New York Love Story (Guess How Much I Love You!) - Episode 7
I sit on the edge of the bathtub and light a cigarette. This isn’t a designated smoking area, but when I’m alone, I naturally reach for it. When I have nothing to do and I’m bored, a cigarette is a good companion for my lips.
Why am I smoking in the bathroom? It’s because of “unfortunate circumstances”. I was persuaded by Roman, who said, “It’s a wonderful work of art,” and offered him my house for the weekend. What he meant by “a wonderful work of art” was not what I thought it was. What I think of as art is painting, music, and, at most, movies, and “p*rn movies” do not fall into that category.
Currently, a blue film screening is taking place in the living room of my house. The s3x between men projected on the 52-inch screen was so powerful that it chased me to the bathroom. Even if it was made by a great artist, as long as the theme was “s*x between men,” I still don’t have the patience to watch it wholeheartedly.
There is a soft knock on the door, followed by a polite voice asking, “Is anyone using the toilet?”
“It’s open,” said the reclusive man.
“So you were here.”
The person who came up with this project, Roman, appeared. I’ve recently come to realize that most bad things come from him.
“You stood up in the bathroom for so long that I thought you were m*sturbating.”
“I will! I feel sick!”
“Ugh! That’s racist!” the gay patron shrieked.
“If you can’t stand it, you can’t stand it. It’s a natural thing. There’s nothing you can do about it.”
“What can you tell without even looking at it properly? How sexy that lead actor is… don’t you see his charm?”
“No problem. I think it might be hard to walk with a p*nis that long, though.”
“You have no sense.”
“No need. I’m going to the bathroom for a while, so call me when you’re done.”
I kicked Roman out and lay down in the empty bathtub. I could hear the distant shrill voices of the guys. They were praising “great works of art”. My “art” is no match for theirs. When I found out why David Hockney only painted naked men, I had mixed feelings, and when I found out what Keith Haring’s “pop paintings” meant, I was stunned. It’s a shame that I can’t enjoy a party with my friends, but watching mentally taxing images for an extended time is like torture to me.
Just as I was about to light another cigarette, laughter echoed from the other side of the door. A drug party without drugs. How fun that world sounds. There are things in this world that you can understand and things that you can’t understand, and I think that life is richer if you can understand as many things as possible, but even so, I don’t think, “I wish I could enjoy gay movies!” Art is just a luxury item. Whether it’s kept in the Louvre or lined up on the street, the value of an object is determined by the taste of the viewer. Shouts, squeals, applause. The reason I’m not in that world is just because what they like and what I like are different. If I could understand the sexiness of a man with a p*nis like a donkey, Roman would surely give me some kind of medal.
Jack Kerouac’s On the Road had been left in the bathroom, its pages wavy. He puffed on a cigarette while reading the Beatnik masterpiece, which he had never finished, no matter how many times he had picked it up. Just as he’d finished smoking, Paul showed up and said, “That’s it.”
“How comfortable is the bed?”
“My back hurts.”
“After all, it’s proper to fill a bathtub with hot water before using it… And why are you here in the first place? Why don’t you just go to your room?”
“There’s too much noise in there. There’s a TV right across the hall from me. Where are you guys?”
“I’m back. Say hello to Dean.”
“What about scary DVDs?”
“It’s okay, I got them all back,” Paul said as he grabbed my hand and pulled me up. It was a miraculous escape from the bathtub.
The living room was a mess, like the aftermath of a bombing. As I was cleaning up, I asked Paul a question.
“What do you think? That film. Do you think it’s interesting?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Do you get excited watching stuff like that?”
“Well, yeah.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Well, you’re not gay anyway,” said Paul, picking up the pistachio shells that were scattered on the table.
“No, I can’t stand porn. And not just because it’s a gay film, but even when it’s male-female. It’s disgusting and I can’t watch it.”
“Hmm…that’s surprising.”
“You know what everyone watches when they’re kids? I borrowed some from my friends, but I never liked any of it. I threw up when I saw some Italian porn.”
“Poor thing.”
“S*x isn’t something to watch, it’s something to do. Don’t you think so?” I pull Paul, who is busy working, by the hand. “Tomorrow is our first day off together in a while… We can stay up as late as we like.”
“What about cleaning up?”
“We can do that tomorrow.” I buried my face in his neck and kissed it.
“I told you I wouldn’t get excited watching the film.”
“It’s not the film that gets me excited. It’s you.”
“Maybe I should clean up tomorrow after all…”
Even Paul, who is meticulous about housework, agreed to take it easy tonight. There are many things he would rather prioritize than picking up pistachio shells. A beautiful real body is better than a film. If it belongs to a lover, it’s the top priority.
“I apologize for the other day. I had no idea you hated porn.”
Roman appears, smiling. I never said a word to him about my dislike of porn. I somehow begin to understand that in this relationship, it’s inevitable that what I told Paul will be passed on to me.
“As an apology, I brought you something nice today,” she said, handing me a pink paper bag.
Martin’s Chocolate
“No, sorry. They’re very sweet, but they’re not food. Which do you want, Desperado, Troy, or Ripley?”
“What’s that?” I was handed a paper bag from a chocolate shop. Inside were three DVDs.
“A movie. A sexy movie. The one from the other day wasn’t your thing, was it? I picked something I thought would get you excited.”
“I appreciate it, but I don’t have any lust for armor or assassins.”
“There’s also The Lord of the Rings.”
“Same for the Hobbits.”
“Oh, come to think of it, your DVD collection is all those weird British comedy shows and stuff. Do you get excited about stuff like that?”
“Who would say that?! And why are we even talking about ‘excitement’ in the first place? When you watch The Lord of the Rings or Desperado, you don’t think about that sort of thing, do you?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“…I get it, that’s true. Common sense doesn’t apply to you. I was stupid to take you seriously and try to argue with you.”
“Well, then, why don’t you tell me a bit about ‘common sense”? What would get you so excited about “the normal you”?”
Roman asked a lot of questions. For me, who doesn’t always think about these things, it was a difficult problem. Then Paul joined us and we discussed it together, and the “normal me” finally found the word “plants.”
“Plants? You get turned on by plants?” Roman looked at me like I was a pervert. I was shocked that he looked at me like that.
“Not directly. It’s just… the curve of the stem, the petals… the scent… I think it’s sexy… I can’t explain it.”
Paul comes to my rescue as I speak incoherently to my coffee cup.
“Yeah, I think I understand what you mean. Tropical flowers are so sexy.”
“I prefer Banderas to flowers. But hey, your taste isn’t bad. Let’s think about it in that vein.”
“An extension?”
