Meatspace

by Nikesh Shukla

  Her presence distracts me from my screens.

  Hayley is sleeping. She can fall asleep anywhere. Dad says this was my mum’s greatest trick. I can’t stop thinking about Kitab 2 and his open door policy, embarrassing me. But there is a girl I like a lot lying on my chest. Kitab 2 has crossed a line. I don’t want him to associate himself with me anymore. But as Hayley stirs and her hand gently rubs at my stomach and starts to make tentative moves under the covers, I’m quickly informed by my body where my priorities lie.

  Hayley leaves me 2 distracted hours later to go read from her novel at a library in Goodmayes. I joke that she will be asked ‘Where do you get your ideas from?’ a lot. She jokes that as I’m of the ethnic persuasion, I’ll probably be asked what my parents think of my work.

  ‘One’s dead, the other’s a douchebag. I don’t think they think anything about my work,’ I reply. She grabs my forearm and bites it, kisses me on the lips and leaves.

  I wait 30 seconds, to avoid an awkward walk to the station, and then run out on my way back to the hospital to find Kitab 2. This time I am seething with war.

  War doesn’t take public transport, though. I stop at the taxi rank and get a minicab back to the hospital.

  aZiZWILLKILLYOU episode 13 Aziz vs the Po-Po

  [posted 16 September, 13:34]

  So what happened was the po-po eventually got up off Aziz, pulled me up and took me to one side and said they had to bring us in for questioning. I asked if I’m being arrested. They said no, I could call a lawyer. I asked if I could call the embassy. I was concerned because I’d just rescued a baby not kidnapped one. Brown man caught with white baby … I’ve seen this movie. It ends in a bay in Cuba.

  #keepyourpromisesObama

  #stopthedronestrikesObama

  The dude told me it was just procedure, but something wasn’t quite right when Teddy Baker and I were shoved into the back of 2 separate cop cars and driven off in separate directions. We were being separated and I wasn’t too sure why. As far as I was concerned, I did the cops’ work for them. I cracked the case. I did a sterling job on the Sterling case. I kept asking the po-po in the front of the car where I was being taken but they didn’t answer me. They straight up ignored me. They hadn’t taken my stuff off me or cuffed me. But I couldn’t call anyone cos I’d left all my shit in that weird house of Bob’s. Fucking Bob, where was Bob?

  When we got to the police station, the cop opened the door quietly. He didn’t say anything to me, even as I nodded at him. He just pointed me towards the door. I wanted to ask him if I was going in as a free man or not but I didn’t say anything too Aziz-y, cos that’s the sort of shit that gets you interned or Guantanamo’d. I was walking with skin issues here.

  Inside, I was met by the original detective who called me Harry Potter. Except my nickname had mutated in transit. ‘Look,’ he said to the room, pointing at me. ‘Osama Bin Potter.’ He laughed. People rolled their eyes. I saw Teddy Baker down the corridor.

  ‘Yo, Teddy,’ I shouted.

  ‘He’s fine,’ the detective said. He held out his hand. ‘Detective Alverton.’

  ‘Wassup, man,’ I said and slapped his hand. He looked at it and replaced it in his pocket.

  ‘So,’ he said, pointing to my Lycra. ‘This looks like a girl’s costume. What’s your name supposed to be? Brown Lioness?’

  I smiled sarcastically, but I thought he was talking like he thought the whole thing was funny. He led me down the corridor. My hands were clasped together, like I thought I’d been arrested already. But I hadn’t been. I needed to keep remembering that. He took me into a room called Examination Room 2. I wondered if Teddy Baker was in Examination Room 1. What a fucking doppelganger, eh? We hung out one night and he got me arrested wearing Lycra so tight you could see the last time I manscaped down there.

  Examination Room 2 was exactly how anyone who has seen a film with a scene in an examination/interrogation room would imagine it. There was nothing in it except a plastic table and a pen and pad. Detective Alverton pulled a dictaphone out of his pocket and sat down. He gestured to me to sit down. I sat down and placed my hands on the table. They were still magnetised like I was cuffed.

  ‘So, how does a British citizen find himself wearing a girly superhero outfit in the subway rescuing the baby of one of the city’s most eminent bankers?’

