Leeor Ohayon

The last time I had sex? Three days ago. Gave and received. No condom.
A regular partner: Mehmet.
An FWB, who I see most weeks.
Born and bred: Green Lanes.
He drives over to mine in Clapton, in his battered Golf.
Side-view mirrors held up with tape.
Smelling of Issey Miyake, L’Eau d’Issey.
Always something to smoke in the glove box.
Ferrero Rocher wrappers in his coat pocket.

The time before that was the week before. No condoms. Gave.
A threesome with my friend Seb and a guy we met in the club, who we took it in turns to fuck.
There was a moment, as Seb and I made out, when I wondered if it was about to happen between us.
And what would it mean for our friendship?
But he’s strictly top, and I hadn’t douched.
So, we carried on kissing, the guy from the club bent over between us.

Before that was Blessing, an evangelical Christian.
He tried to fuck me with a condom. Then, without.
It didn’t really go in.
The poppers didn’t loosen me up.
We used to meet on a regular basis.
Years back.
Then he ghosted.
He tapped me online earlier that morning.
Sent me his photo because he’s a silhouette online.
Remember me? he asked.
Picked me up in his car.
Let it casually slip that he’s sorry he disappeared, but his girlfriend moved in.
Your girlfriend moved in?
You know I have a girlfriend?
No?
He played with the radio button, told me: We’re having a baby.
You’re having a baby.
He laughed, sheepishly. She’s due in a month.
Oh, was all I could muster.
Why’ve you gone quiet?
Does she know that I’m with you? I asked.
She’s away.
No. Does she know that we’re meeting? Are you open?
He shook his head.
Up in his room, I couldn’t get into the groove, even with those hungry hands running over my body.
Him and her in black and white touching her bump, staring at me from an Ikea Ribba frame on the opposite wall.
I’ve missed your taste, he said, kissing my neck.

Before Blessing was an anonymous hook up, with Hung_vers, for a display name.
He hadn’t updated his pics.
Pics that, when I think of it, were cut off below the neck.
No one to blame but myself.
Still, I stood at his front door feeling conned.
Thinking: This is borderline catfish.
And yet I slipped off my shoes as he introduced me to his dog, all the while trying to find an excuse to go.
But I couldn’t find the words, so I sucked him off instead, and left without cumming.
On the way home, I stopped for a shot of tequila, to sterilise my mouth, numb my mind.
Override his smell that stayed lodged in my nostrils.

Yannis was Davide’s date. And Davide was a guy I always bumped into at Cruz, by the bar not the darkroom. That day, Davide and I had a beer, then some G in the toilets.
He told me, He’s happy we’re getting to hang out but he’s not into me like that.
I nodded unsure what to say because that was never my intention.
Then Yannis arrived.
Hair jet black, swept back.
Clean shaven.
Face perfectly sculpted.
Like a World War Two recruitment poster.
We went for an afters at his with some strays from the bars. Italians, Greeks. A woman from Lebanon.
Davide shared his G.
Yannis fixed everyone up small lines of M-CAT.
Davide stroking the smalls of Yannis’ back.
I went into the bathroom, stopped at the bookcase in the hallway.
Yannis found me, leafing through Evening in Paradise.
Anything good? Ah, Lucia Berlin. A Manual is the better collection, he said.
You like short stories? I asked.
I do.
This is also very good, he said taking it off the shelf.
I read the title out loud: Susan Minot – Lust.
What’s it about? I asked.
It’s like a list about this woman’s sexual history, he said, and opened the book to show me the layout.
I leaned in forward.
Our shoulders pressing together.
Reminds me of Carmen Machado’s, I said.
I don’t think I know it.
It’s really good, I said reaching for the book, my fingers touching his, as I read under my breath.
Similar set up with… what would you call it? Stanzas? Crots?
I looked up at him.
Stanzas, he said, maintaining eye contact. Can I kiss you?
And I opened my body towards him.
Tobacco and beer on his breath.
He took my hand in his and led me into his bedroom.
We fucked until we exhausted ourselves, because neither of us could finish on drugs.
When we re-entered the living room, Davide cut us the dirtiest look.
He sat there talking to the woman from Lebanon, cigarette in hand, unvoiced anger on his brow.

