Purple Stars

Three face,

one torso,

two arse

and four dick pics.

Our supermarket shop is complete. I leave the house with my sex in my bag for life, ready to be delivered to a complete stranger.

The cul-de-sac is cold and vacant. A cloud dense and starless night hangs heavy around my body. I walk to the end of the road and reach for my headphones and shit, I must have left them on my bedside table. Already fifteen minutes late (my anal douching took longer than anticipated) I walk on tight chested, without any music to distract me from my nerves.

I take out my mobile and check the location that Raj (no doubt a fake name) sent to me on Grindr. Three messages sent in the past two minutes appear on my screen:

R U on ur way?                             R U comin?                             How long u gonna b?

Not long, I reply.

Gd. Wanna fuck U so bad.

His use of text talk really pisses me off. But I suppose his C in GCSE English wasn’t the reason I chose to have sex with him tonight. No. It’s his seven-inch dick.

I turn left at the police station and walk into Slough High-street, passing the


sari shop

Costa Coffee

Kabul Palace who make ‘the best naan bread in Slough’.

I go through Raj’s nudes, trying to invoke some of the excitement I felt before I left home. I haven’t hooked up with anyone in a while. The last time I used Grindr for sex, me and the other guy gave each other blowjobs in the back of his car (my lack of standards astounds me). Usually I just go online to coax the closeted husbands to send me pictures of their dicks, promising that I will meet them for sex then blocking their profile.

I realise that I’m a prick.

I cross the road to avoid Weatherspoons and the Friday night men standing outside who hide their guns                  in their beers                      and bullets                     in their beards. A woman whose hair contains the last eight hours working in Primark tries to push through the pack of men. They take out their weapons and shoot five times: three at her bouncy tits, the last two at her arse that wiggles as she walks.

My phone vibrates against my leg. It’s Raj again.

Where u at?

Almost there.

Crossing the bridge that arches over the railway, I see a couple in the distance. The unisex silhouettes hold hands as they walk. My mobile already out of my pocket, I take their picture. I don’t know why. I think some part of me wants to capture them and keep them with me forever.

Purple Stars

As I come to the end of the bridge a car beeps at me, the bald diver turning his head to look at me as he drives past with eyes as bright as his headlights.

Maybe it’s because of the long, grey coat I’m wearing?                                      Maybe

it’s because he’s a homophobe and considers it a personal crusade to beep at every queer he drives past?

If I let my body talk, it would scream.                 I don’t because I fear it would never          stop.

Everyone would just ignore it anyway.

My nerves return as the night air squeezes my wrists. The dampness blocks my nose and ears and I try to find the handholding couple but they’ve melted.

I dig my hands deep into my pockets and continue.

The Islamic Centre

The new barbers that is yet to put its name above the shop

The fish and chips takeaway

The chicken shop

The only corner shop to sell halal meat

The Salvation Army Hall

I arrive at Raj’s block of flats. The exterior is orange and yellow and looks like it would smell of citrus. I ring for number eleven. The intercom clicks on.

“Yes,” a man with a thick Pakistani accent asks.

“It’s me, the guy from—”

The intercom clicks off.

I sit on a nearby wall, cupping my rabbit heart in my hands. I think about running away and being satisfied with a couple of wanks at home.

Too late.

Raj steps out. He wears his physique rather than cloths. His large arms swell underneath a plain white t-shirt and he has a jaw line for days.

He nods his head to the side.

“Not going to do it at your place?” I ask.

“Na, the wife’s in. Told her that I’m gettin’ some milk. Can’t be long so we’ll do it round the back.”

I follow him around the block of flats to where they keep the bins. He nods his head at the floor. I get on my knees and go to pull his tracksuit bottoms down.

Then all is black.

I don’t remember falling into the puddle that tastes of mud.

I don’t know why my nose is bleeding.

All I remember is preparing to suck Raj off and the sound of bones cracking.

My body is turned over and now I’m facing the sky.

“Bent                           piece of shit,” Raj says.

Another blow to my left side.

“This is what a disgusting                   fag                   like you deserves.”

He stomps on my stomach and kicks my balls.

While Raj spits his mantra and destroys my body into a thousand pieces, all I can think about is how pretty the purple stars look now that clouds have cleared.


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