Lolito

by Ben Brooks

  Amazing nipples showing through the t-shirt.

  ‘That’s sweet. Your turn.’

  ‘I’m scared. I look really stupid. You’re the winner.’

  ‘Send it.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I send it and I wait.

  ‘You’re handsome. Relax. You have good eyes. I like your shirt.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘It’s mine.’

  ‘You’re funny.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I don’t know what to say. ‘What will you do today?’

  ‘Do laundry. Wash dishes. Try to forget I’m doing either. Nothing exciting. You?’

  ‘Maybe watch television and go to bed. Nothing exciting either.’ Amundsen comes out from under the table and pushes his face into my leg.

  ‘Tell me what it’s like where you are. I want to try and picture it.’

  I look around the kitchen. There are four plates, two mugs and a dirty cafetiere stacked next to the sink. All of the surfaces are black and the floor is cheap laminate. The pint glass next to me is half full.

  ‘I’m in my study,’ I say. ‘I’m sitting in an extremely luxurious swivel chair. The carpet is deep and red. If I put my bare feet on it my toes disappear. There are Daniel Clowes prints on the walls.’ Amundsen headbutts my knee. ‘Sounds perfect.’

  ‘What’s it like where you are?’

  ‘Well, I’m lying on my bed. It’s king-size and it always feels empty. My carpet is green. There are two big windows. You can see woods and a part of the loch. It’s bright outside and there aren’t any clouds.’

  ‘I wish I could climb into yours.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s no fun if you can’t climb back out again.’ I don’t know what she means. I still want to climb through. I want to be anywhere that isn’t here. Amundsen rears up and drops his paws onto my thigh. He wants to go outside and I want him to not shit in the house.

  ‘I have to go,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It was fun talking. Let’s do it again.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I close the computer and go into the conservatory and open the patio doors. We stand and look out at the garden. Sideways rain hits my nose and forehead. Amundsen steps back.

  ‘Please go outside,’ I say. ‘If you shit in the house I’m going to make you eat it.’ He looks up at me and his eyes wobble. ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘It’s only rain. You’re a brave dog.’

  Still nothing. I sigh. I stand behind him and reach underneath his belly and lift him. He screams and thrashes in my arms like a massive fish. I lose my balance, reach out at invisible hands and fall onto the patio. I lie on the wet paving stones and rain beats down on my back. I don’t want to ever move. I want to be abducted by calm, quiet aliens who are searching distant planets for docile zoo exhibits. He slowly walks out, lowers his face to mine and licks my eye.

  Alice Poem #1

  You are shit and your birthmark looks

  like a fat monkey not like a dandelion I said that

  because I like sexing you. In bed you

  are like an uncooked joint of beef. Your

  birthmark is a giant walrus. Your birthmark

  is a dead walrus crying black tears into the

  Gulf of Mexico oil spill. You are BP and we

  are the Macondo Prospect. Today the bath

  felt as big as one hundred baths. I missed

  you today. You are shit, idiot.

  7

  When I’m in bed, Aslam calls and tells me to come to the Bricklayer’s Arms. I tell him I don’t want to, that I’ve lost my fake ID, so I’m going to stay in bed, watch Parks and Recreation and drink this disgusting wine. He says he knew I’d say that and he’s made me a break-up plan.

  1. Call her and tell her to go and eat a bag of dicks. Also break up with her.

  2. Have sex with a prostitute in the £50–70 price bracket. (‘Can you get them for that?’ ‘Yes, I checked.’ ‘Okay, I’m not going to.’ ‘You should, man.’ ‘No.’)

  3. Have sex with a girl who isn’t a prostitute. (‘Why did you need to put the prostitute bit in?’ ‘For practice.’ ‘It’s disgusting.’ ‘Loads of people do it.’ ‘Who?’ ‘Every single rapper in the world.’ ‘Not Will Smith.’ ‘Probably Will Smith.’)

