Malcolm and Will
When you meet Malcolm and Will, the dynamic between the two friends is clear: Will is the sizzle, and Malcolm is the steak.
Will is the hot, ditzy, party animal who always keeps the volume up so loud he can forget he’s in his mid thirties. Malcolm is the intelligent, pensive, charming, freethinker who doesn’t care that he’s in his mid thirties; he’s too busy making plans for next weekend, and the weekend after, until they both die of old age, or alcohol poisoning.
As you spend more time with them, you start to see more than just how they present. You start to notice their eyes.
In Will’s eyes there is a friendly curiosity, a love of new experiences with new people, but in Malcolm’s eyes there is a hunger. Unlike Will, Malcolm doesn’t look at people for what they can do together, but what they can do for him. It is a dark, primal look. It is the final piece of the puzzle you’ve just started to solve; it connects what he does with why:
Malcolm doesn’t love people, he wants people, and Malcolm gets what he wants.
Soon you see this two-man operation differently than you did before. Malcolm isn’t the steak. He’s the snake that lures you in with a friendly face and a cunning brain, posing as something you want, when in fact it’s you that he wants.
I was seventeen when I met Malcolm and Will.
I’d like to take this opportunity to thank all the grown men who had no interest in me as a teenager. The men that rejected me, the men that threw away my number, the men that turned into a man-shaped cloud of dust as soon as I told them how old I was.
Back then I couldn’t see why you wouldn’t want me just because of my age. Now I understand why you didn’t, and what separates you from the men that did.
My “favourite” memories of Malcolm were all the times I felt thrilled with him. Throwing back shots without throwing up, dancing my ass off without feeling stupid, staying out until 10am in a car full of friends without a care in the world.
My favourite memories are not kissing him, or touching him, or sleeping with him. That’s not something I ever wanted to do, or ever would have done if it weren’t for him being so insistent. If we were alone together, he was on me. I’d either have to go along with it or leave.
And I did go along with it. I loved sex and I liked him, so when it happened I just went with it. There were more nights than I could forget where I would only go with it after I had exhausted all of my excuses. Those were bad ends to fun nights.
My least favourite memory of him was on the first of many nights at Will’s farmhouse. Malcolm drove a group of us up after all the bars in the city had closed. The house that was so far from Nowhere you couldn’t even get a cab to Nowhere, especially at this time of night.
As usual, Malcolm and I were the last ones awake, and we were watching TV on the couch, and nothing had ever happened between us before, until he put his hand on my leg.
I darted to the other sofa, so we could keep this fun night going without acknowledging what had just happened. He patted the spot next to him, and spoke words I can’t remember with eyes that said “Come on, we’re friends. You don’t want to sit next to your friend?”
I could tell he wouldn’t drop it until I came back.
I should have just gone to bed. Nothing was stopping me from going to bed… Except the possibility of him seeing that as an invitation.
I don’t remember how quickly it happened after I sat back down next to him. I don’t even remember if we had sex that night. All I remember from that point on is him kissing me, and me going with it, wishing it would stop, wishing it never started.
I never flirted with Malcolm, but I did flirt with Will once. He was more attractive, more genuine, and although he wasn’t as smart, he was definitely a better person than Malcolm. I know that for sure, because no matter what I did there was no part of Will that looked at me the way Malcolm did, the way a snake looks at a mouse. I flirted with Will at a bar by giving him what a teenager would call a sexy look, raising my eyebrows, and gesturing with my head to a quiet place near the coat check where we could fool around. All Will gave me back was a blank look, before turning to speak to someone his age.
After that, I never tried flirting with Will again. In that moment, he made me feel so naive, so out of place, so… seventeen.
I wish I knew him now, so I could thank him for rejecting me, and ask him how he could be friends with a man that didn’t.When you meet Malcolm and Will, the dynamic between the two friends is clear: Will is the sizzle, and Malcolm is the steak.
Will is the hot, ditzy, party animal who always keeps the volume up so loud he can forget he’s in his mid thirties. Malcolm is the intelligent, pensive, charming, freethinker who doesn’t care that he’s in his mid thirties; he’s too busy making plans for next weekend, and the weekend after, until they both die of old age, or alcohol poisoning.
As you spend more time with them, you start to see more than just how they present. You start to notice their eyes.
In Will’s eyes there is a friendly curiosity, a love of new experiences with new people, but in Malcolm’s eyes there is a hunger. Unlike Will, Malcolm doesn’t look at people for what they can do together, but what they can do for him. It is a dark, primal look. It is the final piece of the puzzle you’ve just started to solve; it connects what he does with why:
Malcolm doesn’t love people, he wants people, and Malcolm gets what he wants.
Soon you see this two-man operation differently than you did before. Malcolm isn’t the steak. He’s the snake that lures you in with a friendly face and a cunning brain, posing as something you want, when in fact it’s you that he wants.
I was seventeen when I met Malcolm and Will.
I’d like to take this opportunity to thank all the grown men who had no interest in me as a teenager. The men that rejected me, the men that threw away my number, the men that turned into a man-shaped cloud of dust as soon as I told them how old I was.
Back then I couldn’t see why you wouldn’t want me just because of my age. Now I understand why you didn’t, and what separates you from the men that did.
My “favourite” memories of Malcolm were all the times I felt thrilled with him. Throwing back shots without throwing up, dancing my ass off without feeling stupid, staying out until 10am in a car full of friends without a care in the world.
My favourite memories are not kissing him, or touching him, or sleeping with him. That’s not something I ever wanted to do, or ever would have done if it weren’t for him being so insistent. If we were alone together, he was on me. I’d either have to go along with it or leave.
And I did go along with it. I loved sex and I liked him, so when it happened I just went with it. There were more nights than I could forget where I would only go with it after I had exhausted all of my excuses. Those were bad ends to fun nights.
My least favourite memory of him was on the first of many nights at Will’s farmhouse. Malcolm drove a group of us up after all the bars in the city had closed. The house that was so far from Nowhere you couldn’t even get a cab to Nowhere, especially at this time of night.
As usual, Malcolm and I were the last ones awake, and we were watching TV on the couch, and nothing had ever happened between us before, until he put his hand on my leg.
I darted to the other sofa, so we could keep this fun night going without acknowledging what had just happened. He patted the spot next to him, and spoke words I can’t remember with eyes that said “Come on, we’re friends. You don’t want to sit next to your friend?”
I could tell he wouldn’t drop it until I came back.
I should have just gone to bed. Nothing was stopping me from going to bed… Except the possibility of him seeing that as an invitation.
I don’t remember how quickly it happened after I sat back down next to him. I don’t even remember if we had sex that night. All I remember from that point on is him kissing me, and me going with it, wishing it would stop, wishing it never started.
I never flirted with Malcolm, but I did flirt with Will once. He was more attractive, more genuine, and although he wasn’t as smart, he was definitely a better person than Malcolm. I know that for sure, because no matter what I did there was no part of Will that looked at me the way Malcolm did, the way a snake looks at a mouse. I flirted with Will at a bar by giving him what a teenager would call a sexy look, raising my eyebrows, and gesturing with my head to a quiet place near the coat check where we could fool around. All Will gave me back was a blank look, before turning to speak to someone his age.
After that, I never tried flirting with Will again. In that moment, he made me feel so naive, so out of place, so… seventeen.
I wish I knew him now, so I could thank him for rejecting me, and ask him how he could be friends with a man that didn’t.
