The problem, as I like to call it, came a few days before this Fresher's Fair – the Saturday before last in fact, when Will Slater, the new editor to our two-bit Student Paper cum magazine, handed me the interview details of our latest subject for the personality page. I'll give you two guesses who the subject was. Here's a clue – I'm fairly certain he's Welsh (going on his name anyway) and from the evidence of his answers has an ego the size of his country of origin. I believe my exact words on perusal of the man's interview answers were, "You cannot be serious."

I get stuck with guff like this because I'm the only moron on the staff who can operate a camera and doesn't have an embolism on the sight of a studio light. I work at a photography gallery part time and they hire out a lot of equipment. The previous editor decided that we should show more involvement with the student body, and so the personality page was born – a whole double page spread with full colour shoot (eating up at least a quarter of our picture budget) on the 'personalities' that grace our university campus daily. They get to promote their societies, or themselves if they're into university politics and some girl who's far do obsessed with fashion does a break-down of their 'original style' before we shamelessly promote the places they're likely to be seen in a sad bid for sponsorship from said businesses, simultaneously making it deliciously easy for any potential stalkers enthralled by pseudo-celebrity status. Basically, it's an undisguised popularity contest, and it makes me sick that the paper has come down to such levels.

Will, of course, shared none of my cynicism. He looked at me, blinked and proceeded to defend the waste of space's purpose. "Of course I'm serious. We managed to miss covering the Gay Pride Parade – we need to do something. Someone's going to get onto us for bigotry if we're not careful."

I just stared at him, entirely unimpressed. "He's not representative. Put me in a pink shirt and use me for Christ sake if that's the only reason you're doing this. You can not put him up as a poster boy for gay living. He lists The Village People among his favourite artists," I distinctly remember complaining. "And the Spice Girls. No one likes them. Not even self-respecting tweenage girls. Come on Will – have you read this? It's like Queer as Folk went to Candy Land via Japan and puked up his personality."

Unfortunately, Will was too busy laughing at me to take heed of what I was saying. "Oh come on, he's not that bad. Look – he reads Nietzsche and likes Shostakovich."

I glared at him. "So he's pseudo-cultured. Seriously, have you read this? He states his position on one night stands, says he's available and lists the clubs he goes to on which days."

Will shook his head, "If you got a little action once in a while you wouldn't be so bitter."

Oh if only he knew.

I narrowed my eyes and glared. "His main occupation in life is being as 'gay' as he possibly can be. You'd think he had something better to do with his time."

Will looked at me incredulously, obviously losing patience. "What is it you do in your spare time again? Play rugby? No, that wasn't it - what was it? Ballroom dancing? No – it can't be that. Far too 'gay' for Tom Oliver."

Will misses the 'h' out of my name every time he says it. When you're as pedantic as I am about it's inclusion, you learn to notice the subtleties of it's pronunciation. It's not Tom, it's Thom, because only idiots spell Thomas without an 'h'. Tomas is a different name. Greek, I think. Maybe Italian. As my surname suggests, I'm neither.

"It's not ballroom," I sniped stiffly, "I swing," but just the dance nowadays. "And I blues."

Like the uninitiated moron that he is, he shrugs like it's the same thing. "It's all fake tan and sequins. I don't think you're in a position to pull him up on being too stereotypically gay. You're taking the pictures Tom. Call him and set up a meeting. His number's on the sheet."

I glared. There are no sequins in swing. No fake tan. There is sweat and adrenaline, jazz - music that makes my feet jump, my body move without the temptation to drag the girl back to my flat and shag her senseless, because, well, I might very well swing, but not that way. And as for blues. I might fuck in the bedroom, but I make love on the dance floor. Foreplay has nothing on it. I can act you out a full blown love affair, worship the body attached to mine, leave her panting, unable to think straight by the end of a dance and have her begging me for more. But it's all just playing. I rather like reducing people to quivering wrecks completely under my control. Blues gives my dark side a weekly but contained outing and I'm fucking good at it. However, my dancing ability did nothing to help my anti-Evan Llewellyn cause.

That Monday morning had been when the problem really got off the ground. Before that point my only objection had been that he was an idiot, inflicting his idea of gayness on all the impressionable eighteen year olds in the university and passing it off as the only option, whilst simultaneously getting a hell of a lot of sex. I was, frankly, disgusted by his gall. No one, not even straight guys, play the game that openly. Actually, my main, burning objection was that even though I disagreed with nearly every aspect of the hideously vain, media obsessed 'twink' wannabe, he still managed to come across as a nice person - someone funny, a little daring, flirtatious, but not manipulative or bad, but he should have done. I hated the fact that he was getting away with the nice act, but at that point the situation was entirely saveable. I had yet to set eyes on him.

