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Charlie / It’s not red paint, it’s because you were blushing

Charlie had been quiet for a week, still upset about Levi staying in the apartment.

“It is too small for three people, and I wanted to use that room as a studio.”

I’d told him that Levi was only here for a few weeks. I wanted to add that the arrangement was like his own, but he’d decided to make it permanent. I didn’t say anything because young French boys can be very temperamental.

“I miss our quiet nights together,” Charlie said sadly.

Levi, the Polish lad with the broad Yorkshire accent, had been a whirlwind, his energy blasting through the apartment. He went out, came in late, and slept until lunchtime. He’d told Charlie that he worked in a bar and was very popular with customers. I could imagine that because he talked and smiled all the time.

“You don’t like me, do you?”

The conversation took place on the balcony. Charlie, in his underwear because he’d been painting in the sunshine, and Levi, dressed in only his blue jeans.

I was conscious that old Mrs Hayward across the road would be absorbing everything as she watered her window boxes. There was a lot of naked flesh to see. I took them coffee and sat with them.

“It is not that I don’t like you,” Charlie replied, “it’s because you are always happy and too noisy.”

“I thought it was because you thought I’d stolen your boyfriend.”

“Are you sleeping with him?”

“You know very well that I’m not, and besides if I was, you’d be the first to know because you’d have heard us.”

“I am here,” I said. It had been a long time since people had fought over me, or at least appeared to.

“We are not boyfriends,” Charlie confirmed. “We are simply flatmates.”

Levi, smiling as always, sat back, and put his bare feet on the table.

“Then why don’t you like me?”

Charlie hesitated.

“I have told you already. You are too loud, and bounce around all day, and I cannot concentrate on my work.”

Levi got up and disappeared inside. Charlie smirked because he thought he’d scored a victory, but Levi returned with a damp cloth in his hand.

“What are you doing?”

Levi wiped a streak of blue paint from Charlie’s cheek.”

“You’re very messy when you’re painting.”

“I am not! I must have caught my hand on my face.”

“Blue and red makes you look cute,” Levi teased.

“I have not been using red paint.”

Charlie rubbed his cheek but couldn’t stop Levi rubbing it again, this time harder, and faster.

“Stop it!”

“I’m wiping your face like your mother used to,” laughed Levi, “and I’m sorry, it’s not red paint, it’s because you were blushing.”

He threw the dirty cloth onto the floor, sat down again, and put his feet back on the table.

“Your feet are dirty,” Charlie said.

“I think you make out that you hate me, but really you’re madly in love with me.”

“Sacré bleu! That is so childish.”

Charlie got up, straightened the band on his boxers, and went back over to the painting that had been drying in the autumn sunshine. Levi laughed out loud, mocking him, and Charlie could be heard swearing under his breath.

I listened to Levi’s laugh and Charlie’s cursing and felt disheartened. I’d thought that Charlie was envious because Levi had encroached on our lives. But what if it was true? Over the past few days Charlie had become increasingly hostile. Did Charlie really want Levi?

Beating Hearts of the Mermen

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A sea-salt breeze. I think of Daryl Hannah in Splash inviting a young Tom Hanks to join her. I read an article that said that seventy-five per cent of mermen had an interest in mermaids as a child. In some stories they were very sexual, in others they sank ships, while others said they were royalty that ruled the sea. Are there really such things as mermen? And yet, I see one heading towards me now. He will invite me to take my last walk through the noise to the sea, not to die, but to be reborn.

Love Came For Me. Lyrics by Will Jennings & Lee Holdridge

Perfectly Hard and Glamorous / Each time I think about him, the memory is more fragile

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It’s been a long time. Almost ten months, but the story resumes. Harry Oldham is an author whose last book bombed. He has been encouraged to return to Sheffield and write about his past. His agent finds him an apartment not realising that it takes Harry closer to his shocking past than she realises. Will his readers want to know the type of person he used to be? (Parts 1-6 are available to read in the menu)

Part 7

It had been months, and I hadn’t added any new chapters to the book. Meghan was horrified. She didn’t understand that the creative process could be painful. I’d opened my notes several times, but I couldn’t bring myself to go any further. Instead, I wrote anonymous blog posts that nobody read.

Winter turned to spring, and Sheffield seemed cleaner and brighter. By the time June came, I was also alarmed. I had until the end of the year to submit the first draft and I’d barely scratched the surface.

But something happened.

I had walked into the city centre and called at WH Smith. I remembered it as being a vibrant place, but on that sunny morning there was barely a soul inside. I didn’t get what the shop was supposed to be. There were only so many pens you could buy, the choice of magazines had diminished, and it was a place that didn’t sell my books. You also had to serve yourself, and if I’d been a young lad, I wouldn’t have paid for anything.

On the way home, I cut through the station that was empty because the train drivers were on strike again, and I bought the latest copy of Granta at the news stand because WH Smith didn’t stock it. I decided it might give me the inspiration to write, because everything in it was better than mine.

