Honesty

There isn’t anything I would not tell the world, however tragic or personal. As long as it is mine to tell I will not hesitate to impart it to anyone. I don’t do it to heal myself, lighten any burden, or try to explain in the hopes that I can reason with things.
Everything that happens I can and do, fundamentally, deal with on my own. I am honest because on the same level that I do not want to be alone, I also don’t want people to imagine that I don’t suffer atrociously.
For me to not speak about the things that matter most would be an appalling lie. For me not to talk about my aching would only falsify the friendships I make. I don’t expect salvation from anyone I meet; I can deal with these things on my own, just not alone.

Child

I had one for the blink of an eye. I dreamt him back into being, after Melissa had the abortion. His name would have been Ben. I hadn’t known a thing about there being a child until a friend told me 9 months after Lissa left. She told me that Lissa had run away so abruptly, because she couldn’t face the fact that I would have wanted to keep him.
So I dreamt him back into being. First the size of a few cells, up to the size of a pea, then I drew motion into him, a tadpole. He grew to a birth of nothingness.
I accelerate past his first Christmas, first few steps; learning to ride a bike, kick a ball in the park. Past his first crush, heartbreaks, accidents and exams. Cast away hobbies and nights on his own, just thinking and listening to music.
I imagined a wife for him, children and then past my own existence, to him telling his grandchildren about me.
So I dreamt him back into being, but he wasn’t back. All I keep thinking is that he ended as a smattering on a toilet bowl and then I start crying again.

Kingdom

You can’t help but hate the guy that the woman you are in love with is currently seeing. More often than not he is a lazy slob with bad manners and an alcohol problem. Most of the time he’ll be taking her for a ride and all the while be scouting for a better, or rather more pathetic, example of a woman to take advantage of. But you hate him most because the world you long for is his kingdom.
You hate him because you are a better guy but you’re too polite to say so. So you end up hating yourself too.

Lasagne

“I can cook,” is the catchphrase of every girl who wants a guy genuinely and drastically; it is also the death knell of a relationship. So that was the format of my relationship with Lucy.
We struck up a relationship at the halfway point of my second year at university. She’s my Twerton girl, much to her dismay. I caught her spying on me from across the street while I waited for a bus and when our eyes met she picked up her light feet and breezed over the road toward me, smiling.
We shared a few nights at mine and she lit up that awkward little room with an energy that seemed to linger even after she’d left.
“I can cook,” was a statement that lured me, and my grumbling stomach, over to her house.
After a serving of ‘where our lives will go’ and a portion of ‘I love you’ I didn’t have the appetite for the burnt lasagne.

Touch

It isn’t only men that try to touch young boys old women try as well.
Having chosen to read a book recommended by Mrs. Snow I was nestled in the crook of one of the old leather chairs near the religious texts where no one much went, and where at least three inches of dust and a dash of cobwebs had formed. I’d gotten up to a typically Mills and Boon milestone in my book, the main character’s first kiss. From that moment my passion for such books was ignited, perhaps Mrs. Snow knew I had the heart of a romantic, who knows?
I’m greeted by a wrinkled face peering down at me and I recognise it, it is Mrs Snow. Her friendly demeanour had dipped and she asked if she could sit down on the chair next to me. I told her should could. Next thing and her crumpled hand is clutching my cock. She hurt me at first, which I can only assume was down to a mixture of excitement and fear. She relaxed her grip, rubbed my crotch and responded to my involuntary erection with a smile, before standing up and walking away.

Kiss

First kiss was with my Dad’s friend’s daughter. I forget her name. We were both 10 and were hiding under the bed. We’d each had just eaten lollies – orange flavour – and we’d gotten it all over our faces. We kissed and then licked each other’s mouths. The event was marred with the accident that took place in the next room. Her brother decided to fall from a wardrobe and break his arm.
That was my awkward introduction to the theory of pain for pleasure.

Shipping

I used to watch a friend get fucked against a shipping container. Whatever boyfriend she happened to be with would unzip while she took down her panties. Then they’d lift her, so that her legs could wrap around their hips, then they’d pound her into the side of the large metal wall. Until they came, and she was lowered to the floor.
I’d sometimes not be able to watch and would close my eyes and measure time by the beating of her spine. I was convinced that I loved her, and that this was slow torture.

Wet

A small passion is showers and sleep. I get a shower and leave my hair wet. I like the feeling of it on my back and shoulders. I get to sleep and wake up with a cool pillow to rest my face against.
Sometimes I let a partner go to bed with wet hair too. I love getting a blowjob having her long wet hair slipping over my hips.
Most nights I go to bed alone and as much as wet hair leaves me feeling more alone, for the coldness, I can hug my pillow and imagine that I’m making whoever it is uncomfortable enough to stay awake. Just so I can spend longer with them.

Mysterious

Jasmine, 27, Indian, cute, mature, interesting. So I buy her and her friends drinks. Then they take me to Moles, a nightclub, where I make out with her for about 20mins. Then I have the strange notion that it would be mysterious of me to escape without saying anything. So I do.
She calls me. 3 missed calls later and I get a txt message. “I think you are really sweet honey, cute too, but you aren’t half weird.”
I saw it as a small victory and finished off my evening with a cold shower and a mouthful of chocolate ice cream.

Joint

Met her in Porter. I’m reading Philip Larkin and she asks me what I’m reading, so I tell her “only the best poet who ever lived.”
“Oh,” she replies, “Keats?”
“Nope.” I say, trying my best to avoid telling a cute girl that her taste in poetry is flawed. “Larkin.” I say finally.
She’s a brunette with long hair and a white and red striped top. She’s got small breasts and a smile that says yes. She’s the kind of girl that you can throw about in the sack. And I did.
We smoked a joint and fucked for an hour, then she grabbed my cock and jerked and sucked me till I came in her face and she fell back on the bed, giggling.

Jerk

I’m horny, so I call my then partner Lissa. She tells me to come over. So I do. The week before she comes over in nothing but underwear and a coat over the top. So I go one better. No underwear, no coat.
I walk over to her house, it is cold, and I’m butt naked for the whole 20min walk. And I must stress I did walk. Ok, I had to jerk a bit of life into the ‘little guy’ before I rang the doorbell, but the second she saw me she called me a “cute little bugger” and grabbed my arm to pull my “cute little tush” inside.

Lissa

So I miss the bitch and can’t stop thinking about the night of the photo shoot. Almost the best fuck ever. Second best if I’m honest. Sexy, extravagant, outrageous.
I want sex like that – no guilt. Let someone else worry. Let me suck and lick and scratch and bite and fuck and let me fall in love, like that, again.