Ianstarlight

It’s strange. It’s happened to me too—and honestly, I’m still at risk of it: getting carried away in a kind of uncontrollable romantic intensity, that ends up being too much. Too intense. Almost cloying. And then I ask myself: why is it so rare to feel like you’re mirrored in the other person? Like truly reflected back, equally? There always seems to be some kind of emotional misalignment—some lack of synchrony in how feelings are experienced or expressed. Or… are these just love-patterns I’ve lived through on my own? Still, when I reread Brandon’s words, I see myself in them. And a part of me feels a little sad— Because it feels like a scene I’ve already lived. At least for me.

There’s a part of Brandon that comes out from time to time—sentimental, a little awkward, at times even romantically toxic. But I find it absolutely adorable. Adorable because I see myself in it. That sweet, melancholic sensitivity he recognizes in his own mother—and maybe has absorbed deep into his DNA—feels familiar. It’s a quality I understand deeply, and it touches me. I find Brandon disarmingly sweet. It’s almost heartbreaking. He’s such a tender, kind boy, with genuinely beautiful thoughts. He’s just… adorable.

This is definitely a moment of peak popularity, thanks in large part to the platform offered by Jamie—both for Brandon and especially for Billy. These are beautiful days for them, not only because they’re completely in love and wrapped up in each other, but also because now they’re basking in the spotlight of the school’s attention. Sure, it could be a groundbreaking moment for the entire school if these two stunning freshmen came out at the same time—maybe even walking hand in hand down the hallways. But realistically, that’s still a difficult life scenario, especially at that age. I like to imagine a world where these kinds of rigidities and possible integration issues simply don’t exist. Obviously, that would be amazing. Still, I think most of us have experienced those moments in life when there’s a sudden acceleration—times when people seem especially drawn to us, when we feel more popular than we ever thought we could be. And yes, it’s undeniably beautiful. It’s gratifying. But often, that sudden boost in attention can distort our sense of proportion and give us a dangerous illusion of invincibility. And that’s exactly when we need to be careful—not to take advantage of it or push it too far, risking to ruin something that, in a way, was gifted to us. Now I’m just waiting to see what happens in the next chapters…

Two weeks later, I felt like reading it again… These stories are just so beautiful!! Thanks again for your ending, @Lee Wilson 💫 And to all those who, with courage and love — so much love — will feel called to bring closure to what still lingers in suspension, gently calling out to its devoted readers.

What a wonderful tribute to Comsie. It reads like a gift from heaven… God, how much I love this style of writing! Tu n’es plus seul. —IAN

Yesss! Playing with their dicks like that… 🥳🥳🥳 Pure joy, playfulness, laughter, lightness… and like Sasha Distel used to sing in La Belle Vie — “Ô la belle vie, sans amours (the messy kind), sans soucis, sans problèmes…” That’s the spirit. As I said: let whatever happens, happen. But while we have that kind of time — eros-time — let us give it what it asks for: total connection. Two bodies becoming one. Same heartbeat. Same thoughts. Same pores, same holes, same flavors, same scent. Same hunger — and same satiety. The feast of all feasts. Full. Fully full of each other. What a beautiful way to be. I love you like this — and so it shall be. That is the eternal moment — I know it doesn’t really exist, but we can brush against it. And when we do? We have to seize it. Then, when the time comes to part, we can kiss goodbye with full hearts and grateful smiles. Because only this kind of erotic-complicit joy defeats time. Defeats the dullness. Defeats the meaninglessness. It defeats death. I’ve often wondered how to express that sense of absolute connection — that suspension of time between two lovers. And I think, in astrophysics, they call it: the event horizon. That place where time stops. Where space and gravity bend — like two lovers locked in a smiling embrace, playing gently, playfully, in love. That’s their moment. Their place. And no one, no one can take it from them. Sure, maybe I’m still a little bit toxically romantic. But when it happens like this — it quiets me. It gives me peace. Even if they later drift apart, they’ll always be bonded through that exchange of vital, smiling energy. In that horizon beyond time and place, they’ll always be connected.......

