I  first saw my soldier on Calton Hill. On the terrace below the observatory I spied him, outlined against the night sky in full  Highland regimental gear - kilt, busby, white spats, the lot. Even in the darkness he radiated a masculinity that made the milling, cruising queens seem seedy and cheap by contrast.

My heart rose to my mouth with the rush of desire, blended with disbelief at such impossible luck, and terror lest I lose a prize so unexpectedly placed within my grasp. So, before he could turn round, I slipped back round the corner to compose myself and decide tactics. After all, he would have the pick of all the men there; though I was decent-looking in a next-doorish macho sort of way I had no illusions. There was no particular reason to choose me, so I must plan my approach with utmost care. On the other hand, if I delayed too long another queen would surely get in first.

Thus torn, I allowed myself a tentative peek round the corner, hoping for a further glimpse of the vision, but too late - the soldier had gone. I cursed out loud and kicked the wall. Some other fucking jessie would have his hand up that kilt now. I walked more and more quickly round the observatory, scouring the shrubs and monuments, ignoring appraising glances of cruisers. But of the soldier there was no sign.

Often, when trolling, if I fancied someone in a so-so kind of way but didn't manage to score with them I'd pass on to someone else without much regret. But if I was really struck with a bloke; if those antennae in my subconscious that measured and scanned every guy I met, whispered 'that's the one', and if then I couldn't get him, I would just go home, as no way would I be able to make it with anyone else other till the feeling passed. So it was on that night. Morose, I clumped down the path, emerging opposite St Andrew's House, found my car, and made for home.

Next day was my Laughing Duck night. When I got there my best friends Andy and Jack were already at the bar. In the fifteen years since I moved to Edinburgh we'd met at least once a week for beer and gossip. With them on this occasion was a friend whom they introduced as Mhor, visiting from Campbeltown, a skinny affected youth with zodiac earrings and a snake-shaped bracelet in some yellow metal that certainly was not gold.

'Sorry, what did you say your name was?' I asked him.  It was not one I recognised.

'It's M-H-O-R Mhor, but you can call me Morag - everyone else does,' came the simpering reply.

‘Morag’s a witch’ said Andy with what might have been sarcasm. ‘He tells fortunes and claims to have second-sight – typical teuchtar!’

‘Aquarian,’ put in Mhor, ‘What’s your sign?’

‘Taurus' I replied.

‘He's a cow,' said Jack between gulps of eighty-shilling ale. Conversation then lapsed into general chat, Mhor saying little but clasping his glass of white wine with an air of amused detachment I found annoying.  I don't care for excessive campness, and there was something in his manner more riling than most. Even so, I was not displeased when he cut short one of Andy's endless cottaging sagas to demand:

‘What did you say your name was?'

‘Are you talking to me?  It's David, I thought I said.'

‘Ah David, the Taurean.' The camp smirk widened, then suddenly faded.

‘You're in danger' he announced solemnly.

We all stared at him, arrested by his change of manner and serious tone. Then Jack asked ‘what makes you say that, Mhor?'

‘I just know it - he's in danger.  I don't know what of, I just feel he is, and my feelings are usually right.'

He stared unsettlingly at me. To break the atmosphere Jack said 'There, you've been warned.  No more cheap condoms, not with the size of cock you take up you.'

Everyone laughed, including Mhor, and the topic was dropped. However, when the time came to leave and Mhor and I shook hands by Andy's car – the zodiac earrings and snake bangle glittering in the streetlight - he looked me in the eyes again and said 'I meant what I said - be careful.'

'This isnae wee Campbeltown,’ I countered cheerfully, 'this is the Big Bad City and I've been cruising it since I was twenty! I'm always careful.’

Like I suppose most people these days, I sometimes received chain letters, threatening lurid doom to whoever broke the link. I never passed them on, knowing how much they could worry more credulous folks, and of course the promised nemesis never happened, yet doubt could niggle and linger like a half-dispersed fart. So it was that night. All the way home in the taxi, I kept glancing out the window half-expecting a crash, but the trip passed uneventfully and I was soon in bed and asleep, too tired and drunk even to wank.

