Boy Parts(22)

I pull up some photos of Will on my phone, as an example. I pick out one where he’s nude, apart from an open button-down shirt. You can’t really see his dick. Mostly pubes – there’s a strategic bit of lighting.

‘Do you see, though? He looks soft, doesn’t he? He’s looking at you like he wants you, isn’t he? Like a… girl in a perfume advert, or something.’ I zoom in on his face. Heavy eyelids, parted lips, glimpse of a tongue glittering beneath his teeth. ‘Take my phone, have a scroll.’

‘Aye. Um… Was his… He never told me you shot nudes,’ Henson says.

‘Oh. Not as often as my mam thinks I do, but yeah. Will’s done loads of nasty shit for me.’

‘Irina,’ Will hisses. He’s crawled over to us, scattering a small nugget of weed into his carpet. ‘Don’t, please.’

‘Ah, come on, don’t act shy. You’re obviously not,’ says Henson. He’s stopped on a photo of Will in what I call lazy drag. He’s wearing lip gloss and delicately applied false eyelashes with a touch of eyeliner, and is dressed in one of my nighties (silk, pink) and a short dressing gown (see-through, pink, marabou feather trim at the hem and the sleeves). His hair is down, and he just… he just looks so pretty.

‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ I say. ‘You look lush here.’

‘Aye, dead bonny, lad.’ Henson has a smirk on his face. ‘A wonder you’re not using these on your Tinder. It’d be a statement of intent.’ Will tries to grab my phone from his friend’s big, meaty hands. ‘I’m still looking.’

‘I thought you liked my photos,’ I huff.

‘I do. I just, like, I don’t want him to see them.’

‘Well don’t model if you don’t want people to see your work,’ I say.

‘Most of them are fine! I don’t care about him seeing most of them, Irina. Do you get me? Most of them are fine, but maybe not one or two?’ Will is pleading, and Henson is now scrolling furiously. I give him a look like I have no idea what the fuck he’s on about. I do assume, however, he’s on about the photos I took about a year ago of him wanking.

Again, the lighting is very tasteful. You can only just see the tip of his penis poking out from the top of his fist. He’s on his knees, with his forehead touching the floor. I don’t think I set out to take photos of him out-and-out wanking, but things escalate, don’t they?

‘Woah,’ says Henson. And my phone is locked, and placed face-down on the coffee table.

‘What?’ I feign ignorance, unlock my phone. ‘Oh. Ah, shit. Sorry. I forgot we took those.’

Will is bright red. His mouth is twisted.

‘Forgot,’ he says. ‘You’re a fucking bitch sometimes, do you know that?’ He doesn’t spit it at me. He’s not angry. It’s stated like an unpleasant fact, one he’s already dealt with. Global temperatures are rising, Brexit means Brexit, and Irina is a fucking bitch. I crawl over to him and sling an arm around his neck.

‘Diddums,’ I say, my bottom lip jutting. ‘I can’t remember every single photograph I take, you know?’ He shrugs my arm away and lights a joint. ‘Gimme one.’ He hands me the one he’s lit, and lights another for himself, slinking back to his beanbag, still red. Henson grabs one from the small pile on the coffee table.

‘Well,’ Henson claps his hands. ‘On that note, shall we get a bit ketty? After these?’

‘Go on then,’ says Flo. She’s gone a bit green. She gets up, suddenly, rushing out the living room and through the front door. The living room windows are open, so we can hear her throwing up in the garden.

‘Christ,’ says Finch. ‘That’s home time.’ Once Flo starts vomiting, she’s done. No endurance, no dedication to the sesh. She comes back in a moment later, shaking her head.

‘Ah, babes. You really shouldn’t have started on the coke, should you? Like, morally.’ I say. Flo nods. Finch has already picked up her handbag, and sighs heavily.

‘Let’s go,’ he says. ‘You coming, Irina?’

‘Nah, I’m good,’ I say.

‘Are you sure?’ Flo asks, around a burp.

‘Um… Yeah?’

‘Just… Leaving you by yourself and stuff…’ she says.

‘Aye, I’m sure I’ll get gang-raped the second you leave the house.’ I roll my eyes. She flinches when I say gang-rape. So does Henson.

They leave, and so do a steady trickle of people from the upstairs bedroom. We smoke a couple of joints between us. I don’t normally smoke weed, as it does very little for me; I’m feeling relaxed, but nauseous, less aware of my heart pounding in my chest. The mix of substances has my nervous system confused. Am I relaxed, or wired, or knackered? No idea. Fuzzy, though. Possibly hungry? Haven’t spoken in a while. Just managed to drop the K on the coffee table.

‘We’ve got enough, I reckon, for six small lines, or three rather large lines,’ I say. I flip a coin – heads for little, tails for big.

Tails.

I realise it’s been about four hours since I went to the loo, and I leave Will to rack the lines up, while I spend five minutes in the boxy downstairs toilet staring into the crotch of my underwear and pissing like a racehorse. I feel woozy, nauseous. My entire body is blanketed in a thin film of sweat. I give myself a quick once over with some loo roll, my neck, my tits and my forehead; I take with me a great swipe of makeup I’d forgotten I was wearing. I remove the scarf tacked over the mirror. There she is, the undulating reflection, her eyes bloodshot, her pupils a great black sinkhole in the concrete grey of her irises. Her makeup is crusty around her nostrils and her mouth, lipstick is smeared beyond the outline of her lips, and mascara running down her cheeks. Her red curls are now a mass of knots, at some point stuffed into a raggedy bun.