“You’re a bad gay.” Reena blurted it out seconds after leaving the cinema. I froze mid-stride and spun to face her.

“You should have cried at that. I’m sorry.” I remained speechless as my eyes tried to escape my head.

So I didn’t cry when Carrie Bradshaw received a Vivienne Westwood dress. A gift from Vivienne Westwood herself. So what?

I have never been big on fashion—if I’m completely honest I don’t know who that Westwood woman is. Does that make me a bad gay?

I have never harboured Vogue magazines under my mattress. I can’t name a supermodel past 1997 and I only found out last week that Cameron Diaz had dumped Justin. I do not read Heat magazine or even watch TV. Yet, I’ve always considered myself one of the good fags. In the mid-nineties, I did my bit to spread awareness about AIDS and condoms. I marched in more Gay and Euro Prides than I can remember. And those were not the fun let’s-party-on-top-of-a-bus prides, they were long, musicless demonstrations with banners and chants for equal rights. We walked for hours, sober and hoarse.

I’m out. I’m proud. I have the support of a loving family. But apparently that’s not good enough and I should learn to accessorise. I should be more definable. Time to get your gay glossary out: Reena claims I’m a post-gay, older twink-looking homophile, a friend of Dorothy afraid of becoming a femme daddy.

I should know Chueca inside out, even if I’ve only been here six months.

I should want to party, party all night in search of the next great piece of arse.

I shouldn’t be tired and boring.

I should want to order another gin and tonic and down it to the beat of Rihanna.

Instead, I stay in bed, wrapped in a blanket with a good book and a cup of tea.

I should want to go shopping and try on outfits.

I should be out there.

So many shoulds, so many requirements, so many why-aren’t-yous. Reena isn’t the only one who thinks this.

I recently went out on what I thought was not a date. The guy was nice enough. We met as one does nowadays: on the internet. Bakala, so far, had proved to be, much as gay.com was in the early years of the millennium, full of polvo-looking, sleazy liars there under false pretences. Nonetheless, once in a while you find someone who doesn’t immediately ask you to turn on your cam or come over within the first five seconds. He looked cute in his pictures. He was just really photogenic. We met and had drinks with his mates, a bunch of bear-looking, early-thirties Spaniards. We drank. We laughed. Your typical Spanish afternoon filled with tapas and cañas.

But (isn’t there always a but?) after our fifth or sixth pint, he said: “¡Tío! No me haces caso.” I hugged him and laughed it off. He held onto the hug a little too tight. But I needed new friends. More tapas and more cañas and we found ourselves alone for a moment.“¡Tío! No me haces caso.” This time, his hand lingered on my knee, his eyes fixed on my mouth. He wetted his lips and leaned forward. I stood up awkwardly and almost knocked over my stool. I took a step back and told him I was only looking for mates. He stared me down, his smile gone. I was a piece of meat ready for consumption, the meal wasn’t supposed to fight back and the beast was pissed off. I threw cash on the bar and left.

A good homosexual would have taken him home and done the dirty. He wasn’t unattractive—he could have done. A good gay would have got laid. Instead, I fled.

I switched on my MP3 player and danced my way home to the soundtrack of Dreamgirls. Surely that was gay enough. Right?

October 2009

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I was standing on a window ledge in nothing but my underwear. Beneath me: fifteen storeys to the kerb. The wind was freezing and a layer of snow had started accumulating on my bare skin. I was shaking uncontrollably. I had to jump. It had to end. I looked up at the night sky and yelled at the gods. “Fuck you!”

I grabbed hold of the wall and lifted my foot. All I had to do was shift my weight and let myself fall. The Dreamgirls came on. I was still tethered to the world through my headphones. “All you have to do is dream…” they sang.

I jumped.

Backward.

I hit my head on my bed’s headboard. When I came to, the snow was still falling but it was daytime. I had not escaped Moscow.

The proud faggot I had once been was but a shadow of himself. “All you had to do was dream…” Bollocks! I leaned out of the window one more time. In the light of day, the pavement looked real solid. I didn’t want to end up as one of the many corpses of the so-called democratic capital of the former USSR.

Bags were packed, tickets were booked and Russia was fled.

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On the plane, I thought of how lucky I was to escape a land where love was a crime.

I remembered fondly the snogging session in the back of an illegal cab, not realising that the Mafia driver could have shot us both in the head. Elevated by booze and having finally pulled, I had taken unnecessary risks. We had even held hands in the street. Looking back, I was surprised nothing terrible had happened — apart from him being lousy in bed — and I thanked God I was six foot four with squared shoulders.

Then I paused and rewound. How had I got there? When faced with the reality of being an outcast and possible imprisonment, I hid. Peter Tatchell himself got beaten up by the Orthodox and the skinheads when he tried to march on Red Square, but what matters is that he tried, that he stood up for all of us.

What did I do?

I fled.

I felt ashamed that I had not worn my pink triangle more proudly.

I landed. The weight on my shoulders lifted the instant the wheels touched the ground. The airport alone was like one of the many fantasies I had secretly daydreamed about when packed into Moscow’s underground: couples holding hands doing their duty-free shopping, bears chatting up twinks while waiting to board, suntanned gods and gays as far as the eye could see. I was once again surrounded by my kind. Would the land of the Spaniards be everything it promised?

I didn’t wait. Backpack still on my shoulders, I went straight to Chueca, and when I saw all the rainbow flags hanging proudly from the windows, I started to laugh hysterically.

I was home.

But would this ghetto be any better than Soho or Chelsea? Or would it be, yet again, just a couple of streets where the “freaks” could run free, safely hidden from the real world?

September 2009

Nan Goldin, Dieter on the bed, Stockholm (1984) From the Ballad of Sexual Dependency 1973-86

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Five AM. My eyes shot wide open. I flung aside my duvet, grabbed my phone and disabled the alarms before they had timed to pipe up. I stood, fully erect, in the middle of my bedroom and chuckled. One last hard-on before the chop.

In the kitchen, I popped a Lorazepam and stared at my coffee machine. I waited for the pill to dissolve under my tongue. My only nourishment of the day. I was not allowed food, not allowed coffee, not even allowed water. Yet, I felt strangely sprightly.

I set a timer and brushed my teeth patiently. Three whole minutes. Then, I rinsed my mouth with a pre-packaged mouthwash the hospital had given me. I gurgled as instructed. The antiseptic stung my tongue and made me grimace. I spat it out into the sink and took one last look at myself. You’ve got this. There is nothing more to be done. It’s in their hands now. Not yours. I stepped into the shower and slid the partition behind me. My back to the showerhead, I let the water burn my skin. I ran my head under the stream a few times, tossing hair I didn’t have. I tore open the sponge wrapped in plastic that the nurses had given me and lathered up. The sponge didn’t hold much soap and I soon ran out. I did the best I could and rubbed myself up and down with a sad bit of polyester. I was clean enough. They weren’t supposed to cut through my skin anyway. They were only slashing the inside of my throat. Cutiepie would need to shower too and so I quickly turned off the tap. I dried myself carefully and got dressed. I had opted for baggy sweatpants, an oversized t-shirt and a hoody. I didn’t put on shoes and slid into my Crocs instead.

Cutiepie emerged soon after and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He hugged me mid-yawn.

“Coffee?” He asked.

“Sure, I’ll make you one. You do love to torture me.”

“Oh right, shit. You’re not allowed anything, are you? I’ll make it, ba-by.” This was the sleepiest “ba-by” I had ever heard.

“Sit your ass down. I’ll get the coffee.”

“How are you feeling this morning?”

“Strangely calm actually. Whatever will be will be, right?” I locked the portafilter in place and pressed for a double.

The coffee dripped into the cup, its aroma tingling my nostrils. I inhaled the steam and stayed there for a beat. Just me and the rising hot steam of a freshly brewed cup of coffee.

“I’m jumping into the shower!” I saw a flash of naked flesh rushing through the bathroom. I nursed his coffee that I held with both hands, warming me.

“Is that mine?” He said, still dripping wet. I handed over the cup.

“Before we go, I’m going to leave these on the coffee table.” I placed two pink envelopes in front of him.

“What…” I didn’t let him finish.

“These are to be opened if I don’t wake up. The first one has a detailed sequence of events for you to follow as well as all my codes to access my phone and all its content. The second one is my will. I’m not sure it’s worth anything. I didn’t think to get it approved by a notary. I…”

“You wrote your will?”

“I did.”

“Baby!”

“Shush! I’m OK. It’s OK. I… er… you know I might not wake up. I needed to make sure everything was in order. Mum knows what’s in it. I just hope they respect my last wishes. Don’t look at me like that. I’m OK, I said. I have made my peace. Really!”

Cutiepie stood up and hugged me a little too long.

“Come on.” I said. “Let’s go!”

Before I turned around and locked the front door behind me, I took a minute to look at my flat. I pressed a palm against the gotelé of the wall, closed my eyes and whispered “Thank you.”

I had mapped out the several blocks long hospital ahead of time to identify exactly in front of which door we were supposed to stand at seven o’clock. Cutiepie followed me quietly.

“One more turn.” I said.

“Righty-O Captain!”

A couple was already standing in front of the door, visibly shaken. They did not acknowledge our presence and we did not acknowledge theirs. More people joined us in grapes of two. The last to arrive addressed us all.

“¿Quién es el último?”

“We haven’t really been keeping track.” A woman said.

“How are we supposed to know in which order to go in if you haven’t kept track?”

“Well, I…” The woman paused, confused by the man’s aggressive tone. “We are all having surgery, they’ll tell us.”

“I don’t think it matters which order we go in.” A younger woman added.

“Well, I’m not taking any risks.” And the man stood right in front of the door.

“Sir!” An older man interrupted. He was met with an icy glare from the man hanging on the door.

I smiled at the woman next to me and shrugged. I wasn’t in a hurry to die. He could go first.

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The door opened and everyone rushed in. Behind the door, a desk and two nurses. The man who had taken the entrance hostage was the first one to say his name to the nurse. They ticked his name off the list and he shuffled down another corridor, towards another door. People pushed and shoved. I let them. As I said, not in a hurry. Cutiepie had melted against a wall and was making himself as small as he could be.

They ticked my name off the list and we entered the waiting room. All the pairs were there, spread throughout rows of chairs. None sat next to each other.

“What the fuck is up with these people?” Cutiepie whispered.

“They’re stressed. It’s a big day for all of us.”

“How are you?”

“I’m OK.”

We watched as every pair got called in and disappeared. Soon, we were the only two left in the room. I stood up and stretched.

“I think we have time for a tune.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure!” I took out my phone and played Defying Gravity from the Wicked Soundtrack. I closed my eyes, the music wafted me away. My fingers wiggled and my arms spread open. My head swung from side to side and soon I was twirling, waltzing through the empty rows of plastic chairs. I kept my eyes firmly closed. I was in Oz. Cynthia Erivo belted her battle cry and I sang along, whispering mine. As I perched myself on a chair, the door burst open and a nurse called my name. She cocked her head and sighed. “Could you please get off the chair and follow me?”

She ushered us into a changing room and handed me a white bin bag.

“Take everything off. Underwear and socks included and put it all in this bag.” She raised an eyebrow. “All that jewellery too, piercing included. And put on the hair net and the blue gown.” She spoke fast.

“¿Perdona, me lo puedes repetir?”

She did.

“You want me to put a hair net on?” I pointed at my very bald head.

“It’s protocol.” She didn’t laugh at my joke, didn’t even smile.

The blue gown was a flimsy plastic apron that barely covered me. If I ever sat down, my balls would be hanging freely for all to see. I tied the strings in the back with difficulty and knew my ass was still hanging out. I shoved my sweatpants, t-shirt, hoodie, underwear and Crocs in the white bin bags and tucked my piercings away in my wallet. I took a selfie in the mirror.

“Do you mind walking in front of me?”

“Why?”

“I… this apron thingy isn’t covering the whole of me!”

“Lemme see!” Cutiepie fluttered around me all giggly.

“Stop it!” I laughed.

“Lemme see… lemme see…”

The nurse sighed heavily.

“Are you two quite done?”

“Yes ma’am.” We said in unison.

They placed me in a bed and Cutiepie settled on a chair next to me.

I lifted the hospital sheet and covered myself up. I memorised the place: the empty beds, the old fashioned heaters, the curtains separating the few of us waiting to be taken away, paint flakes exposing another shade beneath, the absence of smells, the stillness of it all. Cutiepie didn’t say anything. He reached out and held my hand.

“Here we go!” A chirpy nurse breezed in with his colleague. They unmoored my bed and rolled me away. They were both distractingly attractive. A tall, muscular Spaniard whose scrubs barely contained his muscles and a scrawny hipster with a manbun and septum piercing. They chatted about God knows what as they steered me through corridors and lifts. Cutiepie joined in and they all blabbered in a frenzy. I caught none of it.

“Alright, that’s where the journey ends for you.” The muscular one said to Cutiepie. “You have to wait here.”

I surrendered my phone and my glasses to my friend.

“I’m right here!” He said. “I’m not going anywhere. Right here.” As he pointed at the floor, the double door swung closed in front of him. He didn’t say “Ba-by!”

They parked me next to another patient in between operating rooms. I sat up and looked at the man. He was disheveled and gaunt and not in the mood to deal with my perky self. I turned my attention to the dizzying ballet of nurses and doctors coming and going from every which way, talking loudly, joking, laughing, humming. There was a palpable buzz in the air, like something cool was about to happen. Three men huddled not too far from me and I caught a snippet of their conversation: “¡No! Vamos a pasar por la nariz y hacer una endoscopia.” I hoped they were talking about my nose, that they had changed their minds and were not going to cut my throat open. In a whirl, I was pushed into the operating room. They lifted me out of my bed and plopped me onto a yellow crucifix. It was narrow and hard. They grabbed my right arm and made a joke. I heard something about a urinary catheter. Then, a large needle pierced my vein. No oxygen mask. No countdown. No warnings. No nothing.

And I was gone.

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Nan Goldin, Breakfast in bed, Hotel Torre di Bellosguardo, Italy, 1996

The hospital loomed above me. I hadn’t had breakfast or coffee yet. “Hay que venir en ayunas, vale?” the nurse had told me. So, there I was en fucking ayunas. The smell of churros and hot chocolate from the food-truck wafted into my nostrils and triggered my hunger. I sped up. I bounded up the little hill and barged into the hospital. The sooner I got out, the sooner I’d get my coffee. I lined up behind an old couple and queued for the machine that gave you a number to start the real queue—ugh!

