A year before I was legal, you took me to your pride and joy; your local and announced at length to your mildly interested fellow patrons that it was my eighteenth birthday and bought me a Miller. Clearly, because of your exuberant introduction, they knew that I was underage, but this being outside the city, the announcement of something to celebrate was enough. I had been to a couple of pubs before you, but you didn’t know this. You hadn’t asked. You thought it was this great, big thing to bring me for my first pint. And it was.
In years that followed, I stopped drinking Miller as it made me too groggy, too sluggish; no matter what time of the evening, it would leave me slumped on the sofa, dreaming of my duvet. Also, behind my back, and one would presume in the heat of the moment (or am I making excuses?), you called me a faggot, raging against everyone around you, having managed to cut yourself out of your own life.
By the time I reached twenty-one, you meant almost nothing to me, except maybe as an appropriate target to be angry at, but as a child, you were one of my idols. I didn’t look upto famous people, I had you, but you could never give me enough attention, I realise now, so you abruptly stopped trying, leaving me waiting for someone to materialise, pick up the second controller, and press start.
Of course, it was only as a grown-up that I started to begin to understand what Being a Man is. I’m not saying I understood completly; I still don’t, but I’ve got a fair idea. However, it’s something I can’t accurately describe: it has to do with maturity, self-awareness, strength, and security, as well as a number of other factors, none of which are machismo, or braggadocio, or sports, or alcohol. It’s the thing that you can point out in others, but can’t explain why when asked to show your work. As a kid, I thought you were it: I imagined your headshot underneath the dictionary definition, but by the time I was twenty-one, I realised that you could never be it and, in my head, raised a pint to you; the one that seemed to almost pass.
You bleat
about life changing experiences
but if it came to murder,
you’d get the job done,
unemotionally, so dispassionately
that your back slappers hands would clasp
over their own mouths. Whispering
to each other, of how you’ll fall apart,
if not the next time alone, then
in some quiet moment late at night
or early in the morning. They
imagine you quietly crying so as to not wake
your sleeping woman, holding something;
some rosary-beads, something you took
from your victim; something that you can look
at, and beat yourself up over. They are wrong
because they assume you have a soul.
For the past few nights, before sleep, I’ve truly realised that you’re going and that we’re not going to see each other for a very long time, if ever again, and selfishly, I am sad.
This isn’t sexual love, so don’t confuse it for that.
It’s like human machines; an exercise we did in drama college: one person makes a repetitive gesture and the next person’s gesture is to interact in some way with it until the whole class is doing it. These are how the memories echo.
You fucked through my gig. At the time, I took it as a bizarre compliment but now it feels more like a negative gesture, like avoiding the Biggest Day of My Life like the plague, earlier this year. But then what did I expect? I expected the person in my head. But of course, I got the person you are.
But don’t let that sound negative. We all have our flaws, our foibles, the different sides to us. Of course, we are all ultimately selfish in our own ways; it’s human nature. You’d be the first to admit this. Despite all of that, I think our greatest achievement was not understanding each other (which we did from the get-go) but learning as friends to accept each other for what we are, not for what we wanted each other to be.
I will miss you.
This change will be good. And it’s time. Like scrying, it’s hard to put a finger on, but you know that it’s time. I will miss you, the fun we had, the easiness we shared.
Your going-away present isn’t something new. But none of this is either.
Goodbye fucker, I love you. Don’t look back. Ever.
It’s been one hundred years since the beginning of the Great Reduction, and it’s certainly been energy efficient, cost effective and other buzz words that now seem clunky and unwieldy. No time for full sentences, one must push through words falling over each other, and teach our children that contractions are the original. There is no ‘it is’ anymore. We are so done with separateness. We are far more unified, and in this common language, we understand the laborious nature of ‘it is’; the supreme waste of time of ‘hello’ when ‘hi’ will do just nicely, the endless internment of ‘goodbye (whoever)’ when a thumb pressed to a forehead when hugging each other goodbye accomplishes the same thing. Society teaches children to talk in shorthand by not telling them their true linguistic origins. There are government scientists working on telepathy as a mass method of communication, looking to negate all of this horrendous clacking of tongues and teeth – this endless noise. It’s nearly ready, it’s finishing its final round of tests. Soon, it will be rolled out, and we will forget that there ever was a time without it. Business meetings will be like silent discos. Radio stations in your head as you drive. But of course, telepathy is dangerous too. You’ve got to shield, and you have to think in shorthand. You can’t transmit long, rambling sentences that don’t appear to go anywhere. A character in Chinese, or in shorthand can express as much as a well-punctuated sentence. Who needs cadence? Get in and get back out, back to HeadRadio, back to your silent conversion of HeadWaves into music.
