EPISODE 10 - CUTIEPIE

“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.  

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!”