I noticed him but he chose not to notice me. After he had dropped his mobile phone on the floor for the third time, he realised that he had to say something.
Life Story: The Third Drop
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Tag Archives: gay life
Twink on Trial
Johnny had Sabrina Carpenter in his ears again, looping ‘Feather’ from Russell Square all the way to Wood Green. She didn’t know she was basically the narrator of his life, but one day he’d tell her. That’s what twinks do: dream big, unrealistic, sparkly dreams and somehow convince themselves it’ll all work out. Johnny didn’t care. He usually jumped head-first into the unknown anyway.
The day had been a slog. Instead of listening to his tutor, he’d spent two hours doodling in his notebook — the one with the Eric Ravilious cover he pretended made him look cultured. The tutor finally snapped and kept him back. “How would you describe your life?” he’d asked, like Johnny had personally offended academia.
Johnny had smiled. “Fed, pampered, and impatient. Honestly? My life is one long, sexy, pouty battle.”
The tutor hadn’t expected honesty. Or attitude. “In my day,” he’d muttered, “you would have been called a prostitute.”
Harsh, sure. But Sabrina would’ve had his back. She’d remind him he was eighteen, hot, and fully allowed to be desired — and if someone wanted to bankroll his glitter-coated lifestyle, that was on them. She’d conveniently skip the part about him being high twink maintenance: fine dining, special diets, beach holidays, designer clothes, and accommodation that didn’t smell like student desperation.
Alexander funded the whole thing, because Johnny lived for an Instagram-ready existence and the universe had not, so far, given him the bank account to match.
Twinks are vulnerable, Johnny decided, and love could never be found in a discount store.
When he got home, Alexander was already there, drinking wine and listening to Vivaldi — the soundtrack of men who’d survived ‘twink death’ and were now coasting through their late thirties in cashmere.
“We need to talk,” Alexander said. Serious voice. Terrible sign. Johnny tossed his Reiss puffer on the floor anyway. He was a trophy boy, and trophies didn’t hang themselves up.
Alexander cleared his throat. “The thing is… sugar babies aren’t really financially viable anymore. I need to do a quarterly business evaluation.”
Johnny froze. Thank God he’d kept all the receipts — he’d at least prove he’d been properly maintained. And he was not going down quietly.
“Look,” Johnny said, already shifting into survival mode, “you’re old enough to be fluent in PowerPoint and so I’m going to prepare a presentation of all my key deliverables. I think you’ll find them very compelling. Being adorable. Emotional availability. Pretending to like oysters. And really? That’s just the intro slide.”
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.”
Millions Once Watched
Noah sat cross-legged on the floor, eating a bowl of cornflakes. Henry had seen this before—only then, it was on a YouTube video during a train ride from Manchester to London. In that video, Noah had poured milk over his cereal and collapsed onto the floor to eat, idly watching his housemates move around him. They hadn’t said a word, stepping carefully to avoid him—an inconvenience they tolerated.
Now, Noah sat on the floor again, eating breakfast as Henry checked his bag, picked an apple from the fruit bowl, and scrolled through his messages before work. The scene unfolded in silence, broken only by the soft tap of Noah’s spoon against the bowl. Their life had become a loop of flashbacks—moments once broadcast to millions, now replayed quietly within the confines of their apartment.
Blinded by Beauty: The Hidden Risks of Physical Attraction
Boys become preoccupied with physical appearance, allowing looks to dictate their interests and choices. This focus can lead them to overlook potential dangers or flaws that are not immediately visible. The allure of beauty often blinds them to what lies beneath the surface. Strip away those layers of clothing and he might have the most appalling skin condition. He might grind his teeth while asleep, and the next morning have awful bad breath. Despite being unaware of these hidden dangers, the risk is taken simply because he appears beautiful. By the time these flaws are realised, it is often too late; yet the cycle continues as attention shifts to the next attractive individual. The pursuit of beauty becomes an ongoing search, with lessons seldom learned and the superficial chase never-ending.
That Moment / There is a penis in my Guinness
The bartender pours me a pint of Guinness. There is something exciting about him. The fantasy, service, and the desire are charged with a kind of unspoken drama, where connection and expression flourish.
