Everything was going my way
Leave a reply
Category Archives: Life Story
I’m sorta talking to someone else now but it’s fine we can still talk and stuff.
And the handsomest boy in the room ignores me, and wants to talk to the DJ who has no personality, dodgy teeth, and who gets fatter by the pint. Why? Because he is a fucking DJ , that’s why!
Fear is like a shadow, always lurking just behind you. In the face of fear, courage is the only option.
I’ve always made sure that I remain anonymous here. Not a clue does anybody have about me. But through that chink in the Venetian blinds, I’ve allowed somebody in who knows me. It’s embarrassing, but I suppose I intended it to happen. If they read this, I hope they realise that they were the right person, the kindest person, but now I fear that they won’t like me.
That Moment / Little Brother, I Am Here
Simon felt good because the girl in front was interested in him. She had been talking to his colleagues, and they had smiled like conspirators do, and offered her words of encouragement. He knew that they were talking about him, and for the first time in ages, he remembered what it was like to be wanted again. The fact that she was a girl didn’t matter. What did matter was that she had seen something in his declining years that took him back to a time when he was a young man, and everything was his for the taking.
He guessed that she was in her twenties, slightly drunk, and that explained why she wanted to speak with him, someone serious, and older. At least I haven’t lost it, he told himself.
But he didn’t want a girl, never had, and the girl didn’t want him.
She told him that she wanted to introduce him to her mother because he would be perfect for her. How old was he? Was he single? He found out that her mother was fifty four. Simon knew that the girl was vetting him. Where did he live? Who did he know? And Simon politely answered each question hoping that she would go away.
I’m waiting for my little brother, she said, and when he appeared, she was obviously proud of him. Isn’t he gorgeous? Wouldn’t you like him as a stepson?
Simon agreed but inwardly sighed, because if he had been forty years younger, he would have been more interested in that little brother
An eye for an eye will only make the whole world blind
Black and white. Vinyl spins on a record player. It is an old Henry Mancini tune that everybody knows. A boy lays half naked on a bed with a can of Red Bull beside him. He answers his mobile phone and a woman peeks through a door. Another boy walks through the city dressed in shorts and tee-shirt. There is a big Jurassic Park tattoo on his right leg. He passes a cafe with a chalked sign that says ‘out of control’ and inside a man drinks coffee from a dirty mug and frowns. He is puffing on a cigarette and making smoke rings. I’m standing on top of a building, lonely and watching, but from here I can shout from miles away. Young boys, a restless breed, who are looking for a fight.
Our greatest weakness lies in giving up
“It’s never going to happen, ” I sighed. He was deep in thought, and I waited for words of encouragement. “It’s the virus,” he reasoned. “You have caught the virus of resignation.”
But a little raspberry brownie now and then doesn’t hurt
The guy with the erection brought me a raspberry brownie, and it was probably the only raspberry brownie I’d ever had. It was delicious, but his erection had no idea that it was seriously fucking with my blood sugars.
From horse shit beautiful flowers can grow, with its gorgeous stem, delicate petals, and an impressive penis
I look up from my phone and see you looking. And then you turn away. I glance at my phone again, and make out that I have a life that doesn’t involve you. When I’ve done scrolling shit, you are looking at me again, and I see the colour in your cheeks, like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t have been. I realise that you are still a child who wants to be a man, a boy from a scabby family whose mother still buys his underwear. But from horse shit beautiful flowers can grow, with its gorgeous stem, delicate petals, and an impressive penis. You walk away and sling a bag over your shoulder and I like to think that it contains a copy of The Boys on the Rock, a book I once read about the coming out and first love of a gay sixteen-year-old swimmer.
If legs could be called handsome, they were definitely that
That change from boy to man was both natural and beautiful. His legs were described as handsome, and I’d never heard legs called this before. But if legs could be called handsome, they were definitely that. Long, salty, and tanned, with perfectly shaped blonde hairs washed by the Atlantic ocean and toes that were kissed by fine grains of sand from the beach. I couldn’t take my eyes off them.
Welcome to Paradiso / This is a rich Italian moment
A big wooden door leads off the street. A cobbled walkway leads into a courtyard. In the middle is an old stone fountain and the flowing waters echo against the walls and make it sound grander than it is.
A large door opens inside and we are in a cool dark entrance hall that has a great big marble statue of a naked boy laying on his side. I stare at its erect penis that is tiny but evocative. “That is Gaddo,” he says, “by Torquato della Torre, a secret known only to the Santorelli family, so tell nobody.” He nods, even though I haven’t said anything, and he takes it for granted that I have understood. “Come,” he says, grabbing my hand. “My rooms are upstairs.”
We climb a terrazzo staircase, trodden by a thousand virgin boys, and worn down by their brave footsteps. “You must trust me,” he says. I know nothing about the Santorelli family, and realise that he is very wealthy, and I don’t trust him, yet I still follow.
Halfway up the staircase is a veranda that looks out over the rooftops. He stops and faces me, a shadow against the evening sun that is slipping behind the clock tower. “Do you think I am handsome?” he asks. I say that he is.
We climb higher, twisting steps that lead somewhere, until we can go no further. He opens a door and pulls me inside. “I am a Santorelli,” he boasts, “and I claim you as my own.” It is beautiful, poetic and fucking weird.
He tells me to take my shirt off, and when I do, I hear a thousand boys laughing at my pale skinny body.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 