The list of questions is frankly ridiculous. Broken-hearted and trying to rouse myself from sobbing another day away, I convince myself that clarity is the only saviour. That answers will help.
So I make up a list of questions, which I actually write down. I fill up an a4 page of when’s, where’s and why’s, thinking that the answers will dissolve this pain but instead, it’s the actual making of the list that helps; it reorders the world into a clear objective, a clear denotation of time. I’m so grief-stricken that I think the answers will help.
But then, words have been meaningless since I actually felt my heart crack at the news. Please do not mistake this for metaphor. I felt a bright throb in my chest that caused me to grab my tit like something Freudian. I left.
Of course, there are those that refuse. Those that clog waves with all of that unnecessary clutter. All of those responses are based on emotion, and not logic, not order, or an object-focused goal. Language is the arsenal of the young, but they too will one day be old, embittered and tired. They will see its futility. Questions get answered anyway, one way or another. First telepathy, then ascension. Who needs to talk when everything can be seen objectively?
Absent-mindedly, I actually tick off the questions as I hear the responses. Not “get answers”, but hear what’s being said, desperate to hear what’s being said, knowing that this is the one chance to hear the truth. Explanations drift into consonants; the weight of emotion having stolen the vowels from between us.
I cover every base. I need to hear everything. To flesh out the scene in my head, and of course, I half-realise, to amplify the pain. I need to listen, because I know this is the last time that I can possibly accept what you’re saying as truth.
These stories were passed down. Acquired by families bored with their own legacies from men whose love could bear no spawn, they told these tales until they became DNA, until they became breath, but then they too were forgotten, trampled by the wealth of information or entertainment now available with a single thought. But now, having become a mere fact of life, the HeadWaves are sparse enough to be filled by the ramblings of a man thousands of years dead. So we can feel again. Circuits may overload in some candidates, but it’s really all or nothing. The time of growing religion is over, it is now a backdrop, a trompe d’oeil on a window blind pulled down one night; a city thinking they’re staring at the real thing.
Conditioned by films, I thought that finding out the details would make it easier, would make it better, that at least I’d be able to slot it into place in perspective of the world. But it didn’t. And right now, there is only crying uncontrollably in the hallway, there is only the physical absence of him.
I burned his hoverbike and hacked into HeadRadio after a day of watching the natives sunbathe; couples laughing as the sun’s rays burnt off their top layer of skin, leaving them with a freshly cooked tan underneath. We live in a world where even the sun has been modified to suit our needs. I grew up in a world of vocal economy. My revenge is the unfiltered thoughts of the lovelorn sick. It will overload the normals. It will make people feel again. He’s moved offworld, knowing that I could never afford the trip. This HeadWave will make people feel again. These words shall rip them out of their normality. Don’t they know he’s gone, and that he’s not coming back? Eyes closed, I manipulate the code and push it out strong enough to leave this planet. They need to know. He needs to know.
I’ve started to succumb to the fact that no matter how I try not to, no matter how far I subconsciously try to push you out of frame; some part of my heart will always resurrect you.
There are parallel universes, not too many altered decisions away from our own, where we are living in a daydream, successful careers and each other to come home to. This was your daydream, remember? Faced with this situation, the last thing we needed was my sledgehammer honesty: you ran.
Months will go by without a flicker and then I’ll be asphyxiated by your smile, strangled by your eyes, choked by your kiss – to him.
