Cal - 1. Chapter 1

I may as well be honest from the very beginning - my life is pretty fucked up right now. I’m 19 years old, I live in a bedsit, I have no job, and no legitimate income. Well, not what anyone would call a ‘real’ job. I’m 5’5” and weigh in at 110. Kinda small, but not skinny, I work out plenty, running mostly. If what I did counted as an ‘occupation’ then I guess running might be seen as an ‘occupational hazard’. Ha ha - I’m just so fucking funny sometimes. My cropped black hair and blue eyes mean that I can look like a tough mean street lad and an adorable innocent angel boy, or anything in between should I feel like it. Usually I prefer the former - you don’t last very long in my world looking like an easy target. There are tattoos covering my left arm, down my chest on the same side, and on to my abs. I’ve got a piercing in my eyebrow, and also just behind my balls. I like how it feels. And yes - I’m also a full on gay boi.

My name’s Cal. Well not really, it’s Carlton - but that’s such a fucking stupid name I stopped using it about as soon as I could speak. This is a story about me - a little narcissistic - maybe. Moreover, it’s the story of how my life turned around with a new relationship, a new beginning, a new life completely really. If you’re the type, it’s also a story of hope, and of choice. But maybe that’s a bit fucking deep right now.

I’ve been living here for a few weeks, not my first choice, but having been in prison for a couple of months I didn’t really have many options. As in, I had no fucking options at all. So about that, yeah, I’ve been in prison. I got caught for stealing a car. Then they realised that I’d stolen quite a lot of other cars, and done a few other things too. Apparently they don’t like that sort of thing. Anyhow - I got lucky, had awesomely good representation in court and got away pretty lightly. So now here I am. As you might have guessed from my ability to form almost complete sentences, things weren’t always like this. I don’t think anyone actually grows up like this. Not in this country anyway.

Growing up my parents were pretty rich, nice house, good school, in a fancy part of north London. When I was 12 my Dad fucked off with some woman he worked with, leaving just me and Mum. It was OK at first, but within a few months she had started to drink, a lot. Then she started to drink more. I guess she had the money, so no-one really said anything. Pretty soon I was having to take care of myself. Cooking, cleaning, shopping, all of it, while she just drank more and more.

I was 14 when I first realised that I like boys more than girls. But there wasn’t anyone to tell, so I never really had to deal with anyone’s reaction. I was just ‘me’. Around that time I started hanging around with some guys who weren’t much like me at all. It started with one particular lad - I kept seeing him around, and eventually we got to talking. And then kissing. And then fucking. It was OK I guess, but we never really had what you’d call a ‘relationship’. Looking back he was so far in the closet it was almost funny. Although actually, no, it’s not funny, I feel sorry for him. However, I met a lot of other guys who quickly got me in to a lot of other stuff. Ha ha - I just heard what that sounds like. No, not like that. Criminal stuff. Theft mostly, small stuff. It was easier than I imagined. I quickly realised that I was actually pretty good at stealing things. That was when things got real serious.

You see, you can’t really make any serious money stealing and then selling a crappy Ford Mondeo. Other crappy cars are available. For real money - you got to go bigger. Higher end cars like BMW, Lexus, and Mercedes are where the money is. But there’s a catch, they’re also harder to steal. Particularly if you want to leave no marks. You need tech - or the keys. But I guess you don’t really want to know so much about that.

Apart from the more obvious ways in which my life is trashed, I really don’t feel very happy. Not that people notice. I spend a lot of time and effort keeping up the hard lad image - it’s how I survive. But I’m lonely. Funny isn’t it - I don’t think anyone around me even knows I have emotions. Not that there’s anyone very close. I’ve never had a relationship - just a series of fucks, none of whom I’ve ever felt close to. The sex has been OK - but there’s always been something missing. Fit, smooth, straight looking lads who like me to fuck them hard - sounds like it should be perfect huh? But it’s not. It’s actually kind of dull.

Daytimes are particularly boring right now - so I spend a lot of time watching porn, smoking weed, and wanking - obviously. Today's not much different, but not too much weed so far as I had a job arranged for this evening but it just fell through. There's no point in making the effort to steal something if you can't sell it easily. So I've decided to do something radical, I'm going out. To a gay bar. I know it's not really very radical for a lot of people, but I'm not a very sociable guy, so it is for me. Showered and fresh, slightly too tight turquoise t-shirt, black jeans, no boxers, fucking perfect. Clothing toned down, smile in place, I think I look pretty fucking good. A million miles away from how I looked two hours ago.

I got to the club just after 11.00pm - the start of the night. There were a handful of guys I recognised, and several hundred that I didn't. I headed straight (ha ha) for the bar and got myself a JD and Coke. I don't really like beer that much. I don't really like JD that much either, but it was the best whiskey they sold. I guess most people here aren’t looking for a rich, smooth, single malt. And no, I wouldn’t have fucking Coke with it if there was. Tells you a lot about the place doesn't it. The music was great, the boys were pretty, and more than a couple were interested. Very interested. It’s not unusual for lads to openly proposition me for sex, I guess everyone knows what each other wants so it’s fair enough. But you know how they all kinda look the same? There wasn't anyone I was expecting to be kicking out of my bed in the early hours. They never get to stay all night. More surprisingly, I did make a few friends. Not like actual friends, but guys that were fun to hang with for the night. They all had real jobs, and I did pretty well lying about my own life, so everything was good. Lying is a good skill to have if you want to survive, and I’ve had a lot of practice. A couple of them left early, and I decided that I might go home too. Home - what a fucking joke that is, but it's all I have right now.

Stepping outside, it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust. It was a quiet night and I briefly considered calling in at a bar I knew across the city. But I decided not to bother, shouting my goodbyes to the few guys I kind of knew, and walked towards my place. I'd been walking for a few minutes before I noticed that I was being followed. I wasn't too concerned, I live, no, I exist out here on the streets. I can take care of myself if I need to, and I have needed to, so I turned around to see what I was dealing with. Four of them - fuck, not impossible, but I’m a little drunk so I’d do better to run. There's no shame in running if it's your best option. But then they started calling me a fag and a pussy boy. I knew I should walk away, I could easily loose them. It was totally, absolutely, no doubt whatsoever the best option. But the arrogant idiot part of me - encouraged by the weed and the alcohol no doubt - made me face up to them. I stood my ground, legs slightly apart, rolling my shoulders a couple of times ready for whatever was about to go down.

Something hit me hard - I could still see them all, oh fuck, there must be at least one more. Things got very black, or bright white, or dark red. I can't be sure. I don't really remember. Fuckers.

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