“Well, let’s expand on what you find sexy. You look at plants and feel eroticism from them, right? What’s sexy about flowers?”
“That’s… It’s a mysterious color, it’s like a gradation. Plants are delicate, and I think they’re very mystical… is it okay to talk like that?”
“Yes, continue.”
“The curve of the stem is elegant. If you look closely, you can see that it is covered with fine hairs.”
“So? What kind of person can you imagine from that?”
“Beautiful female leg lines…”
“Why did that happen?”
“There’s no other way!”
A genuine gay man and a mostly straight new gay man. It’s to be expected that the conversation will be at a stalemate.
“Anyway… I don’t get excited watching other people having s3x. I’ve never thought of it as a bad thing.”
“Not just porn, but also beautiful bed scenes in movies?” asked Paul.
“If it’s a good movie, you can feel it… But only for a few minutes. I don’t think it’s gross like porn, but it’s still weird to look at something cut up like that on a screen.”
“But you do masturbate,” Roman’s eyes lit up. “How so? Don’t tell me you don’t. If porn isn’t for you, then how do you masturbate? With your imagination?”
A handsome man with a charming smile. I wonder why he is so full of light when we talk about s*x (I don’t want to admit it, and it feels really bad).
“Imagination is one thing, but… what about… a sexy novel…”
“Pornographic novel?”
“It’s not porn. There are some sexy depictions in normal stuff, right? If it was something like that, I might get excited.”
“Hey, did you hear that? Paul, your boyfriend is a literary guy. He can masturbate with paper and ink.”
“Don’t make fun of me.”
Paul leans forward and asks, “What kind of novel is that?”
“I can’t think of anything right now. But there are a few authors I like. Capote, for example…”
“Masturbating in cold bl00d?” Roman teases.
“That’s impossible. No matter what.”
“Any others? Who would you say is a sexy author?”
“Clive Barker is horror but sexy. And Walt Whitman. He is poetry, not novels. I’ve loved him for a long time.”
“Oh, wait a minute… you, that’s…”
“Picture?”
“Everyone’s gay!”
“What!?”
I looked at Paul with a sense of wonder, “Really?!” and he nodded in understanding, saying, “I see… Now that you mention it…”
Roman put his hand on my shoulder and gave me some kind of stamp of approval: “And if you’re a fan of Ian McKellan movies and listen to Elton John songs, then you’re perfect.”
“What George Michael album?”
“That’s fine too.”
“Oh my goodness…”
“You’re gay, potentially. I’m intimidated.”
Conclusion: Dean Kelly is potentially completely gay.
This kind of psychoanalysis usually doesn’t produce good results. According to Sigmund Freud, 80% of men are mother boys. Carl Gustav Jung goes as far as the collective unconscious and synchronicity, and the answer to the problem spreads to the universe. Furthermore, when it comes to Roman destiny, it ends up saying that “all men have a significant proportion of gay potential.”
“But just because you’re stimulated by novels doesn’t mean you’re sexually blind. Like I said, you can expand on that.”
“I don’t want to spread anything anymore. I think I’ll die of self-awareness.”
“It just broadens your imagination. You could also say it lets your imagination soar… Hey, you like novels, don’t you? That would be perfect. A publishing company I know is accepting submissions for a new writer’s award for ‘erotic novels.’ Since it’s a company that deals in gay books, the submitted works are, of course, ‘gay literature.’ Aside from the quota of s3x scenes, the content can be anything you want. The work that wins the grand prize is guaranteed to be published. What do you think? It’s a great way to delve deeper into yourself and stretch your imagination, isn’t it? Why don’t you give it a try?”
“I’ve never written a novel before.”
“But you can write, right? If it gets published, you’ll get fame and royalties.”
“Making a name for myself in gay porn? I don’t know. If my parents find out, I’ll be in big trouble.”
“You can use a pen name. To be honest, there aren’t many applicants for this new writer’s award. That’s why they asked people to enter as samples, or shills. Of course, even shills are eligible to enter the competition. The grand prize comes with a publishing contract and a trip to the Bahamas.”
“If there aren’t many applicants, maybe a trip to the Bahamas isn’t just a dream,” Paul said, showing interest.
“That’s right. Come on, why don’t we all write it together?”
“Everyone? All of us?”
“That’s right, everyone will compete against each other here. Sounds fun, doesn’t it?”
Paul quickly raised his right hand. “Great. I’m on board.”
“That’s it! How about you, Dean?”
“Okay, fine.”
The deadline is in two weeks. Because they don’t want to influence each other, they vow not to show each other their work until it’s complete, and so they continue their writing activities steadily.
Paul, who is a hard worker in everything, always carries a notepad and never forgets to write down anything that comes to mind, even in the middle of a conversation. He sometimes suddenly asks me mysterious questions like, “If you were at the bottom of the stairs and someone suddenly called you from the top, would you go up the stairs or wait for them to come down?”
I wasn’t that keen on it myself, so I just started re-reading all the novels I had. But that had the opposite effect. The prestige of the masterpieces made what I was writing seem so small. Even though I knew I could never compete with F. Scott Fitzgerald or Patricia Highsmith, the pain of writing made me want to give up before I even started.
Well, it’s okay, I’m not a professional writer. I’m not good at it, but I just enjoy writing it. Even if it’s judged as “like a Harlequin Romance,” there’s value in finishing it.
“Harlequin Romance? My work is a Harlequin Romance?”
We were new writers in the making. We gathered again under the name of a “pre-presentation” with each of us bringing our finished works. It was Roman who described my masterpiece as a “Harlequin Romance.”
“I’ve never read Harlequin. What do you mean by that? Is it a compliment?”
“I’m neither praising nor criticizing you. It’s just my opinion. Don’t worry about it.”
“That’s a bit of a catchy way of putting it… Paul, what do you think?”
Paul looked at the manuscript thoughtfully and said, “There’s quite a lot of brand names in that, isn’t there?” before handing it back to me.
“Really? Is that weird? I was trying to portray the main character as being rich.”
“Maybe we should just make the price of the shirts clearer from the beginning,” Roman said, snatching the manuscript from her hand. He turned the page and frowned, “Where’s the s*x scene? You promised to include one, right?”
“There is. Read it carefully.”
“Where?”
“It’s here,” Paul said, pointing.
Roman looked around silently, and after a while, he looked up and said, “What is this? I have no idea what I’m doing!”
“Where’s ‘touched gently’? What’s ‘felt together’? Paul, does this excite you?”
“Excitement aside, this is beautiful writing.”
“See! There are people here who understand art!” I put my arm around my comrade’s shoulder.
“The art I like is a lot more exciting…”
“Stop criticizing other people’s work and show me yours.”
