Chapter Text
I approach 1968 Paul from behind, not quite sure how to start a conversation. He is talking to a fat woman dressed as the Queen of Hearts. Another paid actor, no doubt. Does anybody want to spend time with me unless they are trying to get famous or being paid?
He is taller than Paul, but there is a similarity in his vibe, an awkwardness in his body language like he doesn’t quite know how to contain his energy, that there is something else going on underneath he can’t hide, understand or contain. Being closer to him increases my yearning. What would it feel like to hold him in my arms?
‘This is a trap, you stupid faggot,’ says the voice of Evil Paul.
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” I snap.
He turns around. Had I said that out loud?
I suppress a gasp. 1968 Paul has my Paul’s eyes. Same colour, same intensity.
“Paulie,” I whisper.
Only his eyes are visible. What does the rest of his face look like behind that mask? Without asking permission, I trail a finger down the anatomically correct dark fur on his arm. What would his skin smell like? How might it taste? What would happen if I took this Paul into my bed?
Would Yoko notice?
I want to hear his voice. Could Elton have got someone who sounded like him too? Unlikely. Possible?
“Why did you leave me?” I ask.
He gazes at me with his lucid, mournful eyes, unable or unwilling to reply. I can feel answering tears prickling at the back of mine.
“Please don’t leave me, darling.” I murmur. “I’m sorry.”
1968 Paul reaches his fingers around my back, the touch of his body surprisingly warm for someone so naked. He presses his nude chest against my clothed one, gazing into my eyes with raw sensuality. I feel myself beginning to stiffen. His cock twitches in return. His masculinity in my arms is solid and reassuring, not someone who could easily break.
‘It’s not the real Paul,’ warns Evil Paul.
‘Don’t I know that, you stupid twat,’ I think. ‘Can’t you leave me alone?’
As if watching myself on TV, I hear myself saying the most ridiculous nonsense to 1968 Paul, as if I have lost control of the real John, my mouth abducted by aliens. I have no idea where it is all coming from, but not me. I would never be so pathetic. My tone, too, sounds alien. Gravelly and desperate.
“I want you inside me,” I say. A single tear runs down my cheek. 1968 Paul brings his finger up to brush it away.
“Paulie,” I continue, “I know it’s not really you. But what if you are my puppet, and when we fuck, the spirit of the real you enters me?”
It has been a while since I experienced a man’s touch. Not since last year, when I had held Real Paul in my arms for just one night. How pleasantly he made me ache.
“I’m so lonely, Paul. I miss you so much, baby. Link me through this beautiful man who looks like you. I’m begging you.”
All I want to do is trick my brain into believing that 1968 Paul has come back in a time machine, so we can go down the rabbit hole into a fantastical, magical world. No Linda, no Yoko, no Beatles, no fans. Me and Paul in 1968, preserved together forevermore.
“New York,1968.” I murmur. “That’s when it all started to go wrong. If I could go back nine years, I would-” I bury my head into his chest, trying to find a place to steady myself. 1968 Paul runs his hands over my back, pressing me close with reassuring force. I melt into his touch, inhaling his scent as I lean against him.
“I don’t know what happened, Paul. But it was all my fault. I destroyed the most precious thing I ever had, like you said in your song. Moved across an ocean to run away. But I can’t forget you. Paul, I’m still in love with you. Why did you abandon me?” I punctuate my words by punching his chest with my fists.
I realise I am shouting. I have the sudden sensation of surrounding silence. I am out in public, the only unmasked person in a masked sea. All eyes on me. Who cares? I only care about the ones that look like His, gazing down upon me with rapt attention.
“I’d give anything to have us back the way we were. Give up everything I own. My fame, my money, my reputation. My marriage. But I know you don’t feel the same. Every time I think I’m over it, I hear some news that makes me realise I’ve lost you all over again. Linda is pregnant.” I have to stop here for over a minute as there is something stuck in my throat. My body is trembling as if my muscles are giving way under a heavy weight. He presses his leg against mine, rubbing me in the small of my back as I hide my face in his chest, so overcome I can’t form words.
“Paul, I beg you. Speak to me. Take off your mask. Show the world who you really are. Stop hiding our love away. Paul! Paul! Paul!” My knees give way and I collapse on the floor, curling up into a ball in front of him, sobbing, rocking back and forth.
I am interrupted by the unmistakable sound of applause. The main lights go on, blinding me temporarily. There is a circle in front of me as if I am a stage. I wobble to my feet, the nostalgic sensation of people surrounding me, attempting to touch from every side, grab and take home their own personal slice of my skin as a souvenir. If they got what they wanted, would they stop there? I want to curl back into the foetal position again to protect my internal organs, feeling like an Aztec about to have my body flayed open, beating heart offered up as a human sacrifice to make the sun rise again.
Yoko steps in front, instantly recognisable even with her face covered with a white velvet mask. She is dressed in white from head to toe, wearing her wedding dress. She removes her mask, laying eyes upon her audience with the authoritative glare of a high priest. The crowd steps back respectfully, simmering into silence.
“Thus concluding our performance of Fantasy,” she says, taking a bow. “If you wish, you may remove your masks.”
Some patrons remove their masks. Others prefer to continue monitoring me anonymously. These are people I know from music, the art world, literary figures, millionaires, media types, auteurs, complete strangers. Everyone stylish, beautiful, slim, gifted. Some I know well, others I never saw before in my life. A light chatter saturates the room, a clink of glasses being refilled by waiters as the entertainment comes to an end. Goofy comes round with the coke tray. I notice Paul Simon in the audience, mask free. He winks at me as he politely helps himself to a line.
“Turn off the tape recorder,” Yoko orders one of her flunkies in a sharp tone.
Panic floods through me. I need to get away. Somewhere nobody can see and know me. I push through the crowd, out of the room, across the hall. The crowd moves with me like the sea. I feel myself being pulled into the undertow. This is going to be my untimely end, crushed to death by a wave of hipsters, after inadvertently outing myself in front of the New York alternative elite.
Suddenly I feel something grab me by the waist, pull me to one side, forcing me to the relative safety of a corner of the room. 1968 Paul pushes me up against the wall with one hand, taking his mask off with the other, pressing his lips against mine. His face is unlike Paul’s. Nevertheless, I get quite swept up, especially when he lifts me off the ground halfway through and pulls away to stroke my face.
“I always thought you were overrated,” he says in an unmistakable Brooklyn twang, grinding his half hard crotch against mine.
I laugh out loud. “Had a lot of experience talking to celebrities, have you? Really know how to flatter a guy.”
“But wow. There’s just something about your energy. Why did he ever leave you?”
“Please.” My voice is getting hoarse again. “Not here.” The party seems to have resumed, the public tired of feasting on my agony, searching for new content to consume. I guide him to the exit, never letting go of his hand as it wraps around mine, wishing to be invisible once more.