There is a bearded lady alive in our room. He told us he likes dressing-up.
Inside a stretchy body-stocking he is disappeared, his dark hairs only shadows, his features only dough balls. Lily brushes his long blonde wig. I rearrange the tableau of junk: dusty glass horse, raffle ticket book, grey marble pestle and mortar.
We fastened him to the table. His chosen safe word is Yes. He whispers his ex-wife’s secrets. Lily feeds him raw carrots. I forget who he isn’t. We unzip our favourite costumes. Lily adjusts the lighting. Deeper, go the carrots. I love my gloves that reach over the elbow. Lily shows him how it always gets sore.
We can’t do any of these things with our hands clenched like claws.
He begged us to sing for him. Shout or cry, it gets better faster. He moans. Probably your legs would ache after holding them in such an extreme position for three hours. Smells sickly sweet under here. Swollen on the slippery rug.
When he kisses us, it’s as if he’s possessed by an idiot. He cannot kiss us at all without severe pain across his left buttock, and he can only shit with his spine curved forward. We don’t care. Inside a stretchy body-stocking the world is exploding towards him, he is uncannily attuned.
Bored, we go outside. Spit at each other until we run out of spittle. Drink water. Spit more.
Penny Goring lives in London.