Already proud months earlier, evening before first meeting at subway when returned to empty apartment (parents were out for day). Watching something with sister—BBC Jane Austen adaptation—seduced by satisfaction of knowing something she would be horrified by, if she knew. Fact of having secret most important thing. Male friend of hers was dating older guy. Different with gay people, she guessed. Continuing watching Keira Knightley’s alternatingly placid and tortured expression.

About 45 minutes to get to town where parents empty house is: manageable despite traffic in early evening, but suburbs are unfamiliar, no way of telling how much further. Never saying anything, let alone asking to get out. He, seeming to pick up, keeping saying “almost there,” listing names of suburbs, familiar from drives out of city and for which no detailed mental map exists. Others in city itself, of course. But space always at premium and even if one apartment or other free, having to take subway and risk explaining where/what going/doing: less workable. N- explained parents in real estate business, so house always being renovated and they on vacation to avoid noise and chaos. But that basement room unaffected. He: still living at home and working for family business, started by grandfather from Italy.

Met N- online when 14/28, grown child of suburbs. Having had chance to internalize lots of snobbery and superiority by that point: easy to direct at him, even though his parents had pool and definitely made good money renovating and selling houses. His hair gel: not cool. House music: never heard of. When looked up club he mentioned: not hard to tell from graphic design that would take effort to learn to like.

(Hegel never actually says that, though. Cicero does say that good feelings make bad habits die hard (or (and?) is it vice versa?, De Fin v.25))

Never accept an offer to be picked up at your house and never agree to meet them at their house. Always meet in public. However you identify* make sure to always share your plans with at least one trusted friend or member. Tell them where you’re going and when you expect to be back and agree to call them to check in. (*This was 2005, so might have been something like: “whether you’re a boy or a girl”).

Of course, main reason didn’t think to tell anyone: shame. But also, if being honest—good to be honest—fantasy of violence. Something bad happening, disruption to usual order of life, threat of bodily harm, if not actual thing. With apologies to HG (sorry, Harvey), who himself wanted to smash in his twink lover’s head and take pics:

I would like to be photographed by him, surrounded by fragrant, pale pink peonies: I would have loved that splash of blood at the moment of his stabbing me, for him to feel disgusted and pleased when those warm pieces of my brain just as he shattered my skull; yes, I would really loved for him to touch my brain.

Habits formed early. Years later, same thing. With later boyfriends, responding to conflict by imagining being driven out of apartment at knifepoint, preferably underdressed. Clarity of violation = moral superiority. Way of getting around unease, among gay men, at least: having younger/smaller fuck older/bigger (Cf. Guibert, above, and e.g. Leo di Caprio as Rimbaud on top of Verlaine in early nineties, e.g. Although, historically, important not to forget who shot whom, in end or how in beginning, even before V’s final break, whole thing fell apart when V broke up with R because R made fun of how V held fish walking home – sources dispute whether mackerel or herring.)

15 minutes for N- to cum, 10 to shower and then another 15 to get to train station. No discussion of how to get back to city, but not driving all way relief, and train probably faster anyway. Mutual confusion when cash appearing in N-’s hand: the shattering of an illusion. Initially: humiliating. Later: a skill to come in useful. At the time: refusal. N-: surprised, realizing could save his cash, not protesting beyond the socially obligatory once, or probably not twice.