Saturday, 25 February 2012



"Boshier, what's a rubber slave?"

"How the deuce should I know?"

This short and pithy dialogue took place in Boshier's room one evening soon after the sex session recorded in the last chapter. He and Hockney were sitting alone there, for a wonder, and so the latter seized the occasion to propound this matter, which he had had on his mind for some time. He was scarcely satisfied with the above rejoinder, but while he was thinking how to come at the subject by another road, Boshier opened his button fly and asked Hockney if he’d like to suck on his throbbing manhood.

"I can't cut my tutorials."Hockney wailed

“How long would it take you to give me a blow job?” Boshier demanded.

“You don’t understand,” Hockney wailed. “My question about rubber slaves was rhetorical?”

“So why ask me what a rubber slave is if you already know?”

“The thing is,” Hockney explained, “I’m Kitaj’s rubber slave. And if he orders me to have sex with someone else then I can’t refuse, but I can’t do anything sexual unless he tells me to do it.”

“But that’s ridiculous!” Boshier laughed. “Supposing he ordered you to have sex with a woman?”

“Then I’d just have to get on with it.” Hockney sobbed.

“I’ll tell you what,” Boshier cried, ‘you stay here. I’m going to go and find Kitaj and I’m going to bring him back here and get him to tell you to give me a good suck.”

With that, Boshier was gone. To fill in the time as he sat waiting, Hockney pulled from his pocket a book Kitaj had given him entitled The Red Rubber Slave Trade And Other Tales Of Man’s Inhumanity To Man. Very quickly Hockney became engrossed in the text. It read as follows:

Edmund Dene Morel, originally Georges Eduard Pierre Achille Morel de Ville (10 July 1873 – 12 November 1924) was a British journalist, author and socialist politician. In collaboration with Roger Casement, the Congo Reform Association and others, Morel, in newspapers such as his West African Mail, led a campaign against slavery in the Congo Free State.

In 1891, Morel obtained a clerkship with Elder Dempster, a Liverpool shipping firm. To increase his income and support his family, from 1893 Morel began writing articles against French protectionism, which was damaging to Elder Dempster's business. He came to be critical of the British Foreign Office for not supporting the rights of Africans under colonial rule. His vision of Africa was influenced by the books of Mary Kingsley, an English traveller and writer, which showed sympathy for African peoples and a respect for different cultures that was very rare amongst Europeans at the time.

Elder Dempster had a shipping contract with the Congo Free State for the connection between Antwerp and Boma. Groups such as the Aborigines' Protection Society had already begun a campaign against Belgian atrocities in Congo. Due to his knowledge of French, Morel was often sent to Belgium, where he was able to view the internal accounts of the Congo Free State held by Elder Dempster. The knowledge that the ships leaving Belgium for the Congo carried only guns, chains, ordnance and explosives, but no commercial goods, while ships arriving from the colony came back full of valuable products such as raw rubber and ivory, led him to the opinion that Belgian King Leopold II's policy was exploitative. According to the Belgian Prof. Daniël Vangroenweghe, Leopold gained 1,250 million present day euros from the exploitation of the Congolese people, mainly from rubber. Other Belgian sources calculated that the profits from the Congolese exploitation prior to 1905 were some 500 million present-day euros.

The gains from the exploitation of rubber through the state and other companies like the Anglo-Belgian India Rubber Company (ABIR) were huge. The original value in 1892 of the ABIR shares was 500 francs. In 1903 the shares had risen to 15,000 gold francs. The company felt obliged to let the bourgeoisie share profits with the upper class. The dividend in 1892 was 1 franc, but by 1903 the dividend was 1,200 francs. These enormous gains came from horrible exploitation and what Edmund Morel himself described as slavery. The scope of the destruction, together with disease and famine from forced labour, is estimated to have killed half of the native population of the colony.

In 1900, Morel put new life into the campaign against Congo misrule (begun a decade before by the American George Washington Williams) with a series of articles in the weekly magazine Speaker. He realised that King Léopold II of Belgium, the absolute controller of the Congo Free State, had created a forced labour system of huge dimensions, emulating slave labour. Despite having risen to be Elder Dempster's head of trade with the Congo, Morel resigned in 1902 to further his campaign. He became a full-time journalist, first finding a job in the editing of a recently founded periodical West Africa. In 1903, he founded his own magazine, the West African Mail, with the collaboration of John Holt. John Holt was a businessman and friend of Mary Kingsley, who feared the system of the Congo Free State would be applied upon the rest of the West African colonies. The Mail was an illustrated weekly journal founded to meet the rapidly growing interest in west and central African questions. During this period Morel published several pamphlets and his first book, Affairs of West Africa.

In 1903 the British House of Commons passed a resolution on the Congo. Subsequently the British consul in the Congo, Roger Casement, was sent up country for an investigation. His 1904 report, which confirmed Morel's accusations, had a considerable impact on public opinion. Morel met Casement just before the publication of the report and realised that in Casement he had found the ally he had long sought. Casement convinced Morel to establish an organisation for dealing specifically with the Congo question, the Congo Reform Association. Affiliates of the Congo Reform Association were established as far away as the United States.

The Congo Reform Association had the support of famous writers such as Joseph Conrad (whose Heart of Darkness was inspired by a voyage to the Congo Free State), Anatole France, Arthur Conan Doyle and Mark Twain. Conan Doyle wrote The Crime of the Congo in 1908, while Twain gave the most famous contribution with the satirical short story King Leopold's Soliloquy. Morel's best allies, however, may have been the Christian missionaries who furnished him with eyewitness accounts and photographs of the atrocities, such as those given by the Americans William Morrison and William Henry Sheppard, and the British John Harris and Alice Harris. The chocolate millionaire William Cadbury, a Quaker, was one of his main financial backers. The American civil-rights activist Booker T. Washington participated in the campaign. The French journalist Pierre Mille wrote a book with Morel, while the Belgian socialist leader Emile Vandervelde sent him copies of Belgian parliamentary debates. Morel also had secret connections with some agents within the Congo Free State itself. Even the Church of England and American religious groups backed him.

In 1905 the movement won a victory when a Commission of Enquiry, instituted (under external pressure) by King Léopold II himself, substantially confirmed the accusations made about the colonial administration. In 1908 the Congo was annexed to the Belgian government and put under its sovereignty. Despite this, Morel refused to declare an end to the campaign until 1913 because he wanted to see actual changes in the situation of the country.

Hockney was unsure whether Kitaj had intended for him to be thrilled or horrified by the various accounts of the slavery and cruelty in the book he’d given him. Before Hockney could finish his reflections on the matter, Boshier returned with Kitaj.

“Boshier tells me you want to suck his dick! Is this true?” Kitaj demanded.

“Yes master.” Hockney confessed.

“Curr!” Kitaj screamed as he slapped Hockney around the chops. “Now I’ll make you watch as I suck Boshier’s dick!”

Kitaj then proceeded to undo Boshier's flies, take his throbbing manhood out and work a wet tongue up and down the leaden knob. Hockney could hardly believe his eyes as he watched Kitaj swallow the entirety of Boshier’s length. Before long Boshier was screaming in ecstasy as he shot a huge wad of liquid genetic into Kitaj’s throat.

