  The hall is reasonably full, and I peer about recognizing
faces and getting waves from several unidentifiable people.
     Then they start and they are bad.  Well, what I mean is, they're
different, not the same as on gigs in clubs.  They sound too far away
and you cant get into the music.  Spike doesn't look right in brown,
and we cant see them properly anyway.
     They also have this backing orchestra all dressed up in DJs, who
stand up every so often and blow, which makes me giggle.  Wendy is
really looking rather distraught, shaking her head in despair, then she
suddenly blurts out, "Oh, it's not fair!  I dig Spike so much."  I
think help, she's going to freak out.  But she doesn't , she just sits
there making clucking noises and trying to get a cigarette together.  I
see Grant sitting motionless at the back of the stage with earphones
on, and wonder what that's all about.  When their last number comes up
we split to the loo to tidy up and then make our way back to the
dressing-room.  But we get lost along the way, it's so huge and there
are all these passages.  It's really a bad scene, with Wendy getting
more and more hung up, and I'm annoyed because we're missing all the
happenings in the dressing-room.
     Finally we get there and have to hustle ourselves in past some
security guy.  It's a real drag and bad for the ego when you cant get
past doormen and the like.  We drink champagne and there are a lot of
people filling up the room.  Roland Johns is there in a frilly white
shirt, and I'm sure he gives me a hostile stare, so I keep out of his
way.
     Grant is still finding it necessary to dash about doing things, so
I leave him to it.  Joe sits down beside me and takes one of my
gold-banded menthol cigarettes, just like he used to when I was with
him.  This made me feel all sentimental and sorry.  He looked a bit
brought down, which is usual for him after playing, so I don't say
anything.  When the folk singer comes on we all go and watch from
backstage, but I don't dig him as much as his records.  He's sick and
looks it, and has to work hard at staying on his feet.  there are some
doubts as to whether he can make the tour, which is bad for The
Relation.  As it turned out he had a relapse later that night and the
tour had to be called off.
     When I go back to the dressing-room the crowd has thinned out and
just the group are there.  Wendy seems to have been through some crying
scene with Bill, and although she is red-eyed she has calmed down.
     Paul comes up to me and says, "Hey Kate, don't you think I look
like Paul McCartney?"  I tell him that he must be joking, he looks
nothing like Paul McCartney.  He gets very offended because apparently
he really does think he looks like Paul McCartney.  But he's small,
plump and blond, with a baby face, -and couldn't possibly look like
Paul McCartney.  However, I manage to console him by telling him he
doesn't want to look like Paul McCartney because Paul McCartney was a
drag.
     And say maybe he looks more like Clint Eastwood.  He says, "Do you
think so?"  and leaps up to study himself in a mirror.
     "Yes, I suppose I do a bit," he says coyly.
     He's very strange, I decide, as I watch him practising thin and
wolfish faces.
     Then suddenly Grant makes a very dramatic entrance and sits on a
stool in the middle of the room.  Everyone looks at him expectantly,
and he says, very loudly, "I've got VD."  And I think what's this?
     Then everyone looks at me and I say, "Well, I haven't got VD."
     The others switch their heads round to Grant, and he says, "Well,
I've got something wrong with me."
     "You didn't catch it from me," I say.
     "Well, I've got it," he says.  The others are looking at me now.
     They are waiting for me to suss out that Grant must have caught
something from someone, and if it's not me then it must be someone
else.  But I don't twig and say, rather annoyed, "I shall't be very
pleased if I've caught something from you."
     Grant grumbles on about not knowing what's the matter with him.
     His hair is falling out, he's going to die before thirty, and now
he's got VD.  The others have lost interest.
     Apparently he's always going on about his health, and they've
heard it all before.  I don't say anything more.  Maybe it was cool not
to, ask where he'd got it from-though if I'd thought about it I would
probably have asked all sorts of questions and got all sorts of nasty
answers.
     When we got home and into bed, Grant started pulling out his hair.
     He was right, it came out in little handfuls from his head, from
under his arms, his chest-even his pubic hair came out.  It didn't seem
to get any thinner, but it definitely came out.  I told him to stop it,
but he said he couldn't.  This went on for about an hour.  When he
started the preliminaries to making it,.  I asked him what about his
VD.
     He said he didn't have VD.
     And what about the scene in the dressing-room"?
     He had thought it was VD their, but now he wasn't so sure.
     What did he have if it wasn't VD?
     Posterius.
     What on earth was that?
     Too difficult to explain.
     Was it a form -of VD?
     No, it was nothing to do with VD, it only looked like VD.
     Did he have a dictionary?
     What for?
     To see what posterius meant.
     It wasn't in the dictionary.
     Then what did posterius mean?
     It meant what he'd got.
     How did he know he'd got it; had he had it before?
     No, but he recognized it.
     How could he recognize it if he didn't know what it meant and
hadn't had it before?
     He just did, and I was stupid.
     Let me have a look.
     What at?
     This posterius.
     Why?
     To see what it looks like.
     See what?
     His cock.
     Grant sat up and turned on the orange light.  I examined him.
     "It looks all right," I said.  "Just a bit orange in this light."
     But then I didn't know what I was looking for.
     "Well, I've got it," he said, and lay back as I began to plate
him.
     Next morning Grant made everyone very uptight by turning them out
of bed early and making them autograph the back of 500 group photos for
their fan club.  When everyone else had gone back to bed, he found he
had some time and must see a doctor.
     I take it easy about getting up and make myself some coffee.  Joe
appears in the kitchen and asks me to make him some too.  I take it up
to.  his room where he's fiddling with his cello, and I place it on the
floor beside him.  There's a pause while I stand there, then suddenly I
start to tell him why I let Grant pull me.  I blurt out that I hadn't
felt like being rejected and had moved on before he had dropped me,
which I had felt sure he was going to do.  He was most unhelpful, and
kept on fiddling with the cello without saying anything.  I went on,
telling him how I had felt I had been hanging him up.  He started at me
in an expressionless way as though he didn't know what I was talking
about.  There was an awkward silence in which I wished I'd never opened
my mouth, and then he said that although he hadn't been trying to drop
me, he had found me rather overwhelming.
     Before we could go any further, Ruby walks in grandly.
     He's only dressed in identical clothes to Joe!  Joe looks a bit
put out, he doesn't dig the idea of the second roadie wearing the same
gear as him.  He tells Ruby not to wear those clothes when he is
around.
     Ruby starts complaining, and I retreat back to Grant's room,
thinking what a mess I had made of all that.  It would have been cooler
not to have said anything at all.
     Grant comes back shortly afterwards from the doctor, but the
explanations he hands me are senseless.  He still claims that he has
posterius, and we go through the whole scene of me trying to find out
what it is, if it is catching and so on.
     But I cant get any sense out of him.  He announces that the doctor
told him not to have sex for a month, but then adds that it will be
cool to make it in three days.  He's really trying to screw my mind up.
     I'm very annoyed with him when I leave, not really knowing what's
going on.

     John, this guy from my flat who does light shows and environmental
freak-outs, has finished his plastic dome for the deb dance, and I got
myself taken along to the party as part of the light show.  We smoked a
lot of joints on the way down in a hired taxi that didn't seem to have
any brakes.
     When we arrived at the country place where it was all happening,
some guy in plus-fours at the gate asked us if we were the group.  When
we replied, no, we're the light show, he didn't know quite what to do.
     Anyway, we parked by some haystack and walked towards the house.
     It was a groovy summer's evening, with the sun low, everything
green, and nobody uptight-except perhaps John, who was running round in
his spangled waistcoat with great tubes of Polythene.  I was dressed to
show the debs who think they've got groovy clothes where it's really
at, and I was looking forward to meeting The Elevation and The Shadow
Cabinet who are playing there.  the Elevation are big, very big.  They
have just returned from America, and are banned from various clubs for
controversial behavior on stage.  Although the underground digs them,
they have a very heavy teenybopper following too.  Anyway, it's cool to
meet these guys; the more you are seen around with them the more you
are accepted and can say hi to everyone.
     The first person I see is Bert, The Elevation's roadie, setting up
the equipment.  He knows me, and says hello.  Then we are shown into
this big room at the back of the house that says "Groups-Private."
     It's an incredible group room, with TV, a large table set for
dinner and lots of champagne in buckets.  So I sit there and wait for
the groups to arrive while the others set their projectors up.  I'm on
my own except for the odd gliding maid or butler.
     The Elevation are the first to turn up and I suss them out.
     Jim Edwards, the organist and star of the group, is with a blonde
chick.  He's always in love with blonde chicks, so I leave him alone
and turn my attention to the other three who are on their own.  I
wouldn't even blink my eyes at Les Williams-he's one of your cunt group
members who reckons he's the works, and scores chicks and drops them
before they know what's hit them.  Shady, the drummer, is rather nice,
but it's the lead guitarist I reckon on.
     He's called Andy, and he's young and shy, with a weak face and
lots of dark curls.  Though I don't know whether I would have liked him
if he hadn't been one of The Elevation, I decide to see if I can pull
him, because The Elevation are very big.  So I sit next to him at
dinner and we have a quiet little talk while all the others are
behaving very badly.  They are getting pissed and doing their
aggressive non-educated bit.
     And I'm thinking, really, aren't these guys like animals.  They
were being so rude to the butlers and maids who were serving us all
this delicious food, and I wondered why I dug people like this.  They
are really spoilt little monsters abusing their ridiculous prestige.
     But Andy, he's not like them because he is so quiet.  I dig him
for not throwing the bread rous around.
     After dinner we all go to see the light show in the dome, and then
we wander off to look at all the people.  Nobody speaks to us very
much, but maybe they are just being cool, pretending to be as groovy as
we are.  But I get the impression that they are giving us the eye quite
a lot, sussing out our clothes and behavior.  The Shadow Cabinet are
late, which is a drag because they've a groovy organist.  So, The
Elevation have to play first.  I sit and watch them from the side and
they are great.  I smile at Andy, who doesn't move around the stage at
all.  Not like Les Williams, who prances and leers all the time.
     When we get back to the group room, The Shadow Cabinet have
arrived and are very uptight because we have eaten all the food.  Andy
and I go and watch them play and they are very good too.  They have
these two great singers and all their numbers have a mind-splitting
throb to them.
     But trouble starts when both groups get together in the group room
later.  Elevation, being the main group, were supposed to have played
the second spot in each set.  But because Shadow were late Elevation
did the first spot, and now reckon on doing the first spot in the
second set so that they can get home first.  Shadow don't like this at
all and say they were booked to do the first spots.  Elevation say,
well, you shouldn't have turned up late.  But Shadow.  say that they
weren't late and Elevation shouldn't have gone on first.  They are
getting very uptight, while this breakfast food is being served,-liver
and sausages at four in the morning.
     Then the roadies leaped up and started grabbing each other.  Bert
went bright red and, picking up a chair, he hurled it at Shadows
roadie.  He ducked, and it crashed through the paneled door.  Then they
fell against the table and the food and crockery smashed and scattered
all over the floor.  It was bedlam, with maids screaming and the other
guys trying to pull the roadies apart.  When things are a bit under
control I suggest to Shadows that they take half their bread and split.
     They thought this was a good idea and that's what they did, while
Elevation rushed on to play.  And I never did get to talk to the
organist.
     When we get back to the group room there is a very disapproving
atmosphere, with servant people clearing up the mess.  While Andy's
packing his guitar away, he asks me how I'm getting back to London.  I
say I'm OK because I can go with the light show people.  Then he asks
me if I'd like to have breakfast outside in the marquee.  We sit at a
table with Les Williams, who's scored two deb chicks, and press knees.
     After a bit he asks me if I am sure I can get back to London OK,
because they've got a car and I can go with them.  So I say, yes, I'll
do that then.  It will save me hanging about until everything's
finished.
     So we all go and pile into a large saloon.  We sit in the back
with Jim Edwards and his blonde and Andy starts getting all passionate
and kissing me.  I'm looking forward to making it with him.  Grant has
been more than a drag lately with his weird disease, which is posterius
one day, pertussis the next and steaming whistle whenever He feels
crude.
     I mean, I never know what I'm going to catch when I'm with Grant
these days.  So imagine my fury when we really start getting down to
things in bed and he winces, takes my hand away and says, "It hurts.
     You'd better not touch me."
     "What's the matter?"  I ask.
     "I've got something to tell you," Andy says, in a slightly
strangled voice.
     "Tell me," I say, a horrible suspicion beginning to mushroom
inside my head.
     After an awkward pause he says, "I'M under medical supervision."
     And I think, oh fucking hell no!  "I've got VD," he says.
     That's all I needed.  "Why didn't you tell me before?"  I'm a bit
uptight with him.
     "Because I thought you wouldn't come back with me, he says, all
hopeless and young.
     . so I feel sorry for him and gently manipulated him to a climax
with my finger and thumb.  There wasn't much else I could do.  What a
drag all these diseases were becoming.
     I woke up much too early and couldn't get back to sleep.  I lay
there wishing I was with Grant because I was used to it there and slept
O-K.
     Here the bed dipped and the room smelt.
     It was really grotty.  I wondered what one of The Elevation was
doing in a place like this.  There was a lot of noise from the rest of
the house and I started feeling very grumpy.  Then Andy woke up and
demanded more action from my hands.  I felt really pissed off, but
rather than go through a scene I obliged.  Then I got up to make toast
and coffee in the kitchen, after washing my hands-.
     Andy was taking me to Hyde Park that day, to one of the free
concerts that had just started, and which Nigel Bishop was helping to
organize.
     I took a long time getting myself together.  When I'd he'd Andy
made me sew and press some trousers for him.  I was feeling a bit
resentful now, but cheered myself up with the prospect of being seen
with the Elevation by thousands of people.  And when we got there, talk
about people!  There must have been about twenty thousand stuck to the
grass like flies to flypaper!  Little groups of people strolled around
looking cool and groovy, stopping now and then to chat to other little
groups, and then passing on.  People walked about eating ice-creams,
and kids and dogs raced around upsetting the groovers who were staring
at the sky or reading their underground publications, which were doing
a roaring trade.  Lots of foreigners stood around the perimeters,
slack-jawed and immobile, or else prancing about using up camera film,
not believing their eyes.  Here and there discreet pairs of fuzz
patrolled around, keeping a wary eye open for pot smokers, but they
never have much luck at scenes like this.  The fuzz, I'm sure, must
have doubts about letting Hyde Park be used for something like this,
expecting anything from obscenity to revolution.  But seeing so many of
us together all at once, being so appreciative and well-behaved, must
have daunted them somewhat.  The groups give their services free at
these scenes, and the best and the worst turned up that day.
     But it didn't really matter.  The sounds all seemed good, floating
upwards until they got lost.
     However, I didn't really feel all that good, because my eyes hurt
and I didn't have any shades.  Also I was in the same clothes from the
night before, and I didn't like that.  I Suppose I looked fairly OK,
perhaps a bit over-dressed, but all these people coming up to me and
saying hi made me want to run away.  Then I got paranoid that The
relation were going to turn up.  I didn't want Grant to see what I was
up to, and I was tired and felt confused.  After the Elevation played
and everyone said how great they were, Andy and I wandered around hand
in hand, which looked good.  But Andy had to split for a gig up north,
so I went with them and they dropped me off at my pad.
     I phoned Grant up later just to reassure myself.  He was
incredibly rude.  I got angry.  I reckoned he didn't know how lucky he
was I still dug him.  I'll drop him, I vowed.  I'll show him.  And
still angry with Grant, I accepted Andy's invitation to the cinema a
few days later.  It was weird standing in the queue.  I somehow felt
that famous pop musicians shouldn't be subjected to hangups like this.
     Several chicks came up to him and -said they'd dug The Elevation
in the park, or else they liked the group's latest single, and this
made him smile in a shy, gratified way though he didn't really know
what to say to them.  But I wasn't grooving to him.  He sent out shy
vibrations, and I had to work hard to keep him at his ease, which was a
drag.  Also he is into Gurdjieff and the reincarnation things all lead
guitarists' minds seem to hook onto the same preoccupations.  But I've
heard it all before, and he's not as together in his reasoning as Davey
was.
     Anyway, it's all rather boring the second time around.
     We went back to my place because I couldn't stand the idea of
another night at that pad of his.  We lay around eating bananas and
playing records, though clearly all he wanted was to fuck me.  I asked
him how his VD was and he said OK now, that he'd been for.  a checkup.
     He got very impatient, but I didn't let him until he promised
several times that he was really clear.  I reckoned that if he'd been
straight the first time telling me and all, then he would be straight
now.
     So I let him go ahead.  He was rather frantic, coming lots of
times, but as he hadn't had a chick for a month, I suppose it wasn't
surprising.  I just hoped it wasn't catching either.
     The Other Kingdom had finally been pressured out of Covent Garden,
the authorities refusing to reissue the license.  It's a nuisance,
because club premises the size we need are very hard to come by in
central London.  But we make some longstanding arrangement with The Big
Tower to hire it on Saturday nights.  The Big Tower is a large building
that used to be a railway hangar, and is being got together to put on
plays and concerts, or to be used for filming.  It holds nearly 2,000
people, and is ideal for us, being so high and large.
     Jason is giving me a lift home one evening, and after telling me
all the financial troubles The Other Kingdom has, he suddenly said
"What's wrong with me?"
     "I don't know, I said, not really understanding.
     "I mean, I'm not bad looking, I've a groovy job, I've got wheels.
     Why cant I find a chick I dig?"
     "Maybe you go to the wrong places," I suggested.  "Unless the sort
of chicks you meet at The Joint are the ones you like.  He said he
loathed the type of chicks that went down to The Joint, and wanted to
know where all the nice chicks were.
     I said they were probably sitting at home or grooving around with
friends.
     "Well, why don't I meet any?"  he complained.  "What I want is a
nice chick to love me, and to cook for me, then I could stay at home in
the evenings, not go spending all my money in places like The
Revolution and The Joint.  I only go there because I've got nothing
else to do."
     I felt sorry for him, but didn't have any suggestions.
     "You're a nice chick, you've got a great personality and I dig
your body.  Why don't you like me?"
     This was awkward.  I tried to explain that it wasn't that I didn't
like him, it was just that I was sort of involved elsewhere.
     "That's always the way," he grumbled.  He stopped outside my flat
and asked if he could come in.  I said I'd have liked to ask him in,
but I had to get ready to go out, because I didn't feel like going
through a parrying scene with him.  "There you go," " he said, and
drove off.
     I haven't spoken to Grant for a week now, not since he was rude to
me on the phone, but tonight The Relation are playing at The Big Tower,
and I want to go home with him.  I don't really want to see the guy
from The Elevation anymore.  I really dig Grant-warts and all-too much
to really get involved in anything else.  I'm working at the box office
as usual when Grant comes scowling in and announces he's full of aggro
and hates everyone.  He is looking very ferocious and threatening to
sack Ruby for something.  I suss that I'm going to have a hard time
getting him to, take me back with him.  Anyway, I ask, and he growls,
"DUDno yet, cant decide.  Very uptight I am.  Ask me later."  So I go
into the dressing-room after they've played, sit beside him and kiss
him.  He looks suspicious and asks me what I want.
     "To come back with you tonight," I say.
     Grant immediately says no, and I have to decide fast what to do.
     I know I'll never get my way by playing Grant's game back at him,
I mean, if I was cool I'd say OK and walk away, and that would be that.
     But I know he digs it when I humble myself, and I can go that,
I'll do anything to get what I want.  So I go through this pleading
routine and he's digging it, and tells me I'll get a medal for
perseverance if nothing else.  He still hasn't said yes, and I start to
bribe him.  I offer him a yellow first but he says he doesn't need a
yellow.  Then I offer him a blue.  He doesn't want that either.  I next
offer him some tincture, but he doesn't trust that.  Finally, I offer
him my Doomsday weapon, which is a Mandrax.  He relents a bit and says
he'll accept one as a present with no strings attached.  A chill of
defeat blows through me; I think that maybe I'm going to lose tonight.
     Little Paul is frantically trying to find some chick he has
arranged to pull, but she's disappeared.  Then Grant stands and picks
up his attache case, which means that it's time for off.  He still
hasn't said anything to me and I'm feeling very brought down.  He turns
to me and says, as though he has only just noticed my presence, "What
are you doing here?"
     Waiting for him, I say, and he smiles grandly.  "In that case,
follow me, and -don't say a word or I'll hit you on the head."
     Groovy, I tbink, and rush into the office to tell Maria that I'm
splitting and that she must finish up alone.
     There's an incredible hustle getting everyone into, the van, and
then we cant get it started.  Grant is having to drive because Bill is
having license hangups, and that's a bad scene when a roadie has no
driving license.  Paul still hasn't found his chick, and is shouting at
anything he sees in skirts, asking them if they need a lift, though
there isn't any room left in the van.  We've all eaten hot dogs, and
the air is polluted with oniony breath.  I have to sit on Wyatt's knee,
and his head keeps dropping onto my breast.  He seems to be really
exhausted and falling asleep or something.  Grant told me later it was
his way of trying to pull me.
     When we are in bed I'm wondering whether Grant will keep up his
game and not make it with me.  But no, he pulls me toward him and
becomes the different Grant, the bed Grant, who's tender and kisses me
like he really means it.
     Full of love, or perhaps it's relief, I give him a Mandrax and we
sail off to sleep after making it.
     In the morning he's grumbling and demanding breakfast.
     He wants six boiled eggs, but I finally get him to accept them
scrambled, because I'm good at scrambling eggs.  After washing up lots
of plates stuck full of -ancient spaghetti, I produce a really good
scrambled egg.  I want to show him that I can get things together, like
scrambled eggs.  Soon everyone is up, and Spike appears in his flapping
sandals which look as though they are going to fall off but never do.
     They have recorded a session for a pop radio program and they all
crowd into Grant's room to hear it.
     When they have all dispersed again, Grant and I start one of our
getting nowhere conversations.  Like I'm trying to prove he's not like
he is, and he proves me wrong by being more like he is than ever.  He
laughs at me trying to get round him, trying to get him to commit
himself in some way.
     As I wasn't getting anywhere I plated him.  He liked that, and it
put him in a good humor.  We lay around exchanging gentle insults until
it was time for them all to split for rehearsal.
     I become furious when I find that my battered velvet hat was
missing, and Grant goes round demanding to know who's taken it.  We
finally decide one of The Active have it, and I tell Grant to get it
back for me.  He gives me his funny straw hat to be going on with.
     Feeling quite pleased with myself, I rush up the Kings Road to
have supper with Reginald.

     I get the horrors when I find I have a discharge and I'm all
tender in the groin.  It's getting worse, too, and as I'm going to some
sort of underground party that night, I dash off to Casualty for help.
     The doctor there suspects VD and says I've got to go straight down
to the special clinic.  What an ultimate drag!  I can hardly believe
that it's happened to me.  I bet it's that cunt from The Elevation!  So
I furtively go down to the VD clinic, which is in the basement, and I
get given a green card with a number.  Some doctor questions me about
my sex habits and I confess all.
     Then I have to go into a cubicle, strip to the waist and hang my
legs in these stirrups.  I felt like a lump of discarded beef while the
doctor and his assistants probed, and discussed me and my complaint in
a weird, impersonal way.  Then they take some bloody painful tests, and
of course I've got it.
     They unstrap me and shoot two whooping great penicillin injections
into my backside and tell me to come back tomorrow for more of the
same-and, of course, no sex.
     They also give me these slips of paper to give to everyone I've
slept with in the last month.  Apart from the culprit, there's only
Grant.  I haven't slept with Reginald since going with Andy.  But I
decide to freak him out just the same, so I give him the slip of paper
and watch his face crease in annoyance.  "Oh God," he says.  "Does this
mean I've got to go for a blood test or something?"  I kid him along
for a bit, but tell him he's OK in the end.  He passes a few
disparaging remarks about pox stars, and laughs at his joke.  Next I
phone Andy, and tear him off a strip.  He keeps saying that he went for
his final checkup, and what a drag it must be for me, and he's very
sorry.  I discover that he goes to the same clinic I do and decide to
check his story out tomorrow.  He ends up by asking me to the Windsor
Jazz Festival, where they're playing.  But I cant go, it's a Saturday
and I'm working.  So I tell him he must be joking.
     I'm not relishing the thought of breaking the news to Grant.  He's
bound to abuse me, call me a slag or something and never see me again.
     Having slept with him since I made it with Andy, he's sure to have
it.
     but if I get cured and then sleep with him again, and then I get
it back again.  Anyway, I know I've So I phone and he answers, which is
i be out so I could put it off.  "Hello Grant," I knowing how to put
it.
     "Oh hello you.  What do you want?"
     "I've got something to tell you."
     "Well, get on with it then.  I'm busy."
     "Can I come and see you," I asked.  "I mean not to see you, it's
something personal I've got to tell you."
     "Tell me now, come on, tell me," He insisted impatiently.
     "I don't want to tell you on the phone.  Let me come and see you.
     I can come over now if you like."  I was trying to put it off.
     "Cant.  We're just off to the recording studios.  After that we
are coming to the Big Tower to hear Traffic.  I'm not waiting till
then, you've got to tell me now, immediately!"
     "Alright then," I said.
     "I've got VD."
     Instead of the expected explosion there was an odd pause.
     "Does that mean that I've got VD?"  he said, in an unusually quiet
voice.
     "I don't know what you've got.  And I don't think you know
either," I was grabbing the initiative.
     "Well)" he said heavily, "I haven't got VD, I've got posteritis."
     "You told everyone at the Albert Hall you had VD," I said.  He
hadn't asked who I'd got it from yet.  I wondered if he thought he'd
given me something.
     "Well I haven't."
     'Anyway," I said, "I've got it, and I've got a piece of paper for
you which says you are to go to the clinic for a checkup."
     "Alright, you can give it to me tonight."  And he even said
goodbye.  I was amazed, no tantrums, no abuse, a very quiet reception
from Grant.
     But maybe he'd be back on form by tonight, so I was still not
looking forward to facing him.
     don't tell him, he's still got it, got to tell him.
     I'd hoped he'd said, not quite Round about midnight The Relation
made their nosy entrance into the foyer, and I nodded at the doorman to
let them through.  But Grant came straight up to my desk and demanded
the piece of paper.  I told him I was busy getting customers in, so he
sat on the desk and waited, his nose in the air and his legs swinging.
     Suddenly he said in a loud voice, "I've been thinking."  People
started looking at him.  "I want to know who you got it from."
     I began to blush, and tried to hustle the customers through
quickly.
     "Shut up," I hissed.
     "Go on," he prompted mercilessly, "tell us how you picked up this
horrible condition."
     I told him it was none of his business and I'd talk to him later.
     "Is it some one I know?"  he asked.
     "Probably," I said.
     "Tell me," he insisted.
     "No."
     "Tell me, or I'll knock you down the stairs."
     "You'd never find out then, would you Grant?"  I said.  I was
beginning to enjoy this.  It wasn't often I had Grant wanting things
from me, though he was always pumping me about the running of The Other
Kingdom, how much we paid groups and so on.  But that was business talk
and this was a different experience.  However, I wasn't going to tell
him.  Grant knew I was on the group scene, so it was important that I
didn't sound like a groupie boasting.  And Grant would be able to
squash any boast I made, so I reckoned it was cooler to keep him
guessing.
     "I can find out if I want to," he asserted.  "And anyway, I've got
posterius.  You'll see."  And he went inside.
     I went in later to watch Traffic and saw Grant standing with the
rest of The Relation.  I went up and touched him, and he took me aside
and started hustling me again for the piece of paper.  I handed it to
him, saying sorry for being a hangup.  He didn't reply, and looked at
it closely.
     "I don't know when I'm going to find the time to get along there,"
he said.  "But I suppose I'll fit it in sometime."  I felt such a drag,
causing him all this trouble and wasting his time, all because I had
insisted on going back with him last weekend.  When Traffic had
finished Grant said they all had to split because they were leaving for
some gig in Wales in the morning.  "Yes," I said, thinking this was
goodbye, see you around-sometime.  But surprisingly he, said "I'll ring
you soon."
     When I stared at him trying to understand what he was up to now,
he added, "You can even ring me if you like."  I said yes, and then put
on a doleful expression.  He came up to me and kissed me, telling me
not to go getting uptight, and that everything would be OK.  This
knocked me out and made me think- how nice he really was.  He'd taken
it much better than I'd expected.  I thought he was going to use it as
a real excuse to excel in nastiness.
     That week I go to this intelligentsia party I was invited to by
Thea Porter-she has a shop in Soho which specializes in beautiful
materials from the East and places like that.  The party is at her
Mayfair house, and I decide to take Reginald along.  It's going to be
the sort of thing where everyone will know him and it looks cool to
arrive with someone like him.  Jane, my friend from the glossy magazine
and John from the flat came as well.  I took a lot of pills and
tincture to make me super and I put on the hat I've got to replace the
one stolen from Relation's place.  I've suitably battered it, and tied
a pink chiffon scarf around the crown with the ends hanging down.
     I put lots of silver-white under my eyes and am wearing my black
semi-transparent top with all the little colored beads sewn on it.  And
of course my Thea Porter trousers.
     Jane, John and I ate at the Chelsea Drug Store which is made out
of bendy aluminum and distorts reflections, making it very difficult to
maneuver when you are stoned.  I was feeling very highly strung and
dying to make an impression on all the trendy straight people I was
sure were going to be at the party.
     We picked Reginald up and he was wearing typical Reginald clothes
plus the inevitable dark glasses.  He was all darling and witty and
fondled me in the back of the car which impressed Jane.  She thinks I
have made a catch with Reginald, and that I am very clever to have kept
going out with him for so long.  All sorts of ridiculous girls chase
after him because he is relatively rich and famous and his father is a
lord or something.  But Reginald digs me because I'm different to them
and he even looks down on them because he's so straight and
aristocratic.  I'm always telling him that he's.  not my scene, which
makes him uptight and he says, "But darling, I'm on every scene.  I was
on your scene before you left school."  But then I tell him that that
only proves how old he is-although he's only gone thirty-and I accuse
him of not being able to understand our scene, being so old and that.
     I say these things to make him uptight and he always finds things
to tease me back with.  But I dig him.  It makes an interesting change
from the none-too-intellectual group members.  And he's clever and
successful, so I Like to be seen out with Reginald.  It extends my
image.
     When we get there he kisses me and that looks good.
     There are all these well-kept looking people in bits of her
clothes wandering about, and she takes me around, introducing me.  They
ask what I do.  When I say that I work at The Other Kingdom their eyes
light up and they get excited, asking me what psychedelic means and
have I ever taken LSD.
     They really don't know anything about my scene and it's a groove
talking to people like that.  You can say all kinds of things and sort
of blow their minds a bit, though it would have been very difficult to
have blown the minds that were around me that night.  It's not that
they were stupid or anything, it's just that most of them suffer from a
form of mental tetanus that locks their minds into rigid forms of
thought and attitude.  It makes it very difficult to get into them in
any meaningful way.  Most people could do with a massive dose of acid
at least once in their lives, and I say the sooner the better, because
then at least they could start from scratch again with a better chance
of understanding.
     Of course, it's always the same with very straight people, we're
nothing more than freaks to them.  So when a couple are thrown into
their midst they cluster around to probe and examine, not to really get
fresh insight into different life plans but merely to confirm their
prejudices.  A lot of them have skimmed about the edges of our life and
half understand.  They identify with our beliefs and ideals when it
suits them.  Others we're a waste of time and even possibly dangerous,
but they still question us -so that they can compare notes and convince
themselves that they are right.  But the nice ones are those who just
dig us for what we are.  They don't want to be like us, they don't want
to change us, but they find us groovy to talk to.  We can laugh a lot
together and dig each others different minds.  Thea's like that, she's
got a very turned-on mind that has nothing to do with drugs.
     That's why I came to her party.
     I really enjoyed it there, having some incredible conversations
and enjoying Reginald; the way he pushed me into groups of people as
his freaky little discovery, and then stood back to watch me dealing
with them.  It was a beautiful house with super rare furniture, and
lots of champagne and party type food in the kitchen-though I didn't
drink.  It's not cool to mix alcohol and tincture.  Reginald started
getting a bit jolly as he slowly got pissed, and knocked over a glass
of red wine.  "Oh God, is it blood?"
     I said, and everyone thought that was hilarious.  See what I mean?
     Jane leaves early, but we virtually stay to the end.  Then John
drives us home.  He's been really freaked-out by all the straights, but
anything will freak him out because that's how he wants to be.  I sit
on Reginald's lap.  His hands are going all over the place, but I've
decided not to sleep with him in case I'm not clear yet.  So we drop
him off, and I kiss him tenderly and say I'll see him soon.  "Very
soon," he says, and our outstretched hands part in an exaggerated
romantic gesture.
     Back in the car John went on about how He couldn't believe it when
he saw Reginald.  Sure He was intelligent and successful, but to have
him for a boyfriend just didn't seem to be my scene.  I explained to
John that Reginald was my scene because his difference made him my
scene.
     He couldn't entirely appreciate this.  Straight people aren't the
only ones with locked minds!

