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“Outside after the pastor had finished the ritual my mother handed me a yellow rose. As the first and alone I was to walk up to the grave and say my last goodbyes before throwing the rose down the black hole. A thorn had pricked my finger and while people behind me whispered how brave I was, I worried I was bleeding. I didn’t understand how there was any bravery in trying to remember where we kept the band aids now Dad couldn’t put one on me.”

#jonathan #what we remember is hard to forget

Jacob pulled me in again and held me close while I shivered in his arms. I pressed my forehead against his shoulder to escape the curios glances from passersby and with the soothing sounds Jacob made I could escape into a simulacrum of safety. Time disappeared, not like it did when I got lost staring at my scar in a mirror, but as if it somehow had lost its importance.

In a gentle voice Jacob whispered, “I ran away because I couldn’t bear the thought of losing someone again. Not like that. And not someone I’ve fallen in love with.”

The ridiculous thing was that back in May I had suspected Jacob of having feelings for me that went beyond mere friends-with-benefits and still his admission took me by surprise. It resulted in Jacob getting a wet shoulder which probably stunned him as well as me. I struggled with myself. Crying was so deeply connected to my anxiety because I always had been scared that if I permitted my tears to flow they would never stop. I shut my eyes as tight as I could and synchronised my breath with Jacob’s until he took my head in his hands and pressed his lips against mine. I thought about how laughable it was that two lines of fleshy skin could feel like a welcome, a welcome back, before I had to take a moment with my head against his shoulder once again.

#what we remember is hard to forget #Jonathan and Jacob #writing again

There’s strength in taking what is given and see that it’s enough.

#jonathansjournal

# Jonathan’s life (Jonathan meets Philip)

“Maybe my nearly sixteen-year-old me would have thought more about being gay had he paid more attention to how he reacted to the many derogative synonyms to the word. I know they say that things have changed for the better over the last ten years but someone must have forgotten to hand out that memo to the boys at my school. Words like ‘stupid’ or ‘idiot’ or ‘moron’ were rarely a part of their vocabulary. Instead it was ‘wanker’ (ok, bad example, love that word), ‘homo’ (don’t go there), ‘cocksucker’ (definitely don’t go there), and ‘faggot’ (I’m gonna kill you). Until this day I don’t know why I reacted so strongly to those words but they were hateful, despicable, they were only there to hurt. And I was hurt when I was on the receiving end because I danced classical ballet, something I loved more than anything else, because ballet apparently is totally gay. At least the first ‘faggot’ thrown my way became the last.

I’ve never been scared of a fight. Sometimes I think I should have been when I looked at my face afterwards, but hey. Since I was eight my uncle has spared with me and trained me to hold my own and when I got older, he taught me more and more of the dirty little tricks that’ll give you the upper hand and win a fight, even when you’re the smaller and weaker part.

So, ‘faggot’ turned into a broken nose and a dislocated shoulder. And it wasn’t mine. Of course, I got into trouble. Of course, I got suspended. And of course, my mom didn’t talk to me for a week because she was so disappointed in me. Nothing made me feel sorry for the asshole who used the slur, though. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t seek out fights and I don’t enjoy them. But from early on I’ve understood that the choices we make have consequences and if someone choses to call me a ‘faggot’ I’ll make them pay, or at least try to.

After that day people stopped calling me names to my face because of my ‘gay’ dancing. They might have done so behind my back but that has never bothered me. Only small insignificant people talk about you behind your back and they’re not worth listening to. And I had shown everyone that I’m not a victim.

The best thing that happened that day, though, was that I met my best friend. Pip had witnessed the whole thing, not only the fight but he had also heard the homophobic slur used against me. (He was actually the reason I only got suspended and didn’t get into any more trouble with the school’s strict no violence policy because he went to the principal and witnessed on my behalf). When the fight was over and the asshole lay whimpering and crying on the ground, Pip stood behind me laughing and then he started to clap his hands. I was still high on adrenalin and didn’t realize what was happening and when Pip patted my shoulder, saying “Way to go, PrettyFace!” I was ready to smack him one as well. But when I turned around, I was met with largest smile, a smile I have loved ever since, and I couldn’t help smiling back at him. I had noticed Pip in the in the hallways before, he had transferred from another school a few months before the fight, but you know, only in that ‘there’s a new face, ok, registered’ kind of way and I had never talked to him. So I was rather taken back when he put his hands on my shoulder and proclaimed, “You’re a hero, thank you!” Then he took me by the hand and led me to the nearest bathroom where he helped me clean myself up. There was something strangely intimate about it when he held my hand under the running water and gently washed the blood of my knuckles. I was standing there, not really knowing what to do or say. I only stared at him in the mirror. Pip was still smiling. Eventually he found my eyes, laughed again and said, “All good, PrettyFace, dry your hands, we’re done.” Then he turned around and left the bathroom with a “See you later!” before the door closed behind him.

