Pretty Boys - 1. Pretty Boys

I collect pretty boys. Whenever I see one—slight and effeminate, with long lashes and rosy lips—I want to own him. I want to make him want me. Adore me. Love me.

I collect them in my mind, all the boys whose faces are like angels, whose voices quiver as they say my name, I collect them all, and remember them, and live off of those memories. I take the shy and timid ones, and the ones who are insecure in their sexuality, uncomfortable in their skins. I take them and mould them and blow life into them.

It goes back as far as I can remember.

I am four years old, in the playground. I’m still small, even for my age, but all the bigger boys want to play with me anyway. They are drawn, I think, to my sense of self, my attitude and perhaps, though they don’t realise it, to my physical appearance. I ignore them completely. Over by the fence, in a corner of the sandbox, sits a tiny three-year-old. He has big, blue eyes and blonde hair, and the cutest little button nose you ever saw. He won’t meet anyone’s gaze, staring instead down at the sand in front of him, picking at it with a small, yellow plastic spade. It is summer, the weather is warm and he is wearing a blue overall over a green striped t-shirt.

I approach him and sit down next to him. He looks up, startled at the attention.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Marcus,’ he responds in barely more than a whisper.

‘Would you like to play with me, Marcus?’ I ask. And he looks at me with those bright blue eyes and smiles, and that smile is filled with gratitude and affection. And I’m hooked.

I am ten years old, crouched behind the bike shed at school with a boy a couple of years my junior. He is shy and timid, and has smooth, tanned skin. His name is James. He is poking at an earth worm with a stick, fascinated with the way it squirms. I’m staring at him, fascinated with his cheek bones, his long eye lashes and his untidy, brown hair.

‘Wanna play a game?’ I ask. He looks up at me, his brow raised in question. ‘It’s a kissing game. You ask me questions, and if I can’t answer them I have to kiss you,’ I continue.

He seems to consider this for a moment, then says, ‘Okay.’

He asks me easy questions. I fail to answer them on purpose

James has never played a kissing game before. James has never been kissed before. And James is too innocent to think that there could be anything wrong another boy placing his hands on his shoulders and repeatedly kissing him on the lips. Between kisses he gazes at me in adoration, and I feel my tummy tingle.

We skip the next class, and spend it kissing. Over and over.

I am thirteen years old, sitting in my bedroom with a boy named Azis. He is fourteen, but looks younger, for he is small, slim and so very pretty. He has dark brown eyes and light brown skin and gleaming black hair.

I am undressing him, taking my time removing every item of clothing and exploring his body with eyes and hands. He has several older brothers, who constantly mock him for his slight frame and feminine attributes. They hurt him, too, which is why his body is covered in cuts and bruises, sullying his perfect form; these imperfections make him no less beautiful. His brothers are also the reason why he, at fourteen, has yet to bring himself to climax. Because every time he tries, the images he sees in his mind’s eye are of other boys, not girls, and he is ashamed.

He lets me take off his clothes, however, shuddering with every touch, his eyes closed and his breathing heavy, his erection becoming more obvious every second.

Once all the clothes are gone, I lay him down on the bed gently. When he comes, it is with a gasp of release, tears streaming down his cheeks as his body convulses with the combined efforts of the orgasm and the desperate sobs pouring forth from his beautiful lips.

He wants to return the favour. I won’t let him. I just wanted to collect this moment, collect him.

I am sixteen years old, sitting in the office of my school’s guidance councillor. There have been rumours about me.

‘I’m not a homosexual,’ I tell him conversationally. He looks at me over the top of his glasses, professional, poised. He is in his twenties, and new at his job, but he puts on a good show of experience. ‘I’m not an anything-sexual,’ I continue. ‘I just like pretty boys. I like it when they want me, and when they like me. I like it when they’re meek and vulnerable, and I get to fix them. I like watching their eyes when they come.’

I look right into his eyes as I say it, and his face flushes ever so slightly, though he does not break eye contact. He is waiting for me to say something more, but I say nothing. I just stare at him, studying his features. He is quite pretty, too. He has small, evenly spaced freckles and ginger hair; a true ginger, with green eyes, transparent eyelashes and pale skin underneath the freckles. And he is so very obviously gay.

I lean forwards slightly, my eyes still focused on his, and whisper, ‘I’d like to see your eyes when you come.’

He visibly jumps. Swallows. Clears his throat and breaks eye contact.

‘That is highly inappropriate,’ he says.

I just smile.

I am eighteen years old, and I am in the back of a car with a boy my age. It’s raining, the drops thrumming a pattern on the roof of the banged up old station wagon. It’s dark outside, but we have the dim light in the ceiling lit and I can make out his features, his wide brown eyes and his dark blonde hair, and his open mouth, uttering small moans as I fuck him.

He begged me to fuck him. I tried to find some other way that I could please him, but this was the only thing he wanted, for me to fuck him, and so I obliged.

I start slowly, easing my way inside, then plunge deep. I stimulate and tease until all I have to do to bring him over the edge is blow cool air on his nipple. I take my time, making sure that I don’t come until I’ve milked him for all he’s worth.

It’s the first time I come in the company of another person. It is a pleasant enough experience, but the real pay-off comes afterwards when, reduced to a shivering wreck, and clutching my hand in both of his, he mumbles words of gratitude and love between sobs of absolute joy.

I am twenty years old and I’m at university. I live on campus. In the bedroom across the hall from mine, there lives a boy called Jason.

Jason is tall and slim, yet muscular and decidedly masculine. He has alabaster skin, a mop of dark brown hair and steely grey eyes, and he wears a secretive mona lisa smile that never falters.

He is the most beautiful boy I have ever seen. I need to have him in my collection. I need to make him want me and love me and adore me.

But Jason is not quiet, reserved and self-conscious. He is not shy and timid. He is confident and outgoing and brimming with sex appeal and humour. He’s not gay, he says. He dabbles in a bit of everything.

My usual techniques are lost on him. I cannot seduce him and make him follow me around. I cannot make him fall in love with me, or in lust, or anything else. I spend weeks trying to figure it out, neglecting my studies, trying to understand what I can do to make him come to me.

There is nothing. I can’t sleep, because I’m constantly thinking about him. I can’t let him be the one that got away. It feels like my life up until now has all been for nothing if I can’t have him.

It is when I find myself thinking of him in the shower that I finally understand. Without the slightest provocation, my cock begins to harden. I gaze on in fascination as it turns into a full blown erection. This has never happened before. I have had the natural, animal reaction from being touched, but never before has the mere thought of someone set me off like this.

For the first time in years, I pleasure myself as I imagine Jason. I don’t picture myself blowing him, or giving him a hand-job or fucking him, I imagine him doing those things to me. As I come with a loud groan, I realise that everything has changed. I don’t want Jason to want me. I just want Jason. I am lusting for him. The very thought of him arouses me. I adore him in the way that I thought I wanted him to adore me.

Jason is like me. A more powerful me, whom even I can’t fight.

After giving it some thought, I find that there is only one alternative left to me. I get dressed and cross the hall to knock on Jason’s door.

He opens it, wearing only pyjama bottoms, his chest bare and his hair wet. He must be straight out of the shower as well.

I try to say something, but I’m at a loss for words. He simply smiles at me, that mona lisa smile, and says, ‘Oh, there you are. I knew you’d turn up eventually.’

END