When my number got called, I wove in between cubicles and sat in front of a blond girl who welcomed me with a bright smile.

“Do you know why you are here today?”

I blanked.

“You speak Spanish, no?”

“Yes, yes! Of course, I do. We’re here to check my blood coagulation?” —what the fuck is coagulation? And where did I pick that up?

“It’s ok.” She smiled again. “So, we are gonna analyse your blood and make sure we understand it well.”

She spoke softly and used simple words. I was grateful.

“So if there is a need for a transfusion, we can give you the right blood. Does that make sense?” I nodded, and then I frowned. A transfusion? From years of watching medical dramas on television, I understood transfusions to first mean a significant loss of blood. Why would my head leak blood? And if it did happen which vegetable would I wake up as?

“Give me your arm. Are you afraid of needles?”

“I don’t think so.”

“And now close your fist.”

She fastened a rubber band around my bicep and slid a needle into my vein. I watched as the blood flooded vial after vial. Before I could say anything, she had grabbed my hand and tied a patient ID band around my wrist.

“This stays with you from now on, you can only take it off once you’ve been released from the hospital. Don’t worry, you can shower with it! It won’t break.”

As soon as the wristband locked, I felt trapped. What did she mean I couldn’t take it off? What did she mean I had to live my life with this bit of plastic on my wrist? I wanted it off me. It was too tight. It was itchy. It was scary.

She smiled and told me I could go. I stood up and left, my wrist imprisoned. I kept tugging at the plastic wristband, turning it over and over again. I sat on a bench and took a deep breath in. Deep breath in, small breath in, long breath out. I focused on the rhythm of my breath until the plastic stopped burning.

This was the first of many steps surrendering my autonomy and my independence. What this wristband was saying was: you belong to us now; you don’t get to have a say anymore. We will tell you where to go, at what time you need to be there, what to bring, what to wear, what not to wear and then we’ll hook you up to machines and strap you on the slab before we drug you and you pass out. Then we will manipulate your carcass, slide up your mouth, slash into your throat, pierce through your flesh and ram through your head until we’ve reached Little Bruno so we can grab some of him. You’ll wake up if you wake up.

So many things could go wrong. I could lose part of my sight. My face could end up paralysed, partially or fully. A stroke was also on the cards.

I was surrounded by people who told me that “Everything would be fine!”—I hated that line. And I hated it even more when it was followed by an obnoxious “I am sure of it!”

They were fucking sure of nothing because they didn’t know anything. Nobody fucking knew. Not them, not me and not even the surgeons. I fucking hated everybody for being so fucking cheery. Was that fair? I didn’t know. I didn’t give a shit.

Someone sat down next to me on the bench and lit a cigarette. It was the blond girl. She smiled kindly and said “¡Todo va a salir bien, verás! ¡Ánimo!” — I could have strangled her there and then. Instead, I thanked her and walked away.

As I turned the corner, a woman ran into the arms of her child “¡Dios mío! ¡Dios mío!” she cried. They embraced with urgency, grabbing onto each other tightly, and touching each other’s faces with trembling hands. I slipped past them and heard them whisper I love yous.

I should call my mum.

“Hi mum!”

“Mon chéri! Comment ça va?”

“I’m good! How about you?”

“Well, you know, the usual. Your brother’s coming for dinner tomorrow night. I invited François. Do you remember François? He worked with your dad, the pâtissier. You know he became a gardener. He works in that castle I like so much. Gosh, what is it called?” She spoke fast, as though she wanted to say a thousand things and simply didn’t have the time.

“Sure. But I was ten the last time I saw him. I vaguely remember long blond hair and a motorbike, maybe?”

“That’s it, that’s François. Though the hair is long… gone.” She laughed at her joke. “He’s bald like you now. I hated that motorbike, you know. It always worried me that something would happen. Well, I bumped into him in the supermarket. He doesn’t even live here anymore. Anyway, I invited him for dinner. I would love to have the three of you together in one room again. Such a shame, you’re so far.”

“Do you have like five minutes?”

“I’m leaving soon mon chéri, what is it? Everything alright?”

“If you’re in a rush out of the door, I’ll call you later.”

“Don’t be silly. What is it?”

“It’s ok. I’ll call you later.”

“Tell me. You’re not gonna call me later, you’re gonna tell me now.”

And so I told her about the shadow that became a tumour and about the biopsy.

“Science does wonders now, you know. Look at Simone, she has had both her knees changed and now she runs like a 75-year-old. This is just a biopsy. Don’t worry yourself too much. Is somebody going to be with you?”

“I have a friend taking care of me through it all. I have a good support system, you know. I have it all under control.”

“You’ve always been so resourceful. Can I have your friend’s number so that I can be in touch with him throughout the day?”

“I have thought of that too. He’s gonna make a WhatsApp group with everyone that knows so that you’re all up to date with how the surgery is going.”

“What’s his name?”

“I call him Cutiepie.”

“Are you two?”

“No, mum. He’s just a really good friend. Ok, I’ve gotta go.”

“Keep me informed, ok?”

“Yes, mum.”

“I love you mon chéri.”

“I love you too mum. It’s nothing, as you said, just a quick biopsy to make sure it’s nothing to worry about.”

I hung up. I still hadn’t had my morning coffee and we were closing in on noon. At this time tomorrow, my throat would be in the middle of being ripped open. I had been told little of the surgery. A general anaesthesia. An incision in my throat. That was the extent of what I understood. I had to trust blindly in people I didn’t know and hope for the best. Life had taught me that the best was never an outcome.

I took a Lorazepam, stopped at a cafe and finally got some caffeine in me. I decided against going home straight away. I sat at a table and laid my phone face down. I leaned against the chair and took in the view. The hospital stood tall on the other side of the street. An entire block of waiting rooms, offices, wards, operating theatres, and an ICU deep in its bowels—where I was supposed to wake up. I closed my eyes, took a long sip of my cup and savoured the hot liquid sliding down my throat. This would be my last coffee before the surgery.

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“You’re so hot.” That morning’s hookup couldn’t take his eyes off of me. I envied him. I wished I could see myself the way he saw me. I seemed to be the highlight of his week; he was just another dick for the wall. When he left, I hurried to my markers, the memory of his anatomy still fresh. I had invested in finer tip board markers and enjoyed feeling them glide on the ceramic tiles. I drew him longer than I had him. I struggled with his pubes, erasing and starting over a few times. I stepped back and looked at the piece. It will do, the same way he did. It was lunchtime. I grabbed my shopping bags and locked the door behind me. The supermarket was less than a block away and I had a lot to get ready before my guests arrived.

The surgery was two days away and I still didn’t have the answer to what one was supposed to do when they only had a week left to live. You just lived. You woke up in the morning, you had coffee, you journaled, you made breakfast that you ate in front of the telly, you showered, you brushed your teeth and made yourself pretty, you got dressed and went for a walk, you agreed to meet up with friends, you went to the cinema, you fucked a stranger, or two or three, you read on the sofa, you cleaned the house, you took deep breaths, many deep breaths, you wrote your will, you decided what you would give and to whom, you told people they were in your will, you had long awkward conversations with people who tried not to say the wrong thing, you cried, you rewatched your favourite movie, you started reading One Piece to give yourself something excruciatingly long to keep you company until this was all over, you fucked other strangers so that your body could feel something and then fucked some more and drew their cocks on your kitchen wall. And before you know it, the seven days had dwindled down to two.

I planned one last dinner with my closest friends. The WhatsApp group titled ‘The Last Supper’ had a curated guest list and yet not everyone RSVP’d. It would be Cutiepie, Chaos, Mr Big, myself and Christopher. Christopher was by far my oldest friend from the bunch. I met him minutes after having landed in Madrid. First flatmate. First friend crush. He showed me his room and we bonded instantly over his Tardis collection. Christopher and I spent hours discussing sci-fi animatedly over beers. Hours. Often till the early morning. Christopher hated his job—our job. Christopher was cis. Christopher was white and of course Christopher was a faggot. Christopher wanted to find true love and someone to call his. Men didn’t last long against Christopher’s romantic ideals.

He was the first to arrive. He hugged me reluctantly and opened a can of beer.

“What the fuck is this horror?” He said pointing at my wall of dicks.

“You don’t like it?”

“You cook in here. Why would you do this in the kitchen? It’s unsanitary!”

“I have tiles I can draw and erase on, and theyr’e only in the kitchen, the rest of the house is gotelé!”

He took a step closer and pointed at one of the drawings.

“Is this who I think it is?”

“No! He is not on my wall.”

“Who makes the wall then?”

“Everyone I have slept with since they told me about the biopsy.”

“That was three weeks ago!”

“What can I say, I’ve been busy!”

“I didn’t imagine you’d ever get this promiscuous. I’m disappointed.”

“You’re disappointed because I’m getting laid? Or you’re disappointed because you’re not getting laid?” The argument was cut short by the doorbell.

Cutiepie embraced the whole of me. I burrowed in his glow and took all of the love.

“What is this?” I asked, looking at a suitcase the size of my door.

“Well, I mean! The surgery is in two days. You know tonight is going to run long. I’m not gonna go home to come back tomorrow. Let’s make this a two day sleep over ba-by!”

I hugged him once more.

“What would I do without you?”

Cutiepie dragged his suitcase in the spare bedroom, changed outfit and joined us in the kitchen. I had my hands full slowly stirring the pot of arroz con leche I was making from scratch.

“Christopher, Cutiepie. Cutiepie, Christopher. I don’t actually think the two of you have ever met.”

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

“So how do you two know each other?” Cutiepie asked.

“Well, he was my flatmate back in the day.”

“They used to live with you?” Cutiepie was giving him another chance.

“Well, as I said it was back in the day and back in the day he was a he.”

“Back in the day, they were totally posing as a he. I’m glad they came to their senses.” I heard how Cutiepie had gently reframed what Christopher had said. I knew Christopher heard it too.

“Yeah, yeah. ‘They’ were my flatmate and we just got on. How long ago was that? Fifteen years?”

“Closer to twenty now.” I replied. “Anyone wants a drink?” Christopher opened another can of beer and went onto the balcony to smoke a cigarette.

“Can I help you with anything?” Cutiepie looked around for something to do. He eagle-eyed the dishes and started the washing-up. I kissed him gently on the forehead.

The seminarian looked really dapper when he showed up. He wore a crisp white shirt, clearly freshly ironed, and simple black pleated trousers. He usually showed up in his sweats—they’re easily removed. I had never invited him to hang with my friends before. I was touched by the efforts but also knew it would make it harder to keep my hands to myself.

Christopher took me aside.

“The seminarian is hot.” He was staring right at him when he said that.

“He is. I know. A word of warning. We sleep together regularly.” I whispered.

“I don’t want your sloppy seconds. Fuck! You’re so selfish. Don’t you have enough? You have a whole wall for fuck sake.” He looked at me sideways. “Is he on the wall? Which one is he?”

“I thought it was unsanitary? Huh?”

Chaos showed up an hour late. Her and Christopher hugged. They hadn’t seen each other in ages.

“I sent you a copy of my last book. Did you ever get it?” She asked.

“I might have. I have a pile of packages at home I haven’t had time to get to yet.”

“I guess that means you haven’t read it then?” She laughed.

“I’ve been very busy.” He snapped.

“There is actually someone loosely based on you in it.”

“Are you serious?” Christopher’s eyes bulged out of his head. I got out of the way, grabbed the seminarian with me and hid in the kitchen.

“I see there has been further addition to the wall since I last saw you.” He said.

I blushed.

“Is this mine?”

“Yes. Is that ok? I’m sorry.” I rubbed my face and took a deep breath. He didn’t answer straight away. He studied the drawing with a sparkle in his eye.

“I don’t think anyone has ever drawn me this way before. Actually, I’d be surprised if anyone did. It isn’t to size though.” He joked.

“There wasn’t enough wall space.”

“Behave.”

“Yes, sir!”

Chaos slithered into the kitchen discreetly but dropped her wine and the glass shattered on the floor.

“Shit!”

“Please, let me.” The seminarian crouched down and picked up the pieces of shard.

“No, please let me.”

“It’s probably best you let him! That way we’re sure this doesn’t end with blood on the floor.” I objected.

She rolled her eyes but didn’t kneel.

“I think I pissed off Christopher.”

“Why would you tell him you based a character on him? You know he has massive trust issues and now he is convinced you portrayed him as a monster.”

“You’ve read the book. What do you think?” She asked sheepishly.

“I think loosely is too tight a word. I wouldn’t have made the link if you hadn’t told me. My guess though is that he’s going to run off home before dinner is over, ransack through his boxes and skimread the whole thing to find the passages that concern him. You’ll probably get a text in the middle of the night. He’ll be mad and accuse you of having ruined his night with your nonsense. Wanna bet?”

“You seem to know him really well.” My crush said.

“Twenty years. In my country we say that I know him as if I had birthed him. Alright. Dinner’s ready!”

They all sat down on the floor around my table and held their plates up. I served them each a slice of my homemade tuna quiche and added some fried green beans.

“This looks delicious.” Cutiepie said. “I’m starving.”

“Is there any salt?” Before I could answer, Christopher stood up and found what he needed in my cupboards.

“This is really good. I didn’t know you could cook.” The seminarian held my gaze and I blushed.

“So fucking good!” Chaos ate slowly and chewed with delight.

As I watched them eat, I cried. I was overwhelmed simply because they had come. I wanted them to show up for me and they did: sitting crosslegged around my tuna quiche. Cutiepie saw me. He sat closer and leaned against my shoulder. The conversation did not break. Christopher was ranting against Christianity and how ridiculous it was to believe in a white bearded guy in the sky. The seminarian didn’t contradict him. Instead, he talked about all of the people he got to help on a daily basis. He talked about how he believed God was patient, that He could wait while he looked after the ones who suffered. Christopher smoked and rolled his eyes.

“How is Bruno doing?” Chaos asked.

“Who the fuck is Bruno?” Christopher turned his head and was looking right at Chaos.

“Bruno is what they called their tumour.”

I sighed, a little too heavily. “Nobody else knew Lucy. Thanks!”

“I put my foot in my mouth again, haven’t I?” She squirmed.

“It’s ok.” I grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

“Why did you fucking name your ‘tumour’? It’s nothing. You know it’s nothing, you’re just being a drama queen!” Christopher said.

