Eyes in a crowd, laughing eyes, brown eyes.
Eyes meet, souls meld, our eyes fuse in time and space.
Eyes that paint you with their gaze, my eyes worship.
Eyes occluded, lids shut out the world, hold rapture within.
Eyes reopened, wide with wonder, now see what was once imagined.
Eyes damp, glistening diamonds, my eyes melting into you.
Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B
Saturday, 31 July 2010
Monday, 26 July 2010
Fiction
It was all starting to unravel. How, why, had his deception been uncovered - he had racked his brain for hours to try to remember where the mistake had been made, where the persona he had so painstakingly invented and developed had proved to be flawed. Hours, days, weeks had been devoted to checking and cross-checking every detail, it had become an obsession that had come to dominate most of his waking life.
It had begun as a joke, almost - he'd read a few anguished comments about a blogger in the States who'd been exposed as an adult posing as a gay teen, read the blog, saw it was so full of inconsistencies and nonsequiturs that anyone with half a brain should've been able to see through it, but, he thought, there were obviously a lot of people out there who were either daft enough or desperate enough to want to believe this kind of thing. He thought - no, he knew - that he was far cleverer than that, he could easily pretend to be someone else, and keep up the act indefinitely. After all, he had little else to do. Since that day...his mind shied away from thinking about that day, as always...since that day, he hadn't been able to work, he subsisted on the pittance that the state deigned to give him, and a little money that was left after virtually all of the inheritance from his parents had been spent on the lease for basement flat where he now eked out his existence. His world consisted of the flat, the few hundred yards between his front door and the mini-supermarket which marked the furthest he could walk, with the aid of his sticks, without inducing appalling muscle spasms in his lower back and legs that even the powerful prescription-only painkillers that were delivered every eight weeks could barely contain, and...the internet. On the net, he could go anywhere, see anything, and, he decided, be anyone.
So he came to be 'Alfie', supposedly 14 years old when he first appeared in Blogland as a commenter on various blogs of others of around that age, and on one or two discussion forums that he'd learned about where teenagers who were uncertain about their sexual orientation went to discuss issues in their lives - 'Am I gay?', 'Should I come out?', 'Will my parents kill me?' and the rest, all so stereotypical, he thought, so easy, with his extra life experience, to become the leader of the little pack by imperceptible steps, always having the ready answer to his cyber-friends' problems, and the vocabulary to express his thoughts. 'Why don't you start your own blog?' they asked him, you could help so many people like us, you're so cool. His vanity was massaged by such things, though he played 'hard-to-get' for a while, quite a few months actually, long enough, he thought, to give the impression of genuinely not wanting to put himself 'out there', what if my real-life friends, my family see my blog, I'll be toast, before 'reluctantly' allowing himself to be persuaded. 'Alfie's Den' was born, and soon hoovered up dozens of followers, all wanting to read about the life, adventures and crushes of 'Alfie', the maybe gay, maybe bi, ultra-cool teen who seemed to be able to have everything his followers wanted, loads of friends, a little 'experimentation' on a sleepover or two, parents who loved him and kept him well supplied with the latest fashions and gadgets, even good grades at school. After a few weeks, he decided that he would throw a few more sprats to the assembled shoal, and started posting a photo or two, of 'his school', 'his house', 'his dad's car', all good quality pictures of good quality places and things, all found online, and, in terms of his life, completely fictitious.
Then came the fateful day, although he didn't know it at the time. His followers had been plaguing him, on the blog, and on IM, for a picture of himself. Again, he portrayed himself as reticent, 'if anyone I know finds this, I'm history'. He'd already got a photograph lined up, but he didn't want to post anything that could be found on an online image search, so he scanned a picture into his computer that he knew for certain wasn't in cyberspace - he knew, because he had the only copy of it, taken on his own camera a quarter of a century earlier, a picture of...again, his mind rebelled against any thought which took him back to that darkness that pervaded every minute of every day, consciously or unconsciously. It was a picture of a handsome, shirtless mid-teenage boy, taken against the backdrop of a beautifully sunny day in the Lake District, Wastwater in all its glory in the background. A picture of a happy time, an Outward Bound course where he had shared a tent with...the person in the photo. He didn't post the picture on his blog, though, he e-mailed it to a select group of his most loyal acolytes, who'd followed him from the forum to the blog, and had, by all appearances, hung on every word he had written. 'Dane11', 'Boy In Limbo', 'Cammy', 'Whisper', 'Next Big Star', three or four others, beatified by his munificence - 'I wouldn't do this for anyone, you're special, guys, don't spread it around.'
Everything continued as before for some weeks, 'Alfie's Den' in full flow, almost daily posts of a completely imaginary teenage life, progressing to 'Alfie's' fifteenth birthday. And then the bombshell. A late night post detailing a 'well brilliant' birthday party, the regular commenters saying how much they wished they'd been there, then -
'Anonymous said...
I'd wish you a happy birthday, except it isn't your birthday, is it, Stuart?"
He deleted the comment as soon as he saw it, less than 10 minutes after it had been posted, but the sight of his real name had made his guts dissolve. He felt sick, panicked, empty, nothing had made him feel this way since that day, when his father had come into his hospital room, and said "I'm so sorry, but I've got some bad news."
It was the middle of the school term, there was no way that 'Alfie' could suddenly 'disappear' for no reason, so he carried on with the charade for a few more days, doing his best to make the posts as upbeat as ever, but it all felt hollow, meaningless, especially when the 'Anonymous' comments appeared every time, full of irony and cynicism, and with his name, always in bold type, there to taunt him. He felt he could hardly sleep, eat or leave the flat, in case another comment appeared when he was away from the computer. He didn't want to change to a 'pre-approval' style of comment moderation, because he was afraid it would be obvious that something was amiss with the blog, paranoia was the watchword of the week. Then the comments stopped, as suddenly as they'd started. He maintained his obsessive vigil over the computer for another couple of days, before, very gradually, starting to unwind a little. The school half-term holidays were approaching, he began a thread of the story where 'Alfie' was going to be away on a camping trip for a few days, no internet access or mobile phone coverage, so 'no posts, guys, sorry'.
The first day of the school holiday arrived, and he felt that he could finally relax, and think about how he was going to extricate himself from his predicament. An idea was beginning to form in his head, it would take a few months to come to fruition, 'Dad's been promoted, but we've got to move to the Gulf, I don't know whether I'll be able to keep the blog going, I'll still be around for another few months, though, guys'. Give them enough time, do it gradually, and they'll take it in, they always do. He began to feel rather better with life, give it until the Christmas holidays, and 'Alfie' will be no more.
Then the doorbell rang. He started, he wasn't used to visitors, apart from the prescription deliveries, but he knew that wasn't due for another couple of weeks. Ignore it, they'll soon go away. The bell rang again, longer this time, plangent in the otherwise quiet flat. Then a third time. And a fourth. Confusion filled his mind. It seemed like someone knew he was there, and was willing to wait until he answered the door, but who, why?
Another long, shrill clangour, like tinnitus, speared his auditory nerve and finally broke down his resistance - whoever it was would get a hearty piece of his mind, he thought, as he limped to the front door. He opened the door as brusquely as he could manage, and glared at what he expected to be eye level, only to see the top of a tousled head. He shifted his gaze downwards, and froze. On his doorstep was a boy, five foot nothing, seven stone wringing wet, at a guess, with a look of utter hatred in his eyes and a...large gun in his right hand.
"Get inside, Stuart."
He stepped back instinctively, the boy quickly slipped through the door and pushed it closed behind him.
"Get in the front room."
"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" Stuart stammered out.
"You've ruined my life, so I'm going to end yours," the boy spat out. "Sit in that chair." He motioned towards the computer chair. Stuart sat, hesitantly, his eyes never leaving the weapon, so obscenely huge in the small hand.
"What are you talking about, ruined your life, I've never even met you..."
"You can call me 'Whisper'...'Alfie'," he sneered.
Stuart's stomach clenched on itself, he'd been talking to this boy on forum, blog and IM for almost a year, almost every day, all the while pretending to be his own age, giving him spurious encouragement and advice, toying with him. Now the boy was here, in his flat, filled with rage and armed with a deadly weapon, and not in any mood for conciliation, apparently.
"I came out because of you, and ever since, my life has been misery, my mum and dad hardly speak to me, my so-called friends won't have anything to do with me, I've been beaten up at school, I might as well be dead. So I'm going to be, and so are you." He waved the gun menacingly. Stuart's eyes followed, like a rabbit hypnotised by a cobra.
"Whisper...Whisper, please be careful with that gun, please let me explain."
"EXPLAIN," the boy yelled, making Stuart flinch back into the chair, as though he was trying to percolate into its structure. "Explain, you've got to be joking. All you can do is beg, and even then I'll ignore you."
"I can explain, not excuse, but explain. No-one knows this story, and if you're serious about killing us both, no-one will. But I want to tell the story anyway, if you're willing to listen." The boy said nothing, but didn't give any sign that he wouldn't hear Stuart out. "The picture I sent you, and the others, you know it's not a picture of me, but it's a real picture of someone I..." He almost said 'know', "knew. It's a picture of the only person I've ever loved, and the only person who ever loved me back. And he's not here anymore, because of me. That picture was taken when we were both 15, 25 years ago, and we were happy together, we were going to spend our whole lives together. We got all the bad things that have happened to you, and more, but it was all going to be worth it, once we left school, left home, we were going to come to London and live happily ever after. But I..." Stuart's voice cracked with emotion, "I killed him, it was all my fault. I'd just passed my driving test, I thought I was the best driver in the world, I was going much too fast on this country road, I....I crashed into a tree. I woke up in hospital, my dad came in to my room a few hours later, he told me...told me...Ash was dead, he never regained consciousness. I've never been able to walk properly since, never been able...to do anything much, except spend my time on computers, and dream of escaping from being me, from the pain in my body, and the pain in my mind. I just thought I was so clever, when I invented 'Alfie', I'd found a way of being someone else, someone who a few people liked - people like you, Whisper. I know my apologies are not going to fix anything, it's too late for that, but I really am sorry you've been hurt, and all the more sorry you've been hurt by me trying to blot out my pain - I see now how selfish I've been. I deserve to die."
There was a thud which once again made Stuart shudder, but after a split second, he realised that the sound was the gun dropping from the boy's hand to the floor. Their eyes met, both glittering with unshed tears, before Stuart glanced nervously to where the firearm had fallen.
"It's OK, it's a fake, my dad collects them. I just wanted to frighten you. And my name's Craig."
Stuart gasped. "You succeeded. I really thought you were going to kill me."
"I felt like I wanted to. I spent all that time thinking you were like a cooler version of me, only to find that you were a fat bloke, as old as my dad."
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want, but how did you find out? I spent hours and hours trying to make sure I kept the story consistent. I didn't think I'd made any mistakes, but I must've done."
Craig smiled a brief, wan smile. "I should leave you wondering, so you're not tempted to do it again, but I won't - you didn't make any mistakes in the blog, not that I noticed, anyway, your only mistake was to have your postman's son as one of your followers. I sometimes walk with my dad, we walk the dog while he's doing his round, and I deliver some of the letters for him. I delivered one to you, and saw your computer on through a crack in the curtains - I could see that you were on Blogger, that's what I use, so I looked again, closer, and saw that you were writing 'Alfie's Den'. I remembered your name from the letter I'd delivered, so I set up a new ID and started leaving those 'Anonymous' comments. I was really angry, I really thought you were a kid like me, then I told a couple of the others on IM, they knew my dad collected the replica guns, so we came up with this plan to scare you. But it looks to me like you've just done it because you're sad and lonely, so I'll forgive you. I don't know if the others will, though."
"Craig...I know there's not much I can say, but I will tell everyone the truth now, and make my apologies. Like you say, it's up to the individuals whether they can forgive me. Would you be willing to shake my hand?"
The boy looked intently at Stuart for a moment, then slowly raised his right hand, the one that had clasped that horrifying weapon so recently. They shook hands, briefly.
"Thank you, Craig. I've got a lot of amends to make, I'd better start soon."
****
Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B
It had begun as a joke, almost - he'd read a few anguished comments about a blogger in the States who'd been exposed as an adult posing as a gay teen, read the blog, saw it was so full of inconsistencies and nonsequiturs that anyone with half a brain should've been able to see through it, but, he thought, there were obviously a lot of people out there who were either daft enough or desperate enough to want to believe this kind of thing. He thought - no, he knew - that he was far cleverer than that, he could easily pretend to be someone else, and keep up the act indefinitely. After all, he had little else to do. Since that day...his mind shied away from thinking about that day, as always...since that day, he hadn't been able to work, he subsisted on the pittance that the state deigned to give him, and a little money that was left after virtually all of the inheritance from his parents had been spent on the lease for basement flat where he now eked out his existence. His world consisted of the flat, the few hundred yards between his front door and the mini-supermarket which marked the furthest he could walk, with the aid of his sticks, without inducing appalling muscle spasms in his lower back and legs that even the powerful prescription-only painkillers that were delivered every eight weeks could barely contain, and...the internet. On the net, he could go anywhere, see anything, and, he decided, be anyone.
