Tag Archives: love

Hey Hey Chalamet

Charlie and the Sausage Sandwich

It was late. Taylor Russell and Timothée Chalamet had spent a couple of hours devouring the flesh of human beings. Bones and All is a shockingly beautiful movie, and the end credits were rolling when Charlie bizarrely announced that he was hungry.

This might explain why he had been in a mardy mood. He once asked me in his cute French accent, “What is this mardy?” “Mardy bum,” I had replied. He raised an eyebrow like he always does when he is puzzled and disappeared into the kitchen to make something to eat.

He rattled about. The fridge door opened and closed and minutes later came the sound of sizzling. He was frying pork sausages, his favourite, something he consumed on an almost daily basis, which was infuriating because he never seemed to add an ounce of fat to that slender body.

I knew what lay ahead. The bloody plight that Chalamet and co had left behind was nothing compared to the chaos that Charlie would create. It might only have been sausages, but he would leave a dozen dirty utensils, a burnt frying pan, a filthy hob, and crumbs all over the worktop and floor.

I crept to the door to confirm my fears.

Charlie could turn a sausage sandwich into a work of art, one that requires skill and concentration, and a vast amount of mess.

He carefully sliced the bread roll in two, and then scored four golden sausages and cautiously stacked them onto the bottom half. Next, he sprinkled cheese, added mayo, hot pepper sauce, and tomato ketchup. He placed the other half of bread on top and delicately patted it, inspecting the finished article from every angle.

He passed me on his way back to the sofa, where he tucked his legs underneath him, and demolished this awful concoction. “Parfait,” he muttered.

Not once has Charlie asked if I wanted the same, neither does he consider where the sausages come from. That charming naivety suggests he believes that sausages magically reappear in the refrigerator.

I left him, sauce dribbling down his chin, while I cleaned the kitchen.

Who is this Andrey? The one who signs it with a kiss

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Charlie is sitting on the sofa and looks restless. He drinks a glass of red wine. Mouthful after mouthful. This means that he wants something, or there will be an awkward question.

I slump in the chair opposite. He picks up an old magazine and flicks through it, all the time watching me. A photograph falls out and lands on the cushion. Charlie picks it up and looks at it with a look of surprise. What is this photograph? He is a poor actor, and this routine has obviously been rehearsed. He holds it up for me to see. It is a black and white image of a pair of feet and the words, ‘My feet, Andrey.’

“Whose feet are these?” he asks. “

“Are you jealous of a pair of feet?”

“Why should I be jealous of feet? I’m merely interested as to who this Andrey is, the one who also signs it with a kiss.”

Charlie is staying here and has given no indication that he’ll be leaving anytime soon. He feels threatened. “Where is this Andrey?”

That is a good question. What happened to Andrey? I have no idea.

Andrey was from Krakow and was here because somebody recognised his potential as a model. He stayed in the apartment for a few weeks and did a photoshoot for an arty magazine for which the photographer placed snails on his face. Like many Polish boys, he was blessed with the look of an angel, but the harshness of the language sometimes made him sound abrasive.

The thing about Andrey was that he cared little about good looks but was obsessed with his feet. Big bony feet: his shoes were size twelve. We were never lovers; he was far too good looking for me to consider it. But he used to lay on the sofa, the one where Charlie sits now, and liked me to massage those exquisite feet.

Andrey wanted me to rub and tickle them and he’d squirm with pleasure until he nearly had an orgasm. (I once knew somebody that reacted the same way when I rubbed his nipples). He told me that the part of the brain that processes the sensation people get from feet was next to the area that perceives genital stimulation. It seems bizarre now but appeared perfectly normal then.

One day, Andrey had gone. I never knew where. But a few months later I received the photograph by post. The one being waved accusingly at me now. I once looked up Andrey online and it appeared that his modelling career hadn’t taken off. There was nothing. Not even a hint on social media.

I tell Charlie. “The photo must have come with the magazine.”

