Gucci Loafer Under The Couch

"Okay honey, so, when you hear your name, walk across the stage, the hostess will talk to you, then get into the shower, pull the handle up and the water will come on," he explained. "Make sure you're good and wet all over then get out of the shower, walk to the middle of the stage and dance your ass off!"

"Em, excuse me," I asked, "I have a couple of questions..."

"Oh my gawd! Your accent is too much!"

"Thank you." I was flattered, naturally.

"Whadda ya wanna know honey?" the young man cocked his head and smiled through me.

"Well it's not so much as a question but I need to check - will he, er she, touch me? They won't try to take my shorts off will they?"

"No honey, don't worry, you'll be great! Now take your clothes off behind that curtain, leave your underwear on, and take a seat over there until you hear your name."

The backstage assistant minced off to brief another contestant as I ducked behind the curtain and started taking my clothes off wondering why the hell I was about to go on stage at a gay drag bar on the American border with Mexico.

That morning we'd woken in La Jolla, San Diego, at the house of Peter Nedley and his boyfriend Stan. Peter was originally from Wythenshawe in South Manchester and after a stint in the merchant navy had settled in Southern California, married and had a son. After a subsequent stint in which he played the role of straight family man, he and his wife had split and Peter met Stan.

We'd arrived the afternoon before after being introduced, long distance, by Peter's cousin who sold us our flights to The States, back in the UK.

"I love the gays me." she'd said in that matter of fact way of a Mancunian. She didn't take her eyes off the screen while tapping away at the computer. "My cousin's gay you know. Lives with a Chinese lad. You should get in touch when you get to California. He'd love to see you."

Somehow this off the cuff comment resulted in us staying with Peter and Stan for two nights and being shown the sights of San Diego.

We arrived after a four hour drive from Santa Barbara and knocked on the door of the bungalow. It was 1997 and communication was very different then. We'd not had email contact, we didn't even speak to them on the phone ahead of our arrival. It was all arranged through the cousin and we just rocked up on the doorstep on an agreed afternoon in May.

"Hello. I'm Chris." said Chris.

"You made it!" Peter face lit up and he flung his arms around his guest.

Chris struggled his way out of the bear hug. "And this is Richard."

"Um, hello?" I was a shy 21 year old and unaccustomed to American hospitality.

Peter gripped me and pulled me into his chest before introducing his partner with an open palm and a flourish of his hand.

"This is Stan!" he enthused in his California slash Manchester accent.

Stan looked us up and down, we were dishevelled and sweaty from being in the car. He pouted, raised his eyebrows and said, "We kick our shoes off when we come into the house," before turning on his heel and disappearing inside.

Whilst it can be said that Stan's welcome was slightly cooler than Peter's, he soon warmed up and within no time was talking me through a new painting that had caught my eye on the wall of the sitting room. It was by a friend of his, in acrylic, and was called 'I lost a Gucci loafer under the couch'.

The painting was in the style of a sixties Hockney and wasn't bad for an amateur. It depicted a domestic scene between two aloof men, one was fishing around under a Robin Day-esque sofa for a just-out-of-reach shoe while the other stood in the doorway frowning at his wristwatch.

I admired it, and cooed to Stan, while secretly fancying that one day Chris and I would recreate that scene. I'd be the one who was missing the shoe, naturally.

The house was lovely, in that effortless Californian style. Single storey decorated with a mix of original art, orchids and flea market finds. Above the table in the open plan kitchen-diner hung a wooden candelabra made up of four angels with terracotta skirts and ochre wings, each holding two candles, one in each hand.

The indigo table was distressed before distressed was even a thing, and despite having two foreign strangers about to arrive neither Peter nor Stan had seen fit to clear the rubbish off it or indeed tidy the house at all. It was immediately relaxing.

"You'll be staying in my son's room." Peter said, "it's just down the hall."

"Perfect, do you mind if we drop our bags in there now?"

"Sure, just leave them wherever, and mind the toys. You'll be in the double at the bottom and he'll sleep in the top bunk."

We dragged our enormous suitcases to the bedroom, closed the door to and I turned to Chris.

"Did he say his kid would be sleeping in here with us?"

"I think so."

"His four year old child? With two strangers? I could be a paedophile for all he knows!"

"But you're not."

"He doesn't know that!" I protested, "You'll have to tell him." I was less confident about speaking my mind back then.

Chris waited for an opportune moment to tell Peter that we didn't feel entirely comfortable sleeping with his toddler, to which he replied, "No problem, he can sleep in between me and Stan."

With the sleeping arrangements agreed we settled in for an evening at home and a barbecue in the back yard. Stan had been to the farmers' market and picked up a butternut squash and some aubergines which would be perfect for me before the other three tucked into steaks the size of my head.