Next evening feeling even randier than usual, I wondered if the soldier might be back on the Hill. As I hurried up the path an ageing leather queen eyed me from behind a tree. We exchanged nods of recognition - I had seen him around - and I left him loitering in the gloom under the branches. The poor sod seemed a fixture of the place these autumn nights, though I never saw him score, probably because he couldn't.

Trade was brisk on the hill and I spent fifteen or so minutes checking out the talent, groping a few and getting my cock out with one, without being really excited by any of them.

Then I saw him. Almost hidden in the trees surrounding the Nelson Monument, the soldier stood, still in his Highland uniform. Determined not to miss out this time I hastened over, slowing as I drew near the silent figure in the shadows.

The soldier did not move or speak; yet virility seemed to pour from him like heat from hot sand. He appeared slightly taller than me, maybe six-foot-two and broadly, though not heavily built. I was quite fit and macho, not at all given to hesitancy or  bashfulness, indeed quite the contrary where sex was concerned, yet that dark manhood left me disoriented and confused. My mouth went dry; my breath came in pants, my heart thumped and my cock, uncontrollably rigid, pulsed with it. Sweat trickled down my arse crack, and my unsteady legs refused to function, nor could any word be forced from my lips. Horrified at myself, I suddenly found strength to flee as fast as what remained of dignity allowed. A backward glance showed my soldier still motionless in the shadow; next time I dared turn my head he had gone.

In great confusion of thought and desire I stumbled down the path, where the old leather queen accosted me in a state of extreme agitation. He had moved to the wall, chain-smoking with trembling hands, and whispered urgently through the gloom 'Hey..hey you!'

So urgent was his tone and so distressed his state that I forgot momentarily my own troubles. He gripped my shoulders then, still shaking, threw his arms round me and clutched me to him. Puzzled and concerned, I returned his hold, stroking the poor aspen wretch on the back of his neck till he became calmer. When the trembling had eased, apart from occasional violent shudders, I asked what was the matter.

'Did ye ... did ye see a sojer up there?' The words when they came were breathless and urgent. ‘A sojer - a Hielan' sojer in a kilt?'

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I was speaking to him – I’ve seen him here before’, trying to speak lightly. I wondered if the soldier had threatened to rob or queerbash him, or had actually done so. ‘Why? Did he attack you?’ He hadn‘t seemed the queerbashing sort, whatever else he might have been, but you never know with soldiers.

The man shook his head. 'No..no..    naethin like yon. Worse, far worse..' His voice rose in panicky sobs, 'Did ye touch him, did ye see his face? ' He gripped harder and pulled my face close.  'He’s Death..(he made it rhyme with ‘teeth’)..’…  death...death tae the soul.' The stench of whisky and poppers almost knocked me out and annoyance ousted concern. 'Keep awa ... keep awa frae him.' The old man's voice sank to a terrified whisper. 'Dinnae leave me pal, dinnae leave me alane here.'

'Gang hame, Paw!' I said.' Come on - home. HAME! You're drookit wi’ poppers and pished as a parrot. Here,' suddenly feeling kindly again, 'I'll walk you down the path.'

I saw him to his bus and headed home full of very mixed feelings. Too many conflicting things had happened that night. I'd cruised dozens of squaddies in my time, none of them kilties admittedly, and was hardly a stranger to military prick. Yet something about this soldier had  put shits up the old leather queen, and both unnerved and roused me beyond anything I had ever known. And I hadn't even seen the man's face or cock - he could have been ugly as sin or tiny as a finger for all I knew. But one thing became certain, as I sat over decaffeinated coffee well spiked with whisky, churning things over in my mind. I would have that soldier, and have him tomorrow night.

For there was something else, something I’d have been mortified to admit and which, had my circle of acquaintances suspected it, would have earned me derisive disbelief. Incredibly, and for the first time in many years, I was beginning to feel the pangs of what could only be called love. Beneath my carapace of flippant obscenity, hardened by years in the emotional snake-pit of the gay-scene, there skulked, scorned and disregarded, a heart that yearned for love. And this unknown, unspoken-to, mostly unseen soldier had quickened that numb member, kindling long-forgotten fires, and menacing the frail adjustment I had achieved with the world and my forty years. I laughed, I told myself to act my age, I drank more whisky, and laughed again, but there was no dodging it. I, the great cynic, had been pierced unawares by the blind god’s dart, and dared let myself hope again.

