In a way, Maxxie's the weirdest boy I know. Of course, I don't really know anybody else - outside of Effy. True, I have more and more memories these days of hanging with Sid and Chris and Chelle, et al. Things like getting spliffed up at clubs, and such. But those people are long gone from my life, never to return, I'm sure.

Anway, Maxxie. Sometimes I just don't know what he's on about. He'll be babbling a mile a minute, laughing and letting me freely mine his brain on any topic I choose, and then he'll suddenly slam on the brakes and stare at me like a deer in the headlights, with a look that says no amount of waving your hands in front of him will work.

Maybe it's that, with time, the stress of being may main caregiver and nurse is making him mental, and so we're starting to switch places: the less of a nutter I'm becoming, the more he is.

Mental or no, he's an amazing fucking dancer – it has to be said. He wants to turn pro, and I can totally see it.

Thing that blows me away most is when he throws himself in the air, somehow tilts his body, and then spins round like he's flying. Fuck, I just had no idea how physical, how athletic a thing it was – draining, exhausting; he ends up dripping in flop sweat. Maybe it should be categorized as a sport instead of an 'art'. Well, maybe not. It's not fucking football. It is an art form – spend any time watching, and you'll see. Makes me jealous. Makes me sorta proud of him, too ... as if I had anything to do with it.

The tap dancing's fucking insane as well, but more mathematical, like; weirdly brilliant. He says it works a different part of your brain, that it's more 'rectangular' versus 'oval'. Yup, he's arty.

I watch the other dancers, and I swear he's the best of the lot. There's just a seamlessness and beauty and grace that sorta takes your breath away, that is so obviously missing from the other performances.

After a full hour of this I'll be standing there and my head will actually hurt. He'll walk up all matter of fact asking me how it was, and I'll sort of be in a weird space for a minute before I can answer. Like he's from some brilliant other planet populated by an advanced race of geniuses, and I'm just a common fucking arsehole.

At his place we'll watch the tape of his recent rehearsals – rewind, pause, rewind, pause, Maxxie scribbling away making notes and drawing figures and angles in his sketch pad, then rewind and watch again, til he figures out what tiny movement, to his eyes, is a smidgen off.

Meanwhile I sit there with my mouth fucking hanging open.

One of the dancers likes him, Maxxie says, or at least, he suspects, and I think I've pegged him – the tall brunette with the dearth of perceivable muscles. So not his type.

Sometimes I'll watch the kid watching Maxxie, which is such a trip, cuz his eyes totally give him away. Total longing and desire. Gotta feel bad for him.

Once I caught the kid giving me the evil eye. Guess he figures since I'm here every time I must be Maxxie's boyfriend. What a hoot. Just to rub it in I grabbed Max's hand as we walked out and to my surprise he held onto it for a minute, but as soon as he realized, he ripped it away and called me an arsehole.

Maxxie's a catch, that's the thing. Special, like. Not a case where any old bloke will do. I see him over and over getting chatted up, or just eyeing boys in the street and vice versa, and I'll feel this weird pull. Hard to describe. I guess it's a form of protectiveness and maybe worry that he'll throw himself away, waste all he's got on the wrong fucking man; some useless tosser who treats him like shit, and I'll absolutely wanna kill the fucker. That part of it seems very real.

"Ever been in love, Max?"

We're lazing on my bed again, as we do often these days, hands behind heads, knees bent, legs crossed, feet absently kicking.

"Yes."

He turns his head.

"Really? For real?"

"Ya. Felt very real to me. I'm still in love with him, in a way."

"Who ?"

I exhale. I've never talked about it to anyone.

"Nobody you know."

"Somebody from school ?"

"No. He goes to another school, thankfully."

"So ... what happened?"

I feel a wave of emotion - just conjuring his image does it.

I turn to him.

"I don't really wanna talk about it, Tone, if you don't mind. It's not a happy story."

He blinks a minute. He looks concerned.

"Sorry."

