Creeps
Written at 17 over a few weeks and very very much under the influence of Dennis Cooper's Guide.
Taylor’s sitting in the back of class, doodling violent scrawls all over the lines and squares of his exercise book. He keeps having to brush his hair back with his hands because it’s always falling in front of his face.
He started growing it out long at the beginning of this year, thinking to himself that ‘my boyfriend’ll have more to hold on to during sex, when he comes,’ and with just under 3 months remaining of his time at this school, this boyfriend still hasn’t come, even if thoughts of him – whoever he is, wherever, with whatever-sized dick or whatever-coloured eyes – have helped Taylor to do so.
The teacher’s given up the way teachers do, after showing the class how to do one kind of question, and then telling the class to work through others like it and mark their own work with a few pages from the textbook. There are enough to go around but Taylor likes buying his own, expensive as they are, just so he’s allowed to decorate them how he wants to. The inside of the front and back covers of all his textbooks are filled with drawings and writing – smut, edgy flash fiction, things he overhears in class, things he wants to be told in bed by a boy bigger and stronger than him, embarrassing attempts at poetry which have all been scribbled over beyond the point of legibility. He can get away with doing pretty much anything in most of his classes, because nobody ever tries to sit next to him – apart from him, more on him later – so he’s always got a good seat or two of space to himself.
Looking up from the scratchy scene of rape he’s sketching out beneath Explanations of circle theorem at the whiteboard, whatever the teacher’s written has stopped making sense to Taylor. It looks like, cave paintings, or Mayan sigils, or something. It’s giving him a headache. He hates maths.
People all around him have settled into their own conversations. There was a party last weekend, a big one, thrown by someone popular he probably hates, where there were several controversial couplings he doesn’t care to keep track of. He labels some of his stick men and overambitious attempts at drawing pornography with the names he hears spoken. The boy with his back arched becomes Pete, the stick man with bloody stumps for legs (note, the bright red pen, the small drawn drips) becomes Josh, the implausibly muscular torso gets a low-effort face hastily pencilled in and that face then belongs to a Tyler. There are never any girls in Taylor’s drawings.
Taylor’s starting to get a decent mental picture of the boy 2 seats in front of him and 1 to the right naked, holding his own dick instead of that pen, waggling it obscenely in Taylor’s dumbstruck and spaced-out face, lit by his bedside lamp turned towards the wall back home in his room when he hears a chair scrape to his right, which almost visibly startles him, but he keeps the jolt under control and quickly flips to a virgin page in his textbook.
Integration by parts, polynomials… whatever, no porn or poetry, it’ll do.
‘Hey Taylor.’
‘Hi,’ that’s him, ‘Felix.’
Felix looks at the textbook and then back at Taylor. ‘That’s not what we’re doing.’
Felix looks at Taylor’s face, and sees a tiny bit of his eyes, if only for no more than one, two seconds. Maybe three. He still can’t decide what colour they are. ‘Whatever,’ Taylor says.
‘’Kay.’
The teacher hasn’t even noticed that Felix is late, or if he did, he’s just ignored him. Whenever Felix sits by Taylor he gets a few odd looks the way anyone does who chooses to get close to the boy with long hair in the back corner, who’s one bad day away from homicide, apparently. When people ask Felix why he chooses to hang out with Taylor – he doesn’t even spend that much time with him – at all, he likes to joke that he’s playing it safe, just in case the murderous fag ever snaps. It’d be better to be on his good side when he finally decides to bring in a gun.
Not that there’s actually any evidence of Taylor liking guys. It’s just another thing to call him for not fitting in, lumped in with other words like weird and creepy.
Even the school’s Queer Club (they meet in the English building, second floor, room 3, every Wednesday lunch, for ‘open conversation about self-discovery in a non-judgmental, inclusive space’ and arguing about which lube actually feels best) give him looks when he walks past their room to class. Tough shit, being marginalised by the marginalised, Taylor figures.
Anyway, Felix hangs out with Taylor because he wants to have sex with him. Probably. It’s one possible reason he’s got on the table. He wouldn’t rule it out, but equally, he doesn’t think it’s the only reason. Maybe Taylor has a hot older sister, or drugs, or something he can actually get out of him apart from his body. Which, Felix reminds himself, sneaking a scan for the umpteenth time, really is something. He’s skinny but not bony like he was a few years ago, when he looked like this freaky kind of anorexic lizard. His skin’s tight, like a condom that’s a perfect fit on a dick. Not that Felix thinks about dicks or boys’ bodies, much. It’s just, he can’t look at Taylor as anything other than his waist and oh so slightly girlish hips. He’s like, a pseudo-girl, you know? He’d do.
Taylor still hasn’t said anything more, and is failing to pretend like he’s not paying Felix any attention. He likes that Taylor can’t help but look at him, like anybody who spends enough time close to Felix. Staring at his hair, thinking at one moment how it would feel to yank and the next what Taylor would look like without any hair at all, Felix asks ‘So how are you?’
‘Alright.’
‘Cool.’
Taylor somehow makes silence an audible thing. There’s this thoughtful, semi-stifled ‘Mm.’ It’s this close to being erotic, just not quite for Felix. Come on, Taylor, he thinks. Do better. You’re almost there. Felix knows he has no right to hold Taylor up to his own already unrealistic pornographic standards, but, like, that’s not going to stop him.
Talking, talking, from everyone around them but those two. Like a little bubble of nothing, or something. Felix feels he’s in charge. Taylor’s worried about what might happen if he says something or moves. He can feel his heart beating, harder and faster than it has any reason to be, and Felix can see his fingers trembling slightly around his pen.
‘You alright?’ he asks Taylor. He makes that noticeable non-noise again. Almost. Felix reckons he has a good idea of what Taylor sounds like when he moans. In his head, he mashes the noise the ugliest girl he fucked made when she climaxed with this one guy’s voice he knows, some teenager pretending to be 18 on this audio website where sexual scenarios are enacted just with sound. It’s ridiculous, when you think about it, that these guys groaning and cursing and calling the listener a slut or whatever are actually just, sitting in a room on their own, slapping their thighs or a slab of meat for all you know, and talking into a microphone. But Felix gets turned on enough by them to suspend his disbelief.
Too much thinking, not enough talking, Taylor. Talk. Go on, come on, talk.
‘So what’re you doing, then?’ he asks, nodding at Taylor’s exercise book. It’s covered with all these black spirals and sharp, jagged lines. ‘Going crazy?’
That gets this sniff out of him. It sounds like it could be a laugh or like, the beginning of him sobbing, which would be awkward. Taylor flicks his hair back, again. ‘A… a bit.’
It’s so corny both of them wince at what he’s just said. Still, it’s something. For both of them – Taylor’s proven he can get out of this paralysis, and Felix knows he can still get something out of him. He can’t remember quite when he started being interested in Taylor, but he’s been getting increasingly determined to make the boy into something he can have, or something that he actually, definitely wants, instead of just this idea to turn to in the last second before climax, when he needs something new in his head to shake things up.
There’s so much silence apart from that, though. It’s one step forward, two steps back with Taylor. By the time he’s made a few more ‘Mm’s class is wrapping up. Everyone’s sliding stuff into their backpacks and there’s that rattle of pencils and pens and rulers and calculators, noises like that. It puts Felix in the mood for doing something bold, for some reason. For a risk. Or, a foray, maybe. To try something new? Yeah.
‘Taylor.’ The boy who’d be a girl in Felix’s ideal world is in the middle of trying to close his textbook with a weird caution, but looks at him – well, not him, at something above his shoulder, to the side of his head. ‘You free tonight?’
And then, barely visible through his fringe, there’s this brilliant look on Taylor’s face, like he’s just been shown incontrovertible proof that God really does exist, or like he thinks he’s about to ask him to be boyfriends or something. It’s so pathetic and also, pretty, Felix guesses.
‘Yeah,’ he manages. Not before nodding, super slowly, though.
‘Don’t ask why,’ before Taylor can even start to. ‘I’ll be by my car at the end of the day. White, it’s the one under the tree. You know it? Right. Meet me there? See you.’
Felix gets up and regrets – rare for him, he likes to think – making his words sound like a question instead of a command. Still, whatever he’s done, it’s definitely worked. He doesn’t even need to look back to know Taylor’s probably doing this weird fidgety thing people with conditions or whatever do when they’re really happy. Felix goes the rest of the day only barely thinking about the boy.
Oh my God he’s going to fuck me, Taylor thinks, and he says it in his head like you’d say ‘I’m going to Heaven’ or ‘I’m in love.’
***
He rereads what he’s just typed a few times, squinting at his bright laptop screen in his dark bedroom, this square of white in a box of black. Hm. Not the most convincing. He’s never even talked to Taylor, and, to be honest, he isn’t 100% sure that that’s even his name. And he’s got no idea if he got Felix right, at all. He can’t really get into either of their heads, which annoys him. He’s not going for accuracy, or anything, but some believability would help. Anyway, it’s not like they need to be who they really are in his writing. They’re just boys, more templates for characters, or props for fantasies. He’s not writing this with any kind of, metafictional concerns, or biographical respect, or whatever, you know, it’s just like thinking up scenarios while masturbating, just, glorified, taken up a level, dragged out for longer. Standard masturbation gets boring enough after a while for you to start looking for more things to do which can still involve sex but in some new format, and writing seemed like the logical next step. It’s not like he has any artistic goal any more complicated than just getting off.
He looks down at his boxered crotch. Sort of hard, but not much. He goes ‘Tsk’ in disappointment and figures he should stop writing for tonight, because it’s not like anything else is coming his way, in terms of ideas.
