The fog crept in at the end of October, forcing smells of wet clay under doors and through windows cracks.
I lay my head on his knee.
By the river, cut off amongst car wrecking yards and warehouses, the hall of residence is near nothing.
"I can't do this, I say.
In the mist, the floor shifts beneath me.
Dry mouth peppery smelling; he first embraced me in the dark pub. Kissing in a stairwell, bristles scratched my chin.
I cannot see ahead.
He is a puppy, excited, begging attention. When he hugs, the elbow of his erection nudges my abdomen. Dutiful, I take it into my mouth, smooth, warm and insubstantial, as if ready to disappear. Touching him, it is like mine but not mine, familiar and unfamiliar.
I drink before we meet. We talk but he forces my mouth open with thrusting kisses. He sulks when I refuse. In bed, he moves my body, grasping legs and arms, turning me over.
When he sleeps, I smell him.
He smells like me.
The world, obscured, threatens to move, reconfigure.
I want to tell him 'I don't want to be gay'.
"It's not you, it's me," I say, a coward.
