On the way to the bar I see Ed Sheeran busking outside the Town Hall. I take it in my stride because it is nothing compared to having a piss with Johnny Depp.
I think about Johnny Depp when a guy comes and stands next to me. He tells me that his name is Snuky and that his cock ‘reeks of fanny.’ I laugh, but can’t decide if it’s because he’s called Snuky, or because of what he’s just told me. He looks offended and says, ‘smell it if you don’t believe me.’
It’s four in the morning and the world is bleary. I’ve gone past the point where I think I look good because I know that I’m wrecked. Sam is dancing with everyone. He jumps and waves his arms in front of anyone who’ll let him, and they are pleased that he does so, because he’s a good looking guy with a wonderful smile. There are snatches of conversation with girls who flirt with him and then he moves onto somebody else. Boundless energy.
I hate it that Sam is enjoying himself and I wish that he’d dance with me. But he comes nowhere near. Dan comes over and puts his arm around me. His sweat reminds me of greasy chips and vinegar on Southend Pier. I tell him to fuck off because I’d rather watch Sam dancing.
Eight pints of Madri have stirred up something inside me. I have no right to love but I ignore the warning signs. A toxic mixture that will bubble into jealousy, self pity and violent anger. Soon I will explode and do something bad, and I won’t know how to stop it.
Cocky. Never have I met anybody so cocky. Thick, as in stupid. Never have I met anybody so thick. A girl flirted with him, and he gave no response. “I had no idea,” he said afterwards. “I was completely obnoxious.” The word he was looking for was oblivious. But Reese with an ‘S’ grows on me each time I see him. The third time I’ve fallen in love. The fourth time he says that he’s never met me before. But he still gives me a smile and a kiss on the cheek. The scent is enchanting. I’m hopelessly infatuated but he probably sees me as a father figure, and not an object of desire.
I sat in the shade of the Winter Garden and was approached by a cool looking ginger-haired guy dressed in shorts and t-shirt. “Excuse me sir, I don’t know the city. Where is the best place to get the vibe?” I’d no idea where he could get the “vibe” and, as a rule, don’t do ginger, but on this occasion I was prepared to make an exception. Polite, handsome and seemingly likely to take one for the boys. He turned out to be a touring ballet dancer.
Alessio returned last night. I woke to find him standing in front of the window with the full moon behind him that made him glow turquoise.
“My friend, I have so much to tell you.”
“Is that really you, Alessio? The thing is, you are dead.”
I sat up in bed. Everything seemed real yet I knew it must be a dream. Alessio looked different. It was definitely him but he looked older and well groomed.
“Of course I am dead. There was no way I would have survived falling from such a great height and lived.”
Alessio stepped into the room but still had that strange glow about him.
“Why are you a funny colour?”
“Ah,” he said, “it is the colour of oro and is quite normal. It fades after a while.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Relax my friend. Don’t be frightened. I have something exciting to say. When we were young boys we were taught that God created this beautiful planet that spins. But I have found out something remarkable. The earth that you see from space looks to be one planet, but everything is not as it appears. To our eyes it appears as one, but that is not the case because there are really three worlds superimposed over one other..”
“Alessio. Wherever it is you have come from, I see that there is an abundance of drugs for you to take.”
“Hear me out. God was a multi-tasker and didn’t create one world, but created three – the past, the present, and the future. He was a genius. The reason that the earth spins is because it allows the past, present and future to rotate together. Sometimes each of the worlds moves faster, sometimes slower, but each spins unknown to the other, but occasionally they slip into each other and voila, you end up where you aren’t supposed to be. I am testimony to that. Right now I’m in a controlled time slip. I am a ghost standing before you, and you appear as a ghost to me.
“The exciting thing is that you are in the present and when you die you will cross over, and without knowing it, you will be reborn into the past or the future. It’s a potluck where you end up. When I died I moved into the future where I grew up to be a wonderful scientist, part of a secret AI team that discovered this amazing shit, and right now I’m part of an experiment that is communicating with the past, or should that be the present? I might not remember anything when I return, but, so far so good, I know why I’m here, and came knowing nothing about you, but immediately remembered who you were and everything that happened between us. Bad boys always recognise bad boys. How are you, by the way?”