Photos. Some photos of them might help. Tap tap tap, he’s on their school website. Felix is almost dead in the centre of the photo of the school’s sports team. But no matter how many routes he follows on the site, he can’t find any pictures or mentions of Taylor. It’s like he doesn’t exist. He can find pictures of himself, for God’s sake, and he’s nobody. Literally like everyone is on the website in some way, pics or commendations or whatever, but there is nothing on Taylor. Nothing.
Still, not just going to give up.
Bed’s a good idea, though. He refreshes this blog post one more time – just a bunch of creepshots of guys, pretty standard – to see if there are any new comments, but there’s nothing.
***
https://BOYEURISM.com/march-5-2025n0rmaldudetotez! - 5/3/25 – Boys from the back!
So last post I put that poll up and you guys said you wanted pics of guys from behind so that’s what you’re getting!!!!! I took these and let me just say wow wow WOW these guys were fantASStic! Obviously none of them caught me xD I’m just too good! But anyway I really liked how these turned out and of course I so hope YOU do too readers!! Omigod taking pics like this is sooooo fun like seriously I so recommend you try taking your own creepshots guys, it’s so so so exciting. And like it’s so easy I don’t even think guys care if you take photos like this of them, I swear some of them noticed, but it’s like flattering for them! Maybe I’ve even or will one day take a creepshot of YOU, yes YOU reading this ;) wouldn’t that be fun?!?!? Anyway, enjoy these boys from the back, till we next meet! Mwah <3 P.S. my favourite is the third!!- 20-22 years old. Short brown hair. Loose-fitting white gym shorts. Probably nothing on underneath, judging by the outline you can see. He’s mid-squat. Sweat patches on the ass.
- Maybe 50s. Greying hair, dye failing to conceal his aging. In the line for a shop’s till. Tight-fitting white shirt, muscly arms, wide chest. Looking at something on his phone.
- Can’t be any older than 18, and even 18’s a stretch. A top short enough to show off his midriff, flared jeans. Long blond hair, past his shoulders. Some band logo on the back.
- Even younger than the last. In school uniform walking under some trees. Next to a taller, less attractive friend. Just the tiniest smidgen of face via his side profile.
- Another young man, probably in his 20s too. Wired earbuds plugged in, jacket and unremarkable trousers. Basically perfect hair, dark, slightly curled, artfully so.
4 Comments(OP) n0rmaldudetotez!
Aaah, now I don’t know if it’s actually the 5th or 4th which is my fav!! So hard to make up my mind!!!!indireneedofstraights
Oh, 3 definitely wins, holy fuck. You’re blind if you choose any of those other guys. I’d do crazy things to him Jesus>REPLY: (OP) n0rmaldudetotez!
Yessss, ikr!!!writerwhocantwritelol
5 looks like this guy at my school but older. Hot***
So I share a class with Taylor, presuming he’s who I think he is. It’s English, I sit behind him, so I can peek over his shoulder at all those drawings and stuff. As for Felix, he’s not in any of my classes, but I usually see him practising with the team on the school playing fields. I’m just spoilt. I can look at Felix out the window, handsome even as a tiny speck, and when I get bored of him I can look ahead of me and almost almost ALMOST smell Taylor’s hair. He really does look like that guy on the blog. God he drives me fucking crazy when he’s this close. I mean they both do, but something about Taylor just really does it for me.
Actually, I can’t really see what Taylor(?) draws in his textbooks. But I know he’s drawing something, nobody writes like that.
Sometimes I just want to tap him with my pen just to make him look around at me so I can see his face, or at least the long dark hair that’s always covering it. I don’t know, something about it – it’s always ‘something about,’ I can’t use words for him, he’s just inexplicably really – gorgeous, cute, none of the words work. He’s just perfect and I can’t not write about a boy like that. Like seriously. Ugh.
And I’m allowed to stare at him and be all creepy. I’ve done all my work for this class. I can look at him all I want. You can’t stop me from looking at guys I want to look at. BOYEURISM.com is proof of that. If whoever runs that blog can get away with taking whole photos, I’m allowed to do a bit of staring. Some staring. A lot of staring. Whatever.
School’s just filled with all these nobodies who are so boring and don’t feel like finished or real people. You try talking to them, and it’s just, nothing, like words come out of their mouths and they ‘mean’ stuff but it just doesn’t matter, nothing that they’re saying is interesting, at all, in any way. I don’t get how everybody’s so boring to me. It’s crazy. But Taylor stands out, duh.
Okay, I’ve never spoken to him, just looked at him, but I read all these books about messed-up lonely teenage boys like him and he looks just like these fictional boys are described, so like, I know I at least have a better idea of how he thinks than anyone else in this classroom. It’s not like he’s going to be complicated, in there. It’s all the same warm mushy pulsing stuff inside everybody else. It’s just that his packaging is so much better than everyone else’s. And Taylor’s silence is enigmatic, alluring, more attractive than everyone else who opens their mouth just to let out this stream of empty nothing. I write so I can do more with words than all these people who probably haven’t picked up a book since forever. I’m better than them, which isn’t even egocentric or whatever to say, it’s just fact. Trust me. If you put up with these people daily the way I do you’d agree. You’d think you’re better than them. They really don’t set a high bar.
God he’s so pretty. Just from the back I never want to stop looking at him, what the fuck. I love thinking about writing about him, and Felix, and putting those two together, they’d be so hot. I guess I’m kind of, like, cuckolding myself through my own fiction? If that makes sense. It feels more humane than just writing the other stuff I could about Taylor, you know, basement, gloves, rope, things bigger than his body can allow, muffled screams, me having my way with him, whatever, you know, that kind of ‘dark’ wish-fulfillment, rape fantasy type stuff. That’s kind of boring, so I want to do something more interesting. Maybe Felix isn’t actually interesting, but making him interesting in my writing isn’t as self-absorbed as writing about myself. Even if I try to like, fictionalise myself in my own thinking, to read this story or narrative into my life. Everybody does that, I think. It’s just, because I read, I make more of an effort with that kind of stuff. I’m thinking all loopy. Taylor makes it hard for me to be sensible or normal on the inside.
I don’t know what that feeling is, or what to call it. There’s so much I don’t know, not least all the stuff about myself, who I am, what I want, whatever. Other than Taylor. But even then, I’m not entirely sure why I want Taylor, or if I want all of him or just parts of him, and what those parts are, if that’s the case. Sometimes I wonder if I even want him, and consider that I’m just so desperate to have something interesting going on in my life that I’ve tried to conjure up this obsessive desire for this boy I know nothing about. Which would be pathetic. But all the novels I like to read have these kinds of relationships. So when I try to have one of my own in real life, I end up doing this psychological dissection, or whatever, of what I think of our ‘relationship.’ And it’s kind of tiresome, digging beneath the surface of my attractions for reasoning, so I’ll stop here. Taylor’s just a cute guy and I want him. It doesn’t have to ‘mean’ anything.
I’ve made a playlist. Like a list of songs that make me think of him, or some I’ve seen on his phone, and songs I think he’d like. A lot of it’s guesswork. It’s mostly guesswork with Taylor. But that’s what boyfriends do for each other, right, make playlists?
The teacher draws the class’ attention from that state of scattered distraction to half-held focus to talk about… something. I’m not bothering to listen. I’m staring at Taylor and thinking about what I want to do with him, and trying and failing to make my mind up in that department. Looking out the window to my left I can see the little spot called Felix running like sexy lightning across the fields, this blond bolt over the green grass. Like this boyish comet whose heat I want to smash into Taylor from behind in bed. If that makes sense. Sounds so dumb, ugh.
Teacher’s talking, talking, talking. You know the Charlie Brown cartoons, with the teacher who speaks and it’s all just ‘WHOMP WAH WAH WOMP WAH WHOMP WAH WAH’? That’s all I’m hearing right now. Just noise that doesn’t hold any interest for me. It’s all just this nothing. Nothing! And people just sit there and listen. How am I meant to put up with this?
By daydreaming and writing about cute boys fucking, I guess.
Not a noise out of Taylor by the time class ends, and everyone’s leaving for lunch, including him. I’m the last out the classroom, so I peek out the windows and I see Felix and the rest of the football/rugby/whatever boys heading back to the changing rooms. I get these flashes of muscle and skin all wet with sweat and boys pretending not to look at each other in the showers in my mind but not for longer than any other kind of low-effort erotic daydream, so then I go find an empty classroom somewhere and just sit in it, on my own, typing up these ideas I’ve gotten for my writing over the time spent thinking and staring in class. Shorthand shouldn’t be too hard to work out:
T dead, guys doing evil sex stuff to him. Necrophilia too far?
Crossdressing? F in charge maybe
Insects. Or rats. Or something like that involved between the two. Idk where they come from
T and F but in 1930s Berlin? Weimar Republic Cabaret type degeneracy. Vests and fishnets tights and that lurid makeup and stuff
Improbable acrobatic posturing idk just something funny and implausible physically-speaking
Fucking. Dynamite? Somewhere somehow? For whatever reason. Comically timed detonation mid-coitus because that’d be funny and messy and fun to describe probably
T and F switched roles
T and/or F on BOYEURISM? Me identifying them and finding out they’re both these shameless sluts, sex ensues, threesome, etc.
Writing about my writing getting discovered by classmates, rumours spreading, my shame and humiliating but sexually stimulating ostracisation and F and T taking pity on me via you guessed it sex duh
Put them in mechas. Gay robot fighting and fucking and stuff in tight cramped claustrophobic sweaty cockpits. Haha cock. Cockpits. Pun
And it goes on, there’s more, and no, it doesn’t get any better. Anyway by the time I’ve shat out all these piss-poor ideas lunch is over and I’ve got to go to my next class. I know the room but can’t remember the next subject.
