Boy Parts

by Eliza Clark

  His wallet has fallen out of his trousers, and a fat baggie has fallen out of his wallet.

  ‘Is that coke?’ I ask. He nods. I have a bump, then another, and I straddle him. I stick a fingernail full of coke under his right nostril, and pinch the left shut. Greedily, he sniffs it. Then I slap him. I slap him harder, and harder, till his lip bursts. His eyes are streaming, and he can’t get those socks out of his mouth.

  I stop. I take photos on my phone. Blood drips down his chin. I smile at him. I ask him if he’s okay. In what I think is some attempt at bravery (toxic, masculine bravery), he nods. I lick his chin, and regret it immediately. It’s coppery, sickly, thick, and I gag, tasting blood and cocaine and champagne and bile on the back of my tongue.

  His nipples are pink. I poke one with the letter opener, a tiny puncture mark which pisses blood, and he squeaks. I take photos. I prod and puncture his stomach. He has no muscle tone, no fat; he looks fragile and young. His belly wiggles, and flexes away from the sharp point in my hand, his skin sucking in, concave around his ribcage while I jab, and he bleeds. I cut a thin slice from his belly button to the dip of his collarbone. He is whimpering, and crying, now. When I ask if he’s okay, he nods. He’s still trying to hold face, where any woman would be screaming down the hotel.

  Unless he’s too afraid to scream.

  I run the tips of my fingers through the blood on his chest, and I draw a smiley face on his torso. I slap him again. He starts coughing, so I let him settle.

  I open the mini bar, and take out several small bottles of vodka. These won’t do. I throw one at him, and it bounces off his skull and onto the bed. While it leaves a mean welt behind, it won’t shatter, so I sit on the end of the bed and drink it.

  When I squint, he reminds me of my boy – the ribs, the young skin. But his hair is too light, and too straight. He’s too pale. He’s wrong. And he’ll be missed, and I don’t have bin bags, or a meat-cleaver.

  I can barely stand. Another dig at his mangled nipple elicits a high-pitched, piggy squeal. I slip, and nearly take it off. I’m dizzy – the room whirls. I am extremely nauseous. I try to take a few pictures, but I can’t. Not now.

  I stagger to the bathroom, leaving him in a puddle of his own tears and blood. I vomit into the sink. It lands with a splat. It’s fizzy and almost clear – I didn’t eat.

  I slam the door and my knees hit the tiles of the bathroom with a thud. I vomit till I’m hacking and dry-heaving into the toilet, staring at myself in the water. My cheeks are streaked with mascara; there’s lipstick all over my face and sick in my hair.

  I’ve looked better.

  I pull myself up off the floor, and knock my phone into the sink. I wipe off the vomit and look through the photos.

  They are perfect. Each one is completely hypnotic. They’re better for being on the phone, because it’s more naturalistic, less staged; I can carry them with me everywhere.

  I grab the sink. I stare at myself in the mirror. I stare at her. I press my forehead to the glass, and kiss her, smearing lipstick everywhere, slipping my fingers between my lips and coming, even though I’m numb with the drink and those bumps I didn’t need but did any way.

  The force of it makes me vomit again. I get to the toilet this time. I flush.

  I crawl out of the bathroom. My scarf is on the floor, and the hotel door is wide open. He’s gone, and so are his clothes. There’s blood on the carpet and he forgot his cocaine.

  I crawl on my hands and knees to kick the door shut, and crawl back to the bathroom. I force myself to vomit again. I stick my fingers down my throat till there’s absolutely nothing left to throw up, then I crawl into the shower, forgetting to take the pasties and my underwear off before I switch the water on. I scrub my hair with the hotel shampoo, and sip the spray, and throw up again.

  I sit there until everything stops spinning. I need to eat.

  I manage to dress, and comb my hair into a ponytail, and get all the makeup off my face. I look halfway presentable – no one would ever know. I can just about walk in a straight line. And I see familiar, comforting lights. The yellow glow of a twenty-four-hour McDonalds, the hard, white light of a Tesco.

  Tesco calls to me. There’s a homeless man snoozing by the door, who I stop to assess for a moment. He is decent looking, I suppose, under the dirt and the straggly facial hair. I’m about to shake him awake when I spot the CCTV camera glaring at me from above.