And, of course, like all pain, it comes and goes, it isn’t constant. But my feelings are. I could lie and say that you aren’t what I want, I could fib and say that you aren’t who I compare people to, but if you wanted me, and had’ve had the guts to do something about it, I’d be yours. But that isn’t ever going to happen, so I’ll continue, hoping to find someone else to repattern my heart around.
Because you’re the worst thing: the one that never was. You are godlike in your physical absence and your unlimited breadth of possibility. But not everything is possible.
Filed under: Copyrighted Material, Men I've Known | Tags: Prose, Stream of Consciousness
There’s something about the remoteness of the terrain that inspires closeness. Venturing out, away from the city, into roads without streetlights but instead a sky full of stars, more plentiful than I have ever seen, staring up at the sky as if it’s a joke, I’m now swathed in the dark. Roads wind off into horizon, with the odd building scattered every couple of kilometres, and are shrouded in darkness and silence – it is winter.
Sitting eating in the local, force-feeding food down my throat despite it’s mediocrity, I can no longer focus on the occasion at hand because I have been in two countries today, on three hours sleep with only a determined sense of propulsion to keep me going and now, there are a group of men my age sitting across from me in the small bar.
I am aware how fragile this comfort zone where I am the most myself is – although some would argue that going out of the norm is where you find yourself, etc. – and how suddenly it evaporates behind headlights, a different terrain and an unfamiliar pub.
I am looking at the group, all of whom are pretty decent to look at, but of course there’s one that stands out more than the others. He’s well built and poured into his t-shirt, his pecs bigger than his chest, protruding slightly, causing his stomach, which I’m sure is flat, to be invisible between where it ends, and a few inches away where the fabric begins. Not my type at all, muscles, but the rest fits the bill quite nicely thank you. Yes, we’ll have dessert, someone says, and I perceive this as crass, as an interruption to the task at hand. I stare across the distance, noticing that I am staring a little too long, maybe not enough that I’ll be caught, but a little too long nonetheless; it’s the tiredness that has worn down the societial barriers. I’m staring at his shoulders, his face. It’s a while before he speaks and his voice is pleasingly different from his friends, coming as a slight shock considering I’ve been watching him over the meal and not having realised until now that he’d been silent, and his timbre is exactly right, it’s something I didn’t have to ask for, or have on a checklist, imagined or otherwise, and this, this is a gift.
And it’s been a while, and my brain hasn’t adapted and I’m looking at him like we’re in a city, I’m looking at him like we’re in a gay bar in a city, a capital city, and I want to fuck him, to shorten it, that’s shorthand of course for the subtle thoughts running through my sleep deprived brain. It’s not cocks in ass, although that’s how my body’s responding, with this animal instinct, it’s the voyeur in me staring at him, drinking him in, hoping that when he gets up that I’ll have a clear view of his ass, which has been previously hidden from me.
And he stands, and half turns to pass an embedded barfly before pausing, arrested in the motion, to smile, and say something. And he laughs, his face emitting warmth and sound, colour and depth. And he walks away, leaving me breathless; each exhalation a comma in this sentence that I don’t want to end. However, certain things shouldn’t be ruined by a conversation, and burned into my memory, flickering both my base and emotional responses, I pay and leave.
*some text missing*
Looking forward to a rematch.
Would you be up for a drink sometime or do you wanna stick to the hands-on approach?
Where? Not sure. Any ideas?
No worries about today – I had to get home too.
Today chocolate and I will be having lots of private moments.
Yesterday afternoon was pretty damn good I must say.
Just you. Truth.
I have a feeling it’s going to be fun getting to know you.
Glad to hear it, especially since we both know that was a mere introduction.
You are far from an old man!
Maybe that’s why we haven’t met.
Was there much Easter egg gorging?
So tell me an interesting fact about you.
I’ll bet you do.
Most definetly not! You’re pretty damn fine yourself.
Nah, I’m awake.
I heard it was crazy busy there tonight.
I like you too.
I’m horribly sober…
I very much doubt that.
And the bad joke of the evening award goes to…
Do I get a pic of you in return?
Night, sleep well and I’m glad I kept ya company.
You far to go from the station?
Hello to you and your bed!
