Boys Are Different To Girls.

I’ve been thinking about it all day.

All day.

It’s a lecherous city and it always hits me smack in the face when it comes time for the moon to open itself open wide and bleed.

It repels me.

Everyone boasts about their sexual conquests at the weekend– Everyone.

Well, except one man.

I got to chatting to the charming Italian barista at a local cafe this morning– He was lovely.

“So how’s England?”

I laughed and ordered a soy flat white.

I was nervous. The city makes me nervous sometimes, of a morning, all of sudden–

“So may I ask how long it’s been since you’ve been intimate with a man?”

I smiled. I didn’t want to talk about it.

I didn’t want to talk about it in the kitchen at work either with the gay patriarch.

Nor did I care to later as I walked home and bumped into a few people I know on the street–

Does it matter? These stories… do they matter? I’m inclined to think not.

I’m inclined to prefer thinking actually.

I cordoned myself off at a house party Saturday night. Plonked myself down on my sisters balcony, looked out over the city and thought–

A bottle of Semillon, a packet of Peter Steuveysent rolling tobacco and a lot of thoughts.

My favorite.



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