Boy Parts(40)

‘Are you asking me if I want to fuck every model I use?’ I shrug. ‘Well, sort of. Why else would I want to take their photos?’

Eddie from Tesco looks horrified. Like the possibility was so absurd, he hadn’t even considered it. He asks, ‘All of them?!’ like I’ve actually fucked them, or something, like my artistic practice is this non-stop, record-breaking, Annabel-Chong-style gangbang. The checkout boy wrinkles his nose. I try to work out what that means: if he’s disgusted, or if his ego is a little bruised.

‘Do you actually think I sleep with them? All of them?!’ I ask, mocking his intonation from before. He screws up his mouth, and shakes his head, shoulders hunching up as he tries to edge away from me, to take me out of his personal bubble.

I roll my eyes, and I explain to him that I generally don’t shit where I eat. Sexuality is obviously important in my work, and there needs to be chemistry, but that doesn’t mean I’m opening my legs as soon as I pop off my lens cap.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Eddie from Tesco. ‘I made an assumption. Stupid. Really stupid.’ He wriggles on the sofa, going red again. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone blush this much, and then I remember when my mother went through menopause. I remember her hot flushes, her face turning beet red at the drop of a hat; ripping off her coat on the high street in January and rubbing ice on her chest in restaurants.

‘Stop blushing,’ I say. He can’t help it, he whimpers, like a kicked dog. I’m irritated. I’m so annoyed I can feel it in the pit of my gut. My cunt clenches like a fist. I snap my laptop shut and place it on his grubby coffee table. ‘What assumption did you make?’

‘I thought… I suppose I thought you liked me. I didn’t realise that was part of it with everyone.’ He thought he was special. His lip trembles. Is he going to cry?

He’s wringing his hands, and even though he’s looking down at the floor I can tell he’s grimacing. He glances at me, his eye line slipping into its comfortable rhythm, darting between my cleavage, my face and the floor while he waits for me to say something else – to confirm or deny that I like him. I let the words hang between us, like a body.

‘Maybe I do,’ I say. He looks at me, properly. Not in the eye, but in the face, at least. He leans in, lips puckered, eyes closed, and I lean back. When he doesn’t find my lips, he opens his eyes. ‘Not on the mouth,’ I tell him. I get off the couch, and nod for him to follow. ‘Bring the camera.’ I hear him scrambling behind me. I poke my head into his bedroom: the figurines, the idol posters. ‘Actually, I can’t do it with all those skinny Japanese girls looking at me. We’ll stay here.’ I march back into the living room, finally kicking off my shoes.

‘They’re Korean.’

‘Same thing,’ I say. ‘I’m allergic to latex, FYI.’ I direct him to my purse in my backpack, where he finds the latex-free condoms, in a variety of sizes.

‘How did you find that out?’ he asks. ‘That you’re allergic.’

‘The hard way.’

He looks a little offended by the ‘trim’ packet, and I tell him not to take it personally, that I always carry them, that you never know. ‘Trim’ is placed to one side, and ‘King’ and ‘King XL’ are considered. I always wonder why they don’t do condoms like cup sizes – A, B, C – rather than letting people guess what size they are based on what euphemism they feel most appropriately describes their dick. I know I’m not Trim — but am I King-sized? Could I even be King XL if the next one after Trim is King? What if this is a big brand? Maybe I am Trim after all?

‘Erm,’ he says. ‘Which one is just… the normal one?’

‘Left hand,’ I say.

‘Cool,’ he says. ‘Cool, cool, cool.’

I pick up his camera while he juggles johnnies. I take his picture. The flash is off, so he doesn’t even notice. He stops looking at the condom and starts looking at me. Staring. ‘What?’

‘You’re so pretty,’ he says.

‘I know.’

‘I mean you’re like… You’re properly beautiful, aren’t you?’

‘I know,’ I say. I run a hand through my hair and take another photo of him. He asks if he can have a go, if he can take my picture. I tell him to take off his clothes. I tell him not to kiss me on the mouth. I tell him not to pull my hair. I tell him I hate spit, that he shouldn’t lick me; that I only like to be on top and I don’t like talking. He nods, tripping out of his jeans.

‘Anything you want.’

I don’t think I’m drunk enough for this. Watching him stretch out on his grotty couch with his underwear still on and poorly disguised panic on his face, I’m wondering if this was a bad idea. I know it’s a bad idea. It’s a cheeseburger, and me sticking my fingers down my throat in an hour.

I unbutton my jeans, and it takes me a while to pull them off. I take off my shirt, and I stand in the middle of the living room, and stare into space while I think for a moment. I hear a bell. I twist my neck.

‘What’s wrong?’ He asks. I tell him nothing. I tell him to lie down on the floor, because we won’t both fit on the couch. He lies down next to his coffee table, and I stand over him. He stares up at me with big, grateful eyes. ‘It’s been a while,’ he says. No shit.