Extracts from my personal diary (part 2)

Looking good, aged 23.

My cousins came to see me the other day. They are incredibly handsome young men, tall, erect and sturdy, with dark, bold, sexy faces. Alex has a refined goatee. In their teenage years they were arrogant, superior, I didn’t much like them. But I see now they have changed. They could not have been more genial, more sensitive. They are true gentlemen.

They invited me to go to the dogs with them. I don’t normally go to such places. I don’t go to nightclubs, bars, parties; I don’t even go to restaurants or the cinema. I am shy retiring, I like to read books. However I couldn’t really say no. Plus, a part of me was excited by the prospect. In their company it could be quite a night.

So I said yes, and in the intervening days I was plagued by a mixture of nervousness, doubt and anticipation. To be honest, my soul felt left of centre, not at rest. I took to looking at myself in the mirror. The delicate, handsome, refined features of my cousins had left an inedible mark on my memory; and I couldn’t help note the family resemblance in my face. I looked like my cousins, they were handsome. So didn’t that mean…..

So tonight I went out with them. I was to meet them in town, and I walked alone through the streets, dressed up in fancy, fashionable clothes. I’d bought them a year ago, in a spur of the moment thing, but then, realising that they just weren’t me, I’d kept them locked up in my wardrobe. Tonight however, I’d finally decided to wear them. As I walked, my belt dangling about my midriff, my glasses removed for once and replaced by contacts, I felt foolish, as if everybody watched me and was saying to themselves ‘look at him, dressed up like that – he looks ridiculous.’ The belt dangling at my midriff seemed especially silly; I kept wanting to tuck it in, to hide it. I walked tensely, nervously across the town. Part of me wished I’d never come.

When I met my cousins I had mixed feelings. They are splendid specimens, and I was overcome with wonder, seeing how they, wearing dangling belts like I, wore them with such command, such manly bravado. Physically I am not much inferior, I don’t think. But they seemed to posses some elusive quality that I lacked, that allowed them to strut around, bold and erect, their belts at their beck and call. In comparison, I looked lost and rudderless, my belt dangled around me embarrassed, as if it resented my lack of leadership, and was sick of me. Their belts were happy to have such masters; they followed their command.

So we walked to the dogs, and though I felt a bit like an idiot, the protection afforded to me, by the presence of my cousins – who didn’t seem to notice I looked like such a dip-stick – made me forget about my appearance. Instead I noted the glances of men and women directed our way, the respect afforded us, the feeling that as a group my defects were hidden, and that the appreciation of my cousin’s attractiveness extended to myself. We were like the three musketeers.

The greyhound course was a dive. I would never have come here alone. The clientele were decidedly rough. However not only did that not phase my rich, privately educated cousins, but in fact they were perfectly at home here, and were treated like royalty. The man on the door doffed his cap as it were and said evening boys in his common accent; they responded with alpha male condescension, courteously, ever so courteously replying, assured however of their supremacy. As they strutted about the place, like proud peacocks, I in tow, I was overcome by immense pride, seeing how they dominated this venue. The bar maid could not have been more ingratiating, calling them darling and honey, showing such true respect. And as they wandered away, pint in hand, amidst the punters – hard men, working class men, genuine rough and tough specimens – their dominance, in the way they strolled at ease through their ranks, in the way the punters, in their self-deprecating body language, and occasional nods and greetings, bowed to them – their dominance could not have been more complete. I also noted the constant attention the women were throwing ‘our way’.

Anyway it was at some point in the evening that I shelved all doubts regarding my appearance, saw that I was a handsome man, and gave myself up to being admired by women. It was such a good feeling to finally feel at home with the opposite sex, to feel sort after. And almost immediately as this pure and novel feeling kicked in, a secondary and impure one, a feeling common to the nouveau riche, set in: I was overcome with bitchiness toward other men, and spotted all of their weaknesses, that my cousins and I, in our undoubted dominance, lacked. Like I say I was overcome with these feelings, though deep down I was beset by major, major doubts. And my soul felt not at rest, as though it were on the waltzer. I was not myself, I acted unnaturally. I talked loudly and made stupid jokes. I acted as though all watched me.

It was a lovely feeling though. At one point a beautiful young lady walked by our group inspecting us with interest. My cousins seemed oblivious, but I looked directly back at her, as if to say ‘hello my dear’. As I did this, I imagined, in my mind's eye, the look of bold, lion-like sexiness that my cousins’ faces display, I imagined this upon my own face. Eventually the young girl, seemingly buckling under the pressure of my gaze, could not help a smile flit across her face, and so raised her hand to her mouth, to cover her embarrassment. I was overcome by my power to impress, my ability to make a girl like that buckle under the power of my presence. On another occasion, as I went to the toilet, a group of young girls eyed me up, and extremely flattered, I stared cockily back at them. They looked at each other and giggled in that teenage way.

So I spent the evening surfing a wave of happiness, as though a new world had opened up to me. But in my heart I think I had major doubts, my soul was all at sea and deep down I was unhappy. Ignoring these feelings however, I surfed on, and at one moment, when I happened to pass, on my way to the toilets, a man dressed foolishly in a white suit, I stared contemptuously at him. I had watched him all evening, like a cat with a mouse. The white suit had evidently been a great idea back at home; but when he’d found himself out here with it on, he’d been overcome with regret, and I had watched his sorry figure wander back and forth around the terrace, clearly wishing the ground would swallow him up. I was glad to see someone else suffering the sort of humiliation usually reserved for myself. As I passed him I shot him a cocky, contemptuous glance; surprisingly he replied with a genuinely outraged look, seeming to question my impudence. I was puzzled by that.

Anyway, I arrived home, said goodbye to my cousins, and joyous over my new found happiness, went to examine my good looks in the mirror. I have never experienced a more excruciating, colder blow.

Instead of a handsome man, I saw an utter fool. Having gone out with wet, gelled hair, I saw how, by the action of the wind, it had become tufted like a mad professor’s. My eyes, nose and cheeks were red, swollen and bleary after the alcohol. But the worst thing of all were the bits of pie leftovers on my face. Why my cousins had not mentioned this to me I could not say. Perhaps they see me as such a contemptible figure anyway, they thought it made no difference. Perhaps they were too polite to mention it. In any case, observing the tufted hair, the red swollen face, the pie remains before me, I now saw with crystal clarity just why that young lady had put her hand to her mouth to avoid smiling; why the school girls had giggled uncontrollably; why white suit, as I had arrogantly dubbed him, had questioned my impudence, as if I should look at my own undignified person before insulting his.

I am so utterly mortified by all of this. I feel so cold and lonely, so suicidal. I am such a fool, so susceptible to being delusional. I feel so ashamed, so embarrassed by my antics. I want to get into bed, switch all the lights off, bury my head deep in my pillow, and never wake up again.