You or No One Read online

  Contents

  copyright

  CHAPTER ONE Just Like a Nordic God

  CHAPTER TWO All About Sex

  CHAPTER THREE If It’s Not One Thing... It’s Your Mother

  CHAPTER FOUR Oh My God!

  CHAPTER FIVE My Rebecca Moment

  CHAPTER SIX Sea, Sheep and Herrings

  CHAPTER SEVEN The King And I

  CHAPTER EIGHT Disaster!

  CHAPTER NINE We Are Not Amused

  CHAPTER TEN I Don’t Have to Justify Myself to You

  CHAPTER ELEVEN Backlash

  CHAPTER TWELVE A Simple Life

  Copyright © 2020 Olivier Bosman.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 9798616420329

  Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

  Front cover image by A Pradipta.

  www.olivierbosman.com

  CHAPTER ONE

  Just Like a Nordic God

  The first time I saw him, he was sitting alone in the quadrangle of St John’s College. I was looking for the library. I’d only been at Oxford two weeks, and I was constantly getting lost. It was all so new to me. The honey-coloured colleges with their dreamy spires were so different to the grimy streets and soot-covered cottages of Tonypandy.

  He was tall and blond. Very blond. He sat upright on a park bench, smartly dressed in blazer and tie, staring ahead.

  “Excuse me.”

  He didn’t hear me. He took a deep breath and sighed. I wondered whether I should leave him alone.

  “Excuse me.”

  Finally, he turned to look at me. He had the bluest eyes! I felt a chill run down my spine.

  “Sorry to bother you.” I smiled. “I’m looking for the library.”

  He didn’t reply. Had he not understood me? He looked at my shoes. He slowly lifted his head and ran his eyes over the rest of my apparel. I wasn’t at my best. I wore plain blue jeans and a dark green anorak, and glasses instead of my contacts. And I hadn’t washed my hair in over a week (I’m not a slob, but the showers at the dorm were always occupied). I looked awful.

  “Do you know where it is?” I asked again. “The library?” My voice trembled. There was something very intimidating about the way he was staring at me.

  “No,” he replied. Then he turned away from me and resumed staring into space.

  It was odd, the way he stared at me for so long before answering.“Are you new here?” I asked.

  Again, no answer. Obviously, he didn’t deem me worthy enough to talk to. And what was that lingering look? Was he judging me on my cheap high street clothing?

  I found the library by myself in the end. I sat down at a table, pulled my notebook out of my bag, and read through my assignments. I was studying Philosophy, Politics and Economics (PPE for short) – a very intense course which required me to hand in two essays a week.

  I’d only been sitting at that table for a few minutes when guess who suddenly appeared in the doorway. I smiled, as if to say, ‘I found it’. But he just breezed right past me.

  What a bastard! The illusion of the mysterious, melancholy student was shattered instantaneously. What an arrogant tosshead!

  It took me a while to get accustomed to Oxford. People here were so different. So well groomed and well dressed. They looked like porcelain dolls. I felt more out of place here than I ever did in my own village. In Tonypandy, I was the only gay, and also the only intellectual. I was the first person to go to university, and everyone thought I was being pretentious and wasting my time. But at least I felt superior to everyone else – even if they did call me a useless, brainy faggot.

  But people at Oxford made me feel small. I constantly felt like a fleeing sewer rat, scurrying through the narrow, cobbled streets, desperately avoiding getting trodden on by the spoiled offspring of the wealthy elite.

  He sat down at the end of the table, ignoring me completely. He took his phone out of the inside pocket of his blazer and dialled a number.

  “Hi, is that Sunita Krishnamurthy?” He spoke quietly, but I heard every word. “Yes, I received your files, but the bibliography is missing. I need to be sure the books you used are available in our library, or my tutor will smell a rat. Could you send it to me ASAP? I need to hand in my essay tomorrow. Thank you so much.”