  ‘I have no idea, mate. Life’s crazy.’ Somehow, I found some swag back. It was like my bowels wanted to run, but my mouth wanted to run too, so they were both fighting impulses to shut up and flee.

  ‘Nice tattoo,’ Detective Alverton had noticed my sick bow tie tattoo and pointed to it. ‘What is that?’

  ‘It’s a bow tie.’

  Detective Alverton stood up and left the room for 5 minutes. I was not sure what kind of game he was playing. Whether this was an intimidation method or he needed a piss. He eventually returned, smiling to himself. Then he looked at me and smiled more.

  ‘Nice tattoo,’ he said again.

  ‘Innit,’ I said. Cos what more could you say? It’s an awesome tattoo.

  ‘Matching tattoos. Are you guys, like, together or something?’

  It didn’t occur to me that this might seem weird, 2 guys running around New York dressed as homemade superheroes with matching individual tattoos but it was weird. I shrugged.

  ‘Does that matter?’

  Detective Alverton shook his head.

  ‘You’re not lovers?’

  ‘Nah man, just … you know. Whatever. It’s just a tattoo.’

  ‘Cos the last thing we need is 2 weirdo gay lovers with weirdo matching tattoos running around my town solving my cases.’

  ‘Sorry, dude. What’s with all the homophobia, mate?’

  ‘You don’t belong to a cult?’

  ‘What kind of cult gets matching bow tie tattoos?’

  ‘A weird one.’

  ‘You don’t know me, detective. But I run cults. I don’t belong to them.’

  Detective Alverton’s tone had changed. He was looking at me differently now he knew that Teddy Baker and I had this weird connection. He couldn’t quite understand something but, typical cop, he wasn’t telling me anything, he was just sitting there judging me in whatever way he wanted to. It unnerved me. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do at this point.

  ‘Am I under arrest? Because I’m not sure I did anything wrong.’

  ‘Let me see here: trespass on New York Transit Authority property, absconding with a baby, running away from police officers, resisting arrest …’

  ‘Hey, I came here willingly because you told me I wasn’t under arrest.’

  ‘Fine. Not resisting arrest.’

  ‘You’re still making it sound like I did something wrong.’

  ‘Paint me a picture, if you will, As-Is … I mean, I gotta ask … what were you doing tonight?’

  I don’t know what possessed me to give all my cards away or risk my words and actions being mangled but in that situation what could you do? You think the truth will set you free. So I started at the beginning. I told him about the Google image search, the tattoo, the Facebook stalking, the first meeting, meeting Bob – all of it. The social media treasure hunt.

  And I led Detective Alverton, who, the entire time had a weird grin on his face, towards where we’re sitting now. The problem was as I told the story, his grin got more fixed so I lost faith in my story and tripped over myself. I mean, I’d live-blogged all this so it wasn’t like none of it wasn’t public record, was it? Why would I lie to you? My most loyal of peoples.

  ‘Tell me about this Bob guy. I’m interested in him,’ Detective Alverton said when I’d finishing telling him my frankly awesome tale.

  ‘I dunno – he lives above some dive bar in Brooklyn. He’s a bit of a shit.’

  Detective Alverton grabbed a pencil and made a note. He looked up.

  ‘As-Is, say that again – I want to get it exactly right. He’s “a bit of a shit”? Or is he a whole of a shit? Or is he just a shit? Come on
, say it again. Be specific.’

  ‘Dude’s a wanker. I’m not a fan. “Unlike”.’

  Detective Alverton wrote something then looked back up at me and smiled. ‘Thanks, As-Is,’ he said, and he left the room.

  ‘Wait, detective – don’t I get a phone call?’

  ‘Why do you need one, son? You’re not under arrest, are you? Unless you feel you need to be.’

  Detective Alverton returned a few minutes later, smiling. He put a folder on the table, one of those plain brown paper folders that people in CSI shows carry when they’re about to pin something on you.

  Comments are disabled for this post.

