Tag: Guest Contributors

When I first met Paul Kwiatkowski we bonded over our love of perverse gay fiction and Dennis Cooper. He recently insisted that I read Matthew Stokoe’s Cows. I’m now halfway through it and I can say for certain that it’s the most disturbing novel I have ever read. Paul is a really great writer and photographer himself; his fiction and photographs have an uneasy sexiness about them that I really love. He just took some photos of me burning the fuck out of a Barbie, which I will be posting soon!

Paul’s upcoming debut novel, And Every Day Was Overcast, is about life growing up in the trashy creepshow swampland know as South Florida, and is largely based on his own life. The novel has photographs in it too, and is full of gross sex stuff. (#love) Below is a chapter from his novel. Serious sneak peak vibes!!! Enjoy!

Hialeah Drive was fucked.

As kids, we all had our own version of what went down on that small street. What happened to Hialeah Drive became our own urban legend. We spread rumors: The people living there were swingers, were messed up with kiddie porn syndicates, were cult members with secret families trapped in the basement. In reality, we never witnessed any evidence of orgies or demonic happenings. At most, we saw a consistent rotation of unfamiliar cars parked out front and boarded up windows that sealed Hialeah’s inhabitants from us. In my opinion, the demise was a result of what happens to lonely, bored people and to families that never should have been.

I was alone, walking home down a dirt road from where the school bus dropped me off. The afternoon was sweltering, so I had my shirt stuffed into my backpack. Despite my town’s notoriety for not being especially friendly, a few strangers would occasionally pull over to ask if I needed a ride home. The men probably had no interest in raping and killing me, but, as a rule, I always said no.

A white Honda Civic pulled up beside me. The driver was a woman in her late 30s with a deflated sandy brown perm. She excused herself for creeping up and said, “Hey hun, you’re gonna burn up walking around like that. Need a ride home?”

She introduced herself as Hailey and because she was a woman with a nasally voice that reminded of my television dream girl Peg Bundy, I accepted the ride. I knew that there really wasn’t much to her, aside from having a nice ass with pouty lips that seemed out of character on her narrow face. I remember thinking she wasn’t especially sexy, just another mommy type, possibly MILF status.

Inside Hailey’s car, the air conditioner was on high, fusing the smell of berry bubble gum and cigarette smoke to the seats. Hailey made a lot of smalltalk between mentioning how nervous she was about having a random kid in her car. I could tell by her accent that she was local, South Florida born and bred.

Throughout the short ride I starred blankly ahead while sneaking obvious glimpses at her body. She was wearing an aqua blue hospital scrub, beige leggings and a white linen skirt that was hiked up mid-thigh from driving. She looked like a clinic receptionist and for some reason that made my mouth water.

She took a lot of deep breathes, continually reassuring herself that she shouldn’t feel weird about helping a neighbor, that everything was fine and that I shouldn’t worry.

I wasn’t worried.

She dropped me off at my door without any kind of weirdness.

For weeks after, I cut class to compulsively jack off to Hailey in the handicap stall. I couldn’t explain it. She was by no means hotter than the girls at school — who I didn’t speak to — and it wasn’t like she came onto me. Maybe it was because I was a shy kid alone with woman who wasn’t my mom or an aunt or a teacher. Maybe I was just 14 and horny. Regardless, after that ride, I walked down that same dirt road every day, slower than usual, looking for a white Civic.
—

Three years later, I was 17 and finally able to drive myself. I considered this to be a radical demarcation between watching the scenery and actively participating in life. I loved the freedom to disappear.

It was a Friday night and I had been guilt tripped into chartering my sometimes-skinhead friend Lee to meet two girls from a ska show I had previously refused to attend. Their names were Shianne and Rainey. We went to Rainey’s house on Hialeah, which smelled like cedar chips and urinal cakes because of her pet ferret.