  I stand up straight and wave at the camera. I go into the Tesco and pick up bread, and crisps, and hummus, and croissants. I will regret having binged in the morning. I am delighted to see Eddie from Tesco, where he should be, behind the counter, smiling shyly, staring at my tits.

  He’s so beautiful. Even with glass hanging out of his eye, he’s just adorable. I tell him, and he thanks me. He can’t sell me a bottle of vodka at this time of night, but he’ll give me cigarettes.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ID me?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Cheeky cunt. You’re lucky you just got away with the wine bottle, really,’ I tell him.

  ‘What?’ The girl behind the counter blinks at me.

  ‘Ah. Never mind, babe. Thought you were someone else.’

  Yo yo yo eddie frm tesvo

  In. Lnd atm bt whe i get home we can fuck again if you promis nott to be a little bitch about it

  ;lol

  I wake up in my clothes, on top of the sheets, in a pile of crumbs. I wake up because my phone is buzzing, insistently, by my head.

  Hey babe, last night was wavey. Really intense. Sorry for bolting – i’m schizy af when Ive had a bump (or two! Started at the gallery lol) & i’m just not into knife play. Plus, I dont really bottom or sub or whatever I am very much a top.

  Went to A&E to get stitches and they told me i didn’t need any lol felt like a right bellend! Appreciate you wanting to get a piece of me but watch what you’re doing with that little knife of yours ha ha ha!!! x

  I really am sorry I broke your frame btw. I think i was just intimidated by this incredibly naughty older woman I wasn’t expecting to see ;)

  Hope you have fun with my uncle tomorrow i know he’s into some really weird shit lol x

  I actually make a few attempts at a reply: I literally wanted to kill you? I almost cut your nipples off? You went purple? What about any of that read as safe, sane or consensual?

  I hope he doesn’t tell anyone. God, if he tells anyone he’ll be sorry I didn’t gut him. Older woman. Older woman. Call me that to my fucking face, you little bitch.

  Lose this number. fuck off and die.

  I block him, just in case.

  I also have a bunch of texts from Sera, generally having a go at me for being ‘a cringey drunk bitch’. They’re long, and rambling, and sweary, and don’t exactly read like the work of a sober person.

  Chill out.

  You’re acting like my fucking sponsor or something

  Miserable posh cunt lmfao.

  I look through the photos of Remy. They lack the same interest they held for me last night. They’re bad. They’re blurry. The white balance is off; they’re overexposed or underexposed or they’re too yellow in the ugly tungsten hotel lighting. I keep only two or three. Souvenirs, I guess. He’s also not as cute as he was last night.

  I have more texts. There’s one from Eddie from Tesco where he calls me a fucking reptile and asks not to contact him again. I respond with a cheerful okey dokey, and it goes through, so he obviously hasn’t blocked my number.

  Scrolling up, I see that after I texted him I did send him a few photos of Remy. Oops.

  I look at the photos again, the ones I didn’t delete. I look at his purple face, his bloody chin and nipple, his swollen cheeks. I wonder what the fuck I have to do for people to recognise me as a threat, you know? It’s like… am I even doing this shit? Have I even fucking done anything?

  Like, do I have to snap the wine bottle inside him to get him to stop sending me sad emails? Do I have to cut his nipple off for him to reali
se he should probably ring the police? Do I have to cave his head in with my camera, rather than hit him the once? Do I have to crash his car? Do I have to smash a glass over the head of every single man I come into contact with, just so I leave a fucking mark?

  GLASS

  I spend almost a full twenty-four hours in my hotel room. I watch telly, I eat crisps, I vomit, and I shower again. I hear bells, and glass shattering, and I hear the sound of my own teeth.

  Sera apologises for being a bitch. I’m like, yeah. I remind her I don’t need her – I have private sales, and we do have galleries in the north. She just says she’s sorry again, like she’s so much bigger than me. Fuck her.

  I pull myself together to leave the hotel again. It’s the day of my big date with Uncle Stephen, and I decide to go for a light, salad-based brunch, after bringing up what I can of yesterday’s carbs. My throat is raw. I don’t want to eat on my own, so I go to text a friend then realise I don’t have any of those. Sera is busy when I ask, so I’m just like… great.