  History:

  Sex party etiquette – Google

  Ways to last longer – Google

  Peter North cumshot – YouPorn

  In the cab over to the hospital, I trace the letters on my forearm. The tattoo artist has done a quick job on the ‘ook’ of ‘book’. I marvel at my tattooed skin’s ability to highlight some of my own inadequacies. I haven’t written in days, weeks, months. I haven’t done anything of worth. The irony of the tattoo brings a smile to my face. It hasn’t turned out to make the statement I intended it to.

  The taxi stalls in traffic round the corner from the hospital and I feel the nervous energy in my legs beg to spring into action, so I ask the driver to pull over and I run unnecessarily but urgently to the front door. They’re closing for visiting hours but I claim an emergency and am allowed up to Kitab 2’s floor. I run up the stairs. My legs run out of enthusiasm for bursts of energy at the first floor. I push through and I run to the room where he’s holed up, ready to unleash the fire of ‘respect the social etiquette’ on him, but the lights are off and the beds are all empty.

  I run back to the reception desk and a nurse shrugs. ‘Visiting hours are over, darling.’ I am sweating and not even my closed mouth can disguise my desperate pants for air.

  ‘Where’s Kitab, the guy who was in that bed today?’

  ‘Oh, the sweet Indian guy?’ she says, smiling. ‘With the permanent erection?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Visiting hours are over.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, but where is he? I was supposed to pick him up and I got waylaid. I’m here to pick him up.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, you’re very late. He left 4 hours ago. Said he was discharging himself. Then he laughed. And said, “that’s what she said”. He left. And before you ask, I don’t know and don’t care where. He was silly to discharge himself, but as long as he sticks to his prescription of painkillers, he should be okay.’

  ‘Right … thanks.’

  ‘And he should have that priapism checked out …’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, making a mental note to tweet something about the word ‘priapism’. I don’t know what yet but put a pin in it. Not the priapism. The idea. I laugh to myself.

  ‘Are you alright, love?’ she calls after me as I turn to leave. ‘You’re very sweaty. You should get that checked out.’

  I stand outside the hospital and shield my phone in my jacket from potential muggers. I check Twitter: nothing. A girl who looks attractive has just retweeted my link to my article about the tattoo. I reply, ‘THANKS FOR THE RT!!’ to her. I check out her avatar in closer detail. I feel like a creep and close the window down. Nothing from Kitab 2. People are talking about welfare cuts. I don’t have time to formulate a pithy opinion. I check Facebook to see if Kitab 2 and I are still friends.

  The top news stories: Cara changed her profile picture to a photo of a sonogram. Rach is ‘in a relationship’. What the fuck? She’s in a relationship? Already? With who? I scan through her profile, distracted, unable to decipher who she’s in a relationship with. She’s working quickly. Kitab 2. Nothing from him. I email him. I text the phone number he left me. Nothing.

  I think I know where he is. He’s off somewhere being disgusting. At a sex party he found on Twitter. There’s something so creepy about the whole affair. I’ve watched the videos on YouPorn and RedTube, I’ve seen the masks and bellies and the kneading of a placid girl’s breasts. I’ve heard the gruff Benson & Hedges voices cooing and grunting. The bellies flopping over their genitals, the translucent white skin. The stroking of the penises while waiting turns. The grimaces of pain and pleasure from the women. The men, 5 to 1, the sweaty backs, the realistic girths, the grunting and writhing and silence, the deafening silence. I’ve seen the American college parties where the frat boys call in hookers and the hookers bang everyone on the beer pong table whilst upperclassmen oi-oi and coo and shout words of encouragement in the background while the uninhibited girls take control of the nervous boys buoyed by the pack mentality. I’ve even watched bukkake, which I’ve never seen the titillation in. All of those films are about domination by the ugliest of men. I’ve watched the videos and I’ve felt a wave of self-loathing towards myself and the internet for allowing me to be able to search for them, snatching 30 segment buffered fragments as I skip through the highlights of 4–16 minute videos of acts that were once intimate and the imagined landscapes we created to turn ourselves on as teenagers. The mystery, the power of imagination’s all gone now we can search for whatever we want. How this could result in something beautiful and sexy like @partyorifices claims, I don’t know. It’ll just be full of fat white people too rich for conventional banging. I have to stop him live-tweeting this. I want no association with it. Also, it’s for ever. If he’s going to be applying for jobs, for university, for anything, that digital footprint of his needs to be clean.