Ohhh finally! What a relief to see two guys who truly like each other — no fleeing, no avoidant neuroses, no narcissistic games. Just Brandon and Tyler, happy to be each other’s boy. Let whatever happens next happen… but right now, they see each other, they choose each other, they enjoy each other. They play like two little best friends who truly care for one another. And that scene where they play with their dicks? I found it tender, funny, erotic, and full of joy. Because it’s not just about physical stimulation — it’s about shared play, embodied affection, honest connection. One pulls out his dick, then the other follows, and they “introduce” them to each other, like little puppets: “Hey look, your buddy came out…” “Oh wow, mine too!” Two little cock-friends, curious and rubbing noses. That’s what erotic intimacy should look like when two people really like each other: union, play, mutual discovery.😜☺️

“So here are my ghosts again, just as they were previously offered to you @Jason Rimbaud and to @Lee Wilson’s comment — and to anyone who might find something in them. I hope, as I said, not to come across as too emotional, intense, or fundamentally — and boringly — repetitive. 😜” ** While I wait for the chapters you mentioned… And in the spirit of the transparency that defines me — and which, I think, you’ve already come to recognize and maybe even appreciate — here’s my confession. Perhaps unnecessary. Perhaps expected. But mine nonetheless. Jason, if only you knew. I’ve always envied my high school classmates. The ones who used to say: “I only smoke three cigarettes a day.” Or: “No, I don’t smoke… just the occasional joint.” Or those who — a bit like you describe — could have sex mechanically. Sex as an act. A trophy. A rite of passage. No regrets. No connections. Me? Unfortunately — I never managed that. Even though I envied those who were different from me, I smoked — back then — a full pack of soft Lucky Strike a day. I got high from time to time. And when I fucked… my body made a promise. I couldn’t do it “just for the pleasure.” I needed the weed, the cigarettes, and what I believed was love. Or at least, the way my body asked for it. But as I’ve already told you… I’ve always envied — and longed to experience — that lightness that never came to me. I’ve never actually done what happened between Tyler and Brandon. I’ve never lived that kind of moment. Not even with a male friend — a boy like Brandon — whom I’d known for years and had started to flirt with, in intense, charged, ambiguous moments. (For me, that’s a bit like the beginning of falling in love, if that makes sense — meaning: desire and connection.) But I would have. Oh, how I would have. Instead, I convinced myself I had doubts. And I ended up giving my dick, my heart, and my seed to a girl. A girl who laughed with me, trusted me, looked at me. I took her virginity on the hood of my white Fiat Uno, in the hills outside my city, with people walking past in the nearby brush. I thought I was the happiest boy in the world — but I might have been even happier if it had been Tyler instead, and his virginity. Yes, we laughed. Yes, maybe I believed it too, a little. But it wasn’t my truth. If I had been free — the way I try to be today — I would have made love to Tyler. Or someone like him. I would have lived that moment with intensity, with skin, with sweat and scent, with respect, with connection. Shared. Felt. Carnal, but sacred. It made me cry afterwards — our story was hell, especially for me. Real tears. Hot. Fucking bitch. Goddamn her. And now, seeing those scenes between Tyler and Brandon… I realize I would’ve wanted sex to be a dizzying experience, not a tutorial. I would’ve wanted him to be a poetic Brandon, not a trained astronaut, getting lost in the galaxies of my scent and my unsaid words. And instead… I know. This is the truth: the stars looked different that night… but only for me. P.S. Thanks @Jason Rimbaud for the direct reply — no sugarcoating, I appreciate that. I’ll keep working on my emotional rehab, trying to evict a few of the romantic tenants still throwing loud parties inside the condo of my soul. I’ll be here, watching the stars… and waiting to see if Brandon finally learns how to kiss like a poet. 😜 **

Actually, @Lee Wilson, my comment in response to Jason’s was initially a bit different — I’m sure you saw it. It started out more like a personal confession about my past experiences, which partly (or even fully) explain the emotional waves that still shape the way I engage with stories like this. But then I started questioning whether it was appropriate to share it here. Reading through other readers’ comments, I began to wonder if maybe I was being too much — too emotionally invested, too “in love,” in a way. Disillusioned, sure. But still too intense, perhaps. (Which, to be honest, probably already came through in my previous posts…) In Italy, we say “non essere sfigato” — which loosely translates to “don’t be pathetic” or maybe “don’t be a loser.” I think “loser” or “underdog” might be the closest in English — I’ll double-check with my translator to see if there’s a better equivalent. Anyway, I ended up removing that part — the confession where I admitted that I once thought I was bisexual and ended up emotionally and, mistakenly, entangled with a girl who, in truth, turned out to be quite awful. All the while, what I had truly desired was to sacralize a first encounter — with someone like Tyler. I would have wanted that first time to become the most beautiful shared memory: physical and emotional connection wrapped into one, regardless of whether we’d stay together or not. Yes, maybe it would’ve been a bittersweet memory… but with a smile. A smile of mutual gratitude and shared vulnerability.

