I seem to be spending most days with Maxxie this summer, which is cool. Turns out most of our friends were mutual, and because of the fact that nobody outside of Chris or sometimes Jal ever even occasionally calls to see how I'm doing, let alone visits, being the loyal little shit that he is, Maxxie's decided he's through with the lot of them, and so, outside of his many temporary boyfriends, he and I at this point are pretty much the only friends we each have.
I do feel guilty. Had he simply fucked off like the rest, he'd still have his circle of friends, not to mention a fuck of a lot more of a social life than I can offer, but he doesn't seem to care.
One cool byproduct of this whole thing is that we've become sort of close. Probably inevitable, that. When you see someone at their absolute rock bottom humiliating worst – shitting in trousers and crying like an arsehole and throwing fits and having endless manic screaming rages, all the way through to being there and in fact proving sort of instrumental in that person's recovery of stuff like language and balance, let alone the ability to do something as simple but vital to your recovery, pivotal, really, as simply fucking laugh ... I mean, that's some pretty dramatic shit.
(I do always make sure to tell him he's only stuck around because he's queer, seeing as they're such notorious drama queens.)
Sometimes I imagine the tables being turned, where it's Maxxie, and not me who had the accident, and I ask myself, or rather, the me I used to be ... what would you have done about it ?
Answer ?
Run like the bloody wind.
"Tell me when you first knew you were gay."
I groan. We're lazing around my room, bored.
"Surely we've gone over this already ?"
"Nope."
I sigh.
"Well ... whatever. Who cares ?"
"C'mon, Maxxie. I'm curious."
"Why?"
He shrugs.
"Cuz."
I lay back on the bed, raise my knees and cross one leg over another, absently kicking as I talk.
"Okay ... alright. Well, shit, let's see. It's a hundred years ago. Um ... I was maybe, um, 4 or 5-"
"Four or five ?"
I look at him, annoyed.
"Ya- so what ?"
"That's a little young, isn't it ?"
"Tony you twat, I'm not talking sex, I'm talking crush, as in, I had a crush on another boy, a kid in my class; isn't that what you asked me?"
"Ya, ya, but, like ... did you know - did you understand what that meant, though ?"
"Meant ? It didn't mean anything - I just knew I liked him. Like a crush any kid has on another kid, like I'm sure you did on various girls."
"But, I mean ... did you realize it made you, y'know, like, different ?"
I smile.
"Different, or special ? Or perhaps you meant to say 'unique', or 'exceptional' ?"
"Ya," he groans, "all those things."
"I didn't analyze it, Tone, I just enjoyed having my little crush. I was a tiny kid. It was totally innocent."
"Did you tell the kid ?"
"What, that I liked him? No way. I was too shy."
He plops down on the bed next to me. We're both lying face up, hands behind heads. It's rather sweet.
"When did you first realize that being gay was, like, wrong, or whatever, in some people's eyes ?"
I reflect. In a way it's like it was yesterday.
"Well I remember this word 'poof', and 'queer' and 'faggot' suddenly being thrown around at school, and at first I think I just thought they were general insults, like calling someone an idiot, until one day I heard some kids, one of whom was a friend of mine, calling a boy a 'faggot' and in the same breath sneering that he 'liked boys', and wow ... that was pretty huge."
"How old were you ?"
"5 or 6. It was the first time I understood that liking boys - that being found out to be one that liked boys, was 'bad'. Worthy of insult."
"Wow. What did you do ?"
I shrug.
"What could I do ? I mean, I had little girlfriends, female friends and shit, but I realized pretty early on that I never got that funny feeling with them that I would over certain boys, y'know? I had crushes all the time, just never on girls. Then later that year, this boy Jason started at school and right away we became best mates. And then pretty soon I had a crush, for some reason I was constantly having them, and one day we were at his house playing and suddenly he asked if I wanted to see his willy-"
He whips his head round.
"What ? !"
"Tony, come on. This is completely normal for kids that age - it's not sexual, it's just curiosity. Straights do it, too. Everything we do, you do, in fact."
He smiles.
"'Cept for the buttfucking."
I harrumph.
"Wrong again, I'm afraid."