“You will never ever have sex with Boshier!” Kitaj screamed at Hockney after he’d swallowed down all the cum. Then Kitaj left the two astonished men to their own devices.

"Well, you've had a pretty good day of it," said Hockney to Boshier; "but I should feel nervous about fucking you. Kitaj has told me not to do it and I dare not disobey him."

"Oh, never mind," said Boshier, "we’ll have to wait another forty years for some sex researcher to invent Viagra and until that happens I’m not capable of a second erection right after being deep throated by someone with as much suction as Kitaj . But what o'clock is it?"

"Three," said Hockney, looking at his watch and getting up; "time to take an afternoon nap."

"The first time I ever heard you say that," said Boshier.

Boshier was asleep, with his dog Jack curled up on the foot of the bed, in ten minutes. Hockney stayed with Boshier but dared not crawl into his bed. Instead he read The Sexual Story of O till the chapel bell began to ring, then fell asleep in Boshier’s chair. Why Hockney didn’t go home, since he only lived around the corner, is anybody’s guess.

Sunday, 19 February 2012



It was not long before Hockney had effected his object in part. That is to say he had caught Kitaj several times in the corridor coming out of his studio, or the canteen, and had fastened himself upon him; often walking with him even up to the street door. But there matters ended. Kitaj was very civil and gentlemanly; he even seemed pleased with the volunteered companionship; but there was undoubtedly a coolness about him which Hockney could not make out. But as he only liked Kitaj more, the more he saw of him, he very soon made up his mind to break ground himself, and to make a dash at any rate for something more than a mere speaking acquaintance.

One evening he had as usual walked from the RCA buildings with Kitaj up to his door. They stopped a moment talking, and then Kitaj, half-opening the door, said: "Well, goodnight; perhaps we shall meet on The Serpentine tomorrow," and was going in, when Hockney, looking him in the face, blurted out, "I say, Kitaj, I wish you'd let me come in and sit with you a bit."

"I never ask a man of our college into my room," answered the other, "but come in by all means if you like," and so they entered.

Kitaj told Hockney he knew the northerner wanted another handjob, or else to have his cock sucked. Kitaj said he might even do such things for Hockney if the painter was very good, but that he liked both girls and all sorts of other sexual activities. Kitaj told Hockney he wanted to make him a rubber slave. Kitaj took a chastity belt from a drawer and after making Hockney strip, put it on him. Kitaj told his friend things between them were changing as of right now. He explained everything he wanted from a slave in great detail. Finally, Kitaj told Hockney how long the chastity belt stayed on depended on how quickly he learnt to submit. Hockney knew Kitaj was serious when he explained that the chastity belt could be connected to the mains and be used to give his cock and balls electric shocks when he wasn't behaving. Kitaj pulled the plug and lead from and draw and showed Hockney how it worked by slowly increasing the intensity.

“I'll do what ever you want.” Hockney howled.

“Good.” Kitaj replied. "I am going to give you an enema the bathroom.”

Kitaj instructed Hockney to bend over the tub. Hockney did so reluctantly. Kitaj wanted to clean him out before there was any anal play. Kitaj got out his enema bag, a rubber glove, and some lube. He slid his finger into Hockney’s butt. He was looser than Kitaj expected so he pulled out the single digit and slid in two. Kitaj  pushed hard to get them in deeply. He slid the fingers in and out a few more times but when Hockney started moaning, the top pulled the fingers out. Next Kitaj slid the end of the enema tube into Hockney’s butt and released the tube lock. The water was warm but it still shocked Hockney to have fluid rushing into his bowls. He was thrashing around as the water went in. Hockney screamed he couldn't stand it, that he wanted Kitaj to stop. The top told him to shut up. He pushed down on the small of Hockney’s back as he held the nozzle in the bottom’s butt.

Eventually Kitaj  handed the enema bag to Hockney and ordered him to lie in the bath and hold it. The top told his slave he was going out, and that by the time he came back Hockney had better have given himself a further enema and shaved his body from the neck down. Hockney nodded ascent, he didn’t dare speak.

After a couple hours Kitaj returned. Hockney was just coming out of the bathroom. He was not a pretty sight. He was a little overweight. Kitaj told him he was going on a strict diet starting tomorrow, and if he didn't follow it there would be severe punishment. Hockney started arguing, so Kitaj ordered him into the bedroom. He refused to go, so Kitaj punched Hockney in the face until he submitted to the demand. It only took three punches.

Kitaj tied Hockney face down to the bed. He got out the lube and squeezed a glob onto Hockney’s arse crack, and started massaging it into the hole. The first two fingers went in without much effort. The third was a bit more difficult, but Kitaj kept on pushing until Hockney’s sphincter gave way. Then the top started massaging Hockney’s prostate and the sub was moaning and groaning like a superannuated male porn star on heat. Kitaj kept massaging and feeling his way around. Hockney was loosening up nicely. Kitaj's arm was tiring so he took his fingers out of the shit chute and grabbed a butt plug. Once again Kitaj lubed Hockney up, and then viciously inserted the sex toy, ramming it home with great force. Kitaj pulled the butt plug back and forth several times, then pushed it in as far as it would go and left it there.

Kitaj started spanking Hockney’s arse. He did this slowly, first with one hand and then the other. It wasn't long before his hands started hurting. Kitaj then bit Hockney’s arse. After a dozen hard bites, Kitaj got out a short whip and the cat o’ nine tails too.

The cat o' nine tails, commonly shortened to the cat, is a type of multi-tailed whip that originated as an implement for severe physical punishment, notably in the Royal Navy and Army of the United Kingdom, and also as a judicial punishment in Britain and some other countries.

The earliest recorded use of the term ‘cat o’ nine tails’ is around 1695, although the whip and it’s design are much older. It was probably named in reference to its "claws", which inflict parallel wounds. The cat is made up of nine knotted thongs of cotton cord, about 2 1⁄2 feet or 76 cm long, designed to lacerate the skin and cause intense pain.

The cat traditionally has nine thongs as a result of the manner in which rope is plaited. Thinner rope is made from three strands of yarn plaited together, and thicker rope from three strands of thinner rope plaited together. To make a cat o' nine tails, a rope is unravelled into three small ropes, each of which is unravelled again.

The naval cat, also known as the captain's daughter (and this was the type Kitaj would be using on Hockney), weighed about 13 ounces (370 grams) and was composed of a baton handle and nine cords.

Contrary to popular belief, the standard cat was not the most feared implement of punishment on the high seas; being made of rope, it was less painful than a leather whip or a wooden birch-rod, while the modes of application (number and intensity of lashes, anatomical target, baring) of any implement can be more important than its intrinsic potential to cause pain.

Kitaj used the cat to warm Hockney up and the short whip to give him some nice welts. Kitaj switched between them, and took his time doing so. Hockney started crying. THAT really turned Kitaj on, so he immediately increased the savagery of the beating he was dishing out. It didn't take long for Hockney to give in completely and just lie there almost motionless. There was no movement on Hockney's part beyond a heaving in his chest and shoulders brought on by his sobbing.