     I was sitting in bed eating a buttered bun and reading, Darkness
at Noon when John burst into my room and said Grant was on the phone,
demanding to speak to me immediately.  I thought, too much, him phoning
me even though I had sent him a little note a few days ago to tell him
I was better.  So I say, "hello, what do you want?"  like he usually
says to me.
     "What are you doing?"  he demands.
     "I'm in bed, why?"
     "Never mind why," Grant says.  "What have you got?"
     "What do you want?"
     "Drugs, pills, sex books .  . . the lot," he says.  "Bring them
all with you and come over here immediately."
     I protested a bit.  "But Grant, it's one in the morning, and I've
got a terrible cold .  . . and I'm in bed."
     "You've got every fucking thing, my girl, but get over here just
the same."  So I said OK because it was worth it, even though I did
have a cold and was in bed.  I try to make myself look not too awful
and get various books and bottles together.  I thought, I'm going to
freak them out.  I'm going to keep my nightdress on and just put my
long coat and boots on.  I took clothes for tomorrow with me, and
taxied over there.
     The front door bell seemed to have disappeared.  There were just
two naked wires sticking out with a message under them saying: "Cross
wires to ring."  I managed that, and heard Grant flopping down the
stairs in his slippers.
     There are a lot of people sitting in Bill's room experimenting
with Wendy's tincture in cigarettes-she's got the kind without syrup
and it's difficult to drink because it's so full of raw medical
spirits.  I always get my prescription made up with a syrup into what
the groovy chemist on Shaftesbury Avenue calls a Cannabis Cocktail.
     Wendy and I managed to hustle ourselves onto prescription because
we found a doctor who is doing some sort of social research on pot
smokers and has sympathies in that direction.  Anyway, tincture is such
groovy stuff.  It's a higher high than smoking and less trouble.
     I empty my bags onto Grant's bed.  There is a bottle of Mandrax, a
bottle of Ritalin-these are uppers which haven't got an amphetamine
base-my bottle of tincture and two heavy green sleepers that my doctor
gave me in emergency one night when I swallowed too many uppers.  I
tell Grant that he could have the Mandrax and the green sleepers and a
few Ritalin, but not many as I like them.  While he's examining and
fiddling about with the bottles, he tells me to give him some tincture.
     I pour him out an overdose, -and tell him to drink it down in one.
     He looks at it a bit suspiciously, and grimaces at the taste.
     While all this is going on Spike leaps down the stairs.  Seeing so
much mind food all at the same time his eyes start darting about with
amazing rapidity.  "Hello, hello," he says, in a breathy, distended
voice.
     "What you got there, what is it?"  He looks pretty smashed
already.
     "Cannabis, says Grant officiously.
     "Oh cannabis, cannabis," Spike echoes all in a rush.
     "Yeah, cannabis."
     "Can I have .  . . can I have .  he cant quite finish the
sentence, he's so worked up.  Grant tells him it's mine, and he looks
at me hopefully.  I pour him some out, not as much as I gave Grant, and
he swallows it.
     "Look out there," Grant warns.  "Here he comes he can smell drugs
a mile away."
     "Hello," says Joe, pushing his face into the room.  "What's all
this?"
     "It's trincture of cannabis," Spike says so fast that he misses
the words.
     "Ooh, pull yourself together, you," Grant admonishes him.
     "It's cannabis," he tells Joe.
     "Ah cannabis Enctus," Joe says foolishly, smacking his lips.
     "Tincture," I say.
     "It's linctus .  . . I know it is," Joe argues.  "What does it
do?"
     I explained, and his eyes lit up.  "Can I have some?"  he asked.
     Spike was chatting away to Grant, asking him when the effects
started, and Grant was telling him to shut up and wait.  I poured some
out for Joe, more than Spike, but not quite as much as Grant.  They are
all demanding to know when something will happen, and I tell them to
wait about half an hour.  So they turn their attention to the pills
that Grant is sorting out into bottles with prescription labels on so
that he won't get busted.  They all want some, but Grant is being very
dictatorial and telling them he's in charge of all pills.  Joe wants to
take a downer, but we won't give him one.
     It's silly to take a downer with tincture.  We cant make up our
minds where to hide the bottles, so Grant stuffs them under the
mattress for the time being, and starts to play some records.  He's
very fond of old soul and blue beat, and insists on playing them at
full volume.  Spike disappears, muttering that nothing's happened yet,
and Joe says the same and can he have another spoonful.  I give him
one, though-he doesn't really need it because the tincture just hasn't
begun to hit him yet.
     People from Bill's room are complaining about Grant's choice of
records, but Grant just roars back, "I'm disc jockey tonight, so you'll
get what you're given."  I dramatically take off my coat and reveal my
nightgown, but neither Grant nor Joe seems surprised to see it.  I take
a couple of swigs from my bottle because I had a cold, and I'm sure
tincture is good for colds.  Then I take a few more swigs for luck and
because I want to get smashed.
     Grant and Joe are complaining that they still haven't felt
anything yet.  I try to explain that you don't really notice it coming
up on you until suddenly you know you're stoned, and after an hour or
two, if you have taken enough, you start getting the-se strange
physical things happening as well.  Joe asks if it's trippy, and I tell
him that it is a bit.  Grant's ears prick up when I say this and he
shouts, "I'm not having any of that .  . ."  I say "It's too late now,
Grant."
     "I'll fight it," he says confidently.
     "Do what you like," I say, because I know.
     So there we are.  Joe is sitting against one wall, Grant is
sitting against the other and I'm sitting between them.  Grant decides
that he is going to give us a light show, which means that he takes out
his orange bulb and puts in a blue and red one.  Then he starts going
through all his old singles and putting on these really ancient soul
records.  Joe is supposed to guess which club in Nottingham each one
reminds him of.
     Grant used to be Nottingham's top DJ, and was called Sir Grant.
     Joe manages to identify the Oodle Boodle Club in Grampton Street,
and he and Grant start giggling and reniscing.  We're all giggling now
and I ask Joe if anything is happening.  He says yeah, his face and
voice one big smile.
     Grant springs up again and shows us how they used to dance when
Relation were a real old thumping soul group.  But there's not much
room on the mattress and he keeps tripping over our legs.  Finally he
cant do it -any more, and he flops down on the bed.  I ask him if he is
feeling anything but he won't admit it.  Then he jerks up and gives us
both a weird look.
     "What's the matter with him?"  I ask Joe.
     "She wants to know what's wrong, Grant," Joe says.
     "I've got to check something," Grant is almost speaking to
himself.
     "Check what?"  I ask Joe.
     "I've got to check Bill's room," Grant says.
     "Why?"  I ask.
     "Because he's a bloody fire hazard, that's why!"
     Grant struggled to the door and looked back.  "And he has to be
watched constantly."  He tore off up the stairs shouting out Bill's
name.  Joe and I turned off the sounds and listened.
     Grant banged on Bill's door very vigorously.  Getting no answer he
called out, "Bill .  . . Bill .  . . answer me immediately "I'm down
here, Grant," we heard Bill's quiet voice answer from the basement.
     "Down where?"  Grant shouts furiously.
     "In Spike's room.  We're all down here now."
     "And I'm up here," Grant roared.
     "What's wrong, Grant?"
     "The bloody door is locked, and for all we know your room is in
ashes."
     "MY room .  . ."  Bill's voice grew -closer and somewhat panicky,
"what's wrong with my room?"  Bill is always setting fire to mattresses
and having books burned.  He has a horror of going up in flames one
night.  Spike's frantic voice poked its way in.  "What's up, what's up,
what's happening?"
     "I can smell smoke.."  Bill cried, and we heard him clambering up
the stairs.
     "Get up here and open this door before we all go up.  in flames."
     Grant rattled the door handle futilely, the panic beginning to
grip them all.  Up they came, stumbling and falling with Spike giving
out little yelps of excitement.  We hear them open the door after a lot
of fumbling, and they go inside.  Then muffled voices resonate as they
stumble about checking Bill's room, and we lose interest.
     I feel a bit funny being alone with Joe.  I still like him, but no
more than I like Grant, so that's cool.  Joe has gone into a deep
reverie, and when Grant returns (apparently satisfied that Bill's room
is OK) Joe -suddenly decides that Grant will be the face of 1970.  In
fact, he adds emphatically, he knows Grant will be the face of 1970,
because Grant has it in him to make it.  And I have a sudden shattering
thought that, wow, maybe Joe's right.  He's such a way-out creature he
might really be something.
     Then Grant, after a deep mini-think, says decisively, "I'm only
being me.  Though of course, it's -not the underneath me I'm being,
it's the external me."  He pauses and considers this statement.
     "Though if that's how I act, it must be the underneath me that's
making me act the external me."  And then he goes into this long thing
about his external me and his underneath me.  Joe nods wisely and says
he'd sussed him out.
     Then he puts his hand on my leg and says he'd sussed me out as
well.
     Grant says he'd sussed Joe out long ago, and that he'd sussed me
out as well.  And I think, this is terrible.  Because.  I haven't
sussed anyone out.  Here were these crazy uneducated guys who reckon
they have sussed everyone out, and here was I, not presuming to have
sussed anyone out.
     Grant tells me to shut up and get back into my corner, though I
haven't moved or spoken.
     Grant had put an LP on.  After a while I noticed that Grant's and
Joe's legs met and it was like I was sitting in a triangle.  That's
what it was anyway, with Joe the past and Grant in the present.  I was
seeing things a bit differently now, but kept getting disturbed by both
of them.  Every time Joe spoke to me he put his hand on my leg, and
Grant was having difficulty keeping upright and kept flopping across
me.
     It was like time was confused and I couldn't remember who I was
supposed to be with.
     Then Wendy appeared like a phantom in the doorway and asked if
anyone had any change.  This took a few minutes to sink in, though
Grant said no immediately, because he says it's always easier to say
no.  She drifted off, and what seemed almost immediately, she returned.
     Apparently the meter was running out.  Grant and Joe made no
effort to help, so I had to lean right across Joe to get at my purse.
     Then I had to lean right across Grant to see in the light what was
in it.  I found something she wanted, and had to lean over Joe again to
put my purse back.  Joe was just lying there, digging the record, and I
sat back and watched him through my fringe.  I wondered if I still
fancied him, and found I did.  Then I examined Grant and found that I
dug him too, and I thought about this situation.  But it wasn't hanging
me up or anything.
     It was just so groovy being stoned with two people I liked so
much.
     The record ended, and nobody could say anything until Joe decided
to put another one on.  He didn't really know what he was putting on,
and when he came to sit down again he sort of misjudged.  Instead of
sitting on the bed he disappeared through the curtain onto the floor.
     He sat there with his legs sticking out until the curtain fell on
top of him.  We all had to get the curtain up again, and somehow we
managed to pin it back to the ceiling and flopped back down on the
mattress in relief.  Then the record stopped and Grant had to lean
across to put another one on.  The volume was still turned up, and
people from Spike's room were still shouting abuse at the records.  But
their complaints were getting weaker now, they must have been as stoned
as us.  This time it's a Dionne Warwick LP, which I wouldn't normally
dig so much, but listening to these great rolling drums I was drawn in.
     . Spike broke it up by sticking his head through the door and
saying he was starving and was going to cook.  Joe said he was hungry
too, but made no effort to move.  I lay back on my pillow, and Grant
put his head on my shoulder.  With my legs outstretched I found that
one of my big toes was touching Joe's leg.  Somehow I couldn't move it,
though I wanted to, and after a bit it really started burning, like it
was getting bigger and filling up with liquid fire.  I wondered if
Joe's leg was burning from my toe, and tried to pull my toe away.  But
I thought it might look a bit suggestive if I start wiggling my toe
-against his leg, so I left it there, flaming away.
     Joe was trying to read the cover of the Dionne Warwick LP but the
light was too dim.  Whatever position he moved into he couldn't see,
and finally he fell back defeated.  Then his nose started twitching, he
could smell Spike's cooking.
     After a few minutes it became too much for him.  He scrambled
across our legs and down the stairs, to crash into Spike, whose eyes
were right out on two little sticks now.  He was babbling something
about two fuzz cars being outside the house.  We think about all the
drugs lying about, but our paranoia only reaches the suggestion stage.
     No action to hide things can be made, we're so smashed.  Joe goes
off on a reconnaissance and comes back saying that Spike must be
hallucinating because he cant see any fuzz cars.  They both descend to
the kitchen, still arguing about it.
     I'm finding I can hardly talk now.  I'm all inside my mind, which
has taken over my body.  Grant must be feeling the same because he
hasn't spoken for a long time.  He's just sitting there with his eyes
propped wide open: listening to the sounds or maybe listening to his
thoughts.
     And I start wondering whether Grant thinks like he behaves, or
whether he works out how he will behave in his thoughts.  I'm not
really working anything out when he pulls me over and starts kissing
me.  But my cold is so bad that I cant breathe properly.  I have to
snort and gasp for air out of the corner of my mouth.  But I do my best
because it's groovy, and we're getting very involved with our tongues
when we realize the door is open.
     I get up to go for a pee, and when I come back and lock the door I
find Grant is already in bed.  As I've already got my nightgown on I
don't have to go through the scene of arranging my clothes at the end
of the bed.  I get straight into bed and I'm vaguely wondering what
will happen.  I mean with all our various afflictions and medical
orders to abstain we should really discuss the matter and make an
effort to be sensible.
     We start kissing again.  Then Grant's hand wanders down my leg,
and I'm wondering whether he's going to touch me there.  I also wonder
if he's wondering if I've still got what I had.  But anyway I get hold
of him and I wonder if he's still got what he had, whatever it was.
     But nobody says anything, and after a while it becomes so nice
that I stop wondering anything.  It doesn't matter who's-got what.  I
couldn't blow a scene like this apart with a reasonable discussion on
whether we should or shouldn't.  He doesn't seem to be wondering
anything anyway, he's got his hand right inside me, and then We're
making it properly.
     We're leaping about doing this and that and really getting into
it, when the radio falls off the wall on top of us.
     It comes as an incredible surprise, because we're in another
world.  It could have spoiled everything.  I'm told it's my fault and
abused in the usual manner as Grant struggles to get it back into
position.  It looked very precarious and crooked, and I said, "I won't
be able to sleep with that up there."  After all, it hangs over my side
of the bed.
     "Serves you right if it falls on you," says Grant, grabbing me
again.
     He seems to be able to turn sex on and off at will.
     Everything becomes instant groovy again.  I'm on top of him and he
makes the first remark he's ever made while making it with me.  He
says, "Not too fast."  I thought, does he mean he's going to come too
soon, or that he's enjoying it too much to let it finish?  So we start
doing all these slow motion things that seem to go on for -hours.
     Suddenly I'm flung on my back and he's on top of me.  He's really
doing it now.
     Then something unusual happens.  Normally when I'm making it with
Grant he goes to great lengths to satisfy me, but he always makes me
plate him until he comes-either because he's being careful (we've never
discussed whether I take the pill) or because he digs being plated.  He
only came inside me once and that was the first time we made it, and I
didn't really notice because I was thinking of Joe.  So I'm not sure
what's going to happen this time until it happens-he comes right inside
reel At that moment it was groovy -I felt I had scored a victory-but
when he rolled off and, my mind cleared a bit, it really hit me what
had happened.
     As I wasn't supposed to make it this month on account of the clap,
I had decided to stop taking the pill as an extra deterrent.  But being
so.  stoned I had completely and utterly forgotten.  I'd become so hung
up on what I was going to catch and what he was going to catch, I'd
just forgotten.  I'm so used to taking the pill all the time.  So I lie
there thinking oh, fucking hell.  And then I have to tell him, because
I have to tell people things after making love.  I said, "Oh .  . ."
     "What is it now?"  Grant says, resuming instant aggression.
     This is the way he is after being virtually a normal lover.
     Though with him it's normality with a difference because it's
Grant being normal, and it's so unusual for Grant to be normal that
it's abnormal-if you see what I mean.  Maybe I'm privileged to have him
like this, though I've no idea what he's like with other chicks.
     "I've got something to tell you "What have you given me this
time?"
     he snaps.
     "It's more what you have given me .  . ."
     "What's this?"  He was very suspicious, up on his elbow, glaring
at me.
     "It's nothing to do with diseases," I said.  "It's just that this
is the worst time of the month."
     "So?"  Dubiously.
     "So I haven't been taking the pill this month.  I didn't think
there was any point, did I?"
     "And what does that mean?"  Ominously this time.
     "Possibly and quite probably, it means that I might be pregnant."
     The response was much as I expected.  "I don't want to know.
     Don't tell me things like that, I just don't want to know," all of
it roared in a single breath.
     "At least I can tell you, cant I, Grant?"
     "No you bloody well cant.
     It's entirely your own fault.  I've got enough problems."
     "You cant mean that," I said, egging him on.
     "I bloody well do.  And the sooner you believe me the better."
     "You're not like that."  I wondered what all these problems were
that Grant seemed to be burdened with.
     "Yes I am.  You just get rid of it and don't bother me.  And it's
no use running to me in six months with a fat belly.  I 'don't want to
know," he warned.
     So I dropped it for the moment.  It wasn't hanging me up, because
I didn't know if anything was going to happen yet.  I changed my tack.
     "Will you take me to the park on Saturday, Grant?"  Relation were
playing at one of the free concerts, and I rather wanted to go with
him.
     "No," he barked immediately.  Obviously I had chalked up a few
black marks.
     "Why not?"  I asked.
     "Because I'm taking another young lady, that's why."
     Now that did blow my mind.  Any other reason for not taking me I
would have accepted, but another chick .  . . no, no, I couldn't
believe it!
     "Who are you going with?"  I demanded furiously.
     "I'm taking Patty."  Patty is Roland Johns' secretary.
     "Why are you taking her?"
     "Because she asked me to .  . . and that's not all," he added
smugly.  "That's not the whole of it."  He was really making me squirm
with jealousy.
     "What's not all?"  I asked.
     "I'm going away with her to the country afterwards."  He waited
with satisfaction for my reaction.
     "Why?"  I asked, sulkily and very uptight.
     "I'm taking her because she asked me to and I like her.
     I'm going to have an affair with her," he decided.
     "I don't want you to go with her," I said dolefully.
     Things were getting out of hand, this was really bringing me down.
     I insisted that I was coming to the park with him, and he said:
"That hurt, didn't it?"
     "Yes," I said.
     "I know, because I could feel my words hitting you, pow, pow,
crashing into you like great rocks of pain.  That'll teach you to make
me uptight .  . . now go and sulk."
     I had retired in silence to the other side of the bed, trying to
work out what was happening.  Was Grant going to have a scene with this
chick?  It could be possible, he saw so much of her at the office.  I
wondered what she looked like.  But I couldn't believe it.  Maybe he
was making it up to hurt me.
     He liked watching me squirm.
     "Aren't you crying yet?"  he asked pitilessly.  "You should be
crying by now."
     "No, I'm not crying," I said, in a disinterested voice.
     "Well, you should be," he snapped.
     "If you have a scene with her, I shant come round here any more."
     "Good," he said.
     Shit, I thought, I never get anywhere.  Grant then launched into
this great thing about his power scene.  I couldn't tell if he was
serious or not.  I just don't know where I am with this guy most of the
time.
     "When I'm the face of 1970 don't expect you'll be around," he
rubbed in.
     "Though I suppose I might call you up sometimes."  This last
remark was a mistake, it was a hint that he hadn't meant any of the
previous nastiness.  I told him he was lying, which he denied
furiously.  I don't think either of us knew what he was lying about.
     Then he said he never told the truth anyway, so where were we
then?  I couldn't cope.
     I just supposed that all I could do was to rely on Grant's
actions, not his words.  Then I told him that Wendy had repeated to me
what he had said to her in the kitchen, about me being a drag because I
was never rude to him when he's so rude to me.
     "That's right," he said.  "I knew it would get back to you and
make you uptight.  I like making you.  uptight, but why don't you get
rude?
     You're never rude, -and that's a drag, because I'm rude.  So that
means we're incompatible.  There you are, we're incompatible.  It'll
never work."  He liked this deduction, and went over it several times.
     "Well, stop saying things to Wendy, because she tells me, and I
don't want to know if they're nasty."
     "That's why I do it."
     "But why?  Aren't you nasty enough to me, without other people
telling me what you think?"
     "I just want to keep reminding you, in case you get too sure of
yourself.  It's good for you to be uptight, and it am-uses me.  So
there.  Keep me amused -and you're all right."
     "You're a bastard," I said.
     "Yes, I am, aren't I."  he agreed.  "Some of us are made to be
nice, others are all nastiness .  . . that's me, all nastiness.
     It's easier to be, nice than nasty.  But it's the nasty ones who
make it.  And if I'm going to be the face of 1970 then I've got a lot
of nastiness to fill in."
     "You're out of your mind," I said.  But did I mean it?
     "Good," he said, "keep thinking like that."
     "You don't want me to think that you're all nasty, do you, Grant?"
     "Course I do.  Knowing me to be nasty you expect me to be nasty,
and I have to be nasty if I'm going to be the face of 1970.  Anyway,
I'm going to die in 18 months, so what's there to be nice about?"
     "You're lying," I said, but I wasn't sure what he was doing.
     "Of course I am," he said.  "I lie all the time."
     "Are you lying now?"
     "Yes."
     "Is that a lie?"
     "Yes."
     "Were you lying about Patty?"
     "Yes."
     "Oh.  thank you Grant," I said, falling into false security.
     "I knew you didn't mean it."
     "I don't mean anything."
     "Well, I do, and that means a lot to me" "Anything to keep you
happy."
     "Thank you Grant."
     "Anything to bring you up."
     "That's nice," I said.  "And can I come to the park?"
     "Of course you can."
     "Thank you, Grant."
     "But you cant come with me.  I'm taking Patty.  Dut I'm not
stopping you coming, am I?"
     "But I thought "I know what you thought, and I wanted you to think
that.
     I watched your mind falling into the trap.  You'll never learn,
will you?"  And he looked at me triumphantly.
     I couldn't take any more.  I was defeated again, and couldn't cope
with all this shushing.  I hadn't got anywhere, and my head felt like a
huge Zeppelin ready to take off.  I lay back to.  sleep and got
involved in this weird physical thing.
     My legs felt as if they were suspended two feet above my body, and
my chest felt like an iron box.  Wondering if I was going to be able to
keep on breathing, I fell asleep.  There was only one interruption
during the remainder of the night.
     That was when Grant's cardboard pussycat fell down on top of us.
     It woke us up and we peered at it, peered at each other
suspiciously, and then went back to sleep.

     We woke up at 10:30.  At least that was the time when Grant
prodded me awake and made me go outside and ring Tim.  Ruby had Grant's
alarm clock because He had a lot to do this morning.  I got back into
bed as Grant stomped about getting dressed.  I'm never very hilarious
in the mornings and always wait until Grant is out of the way before
getting up.  I have an appointment with my solicitor at
half-past-eleven.  It's about a E 250 phone bill from the Rome Festival
days-calls to America and Europe-that I have been lumbered with.
     And I don't think I'm going to make it.  I decide I'll phone him
later with an excuse.
     I lie and watch Grant getting dressed.  He's wearing cord levis, a
navy shirt and a short sleeveless pullover this morning.  He goes in
for mini-sweaters quite a bit, they make him look very boyish.  He has
a brass chain around his waist with his keys hanging from it, like a
jailer.  He puts on his battered white gymshoes which I saw him in the
first time, only now I see they are in fact baseball boots.  He's very
proud of them and polishes them lovingly.  Then he stands up says, "See
you," and goes out.  I don't answer.  It takes another half-hour before
he finally leaves the house.  Ruby has -overslept and Grant's shouting
at him and having to rearrange the morning's assignments.  Bill has to
be woken up and I hear a lot of arguing about who's going to go to
Sound City.
     Finally Grant departs, -announcing to anyone who's interested that
he's going to have a bath at the office because he might catch bugs
from the bath here.  I lie there for a while.  I still feel stoned this
morning, but in a different way.  I feel far away from everything
that's happened and yet I'm still thinking about it.  I think my mind
has been a bit blown by last night's conversations and I find it hard
to believe they actually took place.  But I know they did, and thinking
about them I just lie there shaking my head in wonderment at the things
that go on inside Grant's head.  Would I ever work- him out?  Was he
like this with other chicks?  But there were no chicks around that he'd
pulled for me to check- with, and the others in the group wouldn't be
any help because they'd known him so long that his eccentricities
didn't strike them as anything unusual.
     I noticed that there was a writing pad on his table and decided to
check out his letters for clues.  I started to rifle and gathered quite
a few together.  The first was a letter from his mum.  It read: "Dear
Grant, Here are the things you asked for.  I couldn't send a tin of
soup through the post, so I've sent a packet.  It comes out just the
same if you follow the instructions carefully.  Make sure your saucepan
is clean because I'm sure there is a lot of food poisoning in London."
     Oh, isn't that sweet and mumlike, I thought.  The rest of the
letters were all written on small sheets of pink notepaper in this
really childish handwriting, and they all said the same sort of things,
starting, "Darling Grant, I do miss you so much, it was a pity you
couldn't come and see me at the weekend.  But I expect you are very
busy.  I long to be alone with you for just a few hours .  . ."  And,
"Darling Grant, I wonder if you will be coming to see me next weekend.
     I do love you.  I love you very much.  I cant forget the lovely
times we spent together before you went away, and I'm sure you cant
either.
     . ."
     "And, Darling Grant, I do wish I could come to London to be with
you, just for a little while.  You would, of course, have to send me
the money, but wouldn't it be nice to stay together for a bit.  We
never seem to have more than a few hours together."  And one that said,
"Darling Grant, I'm sorry to hear about your illness.  I wonder what it
could be?  (I wonder too, darling.) Is there anything else wrong,
Darling?  Your letters seem to have changed lately.  If anything is
bothering you, please tell me darting, you know I would do anything for
you - - ."  Christ, I thought, what is this?  There were various
references to a child called Derek, but nothing that pointed to Grant
being the father.  She was obviously keen to get to London, but didn't
seem to be having much luck.
     I couldn't believe what I was reading.  These letters were so bad
and uncool, and the spelling was all wrong.  Grant indulging illiterate
and pubescent love letters?  What's happening?  He wouldn't stand any
mushy talk from me, yet here was all this drooling nonsense from some
provincial chick called Susan.  Did he really dig her?  Love her even?
     How could he stand all that mindless nibbisli, and what was he
writing back to her?  Maybe she's fantastic to look at, but anyone who
writes letters like that couldn't be-they wouldn't have the mind to get
it together to look- groovy.  Perhaps that's the type of chick Grant
really likes, and I remember his criticism of my "hippy" clothes.
     It fascinated me, and I lay there for about an hour trying to work
it all out.  Someone came down the stairs and started making a
telephone call.  It was Wyatt, calling up some small town near
Nottingham.
     He says "Hello, Mrs.  Roberts, it's Wyatt here .  . . how's Dad?"
     and he kept having to push sixpences in.
     "Hello, Mrs.  Roberts, it's Wyatt," he says igain.
     "No, Wyatt, Mrs. Roberts .  . . No, Mrs. Roberts (patiently)
it's Malcolm, only my name is Wyitt now.  . ."
     "Yes, Mrs. Roberts, Malcolm Richards, Mrs. Roberts and the
sixpences kept pouring in.  He seems to have sorted Mrs. Roberts out
and continues: "I've seen these shirts in a shop on the corner here.
     They're only 25 bob, each, and I'm wondering if Dad would like a
couple?"
     Mrs. Roberts must have said yes, Dad would like a couple, because
Wyatt says, "OK, I'll get a couple and bring them up as soon as I can."
     Then he rings off and pads quietly back to his room.  Too much, I
thought.
     Intimate confession day now!  Then I hear Bill announcing that
there was coffee for anyone who came up to his room.  I decide to blow
work out today, and phone to say I'm overcome by my cold.  Then, still
in my nightgown, I go up to Bill's room.  I've got to consult Wendy
about these letters.
     She doesn't seem surprised, -and points out to me that the type of
people The Relation would have known before coming to London would all
be like this Susan in varying degrees.  I supposed so, and looked at
Bill to.  see how he was taking this.
     But his eyes were studiously blank.  He was being cool.  I hadn't
suspected that Grant might have a chick in the provinces.  That he
might be a totally different person to a chick less groovier than me-a
chick he confided 'in, confessed to, and was affectionate with-really
intrigued me.  I asked Bill if he had seen this chick of Grant's.
     "I don't know anything about her," he said defensively.
     "I don't want to know the details," I explained.  "I just want to
know what she looks like.  is she pretty, is she groovy, is she clever
(she couldn't be, but anyway) is she funny?  You know, things like
that.
     You can tell me, surely."
     "Look" Bill said.  "Honestly, none of us have seen her.  I saw her
once, very briefly, about two years ago, but I cant remember what she
looked like at all."
     What a drag it was not being able to find out about this home-town
chick.  Perhaps Grant kept her locked away somewhere.  All the same I
wasn't too pleased at the thought of competition from a chick like
this, and if this was really Grant's scene, what was I doing around?
     Or was London beginning to change his standards and did I fit in
with his new scene?  He cant have met anyone like me in Nottiniham,
maybe he found me a novelty.  That was cool, as long as the novelty
didn't wear off.  I don't have much to contribute to the breakfast
conversation I'm too busy with questions and answers inside my head.
     Then the front -door slams, it's Grant coming back, and I'm not
dressed or anything.
     I hear him going into his room and, finding it still a shambles,
he comes up to Bill's room to investigate.  He looks in disapprovingly
and announces that if Ruby hasn't got it together by next week he'll
have to go.  We all nod dumbly in agreement and he goes out again.  A
minute later there is a roar from the landing: "Come down here
immediately and tidy this room!"  Wendy and Bill giggle as I obediently
disappear.  I get chastised for not being dressed and not having the
room tidied for his return.  "I didn't know you were coming back, did
I?"  I complained, as I scrambled about straightening out the bed.
     Then I get dressed and Grant flops down and starts going through
today's chitties.  "Cant sanction all these taxi fares of Joe's," he
mutters.
     That done, he starts reading Billy Liar, turning the pages over so
quickly I cant believe he's actually read them.  Looking up he sees
that I am about to go, and says "You're a good bed maker, I'll give you
that."
     "Thank you, Grant."
     "You'd better go now," he said quickly.
     "Why?"  It was obvious I was going anyway.
     "Because if you're, going .  . . go .
     "Why?"  I insisted.
     "Because I'm feeling sexy," and he picked up his book again.
     Grant has been going in for afternoon plating scenes, it's
becoming a sort of ritual.
     "Well, I'm going," I said.
     "Go on then," he said, not looking up.
     I lean over to kiss him goodbye thinking shall I or shall't I not,
and decide I shall because he puts his arms round me and kisses me.
     I'm still having problems with any breathing, so I have to hold my
breath.
     Grant gets uh and shuts the door.  It wouldn't do for anyone to
see him being affectionate with me.  all they see of our relationship
is Grant being aggressive and domineering, and they probably think I
sleep on top of the television or something.
     After I plate him Grant lies there making satisfied sounds and I
move up for a verbal skirmish.  I ask him to take me to the park again.
     This time he's all mellow and reasonable and explains that he
really cant because he is taking Patty from the office because she
asked him to.
     "And are you going away with her for the weekend?"  I ask.
     "No," he says.  "How can I?  We're playing in Sunderland on
Sunday."
     "But you said .  . . Why did you say you were?"
     "That was to punish you."
     "Punish me for what?"
     "Blowing my mind like that."  He gave me a hostile look.
     "You're never to say things like that again."
     Blown Grant's mind?  When did that happen?  I wondered.
     "What did I say?"  I asked.
     "I just don't want to know," he went on, not really hearing me.
     "What are you talking about, Grant?"
     "All that about you not taking the pill, that's what I'm on about.
     Sitting up in bed the minute after we've made it and saying that
you're pregnant .  . . you cant pull that.  one on me."  He was getting
all worked up again.  He's really hung up about it, I thought, it's
really annoyed him or something.  And he went on about having enough
problems and not wanting any more responsibilities.  However, if I went
ahead and had the kid he'd like to see it-but no money, mind you.  He
was talking as though I really was pregnant; as though the hint had
become fact.  "I'm saying up to run away.  I'm going to live in the
middle of the Gobi Desert until all my hangups have blown away and then
I'll come back and sneer at all you losers and tell you that you don't
know where anything is at."  I asked him how he was going to be the
face of 1970 living in the middle of the Gobi Desert, and he said he'd
fit that in as well.  Then I told him he had a conscience and that he
was only being aggressive to cover it up.
     This he denied furiously.  He kept telling me to get rid of "it,"
but "it," didn't really exist yet, except in his head as another hangup
to be dealt with.  When he questioned me about what I was going to do
about "it" I gave vague unsatisfactory replies, enjoying his display of
guilty bad humor.
     "You bring me nothing but bloody troubles," he grumbled.
     "You cant get out of it by saying things like that," I said.
     "Why weren't you taking the pill, anyway?"
     "Well, I wasn't supposed to have sex this month, was I?"
     "I don't know.  It's not my fault."
     "Who got me to come over here?"  I asked.
     He ignored my question.  "You're -not still dosed up, are you?"
     "I don't think so.  I should be cured .  . . they say I am, but
they keep telling me no sex.  That's why I didn't bother with the pill
this month."
     "So we've both got VD again .  . . is that it?"
     "I know what I had .  . ."  I said, "but I never did find out what
your complaint was."
     "I have something wrong with my bladder," Grant said.
     And I thought how unromantic.  "It's called pestering."  Here was
my old friend pestering again.  I got a bit of an explanation this
time, apparently it's something to do with the liver.
     Grant was told not to drink alcohol or coffee, and not to make
love because it would send his blood pressure, up, which in turn would
strain his kidneys.  All very strange, but at least it wasn't venereal.
     I put the bottle of tincture into my bag, because I'm really going
now.
     "And don't bring that stuff round again," Grant says.
     "I turn on and end up catching VD and becoming a father.  Don't
bring that poison round here again, it's nothing but trouble.

