Tag Archives: gay

Charlie / He is only massaging my feet, so there is no need to be jealous

Image: Evan Bendall in The Lesson (2015)

Charlie has been nice to Levi, and he offered to take him out for the day in his Austin A35. Reverse psychology. If he’s nice to Levi, then Levi won’t tease him about having a crush on him. Levi has also been pleasant, and the other day he stood over Charlie and told him that he liked his paintings.

They are both playing mind games, and I am blissfully aware that they are using me to do it.

Whilst eating breakfast yesterday, Levi appeared in his underwear. He put his arms around me and whispered something in Polish into my ear. It sounded romantic but I don’t understand the language, and neither does Charlie, and Levi might have said anything. Charlie gave him a dirty look, and politely said, “Good morning. I hope that you slept well.”

Last night, we all stayed in and watched a movie. It was a low budget slasher film in which a teacher with a class full of unruly sixteen-year-olds finally snaps. One night, as two boys are walking home, he strikes, and drags them to a lock-up and cable-ties them to a desk. Thereafter, he gives the lesson of a lifetime, and if they get a question wrong, he drives a nail through the palms of their hands.

I shared the sofa with Charlie because Levi had occupied the chair where he would normally sit. Halfway through, Charlie stretched his legs and placed his bare feet on my lap. “Would you massage my feet please?” I was taken aback because this was out of character for him, but I obligingly rubbed and kneaded while he oohed and aahed. He’s got nice feet and moisturises them with something called Udderly Smooth that I presume is made from cows.

At that moment, the teacher used a nail gun to drive a six inch nail through one of the boy’s necks, causing lots of blood and gore to spew from his mouth.

“I find this kind of thing quite homoerotic,” Levi said.

“He is only massaging my feet,” gloated Charlie, “so there is no need to be jealous.”

“I wasn’t talking about you. I’m referring to boys covered in blood and driving nails into them.”

I went to bed and was listening to Troye Sivan on my headphones when Charlie appeared with a copy of The Hidden Michelangelo under his arm. “I’ve come to say goodnight,” he said, “and then I am going to read in my bedroom.”

I thought it was rather sweet because he’d never done this before.

Almost immediately, Levi brushed past him, and gave me a peck on the cheek.

He winked at me and squeezed Charlie’s backside as he left the room.

Charlie looked bewildered, while Troye Sivan sang, “he’s got the personality, not even gravity could ever hold him down.”

That Moment / Look at it from my point of view

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There are too many Bad Boys called Jamie

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I’ve decided that I’m attracted to anyone who is called Jamie, and I realise that every time I meet a Jamie, he’s always a bad one. There are too many Bad Boy Jamies, and I kind of like that.

Perfectly Hard and Glamorous / The only way is to play dirty

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The story so far. Harry Oldham is an author who has been encouraged to return to Sheffield and write about his past. A chance meeting with a stranger called Tom brings back memories of Paolo, ‘one of the most beautiful boys I’ve ever known.’ The other Geisha Boys, Andy and Jack, take a backseat as Harry recalls the first time he met him.
(Parts 1-7 are available to read in the menu)

Part 8

It was the night we became Geisha Boys. The night we ran through the streets of Sheffield, laughing, covered in someone else’s blood.

We ran towards our block and didn’t see the two guys getting out of the car. Andy and Jack ran ahead, while I was spitting blood, and out of breath.

I was grabbed from behind. I shouted to the lads, and they stopped dead in their tracks. They were my brothers, and they would help me. Except that they couldn’t. One of the guys waved a stick at them, a thick one, and warned them off.

“Keep on running you little turds. Because if you don’t, I’ll break your fucking heads.”

The boys hesitated but were powerless to help. They edged away, watching me, and disappeared up the stairs.

“Fuck! Don’t fucking leave me!”

The other guy held me tight. There was the faint aroma of Brut and petunia on him. The man with the cosh waited until Andy and Jack had disappeared and turned to me.

“Let’s get in the car.”

I was bundled into the back of a dark Vauxhall Chevette where there was somebody else. I tried the door handle to escape but it was locked and so thumped the back of the driver’s seat in frustration.

The two guys got in front. The guy with the cosh was driving. The other one, who smelt of Brut and petunia, wore a flat cap and donkey jacket and looked straight ahead.

“Good evening, Harry,” he said. “The luck we’re having tonight. Who’d have thought it? A brawl in a bar. The aggressors running towards Park Hill. We thought, it couldn’t be?”

The car moved off and the guy beside me was quiet. I caught glimpses of his black curly hair as we passed under streetlights, the orange aura highlighting his dark features.

“Harry, meet Paolo. He’s a fucking eyetie.”

We drove a short distance and pulled up on a road that looked over the city centre.

Frank Smith got out and opened the rear passenger door. “Out you get.” The lad called Paolo slid out and stretched. “You too Harry.”

He led us through a gap in a stone wall and sat us on a bench while he remained standing and looking like a council workman. The other one leant on the wall and lit a cigarette.

