Today is strange. I’m currently under quarantine, after having come down with a horrible cold. I haven’t left the house in days. I don’t know if it’s the gross amount of cough medicine I’m on, or if it’s being all cooped up like this, but as I sit here, huddled over my laptop, typing these words, I’m suddenly overwhelmed with feelings of bliss.
I’m in bed. Matthew’s in the living room singing and making lots of abstract noise with his weird, half-gay Russian friend, Alex. Alex is a composer, and he and Matthew have been working together on a conceptual opera for months now (hence the noise). I would tell you what it’s about, but every time they try and explain it I just zone out and start thinking about sex or Tyra Banks or nothing. “More xylophone!” I can hear Matthew shouting from down the hall, followed some brief murmurings about time or space or whatever—my head feels too cloudy to understand / care.
Bunny’s lying next to me, texting his new friend—a hot, gay escort he met at some African history festival (I’ll call him “Kid,” for lack of a better name). Kid looks like Louis Garrel only weirder, thus making him even more beautiful in a dark, fucked-up sort of way (if that’s even possible?). The two do nothing but lie around all day, texting each other about killing people, or having quasi-intellectual conversations about Bunny’s weird masturbation rituals. He’s been performing these jerk-off ceremonies for months now. I still can’t decide whether I think they’re deeply profound or hopelessly stupid. Either is good, I guess.
“What are you doing tonight?” I ask Bunny.
“I don’t know…” he shrugs, slowly bringing his eyes back into focus. “I’m supposed to be doing this ritual thing where me and Kid drink each other’s blood and then get naked and jerk off and stuff, but I think I might have the flu… so I may just stay in and finish this short story I’m writing about Phoebe, where she, like, gets really fat and then moves to Texas and gets eaten by this weird exercise cult.”
“Sounds fun,” I say. I love him?
“Yeah…” he exhales though pallid lips, “but we’ve been planning this ritual for weeks now, so I’d feel sort of lame about skipping out on it. Plus I haven’t jerked off in ages, and it’s gotten to the point where I can’t do it on my own any more…”
In other news, my day has been spent watching instructional videos on Youtube, attempting to learn the British sign language alphabet. You see, my New Year’s resolution is to find myself a deaf boyfriend. I’ve always been into weird-looking, fucked-up guys, but as of late it’s deafness specifically that turns me on. The more I think about it, the more consumed with it I become. To me, being deaf makes a person’s existence seem so much more powerful—as if just by moving and thinking and breathing they have the ability to create a masterpiece. So fucking hot.
Aptly, in the past two weeks I’ve joined two deaf dating websites—deafs.com and deafdatinguk.com. I haven’t been particularly lucky with either of them yet, but I’m optimistic. I also found out about a deaf night that runs weekly at a pub in central London, so I’m definitely going to check that out ASAP. Although obviously before I go I need to get better at this sign language bullshit. So far, along with the alphabet, I’ve learned how to say both “I’m a virgin” and “I give good head.” I think that’s a pretty good start.
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