I’ve been loved. My father, my mother, my sis and my uncle. Yes, I have been loved. But that day in the bathroom was the first time I experienced the pure and simple act of compassion. From this strange and smiling boy. So when Pip waited at the gates after school and said “There you are, let’s grab a coffee” I wasn’t really surprised. I just nodded and followed him. I wasn’t a coffee guy at that time but I wasn’t there for the coffee, I went with him because I wanted to know more about this boy. But when we arrived at the coffee shop which wasn’t far away from our school I nearly forgot all about him. I was mesmerized. How had I not been to this place before? It wasn’t a combined bookstore and café but there were bookshelves everywhere, worn-out couches and arm chairs, and that indescribable feeling of dust from years gone by. It was a place I would end up visiting many times the next years.

We went to the counter and ordered our coffee. Pip went for a cortado and I asked for a large latte with as much milk as possible and we found two arm chairs by one of the windows. I looked fascinated around the place.

“You know you can take any book you want with you? As long as you bring another book to replace it with”, he told me.

“How is that possible? Don’t people just steal the books?” I asked.

“Some might. But most people here respect that books have to be treated with curtesy and reverence and the only way to do that here is to respect the system.” Then he smiled, “Besides, who wants to steal tattered Harry Potter books when everyone’s already got them at home.” I laughed.

“By the way, I know that you’re Jonathan but I don’t think you know my name.” I shook my head feeling a bit embarrassed that I didn’t when he knew mine. “I’m Philip”, and he reached out his hand. It took me a few seconds before I realized that he wanted me to shake it.

“So, you read?” I asked, trying not to show that he made me a little nervous.

“I do”, he simply said. The he looked at me in a surveying manner. “I can see that you do too.”

Of course, everyone in my family knew that I liked to read. Words are in my blood. The first eight years of my life my father read to me every evening before I went to bed. Ever since I have read almost any book I could get my hands on but it wasn’t something I shared with anyone. At school my grades were a testament to the fact that I could read but mostly my classmates thought it was down to the fact that my mother was this hotshot journalist, not my affinity for stories and knowledge. I don’t think that anybody knew that I actually loved reading more than anything. Except dancing.

“As a reader you will understand why today brought me so much joy”, Pip said.

I was blank. Reading and fighting didn’t really go hand in hand in my book, not unless you read about fights, that is. It must have been the confused look on my face that made Pip laugh again.

“Sorry, I’m not laughing at your bruised knuckles”, he smiled. “For a moment, try to see what happened today through my eyes. I have only seen you around the school from afar after I transferred but I have eyes and I’ve seen enough to find out your name. Here’s this young man, not only tall and handsome, but very, very pretty, who moves delicately as a dancer, who is a dancer, and when some douchebag has the audacity to call him that despicable name, instead of gracefully ignoring it, he transforms into a roaring Aragorn and cuts down the vile orc who thought he was home free by picking on someone he felt was inferior to him.”

Pip paused before he shouted, making everyone in the room turn their heads, “The irony, the comedy, the fairytale!”

“Glad I could entertain you”, I said. I didn’t really know what else to say. I wasn’t sure how I felt being reduced to some character in Pip’s story, even if I was the hero. Today wasn’t a story I was especially proud of writing.

“Hey now, don’t give me that face.” Pip looked at me again as if I was this new specimen he had to study. “I honestly think you’re fucking cool! From the outside you’re the prototype of a victim, well, apart from your height and your muscles, but a dancer with a captivatingly pretty face. You know what I mean. And then you show those fucking dickheads that they can forget all about messing with you ever again. And you know what? That brings a lot of hope to the rest of us schoolyard prey.”

The sincerity in Pip’s voice made me blush. It wasn’t only the words but also the pain imbedded in them.

“That’s some mighty praise there, Philip.” I smiled at him despite my burning cheeks.