  Well, fuck me gently with a chainsaw! The brazenness of it! I’d heard about this on the Jeremy Vine show. Apparently, there were websites students used to get complete strangers with credentials to write their essays for them. Mr Tall Blond Twatface was cheating!

  I later found out that his name was Eric Haraldsen. He was Swedish, apparently (or Danish or Norwegian – they’re all the same to me). What do they feed these Scandinavians to make them all so damned attractive? He was a third year PPE student and had a reputation for being lazy and not taking his studies seriously enough. He was always late for lectures, and he often skipped class altogether. I learned this from my roommate, Trevor, a fellow Welshman and amateur sleuth. I don’t know how he did it, but Trevor always managed to get information about everyone. Trevor also told me that Eric was a great rower and that his crew had won every single race in the last two years. Well, that wasn’t hard to believe. Eric certainly had the physique for it. Broad shoulders, bulging biceps, and an arse to die for! I remember almost blushing when I saw him strutting away from me in the library, his buttocks wrapped tightly in his trousers, like two hard boiled eggs in a handkerchief.

  I was very upset to find out he was cheating. Some people have to work hard to get into Oxford. You wouldn’t believe the hoops I had to jump through to get accepted! I prepared for two years. Two whole years of refining my writing skills. Of reading up on philosophy. Of joining debating teams in Cardiff, of all places, as there weren’t any in my village. Of studying economics with a private tutor. And none of this came cheap. My mother is on benefits, so I had no help there. And my father… well, the less I say about him, the better. I had to work full shifts at McDonald’s at the weekends just to pay for it all. And on top of all this, I had my regular schoolwork. That’s what it takes for a simple working-class Welsh boy to get accepted into Oxford. And this twat, this pasty-faced muscle hunk with a Thor complex, just breezes into university, as if it were another transit stop towards his final destination, and pays some poor Indian academic to do all his work for him.

  “How did he even get accepted?” I asked Trevor.

  My roommate lay on his bed, fidgeting with his phone.

  “He must’ve cheated on that too. His rich daddy must’ve bribed the college. Who is his father, do we know? He must be some kind of Norwegian oil magnate.”

  “I don’t know who his father is.” Trevor yawned.

  “I have a good mind to report him to his tutor!”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Why not? It’s not fair!”

  I met Trevor at my debating club in Cardiff. He was not only my roommate but also my best friend. We were both gay, both working class, and both the first members of our families to go to university. We were like two peas in a pod.

  “You don’t know for certain that he was cheating,” Trevor said.

  “Of course he was cheating. What else was that conversation about?”

  “I don’t know what it was about, and neither do you. You shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

  “He was cheating! He’s odious and obnoxious, and it’s not fair that people like him exist!”

  “Hold your horse
s, Miss Bennett. If he was cheating, would he really be so indiscreet as to make that phone call in the library?”

  “Yes, he would. And why are you calling me Miss Bennett?”

  “Because you’re being prejudiced.”

  “I am not being prejudiced. I’m being just.”

  “I think you’re in love with him.”

  I scoffed at this. “In love with Twatface? Give me some credit.”

  “Face it, Miss Bennett. You’re in love. You like a bit of haughty. I know you do. He’s just your type.”

  I didn’t report Eric in the end, although I did spend a good number of weeks considering it. It was best not to interfere. I was new to Oxford, after all, and an outsider. It wouldn’t do my reputation any good to be seen as a snitch.

  I kept running into him during that first term. I kept seeing him walking down the college corridors, or in the canteen, or in the pub, drinking with his mates, or rowing on the river, wearing a tight Lycra outfit that left nothing to the imagination. I kept seeing him, but not once did he see me. He always had his eyes averted. Either he was looking at the ground, or at his friends, or he just happened to be gazing in the other direction. It was uncanny. It was almost as if he was avoiding me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  All About Sex

