Zetoids

 

Gen Z. I can't call it anything else – a fucked-up generation. You can tell from the very first encounter that something's wrong with them. Hard to find one who's got their shit together, who lives in harmony with themselves and the world, who functions without glitches. Most have serious adjustment issues – neurodivergence, ADHD, that's what they blame. Parenting fuck-ups. Can't make friends. A generation that barely talks, linguistically impoverished, phone permanently grafted to their hand. They don't use language – they use reaction streams, emojis, emoticons, abbreviations like "XD". Smartphone fuck-ups. TikTok fuck-ups. Entitled little shits.

Kacpers, Oskars, Jakubs – that's who came to me. And it was a nightmare. Getting them to actually come over? Impossible. Couldn't be bothered to take a Bolt on my dime to get 450 zlotys. To them, at twenty, twenty-one – pocket change. Not worth the effort. Plenty of hustlers, users, and just plain thieves.

Władek – the one who came, took the money, and left

I remember being drunk one night. Surfing Grindr like a fucking wild boar, spamming Gen Z specimens, around twenty-one. Must have been really drunk, because I have no idea how it happened, but this guy named Władek ended up at my place.

An over-the-top queen. Brazen. Monstrously arrogant. Just because I was drunk, I told him: "You're pretty." A fake compliment. I didn't think so at all. Instead of saying thank you, he shot back: "I know I'm pretty."

He looked like a woman, not a guy – big lips, enormous eyelashes, typical bitchy cheekbones. The worst part was his attitude – every gesture screamed queen. A pathological case. I like boys, not girls. Even his wrists, the way he held his phone – everything screamed he'd been raised by women, among women, at home, at school. Zero masculinity. Add to that the arrogance, especially when he mentioned he was studying psychology. That awful habit of psychoanalysing everything, as if he'd swallowed all the wisdom in the world.

I had Krystyna Janda's Na zakręcie – literally, At a Turning Point – playing while I was drinking. And he goes:

"You think you're at a turning point?"

In that drunken frenzy I'd spammed so many people that I hadn't actually agreed with each one what the service was. Once I'd had enough of his pointless bullshit, I suggested that since he'd taken 450, we could move to the bedroom – I'd lick him for a while, give him some rimming. He grabbed his chin in that queenish way and said: "I wouldn't feel comfortable."

I was speechless. He felt comfortable taking my money and coming over in a Bolt on my dime. But now he refused. Refused and simply walked out – with my cash. It was a brutal, extreme experience. He'd been glued to his phone the whole time, messaging other people, throwing me nothing but critical glances. He stood instead of sitting. Treated me like garbage. Took advantage of my drunkenness. Probably thought the cash was owed to him for his "time and company". When he left, I felt spat out. Used. Like a discarded piece of trash. Someone who'd been robbed. To me, that was a lot of money. I met more like him in his generation – pathological, selfish queens.

Kacper – the little lamb in the pink hoodie

This one was completely different. A boy. A masculine boy – not some over-the-top queen. His name was Kacper, twenty-one. He used to come around 2022, maybe 2023. He was always talking about his job – "working in hospitality" – wouldn't shut up about it. He was obsessed with my old man's Italian espresso machine, the kind that costs over ten grand. He came because hospitality had taken a hit during the pandemic and he was earning way less.

He went on about having one leg slightly shorter than the other... Bullshit. He was perfect. His body was slim but not skinny. Just a normal, slender guy. His hair was like a little lamb's – ridiculously thick, brown going on blond. Gorgeous. Spectacular. Masculine looks, naturally hairless chest, fine light hair on his legs. I focused on his legs – his feet and his arse. As always, what I wanted was to stay at a safe distance from him, taste his intimacy, pay tribute to pure natural beauty.

I remember a text from him – by then completely routine: "Feet or arse?" I replied: "Arse." He repeated it in a separate message: "Arse..." He enjoyed it too. These sessions sometimes went on for over an hour – an hour of licking his arse. He'd masturbate and moan with pleasure. I'd ask if it was too long, if I was boring him, if he'd had enough.

"NO!!!" he gasped.

The only thing that pissed him off was my pre-drinking ritual – I always liked to put on my vintage stuff, especially Zielono mi, the concert from the nineties recorded in Opole after Osiecka died. Sometimes Alla Pugacheva too. He knew the playlist by heart by then and sometimes he was tired after work and just wanted to get to the point. He really was beautiful, that little lamb working in hospitality.

