Minimalist Gossip Magazine Cover (49).pdf (13) - Flipbook - Page 37
knife. His keys swing, tapping the door that is open for me to walk through. A gentleman - he
pipes up on the verge of ejaculation. Do you want me to pull out? I don’t have time to answer.
The convulsing begins, jolting forward, up towards my cervix, immediately relieved;
uncomfortable if I didn’t piss first. I’m out the door now. Gone, out of sight. He controls
everything. Said he was filming several sponsorship things today, wanted me out of the house.
He quit his driving job two months ago after amassing over half a million followers over two
months. He found me online, he said he was the flirty driver from that one night. God knows
why I responded. I haven’t seen the videos that are responsible for his success. The sexual
allure would be quick to evaporate if I saw him anywhere outside of this flat. Lucky for me, he
does not leave. Unless to go to his building’s basement gym, which is every day, for four hours.
In his bathroom, by the shower, is a lofty pile of t-shirts still slightly damp with sweat.
His front door shuts behind me, I imagine he's already masturbating. I am sure he is thinking
of me.
There is hardly any sunshine as I leave the building but a heavy rain last night, so I am wary
not to dampen the bottom of my skirt. It’d be nice to wear this outfit tonight. There’s a
business function in town - I’m going - said I would anyway, I don’t want to, I might not. I’ve
left early before; nobody notices at these things. No talking required. My face, the only
importance. Men are unable to see beyond my scaffolded smile. I will hold back the tears for
one more night. It’s getting dark. We fuck until we are both too exhausted to move. I fall
asleep first. I make sure I sleep for a full six hours, even on weekends. I wait for him to wake
up. Usually around 5pm. I have always slept well, even in strangers’ beds. He is becoming less
strange with each entrance. I might love him, but that is something one never shares with
one’s side-dick. He is often kind and it’s not always all about sex. This feels true as of now.
Our relationship has been about activities other than sex. He will read to me his contractual
agreements, my back sticky and thighs sweaty; I confirm he is not being ripped off, sold short,
being paid less for the deodorant he mentioned in one of his videos. I assist him where his
mother assisted him as a child. It’s easy to separate motherly activities from sexual ones, two
duties run parallel. I recognise these situations from friends who have kids. But stepping in,
reminding him to wash his clothes every once in a while, that he often stinks and should
shower more, is a bridge too far. His mother calls him every day, she asks him questions, he
talks about himself, he denies her personhood. How it goes. I lie there beside him, faceless. I
am there for him, to clean him up, to hold him. I prepare him for the day and am forgotten
about immediately. But I always come back for more.
This is a different way home. I see an old friend in the window of his restaurant, his back to
me, no face, but I remember the way he furled his brow. We have not spoken in about seven
years. I only know he runs his own restaurant because I stalk him and other lost boys online.
What would I even say to him now, how do I excuse years of ignorance? I need to leave. Find
somewhere new to live, an hour away, full of strange people, keep my job. I could buy a car,
learn to drive. But what would I do without him, my boy? I would get fat too without the
walking commute. It seems I am fuelled by fantasies of a different life, one that is not too
32