  4. Cocaine. (‘Aslam, when have we ever done cocaine?’ ‘That time in the woods by Matt’s.’ ‘That was like speed and mephedrone. It might have even been crushed-up sweeteners.’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘I kissed Sarah and Ben didn’t sleep for two days. But he drank four Red Bulls too, so I don’t know.’ ‘Okay, fine. Do some drugs, though.’ ‘I’m not going to do drugs on my own. I ate some of Mum’s codeine.’ ‘Okay, cross this one off.’)

  5. Go to the pub with Aslam.

  ‘I’m not coming out,’ I say. ‘Alice sort of sexed Aaron Mathews. Nothing is ever going to happen ever again. I’m staying in bed.’

  ‘You have to get back on the wagon sometime.’ ‘That means not drinking.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Yes. What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Come out.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m going to do an intervention on you.’

  ‘I’m not letting you into my house. I’ll lock everything.’ Me and Aslam sometimes play a game where we break into each other’s houses. You have to find a way in and sneak up on the other person and shout police.

  ‘You’re being a dick.’

  ‘I want to not do anything.’

  ‘I’m trying to help.’

  He hangs up. I don’t understand why people can’t just let other people lie in their beds and slowly disappear if that’s what they want to do. People are allowed to get facial tattoos and sex changes and speedboats, but I’m not allowed to stay in bed for four days. Aslam’s being a dick. Amundsen nudges the door open and climbs up next to me. He never makes me go to The Outside and sit in pubs and talk about girls with him. He’s a perfect friend.

  *

  Amundsen wakes me up with ear licking. Morning colours wiggle under my eyes. I stare at the ceiling. I imagine Damien Hirst pulling the roof off and pouring formaldehyde into my bedroom. Me and Amundsen will never move again. We’ll sit in the middle of a museum until someone buys us for one million pounds.

  It’s still raining.

  I go downstairs and boil the kettle and make Nesquik tea. Amundsen goes into the garden to touch things with his nose. He plays staring with a squirrel near the dead apple tree. I look at the mound where the butter knife is buried and feel somehow like I miss my eleven-year-old self. I imagine sitting with him on the sofa, simultaneously scratching our hands and talking about how everything outside of this house is upsetting and unnecessary.

  I make a cigarette. My phone shakes.

  Alice to me: wer r u? I want to come home now. Let’s watch evry Wes Anderson in my bed.

  There’s a bald man in the television saying that another man has died. Cher Lloyd comes on and a blonde woman asks her questions about nothing. Cher Lloyd smiles and looks at a camera and says something about being yourself. I don’t want to be myself, Cher. Leave me alone. The bald man appears again. The bald man says things about money and debt. None of it is real. None of it is happening. The only real thing is Alice. Alice is the only thing that exists. Alice doesn’t exist any more. Alice and Aaron Mathews. They are still sort of having sex in my head. He is extremely well endowed. Big feet. The bald man points at me. He knows everything.

  ‘Following the emergence of leaked information regarding Alice Calloway, Etgar Allison has suffered considerable loss of motivation, energy and interest in his usual pursuits (Wikipedia,YouTube, Kurt Vonnegut). He has been seen to spend long periods of time staring at inanimate objects and will occasionally stop whatever he is doing to lie face down on the floor and sing “One Thousand Miles” by Vanessa Carlton (a song he has described as “all that’s left”).

  ‘In an official statement given earlier today, he described bed as “be
tter than sex” and Alice Calloway as “the horriblest bitch I know”.’

  I go back up to my bedroom and sit in the middle of my carpet with Mum’s computer. Macy’s online.

  ‘Hi,’ she says.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Are you at work?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What can you see?’

  I look at the bonsai tree Mum bought me for Christmas. Its leaves are composting in piles along my windowsill. The sky behind is grey and empty.

  ‘The whole of London. It’s raining a little. There are red lights on the tops of buildings. The sky is pink and orange.’

  ‘Sounds beautiful.’

  ‘It is but there are people next to it, and things with people next to them aren’t fun.’ That sounds too bleak. Stop being bleak. ‘I mean too many people. There are a lot of people and I don’t want to see them.’

  ‘At least you get to meet girls if you want to.’

  ‘You don’t get to meet men?’

  ‘Sometimes, when my ex takes the kids. Usually there’s no time.’

