On the square boys circling on their bike's. Their buttocks dancing on the saddle. The sun colours their bare arms and legs and gives shine to their hair. I think about my first love: the bashful exploring of his nakedness, the look in his eyes, the rutting odour of his body. On the next day the thought that 'it was all over me'. I look at the poster over my desk: a monkey squeezing his member, a thong around his neck, electron gun on top of his head. Wat more can we do but scratch, grin, look at the stars and flea each other? I lie down on the bed, push my head in my arms.
I was an eight year old retarded boy. Pink legs in leather shorts. Saliva dribbles from my halfopen mouth. I diligently suck in the strange world. Princes and dwarfs ask for my help. I am a hero who salvages people. Everybody loves me.
A bell vibrates through the house. I slip cold feet in houseshoes, run down the stairs. At the door stands a little man, a reddened face, balding with curls of hair. A contorted smile on his lips. He looks through my nostrils inside my brain, searches for means to kill me, I think. With great difficulty he climbs after me to my room. He drops in a chair and tries to pant in silence. For a moment he grins. clumsily, his mouth trembles. Wat does he want from me?
I was a student and lived in a boarding house. The youngest son of the family sat beside me on the couch. The boy had a gorgeous athletic body. Proudly he showed me his swelling muscles. My fingers slid over his arms, over his shoulders and back. He pressed close to me. I could hold him for hours. He drew a deep sigh. I opened my eyes, the room was empty.
The museum has just opened. I am alone, standing in a hall full of stone heads, scary and soothing at the same time. The beauty of the silent sculptures touches me deeply. Tourists and students surge in. Their sounds and movements fill the building and make me feel uneasy. On my way to the exit I notice a boy walking. Slowly, stately, he walks across the big hall. He resembles a boyfriend who passed away young. Then he starts to walk faster, runs out of the building. Panting I follow him, through the streets. For a while he is disappeared, then I see him behind a window, upstairs in a house. He is naked and beckons to me. Oh swanprince, oh undreamt of, I moan, and wake up.
This morning the bedsheets were clammy. I felt dirty and tired. All my muscles ache. I sit at the window and wait for visitors. There's a kid standing in my room. He wears green coveralls and carries a little rake in his fist. He mumbles something and transformes into an old mongol. He scratches my head, my back, my crotch. I close my eyes and grin. Bubbles of spittle appear on my lips.
Olaf Korder
