I've been writing of late, but also rooting through the old. And on what was the anniversay of this Oasian version, I thought I'd post something from a few incarnations ago. This is what I have left from the Big Crash. And I'm dedicating it to all of the originals who still hang around - whether everyone else knows it or not.
Queers in the Kitchen
Sometimes I can't sleep at night for lack of a warm body beside me, despite that it's been longer than the twenty-eight days my mother says it takes to break a habit.
She'd leaned in close one morning months ago and whispered, You should try going where the dicks are. She'd said, I'm about casual sex now, and erections, and a cheap lay. I’d told her there’s nothing casual about it.
When we arrive, she is sitting beneath a window swallowing shots of tequila. No lemon. No salt. She is wearing the Sex Overalls, a pale hand hugging her thigh. Always the actor. Always en scene. She swings a leg over the next big thing, kisses him hard.
I tell Mattie that I’m the girl who filled in at the kissing booth without getting paid.
Tonight her eyes devour me as I walk through the room. Mattie is holding my hand. Whispering to me that he has always been about the cheap lays casual sex bathhouse erections flavoured lube smeared on rolling papers.
We spend the night smoking unfiltered cigarettes while talking about the cutlery in metaphors. Ashing into the sink as people move through us on the way to another beer. Mattie looks at me hard, says, I guess we're the queers in the kitchen.
A guy approaches from the living room, pushes his body into me and licks my neck. I recognize him from a play I’d seen her do once, in an independent theatre house downtown. Eric. He was, she had reminded on several occasions, the guy she pretended to fuck on stage. I woke up in the morning after the performance and noticed that globs of his saliva had hardened into the threads of my sweater. Eric was a terrible actor, and he spit everywhere.