Boy Parts(35)

‘Let’s switch,’ I say. He ignores me. ‘Hey, let’s switch.’

‘Why? Am I keeping you awake?’ he snarls. ‘Didn’t take you for a pillow princess.’

‘Let me get on top,’ I say. But he ignores me, and reaches around to touch me, and tells me to scream for him. It hurts. He hurts me on purpose. The pain makes me stick my face into the pillow and moan; makes my toes and my spine curl. I struggle. He yanks my head up, taking a merciful fistful of the hair growing from my scalp, rather than the Russian shit I paid ?200 to get sewn in. I tell him, if he’s not going to let me get on top, he could put his back into it. He asks me if I like it rough.

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Whatever.’ That winds him up. I can see the veins bulging in his neck, his face turning angry red. I close my eyes, try to ignore the wet slap of skin on skin. I try to focus on the abstract, on the tangle of pleasure and pain. I think about Eddie from Tesco. I think about shooting him without a mask. I think about his eyes filling up, his face going puce because my hands are around his neck. I think about filming it. I think about watching the film. I think about putting my fingers in his mouth.

I come, but I’m quiet about it, glad not to give John the satisfaction of a scream. He slaps my side, and gloats, and I smear lipstick and mascara all over the hotel pillows. He goes limp on top of me a moment later.

‘Off,’ I snap. He rolls over, and snuggles into his crisp, hotel bed, cuddling up with the quilt when I stand, immediately dressing. He prattles on about how much fun I am, how he likes a little play-acting, all the while yawning, curling and uncurling his toes like a cat relaxing in a sun puddle.

‘I’m in Newcastle for a few days. My phone’s on the bedside table,’ he says, yawning. ‘Call your cab from my Uber account, and stick your number in my contacts, yeah?’

I try to tell him that I can pay for my own cab – I don’t want to give him my address – but he’s asleep. Out cold. I shout, but he doesn’t stir.

‘I wanted to fucking switch,’ I say, and I throw a champagne glass at the wall behind the bed. It shatters, tiny shards landing all over the hotel room.

Three pieces in his face: cheek, forehead, eye. He doesn’t move. His chest rises and falls steadily, while little rivets of blood leak from the wounds.

I take some photos. Just on my phone.

And then I’m in the taxi. Thinking, thinking: did I enjoy that? Did I even properly consent to that? Do I care? I haven’t been raped before. Well, I’ve never been raped raped: no bag over my head, no knife to my throat while I screamed and fought. Nothing traumatic. Even Will the other week, that was nothing. But it’s all the little shit. He wouldn’t switch; I passed out; I don’t remember it; he’s way older than me. Do you like it rough? I think so. I think I must. Men are rough, aren’t they? Have I always had a taste for rough stuff, or did I acquire that? In the back of Lesley’s car, on the floor of a friend’s house, half-conscious with my underwear around my ankles? Was it my idea to have him hurt me, or did he just let me think it was?

And that gets sewn into them young, doesn’t it? Violence. I’ve had to go to some fairly extreme measures to defend myself.

I used to think about older men, even before Lesley. I had an imaginary sugar daddy; I had affairs in my head with actors and musicians thrice my age; I had intentional and prolonged eye-contact with my dad’s friends. Whether I’m in control or losing it, I’ve always had a power thing, I think.

I never do things like this with women. I never did anything like this with Frank.

There’s a soft part of your brain. A place where you’re still just a child. Once someone’s poked the soft spot, the dent doesn’t go away. Like sticking your fingers in wet concrete.

I catch my reflection in the wing mirror. There she is, with her smudged eyeliner and her messy hair, the tracks of her hair extensions on display, lipstick on the tip of her nose and her chin. She’s wet concrete gone hard, full of dents, reshaped into this thing, which burps and pisses and has to be washed and fed and fucked.

I look in the mirror and think: who the fuck is that? Who is she?

I finish telling all of this to the Uber driver. He asks me if I’m okay.





Hi there,

It’s been a while! I’ve been doing some exhibition prep – but I have some experimental stuff you might be interested in. I’ve been playing with effect makeup, very pretty guy, some fake glass in his face. Shot on iPhone, for the gritty realistic effect. Interested at all? I’ve attached one, could send the whole set if you like it. On the house!

Best,

Irina.



My Darling,

How wonderful it is to hear from you. Please do send the whole set, as a student of classical beauty, this man’s physique and face are highly pleasing to me.

Only, I don’t see any glass? Perhaps this is later on in the set?

I do enjoy a little ‘gore’ as the kids say, and I’d be very interested to see it.

Faithfully,





B




He’s right. I scroll through every photograph I took of ‘John’ yesterday, and there’s no glass. Certainly not in his face, and nowhere to be seen in the general vicinity. I zoom, and fiddle with the contrast, the lighting – none. No glass, no blood, just dewy, plump skin.