I walked over the footbridge and saw a young guy walking towards me. He seemed vaguely familiar and made eye contact. As we passed, I smiled, and he blushed. I looked around and realised that he’d done the same and quickly turned away.

I climbed the steps and sat on the grass in South Park. From here, I could look at the skyline with its cranes and emerging tower blocks. I lit a cigarette and thumbed through the magazine. Then I found a vape in my pocket and puffed on it. I was alternating between smoking the cigarette and the vape, but the sweetness of grape edged out the harshness of the tobacco.

I saw the guy walking up the steps from the station. He wore a grey hoodie and sweatpants and looked about eighteen or nineteen. Grey sweatpants are always an attraction. I sensed that he’d sat on the grass behind, and I resisted the urge to turn around. I began reading a story, it was written in strong Glaswegian about a young kid caught up with gangs that I found hard to understand. Londoners had once struggled to understand me too.

The young lad had moved and was sitting to my right. I looked across and he held my gaze. Those anonymous blog posts are about moments like these, the brief encounters that I embellish with happy endings, when they rarely are.

“I know who you are,” he called. “You’re Harry Oldham.”

I’m never recognised and the fact that he knew me was disconcerting because I’m more comfortable as a name and not a face.

“Have we met?”

“Yeah, we have, and you owe me a cigarette.”

He shifted to my side, and I gave him the cigarette he wanted. He had short blonde hair, blue eyes, and peachy stubble.

“What’s your name?”

”Tom.”

“Does Tom have a surname?”

“Everybody just calls me Tom.”

“Are you always shy?” He coloured up, his crimson cheeks glowing on a pale complexion.

“I’m only shy in front of people I’ve just met.”

“But you know who I am. Have you read my books?”

“‘I’ve read all of them. I suppose I know a lot about you. I’m not scared. Just curious.”

“I’m curious about you too. Tell me about yourself.”

“There’s nothing to say. I’m me.”

He looked down like he’d done once before, and I remembered that he’d once given me a cigarette.

”There are times when you have to tell somebody something.”

“I think you’re approachable, but you can tell me to fuck off if you want.”

“It’s not often I get to meet my biggest fan.”

“I didn’t say that I liked the books. I’ve just read them, that’s all.”

“Why read all three then?” He didn’t answer.

“I thought you and your two mates were going to mug me.”

“That wouldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t have let it.”

“When I was your age, me and my mates would have sat outside the flats and been up to no good.”

He didn’t reply straightaway and seemed ill at ease. He blinked in the sunshine and concentrated on a passing tram. “We’re not all bad. No threat to you. Park Hill’s not a bad place.”

“Do you live there?”

His answer was decisive. “No!”

“Where do you live?”

“Hillsborough. I caught the tram.”

“Cool,” I said, and felt like a dork for saying it. “I once knew someone who lived there.”

“I won’t know them.”

“No, you won’t, because he’s been dead a long time.”

Tom looked inquisitive.

“He was called Paolo and one of the most beautiful boys I’ve ever known.”

“Old people die all the time.”

“I’m not that old, but yes, they do. In my mind, Paolo isn’t old. He never was. He still looks the same. Like James Dean… ”

“Like Heath Ledger?”

“Yes, like Heath Ledger. They’re frozen in time, but we get older, and they don’t, and we remember them from movies and photographs, except with Paolo there are no photos. He lives in my head, but I’m afraid that each time I think about him, the memory is more fragile.”

“Are you a faggot?”

“Yes, I am, but it takes another faggot to recognise one.”

“Not me, I have a girlfriend.”

“And what’s this girlfriend called?”

He hesitated. “She’s not important, and I want to hear more about Paolo.”

Demon of Deception

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It is hard, just as cruel as it is glamorous

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It was long overdue and might have been a mistake, but I checked the email repeatedly, and it was certainly meant for me.

The photographer was from Brazil, and he’d chosen me after looking at my online portfolio. This wasn’t going to be a fashion shoot for a glossy magazine. Pablo had a reputation for taking raunchy images, and I hoped that he might make me look like the boys who made me feel inadequate.

The email didn’t give a lot away, but I knew there would be a lot of flesh, and the images might end up on the right side of Tumblr’s community guidelines.

I’d been to photoshoots before and hoped that it didn’t involve a room full of ego-driven males.

Don’t get me wrong. I know a lot of easy going guys, but there are many more self-centred boys involved. It’s an insecure business, one where you’ll be gone by the time you are thirty, and beneath the bravado is the fear that it can quickly be taken away.

The reality is that agencies no longer look at your body or looks. They are far more interested in how many Instagram followers you have, and that puts added pressure on. But that isn’t everything. I have an Insta-famous friend who does a lot of major campaigns and almost nobody knows who he is.