Will, untrusting that I would have the self-control to prevent myself slaughtering him, had set up a time for the photographs and like the meek little photographer I am, I agreed after realising he was not going to succumb to even my most potent death glare. He – Evan - caught me off guard the second he walked into the deserted café in the Union building. I've never adjusted my opinion of someone so quickly in my life. I thought he'd be classically blonde, hairless, effeminate, short – a try-hard who wasn't smooth enough to play the game effectively enough to be dangerous. Well, I knew the second I saw him that I was wrong. He had the walk down – tight little 'I've had something up my arse' steps that had the effect of making my mouth go dry as he sashayed across the floor towards us. I wanted to sink my teeth into his shoulder, make tracks on his skin and rut up against him like some kind of animal. I noted that he seemed to be taller than me - the cunt - at least six-four to my six-one, and from that point on, the bottom proceeded to drop out of my world.

He chucked me a smile while I realised I'd been looking him over like a famine victim presented with a feast, mouth hanging open ever so slightly. Cold Turkey is not good for me. I turned my look into a glare, watching his smile drop from the eyes and turn fake around the edges. I knew then, without a single doubt that he would chew me up and spit me out, given the chance.

A year ago, I wasn't so different. Two years ago, I was exactly the same. In fact, the Union café acts as a haunting ground for ghosts of boyfriends past. There was this kid, you see. I thought he knew what was going on, but he didn't. I'd been lining it up for weeks – flirting just enough to hook him, dangle him there while I took my time reeling him in. It had been so obvious, even from that first time I met him, that if I wanted him, he was mine. He went all doe-eyed – leaning forwards until our arms brushed and lapping up my self-involved bullshit as if I was amazing. I dragged it out, because I didn't find him all that interesting, but if there was nothing else doing then he was fun to play puppet master with. He was good enough.

When it came to it, he seemed confident enough, but I suppose the signs were there if I'd been looking. He had fun – we both had fun. It was the kind of deeply satisfying, brutally carnal sex that only two completely uninhibited strangers can have. When all you really care about is getting yourself off, and the other person's body becomes a vehicle for that, so you prime it, charge it, set it up just so and let loose like it's religious with no thoughts or worries to get in the way. But afterwards, lying there with his brain completely fucked out of his head across the sheets, he turned to me with that look – that look like what had just happened was spiritual or some shit, as if it was a once in a lifetime thing, and out it came with a coy smile. "That was my first time." His words were like some guilty little secret he thought I needed to know. Well I fucking didn't.

My afterglow faded, shrivelled and died. To date, I've taken my fair share of first times, but they either didn't mention it at all, or slipped it in quickly before hand with a look so far from sentimental it was clear virginity was something they wanted rid of. Well, not him. Not the boy I screwed over. It had meaning for that kid.

My conscience ate away at me – allowing him a second time, a third, until that look grew ever-more fawning. I could see it. I could see myself leading him on until he was syllables away from 'I love you' and I felt sick. It's a talent I have – give me someone malleable enough and I can make him think he loves me. I know the way to play it to get exactly what I want. I'll bet anything you like Evan Llewellyn can do the same and for the first time in my life, I think I've met someone who could do that to me and it's fucking chilling looking down the barrel of a gun.

He set his canvas shopper down. It was incredulous against the rest of his outfit. His coat, frankly, was sex itself - A leather jacket with a biker-style collar showing off his neck just right and sitting on his slim hips, fitting him like none of my clothes do. I only scrub up well when I hit the town. I do enough damage as it is. He could be a model. I'd buy any magazine with pictures of him in it, and as I thought it, I knew he'd heard the line a million times before. The bag spun round as he set it down, suddenly making a lot more sense as bright red letters flashed out at me. "I Heart Boys". I gulped inadvertently and hardened my glare.

He glared back with a confused look in his eyes, like he couldn't figure out whether I was checking him out or thinking of ways to smash his face in, which was remarkably perceptive because I didn't have a clue either. All I knew was that I wanted to run.

"How d'you want me?" he asked, shrugging out of his jacket to reveal a sinfully well-fitting t-shirt. I can't find t-shirts like that. They don't exist in the shops I go to. Slender, capping his shoulders perfectly, not tight, just suggestive. I remember wanting to force my tongue into his mouth and stop him breathing.

"I don't," I bit out, lying through my teeth as I wished I looked a little less like I'd just rolled out of bed.

