So it’s all done so to speak, the earth’s all filled in on top of me, there’s no headstone or any of that crazy shit, just a mound of mud and a little wooden cross with unknown written on it. So let’s start in with the thirteenth station of the cross shall we. For those of you unfamiliar with the stations of the cross that’s the one where Jesus’ body was removed from the cross, me, my body was removed from Roundhay Park. Roundhay Park’s a place with three lives a day. First Life starts about Nine in the Morning, that’s when the nice Mum’s with their little kids come and sit and matter whilst the little kids just whiz around, playing, falling over, laughing, screaming, crying, man them kids sure ride some emotions. The first life of the day has little to do with me. Now the parks second life is me, that starts about five most evenings close to the main road that runs alongside the park. There I stand a certain bored demeanour, watching the cars, waiting. The third life overlaps with the second for a few hours, the parks third life is when the homeless start to arrive, looking for a bench, some shelter, somewhere to sleep in some peace, not all of em sleep of course, there’s the deranged ones who like howl at the moon and argue with themselves and shit. Luckily I was found by one of the more straight one’s if you like, she nearly tripped over me, she must have been making her way over to the cricket pavilion cos I was laid out pretty much ‘mid wickets’ as they say. For that day at least the park had another life, a fourth life, a life of murder investigation. First two coppers arrived and shined torches over me, one took my pulse and said ‘no, he’s dead’ and the second touched the radio on his collar and started talking saying he was confirming the body of an IC 1 male approximately 15 to the rear of the park. Then he stops radioing and say’s to his mate; ‘they say don’t touch anything, just keep people away’ and his mate says; ‘suppose we will be here all night now’ and his mate say’s; ‘yeah’ in a distracted kinda way. Then slowly the scene starts to fill up. More policemen in uniform, some detectives who get called ‘Sir’ by the other’s then a lady in a white coat, who leans over me and starts to talk into a tape machine and as she speaks the detectives listen. ‘IC 1 Male, approximately 15, time of death a very approximate three hours ago, large blood loss from stomach and chest, she pulls my tee up and peers closely, shines her torch real close over my body, her white latexes gloves gently touching my body, if I weren’t dead and with my eyes closed I might be hard right now, but I’m not, I’m dead. ‘there appears to be approximately seventy plus knife wounds to the chest, stomach and sides of the body. There is extrusive bruising to the face and the front teeth have been knocked out. The victim has both urinated and defecated prior to death‘. Some uniformed policeman start to put a big white tent up and the Lady starts to methodically remove my clothes, that’s after a man has taken a gazillion photos. She looks at my naked body; More photos as he clicks she speaks. ‘there’s extensive bruising to the genitals, with a visible footprint mark to the left thigh, the body appears to have been trampled on, possibly by more than one person, there is bruising to suggest the body has also been stamped on, several times, so sever is the bruising, the body appears well nourished although there is a start of a viral nail infection to the big toe on the left foot’. With that she instructs some men to take me to the mortuary where apparently she will ‘do a more vigorous post mortem‘. Four men dressed in black suits, what is it with black suits and death, walk towards me, four lift me whilst a fifth unzips a black body bag, they roll me into it and zip it shut, two men take my top half, two others the feet, then they carry me to an unmarked van, pull out a trolley on wheels and place me on it, push the trolley back inside, shut the doors and hey we are away. So that’s the thirteenth station, me in the park, naked, nothing so new there then, well apart from the dead bit, that’s brand spanking, hot new, but that’s the thirteenth station right there. I was condemned to die the day I was born, correction conceived. My story has no future, my story is the story of the ‘stations of the cross’ fourteen steps to death, my life mapped out in fourteen stages, the same as our Lord Jesus, not that I’m claiming to be Jesus or anything, it’s just that there’s a certain similarity that’s all. I would strongly advise you against getting too emotionally attached to me, don’t read this and think ‘Jez what a cool kid, or man if I ever meet that fucker he’s gonna be sorry’ because you see I’m already dead, I’m speaking to you from beyond the grave as they say in those corny horror shows, from beyond the grave that’s me. Well not quiet the grave, I’m still in my box waiting for the gravediggers to start filling me in so too speak, throwing the mud over me. There’s only three people here at graveside and I don’t know any of them, there’s the vicar and