  I eat alone at the Breakfast Club, where I accidentally order a full English. I drown it in ketchup and brown sauce, and my stomach screams at me for filling it with carbs and grease and other hard-to-digest things, which I know are going to rip through my colon like a bullet. I feel like there’s something sharp, and crunchy, in my mouth. Something sharp; I spit it into my palm, but all I get is a chewed lump of white bacon fat.

  The waiter asks me if I’m alright.

  ‘Never better,’ I say. ‘Just caught my breath.’ He gets me a napkin, and I’m surprised he can work with that glass in his eye. I call Flo. I call her to ask her, when I do things, do they stay? Do they happen, and do they last?

  She says she’s a little worried about me.

  ‘I’m serious,’ I say, chewing my toast. ‘It’s like I do shit, and nothing… like, I do this awful shit, and I just want someone to… properly fuck me off because of it? Like, no texts, no emails, no crawling back, like… good-fucking-night Vienna, yeah?’

  ‘Where did you get that dress from, on Insta? It looks expensive.’

  ‘Are you fucking listening to me?’

  ‘Yeah, you just sound mental. Are you on coke? Have you been on one since the PV or something? You sound cokey as fuck.’

  ‘No,’ I lie.

  ‘Drink some water,’ says Flo. ‘I’m at work. I can’t talk. And I’m back with Michael, by the way.’ She hangs up. I knock over my coffee to see if the waiter will come and clean it, but he doesn’t. I leave the cafe without paying. No one chases me.

  That evening, I arrange to meet Uncle Stephen outside the hotel. I’ve got my coat on, and my red scarf, which is splattered with dry blood, but it’s cold, and I haven’t brought another. Uncle Stephen picks me up in a cab, and we drive to the Sakurai.

  The basic makeup of his face is like Remy’s, but redder, and flabbier. His hair is thick and silver, and his suit is sharp, tailored and extremely expensive.

  ‘Did you make a pass at Laurie Hirsch?’ he asks.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Laurie said you made a pass at her. She’s married to my cousin’s daughter – it came down the grapevine.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘She’s not exactly my type.’

  ‘I didn’t think so.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘She’s such an attention-seeker.’

  ‘Performance artists,’ I say, with a shrug. We laugh together, at Laurie, at performance art. I kick the back of the driver’s seat, and the cabby doesn’t say anything. I kick it hard, as well. He just takes it. Uncle Stephen doesn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Cam Peters really came around to your work, in the end,’ says Uncle Stephen. ‘I’m sorry if he was a little sharp with you. He was very upset that he was sharing at first. I hardly blame him. No offence intended, darling, but he was the name there, wasn’t he? Anyway, he loved your work. We’ve both agreed to pass your name on to our various friends at Tate Modern, the Serpentine Sackler, Whitechapel, et cetera.’

  ‘I took Remy home with me, and I nearly cut his nipples off, and he literally texted me yesterday like we’d had a normal one-night stand,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, absolutely! I’d be excited too,’ he says, smiling at me, like he hasn’t heard what I said. ‘You are a real discovery, aren’t you? A little diamond in the rough,’ he says.

  ‘There’s nothing little about me.’

  ‘Of course, it’s not a problem at all, really. I thought the business cards were funny, and anyone who didn’t think they were just… They’re of no interest to you, I promise. That Marnie.’ Uncle Stephen shakes his head. ‘She has wonderful taste – obviously – but what a dour bitch she is.’ He pats my knee. His hands are huge and white, like underground spiders.

  His hands are white, but his face is red.

  The cab is expensive. The restaurant is in Chelsea. I lived in London for five years and never really went to Chelsea – like, I passed through it, obviously; I lived in Battersea. But only on buses, on foot. I never ate or drank there. I never went to a house there. I remember walking past a shop on the high street that only sold huge, ornate mirrors. They all cost thousands of pounds. I remember stopping, and pressing my face to the window, and seeing myself staring back over and over again, thinking I want one, but this city is fucked, isn’t it?

  ‘What would I do with a big mirror like that, anyway?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Uncle Stephen says.