Thus resolved, I retired to uneasy rest. In my dreams the old man appeared, covered in blood, and tried to strangle me with Mhor's snake bracelet, whilst the soldier hovered in shadow beyond. My cock throbbed to the hammer-beat of my heart, a rhythm that surged round and engulfed me like waves of a sea, and I woke dripping sweat to find I had come in my sleep - the first time that had ever happened. Then, mercifully, I fell asleep properly.

Next day dawned lowering and stormy. Rain from the north rattled on the windows and by the time I got to work my feet and legs were well soaked. My office enjoys a splendid view over the Forth to Fife, and I watched the grey curtains of rain sweep across the choppy firth and splatter on the plate glass. At coffee break I wandered to the east of the building to gaze up at Calton Hill, the National Monument's blackened pillars stark against that mucky sky. It's an odd place is Edinburgh. Much as I love it - and I’ve spent almost half my life there - I  never really understood, though I often wondered, what things lie beneath that placid urbane surface. Now that do know, things that once seemed strange fall easily into place.

That afternoon the foul weather eased, and a late sun warmed the October air. By evening the grass in squares and gardens had dried, and people took to the autumn dusk without coats. Round about nine o'clock Andy phoned to ask if I fancied a beer.

'Morag's gone home,' he informed me 'Jack and me saw him off on the coach this afternoon. He's very worried about you.'

'Really?' I replied wearily. I had not liked Mhor, and wished Andy and Jack would stop linking me with him.

'She's convinced bad luck's on its way to you - knows it from his second sight.' Andy habitually mixed his pronoun genders.

'Bad luck, my arse!' I snorted. 'Where did you meet the stupid bitch in the first place? And however did he get that ridiculous name?'

'Her mother found the name in a book by Anna Buchan, sister of John,' Andy laughed, 'and Jack picked her up ages ago at an art college gaysoc ball.  She's a schoolteacher, would you credit?'

'Why not?' I retorted, 'You're a rugger-playing bus-driver who drinks and cottages far too much. Your other half’s an accountant, and I'm a computer hack with literary pretensions. We've all been on the gay scene too long to find anything surprising. Beats me, though, how our friend survives in a wee place like Campbeltown, even as the local witch-mistress.'

'She's from Appin originally,' said Andy. ‘It figures - they say that place is crammed full of ghosts. Now, are you coming boozing or not?'

'Not tonight Josephine,' I said, 'I've got plans.'

'Is he well-hung?' came the inevitable reply.

'I'll soon find out,' I said, ‘and the competition's fierce, so I'm taking no chances giving any more away to a cottage-crawling whore like you!'

'OK, but don't forget Mhor's warning,' said Andy. 'Just see and take care. Bye.'

By the time I reached the hill, light cloud had drifted across the clear sky making the open spaces dimmer and the shade duller than I could ever recall. But then I had only ever been up there on clear nights.  Clouds mean rain, and nobody cruises in the wet – not in chilly Edinburgh anyway. The warm night had brought out exceptionally many cruisers, their movements slowed by the heavy darkness, as each lingered to peer through the gloom and rate possible conquests. Some decent numbers stopped to grin or rub themselves as I passed, but there was never any question of accepting their advances. I was on that hill that night for one discovery, for one conquest alone.

Feeling sticky in my heavy leather jacket and 501s, I moved away and made across the grass to the Nelson monument. It was as if a dark hidden magnet was drawing me by lines of force I didn't understand or want to resist. I just knew HE was there and that this was to be the night.

At first there seemed no sign of the soldier, but then I saw him- still under the shade of a tree, virility radiating like black heat. My cock and heart began their now expected duet of synchronised throbbing; as I drew closer my breath started to come in gulps.  At last I stood before the towering form, and I realised the thump of my heart was in rhythm with the waves of manhood surging from him. It was like standing blindfold before a furnace.

