Memory lies. Remember
that even if you forget everything else. Memory changes the shape
of a room; the colour of a car. It’s baggage, a bore.
I’m a surprise to
myself, every two minutes. Like the guy in that movie, you know
the one? My memory’s on a stopwatch. I get two minutes then it’s
over and I start again.
So, I’m in this tattoo
parlour. The artist’s a big guy, bearded, touches his nose when
he says he’s never seen me before which means he’s lying but
no-one’s perfect, right? Except maybe the guy in the waiting-room,
the one with the appointment after mine. Tall guy, dark, hard
as nails. He looks at me. I look at him. Two minutes later and
we do it all again, like we never looked in the first place.
Every time’s the first.
I can read body language
pretty well and this guy in the waiting-room? He’s not nervous.
There’s this edgy vibe coming off him like he’s wired except
he’s not, I can tell. He’s sitting so still it’s starting to
spook me until I forget why and then I’m back to square one.
Next thing I know
I’m in a washroom someplace and a tall dark guy walks in. Never
seen him before in my life. He’s got this edgy vibe. He comes
right up to the sink where I’m leaning, looking, trying to figure
out where the hell I am and “All right?” he says in this voice
like he’s been sucking ice-cubes, cool.
I should probably
say around about now that I’m a smart guy. I mean, I have this
condition. It’s not amnesia. I can’t make new memories, is all.
There was an accident, I got my skull smashed in, but I can remember
everything up until then, and I was smart. I earned good money,
lived well.
So when I find myself
on my knees sucking off a total stranger in a room I’ve never
seen before it’s not because I’m stupid. I’ve got my reasons,
I just can’t remember what they are.
He’s got information,
or I need to buy him off, or—he tastes good. I suck deeper and
feel his hands on my head, his hips tilting into me. He doesn’t
make a sound.
I’m thinking, I’m
a fag, now?
I guess not. I mean,
if I was, I wouldn’t be calling myself a fag, would I? I’d be
a free-spirit, or something that sounds less like an insult you
hear just before you get your balls kicked in up a dark alley.
Have I done this before?
Your guess is as good as mine. I do okay though. The guy lets
out a long sigh like I’ve taken a weight off his mind, or the
world off his shoulders.
Damn. I’m on the floor
in a place I’ve never seen before, with a taste in my mouth like—
I look up. There’s
this guy—eyes like treacle—and because I’m down on the floor
and he’s up there, I think he’s going to kick me, so I roll away
and get upright as fast as I can only he’s faster and next thing
I know he’s pressing me into the wall and kissing me, his hand
all over my crotch.
Allow me to recap.
I’m in this place
I never been before with an arm that burns like it’s seen too
much sun and a guy’s tongue in my mouth. I mean really, seriously,
deeply, in my mouth.
Total stranger. Great
kisser. I’m thinking, I won’t even remember this ever happened,
which is a pretty depressing indictment of my life when you think
about it.
I’m buttoning my shirt
in front of a mirror. There’s this guy—treacle eyes, slouchy
hips—watching me, behind me. In case I know him, I smile. In
case I don’t, I tense. But not much because I feel kind of relaxed,
spacey.
“All right?” he says.
I’m figuring out how
to respond to that when my two minutes run out, and I’m back
where I started, staring at a stranger, wondering what I’m doing
here and why it feels so good.