After Kitaj had finished whipping Hockney, he scratched him with his finger nails. Boy did the sub jump and scream! As Kitaj lessened the pressure from his nails to a light scratch, Hockney stopped crying and started moaning and moving his arse in slow circular motions. Kitaj took hold of the butt plug that he'd inserted into Hockney's crack and started moving it in little turns and thrusts. Hockney’s moans got louder. Kitaj leaned close to his ear and whispered to him that he was going to fuck him hard up the arse. Hockney screamed: "YESSSS!" Kitaj pulled the butt plug out and slowly pushed it back in a few more times.

Kitaj untied the bottom and told him to get on all fours. It was then - as Hockney was looking up at Kitaj - that his master told him to suck him off. Hockney gazed at the dom’s erect cock and slowly opened him mouth. He gingerly sucked up and down for a few minutes until Kitaj took the back of his head and pushed his throbbing manhood slowly and deliberately to the back of Hockney's throat. Hockney must have gagged a dozen times before Kitaj was through.

Then Kitaj decided it was time to arse fuck the slave. He pulled out the butt plug. At first Kitaj went slowly and deliberately as he penetrated the sphincter. Hockney was barely moving. After a few minutes Kitaj gauged just how much cock Hockney could safely handle and thrust harder and deeper. Hockney was pushing up to accept and accommodate the full length of the throbbing member. Before long Kitaj had discharged a thick wad of liquid genetics into the veritable seat of Hockney’s being.

“Now it is time for you to get dressed and go.” Kitaj told his slave. “If you want you can take a shower before you leave.”

"Will you promise to always turn me out when I am in the way?" Hockney demanded.

“I’ll do whatever I bloody well like!” Kitaj snapped. "I'll turn you out as a rent boy and pimp you if I feel like it!"

And so the two men parted. Hockney without bothering to shower and with his clothes in disarray thanks to the hurried way in which he'd dressed. Both men were happy that they’d established just who was the master and who was the slave.

Once he was alone, Kitaj's first thought was one of pleasure at having been sought out by a postgraduate who seemed to be just the sort of sex slave he craved. He contrasted our hero with the few men (and many women) who he'd previously fucked, and felt that Hockney was less of a man than any of them - and thus a far better submissive. With such happy thoughts flooding his mind, Kitaj took down a volume of Don Quixote from his shelves, and sat down for an hour's enjoyment reading it before turning in.

Sunday, 12 February 2012



Hockney resolved forthwith to make great friends with Kitaj. It never occurred to him that there could be the slightest difficulty in carrying out this resolve. After such a passage as they two had had together that afternoon on The Serpentine, he felt that the usual outworks of acquaintanceship had been cleared at a bound, and looked upon Kitaj already as an old friend to whom he could talk out his mind as freely as he had been used to do to his old tutor at art school in Bradford. Moreover, as there were already several things in his head which he was anxious to ventilate, he was all the more pleased that chance had thrown him across a man of so much older standing than himself, and one to whom he instinctively felt that he could look up.

Accordingly, after Hockney had gorged himself in the RCA canteen but saw that Kitaj had not finished his lunch, he strolled out, meaning to wait for his victim outside, and seize upon him then and there; so he stopped on the steps outside the hall-door, and to pass the time, joined himself to one or two other men with whom he had a speaking acquaintance, who were also hanging about. While they were talking, Kitaj came out of the hall, and Hockney turned and stepped forward, meaning to speak to him. To his utter discomfiture, Kitaj walked quickly away, looking straight before him, and without showing, by look or gesture, that he was conscious of our hero's existence, or had ever seen him before in his life.

Hockney was so taken aback that he made no effort to follow. He just glanced at his companions to see whether they had noticed the occurrence, and was glad to see that they had not (being deep in the discussion of the merits of a new secretary in the department office); so he walked away by himself to consider what it could mean. But the more he puzzled about it, the less could he understand it. Surely, he thought, Kitaj must have seen me; and yet, if he had, why did he not recognise me? And yet common decency must have led him to ask whether I was any the worse for my ducking, if he knew me.

He scouted the notion, which suggested itself once or twice, that Kitaj meant to cut him; and so, not being able to come to any reasonable conclusion, suddenly bethought him that he was asked to a wine-party; and putting his speculations aside for a moment, with the full intention nevertheless of clearing up the mystery as soon as possible, he betook himself to the room of his entertainers.

It was a fair-sized room for a South Kensington bedsitter, furnished plainly but well, so far as Hockney could judge, but, as it was now laid out for the wine-party, the digs had lost all individual character for the time being. A London postgraduate's room, set out for a wine-party, will tell you little about their character. All their possessions are shoved away into the background, and there is nothing to be seen but a long mahogany set out with bottles, glasses, and dessert. In the present instance the preparations for festivity were pretty much what they ought to be: good sound port and sherry, biscuits, and a plate or two of nuts and dried fruits.

The host, who sat at the head of the board, was one of the mainstays of the college boat-club. He was treasurer of the club, and also a kind of a boating nurse, who looked-up and trained the young oars, and in this capacity had been in command of the newbies four-oar, in which Hockney had been learning his rudiments. He was a heavy, burly man, naturally awkward in his movements, but gifted with a steady sort of dogged enthusiasm, and by dint of hard and constant training, had made himself into a most useful oar, fit for any place in the middle of the boat. He was the most good natured man in the world, very badly dressed, very short sighted, and called everybody "old fellow."

His name was Richard Hamilton and he wasn’t actually a student at the RCA. But for the sake of the boating club everyone pretended Hamilton belonged to their college. Hamilton was slightly older than the other boaters and had the eccentric habit of making an easy chair of his hip bath. Malicious acquaintance declared that when Hamilton his digs, and, having paid the valuation for the furniture in his room, came to inspect the same, the tub in question had been left by chance in the sitting-room, and that Hamilton, not having the faintest idea of its proper use, had by the exercise of his natural reason come to the conclusion that it could only be meant for a man to sit in, and so had kept it in his sitting-room, and had taken to it as an arm-chair. This I have reason to believe was a libel. Certain it is, however, that in his first term he was discovered sitting solemnly in the tub, by his fire-side, with his spectacles on, playing the flute - the only other recreation besides boating in which he indulged; and no amount of quizzing could get him out of the habit.

When alone, or with only one or two friends in his room, he still occupied the tub; and declared that it was the most perfect of seats hitherto invented, and, above all, adapted for the recreation of a boating man, to whom cushioned seats should be an abomination. He was naturally a very hospitable man, and on this night was particularly anxious to make his rooms pleasant to all comers, as it was a sort of opening for the boating season. This wine of his was a business matter, in fact, to which Richard had invited officially, as treasurer of the boat-club, every man who had ever shown the least tendency to pulling - many with whom he had scarcely a nodding acquaintance.

