I’ve decided that I’m attracted to anyone who is called Jamie, and I realise that every time I meet a Jamie, he’s always a bad one. There are too many Bad Boy Jamies, and I kind of like that.
Something woke me in the middle of the night. I lay in the dark and there was the fragrance of cologne. It faded, and I tried to get back to sleep, but that lemony scent kept returning. I only ever knew one person that used Pure Portofino, and they had gone. The Angel of the Night was checking up on me… or it might have been the devil in disguise.
I once read a book and threw it away. That was twenty years ago, and I’ve regretted it ever since. Each chapter was a letter to the author’s seven lovers, and I’m thinking about doing the same.
My relationships have tended to be long, and as one lover left, the next one came along, and that means there will only be five chapters.
There is more mileage writing to the ones I really wanted, never managed to get, and who never wanted me.
These were the ones I couldn’t stop thinking about, who scarred me, whom I idolised without really seeing them as they were, as individuals with flaws and undesirable characteristics.
I remember them as the ones I loved, and hated, because they weren’t interested.
Sometimes, late at night, Mark messages and asks me what I’m up to. It means that he’s bored and wants somebody to share the boredom with. He’ll pick me up in his purple BMW and we’ll drive into the countryside.
He always drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other scrolling the touch screen, constantly skipping tracks on Apple Play. The driver’s seat is as far back as it will go because of his long legs, and the seat reclines at an odd angle. He’s not afraid of dark and unfamiliar roads and says it’s safer driving at night. He’ll step on the accelerator and talk about anything, his Yorkshire bluff switching subjects as often as the music. Mostly, I’ll sit in silence.
Mark looks like any other lad in his twenties, but I’ve seen through that disarray. The eye can’t see what lies beneath, but I can speculate. With a bit of tidying up, smart haircut, and a good shave, he could be a male model.
I expect that his parents didn’t expect him to be so tall. They are both average height and probably surprised that he outgrew his bed and slept most nights with his feet sticking over the end. He’s over six-foot and lean, not skinny, and certainly not lanky.
In another life, he’d be photographed in his underwear for a glossy magazine and called something like Callum or Luke.
I keep wanting to say this to him, but it sounds pervy and he might think that I’m coming onto him. That’s why I’m mostly quiet.
We’ll drive into the night and might come across an all-night garage where he’ll disappear inside and emerge with arms full of bad things like crisps, chocolate, and cans of Monster.
Then we’ll park in a layby where he’ll switch off the engine so that we’re in complete darkness and demolish it all. He’ll always ask for a cigarette and will get out of the car because he doesn’t want it smelling of smoke, but seemingly oblivious to the empty cans and wrappers that litter the footwells.
We’ll often arrive back in the city during the early hours, say our goodbyes, and I might not see him again for months.
Bro’, I’m sorry it ended this way. Kayla said I was a pussy. She’s a hard-faced Scouser bitch. She fingered my blue dolphin tattoo and said that I needed to keep face with my boys. I needed to teach you a lesson. I knew that.
It was months ago, and you’d picked up on something that I didn’t want people to see. You’d sent me a message, I was drunk and stupid, and I replied saying that I found you exciting and I was intrigued.
But there was a problem because you showed my message to the boys and made me look a dickhead. Didn’t you think that I wouldn’t find out? That’s why I dropped you because I had to show that I was still the hard cunt I was supposed to be.
I always hold a grudge, and I might have made an exception, until Kayla said the boys were still talking about that message. She said that you didn’t deserve that dolphin tattoo, the one that said that you were in a gang.
Bro’, you must understand that I had to do something about it.
I couldn’t do it myself because I didn’t have the heart, and it was too obvious. Instead, I paid five hundred quid to a geezer from Manchester who was an absolute nutter.
I didn’t know when it would happen, and I bet you thought you were home and dry. But I got you in the end.
I’ve watched it on my mobile phone.
Laying in the gutter on some dark backstreet, snivelling, and begging for mercy. Crying because your nose was split and most of your teeth had gone. Screaming because your face had been slashed with a sharp knife. Blood, blood, everywhere.
When you thought you couldn’t hurt anymore came the kicks and the cracking of bones. There was still unfinished business. Next came the acid that burned your tight stomach and obliterated that badge of honour, the dolphin tattoo.
Somebody will find you, half-dead and alone, and you’ll recover from your wounds, but not your sanity.
Bro’, my boys will know who did it, and they’ll think twice about taking the piss. What can I say? I really did like you, and you excited me, but if I wasn’t going to have that pretty face then nobody would.
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.
The boys with the bling. In you came, with your coloured VKs and a hint of nervousness in those childlike eyes. I watched because you might have been young lovers.
There are two personalities here. The one who likes to show off, and the sweet one who is content to sit and watch him.
The smaller boy dances, puffs on a vape, and makes ‘v’ signs to some gangster shit. His unobtrusive friend is made to take videos of him that will end up on Tik Tok. Then the extrovert shouts “Newcastle!” in a voice that cracks, and then I realise that the Magpies have stuck eight goals past United.
These are the boys.
The last of the many who celebrated into the night and one by one, they fell away, drunk, bleary-eyed, until only these two Geordie Angels remained.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 