two men, black suits, white shirts, black ties, dark raincoats draped over their arms. Solemn, respectful, something new to me. The Priest’s speaking. ‘Before we intern the body is there anything anyone would like to say‘. Both men look at each other and then the older say’s; ‘no vicar, there is nothing we want to say’ and with that the vicar nods to the two gravediggers and they push their shovels into the dirt and throw it down on me with great clods on top of my coffin and as the first clump hit’s a wind raises and brings with it a sheet of rain, blown on the strong wind, it disturbs the crows nesting in the trees and the weak watery winter sun disappears behind a dark cloud. The Priest turns to the two men and say’s pointing to the rectory some way away; ‘shall we officers’ all three turn and walk towards the house whilst the diggers continue their task. and that ends the lesson on the last station of the cross, for me there are no more stations, no more crosses, no more anything. So I’m gonna jump around a bit on these stations, sorry about that, but it’s my story so I’m allowed and anyway I’m already dead so what ya gonna do kill me? I’m gonna tell ya the first two stations stories of my life, that’s where Jesus was condemned to death and where he was given his cross. Looking back I was pretty much condemned to death from day one. That’s if you believe you’re born gay and don’t choose it, course my Mum and Dad thought you chose it and if that’s what they believed then that’s what my brothers and sisters believed, cos that was always easier. It was also what I was meant to believe and shit I tried real hard on that one but no amount of naked girl posters and magazines could make up for a man with a hard cock, especially if that man were a priest. So anyway I’m jumping ahead, I was born 27.2.1994. The fourth child, third boy to a good Catholic working class family, the expectations were simple and clear, work hard, achieve, pray and raise your own family. That was it, nothing more but more importantly nothing less, anything less was a failure and meant you were being disrespectful and lazy and sinful, and disrespectful and lazy and sinful brought the fist, the belt and once a bottle cracked over my head. It led to endless hours locked in my bedroom, to endless hours of comfortless crying and tears until exhaustion rather than love and forgiveness kicked in, to stonewall silences and endless hours of having to read the big black bible whose resting place was always in the middle of the table that dominated the dark sitting room in which our lives and characters evolved. God was always in the house, in our lives and he was a merciless and vengeful bastard, not the cuddly type just plain fucking nasty. AID’s god punishment of course for sins of the flesh and the mind, once can you believe it, my older brother who I shared a room with told my Dad I had been wanking off at night and I got a belting, jerk, what he didn’t tell Dad was I mainly jerking off to listening to him jerk off, imagining I was lying next to him, touching him, him touching me, wanker, that’s what our family was like, at constant war, get on the front foot as they say and stay there, being the youngest boy meant I was rarely on the front foot, normally on the back foot, or on my back, well fuck that right. When I was ten I just felt plain different from everyone else, you see Father Paul paid a special interest in me, told my Mum and Dad that he thought I ‘had a calling’. They were so pleased with me for awhile, the beatings were less ferocious and things seemed to be easier, so I had a calling, cool. The calling meant I had to stay behind after Mass and spend time with Father Paul, time spent, reading the bible, discussing it, his arm wrapped around my shoulders at first, then further down, around my waist and finally sat close beside him he placed his hand at the top of my leg as I read a lesson from Matthew and as I read I felt his fingers gently touch my private parts, now they seemed less private as he touched and stroked, it felt better than the belt, the fist so I just let him, it felt weird but better somehow. Now I know you are all gonna say it was abuse and yes of course it was, he should never have done that, but fact pure and simple is I liked it, it made me feel special and good and I felt for the first time in my life that there was an adult who liked me and cared for me, an adult to have a relationship with, some connection if you like. You see I reckon it was Father Paul have gave me my cross, well not gave me exactly, cos I think it was always there, waiting to be discovered, he woke me up to myself if you like, yeah I was ‘a poof, a queer’ as my Dad called em. In a more loving family, a family more respectful to their children’s needs it would never have been a cross in the first place, but born into this family where there would never be an acceptance any acknowledgment of what I was it was cross to bare. Always being on guard against myself, living in fear of who, what I was, that’s a cross. So a family rigid in all things