So he came to be 'Alfie', supposedly 14 years old when he first appeared in Blogland as a commenter on various blogs of others of around that age, and on one or two discussion forums that he'd learned about where teenagers who were uncertain about their sexual orientation went to discuss issues in their lives - 'Am I gay?', 'Should I come out?', 'Will my parents kill me?' and the rest, all so stereotypical, he thought, so easy, with his extra life experience, to become the leader of the little pack by imperceptible steps, always having the ready answer to his cyber-friends' problems, and the vocabulary to express his thoughts. 'Why don't you start your own blog?' they asked him, you could help so many people like us, you're so cool. His vanity was massaged by such things, though he played 'hard-to-get' for a while, quite a few months actually, long enough, he thought, to give the impression of genuinely not wanting to put himself 'out there', what if my real-life friends, my family see my blog, I'll be toast, before 'reluctantly' allowing himself to be persuaded. 'Alfie's Den' was born, and soon hoovered up dozens of followers, all wanting to read about the life, adventures and crushes of 'Alfie', the maybe gay, maybe bi, ultra-cool teen who seemed to be able to have everything his followers wanted, loads of friends, a little 'experimentation' on a sleepover or two, parents who loved him and kept him well supplied with the latest fashions and gadgets, even good grades at school. After a few weeks, he decided that he would throw a few more sprats to the assembled shoal, and started posting a photo or two, of 'his school', 'his house', 'his dad's car', all good quality pictures of good quality places and things, all found online, and, in terms of his life, completely fictitious.
Then came the fateful day, although he didn't know it at the time. His followers had been plaguing him, on the blog, and on IM, for a picture of himself. Again, he portrayed himself as reticent, 'if anyone I know finds this, I'm history'. He'd already got a photograph lined up, but he didn't want to post anything that could be found on an online image search, so he scanned a picture into his computer that he knew for certain wasn't in cyberspace - he knew, because he had the only copy of it, taken on his own camera a quarter of a century earlier, a picture of...again, his mind rebelled against any thought which took him back to that darkness that pervaded every minute of every day, consciously or unconsciously. It was a picture of a handsome, shirtless mid-teenage boy, taken against the backdrop of a beautifully sunny day in the Lake District, Wastwater in all its glory in the background. A picture of a happy time, an Outward Bound course where he had shared a tent with...the person in the photo. He didn't post the picture on his blog, though, he e-mailed it to a select group of his most loyal acolytes, who'd followed him from the forum to the blog, and had, by all appearances, hung on every word he had written. 'Dane11', 'Boy In Limbo', 'Cammy', 'Whisper', 'Next Big Star', three or four others, beatified by his munificence - 'I wouldn't do this for anyone, you're special, guys, don't spread it around.'
Everything continued as before for some weeks, 'Alfie's Den' in full flow, almost daily posts of a completely imaginary teenage life, progressing to 'Alfie's' fifteenth birthday. And then the bombshell. A late night post detailing a 'well brilliant' birthday party, the regular commenters saying how much they wished they'd been there, then -
'Anonymous said...
I'd wish you a happy birthday, except it isn't your birthday, is it, Stuart?"
He deleted the comment as soon as he saw it, less than 10 minutes after it had been posted, but the sight of his real name had made his guts dissolve. He felt sick, panicked, empty, nothing had made him feel this way since that day, when his father had come into his hospital room, and said "I'm so sorry, but I've got some bad news."
It was the middle of the school term, there was no way that 'Alfie' could suddenly 'disappear' for no reason, so he carried on with the charade for a few more days, doing his best to make the posts as upbeat as ever, but it all felt hollow, meaningless, especially when the 'Anonymous' comments appeared every time, full of irony and cynicism, and with his name, always in bold type, there to taunt him. He felt he could hardly sleep, eat or leave the flat, in case another comment appeared when he was away from the computer. He didn't want to change to a 'pre-approval' style of comment moderation, because he was afraid it would be obvious that something was amiss with the blog, paranoia was the watchword of the week. Then the comments stopped, as suddenly as they'd started. He maintained his obsessive vigil over the computer for another couple of days, before, very gradually, starting to unwind a little. The school half-term holidays were approaching, he began a thread of the story where 'Alfie' was going to be away on a camping trip for a few days, no internet access or mobile phone coverage, so 'no posts, guys, sorry'.
The first day of the school holiday arrived, and he felt that he could finally relax, and think about how he was going to extricate himself from his predicament. An idea was beginning to form in his head, it would take a few months to come to fruition, 'Dad's been promoted, but we've got to move to the Gulf, I don't know whether I'll be able to keep the blog going, I'll still be around for another few months, though, guys'. Give them enough time, do it gradually, and they'll take it in, they always do. He began to feel rather better with life, give it until the Christmas holidays, and 'Alfie' will be no more.
Then the doorbell rang. He started, he wasn't used to visitors, apart from the prescription deliveries, but he knew that wasn't due for another couple of weeks. Ignore it, they'll soon go away. The bell rang again, longer this time, plangent in the otherwise quiet flat. Then a third time. And a fourth. Confusion filled his mind. It seemed like someone knew he was there, and was willing to wait until he answered the door, but who, why?
Another long, shrill clangour, like tinnitus, speared his auditory nerve and finally broke down his resistance - whoever it was would get a hearty piece of his mind, he thought, as he limped to the front door. He opened the door as brusquely as he could manage, and glared at what he expected to be eye level, only to see the top of a tousled head. He shifted his gaze downwards, and froze. On his doorstep was a boy, five foot nothing, seven stone wringing wet, at a guess, with a look of utter hatred in his eyes and a...large gun in his right hand.
"Get inside, Stuart."
He stepped back instinctively, the boy quickly slipped through the door and pushed it closed behind him.
"Get in the front room."
"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" Stuart stammered out.
"You've ruined my life, so I'm going to end yours," the boy spat out. "Sit in that chair." He motioned towards the computer chair. Stuart sat, hesitantly, his eyes never leaving the weapon, so obscenely huge in the small hand.
"What are you talking about, ruined your life, I've never even met you..."
"You can call me 'Whisper'...'Alfie'," he sneered.
Stuart's stomach clenched on itself, he'd been talking to this boy on forum, blog and IM for almost a year, almost every day, all the while pretending to be his own age, giving him spurious encouragement and advice, toying with him. Now the boy was here, in his flat, filled with rage and armed with a deadly weapon, and not in any mood for conciliation, apparently.
"I came out because of you, and ever since, my life has been misery, my mum and dad hardly speak to me, my so-called friends won't have anything to do with me, I've been beaten up at school, I might as well be dead. So I'm going to be, and so are you." He waved the gun menacingly. Stuart's eyes followed, like a rabbit hypnotised by a cobra.
"Whisper...Whisper, please be careful with that gun, please let me explain."
"EXPLAIN," the boy yelled, making Stuart flinch back into the chair, as though he was trying to percolate into its structure. "Explain, you've got to be joking. All you can do is beg, and even then I'll ignore you."
"I can explain, not excuse, but explain. No-one knows this story, and if you're serious about killing us both, no-one will. But I want to tell the story anyway, if you're willing to listen." The boy said nothing, but didn't give any sign that he wouldn't hear Stuart out. "The picture I sent you, and the others, you know it's not a picture of me, but it's a real picture of someone I..." He almost said 'know', "knew. It's a picture of the only person I've ever loved, and the only person who ever loved me back. And he's not here anymore, because of me. That picture was taken when we were both 15, 25 years ago, and we were happy together, we were going to spend our whole lives together. We got all the bad things that have happened to you, and more, but it was all going to be worth it, once we left school, left home, we were going to come to London and live happily ever after. But I..." Stuart's voice cracked with emotion, "I killed him, it was all my fault. I'd just passed my driving test, I thought I was the best driver in the world, I was going much too fast on this country road, I....I crashed into a tree. I woke up in hospital, my dad came in to my room a few hours later, he told me...told me...Ash was dead, he never regained consciousness. I've never been able to walk properly since, never been able...to do anything much, except spend my time on computers, and dream of escaping from being me, from the pain in my body, and the pain in my mind. I just thought I was so clever, when I invented 'Alfie', I'd found a way of being someone else, someone who a few people liked - people like you, Whisper. I know my apologies are not going to fix anything, it's too late for that, but I really am sorry you've been hurt, and all the more sorry you've been hurt by me trying to blot out my pain - I see now how selfish I've been. I deserve to die."
There was a thud which once again made Stuart shudder, but after a split second, he realised that the sound was the gun dropping from the boy's hand to the floor. Their eyes met, both glittering with unshed tears, before Stuart glanced nervously to where the firearm had fallen.
"It's OK, it's a fake, my dad collects them. I just wanted to frighten you. And my name's Craig."
Stuart gasped. "You succeeded. I really thought you were going to kill me."
"I felt like I wanted to. I spent all that time thinking you were like a cooler version of me, only to find that you were a fat bloke, as old as my dad."
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want, but how did you find out? I spent hours and hours trying to make sure I kept the story consistent. I didn't think I'd made any mistakes, but I must've done."
Craig smiled a brief, wan smile. "I should leave you wondering, so you're not tempted to do it again, but I won't - you didn't make any mistakes in the blog, not that I noticed, anyway, your only mistake was to have your postman's son as one of your followers. I sometimes walk with my dad, we walk the dog while he's doing his round, and I deliver some of the letters for him. I delivered one to you, and saw your computer on through a crack in the curtains - I could see that you were on Blogger, that's what I use, so I looked again, closer, and saw that you were writing 'Alfie's Den'. I remembered your name from the letter I'd delivered, so I set up a new ID and started leaving those 'Anonymous' comments. I was really angry, I really thought you were a kid like me, then I told a couple of the others on IM, they knew my dad collected the replica guns, so we came up with this plan to scare you. But it looks to me like you've just done it because you're sad and lonely, so I'll forgive you. I don't know if the others will, though."
"Craig...I know there's not much I can say, but I will tell everyone the truth now, and make my apologies. Like you say, it's up to the individuals whether they can forgive me. Would you be willing to shake my hand?"
The boy looked intently at Stuart for a moment, then slowly raised his right hand, the one that had clasped that horrifying weapon so recently. They shook hands, briefly.
"Thank you, Craig. I've got a lot of amends to make, I'd better start soon."
****
Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B
Sunday, 18 July 2010
Longing
Author's note: This story includes explicit sexual content, involving contact between an adult male and a boy below the age of consent. If you find this in any way offensive or distasteful, please read no further, and/or if it is illegal for you to read such material in your jurisdiction due to age or domicile, please read no further. The author does not condone or promote any illegal activity. This story is entirely a product of my imagination, no minors were involved in any way in its compilation, and the characters and actions portrayed are entirely fictitious. The characters in this story may not engage in safe sex, because, being fictitious, they don't need to. You, as a real person, do.
****
On the Saturday afternoon before Christmas, I was sitting at home, watching TV and feeling smug. Smug, because I'd completed all my Christmas shopping, the presents were wrapped and sitting neatly in my wardrobe, ready to take their place under the tree on Christmas Eve, while my wife and two daughters were currently struggling around Manchester city centre, along with a cast of thousands, battling to complete their purchases. My wife had rung a short time earlier.
"It's a nightmare, I can see why you didn't want to come with us!"
"You see, it's not always us blokes that are disorganised at Christmas." I'd taken a day off work at the beginning of December, and managed to get everything done. "I told you that you should have come with me the other week."
"Thanks for the benefit of your 20/20 hindsight, you git! Anyway, we're nearly done, we should be on the 3:00 train home. Have the kettle on for a quarter to four!"
The Cheshire village we lived in had an hourly train service to and from Manchester, some thirty-five minutes away, and we only lived a few minutes' walk from the station, so it was a regular occurrence to go into town by train, rather than taking the car and then having to fight for a parking space, especially on busy days, and days didn't get much busier than this particular Saturday. I congratulated myself again on my foresight, and settled back to my armchair and the TV sport. I'd hardly had the chance to sit down when the doorbell rang. Do these double glazing people never take a day off, I muttered, as I headed into the hallway. Before I'd even opened the door, though, the salesman theory was pretty much disproved, because the silhouette visible through the frosted glass was obviously that of someone around the age of my younger daughter, 12 or so.
I opened the door to find a slightly built, dark haired boy I didn't recognise on the threshold.
"Hello," I said neutrally.
"Hello. Is Kim in, please?" the boy replied politely.
Kim was my younger daughter, in her second year at senior school, a couple of months short of her thirteenth birthday.
"No, I'm sorry, she's gone Christmas shopping with her mum and her sister. They should be back at about 3:45". It was just after 2:15. "Did Kim know you were coming?"
The boy looked crestfallen. "I was talking to her on MSN last night, she said she'd be in this afternoon."
"I think their shopping has taken longer than they thought, it's very busy in Manchester. Can you come back later?"
