A gay indie boy living in suburban South West London recounts his trials and tribulations dealing with sex, sexuality, growing up and getting older

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Dreaming of you

I had a dream about you last night. In the dream we had met, and you had aged just in the way that I had imagined. You had grown your blonde hair into a floppy mid-length style and you looked at me as though you were trying to look through me.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” you replied coldly before walking on.

But I decided I couldn’t let you pass by. I decided to fly over to you. I levitated – I cannot explain why because I cannot explain the physics of dreams. And I felt a great sense of sadness. I pleaded with you to stay and to talk things out. I wanted to say that I was sorry – sorry for all the horrible things I had done. I wanted us to kiss. I wanted us to make amends.

At first you just looked at me and walked away, but then later – as if by magic – you reappeared. You told me that I better be serious and you cried. Then we kissed and I knew that it was the kiss that would bring us back together, because on some subconscious level – although I never told you, although I always denied it and told you it wasn’t so and even if you asked me today I would still refute it – I still love you.

And then I told you that I loved you and that we should make a go of it again.

When I woke up, I remembered that I had already told you I was sorry in a café last year.

We had bumped into each other by accident. You tried to ignore me, but I stopped you in the street. I asked you if we could talk. I bought you a ginger beer and, while I sipped my coffee, I stuttered over an apology; tried to gloss over all those feelings I had concealed. How I punished myself for breaking your heart, how I should have been more careful with your feelings, how I had blamed myself all these years for the pain I had caused.

And you simply said, “To be honest, I hadn’t really thought about it that much.”

And – although I could finally stop blaming myself for everything – we parted awkwardly and unfulfilled. I told you if you ever needed me, you could just call me and I gave you my card.

As I walked away, I remembered that you knew those details and if you had really wanted to call, you would have done already. Then we both tried to forget that we knew each other at our best, at our worst, at our most vulnerable. All those words we shared have faded into oblivion and been glossed over by time. You’ve probably forgotten the strength, loyalty and companionship that existed between us.

But I haven’t.

There was a day nearly six years ago now when we rolled over in bed, naked and laughing after a passionate embrace and you said, “Do you think one day they’ll make a film about us?”

And we looked at each other, smiled and then burst into fits of laughter once more.


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