by Eliza Clark
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Well… It’s like when… It’d be like seeing a photo that’s… So, you think it’s a photo of a beautiful woman, man.’ He waves his hand. ‘Whatever you’re into. But actually, it’s been photoshopped. Can’t enjoy the photo then, can you? If you know it’s not real.’
I kind of get what he’s saying. It’s sort of like if you condensed all the academic craic out there on the ‘presumption of veracity’ people ascribe to photography, all the resulting authority and seductiveness, into a common tweet. I don’t know if ‘that take is so basic come back to me when you’ve read some Sontag or Derrida’ is good foreplay, though.
‘I kind of get you,’ I say. I am feeling drunk, and charitable. ‘It’s a bit like… So, I heard that people who photograph food – like, for adverts, and packaging, and that – to get that fresh rising steam effect on, like, chicken, and mashed potato, and shit. I hear they soak tampons in water, then pop them in the microwave till they steam. Then they either put it just behind the food, or, like, just bury it in there? Ever since I heard that, whenever I see the packaging on an M&S curry, all I can think about is the fucking soggy microwaved tampon that’s probably stuck in it.’
‘Yeah. That’s fucked up,’ he says.
I decide to let him know I’m allergic to latex. John is a pretty man: he’s tall and slim, with green eyes and thick, honey-coloured hair, but the sneer that twists his pouty, pink lips is plain ugly. He asks me if I’m fucking joking.
‘I carry my own condoms. Jesus.’
We arrive at the hotel, and he’s already back-pedalling, insisting he’s not a wanker, he’s just had a long day, he promises. I roll my eyes when his back is turned.
John tells the front desk to send champagne to his room. Champagne makes me sick like nothing else, but who am I to turn down a free drink?
The room is nice: plush carpets, clean, mini-bar, king-size bed. I perch on a loveseat in the window and look out to the river while he complains about how long the champagne takes, and de-suits, removing his jacket, his tie, and unbuttoning his shirt to reveal a chest which must be waxed.
A knock at the door. He opens it wide enough to make sure the male member of staff can see me, and makes that member of staff open the bottle and fill our glasses, which have strawberries skewered on the rim.
John brings me a champagne flute, and I give him a condom.
‘How big is this?’ he asks, immediately, his nose wrinkled.
‘It’s just normal. I carry a big one?’ A girl can dream. ‘And a trim one, FYI.’
‘I’ll try the normal one… I’m on the big side of average, you see, so…’
‘Do you need the big one, or not?’
He waggles his eyebrows, and undresses completely.
He does not need the big one. I swig heavily from my champagne flute, while he strokes his spectacularly average dick, like I’m supposed to be impressed. Eddie from Tesco, bless his heart, seems like more a trim kind of guy. But I’m no size queen. I’m a broad church.
It’s funny to see John with his clothes off. His body is perfect. It doesn’t do a lot for me. It’s fussy, and fake, one of those display bodies, built for gym selfies and thirst-trap Instagram pages and Tinder profiles. Not unlike my own, I suppose. He has abs, and he’s as waxed and buffed as I am. I’ve gotten so used to tummies and body hair and stringy limbs that I’ve almost forgotten there are men who look like this in real life. I’ve forgotten there are other Salad People who exist outside of glossy mags and Instagram. I wonder how many protein shakes he drinks, how many hours he spends at the gym. All that money, all that time, and I’m going to spend the next three and a half minutes thinking about some chubby, short-arse checkout boy. I snort, and I imagine him lusting after a Forbidden Planet shop girl, with dimply thighs and scabby lip rings.
The heart wants what it wants. I take off my clothes. Now my shoes are off he’s a little taller than me. He points it out, says he has the upper hand. I duck away from his lips when he tries to kiss me on the mouth. I touch his stomach; there’s no give at all, my fingers don’t dent it. His thighs are hard, and slim. His arse doesn’t look like it’s been shrunk in the wash, at least, but I bet he’s done a lot of squats to get it this way.
