And the handsomest boy in the room ignores me, and wants to talk to the DJ who has no personality, dodgy teeth, and who gets fatter by the pint. Why? Because he is a fucking DJ , that’s why!
Black and white. Vinyl spins on a record player. It is an old Henry Mancini tune that everybody knows. A boy lays half naked on a bed with a can of Red Bull beside him. He answers his mobile phone and a woman peeks through a door. Another boy walks through the city dressed in shorts and tee-shirt. There is a big Jurassic Park tattoo on his right leg. He passes a cafe with a chalked sign that says ‘out of control’ and inside a man drinks coffee from a dirty mug and frowns. He is puffing on a cigarette and making smoke rings. I’m standing on top of a building, lonely and watching, but from here I can shout from miles away. Young boys, a restless breed, who are looking for a fight.
“It’s never going to happen, ” I sighed. He was deep in thought, and I waited for words of encouragement. “It’s the virus,” he reasoned. “You have caught the virus of resignation.”
The guy with the erection brought me a raspberry brownie, and it was probably the only raspberry brownie I’d ever had. It was delicious, but his erection had no idea that it was seriously fucking with my blood sugars.
Charlie moved into the apartment without being invited. He’s now moved into my bed without being invited either. The fact is, I could have said no on both occasions, but I didn’t. I was caught up in the excitement of having him around.
The room has filled up with his belongings, the wardrobe full of his clothes, and I’m no longer the master of my own bedroom. The other day he lay in bed and decided that the walls needed repainting. “We must paint them white,” he said. “White is clean and bright. It becomes a blank canvas, and is a colour that can be influenced by light.” And then he went back to sleep because he comes to bed late and sleeps until late morning.
He’s also bought an old metal trunk that is a relic from World War Two. It is black with the name of ‘Charles Finch’ stencilled on it, and conjures up images of being shipped around the world. Charlie paid sixty quid for it in an antiques shop and thought it would be ideal to store bedding. The top of it has become a place to display his books, those that he never reads, and are a statement to show me that he is an intelligent artist.
I mentioned that his old bedroom was spare and that it might be utilised as a store room, or rented out for extra money, but Charlie insisted that he had plans for it. “It would make an excellent studio,” he said. “I could use it to paint and take photographs. That room might make me famous.” The following day he dismantled the bed and stripped the room bare, but he continued to paint sitting in his underwear on the floor of the living area, or, if the weather was sunny, on the terrace outside.
But Charlie eventually turned his attention to the ‘studio’ and set up a camera and tripod facing a bare wall that could be reinvented as stonework in the Vatican, the alter of a Basilica, or any place that looked remotely Catholic, where he could pose half-naked. Every shot was taken using a timer but occasionally I’d be asked to focus the camera and take the photos.
The other day, Levi, the Polish boy with the broad Yorkshire accent, made a rare appearance at the apartment.
“I want to know what’s happening between you and Charlie. I see that his room’s empty and that you’re sleeping together. You’ve got to admit that Charlie’s special. I’m so fucking jealous.”
I’m glad that Levi’s jealous, and it makes me feel good, but I don’t have the answer. I’ve no idea. Charlie shares an apartment, and a bed, but I can’t say that we’re lovers because we aren’t. Not once have we engaged in sexual activity, and there are no signs that we will. I’ve decided that this is one-sided love, and I will be the one who will suffer.
“Nothing is going on,” I tell him. “And considering that you’re a straight guy, don’t you realise that you sound very gay.”
I look up from my phone and see you looking. And then you turn away. I glance at my phone again, and make out that I have a life that doesn’t involve you. When I’ve done scrolling shit, you are looking at me again, and I see the colour in your cheeks, like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t have been. I realise that you are still a child who wants to be a man, a boy from a scabby family whose mother still buys his underwear. But from horse shit beautiful flowers can grow, with its gorgeous stem, delicate petals, and an impressive penis. You walk away and sling a bag over your shoulder and I like to think that it contains a copy of The Boys on the Rock, a book I once read about the coming out and first love of a gay sixteen-year-old swimmer.
Charlie reappears after an hour and talks to me about London and the fantastic things he’s done in the three hours that he’s been there. I can tell that he is tired. I ask him if he’s OK, but he turns away and disappears again. The barman, who is fit, but skinny as fuck, looks at me, and I smile like I’m the friendliest guy in the world. He smiles back, like he fancies me, or pities me, and because I’m drunk. I’m convinced that he thinks I’m the best looking guy in the place, but he goes to mop the floor.
That change from boy to man was both natural and beautiful. His legs were described as handsome, and I’d never heard legs called this before. But if legs could be called handsome, they were definitely that. Long, salty, and tanned, with perfectly shaped blonde hairs washed by the Atlantic ocean and toes that were kissed by fine grains of sand from the beach. I couldn’t take my eyes off them.
A big wooden door leads off the street. A cobbled walkway leads into a courtyard. In the middle is an old stone fountain and the flowing waters echo against the walls and make it sound grander than it is.
A large door opens inside and we are in a cool dark entrance hall that has a great big marble statue of a naked boy laying on his side. I stare at its erect penis that is tiny but evocative. “That is Gaddo,” he says, “by Torquato della Torre, a secret known only to the Santorelli family, so tell nobody.” He nods, even though I haven’t said anything, and he takes it for granted that I have understood. “Come,” he says, grabbing my hand. “My rooms are upstairs.”
We climb a terrazzo staircase, trodden by a thousand virgin boys, and worn down by their brave footsteps. “You must trust me,” he says. I know nothing about the Santorelli family, and realise that he is very wealthy, and I don’t trust him, yet I still follow.
Halfway up the staircase is a veranda that looks out over the rooftops. He stops and faces me, a shadow against the evening sun that is slipping behind the clock tower. “Do you think I am handsome?” he asks. I say that he is.
We climb higher, twisting steps that lead somewhere, until we can go no further. He opens a door and pulls me inside. “I am a Santorelli,” he boasts, “and I claim you as my own.” It is beautiful, poetic and fucking weird.
He tells me to take my shirt off, and when I do, I hear a thousand boys laughing at my pale skinny body.
At which point did it happen? There must have been a defining moment, an instant when I unwittingly crossed a line, and didn’t know that I could not return. I stand on the other side now, a ghost watching innocent revelry continue without me. That makes me sad, angry, and jealous.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 