On the day, I turned up at an old factory located in the East End. It was split into separate business units, and Park Studio was on the second floor.

I walked up the staircase with its peeling walls and realised that money hadn’t been mentioned. The shoot would offer little financial reward and fell into the category of providing exposure only. I wouldn’t be leaving my job at Waitrose anytime soon.

I was relieved to find that there were only a handful of people present, those who made things happen. Photography assistant, stylist, make-up artist and the guy who handed out coffee.

After the obligatory hugs and kisses, I was directed behind a screen that served as the changing area. There was another guy who was half-undressed. He was called Luca and was from Italy. We blushed as we swapped our cheap underwear for snowy white Calvin Kleins.

We walked across to the big screen that would serve as the background to the shoot and made small talk. I discovered that Luca’s girlfriend was waiting outside.

At times like this, you mustn’t be self-conscious. Even when you’re practically naked next to a straight guy who you’d assumed was also gay. I was anxious not to make a fool of myself.

Pablo ignored us, played with his cameras, and barked orders about lighting and shading. When he realised that the main event was before him, he gave instructions as to what we should do, explaining the postures he wanted, and the way we had to interact.

The theme was ‘Boys Who Tease’ and that required Luka to be the dominant one, holding, touching, slinging me over his shoulder and placing his arms around me.

This went on for hours, Pablo firing shot after shot, and inventing new angles in which to enhance his standing in the photographic world.

We’d arrived well-groomed and smelling sweet, but by the time Pablo had burnt through his umpteenth roll of film, we were sweating under the hot spotlights, and he complained that our bodies were wet and glistening.

The assistant threw us towels and we wiped each other down. I told Luca that I was enjoying the experience, and he cocked an inquisitive eye.

For the final shots of the day, I had to crouch in front of Luca, who stood motionless with his arms by his side. Pablo told me to close my eyes and tilt my forehead until it touched the band of his Calvins. I was only a hairbreadth away from his crotch, and the slightest movement would have meant that my nose rubbed against his dick.

This was a tricky situation.

Pablo said to hold the position. I tried not to breathe, but I could sense Luca’s trembling body, and smelt baby oil and talcum powder on him. I was scared that I might embarrass myself, and started thinking about my checkout job at Waitrose, about what I might eat later, and about Luca’s girlfriend waiting in the street outside.

He didn’t want to be an angel and with the angels stand

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Stolen Words / The present was only a duplicate of the past

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I bought a book for £6.99 that was only thirty-five pages long. It was so short that I read it in a hot bath in only ten minutes. But I liked the cover, and what I read resonated with me.

Things like:

“I was aware that this entailed a kind of cruelty towards this younger man who was doing things for the first time. Invariably when he spoke of his plans for a future with me, I replied, ‘The present is enough,’ never mentioning that for me the present was only a duplicate of the past.”

and,

“The people he greeted on the street were always young, often other students. When he stopped to talk, I stood aside; they watched me sidelong. He tore me away from my generation, but I was not part of his.”

The Young Man / Annie Ernaux / 2022

When We Drive into the Night

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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.

Charlie / It was the first time that I’d seen him jealous

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Charlie wasn’t happy when he came back from Barcelona. He didn’t say much on the way from the airport, and I put it down to post holiday blues. He’d spent a lot of time in the sun and was still dressed for the beach.

His arms and legs were tanned, and his thick black hair had ginger tints. He said that he’d had a good time and missed me, but I noticed he was scrolling his phone looking for cheap flights. He was planning a quick return.

I thought about what he might have been up to over the past week. He said he’d met up with friends, but I suspected he’d hooked up with someone. Why else would he be silent? A cute French boy would have no problem finding someone to have sex with. Knowing Charlie, he would have fallen in love with them.

I was resentful but had no reason to be. We weren’t in a relationship and to all extent and purposes we were simply flatmates. Charlie was a flirtatious boy and had carefully manipulated me into letting him have a room.

I’d missed our quiet nights watching movies on TV and missed the hours he spent sitting cross-legged on the floor while he painted.

I had something to tell him, but his gloomy mood suggested it wasn’t the right time.

I was afraid to mention that Levi had moved in.

This was the same Levi, with his boundless energy, who claimed to be Polish and spoke with the broadest Yorkshire accent. Like Charlie, he’d asked for a place to stay, and I’d let him have the spare room.

Charlie sensed something was wrong as soon as we arrived home. I hid in the kitchen while he inspected every corner of the apartment. Eventually he opened the door to the last room and saw Levi asleep on the floor.

Charlie closed the door and muttered something in French that I didn’t understand. Then he threw his rucksack on the floor and kicked off his Nikes. He looked at me, a flash of anger in those eyes that turned to hurt, and he slammed the door as he disappeared into his own room.

It was the first time that I’d seen Charlie jealous, and I felt strangely satisfied.

The Boy with the Dolphin Tattoo

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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.