“Look at that view,” said Frank. “A big city with lots of people. Good ones and bad ones. We’re the good guys, but there are more bad guys than we’d like. Which side are you two on?”

Neither of us answered.

“A long time ago this city was run by bad guys. Did you know they called it Little Chicago? It was full of gangsters who thought nothing about kicking the shit out of each other. Then there were the knives and the guns. These were gang wars, the Mooneys and the Garvins, and the police couldn’t control them.

“But somebody sorted it out. Percy Sillitoe was his name. If he’d failed, then life for every respectable citizen would have been hell, but he succeeded and ended up running MI5. Clever bloke. Did you know that I read history boys?”

It was a school lesson forced upon us. We looked at each other in bewilderment and didn’t know what to say.

“Oh yes, I like history. Did you know that it gets twisted? Sanitised. Let’s look at Percy Sillitoe. Hard, focused and determined. That’s what we read today, but he was a scheming bastard, who fought fire with fire.

“I like to think I’m a bit like him. If you did everything by the book, then we’d get nowhere. In years to come, everything will be touchy feely, and I hope I’m not around because justice will side with the villains. Fucking chaos.

“Some people think I’m a bent copper. That hurts. All I want to do is suss out the shit, and the only way is to play dirty. I always get what I want.”

Frank turned to us.

“It’s a bit like the gang wars. The only way to deal with today’s bad guys is to eliminate them. One by one. Are you with me?”

“What are you on about?” Paolo had spoken for the first time. His English was excellent but there was an unmistakable accent.

“I need your help. Both of you. Paolo, fucking eyetie, with your boyish looks. Harry, the bad boy with a big flaw running right through him. Do you know what that flaw is, Harry?”

“No,” I replied.

“It’s going to slap you in the face soon.”

Paolo looked at me, a fellow victim in this charade and his eyes showed fear. I didn’t know what to do. If he had looked closely, he would have seen that I was more terrified than he was.

“Kiss each other.”

What the fuck did Frank just say?

”Fucking kiss each other!” He stormed over and grabbed the backs of our heads. He forced them together until our noses almost touched, but we resisted, and Frank used his strength. Our faces brushed one another. Paolo’s skin was smooth with no sign of facial hair.

“Kiss goddammit!” Frank shouted. “Paolo, bender! You’ll enjoy it. Kiss the scabby shit.”

And Paolo did. A quick peck on the lips before forcing his tongue into my mouth. I couldn’t back away. He wrapped his tongue around mine and I had no choice but to do the same.

There was a flash of bright light, and I realised that the other copper had taken a photograph.

Frank released his grip. “That’s enough,” he laughed. “I knew you’d both enjoy it. Didn’t I say so Brian? He looked over to his colleague who acted as if nothing had happened . “You see Harry, your eyetie friend likes snogging lads, and I dare say that he finds you attractive. Isn’t that right Paolo?”

The Italian boy was mortified.

“A match made in heaven. Now that you’re better acquainted, I’m sure you’ll both help me.”

“I don’t understand,” said Paolo.

“Percy Sillitoe succeeded because he played both gangs against one another. A word in one ear, a word in the other. He didn’t do a thing. It was a set up. And when one gang thought they’d won. he went after them next and destroyed them too.

“These are the eighties, and there are perverts in this city, but as always, there is more than one player. Player One is getting pissed off with Player Two, and so Player One says to me, ‘get rid of these bastards!’ I say that it will cost them, but we work together, and Player Two disappears. Then I come down heavy on Player One, and he disappears too. Get it?”

I was angry. “What the fuck has it got to do with us? We aren’t doing anything for you?”

Frank stared me out.

“I think you’ll both help me.”

“Get fucked!”

“Do you really want your parents to see a photo that shows you going at it with another guy? Better still, what happens if it gets into the hands of your low-life friends? You won’t be able to show your face on Park Hill again.”

The guy called Brian laughed.

“And what will your eyetie parents think when they see that their beloved Catholic boy is really a depraved bender?”

I exchanged nervous glances with Paolo.

“I won’t offer you a lift home because you’ve both got a lot to talk about. Somebody will be in touch.”

The two coppers walked back to the car, but Frank shouted something before driving off. It sounded like, “If they’d have let me, I’d have caught the Yorkshire Ripper years ago.”

The ones I loved, and hated, because they weren’t interested

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I once read a book and threw it away. That was twenty years ago, and I’ve regretted it ever since. Each chapter was a letter to the author’s seven lovers, and I’m thinking about doing the same.

My relationships have tended to be long, and as one lover left, the next one came along, and that means there will only be five chapters.

There is more mileage writing to the ones I really wanted, never managed to get, and who never wanted me.

These were the ones I couldn’t stop thinking about, who scarred me, whom I idolised without really seeing them as they were, as individuals with flaws and undesirable characteristics.

I remember them as the ones I loved, and hated, because they weren’t interested.

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

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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.