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could be very persuasive, and it was true that sex without condoms always felt more intimate somehow. Still, the last time they’d had unsafe sex had been over a year ago, and they had both tested negative shortly after that. There was no point worrying about it now.
    “He could still have given you crabs, though,” John said in a stage whisper. “I think I’ve got a bottle of Nix somewhere. Let me know if you need it.” Then, raising his voice until he was practically shouting: “Christ, the service here is useless! I wonder who she sucked off to get a job behind the bar. Nice arse, though. I couldn’t help but notice, seeing as she’s had her back to me for the past ten minutes!”
    John had a tendency toward outbursts like this. He was the kind of scene queen who liked to cause a scene, and despite his rather lofty claims that he was making a solitary stand against the poor levels of service that were the scourge of every gay man in London, the truth was that he simply enjoyed the attention. When John walked into a gay bar, he liked to think that his reputation preceded him. In reality, the only thing that preceded him was his voice, which had the haughty tone and high volume of someone blessed with a complete lack of self-awareness.
    The barman wasn’t impressed. Unaccustomed to finding himself the target of such a torrent of abuse, least of all from someone visibly older and less attractive than himself, he turned and scowled. Embarrassed, Martin retreated from the bar and waited at a safe distance while John ordered two Budweisers and made a point of pocketing his change and giving the barman one of his looks. John had a vast arsenal of looks, and he wasn’t shy with any of them.
    “Quick, there’s a table over there,” John said, handing Martin a chilled can. “Let’s take the weight off our legs. I’m sure I pulled a muscle in my thigh yesterday. It’s like I was telling this queen at the gym earlier. You don’t need to spend hours on the StairMaster to keep your legs in shape. Just try pushing a trolley up and down a 747 for ten hours.”
    Martin nodded and took a swig of beer. “I’ll have to change the message on my answering machine,” he said as they sat down. “I really don’t want to hear Christopher’s voice every time I phone home to pick up my messages.”
    “If you ask me, you’re better off without him,” John said, lighting a cigarette. “I never thought he was right for you. Americans are far too full of themselves. And they talk too much during sex. All that, ‘Yeah, suck that big cock,’ like they’re starring in a porn film or something. And half the time they’ve only got four inches! I remember the first time I went to New York. I got laid twice in one weekend, and they only had six inches between them!”
    “You never said anything to me about not liking Christopher.”
    “I’m not saying I don’t like him. I’m just saying he wasn’t right for you.”
    “Well, I wish I felt the same. I was sure he was the one. I really thought I’d found Mr. Right.”
    John flicked his ash. “There is no Mr. Right,” he said, relishing the drama of it all. “There is only Mr. Right Now. The sooner you realize that, the happier you’ll be.”
    But Martin wasn’t listening. “I wonder what Marco’s answering-machine message sounds like?” he said, clutching his beer and staring intently at the table. “Very butch, I bet, with a thick Italian accent. That’s what people want to hear when they ring a whore. I bet he’s not nearly as butch in real life, though.”
    “He’s probably not even Italian.” John sniffed. “Although I did happen to come across his ad in
QX,
and I must say he certainly looks the part. I think I’ve still got it at home if you’re interested. . . .”
    Martin shot him a warning look.
    “No, of course not,” John said hurriedly. “Sorry. Anyway, nobody uses Italian rent boys anymore. That is just so ’90s! I read an article about it