I wonder if a queue has formed. Bodies staking out their owner’s place in line. I imagine them snaking round the room, becoming a uniform mass that sways up against the door, moving towards a single desire of release in the way that only heaving crowds can. Silence. Silence save for the final strains of Did It On’Em from the dancefloor and she pulls my foreskin back. We have looped round repeatedly until we arrived here, from fragmented notion, first whispered through gasps. A thought we returned to and poured into each time, until it no longer held the same lustre when infused with timings and practicalities. Four minutes, she had said at pres. Five, I counter. Though maybe less, since I haven’t in a few days. Silence, not intruded on by the sharp raps of knuckles, the dull thud of clenched fists, confidences thrown across the room, immediately shorn of their intimacy. Inside, the picked at remains of an FC St. Pauli sticker and scrawled above it: Workers of the world unite and Alex Denby gives head for figrolls as she presses her forehead up against my navel. I close my eyes as her tongue arches back from the base of my cock, and only now the faint stench of piss hits my nostrils.
She has redecorated since then, or rather, her parents have. I can tell from her Instagram. Soft blue tones on the wall, a heated towel rail, what looks like Portrait with Green Stripe in a far corner. These are the things that I keep, that I return to, as I cut around her outline. But each time it gets more difficult, they fade further into the background, so that as my fingers eventually slip I cannot but take some of her in these cuttings. She has been expanding since then, filling the frame she holds for herself. Back then it looked like she had folded her sinewy frame in on itself, collapsing herself to escape my gaze as she crouched pissing over the bowl. Her only shared concession to her body’s empty rhythms was to knowingly swallow down paracetamol in front of me. A practised silent gesture, saying no more than it needed to. Not today. She never locked. Then, the latch clicked against its hold and hinges creaked, unable to suppress the thought of seeing her so while still together.
My cock twitches as the last bit of come drips down the white ceramic and I replay the reel I created for myself one last time. Four scenes cut from unspooling brown tape, crudely spliced together. Three of us watching what Jamie had procured from his brother. A flash of a shaven cunt underneath a dinner table while we still laugh at the poorly scripted dialogue. An alcove where belts are grabbed and trousers unbuttoned as the room hesitantly stirs. We eye her stroking herself expectantly with corners darting to each other. She spreads her legs and I excuse myself upstairs. It’s only now now that I consider the thought of recutting the footage, lingering on that inbetween state: a skirt half down, a cock protruding. With this mental reordering half-remembered fragments of german grammar flit across my mind, Derdiedasdem, and are then discarded. His toilet with its wooden handled pull chain, one of the remaining relics of a Victorian house since gutted by his parents. I pull it decisively, like a bell ringer, signalling to the others downstairs I am done. The whir of the VCR as we return to where we were, unspoken. The water settles, and glistens slightly with the last remaining traces of my come.
Nic Logan-Murray is a founding editor of Letters to Barnacle. He started writing when his girlfriend said he should probably stop lying so much.