old testament and biblical a family for whom God’s word always came first, before even the voices or actions of their own children, that there is what condemned me to death, it forced me to find my own path and one of those paths lead to Roundhay Park, my sexuality was my cross and there as they say ‘endeth the second lesson or first and second stations my cross. ‘how’s your boyfriend’ they would ask and that was enough to start the whole drama running again, a drama whose end I knew too well but one I couldn’t change, my drama was someone else’s, I was a character in it and with every scene of that drama my hate levels rose, higher and higher and the higher the hate levels rose the harder it was for Simon’s bubble to care for me. The hate spilled everywhere, at home, well why should I care about that, the rows intensified as did the beatings, the beatings rose exactly in line with my smart mouth which was fuelled by the hate inside me, it spilled out at school, fights, bad work just general stupidity, the hate just spilled. Simon understood and never blamed, never tried to get me to do anything else, he just understood and stood there with me, not in the fights and rows, they were mine but he stood and after those things he was just there again with a hand, some lips, a touch, a stroke, a hug, a cuddle, a smile, a wave, all the stuff that say’s you’re more than a random person man, you mean something and all this from inside his bubble but the hate that drove me started to hate the bubble, I wanted to burst it, bust it open, spill it out over the floor and as I did that Simon sensed his very being was under attack so withdrew and in feeling that withdrawal I withdrew, the bubble less clear now from the distances we had withdrawn too and with that distance came a heavy cross, my cross, no longer shared, mine, but the cross was too heavy and I bent and buckled under it’s strain and in tears, exhausted, in a park, dark I met Veronica the provider of my sixth station, that’s the one where Veronica wipes the face of Christ, our Lord. I’m gonna follow the stations down the line now, in strict order the stations come, get stopped at and then left like a train, heading for a destination already known, hurtling along no one but the man in charge can stop it and the man in charge was me and there was no stopping. Now I’m guessing you’re not too up on your stations of the cross, am I right? No worries, well the third station is ‘Jesus falls the first time’. Boy did I fall. My first and only love, not my first sex but my first love. A love of my choosing. Simon Napier 13, blonde, spacey kid who I sat next to in Math and English. What I liked most about Simon was his random vagueness, you could never ever get a handle on him apart from the fact that whatever was being said or happening Simon would just be sketchy about it. I used to push my leg against his in class, like push the side of my thigh against his and he never moved away he just left his leg there, we would just sit there for the hour, legs pushing together, cos if I relaxed mine it would move against the pressure he was putting on as well so I knew all was cool, that he was cool about it if you see what I mean. Then one day in English I wrote on some paper ‘wanna go further’ and pushed it over to his desk, he kinda blinked at it and then pushed his hair outta his eyes and wrote ‘why not’ see random and sketchy, not ‘cool, yeah, for sure, awesome‘, just ‘why not‘. It was as if he lived in a bubble and nothing could shake him out that bubble, a bubble of his own creation, nothing could get close or inside it just him. Even our year of discovering ourselves, each other bodies, each other, that never shook Simon outta his bubble. Long evening nights at the park, kissing, his lips were really soft, his tongue against mine, warm, bodies pressed against each other, aching hard on’s pushing against jeans and shorts until released by a hand then worshiped, touched, stroked, kissed, licked, sucked, hands pushing hair from eyes, hands running across each other’s bodies, down, stomachs caressed, buttons and zips to be unfastened, elastic in shorts to be pushed past with fingertips, grinding bodies, hot against each other all that and more and still you remained in that bubble and more you stayed there the more I loved you for it. For the nine months, three weeks, two days and nine hours we were together I tried to create my own bubble, a bubble for just the two of us, but there was always a punch, a kick, the belt the bible, to burst it open, no bubbles strong enough against that, but for all the time we were together I had a bubble too it was just came and went depending on if he was around. It took a joy rider and a police chase to destroy the bubble forever and take me onto the fourth station, that’s where I get to meet my mother right. We, me and Simon, not me and my Mum, as if right dude, well me and Simon were in the park, just laying on the grass, in the dark when we saw a car come across the grass, two kids get out and torch the fucker in petrol, light it up to destroy