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.
The Beauty of Destruction
Leave a reply
Category Archives: Life Story
How beautiful maleness is, if it finds its right expression
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.
We Were Kind to Each Other and Everyone Was Afraid
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.
Youth is a gift of nature, but age is a work of art
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.”
Neither of us is brave enough to be honest
We don’t choose who we live with — we go with whoever they say we must. Fourteen hours a night, every night, every week, locked in a cell with a stranger who becomes someone. You talk until you know each other’s secrets. Then talking becomes boring.
John asks who my perfect cellmate would be. “If there were any justice — haha — I’d share a cell with Luigi Mangione.”
John looks intrigued. “Why him?”
I realise that John’s a good-looking guy, and I know my answer matters; everything rests on what I say. But I bottle it. “I think he’d be an extremely interesting guy.”
John sighs. “I guess he would be.”
Dancing around the truth, neither of us is brave enough to be honest.
Beautifully Broken
I tell myself I like people who are “real,” unpolished, unpredictable. Mild Tourettes, ADHD and obsessive-compulsive disorder. Everything that I need in a lover.
He flinches. He repeats. He forgets. I forgive. Again and again. Love as repetition, love as tic, love as pulse.
I tell myself it’s tenderness I’m after, but really, I crave the hum of his disorder. His chaos matches mine.
I didn’t have what he really wanted …
The guy asks if I know where he can buy a bag, running a finger under his nose like he’s trying to point out the obvious. We’re standing by the sinks, the mirror cracked just enough to make our reflections look like a bad collage. I know exactly what kind of “bag” he means, and I can’t help him. He grins, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the kind of restless energy that makes the fluorescent light hum louder. “I’m asking for a friend,” he says, winking. Of course he is.
I wash my hands longer than necessary, partly because the tap sticks, partly to see what he’ll do next. He’s still there, pretending to check his hair, pretending not to care. The door opens, and a rush of laughter spills in from the bar — a reminder that the world outside still exists, bright and oblivious. “Good luck to your friend,” I say, reaching for a paper towel. He laughs, too loud, too quick, like someone who knows the joke’s on him.
Every touch, every glance, every last bit of the body has a secret
I met a guy who said he was a plasterer, just back from a job in Rome. His girlfriend, he told me, was at home with their baby. Straight up – or bullshit? Why would he come out alone, to a bar full of gay men? Charlie wandered over, and I asked him for a hug, but he pulled away and said he was tired. The ‘straight’ guy took pity on me, wrapped me in his arms, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I thought how strange it was, this nightly congregation of strangers, everyone orbiting each other with their little stories: plasterers, lovers, liars, and ghosts. Maybe we all came here for the same thing – to be touched, just once, by someone who didn’t owe us anything.
Oskar: Constructing the Beautiful Stranger
A face flickers onto your screen, luminous against the glow of white. His name is Oskar. Polish.
Do not only look at him — look into him. Look deeper, into the fragile soul the image seems to hold.
Dark, floppy hair falls over his forehead. Eyebrows, plucked into careful shape. Blue eyes, steady yet uncertain. A nose — imperfect, bent by childhood misfortune. He will tell you he hates it. On his cheek, a beauty spot. Lips tinted red, like those of a silenced cherub. Skin smooth, unmarked, a faint pink warmth beneath it — the softness of someone who has not yet learned the burden of a daily shave.
He is handsome. He gazes at you — yes, you — though he cannot see you. You were not there when the shutter snapped. This photograph was never meant for your eyes. He looked into the camera, not knowing that one day 609 strangers scattered across the world would press little red hearts beneath his image and leave their offerings:
Awww. Feel better bby!!
You’re a great boy but why are you always so sad?
Need help warming up?
Chat me… where you from?
The longer you stare, the closer you believe you are to him. It is no longer just his face you think you know, but his voice, halting in broken English. The scent of his skin. His small gestures. The rhythm of his days, chasing money. His favourite dish. The films and songs he loves. The clutter of his apartment, how he folds his clothes, where he hides his secrets. Your imagination strokes him into being, shaping him into someone almost yours.
But it is only an illusion. What you touch is not him, but your own invention — a caress of pixels, a silhouette of desire. This is a one-way street, where your longing paints him in colours he does not wear. The ‘halo effect’ blinds you, persuading you that the good you see must be true.
It is not. It never was.
What you hold in your gaze is not Oskar at all, but your reflection dressed in his borrowed face.
A love letter to youth
A time of potential, energy, and opportunity, and joy and personal maturation. It’s about vitality and growth. A reward and a source of joy. It is strength and vigour, seen as a time of great potential and opportunity.
A time for learning, maturing, and developing one’s sense of self before the responsibilities of adulthood.
Make the most of it.
It is a foundational period for developing wisdom and forming good habits. Appreciate and make positive choices during this fleeting time because personal fulfillment can still be achieved.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 