As much as I try to make these stories chronological, I have to separate the parallel threads as it will otherwise confuse, I am sure. This part is going across about two and a half years and other episodes happened along the way.

I have mentioned previously that I grew up in a very Christian environment, which meant church every Sunday. Our church had a big organ on a platform above the entrance. Next to the organ was room for the choir, which consisted of pre-pubescent boys only with their high-pitched voices.

One Sunday, when I was bored out of my skull, I became aware of one boy, who seemed to stand out from the rest - not only by being totally bald, but by his position in relation to me and by the light.

I looked at him and my heart soared. I could not take my eyes away from him and stared unabashed until the end of the service, which appeared to come much too early for once.

I hung back when leaving, much to my parents' surprise, as I knew that the choir came out fairly late normally as the organist (who was also the choir leader) gave them his views on the Sunday's performance and some last instructions for the following week.

I was in the vestry when the choir trickled out and felt the surge of expectancy going through me, waiting to meet HIM.

He came out a few minutes later and looked at me with a shy smile. "Hi," he said. "You were staring at me."

I could not say a word. My heart was thumping in my chest and my tongue tied in knots.

"I'm Tom," he said. "Where do you live?"

Just like that.

I managed to calm sufficiently down to actually talk to him and realised that we were living only a few minutes away from each other. I did not know him as he went to a different school (and he was two classes below me on top of that).

Tom's parents were a bit surprised that he and I were playing (not meant in THAT way), as he was fairly introvert and only had a few friends. He was bald, I was told, because he had cancer and was undergoing chemo-therapy, which made his hair fall off.

I didn't care.

We were mostly left alone in his room and talked. It was strange, but once again I was learning from a ten-year-old. This time I was learning about his illness, about how sick he was when he had the chemo, how he cried for his parents, who were afraid of him dying, (he wasn't afraid). He was extremely level-headed and had the biggest collection of books I had ever seen. (Looking through the books, I found To Kill a Mockingbird, which I hadn't read yet, despite Mary-Ann's recommendation.)

We talked. We sat in silence. And we touched.

A bit awkwardly at first, but by-and-bye more confidently and after a couple of months I kissed him.

I wish I could say that he reciprocated, but he didn't.

He wasn't quite ready yet - that would take another month or two.

But he was keen on the touching, having become aware of the nice feeling of masturbation. (I'm afraid that I told him about that.) And he would pull his trousers down at every opportunity and shove his little dick in my face. I duly blew him and if time and circumstances allowed - we were at his house with at least one of his parents at home, remember - he would give me a blow-job. He was quite a natural but didn't like the taste so we always made sure to have a cup he could spit in. And loads of tissues to clean up afterwards.

It was quite an emotional attachment as he had several relapses over time, each bringing their measure of grief to us all. It brought me much closer to the family and after some time, I was allowed to sleep over some weekends - especially if he had been really ill, as it seemed to help him cope better. I am sure that they were suspecting that we did more than just talk and sleep, but they never let on and they never showed any disapproval or suggested any alternative arrangements to stop it going on.

After more than two years, his condition became really serious and he was admitted to hospital feeling very sick. He was able to walk into the hospital on his own but after two days he was almost comatose and we were sitting vigil at his bed. I was literally in that room for six days straight, sitting next to him, waiting for him to die. He had short periods of lucidity but was mostly just sleeping with a seriously laboured breathing. There was a hubbub of people coming and going with the rest of his family, aunties, uncle and cousins coming and going, but I was there all the time, crying my eyes out when he was not watching.

On the sixth day, late in the afternoon, Tom opened his eyes and asked me to lie next to him. I looked at his parents, and they both nodded encouragingly. By all means, they said and I crawled into the bed next to this scrawny boy I loved so dearly.

I lay there and listened to his laboured breathing that would stop for some long seconds before resuming - until suddenly it didn't resume.

He had died in my arms.

I cried like never before, but it wasn't the last time I loved and lost.