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REVELLING IN THE WRONGNESS
05 MARCH 2004
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Lumps of white. Meaty white. In a brown sauce, a dripping of vinegar and oils. Fleshy pulpsac fruits on the side, a vicious red. Avoid the bitter rooty heart, snip it out. Torn-up green cos. Yeah, it's Atkins time.

USA homie Sam J's stomochial flatness convinved me. I remember Amsterdam, he had that physique that confounds me. I get so confused by a man with biceps and a beergut. Remembering the time at the leisure centre in Camberwell, flashing my student discount card, traipsing along on the treadmill: opening legs to the accompaniment of pallid, vile R'n'B crooning 'lemme touch your geee-spooo-hoottt bayyybaaaAH' on the thigh-toning machine: feeling self watched by a hundred weightlifting blackmans eyes. One stepped next to me on the treadmill, stroked my arm, attempted to manipulate my dials. I was transfixed: pulsing biceps, arcing forwards: and a stomach doing the same, pushing pregnancyesque against the front dome of his grey gym vest. See that mirror, I longed to say. Use it. Regard the triple domes; then lose one, for the love of god. It's unnatural. It's a wrong. In life I said naught, just smiled anodyne and clasped my water bottle to me. Headed for the changingrooms. No cock lobster for him tonight. Literature records a thousand female sins: the sagging breast, the dimpled cellulite - but what of this, the proud bicep, the pulsing beerbelly? It goes unrecorded.

Last year, I saw the combo on Amsterdam Sam - but not this time. This time his Adult. t-shirt dropped down undisturbed. Atkins bestowed verticals where once curves lay. We sat in Pret, waiting for his flight, and I caressed the grains of a hummus and pepper sandwich with my tongue and teeth and the roof of my mouth, while he peeled smoked salmon away from sushi and threw away the rice. I mourned for the life I saw before me: a future bereft of mash, scorched of pasta. But I knew it was my destiny. Two little indie kids, the gayer and the girly, discussing carbohydrates. Revelling in the wrongness.


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