“Yes, sure. Go ahead.”
Paul and I both looked at the stack of papers he handed me. Page 1, page 2, page 3… The only sound that echoed through the room was the sound of pages turning over. Breaking the silence, I stood up from my seat.
“I’m going to be in the bathroom for a while, so when I’m done…”
“What the heck?! Read it properly to the end! How rude of you!”
“That’s enough…”
“Wow, it’s a pornographic film,” Roman exclaimed, his chest puffed up in response to Paul’s admiration.
“An erotic novel to inspire all gay men”
“All straights are deflated…”
“Pathetic. Surely there’s something a little exciting about this? How about this? ‘He grabbed his raging p3nis out of his shorts, its hot meat splitting Bobby’s fresh walls…'”
“Stop! Stop!”
“Your face is turning red.”
“You guys still have a long way to go if you don’t understand this masterpiece. Paul, what about you? Have you written the masterpiece of the century?”
“Yeah. It’s hard to show it to you after you’ve come through…”
“Don’t worry. After Roman, any work will be like a breath of fresh air.”
Paul’s work had more pages than anyone else’s. I thought it would be a bit of a hassle to read it, but that turned out to be a complete waste of time. After we finished reading it, Roman and I both sighed at the same time.
“Hey… isn’t this amazing?” Roman murmured, enthralled.
I nodded and commented, “That’s interesting.”
“Really? I’m so happy. It was worth the effort,” Paul smiled bashfully.
My comment, “Very interesting,” may be too brief for this masterpiece. This is a book that deserves more praise. Is that just a lover’s wish? Well, just look at Roman. A man who only picks up fashion magazines, with a dazed look on his face as if he had just had s3x. No matter how you look at it, this is first place. Not only the three of us, but we might even make it to the top of the newcomer award – maybe even a trip to the Bahamas.
Roman took the manuscript home to submit, but I asked Paul to output it again because I wanted to take my time re-reading Paul’s novel, entitled “Under the Roses,” by myself.
The story is set in the late 19th century. The story is based on the love of young people living in London. The main character is a young man named Jack. His lover is Percy. The two are attracted to each other and love each other, but the era in which they live does not allow this. The conflict and suffering that come from wanting each other. Unfaithful love that leads to being pushed away just when you think you are united. The part where the main character, unable to bear the loneliness, masturbates thinking of his lover is the equivalent of the same scene in Michael Blake’s Dances with Wolves (yes, this is the usual “norm machine”). I have never seen such a beautiful story that I could get so deeply into. I empathized so much with the main character’s situation that I almost cried at the scene where the lovers were torn apart. When I found out that the work that I had empathized with so much only received an “honorable mention,” I even suspected Roman of fraud in the award, asking, “Isn’t this guy a cheat?”
“Why isn’t Paul the grand prize winner? Surely this is the best?”
When I expressed my indignation, holding the magazine with the results in hand, Roman simply said, “People tend to like things that are easier to understand.” The winner of the Newcomer Award was something like a gay version of Bridget Jones’s Diary. Paul’s work is far more sophisticated and brilliant.
“I understand why your work and mine got rejected. But Paul’s…”
“The judges are not stupid. They knew it was an interesting piece. They just said it was so different from the magazine’s style. So my friend, an editor, said, ‘We’ll try to publish this one somehow.'”
“Publish it?”
“That’s not possible, but he asked if it would be OK to post it on the web. And he said he’d like me to write a sequel to it if possible. He said he’d like to serialize it on the website.”
“Site… Internet?”
Paul listens to our conversation in silence.
“What do you think, Paul? Can I put that piece up for public viewing?”
“Yeah, it’s fine.” His expression was the same as always. He didn’t look disappointed, nor did he look happy. Paul wasn’t the type to have very strong emotional ups and downs. He rarely got excited or depressed, so sometimes it was hard to read his emotions.
That night in bed, I asked Paul, “Aren’t you happy?” and just as I expected, he replied with a simple “Nothing.”
“I see. Then what about the other way around? Are you disappointed that you didn’t win the prize?”
“That’s fine too.”
“Your work has been noticed by a professional editor and will be published on an official website. And you’re not happy about that at all?”
“Not at all,” Paul said, turning over to face me, “this was just something the three of us were playing around with, and I didn’t have any special feelings about the prize itself. At most, I thought it would be nice to go to the Bahamas for free.”
“I have no desire.”
“I’m greedy. It’s a shame I can’t go to the Bahamas for free.”
“No, it’s more like ‘exhibitionism’. You’re not interested in fame, are you?”
“Fame? You said, ‘Maybe I’d make a name for myself in gay porn.'”
“Now, wherever you start, it doesn’t matter. Your work is amazing. Even Whitman couldn’t make me cry. If you put your mind to it, you could win a Pulitzer Prize.”
“It’s not set in America, so it’s not eligible for a Pulitzer Prize.”
“You could try the PEN/Faulkner Award.”
“You’re blinded by love,” Paul laughs. “But,” he murmurs, “if you want to read more…”
“I want to read it. Of course.”
“Really? Really? Then maybe I should write it down.”
“I’m not the only one who wants to read your work. A lot of people will be looking forward to reading more. Absolutely. I’m sure of it.”
My prediction turned out to be spot on. Paul’s novel, which was published on the publisher’s website, easily surpassed the number of hits it had received in the past two months in the week since it was published, and it quickly became a hot topic in the gay community (this is the achievement of Roman, who is well-known). The comments on the dedicated bulletin board on the website are full of enthusiastic messages such as “It’s wonderful,” “It’s interesting,” and “I’m looking forward to the next chapter.” As an “exhibitionist,” I feel the urge to write, “I’m the author’s lover!”, but I decide to refrain from doing so. A writer’s private life should be full of mystery. The fact that the man who wrote “The Old Man and the Sea” committed suicide due to manic depression, or that the non-violent advocate of “War and Peace” was a tyrant who was not on good terms with his wife, has nothing to do with the story. This world needs art, not something that should be exposed and degraded. I am Paul’s lover, and all I can do is look at the praise that is posted on the website with a grin on my face. I’ll keep my identity a secret until the day I win a Pulitzer Prize.
“Are you still awake?”
I spot a milky light leaking from under the door and visit the writers’ room.
“You have to get up early tomorrow, right?” Paul said, rubbing his shoulders from behind. He looked up from his laptop, stretched, and said, “I’m going to bed now.”
“But I’ll write a bit more until I get to a nice round number. I want to update it about once a week.”
“Are they telling you to do it at such a high pace?”
“Not exactly, but… everyone is looking forward to it. I guess it’s the nature of the service industry. When people are happy, you just can’t help it. Hey, that’s right. I had that argument with you the other day. Can I use that as material for your story?”
