shows what perverts the French are, and as for the rest of it, it was worse than P.E.
I honestly cannot understand why God or Charles Darwin or whoever couldn’t have made the penis more attractive. Maybe given it bright feathers that fan out like a peacock, or made it a nice colour and gotten rid of all that hair around it (although in theory the hair helps to hide it). I’m amazed the human race hasn’t died out with penises looking how they do. I’m also amazed Marc Le Page doesn’t prefer to keep his hidden.
Kissing him was like dunking my head in a puddle of spit. At least the sex part was over quickly, and sex was another reason why I started drinking more. Drinking helped me then like it helps me now, and if ever I drank too much I simply went to the bathroom and made myself sick. It seemed a whole lot easier to throw up and drink more than ever to have to stop. Dad always blamed Mum’s cooking when I found him in our downstairs toilet, making himself sick. Mum didn’t like being blamed, although she got used to it. She’d crack two eggs into a glass and whisk them with tomato juice, then she’d make him drink it down in one. I presumed that was her most ex-cellent revenge.
Dad wouldn’t have liked Pete – he was definitely a bad egg and not one for drinking. I suspected Nic was with him just for show, since the other lads looked up to him and she loved the attention. He did weight-training in his garage and he’d scoop her over his shoulder or twirl her around like a rag doll. He once offered to do the same to me but I promised him I’d crush him, and when I saw him fight with Michael I realised I could’ve done.
It was at André Duquemin’s house one Saturday night. Everyone was there. Michael was sitting by himself in a corner, looking delectable/deranged, and I was drinking everything as per usual and trying to be hilariously funny. Eventually I gave up and went to sit by Michael. I remember he smelt of petrol and had a spot on his chin, but that really didn’t matter. He was in a Joy Division T-shirt. I told him they were my favourite band and was keen to discuss their name, but he said they weren’t a band anymore, not since their lead singer had killed himself. That didn’t sound too joyous. I asked Michael if he’d enjoyed reading the choice selection of Dad’s books that I’d dropped round at his house, but all he did was grunt. So I changed tack and complimented him on his careful tending of Donnie’s flowerbeds.
Michael’s furtive scowl deepened and he sucked on his Marlboro-Red-specially-designed-to-kill-you cigarette.
‘You like Donnie, eh?’
I nodded and said that Donnie and I had become friends on account of our communal love of books. I then described Donnie’s large-ish library of Catholic good-taste. I went on and on about Donnie’s books, actually, and insisted that they were why I kept visiting him. But that’s not strictly true. The real reason I went round to Donnie’s was to stand by his kitchen window and watch Michael in the garden. Donnie joked that he could charge me by the hour. I don’t know why I liked watching Michael so much. I liked the fact that he was so quiet and careful when he was weeding, and his face became angelic as he pruned. And occasionally he was topless.
Michael blew out a perfect smoke ring and asked what I was reading now and I told him I was working my way through the oeuvre of Stephen King.
He laughed.
‘You’re into real classics, then.’
I bristled because I had read all the classics, actually. Dad had bought them by mail order from a Daily Telegraph magazine supplement, and I finished them before I turned 12.
But Michael found that hilarious, too.
‘D’you know Donnie dropped out of university? He reckons they turn you into robots. He’s got properties all over the world, timeshares and stuff. He’s well rich.’
Nic suddenly broke in. ‘Who’s this you’re talking about?’
I reminded Nic about Donnie’s party and she hunched up her shoulders like she was cold (and she might’ve been, since as per usual she was barely dressed).
‘That man is a total creep, living in that big house on the cliff. He’s probably a serial killer with, like, weird perversions and a basement full of porn.’