We lay there in silence, my misery increasing by the second, before I try to laugh it off.

"Unrequited friggin love."

"Hmm. Ya."

A surge of anger rises ... and then I can't fucking shut up.

"Thing was, we hit it off so fucking well. We had a million things in common. We flirted for ages, and then I finally get up the nerve to tell him, and he actually said he liked me back, which turned out to be complete bullshit. I didn't know it though. This went on for weeks - him pretending he liked me that way, pretending everything was fine, which led me to believe it was, and then I was inviting him over, and he blew me off and got all weird, and then basically told me to fuck off, through a friend."

By the time I stop talking my eyes have filled, which is typical when I think about him, even now. For fuck's sake, though, I don't want to be crying like a pansy in front of Tony. I manage to run my hands across my face subtly as I can – though I'm not fooling anyone.

"Sorry," I sniff, "I'm such a useless twat."

"No you're not. Shut up."

More tears spill.

"Yes I am."

"Maxxie you shit, here's how it is: you're a total catch. He's a total cunt. End of story."

I ponder this a moment, and it's suddenly like someone's opened a window on a warm, breezy summer day. I smile. I turn my head to face him.

"Thanks, Tone. You're a doll."

"Him, what about him, Max ?" he asks, head jerking in the direction of some bloke passing us in the grocery store.

I look.

"Ehh, he's okay."

"Christ, you are picky."

I shrug.

"Men are shallow. He has to be beautiful."

"Last guy you were with was no beauty queen."

I whip my head around, semi-insulted.

"Dan ? He was fit ! Wall to wall muscles !"

"Whatever," he snorts, proceeding to push the shopping cart directly into a large, intricately stacked display of dozens of boxes of rice.

"Christ, Tone." I mutter, crouching to begin the pick up. It's not his fault – he still can't make anything near to a fist, so when manning the cart, which he insisted on doing this time, instead of wrapping his hands round the handle to grip it, he pushes against it over and over with his opens palms. Not exactly conducive to bloody steering.

Tony walks off to get help. A fellow customer then crouches down to do so, and when we're done, jokes to me that it was shit rice anyway.

I look at him and ... holy christ, perfection: tall-ish, nice build, strong jaw, dark eyes, scrumptious head of hair.

Straight, though, I'm betting. Oh well.

"I prefer the real stuff- the Indian stuff, myself," he adds, with a dazzling smile.

"Oh," I blather. "Ya, me too. I try to eat healthy."

"Ya ?" he grins, "health nut ?"

"Well ..." I blush, "not too too much."

"Do you work out ?"

"Um ya, fair bit."

"Me too. Mark's is great."

"Mark's ? That's my gym."

He laughs. Christ, he's even got a gorgeous laugh.

"No kidding. Never seen you there, but I'm only in after 7 – summer jobs suck."

We both laugh.

"Ya, I'm off this summer, so I'm there during the day, mostly."

At this point Tony returns and stands awkwardly by – just a foot from us, making no effort to pretend he's not listening.

"Oh well," Mr Gorgeous says. "I'm Bill, by the way," he says, smiling.

"Maxxie," I respond.

"Sorry ?"

"Maxxie", Tony answers, annoyed.

He looks from me to Tony and back.

I force a quick laugh.

"Ignore him - just a friend."

He laughs.

"Okay, well maybe I'll see you at Mark's, then, Maxxie."

"Okay."

"Um," Bill adds, tentative, "maybe we can get coffee, then, or lunch or whatever, after ?"

Bullseye.

I nod. I smile. I'm bloody tingling. "Sure. I'd like that."

"Okay, great," he says.

"Great," I nod.

"Great," chimes in Tony.

Bill laughs. "Alright, well, looking forward to it. Bye then, Maxxie."

"Bye, Bill."

I turn, grinning ear to ear.

"Shit," Tony says. "So that's what it's like to be blonde, huh ?"

"Fuck off, nutbar."

