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.
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.
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.
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 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.
How did it happen?
I went for milk.
He served me milk.
Anything planned tonight mate?
I shook my head.
That’s a shame mate.
What are you doing?
Nothing at all mate.
I take a chance.
Come to mine then.
What are you saying?
Let’s watch a movie.
Not sure about that.
Please come, I say.
It sounds weird mate.
I tell him where.
He comes around later.
We chatted about things.
We watched a movie.
Gotta go now mate.
I don’t want that.
Please stay the night.
That looks bad mate.
It’s a good offer.
He agrees to stay.
We have good sex.
Next morning he’s dirty.
He takes a shower.
Gotta go to work.
I will miss you.
Miss you too mate.
Thanks for the milk.
A schoolboy dropped onto the bench beside me. Grey blazer, black trousers, loosened tie, scuffed shoes. I noticed everything that didn’t matter. A rough diamond, I thought – though his sparkle wouldn’t cut much around here.
The riverside benches stretched empty, yet he chose mine. I should’ve told him to shove off. His presence made me feel exposed, grimy. How old was he? Fourteen? Fifteen? Sixteen? I couldn’t pin it.
He glanced at my book. “What’s it about?” The cover stared up at me like a mute witness. Say something. Anything.
Instead, he dug in his bag and handed over his own. HappyHead. Yellow jacket. Boy in a green hoodie. Like Hunger Games, but better.
A woman passed with a rat-sized dog that barked like it deserved drowning. She glanced at us — too long, too sharp. The boy grinned. “He’s my dad.” I was far too young to be. Her cheeks flared; she looked away.
I slid him The Outsiders. Black cover, five combs — four white, one yellow, streaked with red. The misfit.
He read the first lines aloud –
“When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home. I was wishing I looked like Paul Newman – he looks tough and I don’t – but I guess my own looks aren’t so bad.”
A smirk tugged his lips, then he handed it back. Game recognised game.
The young man asked me to describe something that I had done during the week. “Something unusual that nobody else had done.”
I pondered too long and dismissed everything that came into my head. But then I had it.
“Well, it’s been a Luther Vandross week. I watched a movie-length documentary about him and listened to six of his albums.”
He absorbed what I had said. “That was pretty cool,” he replied, nodding with approval. “But I have one question to ask. Who the fuck is Luther Vandross?”
“He slid forward in his chair, head thrown back, boots straight out across the hearthrug. Evert knew already how David took drink, and noted the way he mugged being drunker than he was. He saw for three seconds David was showing him a thing beyond speech, and looked away and back again in hot-faced excitement. Then David dropped his hand and covered himself loosely, as if Evert were indeed a pervert to peep at a man’s lap.”
Alan Hollinghurst – The Sparsholt Affair (2017)
The café hums softly — a low murmur of spoons, voices, milk steaming behind the counter. I go there more often than I should, pretending it’s for the coffee, though I know that’s not true. He’s always there — Joseph — the boy with the rolled sleeves, the nice ass, the quiet smile. He moves with a kind of unthinking grace that makes the simplest gestures unbearable to watch. The tilt of his head, the tiny crease that appears between his brows when he concentrates. He hums under his breath when the machine hisses, wipes the same patch of counter top as if he’s polishing a secret into it. The light hits his hair just so, and I find myself timing my arrival to catch that moment when he leans over the counter and looks up.
Sometimes he catches my eye, and it feels like an accident — a spark that wasn’t meant to happen. He doesn’t know what he does to me: the curve of his wrist, the steam curling around his face, the way his voice seems to linger in the air a heartbeat too long. When his hand brushes mine as he gives me change, there’s the faint scent of roasted beans and skin, a small, electric pause before he turns away.
I tell myself I could stop if I wanted to. That it’s just a crush, just admiration. But I don’t want to. I want the ache. It isn’t love — not really — it’s too fleeting, too impossible. He doesn’t see me, not the way I see him. Yet there’s a strange tenderness in wanting without having, in sitting there each morning, pretending to read, tracing the rim of my cup as the warmth fades — while the boy behind the counter unknowingly becomes the centre of my day.
I collect fragments of him and carry them home like offerings. Sometimes I imagine saying his name aloud, but I never do. It feels too intimate, too final — as if it might break the spell.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 