Roberto has a scar on his forehead that juts in when he’s focused. Especially when he’s taking his artistic nudes.
Of me, of him.
Of us together.
Tasteful ones.
Not just fancy dick pics.
He mounts his camera on a tripod at golden hour, get us to stand by his window or the balcony. In the bathtub by the extraction fan. Shadows dancing on porcelain tiles.
He asked me to come around.
I have a vision, he said.
We smoked a joint as he got me to lay on the sofa in my boxers.
Jack, draw me like one of your French girls, I said perching my head on my hand.
His Harry Potter scar jutting in.
He took maybe ten shots before the bulge in his jeans got too much.
He put the camera down, took me in his mouth.

Before Roberto I met up with Samir, who’s more about phone sex, descriptive texts. FaceTime demonstrations of him working a dildo.
He told me to come round, said this time he wanted to watch me with others.
Do you trust me?
I nodded my head slowly.
Would you be willing to fuck a guy who’s not your type?
I guess.
He showed me the profiles of the guys he had in mind.
One was a lot older, the other a bear… or more of a cub.
Broaden your horizons, Samir said.
And I did. I complied.
I let Samir play director.
We got into the positions he wanted.
Puppets-on-string.
The older guy said he was hot.
The cub agreed.
Samir said, Why don’t you piss on them both?
I laughed.
Get on the table, he said.
We cosplaying Pepi, Luci, Bom?
But Samir was serious.
No that’s not my thing, I said, put on my jeans and left.

I should’ve said not my thing to the guy before.
Should’ve said no when he texted with: WUU2.
If that wasn’t enough. he sent over a selection of pics that left me none the wiser as to what he looked like.
One too far.
Glasses in another.
The lighting harsh in a third.
My heart said no but my dick led the way because I’d wasted half a day.
I laid out the rules.
I told him he could give me a handjob in the back of his car.
No kissing.

Then there was Jorge. We have a set up.
He unlocks the door, waits on the sofa with his dressing gown open.
I take off my shoes, and I get on my knees.
And he doesn’t touch me.
He just sits back.
A bottle of poppers back and thro.
When he’s close, he pushes my head down.
So it hits the back of my throat.
Then we smoke a cigarette out his bathroom window. Talk about his
PhD research or his next trip to Colombia. Do I have any new books to recommend?

Josh, I met after a few months of chatting. On-and-off.
He had a free yard, told me to come round.
There was chemistry from the get-go.
Had us sweating profusely.
A session of HIIT.
I texted him: We should do it again.
Then again, the following week.
I got no reply.

Ben and I met for a drink before we fucked.
We had two G&Ts in a pub overlooking the Lea, catching up on all these years, discussing our childhoods:
The impact of Sugar Rush for closeted teens.
Ian Gallagher and Mickey Maguire.
What about Kash Karib?
We reminisced on how we met on the internet.
On one of those sites.
With an obvious name.
Before there were apps.
Or smartphones.
When we were still teens.
He’d been the first to send me a message. And we moved it to MSN Messenger.
Chatted the evening away.
Typing not talking.
With our webcams switched on.
We’d speak most nights, after school.
I remember the first time I sat on the train to Reading.
He met me outside the station.
Shorter in height than on the screen.
And he walked me to his. Said he’d told his parents downstairs that I was a friend from school.
He was experienced.
He swung my legs up.
Ate me out on the bed.
He watched as I gasped.
Pulled his lips away and said, Feels amazing doesn’t it?
After our reminisce in the pub, we went back to mine. We took it in turns. Flip-flopped. Top and Bottom.
Afterwards, I waved him off in an Uber, realised old flings should remain things of the past.

And Zuhair really took me into the past.
He was cute. Bottom.
I told him I’m on PreP but he still wanted a condom.
Obsessed with Carmen a Hiphopera.
Knew all the lyrics to Beyoncé’s opening scene.
Mos Def and Sam Sarpong’s parts too.
And that was endearing.
It made me nostalgic.
Saw myself sat with the Walkman on the 253.
School tie made small and fat.
The yellow lines threaded out.
With a compass in Maths.
Made me tearful.
For the kid that I was.
For the feelings that dared not speak its name.

And the time before that… well, the time before that was with my boyfriend. He sat up in bed, lit a cigarette and said: I think we need to open things up. No, we didn’t use a condom.
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.
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Leeor Ohayon is a writer from London based in Norwich, where he is pursuing a PhD in Creative and Critical Writing at the University of East Anglia. His work has appeared in Apartamento, The White Review, Prospect Magazine, The RSL Review, and Paper Brigade.