This relationship is borderline and has been like this for years. A decade when we changed from boys into men. I have no idea whether this long infatuation has been about love, or lust, or perhaps both. But it is MY infatuation and not his. He sends a message with three short words – ‘YOU DA BEST’ – and I want to screenshot it.
The warm light of day. A sudden shout. A boy’s voice: “Questa è la fine!” — This is the end! The cry carries over the water, impossible to know which of them called it, only that it came from one of these boys, each charged with careless energy.
“Con petto nudo,” comes the whisper — with bare chest. “Speak it now, or the moment will slip into memory.”
The dares run high: peer pressure, bravado, that fragile seam between recklessness and courage. None of them yet know it, but this is their rite of passage — the pivot between innocence and the pull of adulthood. Here, in the heat, end the rituals, the invisible hierarchies, the unspoken rules of the pack.
The summer outsider watches. Friendship, rivalry, longing, jealousy, innocence, danger — all play out before his eyes. And he understands the cry for what it truly is: not a game, not a dare, but a declaration.
It is the end.
I had been summoned to Piazza Gilardoni, in the shadow of the Chiesa del Santissimo Nome di Maria—an imposing modernist church at Castel d’Azzano, some ten kilometres from Verona. The message had come from Cinzia, relayed with reluctance by Cola. During the drive he blasted Italian rap at full volume, perhaps to stop me asking questions.
We perched on a warm stone bench and waited. Cola, usually chatty, was subdued and chain-smoking.
The bells clanged on the hour. A man pruned branches into a heap outside the church, then stuffed them into a green bin. Another fussed with a watering can, an oddly futile gesture against the bulk of the trunk.
“My mother is angry with me,” Cola said suddenly. “She told me I should never have interfered—and if anything goes wrong, I’ll be the one to blame.”
I opened my mouth to ask what he meant, but at that moment I saw Cinzia and Bianchi crossing the road. For such a small suburb, the traffic was vicious. Cinzia waved, ushering us into a café called Al Quindese.
Inside, she kissed us both on the cheek, whispered something sharp to Cola, and ordered drinks. Bianchi scrolled through his phone, pointedly disengaged, not even looking up when she ordered him a shakerato and the rest of us espressos.
“It’s been a long time since we were last here,” Cinzia said. “Our grandmother grew up nearby. She still lives just around the corner.”
I tried again. “Why is Signora Bruschi angry with you, Cola?”
He faltered, glanced at Cinzia. She only smiled, unembarrassed.
“Perhaps I am the cause,” Cinzia said lightly. “I hoped you’d come today, though I wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t. Cola knew the reason, but apparently he couldn’t tell you.” She shot him a disapproving look.
“I couldn’t,” Cola protested. “You already had a boyfriend—a Frenchman. And when I told my mother, she said we had no right to interfere.”
Cinzia leaned closer. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I only try to look after my little brother.” She spoke as though Bianchi could not hear, forgetting – or pretending to forget – that his English was weak.
Bianchi sensed the attention on him and glanced up, puzzled.
“I hope someone will eventually explain,” I muttered.
“Oh, it’s simple,” Cinzia said breezily. “Bianchi is shy. He’ll sit there looking innocent while I say anything I please about him. I could call him a murderer and he wouldn’t know.”
As she spoke, I noticed a man on a high balcony, leaning against a railing where laundry hung. Unshaven, in a crumpled shirt, he looked down on us from his faded yellow building.
“Tell me,” Cinzia asked suddenly, “do you like my brother?”
I hesitated. “I do. Provided he isn’t a killer.”
She laughed, then called something to Bianchi in Italian. He blushed, shrugged, answered. She translated with a mischievous smile. “He says he won’t kill you – unless you break his heart.”
“How could I possibly do that?”
“Bianchi is a baby,” she said, “curious, uncertain. But for now, he thinks he’s in love with you.”
Heat rose in my face. I looked at Cola for rescue.
“Sedici,” he groaned. “Cinzia, the boy is only sixteen.”
I stared. “But you told me he was eighteen.”
“I lied,” Cola admitted. “Otherwise you’d never have gone to the cinema with us.”
Bianchi smiled faintly and fixed his gaze on the Virgin Mary statue outside. Cola muttered something in Italian. Bianchi’s shoulders drooped.
“What did you tell him?” I demanded.
“That you’re only interested in girls,” Cola said smugly. “It’s safer that way. My mother will be relieved.”
Cinzia scolded him in Italian. Whatever she said, it lifted Bianchi’s expression again.
“I do like him,” I said carefully, “but I already have Charlie. And Bianchi… he’s far too young.”
“In Italy, age is not the same concern,” Cinzia replied. “The law is fourteen, regardless of gender. And Bianchi is capable of marvellous things.” Her eyes glinted wickedly. “He can squeeze the juice from an orange with the cheeks of his buttocks.”