Hockney, and the three or four other newbies present, were duly presented to the coxswain as they came in, who looked them over as the colonel of a crack regiment might look over horses at Horncastle-fair, with a single eye to their bone and muscle, and how much work might be got out of them. They then gathered towards the lower end of the long table, and surveyed the celebrities at the upper end with much respect. Eduardo Paolozzi, the coxswain, sat on the host's right hand - a slight, resolute, fiery little man, with curly black hair. He was peculiarly qualified by nature for the task that he had set himself; and it takes no mean qualities to keep a boat's crew well together and in order. Perhaps he erred a little on the side of over-strictness and severity; and he certainly would have been more popular had his manners been a thought more courteous; but the men who rebelled most against his tyranny grumblingly confessed that he was a first-rate coxswain. Like, Hamilton, Paolozzi didn’t actually belong to the student body at Kensington Gore, but so that the RCA might be masters of The Serpentine everybody pretended he numbered among the postgraduates.

A very different man was the captain of the boat, who sat opposite to Paolozzi; altogether, a noble specimen of a very noble type of our countrymen. Tall and strong of body; courageous and even-tempered; tolerant of all men; sparing of speech, but ready in action; a thoroughly well balanced, modest, quiet Englishman; one of those who do a good stroke of the work of the country without getting much credit for it, or even becoming aware of the fact; for the last thing such men understand is how to blow their own trumpets. He was perhaps too easy for the captain of the RCA boat-club; at any rate, Paolozzi was always telling him so. But, if he was not strict enough with others, he never spared himself, and was as good as three men in the boat at a pinch.

Finally a handsome, pale man, with a dark, quick eye, walked in and took his place by the side of the host as a matter of course.

"Who is that who has just come in?" Hockney asked the man sitting next to him; simultaneously using this as an excuse to touch the fellow’s thigh very close to his crotch.

"Oh, don't you know? That's Robert Fraser; he's the most wonderful fellow in London, although he lives mainly in the United States right now," answered his neighbour.

"How do you mean?" said Hockney.

"Why, he can do everything better than almost anybody, and without any trouble at all. Paolozzi was obliged to have him in the boat last year, though he never trained a bit. Then he's in the eleven, and is a wonderful rider, and tennis-player, and shot."

"Aye, and he's so awfully clever with it all," joined in the man on the other side. "He can write songs, too, as fast as you can talk nearly, and sings them wonderfully."

"Is he of our college, then?"

"No but we have to pretend he is, or he couldn't have been in our boat last year."

"I don't think I ever saw him before."

"No, I daresay not. He’s living in the USA and even in London he never gets up now till the afternoon, and sits up nearly all night playing cards with the fastest fellows, or going round singing glees at three or four in the morning."

Hockney sipped his port and looked with great interest at Fraser; and, after watching him a few moments said in a low voice to his neighbour,

"How wretched he looks! I never saw a sadder face."

Poor Fraser! One can't help calling him "poor," although he himself would have winced at it more than any name you could have called him. You might have admired, feared, or wondered at him, and he would have been pleased; the object of his life was to raise such feelings in his neighbours; but pity was the last which he would like to excite.

He was indeed a wonderfully gifted fellow, full of all sorts of energy and talent, and power and tenderness; and yet, as his face told only too truly to anyone who watched him when he was exerting himself in society, one of the most wretched men in the world. He had a passion for success - for beating everybody else in whatever he took in hand, and that, too, without seeming to make any great effort himself. The doing a thing well and thoroughly gave him no satisfaction unless he could feel that he was doing it better and more easily than Victor Musgrave, John Kasmin or Peter and Charles Gimpel, and they felt and acknowledged this. He had would enjoy the full swing of success for a few years to come, and then his Nemesis would descend in the form of creditors.

For, although not an extravagant man, art dealing as a pursuit in which he wanted to eclipse all rivals required riches, and Fraser was not rich. He had a fair allowance, but was considerably in debt, and even at the time we are speaking of, the whole pack of London tradesmen into whose books he had got (having smelt out the leanness of his expectations), were upon him, besieging him for payment. This miserable and constant annoyance was wearing his soul out. This was the reason why his oak was sported, and he was never seen till the afternoons, and turned night into day. He was too proud to come to an understanding with his persecutors, even had it been possible; and eventually, at his sorest need, his whole scheme of life would fail him; his love of success would turn into ashes in his mouth; he would feel much more disgust than pleasure at his triumphs over other men, and yet the habit of striving for successes, notwithstanding its irksomeness, was too strong to be resisted.

Poor Fraser! He would end up living on from hand to mouth, flashing out in his old brilliancy and power, and forcing himself to take the lead in whatever company he might be; but utterly lonely and depressed when by himself--reading feverishly in secret, in a desperate effort to master the art of rubbing a small metal statue of The Buddha for endless wealth. As Hockney said to his neighbour, there was no sadder face than his to be seen in London – and give it a decade and it would get way sadder yet.

And yet at this very wine party Fraser was the life of everything, as he sat up there next to Richard Hamilton - whom he kept in a constant sort of mild epileptic fit, from laughter, and wine going the wrong way (for whenever Richard raised his glass Fraser shot him with some joke). Fraser relaxed after the first fifteen minutes; and Hockney, by the same time, gave himself credit for being a much greater ass than he was, for having ever thought Fraser's face a sad one.

When the room was quite full, and enough wine had been drunk to open the hearts of the guests, Richard rose on a signal from Paolozzi to speak in tongues:

“Anal sex, also called anal intercourse,” Hamilton shrieked, “is the sex act in which the penis is inserted into the anus of a sexual partner. The term can also include other sexual acts involving the anus, including pegging, anilingus, fingering, and object insertion.“

“While anal sex is commonly associated with male homosexuality,” Richard continued, “research shows that not all gay males engage in anal sex and that it is not uncommon in heterosexual relationships. Types of anal sex can also be a part of lesbian sexual practices.”

“Many people find anal sex pleasurable,” Hamilton droned on, “and some may reach orgasm - through stimulation of the prostate in men, and clitoral and G-Spot leg stimulation in women. However, many people find it painful as well, sometimes extremely so, which may be psychosomatic in some cases.”

Richard Hamilton continued speaking in the same vein for a good hour. Everyone was relieved when he finished and applauded loudly, not because they’d enjoyed the speech but because it had ended. Soon afterwards, coffee came in and cigars were lighted; a large section of the party went off to play pool, others to stroll about the streets, others to whist; a few, let us hope, to their own rooms to read or practice still life drawing; but these latter were a sadly small minority even in the quietest of the RCA parties.

Hockney, who was fascinated by the heroes at the head of the table, sat steadily on, sidling up towards them as the intermediate places became vacant, and at last attained the next chair but one to the Captain, where for the time he sat in perfect bliss. Fraser and Paolozzi were telling boating stories of the Henley and Thames regattas, and the talk came gradually round to the next races.

"Now, Captain," said Paolozzi, suddenly, "have you thought yet what new men we are to try in the crew this year?"

"No, 'pon my honour I haven't," said the Captain, "I'm working on my sculptures and have no time to spare. Besides, after all, there's lots of time to think about it. Here we're only half through Lent term, and the races don't begin till the end of Easter term."

"It won't do," said Paolozzi, "we must get the crew together this term."

"Well, you and Hamilton put your heads together and manage it," said the Captain. "I will go down any day, and as often as you like, at two o'clock."

"Let's see," said Paolozzi to Hamilton, "how many of the old crew have we left?"

"Five, counting Fraser," answered Richard.

"Counting me! Well, that's cool," laughed Fraser; "you old tub haunting flute-player, why am I not to be counted?"