     It is a week since I last saw Grant.  Maybe he thinks I'm being
cool by not calling him or anything, but in fact we have been very busy
at The Other Kingdom getting ready for The Doors and The Jefferson
airplane to big West Coast groups who are coming over to do a couple of
concerts at The Big Tower for us.  It's to be their only appearance in
England, so there'll be a lot of press coverage as well as television,
and everyone on the pop scene wilt be there.
     Although I haven't seen Grant, I know what he's been doing because
Wendy keeps me informed.  Grant has been getting at me.  He's really
hung up about me being pregnant, and keeps cornering Wendy in the
kitchen and asking her all kinds of probing questions about my age, my
men, and how long I've been pregnant.  She has told him about Davey
being in the States, and how I write to him, but she won't tell him who
I go out with on the side and denies that I am pregnant, which just
infuriates him.  He has announced that he is not going to speak to me
again and has rubbed my telephone number off the wall by the phone.
     Then he rang me up and dramatically told me that my number was off
the wall and out of his life.  It would be a long time before he called
me again.
     Anyway, I am too busy with the concert to bother with this right
now.
     The hangups are terrific-tickets late from the printers and a lot
of concentrated publicity to be done.  This chick Lira Bellamy and I
are in charge of the press and guest list,.  and the number of people
trying to hustle free tickets is unbelievable.  Lira doesn't work for
The Kingdom, she organizes relief schemes for the underground and
paints enormous pictures of chick's cunts in her spare time.  She is
very groovy to took at and is frighteningly together and articulate.
     She has a lot of powerful connections and is very involved in all
the wheeling and dealing over these concerts.
     I was enjoying the work in getting the concerts together.  I was
meeting lots of important people and talking to newspapers and things.
     When The Jefferson arrived I went along with Jason to the
reception at The Revolution with my best gear on.  Some photographers
stopped me at the door to take pictures, saying my outfit was the best
they had seen yet.  this impressed Jason, and gave me an ego-boost into
the bargain.
     Inside there were a lot of people I knew and more that I didn't,
so I circulated.  People I didn't recognize, but felt I ought to, kept
coming up to me and trying to con free tickets to the concerts.
     Reginald was there, though I couldn't think why, and we spoke for
about ten minutes.  But I was up on him because this was my scene and
he was really only a spectator.  I didn't want to get involved with
him, because I don't like mixing scenes.  He wouldn't stand a chance
with me if he was on this scene.  I dig him because he's involved in
different things that I know little about.
     so I move on and bump into Harold Grimes, a young intense-looking
reporter I've met before.  'He's an alcohol head and specializes in
underground groups and folk music, and writes for Hit Maker, your
actual pop paper.  He's got longish dark hair and is plump and
northern.  He's a bit pissed and he -grabs me-it was obvious what he
was after.  As I couldn't see anything else of status to pull I decided
it would be cool.
     I mean, although he's not groovy to look at, he is Harold Grimes.
     So I let him talk me into going back to his Earls Court pad, which
is rather respectable and shared with the manager of a big blues group.
     I was -disappointed to find that he didn't have a groovy sound
system, just a useless little -record player and all those incredible
free records So we sat and watched the television with this manager guy
just sitting there while Harold went in for a lot of premaking it
fondling and noisy kissing.  Every time this other guy left the room
Harold had me virtually undressed, and when the guy came back in we
stopped gyrating and sat there as though nothing was happening at all.
     But I was finding it all a bit irritating-and besides, I was
interested in the Chicago riots which were showing on the telly.  So I
said mind my trousers and did anyone want any tincture?  They said no
thank you, which surprised me, and then they said they never touched
the stuff, which surprised me even more.  So I got stoned alone, which
made me feel rather foolish.  They kept making ribald jokes and
laughing knowingly at my condition, which I thought I was concealing
rather well.  Except I was laughing at things that they weren't, which
made them laugh at me.  Finally, this other guy went to bed.  and I was
alone with Harold.  He dived for me, and rather than go through another
clothing struggle I said, "Let's get into bed."  He said, all jolly,
"Just like a woman to be practical."
     "Yes , well, it's my clothes I'm thinking about," I said, and laid
the strained objects on the back of the sofa.
     Interesting face he may have had, but stripped to his pot belly he
caused me a lot of doubts.  He was enthusiastic in bed, and kept asking
me if I'd come.  I told him I never answered that question, but not to
worry.  Looking into his green eyes made me forget his silly body.
     Next day I went to the free concert The Jefferson gave in
Parliament Hill Fields.  It was nice except that it rained.  Later I
joined up with Harold and went to The Doors reception at the ICA.  He
was hustling around trying to interview Jim Morrison, who is the singer
and main attraction of the group.
     He's a tall, black-leathered beauty, a sort of updated Elvis on
acid.
     It was gruesome the way the cameras followed him around.  He was
like a worm on the end of a pin, wriggling this way and that, trying to
avoid the scene as much as possible.  And his eyes were as dead as
ashes.  I was a bit taken aback by it all, and the fact that it was
taking place in the middle of this Cybernetic Serendipity
exhibition-weird squeaking machines moving about-didn't help.
     As soon as that was over I split with -Harold and Jim and two.
     others to a terrible little club called The Case, which is always
-full of musicians and their managers, and chicks and pop people on the
make.
     It was a drinking scene, no music or dancing, and everyone stood
pressed against each other talking business or being crude and -getting
pissed.  I was getting a bit dubious about my image, being seen around
with Harold Grimes.  OK, so he was influential and known on the pop
scene, but he was plump and wore straight clothes-and not even good
straight clothes.  And he did very uncool things like playing football
for the Hit Maker against the Show Biz Eleven.
     As a person I was beginning to find his mind dragged heavily with
lower class hangups.  He strongly disapproved of hippies and drugs and
made a lot of nasty remarks about the underground which seemed directed
against me personally.
     He considered I was representative of "that way of life" and -kept
bugging me with explanations about why we saturated our minds with
drugs and didn't go out to work.  This made me extremely annoyed,
because I too find these type of people a complete waste of time, and
for this stupid little northern shit to class me with them was just
being unreasonable and narrow-minded.
     I don't really consider myself a hippy at all, not if it means
that I go around with bare feet and matted hair.  I have my boots
hand-made and go to one of the most expensive hair salons in London.  I
turn on to groove, not to escape the way some people do, especially
alcohol heads like him.  Saturation point is when one trip is like
another and you cant remember how many you've had.  I can remember all
my trips clearly, and I don't lie on my back saying wow, too much, and
freaking over clouds in the sky-although I did cry in Regents Park once
because it looked so beautiful and tears came instead of words.  I
work, and consider I have a sort of career, and to have a career you
have to be together, happy or not.  And I'm together because I can get
things done.
     I told him all this patiently, but he couldn't seem to grasp any
distinction between people on the scene.  A hippy is a hippy is a nippy
was his formula and his mind was clamped to it tighter than a limpet.
     He told me about Uncle Bert and what a hard his family had had in
the margarine forties.
     Then he'd had all these hustles getting out of the ledger clerk
scene and working for Hit Maker.  I admired him for this, I just wished
his mind had come along too.
     Anyway, there I was at The Case really hating it, and Jim the
flatmate was going on about birds being slags.  He said that if he
liked a bird he never slept with her the first night he took her out.
     I said it was nonsense to say that if a girl slept with you on the
first night she was automatically a slag.
     And anyway, what was a slag?  He said he could tell a slag, and
that I wasn't a slag and not to get him wrong.  For example, if he took
me home with him and slept with me he wouldn't think that I was a slag;
some were, others weren't.
     What sort of a line was this?  Come and sleep with me-I won't
think badly of you.  I told him that he'd better open his eyes -and
look about, because chicks these days didn't have to put up with scenes
like that any more, not unless they were clearly mindless.  There were
enough men around who realized that chicks had minds, bodies, needs and
roles to play just like them, even though there would always be
small-minded idiots like him who'd put down chicks who enjoyed being
fucked without any guilt to hang them up.  I told him we could do
without guys like this because they didn't know where anything was at,
and He got all offende(.  I wasn't enjoying myself at all, so I split
without saying anything to Harold.
     I next saw him when I was sitting at the press desk with Lira on
the -night of the second concert.  he came capering up wearing some
baggy cord jeans and a windbreaker and he had a cowboy bat on-he
thought it made him look funny.
     After making a lot of beery jokes he went inside, and I felt quite
relieved.
     Lira suddenly started asking me questions about him.  She knew I
was having a scene with him because things like that get around.  When
she said that she considered me such a groovy chick that anyone I went
out with must be groovy too, my mind was somewhat blown.  I had always
considered her the most impressive person on the scene, and for her to
say that anyone I go out with was groovy was a weird and unexpected
compliment.  What she was really saying was that she dug my guys and
now she wanted Harold.  I was amazed, because if he wasn't my scene he
could hardly be hers.
     Though on second thoughts she might enjoy turning Harold away from
alcohol because she digs the crusade bit.  But that was no reason for
wanting him.  Maybe she wanted him because I had had him and she wanted
to suss out my scene at close quarters.  But why choose him?  I had had
so many other better people.  Though I certainly wouldn't have liked it
if she had gone after someone I really liked, because Lira is just
about the strongest competition you can have.  Anyway, I told her to go
ahead, I'd blow him out.  And that's what she did.
     I read in Hit Maker the following week that Harold Grimes had
spent a very busy week interviewing the groups and reporting on the
concerts.
     had to smile.  Starting with me at a reception and ending up
fondling the Big Tower, he cant have known what hit him.
     But it was all a good write-up for the club.
     Other things worked out too.  As I was watching Lira charm the
slightly bewildered Harold, a brusque Grant appeared and told me I was
going back with him tonight.  I was glad to be back with Grant, full of
familiar aggro, whose body was brown and hard.  I didn't argue.
     I just wondered how Lira was faring under the pot belly.

     Today I had a letter from Grant.  That's the first time it has
ever happened.  He's up North with the group, and will be away for
another three days.  He is having a lot of aggro with promoters and
Ruby hasn't been getting it together and is going to be abandoned in
Pitlochrie if he doesn't improve.
     Grant is also troubled about his hair, which is still falling out.
     And there is a lot of tension between him and Joe, who keeps
trying to put him down.  Apart from that the weather is giving him
indigestion, the chicks are all slags and they are starved of drugs.  I
am to have it -all together for his coming back.  No mush, no
tenderness in his letter, yet it read like a poem addressed to me
personally.  He'd thought of me while he was away, and I intended to
confront him with this when he came back.  He would have to explain
himself.  The thought of Grant coming back soon set me up for the day.
     That night I had nothing to do and went over to Theo's pad.  It
was a long time since I'd been there and I was curious to see what had
happened since the big bust up.  Johnny, Mark and Blonde Giant were
gone.  Johnny was living in some hole in Kilburn and getting a book
together.  Mark and Blonde Giant were in California where horrible
things were happening to them and they were breaking up-Mark had
reversed called everyone around yelping help and wanting his fare home
raised.  The wire genius had split, leaving his computer unfinished.
     He believed that MI5 were after him because of the things he could
do with telephones and was now hiding somewhere up north.  His deadly
enemy, the hobbit guy who built light machines, had been taken over by
some American merchant bankers and was now busily engaged in making
another fortune for them, or so they believed.  That had left Theo all
alone with his bread, his pad, his paranoia and the horror of it all.
     Plus the pressures on him to finish his film script had driven him
onto methedrine and the needle in a dangerous way.  The last time I'd
been round there had been terrible.  He phoned me up one evening and
asked me over to help him.  He wanted me to read through his script
from the audience's point of view, suss out things that might not be
clear and suggest the necessary changes.  he offered me a fiver for my
trouble, so I said yes, I'd do it.
     When I got there the usual groover types were lying about the
front room, stoned and hypnotized by the Light machine.
     All alone in the study, Theo was shooting an amp of meths.  I
don't know how much he'd had before I arrived, but he was quite high,
pacing about and talking a lot.  I settled down to read the script and
it soon became obvious that it had been written by a speed freak, and
needed some sorting out.  I wrote down my suggestions as I went along,
but he kept interrupting me.  Every time he saw me noting something
down he demanded to know what was wrong.  So I'd point out to him what
I didn't think was clear.  But he couldn't concentrate and kept letting
himself get diverted onto other subjects, like showing me his paranoia
chart and making me read extracts from books on midget submarine
warfare.
     This was all connected to a thing he called his power chart.  When
his present commitment was finished he intended to write and produce a
film about submarines which would make him rich enough to possess his
own midget submarine and this would automatically get him into Box 22
on his power chart.  Box 22 is a good Box.  It means immunity through
fame-like the Beatles and Greta Garbo.  That sort of scene.  It was all
very freaky listening to him explain it, but it seemed to make sense as
I got into it.  I really admired theo's mind for working it all out.
     He got quite carried away and we wasted several hours before I
reminded him that we were supposed to, be working.  So he took another
shot of methedrine and we started to rewrite a scene.  This went on
until ten in the morning, with continuous interruptions as Theo
insisted on showing me something, or made me listen to boring tapes by
some Major g- about his experience with the subs.
     "Did you hear that?"  he would say, pointing a finger at me
accusingly.
     "Do you realize what that means?"  and as I didn't he would launch
into yet another explanation about the chaotic tragedy of the midget
submarine 'Situation.  It struck me how differently Theo and Reginald
approached their work.
     Reginald worked sensibly all day in a coherent condition.
     Theo never started work before midnight, and had to fill himself
with drugs to cope with the pressure of work he'd let pile up.  While
Reginald treated his writing as a job.  Theo seemed to regard it as a
traumatic experience.
     He must have taken four shots of meths, and once he spiked the
cereal I was eating by squirting some on while I wasn't looking.  I
didn't realize what he'd done until he asked me how it was affecting
me.  I didn't notice any drastic feeling, probably because I was pilled
up Anyway.  However, I was very cross at what he'd done and told him
not to do it again without telling me.  I didn't like what meths did to
people, and he'd better get off it too.  Meths were a killer and if he
went on like this he wouldn't be able to keep his sanity together,
never mind finishing his film script.  At the rate he'd begun taking it
that night and from the state of his arms he'd obviously been pumping
the stuff into himself for quite a time.
     Apart from the feathery tracer lines of needle marks down the
length of the veins, he was also pitted with thousands of other holes.
     For as you cant eat on speed, he had been shooting pure vitamins
into himself.  There were so many holes in him that Theo was almost
breathing intravenously.  He pooh-poohed my lecture.  Like all speed
freaks he reckoned he had it all under control, even though he admitted
that it was the of the needle he was hung up on almost as much as the
stuff he was shooting.  He accepted the fact that his brain cells were
being burned up by their billion, but he'd worked out the figures for
his renewal theory on brain cells and reckoned that it would be cool
for him to go on using meths for the length of time it took to finish
the script.  I never argue with people who have got it all worked out
by numbers.  I just hoped he knew what he was doing.
     Anyway, Theo was becoming incoherent by now and overwriting-when
he could get his mind to focus on what he was supposed to be doing.  I
suggested that we stop, feeling physically shattered myself and coming
down from the blues.  But he insisted on going on, even though what he
was putting out was useless.  Then his mind went skidding off in all
directions.
     He started telephoning people and pouring all these wild ideas out
as fast as his mouth could flush them from his mind.  Nobody really
wanted to know at that time of the morning, and he eventually abandoned
the phone and went back to the typewriter.  It was strange, because in
spite of all the stuff inside him he was actually beginning to fall
asleep.  He was going into frozen reveries with his fingers poised rock
still in mid-air above the keyboard.  I had to keep poking him with my
pencil, until finally I stood up and said I was going to work.
     After a minute he turned and stared at me unseeingly.  Then he
said accusingly.  "We don't seem to have done very much work."  Well,
thanks, I thought, and shrugged my shoulders.
     We had only managed to rewrite one scene, and it was still too
long.  I didn't ask for my fiver, he'd fallen back in the chair into
another trance.  His mind was racing on though his body had given out,
and I didn't feel like disturbing him.  If that's.
     what meths did for his script and if that's what it was doing to
him, I reckoned it was a waste of time.  I was shocked at the state he
was in.
     He'd become as thin as a rake, hooked on needles and was obviously
in trouble with his script.  I hoped he'd get himself together soon.
     As for me, I went home to sleep.  I certainly wasn't in any state
to go to work after that.
     That was six weeks ago.  Today I'd phoned Theo and he'd told me to
come on round.  He'd got new people to live with him and he wanted me
to meet them.  When I got there and rang the bell, it took ages before
the door to the flat opened.
     When it finally did I was let in by this very suspicious
sandy-haired guy I didn't know.  I saw why it had taken him so long to
let me in; Theo had fitted two extra locks, which together with the
original one and the chain bolt, was really more than one person could
manage.  I told this guy who I was and who I'd come to see and he
grudgingly let me in.  He told me his name was Robin and added that
Theo was watching color telly in the little room.  I said fine and
followed him into the big front room to suss out the scene in there
first.
     The place was incredibly clean.  The gold carpet looked as if it
had just been shampooed and.  the glass and Perspex table shone dull
and spotless with nothing on it but a large ashtray and an almost full
bottle of tincture.  There were five people sitting around on the
velvet sofas talking and listening to the sounds, which were very low.
     There was only one chick there.  She was sitting between two of
the guys on the large sofa.  Robin, the guy who had let me in,
introduced me by simply reeling off five names very quickly and then
telling them I was Katie.  The chick was called Gisela and looked
foreign.  One of the guys handed me a joint, and after I had passed it
on, he handed me the bottle of tincture.
     "Ever had this before?"  he asked knowingly.  Before I could
answer he said, "Take about a tablespoon."  I said thanks and emptied
just a little into.  my mouth.  It was tincture without syrup.  I don't
fancy it too much like that because it's evil stuff to swallow in its
raw state.  I put the bottle down and the guy I had sat beside leaned
nearer to me.  He had a thin rabbity face, floppy black hair and was
wearing straight clothes.  "I don't feel anything yet," he confided.
     "You haven't had it before, that's why," Robin told him.
     "How much did you take?"  I asked.
     "I told you you hadn't taken enough, Paddy," one of the other guys
said.
     "I think I am stone also," Gisela said, her voice sounding very
foreign.
     Paddy looked at her intently for a moment, -and then swiftly
grabbed the bottle and lowered three great swallows.
     His face went through all kinds of anguished distortions as it
burned its way down.  I looked at the others and they seemed only
mildly interested in what Paddy had done.  For a guy who hadn't had it
before he'd taken a lot.  In fact, I had never seen anyone take that
amount all at once.
     "That's a lot," was all I said.
     "Paddy wants to drop out," Robin told me seriously.  "He's never
turned on before."
     Drop out, I thought, he'll be lucky not to drop dead with all that
inside him.
     "I'm going to see Theo," I announced, and went down the passage to
the telly room.  Theo was sitting staring morosely at the telly.  There
was a Hollywood musical on, and the color looked all unreal and washed
out in the brightly lit room.  I sat down beside him and we spoke.  He
looked haggard and jumpy, and seemed very low.  He told me how he was
coming down off speed now his script was finished.
     When it came back from being printed up he would be handing it in
to the studio and waiting for their reaction.  He didn't expect they
would have many changes for him to make.  After that he'd go to the
States and get his submarine scene together.  I said I hoped it worked
out for him, but privately I had my doubts.  If the script he was
handing in was anything like the way it was when I'd seen it, then he
was in for a shock and a lot of rewriting.
     He asked me if I'd met his now people living in ' the flat.  I
said yes, and asked him who they were.  Robin was a bum who could
drive.  Theo was letting him live there in return for chauffeuring
services: being up on speed he hadn't been able to manage the Bentley,
and so Robin was driving him about.
     Gisela was a German waif who had appeared one night and slept on
the sofa.  She was staying on condition that she kept the flat clean,
made tea and massaged him whenever he was uptight.  Niall and Keith
were odd-job-men.  Niall was building Theo a huge working table in his
study.
     the table would run the whole length of the room and would have
shelves for his charts, maps and pictures.  Parts of it would raise up
and swivel round as drawing boards, and generally do all sorts of
interesting things.  Theo lead designed the table Mniself, and the only
time he became animated was when he spoke about it.  Keith was Niall's
mate and helped him with the carpentry.  He also did errands, hid the
gear and was general dogsbody around the place.
     "I don't like it round here any more, Theodore," I said, "it's not
the same."
     "I know it's not the same," he admitted, "but people like those,"
he nodded contemptuously in the direction of the main room "people like
those are necessary, don't you see?"
     "No, I don't see."  I decided to let him have it.  "What are you
doing with them?  They're not your friends.  You despise them, and
they're afraid of you and probably don't even like you.  You walk about
like a stranger in your own pad."
     "I don't have friends any more.  They all left when things got
rough.
     They didn't even try to understand my condition."
     He sounded bitter.
     "Don't talk so bloody foolish, Theodore."  These were typical Theo
hangups coming out.
     "Well, that's the way it is now," Theo said, all dark and broody.
     "I've done a lot of thinking.  I don't need friends any more.  My
friends were dragging me down, holding me back.
     Now that's finished.  Where I'm going I cant take friends in fact,
there's nobody I want to take along.  Meanwhile, I'll keep people like
those around because I need people to bounce my ideas off, and of
course, I don't like being alone.  I don't need them .  . ."  he
paused, "I need their presence.
     There are no hangups about motives.  I know what they want, and
it's easier to refuse them than friends.  There won't be any guilt, any
competition-don't you see-nothing like that now."  "You've gone wrong
somewhere," I said.
     He smiled for the first time.  "We're in a very critical mood
tonight."
     "I just cant agree with how you're thinking.  It's sad that you
cant have friends."
     "Well, I don't mind being wrong and rich," Theo said, sounding
pleased with his discovery.
     "Maybe you're wrong about that too," I said.
     "About what?"  the tinted spectacles were turned on me.
     "About being rich."
     "We'll see, he promised.
     "Anyway, how are you?"  I asked.  "Are you really off speed?"
     He hesitated and then said, almost confidentially, "Almost."
     "What does almost mean?"
     "I tell you it's not a problem."  He Was a trifle inpatient.
     "That's all under control."
     "Good for you," I said.
     He was going to say something, but it never came out.  The scream
cut him off.  It was a high-pitched scream of naked horror and it had
lanced all the way down from the front room, down the passage and into
the telly room.  Theo went white, took me by the arm, and bundled me
out of the door.
     "Tell them they must be quiet," he said, locking the door behind
me and turning up the volume of the television to full pitch.