Bianchi understood enough to flush crimson. Cola looked guilty, and I seized the chance to turn on him.
There was a long story behind my relationship with Signora Bruschi – and the apartment. I was about Cola’s age when I first met an Italian boy named Nico and moved to Perugia. Those were long, hot summer days and steamy nights, but autumn soon cast its shadow over the affair. Quite frankly, we grew bored of each other. Being a free spirit, I hopped on a train to Milan.
That was where I met Pietro Mancini, an older gentleman with decidedly queer tendencies, who owned a large accountancy firm with branches in Turin, Milan, and Verona. I enjoyed the attention: the fine clothes, fancy restaurants, lavish holidays, and an endless supply of money. In return, I excused his camp mannerisms and tiresome gestures. I was his toy—his plaything—a good-looking boy at his beck and call.
Until I discovered there was nothing exclusive about this arrangement.
When Pietro suggested I move into his rented apartment in Verona, I saw it as the next step in what felt like a dreamlike adventure. Since he spent most of his time in Milan, I was spared his unwelcome advances and free to live as I pleased. Verona suited me, and it was there that my friendship with Signora Bruschi and her son, Cola, began.
On the day that Cola blurted out: “Is it true that you like to fuck boys?” His mother promptly clouted him on the head with a wooden spoon, but he pressed on: “Signor Mancini has a boy in every town, but I’m glad it was you who came to Verona.” I had been naïve enough to think I was the only one. His words made perfect sense, and the warning bells began to ring.
I didn’t begrudge Pietro his indulgences, but selfishly, I worried that I might fall out of favour and be cast aside when it suited him. On his next visit to Verona, over dinner in Piazza Bra, I demanded the truth. That was when I learned about Severin, a German boy in his Turin apartment, and Elio, my Italian replacement in Milan—apparently his favourite. “Italian boys are more cultured than English and German boys,” Pietro told me.
At Christmas, Pietro invited me to Milan, where I met Severin and Elio for the first time. He expected us to get along, but little was said between us. After a festive meal at Bulgari Milano, and more than enough drink, we realised we were all victims of his lustful whims. A conspiratorial bond formed between us.
In the new year, I returned to Verona, expecting Pietro to arrive on business the following week. On the day of his arrival, I went to Verona Porta Nuova to meet his train, but he wasn’t on it. I returned to the apartment and waited. That night, Elio called: Pietro had dropped dead of a heart attack.
Signora Bruschi was kind and told me I could stay in the apartment. I explained I couldn’t afford the rent, but she insisted it would not be a problem.
In the months that followed, with no money coming in, I lived on the Bruschi family’s generosity. Pietro’s affairs were slowly unravelled, and eventually his will was read. Nineteen-year-old Elio inherited the bulk of the estate, including the Milan apartment. Severin and I received only nominal sums—decent, but since the Turin and Verona apartments were rented, we were effectively homeless.
With little Italian and no job prospects, I left Verona and returned to the UK.
The apartment, however, was kept clean and tidy by Signora Bruschi, who insisted it remain empty and always available for me if I visited. The last time had been fourteen months ago—before Charlie gate-crashed my life.
Boys become preoccupied with physical appearance, allowing looks to dictate their interests and choices. This focus can lead them to overlook potential dangers or flaws that are not immediately visible. The allure of beauty often blinds them to what lies beneath the surface. Strip away those layers of clothing and he might have the most appalling skin condition. He might grind his teeth while asleep, and the next morning have awful bad breath. Despite being unaware of these hidden dangers, the risk is taken simply because he appears beautiful. By the time these flaws are realised, it is often too late; yet the cycle continues as attention shifts to the next attractive individual. The pursuit of beauty becomes an ongoing search, with lessons seldom learned and the superficial chase never-ending.
Maria was tired of life. Tired of the flat that they lived in. Tired of not having enough money. Tired of being a mother to a four year old. Tired of not being able to take a bath on her own. That was it. She was tired of Joe most of all. They sat opposite each other in silence. She kept still, but he fidgeted, unable to get comfortable and put his feet against the wall behind her and trapped her head between his legs. She noticed the scar on his left knee that had turned pink in the hot water. She also saw how white the bubbles on his legs seemed against the dirty bathroom tiles. Joe lit a cigarette and offered it to her, but she declined, and he simply shrugged. All the time he flicked ash into the bathwater, but she no longer cared. At least he wasn’t wearing sunglasses like he normally did in the bath. ‘I used to love him,’ she thought, ‘but now I hate him more than anything.
Six years. Remember the first time? Ignorant shit of a boy. I was the best, but to be fair, you did eventually realise that. Six years flirting. Six years wasted. All because you married that horse of a girl who never liked me. It ended badly. Tears tonight because you’re scared. I sympathised and looked incredibly sad. All the right moves. But really, my heart sang from the rooftops. My skinny petit pois…. ha ha!
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 