Internal Thoughts

The story of a lonely man. Drinking alone with only his thoughts for company. 

I sit alone outside my favorite bar on Canal street in Manchester. Velvet is the bar's name. Actually it's a bar, hotel and restaurant all in one. It isn’t the busiest place and sits on the far side of canal street, well away from the more popular bars and clubs at  the opposite end of the street. 

I sip at my pint of lager, watching the world go by. Seated with my back to a wall, and looking into the cobbled street so I can people watch. Behind me is a canal, which coincidentally gives the cobbled street its name. It’s  threatening water, where so many people with dreams of finding love, fulfilling their destiny and dreams. Only to find loneliness and heartbreak. Have ended their lives in misery in those same waters beneath me.

I’m a lonely, shy introvert who struggles to find comfort in the company of other people. I feel intimidated by all the beautiful and confident young people around me. I guess that’s partly a result of my upbringing. 

I was brought up on a farm about 1 mile from a small village and 8 miles from the nearest town,on the Fylde coast in Lancashire, England.I suppose it’s  not that far in real terms but it felt like I lived on Mars. I didn’t make friends easily. My head was always buried in history textbooks or fantasy books by Eddings, Tolkien and Donaldson. Later when I was living in Manchester I found Robert Jordan. Which changed my life. But I digress. 

The hustle and bustle of my parents farm wasn’t for me. The noisy smelly animals. Did absolutely nothing for me. I prefered learning,  Especially history. Having no friends. Only 2 older sisters, whose only interest was the latest boy pop star, or trying to persuade our parents to buy them a pony. They never succeeded.

Reading and listening to music was an escape from boredom. I was never lonely when I was reading about the exploits of Henry the 8th, Joan of arc. Sir Francis Drake, Elizabeth the 1st and other heroes of the past, that really enthralled me. The Hobbit, or Lord of the Rings and the Shanara books by David Eddings helped me escape. They still do. 

You wouldn’t think I’m a shy introvert with the career I have. I’m a part time Lecturer in history at Manchester university, specializing in the early 20th century.  I also write history books based on my passion and historical fiction novels. I also lecture in the tudors and the English civil war. But it’s the early 20th century that fascinates me the most. I have my history teacher at Hodgsons high School, a certain Mr Brown to thank for that. When I was 14, we as a class learned about the 1st world war. To me it brought history to life. It was so near, yet so far away. I was transfixed. It was then I decided to take my fascination for history further.

On leaving school I had o leveLs in history and English and a C.S.E. (Yes I’m that old) in Mathematics. I went to college and got my A levels in history, English and mathematics.Later at Warwick university, I got my masters degree in early 20th century history specializing in the aftermath of the 1st world war. Later I got my PhD, studying the politics of the same era, studying the fall of liberalism and the subsequent rise in socialism within the UK. That was at Manchester university. Then as a result, I was extremely lucky to have then been invited to lecture part time in the subject, which I accepted. That gave me the time to write my 1st historical fiction book about a soldier in the 1st world war. Though it wasn’t a bestseller. It did sell well enough for me. Others have followed. Fiction and factual.

My humorous put downs in my lectures are famous, as is my biting wit. It’s a far cry from the real me, a shy man who  prefers his own thoughts and company to that of others. Writing gives me the seclusion I crave. 

I was a teenager when I realized I was different from my contemporaries around me. I was happier checking out the boys rather than the girls. When I hit puberty I wouldn’t shower with the other boys. My private parts were exactly that, private, not for me the immature games, showing off and pranks of the other boys. I sat in a corner changing quietly, hoping nobody would notice me. I was lucky that P. E. And game’s lessons were always the last lessons of the day. The thoughts of my preference for boys was a secret to be kept to myself. Away from the Neanderthal opinions of others, especially my father. 

There must be a fetish party somewhere in the gay village tonight. There are men, young and old wandering about wearing leather and latex showing themselves off. I marvel at their courage. Although, I must admit, that side of the gay scene only interests me very slightly, if at all. I would never join in anyway. I don’t own, or want to own any leather, latex or any of the accessories that accompany that lifestyle.

 An older man with a gray scruffy beard dressed head to foot in leather, his heavy boots make a clumping sound on the cobbles as he passes by, a younger man dressed in an ordinary white t-shirt and gray sweatpants accompanies him. I know exactly what he’s wearing underneath and how little he will be wearing when they get to the party. 

I will never understand why men love being mistreated by other men. How do they get off on being hurt, humiliated and shared by strangers. No, that's not for me. If I had a significant other younger man I would love, honor him and treat him like a king, or queen. I would give him everything affordable that he needed to improve his life. Be a mentor as well as a lover. That is my style. Though I doubt that will ever happen. In this world you need to look perfect and that is something I feel far from.

2 large women walk past  laughing. Leaning on each other obviously drunk. I don't understand why large women  Insist on wearing tight Lycra and tops that leave nothing to the imagination. Do they think they look good? Sorry you look gross. I watch horribly transfixed as they wobble past.  