“Whether it is deadly or not, and I’m sure we are all here hoping it is nothing indeed, they are going through brain surgery on Friday. Isn’t that right?” The Seminarian spoke calmly and authoritatively. I could have kissed him.

“Yes. On Friday, I have my first ever general anaesthesia. They’re going into my head via a little hole in my throat. It’s the fastest way to reach the tumour.” I added.

“So it’s not brain surgery then, is it?” Christopher corrected me.

“No, technically, it isn’t brain surgery but it is very close to it.”

“See, he’s a drama queen that one, I tell you!” Christopher laughed, stood up and went to the fridge to get another beer.

I had filled vintage wine glasses with the arroz con leche and placed them carefully in front of them.

“Enjoy! I haven’t made these in over twenty years. I hope it’s ok.”

“Not for me, thanks. Need to look after my figure.” Christopher pushed the glass away.

“I’ll have yours then.” Cutiepie grabbed onto his glass and held both of his desserts up in the air and then he stood up, arms out, almost reaching the ceiling. “I win, I get two!” and then he started singing: “I am the champions, my friend Tudududu and we’ll keep on fighting to the end.” He defied me: “Together!” and so I stood up too. “We are the champions. We are the champions.” And everyone else joined in: “No time for losers cos we are the champions, pampampam of the world!”

I retreated to the kitchen to do the dishes. I wanted a moment alone to admire them all from afar and soak it all in. I washed the dishes in the echoes of their laughter and I cried, again.

As predicted, Christopher was the first to leave. He wanted to rush home and find that damn book. I moved to hug him but he stepped back.

“I’m not a hugger, you already got one today.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Next time, what about some spices in the food? Huh?”

I shrugged.

“I’m not gonna say good luck on Friday because you don’t need it. You’ll be fine. I’ll see you once you’re out. You know how much hospitals freak me out.”He downed his beer in one long gulp. “And one for the road. Alright, bye! Text me.” And he was out of the door. I realised there and then that this was the last time I would ever see him. My first proper goodbye. Dread took over. Someone wrapped their arms around me from behind. I let them embrace me entirely while I cried.

When I turned around I realised it wasn’t Cutiepie. It was the seminarian. He smiled at me and wiped the tears from my face.

“Come, join us. We’re still here.”

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The hospital had woken me up that morning.

“¿Señor?”—and a good morning to my non-binary ass.

“We are calling to confirm that your surgery will take place Friday next week. Do you have a pen and paper?”

“I—I—I—” I stammered. I rose out of bed and hit my big toe against my nightstand. Fuck, shit, fuck! I searched frantically for a pen anywhere or even paper. My house seemed to have been robbed of all writing utensils.

“¿Señor?” The voice was insistent. “Maybe you could use your note app on your phone? Could you manage that?”

“Of course. Sorry! Yes, right. On it!”

I noted down everything that was said to me, things to do, things to bring, times and locations. He repeated everything twice and took long pauses in between.

“¿Lo tienes todo?”

“I think I do.” I repeated everything back to him.

“Good. Have a nice day sir!”

When we hung up, I stood still for a while. And then I went back to bed.

Eight days. That was all I had. Eight days. How do you make a difference in your life in eight days?

I phoned Cutiepie.

“The surgery is in eight days.”

“And a good morning to you! Ok. That’s a Friday, right?”

“Sorry. Yes, good morning. It’s a Friday. Yes.”

“You OK ba-by?”

“It feels like a truck just ran me over to be honest. It’s one thing to know something is going to happen, it’s another to have a time and a date and actual fucking instructions.”

“I’ll be there every step of the way ba-by! You’re not alone in this. What time is the surgery?”

“I don’t know. I was told to show up at the hospital at seven.”

“Seven? As in AM?”

“Afraid so.”

“Ba-by, are they for real? Let me calculate the whole thing.” He stayed quiet for a bit. “So, you’re about an hour away from the hospital, that makes it a what, a five AM wake-up call? Fuck! I’d better spend the night at yours then.”

“Yes, please.”

“But we’re not watching one of your musicals. Do you hear me?”

I emptied the portafilter and refilled it with ground coffee, tapped it flat and locked it into the machine. I placed my mug under the drip and walked away, forgetting to press the button. I switched on the TV and clicked on YouTube.

Eight days. That was all I had. Eight days. How do you make a difference in your life in eight days? An ad played before the video would start. I picked up my phone and opened Grindr. I skipped the ad. Eight days. That was all I had. Eight days. How do you make a difference in your life in eight days? I opened Instagram and scrolled while I listened to the news. A war here. A genocide there. Donald Trump. Another genocide. Inflation. Donald Trump. Climate change. Corruption. Hate Crimes. Donald fucking Trump. Another war. Eight days. That was all I had. Eight days. How do you make a difference in your life in eight days? I switched the TV off and buried my phone in the sofa. On the way to the bathroom, I stopped by the kitchen and pressed the button on the coffee maker. I got naked and found refuge under a hot shower. The heat almost burnt my skin. I stayed until it ran cold. I dried naked in the living room, staring at my TV screen. A rectangular black mirror that never reflected me, its chasm calling out to me. It dared me to switch it on. I couldn’t. Eight days. That was all I had. Eight days. How do you make a difference in your life in eight days?

When I closed the door behind me, I didn’t know where I was headed. I walked down the three flights of stairs. It was midday. I looked right, I looked left. I went left. Left led to a metro station. A metro station led to a train station. The train led to Aranjuez.

I looked outside the window at the scenery I knew well passing me by rapidly. My chest tightened, my breathing became heavy. I was trapped. Trapped in a moving vehicle that wouldn’t stop, that I couldn’t stop. What am I doing on this train? I want out.

I took a Lorazepam. I did some circular breathing and I repeated the same motto in a quiet voice: “I am an adult. I have the power. I am an adult. I have the power.”

My breathing steadied and my shoulders dropped.

Aranjuez had an automated bathroom that belonged to what we thought the future would look like forty years ago. It was fully chrome and the size of my living room, the wall dripping in automated cleaning liquid. I assumed the entire place was doused in antiseptic between each visit. But when one has to go, one has to go. I watched a fat man wash his hands and look sad—I ignored him the same way I ignore him every day.

“¡Hola, guapo!”

“Hi.”

“¿Qué os pongo?” The waitress’s hand rested on my upper arm for a little too long.

“Un café americano para llevar, por favor. And a croissant.”

“To take away?” She repeated, mimicking a sad face. “Coming right up.”

Much like the bathroom, the old cafe located inside the even older train station was looking at the future from the past. There was a massive cash register that did everything itself. It offered change and receipts without the flirtatious waitress having to do anything.

“Es que es una maravilla, sabes?”

“How do I get to the gardens?” She looked at me amused.

“¿Los jardines guapo? ¿Hoy?”

“Sí,” I replied politely—Bitch, I do what I want.

She gestured for a while, touching my shoulder, my arm, leaning against me. It was simply a right and then a left. I thanked her with my most charming smile and headed out.

I remembered the seminarian talking to me about the gardens in Aranjuez.

“You should go one day. It’s inspiring, it’s more than that: it’s majestic.”

“Majestic, huh?”

“It’s considered one of the greatest gardens in Spain.”

One of the greatest gardens in Spain was bare and dry when I got there. Not a flower in sight—typical.

I sat on a bench and took in the “view”. I drank my coffee slowly, staring at the parterre of flowers that hadn’t bloomed yet. Eight days. That was all I had. Eight days. How do you make a difference in your life in eight days?

I couldn’t come up with an answer. The people I loved knew I loved them. I had told them repeatedly enough. So what? More sex? More flesh? More food? More sugar? More, what exactly? What could I possibly experience in the next eight days? It would either make me sadder because I would never be able to enjoy it again or fill me with regret because I had wasted years not doing it. How do you spend your last eight days?

I took another sip of my coffee.

The sun was shining the way I liked, enough to kiss my skin but not enough to make me sweat through my shirt. The sky was deliciously cerulean. The moon hung, fully round, in that sea of blue; impervious, stately. Birdsongs filled the air, like a concerto of warbles and chirps. Next to me, the brown paper bag contained the croissant I had bought. I opened it and took a bite. I hadn’t had pastries in over a year. The buttery goodness melted in my mouth. A flock of birds swirled off the rooftop at once and flung themselves in the air. A ballet of precision and grace. A peacock turned a corner and cocked his head. He approached me tentatively. I risked throwing a little bit of my croissant, reluctantly so, and he pecked at it until it was all gone. Then the bird looked at me again.

“Beauty, if you want more of my croissant, you’re gonna have to fan your train. I ain’t giving my croissant away for squat!”

The bird cocked its head again. He was probably thinking “What is this fool? I ain’t doing my courtship display for a mere croissant. Fucking humans!”

The peacock turned around and left me and my croissant. I leaned against the stone bench and returned to the sky. Chaos once told me she could get lost in its infinity and lose entire days in reverie. My brain doesn’t switch off that way. Things need to get done. Sooner rather than later. Now, preferably.

There was a burly man dragging his sons and his fishing material. The oldest of the two looked about eight years old and he was lagging behind, seemingly purposefully. The dad stopped and turned around. He went up to his son, his body as a weapon. He looked down on the child, raised a hand menacingly and said “maricon!”. That was all I heard “maricon!”—muthafuker!

I put down my plastic cup and took off my backpack. My eyes did not flinch. The man didn’t hit the child. He walked away huffing. The young boy made himself as tiny as he could and tried to pick up the pace.

I left the park and returned to the train station. I didn’t go flirt in the cafe, I sat on the platform and waited patiently to be taken home.

I spent the return journey glued to the window. Coming back was always much easier for me. I liked endings more than I did beginnings. The day was almost over. Seven days left.

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“I know!” he said as soon as I opened the door.

“What do you mean you know?” I looked at him confused. “What… what do you know?”

He stepped into my place and hugged me lovingly. “I just know. I also know you are going to be ok. And that everything is going to be ok.” If it had been anybody else, I would have had a go. I would have spat out my well-rehearsed tirade. No one fucking knows what’s going to happen and saying it’s going to be ok solves zero problems. Zero fucking problem. Zilch. Nada. Fuck! You don’t know. I don’t know. The fucking doctors don’t know. Nobody fucking knows.

His embrace calmed the storm before it even brewed. I believed him.

He dropped his bag on the armchair and landed himself on the sofa.

“Come here. Sit next to me.” He patted the seat next to him.

I did everything on that sofa. It was where I had my morning coffee and my evening tea; where I ate all of my meals, no matter how greasy they were; where I watched my shows; where I napped; prepped my classes; hosted friends and had long, drawn-out conversations; where I put down my cups and always spilled. It would most likely be where I would recover from the surgery once I was brought home. It was also where I had sex regularly, alone—or with company. I once even ordered parts in America to fix it. Bits of stupid plastic to hold the springs in place that were nowhere to be found on the European market. The fabric was stained and faded, it was ripped in too many places. The cushioning was coming out. I would learn to upholster. The landfill was out of the question. That sofa belonged with me. It was the holder of confessions, the merry-go-round of men, the padding I needed against life’s sharp edges. It was home. Cutiepie knew so, instinctively. This was my safe place.

I criss-crossed apple sauce next to him.

“What do you know?” I asked again.

“I dreamt of you last night.”

I raised my eyebrows flirtatiously.

“Not like that.” He slapped my knee. “Right, listen. So, you were floating in the galaxy, on your back, arms extended out as if the universe was your own swimming pool for you to relax in.”

I lay back on the armrest and plopped open my arms. “Like that?”

He cringed. “Listen, you fool!”

“I’m listening.”

“I called out your name but you didn’t hear me. Suddenly, your head opened up, the skull parting in half, ripping your flesh. It’s a good thing you don’t have hair, it would have made the whole thing gross.”

I turned my head around. “Did it leave a mark?”

“This is serious business. The universe is trying to tell you something!”

“I think the universe is trying to tell you something, no?”

He sucked in a breath. “Light beamed out of you, do you understand what I am telling you? Light beamed out of you, directly from your brain. It encompassed everything. Everywhere. It was blinding. You were everywhere. Your presence was so powerful. It was all so intense I woke up.”

“I…” He placed his finger on my lips.

“Shush, Miss thing! I’m not finished. What I felt. Ba-by! What I felt was incredible. A sense of completion. A rite of passage. You became unstoppable.”

“I have a brain tumour.”

Cutiepie didn’t say anything. His eyes were piercing through mine.

“Well, not exactly a brain tumour. It lives at the base of my skull and it’s nibbling at the bone, growing slowly. It’s quite rare and the neurosurgeon said she wanted to go in straight away to confirm that it is what she’s very confident it is. It’s called a clival chordoma. I’m going in for surgery soon.”

“And she’ll discover that she’s wrong. I know it. You don’t have a tumour ba-by. And even if you do, you’ll slay that bitch!”

“Actually, it’s a he. I named it Bruno.”

Cutiepie was a black man in his early thirties. He had long curly hair he kept in a messy afro and a goatee that made him look older—I assumed it was on purpose. Like me, he was a faggot, but a manly faggot. He listened attentively to all of the gory details of the last few months and never broke eye contact.

“I don’t have anyone to come with me during the surgery. I was wondering.”

“I’ll be there. I have nothing better to do. Didn’t I tell you? I got fired. They didn’t like me bringing incense sticks at work and trying to defuck the place. Synchronicity ba-by! The universe needed me there and voilà!”

“I don’t even know if I’ll wake up and if I don’t, your job’s gonna get a lot more difficult.”

“You’ll wake up. Did you not hear what I just said? Unstoppable! Now, have you watched Heated Rivalry?”

“What the fuck is that?”

“It’s two hot hockey players getting it on! You’re gonna love it! Let’s binge!”

The show hadn’t started for five minutes when I paused.

“Bitch, nothing has happened yet?”

“Can we take a moment to discuss how they’re both unrealistically hot? More body dysmorphia for the gays I guess. How is anyone supposed to look like this?” Then we argued over the premise, the plot, the sex, the actors; we nitpicked each individual scene. Every few minutes, one of us would pause the show and add something. We laughed. We raged. I raged. I mellowed.

One episode turned into two, two turned into three. The pauses got longer and longer as we derailed into tangents about our own lives, our own sex experiences, the guys we had that week and the one from the week before.

