Oh yes, oh yes says the man below Alex and jerks his cock with frenetic strokes and soaks it now and then with his mouth. There's a vague tingling in Alex crotch, he’s leaning on a grave stone in the English garden of Uppsala, it's the last of May. He's thinking of his grandfather that died just an hour ago. He used to visit him and they went to a gigantic army surplus store, they were never close but one time he sang a 60's pop song to him in his car which he never did to Alex father.

A singing blue bird is sitting in the tree above Alex and makes him dream, the bird seems like a perfect lover, beautiful, sensitive and with an incredible voice. The bird is tearing a rift in reality, far away from the sheer hell our sexless maiden has gotten him into. Alex is the smell of chewing gum, sloppy red-painted nails and armpits like opened crypts, forever our whore. He hears a voice speak to him, inside of him that must belong to God or something:

Because you're not lovable Alex, one doesn't love your clumsy swinging hips, your smeared lipstick, you look like a whore.

You have to be pruned like an overgrown tree, you are too much, you don't fit in your starving body, your lungs can't breath properly, you can't get any air in them, you suck cock like testicles were filled with oxygen.

You have to be pruned and then resurrect.

Then you’ll finally see you're a...

Then you’ll finally know you're a...

Then you’ll finally discover you're a... seal girl, a seal chick, a seal bride.

You shall jump out of your head fully clad in armor, always close to the knives, your never ceasing schizo laughter, you're a black shining sun.

Not to brag but if one more muffled voice jokes, “Your ass could teach a poetry workshop,” or “I don’t know what’s cooking in that oven, but can I invite myself for dinner?” or “Don’t mind me, I’m just looking for the cure for colon cancer,” or “I’m no Freud, but I can tell you why the guy who cleaned the bathrooms at your kindergarten paid you $20 not to flush,” or “If I suffocate, tell my mom I loved her,” or “Just call me Jules Verne,” or “You should list your anal membranes on the stock market,” or “I never thought I’d say this, but I envy Gene Simmons,” or “Fuck man, what did you eat for dinner, God?” or “Next time I’m in a bar, I’m going to order your douche,” I’m going to scream.

Yesterday they had dressed up to go to a mall to try out clothes. Alex wore a sailor dress in elastane, a real bargain found at a flea market, Sebastian had greased his leather jacket until it blazed. They went off with Sebastian's moped and put it in the garage, continued to the perfume department and walked around in the light, it smelled good. They tried on different make-ups and threw down a pair of evening gloves in Sebastian's bag (covered with aluminium foil on the inside to prevent the alarm from going off). Alex put on a lipstick that Sebastian kissed away in the dressing room on the fifth floor. Alex wet his finger and made him clean again. They snorted some ecstasy and took a coffee in the cafeteria to wait for it to kick in.

“Why? Because Prada offered the boy on the far right more money than I could earn in my lifetime to be the face of their fall ad campaign, and a portrait of him by Wolfgang Tillmans sold at Sotheby's for $350,000.

Because the boy in the middle has dyed blond hair with an inch of mousey roots and wears far too much make up on his almost pretty (from certain angles) face and earns a living having sex three times a week with some fat alcoholic in his sixties.

Because the boy on the far right says he's only doing this because he has the hots for me which blows my mind since he's an irrefutable god among twinks even though I understand I'm not exactly uncute.

Because the boy in the middle can't believe he's having sex with boys as cute as us and was only hired to do this porn because he's willing to let us double penetrate him bareback.

Because the cameraman gave us the highest dosage of viagra you can take without risking a massive heart attack then we spent more than an hour doing lines of crystal meth and that combination is intense if you haven't tried it. I don't think I could stand up right now if I wanted to, and I don't even know who the fuck I am.

Because the boy on the far right had one of his stories published in The New Yorker which got him a six figure advance from Knopf for a first novel he hasn't even started writing yet.

Because the boy in the middle got so stoned and drunk last night he couldn't walk then suddenly burst into tears for no reason at all and told his friends he wishes he was dead.

That's why.”