I kneel on the bed, tell him to go from behind. I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to touch him. I want to bury my hands in the generous hotel pillows and pretend I’m grabbing a handful of pudgy boy-thigh. No foreplay. He runs a cursory hand down my side, he checks if I’m wet, then sticks it in. It stings. I haven’t done this in a long time. He huffs above me. I don’t particularly want to look at him, but there’s a big mirror on the wall. I see us both looking at ourselves. John is watching his dick go in and out of me, and I’m just staring at the girl in the mirror. The bored redhead and the plastic surgeon, pulling at the flesh of her flank. She looks posed, and so does he, like a little girl is doing something obscene with Barbie and Ken.
‘Let’s switch,’ I say. He ignores me. ‘Hey, let’s switch.’
‘Why? Am I keeping you awake?’ he snarls. ‘Didn’t take you for a pillow princess.’
‘Let me get on top,’ I say. But he ignores me, and reaches around to touch me, and tells me to scream for him. It hurts. He hurts me on purpose. The pain makes me stick my face into the pillow and moan; makes my toes and my spine curl. I struggle. He yanks my head up, taking a merciful fistful of the hair growing from my scalp, rather than the Russian shit I paid £200 to get sewn in. I tell him, if he’s not going to let me get on top, he could put his back into it. He asks me if I like it rough.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Whatever.’ That winds him up. I can see the veins bulging in his neck, his face turning angry red. I close my eyes, try to ignore the wet slap of skin on skin. I try to focus on the abstract, on the tangle of pleasure and pain. I think about Eddie from Tesco. I think about shooting him without a mask. I think about his eyes filling up, his face going puce because my hands are around his neck. I think about filming it. I think about watching the film. I think about putting my fingers in his mouth.
I come, but I’m quiet about it, glad not to give John the satisfaction of a scream. He slaps my side, and gloats, and I smear lipstick and mascara all over the hotel pillows. He goes limp on top of me a moment later.
‘Off,’ I snap. He rolls over, and snuggles into his crisp, hotel bed, cuddling up with the quilt when I stand, immediately dressing. He prattles on about how much fun I am, how he likes a little play-acting, all the while yawning, curling and uncurling his toes like a cat relaxing in a sun puddle.
‘I’m in Newcastle for a few days. My phone’s on the bedside table,’ he says, yawning. ‘Call your cab from my Uber account, and stick your number in my contacts, yeah?’
I try to tell him that I can pay for my own cab – I don’t want to give him my address – but he’s asleep. Out cold. I shout, but he doesn’t stir.
‘I wanted to fucking switch,’ I say, and I throw a champagne glass at the wall behind the bed. It shatters, tiny shards landing all over the hotel room.
Three pieces in his face: cheek, forehead, eye. He doesn’t move. His chest rises and falls steadily, while little rivets of blood leak from the wounds.
I take some photos. Just on my phone.
And then I’m in the taxi. Thinking, thinking: did I enjoy that? Did I even properly consent to that? Do I care? I haven’t been raped before. Well, I’ve never been raped raped: no bag over my head, no knife to my throat while I screamed and fought. Nothing traumatic. Even Will the other week, that was nothing. But it’s all the little shit. He wouldn’t switch; I passed out; I don’t remember it; he’s way older than me. Do you like it rough? I think so. I think I must. Men are rough, aren’t they? Have I always had a taste for rough stuff, or did I acquire that? In the back of Lesley’s car, on the floor of a friend’s house, half-conscious with my underwear around my ankles? Was it my idea to have him hurt me, or did he just let me think it was?
And that gets sewn into them young, doesn�
��t it? Violence. I’ve had to go to some fairly extreme measures to defend myself.
I used to think about older men, even before Lesley. I had an imaginary sugar daddy; I had affairs in my head with actors and musicians thrice my age; I had intentional and prolonged eye-contact with my dad’s friends. Whether I’m in control or losing it, I’ve always had a power thing, I think.
I never do things like this with women. I never did anything like this with Frank.
There’s a soft part of your brain. A place where you’re still just a child. Once someone’s poked the soft spot, the dent doesn’t go away. Like sticking your fingers in wet concrete.
