Bruise Pristine, Part 1

Lust across the aisle can lead to the endangerment of one's soul - a tragedy in two parts.

Photo & Text all rights reserved © Saint-Lazare, 2025.

I feed myself with dreams and will soon starve to death. The red paint of the graffiti still looks fresh, humidifying the glossy paper of the dating app’s advertising, running down the board and dripping on the floor of the subway station. The placement of the letters is effectively erasing the empty smile of the couple pictured, and from where I stand it is almost as if their skulls had been crushed. I shiver. Then I realize that I am standing on the same platform where I first met Kit. Government Center, says the sign. I am feeling a little dizzy as I hear the voice in my head whispering, “And now they found his body.”

Kit’s body. Tall. Muscular. He had such good posture for someone of his height; I remember thinking that, walking on the very same platform behind him. I also immediately noticed the signs – the red flags. Blond crew cut, black bomber jacket, suspenders, slim blue jeans, combat boots. I was not so surprised when he immediately noticed I was watching him. Paranoia as a trademark, you know the kind. Blue eyes. I saw them when he gave me a quick glance behind his shoulder; a cold, aggressive look. Oh, and that handsome face. I thought that he was the hottest man I had ever met. Thick, sensual lips. Without really being aware of what I was doing, I was following him. When the T arrived, he entered the car so quickly it surprised me and I had to use the next door. I was sitting almost thirty feet away from him. He was standing, his right hand gripping a bar, his back turned to me. Yet, he still knew that I was there. I had my eyes locked on him and he knew it. He looked back again, with the same infuriated face. The train was dashing away in the dark. Next stop, Park Street. I could not help admiring his broad shoulders, his massive torso. His ass. He turned again, killing me with his eyes. I could see how uncomfortable he was, and somehow, it intoxicated me. A warm wave travelled across my limbs in the direction of my chest; a pleasurable sensation. Next stop, Prudential. He jumped out so fast I almost missed him leaving the car. As he passed the window in front of me, he stared at me, the spitting portrait of anger. Then, he disappeared from my view. It is strange, I thought, I am aroused. But I did not dare to follow him. What if I had? Oh, I know what my friends would have said. Luke, you knew what he was. You know what you are. In a dark, underground corridor, what do you think would have happened? Certainly not a steamy hugging and kissing, you idiot. You would have ended up beaten. Or killed. I would never know. I exited at Kenmore Station. And now, Kit is dead.

At first, I thought that this brief, odd encounter would just become a juicy anecdote to share with my progressive friends. That day I checked out a skinhead’s ass and he felt sexually harassed! Then, I would forget everything about it. There was no way I would cross his path again; it was a big city. He would obviously not be on those missed connections apps or websites. He was the bad type. He was not my type. But actually, it would appear that Kit wanted to be found.

I stumbled upon a picture of him while researching an antifascist musician I knew. It was on the social page of an alternative café, a teaser for an art happening. He was only shown from the back. But hell, I knew this backside. His name, according to the account, was Kit Henslow. I was seconds away from finding his public profile. I knew it by his style but I was confirmed he was a sort of rising figure of the alt right. I was also minutes away from unearthing his secret private profile. He shared pictures of cats. Geeky memes. Teenage spleen innuendos. A typical millennial. He did not seem as ominous as his public persona wanted to. The dark tattoos. The cult of alcoholism. His following was massively consisting of straight males and not a single of his pictures was revealing how good looking he was. But soon, he would be in this café. I had no idea why (I think art and music were involved) but I had to be there. This was genuinely out of character for me. My friends were stunned.

“What happened to your social anxiety?” My former roommate asked.

“Why would you go to this gathering of fascists?” My classmates shouted.

I told them that this café was known for its neutrality and free speech, that it could be interesting to learn how these people were – or something along those lines.

“We know how they are, there is no freedom of speech with them!” Stated my best friend. “And I don’t want to hear you saying how hot he is!”

I was clearly out of my mind. I could almost hear the backwash of the warm wave inside my chest; its enticing dampness. The evening of the event arrived and I was going alone. A thin, small major of English Literature. An aspiring poet. A twink. Going to a party full of alt right freaks. I am not proud of it, but I had diarrhea. Yet I went. I know what you think, but it was not that bad. The café was almost empty, which was weird as it was a cold, rainy day on a weekend. There was that artsy couple on cocaine, an awkward university teacher and a bunch of teenage boys. The antifascist musician I knew was at the bar – he always was. He was kind of an oddball, one of these open-minded individuals who seem to have reached a higher level of reality. Casually, I asked him if he knew who that Henslow was.

