Ravaged by the Sun in a Suburban Sex Dungeon

I’m not very good at being hot. I know this because when I got my arm stuck in the slats of a venetian blind earlier while trying to push the window open wider I just stood there because I didn’t know what else to do. My brain was so sluggish and my arm was so happy to feel a breeze that I just let myself be stuck for a bit. From the outside it must have looked like someone had been drugged and kidnapped and was trying to make an escape out of the box room office of a suburban sex dungeon. But no one came to my aid because they were all suffering their own hell, inanely holding mini-fans to their faces and dreaming of that time they nearly drowned in an icy lake when they were five.

Heat does funny things to people. Like, I am staring out of the window right now, in between prodding these sweaty keys, melting like marshmallow at my touch, at a lady in the street who has tied her hair up in a turban fashioned from what looks like a t-shirt, and has tucked her long skirt into her knickers. It makes her look very exotic like an African queen, but like you wouldn’t want to be stuck in a lift with her because she’s hosting orphaned pigeon chicks in her pubic nest. Actually that would be awesome, what am I saying, I’m smacked off my tits on Vitamin D. Over there by the tree that shits purple wax on cars are boys kicking their heels with their tops off, smoking. That just isn’t safe. They are past the point of having any moisture left, they could go up in flames like a hay-bale. Elsewhere the panting of dogs is causing minor tsunamis five thousand miles away, people are stockpiling fruit cider torn from the shelves of ravaged off licences, and no one is talking. Tongues have swelled too big to get the words out, and besides – they all hate each other.

Earlier in the day I caught myself at various instances doing the following:

1) Shaving the dog and thinking about running the clippers over my head too. (I thought better of it. I haven’t the cranium for a GI Jane and people already think I’m enough of a lesbian as it is.)

2) Lying face down on a pile of newly-washed and still-wet towels on the kitchen floor because, well, why wouldn’t you. They’re cold and wet and you are in a survival situation. It’s a Bear Grylls basic.

3) Conducting heat tests around the flat to see which bit was cool enough to get around to replying to a text in. Not managing to work my thumbs, I left a friend hanging on an important question because I just didn’t care enough. So what if they needed me. Sort your own life out, you selfish shit. I’m dying.

4) Splaying my fingers into a V sign from my prostrate near-death position in the hall at a plane that flew overhead in case it were off to somewhere like Iceland or the North Pole. Bastards.

5) Leaning into a big freezer at the supermarket and consider dragging all the peas and nuggets out onto the floor so I could fit my whole body inside, shut the door and pretend I was in Narnia or a morgue fridge or some other frosty dreamscape.

6) Getting home and standing in front of my own freezer because no one was there to judge. Rubbing ice cubes over myself in a way that might be sexy on a Brazilian model but on me probably just looked like I was having a delusional ice-related Disney breakdown after hearing ‘Let It Go’ one too many times.

7) Finally caving and watching the clip of Kanye West being an unutterable twat at Glastonbury. (Something I would never have been compelled to do when of sound mind.) Thinking I saw an old friend coming on stage to be his backing dancer but assuming it was just a mirage like when Hunter S Thompson sees weird shit in the heat-wafts of Vegas off his cock on acid.

8) Forgetting what I had been intending to write my column about before the nation was attacked by forces from outer space (i.e. the sun). Deciding it would be a good idea to write about how rubbish I am when I’m hot instead. Et voila.


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