Shianne’s skin looked pockmarked then sandblasted. She was both pale and ruddy. Her hair was partially shaved into a Chelsea cut and she had on baggy Jncos — two of the most unflattering looks on a girl. Rainey was a fat Goth. Beneath layers of candy bracelets, her wrists were corrugated with scars. They were both cutters. I imagined it started as an act of self-control or self-loathing, then bled over to bonding and boredom. There was something parasitic about their interactions with one another. It was as if they were one of the same, a two-headed pig that headbutted itself to feel alive. I could hardly look at them. Lee wanted to fuck the fat one.

To pass the time, we took turns doing shots of vodka from a plastic jug. As the girls got hammered, they became oblivious to us, more interested in chatting with other Goth girls via web cam. On the computer screen, all their rooms looked the same: dingy and cluttered. I envisioned them trapped in tiny virtual pods, orbiting the planet but never touching each other nor touching down.

It wasn’t long before Shianne, Rainey and the web-cam girls were daring one another to make out. My only contribution to this game was convincing Rainey — the fat one — to let Lee shove a bottle in her ass. After a word or two, she actually bent over but Lee pussied out. Like most skinheads, he could only do something if five other guys were doing it too.

I had given up on thinking I could drink myself into wanting to fuck either of them. The situation was pointless. I was bored, drunk and alone, trapped between a two-headed pig and a hopeful swine-fucker. I claimed I needed to piss and explored the house. Rainey’s mom was sitting in the living room alone, watching Conan. I couldn’t tell if she had noticed me, so I said hello. She looked up startled.

It was Hailey.

She timidly introduced herself and asked how I knew her daughter. I told her I didn’t. She had no idea who I was. Since last I saw her, Hailey’s naturally pouty lips had become bee-stung, swollen and sloppy. Her hair had collapsed into matted strands.

She couldn’t hold eye contact without blushing. It never occurred to me that an older woman could feign interest in a 17-year-old boy. She asked if I was bored with the girls and wanted to watch Conan with her.

Before I could agree, my moment was interrupted by Rainey. She mockingly screamed from the kitchen, “Oh my god, mom, are you flirting with that guy?!” Shianne chimed in, “Do it, dude! She needs a good fuck.”

Hailey turned bright red as she sent the girls back to their room. Down the hall, I saw Lee cutting lines of Oxy on the sly. I was relieved knowing they’d all be passed out soon.

We were alone.

Hailey’s eyes were unfocused. I could tell she was drunk. Though she was looking my direction, her eyelids flickered like she was trying to focus on something far behind me.

Sitting on the other side of the couch, I made a half-assed attempt at smalltalk. She stayed friendly enough but unresponsive. There was a lot of staring followed by a long pause during which I panicked thinking of the right thing to say. She giggled. I could tell she enjoyed watching me squirm.

In an almost commanding but tender voice, she asked me to help her move two boxes from her room into the attic. I noticed the boxes weren’t sealed. They were filled with boring shit like documents, books, albums and opened envelopes. Upstairs in the attic, I peaked inside a few of the envelopes. They were mainly family photos as well as personal outtakes of Hailey in the mix. I was never much of a thief but stealing those pictures was one of the best crimes I’d ever committed.

Everything after felt like a dream. When she kissed me, my stomach raised and felt hollow. She pulled my collar down leading my head down between her legs. Having pussy come to me this effortlessly was unreal. With her panties still on, I pulled her thong to the side then ate her out. With her guidance, Hailey was the first woman I ever made cum and in return she let me finish in her mouth.

In less than three years I watched Hialeah Drive, a street of maybe eight middle-class homes, go from dilapidated to annihilated. All the families moved out after nearly every house was inexplicably burned down. The police never found any witnesses. When asked, they would say there were too many suspects to even consider an investigation. The few homes that weren’t set on fire eventually collapsed from neglect. Over time their remains receded into the swamp and Hialeah Drive became a dead end.

I still think about Hailey, about her blowing me and wonder what her mouth looks like now, and whether she’d still remind me of Peg Bundy. I wonder if she still dresses like a clinic receptionist or if she’s become homely. Part of me is even curious if Rainey and Shianne are still alive.