That moment / I want to take your photo

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I want to take a photograph of you. On my phone that is. No, I don’t know you. We are total strangers. We almost walked past each other but something made me stop and turn around and shout after you. I want to take your photo.

I know that you think I’m strange, but it’s what I like to do. I take photographs of things and put them on Instagram and if I’m lucky about three people will like them. It’s a record of my life, the things I’ve seen and done, things I like. It’s a bit like keeping a diary.

Why do I want to take your photograph? Because I saw you in the street and thought you looked interesting. In plain terms, I liked the look of you. If I don’t take your photo, I’ll never see you again and will forget all about you. I’ve learned that the best photo opportunity is the one that presents itself, that moment, and if I hesitate it is lost.

I’ll show you my Insta page to prove I’m not unhinged. You are kind enough to say that you like my images. No other person does, and I thank you. But I’m glad you agreed to let me take your photo.

And you stand by parked cars in the pouring rain with your arms outstretched and raise your chin so that raindrops splatter your face. You think it looks good. I don’t disagree. You stand shivering, with short wet hair, boyish smirk, and a soaking wet white tee shirt that shows your nipples.

Crimes of Our Past

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I thought about the actor Kevin Spacey, a man who has been cleared of sexually assaulting four men. A jury found him not guilty of nine sexual offences against four men in their 20s and 30s, between 2004 and 2013. He is a relieved man because had he been found guilty; he would have probably faced a prison sentence. All good then. Not quite. Because mud sticks. His reputation is in tatters, and it will still take a brave studio to cast the actor in future productions.

I also got to thinking about the society we live in. One that allows people to go running to the authorities when it suits them. I won’t decry the Me Too movement because what it stands for is correct, people who do wrong must be punished. But each good cause presents its own problems.

For every legitimate claim there are those that will exploit those good intentions and seek an opportunity to make a fast buck. And the authorities are obliged to take everything seriously because they will be scrutinised and subject to intense criticism by the media. Alas, our society now presumes everybody is guilty unless proven innocent.

I do blame the media, the one that I have an interest in, because we’re in the business of clickbait. And people believe everything they read.

I got to thinking about myself. Yes, about me, the law-abiding citizen who does no wrong and treats everybody with respect and dignity. I also think about you, the person who probably holds the same principles that I do.

Let me present a scenario. One that happened only a few nights ago.

I was drinking in a bar and quite fancied the guy next to me. I knew that he fancied me too. This guy has been mentioned here many times before because I refer to him as Bad Boy Jamie. I like my bad boys.

I went to the toilet to relieve myself and was aware that somebody had walked in behind me. I pissed down my leg, fastened myself up, turned around, and there he was. The one person that I had hoped to find myself alone with. Reader, he pounced upon me, and we kissed, and it was fantastic. But it was brief because somebody selfishly chose that moment to walk in. We shot outside the toilet like rats scurrying from a one-star takeaway. It wouldn’t have been a good outcome had we been caught. Boyfriends can be vicious and vindictive.

Bad Boy Jamie was pissed-off and this is when he can do unpredictable things. More importantly, he was pissed-off with me because afterwards I put up a steel barrier between us. He wanted revenge, and truth be known, he’d be more likely to stick a knife in me. But I considered what might happen if he went to the police and said I’d sexually assaulted him in the male toilet. Guilty until proven innocent.

And then a guy I’ve never met might claim that I had sex with him in 2003 and twenty years later he’d decided that he didn’t like it after all. A spurned lover might say that I repeatedly abused him during our seven year relationship. (He’s still bitter enough to claim that happened). And that guy who worked for us ten years back might say that I once used inappropriate language and that it’s been on his mind ever since. Guilty until proven innocent.

Get the gist?

I come from another time when being sexually promiscuous meant something exciting. You might disagree, but there it was.

I’ve never sexually abused anybody and everything I did was consensual. From teenager to man, if I got a knockback, mercifully few, I’d be embarrassed enough to go and hide in a dark corner.

Imagine a police officer knocking on your door and arresting you for your innocent past. It will happen to somebody, you, or me, and it seems that we must live the rest of our lives looking over our bruised shoulders.

