Status: Short story
The Exhibitionist
I Still Have Your Camera
It's funny how, when it started with Bert and they both thought it'd end with Bert, it didn't.
When Bert left, nothing changed like they'd both thought it would - like Bert probably thought it had. Things kept on as Bert had made them, because he forgot that he was always meant to clean up after himself.
It was his mess, after all. He bought the camera- not Quinn; he shut the curtains and Quinn never bothered to open them up again. Quinn didn't clean up like he used to either, and got into bed every night or early morning with filthy knees. He woke up with slimy hair and teeth and dressed and undressed till his skin was raw.
It never occured to him he was a whore- because Bert had never said they were. Back then they were exhibitionists, and even though back then Quinn only slept with one man, he still preferred the term exhibitionist now. No difference really- he thought, as strangers fawned over and pressed greedy fingerprints to his skin- what was so much worse about hands than eyes?
Except, maybe, back then, Bert felt more than others ever got to see, and that's what made it okay.
Now, he didn't need the camera they used to use, but it still lay on the desk opposite the bed - watching but not remembering.
Though, it never occured to him to feel ashamed- because Bert never said they should. It was all for a thrill and a bill. Even now, Quinn only took it a step further, another thrill and few extra bills. . The money made it okay.
It never occured to him how much- because Bert never said they were cheap. Fifty cents for a blow and two dollars for a fuck. What did it matter when you were broke? There were always plenty of men fishing out what lay between mysterious two-cheeked valleys. Sometimes, they would finish and Quinn would try to hold on that little bit too long, because the odd time, men would pay him to come; sometimes they shoved the few dollars into his fist right then, and he would finish for them. He was low-budget, but he was sure it was okay...
It never occured to him to try and contact Bert- because he had said he might call. And fuck, did he wait on that might.
It never occured to him what he'd have done if Bert hadn't of called- he just relished, relieved, utterly ravaged himself in the fact that he did. That night it fueled him like pure ethanol, the memory of his face the light. Or maybe it was Bert's voice (yes, definitely Bert's voice) when he asked Quinn if he was okay- if he was okay? And he could answer, honestly, he was as good as the day Bert left.
And Bert sounded glad. So Quinn pushed for more conversation and more of Bert's voice...
Quinn wondered, excited as the day they met, if Bert had aged at all, as he felt a man push past his own cracked lips. Quinn hadn't aged at all, but maybe Bert had.
Had he grown his hair, he thought as someone groped and ripped at his own. Had he cut it short?
His favourite part was when Quinn asked about the camera.
"I still have your camera. Do you want it back?"
It might have sounded like a ploy to see Bert once more. It wasn't. Because though the camera had not been first bought for that purpose (unlike Quinn, who fucked and sucked his way to minimum wage) they both knew what it represented. Quinn didn't use it anymore, but that he still had it told Bert what he still did. It was Bert's camera. It was Bert's choice.
"No, it's okay, Quinn..." Quinn remembered the words late that night and knew they'd keep him for at least a few years.
"You can keep it."
When Bert left, nothing changed like they'd both thought it would - like Bert probably thought it had. Things kept on as Bert had made them, because he forgot that he was always meant to clean up after himself.
It was his mess, after all. He bought the camera- not Quinn; he shut the curtains and Quinn never bothered to open them up again. Quinn didn't clean up like he used to either, and got into bed every night or early morning with filthy knees. He woke up with slimy hair and teeth and dressed and undressed till his skin was raw.
It never occured to him he was a whore- because Bert had never said they were. Back then they were exhibitionists, and even though back then Quinn only slept with one man, he still preferred the term exhibitionist now. No difference really- he thought, as strangers fawned over and pressed greedy fingerprints to his skin- what was so much worse about hands than eyes?
Except, maybe, back then, Bert felt more than others ever got to see, and that's what made it okay.
Now, he didn't need the camera they used to use, but it still lay on the desk opposite the bed - watching but not remembering.
Though, it never occured to him to feel ashamed- because Bert never said they should. It was all for a thrill and a bill. Even now, Quinn only took it a step further, another thrill and few extra bills. . The money made it okay.
It never occured to him how much- because Bert never said they were cheap. Fifty cents for a blow and two dollars for a fuck. What did it matter when you were broke? There were always plenty of men fishing out what lay between mysterious two-cheeked valleys. Sometimes, they would finish and Quinn would try to hold on that little bit too long, because the odd time, men would pay him to come; sometimes they shoved the few dollars into his fist right then, and he would finish for them. He was low-budget, but he was sure it was okay...
It never occured to him to try and contact Bert- because he had said he might call. And fuck, did he wait on that might.
It never occured to him what he'd have done if Bert hadn't of called- he just relished, relieved, utterly ravaged himself in the fact that he did. That night it fueled him like pure ethanol, the memory of his face the light. Or maybe it was Bert's voice (yes, definitely Bert's voice) when he asked Quinn if he was okay- if he was okay? And he could answer, honestly, he was as good as the day Bert left.
And Bert sounded glad. So Quinn pushed for more conversation and more of Bert's voice...
Quinn wondered, excited as the day they met, if Bert had aged at all, as he felt a man push past his own cracked lips. Quinn hadn't aged at all, but maybe Bert had.
Had he grown his hair, he thought as someone groped and ripped at his own. Had he cut it short?
His favourite part was when Quinn asked about the camera.
"I still have your camera. Do you want it back?"
It might have sounded like a ploy to see Bert once more. It wasn't. Because though the camera had not been first bought for that purpose (unlike Quinn, who fucked and sucked his way to minimum wage) they both knew what it represented. Quinn didn't use it anymore, but that he still had it told Bert what he still did. It was Bert's camera. It was Bert's choice.
"No, it's okay, Quinn..." Quinn remembered the words late that night and knew they'd keep him for at least a few years.
"You can keep it."