A little rent boy who is quite cute with peach fuzz on his lip comes in. He talks to the ugliest meanest fuck who is stood next to me. He never even gives me a glance. Eventually, he turns his attention to me, and asks me to buy him a drink. I tell him to fuck off. But he doesn’t because he’s obsessed with the ugly fuck stood next to me. He introduces himself as Regan, I shake his hand. And then ugly fuck says that rent boy has bad breath and I act as if I’m bothered. Truth be known, I am a bit bothered because I quite like the little fucker:

I am in a barber’s shop. I tap on my phone. A few minutes to write something. Anything.

The door opens and mother and son walk in. She is miserable. Poker face. He is cheerful. About fourteen or fifteen.

I am more interested in writing a paragraph. The words are good, and I step into my creation.

When I look up, the boy is watching me, grinning. Poker face glares at nothing. I go back to my phone and write some more.

Five minutes pass. I look up and he is still looking at me. And I think, I am watching you, watching me.

I chat shit with the guy who cuts my hair. When he is finished, I make to leave.

The boy smiles and scrutinises me, but Poker Face scowls.

And just as I am about to walk out the door, cheeky grin crosses his legs, and now I am certain.

I want to say to his hideous mother that her son is gay. But if I do, she will probably cry.

Last night I had a dream.

I dreamt that I was a lonely old man living in a rundown flat in an unfamiliar city. I dozed in a battered old armchair, and the doorbell rang. I dragged my old bones and looked out of the window. Outside there were dozens of young men. All of them handsome and athletic. These boys looked vaguely familiar. I excitedly waved them up.

They walked through the door into the gloomy room. But wait. What’s this? These weren’t young boys. Instead, a procession of old men walked in. Unkempt old men. Fat and bald. Like me. I stared at them. Such disappointment.

And then I realised that these were people I had once loved, liked, and given into temptation.

But amongst them was a young man in his twenties, and I was quite taken with him. I asked him why he was with these old men.

“My name was Tom,” he said. “And you were someone I once loved. You were the only one I ever loved. But you ignored me because you said I wasn’t good enough. I vowed that when I died, and I died young, that one day I would come back and show you what you missed.”

All the old men laughed and jeered.

Archer wants to be a model and writer but will fail at both because he is too shy. Archer tells me he has completed a photo shoot where he had to dress as a 1920s lad. He asks me if I would like to see the photos. Back at his apartment I tell him the photos are good, and when he shows me his writing I am impressed. But I am struck by the fact that Archer sucks his thumb like a child and tells me he has an addiction for unrequited love and loves the pain of romantic rejection. He likens it to a craving for cocaine. There are always secrets that need to be discovered.