We woke late the following morning, enjoyed brunch - a novelty for two Brits used to three square meals a day - and sat around sipping artisan coffee and discussing what we'd like to do with our day.

"We know this really cool beach." suggested Peter.

"I love the beach!" I piped up.

"Yeah," drawled Stan in his soft, Californian tones, "Black's Beach is beautiful. We could go there."

"Great, sounds marvellous."

Little did I know what I'd agreed to.

"It's a gay beach." said Stan.

"Okay..."

"And there's a nude section."

"I see."

"More coffee?" Peter topped me up as I side-eyed Chris and twisted my mouth.

Whilst getting ready for the beach, surrounded by stuffed toys and wooden toys, I turned to Chris and quietly but urgently said, "I'm not going on a nudist beach!"

"You don't have to take your clothes off." Chris was nonchalant.

"I don't care! I have no intention of taking my clothes off in public and I certainly don't want to see that man's ginger pubes!"

"Don't be silly." Chris already knew he was fighting a losing battle.

"It's our first anniversary in a couple of days. It's completely inappropriate. I'm not going."

"Okay, okay. We don't have to."

I stuffed a towel and a bottle of sunscreen in a backpack and headed back out to our hosts.

Later, as we sat in the back of Stan's green, open top four by four, Peter passed the time of day by asking "So what's the gay car of choice in England these days?"

"I don't drive I'm afraid," I replied.

"We don't really have one," said Chris. "I drive a Renault Laguna," he offered.

Stan looked quizzically at Peter and they both shrugged.

"You see this drive?" Peter pointed to a gate as we sped up a hill. "They say it leads to the house where Tom Cruise takes his boys at the weekends."

"Ah." I acknowledged, wondering who on earth these boys were and whether Nicole went with them to the house.

We continued the drive to the national park and Black's beach practically in silence until after nearly fifteen minutes Peter had another bash at small talk.

"So what's the gay car of choice in England nowadays?"

"You asked that already." Stan interrupted, shutting him down.

Eventually parked up, and bags retrieved from the back of the Californian gay car of choice, Chris told our hosts that we weren't really comfortable (again) with the nudist beach, especially as it was so close to our anniversary. They seemed to sense that it was me that didn't want to go and began poking fun. I laughed it off while secretly promising myself I'd punish them by breaking something in their home or starting a small fire just before we left.

At the time I assumed they were teasing me for being shy and self conscious but, with the hindsight of over twenty years, I now suspect they were annoyed that they weren't going to get to see a good looking twenty one year old lad naked.

The irony is that if I'd have once thought I was good looking at that age I might have actually gone to Black's beach and got undressed but, as it happened, I thought I was a dog. I think that's probably what they mean by youth is wasted on the young.

Chris and I stopped before the cliffs began to rise leaving Peter and Stan to walk the two miles or so along the Pacific coast to the gay, nudist beach. We had a lovely afternoon sunbathing and splashing around in the sea before our hosts turned up again. Stan looked tanned and healthy, Peter on the other hand looked for all the world like like a walking beacon, his fair skin still being unused to the southern California sun. As we walked back to Stan's four by four I wondered if Peter had used a higher SPF on his nether regions to avoid singeing and, if so, did Stan help him apply it or did he take matters into his own hands.

That evening our temporary landlords took us to the Kazumi Sushi bar in downtown San Diego before driving us to another venue for after dinner drinks. The late night coffee shop was magical, we took a table outside and I ordered a glass of wine and a slab of chocolate cake with gold leaf running through the sponge and a rich black cherry glaze. We chatted about our day at the beach, our thoughts on San Diego and La Jolla, and our plans for the rest of our holiday as we were due to travel north again for our flights out of San Francisco which left a week later.

Every now and then either Peter or Stan would make another sly dig about Black's beach, but I was chilled now after self lubricating with a few glasses of wine so the gentle drubbing was like water off a duck's back.

As I finished off the last of the gateau, washing it down with a swig of chardonnay, the enchantment of the twinkly lights and soft music that enveloped us was dashed when I saw the biggest cockroach known to human kind make a bolt for it behind the counter, swiftly followed by a tap dancing waiter intent on stopping the creature in its tracks.

"Ready to go?" Peter stood up and led us back to the four by four. Next stop was a nightclub where Chris was thrilled to be asked for ID at the age of thirty three, Stan ruined the experience for him by revealing that everyone had to show ID. The police, it was rumoured, had a habit of coming down hard on gay venues that couldn't prove they'd checked everyone inside was old enough to be there.

