Last time I asked him was he going to pay for that, what he held in his hand, junk food, since he wasn’t joining the queue line I was in.
This time he said he had been going to but on my asking thought he wouldn’t and left Waitrose to wait outside for me. He pointed out I’d had a heroin addict for a lover once and the person whose withdrawal pains I shared at a distance was also a heroin addict, that I liked bad boys. John is certainly one of those. Yet I am good: honest, truthful. In my defence I countered that I liked them in order to mitigate their badness though that was hardly true of Harvey. Oh I tried but it was largely because he’d come off heroin he overdosed and died. In any case with him I was giving him what he wanted. He didn’t ask directly.
It was a very hot summer and I lay naked on the bed with the door open. Harvey walked in. He told me a story during which he continually gauched, that is nodded off. These gauches didn’t last long but every time he came out of one, he backed up on the story so nothing would have been omitted. This was excruciating. When he’d finished, he walked out. What the fuck was that about? I asked myself and worked it out on the evidence, so left Harvey a note: Harvey, OK, John.
He had a girlfriend. More to the point he’d’ve been shunned by his fellow addicts if he were known as homosexual. Nor did I want my other neighbours knowing Harvey was a lover. They hated him. Clandestineness suited us both.
Oh, yes: his story was about Gay William who, impressed by Harvey’s masculinity, wanted Harvey to fuck him whereas what Harvey wanted was …you’ve guessed. Then I could assume I could do whatever was required. Now….