Although he was very masculine, every now and then he'd turn sweetly camp. And that was great – precisely because his masculinity was natural, unquestionable. My old man had given me a pink hoodie. It didn't suit me – I have a delicate look, and things like that look best on masculine guys. I thought of Kacper straight away. I gave it to him. He was pleased – in his restrained way. It looked perfect on him. He smiled and went all sweet and camp – just the smile and a flutter of his eyelashes. It was funny and incredibly cute because it was so unlike him.

As for that restraint: one day he confessed he didn't feel empathy. It crushed me. He added that he didn't feel euphoria or despair either – his mood was flat. Neurodivergence – or what I understood as neurodivergence back then – seemed to be everywhere in this generation.

His boyfriend was called Oskar and knew Kacper came to see me. But Kacper hid it from his friends. I couldn't understand his hang-ups. Once he said he'd slipped away from his mates – what was he supposed to tell them? That he was going somewhere for money? I told him: you're the first boy who sees any problem here. Look at me – I'm your whore. Who's kneeling in front of you? Who's licking your arse like a dog? Who's humiliating himself? I debase myself before you, worship you, adore you – and on top of that you get paid for it. So who's the worse one? The real slut? The whore? But some old-fashioned straight-boy programming kept kicking in. Sick programming. The first boy like that I'd met – so fucking impractical.

When the hospitality industry started picking up again, I messaged him. He replied he didn't need it anymore. I begged a little – told him I'd gotten used to him. He replied: "No, sorry. That's life." I accepted it with real sadness – and I had every right to be sad. But without drama. I remember the taste of his feet, his legs, his arse. He was beautiful and worth the money. That money was well spent. And he was normal.

Kuba – the one who wanted my place

One night my drinking dragged on until morning. Early autumn. I hate daylight. I decided that inside my flat, it would stay night. So I did what I'd done years before in the old tenement – hung a blanket over the window. Candles were burning even though it was eight in the morning. Why do I talk about the tenement in the past tense? Because my old man and I hadn't lived there for years. Property cleaners evicted us – it got some media attention. I took it hard. It changed me forever.

Mornings had their own weird advantages – that's when I met the youngest ones. Same thing this time. A nineteen-year-old from a nearby school messaged me. Kuba. That whole generation of Zetoids – always Jakubs, Kacpers, Oskars. He said he could come over soon. I ran to the little shop in my block and bought more booze.

He was fairly tall, with beautiful, even brown hair. Nothing else really stood out. To me, fairly average. But he seemed interested in me as a person. From later meetings I learned that, judging by my age, he'd expected someone balanced, serious. Instead, I was laughing at Major and Konon videos – especially the classic, Major's rage, screaming abuse at Konon for his famous "Słaaaaawek". Kuba never got any money from me. He didn't want it. Besides, I wasn't exactly losing my mind over his looks. Sex happened two or three times. I remember him spending the night once – his class was leaving for a trip to Gdańsk by coach at five in the morning. He sat in my kitchen studying for some competition, writing formulas in a huge A4 notebook. Hieroglyphics.

The biggest shock, the real mindfuck, came during a completely chilled-out conversation. In the same casual tone you'd use to ask for anything, he asked if he could use my flat to meet some young guy. I'd heard a lot in my life – not much should have surprised me. But I was speechless. It hurt. Rejection. A pattern hammered into me by my sadistic mother kicked in immediately. I was supposed to leave my own home so Kuba could meet another young boy there. Because I, the old man, was in the way. Something that had to be removed from the flat. It hurt. I suffered.

Soon after, the pandemic hit and we stopped seeing each other. I'd become too old for him. He never said it directly, but I could feel it. Then it turned out I was older than his mother. Fucking hell.

Oleh – the one with the Ukrainian gentleness

Whenever Oleh comes to mind, I see two places: a horrible "magazin" on the eastern bank of the Warta, and an equally hideous hostel with glaring, eye-searing furniture and communal spaces. Oleh – though you can't hear it in Polish – is a beautiful name. I read it came to Rus from Old Norse. Means "holy", "blessed" or "bright".

He was a dark-haired, slim boy with extraordinarily delicate features. Very young. Eighteen. I genuinely couldn't understand what a boy that delicate was doing in a warehouse – some hideous factory. What was that slight body supposed to lift? What heavy physical labour was it supposed to perform? Day after day, destroying himself? Boys like him should be banned from heavy physical work. He was completely unsuited to it – too fragile, too beautiful, too precious.

