Part I: I Wish You Would Call Me
I am feverish in my apartment. Getting myself off with one hand and holding a cup of Fantastic noodles in the other. I’m not sure what “Oriental” is supposed to taste like but it is not the taste you want in your mouth when you finally squirt during the opening sequence of Today Tonight.
Since I have left the city I have not heard my name from any lips except my father’s. A daily phone call: I have put some money in your account. Don’t spend it on cigarettes and make sure you see someone about how all your hair keeps falling out it’s making your mother worry.
I wish you would kiss me again. I wish you would buy me some candy. You know how people act crazy on New Year’s. That wasn’t me, or perhaps it was, but drunk and smiling for once and with makeup on and after using a hairbrush. The streetlights help us a little. We all look bright bathed in orange light. We all look happy at midnight, watching backyard fireworks and leaving our underpants in the rose bush. We don’t even know whose house party this is. We just found each other here.
Part II: You’re So Cute
From the Scientific American: New Research By Two Yale University Psychologists Details How The Sight Of Something Cute Brings Out Our Aggressive Side. You’re so cute I wanna rip your head off. You’re so cute I wanna eat your fucking face. You’re so cute I wanna shove your balls inside my mouth and hold your sons and daughters there until they’re too tired to swim anymore.
My dating profile says I’m a writer so naturally you ask me what I write. I say poems about the human condition which is shorthand, really, for fucking and lying, because that’s all we ever do. I give a busker a cigarette and he plays us a love song. In retrospect it becomes a hymn. I can smell your intent. While schoolgirls in workout gear jog rings around us like some kind of pagan wedding ritual, and a cigarette I just lit turns to one long cylinder of ash between my first and middle fingers, you are sucking on my tongue. Your teeth are stained with red wine and it looks like your gums are bleeding, like you have been sucking on my throat from the outside, which you’ll do, later, when you’re trying to get me to experiment with asphyxiation and you leave a purple bite mark on my jugular.
Do you want to have sex no strings attached? I can’t think of a better match. I don’t have strings anyway. You can’t attach yourself to me. I like your shirt and your shoes. You dress like you have someplace to be, someplace where I’m not after I’ve gone home. We ride the tram back into the city and we’re both high on the sex we haven’t had yet.
This could just be the cask wine talking but you’re so cute you make my muscles contract. My whole body becomes taut and I fall paralysed off my chair and onto the floor of this laneway coffee shop. I’m at eye level with your ankles. They seem to have a pulse of their own. They expand and contract like pupils, like a cervix, they’re throwing tiny squares of light like a disco ball. You’re a grand mal baby, a big bad, a very big bad. The waitress has hair the colour of mustard and she leans over my rigor mortis to put our soy lattes on the table.
Part III: Do You Have A Condom?
The most vulnerable part of fucking a man is the part where he squats naked over his discarded clothes like someone panning for gold and fishes through the pockets for a prophylactic. Your belly sags forward white and soft like porridge and your prick is red and vertical against it like a part of someone else’s body. If it is proud or gloating or obscene I can’t tell. It’s ugly but I can’t stop looking at it. My head sings with a rush of blood. I feel your pheromones under my fingernails, pricking my skin from the inside.
It’s an all too common scenario. Kids getting locked into some heavy foreplay and forgetting all about protection. I can’t take my eyes off the prow of your ship. You show me a Four Seasons Chocolate Ripple Ribbed For Her Pleasure but I say no I want your skin on the inside of my skin let’s take a chance and you throw aside the brown packet and launch yourself into me like a guided missile.
Part IV: Cum In My Mouth
Funny how your squatting porridge body has turned Herculean in the act of goring me. Your face is warlike, pleading. Your body is a white bulk, a heaving sweating Crimea. It takes a split second to picture the curettage. You fuck without fear of decision. I don’t want to admit I’ve changed my mind so I tell you I want to taste you and it’s over in a gulp.
This apartment used to be a motel room and you go in and think of Raymond Carver, of a gun and a bible in a drawer together. All these hats and dresses on racks that belong to her, that mark you as belonging to her still, markers we both try dutifully to ignore as you collapse on me, a damp white thing washed up by the sea onto my waiting body. I have carpet-burned knees after you’ve finished with me. You hover by the toilet door domestically so I talk to cover the sound of my piss hitting the water. Affection, affectation. A ritual habitual.
Part V: Should I Make Coffee?
Your voice turns two right angles to reach me from the kitchen. Come and keep me company, Golightly. I think I have some more wine or would you like some coffee? Wine. And a joint, please. And an energy drink. Coffee actually. Sorry, I’m so indecisive. Black with sugar will be fine thanks.
Should I go to work? Should I eat breakfast? Should I pray now or later? There’s no time! We have to talk. I admit this is a little unorthodox. I just met you on Tinder two weeks ago and your body’s made of candy and your sister’s made of orange light. We were the biggest things in Federation Square. You would never ask me to leave. You would never ask me to brush my teeth.