After the open mic,
I’m talking to this couple.
Simon is white;
Mia might not be.
Simon is studying engineering;
Mia is doing media.
“I would love to film one of your poems,”
Mia says enthusiastically. “Do you have
a YouTube channel or an Instagram?”
Before I can answer, I see him
approaching, behind her. White,
blond like Simon, six foot something,
pecs at my eye line, biceps bulging,
and what a smile! I don’t understand
why he’s wearing a tank top in autumn
but I’m not complaining. His arms are to die for!
“Madame. Monsieur.” He hands
a glass of white wine to Mia
and a pint of Guinness to Simon.
“Hi. I’m Mike,” I say. I mean: Who are you?
“Hey, Mike, Jack. Great poetry,”
he continues, “or is it spoken word?”
He puts his huge hand on my shoulder.
Mia looks at Jack’s hand, then
says to Simon, “I fancy a rollie.
Have you got your tobacco, babe?”
“Yeah,” says Simon to Mia, then
he turns to Jack. “We’ll be right back.”
I ask Jack if he wants a drink.
He says, “I don’t drink anymore.”
So I don’t get a drink either.
We sit at a quiet corner table.
We chat at first about the false divide
between poetry and spoken word,
and then about how he wishes he could
write poetry and I try to convince him
that he can if he wants to. I’ll help him,
if he wants me to—?
Then he tells me he doesn’t study here.
He’s Simon’s brother, just visiting.
He says he loves visiting Simon
because: “Everyone here is so free.
Back in our town, people are restricted
by family expectations and childhood
reputations.”
“I wasn’t made for university,” says Jack.
“I’m a practical person. I make a good
living in construction. And I get to travel
with it sometimes. I’m always surrounded
by men and their banter and their anger
and their hurt, and sometimes I just want
to hug them, you know, invite them to open up.”
I do know, Jack. I really do. I’m following
his monologue but all I can think about
is how much I want to stop him midsentence
with a kiss.
But Jack continues:
“I’m not gay, but men, we can understand
each other and yet we never talk honestly.
We put it all on our girlfriends—
not that I have one. I’ve read about this
online; it’s work for them, emotional labor.”
I’m hearing this semicoherent account
from this man in touch with something
that many men will never figure out, but
one phrase he said is stuck in my head.
“I’m not gay”
“I’m not gay but”
“but”
“but, men”
“men”
“men, we can understand each other.”
I know before I say it, why I’m saying it.
Because I feel there’s a connection.
Why did he say he doesn’t have a girlfriend?
Why has he been talking to me for so long?
“But you’re not straight, are you?” I blurt out,
interrupting him, but not with a kiss.
He stops speaking, then opens his mouth,
closes it, looks to the floor, then back to me.
Can he see my longing? My curiosity?
Can he feel the connection or have I
constructed something out of nothing?
“Mike, you’re a beautiful man, interesting
and talented, too; I’m enjoying talking to you.”
I smile until I realize he’s deflected
the question with compliments and before
either one of us can say any more,
Simon reappears. “Oh good, you’re still here.
We’re heading back. Are you coming, Jack?”
And that’s the only question he needs to
answer. Here is his escape route without
causing any offense. And I prepare myself
to say goodbye, possibly forever, and
the pause
goes on for too long and Simon says, with
a laugh in his smile, “Sorry, did I interrupt?”
“You go ahead. I’ll be all right, with Mike.”
I’m walking across campus
back to my room with Jack
in silence, not quite comfortable,
not quite awkward.
I want to know what Jack’s thinking.
I look up at him. He looks down
at me and smiles and I smile back.
I look forward.
Just keep walking.
Nearly there now.
“So, this is my room,” I say,
gesturing around randomly.
“I have an en-suite bathroom,”
I say with unwarranted pride.
I point to the bed. “Shall we?”
I just mean: Shall we sit?
I realize too late what’s implied
is something else entirely
and it’s not what I meant
but it’s definitely what I want.
I want it to be with him.
I’m ready to lose my virginity.
“Lose” doesn’t sound right.
This won’t be an accident.