"Seriously, Max," he says, handing the cart to me to push. "In the 12 seconds I'm gone you've got a date ?"

I'm practically skipping down the aisle now.

"Yes !"

"How do you know he's even right for you ?"

"Huh? Fuck, Tony, what is wrong with you - look at him !"

"He could be an arsehole or a stalker or an idiot, or something. A murderer."

I rub my hands and cackle.

"Yes, but a highly tasty and fit one." I start singing. "Cock. Cock is on the horizon."

"Slut."

I stop and look at him.

"Fuck's sake, Tone, since when are you my mother ? It's just lunch !"

"Ya. 'Lunch'. You'll be lunching on his dick in the back room."

"You say that like it's a bad thing ! Gyms don't have back rooms by the way ! What is wrong with you, anyway ?"

He holds out his hand.

"Okay, alright. I admit it. I'm ... jealous."

I snort.

"Jealous. Right."

He snaps.

"I mean I'm jealous of how easy it is for you, Maxxie. Pick up somebody you fancy and take 'im home and fuck 'im whenever you want. Christ, I need pussy so bad I'm gonna fucking explode."

"Tony, I am positive you could bag any girl you wanted in this very store. Maybe not in 12 seconds, but, just bump her with the cart, apologize, and make sure her boyfriend's not nearby-" I stop dead. In my giddiness, I've once again completely forgotten. Christ, what a motherfucker I am.

"Can't fucking get it up, Max," he reminds me, bitterly. "So, what exactly would be the point ?"

A few days later at the gym, which I make damned bloody sure to hit after 7, I spy Bill, in the corner, doing leg lifts and squats. My, but he has a beautiful physique.

I grab a towel and walk by, pretending not to have seen him already, and the lovely thing is focusing so intently he doesn't notice me. Even this I find appealing.

I do a quick round of my usual pulley weights and try again – walking by his sightline, careful not to look.

"Maxxie ?"

God I'm good. I whip my head round.

"Oh, hi ! Bill, right ?"

When what I should be saying is: "So nice to see you ! I've been masturbating over thoughts of you all week !"

Coffee it is, at the little place round the corner, where we discuss our workout routines, a fellow gym member we both sort of dated, and school. He'll be second year at Bristol in the fall, studying chemical physics, for fuck's sake. This, I think to myself, mum will love.

He's polite, well mannered, and seems genuinely interested to hear about my dancing, and even to want to see it. Yay.

After a good 40 minutes or so, we get up to leave, with him apologizing that he has to run to make his night class, and asking if I would care for coffee next time, too. I immediately agree.

I turn and walk, or rather, float the short distance to my building, relieved to see he's not just interested in a quick fuck, though I admit, I would hardly have turned the lad down, had he offered.

I lunge for my mobile.

"You didn't fuck, then ?"

"No, arsehole. Not every single gay encounter ends with sex."

"Why in hell not ?"

"Fuck off. He seems perfect, Tone. Hot, fit, yet well spoken and polite and rather sweet. Old fashioned, like. Studying chemical physics, so there's that."

"Deadly fucking dull."

"Shut up. He asked to see me again over coffee."

"Fuck, you'll be married soon. Where will I be then ?"

"Probably married yourself. 'cept not to a man."

"No, but considering how brain damage can alter the personality," he chuckles, "one can never know."

Two post-gym coffees, and three formal dates later, following a heavy kissing session at the movies, we race home to his place, and for the first time, fuck.

Suffice to say that it was perfect; hard, hot, fast, deep, breathless. I'm mad for that giddy, post fuck combo of exhaustion/exhilaration.

Yup. Pretty much from this point forward, there's a smile plastered to my face.

He goes on and frigging on about him, every frigging day ...

Did you know that Bill can bench press twice my weight ?

Oh, listen to this joke Bill told me.

Do you know what Bill's grandmother used to say to him when he was little ?

Bill really likes Velvet Goldmine.

Look ! Bill taught me to make a liver and whey smoothie !