I remember it was winter 2022 – maybe January. We stood on the balcony. I asked what would happen if war broke out. Oleh said his mother would come to Poland. He was from Vinnytsia. By then he'd stopped working at the warehouse. He'd changed beyond recognition – better clothes, a beautiful leather jacket. I asked how he made a living now. He laughed and gestured at the jacket from top to bottom – or maybe just at his body. There was nothing vulgar about it. Just honesty.

He described himself as a bottom. For a long time, I just licked his feet and arse, often sucked him off – he'd come in my mouth. We had long conversations in the kitchen, by candlelight, with my laptop open. With him, as with almost everyone, I played Zielono mi. He was grateful I was introducing him to a Polish diva – Krystyna Janda.

One day Oleh decided he wanted to have me. Yes, he said, he was a bottom – but he wanted to fuck me. Maybe he sensed something delicate in me – something vulnerable, tender. At least I hope so. We did it face to face. I lay on my back, legs spread. As he fucked me, his gold chain touched my face, lifted away, fell against it again and again. It was beautiful. He moaned with pleasure. Another one of those boys who took money and enjoyed themselves – and wanted more. More than I ever asked of them.

One day I messaged him. He replied that he no longer lived in Poland – he was in Germany. From the start I'd had this childish, patriotically idiotic attitude. I asked what he thought of Poland. I expected something about the people, architecture, public transport, trams, roads. He said: "You earn more here than in Ukraine." That was it. Nothing else.

I thought about my own boyfriend then – and his Sweden. Yes. We both hate it. To us, it's just a piggy bank. The whole fucking Scandinavia – just a piggy bank. Nothing more.

Oleh. Dear, beautiful, dark-haired, delicate, sensitive boy.

Jakub – the one who knew what I was missing

When I think of the perfect boy, Jakub comes to mind. Twenty-one. Fairly tall, dark blond, blue eyes, smooth body, fine light hair on his legs. Skinny. Just simply skinny. He has funny, cheerful, happy-looking tattoos. Gentle but masculine features. Beautiful. His fringe is always dyed. He says having no dye in his hair is unacceptable. Last time I saw him, he'd bleached it all. A barely visible nose piercing. He's extraordinarily boyish – twenty-one, looks even younger.

Generationally, he's pure Gen Z – but he behaves exactly like a millennial. Just normal: communicative, responsive, empathetic, easy to connect with, able to intuit another person's emotional state. He understands all my weaknesses perfectly – sees nothing strange in them. In that respect it really is a different generation – used to difference, accepting of it. He understands everything. Nothing shocks him.

One day I was absolutely shitfaced. We were sitting in the bedroom when, for no reason, I suddenly felt that something was wrong – something terribly missing. Something vital, though I couldn't say what. I started crying like a child. He looked around, went to the kitchen, came back with my vape. Pressed it into my hand and said:

"A sense of control."

I calmed down immediately. That was it – the vape. How the fuck did he know? I must have mentioned it once, and he remembered. It was phenomenal. I started functioning again. I ordered him a Bolt home afterwards. He always used to come by Bolt – although the last time, he just shrugged and set off on foot. Six kilometres.

We cultivated our ritual of worshipping his youthful beauty: me on my knees, my tongue between his buttocks, kissing and venerating his feet. I often thought of it as violating the First Commandment – giving a creature the worship due to the Creator. Or perhaps – I comfort myself – it was just delighting in nature's beauty, in what God created for us. And it was never a fetish. It was always about the boy. The boy – God's creature – was the object of that adoration. He was the monumental beauty I revered and worshipped. And since it was never about one particular boy – maybe it was about the very idea of beauty. Jakub, though, was exceptional. Absolutely exceptional.

I love him not only for his looks, but for the way he behaves – his naturalness, his normality. I'm not surprised he found work as a bartender. It's a job where communication and natural human contact are fundamental. Besides, I think he simply liked coming to see me. Sometimes I feel that because of that peculiar combination – his looks, his skinniness, his boyishness, his personality – what I feel for him might be something more. Certainly a very strong attachment.

We rarely see each other now – maybe twice a year. Jakub is a genuine rarity. A diamond. But I've grown out of falling in love – and I'll understand if he leaves. Perhaps he already is. A week ago I sent him a text and got no reply. Once I would have fallen apart. Now I turn thoughts and feelings into words. I write simple music.

Gen Z are a strange, fucked-up bunch. Sociological categories are always simplifications and stereotypes. If I could choose how old I wanted to be right now, I wouldn't hesitate. Thirty. That's when I lived most intensely. And real youth – their youth – is mostly a mountain of problems you never see in these drunken little snapshots of mine.