I catch my reflection in the wing mirror. There she is, with her smudged eyeliner and her messy hair, the tracks of her hair extensions on display, lipstick on the tip of her nose and her chin. She’s wet concrete gone hard, full of dents, reshaped into this thing, which burps and pisses and has to be washed and fed and fucked.
I look in the mirror and think: who the fuck is that? Who is she?
I finish telling all of this to the Uber driver. He asks me if I’m okay.
Hi there,
It’s been a while! I’ve been doing some exhibition prep – but I have some experimental stuff you might be interested in. I’ve been playing with effect makeup, very pretty guy, some fake glass in his face. Shot on iPhone, for the gritty realistic effect. Interested at all? I’ve attached one, could send the whole set if you like it. On the house!
Best,
Irina.
My Darling,
How wonderful it is to hear from you. Please do send the whole set, as a student of classical beauty, this man’s physique and face are highly pleasing to me.
Only, I don’t see any glass? Perhaps this is later on in the set?
I do enjoy a little ‘gore’ as the kids say, and I’d be very interested to see it.
Faithfully,
B
He’s right. I scroll through every photograph I took of ‘John’ yesterday, and there’s no glass. Certainly not in his face, and nowhere to be seen in the general vicinity. I zoom, and fiddle with the contrast, the lighting – none. No glass, no blood, just dewy, plump skin.
Hey!
You’re right! I sent you a test shot without the makeup by mistake. The set is showing up on my phone, but won’t transfer to my laptop, attach to emails, or even upload to dropbox :( Looks like it might be corrupted. I’ve attached what I have, unfortunately all test shots. Sorry to get your hopes up there. Serves me right for fannying on with my phone instead of just using a proper camera.
Best,
Irina
Irina,
Not to worry. The test shots are very lovely.
I have sent 100 GBP via your paypal as a tip! Buy yourself something nice.
Faithfully,
B
Hey stranger.
Been a while.
Come over.
Tracked down a download of In a Glass Cage with the right subs.
You’ll hate it.
It’s Saturday. I wake up with an overwhelming feeling of dread, then remember I won’t be going to work this evening. Thank God It’s Sabbatical.
I get up, I drink a litre of water, I do my press-ups, my sit-ups, and a Pilates video. Then I shower and do my skincare stuff. Double cleanse, scrub, toner, sheet mask, eye cream, moisturiser, and a primer with an SPF even though I’m not sure I’ll go out today.
I lounge on the sofa and make my way through a cafetière while I watch a repeat of The Jeremy Kyle Show. A guilty-looking teen mother says she’s very confident the father of her two-month-old is her boyfriend, but it also might be his cousin.
It’s neither of them. With a shrug, she guesses there are three, maybe four, additional potential fathers. Insisting that she is simply very popular with the lads.
‘That Kelis song – do you know it?’ she asks Jeremy. He does not. ‘The Milkshake one. That’s me, that is.’
‘Same,’ I say.
I stick on the second August Underground film when Jeremy Kyle is finished, just for background noise, and start properly going through the photos of Eddie from Tesco. I woke up at, like, two today, and it’s gone five now. I’m getting to the point where I think I need to reset my sleeping pattern. I’ll sit up for a full twenty-four hours, then sleep for a full twenty-four hours, and wake up at seven a.m., and be a day-time person again. My empty stomach churns, but I ignore it, driving my forearm into my belly to stop the gurgling.
I check my phone. A string of texts from an unknown number, and I panic that I may have left the plastic surgeon my number, even though I know I didn’t. There’s nothing from Flo. There’s a text from Ryan asking if I can drop in for a shift, and a text from my mam asking me if I’m alive. Mam says she saw some of the photos from my night out last week and has some concerns about the outfit I’m wearing. She calls me mutton dressed as lamb.
Im 28.
Yeah 29 in nov and b4 you know it
Ur 30
And then u cant just go out wearing lace and plastic mini skirts
And you might think u look fine but ppl who know your age will look @ u and think mutton
I appreciate your concern.
More texts come through: I’m also too skinny, and I look like I’m going to snap in the middle and I should think about packing on a few pounds because being so thin is very aging around the face. And Flo looks fat; do I only keep Flo around so I look skinnier? Remember when Flo used to be a skinny little thing? Mam says skinny girls like that never learn to watch their weight, when their metabolism changes as they age, they pile it on.