     I didn't stay around very long when I discovered what was
happening.
     I didn't know what to do and I didn't want to know, either.  The
state Paddy was in frightened me, and I could see real trouble if it
wasn't handled properly.  Hospitals, doctors, questions and fuzz
flashed through my mind.  Paddy was having a bad and very weird attack
of the horrors.  I went up to the front room and found him standing in
the center of the room, his body rigid and his shoulders hunched and
unnaturally raised.  He was staring straight ahead without seeing
anything.  I looked round the room and saw Gisela crouched in a corner,
trembling and watching him with her mouth wide open.  The others had
all disappeared into their various rooms and swallowed tranquilizers in
order to still the panic Paddy's scream had caused.  I went up to Paddy
and touched him.  His body was all tensed and felt rock hard.  I said
hello, but he didn't seem to hear me.  I'm not staying in here, I
decided, and nobody else seemed to be helping, so I split.
     I found out later how they coped.  Theo told me about it on the
phone, although he.  hadn't been much use because he'd refused to come
out of the telly room until it was all over.
     When the tranquilizers had taken effect the others had held a
little conference about what they should do with Paddy.  The overdose
of tincture was affecting him in an unknown way.
     He was going into these rock-like trances for a period of about
ten minutes, coming to with ear-splitting screams, and then abruptly
subsiding into a trance again.  Everybody was pretty freaked out by it
all, and the German chick had to be put to bed with some Lygactol to
knock her out.
     The others decided that Paddy must be got rid of.  They thought
the screams would be heard and that fuzz might appear .  Two of them
took him by the elbows and maneuvered him out of the flat, down in the
lift and out in the street.
     Then they half-lifted him across the road, propped him up inside a
shop doorway and fled back to the pad before he started a screaming fit
again.  They could see the shop doorway from the flat, and kept a
nervous eye on him.  They also tried to tell Theo what they had done,
but he refused to open the door or turn the volume of the telly down.
     Then Paddy screamed as he came to in the shop doorway.  Even
though the flat was across the street and two storys up they still
heard it.
     They all crowded round the window and watched as Paddy screamed
and flailed his arms until he sank back into his stony silence.  They
saw someone come across the road and stop and say something to Paddy.
     Getting no response, the man looked about him indecisively and
then made off quickly.  Then they decided that it wasn't very cool to
leave Paddy out there so they all trooped out again and brought Paddy
back inside, and locked him in one of the big cupboards.  The screams,
muffled now-but no escaping them-still came through periodically,
followed by the unusual silences.  Then after a long time there weren't
any more screams, so they went to investigate.
     Paddy was standing there looking quite normal when they unlocked
the door.  "Hello," he said.  "Why am I locked in here?"  Then he
screamed again and collapsed.  They put him on one of the sofas and
tried to decide what to do next.  He would have to be knocked out, and
they debated what to give him.  It wouldn't do to give him any
barbiturates because there is a lot of raw alcohol in tincture, so they
finally gave him three Lygactol.  Paddy had started talking about his
horrors, and it sounded like he was reeling off verbatim a report in a
Sunday newspaper by someone who had experienced a bad Heaven and Hell
scene on acid.  They gave him a bath.
     By the time they had finished Paddy's voice had become very weak,
and his mind had become about as fertile as a cabbage.
     He passed out before they got him into a bed, and didn't function
again for fifteen hours.  I was well away from that kind of thing, but
maybe I should have stayed, because when I got home we got busted
again.
     I mean, living in a flat with hip people it was hardly surprising
that the Drug Squad should raid us again.  I was sitting in Wendy's
room telling her about the Paddy scene at Theo's, John was somewhere
sawing up perspex for one of his new light machines, and Ted was out
rehearsing, his group.  I told Wendy that I felt a bit guilty about
leaving the guy in that state, but it wasn't all that much to do with
me.  And anyway, he'd been uncool with all this talk about "dropping
out" and "tuning in" and his big hero act of taking so much of a drug
he knew nothing about.
     Wendy reckoned it served him right and maybe He wouldn't be SO
uncool from now on.
     We were swapping old horror scenes, sitting cross-legged on the
floor in front of the fire, with an ashtray between us.  I had on my
long white djellabah and looked like a casual flower child.
     Then there was this loud knocking on the front door.  We thought
it was the landlord come to harrass us again.  He's always complaining
about the noise and accusing us of stealing light bulbs from the
landings.  He gets very worked up because we can never make any sense
out of what he says, the reason being that he's foreign and his
disjointed English and perpetual anger managed to reduce us to helpless
giggles.  So we didn't answer, even though the banging on the door got
more insistent.  Then there was an all mighty crash, the door burst
open, and there they all were-my friends from the Drug Squad.  "Hello,
Katie," the leader of the gang said, smugly waving a warrant.
     "Hello," I said weakly.
     "You know what we've come for, don't you?"  he said, while the
others filed in behind him and spread out.
     "I cant imagine, " I replied, but my knees had turned to water at
the thought of a box of bennies on the table beside my typewriter.  I'm
told to go into my room while one of them searches it.
     "Yes, of course," I said, in cooperative tones.
     He started scrabbling in my underwear drawer as soon as he got
inside the room.
     "Where's the charge, then?"  he said.
     "I've given it up, after last time," I said, placing myself
between him and the box of pills.  He moved on to the bed, lifting the
mattress at the corners and putting his hand in the pillow cases.
     "It'll be quicker if you tell me where it is, because you know
we'll find it," he said reasonably.
     "But there isn't anything to find," I protested.
     "But we know you're carrying."  "Who told you that?"  I asked, but
I wasn't convinced.  This is a favorite trick of theirs; to make you
paranoid they try to make you think they know all about you,
insinuating that they have people watching you, people like yourself,
who are on the scene.
     Although there are a few people who do give information to fuzz in
return for immunity and bread, I don't think there are many and they
usually get sussed out before they can do much dammage.
     I was pretty convinced that this was only a routine bust on
convicted heads, which perhaps works on a sort of rota system.  In
comparison to the last one this one was only a half strength bust They
didn't even have any dogs to sniff it Out or women fuzz to search us on
the spot.
     But I knew I couldn't do with another conviction, and I had to get
rid of my box of pills.  He'd moved round to another chest of drawers,
and I knew I had to act.
     "Is it OK if I smoke?"  I asked.
     "Let's have a look."  He held Out his hand for my packet of
cigarettes.  "Flash," he said, observing the gold band round the tip.
     "ok, go ahead."  So I lit one, and went and sat down by the table
with the pills on it.
     "Who's that?"  he asked, pointing to a picture of Davey I had on
the wall.
     "I don't think you'd know him," I said.
     As he peered more closely I casually leaned my hand with the
cigarette in it on the table.
     "Don't be too sure," he grinned.  "We know more than you think."
     "Anyway, he's in America."  I transferred my cigarette to the
other hand and put my hand back on the table.  He continued to stare at
the row of pictures I had of me with guys I'd been with, while I closed
my hand over the box and moved it down by my side.  Then He turned to
look at me.
     "Are you stoned?"  he asked abruptly, looking at me piercingly.
     "No," I said, and wondered why He asked.  I didn't know they used
words like stoned.
     "We can tell by the eyes, you know."
     "Tell what?"  I wished he'd get on with his searching.
     "It's the eyes, I can tell you're stoned by the way your pupils
are contracted."
     "No, no, you're onto the wrong drug," I said.  "Pot doesn't do
that."
     "Look at your pupils," he said.  "I know."  By now I had opened
the box and spilled the pills into my hand.  I think there were seven,
but I didn't dare look.
     "It's the bright light in here," I explained.
     "Is it?"  he asked.  "Are you sure?"  He smiled knowingly and then
resumed his searching.
     "What's wrong with my Pupils?"  I demanded.  "Let me have a look."
     And I got up and went over to the mirror.
     "They look alright to me."
     "Never mind," he said, busy reading some letters.  I pretended to
Study my eyes in the mirror and looked at them with the hand that was
holding the pills.  As I dropped my hand I popped the pills into my
mouth and swallowed the lot.
     They seemed to fill my mouth completely and I never thought I'd
swallow them, they tasted incredibly bitter.  After I'd forced them
down I started to choke.
     "I must have a drink of water," I said, not caring about the
indiscretion, and rushed for the kitchen, coughing.  There was another
fuzz going through the food cupboard, and after I'd got a glass of
water I asked him if he'd had any luck.
     "Well, now what do you think this is?"  he asked triumphantly.
     He'd got hold of a jar of Lapsong Soushang tea, which he'd
mistaken for grass.
     "Oh, you'll never get promoted for that," I said cheekily.
     "That's drinking tea some macrobiotics left behind."  He unscrewed
the lid, and sniffed at it suspiciously.
     "Yes, I suppose it is," he admitted.  "Oh well."
     I went back to my room feeling slightly hysterical at my success.
     I wanted to laugh and tell them all what I'd done, but I knew that
wouldn't be cool.  I wondered how my pupils were doing now.  Then
another guy came in.  I'd only got it together just in time.  He
started going through my things as well.
     "What's the matter, don't you trust your friend?"  I asked.  I
couldn't help being cheeky, the relief and the effect the pills were
beginning to have made me feel high.
     "It doesn't hurt to double check, he said ponderously.
     "You're wasting your time."
     "That's for us to decide."  He turned to the table and found the
empty pill box I'd put back there.  I watched eagerly as he picked it
up and shook it.  Then he opened it and looked inside.  I was having to
suppress the giggles inside me at their futile efforts to bust me.
     After pulling all the posters on the walls to make sure there was
nothing lodged behind them, they stood in the middle of the room and
thought for a minute.
     "This room's clear," one said.
     "You've had a lucky escape" the other told me.
     "I tell you, I don't take drugs."  I felt very innocent.  Then we
all trooped outside to see what was happening in the other rooms.  John
was safe; he's on prescription for tincture like me.  But whereas I
throw my bottles away, his room is littered with them.  He sticks
labels on them like "sweet dreams" and "dangerous drugs."  They took
one of his especially artistic bottles away with them "as a souvenir."
     Wendy wasn't so lucky.  They'd found a tiny bit of hash in her
makeup bag which they pounced on, their faces beaming with
vindictiveness.  They all examined it and weighed it in their hands.
     It can only have been enough for a couple of joints.
     Anyway, that was it for Wendy.  She was already on a conditional
discharge for a wretched ampule of Ritalin, and they said because of
this they wouldn't be able to release her on bail that night.
     So she had to go with them and spend the night at the police
station.  What a horrible thought.
     Feeling so sorry for Wendy made me realize how lucky I was, and it
was really this selfish relief that was uppermost in my mind.  I still
couldn't get over how I'd managed to trick them, and I stood high and
trembling, exclaiming witty remarks with these guys from the Squad who
seemed quite pleased that their time hadn't been wasted.
     "Give my love to Detective Sergeant Phillips," I said, as I let
them out.  When they had gone we rushed into John's room to exchange
experiences and try and figure out a way to help Wendy.  We got a
straight friend to attend the court the next morning to give her bail.
     She was told she had to live at home with her parents because my
pad was a bad influence.  I didn't sleep for twenty-four hours and felt
really ill, I wasn't used to so many uppers all at once.  But I finally
collapsed.  When I came to Wendy was moving all her stuff out.  It
wasn't the same without her around, and I began to lose interest in my
flat.

     I was pleased when Grant rang me up as soon as he got back.  I
told him about the bust and He said it served me right.  But he Sounded
a bit Subdued, then asked me to get some food together and come over.
     I told him I'd be there at nine and arrived at ten.  He didn't
seem to mind.  He was in a rather mellow mood, alone watching the
telly.  "Oh hello," he said, and I went over and kissed him.
     "None of that now.  What have you brought to eat?"
     "Chicken and things."
     "Come on, come on, get it together," he said, investigating the
contents of my bag.
     "But I've only just got here," I protested.
     "I'm hungry," he said.
     Grant looked tired and hungry, maybe it was all the traveling.  I
was pleased to be doing things for him, and it was nice to be back in
his tiny room.  I made him a chicken salad, and took what was over up
to Bill, who was lying on his bed tripping and mournfully playing his
harmonica.  He already knew about Wendy, and I didn't want to bring him
down by talking about it.  When I returned to Grant's room I found him
knocking the food back like a famished wolf.  He paused briefly to tell
me to get into bed and then went back to his meal.  I brought out a new
bottle of tincture I had scored that day and swallowed some.  "Give it
here," Grant said, and I passed the bottle to him.  He washed down the
salad with a good mouthful of tincture and smacked his lips.  Then he
put some sounds on and got into bed.
     We lay side by side watching the telly with the volume turned off.
     Then we started making it and for the first time we kept the
lights on so that Grant could watch me.  He plated me, which he'd never
done before, and it all got pretty ecstatic.  Things seemed different
tonight with Grant.  New vibrations were coming from him.  I'm sure I
could sense it and I wasn't just stoned.  But I didn't try to analyze
it or interpret, nothing like that.  It was enough to be lying beside
him without him pushing me away, with our thoughts rambling but happy
Well mine were anyway.
     We were lying around naked when the door opened and there was Joe.
     He was all dressed to go out and looked great.
     I started to cover myself but thought, why bother, it's only Joe
and he's seen it all before.  So I just lay there.
     "Hello," Joe said.  "Having it away on the sly?"
     I could feel him looking at me, but kept my eyes turned away.  I
suddenly thought, wouldn't it be groovy if we could all have a scene
together.  I was Sure they would dig it, but in a nasty way.
     They were too provincial to do it in the right frame of mind.
     I liked them both and from my point of view, I felt it would have
worked Out.  But things weren't as easy as that.  I could feel bad
vibrations between them.
     "What do you want?"  Grant asked impatiently.
     "I have to go over to Hampstead, can I have the car?"  I imagined
Joe didn't like having to ask Grant for permission.
     "NO, I cant sanction that," Grant answered shortly, busying
himself with a cigarette.
     The car was an enormous beat-up American limousine which was used
to take the group on gigs.  This meant they didn't all have to squash
in the van and arrive with the equipment.  That didn't look too good
now they were getting bigger.  Grant was responsible for it, and no one
else was supposed to drive it.  But Joe was always pestering him for
it, and he often relented.  Not this time, it seemed.
     "Why not?"  asked Joe, his face white.
     "Because You're not allowed to.  I'm responsible for it and I say
no."
     "Look," said Joe, very evenly, "the only reason I'm asking you is
because I'm late.  Now don't be a cunt.  let me have it."
     "That's not my fault, Grant said, sticking his nose up in the air.
     Joe was really uptight.  He kind of ground his teeth and there was
a tremor in his voice.
     "Who do you think you are?"  he got Out.  "Whose car is it?
     You're not even a member of the group yet you're coming on like
Jesus Christ.  You're just a glorified roadie, you know, nothing else
you're here to do what I want."
     "Alright," said Grant, as though he hadn't heard the insults.  "If
you want the car you had better get it in writing from Roland Johns.
     If he says you can have it, OK, but he won't , so nothing doing.
     Now get out!"
     That was it.  There was nothing Joe Could do now.  He knew as well
as Grant that Roland Johns wouldn't hear of the group members grooving
around in the car in their spare time.  He stood there and stared at
Grant.
     "You think you know it all, don't You?"  And He shook his head at
Grant.  "But You stop bugging me, Grant, or there'll be trouble!"
     "Oh, do get out, Joe," said Grant in a bored voice.  Looking very
grim, Joe kicked the door Shut behind him as He went back downstairs.
     "Oh dear," I said.  I'd never really heard them argue like that
before, although I knew things hadn't been too good between them
recently.
     "He's really getting on my nerves," Grant said.  "While we were
away he tried putting me down in front of other groups.
     Like telling me-not even asking me-in front of Hendrix's roadie to
carry his guitar case.  He only did that to be flash and to make people
think he's more important than me.  And there are other things as
well."  Grant was getting into his grievances.  "When I'm chatting up
promoters and people, Joe will come up and tell me to stop talking and
go and check the equipment, or something like that."
     "But it's not your job to carry things and check equipment," I
said.
     "I know.  And he knows too.  But it's because he's competing with
me.
     He's trying- to prove something,.  You See, when I was a DJ and
having it all my own way he was nowhere.
     Then The Relation started getting somewhere and for a while he was
on a better scene than I was, because I didn't have a job when I came
to London.  But -now I've got this scene together and I'm making it,
and I reckon I'm in a better position than he is.  If this group
doesn't make it I know I'm OK for a job, because I'm good at what I do.
     So he'd better watch it.  I don't need him or the group.  I can
get my own things together now and I'll be doing just that if he
doesn't stop annoying me."
     I hadn't realized this undercover ego battle had been going on
between Grant and Joe, and I found it pretty interesting.
     Then Grant grabbed me again, and that made him forget his aggro
for la while.  Maybe he was trying to work it all out on me because he
was rather violent and scratched me hard when he came, which was
quickly.  We carried on and this time it was in slow motion.  He was
very gentle, stroking my breasts and playing games, because although we
were tired we were still stoned and sexy.
     Afterwards we lay together and started to play our talking game.
     My part is to lure him into personal, and what he considers
dangerous conversations.  His part is to divert me with squashing
comments.  For example, I reflect: "Why do I like you?"
     And he says, "Don't answer that."
     "All right, but why?"  I insist.
     "I don't want to know," he says.
     "Why not?"
     "It's a dangerous one, I can see red lights flashing with that
question," he warns.
     I have to persist in a roundabout way, changing from subject to
subject, almost getting lost myself, but managing somehow to bring it
back to the original question.  This time it took me an hour and a half
before I managed to tell him why I liked him.  I only wanted to say I
dug him because he was cool and never bored me.  We grooved in bed and
because the longer I was with him the less I understood him, yet the
more I wanted to know.  I was continually intrigued by him-and he kept
me in check by somehow holding me at the exact degree of confused
inferiority.  Even in his tenderest moments he never bared his soul or
confessed his feelings, and didn't want me, to either.  He seemed to
distrust words that described feelings and allowed his actions to speak
for themselves.  He was rude without being malicious, and funny without
even trying to be.  I finished off by deciding that even if I didn't
dig him the way I did, I'd probably respect him, because underneath the
image he put out, he was OK.
     He stared at me distrustfully while I rambled on, and must have
been so amazed that it kept him silent.  Then I fell silent until I
realized that I'd managed to say the things he usually, prevented me
from saying-although now that I'd said them I couldn't remember what
I'd said, only that I'd said it all.
     "You're potty!"  he exploded at last.
     "I've won!  I've won!"  I shouted.  "I've' said it!  I've said
what you tried to stop me saying an hour and a half ago."
     Grant suddenly became all sad and gloomy.  "Yes," he said.
     "I'm a loser."
     The way he said it stopped me short.  He really sounded down.
     "Don't mind me, Grant," I said encouragingly.
     "No," he went on, "I'm always losing, but you wouldn't know about
that."
     "You're not a loser, Grant, I'm sure you're not."  He wasn't was
he?  I wondered.  No I'm sure he's not.
     "You've sussed me out," he said doggedly.  "You know why I'm so
aggressive.  It's just a cover for all my failures."
     "What failures?"  I didn't know what to say.  Was Grant revealing
himself as weak and vulnerable?  He sounded so upset, I tried to cheer
him up.  "Don't worry, you'll make out.
     I mean, if anybody will, it's you "Hal" he shouted.  "I had you
then!  I had you really fooled.  You thought you'd won and that you'd
broken me down, but you'll never do that .  . . I just change my
tactics to confuse you, then you get misled and mystified .  . . and
after that it's easy, I just step in and take over!"  He'd done it
again.  I had to admire his strategy.  And although I was a bit
disappointed that he hadn't been confiding some inner truth to me, I
was relieved that he hadn't betrayed himself.  I wouldn't have known
what to do then.  He knew that, and had been watching me trying to
readjust and cope with the different image he had been putting on.
     Then off we went again -on another verbal battle, red fights,
green lights, the lot.  I reckoned I did pretty well.  I was getting
the hang of it now, but I hadn't reached his standard yet.
     So that he didn't start taking me too much for granted, I split
early the next morning without waking him up.  Anyway I had things to
do.
     Let him make the bed.

     On Thursday afternoon I rang Grant up from work.  I need some
information on a barring clause the Relation have on one of their
contracts.  Joe answers the phone in a squeaky falsetto voice and says
Grant isn't there.  I tell him to stop fooling about, and if Grant is
refusing to speak to me he's just being childish and silly.
     "Honest," says Joe, in normal tones, "he's not here."
     I get a sort of instant flashback to the time Grant refused to let
me speak to Joe.
     "Well, where is he?"  I ask, annoyed.
     "I've no idea.  Anyway, what do you want him for?"
     "Well, I want to speak to him."
     "Speak to me .  . . who needs him?"
     "I do," I say.
     Joe paused for a moment and then asked me to come over.
     What?  I thought.
     "I don't think that's very cool, Joe.  I really wasn't phoning
Grant to ask him if I could come over.  I just have a few things to
talk to him about."  I wasn't quite sure what Joe was up to.
     "I'm asking you to come over, so it's got nothing to do with
Grant."
     "I don't want to get mixed up in your battles with Grant," I said.
     "And I normally never come over unless Grant asks me to.  He might
get uptight if I just appear."
     "You've got a mind of your own, haven't you?"  Joe persuaded.  "If
I ask you to come over you don't have to ask Grant's permission, do
you?
     I mean, the house belongs to all of us.  Grant's just one person
here."
     "Yes, I know, but I don't want to make Grant uptight."
     "Listen, I've asked you over, and if Grant doesn't like it he can
sort it out with me.  And while you're here you can tell him what
you've got to."
     I suppose it sounded quite reasonable, the way Joe put it.
     There wasn't anything wrong in going to see Joe, I told myself.
     Then he asked me if I had any Dimyril, which is a cough mixture
people are using these days.  I told him I had a bottle, and as this
gave me a good excuse to go over I told him OK, I'd be there soon.
     I felt a bit dubious of the outcome.  and when I got there I went
straight into Joe's room.  He was in his tight white trousers and
Kewpie Doll track top.  "Hello," he said, grinning.
     Ruby was there, and then Wendy and Bill came in.  She and Bill
were still managing to keep their scene together though she had to
split to her parents' house in the sticks every night.
     Wendy looked at me intently, wondering what I was doing in Joe's
room.
     Joe wanted to go out to eat before he took the Dimyril, but I told
him it was best to take it on an empty stomach, or else take the
mixture and then eat very quickly before it hits you, because when it
does it freaks out taste sensations.
     You can feel what you are eating, but it is completely tasteless.
     It's very weird, I told him, bread find butter tastes like paper
with something greasy on top.
     There is enough in one bottle for two turn-ons, but Joe drinks
more than his share, gravely watched by the rest of us.
     Just as I'm drinking the rest, complaining of Joe's greediness,
Spike appears, nose twitching.  "Hello," he says, anxiously.
     "Hello," we answer.  The hello ritual is still going strong.
     Spike is a bit petulant because there isn't any drug left for him.
     He stands there shuffling backwards and forwards.
     While they are all arguing about where to eat I slip upstairs to
Grant's room.  I knock on the door and he says come in.  I open the
door and then freeze, because there, on the mattress is Grant-but he's
already got a chick with him.  "Hello," I say, because I've got to say
something.
     "Oh, hello," he says, at a loss for once.  There's a weak
pausethen, "Come in."
     "No," I say, and retreat, shutting the door.
     Mind blown I went back to Joe's room and demanded to know who the
large chick was in Grant's room.  Nobody seemed to know there was a
chick in Grant's room.  They were all as amazed as me.  They shook
their heads in disbelief and said I'd been hallucinating and why didn't
I try again.
     Joe, however, had a weird little grin on his face and in a flash
of paranoia I believed that he'd known about the chick with Grant.
     Right, I thought, I'll show that Grant.  I'll sleep with Joe, and
see how he likes that.  I half wanted to anyway, and this gave me
enough justification.
     We finally got to some restaurant.  I forgot about Grant because
the drug was coming on strong.  The meal seemed to take a long time and
hardly tasted at all, but it looked good.
     when we clattered back in I kept quiet.  I wasn't sure that I
wanted Grant to know I was still around.  Let him wonder about my
reaction.
     We were sitting up in Bill's room when suddenly we heard Grant
shouting for Ruby.  I thought, help, he's going to come uh,.  But he
didn't need to because Ruby bounced up like a jack-in-the-box and fled
down to the landing to, be chastised about something.  When he came
back I wanted to ask him if Grant was alone.  I didn't, because had he
been alone it would have confused me.  After a while I stood up and
said I was going, and made like I was off home.
     It didn't matter what Joe thought, he Would find out later.
     What I was doing was risky enough without everyone knowing.
     Everyone except Grant knowing would have been bad.
     I went into Joe's room and lay down on the bed.  I decided not to
undress or get into bed in case that would have been uncool.  My mind
felt calm as I lay on my back in the darkened room.
     I felt no sense of anticipation as I waited for Joe.  Sure I'd
been mad at Grant, but that wasn't the reason I was here in Joe's room.
     I was also convinced that I wasn't still hung up on Joe.  Although
the fact that our scene had finished in such an unsatisfactory way
might have been needling me deep down to work it out to some kind of
belated conclusion.  Though what kind of conclusion there could be I
just didn't know.  If I felt it was going to be an unpleasant
conclusion I wouldn't have faced it because I'm that sort of coward.
     Yet I knew it couldn't be entirely satisfactory because of the way
I felt about Grant.
     The thought struck me that all I wanted to do was reassure myself
that I could still pull the groovy pop musician-although even that need
was not as compelling or as necessary as it once had been to me.  That
Joe might be using me in his ego game against Grant didn't worry me.
     Let Joe think what he liked.  Let him believe what he wanted to
believe.  I no longer felt the compulsion to explain the reasons for my
actions.  This was something I wanted to do.  The deep game he was
playing in thinking he was using me without my knowing would probably
put a kinky edge to our bed bit.  In which case, groovy, because Joe
needed all the edge he could muster to make that part of the game
interesting for me.
     Then I forgot about Joe and started thinking about Grant.
     I wondered if he would mind if he found out.  He was always saying
that he didn't care what I did when I wasn't with him.
     Did he really mean that?  I'm sure he knew I had the occasional
scene with other guys on the side, and he never seemed to care or even
inquire into what I'd been doing when I wasn't with him.  I was Sure
Joe would tell if Grant asked him, but I didn't think Grant Would ask.
     So Joe would have to find a way to let him know that he'd pulled
me back.  But I could double cross Joe by letting him have just this
one scene with me and then blowing him Out.  This was an entertaining
thought.  Joe was the kind Of guy who, once he'd had you, thought you
were his on demand.  Turning it round would slightly blow his mind.
     But the way the scene was between them both at the moment it was
bound to affect Grant if he found out.  Catching us at it would be even
worse and would cut him.  It must, unless he was indestructible inside,
and I couldn't believe that even he was that hard.
     Was Grant that hard?  The more I thought about it the more unsure
I became as to how he would react.  And I really wanted to know.  OK, I
thought, test him.  Let him find out you've slept with Joe and discover
whether he'll punch you, snub you, put you down, blow you out, bin You.
     forgive you, despise you, anything-but find out!  It would tell
you a lot about Grant.  It would tell more than all the games you
played and prying you did.  You would either cut him open or simply
rebound.
     Cutting him open You would have your answers, rebounding would
give You the same.  Losing Grant would tell you a tot; keeping him
would tell you more.
     But he would have to find out for himself, or be told by someone
else.
     I couldn't do it.  Anyway, it would sound wrong from me-he'd know
I'd be expecting a reaction and therefore wouldn't react at all.  I
knew how it would probably go-I'd just drift alone and see what
happened.
     Then suddenly I wasn't sure any more.  Maybe this was merely a
drug dilemma, totally unimportant in the long run.  It occurred to me
that I had been taking a lot of drugs lately, especially since I'd come
onto this scene with The Relation.
     I knew that my attitude to people had been changing a lot over the
past months, and I wasn't sure whether it was the drugs, the
competitive power scene I worked on, Grant's influence, the natural
course of events, or a combination of these things.  I was ruder and
less tolerant to people who didn't matter, and more at ease and
confident with people who did.  I had learned how to operate now-not
perfectly, but successfully enough to get the things together that were
important to my career.  I knew how things worked on the scene.  I knew
how people made bread and how people got power, and I knew what power
and bread meant and how they could be used.
     So when the opportunity presented itself I would recognize it and
know what to do to turn it to my advantage.  But I was not quite ready
yet.  There were still things to know and lessons to be learned.  That
was the career part of me anyway, and I reckoned that all in all it was
coming along very nicely.
     My emotional scene was lagging behind in progress.  I had learned
how to cool things, but I still made mistakes and I couldn't
distinguish between what was good and what was necessary for me.  At
the moment it was still necessary to sleep with guys who were not good
for me-guys like Harold Grimes, for example.  But that would change
because the need to do that would disappear once I'd gone a certain
part of the way to wherever I was eventually going.  Of course I still
needed to love and be loved, both physically and whatever other kind of
way a person can be loved, but not in quite such a time-devouring
manner.  I would get that together too, because I was going to learn by
my mistakes.  I was prepared to get hurt, be desolated and to totally
open myself to whatever torment and nastiness came my way.  Just as I
had learned to suss things out which affected my career, so I was
learning, at a slower pace, to suss out the kind of scenes and types of
men which suited me best.
     Meanwhile there was Grant upstairs, me down here, and Joe
imminent.
     There was also the dilemma which was not a dilemma, but something
which might come to something.
     Then I thought about Grant and the chick in his room.  I didn't
care who she was, and I didn't feel threatened.  Sure I'd been
staggered to find her there with him and I'd been angry and jealous.  I
knew that I wasn't being rational about him having another chick-maybe
he hadn't even made her-but she'd been there, and what's rational about
anger and jealousy?  Rationalization is all in the head, whereas anger
and jealousy are all in the genes.  I know I've got a good share, and
there's no fighting them.  If anyone told me that I wasn't being fair,
I'd just laugh at them.  Fairness is something you're told exists, like
God.  But the others, love, and jealousy and the like, are things you
feel exist-again like God, but there's a difference.
     My mind coasted on and I think I went into a kind of trance.
     Dimyril is too much, is the last thing I remember thinking.
     Then Joe was tickling my feet.  "Why aren't you in bed!"
     he asked.
     "I only lay down temporarily," I said.
     "Are you stoned?"  he asked.
     "Not really," I said.  But I'm Sure I was.
     "Come on, get into bed."
     And it was like before except it wasn't quite.  I got in on the
outside and then remembered that my place was on the inside.  I turned
my back to Joe, waiting to see what he'd do.
     He told me to turn round, which I did, and he said, "Hello."
     "Hello," I said, and we both laughed and started making it.  It
was alright, but I didn't love him any more.  I'd got over whatever
love I'd had for him, so that was that.  And anyway, he wasn't as good
as Grant, we just didn't fit together so well.
     There wasn't much to say the next morning except goodbye.
     He kissed me and said he'd ring me, but I didn't care, I was
thinking about Grant.  I could hear him up and dictating orders from
the landing, and I didn't want him to see me.  So when he wasn't around
I sidled out of Joe's room and dashed for the front door.  There would
be more to this, I thought, as I safely made the street.

