Baxter
by 1990s Chris
04/03/2020 | short fiction
He sat there gnawing it,
Both paws scrambling to keep it still,
Drool everywhere,
Carpet darker from the wet.
- - -
I had met him online / Through a forum / Something discrete / Enough acronyms for denial / Enough acronyms for specificity / Digital handkerchiefs in digital pockets.
We had talked about his dog / The rough edges of him / His wiry hair, his favourite toy / I thought this was cute / Showed a sensitive nature / One that's reassuring in man / Who's flat your going to so he can fuck you.
I had requested pictures of Baxter / He had emailed them / In the poor lighting and the low resolution / I could make out the burgundy collar /The brass name tag, and the mess of the room / All tescos bags, and washing / All organised, yet not away.
I imagined myself in there many times / What I would do if I ever got there / He imagined this too / In detailed messages.
My legs on his broad shoulders...
His hands on my soft hairy stomach...
His weight transferring itself into me…
Filling me, till I was momentarily complete.
The other pictures he sent weren't of Baxter / They were medical like / Close ups / pinks turned red in the flash / All veins / And hope / I liked them in a way / Though they also made me feel ill / It felt naughty but not in a totally good way / I did like what he would say though / The thought of him touching himself / Whilst typing was more appealing / Than the pictures he sent / With their compositions / Their angles / and the undeniable manipulation of them.
- - -
I had found myself / In chat rooms / in subscriptions / In craigslist adverts / on cam sites / Exploring the extent of myself / From the safety of my computer / Now, I found myself in his room.
Trying to do the calculations / Between our online selves / And the analogue we were both cautiously presenting / In his ground floor studio flat.
His face older than his pictures / His charm confined to his keyboard / The tesco bags were gone / There was neatness to the place / That made me feel special.
He offered me a beer / I offered him me / Kissed him / The way I always imagined I would / His teeth fresh with mouthwash / His beard merging with mine / He laid back on his bed / Only feet from the door / I pulled down his joggers / The light caught the brass of the name tag / I glanced at Baxter in the corner / I felt almost safe.
I kneeled their gnawing it,
Both hands scrambling to keep it still,
Drool everywhere,
My boxers darker from the wet.
1990s chris (he/him/his)
1990s Chris is a queer, working class poet from Hereford. Writing primarily for live performance, film and audio. Chris was commissioned by BBC sounds to write his 15 minute audio show, Erasure Island. He is currently a writer at Neoteric Dance Company and was a contributor for Channel 4's Random Acts. His work hopes to start honest conversations around queer identity, masculinity and class.