Unlucky Dip By Scott Baxter It’s my round so I head to the bar while a chorus of “Shots!” resounds from behind me. It’s only supposed to be a couple after work, but fuck it, it’s Friday. While waiting to order I feel my phone buzz. A notification from Grindr. I open the app, check his picture and respond to his message while watching the cute barman cockily fill the miniature glasses. Brief texts are exchanged before I’m sent an address. The speed of his offer excites me in my intoxicated state. I return to the table with the tray of drinks to a further chorus of “Shots!”. I throw mine back, make some random excuse to the group and leave to hail a taxi. Standing in front of the flat door I realise I must have missed something in his messages or, as usual, I didn’t read the profile properly. I can hear thumping music and loud voices penetrating through the door. I press the buzzer. Nothing. I press again. While checking my phone the door abruptly swings open. He stands in the gloom of the hallway topless, eyes glaring at me as if I am about to complain about the noise. A flash of a strobe light from the interior coincides with a flash of recognition across his face. He smiles with lurid purple teeth. “We’re playing… roulette, want in?” No ‘hello’, no introduction, just the offer of drugs. “It’s a lucky dip” he beams thrusting a plastic supermarket bag at me. He tells me to close my eyes, stick my hand in and take one at random. “No peaking!” he squeals through his grin, high, I’m sure. I do as instructed, close my eyes, slip a hand into the bag and pull out a single paper sachet. Snatching it from my hand I instinctively open my eyes to
catch a glimpse of an anonymous black and white sachet. Peaking would have made no difference. “No, no, no!” he berates me. “Keep them closed and open your mouth. You don’t get to see the colour!” This is the no peaking part, I realise. Again, I obey. I hear the plastic bag drop to the ground and the ripping open of the sachet. I then feel his bony hand on my jaw as he pours the granular mixture onto my tongue. I close my mouth and crunched through crystals until they were dissolved. I open my eyes to see him retreat deeper into the flat. I step in and close the door. Passing a number of guys in the shadows of the hallway I decide to look for the host – I’ve forgotten why I am here. By the time I reach what I think is the living room something kicks in. I try to focus and sober up but the drug pulls me back down. I curse myself that I haven’t taken PrEP, not in weeks. My head swims in panic. I see no mirrors. Where is the bathroom? What colour are my teeth? My prostate twinges and my cock hardens. My body heavier but my head lighter. I start to relax, my breathing deepens, I am hovering above the floor. I have lost my anxiety. I am numb. I am calm. Almost happy. Men surround me, watching me. Were they always there? Waiting to see what the drug will do to me. Waiting to see the colour of my teeth. Waiting to see if I’m of use to them. Another hand on my chin, then another peeling apart my lips, inspecting this gift-horse. His crimson red teeth illuminate the darkness, gnashing and gurning, his tongue flicking and tasting, crusted saliva, or blood, at the sides of his mouth. All I want is to taste him. A pulse of light. My heart thumps. Living room. Hands touch my body, squeeze my nipples, fondle my arse, grope my crotch. A pulse of light. My heart thumps. Hallway. The shirt is pulled from my body. Buttons pop, fabric tears.
A pulse of light. My heart thumps. Bedroom. My trousers are undone. I watch the twinkling of fairy lights draped over a headboard. A pulse of light. My heart thumps. Bed. The musky stink of a moist crotch lowers itself onto my face. A stubby cock is forced into my mouth. A pulse of light. My heart thumps. Pillow. My cock is straddled and hips grind into my groin. A pulse of light. My heart thumps. Duvet. Stale bedsheets in my face, floral patterns dance in front of me. I am fucked. I sit on the floor of the bedroom with my back against the wall, I ache. I try to think about how long I have been here. An older muscle Mary, whose physique had seen better days, stands over me beating his semi-hard cock against my face telling me how much he’s going to ruin me. Pushing him away I look for my clothes. I am alone, apart from the Mary, who watches me and attempts to masturbate. I can see the excretion of his evening catching up with him. “Last to arrive, last to leave, is it?” Teeth back to normal, the host hands me my phone. He tells me he found it in the living room. “You’re quite the shy one till you get going, aren’t you?” Manchester accent, I think. I shrug and push my buttonless shirt into my trousers. “Don’t be a stranger now, you know where we are”. We? “And next time bring something to the party, it’s only polite!” The host drapes an arm around the Mary and they both smile. What was I then, if not a ‘gift’? I make my exit. For the next month, I am on post-exposure medication. Just in case. The advice is to take the prophylactic and be a good boy. You’d think that infection would be static but people still don’t get tested and then find out years down the line it’s too late. I’ve decided to try my first PrEP implant. I’ve been resistant to the idea for a number of years,
unsure about having a tube of drugs inserted under my skin. Knowing my luck it won’t take. I’m told that, although uncommon, it’s not unusual for some people to have high levels of resistance to a foreign body inside them. The irony is not lost on me. The queer prophylactic.