Читать книгу Q is for Quarantine - Saxon Boulevard - Страница 2

A is for Adam's Apple. The first thing I notice about Kevin, the thing that keeps my eyes focused and my mind distracted, is his thick neck. It's like the trunk of a tree. His terracotta skin is carpeted in stubble and when he speaks, or laughs, or smiles, his Adam's apple bobs up and down like a bulging sex organ.

His throat is like a gateway to other temptations. His chin, lips and tongue to the north, and the hollow of his clavicle to the south. All else is concealed, wrapped and bound and left to the imagination, which is the biggest distraction of all.

B is for Baked. The hot oven fills 137 Patterson Street with the sweet smell of banana bread on the day I move in. Ali is baking.

I stack my belongings on hardwood floors beside a large ornamental fireplace. Kevin cradles a box in his right arm and flicks the switch to a singular light globe hanging from a black cord in the centre of the room. Cracked concrete walls are illuminated alongside unfurling cornices and the ceiling rose becomes a mandala in the empty room; a third eye watching us from above. The timber-framed window is open and sheer curtains dance with every breath of air. My new bedroom.

Afterward, we sit at the kitchen table and drink black coffee. Ali spreads butter across warm banana bread and we eat. An unfolded newspaper lies by the coffee pot, its main headline reads, Inside the hunt for a vaccine.

C is for Cat. Harold is old and beautiful and was left behind by the last tenants. He doesn't have a favourite housemate. He loves us all. Our laps are indiscriminately perched upon at breakfast, whilst we study and after dinner.

Kevin, with the broad chest and bulging throat and big hands and hairy knuckles is surprisingly tender with Harold. He becomes quieter, more still, when Harold is around. Within that silence they communicate with one another. Entire conversations transpire through touch and glimpse.

This morning, on my way to a lecture, I pause to look into Kevin's bedroom and find him sprawled on his unmade bed. Harold purrs beside him, having his head massaged.

D is for Dick. I have now lost count how many times I've seen Kevin without his clothes on. The first time took me by surprise as he walked through the kitchen still wet from his shower.

"Sorry. Forgot my towel!"

Looking up from the cutting board with wide eyes I stop preparing my packed lunch and feel my jaw slacken as I glimpse my housemates floppy uncircumcised penis. Kevin, unselfconscious and casual, gives a goofy smile as I stand in silence, searching for something suitable to say. Nothing comes. He leaves the room and I stand transfixed, watching his fleshy bum lift and drop as he strides away.

Yesterday, whilst taking my morning shower, Kevin knocks at the door before letting himself in, "sorry! I'm busting!"

I play it cool, standing naked in our tub with no curtain, and continue to wash whilst stealing quick glances of Kevin, who is still sleepy. He pulls the waistband of his pyjama bottoms down with one hand and gently peels back his foreskin with the other. As he holds his dick in his hand I can feel mine grow heavy.

"Want a coffee before you head to class?" The steady and forceful sound of piss hitting the water competes with the sound of the shower. With my back turned I hold my face beneath the shooting jets, hoping that my swelling knob isn't visible from this angle. "Sounds good!"

"Can you pass the soap? We're all out at the basin," holding out his hand Kevin motions for the body wash, which is perched on the shower ledge. I pass it to him and our hands make contact. Although it is only momentary, my mind busily joins dots, making connections about a touch loaded with context. Just moments ago, before those hands came into contact, one had been lathered in soap and roaming my naked body, while the other was holding onto a beautiful cock, still chubby from a morning erection. The intimacy of the exchange may have been disguised in pragmatism, but it is charged with electricity from where I stand.

"Washing your hands is the best prevention right now." Bent over the basin, Kevin soaps his hands up to his forearms, like he is prepping for surgery. I scrub at the hollow in my pits while looking at his reflection in the mirror. Again, his boisterous physicality betrays his thoughtfulness. So many people are downplaying the spread of this virus right now and here is Kevin, openly demonstrating best practices.