“Discussion?”
“The Story of Soy Milk”
“That?”
“Yes”
“How do you incorporate that into a story?”
The other day, we had a debate. The lofty topic was “Is soybean milk milk or not?” I thought that “the name ‘soybean milk’ should be changed.” The reason was that the word “milk” is limited to the bodily fluids of female mammals, and soybeans, which are plants, do not fall into that category, and it would cause unnecessary confusion for those who do not understand English well. In response, Paul argued that “milk” is a word that is used widely and not only for cow’s milk, and is a compound word that can be made by adding another word, and he insisted that it is not limited to “mother’s milk,” as in “soybean milk” and “corn milk.” …Well, that’s about it for the “debate.”
“Could that be the subject of a novel? A protagonist struggling in late 19th-century England? ‘Is soya bean milk or not? That is the question.”
”No, it’s not like that,” Paul chuckled at my Hamlet-like tone. “I was trying to write about the nuances of the conversation and stuff like that. What do you think? Is that okay?”
“Yeah, sure. You can use whatever you want.”
Paul stares at the computer screen until late at night. As a lover, I’m of course worried, but as a fan, I also feel like “I want the next part soon!”. After all, I’m a big fan of this author. I was the first fan club member to notice his talent early on. The other day, there was a debate about whether soybean milk is milk or not. How will that affect the story? Once you know the behind-the-scenes details of the creation, you’ll be even more interested in the next part.
I haven’t been looking forward to the next chapter of a story since I was a kid and was hooked on comic book serialization. Amazingly, it was written by none other than Paul. John Lennon fell in love with Yoko’s art, but in my case, it was the other way around. I fell in love with Paul first, and then with his art. No matter how artistic he is, I can’t fall in love with Yoko. Let’s not argue about which love is purer.
There is one line in our house. It has been shared between Paul and me since we started living together. There is no caller ID, so you can’t tell from the ringtone who is calling whom. The call I just answered is for Paul. The voice that greets me with “Hello” is Carolyn, a gay woman.
“Hey, Carolyn. It’s been a while. Since the cross-dressing party, I guess.”
“Oh, it’s Jack. It’s been a long time. How are you?”
“Jack?”
This line is for Paul and me. There is no one called “Jack” here.
“Yes, Jack. Jack. The main character of Under the Rose. I’m a reader of it too. Hey, you’re the model for Jack, right? I knew it right away.”
“Me? Am I Jack?”
“Oh? Is that not the case?”
“Paul never said anything like that…”
“Really? But they look similar.”
“Yeah, our hair and eye color are the same.”
“No, it’s more about her inner personality. I thought she was modeled after you.”
For readers who have not read Paul’s novels, let me explain what the protagonist’s “inner personality” is.
The protagonist of the story is Jack Tolhurst. He has black hair and blue-gray eyes. From the reactions of those around him, we can see that he is handsome, but he is also a somewhat unapproachable type of man. His lover, Percy, is gay, with blonde hair and blue eyes. The two meet at a tavern, and their love deepens, but Jack, who comes from a good family, is too concerned about public appearances and cannot be open about his love. While his lover is honest about his feelings, the protagonist hides and even tries to deny that he is gay. This creates friction and makes the story more interesting… Jack looks cool, but in reality, he is fragile at heart. When I think about who he looks like… It’s true. He looks a lot like me. I didn’t notice it until someone pointed it out, but now that you mention it, it’s true.
That night, I decided to visit the novelist and find out for myself whether this was true or not. Needless to say, fans and writers live in the same house (how convenient!).
“Are you still going?” I asked, and Paul replied, “I’m going to bed now.” This exchange has become a regular occurrence recently.
“Hey, I want to ask you something. This guy called ‘Jack’…”
“Yeah?”
“Could this be… me?”
Paul looked a little embarrassed and said briefly, “Quiet.”
“Yes, the main character is based on you. But I didn’t write it with that intention. It just happened that way.”
“I see…”
That’s the reason why I was so moved by this work. If I were the protagonist, it would be easy to empathize with him, and I would be moved to tears.
“Did you see the bulletin board?” asked Paul.
“Bulletin board?”
“I wonder if you saw the post here?”
On the message board of the site Paul pointed to, a reader had posted a comment saying, “Apparently, this is a true story, and the author and her lover are the inspirations.”
“How could this be? Even I didn’t know about it… No, I didn’t see it. I only noticed it when Carolyn pointed it out to me.”
“Does this bother you? Do you find it unpleasant? Does it bother you?” Paul frowned. Judging from his expression, it seemed like he was the one who was bothered.
“I don’t mind. I told you, ‘You can use whatever you want.'”
“TRUE?”
“Oh, I’m honored. I’ve been able to contribute a small amount to your art. I don’t mind a model fee of 10% of the royalties.”
“There are no royalties. This is just a hobby.”
“For now, but who knows what the future holds? Maybe we could buy a vacation home in the Bahamas.”
“I’m not going to be a writer.”
“Even Conan Doyle might have said, ‘I’m a doctor. I’ll never be a writer!”
“Conan Doyle and a villa in the Bahamas…you’re blinded by love,” Paul said with a wry smile. His droopy eyebrows were back to normal.
“By the way, what happened next? Can I read it now?”
“Oh, that’s fine. I just need to check the spelling,” Paul said, standing up from his chair and giving me his place. The long-awaited continuation of the story. It is the privilege of a writer’s lover to read it before anyone else.
In the middle of the story, the protagonists, young men, begin to have a discussion. They are discussing the state of the Church of England and its antithesis. They discuss what it means to be a perfect human being, quoting the words of Yeats and Wilde.
I muttered as I looked at the LCD screen.
“I see, this is it…”
“Yeah, right. Got it?”
If you replace the words “primitive Christianity” with “soybean milk,” this is the conversation Paul and I were having the other day.
“No one would have guessed that the source of this was the soy milk debate.”
“There’s stuff in all sorts of places.”
“But that’s not the reality, is it? We’ve never had a situation like this. An argument that ends up turning into a personal altercation.”
“That’s the thing about fiction. You have to make it more dramatic.”
“That’s great! You’re a perfect professional writer now.”
“That’s not true.”
“Don’t be so modest. I’m proud of you…” I sat down, pulling him close to me and burying my face under his chest. I pushed up his shirt, kissing the skin underneath, gently groping his smooth body.
“Dean…”
“True art excites people.”
“Yeah… I’m glad to hear that… but I’m sorry. I want to go to bed now. I’m really tired.”
“I see…”
“Sorry”
“Oh, it’s alright. You know, you have work tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Have a nice rest.”