I don’t know how my experience tied in with the demise of Hialeah Drive. I like to think that my encounter with Hailey caused a small a ripple, one of a million instances of outsiders, strange cars, boarded windows and shady gatherings that eventually forced the homes on Hialeah Drive to gradually implode. Maybe some things are just meant to die slowly, while we watch. I don’t know.

All I do know is how good that pussy was.

Below is the second guest post written by my friend, the fabulous sex blogger Sugar Tits. (If you have yet to read her first post, you can do so HERE. #raunchy) This post has prompted me to seriously consider becoming a stripper.

Arriving last night worried about my period, I whisper to the Blonde girl for advice. She laughs. “Just hide the string and change the tampon often, but be careful when using the bathroom.” We have a separate bathroom from the clients, disguised as a closet, to which the owners recently removed the lock, in attempts to “prevent drug use,” aka eliminate all our privacy. I’ve already gotten walked-in on at least ten times. “Don’t worry, they’re all perverts here, you could be covered in shit and they’d probably like it.” With thirty minutes to go, we prepare via rubbing ourselves in baby oil, glitter, powder, makeup, tons of perfume and fruity body sprays. Cigarettes are being passed around, as well as shots of cheap tequila from a flask, provided by the Mexican girl who looks like Eva Mendes would look, if playing a role of a girl in a gang. I take a shot and the Brazilian turns around, to give me fashion advice.

“Don’t you have other undies?”

“Why? What’s wrong with these?”

“They’re too big, you need to wear thongs!”

She’s referring to my high-waisted, black lace panties, from American Apparel.

“But they’re transparent! I mean, they’re sexy, in a 50s pin-up kind of way?”

“Yeah, well we aren’t in the 50s.”

“Leave her alone!” Eva Mendes defends me. “It’s important to have our own style, like this she’s different, she’s like our little Gaga.” She puts her arm around me, and at that moment, I’m so happy I could cry.

I’ve already gotten used to sitting on strange men. I try to think of them as sweaty chairs. Most are pretty simple-minded and easily put at ease, turned on, and persuaded to buy drinks. I count, in my head, my money, as we raise our glasses to “cheers.”  My dancing is also improving-and it would be fun, if not for the DJ.

A big, bald jackass, it’s the DJ who calls us each up to strip, yelling our names over the microphone. He also tells us when to remove our tops, bottoms and get off stage. Meanwhile, he comments on our tits, asses, pussies, makes fun of our weight and suggests to lewd behavior. And of course he’s racist. He calls us to dance based on ethnicity, I’ve noticed, as the Russians always dance together, followed by the black girls, before the South Americans, the Italians, the Eastern Europeans. I’m the only “American,” so for me, he plays Britney. The black girls dance to Rihanna, South Americans get Shakira and the Italians get pretty much whatever they want. Then he makes his “jokes,” calling Eva Mendes “pregnant,” telling the Romanian to brush her hair and ordering the black girls to “smile,” because “it’s too dark to see them” when they don’t. The clients laugh, and the girls pretend to. I fantasize about ways he could burn.

With one hour left, I decide to relax, knowing I’ve already made enough money. Enough to afford a taxi home and get some groceries today. Walking around, I see an attractive young man, next to an empty seat.  So I come over and fall into it. “I’m so tired,” I say, to myself, not caring for his attention.

We start talking, but I don’t put my legs on his. I don’t play with his hair or rub his crotch. I don’t sit on him. I have my arms and my legs crossed and keep to myself while looking ahead. But I’m starting to like him, what he says is smart, rich in a Slavic accent.

“I not bought you drinks, and you still talking to me-don’t you need to working?”

“I don’t care, there’s like forty minutes left till we close, at most I could make like, five more euros. Anyway, I actually like talking to you, so I’ll just keep doing that, unless you mind. You don’t need to buy me shit.”

That makes him happy. So he buys me three drinks, and pays for a Prive’-eighty euros for just fifteen minutes. I give him “what he paid for,” getting fully naked, letting him touch me everywhere, and suck on my tits. I’m turned on, and if it weren’t for my tampon I probably wouldn’t have kept him from shoving his big, Romanian fingers inside me.