Jaywalking was apparently another tactic the cops would use to torment the gays back then, something I learned half way across the road when Peter clutched his pearls and shrieked "Oh my God Richard! No!"

Normally a minor misdemeanour officers would hang around near gay bars in the hope they could ticket someone for crossing the road in the wrong place, a strange cat and mouse affair I wasn't used to back home in 90s Manchester - a place where I'd seen a police van drive past a full blown fight taking place in the middle of Princess Street without the officers batting an eyelid.

It was too early to be in the club, and it was practically empty, so once we'd necked a quick gin and tonic, and I'd marvelled at video-mixing, a novelty to my British eyes, we moved on.

We landed at an open air venue, apparently close to the Mexican border, with a stage at one end and the bar and toilets at the other.

After stuffing my face on sushi, and the huge slice of incredibly rich chocolate cake, I was dying for the toilet and so left the group buying margaritas at the bar, to go for a sneaky poo. I was aghast when I walked into the empty restroom to find two urinals on the wall next to two sit down toilets which, despite being in cubicles with dividing walls, were missing doors leaving the latrines open to the room. I weighed up my options - risk a flash-crap and relieve myself or hold on to it for the rest of the night. I'm British so I had a wee, clenched my cheeks and went back to the bar hoping it would crawl back up inside me.

Eventually seated at a table I learned that tonight, being Friday night, there was a regular competition where the winner would walk away with a hundred dollars. It was the highlight of the week and the reason Peter and Stan had chosen this particular bar.

Contestants would get up on stage, shower in their underwear, and dance for the crowd. The winner would be the person who received the biggest cheer at the end of the game.

A round of tequila arrived at the table. I tipped mine into the remains of my cocktail and swilled it down before ordering another jug. I read the leaflet on the table and beckoned Chris over.

"I'm going to do it." I whispered cupping his ear.

"What?"

"The competish'n. I'm going to take part." I slurred

"What? Why?"

"They think I'm a prude becaushe I wouldn't go to that beach."

"Richard..."

"Sho I'm going to do it." The jug of margarita was delivered, I paid the waiter and grimacing through the booze said, "Keep the shange."

"You don't have to, you know." Chris was worried.

"I know. But I'm gonna..." I flared my nostrils and gave him a slightly crazed but defiant look before turning back to the table.

Just then there was a roll of drums, a fanfare of Mexican trumpets and a spotlight illuminated the centre of the stage. A seven foot drag queen occupied the stage, she grabbed a microphone from its stand and addressed the audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome! This is your ten minute warning. If anyone wants to try their luck for this week's grand prize of one hundred dollars," the crowd whooped, "then raise your hand now and let one of the waiters know who you are."

My hand shot up and everyone round the table gawped at me.

"You don't have to." pleaded Chris.

"I know." I replied through gritted teeth.

A waiter came over. "Hi sweet, you takin' part tonight?"

"Yesh! Where do I shine?"

"He means sign," explained Chris.

"Come with me," and with that he grabbed my hand and led me to the side of the stage where I was delivered to the back stage assistant.

"Name and age please?"

"Rishard. Richard Douglash." I hiccuped. "I'm twenty one."

"Where are you from?"

"England."

"They're gonna love you honey!"

"Thanksh."

"Before I go through everything, I need to check - will your shorts become transparent when they're wet? Because if they do then I've got some here you can use instead."

The next few minutes whizzed by as I prepared myself. I sobered up instantly and the next thing I knew a voice from the stage announced, "Hey fellas, we've got a real treat for you tonight! A British twink!"

The crowd roared; backstage I regretted not risking the poo.

"Go easy on him you guys! This is Richard, he's twenty one and he's all the way from England!"

I was shoved onto the stage and immediately went into auto drive. The drag queen asked me a few questions before pointing to the glass sided shower to her right. I bit my lip and got in.

As the water drenched me the music started booming. I was soaking. I looked down to check my shorts, thankful they hadn't become see-through. My dignity intact and dripping wet, I headed back to the middle of the stage where I spent what felt like hours, but was probably all of 45 seconds, gyrating and dancing for the baying crowd.

Money maker shaken, I retreated backstage until all the contestants had had their turn. The final humiliation was spent as we all returned to the stage for the final applause, still damp, wearing only our boxer shorts and one by one contestants were voted off based on how loud the crowd cheered and clapped.

I wish I could say I won but sadly I came second. Returning to the table with my chin held a little higher I was consoled by the subtly impressed Peter and Stan. They told me the guy that came out on top took part every week and had a gang of friends who would help him win. According to my hosts he used the money to pay the rent which made me feel slightly better.

At least I could walk away with my pride.