The boy looked even more downcast. "Not...not really. I've come on the train. I haven't got enough money for another ticket." He turned to go. "Could you tell Kim that Max was here, please?"
"Wait a minute, Max. I didn't know that you'd come a long way. Do you want to wait for Kim?" Max looked uncertain. "Don't worry, I don't bite!"
The boy smiled nervously. "If you're sure it's not a problem....I would like to see Kim today." He looked embarrassed, I could remember feeling exactly the same the first time I met my first girlfriend's parents.
"Of course it's not a problem, come in. I'm Steve, by the way, I don't go for formality! Take your coat off, there are some coathooks in the hallway, there. Make yourself at home."
I was watching a rugby match on TV, Max came into the living room and sat on the sofa while I resumed my position in the armchair. "Do you like rugby, Max?"
"Well...it's OK, I guess."
"I'll take that as a 'no', then! Would you rather do something else while you're waiting. I can put the computer on in the study, if you like."
"If you don't mind...yes, please."
"Of course, it's no problem. I assume you know what you're doing, or is there anything you'll need help with."
"I'll be OK, Steve. We use computers at school, and I've got one at home, too."
"I guessed so, it's oldies like me that can't cope with modern technology! The fridge is in the study, help yourself to a cold drink if you want one, or give me a shout if you want anything else."
I started up the computer for Max, and left him to it. I heard him go to the fridge ten minutes or so later, followed by the hiss of a soft drink can being opened. I wouldn't mind a drink myself, I thought, it'll be half-time in the match in a couple of minutes, I'll go then.
As the whistle blew to signal the break in the game, I got up and headed for the small room on the opposite side of the hallway where both Max and the fridge were situated. As I got to the door, I could see that what was on the screen wasn't exactly what I would have guessed that the boy's parents would've chosen for him to look at. Max's eyes were glued to the screen, and, although he more or less had his back to me, it was pretty obvious from the way he was moving that he was doing more than just watching. I wasn't a prude by any means, but this young boy watching porn on my computer didn't strike me as being a very good idea.
"You'll get me into trouble watching that kind of stuff," I said quietly.
Unsurprisingly, Max jumped as though I'd stuck a red-hot wire into him. "I...I'm...really sorry." He seemed on the point of tears. "My friend at school told me about this...website and...oh, I'm really sorry, please don't tell my mum and dad, they'll kill me."
"I don't know your parents, or even your surname, so don't worry about that. Look..." I tried to find something reassuring to say, "I was your age not that many years ago - well, about thirty, anyway! - I know sex is a big subject of interest as you start growing up. We didn't have the internet when I was a boy, but there were magazines and things - I found some in my dad's bedside cupboard once, and I didn't waste much time in looking at them. I learned more about what a woman looked like from there than from what little sex education we had."
Max looked very uncomfortable all over again, and, at that point, I looked more closely at what was still playing on the computer screen. It was pornographic, hard-core at that, but there wasn't a female in sight.
"Oh" was all I could find to say, at which point the boy burst into tears, burying his face in his hands. I was fairly used to the moods and emotions of girls, having two of my own and a younger sister who in turn had had a daughter, but I had no idea of how to deal with a crying boy. If one of my daughters had been as upset as Max obviously was, I'd have given them a big hug, but you didn't hug boys...did you? I laid my hand on his shoulder instead. He jumped again, but didn't make any move to brush my hand away.
"Hey, Max, come on, it's not that bad. Shall we turn this off for now? We can talk if you want."
I closed the video and cleared the browser history - I knew my wife wouldn't even know what a browser history was, but I didn't want my daughters stumbling over what the boy had been watching, not least because I didn't want them to think I'd been watching it. Max had calmed down a little, but was still sniffling intermittently. After another minute or two, he uncovered his face, and turned to look at me with eyes that were nothing short of pleading.
"No-one's supposed to know," he sniffed, "about me, I mean."
"What about you, sunshine?"
"That...that I'm...I mean I like..." His voice gave out into another sob.
I guessed what he wanted to say. "That you're gay, you mean?"
Another sob, then a slight, ever so slight, nod of his head.
"Steve, you're the only person who knows." He blurted out the words. "I had a talk with my dad a while ago, made it as though it was someone else at school who was gay, he told me to stay away from anyone like that, that he wouldn't want a son like that. What will he do when he finds out, he'll throw me out, won't he?"
"He can't just throw you out, parents have legal responsibilities for their children, especially when they're as young as you. Anyway, how is he going to find out, you're not going to tell him and neither am I."
"Do you mean it, you're not going to tell anyone?"
"Of course I mean it, I don't go around broadcasting my house guests' secrets to all and sundry!"
Max looked like the whole weight of the world had been taken from his shoulders. He smiled broadly, got up from the computer chair where he'd been sitting and threw his arms around me.
"Calm down, I haven't done that much. Not that I dislike hugs, but we've only known each other for about half an hour."
Max's face fell again. "Come on, I'm only joking, don't take it all so seriously. You've got to remember I'm only used to girls, I've got a wife, two daughters, a sister and a niece - not many boys amongst that lot! So, tell me, you and Kim are friends at school, I assume."
"Yeah, she's in my form. She's really nice, and interesting to talk to."
"I know that, she's a bright girl, but I also know she's looking for a boyfriend - does she think you want to be that boyfriend? Not that I want to sound as though I'm being some kind of heavy dad, but I wouldn't want her to be upset, and from what you've said, you're not likely to be looking for a girlfriend."
"No, we're just friends - Kim fancies a boy in year 9, anyway. I...sort of...find it easier to be friends with girls, because...well, sometimes I fancy the boys, and, besides, if it looks like I like girls a lot, people probably won't think I'm...gay."
It all sounded perfectly logical, and, although I'd suppressed the memory for years, eerily familiar. Familiar, because I'd been in exactly the position Max was in when I was his age, and a little older. And like Max, no-one knew. My memory began to drift to another time and place, almost thirty years earlier.
****
I had always been fascinated by the comings and goings along the canal and up and down its flight of locks as it passed through my home town, ever since I was a little boy. I'd badgered my dad to take me 'to see the boats' at every opportunity when I was small, until, as soon as I was deemed to be old enough not to fall in, or anything similarly deranged, at around 9 or 10, I was allowed to go on my own. 'On my own' was the operative phrase, because I had few friends and my only sibling was a sister six years younger than me, but I was happy in my own company, for the most part, and spent many hours, especially in the summer, either sitting beside one or another of the locks, or walking the towpath for the two miles between the top and bottom locks. Most of the boats were hired by holidaymakers for a week or two, but there were a handful of working boats, and a few owned by people who lived on them permanently, so, over the course of a couple of years, leading up to when I was around 12, I got to recognise some of the 'regulars' by sight, and they came to recognise me. That led to me chatting to one or two people, while they were traversing the locks, one of those people being Eddie.
Eddie worked for the railway, in some sort of engineering role, but his real love was his boat. He and his wife, Beryl, had, I later discovered, taken many canal holidays over the years, and had finally decided that it was the lifestyle they wanted to follow permanently, so they sold their house and bought a boat, spending most of their time cruising around the Midlands, always within commuting range of Eddie's job. I'd seen them a few times, and had taken a short trip on the canal with them once or twice, but the next time I spotted their attractive boat, Eddie was on his own. I was at the top lock. Eddie waved to me.
"Hi, Eddie. Where's Beryl?"
"Hello Steve. Beryl's mother has been taken to hospital, she's gone home to look after her dad. I'm taking the boat to the marina, I'll have to leave it there until Beryl's family problems are sorted out - we'll be staying with the in-laws for the time being. Have you got a couple of hours to help me get the boat through the locks?"
Even if I'd had anything else planned, a chance to take a boat through the whole flight wasn't something I was going to miss out on.
"Yeah, that would be great."
"Come aboard, then," Eddie offered his hand to help me onto the deck area at the stern, where the tiller and throttle were, "do you fancy driving her while I work the locks?" My eyes must've been the size of saucers, because Eddie burst out laughing. "I guess the answer's 'yes', then."
"Oh, yes please, Eddie, I've never done that before. Wow, this is really exciting."
Eddie laughed again as my enthusiasm bubbled over. "Come on, let's get going. At least the cut's not too busy today, we shouldn't get into too many queues."
We made pretty good progress, only having to wait for other boats climbing the flight at three or four of the eleven locks, so, just on two hours after we'd set out, I edged the boat out of the bottom lock, waited for Eddie to close the gates and come back aboard, and then headed into the calm water of the long pound which would eventually lead to the marina, ten miles or so further on.
"What time are you expected back home, Steve?" Eddie asked.
"No special time, my dad's at work and my mum's going shopping with my sister. Teatime, I suppose."
"Fancy some lunch, I'm pretty peckish. I haven't got too much stuff on the boat, but I can stretch to some cheese on toast, I think."
"Yes, please, that would be nice."
We'd been chatting inconsequentially while taking the boat through the locks, but, as we moored and Eddie started making lunch, the tone of the conversation changed.
"Have you got a girlfriend, Steve?"
I blushed a little. "No...I...er, don't like girls all that much."
"No? I thought all boys your age thought about nothing else."
I was starting to get a bit flustered, thinking 'Does he know my secret - no, he can't, I've never told anyone.'
"What's up, Steve, you've gone a bit red. Have I hit a raw nerve?"
"I...I don't know what you mean."
"Have I asked something you're embarrassed about? Don't worry, I'm very broad-minded. If there's something you want to talk about, I'm your man."
There was a long, awkward silence - there were things I wanted to talk about, but I didn't really know if I could turn my inchoate mass of thoughts and feelings into words that would make any sense, even to me. Eddie's tone of voice changed, from his usual bluff, hearty self into something much gentler, as though he'd suddenly turned into a vicar, or something like that.
"Have you got a problem, Steve? It's OK, I won't make fun of you, whatever it is. You're a nice lad, and I wouldn't want to see you upset."
I still didn't know whether I wanted to speak, and if I did, what I wanted to say. Then, like a flash, I thought 'Why not? I might never see him again, it won't hurt.' I looked up at him from my seat.
"I think...I might...be a...might like...," my voice tailed off to a whisper, "boys."
"What makes you think that?" he asked, even more gently than before.
"I found some...dirty magazines in my dad's cupboard. I looked at the pictures, but I wasn't looking at the...women, I was only interested in...the men. It made me feel...strange inside, kind of shivery. I feel the same way at school sometimes, when we change for games, when we have a shower afterwards. I don't understand what it means. Girls don't make me feel like that, they just annoy me. Am I going to be...a homo?"
I used the school slang insult, not really knowing any other word to refer to...me?
Eddie looked at me reflectively for a few moments, then turned back to the cooker and took the toasted cheese from under the grill, turning the gas burner off. He handed me a plate, took one himself, sat on the opposite side of the saloon of the boat, looked at me thoughtfully again.
"I think you're a bit young to decide. They say a lot of boys go through a phase of liking other boys at around your age, but they still end up getting married and having kids. I don't think it's anything you need to worry about too much. Anyway, if you do end up that way, what does it matter? As long as you're happy and you're not hurting anyone, it's nobody else's business."
"Did you like boys when you were younger?" I asked him.
The bluff Eddie briefly resurfaced. "Blimey, that's a straight question!" He chuckled. "OK, a straight question deserves a straight answer. Yes, I had a friend I...messed around with. He was your age, I was a little bit older, about 14. It started as a 'you show me yours, and I'll show you mine' game, and we kind of took it from there. We both enjoyed ourselves, no-one else knew, we stayed friends afterwards - he was the best man at my wedding, actually. I don't see him very often these days, he moved to Scotland, works on the North Sea oil rigs, but we still send Christmas cards and the like. There, so now you know something about me that Beryl doesn't even know."
"I won't tell."
"I should hope not! I wouldn't have told you if I thought you were going to shout it from the rooftops! I'll tell you something else as well." His voice seemed to waver a little. "You really remind me of him as he was when we...played."
I felt a massive rush of butterflies in my stomach, for reasons I barely understood. It wasn't fear, though. More expectancy, even hope that something - I didn't really know what - was going to happen.
"Eddie...do you mean you...like me?"
He swallowed, visibly. It seemed to be his turn not to know what to say. I wondered if he was feeling anything like the shivers that were coursing through my young body at that moment, like lightning from my brain, down my spine and directly to my groin.
He opened his mouth, but no sound emerged at first. His mind didn't seem to be able to command his tongue.
"I...I think...I do mean that, Steve."
For long seconds, neither of us spoke, we hardly even seemed to breathe. I broke the silence, the stillness.
"I like you, Eddie. I'm getting those shivers again, but I don't know what to do about it."
"Come over here, little man." I took the two steps across the narrow ocean between us, and stood in front of him. He wrapped me in his strong arms, drawing me into the warmth of his body, his clothes smelling of fabric softener and a faint undertone of some deodorant. He eased me a few inches away from him, his hand softly, so softly ran down from my stomach to the front of my jeans, where my boyhood was trying to punch a hole through the denim. I shuddered as his palm slid over my erection, then sucked my breath in through my teeth as he delicately squeezed my hardness between the tips of his thumb and one finger.