“It’s a lot to take in,” I stuttered. “Does that mean there isn’t a heaven? Or hell for that matter?”
“On the contrary my friend. Heaven is where you might perceive hell to be. Three lifetimes and we all go to heaven. It’s a place that no living person can ever go to, but tomorrow, when the sun is high in the sky, think about why it is that the sun is so hot. It is what is behind that fiery facade where the answer to your question lies. And, by the way, there is no hell, and if there is, we’ve yet to discover it.”
“This is bizarre,” I told him. “This is the weirdest dream I’ve ever had.”
“Think of it as a dream if you like.” He looked at his hand. “My oro is almost gone so I must return. But remember what I’ve told you, and if you care to tell anyone then I am sure that they will think you are quite mad. Goodbye Lucio. It has been good to see you again.”
If someone asked me who the love of my life was, it would be the one that I’ve been waiting 15 years for. That’s how long my infatuation has lasted. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for him to realise that I am the one. But he knows all this, and isn’t in the slightest bit interested. It’s emotionally painful and challenging, and my resolve never weakens, but I know that it was never meant to be. I console myself with the things that are wrong about him. He is tall, blonde and lanky and everybody says that he has a tiny dick. He can be quite nasty. He spends money he probably doesn’t have. He is disorganised and incredibly untidy. And there’s the annoyance that everything is handed to him on a plate. A relationship would never have worked, and this one-sided love is best left unfulfilled. But despite all these flaws, love can be irrational, broken but still loved.
A pair of well-worn sneakers, tied to bars with greasy laces, fingered by the grubby hands of a bad boy, just hanging there. A pair of cheap sneakers blowing in the wind. And yet, I can’t stop looking at them. Worn by a cute deadbeat with dirty feet. It’s a kink, a fetish, a desire to lust after.
“I don’t like labels. I simply feel like a boy who needs to express himself in the ways and times he feels. Sometimes with a song, sometimes with a book. The label limits you, forces you into a defined space. I want to stay free. Maybe, if I really have to, I would call myself an artist. Period.” – GionnyScandal
*****
“When Gionata opens his eyes, he sees only a bright white tube hanging from the ceiling. He needs a few seconds to focus on everything else – the hospital room, the IV in his arm – to understand why he is there and to realise that he is still alive. Gionata’s story, aka GionnyScandal, starts from here, from the decision to put an end to his pain once and for all, from the extreme and dramatic gesture made when everything seems to have lost meaning and direction. But it also starts from the rush of a friend to save him, from the affection of those around him, from the desire to live that returns to inhabit his thoughts after the drama; from the need to deal with one’s past to move forward and face the future. And so, once out of the hospital, he decides to go through the darkness to understand the origin of his suffering. To do so, he will have to face the ghosts of the past – the death of his adoptive parents, the disappearance of his beloved grandmother – and track down his biological parents who he never knew anything about. And in this journey he will learn to really know himself, perhaps to make peace with his story. To once again put hope and beauty at the centre of his world and his music.”
Selfies are often saying, “I was here,” “I’m attractive,” or “I’m interesting and successful.” But selfies also say, “I think I’m beautiful,” “I’m trying to make you jealous,” or “I’m trying to get lots of likes.” Selfies are bad, but mirror selfies are even worse.
Title quote – Abhijit Naskar, The Gospel of Technology
It was the last night of our short seaside holiday and Charlie decided that it would be a good idea to stream a movie. He spent well over an hour flicking through Netflix and Prime Video until my patience finally ran out.
“Charlie, we will soon have spent as long looking for a movie than it would to watch one.” He stopped flicking. “Then I shall choose this one, and if you do not like it, I shall not be held responsible,” he said petulantly.
