Page 8 of Way Down Deep

Nothing can be slightly exciting here.

Not even my messages to you, apparently, because now I’m fighting with myself again about whether I should have sent those last few lines. I’ve said a sexual word in front of you, in the middle of our texts about broccoli and being drunk and suffering through depression.

Though I suppose you did say that thing about Chat Roulette, first.

Can I be forgiven for masturbation, when you featured flapping dicks before I did?

8.28am

I wouldn’t worry about scandalizing me with casual mentions of dreary literary masturbation. Sex has always been easy for me to talk about. It’s probably the one genuine thing about me. In my old life I was all about artifice and airs, except when it came to sex.

But you seem shy about it, so I won’t say much more than that. We’ve got kind of a pure thing going on here, and I promise I’m not secretly getting off on all this. Typing with one hand, as it were. It’s not like that. I’m a gentleman pervert.

Plus, to be honest, sex is pretty far from my mind these days. Eroticism’s in short supply around here, what with the catatonic toddler and my impending alcoholism.

Anyhow, I was thinking. Let’s play a game, stranger. Truth or Dare, minus the dare part. We get to ask each other questions, and the other person has to answer them completely truthfully. We each get one pass. Deal?

Here’s one for you: How long has it been since you left your apartment, really? I know you know. How could you not?

9.52am

Is it okay to admit that I liked you calling yourself a gentleman pervert?

Or tell you that I’m not that shy?

I just need to know where the line is, in case I’m the one being ungentlemanly.

And I like the idea of truth or dare. It’s good and specific. It makes me feel like I’m not really answering at all, while answering pretty dreaded questions. I mean, I don’t even think I’ve told myself when I really last left, never mind you.

It took me an hour to work out when it actually was. An hour of pretending I had to clean the bathroom instead of coming up with the number right now. I polished the mirror over the medicine cabinet and scrubbed the bath to a high gloss before I finally gave in and counted.

And now I think I have it: seven months ago I had to grab a parcel that someone had left outside my apartment door. Though does that technically count if it was just in the hallway? It felt like it counted. I had to reach outside while lying down, and when I was done my body was slick with sweat and sort of limp like an old dishrag.

Now here’s my question for you:

Who did you think I was?

9.46pm

First off, apologies. I suggest a game, and then I disappear all day. To be honest…

To be honest, I just don’t fucking know if I’m ready for that one. I tried wording my reply, even started tapping the words out now and then, between errands and chores, but it never looked right. The letters weren’t coming together how I needed them to. The words were all wrong on my screen, like they weren’t real words at all, and so I deleted them, again and again.

I feel like an ass, passing on the very first question of a game I started, but games should be fun, I decided. We’ve built a nice little playground here so far, and I don’t want to be the cat that shits in the sandbox.

I’ll tell you sometime, promise. But not tonight.

Ask me another?

10.02pm

I’m going to start out this letter-message with a plea: don’t feel like an ass!

If you want to go lighter, we can go lighter.

How about this, then: top five films.

No shame over cheesiness is allowed, all answers are valid, films that you just can’t stop watching if they come on the telly are completely permissible.

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