affairs and beach stones

19th October 1957

ALL WEEK, MY dreams full of his groan as I kissed him. The kick of his cock beneath my flattened hand. And the sound of the front door slamming.

He's bound to be scared. He's young. Inexperienced. Although I'm aware many boys of his class are far more experienced than I was. A lad I once met at the Greyhound swore blind a friend of his father's had had him on his allotment when he was barely fifteen. And that he'd loved it. But I don't think anything like that has happened to my policeman. I think, perhaps rather romantically, that he's like I was: he's spent many years, ever since he was a very young boy, looking at men and wanting to be touched by them. He may already have begun to tell himself that he's a minority. He may even know that no woman will offer a 'cure'. I hope he knows that, although it wasn't at all obvious to me until I was almost thirty. Even when I was with Michael there was a small part of me that wondered if some female couldn't snap me out of it. But when he died I knew this to be utter folly, because there was no word for what I'd lost other than love. There. I've written it.

But I doubt another man touched my policeman before I did. I doubt he's cradled another man's head in his hand. His actions have been bold – he's surprised and delighted me in this. But does he feel as confident as he acts? How scared he really is I have no way of knowing. That laugh, those glittering eyes, are good protection, from the world and from himself.