Prettyboy

9: I, a Phantom (Pt. II)

How debauched, dissolute, pathetic I've become—particularly pathetic. Pathetic because I attempted and achieved to satisfy my insatiable venereal hunger, in tandem with a disoriented, pure boy in bloom, thinking that it was a one-shot thing that could fade into oblivion. Yes, my life had taken the form of a tasteless romp. A tasteless romp, where a hunchback repays for his pains, for he loved a pretty boy so horribly.

But wait. Horribly is unacceptably wrong within this context. Pathetically, maybe. The elation that filled me as the dawn faded was inexplicable. As the external, exuberant, morning light filled his room which had been occupied all day, I lied there in incredulity, stroking the back of his head and keeping his warm body close to mine. With the reminder that anyone could burst in at any given moment and all my happiness would be dilapidated, I kept thinking to myself that I ought to accumulate that singular flame of elation inside me and hoard it for the day of despair and sorrow that would soon follow—because, everyone knows, every sin has ensuing ramifications. It was impending that my sin would cause eternal longing and sorrow.

I had been standing on the precipice for a long time. I knew in an instant that that boy meant no good. And though I went against the grain, playing clueless, I thought of him, all the same. The pretty boy had engraved his mark in my mind, and by then I was too late; I was stupefied, too frail to come to my senses or escape.

The weekend I spent with him was only proof that he would leave scars in his wake, as he would inevitably be forced to abandon it all. Just like a gyroscope will always inevitably return to equilibrium, just like the tide will always ebb—it was certain that we would bid each other farewell, soon enough. 

He didn't know a thing, yet he was acting like he knew everything or at least enough.

The two days of his body against mine, the sweet taste of his unblemished skin, and his thriving lust left me wondering how I would escape the realm of missing him. 

We went for two strolls and I held myself back strongly not to reach out for his touch, because that is where I had to draw the line. I specifically remember retracting my arm from him as we left the house, and he looked back at me with those hazel eyes, understanding exactly what and why, and instantaneously blotting it out. We woke up, oblivious to when we went to sleep the night before, and he read his book of a collection of poems next to me on the veranda, while I was contemplating the golden morning. From the corner of my eyes, I caught a glimpse of whom I conceived was the milkman, chatting with a surly old man in a robe. People cycled down the lousy Squirrel Hill neighborhood, and you knew that all those people were heading to the workplace downtown.

And as I looked at the pretty boy sitting beside me, immersed in his reading, it suddenly dawned on me that I should never consider the job downtown, or uptown, or wherever. Instead, I should start attending my own shows more often.

"You got too bright light in your eyes, for a dabbler," he commented in derision to my aimless announcement, stealing a look to me.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, smirking at his mocking that took me by surprise.

"It's supposed to mean," he laid his book open on his thighs, half covered by his beige shorts, "you're half a shutterbug. Now, I expect a photo-album on just me. And quickly. I ain't got much time before I'm leaving this pigsty."

So, not only did he acknowledge the fact that our time running out, but he also made known that he halfheartedly wanted to leave. 

So, I knew I was alone in thinking that I wouldn't at least feel the same without him for a while.

"Oh, come on," he frowned at me, "don't you take me for no fool. I know mother's been scheming to cart me off as quickly as possible. She wants you all for herself."