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. 

A message from Thomas in Paris. “When am I going to see you?” What a predicament? I’d like to see him again, but there is the problem of Charlie, the guy I sleep beside every night. “Hey Charlie, I’m off to Paris, and if I’m lucky, I’ll be able to get my end away with your brother, but hey, it’s more than I get from you.” I’m excited and tempted to go, but I’m afraid of the repercussions.

I love Charlie, and I think he loves me, but the one thing I want more than anything is to make love to him. But he is a strange breed, and sex is as far away as the day I met him.

The other day I was tapping into my phone, and he came up behind me. “What are you writing?” “I’m making notes,” I replied. I saw that look in his eyes. Charlie thinks that mobile phones are for messaging and taking photos. He eyed me with suspicion. “”Who are you messaging?” “Nobody. I’m writing an article for someone.” It sounded as convincing as I wanted it to be. The truth was that I was writing what you are reading now, and he didn’t believe me.

A few nights ago I tried to cuddle him in bed. “No,” he said, “I am very tired.” He put EarPods in and listened to music. That was the biggest fuck off ever. I turned over and decided that I wouldn’t be humiliated again. “If I can’t get it from you, I’ll get it somewhere else,” I murmured, knowing full well that Charlie wouldn’t hear me, but at least I’d said it.

I’ve looked at past sexual conquests and realise that the hardest part was always getting that person home and into bed. With Charlie, the challenging part was easy, but the next stage is even more difficult. The person you desire most is within reach, inches away, and yet you are forbidden to touch. 

I compare it to the euphoria of reaching the gates of heaven, and then being turned away because you’re not supposed to be there. Beyond those pearly gates you can see sunshine, utopia, and eternity, but you’re sent to hell instead.

It’s not that Charlie isn’t affectionate. He might give me a peck on the cheek and make me feel like I’m walking on air. But that’s as far as it goes. Imagine how that feels? The person that everybody thinks is your partner, and doesn’t want to make love to you.

I made the mistake of mentioning this to a friend, and he came up with a thousand and one shit reasons why this might be – life distractions, stress, emotional tension, low desire, physical, and mental health issues, sexual pain, and even brought up erectile dysfunction. That last one definitely wasn’t true because I’d seen Charlie walking about the apartment in his underpants with a definite hard-on . “Talk to him about it,” he said. I told him that I didn’t even know if Charlie was officially my boyfriend. “No,” I replied, “It’s much easier to sleep with someone else instead.”

I feel that Thomas is too good a chance to miss. I want him, I need him, and have reason to believe that he wants me, but then I remember Charlie’s temper tantrums after his brother visited.

When Levi came home last night, he sat opposite in just a pair of football shorts, and, at that moment, he was the most beautiful boy in the room. I remembered the drunken conversation we’d had a few months ago when I’d told him that I wanted to get him into bed. He’d graciously turned me down. This time I wasn’t drunk and wanted to say it again. But I didn’t, because a voice inside my head was saying, “At this time, anybody with a penis looks attractive to you.” Sadly, that voice was right.