*****
“Video Angelus internehilium et imortalis Even as we speak our hearts entwine. Senex et angelus video venestus caelum. Equiden lavare in meus vita empeteus Ah eeh ah eeh ah.”
*****
The boy who likes the excitement of fear.
“I worry about being thrown off the carousel in later life.”
A skinny body and dirty pants.
*****
“He’s got it. Yeah, baby, he’s got it. I’m your Penis, I’m your fire. At your desire. Well, I’m your Penis, I’m your fire. At your desire.”
*****
Be careful who you choose because it can go wrong.
Is it that Bailey is still a virgin?
A shelter on a beach full of books.
A lake in an abandoned quarry.
Is it love that never quite reaches an orgasm?
A boy who turns up late is always popular.
Pasticcio.
The Organ of Lorenzini.
Boys will be boys.
Different sorts.
Different morals.
Not fussed really.
I can do nice boys
I can do bad boys
I can do polite boys
I can do charming boys
I can do clever boys
I can do rough boys
I can do tough boys
I can do council boys
I can do rich boys
I can do student boys
I can do clean boys
I can do dirty boys
I can do skinny boys
I can do clean-cut boys
I can do athletic boys
I can do energetic boys
I can do adventurous boys
I can do sensitive boys
I can do confident boys
I can do caring boys
I can do unconventional boys
But I can’t do golden boys
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.
Destruction has its own pleasure: a compulsion—call it weakness or strength—to obliterate the good and start anew. I’ve done this all my life and won’t stop now.
Jeffrey and his mafia. And me—only me—still unaware that I was God. A mutual understanding never consummated in public. We conspired like poets at war: Jeffrey with his loyal men, and I, followed only by those who believed in my every word. Yet I remember one moon-warmed night, when the sea breathed softly beneath us, and at the stern of a drifting ship, we clasped hands and swore our respect. The water glowed like milk around us. It was the start of a beautiful romance that put fear into the hearts of everyone except ourselves.
A time of potential, energy, and opportunity, and joy and personal maturation. It’s about vitality and growth. A reward and a source of joy. It is strength and vigour, seen as a time of great potential and opportunity.
A time for learning, maturing, and developing one’s sense of self before the responsibilities of adulthood.
Make the most of it.
It is a foundational period for developing wisdom and forming good habits. Appreciate and make positive choices during this fleeting time because personal fulfillment can still be achieved.
“It is a sign that you are growing old,” said the old man, his voice soft with resignation. “Each year, the boys seem to get better. As if someone laced the ordinary—Big Macs, frozen pizzas, vending machine snacks—with something secret and sublime that improves a man’s sperm. A quiet alchemy that sharpens jawlines, brightens eyes, perfects the symmetry of youth. It’s not just beauty—it is evolution disguised as convenience. And I watch them pass, these boys, like living advertisements for a future I won’t inhabit. It makes me sad. And jealous. Not of their youth, but of the ease with which they wear it.”
This is where I used to play football in Adidas shorts, with sexy legs and a six-pack. I was fourteen and showed off to the girls. I wasn’t great but that didn’t matter because they thought I was the best footballer in the world. When it was dark, we came here to smoke cigarettes and drink beer because this was our secret place.
A few years later I ended up in London and played for an amateur team which thought that I had a brilliant attitude and a bit of skill. And the girls still thought that I was a catch. But my attention had wandered. When I met an Italian boy called Nico, he persuaded me to move to Perugia with him.
I played for a small local team with black curly-haired boys who wore Kappa shorts, and they were the ones who had tanned legs and six-packs. I was a carthorse, and they were young stallions who flirted mischievously and called me ‘ragazzo gay’ – ‘gay boy’.
Now I have come back to see where the adventure began.
There are no younger versions of me anymore, no adoring girls, only long grass and trees. I sit alone on a bench, and a young guy walks by before heading into the undergrowth. He looks back and I know he wants me to follow so I decide that I will.
I sat in the shade of the Winter Garden and was approached by a cool looking ginger-haired guy dressed in shorts and t-shirt. “Excuse me sir, I don’t know the city. Where is the best place to get the vibe?” I’d no idea where he could get the “vibe” and, as a rule, don’t do ginger, but on this occasion I was prepared to make an exception. Polite, handsome and seemingly likely to take one for the boys. He turned out to be a touring ballet dancer.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 