     Feeling slightly tatty, so I had four drugless days during which I
slept a lot, cooked sensible food and read Auto da Fe.  Things at work
were going well.  I was right on top of the heap there, and the
management knew it.
     Over the months I had gathered in most of the administrative
strings and now anything that happened had to go through me.  I was
advising Jason which groups to book, and booking some of them myself.
     I was getting the Club some good PR in the papers, as well as
doing all the day to day things like getting the advertisements
together, doing the books, working out groups' bread and knocking off
percentages.  I really knew how the place worked, and to test my value
I started to hint at leaving.  The result of this was an immediate rise
in pay.
     OK, I thought, and stopped the hints.  Now I knew where they were
at.
     Jason often gave me lifts home, and when we weren't talking
business he would make languid attempts to Pull me.  But I was always
very firm about that.  He still rubbed me up the wrong way, and anyway,
I was in enough trouble with my men scenes and didn't want to
complicate an already overcomplicated situation.  Also, I was sure I
would have more value if I remained unpulled, so I kept putting him
down, but politely enough, I didn't want him uptight with me.
     Wendy rang me and said Grant had cornered her and demanded to know
what I'd done the night I'd burst in on his scene with the other chick.
     "She went home, " Wendy had said, as she genuinely thought I had.
     "But I heard her later on.  Why didn't she knock on my door?"
     "Katie doesn't knock on doors twice," Wendy told him.
     "Well, I was alone by then," Grant said grumpily.
     "You weren't alone the first time."
     "She was only a friend."
     "Katie didn't know that," Wendy had replied.
     "Well, I was alone, and she Should have knocked," Grant insisted.
     Then I told Wendy that I'd slept with Joe.  At first she didn't
believe it, but when she did she wanted to know why.  I didn't really
want to go into all the complicated reasons, and tried to play it down.
     "You still like Grant best, don't You?"  she wanted to know.
     "Of course I do," I said.
     "Then why did you do it?"
     "He was with another chick, wasn't he?"
     "Chick or no chick, YOU Wouldn't have done it if you really dug
him," Wendy said.  She sounded cross.  "And why Joe?  He's about the
last one to go out with.  I mean, he's such a creep, how could you do
it?"
     "Because I wanted to," I said, and got a bit uptight.  Apart from
the fact that I don't like people putting down guys I sleep with,
whatever I feel, she was echoing the kind of doubts I had myself about
the whole situation.  But I didn't want to explain it.  It was
something that had been done, and now I could only wait and see how it
turned out.  It worried me that Grant would find out, and it worried me
that he wouldn't.  And inbetween, the waiting for something to happen
was a drag on my nerves.  This was one of the reasons why I was off
drugs for the moment, because drums usually prodded my mind into
thoughts I didn't want to race just yet.
     So working, sleeping and reading seemed a sensible way to occupy
my time, and the only pills I was indulging in were vitamin pills.
     "Well, I think you've been silly," Wendy continued.  "And I hope
Grant doesn't find out, because what will you do then?"
     And then, while I was brooding about Wendy's criticisms, Grant
-rang up and said that he wanted me around there immediately, nothing
else.
     Then he hung up.  Nervous, I swallowed some tincture and hopped
into a cab.  It was the same Grant who let me in, no special looks, no
questions, just grumpy orders which I was relieved to obey.  He always
searched my bag to see if I had anything interesting in it, and when he
found the tincture he gulped down a lot without measuring it, then
handed the bottle to me.  Forgetting that I'd already had some (it
hadn't hit me yet) I drunk another lot, and then realized I'd probably
had a massive overdose.  Help, I thought, but I didn't say anything.
     "Don't take your boots off," he ordered we're going to the
pictures."
     "What kind of film?"  I asked.
     "A Roman war film," he told me.
     It turned Out to be Oedipus the King.  I tried to explain to Grant
that this wasn't a war film, but he insisted on going so we did.  By
the time it got round to the main feature we were in trouble.
     It was very hard to follow the plot, especially with the dialogue
being in this sort of Shakespearian English.
     Grant suddenly nudged me.
     "See that guy there?"  He pointed at Oedipus.  "He was in The
Sound of Music.  What's he doing in this thing?"  It was really
freaking Grant out, and he kept laughing about it.  I tried to
concentrate, but I was getting frightened by the physical changes I was
going through.  I couldn't feel my body at all.  It felt as though all
my sensations were cramming themselves into my head, which would
explode in a minute.  I had to change my position and shake myself a
bit to bring my body back to life.  I took a look at Grant to see how
he was coping.  He was sitting stumped in his seat with his mouth
hanging open and his sunglasses on, and he kept shaking his head in
bewilderment at the long speeches and flashbacks.
     "I cant get this together at all," he was saying over and over
again.
     "And where's all the fighting?"
     Just as I started to get into it he said he wanted to leave, but I
wouldn't.
     "Why not?"  he demanded loudly.
     "Because I've got to work it out," I hissed at him.
     I'd read the play, and I was hung up on trying to reconcile it
with the film I was watching.  it had all the same Characters and the
same plot, but somehow it all seemed to be happening back to front.  I
was trying to work out whether this was being done on purpose-and if
so, why-or maybe it was coming through all mixed up because I was
over-stoned.
     When Oedipus finally stabbed out his eyes and kept making his
pleadings to be, banished I couldn't witch it any more, it was too
gruesome.  I let my head rest on my knees to cut out the images for a
chinge, and just let the dialogue fitter through.  But this was even
more confusing, because of the long pauses and dramatic musical
effects.
     "Sit up," Grant ordered.  "Don't do that when you're in the cinema
with me!"  And he kept prodding me until I finally righted myself.
     He was still holding the full carton of ice cream which he'd
bought in the interval and which was now totally melted.  Not being
able to bear the images on the screen I watched him trying to finish it
by drinking it straight from the carton.  We both burst into giggles as
it dribbled out of the corners of his mouth and made trails down the
front of his jacket.  Suddenly we were aware that lots of people were
turning round and giving us disapproving looks, and this made us laugh
instead of giggle.  More people turned round, and we knew we were in
serious danger of becoming hysterical, so we had to get up and leave.
     This caused another commotion because getting past all the people
in the seats was almost impossible for us in the state we were in.
     Then, instead of making for the main exit, we somehow got
ourselves caught in the emergency one, full of long passages, steps
that didn't seem to lead anywhere and prison-like doors which wouldn't
open.  Being alone in these passages made it even worse for us, and we
both felt and communicated the small risings of panic which began to
hit us.  Back we came, into the auditorium again and Grant said, "You
get us out."  He immediately became hung up on the film again, standing
and staring at the screen, shaking his head.  I could see the exit
lights as colored blurs in the distance up a long hill, and grabbing
him by the elbow, I managed to move him in the direction of one of
them.
     Feeling like the capital letters on a huge sandwich board we made
it up the long carpeted aisle.  I pushed him through the doors, and
there we were in more passages.  I began to think that we'd gone wrong
again, when suddenly we were in the Gents' loo.  I had never been in a
Gents' loo in a cinema before and I stared around me, taking it all in.
     A guy at a pisspot stared over his shoulder at us.
     Alarm and amazement chased each other across his face, while He
reflexively did up his fly in such a hurry that he damaged himself.
     Immediately his face creased into an expression of excruciating
pain.
     "He's caught his balls!"  Grant roared in delight, and gave out a
huge guffaw.
     "Out!"  I shouted, and we beat it, making for the next light, past
usherettes who stared.  Finally we were outside.
     After walking along for a bit I felt we must be going the wrong
way because I didn't recognize any of the shops.  Neither did Grant.
     He said he didn't know where he was going but it didn't matter
anyway.
     We just ploughed on in silence until Grant announced that He was
hungry.  This meant we had to cross the road to get to the restaurant
he'd spotted, and without waiting for me, he dashed over at full speed.
     I wasn't so lucky, the continuous stream of oncoming cars seemed
bent on preventing me personally from crossing.
     Twice I was out there in the middle of it and twice I had to
scuttle back to the wrong side, frustrated.  Grant was bellowing and
gesticulating at me from the other side of the road, and my impatience
reached panic proportions.  Until finally I just walked Out hoping for
the best, fixing my eyes straight ahead.  I made it No horns blew, no
cars stopped, the sound of them zipping past me was all I heard.  "Why
didn't you wait?"  I demanded of Grant.
     "Oh I'd never have made it if I'd waited, look what happened to
You," he replied.  "I just saw a gap and ran."  Then we were inside a
seedy restaurant and confronted with a menu which neither of us could
read.  I was scared to order a full meal in case the sight of it
freaked me out, so I asked for some apple pie.  It took Grant ages to
decide what he wanted, and the waitress was hovering above us
impatiently while Grant kept changing his mind.  Finally he ordered
something that sounded like breakfast to me.  The noise from the other
people was coming and going in waves.  Sometimes it became so loud that
I thought my head would burst, but it always receded before it became
intolerable.  I wanted to go for a pee, but Grant said he didn't want
me to leave him alone.  "You'll never make it," He warned.  but I had
to go, and told him I'd manage somehow.  It seemed to take me ages to
find the loo and go through all the processes.  When I returned Grant
was staring in disbelief at the enormous plate of sausages, eggs, bacon
and chips that had arrived in front of him.  I managed my apple pie
quite well, and we got up to pay as soon as we'd eaten.  At the cash
counter we found ourselves confronted by rows of glistening cakes and
gateaux.
     Grant gasped, and his eyes widened at the sight of them.
     "I've got to have one of those," he said.
     "So have I."  We took a long time choosing, and while the guy who
was serving was putting one in a bag, he handed a knife to Grant to
lift the piece of lemon meringue pie I had chosen.
     "Oh I cant get that together," said Grant, momentarily taken
aback.  "That's a woman's job," he added, quickly handing me the knife
and stepping back to watch.  Oh Christ, I thought, and started
giggling.  I examined the pie, which didn't look in very good shape.
     It was bound to break into pieces if I tried to lift it into the
bag.
     I'd never make it, but I had to try.  Grant was falling about
laughing at my efforts to slide the knife under the pie, and my hand
was shaking.  I cautiously managed to lift it up a little, but before I
could get anywhere near the bag I was holding in my other hand, the pie
fell off and landed upside down on the plate.  That started my giggles
again, and the guy behind the Counter was watching us both in
amazement.  I began to get paranoid about being obviously stoned, and
knew I had to get Out.  SO I picked it up bodily and it all squelched
inside my hand.
     I stuffed it into the bag, though most of it stayed stuck to my
hand, and Grant dropped some money onto the counter.  We ran for the
door, leaving lemon meringue all over the door handle.
     Outside we collapsed, laughing helplessly, and then noticed it was
raining.  My hand was horribly sticky, and I seemed to be carrying too
many things to manage to clean it.  We set off again, and turned into
the long road that leads to the house.
     We weren't saying anything now.  Both of us stared ahead to the
end of the road which didn't seem to be getting any nearer.  Grant
increased his speed to get there quicker, he didn't want to admit what
was happening.  I quickened to keep pace with him.  We kept this swift
walking up for a time but it didn't seem to be making any appreciable
difference.
     Grant broke into a run, and I ran after him, clutching the bags of
cakes in my sticky hand.  I managed to catch up with him, and we ran
like that, with our hearts thumping and our eyes staring straight ahead
until, profound relief, we got there.  We fell into his room, shed our
wet shoes, and kept telling each other how we couldn't believe it.
     "We must have taken too, much," I said, washing my hands.
     "You're dead right we did," he agreed, "It's never been like this
before.  You know, I was really freaking out in the cinema.  That's why
I wanted to leave."
     "Yes, but I had to stay to try and sort the story out."
     "it was a bloody con," Grant growled, tearing the bag off his
cake.
     "It wasn't even a war film."  And he started stuffing the cake
into his mouth.  I looked at my disintegrated meringue pie and took a
bite.  It didn't taste as good as it had looked, so I threw it Out Of
the window.  Then Grant started to Put on his blue beat records and sat
grooving to them, hunched up on the edge of the mattress and rocking
back and forth on his heels.  I couldn't stay, the noise was too much
for my head, which seemed to be full of incredible pressure.  I went up
to Bill's room to find a little sanity.  Bill was in there with two
guys I didn't know, and nothing much seemed to be happening.  So I
started explaining to them about the cinema and the cakes, but they
just stared at me blankly.
     Maybe it wasn't so funny, I thought.  but I was sure it was, and
why weren't they laughing?
     "What's the matter with You lot?"  I asked anxiously.  "Are you
stoned?  Is something hanging you up?"
     No, they were tripping.  That was all I needed.  I went back to
the claustrophobic beat that was throbbing relentlessly in Grant's
minute area.  He was still rocking backwards and forwards, oblivious to
everything except the music.  I lay down.  I wasn't digging all this.
     I felt I might scream in a minute because it was all becoming
unbearable, and I didn't want to scream because that's very uncool.
     I decided I had to sleep it off, so I took my clothes off and got
into bed.  Without speaking to me Grant turned down the Volume a bit,
and my mind began to wander off.
     He got into bed a bit later, and shook me from my meandering
dreams.
     He wanted me awake.  More, he wanted to fuck me.  If it was going
to be as groovy as the other stoned sex scene we had had that suited
me, and we set to.  But this time I found everything was too intense, I
Could hardly stand him touching my clitoris without writhing, and when
he went inside me I felt as if my body had gone in to one intense
unabating orgasm which wouldn't Stop.  I was bursting all over, and
then when he plated me my mind went blank.
     If it hadn't, I don't know where it would have gone.
     Next morning all was fine again.  After Grant had leaped off to
the office with his usual alacrity, Joe came padding up the stairs and
put his head in.
     "Hello," he said.  "I thought I heard you around last night.
     Why don't you make some coffee and come and talk to me?"
     I mumbled that I'd do it in a few minutes and he went off.
     I got up and went to the kitchen.  When I took him the coffee he
was back in bed reading a science fiction book I'd lent Grant.  After
talking a bit he patted the bed and told me to get in beside him.  It
was obvious the way his mind was working.  He reckoned that he'd pulled
me once and that he could pull me again-any time in fact.  He believed
that he was the one I really wanted, Grant being a weak second choice.
     By playing it this way behind Grant's back he could call the
changes in our occasional confrontations, lay on the power and practise
the domination bit, without the hangup of having to have me around him
permanently.
     Also, as he was battling with Grant this colored his attitude and
added little vicious refinements to the rather soft, uncaring Joe I'd
originally gone for.
     I saw through him alright and rather despised him.  However, by
coming on like this, he was really playing my game.
     I didn't want Joe back, but I was still interested in Grant
finding out that Joe had pulled me.  Grant's reactions were infinitely
more interesting than Joe's company or body.  So let him have me, it
meant nothing to me.
     "Just because I slept with you last time doesn't mean I'm going to
make a habit of it," I said.  I wasn't going to make it too easy for
him.
     "I'm sure you'd like to, though," Joe grinned.  "That sort of
thing appeals to you doesn't it, a three-handed scene?  It does to me,
anyway, it's sort of like Shules at Shim."
     "Not quite," I said, sarcastically.  Jules et Jim seemed far
removed from Grant and Joe.
     "If you don't get in I'll pull you in," Joe said, putting down his
book.
     "Shall I take my clothes off?"  I asked rather inanely.
     "You'll be hot in here if you don't," he said, expansive in his
imagined victory.  So I undressed yet again and slid in beside him.

     My mind is taken off the whole thing by this telephone call from
International Magazine who have heard of me from somewhere and want to
interview me about the underground and take my picture.  I like the
sound of that and spend a lot of time working out what I'm going to
say, and deciding what to wear.  Of course I have to go to the
hairdressers, and Gavin and I decide another style change is due.
     Curls again, but this time nothing too freaky.  As my hair has
grown again it comes out soft and floppy with my face framed halo-like
by the curls.  The interview isn't for another week or two, so I've got
plenty of time to get myself prepared.
     I've still been getting the occasional letter from Davey in the
States.
     Apparently The Dream Battery have broken up and he's joined up
with Zach Franks again to play with The Savage.  He's really hitting
the big time now, because The Savage are incredibly popular in the
States.
     In the last letter he intimated that he might be home soon, and
that he was looking forward to seeing me, and all that.  Nothing
passionate, just a polite guarded letter like the rest, and typically
Davey.  It then occurred to me that I'd never really given much thought
to meeting Davey again after all this time.  I remembered how I had
felt for him, and how his going away had strengthened my resolve not to
merely drift along but to get something really concrete going for
myself.  But the actual return of Davey with his physical presence
right here in front of me just hadn't entered my head at all.
     So I got out all his photographs and peered at them, trying to
imbue them with a sort of life and reality.  But it was impossible to
know what to think or feel.  Yes, he was pretty, and yes I had loved
him.
     And yes, yes, he had hurt me and made me cry.  But it all seemed
frighteningly long ago.  Hied find that I had progressed and got things
together, though he had probably changed more than I. He was now in one
of the biggest groups in the States, and would be rich and famous by
English standards.  And here he was, coming back and wanting to see me
again.  Hard as I examined his photos, and deep as I went into our
thing together, the more I realized that I didn't care what he thought
of me any more.
     Even the fact that he was a big name now didn't really impress me,
it was enough to say I knew him.  Yet he remained a bit of a question
mark in my mind.  I'd loved him deeply once.  If he hadn't changed, and
looked the same, thought the same, behaved the same, then surely these
qualities which had made me love him then should work their same magic
now?  Yes, I thought, I want to see you, and tacked all of his pictures
onto the wall above my bed.
     Meanwhile, we had another big American group appearing at The Big
Tower.  The New York Sound - Touch, they are called, and as this was
their first time in England they were having a reception.  They are an
East Coast group-about the oldest on the scene-and they are very
political and socially conscious.  They're way beyond the protest bit,
using a crude and savage sense of humour to shock the message across,
without relying too much on electronic bombardment.  There are six of
them; three performers who sang, read poems and tell stories, and three
musicians.
     Jason took me to the reception, but once we got there I managed to
lose him in the usual crowd which always turns up on these occasions.
     I sussed out The Sound & Touch from a distance.  They were a weird
looking bunch.  The three poet performers were much older than the
musicians.  They all had this very long hair streaming down their backs
and were dressed like hillbillies.  I fancied two of the musicians and
flopped down into an empty chair beside them and looked into the
distance.  People were thrusting past, and those who knew me would stop
and examine my new head.
     Then someone called out: "Who's on at The Big Tower next weekend?"
     I pretended to think for a minute.  "Isn't it The Sound & Touch?"
     I said vaguely, and everybody laughed.
     Then one of The Sound & Touch guys leaned over and asked me if
Jim Hendrix was in town.  Well, he wasn't, but it started the
conversation.
     Soon I was deep in discussion with this guy, comparing the scene
over here to the States.  He had very long dark hair which he kept off
his rather serious face with an elastic band, and these really
penetrating eyes that never seemed to leave me alone.  Suddenly he
paused, narrowed his eyes, and said, "Gemini."
     "How did you work that out?"  I asked, intrigued because he had
guessed right.
     He grinned confidently.  "Easy," he said, "I just related you to
myself."
     So He was a Gemini too, and I got all excited.  Although I don't
know very much about the Zodiac scene, I'm sure there is a lot to it,
and the kind of star symbol you go out with is supposed to have a great
bearing on the outcome of relationships.  In retrospect, for example,
when you say, "well, he was a Leo, and I never get on with Leos,
because I'm a Capricorn, and it's a well-known fact that Leos and
Capricorns just don't mix," it's probably just an excuse for the scene
not working out, but it's quite fun.
     So there we were, two Geminis, four personalities, really hitting
it off-though I'd have thought that two Geminis were a dangerous
combination.  As I'd arranged to go down to The Joint later I asked him
if he would like to come along.  He said yes, so we split alone.  I
have no hustle getting into places like The Joint now, and when they
saw who I was with they really turned on all the smiles and
hospitality.  We sat in the restaurant and talked and ate and talked.
     But talking against the noise of the group became a strain, and
there seemed so much to say that we split back to my pad.  He told me
how people threw rocks at him in New York because of his long hair, and
how relaxed it was over here in comparison to the States, where they
were so intolerant of hippies and eccentrics, and where murderous cops
were continually uptight.  He spoke in a positive, almost aggressive
way, and so fast that I had difficulty understanding all he said.
     "It's your accent, I just cant make out some of the words," I
apologized, after the umpteenth "what's that?"
     "I wish I spoke like you do," he said.  "I just cant get over your
voice."
     "What about it?"
     "It's the way you speak."
     "What way?"  I asked.
     "Your accent.  I've never heard anyone speak like that before.  We
only seem to get Irish and Scots in New York.  I mean it.  Your voice
knocks me out."
     I couldn't believe there were only Irish and Scots in New York ,
and even so, I didn't think there was anything particularly inspiring
about my voice.  I consider I have an accentless accent-educated
middle-class with hip slang thrown in.  But it was nice to think he
liked listening to me, and I wondered if he wanted to sleep with me.  I
didn't wonder for long; it simply didn't matter, it was just right as
it was.  When he took hold of my hand, his touch was light and cool,
and his fingers moved around a lot in a very sexy way.
     "Hey, you know I'm not a lechy musician type," he said.
     "I despise guys who pull just to show off."
     "I know what you mean," I said.
     "I like chicks I can talk to," he said, and I agreed with him.
     Then he let go of my hand.  Cool, I thought.
     Just then the phone rang.  It was Joe.  Had I got his message?
     What message?
     To come over.
     No, I hadn't.
     How about coming down The Joint, then?
     I've just come from The Joint.
     Well, come over for a smoke.
     I'm with some people.
     Then we'll drive over to your place.
     He put down the phone before I could say anything, and that was
that.
     What a drag.  I had tried to let him know I wasn't keen to see
him.  I was discovering that with guys like Joe you had to sock it to
them, quite literally, before you got your meanings across.
     "Hey," I said, all false and jolly when I came back to my American
Gemini.  "The Relation are coming over."
     I said it like it was a big thing, and I knew I was making a bad
impression.  So I tried to explain that The Relation were old friends
and always dropping round.  But that sounded phony too, so I stopped.
     I was cursing Joe for phoning, and hoping he wouldn't be alone.  I
was experiment to tell him bluntly to piss off, but it was becoming
really inconvenient.  I hoped it wouldn't blow my American out because
I was beginning to feel that I really liked him, apart from the fact
that he was a pretty good pull.  I'd never had an American group member
before.  On the other hand, I reasoned, no guy can expect to walk in on
some chick and find no complications and involvements as if she hadn't
existed before and as this seemed to be the season for tests and
experiments, it would put him to a little test too.
     About ten minutes later they all stream into my room and although
I'm glad Joe isn't alone, I wasn't expecting quite so many people.
     Nearly all the group are there plus two others I don't know.  I
wasn't expecting Grant because it wasn't his scene to go visiting, and
I was sure Joe wouldn't be so uncool as to take him along.  The
vibrations are a bit puzzled at first, but Joe sussed it Out, and made
a point of being overfamiliar and kissing me hello as if to demonstrate
a claim to me.
     "Hello everyone," I said.  "This is Larry from The Sound & Touch.
     They've just arrived in London."  As I named the various faces for
Larry, they smiled and said hello to each other.
     Spike eagerly leaped over to him and they were soon talking music.
     "Don't waste much time, do you?"  Joe hissed in my ear.
     "Shut up and count yourself lucky I let you come round at all."  I
felt really strung up, as if I was on pills.
     Joe looked at me in surprise.  "I'll go if you want," he said, and
seemed a bit offended.
     "That would be pointless now," I said, and went and sat on the
bed.
     Bill was rolling a joint and somebody was putting on the sounds.
     My whole scene was being blown out and taken over..  I felt very
resentful as I sat there listening to them talking about groups and
America.  I watched Larry and wished I didn't have to go with Joe.  I'd
have to rethink this whole experiment thing if Grant didn't find out
soon, I decided.  Joe was hanging me up.
     After a couple of hours Joe stood up and said he was going.
     "Are you coming?"  he said to me.
     "Yes," I said, irritably, because he had made it so obvious.
     I turned to Larry and said we'd drop him off at his hotel.
     "Can I see you tomorrow?"  he asked me.
     "Yes, I'd like that," I said, relieved he wasn't offended.  I
wrote my phone number down for him.  On the way to his hotel I sat next
to him, and when we dropped him off we just exchanged goodnights, and
that was it.
     When we were safely inside Joe's room, I asked him where Grant
was.
     "In bed asleep," Joe said, just as I had thought, and started
undressing.
     "Does he know about us?"  I asked.
     "I don't know.  what does it matter, anyway?"
     "What have you got against Grant?"  I asked.
     "Nothing in particular.  He's just hanging me up, that's all."
     Joe was very guarded and didn't seem to like being asked all these
questions.
     "Are you still not speaking to him?"
     "Yeah, I'm speaking to him."
     "Then you're friends again?"  I asked.
     "Like I said .  . . I'm speaking to him."
     "Do you think the others will tell him about us?"  I wondered if
they'd mentioned anything to Joe.
     "Why should they," Joe said.  "It's none of their business."
     "They might feel they ought to, out of loyitty.  I mean, you're
all friends, and live together "Give over," said Joe crossly.
     "Tell me why nobody says anything to Grant about us.
     Somebody should, his friends should.  "You're a right one to talk
about loyalty!"  I didn't like that, and decided to change the subject.
     "What else could I do, Joe?"  I said, shaking my head sadly.
     "What are you on about?"
     "Yes, that's what did it."  And I nodded my head wisely.
     "What are you talking about?"  Joe was naked except for his
briefs.  I pointed to them.
     "The sight of you naked except for your little yellow scants, Joe,
that's what inspired my surrender.  I've always had a weakness for
yellow knickers."
     He saw through my play-acting, and his face reddened.
     "Are you going to sit there all night?"  He said tightly.
     "I suppose not," I said wearily, and started draping my clothes on
the back of the little settee.  Just as I was getting into bed Joe told
me to get him a glass of water.
     "Why didn't you ask me before?"  I complained.  "I've got no
clothes on now."
     "Neither have I," he said.  "Go on, get it."
     "Get it yourself," I said.  And then the whole thing blew up into
an argument about Joe's selfishness, and him telling me that I always
did what he wanted me to in the end.
     "Not any more," I said.
     "You enjoy being bullied by me, go on, admit it."
     "Not since Grant, I don't."
     "What do you mean?"  he asked.
     "Grant does it better than you."
     "Then why don't you go back to Grant?"
     "I haven't exactly left him."
     "But we both know that I can get you back anytime I want to, don't
we?"
     Joe said knowingly.
     "Do we?"  I asked.
     He looked at me, trying to suss out what I really meant.  I turned
away, and he pulled me round and kissed me savagely.  I let him,
because I didn't want to talk any more and it would take his mind off
the glass of water.  He started to get very rough and threw me onto my
back-.  I hit my head on the wall, but before I could cry out another
pain distracted me.
     He had bitten my nipple so hard I instinctively hit him round the
head and tried to pull him off by the hair.  He raised himself and
slapped me across the face.
     "Bastard," I hissed.
     He grinned, pleased with himself.  "Get on top of me," he ordered.
     I did as I was told, and started to move myself up and down on his
erection.  As I did, he dug his fingers into the skin on my hips and
twisted it viciously.  It was really hurting, but I kept silent.
     Then he pulled me off and pushed me down to plate him.  While I
was doing that he pulled my hair and then grabbed my ears, yanking them
up and down painfully to speed me up.  I managed not to cry out,
although the pain was making me cry.  Finally he came, thrusting
himself right into the back of my throat until I thought I'd choke.
     When I had recovered I lay down beside him and said calmly, "Enjoy
it?"
     "I enjoyed it," he said , looking at me to see how I'd taken it.
     "Good," I said, and turned over.
     I hated him.  I was really mad at myself for even starting this
thing with him, never mind allowing it to go on.  I must have been mad
to let him near me again.  He was weak, vicious and useless.  He was
vain and stupid ad I hated him.  I was glad Grant hadn't found out, I
could pull out in time.
     Grant was worth ten Joes, and I felt the beginning of shame
because I had done this to him.  But I'd make sure this was the last
time, so Grant need never know.  If Joe or anyone else told Grant I'd
slept with Joe I'd simply deny it.  I must have been mad to waste my
time with a guy like Joe.  it would take me all my time to even speak
to him after this.
     Repeating all of this to myself, I fell asleep.
     There seemed to be a lot of banging at Joe's door and I thought I
was dreaming.  Then I knew I wasn't because the door was open and Grant
was standing there.  Immediately I thought I was dreaming again, but I
wasn't, it was really happening, and all I could do was stare.
     "The telly men are here .  . ."  and then he saw who I was.
     After a pause he continued.  "Joe, the telly men are here to put
your set in .  . ."  He paused and looked at me again.
     "You'd better get up," he said slowly to Joe, and went out,
closing the door quietly behind him.  As Joe fumbled his way out of the
bed I lay there dumbstruck.  I'd been asking for it.  I mean, this is
what was supposed to happen, but not really, because I had decided I
didn't want it to happen and that it was a mistake and .  . . But it
had happened and now I didn't know what would happen next.  I was
totally confused, it was all too much first thing in the morning.  I
just didn't feel like coping, especially with telly men all over the
place.
     I wanted to get out and see my nice American Gemini again and blow
both of them out.  It wasn't worth all the aggro.
     So I hurriedly dressed myself before the telly men appeared.  Joe
seemed quite happy about the situation, and when I said goodbye he said
he'd ring soon.
     "Don't bother," I said, and ran.

     At work, several black coffees later, I'd calmed down enough to
set my mind going again.  I decided I would concentrate on Larry while
waiting for Grant's reaction-if any.
     And anyhow, Grant or no Grant, I wanted to see my American Gemini
again.  He would only be in England about ten days, and if we were
going to have a scene, I didn't want to waste a minute.  I was lucky
for once, it all went beautifully.
     When I got home from The Kingdom office he phoned.  I asked him to
come round, and we just picked up the threads of the conversation we'd
been having as if Joe's phone call had never happened.  I felt like I
was falling in love with him, and I was almost scared to sleep with him
in case something went wrong.  We talked for a long time, while I
played him records of English groups that he hadn't heard before.  Not
that he really listened, he seemed to prefer listening to me.  I
couldn't believe that there was so much to say to somebody.
     Occasionally other people in the flat came into my room for
things.
     Knowing who he was, the normal thing for them to have done was to
stay and chat and ask him things, and generally suss out what a member
of an important American group was like.  But the vibrations between
Larry and I were so charged that they withdrew immediately.  It got so
late it just had to be time to go to bed.  He took my hand and said,
"I'm staying, aren't I?"  And I said, "Yes please."
     So we got undressed and into bed without any awkwardness and just
lay there staring at each other.  Then he moved toward me and kissed
me.
     It was so good.  It was strange, too, with his long hair flying
about above me.  It fell into my face as he leaned over me, getting
into our mouths and eyes.  He looked very wild with it loose.  We had
to pause for a moment while he tied it back, and he told me he wore it
loose on stage.  It didn't stay tied back for long, but we were so
involved with our lovemaking that it didn't matter.  It never really
stopped, it only subsided.  In between times we talked about our
differences.
     "I'm kind of scared of the English," he said.
     "Why's that?"  I asked.
     "They're deeper than us, their minds are more together.
     They are more sure of themselves."
     "Well, I'm not all that sure of myself," I said.  "I think I'm
very much like you."
     "Yes, I feel that too."
     "I'm rather frightened of America," I said, "though I'd be
interested in seeing it."
     "Oh, you don't want to do that, it's a terrible place," Larry
said.
     "In fact, I'm ashamed of my country."
     "I dug America when I was a kid," I said slowly, remembering all
those movies and telly programs of slick, silver haired lawyers.  And
soldiers who looted about on furloughs and then got shot and died in
the end.  I had envied those beautiful tanned chicks who marched in
funny little uniforms and who could toss heavy silver-topped sticks up
into the air and catch them without loss of smile to cut off the sight
of their incredible teeth.  I tried to explain to Larry how I felt
about America now.  "I don't know your country, except that it's big
and rich and great.  The feelings I had for it when I was a kid have
never really left me, and it still intrigues me.
     But now we hear so much -about the bad scenes happening over there
that it's frightening, at least it frightens me.  Is it really that
bad?
     Have all the good things been swallowed up in the general
uprightness?
     They cant have been, because you're American and I trust you, and
there must be others like you.  And all the straight people cant be
evil either He was silent while he took this in.  "You're right," he
said.
     "And of course I love my country.  It's just that I don't feel
it's mine any more.  It's not just me who feels like that; it's hip
people and straight people.  It's black people and Jewish people, wasps
and Catholics.  It's parents and kids.  it's us and them.  It's all of
these people.  None of them feel like America belongs to them any more.
     We've forgotten how to live, you see, and none of us know what to
think any more.  It's follow my leader and stamp out individuality.
     The guts are being torn out of my country, and by the time I'm too
old to care any more, we'll be living in a moral and physical shell.
     So 1 grow my hair and play my music.  But I don't just Play for
the bread and power.  The really hip audiences in the States dig us but
that's not enough.  That's just trying to convert the converted, and
we're not out to convert.  We're not on a preaching scene, we are more
a mirror which takes in all the hate around us and magnifies it and
sends it back even more hateful.  People in the sticks don't understand
us so they resent us, and this makes them violent and they try to get
their hands on us.  We're really only safe playing to groovers or on
the television-not that any television company Would touch us, they'd
lose all their sponsors."
     I lay and watched him, he was so serious and intense it knocked me
out.  After a while I leaned toward him and whispered, "You're the
first American I've slept with."  Larry looked into my face and smiled,
and it made my stomach lurch.  "You're the first English chick I've
met," he said.  Then he started to say the kind of things I used to say
to people I had fallen for.  But I don't say them any more because I've
learned to be cool and careful, and it's often just bed talk anyway.
     But nevertheless it was beautiful to hear him telling me how he'd
never felt like this before.  I was finally tempted into playing his
game when he asked me how I felt, because I Wasn't sure it was a game
for him.
     "Well, I'll try and tell you," I said thoughtfully.  "I suppose I
love you as much as it's possible to love you after only knowing you
for two days."
     That seemed to please him.  "That's a very honest answer," he
said.  "I like the way you are so honest with yourself.  I've noticed
it before."
     "I'm glad," I said.
     "Have you ever been out with someone you cant speak to properly?
     You know, not being able to communicate with words properly?"
     "Yes," I said.  "And it's terrible at first.  Not being able to
Say what you want to becomes more and more frustrating, until suddenly
it becomes a groove that you cant say what you want to.  You just sit
there thinking it instead and not getting hung up."
     He stared at me without sayinganything, and I tried to remember
what I'd just said.  "I'm amazed," he said.  "I'd never have expected a
chick to come out with an observation like that."
     "Really?"  I said, surprised, because it had just come straight
off the top.  I'd never thought about this kind of thing before.
     "You know," he said, "that was a beautiful thing you just said."
     I seemed to be making a good impression.  It was a nice change to
be with someone who appreciated my remarks, instead of treading a
verbal minefield like I had to with Grant.
     Blossoming out I plunged on.
     "It's like we're from different planets and discovering each
other," I said.
     "Am I that strange to you?"  he wanted to know.
     "Yes, you are."  And he was.  Everything about him was different.
     His sense of humor his seriousness, his politeness, even his
intelligence were all very different from-n the English boys I knew.
     As most of the boys on the scene here had left school very early,
they were insecure about the education thing.  This was why they tended
to be more aggressive and destructive than their American counterparts.
     Their hunger for the material things they had never had spurred
them on and in a sense this is what made their music so much more
shatteringly vital.  Whereas American musicians were generally guys who
had dropped out from the good education and the fat family life.
     Likewise their attitudes too were reflected in their music.  Larry
and I talked about this and from it we discovered all kinds of things
we just hadn't realized before.
     Anyway, as long as I was discovering these differences I was
happy, though as the days went past I had moments of feeling sad too.
     We were rapidly approaching the time when he'd have to go back.
     And this made me love him more because he was going away and that
would end it.  I got hung up on whether I really loved him or maybe I
loved him because he was going away, and wouldn't really be around to
interfere in my other life.  What if he wasn't going away, and Grant
demanded me back?
     In the back of my mind there was this constant feeling for Grant
that I couldn't ignore or deny, so how could I say I loved Larry?
     Perhaps I loved Larry because I knew there wouldn't be time for it
to disintegrate or spoil, which it would do in time, seeing it would
interfere with work.  Work was a bore when you were in love, and love
was a drag when you wanted to get on, which I did.  But I loved him
now, and I need a bit of love after all the hard-headed scenes I had
been going through.  I didn't want him to go away, and it made me sad
when I heard airplanes.
     We spent every spare minute we had together, and inevitably I
neglected my work.  I told ' myself it didn't matter because he was
going away soon and I didn't want to miss a moment of his company.  We
were going short of sleep because we had so much to say.  Then we'd
start making love and before we knew where we were it was morning
already.
     They were going off to Canada the day after they did their Big
Tower gig, and on the night they played for us I hardly did any work at
all.
     I made this junior chick take over my desk and kept rushing into
the dressing-room to sit with Larry.  I felt so proud when I watched
them play.  Larry played bass, and I liked it best when the musicians
took over from the three front men.  There was this old poet who leaped
about in his underpants waving placards and dancing.
     It was all very American, as Larry had tried to explain to me, and
it just wasn't getting through to an English audience.  I had to admit
it wasn't having much effect on me.  But when the group played numbers
the audience recognized, they cheered, and all in all it went down
really well.  Larry looked best on stage, and every time he tossed his
hair off his face it gave me a kick to remember it hanging over me in
bed.
     Everyone knew we were having a scene, and kept telling me how
lucky I was.  But I knew that myself.  I didn't need or want them to
tell me.
     I'd got past caring whether or not people knew which group member
I'd pulled.  I'd done it and that was enough.
     When they finished their last set we rushed home to spend a last
few tormented hours togethey.  It all got very desperate, with him
promising to come back because he loved me and me pleading with him not
to go.  He said he didn't want to go but had to because he couldn't let
the group down.  And there were all these contracts he had signed, and
all the work lined up.  When they were back in New York he'd send for
me, he promised.  So he was coming back and he was going to send for me
at the same time, and I told him I didn't believe him.
     It all degenerated into a bitter quarrel which ended in the sulks.
     Then we fell asleep though we didn't really want to, and didn't
hear the alarm clock.  Some instinct made me sit bolt upright, and when
I looked at the clock he had only ten minutes to go to the hotel to
meet the others before they split for the airport.  He got very
irritated because we'd overslept, and this got worse when he couldn't
find his elastic band.
     Then there wasn't time to sayanymore, so we just kissed.
     "I'll write, I promise," he said.
     "I'll never forget you," I said, and after watching him walk down
the stairs, I ran to the balcony to watch his retreating figure
disappear along the road.  Gone, I thought, and stamped my foot because
it wasn't fair.  I knew it would be different when we were oceans apart
and time got to work.
     He knew what I knew too, because he was like that.  Then I cried.
     I felt so alone.  We'd been so together, even if it had only been
for ten days.

