The girl I went out with, who thought I was so fucking nice. She couldn’t wait for her parents to meet me because I was perfect. And I’d sit in their little council flat with my arm over their daughter’s shoulders and make polite conversation. We’d watch TV until late into the evening and the brother would stare and not say a word. Dad would offer me cans of Carling and Mum would offer me sandwiches and biscuits until it was time for bed because they had to get up for work.

They’d ask me to stay, not in their daughter’s room, but in the brothers, because he wouldn’t mind me sleeping on his floor. I’d end up stripping down to my boxers and laying on a cheap carpet with a travel rug to keep me warm.

The brother in his single bed would ask me if I’d shagged his sister and I’d say that I had, when I hadn’t. He’d say that it was gross, and then he’d talk football because that’s what lads did, and he’d ask me about movies and music I liked. I’d lay there wishing that he’d shut the fuck up and let me sleep.

But he’d continue to talk, a voice in the dark, asking question after question, until I’d pretend to drop off and he’d say that the floor must be uncomfortable. I’d tell him that I was grateful for somewhere to stay and that I wasn’t bothered. He’d say that it wasn’t right for his sister’s boyfriend to sleep on the floor and that I could have his bed instead.

Eventually, I’d stand shivering in my boxers while he made an Oscar performance getting comfy on the floor. I’d slip into his warm bed with its aromas of Lynx and teenage sweat, and he’d still be chattering.

I’d tell him that I felt guilty about taking his bed and that he could share it if he wanted. He’d say that he wasn’t sharing a bed with another guy because he wasn’t gay, and I’d remind him that I was shagging his sister, and that meant I wasn’t gay either.

He’d crawl into bed and say that it was a bit cramped, and I’d tell him to go to sleep. He’d set an alarm on his mobile phone so he could nip onto the floor before his parents walked in the next morning.

Then he’d ask me if I’d kissed a guy, and I’d lie that I hadn’t. He’d wonder what it would be like, and I’d say that I didn’t know. He’d keep talking until I told him to find a guy to kiss, and then he might shut up. That would mean that he was gay, but he wasn’t.

He’d complain that the bed was too narrow and that he might fall out. When I don’t respond, he’d ask if he can give me a hug and I’d say yes, if that’s what he wanted. He’d put his arm around me, and say that he wasn’t a faggot, and I’d smile.