 Next to come wandering down the cobbles come 3 young twinks well aware of their own beauty.  They are the sort of people that think Ru Paul’s drag race and soap operas are the height of sophisticated entertainment.  One is wearing shorts and a slim fitting t-shirt all in pink leather, with white trainers. Another has a black  latex crop top t-shirt showing off a piercing in his navel and  black skinny jeans. The 3rd, latex shorts and a harness. He leaves nothing to the imagination. They walk past talking far too loud,and far too fast, they totally ignore me, obviously off to the fetish party. I’m not in their league, apparently. Personally I’m far above them. In my humble opinion.

I look at my pint glass and realize it’s empty. I walk up the steps into the decadent interior. With its smoky mirrors,  gold accents and dark moody walls. Glass in hand. Behind the bar, the young man looks at me. Not paying any particular attention. He’s  more interested in checking out the hunky bouncer with his short cropped dark hair, wide shoulders, narrow waist, firm round bubble butt and thick thighs. 

He looks at me with a certain look of disdain.

“ Yes”?

“ Pint of Corona please”.

He pours me my pint without any more comment.

I look at him. I don't think he’s that special. He obviously thinks he is. He might have been at one time in the not too distant past. But now his hair looks unkempt, his waist bum and thighs are too large. Basically he’s gone to seed. 

“£6.00”.

I give him the asked for amount, thanking him. And walk back outside into the dark balmy October evening. The lamps shine down, lighting the area, drop lights enhance the rough brickwork of the old buildings. Above stars twinkle down from the heavens. The Indian summer was a blessing for what otherwise has been a mixed summer. I sit down and only then do I realize I need the toilet. 

I  stand up again and walk back over the cobbles and back up the steps, I ask the bouncer to look after my pint. Which he agrees to do. I put my pint next to him on a shelf and walk into the gents toilet. 

When inside I do what’s needed and when I’m finished. I wash my hands looking at myself in the mirror, the man looking back at me is in his 50s. With green eyes hidden behind round horn rimmed glasses. And brown hair going gray. The mouth is down turned making the face look stern. My shoulders aren’t that wide and my stomach is too big and hangs precariously above my hips. I’m wearing a white shirt and a tweed jacket with blue jeans and skechers on my feet. I look unfashionable. But frankly I don’t care. I’ve no one but myself to please. 

The bar is quiet this evening and the barman is now talking to the bouncer as I try to reach to get my pint, he gives me a dirty look. But I pay him no mind as the bouncer gives me my pint back, I thank him and walk back into the evening. 

I sit back in my place and continue to people watch as I sip my second pint. A young man walks past. I guess he’s about 25 years old. His brown hair is cut short and combed neat. His skin is flawless, his lips full and his eyes blue as he glances at me, he smiles at me and says hi as he walks past. I say hello back politely, I notice his green slim fitting shirt, that shows off his fine body hidden underneath. He walks on, I watch him, his black jeans fit perfectly. Showing off a perfect little arse and shapely thighs. He is beautiful I think to myself.I’m sure I know him, but I can’t remember where from or when. Probably an ex-student god knows there’s been enough of them. Although wherever I know him from. I know of whom I will be thinking of in bed tonight.

Seeing the young man reminds me of just who I am. A lonely lecturer living in an apartment alone with just my books and writing to keep me company. I don’t want sex with anyone. I don’t see the point. Who would want me? a boring, overweight, shy old man with no confidence and an inferiority complex. 

A gay couple walk past arm in arm. Perfect in every way. They're the perfect looking couple. Gym sculpted bodies. And tailored clothes, Laughing at each other's jokes.and the gossip they share. I’ve never had that. I wonder why I’ve never seen the need. 

My upbringing has a lot to do with it I suppose. My father especially. He was a hard working tenant farmer with opinions that I couldn’t agree with especially in my teenage years knowing who and what I was, that was a secret I would never tell him. Even on his deathbed. He never knew why I didn’t marry. Whenever he asked I  told him I wasn’t the marrying kind, or that I just hadn’t met the right woman or I was too busy with my studies. I was never one to party. Even at university my studies always came first.I  Never had any pets, never found love, rarely had sex. I Just needed my studies, books and my eclectic taste in music for company. 

When your father says gays are an immoral bunch of puffs living in a world of squalid immorality. And your mother says “ oh your so right love”. It doesn’t exactly encourage a shy teenager to come bursting out of his closet that had been made out of the hardest steel. It wasn’t until I left home to go to university that I came out. Even then I never joined any gay groups that were a part of university life. That was in the late 1980s during the height of the AIDS epidemic. I did join the Conservative group on campus, in an effort to make friends. I realized that, that political party met my expectations of center right politics. Of small government and self help. But a government that would step up to the plate when needed. These are ideals I still hold close today. I made a few friends that became close. Their still close friends today spread around the world admittedly but we keep in touch via email, letter or FaceTime. But there was never anyone I fell truly in love with. If I was lonely I didn’t know about it. 