“He blocked me the second I closed the door behind him. He must have had his finger on the button. I don’t think he could have been any faster. His energy was all wrong from the beginning. I should have listened to my gut. He was hot though and when they’re hot, you know?”

“Oh, I know.” I replied. “Same thing happened to me. You’re either getting blocked or ghosted these days. In my time,” I froze. “I didn’t say that. I take it back. You didn’t hear those words from me. You hear? You didn’t hear those words from me. Please!”

He laughed, giddy.

We snacked on popcorn, nuts, olives and pipas. We drank non-alcoholic beers and we even changed into our pjs. Soon, it was five in the morning.

I fell asleep with a grin on my face.

I was woken up by a cow bell. Cutiepie was in his white briefs, cow bell in hand, pacing through my place with diligence and gravity. I watched him go from the back of the flat, through to the kitchen, dive into the spare room, circle through the living room, pop into the entrance and round it all up in the corridor, straight back into my bedroom. And every few steps, he rang the bell.

“Morning.”

“Morning. I’m doing a little purification ritual.”

“With a cow bell?”

“Don’t ask questions. I know you don’t believe in any of that stuff. But let me take care of you the way I know how. OK, ba-by?”

I sat on my trusted sofa, cup of coffee in hand and watched him as he continued to heal my space. He finally put down the bell, lit some candles and placed them in the middle of my coffee table. From there, he set up some incense sticks and ignited a bundle of sage. He took the sage and mumbled something—I think he was praying. Once again, in a semi-trance, he paced up and down my entire flat, blessing every nook and cranny. There was a bit of wood he used and other things that I couldn’t name. I was mesmerised. I didn’t even look at my phone. I drank two full cups of coffee and he still wasn’t done. As I watched him perform his ritual, I got choked up.

My turn came.

“Just stand up straight.”

I clasped my non-existent pearls and gasped, “How could I?”

“Ba-by! Straight, please. Arm extended out and close your eyes.” I sensed that he was moving around me. I trusted him. The scents were enthralling. I let myself be led. I felt his warmth and his heart. I was loved. I was seen.

“Now, you can sit down. Keep your eyes close.” He lowered me onto a chair he had already prepared. I rested my hands on my knees and I let him continue. I didn’t ask any questions. I kept quiet. I assumed he was enveloping me in fumes. Trying to purify me, to heal me.

Then, he held my hands.

Gently. He was barely touching me and yet tears trickled down my face. He didn’t say a word. He just let me cry.

“You do realize that you are totally falling into the Magical Negro trope, right?”

“Do I care? Miss Scarlett!”

“Did you just quote Gone with the wind at me?”

He winked.

“¿Además que? ¡Soy Negro y soy magico! ¡Que me la coman!”

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I had never felt at home in my own skin.

I had no mirrors in my house—apart from the one in the bathroom to shave. Dysmorphia was sneaky that way, all she needed was a mirror so I purposefully limited her access. Outside in the world, I knew to avoid my reflections in shop windows, in car rear-view mirrors and in anything that may cast my own misery back at me. If someone took a picture of me, I wouldn’t ask to see it. Looking at it sent me into a spiral of self-flagellation. No matter how great a day I had had. A single photo of me annihilated all self-esteem. I instantly became ashamed of my own existence, of the mere presence of me somewhere. I lied and escaped. In bed, far from everyone, the humiliation lessened. My body didn’t belong to me. It was simply a mass I carried. A mass I didn’t understand. A mass I rejected. How could this be me? How come the world sees this? I’m not that 1.95 mountain of flesh and fat that I am made to carry. I recalled young girls being startled by my presence in the metro late at night; women tensing up when I stood behind them on the escalator. I was Quasimodo. I was the Beast. I am.

I wanted to be Lumière, a candelabra that sang and danced. I wanted to be Fraulein Maria in the Sound of Music, Sister Mary Clarence in Sister Act or Winnifred Anderson in Hocus Pocus. Not this, never this.

It took me years to distance myself from what I saw. Years to understand that I could not trust my eyes. That what was there, or I thought was there, wasn’t real, that it was distorted. Years of internalised fatphobia. Years to come to term with the fact that I was not a man. That I may have been assigned male at birth, but I wasn’t a man. Years.

There was a long queue to access the machines. It must have been the hospital’s rush hour or something. I stood in line, patiently waiting to retrieve my ticket. The whole of Madrid had been digitalised and all you had to do was slide your Seguridad Social card into a machine and retrieve a ticket with a number in bold black letters. The number would then appear onto a screen and that was your cue to enter your doctor’s office. So before having a turn, you had to get a ticket. You queued for a number to queue for your turn. The 21st century.

That anaesthetist’s appointment brought the surgery into reality. They were actually going to cut me open and start rummaging through my head. My number was called quickly and I made my way to a set of double doors that seemed hidden from sight. I followed the signs and headed toward a cubicle before I was hailed by a nurse.

“¿Qué haces?”

“I have an appointment. My number was called. Room 3.” She stared at me, like I didn’t understand. I fucking understood.

“¿Cómo se llama?” I gave her my name.

“¡Pues, si tiene la razón!” I know, bitch!

I sat in room 3 and waited for the anaesthetist to join me. A stylish young woman walked in and frowned.

“¿Señor?” she said with a tone. She had a little Spanish flag bracelet tied to her wrist. We belonged to opposite side of the political spectrum. I wanted rights. She wanted me converted. I knew I passed as an average cis white guy. I was glad I had decided against the skirt, against the nails and against overly accessorising. I rapidly tucked the headscarf I had tied to my beltloop under my ass before she noticed. I stood straighter, uncrossed my legs, uncrossed my arms, coughed and stopped smiling. Code-shifting didn’t come naturally to me anymore but I had played the part long enough that I knew what to do, I just hoped she wouldn’t smell the faggotry on me.

“Tengo una cita.” I said, butching my voice up.

“¿Sí? Su nombre?” I answered as manly as I could. Without smiling. Without adding a bit of a wink-wink nudge-nudge. That woman was the one deciding how many drugs to put in my system so that I wouldn’t wake up in the middle of the operation. Fascist or not, I needed her on my side.

“Es que no lo tengo.” She left.

I sat and waited until I was told to go into another cubicle. Manspreading my legs, I tried to take as much space as possible.

“You’re in the wrong room. Go to room 2.”

“The screen said Room 3.”

“Go to room 2.”

So to Room 2 I went.

I signed a waiver before reading it. I guessed it would allow them to put me to sleep and that it said something along the lines of: “the hospital cannot be held liable if the patient does not regain consciousness.”

“¿Cuánto pesas?”

“I don’t know.” A side effect to Miss Dysmorphia is that a simple shift of digit in my weight burdened an entire day. If I woke up two hundred grams heavier than the previous day, I refused to eat anything until my next weigh-in the following morning. I had miraculously broken the vicious circle a few years ago and so for the first time in my life, I didn’t know how much I weighed. I couldn’t even possibly guess it either. I made my own clothes. Tailored to measure. There were no sizes. No 36, 44 or 52 in my world.

“¡Pues, más o menos tio!” ‘Tio’ alongside ‘hombre’ were words that triggered me. Breathe in. Breathe out. Long breath in, short breath in. Long breath out.

“¡Pues, no sé tio!” I said a little too snarkily.

“¡Invéntatelo!” What the fuck was going on here on that day? I had a medical professional whose whole job was to decide how many drugs would be needed to crash me out based on my weight and he wanted me to estimate? Couldn’t he weigh me? Shouldn’t he be weighing me? Isn’t that sort of important?

I made up a number, hoping it would cover it.

He rushed through a series of questions and sent me out the door in less than three minutes.

On the way out, one of the nurses at the reception called my name.

“No food for at least 6 hours before the surgery and no liquids for 2. Not even water. Got that?”

“I’m a little frightened. This is a really big deal for me.” I said to her, taken aback by how very casual everyone else was.

“We know. It’s a big deal to everyone who comes here. You’ll be alright.” She gave me a pre-soaked sponge and a packet of mouth wash.

“When you get ready that morning, you use these and only these. You can brush your teeth normally. No funny perfume and what not. Got that?”

“OK.”

“You also need someone to come with you.”

“I know.” I just didn’t know who yet.

Chaos had a whole book tour planned, she was leaving in a week. I didn’t want to ask my mum. I didn’t want to tell my mum. I picked up the phone and called Cutiepie.

“Hey baby, how are you?” His voice had a melodic rhythm to it. Cutiepie was a warm ray of spring sunshine. He made me feel seen.

“I’m good. I’m good.” He didn’t know yet and I knew I was overselling it.

“You sure baby?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Listen, what are you doing today? There is something important I’d like to talk to you about and I’d rather do it in person.”

“Today is a little tricky. Let me think…” I could hear the cogs in his brain heating up, they were spinning too fast. Smoke was coming out of his ears.

“Can we do tonight? I’ll come by. Late I guess. Would that work?”

“That’s perfect. I’ll make dinner.”

I hung up the phone. I was standing in front of a wall of glass, staring at my own reflection. Head to toe. The whole of me. Fuck!

Anyone else would have seen a large man looking back at them. Bald, late forties, hunched and seemingly tired. His face round in a squarish kind of way. Not ugly. Ageing was starting to take hold with the sagging of the skin below the jawline. Jowls don’t lie. His face hadn’t yet been carved with crevices and that helped him look a little younger. He wore wide baggy trousers and a cropped shirt under a large vintage trench, a flamboyant headscarf tied to a beltloop peeking from the coat. The clothes were not those of a man nearing his fifties. He pulled it off somehow. Some people might even have thought him attractive.

All I saw was a whale about to be beached.

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It snowed that day. As I was walking towards the hospital, I felt tiny drops of rain falling very gently around me. Then the rain turned into icy flakes before softening to snow. Madrid had suddenly become a winter wonderland. I pulled my tongue out and tried to grab a snowflake, the way I had seen happy children do in movies. I, of course, got my glasses pelted by sleet and I almost toppled someone over. Movies lie.

I wished I could have taken a minute longer to appreciate the snowfall. I looked around at people’s faces and everyone seemed pissed off. The masses were hurrying to work and had no time for such nonsense as snow and if things had been different, I would have been among them. On that day, I relished being slowly covered by it; the white held and stuck to my grey overcoat. I was giddy. I stopped in the middle of the pavement, took a deep breath in and then twirled. Just the once. I couldn’t shake the sensation that this was the last time I would ever see snow. It was a gut punch: this was it, one last snowfall. I looked up at the sky and whispered a ‘Thank you’ to no one in particular and entered the hospital.

It had been a week since I had last seen my neurosurgeon. This appointment was to confirm whether or not the biopsy would go ahead. I couldn’t face her alone so I had asked Chaos, AKA Lucy, to meet me at the hospital. Obviously, she was late. Obviously, she wasn’t responding to her texts and, obviously, there would be a very good reason as to why — my guess was that she’d met a guy, ‘a darling’ she would say and had spent the night with him. When she finally showed up, she was wearing a leopard print mini-skirt over some orange stockings and a bomber jacket. Though I didn’t ask, I was certain that there was nothing but a bra under that flimsy jacket. She jumped into my arms and hugged me tight. I could feel her shaking “Tighter, tighter,” she said. I obliged. She was hanging on my neck, wrapped around me as we were long-lost lovers.

Though we were late, we were actually early (the joy of poorly funded Seguridad Social) and so Chaos had all the time in the world to tell me about the rich Russian oligarch she had met the previous evening and how she had spent the night in his ridiculous penthouse overlooking the Retiro park. She told me about the Koon sculptures, “Koons, plural!” she emphasised. “I touched one, I even kinda half-juggled with one but I almost dropped it and I didn’t want to dent it!”

Of course, as usual, the guy was a walking red flag but he had Koons and her eyes were sparkling. I didn’t burst her bubble. She mentioned other famous contemporary artists he exhibited willy-nilly in his flat. I didn’t recognise any of the names, she rolled her eyes, “How do you not know who blabla is?” She didn’t say ‘blabla’ but that was what I was hearing.

I was so engrossed in her story, I didn’t see my number being called up on the screen. The neurosurgeon opened her door and called out my name —she was not happy.

I was still removing my coat when she said, “The biopsy is going ahead. However, we are probably not going to be able to go through your nose as I had previously planned. We’ll be going through your pharynx, a little incision…” I must have looked confused because she looked exasperated. “We’ll cut a little hole in your throat,” she pointed at the inside of her mouth. I could sense her dumbing it down “So that we can access the tumour, yes? You’ll be staying at the hospital for about a week as we’ll be feeding you through a tube until you’ve healed.”

I heard Chaos ask questions about possible risks, about the length of the surgery, about how long we were going to have to wait for the results and what would happen afterwards.

“It is either a chordoma, which I’m very confident it is and things will become quite serious. Or it’s nothing, I send you to another doctor who’ll give you pills and you’ll move on with your life.”

“What’s a chordoma?” I heard Chaos ask.

“It’s a rare type of cancer. They say it’s 1 in a million. You have more chances of winning the lottery than getting one of those. But it’s also a very aggressive tumour that usually comes back. Your best option will be surgery. We will need to remove it entirely. And then there will be some radiotherapy or some proton therapy. So far, it’s relatively small and doesn’t seem to be growing. But you need it out. As soon as possible. I’m assuming that when we have the biopsy results, you’ll go back into surgery shortly after.”

And just like that, her face became stone-cold. She was clearly indicating that there would be no more questions. Our time was up. She thanked us and shook my hand. The next time I would see her, I’d probably be drugged out on a slab.

Before I knew it, we had joined another queue and were waiting for the new number we’d been given to be called. I had to make an appointment with an anaesthetist, they needed me as good as dead for the surgery. I made very little of the gibberish she’d spewed, but that much I understood.

“We’ll be feeding you through a tube.” She had said. I could already feel the plastic tube running up my nose and down my throat, all the way into my stomach. I felt itchy all over. I wanted to rip it out of me. I would pull it out myself if I had to.

“We’ll cut a little hole in your throat.”

“We’ll cut a little hole in your throat.”

“We’ll cut a little hole in your throat.”

What do you fucking mean you’ll cut a little hole in my throat?

I shoved my hand in my pocket and retrieved my wallet. I always kept a Lorazepam in case of an emergency. This was definitely a break-the-glass moment. I sucked on the little pill until it dissolved completely under my tongue. Twenty minutes or so and it would take effect. All I had to do was wait twenty little minutes.

To fill the void, I rambled.