"You never will train, you see," said Richard.

"Hamilton is quite right," said Paolozzi; "there's no counting on you, Fraser. Now, be a good fellow, and promise to be regular this year and hold off returning to the United States."

"I'll promise to do my work in a race, which is more than some of your best-trained men will do," said Fraser, rather piqued.

"Well you know what I think on the subject," said Paolozzi; "but who have we got for the other three places?"

"There's Boshier would do," said Richard; "I hear he was a capital oar at school; and so, though I don't know him, I managed to get him once down last term. He would do famously for No.2, or No.3 if he would pull."

"Do you think he will, Fraser? You know him, I suppose," said Paolozzi.

"Yes, I know him well enough," said Fraser; and, shrugging his shoulders, added, "I don't think you'll get him to train much."

"Well, we must try," said Paolozzi. "Now, who else is there?"

Hamilton went through four or five names, at each of which Paolozzi shook his head.

"Any promising newbies?" said he at last.

"None better than Hockney here," said Hamilton. "I think he'll do well if he will only work, and stand being coached."

"Have you ever pulled much?" said Paolozzi.

"No," said Hockney, "not much till I came up here to London. Now I’m meeting plenty of rough trade in public toilets!"

"All the better," said Paolozzi; "now, Captain, you hear; we may probably have to go in with three new hands; they must get into your stroke this term, or we shall be nowhere."

"Very well," said the Captain; "I'll give from two till five any days you like."

"And now let's go and have a pull," said Fraser, getting up. "Come, Captain, just one little circle jerk after all this business."

Richard insisted on staying to play his flute; Paolozzi was engaged; but the Captain, with a little coaxing, was led away by Fraser, and good-naturedly asked Hockney to accompany them, when he saw that he was looking as if he would like some rough sex. So the three went off to an all night public toilet; Hockney in such spirits at the chance of doing two, three or even more men that night, didn’t notice that he was roaringly drunk."

They found the nearest public toilet full of men looking for a good time, and Hockney was able to suck one off while lying on his back with his legs over his shoulders as he pulled an anal train. This left both his arms free and he was able to give hand jobs – two at a time – to those that wanted them. Hockney returned to his rooms; and, when he was by himself again, his thoughts recurred to Kitaj. How odd, he thought, that they never mentioned him for the boat! Could he have done anything to be ashamed of? How was it that nobody seemed to know him, and he to know nobody.

Most readers, I doubt not, will think our hero very green for being puzzled at so simple a matter; and, no doubt, the lusts and desires of the outright sadist are well known to us all. But Hockney’s previous education must be taken into consideration. He had not been told by his mother or father about the birds and the bees, and had gone to a school were sado-masochism and a love of the opposite sex were not common vices. So Hockney had yet to discover the ways and joys of about 90 percent of the world!

Sunday, 5 February 2012



No man in the RCA gave such breakfasts as Derek Boshier. Not the great heavy spreads for thirty or forty with an orgy afterwards, which came once or twice a term, when everything was supplied out of the college kitchen, and you had to ask leave of the Dean before you could have it at all - and the Dean always insisted that the best looking boy was kept back to pleasure the staff. In those ponderous feasts the most hum-drum of the first year MAs might rival the most artistic, if he could only pay his battle-bill, or get credit with the cook. But the daily morning meal, when even gentlemen commoners were limited to two hot dishes out of the kitchen, this was Boshier's forte. Ordinary men left the matter in the hands of scouts, and were content with the ever-recurring buttered toasts and eggs, with a dish of broiled ham, or something of the sort, with a marmalade and bitter ale to finish with; but Boshier was not an ordinary man, as you instantly saw when you went to breakfast with him for the first time.

The house in which Boshier lived was inhabited, except in the garrets, by men in the fast set, and he and three others, who had an equal aversion to solitary feeding, had established a breakfast-club, in which, thanks to Boshier's genius, real scientific gastronomy was cultivated. Every morning the boy from Wheelers in Soho arrived with freshly caught gudgeon, and now and then an eel or trout, which the scouts he employed had learnt to fry delicately in oil. Fresh water cresses came in the same basket, and the college kitchen furnished a spitchedcocked chicken, or grilled turkey's leg. In the season there were plover's eggs; or, at the worst, there was a dainty omelette; and an Acton baker, famed for his light rolls and high charges, sent in the bread - the common local loaf being of course out of the question for anyone with the slightest pretension to taste, and fit only for the perquisite of scouts.

Then there would be a deep Yorkshire pie, or reservoir of potted game, as a piece-de-resistance, and three or four sorts of preserves; and a large cool tankard of cider or ale-cup to finish up with, or soda-water and maraschino for a change. Tea and coffee were there indeed, but merely as a compliment to those respectable beverages, for they were rarely touched by the breakfast eaters in Boshier's bedsit. Pleasant young gentlemen they were at Derek’s south Kensington abode; I mean the ground and first floor men who formed the breakfast-club, for the second floors and basements were nobodies. Three out of the four had huge allowances to live on; and as as a consequence they treated their grants as pocket-money, and were all in their first year, ready money was plenty and credit good, and they might have had potted hippopotamus for breakfast if they had chosen to order it, which they would most likely have done if they had thought of it.

Two out of the three were the sons of rich men who made their own fortunes, and sent their sons to RCA because it was very desirable that these talentless and rather stupid young gentlemen should make good connexions in the art world. In fact, the fathers looked upon the RCA as a good investment, and gloried much in hearing their sons talk familiarly in the vacations of their dear friends Francis Bacon and Lucian Freud.

Boshier, the third of the set, was not an heir of an old or a rich family, and consequently, having his connection ready made to his hand, cared little enough with whom he associated, provided they were pleasant fellows, and gave him good food and wines. His whole idea at present was to enjoy himself as much as possible; but he had good manly stuff in him at the bottom, and, had he fallen into any but the fast set, would have made a fine fellow, and done credit to himself and his college.

The fourth man at the breakfast-club, Allen Jones was in his third year, and was a very well-dressed, well-mannered, well-connected young man. His grant was small for the set he lived with (he’d been kicked out of the RCA for making pornographic sculptures and was now studying at Hornsey College of Art in north London), but he never wanted for anything. He didn't entertain much, certainly, but when he did, everything was in the best possible style. He was very exclusive, and knew no man in college out of the fast set, and of these he addicted himself chiefly to the society of the rich first years (in the hope that their father’s might buy his work). But with the first years he was always hand and glove, lived in their rooms, and used their wines, cars, and other movable property as his own. Being a good whist and billiard player, and not a bad driver, he managed in one way or another to make his young friends pay well for the honour of his acquaintance; as, indeed, why should they not, at least those of them who came to the college to form eligible connections; for was not his pornographic imagination a font of riches?

Our hero had met Boshier at an art opening in York shortly before the beginning of his first term, and they had rather taken to one another. Boshier had been amongst his first callers; and, as he came out of the closet one morning shortly after his arrival by telling everyone within earshot that it was cock and not pussy he was after, Boshier's scout came up to him with an invitation to breakfast. No one was in Boshier’s bedsit when he arrived, for none of the club had finished their toilettes. As Hockney entered, a great splashing in an adjacent bathroom stopped for a moment, and Boshier's voice shouted out that he was in his communal tub, but would be with him in a minute. So Hockney gave himself up to contemplation of the flock wallpaper.

