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I’ll wander the streets / Anywhere I choose to go

I’ve been going out on Sunday nights for longer than I care to remember. There used to be ten of us, but girlfriends, boyfriends, marriage, kids, and growing up, gradually cut us down to two. Now it’s just Ants and me.

We chat about our week, share our secrets, and drink too much. I never appreciated that Ants would become my best mate. He’s seen me through some serious shit and my feral past amuses him. I’ve got older now.

When weekends became part of my working week, after I crossed that divide between host and customer, Sunday night became the start of my weekend.

We drink until midnight, much later than we used to. And when we say goodnight and Ants heads home, he contemplates what I will get up to.

I shall let you into a secret.

I am a night walker. I wander the murky streets of the city, ones that are empty of people, and where life seems only to exist behind the lights of high rise apartments. Once, I wanted to be the centre of attention, now I find that I like my own company instead.

I’ll wander the streets for a couple of hours, anywhere I choose to go, a new route every week. This dark and lonely world is one where you see things differently.

If you look closely, the city never really sleeps.

Lurking in the shadows are the homeless and the street drinkers. There are the screams of students who couldn’t give a shit that people are asleep. Sometimes you might see a copper in a car but it’s in their best interest to ignore you. There are the fire engines that wail into the night, silent ambulances that light everything shocking blue, and Ubers that dash from one job to another. But you can also hear the chimes of church bells that strike on the hour. For the most part, the city is still. If it rains, all the better, the dirty streets get wetter, cleaner, and the air is fresher. Nighttime is when the city is at its calmest.

At times like this I am inspired. I can think clearly, choose subject matter to write about, and the foundations of the next story appear to come from nowhere.

There is a downside.

We forget that alcohol makes you brave, and it takes you up dark alleys that people won’t dare enter even by day. If I do meet someone, we’ll eye each other with suspicion because these can be perilous streets too. I’ve had a few fights and years of brawling in bars and clubs prove convenient. I fight dirty. And the human body wants to get rid of the drink, more and more frequently, and I’ve pissed in more shadowy corners than I’d like to admit.

But I’m usually on my own, a lone wanderer, innocent and inquisitive, taking photos on my phone because nobody else wants to.

The night never ends here, because afterwards there are the bars that open obscene hours, ones that close when the sun comes up, but this is always another story, one that I shall tell Ants about next Sunday.

That moment / I want to take your photo

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I want to take a photograph of you. On my phone that is. No, I don’t know you. We are total strangers. We almost walked past each other but something made me stop and turn around and shout after you. I want to take your photo.

I know that you think I’m strange, but it’s what I like to do. I take photographs of things and put them on Instagram and if I’m lucky about three people will like them. It’s a record of my life, the things I’ve seen and done, things I like. It’s a bit like keeping a diary.

Why do I want to take your photograph? Because I saw you in the street and thought you looked interesting. In plain terms, I liked the look of you. If I don’t take your photo, I’ll never see you again and will forget all about you. I’ve learned that the best photo opportunity is the one that presents itself, that moment, and if I hesitate it is lost.

I’ll show you my Insta page to prove I’m not unhinged. You are kind enough to say that you like my images. No other person does, and I thank you. But I’m glad you agreed to let me take your photo.

And you stand by parked cars in the pouring rain with your arms outstretched and raise your chin so that raindrops splatter your face. You think it looks good. I don’t disagree. You stand shivering, with short wet hair, boyish smirk, and a soaking wet white tee shirt that shows your nipples.

Crimes of Our Past

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I thought about the actor Kevin Spacey, a man who has been cleared of sexually assaulting four men. A jury found him not guilty of nine sexual offences against four men in their 20s and 30s, between 2004 and 2013. He is a relieved man because had he been found guilty; he would have probably faced a prison sentence. All good then. Not quite. Because mud sticks. His reputation is in tatters, and it will still take a brave studio to cast the actor in future productions.

I also got to thinking about the society we live in. One that allows people to go running to the authorities when it suits them. I won’t decry the Me Too movement because what it stands for is correct, people who do wrong must be punished. But each good cause presents its own problems.

For every legitimate claim there are those that will exploit those good intentions and seek an opportunity to make a fast buck. And the authorities are obliged to take everything seriously because they will be scrutinised and subject to intense criticism by the media. Alas, our society now presumes everybody is guilty unless proven innocent.

I do blame the media, the one that I have an interest in, because we’re in the business of clickbait. And people believe everything they read.

I got to thinking about myself. Yes, about me, the law-abiding citizen who does no wrong and treats everybody with respect and dignity. I also think about you, the person who probably holds the same principles that I do.

Let me present a scenario. One that happened only a few nights ago.

I was drinking in a bar and quite fancied the guy next to me. I knew that he fancied me too. This guy has been mentioned here many times before because I refer to him as Bad Boy Jamie. I like my bad boys.

