Sometimes they like to abuse me, verbally. They tell me how dirty I am. They say that I’m a nasty little scumbag. They tell me that I love it, the things that I do, and usually, when they’re dribbling their bitterness, I’m thinking about an exam I have to take or whether I have enough milk in the fridge for breakfast. You’re a disgusting fucking whore, they tell me. A filthy little cocksucker who takes it up the ass. You like the taste of it, don’t you. I do, I tell them. I don’t care. I’ll say whatever they want me to say. It means nothing to me.
Once, I told someone. A boy from my class at the university who was gay and who’d made it clear that he was attracted to me. We were spending too much time together but it’s not often that I make a friend. He asked me whether I had a girlfriend and I told him I wasn’t interested in girls. I could see the desire in his eyes and didn’t want to lose him. I didn’t want to hurt him either. I considered sleeping with him, just to make him happy, but I don’t do that for free. I told him how I made my living and he must have thought I was joking because he started laughing. I shrugged, looked away, and he sat back with a frown on his face. Are you serious, he asked me. I am, I told him. I’m not going to pay you, he said, offended. I never asked you to, I said. You’ve been leading me on, he said. I haven’t, I told him. I like you. But he stopped liking me after that, which was probably easier for both of us.
Another time, I got a call from a man who grew aggressive when I said that I wouldn’t be able to be there for an hour, maybe a little longer. Can you not come sooner, he asked, as if I should be at his beck and call. His voice was familiar to me. I thought maybe he’d called me before. I can’t, I told him. I can be there in an hour, maybe a little longer. Well try, will you, he said. I waited an hour, maybe a little longer, and then I showed up. I rang the buzzer for his apartment on the outside wall. He lived in a good part of the city, a part I often find myself visiting. He kept me waiting in the cold. There was a camera above the buzzer and I put my finger across it. I didn’t want him looking at me when I couldn’t see him too. Finally, he answered. Another five seconds and I would have walked. Who’s that, he said. It’s me. About fucking time, he said. The door buzzed and I thought about going home. I had a bad feeling about this. I prefer nervous men to angry men. I went up a flight of stairs, then another, then another. I found the door. I put my finger across the spyhole. I knocked. He kept me waiting again. He opened it and looked at me. Jesus fucking Christ, he said, putting a hand across his mouth in shock. I started laughing. I’ll leave you alone, Peter, I said. I walked away. I went home. I wiped his number.
Once, I took a beating. It was a young guy who called me. Twenty-two, twenty-three years old. There were three others waiting in another room and they set upon me. They pulled my pants down and poured lighter fluid on my cock and balls, then lit a match and held it in the air. They called me a dirty little faggot. Why are you doing this, I asked them. You know why, they said. But I didn’t know why. I started to cry. They held the match closer. It went out and they lit another. When it burned out, they started hitting me. They didn’t set me on fire. They let me go. I went home.
I received a call to tell me that Rachel wanted to see me. It had been more than six years since we’d last spoken and I wasn’t sure that there were any ties left between us. My social workers asked me why I felt such anger towards her. They told me that she had a disease and that she could not be held responsible for it. I told them that I felt no anger towards her. Of course, they didn’t know everything that had happened between us.
I asked whether Rachel was still in hospital and they told me no, that she had been an outpatient for a couple of years but only now felt ready to rebuild her relationship with me. Is she back in our old house, I asked, and they told me that Peter had sold the house long ago. It was his to sell, they said. Your mother has a flat in a new development off Pearse Street now. She gets a rent allowance from the state. How much did Peter get for the house, I asked, but they said they didn’t know.
I brought a bunch of flowers when I visited. She opened the door and started to cry and I felt an unexpected emotion building inside me. I rarely feel things, so this was a surprise to me. She pulled me to her and hugged me tightly. Knowing that she would appreciate the gesture and that it would cost me nothing, I hugged her back. She let her head rest on my shoulder. I could feel her lips against my neck and pulled away.
You’ve grown tall, she said. And so handsome. You were just a boy when I saw you last. I’m still a boy, I told her. No, you’re a man, she said. No, I said. No, no, I’m not. How are your studies going, she asked, and I told her that I had just completed an important set of exams and come fourth in my class. You were always so intelligent, she told me. I still can’t believe that a son of mine goes to university. You’re the first in our family ever to go there. I don’t know where you get your brains from. It wasn’t from your father or me, that’s for sure. Do you know what you’re going to be when you grow up, she asked. I thought of things the other students in my year said and decided to repeat their lines. I’d like to travel, I told her. I’d like to make a difference. I’d like to contribute to society in some meaningful way. I’d like to be an artist. I’d like to write a novel. I’d like to hike the Santiago de Compostela. I’d like to build houses in Africa. I’d like to meet someone who really understands me. I’d like to work for a non-profit. I’d like to be rich. I’d like to get on the property ladder. I’d like to have a job that gives me a clothing allowance. I’d like to effect real change in the places that matter. I’d like to help those who need help.
And you’ll do all those things, she told me. With your brains, you can do anything you want to do, be anything you want to be. Thanks, I told her. I didn’t want to do any of those things, of course. But it made me feel normal to say them aloud.
She made two cups of tea and put too much milk in mine. She offered me a slice of cake, home-made, but I said no. You need to eat, she said. There’s not a pick on you. Did you miss me, she asked. While I was away, did you miss me, did you think of me? I thought of you every day, I said, even though I hadn’t, for I felt no urge to be cruel to her. I suppose you blame me for the things that happened to you, she said. Nothing happened to me, I told her. You were moved from place to place, you had no home of your own. You must blame me for that. I don’t blame you for anything, I told her. You’re a good boy, she said, stroking my face. You were always a good boy. Her fingers were rougher than I remembered them.
I stayed for an hour. I was happy to stay that long. And then I was happy to leave. You’ll have to let me know how you get on with all those things you want to do, she said, trying to put a five-euro note into my hand, but I made a fist of it and kept it close against my side. I didn’t want her money. I will, I said. I hope we can start again, she said. I hope so too, I told her, turning my phone on for it was evening now and the calls would start soon. Can I see you again sometime, she asked me. I could phone you and we could meet for lunch. You have my number, I told her.
It was raining as I walked home. When the phone rang in my pocket, I thought it might be her but no, it was a man. Where do you live, I asked him. Smithfield. I’m only ten minutes from there, I said. Can you come over immediately, he asked me.