any evidence, we watched as it went up, watching so hard we didn’t clock the police helicopter up above, none of it had anything to do with us right, but of course to them we looked like two twoc’ers* hiding, taking cover. So we got busted, caught in each others arms as it were by two coppers who were so pissed not to have caught the twoc’ers* they took us home and explained to our parents where we had been found but worst still what we had been doing when the two of em crept up on us and this is where the fourth station kicks in because that night I really met my Mum full on. ‘‘sup love’ I look up and see a six foot something woman, blonde, perfumed sweet, nails red, lips the colour of original sin itself, heels and legs so, so, so very long, black dress tight. ‘nothing, why’ ‘it’s just you’re crying and people don’t usually do that unless something’s sup, well in my world anyway’ ‘what worlds that then’ ‘a world where no one’s as they seem, where love comes by the half hour and we all live in hope’. ‘sounds nice’ ‘it is darling, believe me, it is’ she pulls two cigarettes from a packet and lights them both, inhales and then hands one to me, I take it, inhale hard and as I do she reaches into her bag and pulls a wet wipe out, one of those scented things, like you get in a Chinese restaurant to wipe your hands with. I hold it to my face breathing in the fumes, sweet somehow reassuring. ‘better’ yeah thanks’ I stand and start to walk away. ‘you going back to where your sorrow is then’ she say’s to me ‘nowhere else, is there’ ‘there’s always somewhere else if you need it bad enough’ she says. ‘and where’s that then’ I ask ‘anywhere you want it to be honey, anywhere you want it to be’. ‘with you’? ‘no honey that’s not what you want’ ‘here then’ ‘that’s up to you honey’ ‘what if my worlds here and I’m in tears, what if that’s my world then’ ‘then that’s your world honey and as long as it is I’m gonna call by to wipe your face for ya, cos this place is part of my world too’. ‘you’re nice’ I say because she is and I don’t want to go, don’t want her to go. ‘no honey I’m Veronica and I am your angel my little love, your angel’. ‘how’s that then’ ‘well honey, everyone has an angel’ ‘do you, have an angel’ ‘honey, I had an angel and now they have gone, so now there’s me, just me, an angel without an angel, so? ‘so? I ask puzzled now ‘so, you gonna let me be your angel then’ and I don’t know what to say, I want to say yes but can’t, cos it feels lame and dumb and weak but a large part of me wants to say ’yes’ so I just look at her and say ‘we’ll see’ and I laugh as I say that, to kinda tease her. and with that we just sit on the bench, she pulls two more cigarettes from her bag, lights them, inhales, passes one to me, we smoke and after a while sitting, smoking she pulls my head to her shoulder and says; ‘rest awhile honey, rest awhile’. Simon’s bubble stayed intact of course, no hate erosion for him in his family, where the whole thing seemed to get laughed off as some huge joke, on a par with when ya Mum shows naked baby pictures of you from years back to relatives. So for a while Simon was my fifth station of the cross, the one where someone carries Jesus cross for him. He carried my cross by being Simon, that’s all he did, the boy in the bubble remained there, but he allowed me to stand close enough to it, to see through it and experience it and sometimes to climb inside it and be there with him. We still pushed legs together in the classes we shared, still kissed and touched and sucked, loved as before, with him in his bubble nothing had changed but all bubbles burst and when it was time to leave him, go to another class he didn’t take or go home at the end of the evening I left him in his bubble intact and I went home with hate pulsing through my veins, hot. ‘been with your boyfriend’ ‘yes’ ‘queer, cunt’ ‘OK’ Slap, punch, kick the usual and when things were quiet or one of my brothers or my sister was due a dose they would start up on me; Veronica was an important station alright, like one where you have to change at to get to where you wanna be. Just sitting with her in the park, my head resting on her shoulder, her arm around me made me feel safe, made me realise things could be different, I just had to make them so. Up to then I just thought everyone else was in charge of me, that I just had to accept what was, she made me realise I could change that, you see Veronica was a man, but didn’t feel like one, she said all her life until a couple of years ago she was scared of herself, scared of who she wanted to be, she did everything to avoid it, drink, drugs, she even married someone but she said that made her feel worse, then she tried to kill herself and a neighbour found her and when she woke up in the hospital she just thought ‘fuck it, fuck this, fuck everyone’ and walked out of there someone else. Cool don’t ya think? Well sat in that park, there and then I decided that when I walked out of that park I was gonna be me, not me sat there then but who I really wanted to be and that’s just what I did. I went home, lay