Then he spoke; two words only; 'Go down.' The voice was Gaelic - soft, musical, an echo in a hollow hill.

'Go down.'

How beautiful he was, my lordly one! I knelt and stretched out cautious hands to the soldier's knees; the heat of his flesh made me flinch. Slowly, entranced, I ran my fingers behind his thighs then, finding my roving hands duly licensed, let them also go before, above, between, below. I fell on his thighs, working my lips down to his boots, then up again, nuzzling the solid limbs, thrusting my head and hands under his kilt, grasping the hard mounds of his arse cheeks till my lips at last reached home on his balls, heavy like eggs, confined in the tightest bag and crowned by the cock of my dreams - massive, veined, pulsing, moist, rampant. Still kneeling, I clasped it in both hands, running my mouth up each side, ravishing it with kisses, tears for some odd reason pouring from my eyes as I enfolded the nob in my mouth, gulping and swallowing like a starving calf. Had I an alabaster box of spikenard I would assuredly have broken it and anointed his cock This was no sordid blow-job on some nameless squaddie in a squalid trolling-ground. This was more than lust, more even than just love. This was Love.

The soldier's hands on my shoulders motioned me to stand. I moved back slightly and rose - his features were still hidden in darkness. Nothing was said or needed to be. Without fuss I undid my belt, dropped my 501s and briefs, and lay face-down on the grass, now slightly moist with the night's first dew. A shadow falling across me told me  the soldier was about to take mastery. I felt his kilt fall on my back, his fingers probing my hole, his cock’s first heraldic shoves against my yielding ring, then ecstasy, pain and wonder as he entered me and his balls rested on mine. I felt his hands grip my shoulder, though not, strangely, his breath on my neck, then all was forgotten for that was the moment the soldier began to fuck.

I have never ever been fucked as on that night.  To be raped by an archangel must be something like this - the only analogy I can conjecture. It seemed like every organ bass in creation pealed somewhere deep within me; the ultimate fuck, the fuck at the end of the universe, the one far-off divinest fuck toward which all perversion moves – or cums. If ever any penis I did see desire and get, 'twas but a dream of this one. Life, my job, the mortgage, safe sex - everything was forgotten as the heavenly prick rammed on. I feared I might faint and miss the soldier's coming which, to judge from the quickening savagery of his thrusts, could not be long delayed. As I thought thus, the cock within me swelled as if to rip me apart, the balls slammed with wilder force, the man let out a great cry, and a second later I shrieked in terrible pain. The soldier had bitten my neck most brutally. I raised my dew-wet hand to the wound and realised the moisture was not dew, but blood. Craning round, I glimpsed in the streetlamps' reflected glow, the handsome, dead face, the sunken eyes, the smeared mouth, and twin fangs jutting dripping blood. My blood. The mouth smiled, a gloating satisfied leer like a child who has at last secured a long-denied treat. In that instant of hellish realisation I finally did faint. When I came round, the soldier was gone.

Now I too have fangs, and am once more on Calton Hill. Or Hampstead Heath, perhaps, or Vondel or Central Parks; a Californian beach maybe, or truckstop in the desert. Anywhere virile young men may be found, whose strong young blood can, at least between ingestions, preserve my decay-ordained body in fleeting wholeness. There are compensations in this existence, just as there are resting places from the accursed light of day. It is pleasant to tunnel like some quantum mole from cruising ground to cruising ground without needless lingering in space or time between - and Highgate Cemetery, where many of my kin reside, is most convenient from the Heath when morning breaks. Sometimes I wonder how long I can go on, and corruption be deferred. Quite a while, I'll wager. For wherever young men lust with each other in this earth's dark places, there I and my fellows will also be, sating and renewing ourselves. Perhaps for ever, and ever.

                                                 Copyright © James Scott 1989 and 2008

[Jim Scott] [A Boy A Book A Story] [Darkness] [Pat from Lancashire] [The Quaker Oats Man] [A Matter of Conscience] [Picnic] [Incident at a Railway Station] [Cauld Comfort Kail] [Moral Uplift] [The Soldier] [Madonna] [Hero of the Revolution] [The Messenger] [Tramlines] [Innocents] [Unlucky Dip]