He waves his hand.
"Anyway- I don't wanna friggin know. Go on."
"Okay, well, as I recall, he pulled his down and I did mine and we just looked. Totally innocent. I was absolutely fascinated - I'd never seen another cock besides mine."
"Did he know you liked him at this point ?"
I smile.
"I think we liked each other, not that we said or did anything - what would we have known to do, anyway? But then his mum died and he went to live with his Aunt in Sheffield, so that was that."
"Never saw him again ?"
"No."
We stare, contemplating the ceiling.
"You know what annoys me, by the way ? Nobody ever, ever asks hets that question, 'when did you know you were straight', have you ever noticed ?"
He laughs.
"Seriously," I continue. "It's always - 'at one point did you realize your 'sexual preference' ?'"
I let out a shriek causing Tony to jump in place.
"I fucking hate that phrase ! Why do they always assume gays somehow had any choice in their gayness, if they didn't have any choice in their straightness ? Huh ? Do they actually think we're a different species ? And then there's those incredibly annoying fucking 'ex-gay' arseholes. I swear I'm gonna start a fucking movement for 'ex-straights' ! Enroll them in advanced flower arranging."
Tony laughs.
"Hair dressing," he offers. "Interior decorating."
"Right ! 'Cocksucking 101 - right this way, folks.' "
Tony bursts out.
"'Remember in the shower to drop your soap and bend way the fuck over.'"
"Yes ! 'Intermediate Scrotal Sac' !"
Tony grabs his stomach and pitches sideways on the bed, shaking away with laughter.
Maxxie's nuts. A good kid, but nuts. Subtle but weird, sorta twisted sense of humour, which is so funny and cool. Sometimes he'll say shit that'll sit there lingering in the air and I won't see it, won't hear it, the joke, for like 5 whole minutes, then when I do, it's brilliant.
He's certainly got odd fuckin' tastes, but I suppose that's the arty/poof in him. For example, old glam rock. Bowie, Bolan, what is that band - Slade ? Or is it Sweet ? No, it's The Sweet, he'll say, all uppity and annoyed. Anyway, stuff's 35 goddam years old and he blasts it like it's the latest club mix, swirling round the room shamelessly like a fairy, I tell him.
Fucker's got a lot going for him, though, just naturally, that's what kills me. Looks, for starters, I'll admit. He's somehow in possession of a permanent year round tan, for example - how's that ? Still can't figure it. 'You're English!' I'll yell at him. 'It's impossible!' Me, I was born pale as a motherfucking snowman.
His hair is a whole other topic, Jesus knows. He works on it - don't let him tell you otherwise - like a frigging supermodel. Bleach and straighteners and all sorts of toxic goop and glop. He and Effy will be standing side by side in the mirror, elbows bumping, fighting for space. He even did mine once - can't believe I let him, with the end result being what I can only describe as 'early Freddie Mercury'. Maxxie says he's torn between that era Freddie, and his later, Live Aid incarnation. First time he said it I almost expired on the spot - I mean, that mustache ?
Check out his sketch pad; tons of amazing shit - his family, mine, (and then the half dozen or so of me - damn I am handsome.) He likes faces, especially, and landscapes and the river and the old lady on the bench and the view out his window, and stuff in his room, and ordinary shit, like the toaster. Then take a gander at that secret special pad he keeps hidden - the one I'm sort of proud to say he's only ever shown me, which contains numerous rather graphic and oddly beautiful drawings of the naked male form. Balls. He's big on balls. And long, slender cocks. Also very detailed renderings of musculature; pecs, abs, biceps, thighs, broad ripply backs, and of course, freakishly perfect bubble-butts. Lately his drawings are less muscle-oriented though, with leaner and smoother torsos. He refuses to tell me who any of these blokes are, or if they're simply figments of his overactive masturbatory imagination.
Incredible to think he's been bashed - a coupla times, in fact. He says it's just the reality of being out and gay. It's certainly made me appreciate what balls you have to have to be queer. Seriously. Simple shit people take for granted like holding the hand of the person you fuck. Amazing.