How else can I say it? I’m ready
to give him my virginity?
“Give” doesn’t sound right.
I don’t see it as a gift to him.
We’re sitting on my bed now.
He kicks off his Reebok Classics.
I untie the laces of my Converse
and pull them off.
I don’t think he’s a virgin.
We don’t say anything at first.
I turn to face him,
he turns toward me.
I ask him, “Can I kiss you?”
and he says, “Yes.”
I ask him, “Can I touch you?”
and he says, “Yes.”
I ask him, “Will you use a condom?”
and he says, “Yes.”
I ask him, “Will you stay the night?”
and he says, “Yes.”
He falls asleep before me
and I lie wide awake, thinking
this is how it should be.
Meeting someone in real life,
not online or on an app.
Meeting someone randomly,
not just in a gay bar—in any bar.
Or anywhere—at a bus stop,
a shop, walking down the street,
how other people get to meet.
He falls asleep beside me
and I get to look at him,
really look at him; he’s so
classically attractive, it’s unreal,
like a statue of Perseus
or Michelangelo’s David,
somewhat cliché
and not once did I think,
He’d never be into me
and not once did I think,
He’s got to be straight.
He’s sleeping next to me;
we just had sex, he’s not straight.
I don’t think I turned him
gay or bi. I invited him to see
a possibility and he accepted.
In the morning, I put my hand on his solid
chest and my head on his sh
oulder.
We stay like this for just a few seconds
before he gets up and starts to get dressed.
“Are you okay?” I ask
and he says, “Yes.”
“Are you sure?” I ask
and he says, “Yes.”
“Please talk to me,” I say.
He says, “I’ll message you later.”
“When will I see you again?” I ask.
After he leaves, I want to tell
someone, anyone, that I am
no longer a virgin. I’m nineteen
and no one I know is a virgin
or, maybe, like me, no one admits
to being a virgin. We let
people assume we have
experience by acting confident.
Whenever my phone buzzes
I check to see if it’s from him
and if it’s not, I put it down again.
I only met this guy last night
and now he’s all I can think about.
He’ll be heading back home,
two hundred miles away,
to his job in construction.
I take apart the night in my head.
Was there something I said
or did wrong? Were we wrong
to rush into sex? Should I have
left him wanting more until
the next time he came to visit
Simon?
Then I realize I don’t know Jack
or Simon’s surname and
we never swapped numbers.
When he left this morning
saying he would message me,
did he know he wasn’t going to?
It feels like the one and only time
my mum slapped me. More shocking
than painful.
That evening, I go to the busy
Students’ Union bar hoping to see Simon.
I’m there for three hours alone, slowly sipping
a rum and Coke, phone on the table,
Moleskine open on a blank page, Cross pen
refusing to speak. Until, finally:
Maybe I’m a Merman
Maybe I’m a merman.
No sea witch stole my song.
I decided to stop singing, to avoid
the attention it was bringing.
I have no home under the sea,
I’ve always lived on this land
but I look out as if there were
more for me beyond the shore.
I have not found the man
of my dreams, nor am I
the man I’m expected to be,
but maybe I’m a merman.
Maybe I have a tale to tell.
Maybe I have a spell to break.
My merman voice is broken.
My merman song is spoken.
I look up. I see Simon and Simon sees me.
He pauses before coming up to me. He says,
“My brother didn’t give me a blow-by-blow
account but he told me enough and I figured
the rest out. I don’t think it’s the start
of something for you two, it was just one
of those things he needed to do.
I’ve known him all my life and he’s not gay,
he just feels a lot of things. People would
always say he was different but it doesn’t take
much to be different where we’re from—
people made fun of me for reading
and coming to university. Where we’re from
there’s not much diversity and he’s just full
of so much curiosity; whenever he comes
to visit me he sleeps with someone. Granted,
you’re the first guy and I can see why you
caught his eye up on that stage, all confident
with your words and sense of self, speaking
and being heard. It’s amazing what you do,
I applaud you and I’m sure, in the moment,
he adored you. You see, he’s never had that,
we’ve never had that, but he’s had you now,
Mike, and that’s that.”
