Photo @ Slutever
Bunny’s in New York. He’s here sorting out his visa for when he goes back to university in London next week. He’s getting his masters–something to do with Asia, I forget. Lately I’ve been having the urge to eat him. Every time we’re together I just want to put all of him in my mouth, to devour him fully. I guess it’s a mixture of wanting to keep him here and wanting to “be one with him,” or something embarrassing or poetic like that.
“I want to eat you sort of,” I say.
“How do you mean?”
“I just want you inside me. But like, in a more abstract way than sex can afford.” I grab at the skin on my chest and claw fiercely at my stomach. In my head this seemed like a good way to illustrate “inside me,” although now that I’m doing it it feels a bit odd. “Have you ever felt like that?”
“Kind of,” he says, spacey. “Well, not exactly. But I’ve definitely wanted to cut someone open and live inside their body.”
“Me too. I think everyone has.”
Bunny’s sitting shirtless on the floor, dipping his spidery hands into a pot of baby pink hair dye and mindlessly slopping it onto his head in giant fistfuls. Some of the dye drips down his face and neck and lands in globs on the floor. I tell him the color is going to be uneven but he doesn’t respond, doesn’t seem to care. His eyes look like mud puddles on his face–murky, metalic. It makes it difficult to know what he’s thinking.
“Maybe I should drink some of your pee,” I suggest. “That would be kind of like eating you, but wouldn’t involve any pain.”
“Maybe. Although lately my diet consists of little more than vodka and french fries, so I’m not sure how good it would taste.”
“Never mind, I don’t know why I said that.”
We pass the thirty minutes it takes for the pink to settle into Bunny’s bleached hair by clicking through each and every Facebook photo of this kid from London we sort of know called Felix. This must be the hundredth time we’ve done this. Bunny and I have only met Felix twice–both times in nightclubs–but for some reason we’ve developed this weird, irrational infatuation with him. Almost all we know about Felix we’ve learned through his Facebook photos. For example: 1) He spends a considerable amount of time alone in his bedroom, taking pictures of himself on his Macbook. 2) He paints his finger nails frequently, sometimes black, sometimes a different color on each nail. 3) He likes plants a lot; they feature heavily in his self-portraiture.
Because we only know what’s on the surface, it’s easy to invent the rest of Felix in our heads. He’s an exterior without an interior, which makes him more exciting. It’s sort of like we own him. For a while Bunny and I talked about the idea of being in a three-way relationship with Felix. It wasn’t necessarily a sex thing, we just thought the three of us would work together well. I emailed Felix about it once. He seemed sort of into it, though nothing ever happened.
“I wonder if we actually got to know Felix that we’d like him less,” I say.
“Probably. That’s always the way it is.”
“I don’t even want to know him. I’m content just being vaguely obsessed with a made-up version of him from afar for no reason.”
Bunny rinses the dye from his hair in a giant red bucket and I sit three feet away, squirming, trying to imagine what it would feel like to bite through uncooked human flesh.