He stands at the centre of this world: confident, attentive, just out of reach. There’s power in the dynamic where he’s part host, part performer, and part confessor. That mix of emotional availability and physical proximity is incredibly compelling.
He leaves the Guinness to settle and waits. It’s a subtle performance of masculinity, of beauty, and a flirtatious smirk. There’s a silent dialogue: who’s paying attention to whom? He represents a safe focal point for flirtation and fantasy. He’s someone I want to admire, talk to, maybe even imagine a story with, without needing it to be real. It’s an aesthetic moment as much as an emotional one.
He’s a kind of canvas – with a quiet understanding, a rescuer, a rebel, a secret crush. Each interaction, no matter how fleeting, is charged with possibility.
He starts pouring again, and I ask for a four-leaf clover on the top of the Guinness. When he hands me the drink, I see that he’s tried to draw one in the foam.
I think there’s something haunting and poetic to explore in this distance between us – the observer and the observed where we are both muse and mirror. That space between emotional hunger and aesthetic distance – that quiet pull toward someone who may never cross the line into intimacy.
I realise that he hasn’t drawn a four-leaf clover after all and can see that it is a penis instead. He leans over and whispers that only wankers draw a four-leaf clover. I take a sip, and he smiles, quietly calling me a cocksucker.
It’s a beautiful sound. And it’s a sound that I love
Flup, flup, flup, flup. That’s the only way to describe it. Flup, flup, flup, flup. It dawned on me that the flup, flup, flup, flup had a regularity about it. Maybe every thirty minutes, never more than forty five, but the sound can be heard from early morning to late evening. When does a sound become a sign? I suppose it is when you want it to be. That flupping noise is made by Kieran, the farm boy who I’ve known since he was fourteen. That was five years ago, and now he’s grown into a handsome young man of nineteen. He works in nothing but a pair of filthy old denim jeans and a pair of wellington boots that flup along the road so that you are never in any doubt as to where he might be. I thought that farmers would be busy milking cows or ploughing fields, but Kieran spends his days flupping along. I end up waiting for flups and hide behind a wall to watch him stroll by. His bare chest will be covered in cow shit, and hay, or any other agricultural detritus, and it becomes fantastically homoerotic.
Charlie / Whoever blushes is already guilty; true innocence is not considered
“Enough about angels,” Charlie admonished. “I am tired of hearing about angels.”
I admit that I’ve been going on too much about angels but indulge me once more.
“We are waiting for an angel that never shows up. We don’t know if he’s there, because he could just be hiding behind the doorway.” I once saw that line accompanying an artwork in a gallery but I’m certain that I played around with the words. I suppose it means that we are on the lookout for a love that never comes, but is elusive and out of sight. But in the case of Charlie, he is elusive but right in front of my eyes.
I saw the angel looking fashionably casual in shorts and tee-shirt in the late night shop. His real name is Reese with an ‘S’ and he wasn’t hiding behind the doorway but appeared from behind shelves of soup, pasta and cans of beans. I know this angel, but he’s also out of reach.
The angel hadn’t expected to see anybody he knew, and froze like a rabbit in a car’s headlights. His smile faded when he saw that I was with someone. “Hi guys, are you going out?” I felt awkward. “No, we’re just going home,” I replied. Judging by the look on his face, that was a pretty dumb thing to say because it was a lie. “What about you? What are you up to?” He looked miserable. “I’m staying in for the next week or so.”
I wanted to say more but Charlie pulled me by the arm and signalled that it was time to leave. I nodded to the angel and left him on his own.
Outside the shop Charlie scowled. “Who’s the guy with the golden penis?” He has the ability to make me feel guilty, as though I’ve been doing something seedy and underhand, even when I’m completely innocent.
Later that night, I looked at the angel’s facebook page and could see that it was full of quotes like “can y’all please start dating men that actually like you so you can shut the fuck up,” and “come fw me, you won’t get cheated on.” Nobody posted any likes and I didn’t look anymore because it was too painful.
I felt sorry for him and contemplated sending a nice message, but I thought that might seem a bit creepy, and I wasn’t convinced that he wouldn’t show it to anyone.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 