I see Felix when I turn this corridor, and feel something I can’t put a name to. I walk past these sliding automatic glass doors and they open to let Felix and some other sports guys like him in that burly bubble, entourage, hive mind that’s hot but I hate because they’re not like me. I notice him and stare at him and he doesn’t notice me at all, and that’s the way I like things. One-sided attachments are unreciprocated, sure, but they’re safer, probably. Maybe.
On the wall outside my classroom there’s a display for some 20th century Russian history. Under the bottom left corner is this tiny scribble in the wall done with black pen. I don’t know what it is but it looks like a body, to me. I don’t think anyone else sees it. I think about it a lot.
***
I like being all sweaty like this. Sports is the only thing actually worth my fucking time. I’m not any good with all these books and shit, and everyone knows this. I’ve got a body built for being fast and strong. I’m not meant to be sitting in this tiny room at this desk smaller than me surrounded by guys who I could smash like a brick would crush a grape. I don’t even look like the rest of them. They’re all in their uniform and I’m in the sports team jacket, white, everyone else is in black. These guys have been walking around this building, indoors all day, while I’ve just finished a couple hours being like a fucking god on the field. It feels free out there, I can actually move, breathe. Feel the ground beneath my feet, feels good. Running and stuff.
But no, they make me sit in here anyway. With this weirdo guy lingering at the doorway pretending like he doesn’t know I can’t see him from where I’m sitting. I want to look at him and make some scary face or something, just to see him jolt, to make him feel smaller, myself bigger. But I try not to do that. I like – don’t like him looking at me. But it’s what I deserve. Nobody should be able to help paying me attention. When you look the way I do it’s what you come to expect. So I let him look. He’s only ever going to be able to aspire to what I am. Fuck, he’s tiny. I could kill him in no more than 5 minutes, easy. Probably. That’d be a waste, though. Of my muscles, of my time.
Sometimes he ducks out of view of the window in the door, only to pop back into the corner of what I can see. He’s like a journalist. Paparazzi, desperate to get a pic of me, or to hear something from my mouth. I think about mouthing ‘fag’ or ‘faggot’ at him. I don’t know if that extra syllable makes a difference. I don’t need to think about dumb stuff like that. Language is my bitch.
I think he’s there for the whole lesson. I’m not doing my work, because I never do it. I’m just looking at him kind of for the whole hour. Freak. Him, not me.
When class is over I get up before anybody else can and head straight for the little insect-looking fucker and stride over to him. He legs it away, books it down the corridor way faster than I was expecting him to be able to. I almost start running after him but before he can make it round the corner he heads right into this group of guys making a turn. There’s a loud mess, shouting and swearing and ‘Ow!’s and he mutters a few barely understandable apologies and carries on running away. What a fucking pussy. Pathetic little thing, can’t help but smile at him. It. For a bit I picture chasing him in my head, up and down stairs, in and out of rooms, careening through the corridors, kind of like a Scooby Doo chase montage, eventually cornering him and beating the fuck out of him or raping him until he’s making noises like a girl. He looks like he’d make them.
‘Felix! Up for a run?’
I snap out of it. ‘Yeah.’
Where the fuck did that come from?
***
Taylor’s ignorant of the boy stalking him on his way home. He’s got his headphones on, listening to Swirlies. He likes that feeling of drowning in the fuzz, with those melodies slipping through at just the right times, sweet almost-but-not-quite intelligible vocals, like sugar spindling through a sea of sound, but for his ears or something. He’s tired, and it’s the music he needs right now.
He’s not stalked a lot of people before. Never, really, save for Felix. And that’s not really stalking, that’s just, you know, sort of following him around a bit. He’s never bothered to follow Felix home, though that’s probably next on the to-do list.
Taylor lives in the exact opposite direction to where the writer boy lives. It’s acceptable stalking weather, though. Not too cold, if on the chilly side. The sky’s that cool late spring afternoon blue, like hotel wallpaper.
The grass doesn’t crunch under his feet the way it did a couple months ago, any more. So he can follow without making much noise, which doesn’t even matter anyway, since Taylor’s got the music up so high. He looks at him and thinks about tackling him. Choking him, or just trying to tear his clothes off and having him right there, like a madman, but that’s implausible. He’s not strong enough, anyway. Taylor’s attractiveness to him comes from his perceived impenetrability. To actually go for him, physically, even to touch him would be wrong. Like the lyrics to that one Weezer song off their second album.
Teenage boys think in song lyrics too much. He does. So that applies to all of them. What plays in Felix’s head? Probably rock or something loud and thoughtless like him. He knows what Taylor listens to, though. Kind of. A few sneaky glances at his phone screen have made that possible. He’s written every song he’s been able to see down, and made a playlist for him entitled ‘Taylor.’
They walk past a playground, a small stream and some trees, and detached houses which look nice. Big living rooms, easy to imagine comfortable, character-filled bedrooms for those who live in them. Taylor’s has got to be amazing. God, what he’d give to be in there, with or without him. To see his band posters, clothes strewn across the floor, or maybe they’d be neatly folded away into his drawers, or maybe he has wardrobes. There’ll be a guitar, definitely, he’s noticed the callouses on Taylor’s fingertips. Sometimes he thinks about chewing them.
Anyway, Taylor’s got to his house. He has to find somewhere to not look like a total stalker creep, so he heads in… some direction, towards what he doesn’t know, but it’s not like Taylor’s stopping at the front door and watching him, or saying anything. He hears the door open and close, the jangle of keys. So he whips around and tries to watch what he can of Taylor, and… perfect, he sees him in the top window nearest to him. So that’s his bedroom. He dumps his stuff and plonks right down into this revolving chair at his desk, flipping his laptop open. Perfect perfect perfect. He snaps a few pics with his phone, and turns around and starts walking home. He picks up the pace. Faster. A light jog.
Faster.
He’s running.
***
https://BOYEURISM.com/march-6-2025n0rmaldudetotez! - 6/3/25 – A day at the lake!
Hiiii guys so I got laid off (lol!) so thought I should spend my first day off as a NEWLY UNEMPLOYED INDIVIDUAL (can I get a cheer?!) down at this lake spot near me. It’s this suuuuuper quiet place, loads of trees, very green, sunlight sparkles so prettily on the water ohmigosh you guys, if you have a place like it near you GO TO IT! Not least cus of the sublime beauty of nature and all that, but bcus there WILL BE CUTE GUYS! DUH! Like srsly, suuuch a haul today. Idk how these guys have the balls for swimming when it’s still this cold, but I am NOT complaining hoo-wee, love seeing their wet muscles shimmer like fish scales haha, sooo muscly they remind me of this boy I knew when I was at school who swam. Anyway as always for you my loyal fellow creeps here are the shots for this post!! Enjoy!!- He’s in his 30s. Unaware of the camera trained on him as he towels off in the nude. Strong lens glare from the sun in the top right corner. Not much hair. Dark, though, what’s there. Definitely not bad-looking.
- Teen boy sitting on a rock, looking out at the water. Wearing all black, knees cuddled up to his chest, his arms around them. Picture evidently taken quite a long way away from the boy. He’s reduced to this small, dark, still somehow ‘cute’ speck of colour.
- Normal adult man. Unremarkable save for his hair, which has been poorly dyed. He’s almost looking straight into the camera. It’s a little unnerving. When you look at him it’s like he’s just about to look at you. It unsettles you. Not the kind of photo you can comfortably enjoy. Uncomfortably, maybe. Dressed.
- This guy’s tall. He towers over this little shrub he’s standing near. Very muscular body, wearing this tight-fitting wetsuit. Very flattering on him. You look at him and you want him to be closer to you. You might think you want him to put you in your place, whatever that means. It probably involves sex.
- At first, it just looks like a bunch of trees, bushes – brown bark, green leaves. A bird or two. Really bad lighting, it’s way too bright to be able to clearly see anything properly. But after a few moments, a minute or so, you notice him – this boy, almost invisible. It feels less like a creepshot, more like a delicate piece of wildlife photography. Covert, but not intrusive. Respectful-feeling, maybe even a tiny bit of reverence in the lens. Once you notice him you can’t pay attention to anything else. It’s like Where’s Wally? but more beautiful, and unethical.
4 Commentsnotacreepmaybeacreepokaydefinitelyacreep
GodDAMN that final photo is a fucking piece of art wtf, holy shit>REPLY: (OP) n0rmaldudetotez!
Haha thank youuu!!!writerwhocantwritelol
lovely weather in these, woah. fantastic day. great shots as alwaysindireneedofstraights
Who needs a job when you’ve got guys like this in your proximity? Lucky. I want to hunt for 5, with a gun, nets, traps, that whole shebang. Skin him, put his pretty head up on my wall lol. Awesome***
Taylor has a surface-level interest in sites like this. Through a mixture of mild boredom, being inclined to be easily distracted by following link after link, and spending much of his time on the internet, he stumbles upon blogs like BOYEURISM.com, figures they’re diverting enough. Yesterday’s post had a photo which wasn’t him – it couldn’t have been him – but admittedly did resemble him, quite a bit, and a commenter – ‘writerwhocantwritelol’ – pointed out that it resembles someone he knows, at his school. It’s the closest Taylor’s come to being scared by the internet. He still gets nervous, thinking about the fact that someone at his school might find him attractive, and that this someone is on the same site that he occasionally is, whoever he is. Taylor’s assuming it’s a he. That’d be preferable.
Taylor’s fingers are hovering over his computer’s keyboard, shaking slightly. He’s never commented on sites like this, but for whatever reason he’s seriously thinking about doing that right now. What does he have to lose? Nothing would happen, or anything. Right?
