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Don't Touch Me

Writer Notes

No idea why I wrote this.

Listen to the Reader

T T T
Don't Touch Me
By: DevlinRyder
I was born beautiful.
And while I was growing up I was beautiful. My mother
would say, "Doesn't Benjamin have the cutest little
physique?" And all our occasional company or even people
along the streets would smile and nod. Some would point out
my large blue eyes and long eye-lashes. Or my bright golden
locks (I had shoulder-length hair). I knew what people were
seeing, of course, and how they were seeing it: because I was
also intelligent. In fact, my beauty was often the focus of
other people's admiration. They wanted to be a beautiful
boy child like me. Loved. Adored.
By the time I was twelve I would stand naked in front of
the bathroom mirror; sometimes for hours, looking at my young
boy's body, the vague contours of my stomach, all my
smooth skin, my muscular legs. Even my chest was beginning to
display some dimension. Tarzan, I thought. And I would
examine my armpits for tiny little hairs. Admirable blonde
wisps . . . if you looked close enough.
At sixteen I had become handsomely beautiful. Everybody
wanted to touch me. All the girls. And even some teachers
would brush against my jacket or try to shake my hand. Any
excuse to touch me. To be close to me. To actually be me, I
think. They all wanted to be a beautiful teenage boy, with
his whole life ahead of him. Sometimes I would tell jokes
that were purposely unfunny. And people would laugh anyway.
Which always disappointed me. Fakes.
Now that I'm in my twenties I no longer trust anyone.
I've let myself get fat and pasty looking. I'm
also hairy. And I've let myself get smelly. Smelly on
purpose. Because I don't want people sitting next to me
on the subway. I don't want people looking at me or
touching me, while they hope I come off on their fingertips,
so they can turn and taste me. I just want to be left alone.
I wear rags now, too, on purpose, and there are holes in
my shoes.
I don't expect you to understand.
Founded by Steve & Judy