"That's quite something, Steve." He stood up, and took my small hand in his large one. He led me to the front area of the saloon, which was set up as a bedroom, with a curtained partition from the living area. The window curtains were closed, and when he drew the partition curtain across behind us, the light level dropped to very dim.
"Wait a minute, I'd better lock the main door." Eddie disappeared through the curtain, I heard the door being closed and the bolts being shot, then he returned.
"Look, Steve, before anything else happens, I need to say something to you. You're in charge here. If I do or say anything you don't like, tell me straight away and I promise I'll stop. Say 'stop' right now if you want to. I'm breaking the law, even by touching you like I already have. There's no way I want to hurt you, and I definitely don't want to go to prison. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"
I nodded. "It's alright, Eddie. It was nice when you touched me. I know I have to keep it a secret. I like you, I know you wouldn't hurt me on purpose, and I don't want you to go to prison, either. I don't want you to stop."
He sat on the bed, and gently drew me close to him again. With exaggerated care, as though I was made of eggshells and clad in candy floss, he began to undress me. His fingertips brushed against the skin of my sides as he took off my shirt, what would normally have been an unpleasant tickling being magically transformed to a harbinger of enchantments to come. I trembled as Eddie began to undo my trousers, at which he pulled his hand away as though he'd been scalded.
"Are you sure you're OK with this, Steve? Please tell me if you're not."
"Eddie, I'm fine. I've just never...felt like this before, so...excited."
He looked into my eyes for a long moment, as if trying to confirm, maybe convince himself, that I was telling the truth, before allowing his hands to resume their task. He eased my jeans over my narrow hips and down past my knees, I stepped out of the legs, leaving the garment in a puddle on the floor. He looked up at my face again, almost shyly, as he hooked his thumbs into the elastic waistband of my underwear, looking, I guessed, for consent to take that final step. I smiled slightly and nodded, feeling him stretch the elastic outwards at the front so as not to snag my penis as he removed the final, thin layer of my clothing, leaving me standing naked in front of him. His eyes devoured me, seeming to look everywhere at once, before a huge, somehow primal sigh escaped him.
"You're lovely, Steve, just as lovely as Colin was at your age." I blushed, as he continued quietly, as though speaking to himself. "I never thought I'd see anyone so stunning again."
I had no idea what kind of response was apposite to such a comment, so I said nothing. Eddie's hands found their way to my shoulders, and he guided me to turn around, very slowly, until my back was to him. Another sigh, dredged from deep within him, broke the silence.
"So lovely," Eddie said again, as his arms wrapped around my chest and hugged me in towards him, my head angled back a little so that my right cheek touched his left. "I'd love to make you feel good, Steve, would you let me?"
"Yes, oh, yes please." My voice had almost failed me, my words emerged as a breathless whisper. I was so aroused already, I could hardly keep still, I felt the need for touch, for stimulation, for the profound itch which was washing over every part of my body to be scratched. Eddie manoeuvred me carefully across his left leg and onto the bed beside him, then turned me around so that my head was resting on his leg, just above the knee, as I laid on my back. Using both of his hands, he ran his fingertips, then his palms, across every inch of my upper body, caressing my face, my neck, my shoulders, my arms, my chest, my stomach, sending tiny thrills, like electric shocks, racing around my torso and converging on the twitching, throbbing, stone-hard nexus of anticipation in my loins. I moaned and squirmed when he brushed across my nipples, sending another jolt of sensation careering through me. Eddie shuffled a little beneath me, then placed one arm under my shoulder blades and the other in the crook of my knees before effortlessly lifting himself and my light, pliant body, turning me around in midair and tenderly laying me back down at the head end of the bed, resting on a fluffy pillow. He smiled down at me.
"OK, Steve?"
"Yeah, oh, please, don't stop, Eddie."
He knelt on the bed beside me, and began working up my lower body as he'd previously worked down from the top, stroking my toes, feet, ankles, shins, ever-so-slowly higher, passing my knees, then reaching between my inner thighs and nudging them apart, coming up closer, any second now he's going to touch my screaming penis and it's going to be the best thing ever, I thought, I closed my eyes and felt...hot, wet breath on my glans, feeling like nothing I could even imagine, still less describe.
"Oh, Eddie, oh, that's unbelievable!"
He kept up a steady rhythm of deep breathing, caressing me with nothing more than air, then I could sense him, even through closed eyes, coming even closer, then, suddenly, the top half of my erection was engulfed in moist, gentle pressure from lips and tongue. I'll never know, from that day to this, why I didn't climax instantaneously, maybe it was the shock of the first contact, maybe I was so over-stimulated that my body couldn't respond at all. Eddie just held me in his mouth, stock-still, for what seemed like an eternity, until he could gauge, perhaps, that I wasn't going to boil over there and then, before starting to nibble and lick, dabble and suck, all with tiny, barely perceptible movements. The feeling just got better and better, until the whole midsection of my body, almost from chest to knees, seemed like an enormous sandpile of pleasure, with Eddie's lips and tongue adding grain after grain to the top, to the point where it was almost painful, then, with paroxysmal force, the whole edifice collapsed into an avalanche of delight, surging out from between my legs to deluge every inch of my body. I could hear myself whimpering as spasm after spasm of my dry orgasm - 6,7,8?...I was too overwhelmed to even think of counting - ripped through me, but the sounds I was making seemed to be detached from me, as though being produced by someone far away. Eventually, the maelstrom of feelings began to calm, and I began to feel uncomfortably sensitive.
"Oh, Eddie, too much, please!"
He released me from his blissful grip, very careful, as with everything else, not to do anything that would detract from my wonderful experience. And wonderful it was, a hundred times better than my boyish attempts at masturbation, like comparing an old wreck with a Rolls Royce.
"Eddie, that was so good, I've never felt anything like that in my life, thank you so much." I was very emotional, as though I could cry my eyes out or burst out into delirious laughter, or both, at any moment. "I want to do something for you, what can I do for you?"
"You don't need to do anything for me beyond what you've done already."
"But I haven't done anything, I just laid there and you made me feel fantastic."
"Oh, but Steve, you've done more than you can know. Every sight, every sound, touch, taste and smell of the last half hour is up here..." He tapped his forehead. "...up here for ever. And you've done what all the magicians and alchemists of the past, and all the scientists of the present can never do - you've made me 14 again, lying on a bed with my best buddy, loving each other. I'll tell you what you can do, come and give me a hug." As I watched, a tear or two squeezed out of the corner of his eyes, making me reach up instinctively and put my arms around his neck, and kiss him passionately on the lips, in a way I'd never kissed anyone before, and wouldn't again for many years after.
"Thank you, Steve, that was beautiful. Will you lay here with me for a while?"
He laid on his back, and I settled my naked body into his side, his arm wrapped around my back, my head resting on his shoulder. The next thing I remember, I woke up shivering.
"Eddie, sorry, I fell asleep on you. What time is it?"
"Just after 3:00." I shivered again. "Sorry, Steve, I should've found you a blanket, but I was just admiring you and enjoying watching you sleep. Get dressed now, and I'll make you a hot drink, and then we'll have to go - the marina closes at 5:30, and you need to get home, your mum will think you've been kidnapped."
I knew he was right, but I didn't really want to leave, I was like someone who had just had a mystical experience. I sipped my tea as slowly as I could, but the inevitable bottom of the mug arrived, and it really was time to part.
"When will you be back this way, Eddie?"
"I can't say at the moment, little man, it depends on Beryl's mum. Hopefully fairly soon, though."
"Eddie...thank you so much for today, it's been the best day of my life."
"Thank you too, little man, I haven't had many better ones myself, and, like I said, it's in my memory forever. Keep looking out for us, I'm sure it won't be too long."
He looked quickly up and down the canal, and, seeing no-one nearby, literally lifted me off my feet, kissed me on both cheeks, nose and finally on the lips, and set me down on the towpath. "For remembrance!" He laughed his hearty Eddie laugh. I never saw or heard of him again.
****
"Steve. STEVE!" I was jerked back to the present. "The phone's ringing!"
"Sorry, Max, I was really away with the fairies."
I went into the hallway to answer the phone, then a minute or two later, rejoined Max in the study.
"Sorry about the daydreaming before, you must think I'm a right one!" Max grinned. "I just got thinking about something that happened to me when I was about your age."
"Good or bad?"
"Oh, very good, one of my favourite days. It's just that what you were saying took me right back. A good friend told me something that day that I reckon you might like to think about, about being straight or gay. He said 'What does it matter? As long as you're happy and you're not hurting anyone, it's nobody else's business.' I don't think that's a bad philosophy of life." Max looked like a light bulb had gone on in his head. "That was Kim's mum on the phone, by the way, they've just left Wilmslow. Why don't you walk down to the station and meet them, I'm sure Kim will be pleasantly surprised to see you. The tea will be made when you get back."
I let Max out of the front door, and watched him walk down to the corner of the street. He turned, saw me looking at him, and gave a little wave. Just like the wave I'd given Eddie, just before his boat went out of sight for the last time, all those years ago. Just one missing piece in my jigsaw, I thought, an hour of my life giving someone like Max what Eddie had given me, and giving me what I'd given him - the chance to be a boy again, and a memory to treasure for the rest of my life.
But until that missing piece falls into place, I just have my longing.
****
Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B
****
On the Saturday afternoon before Christmas, I was sitting at home, watching TV and feeling smug. Smug, because I'd completed all my Christmas shopping, the presents were wrapped and sitting neatly in my wardrobe, ready to take their place under the tree on Christmas Eve, while my wife and two daughters were currently struggling around Manchester city centre, along with a cast of thousands, battling to complete their purchases. My wife had rung a short time earlier.
"It's a nightmare, I can see why you didn't want to come with us!"
"You see, it's not always us blokes that are disorganised at Christmas." I'd taken a day off work at the beginning of December, and managed to get everything done. "I told you that you should have come with me the other week."
"Thanks for the benefit of your 20/20 hindsight, you git! Anyway, we're nearly done, we should be on the 3:00 train home. Have the kettle on for a quarter to four!"
The Cheshire village we lived in had an hourly train service to and from Manchester, some thirty-five minutes away, and we only lived a few minutes' walk from the station, so it was a regular occurrence to go into town by train, rather than taking the car and then having to fight for a parking space, especially on busy days, and days didn't get much busier than this particular Saturday. I congratulated myself again on my foresight, and settled back to my armchair and the TV sport. I'd hardly had the chance to sit down when the doorbell rang. Do these double glazing people never take a day off, I muttered, as I headed into the hallway. Before I'd even opened the door, though, the salesman theory was pretty much disproved, because the silhouette visible through the frosted glass was obviously that of someone around the age of my younger daughter, 12 or so.
I opened the door to find a slightly built, dark haired boy I didn't recognise on the threshold.
"Hello," I said neutrally.
"Hello. Is Kim in, please?" the boy replied politely.
Kim was my younger daughter, in her second year at senior school, a couple of months short of her thirteenth birthday.
"No, I'm sorry, she's gone Christmas shopping with her mum and her sister. They should be back at about 3:45". It was just after 2:15. "Did Kim know you were coming?"
The boy looked crestfallen. "I was talking to her on MSN last night, she said she'd be in this afternoon."
"I think their shopping has taken longer than they thought, it's very busy in Manchester. Can you come back later?"
The boy looked even more downcast. "Not...not really. I've come on the train. I haven't got enough money for another ticket." He turned to go. "Could you tell Kim that Max was here, please?"
"Wait a minute, Max. I didn't know that you'd come a long way. Do you want to wait for Kim?" Max looked uncertain. "Don't worry, I don't bite!"
The boy smiled nervously. "If you're sure it's not a problem....I would like to see Kim today." He looked embarrassed, I could remember feeling exactly the same the first time I met my first girlfriend's parents.
"Of course it's not a problem, come in. I'm Steve, by the way, I don't go for formality! Take your coat off, there are some coathooks in the hallway, there. Make yourself at home."
I was watching a rugby match on TV, Max came into the living room and sat on the sofa while I resumed my position in the armchair. "Do you like rugby, Max?"
"Well...it's OK, I guess."
"I'll take that as a 'no', then! Would you rather do something else while you're waiting. I can put the computer on in the study, if you like."
"If you don't mind...yes, please."
"Of course, it's no problem. I assume you know what you're doing, or is there anything you'll need help with."
"I'll be OK, Steve. We use computers at school, and I've got one at home, too."
"I guessed so, it's oldies like me that can't cope with modern technology! The fridge is in the study, help yourself to a cold drink if you want one, or give me a shout if you want anything else."
I started up the computer for Max, and left him to it. I heard him go to the fridge ten minutes or so later, followed by the hiss of a soft drink can being opened. I wouldn't mind a drink myself, I thought, it'll be half-time in the match in a couple of minutes, I'll go then.