But what would he say? He could compliment the guys. Or the skill of the photographer, if ‘skill’’s the right word for it.
Taylor tries to not talk much on the internet. He likes to lurk. When he starts typing to say something himself, though, he gets this overwhelming urge to tell whoever’s reading everything about himself. Who he is, his past, the current state of his life, his aspirations, his daydreams, what he ate today, etc. It’s a hard urge to fight against.
Not to mention, Taylor would have to pick his username. And a good username is hard. How does he convey this self which isn’t him, but is him, simultaneously? Should it be long, short, a pun, a portmanteau, a quote, an easy-to-notice reference to get attention, or an obscure one which will be noticed only by people interested enough in the stuff he’s interested in to be interesting to him?
All this, brought on by the prospect of 10, maybe 20 characters. At the tip of each of his fingers is a possible Taylor, yet to be decided or defined. It’s that apparently infinite possibility which makes choosing a username so appealing but so impossible. A keyboard’s a canvas to him – no, it’s more like a palette, the screen, or like, the internet is Taylor’s canvas. Yeah. That sounds a bit closer to what he meant.
Taylor stares at his laptop screen for ages.
***
So he’s back home now, having done a healthy bit of stalking. Taylor didn’t notice him, so he wasn’t scared or discomforted or anything – it was a victimless crime, and, not really a ‘crime,’ anyway. It was fruitful, too, that outing. He feels like he should be able to get some more writing done now. Should. He’ll see.
He’s sitting in his bed, cross-legged, and his laptop is booting up. There’s this whirring noise as the fans pick up. It sounds louder than it should in the otherwise silent house. His family are asleep – no distractions, please, he silently prays for.
The brightness of the screen blares out at him, hurts his eyes. What’ll he listen to while he writes tonight?
He clicks the shuffle button on his music player and skips track after track after only a second or two of each, absent-mindedly. He keeps skipping with his right index finger while he picks up his phone to pull up the pics of Taylor with his left hand.
God, he’s so cute. That hair’s so long and so dark. It looks like water, or glassy obsidian, or something. Whatever. It’s incomparable, beats any verbal description. Taylor’s like that. He’s different from everyone else, and above them for that. There’s this distance to him. He’s unattainable.
I Want The One I Can’t Have by The Smiths comes on, and he lets it play. He could’ve put on Taylor’s playlist to try and write about him but this track’s just so topical and fitting he lets it play out.
A double bed, and a stalwart lover for sure…
He hears the words and what they’re meant to signify pop into his head. He’s picturing Taylor and him in a double bed. There’s room to spread out but they’re so close to each other, on top of each other, breathing in each other instead. He nudges at his crotch with the back of his left hand which is still holding his phone, with the photos of Taylor. He’s so unaware of what he means to him and it’s such a turn-on, for some reason. It’s just like jerking off while he’s hiding in Taylor’s wardrobe or under his bed, unbeknownst to him, or something, but with some extra layers of removal. That safety makes it less hot.
His right hand is quivering over the keyboard, unable to make up its mind on which key to start on. This writing business is such work, sometimes. It’s not even really worth it, probably. Why doesn’t he just run the photos he can get of Taylor through some nude-scanning AI or something and whack off to those? That’s too easy. And it’s not as personal as writing feels to him. He’s the one writing, so he’s the one with the power over Taylor. Taylor. Taylor Taylor Taylor. Sometimes he has moments where for minutes on end his brain just repeats his name, on loop, over and over again, and there’s nothing else going on in there. Taylor Taylor Taylor. He’s obsessed with that word, how it’s become a name without definition to him. Taylor Taylor Taylor. His thoughts are like a lazy bit of prose sometimes.
He figures he should just write something. Starting’s the hardest bit. Just – one word, and then another. Like footstep after footstep. Just write. Write. Write damn it -
***
‘Let’s see…’ Dr. Felix mutters, flipping through the documents clipped to his clipboard. ‘You’re… Taylor, yes?’
‘Yes, doctor.’
Dr. Felix laughs. He’s charmed by the formality of his patient. ‘Please, Taylor, I’m calling you by your first name. It’s only fair you call me by mine.’
Taylor blushes a rose pink. He tries to hide behind his long hair, but his eyes are too beautiful to not stand out, like two sparkling valuable jewels, or something, in a bowl of coal. They’re enchantingly colourless. Taylor’s shivering, because he’s only wearing boxers and a hospital gown.
‘Cold, Taylor?’
‘Yes, doctor-’ and here Taylor stammers, blushes again, pink as his asshole
***
Jesus, this is awful. Whatever. Keep going.
***
as Dr. Felix gives him an admonishing but friendly look. ‘Sorry. Yes, I’m cold. Sorry. Felix,’ he adds.
And suddenly something definitely dick-shaped sprouts at the doctor’s crotch. ‘What say we… ahem… warm each other up, then? And violate some doctor-patient protocol, why we’re at it?’
‘Doctor, I-’
‘Felix.’ he says, not in a polite or pleading tone, but in a suddenly dominant, assertive voice. ‘Call me Felix.’
‘Yes, Felix. Just, this doesn’t sound very, you know, professional of you…’
‘Oh, Taylor. To Hell with it. I can’t help myself around you. You drive me mad! I want you. I know I want you. I knew it was you, I knew you were the one the moment you stepped through that door, about,’ and here Dr. Felix checks his watch, rolling his right lab coat sleeve up, ‘3 minutes ago. Let me take you. Let me fill you up, Taylor.’
‘But, Felix, I – ah!’ and he lets out this girly squeal as Dr. Felix picks him up, flips him round, slams him on the bed Taylor was sitting on, pulls up his gown so it’s over his head, rips his boxers apart and begins rimming him, sucking at his hole like a leech would suck at a really fat cow, and
***
This isn’t going well. I don’t write like this. What am I doing? I think I’m like, trying to make it sound ironic and funny, so I’m leaning into how bad it already is, and pushing it from mediocre to terrible so I come off as self-aware or something dumb like that. I hate writing. These boys deserve better. They’re too hot to be defaced like this by this, smut, whatever it is. Ugh.
If I smush my face into my palms I don’t have to look at the utter shit I’ve just typed on my computer screen.
I think I’m just going to groan for a bit.
***
I’m still struggling with why I started thinking about fucking that guy earlier today. I still don’t know where that’s come from. It’s like it’s just been put in my head by something or someone, this idea I’ve got from out of nowhere.
I’ve been watching porn all afternoon trying to get it out of my head. All these videos of chicks getting split in half by guys who aren’t even as hot as I am, but I keep trying to picture them as the guy who was creeping on me during class.
I’m playing the vids on this television in the living room with the volume up high because I’m home alone and it’s getting late. 50 inches of tits and ass and all I can see is a guy fucking another guy. This is so dumb.
I go through my phone and scroll till I find some girl I know who’ll let me fuck her. Think it’ll fix whatever’s going on with this boy thing. I send her a few photos, don’t put any thought into them, just muscle and stuff, don’t pay attention to her name, invite her round, give her my address.
When she shows up I don’t even care what she looks like and it’s not like it even matters what she looks like because it’s not him. It’s a just something with an unattractive gap between its legs, and with two breasts, and I shut the door on her and shout at her to fuck off. I hear her cry. This is so fucked.
The porn’s still playing. They’re all still him.
I’m not even going to start to think about what any of this means so I turn it off and just give up. I don’t know what to do. I’ll just go on a run.
***
So he runs. Felix runs like he does all the time, with his strong young legs pumping against the ground like pistons, in the regular loop he’s worked out around the town. He doesn’t know it but this route means he runs past Taylor’s house.
He doesn’t know it but when he runs past Taylor’s house, the long-haired boy is busy trying to finger himself for the umpteenth time. He always gets too scared to actually put anything properly up there, so he just becomes this awkward, quite pathetic nervous wreck, with a twitching cock and shaky legs and fetid fingers. But Felix runs by.
He doesn’t know it, but Felix’s run also takes him past the writer’s house. He’s typing in the fifth new document this hour about him and Taylor trying out yet another kind of sex with each other, unaware that the bigger of his muses is flexing his body along the night-drenched streets. The darkness is this wet, runny thing, like the sweat starting to cover Felix’s skin all over. It sparkles in the street lights as he runs under them. Though he wouldn’t choose a word like that. Men don’t sparkle. Glow, maybe. Sparkle, no.
Felix runs past parked cars, houses with all their lights off, people asleep, insomniacs, a playing field with its floodlights on, a playground, a number of small shops, closed, and he makes the loop a few times, but no matter how fast he runs, or for how long, he can’t escape the fact that his brain has inexplicably started to equate female sexuality with a boy, instead.
Annoying, being a fictional construct whose desires are defined by something incomprehensible and superior.
***
Maybe Felix goes running one night and gets kidnapped, or something. Not by me. I can’t drive. It’d have to be some middle-aged dude in a big white van, obviously. Maybe I could be friends with the guy. Like, ride shotgun with him. ‘Hey, no problem, it’s for your writing, man. Research, accuracy, you know. I dig it.’ And he’d be better with rope than me, could tie him up nicely, properly, and hand him over to me ‘Here you go, kid. He’s all yours. Call me up if you ever need another cute guy kidnapped for you.’ And he’d hand me his business card. That’d be fun.
Don’t actually know if I’m really into rope. I kind of want to try out, sort of, bondage 101 but on myself. If that’s possible. I want to try out every fetish, I think, within reason. Just out of curiosity. It’d be more stuff to write about. I could do more stuff to Taylor, and Felix too I guess, in my writing, and it’d be better that way, maybe.