The light turns green, our fifteen is up, and it’s time for us to close.

“How are you get home?”

“Taxi.”

“Don’t pay for taxi, if you want, I wait for you with car outside.”

“Ok, but I still need to change, and wait to get paid.”

“Not problem.”

Breaking every Common Sense  Stripper Rule in the book, I get in his car, let him buy me coffee and makeout with me at my front door. He wants me to stay longer but I insist I must go-my instant noodles are waiting.

This is a guest post written by my “anonymous” friend, and the author of the amazing and lolz tumblr, Sugar Tits. Below is her story of a past love.

“Baby, sit down-be a lady.”

“What!”

“Just stay here.”

“You can’t tell me what to do!”

“I do.”

“Maybe in our sex life, but this is reality!”

Some couples need “safe words,” but we need a “signal” – for when I go from Alcoholic Fun Girlfriend to Submissive Sex Slave – otherwise we’ll just keep fighting. So he buys me a dog collar with a metal chain, which means I’m “his” when I wear it. And I promise to have it with me every time we meet. It works, for the most part.

“Hey baby. You got your collar?”

I’m on my way to my birthday party but stopped by his place first. He doesn’t want to come because my friends are junkie club kids. I realize now that’s what I am, too, and that I forgot something vital.

“Shit.”

‘Shit shit shit shit! Why didn’t he ask for it yesterday, when I took a fucking 50 Euro taxi ride to get it? Or when I drag it around in my bag for days to work and school and parties? Now he probably thinks I don’t care and now he definitely won’t fuck me.’

“You’re such a bad slave.”

‘Oh, goddamnit.’

“I’m sorry.”

I recall the last time I forgot my collar- he refused to talk to me all night. Suddenly hot, fat tears start slowly rolling down my face.

“Don’t cry baby, come here.”

He sits me in his lap.

“You know, sometimes I think this is a game for you.”

“It’s not,” I sob, “I’m just not used to this!”

“Then you have to try harder.”

He rips a hole in the crotch of my stockings.

“Now you’ll think of me all night.”

“Like I wouldn’t have already.”

He slaps me in the face and sends me on my way-with vodka, for my shitty party.

“Ciao, Bella.”

Like most couples, we met at a porn gig. He was the director, and I was the model-only by the end of the shoot he joined me in the spotlight, shoving his fingers in my “Figa D’oro.” I fell for him instantly and stalked pursued him until he finally took me out.

On our first date he takes me to a nasty strip club where he knows all of the dancers. He buys me drinks and pays for a room, where I decide to hit on him properly.

“I’ve been masturbating to you for weeks,” I slur.

“I wanna make you my slave.”

I’m too wasted then to get what he means and he’s too grossed out by my period to fuck me. But the next sober morning his proposal sounds good and I want to see him again. So we have sex for the first time on a fuzzy red bed in a Swingers’ Club outside Milan. I have a good time despite all the voyeurs, but he worries that he was too nice.

“I fucked you like I would fuck my mother.” (Italians love their mothers).

“No, it was great!” ‘I’m gonna black out.’ “Have you seen my shoes?”

He starts taking me to trendy parties and his favorite bars. We share tons of taxis. He begs me to start eating so we can go out to dinner. I meet all of his friends. He calls me from a car in front of my house while I’m out with some hot boys. I ditch them for him. I start feeling attached. The sex gets harder.

“You know, we’re just playing like kids now.”

“What?” My face is covered in spit, my ass is red from spanking and my neck is starting to bruise.

“If you’re my slave, there’s no going back. It’s psychological. I’ll be your Master even when you’re married.”

‘I haaaaaate when he talks about me ending up with somebody else.’

“I know.”

“So you’re my slave?”

‘Duh.’

“Yes.”

“For how long?’

“Forever.”

