Squeeze

Personally speaking I try to squeeze every drop of life from a day. She’s never been like that. Whenever she leaves me she bats her eyes and makes the sign of a telephone with her hand when she says goodbye. I get really pissed off at that. I can’t quite make out the awkward dose of ill-acted senselessness. Simply put, she’s ceased to be significant to me. She’s now as real to me as that hand-telephone she holds unringing next to her ear.
I’m hoping that she’ll soon get bored of me and leave me to my crazy flirting with strangers that comes to nothing and my crushes that last a week and no longer. I’m also hoping that the latest crush Jen found that poem I left in her library book before she returns it. Page 130. If she doesn’t then it becomes a message in a bottle. No doubt someone will find it, next year, when they decide to take a module in Poetic Theory but I’m sure it won’t mean as much to them.
As it begins to snow I realise that these girls, like others, don’t quite see the world the same way I do. They’ve never paid enough attention to the details; never asked too many questions of existence. I realise this and giggle and begin trying to catch the snowflakes on my tongue. I’m thinking how each is unique, like me.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Dreads

There is a girl that I nicknamed Dreads, for want of her real name. She works at a small shop, down by the canal, which allows you to make pots and paint them. She is tall and quite thin. She has dark brown hair and dark eyes that look sad. Her hair is in dreadlocks, which she wears up, so that the top of her head looks like an explosion of adders.
Most of the time I see her she is in the Porter struggling with the day’s crosswords, a well-chewed pen between her teeth. I want to tell her the joke about the crossword I have just started, the one where the clue is; ‘Overloaded Postman.’
She’d probably smile politely and ask, knowingly; ‘Any Letters?’

Clara

I met a girl today called Clara. She is the same height as me and has short blonde hair that is feathered and light, so that the faintest movement sends it rustling.
I met her in the library while we queued up. She had taken out a load of travel guides and I told her that I’d go with her to Prague. She had no idea I was deadly serious.
She waited at the exit until I was done, to say goodbye. I think she wanted me to ask for her number, but I’m not really looking at the moment.

Statistics

They’re strange things. 3% of the population are homosexual, apparently, but to me there seem to be a lot more people than that.
Someone said that there are lies, damn lies and statistics. I think they were right, but it doesn’t stop me reading them and thinking about them anyway.
There are apparently 10999999 single people in the UK, and me – 11million is a lot. So why can’t I find someone nice to settle down with? Maybe they are all at home wondering the same thing.

Postcards

When I was younger I used to write poetry and leave it in books in the library. I did it for ages and never heard a breath of response to it from any of the librarians.
It was some years later that I found someone else who had done the same, then another, then another. Pretty soon I realised it was one of the most unoriginal things you can do.
Nowadays I write random words on blank postcards and hand them out at train stations and airports.

View

I stand about a lot in work. When I do, I tend to gaze out of the windows at the people walking past. I like to make up lives for them, or picture going out with the girls, and being friends with the guys. Although I only see them for a few moments I’m almost sure of them being exactly as I imagine by the time they round the corner and disappear out of sight. It gives me a tiny sense of loss each time. And then another walks into view.

Rolex

A Chinese woman comes into our shop quite often. She’s all smiles and black shiny hair. She’s in her early twenties and regularly buys expensive jewellery. She’ll deliberate for quite a while and then haggle on the price. There is a bit of a language barrier, but we forgive her for the sake of her smile.
Today she brought her parents and bought 4 Rolex. All were 18ct yellow gold. She got 14% off.
I wonder if she will do this for the rest of her life. Wonder if she will ever tire of this life of excess, or decide to work for a living or something. Strangely I can see her working in a jewellery store.