For AXM Magazine, April 2006 So I’m taking the plunge. I’ve decided to buy a flat in London. This chunk of money I earned doing careless stand up on TV is idle in an account, and I thought property would be a good, guilt-free investment. Or maybe not. As I stroll through Bethnal Green, looking […]

I’m house sitting in Queens Park (QP) and there are children everywhere. They even go to school, so you know they’re posh. And loud and privileged and white and, horror, abundant. Rumor is that this used to be a nice area, working class Irish and then slightly black, until a few queers appeared, and bling! An organic cafÈ sprouted, complete with dry muffins at three pounds a thump and really expensive watery coffee.

My ex was born on Valentine’s Day, a very, very long time ago. He popped out, some glaciers thawed, and eventually amphibians crawled ashore. I think the wheel was invented during Jeff’s puberty. He avoids California, fearing an earth tremor might rearrange his surgically-implanted plastic chin while dislodging his glass eye, making him look either traumatized or like Latoya Jackson, which are kind of the same thing.

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AXM Article for January 2006 As I curl up near my newest Mac, humming along with The Way We Were, cozy in my Mui Mui jeans and indigo V-neck purchased in Paris, left wrist light but sheathed by a super-slim, silver Tiffany timepiece, I wonder, why am I dressed so well? It’s a lazy day, […]

Santa wakes me up on Christmas morning. I’m his last delivery. We smoke a spliff. He looks good. He’s lost weight and, instead of those silly clear spectacles, he’s sporting narrow black Gucci frames that rest coyly on his newly dapper cheekbones. He puts his manicured hand on my shoulder whenever he speaks of home, and I realize his face looks slimmer because he’s trimmed back his beard.
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For AXM Magazine, November 2005 My yoga practice is getting out of hand. I spend two hours a day chanting and jumping and folding and releasing. I’m so evolved that it’s making me nervous, because for every minute I’m bending, I’m letting go of something else. I’ve given up booze and caffeine, and I’m working […]

I was always funny, which is why my brother beat me up so often. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, the jokes just kept rolling, and this only made him angrier. For every laugh I got at his expense, I also got a punch. But I couldn’t stop. He had a speech impediment, a tiny cleft palate. All his vowels were pronounced to sound like “u’s”. “Don’t” was “dun’t”. “Can’t” was…well, you get the picture. He wasn’t dumb, not by any means. In fact, he was quite good with numbers, which sounds patronizing and is meant to. He was big and strong and scary and he had a large nose and he talked funny, so he was a gold mine of material to a skinny, frail, slightly cruel nerd like me.
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The reason I have sex in the third-floor men’s room at Liberty, the idiosyncratic department store at the top of Carnaby Street, is because I’m a giver. There, dick in hand, near the carpet section, is where I met my soldier, a Nigerian serving in the British army that shows up every so often, when he’s on leave, and fucks me in a toilet stall to remind me that I’m a lady, and more importantly, that he’s a man. I like returning his sexuality to him. He’s closeted, he has no friends really, and the only chance he gets to be passionate is when he’s bending a wet white guy over porcelain, an intermittent spritz of Evergreen room freshener wafting his way. His big hands make me more limber, and my sinewy spine makes him harder.

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https://scottcapurro.com/give-it-back/