I went to the toilet to relieve myself and was aware that somebody had walked in behind me. I pissed down my leg, fastened myself up, turned around, and there he was. The one person that I had hoped to find myself alone with. Reader, he pounced upon me, and we kissed, and it was fantastic. But it was brief because somebody selfishly chose that moment to walk in. We shot outside the toilet like rats scurrying from a one-star takeaway. It wouldn’t have been a good outcome had we been caught. Boyfriends can be vicious and vindictive.

Bad Boy Jamie was pissed-off and this is when he can do unpredictable things. More importantly, he was pissed-off with me because afterwards I put up a steel barrier between us. He wanted revenge, and truth be known, he’d be more likely to stick a knife in me. But I considered what might happen if he went to the police and said I’d sexually assaulted him in the male toilet. Guilty until proven innocent.

And then a guy I’ve never met might claim that I had sex with him in 2003 and twenty years later he’d decided that he didn’t like it after all. A spurned lover might say that I repeatedly abused him during our seven year relationship. (He’s still bitter enough to claim that happened). And that guy who worked for us ten years back might say that I once used inappropriate language and that it’s been on his mind ever since. Guilty until proven innocent.

Get the gist?

I come from another time when being sexually promiscuous meant something exciting. You might disagree, but there it was.

I’ve never sexually abused anybody and everything I did was consensual. From teenager to man, if I got a knockback, mercifully few, I’d be embarrassed enough to go and hide in a dark corner.

Imagine a police officer knocking on your door and arresting you for your innocent past. It will happen to somebody, you, or me, and it seems that we must live the rest of our lives looking over our bruised shoulders.

I quote my twenty-something friend, Alexander, who recently told me that he’d never have a relationship with someone his own age. Why Not? “Because they all come with baggage,” he said.

That is the crux of the problem. Today’s youth are afraid to explore one another. They’re afraid that physical contact might come back to haunt them. They’re afraid that anything they say might offend somebody’s moralistic inclinations. And they must be careful what they write in a phone message in case it is screenshot and used in evidence. How very sad and boring.

But I fear most for the future. When today’s kids, the ones who know nothing different, grow up to become teenagers, they’ll stick with the disinfected moralism inflicted upon them by this present day melodramatic society. When that day comes, love between two people is in trouble.

Charlie and his Austin A35 called Garçon

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Charlie arrived out of nowhere. He says he is from Paris and that’s why he pronounces his name Shar-lee. Charlie also drives an old car, a 1960 Austin A35, which isn’t what I expect a 25-year-old French boy to own. He claims it was a gift from an elderly gentleman, and I presume it was given after Charlie had agreed to sleep with him. A last throw of the dice for an old queen. That was another time and place. But Charlie adores this car, and he has nicknamed it Garçon. ‘Boy’. He is an artist and he gave me a painting of Garçon in exchange for letting him sleep one night in a spare room. I have put it in the hallway and look at it everyday. I can’t help looking at Charlie either because that one night has turned into weeks. I once broached the question of how long he might be staying, and he disappeared into his room only to appear thirty minutes later with a poem he had written. Yes, Charlie writes poetry too. It was in French and I couldn’t translate it, but he said it was in appreciation of my kindness.

That moment / I don’t know what else to do

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Those legs. Smooth tanned legs. I thank the hot weather with its sticky heat for making you wear shorts. You wink at me, and that might have been enough. But I can’t stop staring at those legs and you know that I’m looking at them.

I sit on the steps, and you stand right in front of me so that they are inches from my face. Then you hook your thumb under the edge of your shorts and rub the top of your right leg because it itches. The harder and faster you rub, I see tantalising glimpses of black Calvin Kleins, except I know that these will be cheap knockoffs.

I light a cigarette and blow smoke towards them. It swirls around and disappears up your shorts.

I want to lick these legs, enjoy the salty taste, and bite them like someone who is unhinged. I don’t know what else to do.

You say something like “Do you like my legs? Why don’t you lick them and bite them?” Except you don’t say that at all. Instead, you say, “My girlfriend is waiting outside.”

I Could Easily Fall (In Love With You)

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I can’t say that I like you. Not that I don’t like you. It’s just that I’m not allowed to say so, and the moment I say it, I’m in serious trouble.

If you think about it, I dropped a hint. You didn’t realise that I’d blocked everyone because I needed to be in control again. I unblocked you, only you, and sent a friend request because I needed to. I watched and you accepted my request within seconds. You looked surprised because you thought we were already friends.

You searched the room and found me. That brief glance that made me realise I’d guessed correctly. That moment that seemed to last forever.

“Hey,” you messaged.

“Hey back,” I replied.

“What are you up to?”

If I’d been sober, I might have said, “Navy boy. You are funny looking. You are skinny. Worse than that, you have a girlfriend.”