Somewhere within these months I find myself in love with this [unavailable] man. He’s married and I know eventually he’ll just be my friend- and “Master”- if I’m lucky. I try to imagine a botoxed, old me meeting him in expensive hotel rooms. Depressing. I choose not to think and instead focus on making him hug me till I fall asleep-he owes me that much.

“You don’t need a cigarette at 8:00 in the fucking morning.”

‘Yes, I fucking do.’

I put it out.

“And please eat something.”

He buys me a brioche and we kiss goodbye for work. We’re happy. ‘We’ll find a way to make this work.’  I’m stupid.

“I wish you were under this desk during my boring meeting.”

I’m desperate for his texts and we call each other 10 times a day. I can’t live without hearing from him every minute. “If you died, I would get arrested,” he once remarked on how often we talk. “They’d think I killed you.” Romantic. I send him a naked picture.

“Can I come over later?”

I sit across from him at his table after we finish dinner. I worry that I drank too much-he won’t let me pee.

“Get on the floor.”

I look up at him as he slaps me, pulls my hair and grabs my face. I wonder what he’s thinking. ‘Does he only do this for me? How many “slaves” has he had? I hope he’s not smearing my makeup.’

He ties me to a wooden column in his living room, and lets me curl up in the corner. I feel myself relax under his watch and fall asleep to the sound of his breathing. Moments (hours?) later, his harsh touch awakes me. He’s slapping me again, and now spits in my mouth. He takes off my stockings.

“You are looser,” he points out, shoving a beer bottle’s neck inside me.

“No way!” ‘Gross!’

“Shut up, babe.”

I realize I’m “looser” because I fucked two other guys that week-a feeble attempt to be less obsessed with him. Oddly enough, they were put off when I insisted they call me a “slut” and thought it was “sad” how I would flinch whenever they raised their arms-as if it weren’t normal for me to expect them to hit me. I’d felt like an abused puppy trying to adjust to a new home. It was annoying.

“Go to the bathroom and wait.”

I lay down naked on the freezing tiles. It feels like hours. ‘What the hell is he doing? How long will this take? I could easily go back up. No, don’t be pathetic. Do I honestly like this? Does shivering burn fat? I could cover myself with a towel or something. But no, that wouldn’t count’

When he finally comes down (he had fallen asleep) he’s proud to see me waiting. He lifts me up, holds me tightly and gives me a forehead-kiss (#aw). He sits me down in his shower.

“Open your mouth.”

His piss is warm and I can feel it everywhere. I don’t want it to stop.

‘I wish he’d let me touch myself.’

“Look at me.”
He watches me shower, dries me off and brings me into his bedroom.

“Sit down.”

He ties me up to the arms of his chair and eats my pussy like gelato.

“I wanna be a good slave for you.”

“Then next time, shave.”

You know when you tie your dog up outside all day, and stay out late because you have to work? And when you finally come home, they’re hungry and scared but also soooo happy to see you? That’s kind of how this feels.

I cum like a bitch.

“This is the beginning. You need more training. But soon, you will be perfect.”

While I lie on the floor and he sits above me we discuss a lot of things. He likes fucking whores-I like being watched-he wants me to suck his dick at a restaurant-I want him to humiliate me in public-he wants to take me to a swinger’s club and make me get gang banged by five other guys. We have a bright, dirty future ahead of us.

He unhooks my collar.

“You’re free now.”

Relieved, tired and sore, I lay in his bed and think I should start waxing. 

Kane and Kerri

“Every time I smile… I puke,” says Kane from somewhere far behind his fringe. He cowers, coughing miserably, flung on the floor where he’s hunched above his beer soaked notebook filled with tiny Pikachus and Dragonballs and naked school girls with blue hair and big eyes and all kinds of other sick shit that, he tells me, he could show me if I really wanted, but, like, afterwards, I’d have to die. 

Pic @ Matthew Stone

Here’s part 3 of Bunny’s epic journey to London, told by him. Click to read parts ONE and TWO.