“So they are going to cut through my throat, open a hole up, get inside my head and push through whatever the fuck is behind the pharynx! They’re going to slalom their way to the base of my skull and start scratching to retrieve a little bit of Bruno? Is that what I’m in for?”

“Who the fuck is Bruno?” she asked understandably.

“Bruno is what I named my tumour.” I sighed. “I named my tumour!” I finally sat down on one of the plastic chairs in the waiting area. “I know, I know. I thought it would help. It really isn’t. Now, I feel that there is an entity with a mind of its own living inside my head. And in a way I do. What the fuck am I going to do Lucy?”

“We’re in trouble if you start to call me Lucy.” She joked but her heart wasn’t in it.

“I’m serious. What did she say the risks were again?”

“I mean, she said they were unlikely. That everything usually goes well.” She smiled awkwardly.

“Lucy!”

“She said that the tumour was at the base of the skull and that it was surrounded by loads of tricky bits. She mentioned sight and hearing and that they may get affected. And.” She paused.

“And?”

“And that if she were to cut the wrong bit, you could have a brain stroke there and then.”

“Do you know what I’m not even sure I know what a stroke is? I didn’t know a tumour meant cancer. I’ll check.” I pulled out my phone and did a quick Google search. AI was the first to respond—I hate that cunt.

“The NHS says it’s when blood stops flowing to the brain and that it can affect speech and movement. It says it needs medical attention urgently or it’s life-threatening. At least, they’d already be present to fix it; we can rule out death! Yippee! All that is left is tetraplegia or the loss of speech, or sight, or hearing!”

“Come on, man!”

“Not a man.”

“Sorry. Shit, of course! I meant don’t be like that, the…” She interrupted herself. “Your number’s up.”

“What happened to stay positive? Huh? What happened to ‘we don’t know yet?’ We know now.”

“You silly buffoon. Look up, it’s your turn. Go talk to the lady.”

“What if I can’t suck dick anymore?”

“What did you say?”

“What if I can’t suck dick anymore? What if they fuck up my throat, huh? What if it becomes too sore? Or too oversensitive? What then?”

“Then you’ll suck less dick!”

“But it’s my favourite thing to do!”

“I know, I know.” She patted me on the back genuinely concerned.

“What’s good is that at least you’re not worried about the cancer, just the dick sucking!” I laughed.

“I’m trying to keep my priorities straight.” I winked. “The receptionist said that I should get an appointment with the anaesthetist sometime next week and that once this was done, they’d call to schedule the surgery. So we’re probably two to three weeks out.”

Two to three weeks out. The timeline had sped up. Suddenly. Irremediably.

About two to three weeks to round up a life. How do you do that? How do you tie everything nicely in a little bow before you die? How do you make any sort of difference to your life in two to three weeks? Do you have time to fall in love? Do you have time to create a piece of art that will outlive you? Do you have time for one last big adventure?

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The seminarian slept in my arms; even though he was the dom, he had crawled into my armpit and snuggled against me, little spoon style.

Asking him to stay was a leap I was glad I took. Several times during the night, terror took hold and I grounded myself by holding on tighter to his body.

“Morning,” he whispered.

“Morning.”

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“It’s OK.” I shrugged.

“I’m sorry but I have to rush, it’s morning prayers and I simply can’t be late.” He had to climb over me to get out of the bed and I felt him hesitating. We were face to face, so close. He got off the bed and stood in front of me in all of his naked glory.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“6am! I know, I know, I’m sorry. Can I use your shower?”

“Don’t be silly, of course. There is a fresh towel in the cupboard.”

As he walked out of the room, I stared at his incredible ass.

I got up too and made us both coffee. He stepped out of the shower fully dressed and ready to go. I handed him a cup.

“I can’t. I have to rush to mine and change before I get to Mass.”

“Thank you for staying the night. Really. You made all the difference.”

“It’s nothing. We’re also mates and mates have to be there for each other.”

“That was so cheesy!” I winked. “Alright, shoo!”

As the door closed behind him, I realised he had taken two showers in less than 8 hours. I wondered if he was rubbing the sin away.

I sat on the sofa with two cups of coffee and nothing to do. The sun hadn’t come up yet so I sank deeper into the sofa. What do I do now? I sipped from one of the cups. So. My mind went blank. What could I possibly say? Think? Overthink? That I have a tumour, that it’s somewhere inside of my head, possibly touching my brain—What’s the point? There is nothing I can do. I can’t remove it myself. I can’t shrink it gone. I can’t diet it gone. I can’t exercise it gone. I can’t even fuck it gone. It’s there. Right in the middle of everything. Right in the middle of my fucking head. I tapped my forehead with the palm of my hand, I wanted to hurt it. So I kept hitting. Fuck off! Fuck right off!

Again and again, I hit my head. All I managed was to hurt myself and spill my coffees all over the sofa. I screamed. My insides ravaged by the rawness of my cry. I wanted to rage and break everything. But everything there was mine. My pragmatism always won in the end. Instead, I got up and headed to the kitchen to get what I needed to fix my mess. I dabbed the fabric with a cloth, and sprayed some anti-stain serum which wetted the fabric further. I dabbed and dabbed some more. I’d have to wait for the sofa to dry now. I stared at the wet patch, a cloth in one hand and the spray bottle in the other. Is that what life is? Just fucking cleaning up messes after messes?

I thought about the bed bug infestation I had finally been able to clear; the washing machine that had broken down and that I had to replace; the shower dampening the downstairs neighbour’s ceiling that I needed to fix up, again; the air conditioning that refused to work; the constant pain in my shoulder; my tinnitus; the taxes I was filing; the paperwork that never ended; how my plants were dying because I wasn’t taking care of them; how everything was getting dirty because I couldn’t face cleaning up—argh!

The anger rose in me again, threatening to devour everything in its path. I looked at my favourite trinkets and dared myself to smash them against the wall. I thought about jumping out of the balcony.

Could I jump out of the balcony? Is it high enough to actually kill me?

Knowing my luck, I would have ended up paralysed and in a worse shape than I already was. I put the spray bottle away instead.

I remembered what my therapist had said to me years ago: you always had two choices: “accept or change.” What am I fucking supposed to do? Am I supposed to accept that my life is over? I was just getting started. It’s not fucking fair. It took me so long to finally be in a good place. To finally claim the space that was mine. And now, what? Now, I die? Or I spend whatever little time I have left trying not to die as I become less and less autonomous. That also means no more romantic partners, probably no more hooking up, no more falling in love. What can you possibly build when you’re not even sure you’re gonna be there next year? Who would give you the time of day? Who would risk getting involved?

Why am I so focused on getting a man? The fuck?

The sun started to fill the room with a warm glow. I moved to the balcony to let it warm my skin. I closed my eyes and bathed in the heat.

That’s it, that’s all there is. No more tomorrows. Just this, right now. Some sun on my skin. No more plans. No more trips. No Thailand. No wedding. No fiftieth birthday week bingeing Broadway show. No more love stories. No second home by the beach. No clothes line. No, just no.

Even if Bruno wasn’t actively nibbling through my head (yet—already?), he was taking all of the space. There seemed to be no corner of me that was not consumed by his presence. He was slowly driving me into madness, taking any inch of bandwidth left. I took a Lorazepam to stop me from spiraling. I knew it wouldn’t be enough. I picked up my phone, opened Grindr and looked for someone to fuck the pain into silence. Mr Big had done the trick; I was hoping for a repeat.

Some rando showed up at my door half an hour later.

“Hey!”

“Hey.” He walked into the living room and took off all of his clothes as he made his way to the sofa.

This part of the story has been redacted

He got dressed and left as he had come. I poured myself a cup of coffee. I checked Grindr — he had already blocked me. Men!

I needed to wash him off me. My ego couldn’t take being blocked so rapidly. The next one arrived shortly after. We made out for a long while. He was a good kisser and I loved how he moaned. Slowly, we took off all of our clothes and rubbed against each other on the sofa. He leaned away to get a good look at me and said, “¡Qué guapo!” His tongue explored my mouth with an intensity I had yearned for.

This part of the story has been redacted

I fantasised about an afternoon full of sex but before I knew it, it was over. I watched him put all of his clothes back on in awkward silence. “I needed that, thanks!” And he was off. The fuck!

I wanted more but I was also fuming. Fuming he had left without taking care of me. That was not the deal. Fuming he went from begging for more to barely acknowledging I was even in the room, in my own living room. I realised that the lust and then the anger had kept the despair away. There was a way out. There was a way to keep Bruno out of my head. At least, out of my thoughts for a while. I was going to fuck my mind into stillness.

The following few days became a blur. I held onto sex like a buoy. Bodies of all shapes and sizes came and went. I was eager, ravenous. I couldn’t be satisfied. I wasn’t asking for validation. I wasn’t asking for love. I wasn’t asking for anything more than to be used, to force my senses to overload my mind so that it wouldn’t think, couldn’t think. The body over the mind; it was the only card I had left to play.

I found myself at the end of a particularly intense session, curled up against a visiting doctor. He was everything one dreamed of: a disarming smile, a genuinely sweet personality, long luscious eyelashes and the body from a fantasy. He didn’t have abs. He had sharp grooves in between each perfectly defined muscle, I was nestled in his armpit, I playfully traced each of them with my finger.

“I have a brain tumour.” I blurted out. Fuck! Why did I fucking just say that? I wasn’t even thinking about it.

He didn’t move, didn’t flinch.

“Shit! That must be hard. How are you holding up?”

“I’m fucking it away.” He laughed.

“I hope I helped.”

“You did.” And he very much had.

“I find that people usually think it’s their fault when they get sick. Like they’re being punished or something. My mum was like that when she had cancer. She kept saying that Jesus was punishing her. She never said for what though.” I was stunned. I didn’t know how to respond.

“I try to tell her: It’s not your fault, mum. It’s nobody’s fault! Nobody deserves to be in pain.” The hot doctor was talking to the ceiling. “I have patients like that. They are so angry. They keep screaming at me that they haven’t done anything wrong their whole lives, that this doesn’t make any kind of sense. All I usually say is to trust that I will take care of them to the best of my ability. That science has made incredible advancements.” He didn’t squeeze me while he talked, which I appreciated. It almost felt like he was just thinking out loud. Jeez, my pillow talk needs work!

Something he said struck me: “It’s not your fault.”

At least, it’s not my fault. I sighed heavily. It’s not my fault! It’s not… I didn’t cause this. I didn’t. I mean, I would love to fucking blame it on someone, anyone. But that someone isn’t me.

I snuggled into his muscles.

It’s not my fault.

When I woke up the doctor had gone. I didn’t know his name. Men cum and run, even the best of them. I got up, poured myself a cup of coffee and stared at my wall of dicks. I had started keeping score the day the neurosurgeon told me about Bruno. I decided to draw every penis I encountered on my kitchen wall. The white tiles were being filled with multicolored cocks of different sizes and girth, balls and all. It was crude. It amused me. I dated each one like a painter signs his latest piece. I used erasable board markers from my teacher’s supplies and colour-coded them all. In red, the new shags; in blue, the returning shags; in green, the terrible ones and in black I circled the ones that happened simultaneously. It brightened the kitchen, gave it an edge. It might be all I leave behind.

I took my Prep and washed it down with coffee. I grabbed a red marker and added the doctor’s 8 inches to the mural.

It was barely 8 o’clock. I had an appointment with the neurosurgeon at 9:30.

It’s not my fault.

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FAMILY FRIENDLY VERSION AVAILABLE.

Start here | Previous episode | Next episode

The seminarian slept in my arms; even though he was the dom, he had crawled into my armpit and snuggled against me, little spoon style.

Asking him to stay was a leap I was glad I took. Several times during the night, terror took hold and I grounded myself by holding on tighter to his body.

“Morning,” he whispered.

“Morning.”

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“It’s OK.” I shrugged.

“I’m sorry but I have to rush, it’s morning prayers and I simply can’t be late.” He had to climb over me to get out of the bed and I felt him hesitating. We were face to face, so close. He got off the bed and stood in front of me in all of his naked glory.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“6am! I know, I know, I’m sorry. Can I use your shower?”

“Don’t be silly, of course. There is a fresh towel in the cupboard.”

As he walked out of the room, I stared at his incredible ass.

I got up too and made us both coffee. He stepped out of the shower fully dressed and ready to go. I handed him a cup.

“I can’t. I have to rush to mine and change before I get to Mass.”

“Thank you for staying the night. Really. You made all the difference.”

“It’s nothing. We’re also mates and mates have to be there for each other.”

“That was so cheesy!” I winked. “Alright, shoo!”

As the door closed behind him, I realised he had taken two showers in less than 8 hours. I wondered if he was rubbing the sin away.

I sat on the sofa with two cups of coffee and nothing to do. The sun hadn’t come up yet so I sank deeper into the sofa. What do I do now? I sipped from one of the cups. So. My mind went blank. What could I possibly say? Think? Overthink? That I have a tumour, that it’s somewhere inside of my head, possibly touching my brain—What’s the point? There is nothing I can do. I can’t remove it myself. I can’t shrink it gone. I can’t diet it gone. I can’t exercise it gone. I can’t even fuck it gone. It’s there. Right in the middle of everything. Right in the middle of my fucking head. I tapped my forehead with the palm of my hand, I wanted to hurt it. So I kept hitting. Fuck off! Fuck right off!

Again and again, I hit my head. All I managed was to hurt myself and spill my coffees all over the sofa. I screamed. My insides ravaged by the rawness of my cry. I wanted to rage and break everything. But everything there was mine. My pragmatism always won in the end. Instead, I got up and headed to the kitchen to get what I needed to fix my mess. I dabbed the fabric with a cloth, and sprayed some anti-stain serum which wetted the fabric further. I dabbed and dabbed some more. I’d have to wait for the sofa to dry now. I stared at the wet patch, a cloth in one hand and the spray bottle in the other. Is that what life is? Just fucking cleaning up messes after messes?

I thought about the bed bug infestation I had finally been able to clear; the washing machine that had broken down and that I had to replace; the shower dampening the downstairs neighbour’s ceiling that I needed to fix up, again; the air conditioning that refused to work; the constant pain in my shoulder; my tinnitus; the taxes I was filing; the paperwork that never ended; how my plants were dying because I wasn’t taking care of them; how everything was getting dirty because I couldn’t face cleaning up—argh!

The anger rose in me again, threatening to devour everything in its path. I looked at my favourite trinkets and dared myself to smash them against the wall. I thought about jumping out of the balcony.