As the whistle blew to signal the break in the game, I got up and headed for the small room on the opposite side of the hallway where both Max and the fridge were situated. As I got to the door, I could see that what was on the screen wasn't exactly what I would have guessed that the boy's parents would've chosen for him to look at. Max's eyes were glued to the screen, and, although he more or less had his back to me, it was pretty obvious from the way he was moving that he was doing more than just watching. I wasn't a prude by any means, but this young boy watching porn on my computer didn't strike me as being a very good idea.
"You'll get me into trouble watching that kind of stuff," I said quietly.
Unsurprisingly, Max jumped as though I'd stuck a red-hot wire into him. "I...I'm...really sorry." He seemed on the point of tears. "My friend at school told me about this...website and...oh, I'm really sorry, please don't tell my mum and dad, they'll kill me."
"I don't know your parents, or even your surname, so don't worry about that. Look..." I tried to find something reassuring to say, "I was your age not that many years ago - well, about thirty, anyway! - I know sex is a big subject of interest as you start growing up. We didn't have the internet when I was a boy, but there were magazines and things - I found some in my dad's bedside cupboard once, and I didn't waste much time in looking at them. I learned more about what a woman looked like from there than from what little sex education we had."
Max looked very uncomfortable all over again, and, at that point, I looked more closely at what was still playing on the computer screen. It was pornographic, hard-core at that, but there wasn't a female in sight.
"Oh" was all I could find to say, at which point the boy burst into tears, burying his face in his hands. I was fairly used to the moods and emotions of girls, having two of my own and a younger sister who in turn had had a daughter, but I had no idea of how to deal with a crying boy. If one of my daughters had been as upset as Max obviously was, I'd have given them a big hug, but you didn't hug boys...did you? I laid my hand on his shoulder instead. He jumped again, but didn't make any move to brush my hand away.
"Hey, Max, come on, it's not that bad. Shall we turn this off for now? We can talk if you want."
I closed the video and cleared the browser history - I knew my wife wouldn't even know what a browser history was, but I didn't want my daughters stumbling over what the boy had been watching, not least because I didn't want them to think I'd been watching it. Max had calmed down a little, but was still sniffling intermittently. After another minute or two, he uncovered his face, and turned to look at me with eyes that were nothing short of pleading.
"No-one's supposed to know," he sniffed, "about me, I mean."
"What about you, sunshine?"
"That...that I'm...I mean I like..." His voice gave out into another sob.
I guessed what he wanted to say. "That you're gay, you mean?"
Another sob, then a slight, ever so slight, nod of his head.
"Steve, you're the only person who knows." He blurted out the words. "I had a talk with my dad a while ago, made it as though it was someone else at school who was gay, he told me to stay away from anyone like that, that he wouldn't want a son like that. What will he do when he finds out, he'll throw me out, won't he?"
"He can't just throw you out, parents have legal responsibilities for their children, especially when they're as young as you. Anyway, how is he going to find out, you're not going to tell him and neither am I."
"Do you mean it, you're not going to tell anyone?"
"Of course I mean it, I don't go around broadcasting my house guests' secrets to all and sundry!"
Max looked like the whole weight of the world had been taken from his shoulders. He smiled broadly, got up from the computer chair where he'd been sitting and threw his arms around me.
"Calm down, I haven't done that much. Not that I dislike hugs, but we've only known each other for about half an hour."
Max's face fell again. "Come on, I'm only joking, don't take it all so seriously. You've got to remember I'm only used to girls, I've got a wife, two daughters, a sister and a niece - not many boys amongst that lot! So, tell me, you and Kim are friends at school, I assume."
"Yeah, she's in my form. She's really nice, and interesting to talk to."
"I know that, she's a bright girl, but I also know she's looking for a boyfriend - does she think you want to be that boyfriend? Not that I want to sound as though I'm being some kind of heavy dad, but I wouldn't want her to be upset, and from what you've said, you're not likely to be looking for a girlfriend."
"No, we're just friends - Kim fancies a boy in year 9, anyway. I...sort of...find it easier to be friends with girls, because...well, sometimes I fancy the boys, and, besides, if it looks like I like girls a lot, people probably won't think I'm...gay."
It all sounded perfectly logical, and, although I'd suppressed the memory for years, eerily familiar. Familiar, because I'd been in exactly the position Max was in when I was his age, and a little older. And like Max, no-one knew. My memory began to drift to another time and place, almost thirty years earlier.
****
I had always been fascinated by the comings and goings along the canal and up and down its flight of locks as it passed through my home town, ever since I was a little boy. I'd badgered my dad to take me 'to see the boats' at every opportunity when I was small, until, as soon as I was deemed to be old enough not to fall in, or anything similarly deranged, at around 9 or 10, I was allowed to go on my own. 'On my own' was the operative phrase, because I had few friends and my only sibling was a sister six years younger than me, but I was happy in my own company, for the most part, and spent many hours, especially in the summer, either sitting beside one or another of the locks, or walking the towpath for the two miles between the top and bottom locks. Most of the boats were hired by holidaymakers for a week or two, but there were a handful of working boats, and a few owned by people who lived on them permanently, so, over the course of a couple of years, leading up to when I was around 12, I got to recognise some of the 'regulars' by sight, and they came to recognise me. That led to me chatting to one or two people, while they were traversing the locks, one of those people being Eddie.
Eddie worked for the railway, in some sort of engineering role, but his real love was his boat. He and his wife, Beryl, had, I later discovered, taken many canal holidays over the years, and had finally decided that it was the lifestyle they wanted to follow permanently, so they sold their house and bought a boat, spending most of their time cruising around the Midlands, always within commuting range of Eddie's job. I'd seen them a few times, and had taken a short trip on the canal with them once or twice, but the next time I spotted their attractive boat, Eddie was on his own. I was at the top lock. Eddie waved to me.
"Hi, Eddie. Where's Beryl?"
"Hello Steve. Beryl's mother has been taken to hospital, she's gone home to look after her dad. I'm taking the boat to the marina, I'll have to leave it there until Beryl's family problems are sorted out - we'll be staying with the in-laws for the time being. Have you got a couple of hours to help me get the boat through the locks?"
Even if I'd had anything else planned, a chance to take a boat through the whole flight wasn't something I was going to miss out on.
"Yeah, that would be great."
"Come aboard, then," Eddie offered his hand to help me onto the deck area at the stern, where the tiller and throttle were, "do you fancy driving her while I work the locks?" My eyes must've been the size of saucers, because Eddie burst out laughing. "I guess the answer's 'yes', then."
"Oh, yes please, Eddie, I've never done that before. Wow, this is really exciting."
Eddie laughed again as my enthusiasm bubbled over. "Come on, let's get going. At least the cut's not too busy today, we shouldn't get into too many queues."
We made pretty good progress, only having to wait for other boats climbing the flight at three or four of the eleven locks, so, just on two hours after we'd set out, I edged the boat out of the bottom lock, waited for Eddie to close the gates and come back aboard, and then headed into the calm water of the long pound which would eventually lead to the marina, ten miles or so further on.
"What time are you expected back home, Steve?" Eddie asked.
"No special time, my dad's at work and my mum's going shopping with my sister. Teatime, I suppose."
"Fancy some lunch, I'm pretty peckish. I haven't got too much stuff on the boat, but I can stretch to some cheese on toast, I think."
"Yes, please, that would be nice."
We'd been chatting inconsequentially while taking the boat through the locks, but, as we moored and Eddie started making lunch, the tone of the conversation changed.
"Have you got a girlfriend, Steve?"
I blushed a little. "No...I...er, don't like girls all that much."
"No? I thought all boys your age thought about nothing else."
I was starting to get a bit flustered, thinking 'Does he know my secret - no, he can't, I've never told anyone.'
"What's up, Steve, you've gone a bit red. Have I hit a raw nerve?"
"I...I don't know what you mean."
"Have I asked something you're embarrassed about? Don't worry, I'm very broad-minded. If there's something you want to talk about, I'm your man."
There was a long, awkward silence - there were things I wanted to talk about, but I didn't really know if I could turn my inchoate mass of thoughts and feelings into words that would make any sense, even to me. Eddie's tone of voice changed, from his usual bluff, hearty self into something much gentler, as though he'd suddenly turned into a vicar, or something like that.
"Have you got a problem, Steve? It's OK, I won't make fun of you, whatever it is. You're a nice lad, and I wouldn't want to see you upset."
I still didn't know whether I wanted to speak, and if I did, what I wanted to say. Then, like a flash, I thought 'Why not? I might never see him again, it won't hurt.' I looked up at him from my seat.
"I think...I might...be a...might like...," my voice tailed off to a whisper, "boys."
"What makes you think that?" he asked, even more gently than before.
"I found some...dirty magazines in my dad's cupboard. I looked at the pictures, but I wasn't looking at the...women, I was only interested in...the men. It made me feel...strange inside, kind of shivery. I feel the same way at school sometimes, when we change for games, when we have a shower afterwards. I don't understand what it means. Girls don't make me feel like that, they just annoy me. Am I going to be...a homo?"
I used the school slang insult, not really knowing any other word to refer to...me?
Eddie looked at me reflectively for a few moments, then turned back to the cooker and took the toasted cheese from under the grill, turning the gas burner off. He handed me a plate, took one himself, sat on the opposite side of the saloon of the boat, looked at me thoughtfully again.
"I think you're a bit young to decide. They say a lot of boys go through a phase of liking other boys at around your age, but they still end up getting married and having kids. I don't think it's anything you need to worry about too much. Anyway, if you do end up that way, what does it matter? As long as you're happy and you're not hurting anyone, it's nobody else's business."
"Did you like boys when you were younger?" I asked him.
The bluff Eddie briefly resurfaced. "Blimey, that's a straight question!" He chuckled. "OK, a straight question deserves a straight answer. Yes, I had a friend I...messed around with. He was your age, I was a little bit older, about 14. It started as a 'you show me yours, and I'll show you mine' game, and we kind of took it from there. We both enjoyed ourselves, no-one else knew, we stayed friends afterwards - he was the best man at my wedding, actually. I don't see him very often these days, he moved to Scotland, works on the North Sea oil rigs, but we still send Christmas cards and the like. There, so now you know something about me that Beryl doesn't even know."
"I won't tell."
"I should hope not! I wouldn't have told you if I thought you were going to shout it from the rooftops! I'll tell you something else as well." His voice seemed to waver a little. "You really remind me of him as he was when we...played."
I felt a massive rush of butterflies in my stomach, for reasons I barely understood. It wasn't fear, though. More expectancy, even hope that something - I didn't really know what - was going to happen.
"Eddie...do you mean you...like me?"
He swallowed, visibly. It seemed to be his turn not to know what to say. I wondered if he was feeling anything like the shivers that were coursing through my young body at that moment, like lightning from my brain, down my spine and directly to my groin.
He opened his mouth, but no sound emerged at first. His mind didn't seem to be able to command his tongue.
"I...I think...I do mean that, Steve."
For long seconds, neither of us spoke, we hardly even seemed to breathe. I broke the silence, the stillness.
"I like you, Eddie. I'm getting those shivers again, but I don't know what to do about it."
"Come over here, little man." I took the two steps across the narrow ocean between us, and stood in front of him. He wrapped me in his strong arms, drawing me into the warmth of his body, his clothes smelling of fabric softener and a faint undertone of some deodorant. He eased me a few inches away from him, his hand softly, so softly ran down from my stomach to the front of my jeans, where my boyhood was trying to punch a hole through the denim. I shuddered as his palm slid over my erection, then sucked my breath in through my teeth as he delicately squeezed my hardness between the tips of his thumb and one finger.
"That's quite something, Steve." He stood up, and took my small hand in his large one. He led me to the front area of the saloon, which was set up as a bedroom, with a curtained partition from the living area. The window curtains were closed, and when he drew the partition curtain across behind us, the light level dropped to very dim.
"Wait a minute, I'd better lock the main door." Eddie disappeared through the curtain, I heard the door being closed and the bolts being shot, then he returned.
"Look, Steve, before anything else happens, I need to say something to you. You're in charge here. If I do or say anything you don't like, tell me straight away and I promise I'll stop. Say 'stop' right now if you want to. I'm breaking the law, even by touching you like I already have. There's no way I want to hurt you, and I definitely don't want to go to prison. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"
I nodded. "It's alright, Eddie. It was nice when you touched me. I know I have to keep it a secret. I like you, I know you wouldn't hurt me on purpose, and I don't want you to go to prison, either. I don't want you to stop."
He sat on the bed, and gently drew me close to him again. With exaggerated care, as though I was made of eggshells and clad in candy floss, he began to undress me. His fingertips brushed against the skin of my sides as he took off my shirt, what would normally have been an unpleasant tickling being magically transformed to a harbinger of enchantments to come. I trembled as Eddie began to undo my trousers, at which he pulled his hand away as though he'd been scalded.
"Are you sure you're OK with this, Steve? Please tell me if you're not."
"Eddie, I'm fine. I've just never...felt like this before, so...excited."