I reply to her various updates with a mixture of thumbs up and clapping emojis. She keeps complaining about her friend with cancer. She’s recently been diagnosed terminal, and apparently will not stop posting about it on Facebook. Mam says she’s always been an attention-seeker.
Wow jealous I am longing for death’s sweet release r/n, I type. And then I delete it and replace it with that fucking crying-laughing face that old people use when they’re being racist on social media.
The messages from the unknown number are, mercifully, not from the plastic surgeon.
Hey its Eddie, frm Tesco/the other day?
Your business card has your mobile number on it sorry if this is weird
Any way how are you? How are my photographs? Hope i didnt waste your time the other day.
I know its shit for you not to shoot my face.
You mentioned you were into j-horror and pink films and stuff?
Have you seen All Night Long? A friend recced it to me and loaned me a copy.we could watch it together? Maybe tonight if you’re not busy. Im working till 7.
I ignore these. I replied quickly to his first couple of emails, and I want to keep him on his toes.
I look at his photo on my laptop screen, still clothed in the one I have open in Photoshop. It’s a candid shot of him contemplating the rabbit head. My stomach gurgles again.
I close my laptop and get up to check my face in the mirror, making sure I’m free of lines, and pimples, and slap on a BB cream for a little coverage. Tinted eyebrows, good skin and dyed, extended eyelashes cover the rest. I brush my hair. I put on a cute T-shirt, and the only pair of jeans I own. I look comfy. I don’t feel comfy. I took them in at the waist when I bought them because they’re a twelve and I had about four inches of bagging on my stomach. But I went a little too far and (hearing my mother’s voice ringing in my ear) I’m pushing it with them – the button will leave a deep, red mark on my belly. I stick on my only pair of trainers, too, and walk to Tesco, and feign surprise when I see him. He goes red. I half-wave, and ignore him, and grab a bag of spinach, a cucumber and some peppers. I spend an inordinate amount of time bending down near the checkouts to look at the magazines. I grab Vogue, and I go over to the till, where he smiles, and says ‘Hi!’ slightly too loudly.
‘Oh, hang on,’ I say, and I grab two bottles of red, while he scans my other purchases.
>
‘Do you have any ID there, young lady?’ he says, then chuckles. I make a face at him. ‘Sorry.’ It takes a moment for the wine to scan. ‘Stocking up?’
‘Sort of. Some guy I met the other night might be coming over, I don’t know. Better to have it and not need it, eh?’
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Hey… Feel free to tell me I’m crossing a line, here, but…’ He clears his throat. ‘Ah, never mind.’
‘Come on. What’s up?’
‘Just… It’s funny you came in, because… Have you checked your phone?’
I raise my eyebrows and pull my phone from my pocket. I tell him I didn’t see his texts, that I’ve been busy all day.
‘If you already have, like… a date, though… I was just… You know. You mentioned you liked, like, Pink movies and J-horror and I just picked up—’
‘All Night Long. Just read it.’ I shrug. ‘I’ve seen one through three already.’
‘That’s fine. I understand you’re too busy.’
‘Have you seen In a Glass Cage? It’s Spanish,’ I say. ‘It’s pretty hardcore – we could watch that instead.’ It just comes out. He looks so wounded, and he’s trying so hard not to, and then he lights up. I see that gap between his teeth, and his dimples, and I melt.
It’ll be fine, just this once. What’s the worst that could happen, you know?
‘Oh. No. I mean… I’m not really into… I just like Japanese stuff, I guess. But um…’ He brightens. ‘So, you want to come over?’
‘Yeah, sure. What time do you finish?’
He finishes at seven. I say that’s fine and tell him to come get me once he’s finished his shift. I tell him I have a laptop full of shit, and I’ll just bring that. That way he can look at his photos, too. When I leave, I regret not asking for a second shopping bag, as the wine bottles clank together dangerously and tug at the flimsy plastic handles of this so-called bag for life. 10p, fucking liberty.