  The internet is both transient and eternal and there’s nothing you can hide from it once it goes online.

  I have no choice but to head over to where this party is and call for him at the front desk. Do sex parties have front desks? Do they have receptions?

  I look at the @partyorifices Twitter account and at their website and there’s nothing on there to even hint at a location for tonight’s orgiastic festivities. I suppose that’s sensible given this is supposed to be elite and word of mouth and undercover. Husbands, wives, colleagues – they shouldn’t be made aware of your disgusting whereabouts, should they?

  But if we are to subject connected social animals to our every whim, even ones best kept private, then everything should be on display. Your location should be traceable, so people can see that when you Facebook about travel problems, you’re still in the pub and covering up a late arrival for dinner with the wife. Your porn history should be matter of public record. Mine would never show a consistency you could look at and know my ‘type’. Your real likes and dislikes should be in a separate list, just underneath your social likes and dislikes, so people can see that you secretly prefer Coldplay to whatever hip band is out there right now. Unless you don’t mind people knowing you like Coldplay.

  And if you’re the type of person who goes to sex parties you find on the internet, by golly, your friends and family, your colleagues and acquaintances, accountants and clients, should all know about it.

  I stand on the street outside the hospital and run through my options. This is ridiculous. A social media chase around London. A high octane chase all on a 120x60mm screen.

  If only he used Foursquare, that would make all of this a lot easier. I check through the various sites under my own name but find nothing. I do a Twitter search for Party Orifices. I do a Google image search. I email info@partyorifices.biz (awww, they could only get the .biz. This makes me sad for a split second).

  I check through my notifications. I see that about 6 hours ago, Kitab 2 accepted my friend request. I click onto his account. It’s bare except for YouTube trailers of video games and updates on his score on Mafia.

  My hunch is that he’s the kind of guy to ‘check in’ at places and let you know exactly where he is, even if his dad is friends with him or his friends are prudes. No matter where you are or what you’re doing, there’s that innate compulsion to tell people that’s where you are and that’s what you’re doing.

  I look at his
timeline. Kitab is ‘checked in at Wilmington House’. A building called Wilmington House is exactly the type of place where people would be having a sex party. I look the address up. The house is across town. I have to brave public transport.

  I head to the station.

  Wilmington House is on a cul-de-sac in one of the better-off ends of town. This is where the rich can afford to own housing. All the bankers and MPs, all the socialites and tenuous links to royalty. I never come here. I never visit this part of the city. It is far removed from my life. It’s not where I come from and it’s not what I aspire to be. I keep it real in East London. Not south or west where the stinky winds don’t visit. There is a quiet in the air that feels like nothing I’m used to. It feels like the stillness that every rich person needs after a long day. I hear clichés, like the wind whistling through trees, kids playing in gardens and dishwashers, as I walk through the streets.

  Wilmington House is nondescript in its appearance. It’s 3 storeys and has shut blinds in the windows. Ivy bushes obscure the front walkway. The door isn’t illuminated. Everything screams no one’s home. I ring the doorbell and nothing happens.

  I ring it again, twice. Nothing happens.

  I ring it again. Nothing happens.

  Then twice again. And I see a flicker of light behind the opaque window pane. The door opens and a woman with a wild mess of curly blonde hair, in her 40s and smiling with a cigarette-stained line of teeth, answers the door. She is dressed in a tight black dress. She is barefoot.

  ‘Yes?’ the woman says, dismissively.

  ‘Party Orifices?’ I say, confidently.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I’m here for Party Orifices,’ I repeat, less sure.

  ‘I don’t know what that is.’

  ‘This is Wilmington House, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘So, this is where Party Orifices is, isn’t it?’

  She pauses. I’m nervous. I don’t want to go in. I don’t want to see the sweaty writhing of flesh unless it’s through the filter of a screen. I feel a burning pit of sweaty anxiety in my stomach, splooshing around like downing water when you’re hungry. I am not ready for this type of thing. Like Seinfeld said, ‘I’m not an orgy guy.’