He looked into my eyes for a long moment, as if trying to confirm, maybe convince himself, that I was telling the truth, before allowing his hands to resume their task. He eased my jeans over my narrow hips and down past my knees, I stepped out of the legs, leaving the garment in a puddle on the floor. He looked up at my face again, almost shyly, as he hooked his thumbs into the elastic waistband of my underwear, looking, I guessed, for consent to take that final step. I smiled slightly and nodded, feeling him stretch the elastic outwards at the front so as not to snag my penis as he removed the final, thin layer of my clothing, leaving me standing naked in front of him. His eyes devoured me, seeming to look everywhere at once, before a huge, somehow primal sigh escaped him.
"You're lovely, Steve, just as lovely as Colin was at your age." I blushed, as he continued quietly, as though speaking to himself. "I never thought I'd see anyone so stunning again."
I had no idea what kind of response was apposite to such a comment, so I said nothing. Eddie's hands found their way to my shoulders, and he guided me to turn around, very slowly, until my back was to him. Another sigh, dredged from deep within him, broke the silence.
"So lovely," Eddie said again, as his arms wrapped around my chest and hugged me in towards him, my head angled back a little so that my right cheek touched his left. "I'd love to make you feel good, Steve, would you let me?"
"Yes, oh, yes please." My voice had almost failed me, my words emerged as a breathless whisper. I was so aroused already, I could hardly keep still, I felt the need for touch, for stimulation, for the profound itch which was washing over every part of my body to be scratched. Eddie manoeuvred me carefully across his left leg and onto the bed beside him, then turned me around so that my head was resting on his leg, just above the knee, as I laid on my back. Using both of his hands, he ran his fingertips, then his palms, across every inch of my upper body, caressing my face, my neck, my shoulders, my arms, my chest, my stomach, sending tiny thrills, like electric shocks, racing around my torso and converging on the twitching, throbbing, stone-hard nexus of anticipation in my loins. I moaned and squirmed when he brushed across my nipples, sending another jolt of sensation careering through me. Eddie shuffled a little beneath me, then placed one arm under my shoulder blades and the other in the crook of my knees before effortlessly lifting himself and my light, pliant body, turning me around in midair and tenderly laying me back down at the head end of the bed, resting on a fluffy pillow. He smiled down at me.
"OK, Steve?"
"Yeah, oh, please, don't stop, Eddie."
He knelt on the bed beside me, and began working up my lower body as he'd previously worked down from the top, stroking my toes, feet, ankles, shins, ever-so-slowly higher, passing my knees, then reaching between my inner thighs and nudging them apart, coming up closer, any second now he's going to touch my screaming penis and it's going to be the best thing ever, I thought, I closed my eyes and felt...hot, wet breath on my glans, feeling like nothing I could even imagine, still less describe.
"Oh, Eddie, oh, that's unbelievable!"
He kept up a steady rhythm of deep breathing, caressing me with nothing more than air, then I could sense him, even through closed eyes, coming even closer, then, suddenly, the top half of my erection was engulfed in moist, gentle pressure from lips and tongue. I'll never know, from that day to this, why I didn't climax instantaneously, maybe it was the shock of the first contact, maybe I was so over-stimulated that my body couldn't respond at all. Eddie just held me in his mouth, stock-still, for what seemed like an eternity, until he could gauge, perhaps, that I wasn't going to boil over there and then, before starting to nibble and lick, dabble and suck, all with tiny, barely perceptible movements. The feeling just got better and better, until the whole midsection of my body, almost from chest to knees, seemed like an enormous sandpile of pleasure, with Eddie's lips and tongue adding grain after grain to the top, to the point where it was almost painful, then, with paroxysmal force, the whole edifice collapsed into an avalanche of delight, surging out from between my legs to deluge every inch of my body. I could hear myself whimpering as spasm after spasm of my dry orgasm - 6,7,8?...I was too overwhelmed to even think of counting - ripped through me, but the sounds I was making seemed to be detached from me, as though being produced by someone far away. Eventually, the maelstrom of feelings began to calm, and I began to feel uncomfortably sensitive.
"Oh, Eddie, too much, please!"
He released me from his blissful grip, very careful, as with everything else, not to do anything that would detract from my wonderful experience. And wonderful it was, a hundred times better than my boyish attempts at masturbation, like comparing an old wreck with a Rolls Royce.
"Eddie, that was so good, I've never felt anything like that in my life, thank you so much." I was very emotional, as though I could cry my eyes out or burst out into delirious laughter, or both, at any moment. "I want to do something for you, what can I do for you?"
"You don't need to do anything for me beyond what you've done already."
"But I haven't done anything, I just laid there and you made me feel fantastic."
"Oh, but Steve, you've done more than you can know. Every sight, every sound, touch, taste and smell of the last half hour is up here..." He tapped his forehead. "...up here for ever. And you've done what all the magicians and alchemists of the past, and all the scientists of the present can never do - you've made me 14 again, lying on a bed with my best buddy, loving each other. I'll tell you what you can do, come and give me a hug." As I watched, a tear or two squeezed out of the corner of his eyes, making me reach up instinctively and put my arms around his neck, and kiss him passionately on the lips, in a way I'd never kissed anyone before, and wouldn't again for many years after.
"Thank you, Steve, that was beautiful. Will you lay here with me for a while?"
He laid on his back, and I settled my naked body into his side, his arm wrapped around my back, my head resting on his shoulder. The next thing I remember, I woke up shivering.
"Eddie, sorry, I fell asleep on you. What time is it?"
"Just after 3:00." I shivered again. "Sorry, Steve, I should've found you a blanket, but I was just admiring you and enjoying watching you sleep. Get dressed now, and I'll make you a hot drink, and then we'll have to go - the marina closes at 5:30, and you need to get home, your mum will think you've been kidnapped."
I knew he was right, but I didn't really want to leave, I was like someone who had just had a mystical experience. I sipped my tea as slowly as I could, but the inevitable bottom of the mug arrived, and it really was time to part.
"When will you be back this way, Eddie?"
"I can't say at the moment, little man, it depends on Beryl's mum. Hopefully fairly soon, though."
"Eddie...thank you so much for today, it's been the best day of my life."
"Thank you too, little man, I haven't had many better ones myself, and, like I said, it's in my memory forever. Keep looking out for us, I'm sure it won't be too long."
He looked quickly up and down the canal, and, seeing no-one nearby, literally lifted me off my feet, kissed me on both cheeks, nose and finally on the lips, and set me down on the towpath. "For remembrance!" He laughed his hearty Eddie laugh. I never saw or heard of him again.
****
"Steve. STEVE!" I was jerked back to the present. "The phone's ringing!"
"Sorry, Max, I was really away with the fairies."
I went into the hallway to answer the phone, then a minute or two later, rejoined Max in the study.
"Sorry about the daydreaming before, you must think I'm a right one!" Max grinned. "I just got thinking about something that happened to me when I was about your age."
"Good or bad?"
"Oh, very good, one of my favourite days. It's just that what you were saying took me right back. A good friend told me something that day that I reckon you might like to think about, about being straight or gay. He said 'What does it matter? As long as you're happy and you're not hurting anyone, it's nobody else's business.' I don't think that's a bad philosophy of life." Max looked like a light bulb had gone on in his head. "That was Kim's mum on the phone, by the way, they've just left Wilmslow. Why don't you walk down to the station and meet them, I'm sure Kim will be pleasantly surprised to see you. The tea will be made when you get back."
I let Max out of the front door, and watched him walk down to the corner of the street. He turned, saw me looking at him, and gave a little wave. Just like the wave I'd given Eddie, just before his boat went out of sight for the last time, all those years ago. Just one missing piece in my jigsaw, I thought, an hour of my life giving someone like Max what Eddie had given me, and giving me what I'd given him - the chance to be a boy again, and a memory to treasure for the rest of my life.
But until that missing piece falls into place, I just have my longing.
****
Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B
Sunday, 11 July 2010
Vitriol
I've done my best to please you
Worked my fingers to the bone
But you always wanted more
I've given heart and soul day in, day out
To keep you as you deserve
But I've always fallen short
I've had enough of being damned
By faint praise from your lips
Your smile, then insincerity of speech
I'm going to break free
Find a place where I can be me
Without fear or pretence
I'm leaving you behind
Looking out for myself
No more weasel words
I'm on my way to my future
Escaping from the chains that bind me
Crushing my freedom and spirit
I'm finally going to be me.
Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B
Worked my fingers to the bone
But you always wanted more
I've given heart and soul day in, day out
To keep you as you deserve
But I've always fallen short
I've had enough of being damned
By faint praise from your lips
Your smile, then insincerity of speech
I'm going to break free
Find a place where I can be me
Without fear or pretence
I'm leaving you behind
Looking out for myself
No more weasel words
I'm on my way to my future
Escaping from the chains that bind me
Crushing my freedom and spirit
I'm finally going to be me.
Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B
Wednesday, 7 July 2010
Lachrymal
Boys don't cry.
Boys keep it all inside, stay in control, laugh at danger, hunger, pain, never complain.
Take what life throws at you, take it on the chin, be a man.
Don't ever let the mask slip, don't ever let them see what lies beneath.
Boys keep it all inside, stay in control, laugh at danger, hunger, pain, never complain.
Take what life throws at you, take it on the chin, be a man.
Don't ever let the mask slip, don't ever let them see what lies beneath.
Keep it secret, even from yourself.
To show you care is a weakness, and weakness can never be admitted.
Just keep drinking that bitter draught, of insularity, isolation.
Love is for women, hugs are for children, tears are for the weak.
Boys don't cry.
Boys cry - inside.
Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B
Tuesday, 29 June 2010
Revenant
For DBJ, with love.
****
I have just woken from a dream.
A dream of how things could have been.
I've waited for four years just to say 'Hello' to you, fighting against my feelings of worthlessness, of being unacceptable to you and to the world in general, only to find that my first word to you is going to be 'Goodbye'.
But in my dream, it's so much easier, I can throw off the shackles wrapped around me by my mind, my upbringing, my expectations of how society wants me to behave, I can be myself, I can talk to you.
In my dream, you're with me, walking with me around a big city, we chat, we smile, I put my arm around your shoulders and you lean into my body, your head rests almost against my heart, you must be able to feel, to hear my happy heart beating a firm tattoo, you look upwards towards me, the look of caring and devotion unmistakeable in your eyes, mirroring the look in my own eyes. As if to bless the exchange of unspoken vows between us, the sun breaks through the hitherto unbroken banks of cloud, washing the ground around our feet with golden light and lifegiving warmth, drawing the whole world into our aura of happiness while still leaving us in our own private zone of love, unassailable by the problems of the everyday for ever and ever.
We head back home, to our home, after the convivial day out, spending our evening peacefully sitting together. I sit in the middle of the sofa, while you sit crosswise with your legs over my lap, like a warm and comfortable blanket, we say little, but are just happy in each others' company, quiet music the background to our inconsequential conversation, until you fall asleep, and I take delight in watching your beautiful face in its state of repose, your breathing deep and regular, your contentment so evident that my heart swells with such pride, taking my joy from making you happy, holding your hand and never wanting to let go, wanting to capture this moment and cherish it for all time.
You wake after a while, smile sleepily at me, brush a stray strand of hair away from your eyes. It's late, but we feel no incentive to move, the inertia of our luxuriation in warmth and closeness overcoming any inclination to action. You gently stroke my hand, the touch like silk on my skin, bliss made palpable, I feel myself drifting away, like some out-of-body experience, almost as though I can watch what's happening from a god's-eye view, all the while slip-sliding towards the hypnosis of sleep.
And then I woke from my dream.
A dream of how things could have been.
Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B
****
I have just woken from a dream.
A dream of how things could have been.
I've waited for four years just to say 'Hello' to you, fighting against my feelings of worthlessness, of being unacceptable to you and to the world in general, only to find that my first word to you is going to be 'Goodbye'.
But in my dream, it's so much easier, I can throw off the shackles wrapped around me by my mind, my upbringing, my expectations of how society wants me to behave, I can be myself, I can talk to you.
In my dream, you're with me, walking with me around a big city, we chat, we smile, I put my arm around your shoulders and you lean into my body, your head rests almost against my heart, you must be able to feel, to hear my happy heart beating a firm tattoo, you look upwards towards me, the look of caring and devotion unmistakeable in your eyes, mirroring the look in my own eyes. As if to bless the exchange of unspoken vows between us, the sun breaks through the hitherto unbroken banks of cloud, washing the ground around our feet with golden light and lifegiving warmth, drawing the whole world into our aura of happiness while still leaving us in our own private zone of love, unassailable by the problems of the everyday for ever and ever.
We head back home, to our home, after the convivial day out, spending our evening peacefully sitting together. I sit in the middle of the sofa, while you sit crosswise with your legs over my lap, like a warm and comfortable blanket, we say little, but are just happy in each others' company, quiet music the background to our inconsequential conversation, until you fall asleep, and I take delight in watching your beautiful face in its state of repose, your breathing deep and regular, your contentment so evident that my heart swells with such pride, taking my joy from making you happy, holding your hand and never wanting to let go, wanting to capture this moment and cherish it for all time.