  ‘So you cyber?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘I don’t really go out and meet girls.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Because they tend not to go for fifteen-year-old boys with back acne and anxiety issues.

  ‘Because I’m not very good at it.’

  ‘You’re fine at it,’ she says. ‘And you’re young. You probably pick them up in clubs by sliding drinks down bars and winking.’

  ‘I don’t do that,’ I say. ‘I don’t slide glasses at people. I’d worry about the glass smashing and pieces going on the girl and her suing me.’

  ‘A man did it to me once and I slid the drink back to him.’

  ‘I’d be scared of that.’

  ‘But it’s nice to have drinks slid at you.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘Just chatting. Kids in bed.’

  ‘I still wish people could climb through computers.’ ‘Me too. Just not to here. You should try.’

  ‘I’m trying. My face is against the screen. It isn’t working. Maybe there’s like something you need to press. Like F5 or something.’

  ‘Haha. Do you have cam?’

  ‘It’s broken, sorry.’ It’s not. I have one. I don’t want her to realise I’m a boy. I want to see her. ‘You could put yours on.’

  ‘Not if you don’t. I’m not a cinema.’

  Nothing happens.

  ‘What would happen if you could climb through the computer?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d appear in your bedroom. Would you be scared?’

  ‘No. You’re not scary.’

  ‘I’m scary.’

  ‘Haha.’

  ‘I’ve killed people with my hands. I’m wanted in several exotic countries and there is a fatwa on my head.’ ‘For?’

  ‘Stealing yachts and liberating circus animals.’

  ‘Did anyone die?’

  ‘Not this time.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I think I’d stare at you for a while. If I appeared.’

  ‘I feel sort of horny imagining you appearing.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Stop staring and come over here.’

  ‘Wait. What are you wearing?’

  ‘Jeans and a black lace bra.’

  ‘You look nice.’

  ‘What are you wearing?’

  ‘A suit.’

  ‘Are you going to kiss me?’

  ‘Okay. Sorry. I’m doing it. Kissing.’

  ‘It’s nice when you do that.’

  I don’t understand.

  ‘I’ve moved to your neck. It’s warm.’

  ‘I’m pulling your hair.’

  ‘Stop pulling my hair and take off your trousers.’

  I play Crystal Castles. I feel aggressive and sexual. I don’t know who I am.

  ‘Open yours under the desk and hold your cock.’ ‘Okay.’

  I take off one of my socks and pull it over my dick. I stare at the computer.

  ‘Are you hard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. I’m wet.’

  ‘I’m sitting on the floor. I’m lightly kissing your ankles.’ ‘Go on.’

  ‘Slowly moving up your calves. Dragging my tongue over your skin.’ Is ‘dragging my tongue’ sexy? It doesn’t seem very sexy.

  ‘My legs are on your shoulders. You’re kissing my thighs.’

  ‘I’m running my tongue over them. I’m kissing your pants.’ I should stop putting my tongue on stuff. I sound like a dog.

  ‘Hold on, hon. I’m getting a vibe.’

  This isn’t real. Things like this don’t happen. Macy’s a robot. My dick is massive. I want to fall through the computer and into her. I want everything to disappear. ‘I’m here. You’ve made me wet.’

  ‘Great. That’s really good.’

  ‘Can you feel my wet with your tongue?’

  ‘Yes. You taste nice.’

  I am a terrible and disgusting human being.

  ‘Push my panties to the side.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do, you stupid bitch.’

  Truly repulsive and pathetic.

  ‘I’m not into that.’

  ‘Okay, sorry.’ This isn’t like on TV at all. ‘I’ve pushed them aside. I’m tickling your pussy with my tongue.’ Do people actually like hearing this? This is the easiest way of making people happy ever invented.

  ‘Keep going.’

  ‘You’re so wet. A lake.’

  ‘Mm. Are you touching yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In the office. That’s so hot. I’ve turned my vibe up to max.’

  An actual, real dildo.

  Unbelievable.

  ‘My hand is moving quickly.’ Too boring. ‘Like I’m firing celebratory shots into the air.’ Too much.