Sometimes I think I’m not meant to write. It’s so hard for me sometimes I feel like it’s a sign for me to stop doing anything with words that isn’t basic day to day communication or schoolwork. There are just too many, you know? Words, that is. And I could do anything I want to Taylor with all of them. Nobody tells you how overwhelming being a writer is. Let alone being a writer with all the mildly unethical daydreams I waste so much time on, i.e., hormonal fantasies involving me doing things to guys I shouldn’t be doing.
Anyway, it’s getting late. And I still have school tomorrow. I should go to bed.
***
https://BOYEURISM.com/march-7-2025n0rmaldudetotez! – 7/3/25 - Schoolboyssss
Hiiiii guys, so I STILL don’t have a job but liiike, whatever, employment can wait, ideally forever – I’m a busy busy guy, because I’m busy looking for boys for you guys! This blog’s such a labour of love. I’ve been doing it for some years now, I can’t remember exactly when I started running this. And not once have I EVER had any of those complaints from lawyers or families or whatever! The internet’s GREAT for stuff like that – like, because there’s just soooo much going on, it’s hard to keep track of exactly what’s going on everywhere, so you can get away with a surprising amount! Like posting creepshots of guys you think are cute and letting frisky strangers say what-eeeee-verrrrr they want about them xD Isn’t it great?!?!1!?!?!?!?!1 I sure think it is. Anyway, so, there’s this school near me and YES the boys all have uniforms (squeee!!), and I thought I’d take the risk of seeing if I could snap some pics of these good little students for you all. Yes I sound like a total creep, but like… I am… so, bite me! (I’d like that xD) Anyway, yeah I’m saying anyway again HA whatever I don’t care this is MY post on MY blog so I can express myself how I want, and repeat myself, repeat myself, repeat myself, FUCK YOU! XD Haha just kidding, love you guys. But here are the schoolboy photos. I had to keep my distance for obvious reasons so I couldn’t get as close to them as we’d all like to be (I knoww, I knowwww we want to be soooo muuuch cloooserrrr to them, ughhhh), but I really hope you all like the photos of these boys! Byebye boy fans, mwah! <3- Phoof, you don’t know. 14, 15 years old? Maybe older? It’s harder and harder to place the age of kids these days. He’s wearing the same blazer as every other kid. Black, a bit of red, or maybe it’s blue, you can’t tell because of the lighting of the photo and the distance from which it was taken. It kind of takes you out of your fantasising a bit, because when you try to imagine being close to him your brain gets hung up on that tiny detail, of what colour his blazer is, and for whatever reason your daydream can’t progress past that point. So you have to say goodbye to the idea of taking his clothes off and doing what you might want to do to him.
- Same thing. Hair is darker, though. Not quite as perfect as the first one seemed. You might be able to see the first boy in the background of this photo, but equally, that could be anybody else. They all look so similar. Not in like an uncanny clone way, but just as a result of the photo not being the best, so all the boys are just reduced to these little, anonymous blurs. Which are admittedly vaguely human-shaped.
- This photo’s closer up, so there’s a stronger sense of an actual person. He’s one of the older boys, on his own, with headphones over his head, long dark hair. You know him.
- You know this one, too. Much bigger than any of the other boys. The photo’s taken from the side. He could pass for being at least 20, easily. He’s got short blond hair, muscles you can see in the sports kit he’s wearing. You’d let him do a lot of things to you you wouldn’t even dream of letting another person do to you, and that’s just because of how hot you think he is.
- It’s you.
6 Comments(OP) n0rmaldudetotez!
You guys better like this post, this took balls!!! I took a risk for you guys!!! And all I’m asking for in return is that you tell me YOUR favourite and why! I want as much detail and like justification as you can manage. ALL ALL ALLLLL the detail…indireneedofstraights
I want 5. 4 and 3 are better, yeah, but 1 and 2 are too young. 5 just looks like the kind of boy who doesn’t get appreciated enough. I bet he’s this kind of nobody, persona non grata guy at that school. And like he’d cave in really easily if I just showed him like the tiniest bit of affection. I bet he’d do anything I asked him to if I just told him he’s cute and clever and unique and interesting. I’d make him feel so clever and I’d exploit his stupidity. Sexually.2scared4fingering
3. Me>REPLY: (OP) n0rmaldudetotez!
OMG REALLY?!?!? YOU’RE SO CUTE OMG! <3 <3 PROOF?>REPLY 2: notacreepmaybeacreepokaydefinitelyacreep
Ditto. Prove itzigzag
ALL OF THEM I WANT ALL OF THEM TIED TOGETHER WITH ROPE OR ALL NAKED GLUED TOGETHER I WANT TO HEAR THEIR SKIN PEELING OFF EACH OTHER I WANT THEM STICKY I WANT TO SEE THEIR TONGUES TRYING TO WIGGLE PAST SEE-THROUGH TAPE I WANT THEM ALL AT ONCE I WANT THEM ALL AND I WANT THEM NOW HAHA AWESOME GOOD STUFF MAN LOVE THEM***
So it’s him. The site he’s been frequenting for a few months and occasionally commenting on now has a photo of himself on there, with his school in the background, and so it’s maybe all over for him now. Maybe this is the beginning of the end. Maybe he’s going to star in his own fantasies as the victim, and all the terrible things in the novels he reads about and is amused or turned on or unnerved by are now going to happen to him, and there won’t be that safety of distance, because he won’t be an author but he’ll just be a boy who’s not even an adult in the complete and utter thrall of a man much older and uglier and more violent than him. He’s fucked.
That fear is making up most of what’s on his mind right now, but there’s that comment he’s kind of thinking about, too. The really short one, claiming the third photo is of them. But that would mean that that comment is from Taylor himself. The inevitable fact of his eventually being drugged, kidnapped, raped, tortured, killed, etc., in whatever order aside, would Taylor really be the kind of guy to be on a site like this? He supposes it’s possible. Like, he knows the whole reason why he likes Taylor so much and feels like he can read anything into him, make him do anything anywhere, is because he knows next to nothing about him, save for where he lives and what he looks like and what music he listens to. And let’s not forget he doesn’t even know for sure that Taylor is actually ‘Taylor’’s name. So he figures that Taylor might actually be gay and into voyeuristic creepshots just like he is! Which would be pretty cool, you know, that’d give them something in common to talk about. ‘Wow, so you’re into these revealing photos of guys taken without their consent too? And you write? That’s so cool! We should date. Or just fuck.’ Or whatever Taylor would say in that kind of situation, if they were to ever actually talk to each other. He still hasn’t talked to Taylor. He’s heard his voice though, he thinks. He’s got a few recordings on his phone. He never says much, only makes those weird almost-nothing noises, but they’re cute. He’s climaxed to those sounds and thoughts of him, before. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to imagine cumming on a guy’s face when you’ve never actually seen the thing, because it’s always hiding behind that hair of his. The contrast helps, though. His hair’s so dark and black, almost like that one special shade of paint that looks like there’s just a hole in the light, so it’d make the white sperm stick out pretty artistically. Talk about juxtaposition.
But Taylor aside he’s got to figure out how likely he is to get snatched up by some evil guy who wants to fuck him in a shabby basement or dingy shed or whatever somewhere, and how to avoid that.
Weirdly enough, he doesn’t imagine the diehard fans of BOYEURISM.com to be especially physically fit people. So when he tries to imagine getting chased down a dark alley by one of the commenters, it’s not like it’s a threatening image, at all. He pictures some overweight guy in his fifties who’s out of breath within a few minutes, then just sort of hunching over, hands on his knees, panting and shaking his fist in his general direction saying some shit like ‘I’m gonna fuck you if it’s the last thing I do!’ or something. He’s never actually encountered an honest-to-God paedophile so he’s only ever able to see them as these sort of cartoonish villains, as opposed to genuine threats. But still, seeing his photo on the website’s freaked him out.
BOYEURISM.com’s fans might not be Olympians but they might be rich. They might hire professional kidnappers like the one he imagined to pick up Felix for him yesterday. Or maybe hitmen. Are hitmen actually, like, a thing? As in real? How much do they cost? Do they have, like, 2 for 1 offers? He might get killed and then have his corpse handed over to the guy who paid who’ll have his way with him for however long. How long can a necrophile even get anything out of a dead body, as far as sexual pleasure goes? This is interesting stuff, he thinks. I should write about this, when I have the time.
But the school bell rings. Lunch is over, so he has to leave this empty classroom he’s been spending the break in. Going on a site like BOYEURISM.com on school internet was a gamble. But like, whatever. Bigger problems to deal with, i.e., avoid getting fucking killed and raped by some middle-aged freak. And getting through the rest of the day at the same school as Taylor and Felix despite seeing them on a website meant to arouse older guys with a thing for boys. Plus his stomach feels funny.
He knew he shouldn’t have eaten that sandwich. Nobody else in the cafeteria had taken it for a reason, damn it.
***
I still hurt from my run last night, but in a good way. Not like I get turned on from pain or whatever, I’m not gay, I just like feeling how strong I am, you know? It’s a reminder that I’m good enough at moving to push my body – great as it is – to its limits. And I can still bounce back, and go about the rest of my day just fine.
I still don’t know where the boy problem’s come from. I’m not even a virgin, I’ve had sex before. With a girl. And it was fine, there were no visions of guys, or anything. Normal, guy on girl sex. And now I’ve just started looking at narrow waists, rounded hips, whatever, like they should be on boys instead. And it sucks. It’s just started and I can’t get it to stop and I hate it. It’s completely unexplainable. There’s no reason for it but this is just the way things are now, apparently.
Class now.
Fuck.