Gotta shower. Txt u later.
How goes your day? It’s wet and miserable up here!
Not boring at all! Similar to mine.
We were people watching in the restaurant which was fun. There was this drunk old American guy with this young woman whom we think was a prostitute.
My friend has been trying to get me to go for months.
‘Wasn’t terrible.’ That’s high praise, lol.
Oops didn’t mean to hit send so quick.
Needlework ain’t my thing 
How went the conference?
I am still in bed but I have to get up now.
Or rather I was when I tried to send the message earlier.
Tonight was fab. Can’t wait ‘til Friday! Xxx
Could do with another 12 hours sleep. Brain brain brain I am brain.
As in it is broken.
Me too. I’m half contemplating taking a half day and doing just that.
Absolutely bloody awful. I’m so glad it’s over – just home.
I’ll check online and text you later.
Big drama? Hopefully good news!
I’m hungry but not sure what to eat…
Coming up to Christchurch now.
Am home. Get well soon and sleep well babe.
Hey babe, how goes you on this gorgeous day?
Hey hun, how went your day? U get my text earlier? Hope you’re well.
So do you want to meet up tomorrow evening?
Yeah, she knows her. Her ma is friends with Roisin’s ma. How Irish!
It was fantastic. I laughed and even cried a little. We’re celebrities in the pub. How’s you.
So mistah, how’s Florida?
It’s been raining here. I haven’t been out on the ‘scene’ much. I hear the Keys are pretty gay. What time is it over there?
How goes the holliers?
How goes the holiday? It’s fecking freezing over here. When are you back?
Did you go Eurovision crazy when you came back? Tell me all your news.
So, did you miss me
So who is this dashing mystery man then? 
Oh.
Wearily hearing the door bang again,
I’m pre-judged from the CCTV
images. Perceiving me as scum,
your inferiority complex floods out onto
the glass divide, distancing yourself from me
much more than reclaimed sand could
ever hope to be
the bouncer of consumed transactions.
You glance to mute
colleagues, eager to spew cut-up rants
about this interruption to your story –
your serial – about some boy whose trail
of translucent incumbencies has left you cold.
I scrawl a facsimile of my name
like the others. Unlike their personal paranoia,
it’s you I’m ashamed of. I’m protecting
you from your head-against-the-wall,
pseudo-mystical invocational damning of me
using the mantra that my name has become to you
over a night of now-forgotten alcohol.
And as if this hypothetical has been remembered,
you cannot hide the disgust, or the resulting
anger. Insulated, you want to project
an air of violence. As if you could
snap at any moment. But you’re not.
And you won’t. However, you do intently meet
my eyes briefly, irritation drowning your subconscious
attempt to regain your status, now lost.
You open the inner door and I vanish from your
limited field of vision. This whole exchange
took less than a minute.
I had the novelty of a date to look forward to as I waited alone in London. For some reason, I was waiting at Nelson’s Column as the restaurant that we were going to, or his work, was near. I forget which as I can barely remember the ill-fitting date we had.
Sitting alone, staring at the birds as they dutifully flocked to the constant stream of tourists, I was idly replaying the landmark’s appearances in movies and tv I’ve seen; a greatest hits reel of a bit of granite.
Despite the fact that I’d very little money, I had plenty of cigarettes and was only mildly annoyed that my date was at least twenty minutes late. It must’ve been the sun beating down on me. That or the fact that one of the pigeons had gone rogue and starting bashing its wings around a terrified American tourist’s head. I shouldn’t laugh, but… then, extremely politely, he approached and asked me for a cigarette. We spoke for an hour.
Scruffy, but not dirty, he was sixteen, seventeen, to my all the more wiser nineteen, twenty. Idle chit-chat brooked the first few cigarettes.
“Who are you waiting for?”
“A friend” I replied. Coy. “You?”
“This lady from this group…” – He went onto explain who she was and what she did. She was some kind of social worker. – “who sometimes can help get me into a hostel. I’ve to meet her by six though, or there’s no way I’m getting in there tonight.”
A few cigarettes later, he was telling me all about himself. He was still open, young. This at a time in my life when I felt neither.
