Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

December 1960

So I dream of the strong young man who will look after me. In my fevered teenage fumblings he's quite old. About 23. His hair is brylcreemed shiny back, gleaming like the gun he wears in his belt. He's a criminal, of course. A successful one - a killer. And I guess I'm his partner. Junior. He shows me how to kill. I learn it fast. Moondance kid.

He drives a fast car, big like the ones in the movies. I sit beside him and gaze enrapt. We rob the banks. We count the dough. But we never touch. How can you fantasize something you don't even know exists?

But he exists. He's there on the telly every night. Z Cars. 77 Sunset Strip. Tough. Rugged. Look after me. And when he's not on the telly he's in every library book I choose. Speed-reading the covers for the coolest dude. "I don't like your choice in reading," my mother says. And I forget my stammered reply, as I recall that last night I had him propped up in a chair beside the bath as I spilled my ample seed into the cooling water, trying not to splash."You're spending too long in that bath," my mother shouts, and I think she doesn't know, but of course she does.

He was at my school when I was 13 and he was about 17. I even plucked up the courage to follow him to the toilet one day to see his thing. My first ever troll. And it was worth the sight. But sadly only the sight. This must have been the only boys' school in the known universe without homosexuality. Or maybe they missed me out. I shot my wad five times later that day. Even got worried I might empty completely, it was hurting at the end.

He died some time after that. Got run over by a car or something. But I knew it was really me, wanking and thinking about him.

Then later when I was 21 I met him again, not 23 but 21 also. We loved for a couple of years, but he wasn't really hard. Just pretended, like fags often do. So that didn't last. And I've met him several times since then, each time married to a different woman. On the side.

The last time we met was just two days ago, at a party. He was buying me drinks at the bar and begging to get back into the address book - all the time playing with the hostess's breasts, her slapping his beefy tattooed hands and loving it.

Protect and survive. The library books were never like this.