GT Magazine
Scott Capurro
February, 2008
Surely we’re not still celebrating Valentine’s Day. Lovers dancing in the streets whilst tossing rose petals over one another is at best gloatingly showy and at worst environmentally unsound; and Hallmark cards that read “I love our kind of love” are as embarrassing as right-wing Zionism.
On February 14th, can’t we just say ‘well done’ after an efficient blowjob, and return to the Guardian? Regular, expedient sex is the most decent gift one partner can give another. So who needs cupid?
There are simply far too many problems to read about, and romance, according to Rachel, the dwarf hooker working outside my building, is a big time waster. Speaking of ‘big’, she’s tiny, or, as Oprah might claim, a person of restrictive growth. Vertically, Rachel is 34 inches, but she’s packed a whole lot of love into that diminutive frame. In fact I’ve seen her in action.
One day in October, while dumping my rubbish, I came almost face to face with a tall man standing behind my buildings’ large, round, metal garbage bin. His eyes were closed, his head tilted back, so he didn’t notice me, and I thought, oh great, another taxi driver with a bladder problem. Then I spotted, peeking out from behind the bin, two small, curled up lady shoes. I thought, ok, either the sky has fallen and we’ve lost another wicked witch, or this dude is getting a hummer from a mini-me. Happily, the witch and the munchkin were one and the same.
When returning late from a gig, I often see Rachel tugging on her denim skirt and readjusting the black wig she wears to make her look less like a little girl, because pedophiles are scary. But cruising for cock on the desolate streets of East London? “I can take care of myself”. She’s from Swansea, and high above from my living room window, I’ve witnessed her doing pushups. She’s 37, has diabetes and Hep C and a child in care. There are two Christian girls that bring her coffee sometimes. “The nice side of Christian”, she tells me, as she checks her phone for messages. Who’d be calling her at 3 am, I have no idea, and I ask if her phone ever rings while she’s fucking any of the dimly lit businessmen into whose cars I’ve watched her crawl.
“No. I don’t fuck. I’m too compact.” It’s true, she is. She can’t clap. Her hands don’t reach each other.
“I use a stick to wipe my bottom.”
What kind of stick? Birch? Walnut?
“I don’t fucking know. It’s made for me. Being the NHS, it’s probably pulp.”
She owns a very long dildo that she’s personalized by engraving her nickname, Bullet, onto the side.
“In the crap place where I live, the other girls steal everything.” She shares a room in a hotel in Hackney. “And really, that dildo…sometimes it’s me only friend.”
I supply her with small, square bars of gourmet chocolate, because she’s the kind of diabetic that needs sugar, and I don’t know what else to do. I always buy from this charming shop in Spitalfields, where they stack the bars, then tie them together with a thin red and black bow. I’m sure the shop girl thinks I have a sweetheart. Or that I’m very sad. I suppose both are true. And whenever there’s a holiday, I stop by with Rachel’s favorite, chocolate with streaks of raspberry.
John, my ex of seven years, was born on February 14th. Thus the holiday was doubly special, or, as our relationship withered, doubly trying. John is short but still normal size – I know what you’re thinking and no, I don’t have that fetish – though he is strong and a dancer and so, yes, I suppose he’s compact. He’s 46 and on stage in the city of Chicago, shaking his money-maker in a musical about naked boys singing, and apparently, the show plays as the tin reads: He’s actually unclothed, every night, singing gay love songs for, mostly, cheering, screaming straight females. The Valentine’s Night show is their most attended.
Over tea in Styrofoam, Rachel wonders why married women love looking at cock.
“I have to see it all the time, and really, once you’ve sucked one…”
“Yeah,” I gobble down some skittles, “but they’ve probably only seen one. Or maybe two.”
“I’ve seen one too many. I’m calling it a night.”
After she’s gone, I take her position, perched on a cement wall. Cars drive by, slowly, and then race off when they see it’s me.