Then as if it isn't torture enough, there's all the fucking chemical shit ...

Wanna know what the chemical compound for salt is ?

When Bill was six he had a toy chemistry set - so cute !

Bill says once he's a chemist, he might teach, or he might just work in a lab.

Did you know that Bill's teacher said he had the most natural aptitude for chemistry he's ever seen?

It's friggin unbearable. First, because of how intensely boring and annoying it is when your friend is giddy all the time, has exactly one topic on his mind, and can't fucking shut up about it. Second ... because the more he goes on, the more it's twisting me up inside, churning up my guts and making me feel, I swear, almost physically ill. Why ?

Fucking jealously !

Come on. How can I not be jealous, when the undivided attention I've enjoyed all these months is suddenly, completely fucking divided ?

Yes, I want to be happy for him, of course I fucking do. I keep telling myself that if I was any sort of friend, I would be, yet, increasingly, with each and every mention of the "B" word, I stiffen, and it's becoming more and more difficult to hide.

"He doesn't dislike you."

He smiles.

"Come on, Maxxie. You can read it in his face."

"Bollocks." I grab for his hand. "It's your imagination."

"I'm taking you away from him. That's how he sees it."

"What are you talking about ? Tony and I are best friends. He wants me to be happy."

He leans in for a quick kiss.

"You're sweet, Maxxie. But you're blind."

It's pretty weird, this whole impotence thing. And yes, I've bloody tried. Many times, now, via both filthy girly mags and, with Maxxie's help as I still can barely work a mouse, the downloading of a few primo porn vids and yet ... nothing. The equation being: persistent and lingering motor skill issues + the buildup of stress and frustration regarding same = chronic flacidity.

I go from hot to cold all the time - constantly. I'll be horned out of my mind one minute, albeit, again, without benefit of erection, then in the next will be so turned off to thoughts of sex that I'm convinced I'll join the monkhood. I'm sort of split down the middle. Exactly what I need now, I chuckle to myself, multiple personalities, like the male version of Sybil ...

"So what do you think Max ?"

I'm at his flat, as usual, running through my hand and arm exercises.

"'Bout what, Tone?"

"Me, you tosser, as a monk. Are you even listening ? As a poof, you'll agree the brown robe thing isn't all that appealing, but ..."

"Nor the reverse mohawk ..."

He looks at me, all earnest.

"Tony, you'll get it back; I promise; you will. There's no way you won't."

"I don't even wake up hard, Max, like ever. Aren't boys in our age group notorious for that ?"

"Not just our age group."

I lift an eyebrow.

"Oh? Which teachers have you fucked, then ?"

"None. Fuck off."

"Okay, but do you ?"

"Do I what ?"

"Wake up hard ?"

He shakes his head.

"Not goin' there."

I try a different tack, just to annoy him.

"So how was I, at cock sucking, again ?"

"Fuck off, please."

"No, I wanna know."

He looks at me.

"I told you - you sucked. You were horrid."

And then in an instant I'm doubled over laughing - my sense of humour oftentimes these days being particularly juvenile.

"I sucked at sucking ! Is that what you're saying ? I really suck at sucking ! ?"

He looks at me, annoyed, and then a second later he's grinning.

"Suction just not being the typical straight boy's thing," he spews between giggles. "They really, um blow at it, you could say."

"Totally blew it!"

And then we're both holding our bellies rolling on the floor like frigging idiots, running through and into the ground every single possible bad pun for blowjobs, until we're wiping the moisture from our eyes and sighing with the weariness that only an extended, exceptionally immature silly-fit can bring.

"You're completely fucked, you know that, Tone ? ..."

He then surprises the holy bleeding shit out of me by, out of the clear blue, walking up, kissing me quick and soft on the lips ...

"... Come on, we're having dinner."

... and then turning round to head into the kitchen.

And so I'm left, sitting, staring, rather inordinately stunned ... and it's the single strangest thing in the world.

For the first time in as long as my ailing memory serves, I feel happy.