But I wasn’t sober and typed out my response.

“I like Navy boys. I like that you are called Bailey. I like that you are slim. I like your smooth olive skin. I like those dreamy eyes that give you away. I like that you have a girlfriend but flirt with me. Above all else, I like that cheekiness.”

My finger hesitated, and I didn’t send it.

Instead, I wrote, “Love your cheek. Never lose it. Stay gold.” I added that last bit because it was a line from my favourite movie.

“Eh?” you asked.

“Just continue to be yourself.”

“Thank you,” came your reply.

That was how we left it, and I woke up the next day relieved that I hadn’t given myself away.

But there was a time last night when I had my back turned and someone squeezed my arse. I swung round and it was you. I would have begged you to do it again, but olive turned to crimson, and you quickly walked away.

And so, this miserable orgasm of life meanders blindly on. You won’t message me because I scare you, and I can’t message you because I am equally scared of the consequences.

I asked you to take your hat off

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I asked you to take off your beanie. What made me say that? I needed to see your hair. Take off your hat, I repeated. And you did. Just for me. I hoped that you didn’t have long hair, curly hair, or greasy hair, because I would have been disappointed. But you took your beanie off and it was short black hair. I liked your haircut because it complimented the face that I’d already fallen in love with. You enquired why I had asked you to do so? Because I needed to know everything about you. Are you happy now? I said I was incredibly happy.

Dear Daz / The one thing I can never forgive you for

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Dear Daz

I don’t know why, but I thought about you today. I was looking through a window at a green valley that was drowning in rain. It was a battle between land and sky. You always spat on the floor and never apologised, a bit like the rain. That was just you.

What are you doing now?

The last I heard you’d moved to Australia with that girl. I suppose you’re married with kids, but I struggle to understand the job you might be doing. I recall that you always did things with your hands.

Did life turn out like that for you?

I guess I’ll never know because we lost contact a long time ago.

How did we meet? You won’t remember, but I do.

A mutual friend said I needed a night out with the lads. He warned me about you. Said I wouldn’t like you because you were brash and needed to be the centre of attention.

I did like you, and for the next five years we got on extremely well.

Do you remember when we asked girls which of us was better looking? They always said it was me, and I said it was because I was tall and you were short, and that your nose bent slightly to the left. I said they found you loud and intimidating. A boy of the working classes. And you laughed and always told me to fuck off.

That was the problem. I didn’t see it then, but I do now. You never liked being second best. Dare I say that you were jealous.

I remember the time I took a friend’s sister out. “Never go out with a mate’s sister,” you told me. That was good advice, but you did better. You secretly dated your best friend’s Aussie girlfriend, and the days of the young lions came to a messy end.

Let me tell you something.

You never had any reason to be envious.

I remember a rainy bank holiday and we played football. Afterwards, you invited me back to your house to dry myself and watch your Dad’s secret stash of porn movies.

I remember sitting on your Mum’s sofa while you sat on the floor and couldn’t take your eyes off the TV screen. You took off your wet trackie bottoms and stretched out on the carpet. That aroused me more than anything else, and for the first time I realised that I was probably in love with you. I thought that you might have been in love with me too. But we were too masculine to ever say it.

This is my fondest memory, because when I think about you now, I only remember three other events.

One.

We were walking down a dark Spanish street and you stopped and turned to me. You said nothing, looked into my eyes, and punched me in the face.

Two.

There was the time that you pushed me over a wall, and I fell backwards down a muddy slope and into a river.

Three.

When we were playing football, we both went up to head the ball. As we rose you deliberately elbowed me in the face and knocked me unconscious. I still have the indentation above my right eye to remind me.

And yet, I forgave you for those lapses because I realised that you were made to feel second best again. I guess that was my fault.

The last time I saw you was when you’d been ostracised for stealing your mate’s girlfriend.

I was in a bar with a friend and you both walked in. You nodded like I was a stranger that you’d met for the first time. You slipped by and never said a word.

That is the one thing I can never forgive you for.

I suspect that there was a reason for ignoring me. By this time I’d told my friends that I was gay, but never told you. They were happy for me whilst also being pissed off because I could have had any girl I wanted.

I never told you, so never knew your reaction when you found out.

Were you happy for me? Did you love me as I loved you? Did I frighten you? Had I made you feel inadequate? Were you repulsed? Did I offend something that you believed in?

I would like to think that you’re the married man with kids that I’ve already described, and that you’re living in a big house in Australia.

And yet, I also worry that things didn’t turn out as well as you expected.

I thought about you sitting alone in an empty bar in a backstreet of Sydney. And in walked a wrinkled old woman who asked you to buy her a drink. She told you that you were good looking, and you spat on the floor and said, “I used to be good looking, but my mate was better looking than me.”