It was also about this time I realized that I didn’t need sex with other people. I found comfort in my own needs, wants and fantasies. Yes I tried sex with other students, especially one. But for me it never really floated my boat. It was too rushed, too painful. Body fluids that to me tasted foul, thinking back that was a risk I was very, very lucky to get away with when millions of people didn’t and died as a result. Anyway that was what I thought. No, that sort of thing wasn’t for me. Did I feel lonely? No, not really. I was too wrapped up in my own studies, later after university, setting myself up in my own life trying to write or, doing the things that part time lecturers do, mentoring students and thinking of novel ways to make dull history lectures interesting. By the way I’m still friends with that one guy I tried so hard to be very close to. He now works in the USA, In New York, on Wall Street. Happily married to the man of his dreams, they both hold dual passports.

My phone rang. It was Mandy, my literary agent. 

“ What do you want”. I asked far too gruffly.

“ Hello to you too, grumpy arse”. Came her acidic reply. 

“ Well it’s Sunday night. I’m in my favorite bar having a pint being unnecessarily disturbed by my agent”. 

“ Look I’m sorry to interrupt your evening but, for your information a publisher from London wants to meet you about your latest manuscript. He's very excited. The idea of a lord of the manor investigating murders during the civil war, Is something  different. They want to offer you a multiple book deal to write books about the possibility of the Earl of Preston investigations, novels”.

“ I’m a lecturer not a writer. I write for a hobby. To make money. Lecturing is my first love”. 

“ That’s what I told him. He won’t be interested, I told him. But he is very insistent. Look, just chat to him. We will meet him for a meal with all expenses paid at 20 stories. We won't take no for an answer. Be there, dressed smart, for 7pm tomorrow evening. And for god sakes smile. It could be a million pound deal that will make you rich and famous, see you tomorrow evening. “

“ But I don’t want”……….

I never finished the sentence, as she rang off. I ran my hands over my face. And swore into them. This is when a loving partner would come in handy. To give me the confidence I need to see this through. And go with me to give me advice and support. God I wish I was more confident. 

I suddenly realize that as I sit here on my own, lonely, in the same bar every week,  drinking the same 2 pints week in week out. A creature of habit. In my own world. Doing the same thing day in and day out. It’s all so bloody dull. I feel like I can’t escape it. This dull boring life. I don’t want to be rich and famous. Not on my own anyway. 

A tear rolls down my face. Now where did that come from? I haven’t cried in years. Oh for someone to wake up with every day to love and cherish. To share my life with. As I watch couples walk past both gay and straight, all arm in arm. All in love. I realize that I’m so lonely. But confidence is the biggest turn on. I have brains. When  I’m lecturing I’m a different person. Confident, intelligent and funny. Students admire and love me. But away from the lecture hall I’m the complete opposite. I’m shy and uncomfortable in company.I feel Inadequate surrounded by all the beautiful, confident people around me. I feel tongue tied, unable to communicate properly, so subsequently I stay silent. So because of that I come across as a grumpy old man. 

Being rich, going all over the world lecturing and promoting my books would be a dream come true. But on my own it would be hard.if not impossible. With a partner. To have someone to share my success with would be incredible.

But it’s all pipe dreams, isn’t it? I’m not good looking. I’m in my 50s, a lonely, shy introvert,  leading a miserable and boring life. I look at my pint glass, it’s empty and home time, I’ve work tomorrow. I need to prepare. I stand and I take a glance around me, then I  walk into the night back to my apartment alone as always. 

******

A short time later a beautiful young man walks up the steps and into bar velvet. His blue eyes look sad, his brown hair neat and cut short, his green shirt perfect on his fit young body. He looks around and notices the older guy isn’t there. He walks up to the bar. 

“ Excuse me. Do you know the man who was seated by the wall earlier? “

“ Yeah, what about him?”

“Has he gone”? 

“Yeah, why? “

“My date didn’t turn up. The man sitting there was my lecturer at uni, thanks to him I’m now a history teacher. He was my mentor. It’s him I need to thank for my career. I was going to buy him a pint and catch up with him, do you know where he lives?”

“ No idea, love. He comes in here every Sunday night, has 2 drinks then goes home. Who is he anyway.?”

“ That is professor Andrew Roberts. Lecturer in history, author. And my hero”.

Can’t help you love sorry. But I read his book once, you know the one. It’s about a soldier in that war. It was good. I didn’t know that was the guy that had written it. He’s so quiet and unassuming”. I’d have treated him better if I’d have known”. 

“ Oh well maybe another time, I hope. I won’t keep you any longer, there’s no reason to stay. See you”. 

“ He will be here next week. That much I do know. The barman shouted after him.” 

The beautiful young man walks out into the night alone. Humming a tune called the crying game. 

End.