You wake after a while, smile sleepily at me, brush a stray strand of hair away from your eyes. It's late, but we feel no incentive to move, the inertia of our luxuriation in warmth and closeness overcoming any inclination to action. You gently stroke my hand, the touch like silk on my skin, bliss made palpable, I feel myself drifting away, like some out-of-body experience, almost as though I can watch what's happening from a god's-eye view, all the while slip-sliding towards the hypnosis of sleep.
And then I woke from my dream.
A dream of how things could have been.
Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B
Sunday, 27 June 2010
Valediction
"I don't know how I can tell you this," I said nervously. "I'm...not going to be here much longer, I'm being transferred to a new job."
The look on his face was strange, an unlikely mixture of shock and teenage indifference. "What do you mean? You'll still be living here, won't you?"
I drew a deep breath before I thought of continuing, more to delay the moment of having to speak than for the need of oxygen. "Nicky...I...I'm sorry, sweet boy, I'm...going away." Tears were close, but I was trying to be as strong as I could.
"You are joking, aren't you? This is April Fools' Day, and my calendar is wrong, that must be it." He laughed, a forced, humourless sound.
"There's nothing I can do about it, my job here has finished, the next contract is in Surrey. I have to go where the work is, you know my job is so specialised that I can't pick and choose - it's my fault, I thought this day would never come, even though I knew it was inevitable. I should never have got involved with you, it was a disaster waiting to happen, for both of us. I'm so sorry."
Nicky buried his face in his hands, breathing raggedly - I couldn't tell whether he was laughing or crying. Long seconds passed, building into minutes, still nothing except the gasping sibilance from behind his fingers.
"Nicky..." I began, uncertainly, "Nicky, please say something, even if it's only an insult, even if you want to tell me to go to hell."
"I don't want you to go to hell, Rich, I don't want you to go anywhere. You're the only person in the world who cares about me, my life will be over if you leave. I don't know...I don't know what I would do without you."
I knew his words were coloured by the emotion of the moment, but I also knew he wasn't exaggerating very much. His parents were divorced, his father had left the country, last heard of as a bouncer at a nightclub on the Costa del Sol, his mother had a new partner, another divorcé with two kids of his own, much younger than Nicky, who got the best of everything, material and emotional, while Nicky was seen as an embarrassment to the family, very bright, certainly, but unconventional, not seen as a good role model for his younger step-siblings, never abused, but decidedly neglected, especially in terms of love and affection. I'd first met him, nearly a year earlier, a slight, rather fey figure, with dyed hair and clothes which, on first viewing, seemed not to match, but, on closer inspection, had been chosen with fastidious care, to create a specific impression, that of someone who wanted to be noticed, but in a way that made the observer have to think about what they were noticing. I couldn't have missed him, literally or figuratively, because he walked straight into me, just near the medieval bridge in the centre of his small home town. He'd stammered his apologies, but it was hardly necessary, it was obvious his mind was elsewhere, not least because he'd evidently been crying - it transpired that he'd had another in the lengthy and lengthening series of arguments with his mother, about his appearance, his supposedly uncooperative attitude, his lack of respect, but this particular argument had got far more personal than its predecessors, his mother had shouted that she didn't want anything to do with a son who walked round looking like a rent boy, at which point he'd stormed out of his house and into my life. We ended that afternoon by having coffee and cake in the 'award-winning' local café, finding that we had much in common and arranging to meet again the next day, a Saturday.
One of the things that we had in common was conflicted sexuality. Nicky, at 15, had had girlfriends, he was a more or less averagely good looking boy for his age, no Adonis, but no ugly duckling, either, but wasn't convinced that girls were going to be the story for him, he found them physically attractive but intellectually uninteresting, he told me, and the intellectual was always a big deal for him - he'd been the bright boy at primary school, always at least a year ahead, academically speaking, of his coevals, and had gone on to be the bright boy at senior school, the only pupil in his year who'd been put forward for the regional 'Gifted & Talented' student programme. His intellect was a double-edged sword, needless to say, he'd found what appeared to be friends, but who were only interested in parasitising his intelligence, to do their work for them, while having to also having to contend with snide remarks, often from the same people, about being a 'nerd' and a 'Teachers' Pet'. Partly because of his school experiences, and partly because of his unhappy home life, he'd become an internet afficionado at an early age, and in the course of his random 'surfing' and more detailed research, real research, not simply cruising around the usual teenage haunts online, he became convinced that he might like to at least try a same-sex relationship, feeling as he did that he was far more on the same wavelength with his own gender than with the opposite. My teenage experience was a close parallel to Nicky's, exaggerated still further by the fact that I went to a single sex school - I was almost infeasibly successful academically, but socially gauche, had tried going out with girls, had found the experience unsatisfactory, but didn't know whether that meant I wasn't inclined towards them, or simply couldn't cope with the social situation. I'd gone on to university much the same person as I'd been in my earlier teens, a high achiever, but completely inept in dealing with people. Now, in my mid-twenties and with a master's degree in information system management, I was in Nicky's home town working at the head office of a large company on a contract to completely overhaul their I.T. infrastructure, bringing it from the 1970's into the 21st century, still on my own and still with little idea of where I wanted to be on an emotional level.
Our relationship was something that we both desperately needed, but it took us some time to both realise that fact, and the fact that it could actually happen. We were both so starved of love and affection that we had to proceed like famine victims saved by an aid convoy, painfully slowly, as though too much closeness too soon could kill us by surfeit. We spent a lot of time together, virtually all of it either in the café in town or at my rented flat, talking about anything and everything, a lot of it on a level that Nicky had never had the opportunity to operate on for any length of time - his intellect was being challenged, and he proved himself more than capable of coping with that challenge. The first time things moved from ivory tower purity to the much messier realms of everyday emotion came as a huge surprise to both of us.
I hadn't seen Nicky for a few days, because I'd had to go to my company's head office in London for a series of meetings about the progress of the work I was undertaking, things, largely, that could have been discussed on the phone, but the etiquette of company politics seemed to demand face-to-face contacts periodically, a kind of 'This is what we do, because this is what we've always done' mindset. I arrived back on the last train on a Friday evening, well after 11:00, the only passenger to alight, although a few weekend revellers noisily boarded, no doubt on their way to the nearest nightclub, in the slightly larger town a couple of stops further down the line. My flat was only around five minutes' walk from the station, and I was thinking no further than heading there, having a cold drink, and going to bed, when I was stopped in my tracks by a voice from the shadows.
"Hi, Rich."
"Nicky! It's a nice surprise to see you, but I wasn't expecting the pleasure of your company until tomorrow."
"Home isn't a good place to be right now, the little angels have dropped me in it again and SHE has taken their side, just for a change." Another row with his mother, undoubtedly. "Can we go to yours?"
Nicky had been to my flat in the evening before, but never as late as this.
"I guess so, but, at the risk of sounding like an old fart, it's pretty late."
My hesitancy was evidently clear in my voice, because Nicky reacted badly to what I'd said.
"Thanks a lot, I sit on this bloody station for an hour waiting for your train to arrive, and you want to send me to bed like a 5 year old. Don't worry about me, I'll find a park bench to sleep on!"
"Hey, hey...Nicky, come on, I didn't say 'no', I just don't want you to be in any more trouble with your mum."
He snorted. "She doesn't care if I live or die, as long as that bloke and his kids are happy. I don't know why she doesn't just sell me into slavery, and have done with it!"
It was obvious that he had no intention of going home, and I knew that he didn't have any other friends that he could turn to, so I had no real alternative, however reluctant I felt about having a 15 year old in my flat at that time of night.
"Come on, then, it's cold here, let's go and get out of the weather."
He smiled, briefly, before lapsing back into his dark mood. We hardly spoke on the short walk to my flat, and not for several minutes after we'd arrived. I made him a coffee, and he sat on the sofa sipping the hot brew while I drank a cold Coke, and regarded him levelly. The tension in his demeanour seemed to ebb slightly, but I was still on edge, as though a single misplaced word could snap the mousetrap of his anger into action again.
He finally spoke.
"I...I missed you, Rich."
"I missed you too, Nicky - you're my best friend at the moment, the best friend I've ever had, I think."
"I've got something for you." He set down his mug and stood up. I stood as well - there were only a couple of inches difference in our heights, so it wasn't a case of my adult trying to dominate his child, we were equals, and had been from day one. He reached in his pocket, and pulled out a small jeweller's box.
I took it from him, and opened it slowly. Inside was a thin gold chain, long enough to form a bracelet, obviously not too expensive, but still a big investment for him, in more ways than one.
"Nicky...it's really nice. I don't...I don't know what to say."
"I bought it because...because..." His voice faltered, his brain not seeming to have the power to compel his lips to frame his thought. "Because..." Another agonising moment of uncertainty. When he spoke again, it was almost inaudible. "I love you."
I was stunned. No-one had ever spoken those words to me in the way that Nicky just had, I had no words in my vocabulary to respond appropriately. My lack of reaction was evidently been taken by Nicky as bad news, and he looked as though he was about to cry.
"I'd better go, I'm sorry, Rich, I should've known I was wrong. I've ruined everything."
He started towards the door.
"Nicky..." I began. He stopped and turned to face me. "I think...I love you, too."
We stood there, ten feet apart, looking into each others' eyes. Finally, impossible to say on whose initiative, we came together, and each wrapped the other in our arms, his head laid on my chest, my face pressed into his bleach blond hair. Our lives as lovers had begun.
****
For the next nine months or so, our lives seemed to be lived within a cocoon, just large enough for the two of us. Apart from my work and Nicky's school days, we spent virtually all our time together. I've no idea what Nicky had told his mother and her partner, or even if he told them anything - I never once met them. They must surely have known that he was more or less living with someone, but maybe he was right, maybe they didn't care, and were pleased that he wasn't around. Virtually the only time he was at his family home was when I was away on my occasional trips to London, and it was on the last of these trips that the bombshell, which I was too wrapped up in myself and my love for Nicky, and his love for me, to see, fell upon us. Before I'd met Nicky, it would've been 100% good news, the job had gone remarkably well, finished a month ahead of schedule and on budget, the customer was delighted, my boss was delighted, talking about a large bonus heading my way, but all the words clanged against my head like rocks against a suit of armour, because the bottom had just fallen out of my world, with the news that my boss already had my next project lined up, at a large local council office in Surrey. I was just the man for the job, my boss was saying, after the contract I'd just completed, this one should be a walk in the park. 'Surrey' was the only word that registered in my mind, at least 250 miles from Nicky. How could I have been so besotted not to have seen this coming, how was I going to deal with it, how the hell was I going to tell Nicky?
When I saw Nicky, and told him, I had immediate visions of calamity. I was distraught at the prospect of being parted from him, but he seemed to be on the point of losing his reason completely.
"I can't Rich...I can't live without you. I'll come with you."
"Nicky, you know and I know we can't do that, not at the moment. I want to be with you, too, but you're not 16 for another month, I'm not telling you you're too young because I want to reject you, but because it's just not feasible for us to be together yet. Finish your schooling, then we'll find a way to make it work. Two years, that's all, and I'll see you as often as I can in the meantime."
"How can you not understand, you're the cleverest person I've ever known, I CAN'T. I'll die without you, can't you see that. You're my only reason to live."
"Nicky, Nicky, please, sweet boy, please calm down." I was trying desperately to follow my own advice and keep calm, if both of us became hysterical who knew what might happen.
"I thought you loved me, you'd never leave me if you really loved me." He flung himself face down on the sofa and completely broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.
I put my hand gently on his back, but he wriggled violently until I withdrew it.
"I do love you, Nicky, I really, really do. Think about it, and you'll see it's true. I love you more than anyone else in my whole life."
"But you're going to leave me," he choked out, "you're going to say goodbye."
"Not goodbye, sweet boy, just au revoir. I promise you, it won't be goodbye."
He turned and sat up, ramrod straight, and looked into my eyes, almost through my eyes, into the centre of my skull. "If you go, it will be goodbye."
"Are you telling me that you don't believe me?"
"You don't believe me, I told you I'd die without you, but you don't believe that."
"Nicky, I have to work, to earn a living. You have to get an education so you can do the same. It's not a case of loyalty or betrayal, it's just part of the practicalities of life. We've been living a dream for the last year, nearly, we have to bow to real life sooner or later."
"You really don't understand, do you Rich?"
Nicky's tone of voice had changed, had become ominous. He leapt from the sofa, and almost before I had a chance to move, he'd dashed to the kitchenette in my flat, then reappeared in the living room brandishing my largest cook's knife.
"Nicky, please, don't do anything silly." I'd never been involved in anything remotely like this in my life, and if anyone had asked me how I'd react, I'd have expected to panic, but, in the face of reality, I felt preternaturally calm.
Nicky lurched towards me, but I forced myself to stand my ground, even though I couldn't take my eyes off of the blade in his hand, now only inches from my face.
"Nicky, put the knife down, please."
