Lust. Geoff Ryman

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СКАЧАТЬ family had a best room that was kept under wraps, and of which Michael was vouchsafed a glimpse. The furniture was sealed in plastic and the carpets covered with protecting translucent treads. It was as if they wanted people to have safe sex with the sofa. The dresser proudly displayed the Wedgwood china, which was never used. ‘This is for special events,’ said Philip’s mother, communicating with no effort that the first visit of her son’s partner was not special enough.

      When Philip’s sister died unexpectedly, his mother rang to ask that Michael not come to the funeral, as it was ‘a family occasion’. In any event, Michael was not ‘to visit quite so often, as it might give rise to questions’.

      ‘I’ll make it easy,’ said Michael. ‘I won’t go at all.’

      ‘That’s not what she wants, Michael,’ said Philip, looking anguished.

      ‘It’s what I want,’ said Michael. ‘I don’t like being treated like the mad aunt in the attic. It’ll be easier for you too. You won’t even have to mention me.’

      Indeed, Michael was not mentioned in family conversation. Philip’s family weekends were now just another period of absence.

      Which Michael had been grateful for, as it made it easier to bring people back. It’s how most gay marriages are supposed to work. You get tired of sex with each other, and being a man yourself you understand: it’s fun to be let off your leash for a scamper.

      But when does it cease to be that? When do you start hoping he won’t be home so you can bring a trick back? When do you start saying: ‘Got another arts do on tonight. You won’t want to come, will you?’ When do you start slipping sideways into bushes at Russell Square after every social engagement?

      How long is it then before there is no sexual side to the marriage? What do you call the marriage then? Like other mainly financial arrangements, you might call it a partnership. They still both took a measure of pride in it.

      ‘He’s a scientist,’ Phil said at a recent party, as if clearing the table for a specially cooked, nut-free dish. Philip at 31 was already beginning to look ragged and discontent. ‘He’s doing brain research. You’re trying to prove we have a soul aren’t you?’

      ‘Do we have a soul then?’ asked Jimmy Banter. He was a better-known artist than Philip. He had a merry smile and a watchful eye.

      ‘What we have,’ said Michael, feeling his weight, ‘is more like a centre of gravity. You can’t find a centre of gravity surgically. It’s not an organ or an inner eye. You won’t find a car part called the centre of gravity, but the car has one anyway. The self is like that. It’s the centre of focus if you like, where all the stresses and strains of the brain come together.’

      Jimmy Banter looked over his shoulder. ‘Is that why you’ve got such a big ego then, Phil? All those stresses and strains?’ Jimmy disliked weight and he disliked bald truth but he loved drama.

      ‘At least my work doesn’t involve killing chickens,’ said Philip.

      Thanks, Phil, for blowing my cover.

      The room went cold and still. ‘What was that?’ a woman in a red dress asked, sitting up.

      Michael sighed. ‘Uh. I am about to start a research project that involves experimentation on animals.’

      ‘And how,’ the woman asked him, with the cautious determination of the righteous, ‘do you justify that?’

      With difficulty. It takes a long time. Most of the night, in fact. And the one thing I dread is some animal rights activist getting hold of it because my partner wants to score points at parties.

      Michael glared at Philip who stared sullenly back. It was very difficult to see any love in his eyes now.

      Some weeks before, Philip had come home at eleven o’ clock. For Philip, that was early. Michael was still up, exhausted from marking phase tests. Philip came home elated rather than high. He came home seductive.

      ‘How would you ,’Philip said, sitting on the arm of the sofa, ‘like to be photographed in the nude by me.’

      ‘It depends on what it’s for,’ replied Michel.

      ‘It’s for my next and breakthrough show. It’s called Lust.’

      Ah.

      ‘You’re going to be the centre piece.’

      ‘Am I, now?’

      ‘Yup. I want your cock to be the anchor. I want it to look earth-bound. I want to adorn it with grass and soil and flowers. And I can tell people: it’s my boyfriend, actually. It will all be terribly Gilbert-and-Georgeish.’

      Philip. Phil, you are 31 years old. Shouldn’t you be getting beyond this?

      ‘Are you trying to get into advertising or something? It won’t work, Phil. If advertising agencies like your stuff, they just steal it and call it a quote.’

      ‘And that promotes you too. Just hear me out.’ Philip shifted, smiling on the arm of the sofa. ‘I haven’t pitched it to you properly.’

      Pitch? What are you, a filmmaker?

      ‘Everything is a branch of pornography, including religion.’

      ‘No, Phil, it’s not.’

      ‘In this sense. It uses the same techniques as pornography. Nothing to do with sex. Pornography is to do with keeping people comfortable and managing their disappointment. You cannot give someone sex except by giving them sex. But you can give them a substitute, and make sure it’s barely just good enough. So they’re not satisfied and have to come back for another fix. McDonald’s hamburgers are pornography. Blockbuster movies are pornography. The key to their success is that they don’t offend and never satisfy. The other thing is that nobody gets hurt. Or rather they get hurt, but there’s no real pain. So, in The English Patient you can set people on fire and cut off their thumbs and everything still reads like a Fiat ad.’

      ‘So. How are you going to demonstrate this intellectual point using craft skills? Which, as I understand it, is your definition of art.’

      Philip was grinning. ‘I’m going to photograph your cock in a McDonald’s bun.’

      Michael couldn’t resist. ‘It will certainly be an improvement on their usual fare.’

      ‘I’m going to photograph you as Billy Graham preaching, but with your cock hanging out.’

      See what an education in the arts can do for you? ‘What about lawsuits?’

      ‘You want lawsuits? I’m going to dress your member up as Monica Lewinsky.’

      ‘How? How are you going to do that?’

      ‘I’ll put a beret on it, and stick it in a weight watchers ad. I’ll wrap it up as a cigar. I dunno.’

      ‘Phil. This is not art. These are ideas for joke greetings cards. You know, courgettes standing in for dicks. And why pick on poor Monica?’

      ‘Because СКАЧАТЬ