***
So Felix and Taylor do have a class together. That’s narratively convenient. Taylor’s sitting way behind Felix in this room across this quadrangle at his school, and he can see them through the window. It’s not the biggest gap, from that part of the school to his classroom. He likes them this way – distant enough to not actually be involved with them, but close enough to watch them. Weird how he’s quite possibly at risk of being genuinely kidnapped and raped, etc. but still finds time to indulge his imagination.
He doesn’t wear glasses – he’s never had to, but everyone else in his family does. This has somehow made him convinced that he has perfect sight, which isn’t quite 100% true, but you have to give him credit for being able to notice what music is on Taylor’s phone, considering how secretive the long-haired boy is. That’s pretty impressive, so, credit where credit’s due. What would be more impressive, though, would be finding a way to avoid the obvious implications of an actual photo of him and his actual school actually for real existing on the internet, on a creepshot blog for older gay voyeurs. Boyeurs, even (ha).
Nonetheless, he thinks he’s able to discern the pale bit of skin that is a sliver of Taylor’s midriff, and the brand of Felix’s boxers from across the quad, through the windows. Across the distance from their own distance from each other, he imagines Taylor getting up from his seat suddenly and going over to sit on Felix’s lap to do some lewd thing(s), with no real explicable motive or reason or whatever, other than that’s what he wants to imagine, because he’s fucking bored in this class, and imagining those two cute guys copulating is some form of respite from the fear of running into ‘indireneedofstraights’ in person. Whose real name is probably something depressingly normal, like, Richard, or something. Whatever he’s called he doesn’t want to get drugged and raped by him on the cold hard concrete floor of his basement. If he has one. Come to think of it, he doesn’t think he’s ever been in a proper basement before. Huh. Figures.
His anxiety speeds the time up, makes it pass so quickly it feels like the clock’s been wound to the end of class whilst he’s been busy looking out the window at Taylor and Felix, who are still at opposite ends of the classroom, even though in his imagination the two are as close as close can be. Weird, seeing them walk out of the classroom when he was just picturing them in vivid detail filling each other’s every orifice with these wet, slapping sounds. It was a messy affair, and hot enough to make him uncomfortably hard down south, so now he’s got to deal with a) fear of abduction and abuse as well as b) an inconvenient erection. Being a teenager sucks. Harder (ha) when you’re gay, too. Pity him. He gets up and leaves class – school’s over now, but he’s not sure where to go.
School’s boring but feels safe – he’s worried that if he leaves and tries to walk home, he’ll get snapped again and posted on tomorrow’s BOYEURISM.com post. One time was enough, he doesn’t need a repeat. Taylor and Felix’s safety he’s less bothered about, but even then, he feels a little intruded upon, like his secret’s been infringed upon, or like his favourite toys have fallen into the hands of the boy he didn’t like, like he’s in nursery again. He doesn’t really like how often he thinks in terms of ‘like’ and how often he feels the urge to say it. Sometimes he feels like he’s language’s bitch.
Step, step, step, step. He doesn’t even know where he’s going. He’s just walking down the school corridors, slowly, so zoned-out he almost doesn’t notice Felix and Taylor, with his headphones on, heading in each other’s direction in front of him. But he sees them, so he slows down even more and hangs back to see if anything comes of their crossing paths like this. After seeing them both on the blog he guesses he expects them to interact slightly differently than they usually do, but apart from maybe a barely noticeable difference in Taylor’s face – so slight he doubts if there was ever actually any change at all – the two ignore each other like usual and end up walking past each other. Felix goes out the front entrance of the school with a few of his echo chamber surrounding him, but Taylor doesn’t leave. Instead, he just keeps heading straight down the corridor. He doesn’t know it but this is the second time Taylor’s made this loop of the school. Taylor’s doing the same thing he is – he doesn’t know this for sure, but after following him creepily for a while he eventually works that out.
So maybe Taylor’s seen the blogpost, too. Maybe this is what finally pushes them to a moment of confrontation, where they actually properly meet each other. How do you pretend to not know someone who you’ve been stalking casually – on and off, nothing too crazy – for a few months or so? It shouldn’t be that hard. And the longer he just silently follows Taylor, the weirder it’s going to look and the harder it’ll be for them to talk about anything. But he spends so much time in his own head thinking about his writing and how he’s going to squeeze real life into his seemingly always poorly-chosen and insufficient words but oh whatever the more he thinks the harder it’s going to be just speak just speak just -
‘Hey!’
And that’s how it starts. He’s spoken to Taylor. He shouted a bit, tapped him on the right shoulder. And he turns around to look at him, takes his headphones down so they’re around his neck. Some loud and fuzzy music is coming from them. Taylor flicks his long dark hair out of his face, like he’s seen him do so many times before (so, so many times) and his eyes are visible but the colour isn’t actually registering, for some reason. It might be the lighting, or his unwillingness to let real Taylor change the Taylor he’s constructed in his head over the period of time he’s had this fixation on him.
‘Mm?’ – it’s that kind of adorable nothing Taylor makes so rarely. It’s impossible to adequately respond to. But he has to try something, at this point. He’s going to have to push into a full-on conversation, damn it.
‘I-’ but how to start… ‘I saw both you and me on the same creepshot blog and I was wondering if you were aware of this and therefore hiding in school like I am?’ seems a bit too forward. Hm. ‘Are you okay?’
Silence.
‘It’s just – you’ve been walking around here for a while, and I was just, you know, wondering if you were… alright.’
And Taylor just stares at him, his hair slowly falling down to cover his face again. It’s like this mask. It always feels like there’s something in the way between him and actually getting to know Taylor. Taylor. Taylor Taylor Taylor. There’s that lovely loop again. He feels like he should tell Taylor sorry, for some reason.
‘I’m just a bit… worried, is all.’
‘Why?’ and that comes out quickly, almost sharply. That monosyllable punches in a way he hadn’t thought any noise to come from Taylor’s mouth to be capable of. In his daydreams he’s always pictured it making moans and stuff, instead. He often forgets Taylor is in fact a real person and not the perfect thing he thinks he is.
How does he continue from here? Is it even possible? Should he just give up here and turn tail? Maybe he should just do what he always writes about and just speak with something resembling confidence for once, with a super straightforward honesty. He coughs a few too many times and wishes he had a drink so his mouth wouldn’t be so dry like it is right now. He breathes in and speaks.
‘So, I’m, well, I spend a lot of time on the internet, you know, looking for… stuff, weird stuff that, you know, interests me, and I found this one site that, you know posts photos of people without their knowing that they’ve been photographed, and I thought they were interesting, and kind of creepy, you know, but thought it might just have been fake, I guess, but, today I saw a photo of me and our – this school, and I think I saw a guy who looked like you, too, and I was just wondering if you were staying here because you’re scared like, like I am. Ahem.’
He’s too busy staring at either the floor or the ceiling or a wall or anywhere but Taylor, to notice his face has visibly changed at about the halfway point of that little burst of nervous speech. There’s concern and relief and a kind of kinship, maybe, a face that says ‘I hate that we both have the same problem but at the same time I’m a little bit glad.’
‘So am I, you know, right? Do you know the blog? Or have I just, like, made a total fucking fool of myself? Sorry. Sorry.’
It takes him more bravery than he thinks it should to just look at Taylor again, but he manages to do that, somehow, and he’s glad to see that the face – the hair covering it, rather - which is usually so far away from him is for once within touching distance and, what’s more, arranged in a way which doesn’t suggest total spite, he thinks. Taylor nods.
Phew, he thinks. He feels his face relax in the face (or what little he can see of it) of Taylor’s. It unscrunches itself, like a balled-up piece of paper being folded back out until it’s almost flat.
‘So what are we, you know, going to do about the… the blog, thing, and the photos? Because, haha, like,’ he can’t stop laughing nervously like that, it sounds so weird, ‘I don’t want to get kidnapped and raped and stuff. Uh. Oh God sorry.’ He shouldn’t have said that. ‘I shouldn’t have said that but you know that blog’s obviously for fucking creeps and stuff, I’m just worried about getting, you know, nonced on. Ha.’
And he can see Taylor’s face, hair, curtain or whatever, looking a bit less approachable, agreeable, he doesn’t know the word for it, of course.
‘Right,’ Taylor says. Every time he says an actual word to him it’s like a little miracle, even if that’s a cheesy way to word it. It’s just this unlikely thing that happens somehow, against overwhelming odds, and stuff, and it’s really cool. And by comparison every word he says comes out sounding ugly and wrong.
‘Do you think we should call the police?’
Taylor’s silent and maybe frowns a bit beneath his mask of hair. He can kind of tell by the slight way his ears move. It’s reminiscent of like, the way he’s seen cats twitch in their sleep. Then he’s thinking of Taylor as an anime catboy, and it’s cute but tasteless, too, so he nips that thought in the bud before it can bloom into something too garish. Or whatever. He hates the way he thinks.
‘Maybe.’
He nods in response to Taylor’s. ‘Yeah. Right.’ He makes sure to try and make that full stop sound like a full stop, and not like a comma, because otherwise he’d sound like a dismissive dick.
Then the two boys are just standing still. Taylor’s backed up a bit so he’s leaning against a wall, his trainers scuffling forward with their laces flapping a bit. Meanwhile he’s still standing in the middle of that open area, feet going a little numb on the wooden floor. He can feel his clammy hands in his coat pockets and his heartbeat hitching irregularly. It all feels like a standstill. Neither of the two boys know how to move out of this stalemate, and they don’t know if they want to move, as it were, for fear of fucking up what they currently have. He doesn’t have much common ground with others, so when the one time he does, and it consists of shared potential victimhood, of all things, he’s not sure what to do. Especially since Taylor’s the double victim, in a sense – yeah, they’ve both been creeped on - crept on? - by anonymous strangers on the internet, but he’s creeped on Taylor himself for however many months, by now. This silence doesn’t feel like it’s lasting forever but every second of every minute is definitely being felt.
