The scene: a bar. “You shouldn’t be in here,” says the young barman. “And why is that?” “Because you are a has-been.” I am stung, but remember a quote from many years ago. “Well,” I say. “At least I has been.”
And you come to realise that appearances can be deceptive. The clean handsome boy turns out to be an alcoholic; the athlete is hooked on drugs; the sweet angel is a megalomaniac; the mean looking boy, with hoodie and sweatpants, turns out to be polite and eloquent; the bad boy with tattoos reads classic literature.
I am flat, sir. I have been on charge for two years, and now I have overcharged. My battery is empty and I must charge it all the time because it drains too quickly. My battery needs to be repaired or replaced. But you don’t care, sir, because, in your eyes, your health is more important than is mine.
Tonight, a lad calls me an “ugly old wet wipe.” The thing is, he is telling the world because he is pointing his phone in my face and recording it all. I tell him not to be rude. He is not clever enough to realise that a bodycam is also recording him. But he persists. “You are vile,” he says, “And I’m a nice person.” I do what I always do and ignore him. “You’re probably on minimum wage, while I earn loads.” I smile. A female appears and tells me that her friend really is a nice person and that he doesn’t mean what he’s saying. I tell her that his behaviour is exactly the reason why I won’t let him inside. She doesn’t agree and tells me that I’m being unreasonable. The lad is still filming. And then he calls me an “old cunt”, but I don’t react. “That’s why you’ll never get anyone, and you’ll die sad and lonely.” And then, he tells me to hit him. But I won’t because that’s what he wants me to do so he can edit the footage and put it on Facebook. Eventually they both walk away, and I realise that I have won, and they have lost.
A little rent boy who is quite cute with peach fuzz on his lip comes in. He talks to the ugliest meanest fuck who is stood next to me. He never even gives me a glance. Eventually, he turns his attention to me, and asks me to buy him a drink. I tell him to fuck off. But he doesn’t because he’s obsessed with the ugly fuck stood next to me. He introduces himself as Regan, I shake his hand. And then ugly fuck says that rent boy has bad breath and I act as if I’m bothered. Truth be known, I am a bit bothered because I quite like the little fucker:
I am sitting at a bar in a nightclub. I play with a drink of no description, and listen to music that means nothing to me. Around me, the kids are shouting to be heard, they know each other, and embrace one another like they were family. They don’t appear to be drinking much, and I realise why when they keep sneaking off to the toilet.
Every so often, one of them looks at me, and I smile at them. They usually turn away, but sometimes I get a pitying look, or their eyes narrow with suspicion. They make it clear that I’m not part of their crowd, nor should I be there.
“Fuck off, old man. Dirty pervert. Get the fuck away.”
That wasn’t aimed at me.
I said it. Not now. But back in the nineties. I said it to an older guy who was sitting where I am now.
He said something nice like, “Are you having a good night?” and I played up to the crowd.
I hit him hard in the face and the bouncers came and I told them he’d grabbed my dick. He got thrown out.
Regrets?
Not then.
But all these years later, I feel sorry for that guy, who was probably younger than I am now.
“Strangely, his name was Jean, which he pronounced as the French do, and although just turned 17, he had already read Jean Genet’s Our Lady of the Flowers, and believed he was reincarnated from someone who died of an o.d. in 1979 at Studio 54. He knew way too much about that infamous club, and about infamy in general.”
The ‘bicycle thief’ of Manhattan’s West 14th Street Pier/
Fred H. Berger/Propaganda Magazine/Winter 1999
I am in a barber’s shop. I tap on my phone. A few minutes to write something. Anything.
The door opens and mother and son walk in. She is miserable. Poker face. He is cheerful. About fourteen or fifteen.
I am more interested in writing a paragraph. The words are good, and I step into my creation.
When I look up, the boy is watching me, grinning. Poker face glares at nothing. I go back to my phone and write some more.
Five minutes pass. I look up and he is still looking at me. And I think, I am watching you, watching me.
I chat shit with the guy who cuts my hair. When he is finished, I make to leave.
The boy smiles and scrutinises me, but Poker Face scowls.
And just as I am about to walk out the door, cheeky grin crosses his legs, and now I am certain.
I want to say to his hideous mother that her son is gay. But if I do, she will probably cry.
Last night I had a dream.
I dreamt that I was a lonely old man living in a rundown flat in an unfamiliar city. I dozed in a battered old armchair, and the doorbell rang. I dragged my old bones and looked out of the window. Outside there were dozens of young men. All of them handsome and athletic. These boys looked vaguely familiar. I excitedly waved them up.
They walked through the door into the gloomy room. But wait. What’s this? These weren’t young boys. Instead, a procession of old men walked in. Unkempt old men. Fat and bald. Like me. I stared at them. Such disappointment.
And then I realised that these were people I had once loved, liked, and given into temptation.
But amongst them was a young man in his twenties, and I was quite taken with him. I asked him why he was with these old men.
“My name was Tom,” he said. “And you were someone I once loved. You were the only one I ever loved. But you ignored me because you said I wasn’t good enough. I vowed that when I died, and I died young, that one day I would come back and show you what you missed.”
All the old men laughed and jeered.
Archer wants to be a model and writer but will fail at both because he is too shy. Archer tells me he has completed a photo shoot where he had to dress as a 1920s lad. He asks me if I would like to see the photos. Back at his apartment I tell him the photos are good, and when he shows me his writing I am impressed. But I am struck by the fact that Archer sucks his thumb like a child and tells me he has an addiction for unrequited love and loves the pain of romantic rejection. He likens it to a craving for cocaine. There are always secrets that need to be discovered.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 