     I lived and worked like a robot for the next few days, trying to
convince myself that it didn't happen.  But just when I was beginning
to think that I had imagined it the letter came.  Except it was more
than a letter, it was an enormous envelope containing lots of little
envelopes-five of which had love letters from other chicks to Larry
inside them.  They were adoring adolescent letters, and the more I read
the more amazed I became.  What was the purpose of sending these things
to me?  I didn't want to read all this rubbish.  What was it supposed
to tell me?  That Larry was a groovy guy lots of idiot American chicks
were infatuated with?  And that wasn't all, there was worse to come.
     The rest of the contents were long pretentious poems scrawled in
multi-colored ballpoint and interspersed with snatches of Dylan
songs-which were somehow meant to be apposite to the precious agony of
our scene.
     Here was our whole beautiful thing reduced to this, a superficial
capsule of trendy mumbo jumbo.  What could have possessed -him to do
it?  Had he been stoned?  It looked suspiciously like a methedrine
freak-out.  Whatever the reason, it made me very angry, so.  much so
that I threw all the wretched papers at the wall and watched them
scatter in all directions.
     There was also this rambling prose thing about how he had been
dreaming lately he was a butterfly, fluttering -hither and thither,
conscious only of his fancies as a butterfly, searching the eternal
search for the flower of life (the word "flower" heavily written in
somber blue pen) and being totally unaware of his human individuality.
     Then it went on to say that since he had met me, he didn't know
whether he was a man dreaming he was a butterfly, or a butterfly
dreaming he was a man.  Well, his dilemma didn't concern me in the
slightest, and the whole thing wouldn't have meant anything to me if I
hadn't seen through his butterfly trip.  He was mangling an old
quotation by a long withered Chinese sage called Chang Tzu.  I knew.  I
had read the book too.  I read all the books because that's the way I
am, and here he was trying to impress me by mutilating this ancient
chinaman's mind storm without even a hint or mention or tribute.
     What was the matter with him?  Wasn't he able to write in his own
words?  Couldn't he communicate simply, from the heart-the way we'd
done when we had been together-instead of all this garbage of old love
letters, Bob Dylan, and overdone, obscurities?  Had I been mistaken in
him?  Surely my judgment wasn't that off target?  I was disappointed
and very annoyed, especially about these love letters.  I certainly
didn't want them, nor him for that matter, if this was what he was
really like.  I'll fix that Larry, I vowed, and reached for pen and
paper.
     I wrote and told him that if he had anything to say to.  me he was
to use his own words and that he should get his quotations right.  Here
I put in the correct butterfly quotation and the source, to show him I
really knew.  I wrote:

     Once I Chang Tzu dreamt I was a butterfly now I do not know
whether I am a butterfly dreaming I am a man.
     Chang Tzu (629 A.D.) (The date was sheer guesswork, but he
wouldn't know that.)

     And anyway, I told him, who cared?  I told him not to write to me
in poems and riddles.  It wasn't my scene to sit down and interpret his
pretentious ravings.  And here were his love letters back, because I
didn't -want them any more than he presumably did.  No wonder I had
seemed different to him, I wrote.  Compared to the chicks who had
written the letters and from the things they said and the way they said
it, I must have seemed like the one-eyed person in his land of the
blind.
     It seemed I opened your eyes, I concluded, and now you have opened
mine.  Here you -are blind and groping once again, because if you
weren't, you wouldn't have sent me those wretched love letters.
     I then bundled the whole lot together, single-mindedly charged off
to the Post Office and sent it off before my anger subsided and I
changed my mind about sending my letter.
     Let's see what he does with that, I thought.  Perhaps he would
redeem himself with a brilliant reply, but I had my doubts.  It seemed
letter writing was not his strong point.
     I had already started to adjust myself to his absence, telling
myself that it had been a ten-day wonder, and now I felt determined to
get myself together and catch up on the work I'd let slip.  I had to
take a couple of days off for the International interview.  The chick
who asked me the questions took everything I said very seriously, as
though it was all weighted with universal significance.  But the
photographer was great.
     He was young, blond and turned-on.  After the session he took me
back to his rich pad and I got stoned with his rich friends.  Pretty
soon I was back in the old familiar groove again, managing quite well
without Larry, and again wondering if I had imagined it all.  It had
happened so fast.  And I started thinking about Grant.
     Then another letter diverted me once again.  This was the week for
letters alright!  This one was from Davey.  The Savage were coming back
in two days, and would I meet him at the airport.  Larry had made me
forget Davey's return, and now Davey's return pushed Larry to the back
of my mind and I postponed wondering about Grant.
     In two days' time I duly went to the airport for The Savage's
arrival, and there was Davey standing in front of me.
     I'd forgotten how small he was.
     "Hello," he- said.
     "Hello," I replied.  We didn't even kiss.
     His voice still had a nasal twang, he didn't seem to have picked
up an American accent at all.  He was tanned and his fair hair was much
longer and curlier, and bleached by the sun.  Apart from that he was
just the same Davey, and I began to feel exasperated by his coolness.
     We got into the car that had come to pick up the group, and only
exchanged negative small talk in front of the others.
     They dropped Davey and me off at my place, and arranged to pick us
up later to go to the reception being held for them-it was quite an
event for The Savage to come back to England as they were pretty well
based in America now.  Davey looked round my room and said it looked
much groovier now, and how was I doing?  I gave him a brief summary of
my career at The Other Kingdom, and then started asking him questions.
     He answered them all carefully, and I noticed he was wearing a lot
of rings on his fingers.  I don't like fancy rings on guys.  He told me
that although The Savage would still record together, they wouldn't be,
doing any more live gigs.
     "Won't you miss all that?"  I asked him.
     "Not really," he said.  "I've had enough of being snatched and
pulled at.  The scene in America is more violent than over here.  I
mean, I never got mobbed here.  The chicks over there come up to you
after you've played and say, "Can I kiss you, sir?  Could I touch you,
sir?
     Would you like to ball me, sir?"  It's funny the way they call you
sir.
     And the froupies, they're something else!"
     "Tell me about them," I asked, fascinated.
     "Well, it's far more of an occupation with them than it is with
the English groupies.  They really devote all their time and energy to
pulling musicians, especially English ones.
     They go through incredible hustles to get backstage or to find out
the hotels the group will be staying in, and if they score they
sometimes call their friends up to tell them who they've pulled.  At
first I thought it was rather funny, but now I think it's sick.  Though
some of them are incredibly beautiful chicks."
     Davey had obviously had his share, and I urged him to tell me more
about the groupies.
     "Have you heard of the plaster-casters?"  he asked me.  I hadn't.
     "Well, there are these two chicks who travel all over the country
to take moulds of group members' rigs.  A rig is a prick," he
explained.
     "They plate you until you're hard and then thrust it into a
container of soft plaster and wait until it sets.  It's a bastard
getting your hairs unstuck."
     "Have you had that done?"  I asked, amazed at the goings-on over
in America.
     "Well, I did have a little experience.  It was rather funny
actually.
     These two chicks asked Den and I if they could cast us.  We said
OK, so we took them up to our hotel room, and sat on each bed while
they started plating us.  Then one of the other guys came in and said
to move into the bathroom because a house waiter was on his way with
some champagne.
     So we got up and went into the bathroom.  I sat on the lavatory,
Den sat on the edge of the bath, and these two chicks set to again.
     They were really going at it, and then Den said let's swop.  So
they changed places, and off they went again.
     they were pretty good, but Den and I couldn't take it seriously,
and started talking to each other.  Pretty good.  set tonight, Den
said.
     'Yeah, good drum solo, I replied.  did you see that chick with
blonde hair in the front row?"  asked Den.
     she was alright," I said.  These two chicks were still plating
away.
     "Then Brian, this other guy from the group, came in with the
champagne, and asked them if they'd like a drink.  But they didn't stop
to answer.
     So be poured some over their heads, and they still didn't stop.
     So we sat there talking and drinking champagne while these two
chicks plated us.  Then this other chick rushes in with the moulds, but
we keep saying we're not ready yet.  She gets really hung up because
the moulds are setting without us in them, and when it's too late we
reckon there's nothing for it but to come.  So we did, and they got
really uptight.  sorry about that, I told them.  We must be going now,
got to grab a meal."  And we split, leaving them with all their
equipment spread out on the floor.  It was a laugh at the time," Davey
concluded, "though I suppose it sounds a bit off now."
     I didn't know what to say.  I couldn't imagine any chick going
through a scene like that.  I know I've been through a few impersonal
plates myself, but always in private.  I'd never be quite as blatant as
that or have anyone else around.  And what on earth was the attraction
of having a plaster cast of some guy's prick?  I decided these chicks
were pretty perverted, and I told Davey so.
     "Yes, I suppose they are in a way," he said vaguely.
     I changed the subject by asking him what he was going to do if he
wasn't in a group full-time, and he told me he was going to be an
actor.
     "I've been accepted at an acting school.  Of course, I'll have to
have voice lessons, but I've always wanted to be a film star.  I'm
twenty-six now, and I cant be a pop star for ever.
     I'll still play music.  In fact I'm making a solo record soon, but
if I can get into acting I reckon I've got more of a future."
     And I thought, sensible Davey, together Davey, making sure he's
not left in the lurch without a career.  I agreed that he was making a
sensible decision.  Then we discussed the mind effects acting must have
on a person.  I noticed how his voice never wavered with any kind of
enthusiasm, it was just a rather thin monotone.  I had been aware of
this before, but now it was hanging me up a bit.  Like the detached way
he had told me about the plaster-casters.  He was so cool he hardly
existed.  And the way he talked about his girl scenes confirmed this.
     He had been involved in a couple of what he called "heavy" scenes,
but had cooled them out because they started getting too, involved.
     "But that always happens to you, doesn't it?"  I said, remembering
myself.  "All the chicks you get involved with end up being desperately
in love, and you just don't seem to be able to take it."
     He agreed with me rather gloomily.  "It's when they start getting
very hung up on me it becomes a drag.  It becomes unbalanced, and
that's no good."
     "But don't you ever fall in love, Davey?"  I asked.  "It always
seems to be them in love with you.  I mean, don't you ever flip over
some chick?"
     "I don't seem to have recently, I must -admit," he replied,
twiddling his rings.  "But don't think I don't know what love is-I
do-and it's the most beautiful thing in the world."
     This last remark surprised me, and I wondered when Davey had been
in love.  Thinking back on it I felt sure he hadn't been in love with
me, just very involved until it became too involved for his organized
mind.
     I said, thinking of Larry.
     "Yes, Then he brightened up a bit.  "How's your love life?"  he
asked.
     I don't like that expression.  I gave him a short account, and he
sighed.
     "I knew you'd get onto the group scene sooner or later," he said,
matter-of-factly.  "And I don't like your hair curly.
     Why don't you grow it?  I was always telling you to, grow it."
     I didn't reply, I couldn't see that it mattered to him.  He was
only staying a few weeks anyway, then he was going back to America for
another year.  They're all over there, I thought.  I really must go
sometime.
     Although this rather impersonal homecoming was a bit
disappointing, it was also reassuring.  The last thing I wanted to do
was to fall in love with Davey again.  Though I had known in my heart
that this would be very unlikely.  It's never the same the second time
round.  And I just didn't want another being in love scene, not yet,
anyway.  I needed a different kind of relationship, not so
time-consuming or so involved.
     More like I had with Grant, and what I should have had with Davey.
     But as far as Davey was concerned I hadchanged, and that was
weird.  I had been expecting him to change, but I hadn't really, except
that I was seeing him in a different way.  I felt very detached.
     I was bored at the reception, but Davey seemed to be digging all
the big star treatment he'd never had before in England.  He told me
not to be shy, and I thought he really doesn't think I've changed at
all.  Six months ago I would have been shy at one of these scenes, but
now I was bored with the suave guys and dolly chicks, the hustlers and
promoters.  He thought I didn't know anybody, so I started saying hi to
everyone I knew and circulated, just to show him.  After a meal we went
back home and watched what was left of television.  I kept glancing at
his face, and had to admit that it was pretty.  In that respect things
were the same: the more I looked at him the prettier he became, until
it amazed me that anyone could have a face like that.
     What made it stranger was that the first impression was anything
but dynamic.  It had something that gradually grew on you until it
became unreal, because you didn't know how it happened.  But none of
the vibrations were there.  We still hadn't touched and I didn't feel
any inclination to.
     So when we got into bed the only feeling I had was a morbid
interest in rediscovering his lovemaking.  It was strange undressing
and getting into bed like we used to, as though he hadn't been away,
and even stranger reaching toward each other in the dark.  At the first
contact I suddenly felt shy, but not for long, because in bed at least
the old magic was there.
     Holding his frail body once more I could imagine I was in love all
over again.  He made it so good for me, and I'd forgotten how he gasped
and groaned as he came.  It was nice to know how lost he got in the
sensation because it helped me to get lost as well, and until I get
lost I can never get there.  So I loved him again just for the moment,
without any hangups, though by morning I just felt a sort of familiar
fondness.  It didn't really matter to me whether I saw him again or
not, my curiosity had been satisfied and my feelings realized, and
everything was cool.
     He was supposed to be coming over that evening, and arranged to
phone me before he came.  When it got to midnight the phone rang and I
thought it was him.  But it wasn't-it was the reappearance of Grant,
asking me to a party of all things.  He seemed very jolly, and I
decided to go.  Maybe Davey wasn't going to turn up, and anyway, I
wanted to see Grant again.  On the way over I thought maybe I'll find
out now what he felt about finding me in Joe's bed.
     When I got down to Chelsea I found the "party" was being held in
Paul's room.  Everyone was drunk, including Grant, so there was nothing
for it but to get drunk as well.  I started having a lot of trouble
with Paul, who kept demanding kisses and grabbing hold of me.  Grant
watched me struggling for a while, and then intervened.
     "If you don't leave her alone I'm taking her up to my room," he
announced.
     Paul transferred his affections to Grant, pleading with him to
stay, and telling him he was the best Personal Manager in the world.
     "Yes, alright, Paul, that's enough," said Grant, trying to
separate himself from Paul and push me out of the room at the same
time.
     "You're drunk" he told me accusingly, as he finally hauled me up
the stairs into his cupboard.
     "So are you," I said.
     Then the door burst open and Paul flung himself on top of us,
trying to kiss both of us now and saying he wouldn't go away unless we
came back down.  There was a terrible noise coming from downstairs.
     There seemed to be a jam session in progress, but it was so
unmusical it wasn't true.  Grant suddenly decided he wanted to play the
drums, so we all fell back downstairs again.  Joints were going round
now, and after a couple of them my head started spinning on my
shoulders.  I had to escape.  I took no notice of Grant's, "Where do
you think you're going," and went and lay down on his mattress.
     When I woke up next morning Grant told me crossly that he had had
to undress me and that I couldn't come round here again if I was going
to get drunk.  I giggled at the thought of Grant's irritation at having
to undress me and get me into bed, and he told me to shut up because he
had a hangover.
     Then he told me to get up because he wanted me to come shopping
with him up the King's Road.  He hadn't mentioned my Joe scene at all,
and I certainly wasn't going to bring it up until I was sure of the
right moment.  Maybe Grant had already punished me in his own way.
     Perhaps he had reckoned that not having contacted me for two and a
half weeks was punishment enough.  If that was the case I had got off
very lightly.  He wasn't to know that I had never been more busy during
these last weeks.  Now he could call me up again as though nothing had
happened, so that it looked as though he didn't care very much what I
did.  But what had gone through his mind during these last weeks?
     That's what I wanted to know.  Had his first reaction been to blow
me out, and had he then found he didn't want to do that, so he'd just
let some time pass to save face?  I didn't know, but I was determined
to find out soon.
     When I got back I found a note from Davey.  Apparently he had come
round just after I had left, and 'Fed, who had let him in, told him I'd
gone to some business party and would probably be back later.  So Davey
had sat waiting for me until he got bored and had then got into bed
alone.  I was sorry I had hung him up, but that was all.  The letter
read: "The weak-faced young boy sat huddled in a corner mumbling to
himself about self-expression.  Suddenly he crossed the room and threw
open the window.  With one fluid movement he ripped his cock off and
hurled it onto the street below, where it burst in a shimmering
galactic explosion, drenching the whole of Bayswater in a thick saffron
putrescence."  Underneath that he'd written, "Dear K-sorry I missed ya,
praps I'll see yoo again, oo nose.  Abbys in you?  D.
     From the poor little lamb who lost his way."
     As I said, it was a week for letters.

     I didn't feel mean about Davey, I couldn't change what had
happened.
     He had wanted to take up our scene again in his own particular
cool way, and I hadn't been sure.  Now I was, and wanted to.  finish it
before it got really started.  Davey must have sensed the changes in
me, because the next time we met we didn't even talk about it.  We just
chatted politely to each other about nothing in particular.  He rang me
before he left for the States again to say goodbye, and we promised to
keep in touch, whatever that means.
     It was nice to be back with Grant again, and it was obvious that
our relationship had shifted into a different phase.
     I could phone him without being told I was uncool, though I
usually waited until he phoned me-which He did regularly.
     Maybe I had passed -some test or other, and he was accepting me as
I was.  Though as I was then was very different to how I had been when
he'd first met me.  I reckoned I was pretty cool now and didn't get
hung up, when I didn't see him for days on end, because I knew he'd
phone when he wanted me.
     He, of course, hadn't changed at all.  He was still aggressive and
bossy, but if he had treated me like dirt before, he was treating me
like nice dirt now.  I felt I was managing to erode his independence
thing because I could persuade him to let me do some of his washing-not
all though.  He wouldn't allow me that honor.  And if he didn't try to
put me down for merely wanting to.  do these things for him, he now
waited until I had done them and then criticized me for doing them
badly, or for not doing anything about minute holes in his socks.  He
told me I was to find birds for him, birds with big tits, because he
liked big tits and mine were too small.  I told him I wasn't going to
pimp for him, and got very indignant.
     "I only want to fuck them," he explained.  "I don't want to get
involved or anything like that."
     "You never know," I said.  "You might meet one like me who digs
you and won't leave you alone."
     "Nobody would be mad enough to do that," he said very definitely.
     "I'm not mad and I like you," I said.
     "You are mad."
     "I'm not!"
     "anyway, you don't like me as much is you say."
     "I do," I protested.
     "You're always sleeping with other men," he said accusingly.  "Not
that I care .  . . I'm always sleeping with other women."
     "Well, if you're always sleeping with other women, why do you need
me to pull you birds with big tits?"
     "Because I cant be bothered to get it together," he said.
     "I'm only thinking about my mental health.  I read that a man of
my age needs a lot of sex if he doesn't want to end up disturbed or
something."
     "Where on earth did you read that?"  I asked.
     "Never you mind.  Just find me lots of birds ... ones with big
tits .
     . . and we'll get on fine."
     "I'll have a look," I said, but I knew I wouldn't.  He could find
his own birds and as long as I didn't know about them I wouldn't get
uptight.  But I still didn't like to think of him sleeping around.  I
was terrified he might find someone he really liked, and get involved.
     However, he was pretty hard to get involved with, and he claimed
he still had hangups about pulling birds, ending up with the ones who
wanted him rather than the ones he wanted.
     "Be careful then," I warned him.
     "Why, may I ask?"
     "You might catch something.  There's a lot of it about, and it's
not just posterius."
     "Anything I've had I've caught from you-diseases are your
department."
     "Well," I said defensively, "I've stopped sleeping with guys now
except for you."
     I was always telling him that.  It sounded nice even if it wasn't
true and he didn't believe it.  It hadn't been true in the past nor
would it be true in the future, because I was about to pull this
beautiful boy I'd seen down at The Kingdom.  He came every week, and
paid at my till.  I never normally look at the customers, just hand
them their tickets and change without looking into their faces.  But
this guy dropped his money all over my till, and as we tried to sort it
out I saw his face and got a shock.  He looked exactly like Ben from
The Satin Odyssey!  For a moment my insides lurched and I thought it
actually was Ben, but when he open - his mouth and spoke I knew
instantly it wasn't.  He had this very nasal North London accent.
     We exchanged a few words and I smiled at him encouragingly as I
handed him his ticket.
     When the main group started playing I went in to listen, it's The
Shadow Cabinet, who have a very heavy sound and this organist I've had
my eyes on for some time.  They played at the deb dance when I pulled
Andy from The Elevation.  I looked around for the pretty customer, but
couldn't see him anywhere, so settled against a pillar to watch the
group.  The organist had his back half toward me, and most of that was
obscured by the speaker columns, so that I could only see the hair
hanging over his face, his right hand on the keyboard and his right
velvet leg in a groovy boot working on the pedals.
     I'd got into the habit of eating a bit of hash fudge when the main
work of the evening was over so that I could pass the rest of the time
in a slightly stoned state.  That made things more interesting.  I only
took enough just to groove to the music, never so much that I couldn't
cope with work that came up later.  And by The Shadow Cabinet's third
number I noted with satisfaction how incredible they sounded, and how
completely absorbed in their sound I had become.  The rest of the group
had their attraction, I suppose, but it was the organist my eyes kept
coming back to.  Because I dug him, it was like all the sound was
coming from him and that he knew what it was doing to me.  I couldn't
see his face-in fact I couldn't even remember what it looked like-but
it had attracted me, so I watched his hand instead.
     And I became very hung up on that hand, watching it playing the
notes that were affecting me so much, so much so that I wanted that
hand and its owner and wanted to feel that hand on my body.  Then the
sound got lost as I went into a fantasy of being confronted by this guy
whose face I couldn't see, but whose hand I knew so well.  I knew I'd
dig him because I'd dig anybody who could make such groovy music.  The
fantasy wasn't exactly sexual, it was just an intense -awareness
generated by the feeling that the god-like figure on the stage was
obtainable to me should I have a mind to get it together.  I watched
his leg for a while and noted his trousers were the same as Jason's.
     I watched the long dark hair swinging forward as he leaned over to
concentrate on particular chords.
     But his hand was the only available bit of flesh to my sight, the
only thing I could identify with.  And I ended up just staring at it
and listening to it, because the whole sound that was turning me on was
coming from it.  Wow, I thought, when they finished their set.  I want
that guy.  Not that I was going to do anything about it.  I felt very
objective about my desire.
     He'd keep, anyway.
     When I turned round I saw my customer walking toward me and
switched my mind to things in hand.  I stopped and chatted with him.
     He seemed shy and very ill at ease, though obviously pleased to be
speaking to me.
     "Do you go to The Country Club?"  he asked me after a bit.
     "Not often."
     "Where do you go, then?"
     I wasn't sure what he meant.  "Where do I go when?"
     "Of an evening .  . . you know."
     "Oh, sometimes I stay in and sometimes I go out," I said
unhelpfully.
     These weren't the kind of conversations that I liked.
     "I mean, what clubs do you go to?"
     As he persisted I decided to give him a flash answer.
     "I go to The Joint to pull group members, to the Speakeasy to eat,
and the Revolution to be seen at."
     "Don't know those places," he muttered.
     "Where do you go?"  I asked, fearing the worst.
     He brightened up.  "Well, on Mondays I go to my mate Pete's.  On
Tuesdays I stay in and wash my hair.  On Wednesdays I block it and go
to the Fishmonger's Arms.  Thursdays I go to the Marquee and Fridays I
go to Bluesville 69.  Saturdays I come here to trip out and Sundays I
go up The Country Club."  I presumed blocking it meant getting
pilled-up.
     He grinned and waited for me to compliment him or something.
     "And you do that every week?"  I was amazed that he should spend
most of his time in these rather grotty clubs.
     "Nearly always I mean, there's not much else to do, is there?"
     If he didn't know I wasn't going to tell him!  "Sometimes I stay
home and listen to my Dylan records."
     He paused and fidgeted at my lack of response.  "Do you like
Dylan?"
     "Yes, I like Bob Dylan," I said, and then told him I'd see him
later as I had work to do.  We didn't seem to be getting anywhere very
fast.
     I still wanted to pull him, because he was so physically
attractive.
     But his mind was nowhere-obviously a thickie.  It might be nice to
change that.  I thought.  Get inside him and open Men up a bit.  Kick
his mind around and shake it all up and see what came out.
     Much later, when the rest of my work was finished, I was sitting
on the stage talking to Lenny.  the DJ.  I saw him wandering about on
his own, his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets.  I waved
to him and he came over.
     "I forgot to ask your name," I said.
     "It's Norman."  he replied quickly.
     "I'm Katie," I said, "and this is Lenny."
     "Yes, I know who you are."  He looked at Lenny.  "I know who both
of you are."
     "Hi," said Lenny, putting on his latest West Coast import, and
freaking out on his earphones.
     "who's on at The Country Club tomorrow, then?"  I asked Norman.
     "The Daredevil."
     "They're not bad," I said.  "I might go."  He was now supposed to
-ask me to go with him.
     "I'm going," was all he said.
     "Have you got a car?"  lasked.
     He looked surprised.  "Yes, I have."
     "What sort?"  I hoped he might have a groovy sports car or
something.
     "A Cortina," he said proudly.
     "Oh, that's a drag car," I said, sounding disappointed.  He got a
bit annoyed.
     "Well, it really moves, and it's got lots of room inside."
     "What do you want lots of room for?"
     "I can give my mates lifts, cant I?"
     "Why don't you give me a lift to The Country Club tomorrow night?"
     I suggested.
     He looked a bit puzzled.  "Just you?"
     "Yes, just me," I said.
     "Where do you live?"
     "Lancaster Gate," I said.
     "Where's that?"
     I couldn't believe he didn't know Lancaster Gate.  "It's past
Marble Arch down the Bayswater.  Road."
     "Oh, I know Marble Arch," he said.
     "Where do you live?"  I asked.
     "MusweH Hill."  I was right about him being from North London.
     "Well, can you pick me up?"  I continued.  "I'll get you into The
Country Club for nothing.  I know the manager."
     "Yes, I suppose you do," he said wistfully.  "You know a lot of
people."
     "It's not a big deal to know the manager of the Country Club," I
said.  "What time will you pick me up?"
     In the end I had to tell him what time to come, and draw a map of
how to get to my pad from Marble Arch.
     "Why do you want me to come round so early?"  he asked.
     "So that we can get stoned first."
     A slight shadow of alarm passed over his face.  "Oh, I don't smoke
pot," he said quickly.  "I only block it on pills, or trip out."
     "Why don't you smoke pot?"  I asked.
     "I can't, can I?  It makes me sick."
     "Well, I've got some tinctures, you can try that," I said
reassuringly.
     He didn't know what tincture was, so I had to explain.  I also
told him about prescriptions coming to an end because the doctor who
handed them out was getting paranoid, and how hash fudge was the new
scene.
     "Actually, I've taken to eating it in Marmite sandwiches," I told
him.  "If you eat hash in one big lot it has a more dramatic effect
than by smoking it gradually."
     "You seem to know all about it," he said.  "I wish I could turn
on.
     All the groovy people seem to."
     "Well, don't worry," I said.  "We'll fix you up tomorrow."
     Then he said he had to go because his mates were waiting for him.
     When he'd disappeared Lenny prodded me.  "What was that all
about?"  he said.
     "I'm going to pull him," I told Lenny.
     "Is he your scene?"  he asked dubiously.
     "Everyone is my scene," I said grandly.
     "Yes, but pill-head teeth-grinding teenagers from Muswell Hill
picking you up in Cortinas .  . . surely that's a scene you can do
without?"
     "He doesn't smoke either," I said.  "You forgot that."
     "Right," Lenny agreed.  "He's not even a smoker-I mean, how will
you be able to communicate?"  Lenny believes that pot-smoking would
resolve the world situation, and claims it is a beneficial herb not a
drug.
     "And his name is Norman," I continued.
     "Yes, that's all part of it too."
     "And I'm sure he and his mates have punch-ups with the Mods in
Muswell Hill yes, that's his scene alright.  But anybody with a face
like that and a ski-any body has to be my scene-just for a little
while."
     "Yes, I saw his face," Lenny agreed.  "It's incredible."
     "Did you see his eyes?"  I asked.  "Did they remind you of
anyone?"
     "No," Lenny said.
     "His eyes were violet.  Nobody I know has eyes like that, not even
the guy he reminds me of."
     "So what," Lenny said.  "I knew an Albino with seven fingers when
I was at school."
     "Yes, but violet eyes," I said.

