To the boy who went to McDonald’s and ate a Double Big Mac with Bacon, a double cheeseburger, chilli cheese bites, large fries, a Galaxy Cookie Crumble McFlurry, and drank a Banana Milkshake. You ate the cucumber sticks because you said they were healthy. I wonder why you have the body of a skinny HB pencil
I can still attract any man in the world. It’s just that any man is never the right man.
There is a popular French blog that I follow and is a mixture of photos and occasional pieces about characters, books, and movies. My French is hopeless, and I appreciate that Google allows me to right click and translate it into dodgy English.
I like the blog, but today I have inadvertently discovered that what I took to be cleverly written pieces are really a collection of plagiarised snippets from other websites.
It came to light after researching a story it had featured about Jean-Claude Brialy, a French actor from the 1950s and 1960s, Yves Montand, the Italian-born French actor and singer, and Reda Caire, a popular singer in Paris from the 1930s to the 1950s. I found that the story existed word for word in several places.
A synopsis.
Brialy once claimed that Montand had a nine-month gay affair with Reda Caire while working as his private secretary.
Helene Hazara, a cultural critic, radio hostess and expert on French chanson, wrote that “everyone in show business knew that Montand had been Caire’s lover. In the ’50s, Montand used to make homophobic jokes about Reda, who called him up one day and said, ‘If you say nasty things about me, I can also tell stories about you!’”
But Caire, speaking about Montand, also came up with the best and bitchiest line. ”It is odd that a boy with such a beautiful membrum should have such smelly feet.”
I have reached the end of André Aciman’s Homo Irrealis Essays, and it has been a long journey. I finished it, and realised that for the most part, I have no idea what Aciman is writing about. As I’ve mentioned before, this is perhaps because I am not as clever as he is.
But I have persevered, and he talks about irrealis moods and uses examples from his interesting life, in books he has read, and in the movies he has watched. I have even taken the trouble of researching ‘irrealis moods’ but became more confused.
I have tried to explain it to my partner and got it hopelessly wrong.
“Something that happened, but might not have happened, but we expected it to happen, therefore it might have happened, but we did not realise that it had happened, and might not have even happened yet, but might still happen.”
I can take satisfaction that I have at least written like Aciman, even if it is entirely incorrect.
There are fantastic lines in the book that I wish I had written… if only I had been clever enough.
That moment was meant to be. A crackle of excitement that bubbled up and brought with it the unwatered lust of these desert years
Charlie asks me if I would rub tanning lotion onto his back because he’s off to Barcelona again.
“You’re from France and are naturally brown,” I tell him.
“I must look my best for the beach.” .
We are in the kitchen and Charlie, in just his underwear, gives me a tanning glove and sprays Gatineau Golden Glow onto it.
“Rub it all over my back please.”
It feels like I’ve got a glove puppet on my hand, and he drops his underwear slightly so that I can see the crack of his arse.
“Everywhere please,” he commands, and I’m obliged to rub lower until I’m stroking the tops of his buttocks.
The bossy boy has me at his command and he’s asking me to do something intimate. I have mixed emotions. Excitement and sadness.
I decide to test him.
“You should have asked Levi. He would do a better job.”
“I cannot ask him,” he replies, “because he will tease me and say that I am trying to seduce him.”
I think that Charlie might be afraid to ask Levi because he likes him… probably loves him… and I’m sparing his embarrassment.
I feel jealous. That critical word which can have catastrophic consequences.
“Would you like to seduce him?”
“Never,” he says scornfully. “Levi is a clown.”
“Have a good time in Barcelona,” I say.
“Thank you. I will do that, but I shall miss you.”
The boy is short. The boy is cute. He is cheeky. He is tired, and sucks his thumb. He keeps looking. I took a photo of him on my phone. I look up and I realise that he’s taking a photo of me too. I smile at my phone and pretend I’m on Snapchat. He does the same.
Thomas gave me a present. It was a disposable vape with ten thousand puffs and tasted of pineapple lemon. I must get out of the mindset that this small gift means something. After all, we’ve hated each other for fifteen years, and one kind gesture means nothing, but it was nice.
Today, I visited a new Scandinavian Cafe a few streets away and thought that this would be a good place to write the book that I will call ‘Loving Thomas’. I also thought it a good place to invite him one afternoon.
We’ve realised that we work well together and are an impressive team, but I’m reminded of a Lonnie Gordon song from 1990 that was called ‘Happening All Over Again’.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 