Joe was once off his head on something, and stuck his head through a plate glass window. I then spent the next hour saving his life. I remember being covered in blood and being incredibly angry. He had major surgery, but escaped with a huge gash on the bridge of his nose that was a bit too close to his eyes. In all fairness, he thanked me afterwards, and offered me his arse with a discount of twenty quid which I politely refused. Last night, I wasted another hour of my life staring at Joe’s crotch.
The pretty boy in the blue striped t-shirt had a delicate tattoo of a knife on his arm that was erotically threatening. But he called himself Queenie, and could not sing, and murdered Sabrina Carpenter’s Espresso on karaoke. He wished me Happy Birthday, and I told him that my birthday was in April and that he had a terrible memory. But at least I am pretty, he said, and asked if I liked his singing. I looked into his olive eyes and told him that he was perfect but didn’t need to sing to impress.
There is something wrong with him. I get the feeling that something is missing up there. A few brain cells that are missing or have become warped. The pretence that he is somebody that he isn’t. The more he boasts about money and his wonderful life, the more I sympathise with him. He has the desire to be liked but cannot see that his way won’t work.
“I have a new favourite,” you said. This was the opportunity I’d been waiting for. “Are you talking about me?” I asked. It was a leading question, and one way or another, the answer would end years of torment. The pause was longer than necessary, and I took this as a good sign. Might this be the moment that we’d both been waiting for? But then you bottled it. “No, you’ve never been a favourite and won’t ever be.”
There was a big bottle of Malibu next to a picture of the Virgin Mary. I stared at them both. I wasn’t sure which was the most threatening. “What are you thinking?” I ignored him and looked at the mess of the room instead.
Innocence came calling. What are you writing? I was writing about you, but didn’t say that, and it would have made no difference because it was never part of the plan.
Have you been sent by someone? Have you come with a message? Have you come to taunt me? Have you come to kill me?
In the dark, I think only of sweat, tattoos, and dirty underwear. How erotic is that? The excitement before you destroy me.
Have you come with love? Have you come with hate? Have you come with both? Have you come with nothing?
There is desire in the shadows. Hands everywhere, controlling, and satisfyingly rough. But there are unanswered questions. Do these hands belong to someone who wants me dead?
Have you got a disease? Have you got a condom? Have you got a knife? Have you got other ways of killing me?
They will get you in the least expected way. Beware of Gabriele of Stadium, they said. He will exploit your weakness. He is the Angel of Death and brings only a glass full of piss and blood.
Lust shattered my guard. Lust drowned my senses Lust clouded my judgement. Lust is the death of me.
The romantic Gypsy of Roma, who dances with a gun, and destroys hearts with the blade of Ardizzone, looks into my eyes. Is this the most addictive boy ever? Is this the saddest and perfect end? And after he slits my throat he will say to Alberto of Ostia that it was too easy.
Joe went back to a hotel room and a guy came twice in his mouth. He was disappointed because he couldn’t manage a third time, and so Joe stole three sachets of Nescafé decaf and a Yorkshire tea bag in retaliation.
Charlie told me a story. He said that he woke up this morning and found that I was missing. When I didn’t reappear after a couple of hours, Charlie went to the neighbour and knocked on her door. “Have you seen Miles?” “No, I haven’t,” she replied. Charlie went to the other neighbour and knocked on the door. “Have you seen Miles?” “No, I’ve not seen him,” he answered. Charlie left the apartment and walked to the block on the other side of the road. He climbed three flights of stairs and knocked on Mrs Hayward’s door. “Have you seen Miles?” But she slammed the door in his face.
Charlie told the story with such conviction that you almost believed him. But it is a way of saying, “You went out and didn’t tell me where you were going.” At times, he tries to be funny and makes the point with dramatic effect. Other times he can be blunt, like French boys sometimes are.
“Your mobile rang, and the call was from someone called Ben. Who is Ben? How do you know him? Why is he ringing you? Have you slept with him?” I’ll point out that Ben is the landlord of the apartment. “I see,” he would say, “But do you like him?”
For these reasons, I don’t tell Charlie everything, and that can sometimes cause problems. Thomas, his brother, told me that Charlie was insecure, and is frightened that he might lose everything.
I don’t like people reading what I’ve written, which is why most of my work is published under a pen name. Charlie will look over my shoulder and try to read what is on the screen. I will immediately close the laptop, and this infuriates him. “Why will you not let me read it? Is it because you are writing about me?” “It’s not about you,” I’ll tell him, “It is a short story.”
I never show him because he’s right. I often write about him, and if the story wasn’t about him, he would see something to convince himself that it was.
I suppose it’s my secret, rather like Charlie’s mysterious trips to Europe, of which I still know nothing, and now he’s declared that he’s off to Lille again. I’m not invited and in response I’ve decided to go to Italy in November. When I tell Charlie, he assumes that he’s going with me.
I will enjoy the few days of freedom while he’s away and have already made plans to go out with Levi, the Polish boy with the broad Yorkshire accent, who asked a serious question. “Does that mean that you’ll be wanting to sleep with me?” The prospect is exciting. “If I asked, would you say no again?” Levi smirked. It struck me that although he wanted to move in with his girlfriend, there were few signs of him doing so. “Like I said before, we shall have to see,” he replied, “But remember that you have a boyfriend.” He hadn’t said no, and I took that to mean that there was a possibility, and I started counting the days.
But Charlie doesn’t miss a trick. “Please make sure that you behave while I’m away, because when you’ve had a drink, you have mischief in you. While the cat’s away, the mice will play.” He repeated this to Levi who told him that if he was so jealous then he should consider staying home.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 