In my room alone,
I don’t know who to reach out to.
It should be Daisy.
MICHAEL: Hey Daisy! I miss you. How’s uni?
MICHAEL: Hey Rowan! How’s drama school?
The next morning,
I wake up late for my lecture
so I decide to skip it.
I get the bus into town and go
to Brighton Beach with my notebook.
I have a missed call
from Mum but I don’t want
to speak to her today.
My hair is being annoying
and blowing in my face,
so I tie it up, taking two locs
from the back of my neck
and wrapping them around
the rest and tying a bow.
Just breathe, I tell myself.
Just breathe.
On Brighton Beach
I let my breathing
catch the timing
of the waves;
meditate.
I don’t swim,
surf, or paddle.
I don’t set foot
in the water at all.
When
I need to breathe
I sit
on Brighton Beach.
I love to know
I live on an island.
I know my people
are island people.
I am an island.
Boy becoming a man.
I am at university
discovering my identity.
I see wide-open sea
stretch out before me,
but I know the big city
is where I’ll return.
When I sit here
on this beach I
close my eyes,
picture my position
on the coastline;
see the whole country,
continents, and planet,
feel reassuringly small.
I remember the “sandcastles”
on our day trip to Brighton,
how she didn’t care there were pebbles
and not sand
but how on the journey
I was so fearful
that she was going to cry
when we got there,
that she would only be happy
with sand
but she didn’t mind
that her “sandcastles”
didn’t stay
in the shape of the bucket;
she was perfectly happy to play
with pebbles
and call it a sandcastle
anyway.
Men Are Sandcastles
Men are sandcastles made out of pebbles
and the bucket is patriarchy: if you remove it,
we fear we won’t be able to hold ourselves
together, we pour in cement to fill the gaps
to make ourselves concrete constructions.
I’m surprised that it’s all talk
in the next two meetings of Drag Society,
and no costumes or makeup tutorials.
Mzz B knows a lot about drag history,
American and British,
and the differences between them.
Mzz B is not keen on beauty queens
unless they have something to say.
“If all you want to do is look flawless,
that’s valid, but you can do that at home
and post pictures on the internet.
Why do you need to be onstage?
What do you want to say? Who are you?
What do you want from an audience?
What do you want to make them think?
How do you want to make them feel?
Do you want them to laugh? Cry? Get angry?
You’ve got to know. Y
ou’ve got to be
the one who’s in control up there.
All I can do is introduce you and warm up
the audience but once you’re
in that spotlight, it’s yours to own.”
I see the heels from the window
and I am sure, as sure as I was
when I first saw the poster for
Drag Soc, these are the heels
for me: black with a lace pattern,
four inches, manageable I think.
I’m terrified of what the lady
in the shop will think when
I ask to try them on. Will they
even have them in my size?
“Size seven, yes, of course,”
she casually replies. “Just these?”
They fit perfectly in the shop
but I didn’t practice walking,
relieved no one made fun of me,
no one looked at me oddly.
I took them off and to the counter,
paid for them, and left quickly.
Every evening in my room,
instead of socializing, I practice
walking in my new heels.
I play songs by Rihanna,
Nicki Minaj, and Queen Bey,
try to channel fierce femininity.
I turn to my poster of Beyoncé
and blow her a kiss.
Mum calls me every day
to tell me she misses me,
ask me about my day,
and tell me about her day.
Mostly, I have little to say
but she is never lost for words.
She complains about work
and Anna’s latest antics,
elaborating on every story
with painstaking detail.
She never spoke to me
like this when I lived at home.
Absence makes her heart
grow more . . . communicative?
She says,
“Anna really misses you.
She sleeps in your bedroom.
Why don’t you call her?
Are you coming home soon?
Maybe for your birthday?
Maybe we can visit you?”
“Not for my birthday,” I say.
“I have an essay I need to do
and I’m feeling the pressure.”
On the morning of my birthday,
Uncle B calls to say he’ll take me shopping
when I’m next in London.
I don’t tell him I’d rather see the stars.
I left my telescope at home in London,
handed it down to Anna.