“Yes, thank you.”
While her sexual desire is overwhelmed, her understanding lover simply leaves her. If this were a novel, the lovers would seek each other like flames to heighten the drama (the fact that I even use the expression “like flames” here shows that I have no sense of expression).
Reality is not like a story. Religious discussions do not develop into personal intimacy, and kissing does not lead to s*x. The latter is a bit disappointing, but sometimes you have to endure for the sake of art. The purpose of art is to endure. I’ll watch the DVD I borrowed from Roman and go to sleep. I want to state here that I will not behave in any indecent way while watching.
Paul’s occupation is not a writer but a hairdresser.
We met not at a bar, but at the hair salon where he works. I usually get my hair cut by the hairdresser who is now my lover in my bathroom, but sometimes I drop by the salon like this. There are many familiar faces here, and I don’t mind sitting in a comfortable chair and reading a magazine. I’m happy to have my hair cut at home, but if I get too used to it, I feel like my gratitude and respect for Paul’s skills will fade. He is a professional, and I think his work is worth paying for, even if we are lovers. And above all, Paul is cool at work. If you live with your lover, you will inevitably show each other your lifestyle. Your messy hair after waking up, or your exhausted appearance after working overtime. It’s only because you are lovers that you can show these things, but it can also be a factor in creating a certain sense of monotony. Seeing Paul outside the house, I fell in love with him all over again. I visit the shop to keep in mind the innocent feelings we had when we first met, and to spend as much time together as possible since we have different days off. You think “as much as possible” is not enough when we live together? If so, maybe I should explain how crazy I am about Paul (sit down! I’ll give you a lecture for a few hours!), and I’m also a fan of his now. If there’s a chance to get your hair cut by your favorite author, any fan would go to the shop all the time. As long as it’s not Stephen King with scissors, this project is a big success.
“Has the final episode of that story been decided?”
When Annie, who was in charge of washing my hair, said that, I was a little taken aback and lost my words for a moment. Information is transmitted very quickly. Links are posted by people in various fields, and it is impossible to know who is reading them or where they are.
“I don’t know the rest of the story. Paul won’t tell me anything. He said, ‘If I talk, I won’t be able to write.'”
“Oh, so that’s how it is. Paul won’t tell us even if we ask him. Maybe Dean is the only one who knows… I’m curious to know more.”
“You think it would be interesting for women to read, too? That’s… that’s the work that’s being serialized on a somewhat ‘special website’, right?”
As I chose my words carefully, Annie nodded and said, “Interesting,” then chuckled.
“But that’s not all. I remember being selfish like Jack did to Percy in the story that was uploaded the day before yesterday. When I read something like that, I think, ‘Oh, that’s happened to me’… It makes me think of all sorts of things. Is the main character in that story Dean?”
“That seems to be the image. I don’t think I’m that stubborn, though.”
As she continued chatting, still sitting on the shampooing stand, without even lying down, Douglas chimed in, “I read them too.” “Under the Rose, I’ve always loved that kind of novel… and no, I don’t mean gay novels. Even though I look like this, I was a literary youth.”
When Douglas corrects himself, Annie laughs and replies, “A literary youth?”
“Exactly. I read it from a pure point of view. You read it from a fanboy point of view. Annie is a fan of the main character, right? She doesn’t want Dean to cut her hair.”
“I would never say that to a customer,” Annie said.
“Really? You said, ‘I wish I could grow my hair out like Jack,’ right? Why not suggest it while you’re here? ‘Customer, we recommend the Little Prince style.'”
Annie is silent while Douglas talks cheerfully. Her cheeks are as red as beets. Her cuteness lies in how her emotions match her facial expression.
After Douglas leaves, Annie apologizes, saying, “I’m sorry if I offended you.” To hide her embarrassment, she quickly says, “Don’t worry about it. I’m just a fan. I’m a fan of yours.” She then tips her chair over and covers my face with a cloth.
My fans? I see, so there’s another way to look at it. I became a fan of the writer Paul, and Douglas, a literary youth, became a fan of the work from a “pure perspective”. However, like Annie, some fans are attached to the story by “falling in love with the characters”. They buy the same clothes as the main characters in the popular TV series and travel to places related to the drama. There are certainly fans like that, and as Annie says, “I’m a fangirl.”
Annie and I are not particularly close. But through this work, she said she became a fan of mine. It doesn’t feel so bad to be looked at with sparkling eyes by a woman 10 years younger than me, and I feel like I’ve become a movie star… or so I’d like to say, but unfortunately, the person she is looking at is not me. It is a character created by Paul called “Jack Tolhurst.” Dirty Harry, Indiana Jones, James Bond, R2-D2… All of these are fictional characters (though one of them is not a “person”).
Annie knows almost nothing about me. She’s become a fan despite not knowing anything. Or rather, it’s because of that that she can become a fan. The real Dean and Paul are not like Jack and Percy in the novel. The most they discuss is soy milk. There are explicit descriptions of s3x in the story, but it’s hard to say that all of it is completely true (of course, it’s hard to say that it’s all fabricated).
During the few minutes that Annie was washing my hair, the erotic descriptions from the novel appeared and disappeared one after another in my mind. I felt a little embarrassed that Annie had read all of them and called them “interesting”. That story was not about “me and Paul’s life”. It wasn’t, but it was true that everyone around me was confusing that story with “about us”. I was glad that her face was covered with a dark cloth. Annie wasn’t the only one whose emotions matched her complexion. Who was it…? It goes without saying, right?
I sat down in the styling chair and waited for the hairdresser. After washing my hair, Paul would usually be standing right behind me, but today he was taking a long time to show up.
As I stare at myself in the mirror like a narcissist, Douglas notices me and calls out to me through the mirror, “You’re waiting for Paul, aren’t you?” “Sorry to keep you waiting. He hasn’t come back from lunch yet. Shall I call him on his mobile?”
“Paul knew I would be coming in at this time as of yesterday. I’m sure he’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Well, I think it’s about time since we left quite a bit ago… but if you want to hurry, I can do it. What do you want to do?”
“No, I’ll wait until he gets back. As long as I’m not bothering you by staying here, that is.”
“Of course. Take your time.”
Paul finally returned an hour later. He had taken a longer lunch break than usual and had fallen asleep on the terrace of the cafe.
That night, Paul was depressed. “This is the first time I’ve ever experienced anything like this,” he repeated, sitting cross-legged on the sofa and sighing in frustration.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. I had fun while I was waiting. I read all the magazines in the store and got really into fashion and gossip,” I said, handing him the cappuccino.