The movie he chose was in black and white and called This Special Friendship. It soon became apparent that it was old (1964), and in French, which delighted Charlie, but the English subtitles would soon annoy him, while I would be annoyed with Charlie for moaning about them.
“It is called Les amitiés particulières, which means ‘special friendships’, but the English cannot translate it correctly,” he told me. “The synopsis is simple. It is set in the rigid atmosphere of a Jesuit boarding school and is a tender relationship between a 14-year-old upperclassman and a 12-year-old boy, who is the object of his desire.” Charlie’s expertise had come after consulting his iPhone.
The movie seemed harmless enough, and because it was made in the 1960s was tame when compared to boy-love movies of today, but after only a few minutes Charlie tutted with disdain. “The character of Georges is supposed to be 14 years old,” he said, “but he looks like he is older than me.” I later found out that the actor, Francis Lacombrade, according to one source, had been 21, but others stated that he had been 17.
Charlie’s derision intensified when the object of his desire appeared for the first time. He was a small cupid-faced boy carrying a lamb which we presumed was meant to be the symbolism of Jesus Christ as the Lamb of God. “Bordel de merde! Please tell me that this boy isn’t going to be his lover.” His fears proved to be correct, and I agreed that the age difference was disturbing.
He was called Alexandre, who turned out to be a bit of a cock-tease for Georges, but the romance mainly involved love letters passed between the two of them. The relationship is destroyed by a priest’s will to protect them from homosexuality. “We know why he did that,” said Charlie knowingly. “That priest wanted his wicked way with the little boy.” That wasn’t the case, but there were no happy endings, because heartbroken Alexandre jumped to his death from a moving train.
“The movie was good,” Charlie said afterwards, “but I found it troubling.” I agreed and began my own internet search to see what people thought about it. I was surprised to find that modern-day audiences seem unperturbed by the subject matter but could see that the Catholic Church had tried unsuccessfully to get it banned on its release.
Charlie disappeared into the kitchen while I fell down a rabbit hole as I dug deeper into the movie’s background. When he returned with two mugs of tea I told him my findings.
“I’ve found things that might upset you even more.”
“What do you mean?”
“The movie is based on a book written by a French author called Roger Peyrefitte and is said to be autobiographical because he had a similar romance, and the younger boy committed suicide.” My pronunciation was poor, and it came out as Pay-ri-fit.
Charlie corrected me. “Pey-ri-fee.” He stretched on the leather sofa and mulled over my new-found knowledge.
“But there is more,” I said, scrolling down the page of a French literary site. “Peyrefitte visited the movie set and fell in love with a 12-year-old boy who played a small part as a choir boy. They had a relationship, and the boy became his personal secretary and was eventually adopted by him.”
“It is Greek love,” Charlie frowned. “Erastes and Eromenos. What happened to them?”
“The boy was called Alain-Philippe Malagnac d’Argens de Villèle.” My English pronunciation left a lot to be desired, but Charlie looked at me as though I had said something significant.
“Alain-Philippe Malagnac?”
“I suppose so.”
“It cannot be the same person,” he cried, “but my father once knew somebody with that name.”
I continued reading.
“Malagnac became proprietor of Le Club Colony in Paris and briefly managed French singer Sylvie Vertan but it almost bankrupted Peyrefitte and forced him to sell artworks and erotic antiques.”
“The Alaine-Philippe Malagnac that my father knew was married to Amanda Leah, who he believes to really be a man, but a gay icon. He died in a fire near the Alpilles Mountains.”
I saved my pièce de résistance until last.
“Malagnac married Amanda Lear in 1979. She was close friends with Salvador Dali, who disapproved of the marriage.”
Charlie smiled triumphantly. “That is incredible. I cannot wait to tell my father, but what shall I say?” He began fiddling inside his shorts, something he tended to do when he mulled things over. At last, he came to a decision. “I will not say anything because he will become worried that I might also be seduced by an older man.”
I smiled. “I think it is most likely to be the other way around.”
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 