Hockney had scarcely finished admiring a dark damp stain on the wall when the door opened, and Boshier emerged in a loose jacket lined with silk, his velvet cap on his head, and otherwise gorgeously attired. He was a pleasant-looking fellow of middle size, with dark hair, and a merry eye, with a twinkle in it, which spoke well for his sense of humour; otherwise, his large features were rather plain, but he had the look and manners of a complete degenerate who’d be fun to know.

His first act, after nodding to Hockney, was to seize on a pewter and resort to the cask in the corner, from whence he drew a pint or so of the contents, having, as he said: "'a whoreson longing for that poor creature, small beer. We were playing Van-John in Blake's rooms till three last night, and he gave us devilled bones and mulled port. A fellow can't enjoy his breakfast after that without something to cool his coppers."

Hockney was as yet ignorant of what Van-John might be, so held his peace, and took a pull at the beer which the other handed to him; and then the scout entered, and received orders to bring up Jack and the breakfast, and not wait for any one. In another minute, a bouncing and scratching was heard on the stairs, and a white bulldog rushed in, a gem in his way; for his brow was broad and massive, his skin was as fine as a lady's, and his tail taper and nearly as thin as a clay pipe. His general look, and a way he had of going nuzzling about the calves of strangers, were not pleasant for nervous people. Hockney, however, was used to dogs, and soon became friends with him, which evidently pleased his host - who like to indulged his voyeuristic streak with dollops of bestiality. And then the breakfast arrived, all smoking, and with it the two other ingenious youths, in velvet caps and far more gorgeous apparel, so far as colours went, than Boshier. They were introduced to Hockney, who thought them somewhat ordinary and rather loud young gentlemen. One of them remonstrated vigorously against the presence of that confounded dog, and so Jack was sent to lie down in a corner, and then the four fell to work upon the breakfast.

It was a good lesson in gastronomy, but the results are scarcely worth repeating here. It is wonderful, though, how you feel drawn to a man who feeds you well; and, as Hockney's appetite got less, his liking and respect for his host undoubtedly increased.

When they had nearly finished, in walked the Peter Blake, a fat man, two or three years older than the rest of them; good looking, and very well and quietly dressed, but with the drawing up of his nostril, and a drawing down of the corners of his mouth, which set Hockney against him at once. The cool, supercilious half-nod, moreover, to which he treated our hero when introduced to him, was enough to spoil his digestion, and hurt his self-love a good deal more than he would have liked to own.

"Here, Henry," said the Peter Blake to the scout in attendance, seating himself, and inspecting the half-cleared dishes; "what is there for my breakfast?"

Henry bustled about, and handed a dish or two.

"I don't want these cold things; haven't you kept me any gudgeon?"

"Why sir" said Henry, "there was only two dozen this morning, and Mr. Boshier told me to cook them all.

"To be sure I did," said Boshier. "Just half a dozen for each of us four: they were first-rate. If you can't get here at half-past nine, you won't get gudgeon, I can tell you."

"Just go and get me a broil from Wheelers," Peter Blake snarled, without deigning an answer to Boshier.

"Very sorry, sir; I don't have time to go to Soho, sir," answered Henry.

"Then go to Hinton's, and order some cutlets."

"I say, Henry," shouted Boshier to the retreating scout; "not to my tick, mind! Put them down to Mr. Blake."

Henry seemed to know very well that in that case he might save himself the trouble of the journey, and consequently returned to his waiting; and Peter Blake set to work upon his breakfast, without showing any further ill temper certainly, except by the stinging things which he threw every now and then into the conversation, for the benefit of each of the others in turn.

Hockney thought he detected signs of coming hostilities between his host and Blake, for Boshier seemed to prick up his ears and get combative whenever the other spoke, and lost no chance in roughing him in his replies. And, indeed, he was not far wrong; the fact being, that during Boshier's first term, the other had lived on him-drinking his wine, smoking his cigars, driving his scooter, and winning his money; all which Boshier, who was the easiest going and best tempered fellow in London, had stood without turning a hair. But Blake added to these little favours a half patronising, half contemptuous manner, which he used with great success towards some of the other art students, who thought it a mark of high breeding, and the correct thing, but which Boshier, who didn't care three straws about knowing Blake, wasn't going to put up with.

However, nothing happened but a little sparring, and the breakfast things were cleared away, and the tankards left on the table, and the company betook themselves to cigars and easy chairs. Jack came out of his corner to be gratified with some of the remnants by his fond master, and then curled himself up on the sofa along which Boshier lounged.

"Who are you going to run down today Farley?" asked Blake.

"The boating-men," Farley announced; "did you ever see such a set? With their everlasting flannels and jerseys, and hair cropped like prize-fighters? They're so ridiculous a blind man wouldn't fuck them without being paid to do so, let alone suck their dicks!"

"What the devil do I care," broke in Boshier; "I know they're a deal more amusing than you fellows, who can't lay rough trade without putting down pounds."

"Getting economical with the truth!" sneered Blake. "When was the last time you took it up the jacksee from a horny handed son of toil without paying the cockson?"

"Well, I can see the fun of tearing one's heart out, and blistering one's hands, if at the end of it all you get your behind abused by the brutish coxswain," said Farley. "He's an  mean and ugly motherfucker, just the type I liked. But the boatmen he teaches the Greek rite! Pah!"

"Why, after the coxswain's had them, they aren't able to sit straight in your chair for a month," said Sidney Chanter; "and are reduced to giving the rest of the team blow jobs."

Here a newcomer entered called Peter Phillips entered and was warmly greeted by Boshier. Blake and he exchanged the coldest possible nods; and the other two, taking the office from their mentor, stared at him through their smoke, and, after a minute or two's silence, and a few rude half-whispered remarks amongst themselves, went off to play a game of pyramids till luncheon time. Phillips took a cigar which Boshier offered, and began asking about their mutual friends, and what they'd been doing in the vacation.

This pair were evidently intimate, though Hockney thought that Boshier didn't seem quite at his ease at first, which he wondered at, as Phillips took his fancy at once. Hockney was rather left out of the conversation to begin with, but then Boshier cordially drew him in.

“Did you know David that Peter can tell fortunes?” Derek asked.

“No.” Hockney replied.

“Give me your palm.” Philips commanded and Hockney did as he was bid. “Ah, I see you’re going to be a very successful artist, far more successful than me. Before you die you're going to have a blockbuster show at The Royal Academy…”

“You’re joking surely,” Hockney half-laughed.

“Not at all,” Phillips replied. “It will be called A Bigger Picture and art lovers will be fighting for tickets! Before that you’re going to have a ball with lots of beautiful young men in Los Angeles. Looks like you’ll be mutton jeff in your old age too….. Have you got much time?

“Is it eleven yet?” Hockney asked. “I have to go for a tutorial at eleven.”

“You’d better rush,” Boshier informed him.

“That’s a shame,” Phillips said, “I so wanted to tell you about your death.”