  Shall I tell you about my sexual escapades? Go on, it won’t take long. There aren’t many of them. My first sexual experience was with Trevor. Yes, that Trevor. Well, it made sense. He was the first gay boy I met, and we had the same interests. We seemed made for each other, so it was reasonable to assume we’d make a good couple. But nothing was further from the truth. I was fifteen at the time, and he was sixteen. I used to sleep over at his house at the weekends, when attending the debating club. One night, after reading raunchy stories in a dirty magazine, we decided to wank each other off. We didn’t do it for very long. Neither of us reached a climax. It felt awkward. It was weird and unnatural. Like I was wanking my own brother. There was no spark between us, no physical attraction. We were friends, that’s all. Not lovers. The incident was never repeated, and I think we both banished that memory to the back of our minds.

  My second experience happened when I was sixteen. He was a forty-year-old, married security guard. I met him on a dating app. He lived in a village close by. He picked me up at a Tesco car park and drove me to some deserted viewing point overlooking the valley. We had sex in his car (if sex is what you’d call it). We fumbled awkwardly on the passenger’s seat for a while and exchanged blowjobs. Then he slipped on a condom, and I pulled my trousers down to my knees and climbed on top of him. I tried riding him, but it was my first time, and things did not go smoothly (anal sex is not as easy as porn will have you believe). It was all rather painful and unpleasant, and I gave up trying pretty quickly. I felt dirty and sleazy. To this day, whenever I catch a whiff of the cheap cologne the man wore or see a pair of fluffy dice like the ones he had dangling from his rear-view mirror, I feel my stomach churn.

  The third, fourth, and fifth times were with the same bloke. He was a soldier I met at a gay club in Cardiff. I used to attend those with Trevor sometimes. We’d dance and laugh and have fun for a few hours, then Trevor would go home alone and leave me to satisfy my urges with whoever I managed to pick up. The soldier was rugged and sexy, and I was actually quite enamoured with him. I was seventeen then, and thanks to my experience with Mr Fluffy Dice, better prepared for sex. I met the soldier on three consecutive weekends, and we had the same routine each time. We sat at the bar (because he didn’t like to dance) and alternated pints of lager with shots of vodka while I listened to him complain about how he hated the army. Then, when we were sufficiently drunk, we’d go outside to where the rubbish containers stood and have sex on the ground. Well, where else could we go? I couldn’t take him back to Trevor’s, could I? And he couldn’t take me back to the barracks either.

  My sex life had been sad and sleazy and completely unsatisfying, but that’s what gay life is like for a penniless teenager in the countryside. Forget about Brokeback Mountain. Who’s ever heard of a passionate romance between two shepherds in the Welsh valleys? Gay life in the countryside is all about having secret sex with strangers in shady places. It’s about scrolling down your phone on a Friday night, looking at anonymous dick pics, searching for someone in your area who can spare five minutes for a quick fumble in the bushes. That’s what my life had been like up to this point. That’s why I was so desperate to leave.

  I didn’t have sex during the first term at Oxford. I had no time for that. I did nothing but read and attend lectures. But after the first term, Trevor and I sneaked off to London for a night of wild debauchery before heading back to Wales, and that’s where I had my sixth experience. What an experience that was! I get goose bumps just thinking about it. It was an experience that would change my life forever, and I’m not exaggerating. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Let me continue from where I left off. The first term was over, and Trevor and I were expected to go back to Wales and tell everyone about uni. But we needed a bit of distraction before confronting our friends and families back home. So, we went to London. Just for one long, wild night. We had enough money for the bus, and a little extra for a night of clubbing. We went to Euphoria, the trashiest, sleaziest, most popular gay club in Soho. Apparently, Euphoria is not what it used to be. A lot of straight people go there now. Pretty girls who want a night of fun without being harassed by cocky drunk lads; and cocky drunk lads who know that gay clubs are where all the pretty girls hang out.

  Now, don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against straight people, but I do wish they didn’t hang out in gay clubs. It makes things so confusing. More often than not, when I see a guy that appeals to me, he turns out to be straight. And although most straight guys don’t mind if you flirt with them or pinch their buttocks (some of them actually find it quite flattering), they go completely berserk if your hand goes anywhere near their crotch. I’ve made that mistake once or twice in Cardiff and ended up with a black eye.