‘So,’ he says, not knowing what he’s going to say next, stupidly. Taylor’s hair turns in his direction, and it oils the cogs of his brain for a bit but then a teacher finally leaving after staying late turns the corner and sees the two boys there.
‘Still here, boys? School’s about to close up. Everything alright?’
They’re shocked out of their little awkward, otherwise closed teen boy system by this intrusion of the adult world with its suit and tie and shirt and glasses and confident voice. He comes up with some rubbish on the spot about helping Taylor find something he lost and the teacher buys it, thankfully.
‘Right. I see. Well, get home safe you two. Have a good weekend.’
Not that either of them knows it but that teacher’s seen the post of them at their school from earlier today, too. He doesn’t even have to try to hide it, that kind of guiltless complicity comes so naturally to him despite his profession granting him authority over young men, because the world sucks like that sometimes. He’s already abused a few boys at several schools and he’ll probably have his way with a good few more in his future, and it’s entirely possible he’ll go through the rest of his life getting away with it all, both legally, and like, professionally, and psychologically too, because he isn’t affected one bit by forcing his body into boys he should be helping. But he walks away and leaves these two boys alone, exploitable as they look.
‘Um. Do you think we should maybe walk together? To be safe. So we can fend off any creeps together, haha.’ He wishes he could make a noise that perfectly equated to like an audible equivalent to a question mark. Taylor clearly isn’t totally on board with the idea but he’s even less on board with the possibility of basement-based butthole invasions, so he nods and they leave the school together. Then it’s just the cleaners in the building. If one of them is creepily sniffing through the lost and found, trying to relish the heady smell of sweaty teenage boys’ uniform, nobody notices.
They walk through the dark blue turning black, and through the lines of light the street lamps cast that cut through it. And their eyes are on the look-out, obviously, for phones pointed discreetly in their direction, weirdly loitering adult men, vans and stuff like that.
‘Are we going to my place or yours?’ he asks Taylor, not thinking about what it sounds like he’s asking, but genuinely trying to protect them both. He even speaks in a lower tone of voice just to make sure any eavesdroppers that might be hiding behind or in a bush nearby don’t hear him.
‘Mine,’ Taylor whispers. He almost says his house is nearer so that makes sense, but catches himself since he realises by letting him know that he knows that, his cover would be blown, so he just nods. So they walk to Taylor’s, and as far as they can tell they completely avoid any paedophiles, rapists, kidnappers, v(/b)oyeurs, etc. Phew, they think.
***
Obviously, it’s not what he thought it would be like. Sure he got a slight view of it from the other day, when he followed Taylor home, but still, it’s not really what he was expecting. Posters of guys with that few clothes on? And put so blatantly on display? He thought Taylor might have been gay, but not the putting-posters-of-basically-naked-guys-on-the-walls-of-his-bedroom kind of gay. He hadn’t been able to see them properly from his front garden. But he was right about the guitar. There’s a cheap looking strat on a stand behind the bed.
Taylor’s sitting on his bed with both of his hands put behind him, his fingers splayed out kind of, and he’s leaning back like he’s planning to do something with him. Meanwhile he’s sitting at Taylor’s desk, somehow blushing at the gay porn magazines barely hidden on it. At home Taylor’s, like, shameless. It doesn’t line up with his picture of him in his head being shy at all.
‘Do you not, uh,’ he asks, not sure where to look apart from at the porn mags, ‘you know,’ he sees sculpted abs, ‘any,’ a bushy happy trail, ‘like, you know, where are your,’ an erect and implausibly long penis, ‘uh, your parents?’
‘Work,’ Taylor says, in a quiet voice. He’s starting to wish that Taylor’s hair would cover his face more than it currently covers it. If he’d look he could easily actually work out the colour of Taylor’s eyes, but he doesn’t want that. Letting him be real and stuff would just ruin it all. Now he’s so close to him he all of a sudden doesn’t want to be this close to him. It feels kind of like he’s been dragged from an audience onto a stage on which he’s now expected to be an actor in a play he doesn’t know the lines for. Sure it’s an on-the-nose simile but it works, and it’s not like he can think of any better ways to put it with Taylor that tangible, sitting there on the bed with his visible-if-he-wants-them-to-be eyes. But that’s not what he wants, and that’s obvious enough by how that’s what’s looping in his head right now. Taylor times n is still going on but now alongside that there’s also I don’t want this I don’t want this I don’t want this. Sometimes it’s I don’t want him instead, but it’s all interchangeable, indistinguishable, overlapping, whatever. He couldn’t put it into words, how he’s thinking, but that doesn’t matter because nobody would ever ask that of him, would they? That wouldn’t be fair. Because, you know, people can’t ever perfectly explain what’s going on inside them.
‘I-’ Taylor starts but he cuts him off because every time he says something it just erodes more and more at the Taylor inside his mind, wears it down, chips away at his ideal boy like a classical statue being hacked apart, beauty into rubble, something like that. It’s sad.
‘Don’t,’ he tells Taylor. ‘Sorry. Just. So what are we actually going to do about the blog? Thing? Because if we tell them to take it down that’s like, an admission that that’s us and we know that we’re the victims, or whatever. And even if we made that complaint or whatever,’ he didn’t even know that guys could bend the way Tony, 18 on page 4 of Rude Dudes can, ‘I don’t think anything would come of that. Aren’t we just, like, fucked? We should tell the police.’
And Taylor just shrugs. He moves forward a bit, closer to him, and – something happens involving the two of them which doesn’t really make sense, but they see it coming anyway, because they’re being told what to do by something they can’t comprehend or refuse. But while that’s going on Felix is making another run and just passing Taylor’s house when, shocker, this inconspicuous car with a perfectly blacked-out license plate pulls up and gets him inside it, unconscious, with the assistance of chloroform and a heavy blunt object to his head, and off it whizzes away to some other inconspicuous place where unsavoury things are done to his unconscious body.
Ouch. It’s all very unfortunate.
***
https://BOYEURISM.com/march-8-2025n0rmaldudetotez! – 8/3/25 – VIP (Very Important Post)
Ohhhh you guys aren’t gonna beLIEVE THIS!!1!1!11!!!1! It cost like a LOT of money and time and just a tiny smidgen of my conscience (HA as if) but today’s post features a super special star guest, and no I’m not talking about my admittedly very very lovely basement (I know I KNOW there are cobwebs and cracks and flaking paint and stuff, but like, whatever, give a guy a break, I think its contents more than make up for how shabby it is) but a BOY! And not only any boy but ONE THAT’S BEEN ON THE BLOG! Yeah that’s right I have recently come into possession of No. 4 from yesterday’s post!!! So we had a bit of photoshoot fun together, and of couuuurrrrsssse I hope (AND KNOW!) you will allll enjoy him and his pretty manly spaced-out face xD love you all!- The first photo has features all five of them have – the camera’s flash means that Felix’s eyes look red, and it’s startling, obviously. It makes you think of seeing animals in the night, like you’re looking at something that’s been seen despite its best efforts to avoid detection and its terrible fear of it. His eyes look weird, apart from that. He’s definitely on – something. You don’t know what but you know it’s not legal and that it hasn’t done his brain any favours. They’re not totally dissimilar to a doll’s eyes, you guess. It just looks like something inside him has gone totally wrong. It’s the most sympathetic you’ve ever felt towards the guy.
- Like the first photo, the second has him lying prone on a mattress with gross-looking stains on it and fluff and dust, and stuff. This one is closer up. You figure there’s piss, semen, and faeces, maybe a bit of blood but that might just be the bad lighting, and maybe that’s a drool stain right by Felix’s mouth. He’s shirtless so you can see the muscles in his back, the hair along it. It reminds you of those scenes in films or paintings with a whole roasted pig on a table for a king’s feast or something, with a helpless dead thing to be looked at by however many people have the unfair advantage against it of still being alive. His tongue is lolling out. All his mouth needs is an apple shoved in it. But
- In the third photo, Felix has a guy’s dick put pretty unceremoniously in his stupid open mouth. His eyes are still open, but the lids look like they’ve been caught mid-flutter. It just doesn’t look right. You look at it and your immediate thought is ‘this shouldn’t be allowed to happen to anybody. This is wrong.’ But regardless it’s happening in the photo and has by this point happened in real life. He’s getting ruined and all you can do is watch the show that the guys have made of it. It makes you feel sick, the kind of nervous you felt when you were a kid and did something wrong that you knew you couldn’t tell a ‘trusted adult’ about, the kind of fuck-up you just had to sit and live with because you knew that telling other people about it would only make what already seemed unbearable worse. You don’t know how it makes you feel exactly but you know it’s bad.
- Felix has been flipped over for the fourth. The back of his blond hair – messed-up by evidently rough treatment – is at the top of the photo, and the soles of his feet are at the bottom. His butt’s pretty sculpted. A pair of hands is pulling it apart, as if to present the hole to the camera, like, ‘ta-da!’ or something. Those hands are several decades older than Felix, you can tell by the skin, easily. That makes you uncomfortable, obviously. Felix is very hairy, down there. You can see his genitals between his legs, squashed into the mattress. They’re sizeable, like you’d expect of a guy like him. So at least that matches up with the picture of him you have in his head, unlike Taylor, who’s starting to split from that image you have of him, annoyingly. Felix’s hands are tied with black plastic zipties. It doesn’t look comfortable.