“I’d rather not know about that,” Hockney replied as he bolted for the door.

"Alchemy is a quality of a given psychic movement," Phillips shouted after Hockney, "a release of forces which, responding to the action of an as yet unknown compulsion, is capable of causing certain phenomena to pass from one state of being to another in the direction of a synthesis which is a quantitative act of knowledge, and which we call the blackening. The serpent, centring itself in a point of a line formed by the boundary between the white and the black, draws its substance by making the mass in the depths converge toward this point. The dragon, having been born at the same junction and also represented by a point, projects out to the exterior world through divergence and in a superior form corresponding to those which lie in a latent state in the depths of the inner world. The material must be immodest, insolent and brutal, if it is not to fall into annulment."

Wednesday, 1 February 2012



Within a day or two of the penning of this celebrated epistle, which created quite a sensation at Bradford College of Art as it went the round after tea, Hockney realized one of the objects of his young London ambition, and succeeded in embarking on The Serpentine lake in Hyde Park in a skiff by himself, with such results as are now described.

He had already been down several times in pair-oar and four-oar boats, with an old oar to pull stroke, and another to steer and coach the young idea, but he was not satisfied with these essays. He could not believe that he was such a bad oar as the old hands' made him out to be, and thought that it must be the fault of the other art students who were learning with him that the boat made so little way and rolled so much. He had been such a proficient in all the Bradford games, that he couldn't realize the fact of his unreadiness in a boat.

Pulling looked a simple thing enough--much easier than tennis; and he had made a capital start at the latter game, and been highly complimented by the marker after his first hour in the little court. He forgot that cricket and fives are capital training for tennis, but that rowing is a speciality, of the rudiments of which he was wholly ignorant. And so, in full confidence that, if he could only have a turn or two alone, he should not only satisfy himself, but everybody else, that he was a heaven-born oar, he refused all offers of companionship, and started on the afternoon of a fine February day down to the boats for his trial trip. He had watched his regular companions well out of college and head towards a boozer, and chuckled as he came within sight of the lake.

Hockney’s state of high excitement increased when, in answer to his casual enquiry, the managing man informed him that not a man from his art school was about the place. So he ordered a skiff with as much dignity and coolness as he could command.

"All right, sir; this way, sir;" said the manager, conducting him to a good, safe-looking craft. "Any gentleman going to steer, sir?"

"No" said Hockney, superciliously; "You may take out the rudder."

"Going quite alone, sir? Better take one of our boys - find you a very light one. Here, Bill!"--and he turned to summons a juvenile waterman to take charge of our hero.

"Take out the rudder, do you hear?" interrupted Hockney. "I won't have a steerer."

"Well, sir, as you please," said the manager, proceeding to remove the degrading appendage. "The water's rather high, please to remember, sir. You must mind the other boats and the edges of the lake. I suppose you can swim?"

"Yes, of course," said Hockney, settling himself on his cushion. "Now, shove her off."

The next moment he was well out in the water, and left to his own resources. He got his sculls out successfully enough, and, though feeling by no means easy on his seat, proceeded to pull very deliberately past some punts, stopping his sculls in the air to feather accurately, in the hopes of deceiving spectators into the belief that he was an old hand just going out for a gentle paddle. The manager watched him for a minute, and turned to his work with an aspiration that he might not come to grief.

The day was a very fine one, a bright sun shining, and a nice fresh breeze blowing across The Serpentine, but not enough to ruffle the water seriously. Some heavy storms had cleared the air, and swollen the lake at the same time; in fact, The Serpentine was as full as it could be without overflowing its banks--a state in which, of all others, it is the least safe for boating experiments. Even the racing skiffs were comparatively safe craft, and would now be characterized as tubs; while the real tubs (in one of the safest of which the prudent manager had embarked our hero) were of such build that it required considerable ingenuity actually to upset them.

While Hockney had been sitting quiet and merely paddling, the boat had trimmed well enough; but now, taking a long breath, he leaned forward, and dug his sculls into the water, pulling them through with all his strength. The consequence of this feat was that the handles of the sculls came into violent collision in the middle of the boat, the knuckles of his right hand were barked, his left scull unshipped, and the head of his skiff almost blown round by the wind before he could restore order on board.

"Never mind; try again," thought be, after the first sensation of disgust had passed off, and a glance at the shore showed him that there were no witnesses. "Of course, I forgot one hand must go over the other. It might have happened to anyone. Let me see, which hand shall I keep uppermost; the left, that's the weakest." And away he went again, keeping his newly-acquired fact painfully in mind, and so avoiding further collision amidships for four or five strokes. But, as in other sciences, the giving of undue prominence to one fact brings others inexorably on the head of the student to avenge his neglect of them, so it happened with Hockney in his practical study of the science of rowing that by thinking of his hands he forgot his seat, and the necessity of trimming properly. Whereupon the old tub began to rock fearfully, and the next moment, he missed the water altogether with his right scull, and subsided backwards, not without struggles, into the bottom of the boat; while the half stroke which he had pulled with his left hand sent her head well into the bank.

Hockney picked himself up, and settled himself on his bench again, a sadder and wiser man, as the truth began to dawn upon him that pulling, especially sculling, does not, like reading and writing, come by nature. However, he addressed himself manfully to his task; savage indeed, and longing to drive a hole in the bottom of the old tub, but as resolved as ever to get to around The Serpentine as quickly as he could, or perish in the attempt.

He shoved himself off the bank, and warned by his last mishap, got out into the middle of the lake, and there, moderating his ardour, and contenting himself with a slow and steady stroke, was progressing satisfactorily, and beginning to recover his temper, when a loud shout startled him; and, looking over his shoulder at the imminent risk of an upset, he beheld the fast sailor the Dart, close hauled on a wind, and almost aboard of him. Utterly ignorant of what was the right thing to do, he held on his course, and passed close under the bows of the miniature cutter, the steersman having jammed his helm hard down, shaking her in the wind, to prevent running over the skiff, and solacing himself with pouring maledictions on Hockney and his craft, in which the man who had hold of the sheets, and the third, who was lounging in the bows, heartily joined. Hockney was out of ear-shot before he had collected vituperation enough to hurl back at them, and had, moreover, notwithstanding all his efforts, run aground; but, with this exception, he then managed to get to one end of The Serpentine without further mishap.

Hockney started on his return voyage with the sort of look which Cato must have worn when he elected the losing side, and all the gods went over to the winning one. But his previous struggles had not been thrown away, and he managed to keep the right side of a barge, from which he argued that the worst part of his trial trip was now over. The next moment he felt the bows of his boat whirl round in the wash from the barge, the old tub grounded for a moment, and then, turning over on her side as he fell headlong after losing his seat, shot him out on to the planking of the steep descent into the small lasher. He grasped at the boards, but they were too slippery to hold, and the rush of water was too strong for him, and rolling him over and over like a piece of driftwood, plunged him into the lake.

After the first moment of astonishment and fright was over, Hockney held his breath hard, and paddling gently with his hands, feeling sure that, if he could only hold on, he should come to the surface sooner or later; which accordingly happened after a somewhat lengthy submersion.