     When he arrived late the following afternoon I was ready with the
bottle and spoon.  I hoped to get him so stoned that he wouldn't want
to go to The Country Club-because I certainly didn't.  Norman looked
all neat and clean, and his clothes were cheap imitations of the better
hip boutiques.  He looked very thin today, I noticed.  This thinness
was what I liked in men.  His eyes were even more startling in normal
light, large and violet rimmed with thick dark eyelashes.  I couldn't
stop staring at them.  I tried to get him to take the tincture, but he
was very reluctant, insisting that it would make him sick.  I got a bit
impatient, and swallowed some to show him that it wasn't poison.
     "Will it blow my mind?"  he asked, defenses wavering and wanting
the promise of good rhinos to come.
     "If you take enough it will blow your head right off," I said, and
poured him the normal dose, a large tablespoonful.  He swallowed it,
coughing, and making terrible grimaces.
     "Don't it taste horrible," he said.
     "You get used to it, and anyway it's worth it," I said.
     We sat around for a bit.  He seemed nervous because I was staring
at him so much.  Finally he couldn't stand it anymore and started
glancing behind to see what was in the room apart from us.
     "Is something wrong?"  he asked.
     "It's your eyes," I said.
     "What's the matter with them?"  he asked, in a very paranoid
voice.
     "Don't you know that you've got incredibly beautiful eyes?"
     I told him.
     Norman gave an embarrassed laugh.  "You're having me on."
     I looked at him seriously.  "You have got the most beautiful eyes
I have ever seen."
     "What!"  he said, and laughed edgily.
     "And you've got a beautiful face as well," I continued.
     he said.
     "Don't talk silly, "No really," I insisted, enjoying his
confusion.
     "I mean it."
     He didn't say anything then for a moment.  He started rolling a
cigarette, and I thought he might actually be rolling a joint.
     "Is that a joint?"  I asked.
     "Course it isn't, it's a roll-up."
     "Roll-up what?"
     "I roll-up straight tobacco you can save a lot of money that way,
you know."  He lit it and started telling me about the kind of music he
liked.  It wasn't very interesting.
     "Do you ever listen to soul music when you're stoned?"  I asked.
     "I don't get stoned, do I?"
     "Well, you will in a minute."
     "I cant feel anything yet."
     "It'll happen soon," I reassured him.
     Norman got up and began to fluff his dark hair in the mirror.
     "Sorry I didn't have time to freak it out," he said.
     I told him I liked it better as it was.
     "But it's groovy to have freaked-out hair," he protested.
     "Look at yours."
     "My hair is not freaked-out," I said, annoyed.  "These are curls.
     Great heads were last year."  If he thought my hair was
freaked-out now, he should have seen it last year!  "I'm thinking of
having it permed so that it's freaked out permanently," he said.
     "Don't do that," I said.  "I promise you, that's all finished."
     He got a bit peeved.  "You tell me what to do with it then.
     You know what's in and what isn't."
     I went over to him and ran my hand over his hair experimentally.
     He shied away a bit.  "Let it grow a bit longer and it will be
alright."
     I sat down again beside him on the bed, so that we were side by
side with our backs to the wall.  Finding the sides of our arms
touching he moved his discreetly apart.
     "Nothing is happening," he said.
     "It is, but you don't realize it," I explained.
     "Well, I don't feel nothing."
     "Well, I'm stoned, so you must be too," I said.  I was only very
slightly stoned, but I had taken less.
     "You know how to get stoned," he said.  "I don't.  Tripping is the
only thing that turns me on."
     "What does acid do to you?"  I asked.
     "Trips are nice.  They make me feel all happy."
     "Is that all they do?"
     Norman looked at me.  "What do you mean?"
     "Don't you see things and experience loss of ego?"  I thought that
would fox him and it did.
     "What's loss of ego?"
     So I dutifully launched into a long-winded description of a trip
I'd taken in the park two summers ago, when I'd felt my soul leave my
body and merge with the earth and the sky.  I'd been able to feel
myself in the grass and flowers, and spreading out into everything.
     "Oh, I never have trips like that," he said.  "I've never had my
mind blown."
     Christ, I thought, and cannily changed the subject.  I wasn't
going to be lumbered with having to explain what the psychedelic
experience was all about.  Let him read Leary.  He had the kind of mind
that Leary wrote for.
     I asked him what his job was, but he wouldn't tell me.  He said
I'd laugh at him because I was groovy and had a groovy job, and I would
laugh -if he told me what he did.  I said I wouldn't and this went on
for a bit.
     "might," he said, "if you must know .  . . I'm a postman."
     No, I thought, -and laughed.
     "I said you'd laugh, didn't I?"
     "Sorry," I said.
     "We cant all have groovy jobs like you."
     "There's nothing special about my job," I said.
     He was very paranoid because I'd laughed.  I decided to calm him
down a bit.  "Anybody could get a job at The Kingdom."
     "I couldn't," he said, "you have to be really in to work in a
place like that."
     "Would you like a job down there?"  I asked.
     His eyes widened in amazed disbelief.  "You mean you could get me
a job at The Kingdom?"
     "I might," I said, and he laughed delightedly.
     f'YOU've blown my mind, you have," he said and rubbed his hands
together gleefully.
     I knew I would have no trouble getting him a job.  My doubts were
mainly concerned with whether I wanted to go to all the bother or not.
     I wasn't sure yet if he was worth it.  Then he said he felt sick
and started groaning and saying he felt dizzy.
     I told him to lie down, -he'd soon feel better.  He kept
apologizing, about being a drag.  And he was a drag, except he was a
beautiful drag and that excused it.  He lay face downward on the bed
and I turned the television on.  He slept while I watched telly right
through to the bitter end, and still showed no signs of reviving.  This
couldn't go on.  Something would have to happen, even if I had to make
it happen myself.  I shook him and he started up suddenly.
     "What's the time," he asked.
     "How do you feel?"
     He shook his head.  "I wish you hadn't made me take that stuff.
     I'm sorry I'm such bad company."
     "That's all right," I said.  "We're too late now for The Country
Club."
     "Are we?"  He looked at his watch.  "Yes, you're right.  I am
sorry.
     I'd better be going."
     I wasn't having any of that.  He'd bored me and fallen asleep.
     He was not going to leave without making it with me first.
     "Don't go," I said.  "You can sleep here."
     He was embarrassed.  "Oh, I cant do that.  I wouldn't want you to
think I'd come round just for that."
     What was the matter with him?  Was he a virgin or something?
     "Are you a virgin?"  I asked.
     He got even more embarrassed.  "No of course not.  But it's got
nothing to do with that.  I came round to give you a lift.  I mean I
didn't come round just to sleep with you.  I don't want you to think
that."
     "Don't you want to?"  I asked.
     "Well you don't sleep with a bird the first time you see her, do
you?"
     "Why not?"
     He got really mixed up.  "At least, not with you.  It's just that
you are so groovy and everything, and I'm not.  It's you.
     You wouldn't want to sleep with me."
     "Why don't you find out?"
     "I wouldn't even try.  I'm sure you'd just laugh in my face if I
did.
     I've seen the kind of people you go around with at The Kingdom,
and I'm not like them.  I've seen the way you look at the customers,
like they're dirt, and the way you only talk to groups and people who
are important."  I tried to prod his imagination along.
     "Well, why didn't I ask one of my important friends to take me out
tonight, then?"
     "I don't really know," he said, and I think I believed him.
     "I fancied you and I want to sleep with you.  It's as simple as
that."
     I don't really enjoy saying things like that, but this seemed to
be the only way with this guy.
     "I cant think why," he muttered.
     "You've got violet eyes for a start," I said.
     He started getting uptight and said I only liked him for his eyes.
     I said he was wrong, and moved my face up to his face, just to
prove it.
     This was too much for him and he leaned over and started kissing
me untidily.  Things were looking up when he suddenly checked himself,
saying, no, he couldn't, what would I think of him.  And then he
buttoned all the shirt buttons I'd managed to undo.  I was getting
impatient.  I wanted him, but I wasn't going to spend the whole night
persuading him.  So I got up and took all my clothes off.
     "I'm going to bed," I said.  "Are you coming or not?"
     He didn't know, so I had to grab him and finally he got worked up
enough to agree.
     "Don't look," he said, taking off his shirt.
     "Why not?"
     "I'm too thin."
     "Rubbish," I said.  "I like then people.
     I lay back watching him through partly closed eyes, pretending not
to.
     He was very thin.  Then he was in the bed lying beside me.  It was
nice to look into his fantastic face, and now he'd stopped speaking it
was even better.  I ran my hands down his stomach, and he shied away,
saying he was ticklish.
     Without waiting any longer I reached down further and took his
erection and squeezed it gently.  After a few seconds he took my hand
away saying he would come if I did that So I took his hand and held it
against me.  Imperceptibly his fingers began to move upend down until
he found my clitoris, and in a short time he had me excited.
     "Are you ready?"  he whispered.
     Eyes closed, I nodded my head.
     "Shall I put it in?"
     Yes," I said.
     He forced his erection down between my legs and I had to move my
body around to get it inside me.  Immediately he was moving up and
down, his bony hips cutting painfully into my thigh tops.  He came
quickly with a lot of gasping, and then started kissing me
passionately.  After lying on top of me for a few minutes, he started
again.  This time it went on longer, though we didn't change positions
or anything.  Then we, separated our bodies and I moved down and plated
him.  This made him scream, and must have blown his mind.  He passed
out almost immediately after he came.  Then when it was all over and I
was lying beside him looking into his face perhaps for something that
wasn't there, I decided not to sleep with himagain.  He'd probably be
offended, and call me immoral, but that was the way it had to be.  He
would bore me once I got used to his eyes and his looks.
     I'd let him down gently though.
     Next day I had a few words with Jason and got Norman on the staff
as a doorman at the weekends.  It wasn't much of a job, making sure
people didn't get in without paying, but by his standards it was real
groovy.
     At least he told me so when I rang him up to tell him.  He admired
my little demonstration of power and made a big thing of it.  He just
didn't know where I was at.
     Theo was going to the States and he rang me up to ask if I would
go with him to the airport.
     "Does it have to be me, cant you take one of your hired friends?"
     I really didn't feel like going.  Theo explained that he'd thrown
out all his friends except his chauffeur.  They had been bugging him,
he said.
     "It's simply that I'm scared of flying, and I need someone to talk
to before I take off."
     "What about your chauffeur?"  I asked.  "You can say what you have
to to him, cant you?"
     "No I cant," Theo said crossly.  "He doesn't listen to me."
     "Well, it's a bit inconvenient," I said.
     "Oh, if you don't want to that's a different matter.  You don't
have to come round."  He sounded very aggrieved.
     "Hang on to your mind," I said, "we cant have you going away all
hurt .  . . when do you want me there?"
     "Now," he said, still a hale hurry.
     So I went round to Theo's.  He'd laid out enough clothes to mount
a one-man fashion show.  I had to take charge of all that.  I made him
leave eighty percent of them behind and packed the rest for him.  He
was only going to be away for two weeks.  He started hanging me up by
making me check and re-check his pill chest to make sure that the right
kind of pills in the right kind of proportion were there, so that every
type of future crisis was catered for.
     "You see," he explained, "mentally I've got to be very well dug
in, so please will you check again?"
     I made him take some tranquilizers, although he'd had some
already.
     Once the second lot hit him he was like putty in my hands.  Soon
we were ready to leave, and we called Robin, whose only concession to
his chauffeur status was a peaked cap-the rest of his clothes were
scruffy I told him to get the bags into the car.  Robin looked very
surly today, and without a word, but with a perpetual scowl, he
staggered off with the cases.
     Theo and I made ourselves comfortable in the back of the Bentley,
and with a silent Robin in front, we set off.  Sitar music came from
the stereo speakers in the back of the car, and I felt slightly foolish
as we sailed along.  Theo had pulled down the picnic table and was
rolling joints.
     "Got to use up all my hash before I get on that plane," he said.
     "Mustn't get busted, must we?"
     He was rolling a lot of joints, and there was still quite a bit
left.
     "Why don't you leave it behind?"  I suggested.
     "What .  . . ?  Leave it for those worms in my place?"
     "Tbere's nobody in your pad now, Theodore, you threw them all out,
remember?"
     "Yes, but they are still around, don't you see.  They're like
mice, creeping into my place and nibbling at things.  They keep
nibbling at my pot when I'm not there to watch them."
     "Mere's only Robin left now," I reminded him again.
     Theo started to smoke his joints.  "I'm not leaving anything for
him.
     He used to pinch my amps when I was on speed."
     Theo leaned forward and shouted "And no grooving with your scruffy
friends when I'm away mind .  . . you hear me there .  . . I" All I
heard was a low-pitched muttering from Robin.  I asked Theo what was
happening to his script.  Last time I'd seen him, he'd been waiting to
hear from the studios.
     "Have they accepted it?"  I asked.
     "Well, something better has happened," he explained.
     I wondered what this something better could be.  Surely the fact
that the studios had accepted it was the best thing that could happen
to a young writer trying to get his first film scene together?
     "Tell me," I said.
     "they have turned the rights over to me.  I'll be getting it
together myself when I come back from the States."
     I knew Theo well enough to know what this meant.  Projects were
never dropped or rejected by him.  When the crunch came they were
mentally filed away in his limbo of pending projects.  All those
agonized weeks on speed, all that mind turmoil, and all that wasted
effort.  Still, he'd been well paid for it.
     "What exactly will you be doing in the States, Theo?"  I asked, as
he passed me the first joint and lit up another.
     "I'm going over there to set up my submarine.  I'm going to take
my work round all the studios, and see who offers me the best deal.
     They're bound to want it."
     I hoped so.  The image of Theo hawking his project round the
studios in Hollywood, propped up by his pills, his ego and his unsound
reputation, was not a comforting one.
     Theo had finished the second joint and there were still three to
go.
     He reached into his pocket and brought out a small bottle of pills
I hadn't known about.
     "Emergency mannys," he said, and popped two Mandrax into his
mouth.
     "Flying gives me the horrors, I have to take sleepers to knock me
out.
     These should hit me just before takeoff."  He peered out of the
tinted windows.  "Yes, I've worked out the timing on it, from just
about this part of the motorway."
     I hoped he didn't fall asleep before he got onto the plane.
     "Yes, it's sink or swim with this project, Katie," he continued.
     "I've spent all my bread, and have overdrawn massively to get this
airship scene together .  . - yes, sink or swim," he repeated, and
after taking a couple of drags on his third joint fell back into a kind
of coma.
     When we got to the airport Robin and I hoisted Theo out of the car
and directed him into the departure lounge.  I kept talking to him to
keep him awake while Robin disappeared into the loo, to have a fix, I
disapprovingly suspected.  Theo had managed to order himself a double
brandy, and he sat there clutching it in his hands, while his head fell
this Way and that.  I hoped people wouldn't think he was drunk and
asked him how he felt.  He was in a drugged funk about his imminent
departure.  I told him it was time to leave, and he suddenly leaped out
of his chair and vaulted over the low coffee table.  He stood stupidly
in the middle of the lunge wondering what had happened while the other
people stared at him in amazement.  The brandy had shot into the air
when he'd leaped up, and now he looked at the -empty glass in surprise.
     "What's this?"  he said, and returning to his chair he told me to
get him another.  Fortunately his flight was being announced and there
wasn't time.  Before he could drift off again, I got him to his feet
and looked around for Robin.
     The big suitcase had already gone through customs, so I picked up
his briefcase and steered him to the departure gate.
     "Bye bye, Katie," he said, totally bemused.  I watched him weave
his erratic path towards the bus.
     I found Robin sitting at the wheel of the Bentley, and after
complaining about his unhelpful-ness, we drove back home in silence.  I
finished off the other two joints while I was at it.  I didn't see why
Robin should have them.  When he dropped me off, I told him I'd be
coming round from time to time to check up on things for Theo.  He gave
me several shifty looks and said he knew what he had to do.  I told him
I would make sure, although I would do nothing of the kind.  I had no
intention of wasting my time watching the goings-on at Theo's during
his absence.  I just said it to make Robin uptight, because I didn't
like him.

     There are some things which are a capital offense in my books, and
calling round without phoning first is one of them.  So when Norman
started to do this, action had to be taken, and quickly.  I decided to
disappear for a week.  This would cool him out without me actually
having to tell him.
     That sort of thing is so embarrassing.  I phoned Grant to see if I
could stay with him for a while.  It didn't matter if he said no,
because I had other friends I could stay with, but I wanted to see what
Grant said first.  I'd never asked him to do anything for me-it was
always the other way around.  And I wanted to stay with Grant to see
what he was like all the time, and to have a small sample of what
living with him would be like.  I felt that our scene had moved off the
battlefield and into the peace talks, so to speak, and there was much
more tolerance between us now we understood each other's terms.
     When I rang him I found him surprisingly cooperative.
     "I suppose so," he said.  "How long for?"
     "I'm not trying to move in," I quickly explained.  "It's just for
a few days .  . . there's someone I'm trying to avoid."
     He came back like a shot.  "I've told you about those people,
haven't I?"  he shouted triumphantly.  "You will get involved, won't
you?  I knew you'd come running for help sooner or later."
     "Well, if it hangs you up, don't bother," I said.  I mean, I
wasn't going to let him think I depended on him.
     "No, no, it's all right," he said grandly.  "You won't be a
nuisance, I'll see to that .  . . besides, I won't be there tonight."
     "Where will you be then?"  I demanded.
     "I'll be sleeping at the office tonight.  Roland Johns is ringing
from the States at some time.  It's about the group's trip to America."
     What?  The Relation going to America?
     "I didn't know the group was going to the States," I said.
     "Course you didn't.  Nobody knows," Grant said.  "It's very hush
hush."
     "Will you be going with them?"
     "Mind your own business.  I'll speak about it when I'm good and
ready."
     "OK," I said.  "And thanks for letting me stay."
     "Don't mention it," he said airily.
     So, I thought.  The Relation are going to America.  Don't think
about it, you mightn't like what comes into your head, and you'll get
hung up, like you always do when people you dig go away.  So I put it
out of my mind, though it made me feel rather grim-certainly not in a
mood to handle Norman with the lightness I'd hoped for.  Just as I was
getting some things together for my departure, one of Normans friends
rang up.
     "Is Norm there?"  asked this awful voice.
     "No," I said, and put the phone down.  What a name!  Norm!  And
then there was a knock at the door and Norman himself was there,
committing another capital offense.
     "Oh hello," I said, in a bored voice.  "I'm afraid I'm just going
out."
     "Shall I wait?"  he asked, after a pause.
     "No," I said.  "I won't be back tonight or tomorrow or for the
rest of the week."
     He gave me a doleful look which made me feel impatient.
     "You don't love me, do you?"  he said, not looking at me.
     "You shouldn't ask things like that," I said.
     There was a tense pause as he watched me putting things into a
carrier bag.
     "I knew you were just using me.  I said so," he burst out.
     that wasn't strictly correct, but I couldn't see the point of
arguing.
     "Yes," I said, trying to remember what I needed to take.
     "You're not groovy at all you're just wicked.."
     I looked at him, into his incredible eyes that didn't matter any
more.
     "Am I?"  I asked, not feeling wicked at all.  "If I'm wicked, then
there's no need to like me.  In fact, better to leave me alone all
together."
     "You think you know it all" he flashed defiantly.  "You think you
know where everything's at well, you don't, see, because I've sussed
you out.  You impress people with the way you look and the way you
talk, but you're nothing, because inside there's nothing, and you have
-nothing to give anybody."
     I'm sure he's wrong, I thought, as I threw a few more unnecessary
things into my bag.
     "Sometimes there's nothing and sometimes there's everything," I
said.
     "It depends who I'm giving it to."
     He gave me a bitter look.
     "I thought you were going to give something to me, but I suppose
I'm not good enough.  I loved you and you conned me."  "You'll learn,"
I said, putting on my coat.  "It's good for you) "Will you see me
again?"
     he asked suddenly.
     "No," I said.  "And you'd better go now, because I have to lock
the door."
     "Didn't you like me at all?"  he persisted.
     I looked at him and considered for a moment.
     "Well,.  you do have incredible eyes," I said, and that got rid of
him.
     "My eyes have nothing to do with it," he shouted, and dashed out
of the room and down the stairs.  I waited until I was sure he had gone
and then split.  I didn't feel good at all.
     Bill let me in when I got there and said Grant had told them I was
coming.  Everyone except Grant and Joe was watching the new telly in
Joe's room.  Joe came in much later and told us all he'd been having
dinner in this millionaire chick's pad in Belgravia.  He started going
on about how groovy the pads in Belgravia were and how this chick
wanted him to move in with her.  During this all the others somehow
left and I found myself alone with Joe.  To try and change the subject
I asked him what this American trip was all about, but I didn't get
much out of him.  He said yeah, it was almost certain that they'd go to
America, but a lot depended on the call Grant was expecting.  In
America they were bound to make it in a big way.  I thought, yes, they
were good and any good group going to America usually made it there and
came back with real bread.  And once they'd made it there, they would
make it here too in a big way, so he really had something to be cocky
about.  He told me when he came back he'd get himself a really big pad
in Belgravia, with fitted carpets, soft lights and expensive furniture.
     It would be somewhere he could bring his new groovy friends back
to without being ashamed.  Not like this house, he explained, where he
had to share with all the others and put up with their habits.  Sure,
this place was alright, for now, but when he came back things would be
different.  He'd have beds that came out of walls, perspex baths and
goldfish in the toilet tanks.
     "Places like that cost money," I said.
     "Yes, I know," he said.  "That's why I'm wondering if I shouldn't
move in with this chick in Belgravia, until we go away, that is.
     She'll pay for everything and I can just lie around in luxury.
     The only hangup is she'll expect me to sleep with her all the
time, and that's a bit too involved for me."  Same old Joe, I thought.
     "It sounds great," I said, bored by Joe's ambitions.  Everyone
wants to live in expensive pads, but they don't talk about it until
they are ready to put their money where their mouths are.  I intended
to live in a groovy flat as well and share it with groovy people.  In
time I reckoned I would be able to get it together.  I had enough money
to move into a sort of interim pad, better than my Bayswater scene, and
this I intended to do very shortly.  I rather fancied a Chelsea
address.
     "If I made it in the States and came back and got a big pad
together, would you like to move in with me?"  Joe asked suddenly.
     "Why should I do that?"  I asked.
     "Well, we get on together, and you wouldn't hang me up by being
possessive, and you could look after me .  . . and, of course, you're a
groove in bed."
     The perfect scene, I thought.  Groupie glory.  Living with the
best in the best possible way.  The idea definitely appealed to me, but
Joe didn't.
     "We'll see when you're rich and famous," I said.
     Joe looked surprised.  "What does that mean?"
     "It means that I cant really see us living together."
     "Why not, don't you dig me?"
     "Not any more."
     "But you dig what I am," he said confidently.  "Especially if I
was very big."
     "No, that doesn't really matter any more.  Besides, there's always
somebody bigger," I added.
     "Well, I think you'll be missing out," he said, a bit put out.
     "I'll take my chances," I said.
     Joe thought for a minute, then gave me a puzzled look.
     "Don't I turn you on at all?"  he asked.
     "I've told you, not any more."  We sat in silence for a moment.
     "What are you doing here, anyway?"  he asked me finally.
     "I'm staying in Grant's room for a few days."
     "Is he here?"  Joe asked.
     "No, he's at the office waiting for the call that'll make you rich
and famous."
     "Oh yeah, I forgot," he said, absentmindedly.  "Why are you
staying in Grant's room for a few days?"
     "Because I don't want to stay in my flat at the moment."
     Joe grinned.  "Having problems with some geezer7" "Nothing much."
     "Still having it off with Grant?"  Joe gave me a nasty leer.
     "You won't go down too well in Belgravia, Joe, if you use
expressions like that."
     "What do you see in him?"  Joe asked, ignoring my remark.
     "In Grant?"
     "Yes.  I've heard the way he speaks to you and I don't know how
you stand it."
     I smiled tolerantly at him.  "You know I like to be bullied, Joe,
you were always telling me that.  Besides, he does it so well."
     "Does he talk like that to you all the time?"
     "Not really.  He's changing a bit now."
     "In what way?"  asked Joe, looking eagerly at me.
     "Well, we've reached the point where we don't have to, play so
many games now.  He's managed to get me to behave in certain ways which
keep him happy.  He thinks he understands me and I think I understand
him .
     . . but really neither of us knows very much about each other,
just enough to keep us interested."  I was trying to explain our
complicated relationship to Joe as simply as possible.
     Joe looked very interested.  "Does he play games?"
     "Oh yes, very clever ones."
     "Does he say nice things to you .  . . you know, does he tell you
he loves you and that?"
     "What?"  I laughed at Joe thinking of Grant as weak and imploring
when he was alone with me.  "Grant say he loves me?  You must be
joking!"
     "But doesn't he ever say things to.  you when you're in bed?"
     "Well, we talk.  But he never speaks when we're making it, if
that's what you mean.  In fact, he's the most silent lovemaker I've
ever met."
     Joe's eyes lit up.  "What's he like, then?"
     "He's good."
     "Is he really?"
     "Yes, he's very good."
     "Better than me?"
     "Yes," I said, "you could learn a lot from Grant."
     Joe looked a bit resentful.  "In what way?"
     "Well, he's got more imagination for a start."  I was enjoying
this, and it was so easy because it was the truth.  "And he's got it
all worked out."
     "Got all what worked out?"  Joe demanded.
     "His positions and things.  He's energetic and gentle at the same
time, and it always seems to happen just right.  It's like he's really
thinking about it all to make it good for you and yet he's digging it
as well.  He's not like some of the stoned zombies you find who don't
really seem to care what happens in bed as long as it's something.
     That's important, you know, Joe.  You once told me that it didn't
matter whether a chick did or didn't any more, it was the way she did
it that counted.  That's what you said.  Well, the same applies for
guys.  It's not enough for them to do it, they've got to know how to do
it too, if the whole operation is going to make any sense.
     "Are you speaking about me?"  Joe looked very uptight.
     "In a sense," I said.
     "Well, I'm very straightforward in bed," he said defensively.
     "You're just lazy," I told him.
     "Well, what are these positions and things you're telling me that
Grant is so good at?"  he demanded.
     "Do you really want to know?"
     "Sure I do."
     "Well, we start off like this," and I lay down on Joe's bed to
demonstrate a position.  "And after a while we move to this," and I
threw both of my legs in the air.  "Then at some stage I lie on my
tummy," and I moved accordingly.  "And we often do it sitting up," I
sat on the bed with my legs at angles.  "Then he sometimes plates me
for a bit, or I plate him."  I lay back on the bed.  "But we usually
finish up like this," I moved into.  a sideways position, "or this,"
and I arched my back.  "Though I often plate him last as well."
     Joe had been watching me in amazement.  "Oh, I could never get all
that together.  I couldn't be bothered."
     "Like I said, you're lazy."
     He gave me an anxious look..  "Do you think I should vary things a
bit?"
     "Yes," I said, "and you need a bigger bed too."
     "We managed in it."
     "Just about."
     Joe thought for a moment, and then leaned toward me with a
confident look on his face.  "Listen," he said, "you know what it's all
about, so why don't you show me all of Grant's tricks."  He took hold
of my hand.  "I never knew all this was going on in Grant's room."
     I took my hand away.  "That's not my scene, Joe.  You had your
chance once, but now it's too late."
     "But I've been missing out," he said.
     "Buy a copy of Kama Sutra, or something," I -said.
     "Oh, come on," Joe pleaded "I won't tell Grant, promise I wonlt."
     "He's already found out once, and you did that deliberately.  You
wanted to stir it up between us."  I had been stirring it up too, but
he wasn't to know that.
     "That was different."
     "You're right, this time it doesn't happen."
     "But I thought you were my friend?"  Joe looked genuinely hurt.
     "I am," I said, though I didn't see where friendship came into it.
     "Look, Katie, I like you really I do.  I feel I can talk frankly
about things like sex without getting too hung up so why don't you show
me what you and Grant get up to?  I mean, he's not even here."
     "I've shown you, haven't I?  There's no need for you to get worked
up about it because of me.  Find a chick and work it all out on her.
     Have a go at that rich chick in Belgravia you were talking about."
     I got up and went to the -door.  Joe was looking at me as if he
couldn't believe I was serious.
     "Where are you going?"
     "To bed."
     "But Grant's not here," he said, all confused.  "I mean, he won't
be back tonight, and you don't want to sleep alone, do you?"  "Yest I
do," I said.  "Goodnight."  And I left him to his imagination.