- Woah. What the fuck, he’s just actually dead in that one. Jesus. There’s a lot of blood. It’s so red. That knife is way too big. And it shouldn’t be where it is, in his body. Ow. Looking at it makes you want to squirm and cross your legs. You look at it and you imagine what’s happening to him happening to you, and even though you know in real life you’re physically fine you can’t stop imagining those horrible things being done to you, so you’re still discomforted anyway. They’ve moved his body, legs, arms into this pose on the mattress, the photo’s taken from above. Is it like a cross? Or that one St. Sebastian painting? You can’t tell. Maybe it’s meant to be a mix of the two. There’s something kind of religious about it. Whatever it is it’s clear that what used to be Felix is now just, like, a thing to be rearranged and played with, something with some sort of novelty value. There’s nothing he, it, can do now, being dead. The ultimate toy for whoever has him in his basement. It’s gross and it’s not right. Wrong isn’t a sufficient descriptor.
7 Comments(OP) n0rmaldudetotez!
Oops! xD Okay so I got carried away with this one… but you can’t blame me, can you?!!! You guys would sooo do the same thing as me. Omg the noises… it was sooo hot, and he barely moved, it was just like stabbing a punching bag or something, he was LITERALLY perfect, best date evarrrrr!11!!11!indireneedofstraights
I mean, he’s no 5, but obviously, beautiful stuff. Who helped you get him, can I contact them? Anyway, I know what I’M going to do tonight (stalk his online presence with reverse image search and find out everything I can about the life he no longer has), haha.>REPLY: (OP) n0rmaldudetotez!
Couldn’t tell you it straight away but you can email me (my address is just the sitename then @messagemail.com) and I can give you some sites for some pointers! :DDzigzag
HOLY FUCKING YES MAN THIS IS AWESOME I LOVE IT, WALLPAPER MATERIAL FOR SURE, OR MAYBE I’LL PUT IT ON THE COVER OF MY BAND’S NEXT ALBUM HAHA CHECK US OUT WE’RE CALLED NOCTURNAL EMISSIONS SO STAY TUNEDnotacreepmaybeacreepokaydefinitelyacreep
OooOOOooo me likey, think I might hit you up with an email too, if that’s okay, for the guy who helped you net him. He looks like all the hot guys who bullied me at school, this is like perfect vicarious fantasy stuff, awesome.newguy
Never commented but been lurking on the blog for a while, this one takes the cake though wow, just had to give my compliments, really good stuffMarquisDeHappye
I feel like this on Thursdays T_T ***
He’s looking at Taylor’s laptop screen. Taylor told him his password from the bed where he was still lying naked (‘put1t1nm3pl3453’) and after scrolling through a bunch of different types of gay porn he’s found the tab for BOYEURISM.com and he’s still trying and failing to process, accept the newest post. Taylor leant forward a bit and saw some of the pictures and immediately fell back again, retreated into the pillows and sheets. Convenient that nobody’s come into Taylor’s room to check on him and seen the other boy in the room with him. It’s… almost 8:00am. The others are probably still asleep, if Taylor’s family are back yet.
The night didn’t pass properly. Time felt out of joint. What’s that from? Hamlet? They did that in English class a while back. Felix is dead. He died last night. He was killed. Does he have homework due? When should he leave Taylor’s house? Does he regret last night?
So Felix is dead and now it’s 8:10am, and he’s still dead at half past and when the birds in the trees outside are singing Felix is still dead, somewhere. He should call the police, but it’s hard to do it, for some reason. He knows his phone is in his right jacket pocket which he’s put on over one of Taylor’s band shirts (Xiu Xiu, whoever they are) and that all he has to do is press 9, 9, 9, and tell them that one of his classmates has been killed and that the pictures of him dead are available on this blog called BOYEURISM.com, on the latest post for the 8th of March, 2025. But he’s, like, too scared to do the sensible thing. He knows that it’s what he should do, but some irrational part of his brain is telling him that if he snitches he’s going to put himself at risk, and then he’ll end up dead and raped and stuff, and he doesn’t want that. His brain’s reverted to a primary school, playground politics kind of level. So he just sits, scared, shivering even though it’s warm that morning.
Eventually the two work out the rest of the day together. After last night Taylor’s not a thing to him anymore, because now he’s a guy, just a boy, a person, with a body he’s finally, disappointingly familiar with, and it’s kind of pissing him off. Taylor’s not really anything like what he expected. It’s tolerable, he guesses. But it feels like something’s been lost. He’s more boring, now.
Taylor’s family go out for the day, conveniently, but they tell Taylor this through notes slipped under the bedroom door. They’re kind notes, quite sweet:
Neat handwriting, obviously a girl’s: ‘Hi Taylor, going out with Jess for the day. Wakey wakey!’
Then some more serious-looking letters, an adult’s hand. ‘Sleeping well, I’m sure. Your mother and I are out shopping, back by 4pm, if she ever relents. Love you’
Taylor’s depressingly normal, evidently, as far as family life goes. He was kind of hoping he had abusive parents or something. Anyway, they’re gone. So he goes downstairs with Taylor, and he has breakfast. Just toast, butter, some jam.
‘Aren’t you, uh, going to put any clothes on?’ he asks, and Taylor just shakes his head. His hair’s still covering his face, as always, but it’s messier than he’s used to seeing it be. Visually he’s still cute. They’re having breakfast and Felix is dead and there’s nothing either of them are doing about it. He eats the toast standing in the kitchen, and he can’t stop looking at the block of knives and thinking about Felix, who’s dead.
***
MISSING
FELIX HOLLAND
DATE OF BIRTH: 21 FEBRUARY 2007
AGE: 18
SEX: MALE
RACE: WHITE BRITISH
EYES: BLUE
HAIR: BLOND
HEIGHT: 180cm
WEIGHT: 68kg
LAST SEEN: WEARING MAPLE SECONDARY’S SPORTS KIT, RUNNING PAST THE SCHOOL’S SECOND EXIT AT 23:14 PM BST
Attached is the last school photo taken of Felix. He’s in the school uniform, for once, not the sports kit, and smiling. He looks comfortable, confident, happy with who he is. His eyes look like they can see everything that could still be ahead of them, and like they like what they see. It’s so sweet.
His family are printing these out, having called the police after not hearing from or seeing him for a few days. They plan on spending the foreseeable future handing these missing person flyers out and stapling them on signs and trees and stuff, but it’s obviously pointless because their eldest son is dead now, not that they know this, though they’re starting to entertain the possibility but trying to suppress thoughts like that. He’ll never be found, and so they’re just going to have to live with that big unignorable nothing for the rest of their lives.
***
I spend some more of the morning with Taylor and then I walk back home before his parents or sister get back. And then the rest of the day passes by, and then Sunday slips by me too, and then it’s Monday, and Felix is dead all the while as I walk to school, do my work, eat my lunch. The blog’s been taken down, I check it at lunch. Those Felix photos, and the one of me, and the one of Taylor, are stuck in my head, though. I never called the police and I still haven’t. Tomorrow’s my final day at school. It passed pretty quickly after Felix got killed. Some stuff happened but I don’t want to talk about it. Taylor doesn’t interest me anymore. Is it unreliable narration if I just shut up?
I don’t know why I wrote this. And I wish I could just pull some metafictional twist and say ‘oh it’s all made up I just wanted to blur fiction and reality to write something interesting’ but this stuff actually happened which, you know, sucks. Not that that’s a good enough word to describe what’s happened, obviously. And a few somethings which will remain vague happened involving Taylor and me, too, but it was nothing like what happened to Felix, which was way more real, and serious. And he’s still dead. So nothing I write or say or do matters because I can’t change that even though I could have maybe stopped it in the first place, if I had just warned him and told the police. I could always have just talked to him. It was perfectly possible. But I let it happen.
I can’t even end this the way I want to end it because as far as I know nothing’s really ‘over.’ Whoever got Felix is probably still alive and doing more awful things to more people, as far as I’m aware, and I can’t do anything about that. I’m still making sense of things and I don’t think I’ll ever understand any of this. I get that this probably reads like a rushed ending and that’s because that’s exactly what it is, I just want to stop thinking and talking about Felix, and ‘Taylor,’ and everything else I’m apparently utterly incapable of pushing out of my head, even after all this time.
I’ve reread all this several times, gone over it, taken things out, put things in, even though I know that no matter how many times I edit or revise what I’ve put on the page it won’t be right, so I’m just putting this out and hoping it takes some part of me with it. I won’t know until I publish it. I want relief but I know dissatisfaction is more likely. I guess I’ll just have to see.
I still haven’t got rid of any of the writing I did about Taylor and Felix. I found the playlist I made for Taylor, too. Some of the songs are ones I saw on his phone, others are songs I put there just because I thought he might’ve liked them. I’m not saying which are which. I’ll admit I’ve kind of imposed my own taste in music on the vague idea I had of his. Some of the lyrics describe kind of how I felt, maybe still feel about him. You can read them, if you want, to try and decipher how I thought about him, if you can be bothered to mix and match the words. Some of the lyrics are like, the way I wanted him to think of me. Some of the songs just sound like him. He spent so much time with his headphones on, always listening to super loud noise instead of the world around him, instead of me, and for a long time I felt like I could never ‘reach’ him. I don’t think I ever will. A song or two is probably a little too obvious.
I wish he could have been the Taylor I wanted him to be, i.e., my Taylor, the idea of him I imagined for myself. But anyway, here’s his playlist:
T A Y L O R
And I still don’t know the colour of his eyes.
I took some notes when i read this last month , but I lost them. So I’ll write them out again, maybe when I re read it later on .