“Yeah, Kit’s a good guy, y’know!” He said. “He’s not as extreme or bad as they say… a lost kid.”

Some artistic agent mentioned that Kit was late because he had stopped to see his girlfriend. I was about to leave when he entered. He rushed to shake hands with the musician. He mumbled that he was a fan. His smile was so juvenile it unsettled me.

“Do you know my friend Luke?” The musician asked.

Kit turned his eyes on me, looking shy. There was a jolt, as if he was about to run away, but almost imperceptible.

“Are you here for me?” He stuttered.

I nodded. He smiled, faintly.

“Nice to meet you!” Kit said.

He attempted a virile handshake but as I was stunned, it failed miserably. He acted as if nothing happened and ordered red wine.

“That’s the only thing that gives me a hard-on!” He joked, speaking to the musician.

I could not believe my eyes. I thought he would have recognized me. Actually, I am pretty sure he did. But he acted as if he did not, draped in his ample, boho clothes and tobacco smell. A discreet little boy in a body too big for him. He did not look as dangerously attractive as he had appeared to me on that platform, as if he was not the same person. I was somehow disappointed, and almost relieved that he was ignoring me. He finally put on his bad guy mask when the teens asked him for an autograph. He did some arm wrestling with them. His biceps were ridiculously massive. Then, he invited me, out of the blue, to follow him to a bar where he was supposed to meet a friend. I argued that I had to attend a class early tomorrow morning. He mocked me for going to college, which he called a factory of Stupid Justice Warriors. I said goodbye to the musician and left, without even glancing at him. What if I had gone to that bar? They have not closed his social media profile yet; I have checked. I don’t know if they can. I have read somewhere that it was difficult for families to cancel the accounts of dead people. You can still see the selfie he posted that night, sitting at a table in a random bar, looking miserable. The caption reads, “University of Loneliness, Class of ‘18”. I knew it was meant for me. I was baffled. What if he was giving me the cold shoulder because we were in public, where witnesses from all political sides could see him? What if he was in fact interested in me? The warm wave sensation was heavier.

We were following each other on social media and sporadically, I would get likes and comments from him on my posts. His comments had a bro vibe. On my side, I was not missing any of his posts. He was a gym rat and no week would pass without him posting selfies revealing his torso or arms. I was studying his many (bad) tattoos. A lot of girl names. Some guy names. I was masturbating to his photos, but I never commented on them. One evening, the antifa musician invited me for a drink and mentioned that Kit was going to join us. Intrigued, I decided to go. The club was an inclusive space with mostly girls, pop music and cocktails with names such as ‘Smash the Patriarchy’. The kind of place my friends and I would patronize. I was very curious to see if Kit would turn up. Not only he did but he stayed. The first hour, he almost started a fight with a guy who badmouthed his tattoos, and some girls tried to turn him on – without success. He was drinking heavily. Vodka. He seemed in a good mood and he kept teasing me.

“You have such a weak body!” He told me. “You really should hit the gym.”

Later in the conversation, he added, “I like you, you’re the good type. We’re so alike.” I was starting to feel dizzy; I was not used to drinking that much and Kit’s uninterrupted babbling was exhilarating. He tried to convince me to dance but I refused even to stand. I was drunk. I was a bad dancer. I had a hard-on. I was paralyzed. So, the musician and I watched Kit bouncing on the dance floor on a Lady Gaga song, bubble paper wrapped around his bare torso. When he was bumping into someone and the bubbles would pop, he would giggle like a little boy. He was so drunk we had to put him in a taxi. He was not even able to give his exact address, and he was not alarmed that I actually knew it. He just threw a wad of bills to the driver’s face. I had been so astounded by this vision of Kit at the nightclub that I kept talking about it with my friends.

“Come on, Luke, this guy can’t be gay or bi, he’s a conservative and a virilist… you’re wasting your time!”

I talked about Milo Yiannopoulos and Morrissey. I said Palahniuk and Ellis had paved the way for the bad gay type.

“This is way less sexy than the bad gay type, Luke. Relationships across the aisle are doomed. And do you really want to hook up with someone who writes this on his socials?”

They kept showing me posts. Rants against feminists. Jokes on Mexicans. Ode to survivalism. Third-rate trolling. I said he was a provocateur. I defended freedom of speech. I conceded he was immature. Alright, he lacked education, he was stubborn, he was bipolar. That was not his fault, he had a terrible childhood. I defended him, but only half-heartedly. All I had in mind was his muscular, hairless torso belly-dancing on Bad Romance. That was pure lust. That was the wave and its viscosity.

Bruise Pristine, Part 2

Read Part 2 here.