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.
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.
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.
“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 