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Refractions
A series of short pieces by Clarke Nova
The writer sat hunched over an old Adler
portable, his skin pale in the harsh reflected light that was cast from the single bare
bulb that hung from the low, damp ceiling. The room was a picture of spartan exile, with
four planks nailed to the wall to form a rough table, on which the typewriter sat. Cheap
paper peeled from mildewed walls, flapping in the cold draughts that blew in from the
window frames - even though he had attempted to caulk them with old newspapers. He sat in
an old, beat coat, greasy and stained from long wear and hard living.
A thin, olive boy lay on the bed, his chest rising and falling in time with his ragged
breaths as he slept. His white teeth showed, where his lips pulled back in a rictus-like
snarl, and his beautiful face was framed by long, midnight black hair, which was usually
pulled back into a ponytail. He was unnaturally thin, his ribs showing through his skin,
his stomach taut not so much through exercise, but through lack of food.
A long black gown lay on the floor, discarded carelessly, cast off like a skin shed in
metamorphosis. A padded bra and tight black knickers lay by the pillow on which the boy's
head rested, and false eyelashes sat like obscene insects on the covers. Long red nails
passed through shiny black pubes, which sparsely surrounded a small, but perfectly formed
uncut cock, and hairless balls.
The writer splashed cheap scotch into a chipped glass, the raw smell stinging his eyes, as
he gulped the harsh liquor. He looked at the boy, remembering how the hair had flowed over
the boy's shoulders, rippling with light as he had knelt before the writer - his tongue
sliding roughly down the head and shaft of his cock, his fingers tracing the insides of
his thighs with their long nails. He recalled the soft catch in the boy's breathing when
he had first entered him, the boy's legs curling up over his back as his orgasm had
approached.
He had picked up the boy at a bar in the darker end of town, where the boy had been
performing in a drag cabaret. It hadn't been difficult to persuade him to come back to his
tiny apartment - the offer of a little cash, and a place for the night. He suspected that
the boy often turned tricks - how else did he make any money?
The bruises that marked the inside of the boy's arm tended to suggest more than a passing
taste for opiates - another reason for the boy's leanness. Not that it mattered - the boy
had been cheap, and eager to please him, probably hoping to form some kind of long term
relationship.
The sleeping boy's teeth fascinated him with their perfection - someone had very obviously
spent a great deal of money on orthodontistry in his past.
The walls seemed to be closing in on him. How had he come to be in this damp hovel? He
remembered dancing on the stage, synching to Donna Summer's "Love To Love You
Baby" - next he was in a cheap room in some dock side hotel. He looked around, the
bright light from a single bulb burning into his dilated eyes. A man sat hunched over an
old typewriter, in an overcoat that seemed to have lived a life of its own. He appeared to
be asleep, an empty bottle of whisky on the crude table in front of him, a glass on the
floor where it had fallen from his fingers.
He groped for his knickers, slid them on, and crept to the bathroom. He squatted over the
bowl, and passed a stool coated with bright blood, a thin trickle of which ran down his
thigh, and onto the cracked tiles. He found and fumbled through his handbag, taking out a
panty liner, which he fixed in place in the gusset. They were new, and it wouldn't do to
have them ruined by his bleeding ass.
He washed his face, wiping off the dried semen from his chin. He was glad he hadn't got
any in his eyes - that stung, and some of the older queens had told him that it could
blind him. He quickly did his makeup - reattaching the lashes that had looked like ugly
cockroaches on the pillow.
The bra and dress were next, completing the transformation from boy to diva. She checked
her purse - sixty dollars and a cellophane envelope, with roughly a sixteenth of an ounce
of H in it. Enough for today, anyway.
She checked her face in the mirror - flashing her white teeth. They were a legacy from a
rich lover, who had paraded her across Europe, and treated her like a true Queen - until
he'd found her blowing his seventeen year old son. Then he'd had her beaten, and flung
bruised and bleeding on to the cold streets. Since then she'd taken refuge in dope and
drink, occasionally performing in second rate drag acts, picking up men who paid her to
fuck.
Her nails needed a new coat of polish. She was ashamed of her hands, which, whilst having
long slender fingers, were broad across the knuckles. Usually she wore gloves, but she'd
burned a hole in the last pair - when she'd gone on the nod, a few nights back.
It was time she left - before the sun came up and woke the sleeping writer. Maybe she'd
see him again another night - he paid well, and always gave her a little taste to be going
on with.
She slipped the lock on the door, and, carrying her shoes in her hand, escaped into the
cold night beyond.
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