This is how I met my right-hand man: when I was sixteen, I met a boy who could read me better than anyone else I've met, before or since - better, in fact, than my immediate family. Well, I figured at the time, if he's going to read my fucking mind anyway, I might as well just tell him what I think.
Socially, you could imagine him as a guy with the eye of a master craftsman but whose only tools are - on the one hand - a wood chipper and - on the other - a sledgehammer.
"So I like this boy," I said to him today. "He's kind of... Open. I don't smell any calculation on him, and it kind of makes me let my guard down."
"Yeah?" He says.
"Yeah," I say. "I don't meet a lot of boys like that."
"I've never seen you let your guard down with a boy," he says.
I say, "--You haven't?"
He says, "I'm a man. I've been to war."
I say, "You know what I mean."