I quote my twenty-something friend, Alexander, who recently told me that he’d never have a relationship with someone his own age. Why Not? “Because they all come with baggage,” he said.

That is the crux of the problem. Today’s youth are afraid to explore one another. They’re afraid that physical contact might come back to haunt them. They’re afraid that anything they say might offend somebody’s moralistic inclinations. And they must be careful what they write in a phone message in case it is screenshot and used in evidence. How very sad and boring.

But I fear most for the future. When today’s kids, the ones who know nothing different, grow up to become teenagers, they’ll stick with the disinfected moralism inflicted upon them by this present day melodramatic society. When that day comes, love between two people is in trouble.

Charlie and his Austin A35 called Garçon

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Charlie arrived out of nowhere. He says he is from Paris and that’s why he pronounces his name Shar-lee. Charlie also drives an old car, a 1960 Austin A35, which isn’t what I expect a 25-year-old French boy to own. He claims it was a gift from an elderly gentleman, and I presume it was given after Charlie had agreed to sleep with him. A last throw of the dice for an old queen. That was another time and place. But Charlie adores this car, and he has nicknamed it Garçon. ‘Boy’. He is an artist and he gave me a painting of Garçon in exchange for letting him sleep one night in a spare room. I have put it in the hallway and look at it everyday. I can’t help looking at Charlie either because that one night has turned into weeks. I once broached the question of how long he might be staying, and he disappeared into his room only to appear thirty minutes later with a poem he had written. Yes, Charlie writes poetry too. It was in French and I couldn’t translate it, but he said it was in appreciation of my kindness.

That moment / I don’t know what else to do

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Those legs. Smooth tanned legs. I thank the hot weather with its sticky heat for making you wear shorts. You wink at me, and that might have been enough. But I can’t stop staring at those legs and you know that I’m looking at them.

I sit on the steps, and you stand right in front of me so that they are inches from my face. Then you hook your thumb under the edge of your shorts and rub the top of your right leg because it itches. The harder and faster you rub, I see tantalising glimpses of black Calvin Kleins, except I know that these will be cheap knockoffs.

I light a cigarette and blow smoke towards them. It swirls around and disappears up your shorts.

I want to lick these legs, enjoy the salty taste, and bite them like someone who is unhinged. I don’t know what else to do.

You say something like “Do you like my legs? Why don’t you lick them and bite them?” Except you don’t say that at all. Instead, you say, “My girlfriend is waiting outside.”

I Could Easily Fall (In Love With You)

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I can’t say that I like you. Not that I don’t like you. It’s just that I’m not allowed to say so, and the moment I say it, I’m in serious trouble.

If you think about it, I dropped a hint. You didn’t realise that I’d blocked everyone because I needed to be in control again. I unblocked you, only you, and sent a friend request because I needed to. I watched and you accepted my request within seconds. You looked surprised because you thought we were already friends.

You searched the room and found me. That brief glance that made me realise I’d guessed correctly. That moment that seemed to last forever.

“Hey,” you messaged.

“Hey back,” I replied.

“What are you up to?”

If I’d been sober, I might have said, “Navy boy. You are funny looking. You are skinny. Worse than that, you have a girlfriend.”

But I wasn’t sober and typed out my response.

“I like Navy boys. I like that you are called Bailey. I like that you are slim. I like your smooth olive skin. I like those dreamy eyes that give you away. I like that you have a girlfriend but flirt with me. Above all else, I like that cheekiness.”

My finger hesitated, and I didn’t send it.

Instead, I wrote, “Love your cheek. Never lose it. Stay gold.” I added that last bit because it was a line from my favourite movie.

“Eh?” you asked.

“Just continue to be yourself.”

“Thank you,” came your reply.

That was how we left it, and I woke up the next day relieved that I hadn’t given myself away.

But there was a time last night when I had my back turned and someone squeezed my arse. I swung round and it was you. I would have begged you to do it again, but olive turned to crimson, and you quickly walked away.