“Sorry for complaining so much,” Paul apologizes as he accepts the cup. “But if this had been a customer who had made a proper reservation, I would never be able to forgive my mistake,” he adds sternly.
“Really? If you were a customer who made a proper reservation, you wouldn’t make such a mistake. Maybe you let your guard down because you were me.”
“Maybe so, maybe not. Either way, I’m never falling asleep during recess again.”
Paul doesn’t “try to avoid it,” but rather “I won’t do it again.” He hates “myself” for failing. Because of this, he is very strict with himself, and as a result, he tends to become a perfectionist. The mistake Paul made this time was “falling asleep,” which is a minor type of mistake, but the consolation of “it’s no big deal” is no consolation to him. He tries to discipline himself before this minor mistake develops into a “big deal.”
Paul stretches and stands up from the sofa, mug in hand.
“Where are you going?”
“Eh? But it’s my room?”
“What are you doing there?”
“What do you mean… the continuation of the novel…”
Paul’s eyes are filled with capillaries due to a lack of sleep. The reason he dozes off is his perfectionism. He works during the day and writes at night. It’s best to be able to do both perfectly, but it’s no good if it damages your health. I regret having made the cappuccino and take the mug from my hand, saying, “That’s it for the caffeine.”
“I’ll make you some chamomile tea, and then I’ll take the day off.”
“but……”
“But you have work tomorrow, don’t you?”
“I’ll be working late tomorrow.”
“But that’s no good. You need to get some sleep every once in a while. Like Roman always says, ‘Lack of sleep causes bad skin!'”
“Wow, they look so similar.”
“It’s not similar. Stop it. Anyway…”
“Okay, I get it. I’m going to bed now,” Paul said, laughing and nodding. After imitating Roman, the perfectionist finally agreed.
As I was about to head to the kitchen to make some tea, someone called out to me, “Hey…Dean.”
“What?”
“Hmm…” Paul tilts his head slightly and looks at me with a face that seems to want to say something, like a child about to play a prank.
“What up?”
“Um… no, no, nothing… hey, can I have some honey in my chamomile?”
“Oh, no problem.”
Paul disappears into his room to get some good sleep, which makes me feel much more at ease.
Boil water and put a small chamomile flower in the teapot. There is no such scene in the novel. This is the same as the “soybean debate”; it’s too mundane to be included in a drama. No matter how much I say I’m the model, reality is like this. Catchphrases like “Love between people of different social classes” and “Love reborn at the end of loneliness” are not themes that are familiar to us at all.
The scent of apple and chamomile. A spoonful of golden honey is dropped into the cup. A gentle herbal tea that will help your lover sleep is ready. This flavor is so personal that every couple probably has their own. This is our daily life, and it doesn’t seem like it would be the subject of a novel.
Even though Paul’s novels, which are regularly updated, are on a “break,” the site remains as active as ever. Fans are active in the message boards, and Roman told me that some have even met and become couples through the site. For me, who is not looking for a partner, the only reason I visit this site is simply to “read the next part of the novel.” If the next part was not posted, I would not have gone there, but when someone asks me, “Hey, have you seen the site?” I have no choice but to look.
“Paul! Come on!” I yelled towards Mackintosh.
“What? What’s wrong?” Paul came rushing into my room, pale with fear.
“Look at that bulletin board.”
“This… is a photo from Christmas two years ago.”
“Who did this? No, whoever. Can this be deleted?”
“I don’t have that authority. The site is managed by the publisher.”
“So, should we just leave it like this?”
“No, that’s not the case. I’ll tell the company tomorrow and have them delete it.”
We were looking at the bulletin board in question. My photo had been posted there anonymously with the comment, “The person who was the model for the main character, Jack Tolhurst.” Neither Paul nor I check the site regularly, so if Roman hadn’t informed us, the photo would probably have remained like this forever. The post had only been made two hours ago—and yet there were already various responses, full of typical internet-like comments.
“Tomorrow… Let’s leave it like this until tomorrow… What on earth has happened to this… Sh1t, I think I’ll write a comment.”
“You’d better not do that. It will only make things worse and not solve anything.”
“Don’t get angry.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not something you should apologize for.”
“Yeah, that’s true, but…”
Paul’s expression became gloomy. I closed the window, tried to stay cheerful, and said with a smile, “I wish you’d used a better photo.”
“There are all kinds, like guys dressed as women.”
Paul doesn’t laugh. He stares at the screen in silence. If it were his picture, he wouldn’t be staring at the monitor with such a stern look on his face. That’s Paul. That’s the kind of guy he is.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. My words have no effect. He stays quiet. He stares at the monitor, thinking deeply. That’s Paul. That’s the kind of guy my boyfriend is.
For example, if I were to count how many parties I go to in a year compared to my colleagues at work, I would probably count the number of parties they go to in ten years — or even their entire lives. I’ve been to so many “parties”. The reason is simple. My friends are party crazy. “Birthday parties”, “wedding parties”, and even “separation parties”. They have a habit of gathering together and having a blast for any reason. The theme of today’s gathering is “Carolyn’s Happy Birthday (a big breakthrough!)”. It’s their custom to rent out a small club on 14th Street and dance and party until the morning. Regardless of “dancing and partying until the morning”, I don’t mind getting together with friends. Parties are fun at any time. Even if your partner is absent and you’re attending alone. Even if everyone you meet asks “Where’s Paul?” as a greeting — well, that’s what a party is.
Today’s main character, Carolyn (a woman’s name but male), was surrounded by flowers. Flowers on her head. Flowers on her chest. Roses on her buttocks, which she said meant “I’m a flower fairy today.”
“What about Paul? Isn’t he with you?” asked the Flower Fairy.
“He’s at home writing a novel. He’s sorry he couldn’t be there, and wanted to meet you. This is from me and Paul.”
When I handed him the paper bag containing the present, he jumped for joy, leaving a lipstick mark on my cheek.
“Please send Paul a kiss from me. Is he that busy?”
“I have a regular job during the day, so the only time I have to write is at night.”
“Hmm… But it’s a work of that magnitude. I think it takes a lot of time.”
That’s right. I need too much “block of time” to go to parties, and I haven’t had s3x in a while. Being an artist’s lover can be tough. Every time my friend asks me, “How’s Paul today?” I feel more and more lonely.
“Oh, isn’t that Jack?”
“Lord Tolhurst is very pleased with you.”
David and Mona approach with cocktails in hand. They are tipsy and seem to have entered the world of the story. They are both men, but today they are dressed in cocktail dresses. Mona, who has cocoa-colored skin, is wearing white. David, who is so pale that he would turn red if he tanned, is wearing a blue dress. Both of them know very well what colors suit them best.
