New Romantic. Colin Cox. Photographed by David Suárez (December 2025)
The thrill of the forbidden, the surge of emotion and thought. That quiet, hollow space inviting reflection on the fleeting nature of our own lives and whatever traces we leave behind. A wavering line between appreciating beauty and surrendering to objectifying desire—an involuntary pull shaped by masculine sensitivity, itself carved by the bittersweet passage of time and the ephemerality of experience. The soft focus, the restrained emotion: a vivid instant once sharp and certain now blurring into a subtle, almost spectral echo of what once felt wholly present. The intensity drains away, leaving only a neutral, distant recollection, until all that survives are scattered fragments of sensation.
Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad
The days are getting shorter and, honestly, more depressing. The final stretch of this yearly slog is only weeks away, yet I’m already wondering whether I’ll make it to the finish line in one piece. Autumn seemed to appear out of nowhere this year. Now the winter solstice looms on 21 December — an already dismal day made even bleaker by falling on a Sunday.
“Solstice” means “sun stands still”: the Sun’s path appears to pause for a few days before inching north again, marking the peak of winter. It sounds poetic, almost serene, but for someone like me it can feel anything but. This year has been one of the bad wobbles.
I belong to that unlucky club of people living with Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), a form of depression that follows a seasonal rhythm — often called “winter blues” because the symptoms intensify as the light dwindles. At least I’m in decent company: Adele, Ryan Reynolds, Jim Carrey, and Emma Thompson have all spoken openly about dealing with it.
The symptoms? A greatest-hits list of misery: persistent low mood, loss of interest, low energy, oversleeping, carb cravings, weight gain, fuzzy concentration, irritability, social withdrawal, and those heavy feelings of guilt or worthlessness. Over the past few weeks, I’ve ticked every single box.
Worst of all are the irrational thoughts that hitch a ride. These fixations burrow in and make themselves at home. In previous years, I’ve spiralled over a long-ago one-night stand, convinced I needed to confess it to my partner to find peace — thankfully a friend talked me down. Another winter I became obsessed with the idea that I had too much money and would have to explain myself to the taxman, despite everything being perfectly legitimate. This year, despite feeling physically fine, I can’t shake the fear that I’m harbouring a terminal illness. Seeing it written out looks absurd, but that’s the reality of it.
SAD likely stems from disruptions to the body’s internal clock and imbalances in serotonin and melatonin triggered by the lack of sunlight. It was formally named in 1984 by Dr. Norman Rosenthal and his team at the National Institute of Mental Health.
There’s no magic cure. You grit your teeth and get through it. It’s less “mind over matter” and more “matter over mind” — odd phrasing, but surprisingly accurate. What helps me most is staying occupied: researching, writing, watching TV, cleaning… anything that absorbs me. Eventually, after a few hours, I’ll notice I feel almost normal again. I recently read that building Lego can help too — its structure and focus promote mindfulness, which can ease anxiety and depressive symptoms.
The fear that you’re “cracking up” can be overwhelming the first time, especially if you don’t yet know what’s happening. But when it returns, you at least recognise the shape of it. You learn its rhythm. You remember it passes. And that alone is sometimes enough to help you hold on until the light returns.
I noticed him but he chose not to notice me. After he had dropped his mobile phone on the floor for the third time, he realised that he had to say something.
Pablo thrusts his hands beneath the hot tap. He rubs them together in a frantic, almost self-destructive rhythm as the water climbs from warm to blistering. Anyone else would flinch, recoil — but he holds himself there, jaw locked, letting the scalding cascade engulf him in a cloud of bitter, furious steam.
The faces and bodies of the men he aches for seem to drift through that fog, circling him, pressing close. You can tell when the moment is nearing: the tightening of his calves, the subtle clench of his arse, the way he grinds himself against the cold lip of the sink. It is sharp, electric — his own strange ritual, the pink-hands-and-hot-water orgasm — that edge where pain dissolves into an ecstatic, trembling pleasure.
But the release he chases always slips from him. It teases, then vanishes.
When the heat becomes unbearable, he finally twists the tap off. His head drops. He turns, shoulders hunched, his shorts soaked and clinging to him. He won’t meet my eye; shame clouds the air between us. This little masochistic kitchen-sink drama — he believes it reveals too much.
The music starts, and it feels like heat rising under my skin. I move without thinking — a slow, trembling rhythm that begins in my ribs and spills outward. My shirt clings, half open, heavy with sweat. Each breath feels like it’s carving light through me, and I let it. There’s no audience, just the sound of air, the pulse of my own heartbeat echoing through the floor.
The world shrinks to the movement of my spine, the slip of fabric, the catch of breath. My body feels thin, electric, fragile — like something lit from within. I close my eyes and lean into the rhythm until it blurs the edges of everything. There’s a strange kind of pleasure in it: the way exhaustion burns into something tender, almost holy. I don’t know if I’m dancing or dissolving.
When the music fades, I’m still trembling. The air is warm against my skin, every breath thick and slow. I can taste salt on my lips. For a moment, I stay there — suspended in the quiet — before the world comes back into focus. My body is mine again, but it feels changed, like it’s remembered something it shouldn’t have.
I find it rather interesting that you spent thousands of pounds to send your son to this university city. Did he have a choice in the matter? Perhaps not — but in any case, thank you for your thoughtful consideration. He is, as you surely already knew, something of a handful. But did you also know that he grinds his teeth in his sleep?
Destruction has its own pleasure: a compulsion—call it weakness or strength—to obliterate the good and start anew. I’ve done this all my life and won’t stop now.
There’s something sneaky going on in the subconscious — innocence, purity, chaos, sweat. Dirty white socks hit all of it at once. They spark that weird little thrill: the musk, the heat, the trace of someone’s body still clinging to the cotton. It’s a micro-kink, sure, but the power comes from whatever story you attach to them — private, charged, and way more psychological than you’d ever admit out loud.
Jeffrey and his mafia. And me—only me—still unaware that I was God. A mutual understanding never consummated in public. We conspired like poets at war: Jeffrey with his loyal men, and I, followed only by those who believed in my every word. Yet I remember one moon-warmed night, when the sea breathed softly beneath us, and at the stern of a drifting ship, we clasped hands and swore our respect. The water glowed like milk around us. It was the start of a beautiful romance that put fear into the hearts of everyone except ourselves.
Suspicion — the cynic — grows tiresome after a while. He toys with a silver St. Christopher medal, the patron saint of twinks slipping through his fingers.
He’s doe-eyed, all innocence, and says, “I like older men.” I smile, let him think he’s got me hooked — but he’s no match for experience.
Still, he’s waiting for a response, so I play along.
“Why do you like older men?” My voice can’t quite hide the boredom.
“Because,” he says, “older men are more experienced.” An off-the-peg answer.
I lean forward. He flinches, thinks I might kiss him.
“Here’s how this goes,” I tell him. “You’ll want me to fall for you — to believe I can’t live without someone barely out of nappies. You’ll lead me on until you work out what you can get: a place to stay? Money? A holiday? A stop-gap? And then you’ll move on, find someone else.”
He’s shocked — hand over mouth, as if such despicable thoughts had never crossed his mind. But he knows it isn’t going well.
“I might be older,” I say, “but I once sat where you are now.”
He sinks into his seat.
“I played them all, never realising I’d grow old too. We all do — it’s the one thing we can’t control. But don’t worry. I’ve swapped seats, yes, but I’ve kept yours warm for you.”
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 