Could I jump out of the balcony? Is it high enough to actually kill me?

Knowing my luck, I would have ended up paralysed and in a worse shape than I already was. I put the spray bottle away instead.

I remembered what my therapist had said to me years ago: you always had two choices: “accept or change.” What am I fucking supposed to do? Am I supposed to accept that my life is over? I was just getting started. It’s not fucking fair. It took me so long to finally be in a good place. To finally claim the space that was mine. And now, what? Now, I die? Or I spend whatever little time I have left trying not to die as I become less and less autonomous. That also means no more romantic partners, probably no more hooking up, no more falling in love. What can you possibly build when you’re not even sure you’re gonna be there next year? Who would give you the time of day? Who would risk getting involved?

Why am I so focused on getting a man? The fuck?

The sun started to fill the room with a warm glow. I moved to the balcony to let it warm my skin. I closed my eyes and bathed in the heat.

That’s it, that’s all there is. No more tomorrows. Just this, right now. Some sun on my skin. No more plans. No more trips. No Thailand. No wedding. No fiftieth birthday week bingeing Broadway show. No more love stories. No second home by the beach. No clothes line. No, just no.

Even if Bruno wasn’t actively nibbling through my head (yet—already?), he was taking all of the space. There seemed to be no corner of me that was not consumed by his presence. He was slowly driving me into madness, taking any inch of bandwidth left. I took a Lorazepam to stop me from spiraling. I knew it wouldn’t be enough. I picked up my phone, opened Grindr and looked for someone to fuck the pain into silence. Mr Big had done the trick; I was hoping for a repeat.

Some rando showed up at my door half an hour later.

“Hey!”

“Hey.” He walked into the living room and took off all of his clothes as he made his way to the sofa. He sat, completely naked and fully erect. I kneeled down instantly, and took his cock in my mouth. He didn’t say much but watched me hungrily. I worked on him for a good fifteen minutes before he spurted with a hoarse groan. He got dressed and left as he had come. I poured myself a cup of coffee. I checked Grindr — he had already blocked me. Men!

I needed to wash him off me. My ego couldn’t take being blocked while I was still tasting him in my mouth. The next one arrived shortly after. We made out for a long while. He was a good kisser and I loved how he moaned. Slowly, we took off all of our clothes and rubbed against each other on the sofa. He leaned away to get a good look at me and said, “¡Qué guapo!” His tongue explored my mouth with an intensity I had yearned for. I grabbed his dick and started stroking gently and his head rolled back. He pulled me in for a kiss, his eyes wild. I fantasised about an afternoon full of sex but before I knew it, he had jizzed all over my chest. I watched him put all of his clothes back on in awkward silence. “I needed that, thanks!” And he was off. The fuck!

I sat there, the semen becoming stickier in my chest hair. I was turned on. I wanted more but I was also fuming. Fuming he had cum so fast—fucking fuming he had left without taking care of me. That was not the deal. Fuming he went from begging for more to barely acknowledging I was even in the room, in my own living room. I was pacing, sticky and half-naked, fingers playing with the cum on my tits. I realised that the lust and then the anger had kept the despair away. There was a way out. There was a way to keep Bruno out of my head. At least, out of my thoughts for a while. I was going to fuck my mind into stillness.

The following few days became a blur. I held onto sex like a buoy. Bodies of all shapes and sizes came and went. I was eager, ravenous. I couldn’t be satisfied. I wasn’t asking for validation. I wasn’t asking for love. I wasn’t asking for anything more than to be used, to force my senses to overload my mind so that it wouldn’t think, couldn’t think. The body over the mind; it was the only card I had left to play.

I found myself at the end of a particularly intense session, curled up against a visiting doctor. He was everything one dreamed of: a disarming smile, a genuinely sweet personality, long luscious eyelashes and the body from a fantasy. He didn’t have abs. He had sharp grooves in between each perfectly defined muscle, I was nestled in his armpit, I playfully traced each of them with my finger.

“I have a brain tumour.” I blurted out. Fuck! Why did I fucking just say that? I wasn’t even thinking about it.

He didn’t move, didn’t flinch.

“Shit! That must be hard. How are you holding up?”

“I’m fucking it away.” He laughed.

“I hope I helped.”

“You did.” And he very much had.

“I find that people usually think it’s their fault when they get sick. Like they’re being punished or something. My mum was like that when she had cancer. She kept saying that Jesus was punishing her. She never said for what though.” I was stunned. I didn’t know how to respond.

“I try to tell her: It’s not your fault, mum. It’s nobody’s fault! Nobody deserves to be in pain.” The hot doctor was talking to the ceiling. “I have patients like that. They are so angry. They keep screaming at me that they haven’t done anything wrong their whole lives, that this doesn’t make any kind of sense. All I usually say is to trust that I will take care of them to the best of my ability. That science has made incredible advancements.” He didn’t squeeze me while he talked, which I appreciated. It almost felt like he was just thinking out loud. Jeez, my pillow talk needs work!

Something he said struck me: “It’s not your fault.”

At least, it’s not my fault. I sighed heavily. It’s not my fault! It’s not… I didn’t cause this. I didn’t. I mean, I would love to fucking blame it on someone, anyone. But that someone isn’t me.

I snuggled into his muscles.

It’s not my fault.

When I woke up the doctor had gone. I didn’t know his name. Men cum and run, even the best of them. I got up, poured myself a cup of coffee and stared at my wall of dicks. I had started keeping score the day the neurosurgeon told me about Bruno. I decided to draw every penis I encountered on my kitchen wall. The white tiles were being filled with multicolored cocks of different sizes and girth, balls and all. It was crude. It amused me. I dated each one like a painter signs his latest piece. I used erasable board markers from my teacher’s supplies and colour-coded them all. In red, the new shags; in blue, the returning shags; in green, the terrible ones and in black I circled the ones that happened simultaneously. It brightened the kitchen, gave it an edge. It might be all I leave behind.

I took my Prep and washed it down with coffee. I grabbed a red marker and added the doctor’s 8 inches to the mural.

It was barely 8 o’clock. I had an appointment with the neurosurgeon at 9:30.

It’s not my fault.

Subscribe now

New episodes Every Wednesday.

FAMILY FRIENDLY VERSION AVAILABLE.

Start here | Previous episode | Next episode

To numb the despair, I scrolled through Instagram. Every time I flicked with my thumb, I relished the sensory overload quietening my mind. There was no time or space to catastrophize about Bruno growing and nibbling away at my skull. I was pulling the lever on the slot machine: More images more sounds more dopamine. More, more, more… The next one would pay off. The next one had to pay off. I wanted out. Out of my head. Out of thinking. Out of worrying. Out of being.

Hours passed glued to my screen.

When I wasn’t bingeing Instagram, I was on Grindr. I wanted to physically shut down my brain and the only way I knew how to do so was sex. So I liked profiles, said “¡Hola!” to sexy headless torsos. Paid for the premium subscription. Refresh the app. Again. Again. And again. Liked or ‘tapped’ more as they appeared online. Texted old hook-ups. Reached out to anonymous accounts. Refreshed. Said I was looking for ‘right now’, that I could host. I wanted it and I wanted it bad. Yet, somehow my principles remained. My profile clearly indicated what I was into but also that fascists were not welcome—¡No Fachas! Some wrote and attacked me: claiming I was being prejudiced —the nerve! One wrote to me unprompted: “You’re very ugly and you’re very bald.” I burst out laughing in my empty flat. It was good to laugh.

“Very bald!” Indeed, I was very bald and had been for many years.

I juggled five conversations at once because I knew how it worked. Many stopped responding abruptly. Others blocked you because you didn’t respond fast enough. Some wanted to remain anonymous and refused to share their pictures (all you get was a badly-lit, zoomed-in, dick pic). On the other side of the cloud was someone who was just looking to blow their load; I was looking to forget.

When one (finally!) showed up at my door, I welcomed him in.

“Hey,” I said with a disappointed grin (some people are very photogenic—he, unfortunately, was one of them). He walked in very slowly and seemingly unsure of himself. I assumed he was debating whether or not I would do.

“Do you want a glass of water or something?” I asked.

No response.

“Are you ok?”

No response.

“You know if I’m not your type and you’re not into this, that’s ok. Consent and enthusiasm should be key here,” I sounded like a pamphlet.

No response.

I gently put both of my hands on his shoulders and, keeping myself at arm’s length so as not to frighten him, I put on my nice teacher’s voice and asked “Are you on drugs?”

He shook his head but still didn’t utter a word.

“Are you drunk?” I then asked.

“had couple a beers” was all he managed to mumble. I swivelled him on the spot and politely ushered him towards the exit.

“I think you should go home and sober up, baby,” I said as I closed the door behind him.

I went back to my sofa and did the whole dance again. Liked. Tapped. Refreshed. “¡Hola!”. “¡Hola!”. “¡Hola!”. Refreshed. Looking for ‘right now’. Tapped. In between waiting for answers, I scrolled Instagram or checked other dating apps that worked on geolocation and where you could find potential shags instantly.

There were a few sex workers that were not sex workers but just regular guys who wanted a tip, an AI chatbot who promised me love and many false starts, incompatibilities and so on. Before I knew it, it was nighttime.

I needed out of this funk. I needed someone to fuck it out of me. Why couldn’t I find someone to fuck it out of me? —I didn’t know if I was talking about the funk or about the tumour anymore. All I wanted was to get fucked so that I wouldn’t fucking think about it.

Then, my phone pinged. Hallelujah!

Enters Mr Big (Carrie Bradshaw had hers and so do I.)

Mr Big was a fuck buddy of mine. We had met on the app a year or two prior and had been seeing each other on and off since —quite irregularly but somehow consistently. In time, we had become friends and spent our time mostly chatting nonsense or catching up. One of us undoubtedly made a move. The teasing was part of the fun: an innuendo here and there, a grazing of a thigh, hands holding a bit too long. He’d call me “a good boy” and I’d get all tingly. I’d say “Yes, sir” and we’d stare at each other for a while wondering if now was the moment before returning to our conversation. I loved our cat and mouse game and got off on making him want me. He was always the first to break and to burst out a “Take off all of your clothes now” and I obliged. Our bodies couldn’t have been more different. I stood a giant at 1.95m and weighed over 100 kilos while he was a skinny lad that barely reached my armpits. The Beauty and the Beast. Laurel and Hardy. David and Goliath, and the story would always end up with Goliath face down and ass up.

When my phone pinged, it was him. I invited him over immediately and he rushed to mine. When I opened the door, we hugged tightly and that was when I realised how much I needed that. We stayed locked into each other for a moment, right there in the entrance, my front door still wide open. I took refuge in his smell, in the unspoken tension of the embrace.

We plopped on the sofa and drank our teas like two old ladies, all we were missing were stale biscuits. Mr Big was a seminarian. I had never seen him in his robe and it wasn’t for a lack of trying. Though the church kept him busy and he’d memorised entire passages of Saint Theresa, he also had a keen interest for our queer history and always buried himself into never-ending research just for the fun of it. He talked about the Movida like he talked about feminist witches in the 1800s. The man was fascinating. I knew what had driven him to the cloth but he preferred not to talk about that.

“How have you been?” he asked after we had talked for a while already.

“I have a tumour.” There was no beating around the bush.

“I haven’t really been telling people yet. I have a biopsy planned soonish and we’ll have a better idea of what it is and how to deal with it.” He looked at me with tenderness. Not pity, tenderness. He stood up and pulled out his cock. This was the reason I called him Mr Big, yet every time it was right in front of me I was mesmerised by his girth and mass. His dick was a work of art and I wanted to worship it. He gestured that he wanted me on my knees and I obeyed.

“Get on it, boy!” And on it, I got.

He wasn’t fully erect yet and he wanted me to do all the work. I palmed his cock. I wrapped it entirely with my fingers and I stroked it with glee. His head bent backward. I knew his cock well and knew what he liked so I swallowed it whole in my mouth and felt it get harder and harder as I was sucking him. I pushed it all the way down into my throat and that was when he cried out “Fuck, yes! ¡Cómemela!”

He grabbed my face by the chin and stared into my soul.

“Take off all of your clothes, I want to look at you.”

I didn’t hesitate. I lifted my arms and removed my t-shirt and in one swift move pulled down my sweatpants and my underwear.

“Keep the socks.”

“Yes.” I could barely speak, I was so turned on.

“Now, sit on the sofa, lay back.”

He climbed the sofa and presented his dick to my face once more. This time, I knew he would be the one doing all of the work and that he would use my mouth for his pleasure. I moaned, my mouth full. I got completely lost in the ecstasy of it all. The softness of his skin as I ran my hands up and down his chest, the way he looked down on me with jubilation, the taste of his cock, its scent, the release of letting him take charge, I was his to use however he wished to. I was completely submissive to his will. Liberated.

He asked me to turn around. I knew what was coming next. I grabbed his face and kissed him eagerly.

“I’ll be right back.”

I ran to my bedroom to grab my lube and was back in an instant. As he was eating my mouth, I filled my hole with lube. I knew I needed it.

“Turn around and arch your back.”

“Yes.” I really couldn’t talk. Normally, I would have been a chatterbox of dirty talk. I needed this so much. I needed to be fucked out of my brain, literally.

He positioned himself and I slid back onto his cock slowly. My eyes rolled into the back of my head. I had forgotten how big he was. I exhaled deeply and continued down his shaft until the whole of him was inside of me. We paused there for a moment, both relishing how delicious it was. He grabbed hold of my chest and engulfed me in his arms. He thrust in slowly while kissing my neck. And the thrusting accelerated.

“Fuck me,” I screamed “Yes! Fuck me!”

Nothing else mattered. My mind had gone blank. All I wanted was to feel him inside of me, to leave his mark on my body.

He stopped.

“You feel incredible,” he exhaled. “I need a minute, this is too intense and I don’t want to come yet.” That was what he was saying, but I felt him still piercing through me. Slow became fast again and my noises became louder and louder. I had disappeared into pure pleasure. As he rocked me back and forth, I felt my muscles loosening and the entirety of me elated. He came inside of me in a repeated jerking motion and as he spasmed in me in cries of pleasure, I too spurted in a long, high-pitched groan. We both collapsed on the sofa, exhausted.

I pulled him in closer and kissed him.

“Thank you.”

