Boy Parts(51)

‘No, it wasn’t,’ I say. ‘See you next week, then.’

‘Maybe before then?’ I shrug. I’m slouching, so he stretches to kiss me. He aims for my lips, and lands on my jaw because I jerk my face away. He laughs, and tries again, and I sidestep over to the front door and open it.

‘I put the flowers in some water for you.’

‘Cool. Bye.’

‘Okay. Um. Bye bye!’ He steps outside, opening his mouth to say something, but the door’s already shut before he can get it out.

‘I’m not interested in your opinion,’ I say, immediately. ‘I don’t want to hear it.’

‘He seems nice. I’m glad you’re happy together,’ says Flo. ‘I’m getting choked up just thinking about it.’

‘Fuck off,’ I snarl. ‘Like you get to blank me for weeks then come in here and get judgey. Seriously, fuck off. I’m like… I’m actually foaming with you. Actually foaming.’

Then she cries.

I shout at her, she cries, she pleads, then we kiss and make up. Not literally. We both agree Flo has been very unfair, and Michael is due a bollocking. Maybe a dumping. She just wants the two of us to get along. I’m trying – and she knows I try. She knows, but he’s so jealous.

‘He seems super controlling.’

‘Um… Like… It’s… It is genuinely coming from a place of concern,’ she says, her nose stuffy. ‘He knows I’m here. He’s not happy about it, but he isn’t like you can’t see her, or anything. It’s difficult. I don’t like being stuck between the two of you.’

‘I’m not doing anything,’ I say. ‘It’s him.’

‘I know,’ says Flo. ‘I don’t want to talk about him anymore. I just want you to know…’ Her voice breaks. ‘I love you, and I’m sorry.’ She sniffs. ‘Can I have a hug?’

So I hug her. I’m feeling very generous today. She wipes her eyes, and then tells me to dish about my weird choke sex.

I hate it when Flo talks about sex. Basic feminist internet discourse has made her think she’s sex positive, comfortable discussing the minutiae of her sex life and other people’s sex lives. She isn’t. I know she isn’t, because I’ve fucked her, so I don’t know why she even pretends with me.

There was a time when I was still with Frank – Flo had invited herself along to drinks in Soho with us. I told her I needed to nip into a sex shop to pick up a new vibrator, because the motor had gone on mine the previous evening. She flinched when I said vibrator, and I told her she could wait outside, or go, but she insisted on coming along. ‘Maybe I want to get something,’ she’d said, with the same forced, casual tone she’d used to say weird choke sex a moment ago.

We walked into the first one we saw, and she kept looking at us and going, well this is just fine, isn’t it? And going as far as to inform me that she was in her element here, really and that sex shops were feminist spaces, in a lot of ways. I remember pointing to the wall of pornographic DVDs behind her, flanked by a mannequin with enormous plastic breasts and a cheap wig, modelling a strap-on and a neon pink bra with nipple cut-outs – what about that stuff, Flo; is that feminist?

She thought for a moment, and concluded that the strap-on was feminist but the mannequin and a vast swathe of the pornographic DVDs probably weren’t. If some of the porn had been made by a woman it would be feminist, but the majority of it probably hadn’t been. However, if we were to buy some porn, it would be a queer and feminist act of disruption.

I’d never seen Frank look so unimpressed. I couldn’t even laugh at Flo, I was so embarrassed.

She looks up at me, with the same eyes – crinkled at the corners now, but still desperately seeking my approval.

‘Yeah. Well.’ I shrug. ‘It’s just… Like. It was his idea. And I’m… cool, with that, if he wants to do that sort of stuff. And we have… things in common. I mean, he really understands my work, and he’s a great model. We’ll see, I suppose. It’s… nice, so far.’ She’s crying again. ‘What?’

‘I’m just so happy for you,’ she sobs.





Eddie from Tesco asks if he can come over after his shift the same night Dennis is due round. I get a bit of a cheap thrill telling him I’ve got a model coming round. I can almost feel the jolt in his stomach through the screen. I can see his cheeks going red. I imagine him sat behind his till, tears prickling the back of his eyes, blaming phantom allergies when a customer asks him if he’s alright.

Have fun! he says, and I ignore it. I watch an episode of Toddlers & Tiaras and a documentary about the Wests while I wait for Dennis. He rings my doorbell just as the police are digging up the patio. I let him into the house, leaving the documentary on. I offer him a coffee, and he says yes, so I make him one. A little begrudgingly, but I always try to be a bit more normal with new models, you know? If you’re nice, it loosens them up a bit.

Coffee in hand, he starts telling me about himself. I keep one ear on the telly while he talks about his middle management job. He has a good jawline, which is softening a little with age. He hasn’t shaved, and he’s still wearing his shirt and tie from work. He’s handsome, but his nose has been broken, maybe twice, and he has a chunk of scar tissue splitting his left eyebrow in half. One of his teeth is a little chipped, and his earlobe is ripped too, forked like a tongue. I interrupt him.