in my bed with my school notebook and wrote; I Am Gay Hate living at home Know there is nothing here for me I want To be free to be me don’t wanna be hated anymore Just wanna be free Be loved Be in Love And that was the list. The next day I packed and left forever and I don’t regret that one bit, you can die slowly, let everything rot inside you, turn everything good into hate like I did with Simon or you can die by your own actions and be free in the meantime. I had no plan so I went to the park and slept there for a couple of days and that’s when I learnt the secret life of the park and those secret lives that go on there. I met Jimmy, eighteen year old addict who went there to score, he knew trouble coming when he saw it and saw it surrounding me and offered me a place in the squat he lived, it was basic but a roof beat the park. He was the kinda kid you would cross the road to avoid, dishevelled, troubled, thin, dark eyes, but he was sweet really, it’s just people don’t see past the surface. So within a couple of days I had a room, basic, but it was my room, I was free to start being me, I just needed the means which is tougher, at 15 I can’t just get a job so whatever I do is gonna have to be a bit dodgy and if I’m honest I lacked the appetite for that gig and that’s where I got lucky, or so I thought. Ian Ingrams 38, a chief at a fancy pants restaurant in the city. I was leaning with my best attitude against the railings of the park, looking for someone to blow for cash when he pulled up, fancy car and all and yeah I blew him for cash but after he seemed to wanna stay and chat and we just drove around, stopped at a roadside catering van thing, burgers and a coke just chatting and laughing and then when we got back in the car and he lit up a blunt and offered some to me but I said ‘sorry I don’t do any of that, none of it’ and he just said that was fine, in fact I think he was impressed, a renter with no drug habit gotta rare in these parts, I was no gay for pay, I was the real thing and he clocked that fast I think, then he kissed me long and hard and then blew me, he took his time, licking and stroking me and then we drove some more and ended up back at the park. He pulled a ton from his wallet which is way more than we had agreed and he said; ‘how long that keep you going’ and I said ‘a week maybe’ and he said; ‘cool, don’t rent anymore, be my boy, just once a week just don’t rent OK’ and I said; ‘yeah, course’ and I didn’t, didn’t need too and he kept his word, every week we would meet outside the park, drive, chat, munch some and then have sex, he cared you know, about me, what I did, what I said, when I was with him time stopped, my life stopped, everything stopped apart from being with him, so you see Ian was my seventh cross, that’s the one where I fall for a second time and fall in love with him I did. Now the eighth station of the cross, heathens, is where Jesus meets the daughters of Jerusalem a group of misguided women who just didn’t get JC to start with. The gospel of Luke say’s; “And there followed him a great multitude of the people, and of women who bewailed and lamented him. But Jesus turning to them said: “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children.” and that’s pretty much what happened to me; ‘a great multitude of women’ or social workers and kindly lady police officers in my case. It started when the squat got raided for drugs, Jimmy got arrested because there were drugs in his room and a squat is ‘no fixed abode’ so he got remanded and I never saw him again. Dude I really hope you are well. Me, no drugs, no arrest but I was identified as a missing person so the police and social services got involved. A social worker and police officer interviewed me and accused me of all sorts, they said I had to be up to no good because I was existing, thieving, shoplifting, burglary, dealing, renting. They must have seem something when they said renting cos they locked into it, ‘when, where, who with, how long‘, I didn’t wanna say about Ian so I kinda made up a story, park, toilets, cars, men, no don’t know their names, just to get em off my back, they said I was being sexually exploited and abused and I said ‘bullshit, am I, I was abused at home physically, this is my choice, so it’s not exploitation and it’s defiantly not abuse’ they said; ‘I was too young to make that decision’ so I said; ‘how can I be too young to make that decision, when I already made it’ I told em I was gay, I told em I was happy, I asked em; ‘do I look ill, malnourished, dirty’ and they said ‘no, you seem fine’ but ‘you are at risk because of your age and circumstances’ Now I am sure the social services people thought they were doing the right thing and to their credit they released pretty damn fast that taking me back home was never gonna work so they arranged a foster home in a few towns over from where I lived and I was taken there by the social worker who said; ‘I’ll come and see you again, once you have settled in, after a few days, to see what you think’. Well I knew what I thought, so I said; ‘bye, bye’ to her and waved all nice and grateful from the foster doorstep, knowing I would never see her again, ‘sucker’ I thought as I watched her little car disappear off down the road. I grabbed a good mean, had a bath and legged it. So that’s the eighth station of the cross, with the doo-gooder women who couldn’t see I was perfectly fine. They taught me an important lesson and that was; ‘you’re on ya own dude, ya on ya own’. And I was, in a strange town, all on my own. The journey to ‘I don’t give a fuck’s, not as far as you might think‘ basically it’s as far as my home town to where the social worker took me and then a few days. The journey to ’I don’t give a fuck’ may not be so many miles but it’s fucking painful let me tell you. First off there’s the realisation you can never go back because that way you’re gonna get caught and with that comes the images of past places, bad and good, fun and not so. Of houses, bedrooms, parks, playgrounds, fields, churches, schools, local shops, malls, movie places, it’s just like all these places and you realise they hold part of you, are part of you still and it’s like that part goes, it’s inside you but it’s not there and it’s replaced with not knowing where the fuck you are, where anything is, where the action is, it’s just like a big place, blank, bland and in thinking of the places you know, you think about the people, Father Paul, Simon, Ian and Veronica, Mon and Dad even, brothers and sisters and you get all dumb and weak and start wondering what are they doing now, like right NOW! and you don’t know, can’t know, cos to know means you gonna have to call or something and then there’s questions and shit and it all goes wrong, so it’s just in ya head, all the time, cos if it’s not, ya all miserable and lost and ya realise ya can’t sustain all these feelings and thoughts all this loss, its like way too much so you just ‘don’t give a fuck’ and bland it, like bland it major style. So my ninth station is where I fall for a third and final time and this time there was no Veronica, no Ian, no Jimmy, just me. 15. Cock out in the park toilets. Standing there For a hit For someone To look across As I stroke it Hard Make me an offer Now Gay for Pay No Fun No Love No Fooling ‘Yes Mister’ ‘sure do Mister’ Cars Stalls Bushes Abandoned buildings Anything/anywhere/for cash/for sale. hand jobs/you/me Blowjobs getting/receiving Fucking active/passive Cash is king, mister, cash is fucking king cos it feeds me, keeps me warm, gets me high, yeah I do that now btw. Cash keeps me from being where I belong/from where I don’t wanna be. Cash and cash and cash and cash. I fucking rattle. And the smelly men the men who gasp and grope and spit out my cum who fuck too hard the men who are too slack and the men and the men and the men blur into each other to keep me, keep me as a boy I no longer wanna be, they keep me here, disposable, available. And the cash buys me salvation in bottles and plastic jiffy bags, a snifter, a snort, a shot, a hit, always a hit to help me forget the places and people, the people and places that made me who I really am and about that I don’t give a fuck, because that’s something the cash can’t buy, that’s something I just can’t afford, I can’t afford to care. So Fuck it, Right? So we’ve hung out together for a while now and you would have formed an opinion on me, love me, maybe not, hate me..maybe… a little harsh don’t ya think? Anyway I guess you have formed some opinions, well this is the last time we are gonna meet, I’m off now to wherever dead peeps go, but before then, just one last tale, the tenth, eleventh and twelfth stations all wrapped into one. Things happened pretty fast when ya die. But before we get there, I just wanted to say thanks for listening, it was kinda important to me and if you take one thing away from this story maybe it could be ‘just don’t hate OK’ dislike, disapprove just don’t turn that into hate, cos hates what got me here and although I made some mistakes I don’t deserve this, nobody does, me, Matthew Sheppard, no one OK. Deal. So lets move on. So stations yeah? Well… This is where I get stripped of all my garments, where I am nailed to my cross and die. Not that there was a crucifix or anything like that, just a park in a normal street in a town like you maybe live in. You just don’t know do you? The secret lives of towns, parks whilst you are watching TV, having a meal, meeting friends, looking the other way, it’s all there you just don’t see it, maybe you don’t want too and then there’s those who do know and use the facilities as they say, those with cars who pull up, those who look a second too long, those that whisper, the starer’s, the scared, the married, ah yeah there’s loads of them, the unhappy, the curious and the downright weird, you just never know. ‘Love For Sale Bright Young, Hung, Love For Sale’ Outside drizzle cold grey sat park bench hood pulled over ma head blue eyes red lips black jeans a bulge semi hard cock waiting, line of tee shirt pulled down white then a black one then grey hoodie gotta keep warm smoking watching