"I'll see if the corner store has any in stock later today."

He dries his hands and closes the door behind him. I lather my cock and cum almost immediately.

E is for Ecstasy. A group of us spend the night at the pub watching bands. It feels good to tune out, even if it's just for one evening. Noise about the virus is growing louder each day, as if nothing else in the world matters.

We play pool, drink two-for-one jugs, and score some E. I get chatting with a guy at the next table who is wearing denim shorts with a gash right across the seat of his pants. Each time he takes a turn I can see his arse cheeks flashing through the stretched fabric. No underpants to speak of.

Sitting side-by-side in the beer garden we share a cigarette, his knee rubbing against my thigh. Our bodies wriggle with laughter and his hot breath makes my skin tingle. He takes a long drag and his hand squeezes the tender part above my knee. Whispering an invitation, he exhales, smoke curling from his open mouth into his nostrils, "spend the night with me."

Bathed in the yellow glow of his floor lamp, we strip. Uninhibited and hungry for touch I can feel my cock swing from semi arousal to full-blown ache. He points at his futon and grins, "get comfortable."

I crawl into the centre of his bed and arch my back, resting my head on his pillow, the way Harold does when he's stretching. Uninhibited freedom. Is this how Kevin feels, unhindered and self-possessed? I feel beautiful.

Kneeling behind me Travis runs a digit along the inner length of my thigh, drawing a faint line between knee and nuts. I shiver before flushing with heat and feel moved to speak, but instead of letting the words tumble from my mouth I hold on, wrapping my tongue around the dancing letters to keep them at bay. Words feel so unnecessary as we begin to communicate in new ways. A thumb moves in small circles across my perineum; a hypnotic dance of miniature proportions. Nothing else matters. A long groan reverberates from my throat before making its way to my chest. His soft hand now grips onto my hanging balls and with a gentle tug I feel the swell of pleasure ripple from the inside out. Soon, his tongue is slapping at my hole and I see God.

F is for Flushing. This morning I wake to the sound of the flushing toilet. Still recovering from my big night out, I've slept in later than usual. Standing by the open refrigerator, Kevin is swigging milk from the carton, the impression of bed sheets etched into his skin. There's a wet patch on his navy-blue underpants. I've never known a person to be so completely comfortable with their body, and its various functions.

G is for Groceries. The three of us head to the supermarket for our weekly shop. I survey the shops that have shut their doors and the cafes who have closed earlier than usual. A surreal atmosphere permeates the hollow squares and empty thoroughfares. The city is starting to look like a film-set without extras; shiny facades decaying in slow motion. Birdsong dominates, where the sound of traffic was once king.

Shelves inside the supermarket are starting to empty and some items have vanished completely: pasta, rice, flour. All gone. The absence of toilet paper has made news headlines around the world. Shoppers seem agitated and employees look tired, their faces pale and drawn. A palpable tension holds the supermarket in its grip. I can't gage if everybody is overreacting or if people are right to feel this concerned. We verbalise our confusion and fill baskets with fruit and vegetables and bread. We take advantage of the pumpkins and broccoli and leek and lentils, which are still available.

It feels strange, but there's something comforting about being in this together, exciting even. We are bonding in ways that would not have happened otherwise.

H is for Hand Sanitizer. The household is now running to a strict hygiene routine, as communicated via a group text message:

1 Shoes are to be left on the front porch

2 Backpacks, tote bags, umbrellas, hats and gloves are all to be hung on the new hooks by the front door (thank you for installing these, Kevin!)

3 Clothes should be removed upon entry and placed immediately in the washing machine, or hung on the clothesline in direct sunlight

4 Shower if necessary, or wash your hands up to the elbow at the very minimum

The measures seemed somewhat militant, but the messaging has become louder as the death toll and infection rate grows larger.

