Tag Archives: storytelling

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.”

Charlie / He likes to paint in his underwear

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There is an old woman who lives across the street. She says she is 95 but seems to have been telling me that for the past ten years. She never sleeps because she seems to watch TV 24/7. She rarely goes out, which is quite understandable for someone who might be 105.

But once a week she gets a bus into town. It stops outside her apartment building and when she returns it waits ten minutes for her creaky bones get off. She pulls a red shopping trolley with big white spots and walks slowly along the pavement.

When she gets to her door, she rests on her walking stick and stares into a large plant pot that contains a palm tree. She does this for five minutes as though looking for somebody.

She rarely speaks, but this morning, as she followed the same ritual of plant pot gazing, she caught me leaving our apartment and summoned me with her walking stick.

“How are you, Mrs Hayward? How are you finding the secret of eternal life?”

She frowned. “That boy,” she said. “The latest. The one with the old car. He walks around without any clothes on… and with the lights on.”

“I’m sure he isn’t, Mrs Hayward.”

“Oh yes. I’ve noticed this is what foreigners do. Please tell him to put clothes on.”

I keep telling Charlie that when he struts around the apartment in his underwear then people will see him. He will tut. “Who wants to see inside?”

“It is because he is an artist,” I tell Mrs Hayward, “And when he paints, he likes to paint in his underwear.” This is true. “But I shall tell him that you like looking at him.”

I’ll wander the streets / Anywhere I choose to go

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I’ve been going out on Sunday nights for longer than I care to remember. There used to be ten of us, but girlfriends, boyfriends, marriage, kids, and growing up, gradually cut us down to two. Now it’s just Ants and me.

We chat about our week, share our secrets, and drink too much. I never appreciated that Ants would become my best mate. He’s seen me through some serious shit and my feral past amuses him. I’ve got older now.  

When weekends became part of my working week, after I crossed that divide between host and customer, Sunday night became the start of my weekend.

We drink until midnight, much later than we used to. And when we say goodnight and Ants heads home, he contemplates what I will get up to.  

I shall let you into a secret.

I am a night walker. I wander the murky streets of the city, ones that are empty of people, and where life seems only to exist behind the lights of high rise apartments. Once, I wanted to be the centre of attention, now I find that I like my own company instead.

I’ll wander the streets for a couple of hours, anywhere I choose to go, a new route every week. This dark and lonely world is one where you see things differently.

If you look closely, the city never really sleeps.

Lurking in the shadows are the homeless and the street drinkers. There are the screams of students who couldn’t give a shit that people are asleep. Sometimes you might see a copper in a car but it’s in their best interest to ignore you. There are the fire engines that wail into the night, silent ambulances that light everything shocking blue, and Ubers that dash from one job to another. But you can also hear the chimes of church bells that strike on the hour. For the most part, the city is still. If it rains, all the better, the dirty streets get wetter, cleaner, and the air is fresher. Nighttime is when the city is at its calmest.

At times like this I am inspired. I can think clearly, choose subject matter to write about, and the foundations of the next story appear to come from nowhere.

There is a downside.

We forget that alcohol makes you brave, and it takes you up dark alleys that people won’t dare enter even by day. If I do meet someone, we’ll eye each other with suspicion because these can be perilous streets too. I’ve had a few fights and years of brawling in bars and clubs prove convenient. I fight dirty. And the human body wants to get rid of the drink, more and more frequently, and I’ve pissed in more shadowy corners than I’d like to admit.

But I’m usually on my own, a lone wanderer, innocent and inquisitive, taking photos on my phone because nobody else wants to.

The night never ends here, because afterwards there are the bars that open obscene hours, ones that close when the sun comes up, but this is always another story, one that I shall tell Ants about next Sunday.

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.

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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Photo by Jo Duck / Australia

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.”

Somebody else’s shower is always better than your own

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It’s early morning, and hot water pulsates over me in unabated streams. I smell coconut and jojoba from the shower cream, and the zing of mango from an expensive hair shampoo. The room is steamy and seductive because I’ve not turned on the extractor fan.

This isn’t my shower, and that makes me happy because somebody else’s is always better than your own.

The water controls me. I’m calm and relaxed, isolated from everyone. This is my private space where people can make no demands.

I am the closet exhibitionist, escape artist, a dreamer, and the subconscious is able to run freely.

I think of the times when the shower birthed memories; cherished, forgotten, but able to rise again. 

I remember when I was nine-years-old and moved to a new school that had showers. Those awkward moments stripping in front of each other and taking the piss out of our little willies and flicking each other’s bare arses with wet towels.

The time I met two young Royal Marines who were really boys, at a bar in Barbados. We talked and drank and ended up in my apartment where one asked if he could take a shower. 

He was called Nigel and as he slipped off his clothes he asked me to join him. That was all he wanted, somebody to share a shower because it made him feel safe.

Then there was the road trip around Florida with a straight guy who had no idea about my sexuality. It was a journey of discovery but I remembered those long powerful showers in seedy motels where I masturbated to images of half-naked guys. The ones with skateboards, surf shorts and skinny bodies, in times when they were able to burn off every calorie from the shit they ate at burger joints.

There was also the drunk guy whom I dumped my boyfriend for who took me home and insisted I shower before making love. Afterwards, I walked naked into his bedroom and found him asleep. The best part of that night was the shower.

And so, here I am, in somebody else’s shower, at a remote cottage, hundreds of miles from home. A shower that is better than mine. A shower that makes me feel young again.  This never happens in my shower.