At times I look at him and think, I swear, were anyone to lay a hand on the bleach blonde little shit, no question, I'd kill. I've become very protective in that way. It's a bit weird.
Let me tell you, he's pretty fucking sex obsessed, for a boy who can't screw.
This makes perfect sense, though, doesn't it ? When you're denied something for months on end, something this primal and of this magnitude to the average teenage boy ...
The weird thing about it is, he claims to remember nothing of any of the sensations, either, up to and including orgasm, the thought of which makes me sort of ill. It's the memory, the sense memory as I believe actors call it, of the incredibly intense sensations that constitute orgasm that drives us all towards it, over and over, is it not ? The root of what compels us to begin with, all of us, to do things such as grooming and educating ourselves and competing for good jobs – so we can attract a mate, and fucking well mate. Otherwise we maybe wouldn't bother.
(Of course, in addition to the kazillions of straights who use birth control, there are many of us who go about the act despite the fact that our method of achieving orgasm has yet to produce a baby ... )
"Tell me about your first time."
I groan. It's after midnite. We're laying about the couch repeatedly falling asleep watching nature documentaries.
"Fuck's sake Tone, it's late. Fuck off and go home, already."
He shoves against me, nudging my lids open.
"Come on. I'm curious. You've told me about all your bloody boyfriends."
"There hasn't been that many."
"Like, I think a dozen is a lot, Max."
"Not when you look like I do."
He laughs.
"Prick."
"Tony, I told you, you arsehole – every boy I've slept with - and it hasn't been a dozen, hasn't actually been a boyfriend. Has every girl you've been with ...?" I stop myself, and look at him. "Sorry."
His grin disappears. He looks from me to the telly.
"Tone, I'm sorry. I forget. I'm fucking tired."
"You forget a lot. I'm getting a little sick of it."
"Well, that's cuz you're sort of more and more like the old Tony these days." I smile. "So much so that it's like the two of you are finally merging, so I sometimes actually forget what happened."
He looks at me.
"Merging. Is that a good thing or a bad thing ?"
"A good thing, tosser," I respond immediately, nodding away ... even though I'm actually rather torn up about it.
"Who are you writing to ?"
He's standing over my shoulder peering in at my computer screen, which I then cover with my hands.
"None of your fucking business, perhaps ?"
"Must be a boy, then. Is he hot ?"
"Fuck off. It's my uncle, 'kay ?"
He groans and plops down backward on the bed.
"You're supposed to be babysitting me, Max, and yet here I am, bored out of my stupid, brain damaged skull. Doc says I need stimulation. Entertain me, already."
"Tony, I've been entertaining you for 4 hours," I say, typing away. "I made you lunch, then we watched cartoons, ran through your exercises, finished off an entire plate of mum's biscuits, then we went to the store."
"None of which constitutes entertainment."
"Shall I take up juggling for you ?" I say, typing still. "Sword swallowing ?"
He points.
"There – that has definite entertainment value. Tell me about cock sucking."
"Right", I say, ignoring him, not getting the reference right away, then I laugh. "Ah, sword swallowing; huh, very funny."
"So tell me."
"Of course. I'm a renowned expert, after all. Teach a course twice a week. You'll have to sign up. It's extremely popular."
He sits up.
"Come on, Max. It'd be sorta cool to hear about, I bet."
I ignore him. By now I'm well used to having my privacy invaded, not invaded, eliminated, but the problem is that he's heard all the general stuff. These days he demands specifics, and try as I might to cling to the naïve belief that specifics truly do belong to me alone ... I cave, but not before letting out a big, annoyed sigh/groan.
He cackles.
"I know that noise – it's the one that comes immediately before you do what I want."
I turn in my chair, trying to force a frown, but it won't come.
"Yes, it's a well known byproduct of being hit by a bus: mind control."
"Mind control is fun !" He laughs.
"What other skills have you gained, I wonder ? Clairvoyance ? The ability to see through clothing ?"
"Maybe bionic hearing." His face lights up like a million watt bulb. "That would be so cool ! Watch out, Max. When you fuck your next muscleboy, I might be listening."
I laugh out loud and speak in exaggerated fashion.