Ali's mum has kindly delivered a dozen eggs and some green apples with a huge bottle of hand sanitizer. It sits on the kitchen bench by the fruit bowl, bathed in light from the nearby window. It appears as a contemporary still life; a carefully considered arrangement loaded with symbolism for the strange days we were now living.

Kevin removes the protective wrap from the bottle and pumps the nozzle into his palm where a huge dollop of gel oozes out.

"Shit! I've overdone it with the sanitizer!"

I poke fun at him for wasting something currently worth its weight in gold.

"Here. Give me some."

Holding out my open palm I wait for Kevin to drip the excess gel into my hand. Instead, he begins massaging the cold liquid across my palm. The smell of the alcohol burns my nostrils as he performs the task with perfunctory form. "You've got magic hands, Kevin."

Like being lead by a dance partner, I passively accept the gesture, my stomach fluttering as his hands knead mine.

"He should be a masseur!" Ali calls out from the living room, where she is folding laundry, "you were born with a gift, Kevin!"

On cue, he begins working his way along my fingers, applying pressure in-between each groove. I can feel my shoulders relaxing and my eyes growing soft. Unsure of where the boundary between housemate-humour ends and flirtation begins, I call out to Ali in a spellbound drawl, "I'd pay of this!"

I is for Isolate. We're now being told that self-isolation might soon be mandated. It's a difficult concept to grapple with, especially with no strict timeline or end date. People are already working from home or studying by distance, but many still feel reluctant to cut off contact with the outside world, especially if the measures are to last for months, not weeks.

The prospect of isolating has a funny way of showing itself in each of us. Kevin immediately begins to channel his anxiety by orchestrating a series of hook-ups with ex-girlfriends. He has only done this on the odd occasion since I moved in, but it now occurs with a regimented frequency. I can sometimes hear the energetic coupling through my walls, the frenetic focus of two people unsure of when they might meet again. Hearing him climax is somehow discordant. It reveals a hidden aspect of his personality that has been out of reach for obvious reasons. He roars one night, like a soldier surrendering in battle, and I wonder if I can hear him sobbing afterward.

As information starts to permeate the reality begins to slowly creep in. We start to comprehend the long-term effects of isolation in a shared house. No more visitors or trips to the movies; no more Thursday night drinks at the pub; no more live gigs or exhibition openings. No more coming and going as we please. What will this even look like?

J is for Joy Division. A nearby gallery announces its last exhibition opening for the foreseeable future. The local art-scene congregate to the space and take advantage of the free wine and cheese. Small paintings hang on the walls and colourful sculptures balance on plinths. Flocks of people gather inside and all conversations are centred on The Virus. The art is just background noise. I keep my eye peeled for Travis, hoping he might be keen to spend the night together again. My cock is halfway to hard as I wander the gallery in the hope of hooking up, but I leave alone.

When I arrive home from the exhibition the house is empty. The kitchen light is on and burnt rice clings to a pan in the sink. I listen to a Joy Division record, loud, and shave my balls in the shower.

K is for Kleenex. To break up a rainy afternoon I put on my hooded parker and take a ride through the cemetery. Tombstones are streaked with coursing water, like weeping crucifixes. As I cycle along the winding bitumen I pay particular attention to the flowers by the headstones and the offerings left by loved ones. Close to the wrought iron exit, the name Dimitri Koundouris, etched in gold letters on a red granite headstone, shines beneath the glow of a street lamp. Laminated photographs of children are propped beside stainless steel vases, home to plastic flowers that spring like static fireworks.

I rest my bike against the fence and make my way into the public bathroom, a grey brick cube with stick figure illustrations indicating male and female facilities. Stepping through the light-lock entrance I unzip my pants and pull my cock out before I reach the urinal. To my surprise I find a man already making use of the stainless steel trough. Positioned to the right, he stands with his legs forming a sturdy A-frame and turns to face me as I approach, my shrivelled dick already poised and ready to piss.