Unravel

Some mature/sexual content. Read at your own discretion.

Your shaved head glistening with sweat, a foreign body among the whiteness. I want to know what your skin feels like against my fingertips. I want to rub your sweat onto my skin until I smell like you. I want you to grab me by the hair and push my head down, down, down. The cool sticky floor against my bare knees, sending shivers through my limp body. Goosebumps on my arms and shoulders. The taste of your come in my mouth. I want you to claim me, like you own the space around you. Can you feel me looking? I move slowly in the changing room. Try to make the minutes before class last longer. Pretend to be looking for something. A clean pair of socks. Stalling until everyone else is gone. I’m aware that you’re aware. Suddenly uncomfortable in my nakedness. Too exposed, too obvious. Is it safe to admire you from a distance. To think about you when I’m lying in bed at night, allow my mind and hands to wander. Re-creating the fluidity of your moves in the studio. The way the light plays on your dark skin. Something stirs within me when we dance. I can feel myself unravel. I come. Loose. Undone. Unguarded. The whites of your eyes and teeth gleaming in the half-darkness when we leave the building at night. I wait for you to catch up. I try to act casual, like I’m waiting for someone else. Skin and hair damp from the shower, shirt sticking to my back. Too nervous to make eye contact. Too nervous to say anything at all. Music pumping in my ears, too loud for comfort. The noise creating a wall between us. Pretend, pretend, pretense. I want to lick the sweat from your upper lip. I want to feel you inside me. I want you to move me to the point of crying. Your muscular arms resting on top of mine. The weight of your body restricting my breathing. Face buried in the sheets. Everything smells like you. Short, shallow breaths. Replace the dull pain with something else. Something tangible that I can touch, see and smell. Can I trust you? This otherness, this sense of being apart. Separate from everyone else. Do you ever doubt yourself? The way you navigate the world so effortlessly, like everything belongs to you. A proud young man. You’re nothing like me. Always the quiet gay kid, trapped in his anger and insecurities. It will destroy me. I watch as you’re paired with a petite brunette. Jealousy raging inside me. It hurts to be this close to you, not being able to touch. I can’t focus on my partner, my hands on her skinny waist. The tension is making me nauseous. I can’t stand to be in the same space, in the same room. The choreography tells the story of a man who destroys the only thing he loves. His love for her is unrequited, her heart belongs to someone else. But if he can’t have her, no one else will. I want your angry gaze to tear me apart, the way only a man can look at another. A look that says I’m ready to fight, I want to challenge you. I want you to hurt me, leave your mark on my body as a permanent reminder. The only language we speak is a physical one. Please, stop resisting. I parade around the changing room, making a spectacle of myself. Your stare burning imaginary holes in my naked skin. You cocky little shit. Stomach tight like a clenched fist, face flushed with want and anger. I love you, but I don’t know how to love myself. The first time I danced I cried from relief, because at that moment I knew. Why didn't exist then, only how.

　

Stay/Stuck

Some adult content. Read at your own discretion.

Anything neck or above is off-limits, unless you‘re romantically involved. He read this in a book a long time ago and it resonated with him. You have to keep some things private. Now he laughs just thinking about it, but it stuck. Your lips can’t touch mine. It’s his only rule. When the girl at work tries to mess with his hair he backs away. You’re such a vain bastard. It’s become a joke.

 

Sometimes he’ll wake in the night, heart pounding. Fingers pressing into his lower back, searching for that hollow spot. Waist in a tight grip. Relax. His skin recognizes the cold titan ring, the over-sized watch, those nails. He knows their shape without even looking. Less rounded than a woman’s, manicured and clean. There are thousands of memories stored in his body. One day it’ll all come gushing out and catch everyone by surprise. You’re so uptight. I like you better when you’re drunk. It makes him want to cry. This is why his nails are always bitten down to where it bleeds. He won’t shower or bathe on those nights, thinking it will keep him safe. Too repulsive to touch. The smell of stale sweat on the bedsheets, irritating his nostrils. Heart racing, brain racing. Ears ringing. All senses heightened.

 

We need to have a talk about boundaries.

I’m an adult, I don’t give a shit.

Being an adult has become the best excuse ever. All those grownups who said he was headed for tragedy can’t do a thing anymore. It’s strangely satisfying. I love you. You know I care about you, right? I wouldn’t let you stay otherwise. I’m doing you a huge favour by letting you stay. Not many people would. You want to go back there? A guy your age needs his independence. You like your room, don’t you? It’s a different room in the daytime. Bathing in sunlight. His books arranged alphabetically, clothes neatly folded away. Everything in place. Tall windows, high ceiling, closets with shelves. It’s everything he ever wanted. But the door doesn’t lock. Yeah, of course I do.

 

You’ve seen the way he looks at other men and it makes your stomach hurt. He’ll find someone better-looking, you know he will. Someone even more desperate, who’ll say yes to anything. You know he’ll tire of your body eventually. There’s only so much you can give him. You’re terrified of being on your own, aren’t you kid. The fear is stronger than any humiliation he’ll subject you to. You love playing the victim. Have you already forgotten? If you say yes once there’s no going back. And every time you emerge from the shower, towel barely covering your ass, what's running through your mind?

