• Video  Mara Palena
  • Styling  Patricia Villirillo
  • Poetry  Max Wallis
How about when we fucked in that toilet in Paris?
Our fingers tightly wound in each other’s hair,
while the haunted bathroom giggled
a hissy, giddy stream of models peeing.
It wasn’t so much the sex that made it.
But being caught.
You first, me holding my breath
where I’d only held you before.
Then after,
door ajar,
the eyes of my boyfriend
staring back.
A look of first bemusement
then the slow slow clarity as his face collapsed
into laughter. Such solid laughter.
I don’t think I’ll ever meet anyone quite like him.

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