“You deserve it, Jonathan.” He emptied his coffee before he smiled back at me. “Interesting, isn’t it, how a homophobic slur can lead to friendship.”

Normally I would have said something like ‘wow, body, stop right there, we’re not friends’ or ‘easy now, one day at a time’. But I didn’t. In fact I didn’t say anything at all. There was no need. Pip had said it all. Sometimes a faggot becomes a friend.”

#jonathansjournal #ya story #gay story

#Jonathan’s life

“Having sex with someone for the first time is like mastering a new choreography. You need to be focused and you need to observe. And the better you are at observing, the better you are at mastering the dance you dance. Every guy has his tells, you just need to find them. Is there a slight shiver when your lips touches the soft skin just beneath his ears? Does his legs tremble when you put pressure just beneath the spot where his hipbone protrudes? Does he gasp when you breathe on his nipple after you’ve licked it? Does he moan when your lips wrap themselves around his head for the first time? Is he like butter in your hands or do you have to make him understand that you’re the one in control? There’s so much fun in dancing and I’m good at dancing. Dancing is my life.

Jacob was a gifted student. It didn’t take long before he gave himself to every little move I made. Even when I paused for a second, I had to look at that face, it made him shiver in anticipation. I don’t always come when I’m with someone, I don’t have to, I get my kick from teaching guys the difference between ejaculation and orgasm. But when my mouth did its job and Jacob arched his back, shooting cum all the way up to his face, I came as well. It was so sudden, like an ambush, my toes curled and I tumbled on top of him. Jacob wrapped his arms around me and there we were, glued together with sticky skin and heavy breath.”

#jonathansjournal #it’s fun writing

Jonathan’s Life (just a teaser)

“Jacob had sleeves. One arm was rather dull. You know, the kind of bland Viking ornaments you see on every other guy in the street. But I liked the other sleeve. Four names twirled around his other arm from wrist to shoulder in shadowed lettering together with bands of small flowers and vines. When he talked about it, that it was the names of his siblings, what they meant to him, how he had designed the sleeve himself together with the tattoo artist, how happy and proud he was with the end result, his whole face lit up. I guess that’s why I forgot all about it being totally cheesy. I liked it, I really liked it, because he being so delighted with it was the only thing that mattered in the end. And of course I liked it because it was a sleeve.

Have I told you about my thing with tattoos? Yeah, it’s a thing. I like to look at them. I like to touch them. As in caressing them. The bigger the tattoo, the better. Yes, I know, a weird, a stupid, sometimes a problematic thing. I mean, it’s not always easy to get permission to touch other people’s tattoos because it involves touching their skin and normally skin isn’t supposed to be touched by strangers. Once, that was a bad day, I asked one of the Angels if I could touch his. That was a really stupid thing to do and nearly cost me a broken nose. But I’ve also been lucky. At one of Tony’s afterparties I met this older dude, older than me at least, who had Jörmungandr tattooed on his back. All of his back. In colours. He took of his T-shirt to show it to me, never put it back on, and let me touch it for an hour while he talked with Tony and some friends. An hour. I was in heaven. And he didn’t even want me to go home with him which I thought was the obvious cost of playing with that gigantic beast. The mythical worm, not the man, that is.

I don’t have any tats myself, I haven’t gotten around to it, which is an excuse for saying I have never found a tattoo I want. I want something special. Or not just special, I want something unique. I know I could go down to Paint Shop by the canals and have them draw a tattoo specifically for me. Like that guy with the worm did. That would be unique, in some ways. But I don’t have that kind of money and although they never use their templates more than once, all of their tattoos still look the same. With some help I might be able to draw a template myself, that at least would be one of a kind, but every time I think about what to draw my mind just doesn’t want to come up with anything that seems worth it. I mean, if I have to walk around with something etched into my skin for the rest of my life it has to matter, right? Like getting the same tattoo as your husband on the day of your marriage because you’re going to spend the rest of your lives together. That kind of matter. But as I don’t believe in everlasting love, I’ll have to work out my tattoo predicament on my own. The only thing I know is that I don’t want any colours.