The good seminarian jumped into the shower. He was one of those that couldn’t bear the stickiness of semen on their skin. He had to wash it all away. Immediately. I was sprawled out on the sofa glowing in after-sex rapture. If I still smoked, this would have been the perfect time to light up.

We stayed naked on the sofa together for a long while. I loved chatting with him while still having a direct line of sight to his cock. His body was smooth and tight. He didn’t work out but he didn’t have an inch of fat on him, I could see every outline of every muscle on his body. He liked holding my hand, which I always found so cute. We had a real connection.

“She was accused of counterfeiting the office of husband by owning that clay phallus.”

“So, she had a dildo and they were mad about it?” I laughed.

“It was no laughing matter, I can tell you that. What’s worse is that the claims were coming from her lover, Agnes Mitchell. She was the one who had tattled. They tried Maud for witchcraft, of course. Back then, women were being burnt all across Europe for being a witch. So, you see...” he continued on his exposé about Maud Galt for a bit and I let him. Once he had come, Mr Big always ceded the way to the seminarian.

It got late and I saw him pull his underwear back on.

“I’d better head home before the metro closes.”

“Sure.” I didn’t want him to go. It was not because I had feelings for him, I didn’t and neither did he. What we had was clear: a fun friendship spiced up with great sex. But something was wrong. All of a sudden, I got scared. The sadness had returned. I couldn’t face the night alone.

I had never asked him to spend the night. Not ever. This wasn’t what we did. We slept together but we didn’t sleep together.

“You can totally say no and I would absolutely understand but… er… Would you mind spending the night? I think I need someone to stay over. I don’t…”

He didn’t let me finish.

“Of course. But I’ll have to dash early in the morning, is that ok?”

“You sure? You don’t mind?” I hugged him tight, “I really appreciate it.”

He buried his head in my chest and held me while I cried.

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To numb the despair, I scrolled through Instagram. Every time I flicked with my thumb, I relished the sensory overload quietening my mind. There was no time or space to catastrophize about Bruno growing and nibbling away at my skull. I was pulling the lever on the slot machine: More images more sounds more dopamine. More, more, more… The next one would pay off. The next one had to pay off. I wanted out. Out of my head. Out of thinking. Out of worrying. Out of being.

Hours passed glued to my screen.

When I wasn’t bingeing Instagram, I was on Grindr. I wanted to physically shut down my brain and the only way I knew how to do so was sex. So I liked profiles, said “¡Hola!” to sexy headless torsos. Paid for the premium subscription. Refresh the app. Again. Again. And again. Liked or ‘tapped’ more as they appeared online. Texted old hook-ups. Reached out to anonymous accounts. Refreshed. Said I was looking for ‘right now’, that I could host. I wanted it and I wanted it bad. Yet, somehow my principles remained. My profile clearly indicated what I was into but also that fascists were not welcome—¡No Fachas! Some wrote and attacked me: claiming I was being prejudiced —the nerve! One wrote to me unprompted: “You’re very ugly and you’re very bald.” I burst out laughing in my empty flat. It was good to laugh.

“Very bald!” Indeed, I was very bald and had been for many years.

I juggled five conversations at once because I knew how it worked. Many stopped responding abruptly. Others blocked you because you didn’t respond fast enough. Some wanted to remain anonymous and refused to share their pictures. On the other side of the cloud was someone who was just looking to get off; I was looking to forget.

When one (finally!) showed up at my door, I welcomed him in.

“Hey,” I said with a disappointed grin (some people are very photogenic—he, unfortunately, was one of them). He walked in very slowly and seemingly unsure of himself. I assumed he was debating whether or not I would do.

“Do you want a glass of water or something?” I asked.

No response.

“Are you ok?”

No response.

“You know if I’m not your type and you’re not into this, that’s ok. Consent and enthusiasm should be key here,” I sounded like a pamphlet.

No response.

I gently put both of my hands on his shoulders and, keeping myself at arm’s length so as not to frighten him, I put on my nice teacher’s voice and asked “Are you on drugs?”

He shook his head but still didn’t utter a word.

“Are you drunk?” I then asked.

“had couple a beers” was all he managed to mumble. I swivelled him on the spot and politely ushered him towards the exit.

“I think you should go home and sober up, baby,” I said as I closed the door behind him.

I went back to my sofa and did the whole dance again. Liked. Tapped. Refreshed. “¡Hola!”. “¡Hola!”. “¡Hola!”. Refreshed. Looking for ‘right now’. Tapped. In between waiting for answers, I scrolled Instagram or checked other dating apps that worked on geolocation and where you could find potential shags instantly.

There were a few sex workers that were not sex workers but just regular guys who wanted a tip, an AI chatbot who promised me love and many false starts, incompatibilities and so on. Before I knew it, it was nighttime.

I needed out of this funk.

Then, my phone pinged. Hallelujah!

Enters Mr Big (Carrie Bradshaw had hers and so do I.)

Mr Big was a fuck buddy of mine. We had met on the app a year or two prior and had been seeing each other on and off since —quite irregularly but somehow consistently. In time, we had become friends and spent our time mostly chatting nonsense or catching up. One of us undoubtedly made a move. The teasing was part of the fun: an innuendo here and there, a grazing of a thigh, hands holding a bit too long. He’d call me “a good boy” and I’d get all tingly. I’d say “Yes, sir” and we’d stare at each other for a while wondering if now was the moment before returning to our conversation. I loved our cat and mouse game and got off on making him want me. He was always the first to break and to burst out a “Take off all of your clothes now” and I obliged. Our bodies couldn’t have been more different. I stood a giant at 1.95m and weighed over 100 kilos while he was a skinny lad that barely reached my armpits. The Beauty and the Beast. Laurel and Hardy. David and Goliath.

When my phone pinged, it was him. I invited him over immediately and he rushed to mine. When I opened the door, we hugged tightly and that was when I realised how much I needed that. We stayed locked into each other for a moment, right there in the entrance, my front door still wide open. I took refuge in his smell, in the unspoken tension of the embrace.

We plopped on the sofa and drank our teas like two old ladies, all we were missing were stale biscuits. Mr Big was a seminarian. I had never seen him in his robe and it wasn’t for a lack of trying. Though the church kept him busy and he’d memorised entire passages of Saint Theresa, he also had a keen interest for our queer history and always buried himself into never-ending research just for the fun of it. He talked about the Movida like he talked about feminist witches in the 1800s. The man was fascinating. I knew what had driven him to the cloth but he preferred not to talk about that.

“How have you been?” he asked after we had talked for a while already.

“I have a tumour.” There was no beating around the bush.

“I haven’t really been telling people yet. I have a biopsy planned soonish and we’ll have a better idea of what it is and how to deal with it.” He looked at me with tenderness. Not pity, tenderness.

This part of the story has been redacted

He grabbed my face by the chin and stared into my soul.

“Take off all of your clothes, I want to look at you.”

I didn’t hesitate. I lifted my arms and removed my t-shirt and in one swift move pulled down my sweatpants and my underwear.

This part of the story has been redacted

Nothing else mattered. My mind had gone blank.

This part of the story has been redacted

I pulled him in closer and kissed him.

“Thank you.”

The good seminarian jumped into the shower. I was sprawled out on the sofa glowing in after-sex rapture. If I still smoked, this would have been the perfect time to light up.

We stayed naked on the sofa together for a long while. His body was smooth and tight. He didn’t work out but he didn’t have an inch of fat on him, I could see every outline of every muscle on his body. He liked holding my hand, which I always found so cute. We had a real connection.

“She was accused of counterfeiting the office of husband by owning that clay phallus.”

“So, she had a dildo and they were mad about it?” I laughed.

“It was no laughing matter, I can tell you that. What’s worse is that the claims were coming from her lover, Agnes Mitchell. She was the one who had tattled. They tried Maud for witchcraft, of course. Back then, women were being burnt all across Europe for being a witch. So, you see...” he continued on his exposé about Maud Galt for a bit and I let him. Once he had come, Mr Big always ceded the way to the seminarian.

It got late and I saw him pull his underwear back on.

“I’d better head home before the metro closes.”

“Sure.” I didn’t want him to go. It was not because I had feelings for him, I didn’t and neither did he. What we had was clear: a fun friendship spiced up with great sex. But something was wrong. All of a sudden, I got scared. The sadness had returned. I couldn’t face the night alone.

I had never asked him to spend the night. Not ever. This wasn’t what we did. We slept together but we didn’t sleep together.

“You can totally say no and I would absolutely understand but… er… Would you mind spending the night? I think I need someone to stay over. I don’t…”

He didn’t let me finish.

“Of course. But I’ll have to dash early in the morning, is that ok?”

“You sure? You don’t mind?” I hugged him tight, “I really appreciate it.”

He buried his head in my chest and held me while I cried.

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I couldn’t face spending the night alone. I couldn’t face spending any nights alone but when you’re single in the big city, you don’t really have a choice —people have shit to do. No one can simply drop whatever they’re doing and come hold your hand because you have a tumour. They have work in the morning.

Luckily, Chaos was able to spend the previous night with me. Chaos is an acclaimed novelist who doesn’t have to bend herself to a 9 to 5. Though she’s forever talking on the phone about deadlines or dealing with her publisher, agent, proofreader and fellow writers in crisis, she still gets to make her own kind of music, sing her own special song. Chaos is in her late—very late—thirties but much like everyone else in her generation, she looks ten years younger. She dresses like a German DJ and has a real penchant for animal prints. A penchant she’s hung onto since we met in the late—very late—2000s. Then she was an aspiring writer going to university and honing her craft, and I was a lowly English teacher on a part-time contract trying to make ends meet. She rented a flat in the city centre, a flat I fell in love with the minute I stepped inside. It had three double French doors opening onto tiny balconies, the living room had one bright orange accent wall and the place just vibed. You could sit on beat-up sofa cushions, found God knows where, and lean against the rusted railing of the balcony, beneath you the city never ceased and on a lucky day, you could hail a cute guy and convince him to come up.

“I’m in love,” I said to her probably fifteen seconds after we had met. “When can I move in?”

“And your name is?”

“Sorry, I got carried away. This flat has such a great vibe. How much is the rent?”

“And, once again, your name is?” She was clearly amused.

She left the flat to me when she moved away.

That night, she held me as I cried myself to catatonia. There is a kind of crying that you only see at Italian funerals where professional mourners in black lace veils throw themselves at a coffin while the entire village sobs in unison. This ritual weeping of chest beating and calling out the deceased’s name always felt a bit much —and I’m the one saying that. They’re putting on a show, it’s cathartic —I get it. Yet this kind of torment, the kind where you feel like your soul being ripped from your body, becomes frightening when no one is watching. It felt like I wasn’t the one crying, my body had a will of its own. It was exorcising the agony. My eyes would suddenly tear up manically, almost possessed; my hands would shake and in the pit of my stomach there was a weight dragging me all the way down to hell. My body was a prison trying to escape itself. Inside of me were rats nibbling at my bones. There was no escaping that.

That’s how I felt, every time I remembered. That’s the thing with pain, it doesn’t let you get used to it. It slips away as you bite into a piece of cake or as someone kisses you. It allows you to take a breath, to regain control of the tremors. A TV show, a few pages of a book, a good meal, a friend making you laugh and you forget. It never lasts long. Blissful forgetfulness is a privilege I no longer hold. The pain, the grief, the anger, the unfairness of it all vomits out of me when I least expect it.

“Take a breath. I’m not going to tell you it’s going to be ok because I don’t want you to bite my head off but we do not know yet. That’s what the biopsy is for, so that we can know. A tumour doesn’t have to mean cancer.” As she spoke, I stared at her in disbelief.

What did she say? Did she say cancer? What the fuck is she talking about?

“You’re looking at me like I just punched a puppy. What’s going through your mind?”

“You said cancer.” I had stopped crying. “Why did you say cancer? I have a tumour.”

“That’s what having a tumour means babes! A tumour is cancer.” She looked dumbfounded.

“I… I never linked the two together. I just assumed a tumour was something else.”

“What did you think it meant?”

“I don’t know. I don’t fucking know. Until about a week ago I never gave any of this any thought. Have you?”

“No, I haven’t. I don’t think anybody does unless they have to.”

As we lay side by side on my bed, I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t think she did either. I stared at the dark. I wanted to be held. I wanted my husband to be there. I wanted him to tell me we were going to fight this together. It had been nine months since he left. I never felt like I needed him more.

I finally drifted into sleep.

The next morning, I found Chaos asleep on the sofa.

“Morning,” I whispered.

“I’m not asleep. I just like keeping my eyes closed.”

“What are you doing on the sofa?”

“I couldn’t sleep so I decided to write some and fell asleep in the middle of a paragraph.”

“Want some coffee?”

“Got any green tea?”

We drank in silence, looking at the blueness of the sky. ‘There would be no more snow,’ I thought. I had seen the last of it.

“I have a lot to do today. Are you gonna be ok?”

“Go, fly! Live your incredible life and don’t you worry about queer old me.”

“You can call me anytime, ok?”

I watched her leave. Chaos must have been on Ambien because she didn’t do justice to her nickname, she didn’t even break anything.

As the door closed shut behind her, my vision blurred.

EPISODE 6

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The woman behind the plastic partition had a face like a brick. The Spanish middle-aged woman had not laughed nor fucked in a couple of decades to say the least. She looked like every receptionist I had ever encountered at a centro de salud with a long face unfazed by the vicissitudes of life and a jaded approach to everything she did while purposefully refusing to type more than one key at a time.

“I’d like to see my doctor today please?”

“¿Tarjeta?” I handed over my social security card and placed it in a cardboard bowl which looked strangely like an upcycled coffee cup holder. As soon as I placed it there, she took it with her bare hand.

She typed, slowly, a key at a time, the long list of numbers on my card. She squinted. She looked from under her glasses. She looked at the card from afar and finally, she pressed enter.

“¿Que? ¿Hoy? ¡Mi pobre niño!”

She made oohs and ahs and grimaced at the computer screen while biting down on her lower lip.

“¡Es que tu doctor de cabecera está de vacaciones!” She looked up at me and feigned embarrassment. I knew the move. It was a classic: there is nothing else I can do. My hands are tied. I’m sorry. Next!

“¿Es que acaban de diagnosticarme con un tumor en el cerebro, señora?” I pointed to the middle of my forehead.

Her eyes widened like an owl. She stared at me for what felt like longer than necessary and returned to the computer. She typed a little faster this time. She bit her lower lip and scratched her head. The whole thing was cartoonish. A real Tex Avery show. And then, as if by magic, the computer started to cooperate.

