From the Blushing issue. When you feel yourself to be a writer, when you lay claim to that identity, the only possible objective is to say everything. For the first time, I am talking to my mother about the sexual diary I have been keeping for years.
The profusion of guys is staggering, as intoxicating as always. In literally five minutes, a year-old has given me his address and the code of his building, for me to come and give him a blow job. But I get the picture anyway, en route, and it looks respectable. He replies: None in particular. He asks me about my own. He says: a bit of both. I hold off asking him too many things, so as not to frighten him, but I take my courage in both hands both thumbs and ask him: does he like being sucked off while watching a porno?
He says he has never done it, wants to know if that turns me on. I reply sometimes hedging my bets. He says Okay. One last thing: does he have any poppers? I reply Cool. A Jewish name , I think. Before I head up, I note the bin store to my right; its little door is open. I do my flies up and go up the stairs. I am, as always, a little bit ashamed, but always a little bit less than the last time I performed this ritual. I keep heading up wondering whether I should propose, at the last minute, some water sports.
Finally, I get to his landing a window on the staircase diffuses a whiteish light on the stairs. The door opposite is open; I go in. On the wall, opposite the utensils, is a coatrack with some hangers, all of them with designer jackets on them - APC included.
I think to myself that he must be a fashion student. I put my sunglasses in my straw hat, and my straw hat upside down on the edge of the sink. I presume that is waiting for me stretched out on the bed, the corner of which I can see round the wall. I set my rucksack down against the wall and start to move towards him, before turning back to add my mobile to the contents of the upside-down hat wanting to be free of the device, the machine and as expected I find him stretched out, in boxers and a T-shirt, waiting for me, his eyes glued to the screen of his phone, on which is playing, I guess, something X-rated, as agreed.