Sometime near when we first met, near when I started staying in your bed at night instead of on the couch, you said Your face keeps changing in my brain, it’s like I don’t remember what you look like. I feel like I stare at you so close when we’re together so I can see everything you’re doing. And then, it’s like, when you’re not there, you disappear, I’ve stared too hard or something. You’re far away, gone blank, like, nothing. Instead there’s just your hair, some hazy colours and a face that’s not a face.

About a month after I come to town, you and I, we crash some fashion party on St Martin’s Lane where they give us two free gift bags filled with lip gloss and a copy of this month’s Glamour Magazine. Oh perfect, I think as I’m ripping off the cover page and using it to wipe away the ketchup stain my shirt has suffered from the chip shop down the street, I feel more glamourous already.

While we stand beside the bar, waiting to collect our corporate-sponsored complimentary mojitos, I scan the room and am surprised to spot Kerri with a kilt on and some sporadic strokes of rainbow warpaint arched across her cheeks. I say, “No offense, but why are you here?” and she slurs right back at me “Fuck you! I was invited by that pretty chick called Blah Blah Blah from that show on Channel Something” and just before I have the chance to pose a few more necessary questions Blah Blah Blah is clicking over in her too tall heels to beckon Kerri to the bathroom. Before they go the pretty chick smiles wide at me and says “By the way I love your shirt. Is that one from Wherever, the collection with the rips and stains? I want one so fucking badly but they’re all sold out, goddammit!” I shrug at her and say, “It’s ketchup.”

“Kerri’s got that new pile of whatever-it-is up in her room and I think she’s started selling it,” you explain to me after they’ve left a couple seconds later. “Oh yeah,” I say, and wonder if I should buy some now or just wait till she’s so wasted that she’s handing out her wraps for free to anyone who knows her.

Later, after bartering with Kerri and a few trips to the bathroom, I feel so drunk and dizzy, dying, lying on a leather couch forgotten somewhere on the far side of the room. You’re way over there, smashing face against an older guy who I think used to be a pop star. You glance up to catch a breath and wave, I laugh and look around and think, Wait, what am I doing. Men with cameras stalk across the room like wild tigers on the hunt. PR girls teeter back and forth between the exits, slinging Glamour gift bags onto every important looking thing’s emaciated wrist. I catch the most familiar ones gazing with ambivalent expressions, something between lust and loathing, at their own reflections in the mirror behind the bar. And me too. I’m here too, I’m doing it all too. Everyone is talking, watching, waiting for whatever. I feel so stupid being here, feel so stupid when I’m like this.

A group of guys with Brooklyn accents–who I later learn are members of an entourage belonging to a certain successful rapper–ascend from the back basement stairs, greeting glares and lip glossed scoffs as they push aside some skinny boys with vests on waiting at the bar to minimal resistance. Then I hear that well-known Scottish squawk from somewhere in the jumble screech “Oi Motherfucker! I was first, give me back my fucking drink!” and see Kerri’s tiny body launch onto the massive back of some stunned bro as he tries to shake her off. Another guy grabs her by the ankles but not before she lifts a bottle from the bar and sends it flying into someone else’s face. Soon there’s so much shit being flung across the room, everyone is screaming, squatting terrified beneath the tables or sucking in to save their lives, pressed up like paper on the walls. A gaggle of girls in glitter mini dresses is shrieking helpless “Murder!” as they carry off a fallen friend whose face is bloodied, lodged with the shrapnel of a wine glass stem, one of several casualties I witness in the massacre.

As the understaffed security is struggling to calm shit down, I start to feel real sick and hurry out onto the street so I can puke inside a potted palm tree just beside the door girl. As I wipe my mouth, some actress presses past me, pushing through the paparazzi flashing crazy as she picks a chunk of glass from out her hair and a mint leaf from what must have been a bomb made of mojito off her face. “Fuck this“, she seethes through twisted mouth, then turns to me and says, “Here Have It” as she shoves a trophy and an XL bottle of Moet Chandon into my arms. She runs into her waiting car, I look down to read the trophy’s plate on which is etched her name and underneath, the words “Woman of the Year”. Oh, I think, and shrug my shoulders.