  ‘Come up.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Kiss me.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I can taste myself. Now push me over your desk.’

  ‘Okay. I’m pushing your face against it and pulling your pants down to your ankles.’

  ‘Fuck me.’

  ‘I am.’

  Who am I? I’m not me any more. I don’t say these things. I’ve been possessed by a gross and lonely ghost.

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  I cum. I pull the sock off my dick and throw it against a wall.

  ‘Shit,’ I say. ‘Someone’s knocking on my door. I need to go. This was fun.’

  ‘Fuck. Fuck, hon. That was great.’

  I stare at my feet. I watch a video of a severely disabled person covering a Katy Perry song. I run a bath.

  8

  When I was small I thought of The Outside as a large bear populated by an infinite amount of miniature bears. Bears that wanted to throw me over their shoulders, carry me away and perform strange sexual acts on me until they were ready to beat my broken body to death with crowbars and pickaxe handles. Morticians would be paid to reconstruct my figure. Mum would fail to recognise me.

  This sounds dramatic.

  I was a dramatic little human.

  I came back from Scotland and spent most evenings alone in my room, watching documentaries about African wildlife and reading books about places that didn’t exist. Sometimes I dreamed about Nan as a zombie, wanting to pin me down and tear clumps of wet meat from my chest. When summer arrived, Mum made me go into The Outside. I went to Ben Wheelan’s, who was the only person I interacted with at school through our shared appreciation of raisins, kicking rocks, and not being in classrooms. We played PlayStation and dammed the brook in the park with rocks and coke cans. Ben Wheelan once dared himself to eat a whole chilli then vomited on my shoes. His hobbies included: Good Charlotte, yo-yos, and wiping his dick on stuff before giving it to people. He showed me how to gel my hair like Ross from Friends and he taught me that if y
ou think of it as one, toothpaste becomes a tasty midnight snack.

  Age ten, I walked home from his house on a hot day in the holidays. Everywhere was deserted. Streetlights were turning themselves on. The silhouettes of trees punched black octopuses out of the sky. I dropped my scooter and crouched down to try and make conversation with a tired-looking cat. I had read that they were capable of this. This cat wasn’t. It licked itself and said nothing.

  The cat left. A car pulled up next to me. My body jammed. Its door opened. Someone stepped out and stepped forward and said to come over.

  I ran.

  The person followed quickly behind me. Their footsteps did heavy echoes like someone clapping in an empty hall. I dragged my scooter along, getting dizzy and dizzier still. My heart panicked and yelped and my legs caught fire and I eventually collapsed in the hallway of our house, unraped and unmurdered.

  The next day I asked Ben Wheelan, ‘If someone is chasing you, is it faster to run or go on your scooter?’

  ‘Smack their head with your scooter,’ he said.

  At home, in the garage, I picked my scooter up by the handlebars and tried to swing the standing-on part at an invisible bear. It swung all the way around and into the back of my head. When I woke up, there was a lump that felt like an extra head throbbing on the back of mine. It made me think of Voldemort’s head being on the back of Professor Quirrell’s. I went inside and made a pint of strawberry Nesquik and cried. I took a butter knife from the cutlery drawer and buried it at the bottom of my school bag. The first weapon.

  9

  My body is tired and my head is tired and everything inside of my head is tired. I listen to Vanessa Carlton and jump on the bed. It makes I am ready to fall apart sounds. I think about actually walking one thousand miles, non-stop, towards a secret castle lined with blankets and wildlife posters. I think about sitting in bed with Vanessa Carlton and exchanging lovebites and crying into her hair. It hurts, Vanessa. Really lots. A headbutt to the heart. Make it stop. Make it disappear. Let’s hide inside each other. Let’s never go outside.

  The doorbell rings.

  I’m scared to answer the door but I do, in case it’s someone from a television prank show coming to tell me that it’s all a big joke. A joke that Alice and Marie and Aaron Mathews are all in on. They will have put tiny cameras in every corner of my house. My Pathetic Boyfriend. When Ashton Kutcher reveals the truth, I will try to laugh but I will be crying heavily.