His father had kicked him out for getting in a fight with his older brother one evening, telling him that he’d had enough of his son, who wasn’t badly behaved, or so he said. His dad threw him out aged fourteen, fifteen, and he ended up on the streets.
…Over a fight?
Of course, maybe there was more to it than that, but at the time, everything was being sold as seen.
The nights he couldn’t get into a hostel, he slept rough. He told me stories and kept politely, extremely politely, asking me for another cigarette as his stories continued. I insisted he just took one when he felt like it, and not to ask. We were beyond that. (Despite that, his question became non-verbal and before taking another cigarette he would look in my direction for news of his fate.)
During the course of these stories, I asked, rather delicately, if any men had tried it on. He said one had, offered him stuff (money? a place to stay?) but he refused. The man had tried to touch him and he had swatted his hand away. His face momentarily sours as he recalled the memory but then his face brightens as she spoke of his girlfriend who lived somewhere an hour away whom he visited when he could. He pulled out a little pocketbook and proudly pointed out her name and contact details. Although the thought occurred to me, that maybe she wasn’t real, that she was a fiction, then it was a fiction he sorely needed. I smiled and nodded at the imploring finger and the two lines above it that made up the one good thing in his life.
A lot of conversation and half a pack of smokes later, I get word from my date and my fellow smoker decides to give up on his social worker contact. For whatever she would’ve solved, he won’t get into a hostel tonight. Could it have been financial? Then, if I had’ve had any money – I literally had my train fare home, my date must’ve been very generous as I certainly didn’t pay for the lunch – I would’ve given it to him. I would’ve emptied my wallet and given it to the proud, young man who I’m sure would’ve initially refused. I have nothing to give him that could make his situation better. I want to hug him until it all goes away, but I can’t; there’s certain rules with strangers. And anyway, he’s focusing on being “on the up”; first, a girlfriend that he loves. Next? Who knows?
I wish him luck and just as he’s about to leave I take a cigarette out of the box and force the mostly-full box into his hands. He protests. I ignore it. I smoke my last cigarette of the day and walk off to the quickest first date of all time.
In the piece Men I’ve Known #11 (commonly referred to as “The College Boyfriend”), the author tells the story of his one college relationship. For the purposes of this assignment, I intend to use this piece mainly to elucidate the theories that have been discussed in class.
The author’s relationship with his untitled Man, who is only referred to as J, begins when the author auditions for the college’s amateur dramatics group. Taken quite aback, J quietly told him that he was bisexual. This bisexuality was of course later contested, and eventually disproven (if only by the author’s gut instinct). As Francois Dood says in his otherwise maudlin piece, The Homosociality of Outsiders, “announcing yourself as bisexual to a gay man nowadays doesn’t mean what it used to. No longer do people think that the bisexual male will eventually turn out to be gay, he usually turns out to be straight.” (italics mine)
Of course, having investigated the rest of Men I’ve Known, the author has had a number of experiences with “straight men”. Which surely should’ve been treated with more discretion than his more “out” counterparts.
The pair started to date, secretly, as his college boyfriend was his closet boyfriend…
Dear Mr Whitaker,
Above is as far as I got. It is unfair of you to make me write this assignment given what I told you. Especially since this piece was removed from future printings of the book. What is there to say on my side? He was a nice guy but… that was about it. I had somebody back home. And, he had domesticity in eyes. And spoke loud, to all. I need some more privacy than that. I don’t need to be gay first. It’s uncouth.
You talk about me writing this as if things ended badly, or there was some high drama. We spent some time together. He found out that I had someone back home, and I think he found out about this jokey snog that I was dared to do. That wasn’t how he put it to me. He really dramatised things afterwards: he didn’t talk to me for about a year. To be honest, I barely remember the guy. And what I do remember annoys me because it was annotated and dissected in that piece of his, which, yes, is gone, but there’s plenty of first printings out there. I probably wasn’t the only one who wanted to sue, but I was just the one who did. So, after all this, can you see why it’s so redundant to pick it apart in terms of literary theory. Fail me if you want.
