by Paul Golding

Be warned, this is an extremely frank account of homosexual practices. But it is also the most moving love story full of humour, sadness and despair.


Confidence, you see. Matthew had it in magnums. He couldn't have cared a tinker's toss if tossers chose to imagine that he wore the same old garb day-in day-out, whereas little, in my youth, filled me with greater horror than the thought of being spied repeating outfits. Even my surly denim ran a broad tonal gamut - from dry-ice to dirty white, via ash and dove and aqua, all the way down to indigo. I drew the line at black. Black isn't a colour. Black is black. (I want my baby back.)



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