Dear @Jason Rimbaud, Thank you for your honest, clean-cut response. It didn’t surprise me — in the best possible way. I suspected it. I felt it. And that’s the beauty of this exchange: we meet at the edge of two worlds. Yours — where sex is physical, direct, a function. And mine — where sex is never “just” sex. It’s a ritual. A ceremony. A fire that writes its poetry in scent, in sweat, in silence. You told me you’ve never experienced that emotional connection during sex. And that, maybe, is exactly what makes your stories raw. I see now that Brandon isn’t a poet because you’re not trying to make him one. And that’s okay. He’s not my Brandon, but he’s yours. And I came here, in this story, to meet him anyway. I’ll be honest with you, too. I can’t fuck without making a promise. I don’t know how to come without leaving a piece of soul behind. And when I write — like now — it’s the same thing. I bleed a little on the page. Maybe you and I won’t meet in the same bed. Maybe not even in the same scene. But I think we’re shaking hands across the ink. And I like that. So thank you, Jason, for not brushing off my “romantic baggage” — but instead taking it seriously, and even building a reply that’s crafted, not defensive. That’s rare. That’s human. And somewhere, in the no man’s land between desire and narrative, between your Brandon and my aching Tyler, between cum and cosmos — we found a little moment of connection. I’ll keep following your journey. You gave me a landscape. I’ll keep planting my ghosts in it. If you’ll let me.

…I find myself repeating this here too… but this is where I feel the emptiness… the rarefaction of a missed connection: Tyler and Brandon’s first trip to Mars — which in theory should have been a landing, a marvel — turns instead into a kind of tutorial. A surgical operation of desire, where Brandon gives the orders, Tyler follows them, and I, a poetry-hungry spectator, end up searching for it in the pauses, not in the gestures. Brandon, who knows everything, who leads, who measures — but then dodges you. Slips away. Leaves you there, mouth full and heart empty. And Tyler, who’s just had a full dose of experience, but feels completely dry when it comes to being seen. Maybe that’s where the true disenchantment begins: the most intimate act no longer guarantees any sort of bond. And I, with all my damned romantic baggage, realize it too late. Always. I sit there, headphones in, while David Bowie whispers: “…and the stars look very different today…” (still on theme with Bowie, of course). And I wonder if Brandon is really some distant planet. Or just another avoidant satellite, spinning and spinning… until he vanishes. P.S. And anyway, I know I’m boring and predictable — with myself, and with anyone who might read my comments on these stories. While the plot thickens, I’m still stuck there, weighing every word and hunting for unsaid truths and relational ambiguities…

I hate to admit it, but I’m plagued by damned romantic baggage. I come from a world a little different from today’s… I was born in the 1970s, in Italy, to two parents who were truly in love. And even though life tested them again and again, from the way they looked at me — and at each other — I learned what I believed love was meant to be. Yes, direct, raw eroticism, born from the relentlessness of desire, excites me, invades me, it scents my skin, sticks to my nostrils and contaminates my thoughts. But having said that, let me get straight to the point: Ohhh Tyler and Brandon… their first trip to Mars… so directive, so mechanical. I wanted sex, of course — but also silences, moans, flushed cheeks, wide, trembling eyes. I wanted poetry. Poetry that sighs before giving commands. Brandon… a little more Major Tom, a little less trained astronaut. 🎵 “…and the stars look very different today…” — Space Oddity, D.B. 🎨 “It’s the freakiest show…” — Life on Mars?, D.B. And somewhere in between, there’s us: between the desire that overwhelms and the one that dreams. Between cum and the cosmos.

Meanwhile, the reel of my daydreams — fevered, disheveled, wide-eyed — keeps spinning in the background… of this beautiful story that’s already got me hooked