"Homosexual experiment, late twenties"
He slunk in, past the full-length
picture of Bruce Willis on his
wardrobe door surrounded by neon lights,
and poured me a large white.
I glugged it down and then
glugged another one down and then,
straddling me, he said, “You know,
something tells me your heart’s
not really in this.” His finely-
chiselled face smiled. “Your lack
of stiffy betrays this somewhat.
The only thing you want to
push is a few boundaries.”
I’d met Ben through Jaspreet,
a bearded plump Punjabi with
sensible shoes and a mephedrone habit,
who’d played me at badminton for three hours
after I’d taken acid for the first time.
He claimed to dislike reggae but
possibly be in denial. “Like an
Egyptian who’s fallen out of his boat,”
I said, at which Ben actually laughed
and ruffled my hair as we sat
in the sensible-trousered Sikh’s room
subsiding from various powders
and filling in a crossword book.
“Four down, Edith Cavell,” I stated confidently
just because her face once appeared
on a Smiths record cover, but it was enough
to impress the finely-chiselled gentleman.
So I lay there, looking up at Ben,
with Bruce Willis peering over
his shoulder. “Not in my face,” I told him.
He promised not to.
“You bastard!” I exclaimed,
rubbing an apologetic man’s
pillow into my left eye.