And so, this miserable orgasm of life meanders blindly on. You won’t message me because I scare you, and I can’t message you because I am equally scared of the consequences.

I asked you to take your hat off

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I asked you to take off your beanie. What made me say that? I needed to see your hair. Take off your hat, I repeated. And you did. Just for me. I hoped that you didn’t have long hair, curly hair, or greasy hair, because I would have been disappointed. But you took your beanie off and it was short black hair. I liked your haircut because it complimented the face that I’d already fallen in love with. You enquired why I had asked you to do so? Because I needed to know everything about you. Are you happy now? I said I was incredibly happy.

Dear Daz / The one thing I can never forgive you for

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Dear Daz

I don’t know why, but I thought about you today. I was looking through a window at a green valley that was drowning in rain. It was a battle between land and sky. You always spat on the floor and never apologised, a bit like the rain. That was just you.

What are you doing now?

The last I heard you’d moved to Australia with that girl. I suppose you’re married with kids, but I struggle to understand the job you might be doing. I recall that you always did things with your hands.

Did life turn out like that for you?

I guess I’ll never know because we lost contact a long time ago.

How did we meet? You won’t remember, but I do.

A mutual friend said I needed a night out with the lads. He warned me about you. Said I wouldn’t like you because you were brash and needed to be the centre of attention.

I did like you, and for the next five years we got on extremely well.

Do you remember when we asked girls which of us was better looking? They always said it was me, and I said it was because I was tall and you were short, and that your nose bent slightly to the left. I said they found you loud and intimidating. A boy of the working classes. And you laughed and always told me to fuck off.

That was the problem. I didn’t see it then, but I do now. You never liked being second best. Dare I say that you were jealous.

I remember the time I took a friend’s sister out. “Never go out with a mate’s sister,” you told me. That was good advice, but you did better. You secretly dated your best friend’s Aussie girlfriend, and the days of the young lions came to a messy end.

Let me tell you something.

You never had any reason to be envious.

I remember a rainy bank holiday and we played football. Afterwards, you invited me back to your house to dry myself and watch your Dad’s secret stash of porn movies.

I remember sitting on your Mum’s sofa while you sat on the floor and couldn’t take your eyes off the TV screen. You took off your wet trackie bottoms and stretched out on the carpet. That aroused me more than anything else, and for the first time I realised that I was probably in love with you. I thought that you might have been in love with me too. But we were too masculine to ever say it.

This is my fondest memory, because when I think about you now, I only remember three other events.

One.

We were walking down a dark Spanish street and you stopped and turned to me. You said nothing, looked into my eyes, and punched me in the face.

Two.

There was the time that you pushed me over a wall, and I fell backwards down a muddy slope and into a river.

Three.

When we were playing football, we both went up to head the ball. As we rose you deliberately elbowed me in the face and knocked me unconscious. I still have the indentation above my right eye to remind me.

And yet, I forgave you for those lapses because I realised that you were made to feel second best again. I guess that was my fault.

The last time I saw you was when you’d been ostracised for stealing your mate’s girlfriend.

I was in a bar with a friend and you both walked in. You nodded like I was a stranger that you’d met for the first time. You slipped by and never said a word.

That is the one thing I can never forgive you for.

I suspect that there was a reason for ignoring me. By this time I’d told my friends that I was gay, but never told you. They were happy for me whilst also being pissed off because I could have had any girl I wanted.

I never told you, so never knew your reaction when you found out.

Were you happy for me? Did you love me as I loved you? Did I frighten you? Had I made you feel inadequate? Were you repulsed? Did I offend something that you believed in?

I would like to think that you’re the married man with kids that I’ve already described, and that you’re living in a big house in Australia.

And yet, I also worry that things didn’t turn out as well as you expected.

I thought about you sitting alone in an empty bar in a backstreet of Sydney. And in walked a wrinkled old woman who asked you to buy her a drink. She told you that you were good looking, and you spat on the floor and said, “I used to be good looking, but my mate was better looking than me.”