Somebody else’s shower is always better than your own

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It’s early morning, and hot water pulsates over me in unabated streams. I smell coconut and jojoba from the shower cream, and the zing of mango from an expensive hair shampoo. The room is steamy and seductive because I’ve not turned on the extractor fan.

This isn’t my shower, and that makes me happy because somebody else’s is always better than your own.

The water controls me. I’m calm and relaxed, isolated from everyone. This is my private space where people can make no demands.

I am the closet exhibitionist, escape artist, a dreamer, and the subconscious is able to run freely.

I think of the times when the shower birthed memories; cherished, forgotten, but able to rise again.

I remember when I was nine-years-old and moved to a new school that had showers. Those awkward moments stripping in front of each other and taking the piss out of our little willies and flicking each other’s bare arses with wet towels.

The time I met two young Royal Marines who were really boys, at a bar in Barbados. We talked and drank and ended up in my apartment where one asked if he could take a shower.

He was called Nigel and as he slipped off his clothes he asked me to join him. That was all he wanted, somebody to share a shower because it made him feel safe.

Then there was the road trip around Florida with a straight guy who had no idea about my sexuality. It was a journey of discovery but I remembered those long powerful showers in seedy motels where I masturbated to images of half-naked guys. The ones with skateboards, surf shorts and skinny bodies, in times when they were able to burn off every calorie from the shit they ate at burger joints.

There was also the drunk guy whom I dumped my boyfriend for who took me home and insisted I shower before making love. Afterwards, I walked naked into his bedroom and found him asleep. The best part of that night was the shower.

And so, here I am, in somebody else’s shower, at a remote cottage, hundreds of miles from home. A shower that is better than mine. A shower that makes me feel young again. This never happens in my shower.

That moment / Bleddy ‘ansum that is / He might have been a boy of the boats

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The man in the antique shop was fucking annoying. I thought his presence was because he thought I was going to nick something, but it was because he was an arrogant prick.

I stared at an eighties promo photo of Madonna that had seventy five smackers on it. “I’ve got three signed Madonna photos,” the guy said. “Are you interested in pop memorabilia? I can find some exciting stuff for you.”

Madonna never signed anything. I ignored him and walked towards a pile of old Rupert annuals instead.

“Do you like Green Day?”

Fuck me, I thought. But when I looked around he was speaking to somebody else. “I once played on stage with them.”

“Really?” said a female voice. Don’t be such a fucking gullible cunt, I thought.

All the while, the rain bounced onto the tin roof and gave another reason for people to avoid looking for antiques on Saturday afternoon.

I migrated to the other end of the shop, and an alarm sounded that suggested I’d got too close to the office. The irritating shopkeeper peered from around a corner to see what I was doing. Satisfied that I was merely browsing, he turned his attention back to the unseen female.

“Got it from the Marquee in London,” he bullshitted. “We cleared it out when it closed.”

I hadn’t seen the girl, but her voice told me that she was probably a teenager. Naive enough to keep asking silly questions. But when the owner moved aside to let her escape, it was a young lad who appeared in front of the girl. The shopkeeper let him go, but wasn’t done with her yet, caging her in the corner to look at a pile of old pop art magazines.

The lad walked straight to me and rolled his eyes, because we were both thinking the same.

He was who I might describe as being typically Cornish. Where I came from his hat would have been called a beanie hat, but down here it would be referred to as belonging to a fisherman. And he wore waterproofs that made him look like he might be a boy of the boats.

He was slightly built, and there wasn’t much to see, except that fascinating face. Two things struck me about him, the green eyes and the downy chin of an adolescent boy whose beard had not yet developed.

The lad picked up a wooden framed cameo of a small boy. “What do you think the story is? I think it’s Victorian. A boy blessed to grow old and die. Bleddy ‘ansum that is. What are you interested in?”

I told him I liked old books.

“I’m an artist. Well, a student really. I come here for inspiration. Carve anything out of wood. See that figurehead outside. That’s what I really like.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but he grabbed me by the arm and took me outside.

“Fucking pizendawn out here. Have you got a cigarette?”

I offered him one from a pack of Marlboro Gold that had just cost me fifteen quid. We struggled to light them in the rain and cowered underneath a stone doorway instead.

“Can’t roll-up in the wet. See that beauty there?” He pointed to the nautical figurehead of a beautiful woman that stood outside the entrance.

I hadn’t noticed it on my way into the shop.

“From the prow of an old sailing ship. It embodied the spirit of the vessel, offering the crew protection from harsh seas and safeguarding their homeward journeys.”

The girl came outside looking for her boyfriend.

“Got to go,” and covered his fisherman’s hat with the hood of his coat. “I’m on Insta. Cadan with an ‘a’. Look me up.”

I watched them negotiate puddles between parked cars and head towards the river. Boyfriend and girlfriend, braving the downpour and going home to a simplistic existence. Then they disappeared.