"Yes, well you might be interested to know that my friend Tony is listening to us right now. Hope that's alright. No, he's not anywhere in the room, he's actually two miles from here."
We both laugh. I turn in my seat to face the computer.
"I just need to get this e-card out to my Uncle Bob cuz it was his birthday yesterday, and I forgot. Then I've got dance, so I'm taking you with me. I'll tell you whatever you wanna know on the way, perv-boy, 'kay ?"
"So ... what's it like ?"
"In what way, Tony ?"
He shrugs.
"Dunno. Does it, I don't know ... have a taste, or anything ?"
"What, cock ?"
We're moving our way up the sidewalk, the both of us speaking right out loud; oblivious to anyone passing.
"No. Pussy."
"Fuck off, arsehole. Why in hell would you wanna know that ?"
"Why the fuck not ? Remember, Max, as a gayboy, you're an alien species to me. Whole world worth of interesting and strange tidbits to mine."
"Great."
"So ... tell. Taste. Let's start there."
"Christ, this is ridiculous. Okay ... well, I suppose it depends on the circumstances. If it's, say, the two of you in the shower, then it doesn't taste like anything - just nice thick warm manmeat with a nice fat juicy mushroom head on it."
Tony winces. "God. Yuck."
I smile, and blather on.
"But if it's a quickie and you've just gotten in the door and ripped his trousers down, it might taste a bit like piss at first."
Tony shudders visibly. "Ech !"
"Just at first, I said ! Don't be such a pussy. It's inevitable- you're putting your mouth right over the piss hole, after all."
"Ahhgghhh - enough ! Don't tell me anymore !"
I stop and look at him.
"But I was just about to describe what a mouthful of come tastes like."
He grimaces and grabs his stomach.
"No ! Please !"
I smile, and resume walking.
"Fucking pussy straightboy. Straightboys are complete fucking pussies, did you know that ?"
"No. I was unaware of that fact, Max."
"By the way, do you think pussy tastes like chocolate ? Girls bleed out of their holes, you know."
"Ugh ! Enough. Seriously, Max. You're completely turning me off to oral sex, here."
I laugh.
"Ya, I'm so sure. The first girl you bag, Tone, the first one that turns you on so bad you can't see, you'll be diving head first into her pants. Guaranteed."
He's silent for a minute as we continue walking.
"Why do we do such fucked up things, Max ? Do you ever think about it ? I mean, it's a little fucking odd, isn't it ?"
I shrug. I smile.
"Eating pussy ? Yes, completely. Sucking cock ? No. Fucking amazing having it done, fucking amazing doing it. Plus there's the whole romantic side."
He looks at me like I have three heads.
"Romantic. Right. Cocksucking's real romantic."
"It is ! Or, it can be, 'specially if you're in love. Think about it. All the time you're touching and stroking and kissing and everything, you're holding a human organ in your hands ! The only one you can ! Making love to an actual organ. That's pretty cool."
He laughs and slowly shakes his head.
"You're completely fucking cracked."
We resume walking. A minute later he's back to it.
"Why do you think I tried it that time ?"
Russia, he means. Christ. It's awkward, even now, remembering it.
"I told you. You were all about pushing limits. It was your thing."
"But that was really pretty extreme, right ?"
"Even for you, yes."
"Huh. I wonder if I had some latent attraction to you, or something. Do you think ? Did you, me ?"
I stop. I laugh.
"Christ, Tone !"
"Come on !" He laughs. "Honesty to the point of discomfort - brutal honesty, Max – you promised ! It's my thing, now !"
"Christ, I swear sometimes I miss the old arsehole you were. Okay – no way you were attracted to me – you had every single girl in town since you were 13. You had far too much self confidence and bravado to lie about being bi or gay, if you had been. You would've been flaunting it and plowing your way through all of boydom, had you been. No question."
"Okay, okay. And ...?"
"And no, I did not fancy you, okay ? You're good looking, but it wasn't the case. Too much of a bastard."
We've reached the door to the dance studio. Still, he can't let it drop.
He shoots me a half grin.
"And now ? Any tinglings in the nether reaches now ?"
I manage a feigned look of disgust, "Piss off," and turn to push open the door before he can see the flush.