Fragment #5 - Am I a Slut? -- Part One (Colours)

Thursday 9th august 2007
in London

Red. The colour is inside my head, breaking my brain in zillions of little sparks.
A naked man on the cover, smoking, the yellow sparkling blaze of his match in the overwhelming colour. Long, lean, blond. I bought this book a week ago, and I didn’t have the time to read it. I was busy doing nothing, helping a bit my grandmother in her kitchen, hiding as often as I could from my grandfather. I don’t really know him, but his moustache scares me to death.
I have time know. Time to deep myself in the overwhelming red of this book. The Sluts, by Dennis Cooper.

There are usually a few street hustlers working the blocks around a local bar here in Long Beach called Pumpers.

Good beginning. I think I am going to like it. The entire story develops about the hero, whom we don’t know if he’s real or not. He is a hustler in Los Angeles, and all his clients or mock clients speak about what they did to him. The story goes into perversion, more and more violent, more and more dangerous. People sinking into their fantasies, trying to make them real in writing them.
While reading I keep thinking about the latest guy I shagged, in the Heath.

Red. Red is my mind, deep in violent thoughts of my body entwining with yours of my flesh inside of yours, of my violence deep in your flesh.
Bruises. Torn clothes. Half-opened mouth shouting its desire.
The moon stares at me. She smiles, my Selene. Round and bright. I smile back. When she is so big and bright, I just want to howl at her. Feel the werewolf in me. Let violence explode; let my heart view the world in reddish stripes.
You, fully mine. You, inside of whom I flow my liquids. Tears on you neck, salted river to which I drink.
Your arse cheek is turning red. I kiss it. You face is turning red. I kiss it. Your entire body seizing. I hold you in my arms. You stop seizing. Your eyes turn white. White.