Bodies

What do you need, she’ll ask. Repeatedly. What does Charlie need? Shrug. A short embarrassed laugh. It sounds more like a snort. He doesn’t know. Nails digging into palms. Leaving angry red marks, half-moon shapes glaring back at him. Same as before. Nothing’s changed. The room is too familiar, like a feeling stuck in his throat.

 

The anger is still there. It’s still there. Visible in every step and movement. Always present in his dancing. Mr. Suarez recognizes something in him. There’s comfort in his unspoken understanding. Never loses his patience, never raises his voice. He was an angry young man, too. The world is full of them. Dance it out, sweat out the pain like an exorcism. I see you. Your presence makes everything okay. It's never been said, but we both know.

 

You look so much like your father.

Doesn’t he? It’s just like seeing Simon at that age.

Bitch. You’re dead. He nods instead. Thanks, I guess.

 

Trying to accept. Learning to appreciate the beauty of his own body and everything that it’s capable of. Its surprising strength. It catches him off guard at times. An instrument of self-expression. Tracing the lines with his fingertips. Adult shapes, foreign and threatening. Hardness worn like armor. Something to protect him from their stares. I’m in control now. Never the object. Never again. Wanting it, craving attention at the same time. Who wouldn’t. He’s still so young. Everything is about stealing glances and private fantasies. About being seen, about having it all. Those straight boys and their bragging. They made it clear from day one. We’re not like you. So much easier to become one of the girls. Less risk of getting hurt. On bad days all he sees is the language of violence, crudely written on his skin, forever marked and singled out. Staring at his naked image in the mirror. Does his father know? This way, he’ll never leave.

 

I dance because I ran out of words.

Knots

He was the kind of kid who’d never colour outside the lines. He was always afraid to, and he hasn‘t changed one bit. Now, when he drinks he becomes a different person. Isn’t that the whole point, to outrun yourself and lose all inhibitions. To become reckless and a little crazy. Impulsive. A flirt. Everything he can‘t be or won’t do sober. Here, let me untangle the knots in your stomach, let’s get you warm and relaxed. The rigid dancer‘s poise melts away, he‘s all arms and legs spread out in the armchair like an octopus. Giggling uncontrollably. Alcohol makes him trusting, hopeful. It makes him feel as if he’s never been afraid in his entire life. I’ll do anything, just watch. He looks at the others playing responsible adults. Shaking their heads at him, but smiling at the same time. They’re not about to stop him. It’s only a bit of fun. Tomorrow things will seem a little blurry, he’ll feel everything then, but it’s worth it, it’s all worth it.

Clouds

We used to live opposite Bute Park, a few doors down from a house with clouds painted on its façade. Baby pink or blue, I can’t remember. It looked out of place. Defiant, like it had a mind of its own. It had to be against the rules, it had to! You can’t paint a house like something out of a picture book. It made me smile, but it made me angry too. Who do you think you are, house? You think you’re so much better than all the other houses, you think you’re so special. Mum had to drag me away, I was endlessly fascinated by it. I wanted to get a closer look at the people who lived inside. I wanted to stare at them, even though it’s rude to stare. They had to be something special, something out of the ordinary. Maybe they were artists or painters or writers. The house stood out, it clashed with the other brick houses, it screamed here I am. It troubled me. Who made the rules? I never broke any. Who gets to decide what’s right and wrong? Mum and dad? Other mums and dads? I wanted to paint pictures.

It’s too messy, you’ll get paint all over your clothes.

But we can wash them, can’t we? It’ll come right off.

Why don’t you draw something, use your pencils.

I wanted to dig in the dirt like our dogs, roll around on the ground. A mess of mud and wet leaves. I wanted to lie there on the grass until the damp had seeped through every layer of clothing. Be bold and adventurous like my big sisters.

I hate those dogs, look at the stains on the carpet, Simon. Dog hair all over the settee. Look at the state of this place!

Get the au pair to clean it, she sits on her arse all day. Does fuck all, don’t know what we’re paying her for. Stupid woman.

They never stayed long. It always ended in tears and long phone calls home in a language I didn’t understand. Russian, Latvian, French. I wanted to move like my sister in her gymnastics class. Precise. Perfect clean lines. But her laughter always sounded mean, like she could read my mind. Mum in her armchair with a book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. Dad in his. They never looked at each other.

Who lives in that house?

Students, babes. Students like the ones I teach.

Who painted it?

Whoever owns it, I don’t know. Why are you asking all these silly questions?

Can I do gymnastics?

Boys don’t do gymnastics, babes. Now shush.

He should be playing soccer. Why don’t you take him to practice?

Why don’t you take him? He’s your son!

I belonged to my dad and his quiet suppressed rage. Handsome and confident, never a crease in the wrong place. He was an architect, he spent all day in an office drawing things, making changes, correcting other people’s mistakes. I wanted him to teach me how to draw.

I’m not at work now, Charlie. This is my time to relax.

He’d make women giggle, even in front of mum. He’d go to the pub up the road with his friends and come home long after dark. The Halfway House. I’ll meet you halfway. Whispers in Welsh. Sometimes he’d tickle me and tell me to jump on my bed. His breath smelled different, then. Strong and minty.

I’m not allowed to jump on the bed, dad.

Yes, you are. Do it.

I wanted to make him laugh, that’s all. I wanted to make him happy. No didn’t exist in my vocabulary.