When I try to go back to the party, the door girl refuses flatly, saying “This is a private party for guests of the Glamour Magazine awards ceremony only.” I hold up my trophy, telling her “But I’m, like, the Woman of the…” and she steps into the club and shuts the glass door in my face.

You emerge some minutes later and I ask you “Where is Kerri?” “I just saw her doing drugs with all these black guys from New York in the boy’s toilets,” you say. “Why, did something happen? I was giving head to that weird man in the stall right next to her.” You grin oblivious, like no big deal, and we walk towards the bus stop.

On the ride home we take turns chugging from the champagne bottle, trading stories from our night, and just as you’re recounting getting fingered on the dance floor, out of no where I start crying. “Sorry,” I say, “this is weird, the first time that I’ve cried in like four years” and I start crying even harder cause I know it’s really true. You hug me, saying “Just a comedown, that’s why I cry like every day.” “No,” I say, “it isn’t that, I think it’s that… I don’t know what I’m doing.” I go on, shaky between tears, “I like, just don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. Why did I even come to London? I wake up every day with no idea where I am or why I’m here or what my point is, I just feel so fucking… stupid.”

“Hey,” you say, stroking my arm, “I mean, we’re all a bit retarded right now but it’s what makes us sort of… better. Some people are just people and some people are just better. You’re one of the better ones. I think that there’s a reason you came here to Squallyoaks, to London. Maybe you haven’t figured it out yet but I know that there’s a reason. But, whatever the fuck happens, I think we’ll be kind of ok. Better than ok. Ok?”

I nod my head and rest it on your shoulder, we stay quiet. After a while, we both fall asleep and accidentally ride the bus ten stops too far past our street. But as I sleep I dream about you swimming in the sea somewhere, deep underwater like a mermaid. Your face is white and blurry, hidden by your hair, and even though I try so hard, I can’t remember what you look like.

All pics @ Matthew Stone 

 

Part 2 of Bunny’s journey to London, as told by him. Read part 1 HERE.

Kerri asks me if I want a Sweet Tart, handing me a wad of dirty tissue wrapped around a crumbling bit of ancient looking candy. Um, I say, Cool Thanks and, not wanting to refuse any kind of fucked up squatter hospitality, I shove it in my mouth and suck, don’t think I’ve eaten in a year. At first it’s hard to understand what the fuck Kerri is saying cause her Scottish squawk sounds permanently slurred from years of chugging so much whisky. But after these seven or eight or fifty days spent succumbed to her supply of ketamine and pisstaste cider stolen from the shop, I’ve learned the lingo, letting her voice scatter in my skull as I sit still, trying to decode my hands that look so like, whatever, weird right now, slipped someplace in between the crack that separates her scabby mattress from the wall.

When I first get to London I take a train from the airport to Green Park. It’s a destination that I choose simply because I’ve got no other place to go so going on the name alone, it seems like temporary paradise. The most pleasant way I can avoid all the panging panic building up inside me as I’m forced to face the lack of direction I’ve arrived with. Tired from the late night flight, I spend the morning sleeping in the grass. I use my tiny weekend bag as a pillow, not worried for its safety as I sneak a nap in public space cause, save for the passport and small wad of bills I have stashed inside my underwear, I’ve got nothing that I’m scared to lose.

Karley’s pink slip is on the floor, I put it on. She’s standing spaced out in her bra, gasping as she touches her huge tits against a mirror and shivering like it’s ice. You Look Good Like That she says to me, moving closer. Her lips are the same colour as her hair, red like fire, wild, electric. Everything is rippling. What’s Happening I say to her and Karley moans, then laughs, spitting streams of horny giggles punctuated by Kerri in the hallway who I can now hear screaming as she’s manic banging on a drum. What Are You Guys On? I ask Karley. She keeps laughing, then stops sudden, looks at me so serious as she says softly: Sweet Tarts. Thump thump thump, the drum beats on, ripples down my spine.