Call Me Read Free

arose to make the tea. Eventually I’d manage to be up around eleven, having rarely slept well. Mornings were worst.
    It happened the day after I’d shampooed the carpets in the hope of turning over a new leaf. The overstuffed envelope didn’t fit the letter-box but my plodding, polyester postman wasn’t going to ring, wait and deal with someone, especially someone like me. He had a round to get done, letter-boxes to violate. After noisy pushing and shoving it finally landed like an abandoned origami effort. The letterbox let in a chill, smelly breeze which swept into the bathroom, directly opposite the front door.
    The thin, brown stationery tore easily and Bike Boy replies cascaded to the bathroom floor. As with exam results and private letters I sat naked, on the toilet, to read sackfuls of desire, a whole pot pourri of emotions, stamps licked by the psychologically wounded, the emotionally bankrupt and fun seeker s. I was to become a receptacle for first impressions to all sorts making life-directing bungee jumps.
    Counting the small envelopes contained within, thirty eight, I felt quite a thrill. I classified the envelopes before opening, stacking the coloured envelopes in one pile, the cheap little crushed envelopes in another, leaving the fine quality Queen’s Velvet sort of stuff to one side. As I read, I sorted the letters into Yes, No and Maybe piles around my feet. I felt like an impartial party sent to observe. Bike Boy had hit the crackpot jackpot.
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    A pre-war Remington had typed the first man’s desires. The capitals jumped into the course above on all three sheets of expensive cream coloured Conqueror paper. A first class stamped addressed envelope was optimistically enclosed. Also enclosed was a photograph, taken against a white wall reflecting noon sunlight. His face wore an expression of determination to look good on photographic paper but the overhead light cast shadows which didn’t do any favours. His plain body was dressed sensibly.
    The sample of pubic hair attached to the left of his address, brown to ginger, was crudely attached with a strip of sellotape bearing one clear fingerprint.
    â€”, —— ——,
    Market Bosworth,
    Nuneaton,
    Warwickshire
    Tel: 01455———
    Hi, handsome Bike Boy—my name’s Michael and as you can see I live in Market Bosworth near Leicester. I see from your ad in BOYZ that you’re “Any place/Anywhere”, so I hope this letter isn’t a complete waste of time.
    Isn’t it difficult to know what to write: too tame and one can seem boring, too “exciting” and one can seem a pervert. I’m neither by the way. A little about me now. I’m 39—young looking with blue eyes and brown hair. Reasonably handsome, 5′9″, smooth-skinned. I’m well travelled, quite well educated, have a solid job, own house, car etc. (dull, eh!).
    I have a large number of interests from wine to local history, from trying to learn Dutch to fell walking. It was the fell walking which triggered my interest in your ad. I don’t go mountain biking but I know the Lake District, Pennines and Scotland very well and am out walking at least once a week. I don’t have a partner, am non-scene and definitely non-camp. I’ve plenty of holiday left this year, and I fancy taking the station wagon up to Scotland to do some walking. If we clicked, so to speak, maybe you’d like to come with me. I usually just pitch a tent—I like the open air life. I fancy a few days in Sandwood Bay, a remote sandy bay facing the Atlantic. You can see gannets diving offshore and the sea gets beautifully rough. I love to watch a stormy coast. I don’t suppose Scotland is much of an adventure but it beats London any day! (I’m guessing that’s where you’re from.) Those cycle shorts sound nice and if we did get you up to Market Bosworth I could find quite a few uses for that delicious