His first impulse on rising to the surface, after catching his breath, was to strike out for the shore, but, in the act of doing so, he caught sight of another skiff coming stern foremost down towards him, and he trod the water and drew in his breath to watch.

"Oh, there you are!" the rower said, looking much relieved; "all right, I hope. Not hurt, eh?"

"No, thankee; all right, I believe," answered Hockney. "What shall I do?"

"Swim ashore; I'll look after your boat." So Hockney took the advice, swam ashore, and there stood dripping and watching the other as he righted the old tub which was floating quietly bottom upwards, little the worse for the mishap, and no doubt, if boats can wish, earnestly desiring in her wooden mind to be allowed to go quietly to pieces then and there, sooner to be rescued than be again entrusted to the guidance of Hockney.

The tub having been brought to the bank, the stranger started again, and collected the sculls and bottom boards which were floating about here and there in the lake, and also succeeded in making salvage of Hockney's coat, the pockets of which held his watch, purse, and cigar case. These he brought to the bank, and delivering them over, enquired whether there was anything else to look after.

"Thank you, no; nothing but my cap. Never mind it. It's luck enough not to have lost the coat," said Hockney, holding up the dripping garment to let the water run out of the arms and pocket-holes, and then wringing it as well as he could. "At any rate," thought he, "I needn't be afraid of its looking too new any more."

The stranger put off again, and made one more round, searching for the cap and anything else which he might have overlooked, but without success. While he was doing so, Hockney had time to look him well over, and see what sort of a man had come to his rescue.

He was very well satisfied with his inspection. The other man was evidently five or so years older than himself, his figure was more set, and he had stronger whiskers than are generally grown at twenty-two. He was somewhere about five feet ten in height, very deep-chested, and with long powerful arms and hands. There was no denying, however, that at the first glance he was an ugly man; he was marked with small-pox, had large features, high cheekbones, deeply set eyes, and a very long chin; and had got the trick which many under hung men have of compressing his upper lip. Nevertheless, there was that in his face which hit Hockney's fancy, and made him anxious to know his rescuer better. He had an instinct that good was to be gotten out of him. So he was very glad when the search was ended, and the stranger came to the bank, shipped his sculls, and jumped out with his skiff in his hand, which he proceeded to fasten to an old stump, while he remarked:

"I'm afraid the cap's lost."

"It doesn't matter the least. Thank you for coming to help me; it was very kind indeed, and more than I expected. Don't they say that one London man will never save another from drowning unless they have been introduced?"

"I don't know," replied the other; "I'm American. Are you sure you're not hurt?"

"Yes, quite," said Hockney, foiled in what he considered an artful plan to get the stranger to introduce himself.

"Then we're very well out of it," said the other.

"Indeed we are," said Hockney.

"But now you're getting chilled," and the rescuer turned from the lasher and looked at Hockney's chattering jaws.

"Oh, it's nothing. I'm used to being wet."

"But you may just as well be comfortable if you can. Take all your clothes off. No one will see you here, the park is quite empty at this time in the afternoon and we're well away from the boat house."

Once Hockney had taken off every last stitch, the stranger touched his thigh and the young man felt as naked as the disgraced banker Fred Goodwin after he’d been stripped of his knighthood. The art student had a huge erection. Hockney soon found himself on his back in the grass, with the stranger using his right hand to work a five-knuckle shuffle on the art student's erect manhood. The man's grip was firm and the rhythm he used to wank Hockney off very regular. As he gave the young painter a hand job, this dude simultaneously recited a passage he’d memorised from Les Chants de Maldoror by the Comte de Lautréamont:

“Now the swimmer and the female shark saved by him confront each other. For minutes they stare fixedly into each other's eyes. They swim circling, keeping each other in sight, and each thinking: "I was wrong all along. Here is one more evil than I." Then in unison they glided underwater towards each other, in mutual admiration, the female shark slitting open the waves with her fins, Maldoror's arms thrashing the water; and they held their breaths, in deepest reverence, each one anxious to gaze for the first time upon his living image. Effortlessly, at only three yards apart, they suddenly fell upon one another like two magnets, in an embrace of dignity and gratitude, clasping each other tenderly as brother and sister. Carnal desire soon followed this display of affection. Like two leeches, a pair of nervous thighs gripped tightly against the monster's viscous flesh, and arms and fins wrapped around the objects of their desire, surrounding their bodies with love, while their breasts and bellies soon fused into one bluish-green mass reeking of sea-wrack, in the midst of the tempest still raging by the light of lightning; with the foamy waves for a wedding bed, borne on an undersea current as if in a cradle, rolling and rolling down into the bottomless ocean depths, they came together in a long, chaste, and hideous mating!...At last I had found somebody who was like me!... From now on I was no longer alone in life!... Her ideas were the same as mine!... I was face to face with my first love!”

As the stranger pronounced the last word ‘love’, a thick wad of spunk was discharged from Hockney’s throbbing member. The art student then used his mouth, teeth and tongue, to return this favour – and he was completely grooved by the sensation as a huge gob of the stranger's liquid genetics were discharged into his throat. Hockney was a real man who not only liked to suck, but who also loved to swallow!

Noticing that Hockney was shivering both with pleasure but also from cold, the man who’d rescued him took off his jumper and told the student to put it on. After a little persuasion Hockney did as he was bid, and got into the great woollen garment, which was very comforting. Then the stranger rolled a very fat cigarette and asked Hockney if he liked charge.

“I’ve never had it before,” the art student confessed, “but I understand that jazz musicians swear by it for creative inspiration.”

After the stranger lit up the joint which he’d rolled quickly and expertly, Hockney took the spliff between his fingers and drew on it.

"Not like that," the stranger instructed. "Take it right in, as deep down as it can go and keep it in, that's the main thing. When you've had a blow, don't let it go, but keep breathing in air to send it right downstairs to the bargain basement."

Hockney did what he was told. It didn't taste half as bad as he thought it would. In fact it was quite pleasant. It went down a lot easier than tobacco would, and before long he was inhaling hungrily at it.

“Not too much for the first time. We don't want you cracking up," the stranger said, talking the spliff away from Hockney.

The art student wasn’t concerned with the stranger’s voice, because already he'd realised he was feeling different. Everything was happening so quickly. At first he wasn't sure exactly what it was. Then it came to him that the scene was going out of focus like it does on the television when you turn the wrong knob. But not everything. Some of the scene was still as clear, in fact, sharper, but the rest was in a fog. Certain things stood out in Hyde Park like they had a searchlight trained on them – the stranger – the spliff – the birds and clouds in the sky – but most of the other things weren't bright at all. The trees, in particular, were very indistinct and he could see right through them. Hockney’s heart was breaking the speed limit – thumping away like mad it was, and he felt hot although the sweat on his forehead was icy cold. Then the scene became terribly unreal, and it frightened Hockney. The stranger's voice seemed far away, and the hazy atmosphere wasn't helping things either. So this was what it was like to be high, Hockney’s mind kept telling him. It was very different to what he’d read about it in the Sunday newspapers….

After that Hockney couldn’t remember quite what happened, but he woke the next day in his room and he was convinced that the stranger had told him his name was R. B. Kitaj and that he too was studying at the Republican College of Art.