His eyebrows notched up, shooting Will a look – clearly remarking on my anti-social behaviour. He's used to an audience, I knew he would be when I read the interview, and he played to it perfectly. He was poor little gay-boy and I was Big Bad Wolf. His eyes scratched up and down over me, scorching fire across my skin.

"Good, you're not my type," he breathed, voice quiet, with a tremor of nerves that I hadn't expected. I'd shaken him, I realised. He wanted everyone to love him and I'd shown him that I didn't – that I refused to stoop to that level of adoration. But without that level of power over me, while I glared so solidly at him, I realised he thought I was out to 'bash' him. So I relaxed a bit, because I could work with that.

I unpacked my camera case and took a few shots of him glaring at me, pouting deliciously – eyes molten and dangerous. He's not clean-shaven and 'pretty' like I'd been expecting. He's more masculine than that. I'd say he forgot to shave that day, but I doubt it's the truth. He probably had it all calculated out, knowing the perfect length of stubble to make him smoulder. Well, it the effect was far from wasted – it made me smoulder. Cultivated yet rough – groomed, but not overly. He had it perfect and he knew it. He had to.

So, I took his bloody picture and I hoped to never see him again.

Indeed, it makes very little sense that I can have been completely oblivious to someone's entire existence for a whole year, but yet, suddenly, as soon as he's brought to my attention, he's everywhere I go. That's what it felt like with Evan Llewellyn. That's why I'm now staring at the BLOGs stall at this god awful fair with such an avid scowl. I'm trying to diminish the chances of him surprising me by popping up from nowhere to 'Derren Brown' my mind as he seems so adept at doing, became significantly reduced. I expected him to be here, of course, I just hoped not to be surprised by him because I doubted I could handle it.

Between that first meeting last Monday and today it's no exaggeration to say that he has been everywhere I've been. I've seen him walking down the street too many times to bear counting. Wherever I chose for lunch, I'd see that stupid streak of blonde highlighting his obviously dyed-black hair, reminding me of a ridiculously fashion-conscious badger. But lately, I seem to be a very big fan of nature; badgers got my pulse racing, even if whoever cut his hair has obviously never seen a straight line in their lives.

Eleven o'clock crawls up slowly and suddenly there he is – walking up to his stall, smiling that smile that I need to avoid, because eyes shouldn't be that deep – that chocolate; because it should take at least some physical contact to get me hard seeing as I'm nearly a decade older than fifteen and needing to wank five times a day stopped being a problem back in high school, but thirty seconds of looking at him and I'm there; because when you look at a guy and he confuses you so much you don't know whether you want to fuck him, suck him, or turn around and drop your trousers for him to have his merry way, you just know you have to do something, or you won't know the meaning of Life, then you're pretty officially screwed, in my opinion. Especially when the look in your eyes is mirrored in the eyes of absolutely every other gay man in the room, and half the girls as well. Evan Llewellyn has far too much power for his own good. He's like kryptonite.

The thing that kills me is that I play the game he plays so well that I know if I let myself, by the end of this Societies Fair I could communicate my desire to press my naked body up against his without a single word passing between us. When we pack up the tables at the end of the day that evil grin of his could be mine for all of half an hour or so in the Chaplaincy toilets. Usually I'd show a little more restraint – at least pretend I want to drag him home – but the few metres to the men's room door looks like a full thousand miles right now, and God, it's tempting. I haven't had sex in a bathroom stall for at least nine months. The thought's got my blood pulsing thickly and Lord help me, my eyes are glued to him.

The problem, then, re-evaluated, is that Evan Llewellyn is somebody I want to hate, but actually just want to screw senseless, or be screwed senseless by, or damn it all, suck him off, or even hold his fucking hand. The problem is, he's dark enough to make my body react because I know the dance we could lead each other on. The problem is, I'm already too addicted to settle for half and hour, but I know he's not out for anything more than 'cool and casual'. The problem is – I don't want to just fuck him. In fact, the problem is I've never been this out of control. I'm actually considering the possibility that he's as sweet and innocent as he pretends he is, though I lend no credence to the idea he doesn't know people that would throw themselves in front of cars for him. I know you know when people get that daffy – the signs are there to stare you in the face. I've had people that daffy over me, and I know the oblivious act he's playing. I re-wrote, directed and produced the oblivious act. I'm the last person on the planet he should be fooling. I'd rather not be his next fix, so as I said, I need to help him run away before he becomes an addiction I don't want to break, but I have a feeling I'm already too far gone.