  We pull up at the restaurant: a white, neoclassical building. The sign is gold, and in kanji. Uncle Stephen takes my hand and helps me out of the cab.

  The carpet in the restaurant is plush; it’s hard to keep my balance in heels. The host wears a waistcoat, a shirt and a bowtie. His English is good, but his accent is thick. Uncle Stephen gives his name, and we’re taken to a booth in the corner – his usual. The host takes my coat, and makes an O with his mouth, a tiny twitch of his eyebrows, before departing for the cloakroom.

  ‘What are you wearing?’ says Uncle Stephen. He sounds amused. He peers around me, at my back. I twig for the first time that he’s taller than me, even with heels on. He’s huge.

  ‘It’s expensive,’ I say.

  ‘I’m sure it was.’ He guides me to the seat, with his hand in the small of my back again. ‘It’s stunning. But… well, the crowd is a little conservative in here.’ He points out an older couple, who are looking at me. They look away when we look at them. ‘This isn’t a nightclub, you know?’

  ‘I don’t really care,’ I say. I think.

  He orders me a cocktail before I can order for myself, and a bottle of plum wine for the table. He talks about my dress more, with this tone like he doesn’t mind, but I can tell he does. He just doesn’t want people to think he’s out with a call girl. I tell him I don’t think he could afford me.

  ‘I can,’ he says. He laughs. I hate this. I’m just here for a free meal – he mentioned the Tate earlier. If I can just behave myself, for like an hour. He asks me to tell him about The North because he’s never been any further up than Manchester. He’s been to Edinburgh once or twice, but that hardly counts, does it? Because it’s really just the London of Scotland, isn’t it? How does it compare to London? Don’t you feel hemmed in? Don’t you feel like there are no opportunities? No jobs? No arts funding? No money? Do you have any restaurants like this? Isn’t it worth taking a risk and living down here? Don’t you miss the hustle and bustle? Sure, the rent is cheaper, but has your quality of life really improved? Did you move back for your parents? A boyfriend? Do you just like being a big fish in a small pond?

  ‘Ah, well,’ I say. ‘You know. I hated it here, I hate it there. Whole country’s fucked. Brexit, Tories, ’n’ that. Fucking service-based economy. There’s the post-Thatcher government ghettoisation of the North but at least the wealth gap isn’t rubbed in your face everywhere you go. I don’t know what you want me to tell you. The rent is cheaper. There aren’t any restaurants like this.’

  That seems to make him sad – that there aren’t any restaurants li
ke this. When the plum wine comes, he tells me how it’s made, and I don’t give a shit. I just don’t give a shit. It tastes like cough syrup, but it’s obviously expensive, so I drink it, and I nod. And then I drink this awful cocktail he ordered for me. It has yuzu in it, and it’s bitter as fuck, and I feel like I’m licking a lemon rind. I’d have been happier with a pint of fucking tap water.

  Is he talking to me about his job now? I don’t even feel like I’m here. I feel like he’s talking to me from the opposite end of a long tunnel. I think he orders for us. I think I just agreed to the tasting menu. He asks me if I like the cocktail, and I shake my head, and he makes some comment about my palate, and I hear my teeth squeak together because I’ve clenched my jaw so hard.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say. And I go to the bathroom. And I’m hyper-aware of a room full of Tories looking at my arse, and tutting, and assuming I’m a call girl because I suppose it is now a crime to wear a see-through dress to a posh restaurant. My fanny isn’t even out. There’s a panel. There is a fucking panel.

  There’s another woman washing her hands in the bathroom, who listens while I tell her this. She tells me she thinks my dress is nice, I think. She could have also just gone ‘hmm’, because I wasn’t really listening to her, or looking at her, and then she was gone. I go into the toilet stall. I say stall; it’s posh, so the stall is its own little room. The toilet has a heated seat and speaks in a perky Japanese accent. It sprays warm water directly into my vulva after I’m done pissing, and I go, ‘Fucking hell!’ loudly, because I wasn’t expecting it. It also dries me off, with a little blast of hot air. And when I come back out of the bathroom, I’m aware I want to talk about the fucked-up talking toilet, but fucked-up talking toilets that spray water up your gooch without asking are probably just par for the fucking course here, aren’t they?