waiting, waiting for the man, one leg raised resting on park bench raised showing some ass, goods commodities, meat, whatever. ‘Love For Sale Bright Young, Hung, Love For Sale’ Two men walk by, whispering as they pass, they look, my hand goes to my cock and I just brush it a little, don’t wanna leave em in any doubt, they pass, stop, look back, talk, turn, looking, I shift my position legs more raised, legs open, hand on crouch, they walk towards me, talking. They stop in front of me. ‘right’ I say disinterested ‘yeah’ ‘good’ ‘looking’ ‘maybe’ ‘on what’ ‘price’ ‘rent’ ‘yeah’ ‘how much’ ‘for both’ ‘yeah’ ‘fifty’ ‘twenty’ ‘fuck off’ I drag hard on my cigarette. ‘age’ ‘18’ ‘na…15 more like, thirty five’ ‘K, where’ ‘over there’ and he nods. I get up and walk between em, walk to the edge of a wooded area, we stop and one of the men kisses me hard on the mouth, his tongue pushes deep into my mouth and I can feel his hard cock against mine, smoke on his breath, he grinds his cock against me, making us both harder, he undoes my belt and buttons and heaves ma jeans and shorts to the floor, the other guy strokes my ass and then works his fingers deep inside me, I push my ass against them, deeper inside me and as I do the kissing continues, long, hard, sensuous. I undo the guy kissing me’s jeans pull his shorts down, nice cock, hard, he stops kissing me and undoes my hoodie, pulls it off my shoulders, tees over my head, I raise my arms to help him, step out of my jeans and shorts, naked, hard, the drizzle and wind against my body, my nipples stiffen, his hand moves roughly over my chest, to nipples hard, he pinches, I gasp and get harder, a tongue inside my ass, works it’s way up inside me, I bend a little further forward, I want his tongue deep inside me, the other guys lips are working overtime on my tits, licking and biting em, the tongue inside me is opening my ass, relaxing it and as they work away I gasp; ‘fuck me’ The guy at the front puts his hands on my neck and forces my head down, down to his cock, I open my mouth, part my lips, take his cock in my mouth and as I do the guy behind pushes his cock inside me, I feel his tip open my ass then he pushes and it opens, he pushes inside me, opens me as I work the other guy with my lips. ‘suck it’ ‘fuck me’ ‘yeah’ The guy fucking me reaches round and grabs my balls and pulls em down hard ‘ah, fuck’ ‘yeah’ And he starts to fuck me really hard and the other guy pushes his cock all the way inside my mouth, down my throat and leaves it there, pushing forwards, I am gagging, breathing hard through my nose and still he pushes forward, harder and harder, the guy fucking me forces his cock all the way inside me and stays there, pushing me forwards onto the cock in my throat. My arms are flailing around as the air starts to go stale in my body and then at the same time, sharp pains to both my sides. Intense, sharp, continued pain, I cant move held in place between them by their cocks, their power, their force, as they stab and slash at my body, I feel warm blood start to run down and with each push into my ass, into my mouth, there’s a sharp pain in my ribs as their pace quickens so do the blows and my breath is shallow and weird sounding as the air rushes out of wounds, open and gaping and my vision starts to fade, some stabs go all the way into me, past ribs, some hit a rib and stop, my mind is blurry and as everything starts to blur out I smell a perfume and I remember, Veronica and her shoulder and my arm around here and I feel a gentle touch and its feels good and loving and it’s Father Paul and I feel a warm glow from a fire and smell the dusky pages of the bible on the family dining table and I fall back into my past and I know I have no future, so here I remain, with friends, loved. Thanks and remember ‘don’t hate OK’. I’m dead, I’m outta here. Bye. One Year Later…… This horrible, horrible place, so manicured, so clean, so neat and tidy not like the people who rest here, imperfect people, imperfect lives, like the rest of us, in death people are reborn into saints, martyrs, good dads and mums, loved son’s, loved daughters, all imperfections forgotten. Killed by hate when all you ever wanted was love. Too good for us all here, left behind. I still feel your arm around me, your head resting on my shoulder. I still remember the shocked look on your face when I told you I was a man and the way the look of shock passed, so fast from your face to be replaced with love and light and your arm squeezed a little harder on my waist and that was that, I was always Veronica to you. I pull my coat around me, to keep the chill wind and chilling thoughts outside but they permeate within me, making me colder. I watch as a wooden cross is placed at your head by a workman. It’s inscription; MY BOY MY STRONG BOY KILLED BY HATE LOVED BY ME. BE HAPPY VERONICA And with that I turn and walk away. I will never return here to this horrible place. Instead I will return to my memories of you. In my heart you are mine, forever, strong, hopeful and happy. My Friend. My Boy. My Love. Lets walk a little.