Jacob’s tattoos were all black. And he let me touch them. Didn’t even blink an eye, only smiled, when I asked him. We even changed places in the bar so I could easier touch the names on his left arm. Yes, his sibling’s names were on his left arm, as in closer to his heart. I don’t know what was wrong with me that evening. Everything about Jacob was this absurd mixture of cheesy, ordinary, and ironic. Maybe it was because I got to fondle his tattoos, maybe it was down to the beer we had, but that evening his ironic ordinary cheesiness didn’t bother me at all. The only thing I hadn’t really given a thought was that even a straight guy might get ideas when your fingers trace every single black line on his arm all evening. It’s not that I didn’t listen when he ironically commented on braking up with his girlfriend. And I think I did notice the fact that he didn’t withdraw his arm when I told him that no, I don’t have a girlfriend, and no, girls aren’t really my thing. I mean, I should have realised there can’t be that many straight dudes, like the worm guy, who willingly lets you caress their skin for a prolonged period of time while you smile at them and tell them that you’re gay.

“I’ve never done this before.” As soon as the words came out of his mouth he looked down. Anywhere but my eyes. No, I really wasn’t on my best that evening. It must have been that shitty rehearsal where I got yelled at again and again, not only by my director, but my fellow performers as well. But I honestly had no idea what Jacob was talking about. The only thing that came to mind was me objectifying him by giving in to my thing.”

#jonathansjournal #so much fun writing again #writing fiction

#Jonathan’s Journal

“I don’t think I’m very good at having sex. Then again, there are so many things I don’t think I’m very good at. Except thinking. I’m good at thinking. Or maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m just doing it a lot. No doubt I’ve been practising it for many years. Maybe I should try practising having sex. Again.

I used to be good at it, I think. Having sex, that is. Yeah, there was a time I was good at it. I mean, I often had to tell the guys ‘No, I don’t want to stay and wake up with you’, ‘No, I’m not going to give you my phone number’, ‘No, Lucas isn’t my real name so forget all about finding me on social media’. No matter how depressed I feel today, I don’t think I would have had to tell them that if I wasn’t any good at having sex.

Then having sex got spoiled by making love. It just stopped being any fun. I don’t know if that’s a good thing, dramatically tragic, or just plain sad. No, it’s not a good thing, definitely not. Because when the one you made love to no longer wants to wake up with you in the morning anymore, there’s nothing left. Not even the fun of having sex.

Why did I always call myself Lucas? I don’t look like a Lucas.”

#jonathansjournal

#Jonathan’s Journal

“I look at myself in the mirror and lift my right eyebrow. It’s the only eyebrow I can lift. It’s also the eyebrow I had pierced when I was fifteen. That was fun.

My mom didn’t see me until the morning after and by then I had the most fabulous black eye. I had hidden the piercing behind a rather large bandaid so she wouldn’t see it and I hoped to keep it that way until everything had healed. There was no way I would give my mom the opportunity to make my piercing undone. But I couldn’t hide the black eye. At first she was concerned, asking me if someone had hurt me. Then she started pestering me about who that someone was until she, of course, ended up hollering at me how she hated it when I got into a fight. Which I never did. Ok, nearly never did.

The good thing about my mom when she works herself up is that she literally goes on a word vomiting spree. Sometimes it’s been annoying but mostly it’s been nice that I’ve never had a chance to have my say before her eruption ended.

That day when she finally shut up, we stared at each other. For a long time. Then came the inevitable ‘So?’. I told her that I ran into a door. ‘No you didn’t’. ‘Yes, I did’. I have no idea how many ‘did’ and ‘didn’t’ we threw at each other before I ran to my room and slammed the door behind me.

Here’s the thing about slamming the door back then. When my mom became a single mom, she began reading tons of books about how to best raise your kids. You know, those pukeworthy pseudo-psychological ones. She cooked up this theory that if I ran to my room slamming the door behind me, it was because I needed some time to myself to calm down and hopefully reflect on whatever cause was behind me doing it. So she would leave me alone, often for a long time.

My newly pierced fifteen-year-old self didn’t want to reflect on anything but biting his pillow so he wouldn’t laugh out loud. I had won the first battle! But of course I ended up thinking. I always do. And my thoughts made me angry and sad because apparently my mom was the only one who was allowed to walk into a door back when my father still lived.

Now I’m staring at myself. I wouldn’t mind if the mirror was still foggy. I rarely use my titanium barbell anymore. Sometimes I stick a wooden toothpick through my eyebrow. Because. My older self thinks it would be nice if I could still stop my mom from pestering me by slamming a door.

#jonathansjournal

You’ve left me here to realise

Grief never dies

#just some silly words