Tribal Dating

 

Tribal Dating

Robbie

Boy or Man? Boy

Age: 20

Height: 5’7

Weight: 65 kg

Hair: Blonde

Eyes: Grey

 

 

I’m lying on my bed, my tracksuit bottoms round my ankles, I’ve just masturbated. On my iPad, I’m talking to ‘Horny but discreet’, who is thirty four, and 400 metres away. I think about Julian. It’s two in the afternoon. Next to me is a half-eaten piece of toast. I have a poster of The Ramones above my head. My phone buzzes, Julian. He’s telling me that there’s a party tonight, I should come, and he’ll be there. I tell him I don’t know, I’ll think about it. I have a headache.

Horny but discreet: I bet you have a nice cock.

Rob20: It’s okay.

Horny but discreet: Naw, ur being modest! What u up 2?

Rob20: I’m lying on my bed.

Horny but discreet: Cheeky. Maybe you’d like a little company? Someone to snuggle with?

Rob20: ha, yeh.

Julian texts back. ‘Come on, man! You’ve got to come.’ I call him.

‘hey, what’s up?’ he says.

‘I’m in bed. Woke up at nine, watched YouTube for a while. Fell asleep. Woke up at twelve, checked my email. Made toast. Back in bed.’  I do not tell him I am thinking of him.

‘Sounds good like fun’.

‘Yeah’.

I hear some people talking in the background.

‘Are you in the library?’

‘No, just at Arts cafe with Patrick and Grace.’

Patrick is hot, into Julian. I am short and also into Julian.

‘So’, he says, ‘are you going to come tonight?’

‘I’ll see.’

‘C’mon, man’.

‘Ok.’

He hangs up.

Julian and I.

Me and Julian.

Julian and Robbie.

Rob and Julian.

I turn over, and lean across the bed to pick up an envelope and a pen. I write ‘love from Julian and Robbie’. I rip it up; stuff it behind the back of my bed. On my iPad, I take a selfie of myself. I study the photo. A face. Boy with a face. I imagine myself older, maybe thirty. I can’t, all I see is the same face with no hair. Boy is cool. Man is not. Man is heavy and creeks. Boy is light. Boy is smooth. Boys like boys. Men like women.

Horny but discreet: Oi! I sent you 2 pics! Your turn!!

1: I look at the pictures. A man. Red chest and spider hair. No face (good). Barrel belly to lift. A swollen sausage and purple wonton behind.

2: bum.

I check the news, and learn that a new King has been conceived; some people were beheaded; a small child stolen; a homeless person won a talent show in Korea. Facebook friends also share the stories about the Korean person. YouTube has fails. Twitter has #.

Horny but discreet: Gonna leave me hanging? ;)

I look down at myself. I take a photo. It flashes by accident and my pubes shimmer. I re-take, a dark setting. Send.

Sigh, breathe. My email: promotions.

Horny but discreet: Hmm, nice. Defined ;)

Ha.

Rob20: Ok.

Horny but discreet: So, wanna meet up ;)

I check the news again; to see if anything has changed. Not a lot has. Someone has resigned from government. YouTube: A dog barks the national anthem.

Horny but discreet: ????

I look at my watch. Two – thirty. Time wants me to die.

Rob20: Okay. 38 Prince St.

Horny but discreet: You’ll be my prince ;) Love your black and white photo btw!!

I don’t feel as excited as !! I feel –

Julian sends me a picture of him and Patrick on campus. I send back a J. I should dress up for horny but discreet. Maybe a shirt and jeans. Or a jumper. I shuffle to the wardrobe, still shackled by my tracksuit bottoms. I put on a white t-shirt which hides me. I wear my jeans. I spray deodorant round the room, under my arm pit, my hair, the bed. I text Julian.

@Julain: Sure, I’ll come tonight J

I sit on the bed waiting for the reply. Entrapped and mute. J Xx is the reply.

Xx means good. Because: X means bad. Xxx means try hard. Xxxx means taking the piss. Xxxxx means stalker.

I look in the mirror. Portly and Christmas. Cacophony of mute. I brush my hair, and play with my chin. Turkey. No Turkey. Turkey.

I have CBT at five thirty. Horny but discreet can only last an hour. I need to write down my feelings and thoughts. I will need Wikipedia and an NHS depression calculator to weigh my mood. I need to write a week’s log of my mood. I could print my Tweet’s form the past week. All I tweet about is food.

The door knocks. I check my watch. Two-forty. I look in the mirror again. I think of Julian. My boy Julian. Blonde and cute. Thin Julian. A pillow for my soul. My face is not real. Cereal on floor.

I go downstairs. Open the door. Horny but discreet is wearing a grey t-shirt and blue jeans. He walks up the two steps and through the front door. Staring at me, he is hiding a feeling.

‘Hi’. I say.

‘You’re,’ he pauses, ‘not exactly how you look in your photo.’

‘How?’ I say.

‘Well, you say you’re twenty. But you’re clearly not. You’re my age, at least thirty.’

I think of Julian. My boy Julian. The boy I love. The boy I am.

‘Sorry’. I mutter.

‘It’s okay, you’re still hot…. ish’.

He closes the door. We go upstairs. On the way up, I see myself in the mirror. A man. Not a boy.  Just a man. Incapable of boys. Incapable of love.

I let him take the lead. Good Samaritan. And he jerks, pulls, and mouths. When we kiss, I feel his stubble, itching against my chin. We breathe, and pulse. Acting on all the past.

We’re on the bed. We’re together. Two men.

I wish I was a boy.

I wish I was my Julian.