Boy Parts(63)

‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘You’re just pretty. And you have cheese in your hair.’

I do have cheese in my hair.

By the time we’re finished eating, I’m too full to even think about dessert – but I order an affogato, with a shot of amaretto, anyway. I feel ill. I feel like throwing up, sticking a feather down my throat, like a decadent Roman empress.

There’s a dispute over the bill, which is quite hefty. Eddie from Tesco briefly tries to insist on paying. I told the waiter to bring that wine, I booked us in here, and I just drop a couple of fifties on the table and shrug, telling him rather a large invoice came in for me the other day.

‘Are you sure?’ he says. ‘Like, honestly, I was expecting it to be—’ I shush him.

‘Cover the tip, if you want.’ So, he drops a twenty on the table, and we leave. I am very wobbly, like my centre of balance has been thrown by the amount of food in my stomach. While Eddie from Tesco is trying to suggest another drink, I tell him the Uber’s on its way, and we’ll just go back to mine.

I get him to do shots with me when we get in. I try to offer him coke, and he looks horrified. I shrug, have a bump – more for me, I guess. He’s wittering on (minimum sentence for Class As; becomes toxic in your bloodstream when mixed with alcohol; deviated septum). I usher him into the garage. The studio.

I have the video camera set up opposite the sofa, on a tripod, in my studio. I want it simple – gritty, I guess, but not handheld. Handheld feels a little too Gonzo porn for my liking. I just want it static, a cold Pasolini vibe. It’s been a while since I filmed anything. I have half a bottle of red in the garage, which I polish off while Eddie from Tesco gets undressed, affixes the bunny head and the tail.

I sling my camera around my neck. I have another bump, and another. Things get a little blurry from there.





He’s a controlling piece of shit

I didn’t want to shit stir but when you went to the toilet at the pub the other night he said you’re only friends with me because you feel bad for me

He said i was pathetic and he started talking about my tits it was SOOO WEIRD.

Ask him about it.

If you break up with him, i’m here for you and so is my sofa

<3



I’ve watched the video through eight, maybe nine times now. The first thing you see, the first shot, is him. Standing by the couch, in front of the bare, brick wall. I went without a backdrop.

I’m off camera. I ask him if having his picture taken gets him off, and he laughs.

‘Maybe. Yeah, I suppose?’ His voice sounds weird; it’s all muffled, with the bunny head. I do have an external mic, so you can make it out, at least. I zoom in on his crotch – at the time I thought he was getting hard, but you can’t really tell so much in the video. You hear me asking him to gimme a twirl and shake his bunny tail.

‘I think I like you more than… modelling,’ he says. I ask him if he’s a sub. Another shy laugh. ‘I mean, a little,’ he says. ‘I just… I don’t do this for everyone.’

I tell him to grab the couch and bend over, and I walk into the shot. I look great – same outfit from the date. I look skinny, despite the carbs and the dairy. My camera is dangling round my neck, the lens protruding from my belly. If I’d thought ahead, I’d have strung it lower – phallic symbology and shit.

I’m like a foot taller than him in the shoes I’m wearing, and I take a minute to stand over him. I take a picture of his back. The way his spine curves, his bones beneath his skin, freckles, shoulder blades, dimples either side of his coccyx.

I drop the camera. My hand lifts, stops over his waist, like I want to touch him, like one of those awkward pictures of fat high school boys hover-handing a hot girl. I’ll edit that out.

I spank him, really hard, and he goes, ‘Ouch! Irina!’ I do it again, and I laugh on the video.

He goes, ‘Um.’

I remember doing it, but not laughing. I remember his skin.

I had a dream once, where I sat up in bed and left my body behind. And I rolled next to her – to my body. I touched her skin. I kissed her lips, and they were soft, and mine, but cold and rubbery.

Watching the video is like that dream; I know that’s me. I know that’s my body. But she isn’t cold and rigid, she’s pink in the face, and frantic, snapping photos, pinching and grabbing flesh like a greedy child.

She gets to be there forever. Skinny and gorgeous and young, and I’m stuck out here. I’m stuck watching the video over and over again, rotting.

I pull down his underwear and brandish the wine bottle I’d been drinking from. He squeals when it goes in. And he flinches. His elbows give way and he flops over the arm of the couch like a flaccid dick.

I step back, take a bunch of photos. I lie down on the floor to get a better angle. I stumble on my heels, which I’ll edit out as well because it looks so stupid.

I didn’t notice it at the time, but you can see him trembling. You can see the shallow, sharp rise and fall of his shoulders. He was hard the whole time, I’m sure, but on film it reads less like poorly contained arousal, more like a prey animal, pinned, helpless.

‘You good?’ I ask him. ‘Hey – you good?’ And he splutters, in the bunny head; you hear him splutter.

I stomp over to the tripod and stop the film. He picked himself up from the couch, his chest making a wet, peeling sound as it parted from the leather, took off the bunny head. He’d been crying – probably the entire time. Not like crying like an emotional release; it was just genuine distressed crying.