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.
What is the matter little boy? Troubled and restless.
What is the matter little girl? Angry and frustrated.
There is tension between you both. What is your problem? He doesn’t want to talk and ignores her. He leans on a barrier and stares into the distance. He knows he is being watched but pretends not to notice. You are ruining my night. He’s not in the mood. In years to come, he realises that his petulant behaviour was unreasonable, but by then he will have become the person he wanted to be.
Harry Oldham is writing a novel based on his criminal and sordid past. To do so, he has returned to live at Park Hill, where he grew up, and the place that he once left behind. That was then and this is now, in which the old world collides with the new. (Parts 1 to 14 are available to read in the menu)
Part 15
July 1982
My date with Louise was a disaster.
An Officer and a Gentleman had sold out, and we watched Porky’s instead. She wasn’t impressed, complaining about the hoots and whistles from the audience that greeted each unruly scene.
Louise had a cold, and sniffed her way through the film, and I was in a lousy mood. We didn’t say much to each other, and I tried to make up for the silence by holding her hand.
My heart wasn’t in it, and I didn’t know what I would rather have been doing, but it wasn’t being with the girl that everyone on Park Hill fancied.
I kept thinking about the conversation I’d had with Paolo in the Brown Bear. Nobody had spoken to me like that before, and certainly hadn’t made me question myself.
As I sat in that dark cinema, I thought about Paolo a lot. If I could have chosen where I wanted to be, it might have been with him, and that concerned me.
I tried to kiss Louise, but she pulled away, and when I tried to put my arm over her shoulder, she elbowed me in the ribs. There was a ripple of laughter from behind; somebody was taking the piss. I turned around and there was a nerdy kid smirking at me. I reached over, grabbed him by the shirt until the buttons popped off, and headbutted him on the nose. That was when Louise got up to leave.
When we got back to her flat, Jack was laid on the settee watching the World Cup on TV.
Louise went to her bedroom without saying anything, and that meant that I was unpopular. Jack shunted along the settee and made room for me to sit down. “I take it that your big date didn’t go well.”
Jack was wearing only a pair of black football shorts, and I saw how athletic his body was. He sat with his knees bent, his smooth legs covered in cuts and bruises that he’d got on the football pitch, and for the first time, I noticed how tiny his feet were. These little feet could tickle a football better than anyone.
He pressed his toes into my thigh, and massaged the top of my leg, and I kind of liked it.
“You’re acting like a bum-bandit.” Jack ignored me and didn’t stop.
He looked serious. “The coppers have been around to check that I hadn’t done a runner. They went to see Andy too, but he was out, and that made them freak out a bit. They found him at the shops.”
“What did they say?”
He flashed his famous cheeky smile. “They said that if the Falklands War hadn’t already ended, they’d have sent me to fight the Argentines. That’s what should happen to all bad lads.”
I thought that Jack would make a good soldier one day. He was brave, quick witted, and always eager to please, and joining the army might get him away from here.
“Something’s up Harry, because you’ve been acting strange.”
“Yeah, I guess there is.”
“You can talk to me if you want.”
I desperately wanted to tell Jack everything, about Frank Smith, Paolo and the bad guys who took advantage of me. I looked helplessly at him and could see that he cared and wanted to help. I couldn’t fight back that feeling of love – brotherly love – for someone I’d known most of my life, but there was something else too.
“I’m in trouble Jack and I don’t know what to do about it. And I can’t tell you anything, because if I did, I’m afraid that I’d lose you, and that’s something I couldn’t cope with.”
Jack rubbed his toes harder against my leg. “You’d never lose me. No matter how bad it is. We’re mates, and mates stick together… like we’ve always done.”
Back home, there was an envelope with my name on it that had been pushed through the letterbox. There was a note inside telling me to ring a telephone number.
My parents were in bed, and I had to talk quietly while I made the call in the hallway.
“It’s Harry. What do you want?”
“Harry. Good of you to call. Your next job awaits you.”
I’ve had time to reflect on the time that Thomas spent with us. The blonde French boy had gone back to Paris, and I missed him. I’d forgotten how emotional I could be and fought back tears when he’d said goodbye. The question I asked myself, was why I’d become so attached to him.
Thomas was flirtatious and for the two weeks I thought that it would only be a matter of time before I got to sleep with him. But the two brothers turned out to be alike, teasing, and seductive, without ever doing anything. Charlie had made me believe that Thomas was straight. Either he was lying or couldn’t see that his brother had a different agenda.
Thomas’s unexpected advances went unnoticed by Charlie. Before he left, Thomas had made me promise to visit him in August and was keen that Charlie shouldn’t come with me.
I thought about their parents, and how proud they must be to have two fine looking boys, even if there was doubt over Thomas’s parentage. Did they realise that both sons were philanderers? And would they smile, or be horrified, to discover that a man they didn’t know, had fallen in love with both?
Thomas’s departure made the apartment seem empty, and each time I walked into the living area, I expected to see him with his pale long legs sprawled across the coffee table.
“I am glad he has gone,” Charlie said. “I told you that he would cause trouble, and I was right.”
“What trouble did he cause?”
“You are moping around the apartment because he has gone, and that means that my brother has played with your mind, and you did not resist.”
I could feel myself colouring up and made a pretence of tidying cushions on the sofa. “I’ve no idea what you are talking about.”
Charlie sat cross-legged on the floor and spread his latest paintings in front of him. “Did you think that I could not see what was happening?”
“Nothing happened,” I replied. “I tried to be hospitable towards your brother, that’s all.”
“And yet, you still managed to fall in love with him. You are no different to all the other people that he has tricked.”
“Charlie, you said that your brother was straight, and that turned out to be a lie.”
“My brother will sleep with anybody if he thinks that he can benefit from it. He will sleep with men and women. There is no distinction between them.”
I thought about the private conversation I’d had with Thomas and the stories that he’d told me about Charlie. “It seems to me that you are both alike, and besides, I didn’t sleep with your brother.”
“Then you are fortunate because he does not love you. He loves only himself.”
I slumped on the sofa and watched him make a show of rearranging the canvases. “Charlie, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that you’re jealous.” He tutted but didn’t reply.
I spent the rest of the day writing and tried to keep away from him. We were annoyed with each other, and the limited contact we had, turned out to be frosty. I realised that this was the first time that we’d fallen out.
I went to bed around midnight and expected Charlie to sleep in his own room, the one that Thomas had slept in for a fortnight. I couldn’t sleep, and about one in the morning I heard the patter of feet in the hallway. The door opened quietly, and Charlie came into the bedroom to undress. He slipped into bed beside me, and I felt the warmth from his body.
“I do not like it when we fall out,” he said gently. I didn’t reply. “And I was hoping that I could sleep here all the time, if that is okay with you?”
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 