Silk Handkerchiefs

I have only ever read snippets of Paul Haworth's "Silk Handkerchiefs" and I hope to get my hands on it as soon as the reliable student loan makes a beautiful appearance in my bank account, but it makes good reading (as far as I know anyway) earthy, male honesty.

That was a stiffy pressing hard – bloody hard –
against my pint-sized M&S chinos.
Laugh? I could cry.
Fuck me it hurt. Men can relate. When the little
fella stands to attention (no one to blame, he’s his
own boss) and he’s push-push-pushing ’gainst
insides of your trousers. I guess this weren’t such a
big deal few years back when tight weren’t in but
Stiffening, hardening, engorging, lengthening.
Tightening the tight – the impossibly tight –
and when that helmet digs into the teeth of your
flies – Tom Verlaine! – it’s torture.
But I didn’t care. Why should I? I was in love!
Love! Love! Love!
I was stood outside Gaz’s and I had just – she’d
walked past – we spoke – only briefly – but –
hoochie mama – fuck – words ain’t nothing. Know
this: I’ve seen some beauts in my time but she…
she re-wrote the rulebook.
Never felt like this before.
Love at first sight? You don’t believe it – why
should you? – and then it happens and badaboom –
shoboy – she’s the one.
I knew, I was sure of it. Stood there, jaw on’t
floor, I was a changed man. It was irrevocable. When
Marky comes out the door and growls, “Phwoar,
did you see that?”
I resented the that. She wasn’t a that, she was so
much more.
“Yes, yes,” rubbing his hands together, “she
were a bit of alright!”