Prime Cuts

 
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By Jason Nahrung © 2002 Click here to e-mail Jason

Jason Nahrung is a Brisbane writer who has worked as a journalist for more than 10 years. He began writing in primary school when he had poems published in the local newspaper, entertained classmates at high school with small, silly stories and snuck a year of creative writing into his Bachelor of Arts. He has recently returned to writing speculative fiction thanks to the encouragment of the Vision writers group. Prime Cuts is the first fruit of that labour.
To send e-mail to Jason please click on the postbox icon above.


Click here to find out more about the artist, Michael Connolly

He was sucking on a half-kilo of lean, organic mince in the meat aisle of the local supermarket when I met him. I was surprised — I didn’t think it was that kind of neighbourhood. That was part of the attraction.

He stood his ground, eyeing me like another piece of meat. I could almost feel the styrofoam tray under me, the plastic wrap holding me down, his desperate tongue sucking at me through the rips he’d made.

I shifted the image, to him sucking on the inside of my elbow. Inserting a shunt, taking his fill.

He smiled, wiped his glistening lips with the back of his hand, then rubbed his hands on his black jeans. There was no way I wanted those lips to actually touch me, but I smiled anyway.

I made him buy the mince — it was my local, after all, and I didn’t want second-hand meat — before we left.

His flat was as I had expected. Small, untidy, black curtains, stale incense, molten wax gone hard on the tabletop where the candles had dripped. At least they weren’t all black.

And the shunt. He offered a razor first, eyeing my chest like I was a number nine chicken. When that didn’t interest me he tried for my thigh, but I told him I was no leg of ham. So finally the shunt, thankfully clean and shiny in the harsh light from the naked bulb overhead. He’d wanted to light candles but I’d stopped him. I didn’t want to be stuck any more times than necessary, and him probing for a vein in the half-dark wasn’t my idea of a good time. I have never been one to sacrifice comfort for style. We compromised — he lit his candles and I turned on the light.

He told me I was beautiful as he put a compact disc in his little player, some electro-ambient stuff I’d heard revved up for the speed freaks at night clubs in the Valley. I ignored the music and the compliment. The beauty of our relationship was that external appearances didn’t matter. That I found his long, black coat ridiculously hot for the time of year, his pallor too deathly, his hair too oily — none of that mattered. We cared only for what was inside — for us, beauty really was skin deep.

He found my internal beauty with his first try, bless him, turning the blue promise in the crook of my arm to a red reality, squirting from the shunt into his mouth. He groaned in pleasure as I imagined him, a human syringe, drawing out blood, slowly filling with the swirling, pulsing redness. My arousal swelled until I just couldn’t wait any longer to have my turn.

I think he knew before then, maybe before he had even taken his first sip. But he didn’t fight and when I’d drunk my fill, I left him in the candlelight, cold and pale, just like any other piece of meat.

 

 

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