His response was to draw the knife back, and to thrust it towards my chest. I closed my eyes and flinched, waiting for the blow. The blow never came, instead a groan, and a single, strangulated word.
"Goodbye."
I opened my eyes, to see the handle of the knife protruding from Nicky's chest, as he slumped to the ground.
Goodbye, sweet boy.
****
Author's note - I can't seem to get the font size right for this post. Apologies to all
****
Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B
The look on his face was strange, an unlikely mixture of shock and teenage indifference. "What do you mean? You'll still be living here, won't you?"
I drew a deep breath before I thought of continuing, more to delay the moment of having to speak than for the need of oxygen. "Nicky...I...I'm sorry, sweet boy, I'm...going away." Tears were close, but I was trying to be as strong as I could.
"You are joking, aren't you? This is April Fools' Day, and my calendar is wrong, that must be it." He laughed, a forced, humourless sound.
"There's nothing I can do about it, my job here has finished, the next contract is in Surrey. I have to go where the work is, you know my job is so specialised that I can't pick and choose - it's my fault, I thought this day would never come, even though I knew it was inevitable. I should never have got involved with you, it was a disaster waiting to happen, for both of us. I'm so sorry."
Nicky buried his face in his hands, breathing raggedly - I couldn't tell whether he was laughing or crying. Long seconds passed, building into minutes, still nothing except the gasping sibilance from behind his fingers.
"Nicky..." I began, uncertainly, "Nicky, please say something, even if it's only an insult, even if you want to tell me to go to hell."
"I don't want you to go to hell, Rich, I don't want you to go anywhere. You're the only person in the world who cares about me, my life will be over if you leave. I don't know...I don't know what I would do without you."
I knew his words were coloured by the emotion of the moment, but I also knew he wasn't exaggerating very much. His parents were divorced, his father had left the country, last heard of as a bouncer at a nightclub on the Costa del Sol, his mother had a new partner, another divorcé with two kids of his own, much younger than Nicky, who got the best of everything, material and emotional, while Nicky was seen as an embarrassment to the family, very bright, certainly, but unconventional, not seen as a good role model for his younger step-siblings, never abused, but decidedly neglected, especially in terms of love and affection. I'd first met him, nearly a year earlier, a slight, rather fey figure, with dyed hair and clothes which, on first viewing, seemed not to match, but, on closer inspection, had been chosen with fastidious care, to create a specific impression, that of someone who wanted to be noticed, but in a way that made the observer have to think about what they were noticing. I couldn't have missed him, literally or figuratively, because he walked straight into me, just near the medieval bridge in the centre of his small home town. He'd stammered his apologies, but it was hardly necessary, it was obvious his mind was elsewhere, not least because he'd evidently been crying - it transpired that he'd had another in the lengthy and lengthening series of arguments with his mother, about his appearance, his supposedly uncooperative attitude, his lack of respect, but this particular argument had got far more personal than its predecessors, his mother had shouted that she didn't want anything to do with a son who walked round looking like a rent boy, at which point he'd stormed out of his house and into my life. We ended that afternoon by having coffee and cake in the 'award-winning' local café, finding that we had much in common and arranging to meet again the next day, a Saturday.
One of the things that we had in common was conflicted sexuality. Nicky, at 15, had had girlfriends, he was a more or less averagely good looking boy for his age, no Adonis, but no ugly duckling, either, but wasn't convinced that girls were going to be the story for him, he found them physically attractive but intellectually uninteresting, he told me, and the intellectual was always a big deal for him - he'd been the bright boy at primary school, always at least a year ahead, academically speaking, of his coevals, and had gone on to be the bright boy at senior school, the only pupil in his year who'd been put forward for the regional 'Gifted & Talented' student programme. His intellect was a double-edged sword, needless to say, he'd found what appeared to be friends, but who were only interested in parasitising his intelligence, to do their work for them, while having to also having to contend with snide remarks, often from the same people, about being a 'nerd' and a 'Teachers' Pet'. Partly because of his school experiences, and partly because of his unhappy home life, he'd become an internet afficionado at an early age, and in the course of his random 'surfing' and more detailed research, real research, not simply cruising around the usual teenage haunts online, he became convinced that he might like to at least try a same-sex relationship, feeling as he did that he was far more on the same wavelength with his own gender than with the opposite. My teenage experience was a close parallel to Nicky's, exaggerated still further by the fact that I went to a single sex school - I was almost infeasibly successful academically, but socially gauche, had tried going out with girls, had found the experience unsatisfactory, but didn't know whether that meant I wasn't inclined towards them, or simply couldn't cope with the social situation. I'd gone on to university much the same person as I'd been in my earlier teens, a high achiever, but completely inept in dealing with people. Now, in my mid-twenties and with a master's degree in information system management, I was in Nicky's home town working at the head office of a large company on a contract to completely overhaul their I.T. infrastructure, bringing it from the 1970's into the 21st century, still on my own and still with little idea of where I wanted to be on an emotional level.
Our relationship was something that we both desperately needed, but it took us some time to both realise that fact, and the fact that it could actually happen. We were both so starved of love and affection that we had to proceed like famine victims saved by an aid convoy, painfully slowly, as though too much closeness too soon could kill us by surfeit. We spent a lot of time together, virtually all of it either in the café in town or at my rented flat, talking about anything and everything, a lot of it on a level that Nicky had never had the opportunity to operate on for any length of time - his intellect was being challenged, and he proved himself more than capable of coping with that challenge. The first time things moved from ivory tower purity to the much messier realms of everyday emotion came as a huge surprise to both of us.
I hadn't seen Nicky for a few days, because I'd had to go to my company's head office in London for a series of meetings about the progress of the work I was undertaking, things, largely, that could have been discussed on the phone, but the etiquette of company politics seemed to demand face-to-face contacts periodically, a kind of 'This is what we do, because this is what we've always done' mindset. I arrived back on the last train on a Friday evening, well after 11:00, the only passenger to alight, although a few weekend revellers noisily boarded, no doubt on their way to the nearest nightclub, in the slightly larger town a couple of stops further down the line. My flat was only around five minutes' walk from the station, and I was thinking no further than heading there, having a cold drink, and going to bed, when I was stopped in my tracks by a voice from the shadows.
"Hi, Rich."
"Nicky! It's a nice surprise to see you, but I wasn't expecting the pleasure of your company until tomorrow."
"Home isn't a good place to be right now, the little angels have dropped me in it again and SHE has taken their side, just for a change." Another row with his mother, undoubtedly. "Can we go to yours?"
Nicky had been to my flat in the evening before, but never as late as this.
"I guess so, but, at the risk of sounding like an old fart, it's pretty late."
My hesitancy was evidently clear in my voice, because Nicky reacted badly to what I'd said.
"Thanks a lot, I sit on this bloody station for an hour waiting for your train to arrive, and you want to send me to bed like a 5 year old. Don't worry about me, I'll find a park bench to sleep on!"
"Hey, hey...Nicky, come on, I didn't say 'no', I just don't want you to be in any more trouble with your mum."
He snorted. "She doesn't care if I live or die, as long as that bloke and his kids are happy. I don't know why she doesn't just sell me into slavery, and have done with it!"
It was obvious that he had no intention of going home, and I knew that he didn't have any other friends that he could turn to, so I had no real alternative, however reluctant I felt about having a 15 year old in my flat at that time of night.
"Come on, then, it's cold here, let's go and get out of the weather."
He smiled, briefly, before lapsing back into his dark mood. We hardly spoke on the short walk to my flat, and not for several minutes after we'd arrived. I made him a coffee, and he sat on the sofa sipping the hot brew while I drank a cold Coke, and regarded him levelly. The tension in his demeanour seemed to ebb slightly, but I was still on edge, as though a single misplaced word could snap the mousetrap of his anger into action again.
He finally spoke.
"I...I missed you, Rich."
"I missed you too, Nicky - you're my best friend at the moment, the best friend I've ever had, I think."
"I've got something for you." He set down his mug and stood up. I stood as well - there were only a couple of inches difference in our heights, so it wasn't a case of my adult trying to dominate his child, we were equals, and had been from day one. He reached in his pocket, and pulled out a small jeweller's box.
I took it from him, and opened it slowly. Inside was a thin gold chain, long enough to form a bracelet, obviously not too expensive, but still a big investment for him, in more ways than one.
"Nicky...it's really nice. I don't...I don't know what to say."
"I bought it because...because..." His voice faltered, his brain not seeming to have the power to compel his lips to frame his thought. "Because..." Another agonising moment of uncertainty. When he spoke again, it was almost inaudible. "I love you."
I was stunned. No-one had ever spoken those words to me in the way that Nicky just had, I had no words in my vocabulary to respond appropriately. My lack of reaction was evidently been taken by Nicky as bad news, and he looked as though he was about to cry.
"I'd better go, I'm sorry, Rich, I should've known I was wrong. I've ruined everything."
He started towards the door.
"Nicky..." I began. He stopped and turned to face me. "I think...I love you, too."
We stood there, ten feet apart, looking into each others' eyes. Finally, impossible to say on whose initiative, we came together, and each wrapped the other in our arms, his head laid on my chest, my face pressed into his bleach blond hair. Our lives as lovers had begun.
****
For the next nine months or so, our lives seemed to be lived within a cocoon, just large enough for the two of us. Apart from my work and Nicky's school days, we spent virtually all our time together. I've no idea what Nicky had told his mother and her partner, or even if he told them anything - I never once met them. They must surely have known that he was more or less living with someone, but maybe he was right, maybe they didn't care, and were pleased that he wasn't around. Virtually the only time he was at his family home was when I was away on my occasional trips to London, and it was on the last of these trips that the bombshell, which I was too wrapped up in myself and my love for Nicky, and his love for me, to see, fell upon us. Before I'd met Nicky, it would've been 100% good news, the job had gone remarkably well, finished a month ahead of schedule and on budget, the customer was delighted, my boss was delighted, talking about a large bonus heading my way, but all the words clanged against my head like rocks against a suit of armour, because the bottom had just fallen out of my world, with the news that my boss already had my next project lined up, at a large local council office in Surrey. I was just the man for the job, my boss was saying, after the contract I'd just completed, this one should be a walk in the park. 'Surrey' was the only word that registered in my mind, at least 250 miles from Nicky. How could I have been so besotted not to have seen this coming, how was I going to deal with it, how the hell was I going to tell Nicky?
When I saw Nicky, and told him, I had immediate visions of calamity. I was distraught at the prospect of being parted from him, but he seemed to be on the point of losing his reason completely.
"I can't Rich...I can't live without you. I'll come with you."
"Nicky, you know and I know we can't do that, not at the moment. I want to be with you, too, but you're not 16 for another month, I'm not telling you you're too young because I want to reject you, but because it's just not feasible for us to be together yet. Finish your schooling, then we'll find a way to make it work. Two years, that's all, and I'll see you as often as I can in the meantime."
"How can you not understand, you're the cleverest person I've ever known, I CAN'T. I'll die without you, can't you see that. You're my only reason to live."
"Nicky, Nicky, please, sweet boy, please calm down." I was trying desperately to follow my own advice and keep calm, if both of us became hysterical who knew what might happen.
"I thought you loved me, you'd never leave me if you really loved me." He flung himself face down on the sofa and completely broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.
I put my hand gently on his back, but he wriggled violently until I withdrew it.
"I do love you, Nicky, I really, really do. Think about it, and you'll see it's true. I love you more than anyone else in my whole life."
"But you're going to leave me," he choked out, "you're going to say goodbye."
"Not goodbye, sweet boy, just au revoir. I promise you, it won't be goodbye."
He turned and sat up, ramrod straight, and looked into my eyes, almost through my eyes, into the centre of my skull. "If you go, it will be goodbye."
"Are you telling me that you don't believe me?"
"You don't believe me, I told you I'd die without you, but you don't believe that."
"Nicky, I have to work, to earn a living. You have to get an education so you can do the same. It's not a case of loyalty or betrayal, it's just part of the practicalities of life. We've been living a dream for the last year, nearly, we have to bow to real life sooner or later."
"You really don't understand, do you Rich?"
Nicky's tone of voice had changed, had become ominous. He leapt from the sofa, and almost before I had a chance to move, he'd dashed to the kitchenette in my flat, then reappeared in the living room brandishing my largest cook's knife.
"Nicky, please, don't do anything silly." I'd never been involved in anything remotely like this in my life, and if anyone had asked me how I'd react, I'd have expected to panic, but, in the face of reality, I felt preternaturally calm.
Nicky lurched towards me, but I forced myself to stand my ground, even though I couldn't take my eyes off of the blade in his hand, now only inches from my face.
"Nicky, put the knife down, please."
His response was to draw the knife back, and to thrust it towards my chest. I closed my eyes and flinched, waiting for the blow. The blow never came, instead a groan, and a single, strangulated word.
"Goodbye."
I opened my eyes, to see the handle of the knife protruding from Nicky's chest, as he slumped to the ground.
Goodbye, sweet boy.
****
Author's note - I can't seem to get the font size right for this post. Apologies to all
****
Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B
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