I wake up. It’s 10 AM and freezing. It’s always freezing in this stupid squat—probably something to do with the fact that we have no gas, thus rely on those shitty, electric space heaters for warmth. Whatever, I think to myself, and roll over to find Bunny half asleep next to me, covered in cum. “Fuck,” he moans, staring down at his crotch. “I had another wet dream. This was my last pair of underwear.” I ask him what he was dreaming about and he says he can’t remember but that it definitely involved Fran Dresher. Gross, I think, and head to the kitchen to make some coffee.
In the kitchen I find Hannah and Kerri washing themselves in the sink (we don’t have a shower), cleaning their vaginas with the same sponge we use to wash our dishes. Kerri says she’s headed to central London to go shoplifting, and that I should come along. She says it’s her Dad’s birthday in a few days and she wants to steal him something nice. Kerri shoplifts more than anyone I know. She also gets caught more than anyone I know, but I guess it’s all relative. I decide to come along.
We go to Oxford Circus where Kerri steals her Dad a stuffed teddy bear that burps when you punch its stomach. I tell her it’s gross but she insists her dad will love it. I steal some deodorant and a Cadbury’s Cream Egg even though I don’t want it.
On the way home Kerri suggests we raid the bins behind Subway for food. Now, I’m not going to lie and say I’ve never bin raided—I have, many times over—but for whatever reason I’m slightly apprehensive of doing it at 5pm, sober and in clear view of judgmental, suit wearing strangers. Despite this, I reluctantly agree to be the lookout while Kerri digs through the trash. She rips open the first bag and immediately screams for joy. I ask her what she found and she holds up a packet of plastic forks and knives. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless. She rips open more bags, each with increased enthusiasm, squealing and grunting with excitement as she delves deeper and deeper into the dumpster. Is this really happening? I think to myself. She’s never looked more crazed, more like a lunatic, a troglodyte, a criminal. I walk away in fear, leaving her on her own, sifting through trash.
When I get home I’m bored so I decide to make myself cum. I lie in bed and close my eyes. I think about Hamilton Morris naked, before he cut his hair, getting it on with a young Macaulay Culkin—no, wait, a young DiCaprio. Yeah, that’s better. I play this scene out in my head for a while, then decide guy-on-guy isn’t doing it for me right now. I recompose and think about this kid I know who looks like a twelve-year-old Jarvis Cocker, jerking off in a nightie. I cum within seconds.
I fade out on the bed for a while in my post cum bliss. When Kerri arrives she’s carrying a joint of pastrami and some slightly manky looking green beans, all from the Subway bins. She looks pleased. “Dinner!” she shouts, and flops the giant hunk of meat down onto the table. We eat it with the plastic forks she found, sharing a plate because we only have one. I gorge myself on the discarded meat and afterward I look at Kerri and realize that even though she’s sort of gross and fucked-up and insane, that I really do love her, a lot, and that maybe we all need to take a page out of her book: Liberty, shamelessness, small victories, the celebration of that which is ridiculous. You understand.