“Hey Dean, how does that story end?”
“I hope it’s not a death punchline.”
“Death punchline?” That’s an unfamiliar word. Is it something you learn in an LL class?
“The way it feels right now, that might be a possibility. The story is heading in a darker direction, right? So maybe the final episode will be a double suicide for the two of them… What do you think about that?”
“Even if you ask me what’s going on… I don’t know anything about what happens next.”
“Not at all? Haven’t you heard anything at all?”
“Ah”
“What’s the chance that either of them will die?”
“I don’t know.”
When I said that, the two of them looked disappointed. I would tell them if I knew anything, but I can’t give them anything I don’t have. If Paul had come here, we might have been able to talk to them in a way that would have made them happy.
“We were trying to think of different punch lines for the story,” Mona says.
“That’s right. So we were saying, ‘It would be terrible if the two of them died.'”
I see, so that’s the “death punchline.”
“If the finale hasn’t been decided yet, tell Paul not to kill them off.”
“Yes, yes. Please, make it a happy ending somehow.”
“I don’t want you to tell me that.”
“I’m not telling you. I’m telling Paul.”
A carrier pigeon? I’m not good with this kind of thing. Well, that’s just how parties are, so it can’t be helped.
“So, from your perspective as Jack, can you predict what’s going to happen next?” David’s eyes widen with sparkles. I simply reply, “I don’t know.”
“Hey, can we appear in that story? As friends of the main character?”
“Oh, that’s great! I’m always available to help with interviews.”
“That would be difficult. It would become a comedy if you guys showed up.”
“Oh my, thank you very much.”
“Jack wouldn’t say that.”
“Please stop calling me that. I’m not Jack.”
“But you’re the model, aren’t you?”
“That’s true… but…”
“How much of that story is true?”
“I want to know! You wouldn’t get into a fight and push Paul away, would you?”
David narrows his eyes, as if he were a villain. It wasn’t me who pushed my boyfriend, giving him a concussion, and then abandoned him and ran outside.
“What about the episode before last? I heard that the fiancée of Jack’s who his parents brought home, that Catherine, is a model named Carrie.”
“Huh? Wait a minute, how do you know that?”
“I knew it! He’s a real person!” Mona and David look at each other and clap their hands.
Certainly, the story from the other day was based on my mom bringing Carrie home. But what do they know about that? The leaking and spreading of personal information is not only a problem in the internet society. It’s hard to keep a gay man from talking. Maybe there’s more information out there (I don’t want to think about what it is) that’s been made public somewhere without my knowledge?
“So, you’re still hesitant about being gay? Do you think the same way Jack thinks?”
“I wonder what Paul thinks about that? Jack’s girlfriend is suffering from it…”
Hey, have you ever had a dream like this? A nightmare where two guys in party makeup and dresses are accusing you of a crime you didn’t commit. If this is a dream, you just get out of bed, but if this isn’t a dream… what do you do?
“Dean, I need to talk to you for a second, is that okay?”
Roman, wearing a rose-patterned suit, beckons me. Ah, thank goodness. He looks like a Buddha. My situation must have been pretty dire, since he looks like a Buddha.
“Are you alone? Where’s Paul?”
“Don’t say that. I might as well just wear a ‘Paul’s at home’ card around my neck…Hey, that suit you’re wearing is nice. Where can I buy clothes with that pattern?”
“Everyone asks that. Should I write ‘Fancy’s, on the border between the Village and Chelsea?'”
“Fancy? I’ll remember that. So? What’s the story?”
“Yes, it’s about Paul’s novel…”
“You’re talking about that too?”
“You? Anyway, it’s about that novel. I met an editor friend of mine yesterday. He said that if Under the Rose continues to be popular, he might consider compiling it into a book… that’s the sort of thing that’s being discussed within the company!”
“Eh… is that so?”
“Oh dear,” said Roman, raising one eyebrow. “You don’t look too happy about that.”
“No… that’s not the case. It was so sudden. I was surprised.”
“That’s right. I’m shocked. It’s amazing. It all started with us just messing around, and I never thought it would turn out like this… I think the editorial department will be contacting Paul again at a later date… I just can’t keep quiet anymore!”
Roman stamps his feet. This is probably his way of saying, “I’m so happy.” My feet are on the ground. It’s not that I’m not happy. Paul is making his debut as a writer. Of course, this is a big deal.
“When will the book be released? Is it coming out soon?”
“Not anytime soon. At this stage, there aren’t enough pages, so I think it will be after I get some more writing done. And I’m sure I’ll need some revisions too.”
“I see…”
“Please tell Paul about this. I wanted to tell him in person. It’s a shame I couldn’t meet him today. I wanted to see his happy face.”
Roman’s smile is as bright as the pattern on his clothes, and he is happy about Paul’s success, just as you would expect from a friend.
Saying goodbye to my friends who were determined to party until the morning, I went out to the main street and caught a taxi. Even though it was after the party, I wasn’t in high spirits. Ever since hearing Roman’s story, I’ve been thinking about Paul. Adding to the writing, revising. All the paperwork that comes with publishing. If it gets published, he’ll be even busier than he is now. I’m Paul’s biggest fan. I know very well that this is good news. I know that, but…
The cab driver turned to me and said, “Sorry, sir. It seems we’ve taken a wrong turn… I’m going to stop the meter from now on.”
What is this, at a time like this? Please spare me… I thought bitterly, realizing that I wouldn’t normally react like this. The driver was polite. He was conscientious about turning off the meter. It wasn’t something to get angry about. If Paul were here, I wouldn’t be bothered by such a small thing. I was alone in the taxi. Normally, I would be holding hands with Paul in the back seat, saying something like “Today was fun.” I couldn’t go to friends’ parties with him, and I couldn’t find time to have s*x. That’s how it is with me and Paul now, and it’s going to get even worse from now on. I looked at my watch and saw that the time was approaching 2 am. Paul must still be awake. He’s awake and writing a novel. He’s so exhausted that he falls asleep during the day. Is it going to get even worse from now on? That’s not a good thing.
In the end, my feelings as a lover prevailed over my feelings as a fan. No, perhaps this is something that a lover would be happy to receive. I wonder if I can convey Roman’s message with a smile…
I stand in front of Paul’s room and knock on the door. There’s no response. He’s still awake. I can tell from the light filtering in at his feet. I gently open the door. Paul is sitting in a chair. His back is to me, facing his laptop as usual. The LCD is on standby. In the dimly lit room, the blue LED of the power lamp shines ominously. Thinking that he might be concentrating on his work, I speak in a low, bird-like voice.
“Paul…” There was no reply.
