I recently met someone who inspired me to write this. Fictitious, of course. Enjoy.Crush
by Jerome Kugan
Ever since I resigned myself to living the life of an immoral snob, I thought I would be immune from developing annoying crushes on strangers, especially those beautiful strange boys who seem to appear out of nowhere. Beautiful boys whose arrogance mark the air like skunk piss, who stings the space in between with their silence or their smirk or their total ignorance of you. Because what is a crush compared to the sordid world of clandestine groping in dark corners in an abandoned film theatre or the decadent nooks of new year’s eve parties where the revellers are breathlessly waiting to be invited to a kiss upon cabernet-stained lips? Crushes are nothing. Crushes are what Chihuahuas have for breakfast. Crushes are for adolescent girls and boys fantasising about pinup celebrities. Crushes are for janitors fingering the fragrant scarf of a preteen who has long graduated. There are whole libraries dedicated to the literature of the crush—and the crushing and the crushed. What business have I to show up at the window through which Thomas Mann secretly pined for angels in white denim? There is no space. It is crammed with longing, poetry, ballads, odes, novels, blogs, et cetera.
And yet, I discovered, agitating parts of my being I thought long buried under layers and layers of cynical huffing at what I judged to be the pretentiousness of others… that my cactus of desire had indeed developed a new thorn.
A boy of 24. A total stranger. Bespectacled. An impish Chinese face with a head of short-shorn hair. With strong arms set on a lean muscular torso built upon a tapered waist held up with powerful looking legs. Who smiles with a full set of teeth showing (when he thinks no one is noticing). Whose eyes are dimmed with a kind of romantic sadness (when un-spectacled). Who refused to speak to me (even when twice I asked him what he thought of his new pair of shoes). Not out of arrogance or condescension. But shyness. A boy who lives inside his head, with his own dressed-up fantasies, youthful yearnings to escape the real world. Teasing the bubbling water in a pool because he’s sitting apart from the crowd. Perhaps he’s still in Melbourne, walking down Chapel Street to meet his friends waiting to greet him in an over-decorated cafe. Who writes in his blog about how people should take his car away from him or he’ll run over some poor bastard, who posts pictures of designer clothes with exclamations of fashion wanderlust, cooing over JV Marc or some other, but claims he is straight when asked “Are you gay?”
So I am not the first admirer. I understand. Surely no object of lust appears out of nowhere. And certainly not this boy, whose history I imagine to be peppered with its own share of mysteries.
But who am I to linger here? Like a dog sniffing a sock. A janitor cleaning up a stain.
Labels: crush, fiction