  But this particular night wasn’t about sex. This night was about having fun. And we did. We entered the club just when they were playing a series of disco classics. Trevor and I know all the classics: Donna Summer, Madonna, Kylie, Britney, Gaga. We sang our little hearts out and did this crazy little dance where we mimed the lyrics with our hands. It was hilarious. Everyone was looking at us.

  After the disco compilation, we took a break at the bar to lubricate our throats with cider, and that’s when I spotted him. He stood against the wall, clutching a bottle tightly to his chest. It was dark, so I didn’t recognise him at first. I thought he was a mildly good-looking straight guy who’d been dragged unwillingly into a gay bar by his mates, perhaps as a dare or on a stag night. He wore shiny black Louis Vuitton loafers and a tight-fitting, tailored burgundy blazer. It wasn’t until one of the disco lights swept past him and illuminated his face that I realised who it was. My heart leapt. I grabbed Trevor by the shoulders and screamed,

  “It’s him! It’s him! It’s Eric Haraldsen!”

  Trevor and I gaped at him. What was he doing here? Where were his mates?

  A muscle Mary wearing tight leather trousers and a string vest gyrated in his vicinity, trying to attract his attention, but Eric just looked away, frowning. He looked bored.

  “Do you think he’s gay?” Trevor asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “He doesn’t look very happy.”

  “He’s in the wrong club. Should’ve gone to Chelsea. That’s where all the rich kids hang out.”

  “Let’s go over.”

  Trevor picked up his pint and headed towards him. I grabbed his shoulder.

  “What the fuck are you doing!”

  “What?”

  “He’s a twat!”

  “But he looks so lonely and shy.”

  “He’s not shy. He’s arrogant.”

  “I’m going over.”

  He shook himself loose and walked on.
I followed reluctantly.

  A look of panic came over Eric when he saw us. He searched for an escape route, but the club was too crowded. He was trapped. I admit, I did derive some satisfaction out of seeing him like this. So, he did recognise me. He did know who I was.

  “You’re from Oxford,” Trevor said to him.

  Eric pulled himself together and forced a smile onto his face. “Yes, we’re in the same college, aren’t we? I recognise your faces.”

  “I’m Trevor.”

  They shook hands.

  Eric turned towards me. “And you are?”

  “Joel,” I said. “Joel Bottomley.”

  He smiled and grabbed my hand. He had a firm grip. “You’re first years, aren’t you? How did your first term go?”

  “So-so.” I looked around me, feigning disinterest.

  “Did you have trouble settling in?”

  Trouble settling in? The nerve of the man! I finally looked him in the eyes and said, “Actually, I did. It’s a big college. I had trouble finding things at first. Like the library, for instance.”

  Trevor gave me a warning look, but Eric didn’t bite.

  “You’re PPE students, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How are you finding the course?”

  “It’s much harder than I thought. Two essays a week. My goodness, how do you even manage it?”

  Again, a warning look from Trevor. But again, Eric ignored me.

  “You’ll get used to it,” he said.

  There was a short silence.

  “Are you here on your own?” I asked.

  He nodded, rather self-consciously. “I don’t normally go out to clubs like these, but I was curious to see how the hoi polloi enjoy themselves.”

  The hoi polloi? Oh, boy, this guy was a greater snob than I gave him credit for!

  “And how do the hoi polloi enjoy themselves?” I asked, barely able to conceal the disdain in my voice.

  “They’re quite primitive, aren’t they?” He smiled. He was completely oblivious to how arrogant he sounded. “I watched a documentary the other day about a tribe in Africa. They were having some sort of religious festival. They drank an intoxicating drink, fermented manioc juice, I think, and swayed to the rhythm of the tom toms until they reached a state of trance. Then they all had sex. Things haven’t really moved on much, have they?”