I quietly got behind her and looked at her face. Her eyes were closed. Her lips were slightly parted. Illuminated by the desk lamp, her face was tinged with blue. Was it because of the pale fluorescent light?
“If you want to sleep, you have to go to bed.”
I called out again, but there was no response. Suddenly, anxiety began to rise in me.
“Paul…hey?”
He doesn’t move. Not even a single eyelash twitches. What is this? Could this be the punch line of the “whatever” David was talking about? There is no such scene in the novel. This is not a topic that is close to us at all. Our daily lives are supposed to be very ordinary and far from dramatic… Oh, Paul. What a pain. While I was playing with the cross-dressing fairies, you…
“Um…Dean…” Paul looked down at me as I knelt on the floor.
“When did you get back? How was the party?” He rubbed his eyes and stretched back in his chair.
Of course, he was asleep. What on earth did you think?
“Ah… the party. Yes. It was fun. Want to see the photos from my digital camera?”
“Yeah, I’d like to see it. But first,t I’ll put this up on the site.”
“Did you write the rest?”
“Finally. Now I can say goodbye to lack of sleep.”
“Eh? Maybe that’s…”
Paul put his hand on my cheek, smiled, and stroked it gently.
“It’s the best ending ever. I think it couldn’t have come any better.”
He was exhausted and blue in the face, and his smile was the brightest I had ever seen.
The subtitle of “Under the Rose” is “The Final Episode.” The author himself called it “the best ending,” and it was a surprising development for anyone who had been following the story.
The main characters are Jack and his lover Percy. The previous episode ended with the two being chased by police officers requested by their parents after their relationship was revealed to the public. The drama ended right where it started. In terms of popularity and story development, everyone probably thought it was too early to end it. Readers were surprised not because the series ended so abruptly. Rather, it was the content that was the problem.
While being chased by the police, the two discover a mysterious “hole” in the rose hedge. They had never seen such a hole in the park where they always met. It emitted a mysterious light and swirled, creating a strange state never seen in this world. Cornered, they had nowhere to run to, so they jumped into the hole. It was an act that they were prepared to die for, but to their surprise, the lovely couple did not die. When they regained consciousness, they saw the statue of Peter Pan in the park. To them, it was a “new monument,” but to the people in the park, it was built a hundred years ago…
The keyword is “Under the Rose,” and the setting is quite elaborate, but this is not a science fiction novel. The plot of time-travel to 21st century London completely overturns the world view up to that point, and the easy happy ending can be said to ignore the flow of the story. It is not difficult to imagine that most readers would have been outraged by the final episode, which suddenly turned what they thought was a literary work into Robert Zemeckis-style entertainment.
I opened the message board with trepidation, and sure enough, the comments were unbearable to read. “Disappointing!” “The worst!” “What the heck?!!” The enthusiasm was the same, but the messages were all harshly critical of the author, and while there were some positive comments, most of them were scathing.
I wonder if Paul has read this? If so, is he hurt by the cruel insults? I try to tell him, “Don’t worry about what anyone says,” but Paul just shrugs and says, “It’s fine.”
“It’s not like this is my life’s work. I would have been able to bear it if they had said something about my job as a hairdresser.”
He looks so cool, like he’s about to whistle. So calm and collected. This is Paul. This is the kind of guy my boyfriend is.
Meanwhile, I was a little sad and thought, “It’s a shame.” “What would have happened if the publication had gone ahead as planned? If you had been serious about it, you might have won some kind of award.”
Once it’s past your throat, you forget how hot it was. The memories of worrying about the publication of the book are a distant memory. This is Dean. This is the kind of guy I am.
“I’m glad to hear you say that, but I guess the publishing world isn’t that easy.”
“You never know until you try it. Maybe a Pulitzer Prize… No, the punch line is science fiction, so maybe a Nebula Prize or something like that.”
“You’re blinded by love,” he said with a bitter laugh. “Of course not. Have you seen the nasty reviews?”
Paul was reading the message boards. Even if it wasn’t his life’s work, no writer would be offended by what he reads.
“I’m done with novels,” Paul said. “They’re tiring on the eyes, and I’m getting more and more depressed because I’m so involved in them. I’m not cut out to be a writer. I enjoy talking directly to the audience and that sort of thing, and it suits me.”
Then she sighed, looked at me gently, and asked, “Are you disappointed?”
“Disappointed?”
“You’re my biggest reader. I was able to write that story because you said you wanted to read more. I don’t care about other people, as long as I’ve disappointed you…”
“You won’t be disappointed,” I smile. “The story is just like you said. It does have a great ending. I was surprised at how abrupt the development was, but if you read it carefully, you’ll see that it’s a solid story right up to the end. I’m sure readers will understand.”
“I thought you were so proud of me.”
“What are you talking about? I’m still proud of you. As a writer, as a hairdresser, and above all as a lover. You’re the best.”
“You’re blinded by love, aren’t you?”
“I’m so crazy about you,” she said, taking both of his hands and pressing them to her chest. “Oh, Paul, Paul… It’s the same whether you’re a writer or a hairdresser. The flower we call rose. No matter what name we give it, its sweet fragrance remains the same…”
Paul chuckled as I earnestly recited a dramatic line from Romeo and Juliet.
“Jack and Percy are happy that they are living in a time of peace.”
“Yeah. I don’t want my characters to have tragic fates. That’s why I made the ending that way.”
“I’m glad we’re not a couple from the last century. Homosexuality is a crime…I can’t believe it was like that just a hundred years ago.”
“Even Elton John has his wedding ceremony in a church these days. …Ah, this month has been a long one. Now I can spend time with you again. I think it would be better if you spent your evenings doing something other than using the computer.”
“Exactly. I’d rather watch something else than watch a DVD by myself.”
“Hey, Dean,” Paul said, leaning into my chest and tilting his head to the side. “This whole conversation started as a question about what we find sexy. Do you remember?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“That’s why.”
“Yeah?”
“So, you see?”
“Ah……”
We all collapsed onto the couch, and you can imagine the rest.
The presence of a lover that p*rn, imagination, and even masterpieces of art cannot compete with. The answer to “what is sexy?” is pretty self-evident.
”Love between different social classes” and “Love reborn after loneliness”. Such catchphrases are familiar to the lovers of the 19th century. They come to 21st-century London, where there are no laws governing homosexuality, but no tragedy befalls them. I’m sure they will meet some party-crazy friends in Soho or somewhere, and turn their serious lives into a comedy.
The author wished for their happiness and created a happy ending. Jack and Percy are probably living happily somewhere in the world. The models for them, Paul and I, are happy and blinded by love for each other, so it doesn’t seem like we could write a novel about them at all.