There was a doctor, claro que sí.

They would see me right away, claro que sí.

It had been merely a couple of hours since I had faced the neurosurgeon. I hadn’t fully grasped how bad things were but if she reacted that way, it couldn’t be good. In my experience, clerks didn’t look for solutions. ‘Computer says no.’ Yet, she was handing me a scrap of paper with a room number and telling me to hurry on up. It was unsettling how frightfully fast the doors were opening once I had mentioned my tumour. Bruno seemed to be getting me fast-tracked.

I had barely settled on the metal bench when I heard my name called in. There was a kind faced doctor smiling at me and inviting me in.

“So, what brings you here?” she asked.

“I have just been diagnosed with a tumour.” She didn’t let me finish.

“Let me, er, look at your file.”

She read silently, without giving anything away for what felt like an eternity. Her face didn’t betray her like the woman downstairs. I hadn’t asked her for anything and yet she was handing me my baja.

“I can’t give you any longer, I’m afraid. I’m not your assigned doctor. I’ve given you a month and then he will prolong it. Ok?”

I was in and out of el centro de salud in about 10 minutes. My friends tell me I’m dramatic—and I am—but bureaucratic efficiency is a dead giveaway that you’re about to die.

I wobbled outside the building and held onto a lamppost. I was supposed to walk into my appointment this morning and be told “¿Porque nos están haciendo perder nuestro tiempo, señor?”—that’s what I was supposed to be told. I was supposed to be misgendered and move on with my life. Not that it was a tumour that may be nibbling through my brain, not that they were gonna cut me open to get a peekaboo, not fast-tracked through red tape and sent home, alone, with a pat on the back. I slid down the lamppost and rested on the pavement for a bit—told you, I was dramatic. Bruno was not only fast-tracking me through the health care system, he was also a one way ticket to the grave.

I walked home to my empty flat where there wasn’t a hug in sight or the wagging tail of a happy dog to welcome me in. As I turned the key, I felt lightheaded. I held onto the wall and breathed in. I had just discovered circular breathing where you take a long inhale, followed by a short inhale and then exhale slowly. So that was what I did. I inhaled, inhaled and exhaled. Long, short, exhale. Long, short, exhale. The tsunami I feared didn’t happen. I walked in and closed the door behind me.

My flat was the only achievement in my life I considered as such. I had bought it nine years prior. Even in my childhood I had never stayed nine years in the same house. In the entrance, I had draped pink, velvety curtains to cover a wall and turned the entrance into some sort of secret threshold to an underground cabaret. The rest of the house was simpler but cosy and filled with various trinkets from all of the lives I had led. Home felt like home, with or without the husband and the dog. It was my refuge.

I poured myself a cup of coffee, out of habit, and plopped my ass on the sofa. I stared into nothingness while my coffee got cold. It was the knock on the door that brought me back to reality.

Enters Chaos, also known as Lucy.

She was out of breath, she leaned against the door and added that she came here as fast as she could. I didn’t remember having called her. One breath in and she burst into my flat and started monologuing about the many –the very many– obstacles that had been in her way. How she couldn’t find her travel card because her flatmate had moved a very important bowl where she was keeping her very important things by the front door; how he had left her on read, how they were going to need to have a talk; how she therefore had to grab a city bike, how the first one had no battery and the other a broken wheel; then there was something about a cab driver honking at her and screaming behind his windshield; some dudes whistling at her; she mentioned a cat… The flurry of catastrophes to get to my place was the equivalent of having crawled the seven circles of Hell on her bare knees. I’d always admired her ability to talk about the most mundane things with such authority. She could rabbit on for hours about a Facebook Marketplace ad and how she didn’t get the thing she wanted. She was life minutiae being thrown at you with great and excited verbiage.

And I listened. I listened the way I always did, to forget that I had problems too. One in particular right now, one that dwarfed everything that had come before. Bruno.

When she finally sat down, she looked me dead in the eyes: “So,” she paused, “how are you?”

I sighed. I knew she meant business.

Bruno, meet Chaos!

Continue to Episode 5

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It was 11am.

I was standing outside the hospital, my head reeling from the news. The tumour, the biopsy. I was due at work at 12.

I had no one I could call. My husband had left me. Everyone was at work and I didn’t dare tell my mother. How did you tell the one who’s brought you into the world that you were about to get kicked out? – I couldn’t.

I did the only thing I could think of: I walked.

I walked, seemingly aimlessly, just to calm down my amygdala’s response. I had read somewhere that walking engages your eyes and that as they dart from left to right, it slowly quietens the trauma response. So when panic takes hold, I walk. The streets weren’t busy, I guessed everyone was already staring at spreadsheets and asking ChatGPT what to do. I walked up an avenue I knew well. There was a coffee place where I once had breakfast; a florist where I bought my ex a bouquet; the building entrance where I had held a friend after his therapy session; I had met a date just around that corner over there and slept with him in the alleyway. Every step revived a memory, before long I was surrounded by the echoes of a life on its last breath.

Iterations of myself came to life, they stood, fully realised, right before my eyes. There was little me, scared and hunched over in a corner frightened by the screaming; bigger me staring down the barrel of a rifle; teenager me stepping on a scale and hating themself; young adult me dancing to Abba; the me that starved themself; the one on the other side of the world; the one in the snow, staring at a corpse; the one begging to be loved; the one at a keyboard, hoping to type the rage away; a joyful one riding a bike; a thousand different me’s lining the street, daring me to acknowledge them all. To remember the whole of it: Leo, Jerry, JJ, Jerome, La, Paul, all of my skins. They were screaming in a single voice, “It’s too soon. We don’t want to go.”

I don’t want to go…

Though they soon faded away, I could sense their presence around me, hanging on tight. I tried paying attention to the gentle flow of my gait, then, my strides – hoping to root myself in the moment – by and by I was feeling each step against the pavement, heel to toe, heel to toe… I realised my feet were taking me to work.

I was being a good little soldier who would turn up, slap on a smile and perform. Dance, little monkey, dance! – and I would dance.

Capitalism and productivism always won. I had been told well: Listen to the man and do as the man says. Yes, daddy!

I was a couple of blocks away; it was too late to call in sick anyways…

I remembered the three thoughts I’d had: 1. I’m going to die. 2. I have wasted my life. 3. I have never been to Thailand.

I reached for my phone.

I wouldn’t dance afterall.

How do you tell your boss you have a brain tumour? How do you break the news? I mumbled at first, “I’m… er… I received some really bad news today. I won’t be coming in. I can’t…” I could sense the emotion rising in my throat so I said, “I’ll leave copious notes. I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry.

In the First Wives Club, Dianne Keaton walks in on her husband in bed with her therapist. She loses her mind and starts yelling. All she can scream are “I’m sorry’s.” as she stumbles backwards into a wall. I felt like I had walked head first into said wall and that I was apologizing to it for the inconvenience.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry, this is an inconvenience.

I’m sorry, I made your day more difficult and that you have to shuffle things around.

I’m sorry, I have a tumour.

I’m sorry, I can’t dance for you today.

I’m sorry, I won’t be dancing for you today.

I’m sorry, not all of my energy and thoughts are gonna be poured into making you richer.

I’m sorry, I have given you all of my time.

I’m sorry, I have given you my youth.

I’m sorry, I have given you my creativity, my joy and my smiles.

I’m sorry, I have given and you have taken.

I’m sorry, I let you.

I’m sorry, I’m going to die.

I’m FUCKING sorry.

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Episode 4

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When the neurosurgeon said “tumour”, I left my body.

I was used to dissociation. I had spent over twenty years of a somewhat disappointing sex life dissociating every time someone fucked me.

I angled my body one way and another, moving strategically so that he wouldn’t notice how disgustingly fat I was. I held my stomach in. I kept my t-shirt on and pulled down on it constantly. It was as if the minute pleasure was supposed to erupt, I was swept in a whirlwind of intrusive thoughts instead: Does he like me? Will he stay for breakfast? Will he give me his phone number? Is he enjoying this? Am I doing it right? Maybe he doesn’t like this that way? I wish I looked different, I wish I moved differently … And that was when it all went well. I often looked at ceilings, waiting for it to pass. I could have said no. I could have told them to leave. I didn’t. I felt like it wasn’t the proper thing to do. You just had to go through with it. I counted cracks on the ceiling. I faked pleasure by moaning loudly. I faked coming. I grinded my teeth through it all until it was over. Once they came—they always cum—I took the win: Well done me! Bravo!

But then insecurities flooded in: Are we gonna cuddle now or is he gonna jump in the shower to wash me off him? Is he gonna leave? When is he gonna leave? Should I say something funny? Should I ask what’s gonna happen now? Should I tell him I like him? Why am I so pathetic? Why can’t I just get my shit together? Why can’t he love me already? When will someone kiss me again? Hold me again?

Twenty years of not being present and not letting my body feel any of it.

Twenty.

Fucking.

Years.

So when she said tumour, I instantly recognised where I had gone. It was a side step, behind the veil of a breathing membrane that held you captive in a soft, grainy blur. My body moved and functioned independently from my will. I… I was floating slightly to the side of my corporeal self; lost, defenceless, trapped.

There, fear took hold. Three distinct thoughts came rushing in:

1. I’m going to die

2. I have wasted my life.

Death had never scared me, per se. I witnessed her at a young age and she’d been visiting regularly ever since. As a child, I attended funerals so often that I could have recited the Mass myself. I knew how to say goodbye and the importance of throwing a bit of dirt on the coffin as a final farewell; I hated it when people scattered petals—philistines. I knew to tell people you love you love them while they’re still around to say it back. I also knew that I didn’t want to be filled with regrets when my time had come so I travelled the world and continuously challenged myself.

Yet, there I was—my time had come—and my first thoughts were regrets.

3. I’ve never been to Thailand.

I saw a beach in Thailand—a beach I had never been to. It was nighttime, beside a blazing campfire, with people dancing and drinking in the moonlight. I was sitting on a log witnessing the party from afar, grateful to be there, simply enjoying it secondhand. I was an observer, someone who could see joy in the world but couldn’t partake in it.

It brought me back to London in the late ‘90s when we would go cruising in the park, George Michael style. Then, I’d sit and hold everyone else’s bags. I witnessed the hookups from the safety of a bench under a lamppost, watching life happen, hearing the groans, far too scared to venture into the bushes.

The neurosurgeon kept talking, “Unfortunately, the scans aren’t telling us everything we need to know, the tumour is difficult to access. Not impossible, mind you. Just tricky. The problem is these kinds of tumours have a tendency to spread and nibble their surroundings. We should do a biopsy. I’ll check with the whole team first though.” She paused abruptly. For what felt like the first time since I sat down, she looked at me, smiled and said “So I’ll see you next week.” I shook her hand and stepped outside. The bang of the door closing brought me back into my body.

What did she say?

I placed my earbuds in and rushed outside. I pressed play—I had recorded the entire conversation.

“They nibble their surroundings.” I paused the recording and rewinded. “They nibble their surroundings.” and again. “They nibble their surroundings.” and again.

Episode 3

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I walked confidently towards room B42 - I expected it to be over quickly, “Porque nos están haciendo perder nuestro tiempo, señor?” the doctor would say. My non-binary ass would tick at being referred to as a señor but she was a neurosurgeon and I needed her to like me—even if it meant being a señor.

I read somewhere that it’s called minority stress: how you have to continuously hide your queerness, change your pronouns to the acceptable sex so that you may not be discriminated against in your time of need, and how you definitely shouldn’t be showing up in a full skirt with your nails done. Today I’ll be a señor - my themness would just have to take it on the chin.

The neurosurgeon asked me to sit down. I sat down. There were no hellos, no how-are-yous, no nice-to-meet-you. I braced for a bollocking, for the dreaded, “Porque nos están haciendo perder nuestro tiempo, señor?” but that ‘s not what she said.

She looked at me with a seriousness I had never experienced before, “Unfortunately, the scans are telling us everything we need to know, the tumour…” I stopped listening. I knew about a shadow. I had gone through five MRIs (they strap you up, lock your head into a plastic cage and roll you into a coffin, panic attack ensues but you have to stay there, still, while the world is spinning around you, while all you wanna do is rip your face out). I did countless blood tests and other varied appointments to people as confused as me as to why I was there. And every single person along the way said the exact same thing, “It’s nothing, just a shadow. We’re trying to get a better look at it. Nothing to worry about.”

She said tumour; the neurosurgeon said tumour.

I should give the tumour a name… give it a name? Him a name? Her a name? It feels like a he. Javier the tumour? Graham the tumour? Zohran the tumour? It should start with a B, a B like brain; that’s where he lives after all. Benedict? Bartholomew? Bruno? As the song goes we don’t talk about Bruno… Bruno will do. That was my uncle’s name. He died shooting himself in the head - It’s fitting.

It took a year to get to Bruno. Almost 12 months to the day. A simple check up to look at some gland in my head - the doctor wanted to look at something and behind the ordinary, nothing-to-see-here something, there was another something: a baby Bruno. It didn’t have a name yet. He was just a shadow. A shadow that wasn’t supposed to be there and that had lodged itself deep inside my head.

Baby Bruno isn’t, per se, a brain tumour. Bruno is an underachiever. Bruno is hiding right beneath the brain, loved up on a bit of bone called Clivus.

Bruno and Clivus up on a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G!

Even my tumour is a a faggot.

The neurosurgeon’s face seemed to be paralysed mid-frown, she was expecting me to say something. I wasn’t there. I had no idea what she had said.

“So I’ll see you next week,” I acquiesced with a nod. It’s only when I stood up that I realised I was crying. I closed the door behind me and looked at a room full of strangers holding on to their little tickets like I had been, waiting to be called in, waiting to find out if they too had a tumour, if they too had to go on a slab and be opened up. I stood motionless in front of her door until the next patient pushed me out of the way to get to B42.

Outside, the sun was shining only a winter sun knew how to, the city was buzzing and people were rushing to and fro, nothing had changed, the world was turning. I found a quiet spot and collapsed. I had never felt so intensely alone before. I didn’t know who to call because the only person I wanted to hug was my husband and he had left me and taken the dog with him. That’s when I burst out laughing. Who the fuck was in charge of writing my life? That scriptwriter up in the sky had a twisted sense of humour…and I didn’t know it yet but he was far from being done.

Continue to episode 2

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