     I got back to the house before Grant the next evening and didn't
know whether to expect him or not.  I sat in his room reading.  Then,
suddenly, there he was, exploding into the room, throwing his attache
case on the mattress and squirting air-freshener all over the place.
     "Hello," I said.
     "Hmm he replied, and sat down and started doing his football
pools.
     Then he brought out a copy of Tit Bits and ogled at the pictures
of semi-naked girls.
     "That's a good one," he said from time to time, flicking over the
pages.  Then he turned to me.  "Got any food?"
     "Some," I said.
     "Right, I'll have a sausage sam and a yogurt."
     I knew his diet pretty well by now, so I'd got myself prepared and
as able to produce what he'd asked for.
     "That's better," he said when he'd finished.  "You can take a gold
star for that."
     "Oh, thank you, Grant," I said.
     "Don't patronize me, now."
     "No, Grant," I said meekly.  He looked at me sharply.
     "Did you sleep here last night?"
     "Yes, you said I could, didn't you?"
     "I know what I said .  . . thought you might have slept with Joe,
that's all."
     "well , I didn't."  This was the first time he'd ever mentioned me
sleeping with Joe.  "You might have come back."
     "I told you, I had to wait for a call from America.  So there was
nothing stopping you."
     "Except for the fact that I don't want to sleep with him any
more," I said.  "And while we are on the subject of Joe, I didn't want
you to find out the other time, you know."
     "Don't give me that," he said.  "You've got a very devious mind,
and I can see straight through you."
     "Then you'll know it's you I really care for," I said facetiously
"Besides, you're always telling me you don't mind what I do or who I
sleep with, and anyhow, I always come back to you, don't I?"
     "Oh yes, I know you'll always come back to me," Grant said
confidently.
     "But sleeping with Joe that time, that was pushing it a bit, you
must admit."
     "I don't see why, if you care as little as you claim to."
     "It annoyed me that he managed to pull you again, because it made
him more big-headed and difficult to deal with.
     It's him that's trying to prove something, not me."
     "I'm sorry," I said.  "I really didn't think it mattered."
     "It doesn't," he said.  "Just don't do it again."
     "No, ahight."  I waited a moment.  He seemed to be talking to me
in a straight way for once, and I thought jump in while he's in the
mood.
     "Tell me Grant, if you really don't care, why do you go on seeing
me?"
     "Well," he considered, you boost my ego by being so persistent.
     If you hadn't been so persistent I'd have blown you out long ago.
     And it's a convenient relationship because you keep me amused, do
as I say, and don't hang me up.  Those are about the only compliments
you'll get out of me, my girl, so don't ask any more questions."
     I didn't need to.  It was a bit of a drag that,I'd had to sleep
with Joe to find out my position, but it had made Grant react.  And I
still had him, so I reckoned everything was cool.
     I told Grant about my conversation with Joe last night, and he
laughed, hugging his sides with delight when he heard that I'd told Joe
that Grant was better in bed than Joe.
     "What did he say then?"  asked Grant.
     "He wanted me to demonstrate how you made love," I said.
     "And did you?"
     "Well, I leaped about in a few different positions on his bed,
saying we did this and that, but he wanted me to try them with him.  He
said he wanted to learn your technique."
     "No one could learn my technique.  Every girl that sleeps with me
wants to marry me, and that includes you."
     "Does it?"  I asked.  I hadn't really thought about it.
     "You know it does.  You'd marry me like a shot if I asked you to,
only I'm not going to."" The thought of Grant asking me to marry him
was very strange, and I couldn't really imagine it at all.
     "Anyway.  what happened?"  he asked.
     "I told him I didn't want to, and came and slept up here."
     "Oh good," he said, losing interest.
     "Joe says he wants to live in a luxury pad in Belgravia," I told
Grant.
     "Yes that would be good for his ego.  Did you know Wyatt is moving
out?"
     "Wherd's he going?"  I asked.
     "Somewhere over in North London.  I'll tell you something, I'm not
going to live here much longer.  I want to get away from this lot.
     It's a hangup having to live and work with people -at the same
time.
     Besides, I need a bigger room to impress the birds."
     "I'm going to move soon as well," I said.
     "Well, get it together then," he said swiftly.  "Find a good flat
and I'll share it with you.  Separate rooms, mind, none of this living
together."
     "That's cool," I said, and it was.  Living with one guy must be
very restricting if it's on a marriage basis.  Much as I dug Grant, I
had never been faithful and didn't think I ever would be, even though I
liked him best.  But I would like to share a flat and be near him, and
this arrangement sounded ideal.
     "Right," he said, "that's settled.  And I tell you what, it might
be better to wait until we get back from America, so if you like you
can have Wyatt's room until then.  And bring your television."  Grant's
old television had broken down some time ago, and had been thrown out
of the window.
     "OK," I said.  The idea of moving in with The Relation certainly
appealed to me.  They would be nice guys to live with, and when people
asked me where I lived it would be great to be able to say "I live with
a group, The Relation."
     Then Grant started telling me about a big row they'd all had, -and
how a lot of things had been sorted out.
     "They got uptight because I was telling them what to do.
     They thought I was becoming power mad and they ganged up on me.
     You see,.  I get paid out of their bread and they resent it when I
try to get them together.  This is really Roland Johns' scene, he
should be doing this, but it was left to me.  As a group they are
something else, but offstage they're pretty untogether.  They need
someone like me to get them to the top.  If I didn't really believe
they could make it, I wouldn't waste my time with them, As it is I'm
going to do everything I can to see that they get there.  Anyway, we've
sorted it out.  I'm not paid by them anymore, I'm Roland Johns'
assistant now.  I have more authority and that'll be a help .  . . so
just watch how I move those guys from here on in."
     Grant sounded very impressive.  His eyes shone and his whole
presence registered iron determination.
     "Are you going to the States with them?"
     "Probably .  . . but I'm not sure yet."
     Although I didn't want Grant to go away, I did feel it would be
good for him to go to America.  He would learn a lot and make important
contacts, and he had the kind of energy and attitude Americans
respected.  The group would certainly need someone like him to look
after things for them.
     You just don't send a group into that particular jungle without
protection.  So it seemed certain to me that he would be going, and I
knew that this was something I would have to sort out for myself in my
own way.  And anyway, I was used to people going away.  America seemed
to be my biggest rival.
     I moved into the house a week later, and it was as if I had never
not lived there.  A pattern seemed to establish itself almost
immediately.
     I hardly bothered to go on gigs with them, it didn't seem
necessary or even very desirable unless it was something very special.
     When they weren't away on gigs Grant would come into my room and
watch telly and get me to cook for him.  None of the others seemed to
have any steady chicks around, even Bill and Wendy's scene had
disintegrated, and they would crowd round the things I was cooking for
Grant in the small kitchen.  If they weren't hungrily criticizing my
efforts, they were pinching and nibbling at it when I wasn't looking.
     I didn't really mind, because I liked them all, but I wasn't going
to offer to cook for them.  Grant would shout at them if he caught them
at it.  He also kept them out of my room, though when he wasn't around
they'd knock at my door and ask me things, or invite me to come and
smoke with them.
     It was easy to fit into the life there.  I got used to taking
messages from the different chicks who kept phoning up, and I could
tell from their reactions which chick would be phoned back and which
one wouldn't.  And when chicks came round I enjoyed sussing them out,
and trying to guess which one would last and which one would be
dropped.  Grant was either rude to these chicks or ignored them
completely, and although he kept going on about wanting a bird with big
boobs and suspender belts-his latest thing-he never seemed to bother to
do anything about it.  I slept with him when he told me to, and this
was a good arrangement, because we often went to bed at different times
anyway.  He'd either march out of my room saying, "see you," or he'd
stop and consider by the door and say, "you may join me in half an
hour," then disappear without bothering to wait for a reply.  I didn't
have any more incidents with Joe, who had got himself involved with a
friend's wife and was causing a lot of aggro in that direction.
     When Grant went to bed early I often lounged down to The Joint
with the others.  We'd sit at a table specially reserved for us, and
all these different people and faces would come over to say hello and
talk.  I got to know a lot of people that I'd really only had contact
with over the phone before, and working for.  The Kingdom gave me quite
a lot to say about things.  I soon felt very much at ease and was part
of these happenings around me.  I could go over to faces at other
tables and sit down and talk to them like it was the most natural thing
in the world, and when the group was away some of these faces would
ring me and take me down to The Joint for a meal.  This was usually
cool.  It was like we had an understanding or something, because they
didn't try to pull me right away.  Things were left hanging in an
open-ended sort of way which either of us could tie up together should
we have a mind to.  I mean, they would have pulled me if I had
indicated that I wanted to be pulled, but they knew who I was, and that
I had some scene going with The Relation.  I never accepted any
invitations back to pads, because once you do that you are virtually
saying, yes, I'll sleep with you.
     And now I don't sleep with people just to sleep with them because
it just doesn't seem to work out for me.  Anyway, it's better to have
scenes with people who really turn you on.
     This meant that from now on I would be doing the choosing.
     While they had to be faces, it didn't matter whether they were
lesser or greater faces provided I dug them and their music or the
scene they had going.  So quietly, behind -all the talk and hustling
conversations, I filed away all the likely future prospects in the back
of my mind.  Top of my list was that organist from The Shadow Cabinet
who really did things to my mind every time I watched him play.
     But I had my scene with Grant and that was enough right now.  We
were getting on quite well, though I sometimes got a bit uptight with
his lack of affection outside bed hours.  I accused him of not caring
at all, and he said he did care, but not too much about physical
things.
     His scene with me gave him more than that, he said.  He'd been
through the whole thing of telling a chick he loved her, holding hands
and kissing, because that's what chicks wanted and it kept the whole
thing running smoothly.  But it had been a nuisance to him.
     He'd never been in love, and didn't think he ever would be because
he didn't believe in that kind of love.  It was a mind trap people
lumbered themselves into, with no happy ever afters, and full of
obligations and hangups which stopped a person doing his thing.  There
was no need to be like that with me, he said, and it was nice to be
able to be himself as he really was.  Anyway, I liked him like that, so
why should he bother with all the crap?
     I presumed that he was indirectly telling me about the chick who
had written all those uncool letters.  I hadn't seen any more arrive
since I'd been living there, nor had I seen any in his room, so I
supposed he had blown her out because he hadn't been able to cope with
it all.  And now he'd told me all this I knew I could never expect to
hear nice things from him.  He'd only be saying them to keep me happy,
and we'd both know it.  However, I thought, maybe it's better to know
somebody digs you without their having to tell you in words -which are
only words after alit I used to brood about this when I was alone and
taking stock.  Half the time I was pleased to be having this sort of
uncommitted relationship with Grant.  It gave me the necessary amount
of freedom not to feel tied down, although the rest of the time I
really wanted to feel more secure about him and believe that he really
cared.  So I was satisfied and dissatisfied at the same time.  Also I
wasn't absolutely sure if he was going to the States with the group,
and this made me feel precarious as well.  I only found out for certain
the night before they were due to leave.  There had been hustles over
passports and visas and smallpox injections, and everyone was
over-excited.  Grant marched into my room and I asked him what was
happening."I'm going with them," he said.  "I didn't see any point in
telling you before."
     A familiar panicky feeling welled up inside me, but I quickly put
it down.  "Oh, that's good," I said.
     "I knew you'd brood if I'd told you before."
     "Won't I brood now?"
     "No," Grant said, "you won't have time.  You'll be too busy
enjoying yourself while I'm away.  And don't think I'm not going to
pull anything I can get my hands on," he added.
     "I'll miss -you," I said.
     "No you won't," he said firmly.  "We'll only be gone two months,
and by the time I come back I'll expect you to have a flat together for
me to move into."
     That cheered me up a bit, and we started discussing where the flat
would be and how much we should pay for it.  After that was all sorted
out he began to give me instructions about looking after the house, and
how I wasn't to let anybody stay here and not to hold wild parties.
     Then I helped him pack.
     He kept running around the house telling people things and
reminding them of all the useless and important things they mustn't
forget.  When we were finally alone in his room I asked him if I was
sleeping with him tonight.  I'd slept with him last night and was quite
prepared for a refusal.
     He looked at me first without speaking.  "If you come to bed
immediately," he said abruptly.  "I've got to have a good night's
sleep."
     So I got into his bed and we went through another last time.  Only
it wasn't as bad as with Davey or Larry because Grant was really coming
back soon, and we would be living together then.  And even if he went
away again, he'd come back, because if he came back once he'd come back
twice.
     And he'd come back to me because he didn't get involved with
chicks, he only slept with them.  I was the only one he could have a
scene with.
     That's what I told myself as I told him I loved him.  He laughed,
and told me not to get sentimental over him as he'd probably come back
with a dose.
     Next morning he was leaping about, and soon the whole house was
up.  I lay there listening to them all getting ready.
     It sounded much like when they set off for any gig.  Then they all
came in and said goodbye to me, and I said goodbye and have a nice time
and those sort of things.  Finally Grant reappeared, all dressed up in
his velvet suit and shades.  He picked up his attache case.
     "Got to impress the Yanks," he said, and there was a pause.  "Now
don't forget what I told you."
     "I won't," I said.  "Are you going now?"
     "Yes.  I might write, but I cant promise.  Be good."
     And he was gone, and then they were all gone.  And the front door
went bang.

     Yes, its sometimes funny sitting in alone, with the house empty,
knowing that they aren't just away on a local gig, wondering where they
are now and how they're going down in America.  It's not that I'm
brought down or sitting waiting for letters from Grant, it's just a
strange feeling that suddenly occurs from time to time.  I manage to
follow their tracks from the American rock papers, and I'm not
surprised to read glowing reports about their appearances.  I felt it
was inevitable that people would like them.  And an incidental piece of
information I pick up while reading one of these papers is that Larry,
my American Gemini, has been admitted into Bellevue Hospital, claiming
to be Bob Dylan.  He never did reply to my letter, and it's not
surprising.  It seems he has freaked right out now, and I wonder if I
ever knew him at all.
     Besides all that I'm kept busy at The Kingdom, and new things are
coming my way as well.  I have been approached by a French promoter to
help set up a Pop Festival in France, similar to the one in Rome,
except smaller and better organized.  There is enough front money to do
everything properly this time, so I can put my experience to good use.
     Occasionally I go to view prospective flats, but there is no sweat
in this because I have plenty of time and I want to choose wisely.
     Anyway, groups always stay in America longer than they plan,
especially if they are going down well.
     Wendy comes to see me quite a bit and we get smashed and analyze
things.  She hasn't made The Joint scene yet, and I keep promising to
take her.  I'm still going down there to eat, sticking around until the
group has played and then just grooving around from table to table,
talking and listening but not committing myself in any way, even though
everyone knows The Relation are in the States and guys know I could be
available.
     David', the photographer who took my picture for International
magazine, dropped round with some copies for me.  He told me he was
doing some pictures of Lira Bellamy and two of The Jacklin H. Event in
a couple of days' time.  The Jacklin H. Event are the biggest group
around still playing live gigs, and have just come back from the
States, where they spend most of their time.  There are three of them.
     They're thin, wild and freaky and have a reputation for scoring
thousands of chicks.  I said I know Lira well, and could I come along?
     He didn't see why not, and arranged to pick me up from The Kingdom
offices on his way to the studio.
     When we arrived Lira was there, in a low-cut semi-transparent lace
dress that reached her ankles.  She didn't look too pleased to see me,
although she gushed hellos in all directions.  The two guys from The
Event were an hour late, and Lira was getting a bit uptight.  When they
finally appeared they both looked very stoned, and gave incoherent
answers to the interviewer.  Then David started hustling them into the
main studio, where there was a large bed with a Casa Pupo cover under
the spotlights.
     "Right," said David, "I want you to all start getting it together
on there," and he indicated the bed.  Lira gave a delighted laugh, and
looked at the two Event.  They mumbled something to each other, and
didn't move.
     "Come on, don't be shy," David encouraged.
     "Well, I'm not shy," said Lira, and lay down invitingly.
     The blond guy from The Event, Keith-who sings and plays the bass
carefully took off his patchwork boots and joined her.  Then the other
guy did, only he kept on his boots and his long black velvet coat.
     With his pink sunglasses, he looked rather incongruous lying there
so fully dressed.  Lira turned to him and ran her hand down his leg.
     He didn't move; he just kept staring at the ceiling.
     "Come on, get it together," called David, fiddling with his
equipment.
     Lira turned to Keith and kissed him on the neck.  He stared at her
tits, which were almost falling out of her dress, and then wriggled
towards her.  She entwined her legs with his, and they started kissing
in a self-conscious way.  The other guy just lay there with his arms
crossed, making no effort to join in.
     "What about you, Sam?"  asked David.  "Are you just going to lie
there?  OK, that's cool, it looks quite freaky like that," and he
fitted his face to the camera.
     "That's great, that's great," he shouted, "a bit more, a bit more,
don't mind us, let yourselves go."
     Lira was virtually on top of Keith, who was much smaller than her,
and we could hardly see him.
     "Give him a chance, darling," called David, "he's supposed to be
in the picture as well, you know."  Still clinging together, they
rolled towards Sam, who was still lying motionless.
     "That's it, I'm going to start now, just keep going like that."
     But before David could take one shot, Sam suddenly got up off the
bed and walked toward where I was sitting on the sofa.  Everything
stopped, and Lira and Keith separated.
     "What's the matter?"  asked David.
     "I need a drink," said Sam.  "A vodka will do."
     "OK, OK.  Get him a vodka," David told his assistant.
     Keith had also got up off the bed, leaving a slightly ruffled Lira
spread out on her own.  Sam was shaking his head and telling David he
didia't want to go on with it, and Keith was agreeing with him.  Lira
joined them, and they all stood muttering together.  I couldn't catch
what they were saying, but Sam seemed adamant in his decision.  After
drinking his vodka he said he had to be going, and Keith put his boots
back on and followed him out of the door.
     "Well ", said Lira, in an astounded voice, "how do you like that?
     I'd never have expected them to be so coy.  I expect he got
uptight because I was giving Keith all the attention.  Or maybe it was
because you were here," and she looked at me.
     "I don't see why that should have put them off," I protested.
     "You'd be surprised," said Lira, draping her fur coat over her
shoulders.
     I had to admit I had been surprised as well.  I'd have, thought
they'd have both leaped on her, being the type of guys that one assumes
have no inhibitions at all.  I left the studio wondering why Sam had
been so uncooperative and what he was really like.
     It wasn't long before I saw him again.  They arrived down at The
Joint the next night.  You knew when The Event arrived.  A kind of
reverential hush settled over the place when they entered, and
everybody was looking at them without appearing to.
     Jacklin was with this chick he's had for some time now, but Sam
and Keith were alone.  There were a couple of other guys with them, and
they all looked pretty smashed as they weaved their way to a table that
was instantly available to them.  I was sitting at a nearby table with
the friendly booker I know, and watched them all knocking back a lot of
hard booze.  The manager of The Joint came over and sat with them for a
bit, and gradually other people came over and said hello, and shook
hands, but nobody else sat down.
     When the group that had been playing duly finished their set,
there was the usual discrete- stampede by other musicians to get to the
stage, so that they could be first in line for the jam sessions which
invariably take place.  After about twenty minutes of jamming, Jacklin
himself got up and walked over to the stage.  The guys up there
immediately stopped, and the guitarist offered his place to Jacklin.
     Then the other two staggered over, and there they all were, tuning
and conferring, while everyone in The Joint applauded and gathered
round.
     They started up and went into this long instrumental thing, with
emphasis on Jacklin's incredible guitar sound, which lasted for three
quarters of an hour.  It was a single melody line that they developed
and improvised on, with a lot of tempo changes.  I stood watching their
intent sweating faces as their full, emotion-laden sound swelled around
me.
     They finished abruptly and went out to the bar.  After them,
nobody dared follow onto the stand, and the DJ started up the records.
     I waited for a moment and then followed them out.  I saw them all
standing together, and went straight up to Sam.
     "Hello," I said.  "I met you at the studio yesterday."
     He swayed slowly on his thin legs, and peered at me through the
pink glasses.  He took my hand and leaned towards me.
     "Who are you?"  he said.  I noticed how quiet his voice was.
     "I'm Katie," I said, and found myself talking into a great of dark
hair, because he'd come too far forward.  He moved back a little still
holding my hand, and regarded me.
     "You're nice," he said, and moved his head toward me again.  I
thought he wanted to say something else, so I leaned toward him.  I
found myself being kissed, very softly, on the mouth.
     "You're very nice," he said, and kissed me again.  He was pulling
me, and I was flattered because this one had an especially bad
reputation for chicks, which made him even more attractive.  I mean, he
could walk up to any chick, take her hand and say you're nice," and
he'd have scored.
     "You're nice too," I said, and wondered if he was.  The others had
all spread out a bit.  Jacklin had gone into the restaurant with his
chick, and Keith and Danny, the roadie, were talking in a little group
of people.  Sam stepped back a little, still keeping hold of my hand,
and bowed over and kissed it several times like an old fashioned
courtier.
     Then he kissed me on the cheek, and ran his hand down my waist and
-hips.  It was all rather overwhelming and there were a lot of people
watching.
     "We're, going in a moment .  . . are you coming?"
     "might," I said.
     "We're just waiting for Keith and Danny to score some chicks, they
shouldn't be long."
     You're right they shouldn't, I thought, and this brought me down
to earth a little.  While guys like this were over in England, not
doing too much work, they spent most of their time getting smashed and
scoring chicks.  They scored so many chicks and got so smashed that one
chick was pretty much the same as another.  I was just another pull as
far as this guy was concerned, and an easy one at that.  But it worked
the other way as well, if I turned the whole situation round.  I had
gone up to him, because of who he was and the group he played in, so
that he could score me should he want to.  It was a groove that he did,
and was making it so obvious in front of everybody at The Joint.
     We were ready to go, and swept out of The Joint like a royal party
or something.  I was with Sam, and Danny had a chick he'd just scored
plus her friend who was obviously meant for Keith.  Danny's chick
wasn't very pleased with the arrangement because, as they were getting
their -coats, I heard her say in an uptight voice, "how is it you
always score the singer and I always end up with the roadie?"  Then
they went into a groupie thing about whose turn it was to pull the
group member, and who should chat up the roadie so- that once he had
himself a chick the friend could tag along until she could move in on
the group'proper.
     These chicks seemed to have a system that worked, but it wasn't my
scene at all.
     They weren't very special to look at, in fact if they hadn't been
wearing groovy clothes they would have been rather plain and
uninspiring.  As it was, with their see-through bits of silk, eccentric
eye makeup and long wigs, they didn't look too bad.
     In the taxi Sam sat beside me, and apart from telling me that he
was smashed out of his mind, he didn't advertise his presence.  I
watched the other two chicks going through kissing and fondling scenes
with Keith and Danny.  I wondered whether I was like them.  I mean, we
were all groupies together, me in my different way, and they in theirs.
     Did they care that it was only for tonight, with a vague future
maybe, from these guys because they would probably be replaced in
twenty-four hours, if not sooner?  It wouldn't matter that much because
for these chicks once was a kind of forever.  I watched their intent
faces and their uninhibited movements, and I thought, this is where
they're at.
     These chicks have no hangups about what they're doing.  They know
what they are here for, even if I am not sure.
     I couldn't honestly convince myself that I wanted a scene.
     with this guy Sam.  He was so smashed that he wouldn't remember me
by tomorrow either.  I knew I could steel my mind to accept that, and
be just as dedicated as these other two chicks, but did I have to?  Why
should I let him use my body tonight and forget my face tomorrow?  I'd
been seen leaving with him, so as far as pulling him was concerned,
that was already an established fact.
     I examined him doubtfully from the corner of my eye.  His features
were basically unattractive, and he looked very wasted.  His eyes
couldn't seem to open property, though with his thinness, his clothes
-and especially his very long curly hair, the effect was rather
dramatic.
     And of course, he was one of The Event.  His mind had probably
registered that he'd scored a pretty chick for tonight, and now that
was settled he could drift off into his stoned reverie until he
arrived, and then go through all the necessary changes until it was
time for me to be a warm accommodating presence beside him in bed.
     I still hadn't made -up my mind whether I wanted to sleep with him
or ot when we got to their flat.  It was a beautifully furnished place,
with a lot of antiques and an expensive sound system.  We went into a
large sitting-room where a plump, fortyish guy, wearing glasses, lay
dozing.  He woke up as we entered, and nodded, though nobody introduced
him.
     He got up, went to a corner and sat down in an armchair.
     Before going back into his doze again he took a great swallow from
a half-empty bottle of whisky he had taken with him.  Sam seemed to
have revived a bit.  As soon as we were inside he started fussing round
the room, straightening rugs and emptying ashtrays.  He made Keith's
chick stand up while he rearranged the cushions of the sofa they were
sitting on, and when I stubbed out my cigarette he emptied the ashtray
into the fireplace.
     "What's the matter with you?"  I asked.
     "He's an old woman," Keith shouted, and stretched out with his
head on the chick's lap.  The chick framed his face with her hands and
he had her undivided attention.  "Roll a joint, you," Keith told her.
     "Dennis!"  he called and the plump guy in the corner started up.
     "Give her the gear."
     Dennis came over without a word, and passed the chick a plastic
bag with skins and hash inside.  Then he went back to his corner.  I
wondered who he was.
     "I cant stand mess," Sam said, and tried to straighten up some
books on the shelf and fell over.
     "But it's terribly tidy in here," I said.
     Sam picked himself up and crawled over beside me.  "It's a doss
house.
     I cant stand this filth any longer."  There's something wrong with
him, I thought.
     Danny's chick had hardly sat down before she was whisked off to a
bedroom.  Sam took hold of my hand, and started kissing me rather
lazily.  Then, as if remembering something, he broke off and put some
tapes on.  He got very confused with the reels and spent a long time
fiddling with the knobs, complaining that the balance was wrong.
     "It's all right," Keith said, and passed me the joint he'd ended
up rolling himself, because the chick didn't know how.
     I took a couple of drags and passed it to Sam.  He frowned at me
severely.
     "That's not the way we do it here," he told me, and took a couple
of very deep pulls.  "Watch," he said, after blowing the smoke out.  He
placed the joint on a gold ashtray and passed it on to Keith's chick.
     "That's the way to pass joints .  . . no mess, you see."
     I nodded.  I noticed the guy in the corner seemed to have a
persistent cough, and every time he coughed he took a slug out of the
whisky bottle.  Apart from the cough and the occasional gurgle of the
bottle, it was as if he, or we, were not there.
     Then Keith and Sam went into a long technical discussion about a
group they had discovered and were, recording.  It was somehow
reassuring to hear them talk like that, and good to know that they were
involved in music as much as I'd assumed.  Keith started singing to one
of the tapes to demonstrate the way he thought the harmony should go,
and Sam asked me if the track we were listening to would make a good
single.  I said it would if the backing were a bit more organized, and
then it became a three-way conversation.
     Keith's chick sat there looking bored.  She didn't want Keith to
be distracted from the scene she'd come for.  She began rubbing her
hand up and down his thigh and after a while she connected, and he
turned back to her.
     "I'm going to bed now, coming?"  Keith said to her, and in a
moment they had split to the bedroom.
     Sam was stroking my back as he listened to his tapes.  He seemed
quite happy to lie there without going through any pre-bed fondling,
and I didn't encourage him because by now I had decided not to sleep
with him.  It was going to be interesting to see what kind of hustle
I'd have to go through to get out of this.  The whole setup here was
too premeditated for me, and I wanted to give him a jolt by leaving him
checkless tonight.  He'd probably -dismiss me as a waste of time if he
ever .  managed to remember both me and the incident.  On the other
hand I was tempted to have him, if only to see how he worked out in
bed.  He was a drummer, and I'd never had a drummer before.  Maybe if
he worked at making me stay, I'd stay, I told myself.  But he'd really
have to let me know he wanted me, and put some effort into it.  I'd got
involved in a sort of moral issue with myself because the assumptions
under which some of these guys operated for once got on my wick, and I
had decided to make an issue of it with this particular one.  Besides,
people who knew I'd pulled him would make remarks, and I'd tell them
I'd turned him down, that I hadn't wanted to sleep with him.  See how
they liked that!  Everybody has their protest bit, and this was my
protest, my way of hinting that people should qualify in some way if
they wanted to have scenes with me.
     I nudged Sam.  "Who's he?"  I asked, indicating the plump guy in
the corner.
     "He's Dennis.  He's our bodyguard."
     "Do you need one?"
     Sam shook his head seriously.  "You just wouldn't believe what
would happen if we didn't have Dennis to look after us.
     That guy gets paid a lot of bread just to keep us in one piece."
     "He's not very busy, is he?"  I teased.
     "It's not always so quiet here," Sam said ominously.
     "Would he protect you from me if I grabbed you?"
     Sam grinned and put his arm around me.  "He'd tear you limb from
limb."
     I could see his eyes hotting up as he stared at me, and I reckoned
it was time to go.  I got up and said so.
     Dennis turned to look at me, and Sam stumbled onto his feet and
followed me out into the hall looking very surprised.
     "Why are you going?"  he asked.
     "It's late."
     He tried to take my coat away from me.  "You don't need that.
     Stay for a while."
     "I cant," I said, and firmly pulled my coat away from him.
     He took hold of me and kissed me on the mouth very hard.  I almost
changed my mind because I liked it and he seemed to be actually trying.
     But I pushed him away.
     "I'm not going to, sleep with you," I said.
     He laughed.  "Why not?"
     "Because I'm not an easy pull."
     Sam frowned.  "Then why did you come back with me?"
     "Well, you are one of The Event," I said, matter-of-factly.
     Sam didn't like this at all, and his lips tightened.  "Is that the
only reason?"
     "I think so," I said.
     He thought about this for a moment.  "Well, cant you stay anyway?"
     he said.  He moved in and kissed me again, but I stopped him
before he could get into it.  He could persuade me if he tried talking
to me, because I'm a sucker for words and would probably have believed
all his lies.  But getting at me physically wasn't going to do the
trick.
     "Why are you being so uncool about it?"  he asked.
     "I'm not uncool.  I'm just going home."
     Sam couldn't sort it out at all.  He shook his head as if trying
to clear it.  "But when you came back with me "Yes, I know what you
thought.  But why should I sleep with you?"
     "I don't know," he said, "I just thought you would, that's all."
     "Who am I?"  I suddenly asked.
     "What do you mean?"
     "I mean, what's my name?"
     "What's your name?"  He laughed,.  and I could almost hear the
clicking as his mind tried to fit the face to the name.
     "I know," he said at last.  "Your name is Katie."
     "You're wrong," I ]led.  "You don't even know who I am."
     His face kind of drained a bit.  He was so sure he'd guessed
correctly.
     "I don't know .  . . I really thought it was Katie."
     He may have guessed, but he wasn't sure.  I wasn't standing for
any of this anonymous fucking business.  I put my coat on and we stood
looking at each other.  I wanted him to say something that would make
him seem a bit more real, but he didn't know what was happening except
that I was being unattentive and he wasn't used to that.
     "Well," he said.  "Ahight then."
     I knew he wasn't going to bother any further.  A freaky little
scene that had unsettled him for a night, that's all it was.
     Or was it?  I walked to the door and he followed me.
     "Goodbye," I said, stepping outside.
     "Goodbye," he called.  "Have a nice time."  And he closed the door
very quietly behind him.  Well, I told myself, as I walked down the
hall, I wouldn't have got very much out of him, except maybe the clap.
     And I cant be doing with the clap when there's that organist from
The Shadow Cabinet to be pulled.  Yes.