Friday, 6 March 2015


It’s good, because the cello is big between your thighs. Big as a torso. You can grasp it by the neck, punch your arm forward like a salute, and spin it around. You can sit, in thigh high boots or gold trainers, tensing all the muscles in your legs. Sticking out your elbows. Clenching your fists. Rocking back and forth on the freakouts, cunt against the drum stool.

None of the boys know how to play. So it doesn’t really matter when you fuck it up. They tell you, in the studio, it would be better if you played in time—in tune—but you don’t and you can’t, so. That’s not really the point in this anyway, and you bet they can’t do better. You show up in long socks and hotpants, too many stripes. You think: the men don't know, but the little girls understand.

A’s been in bands all her life, so she’s cooler, but you played in the classical orchestra, so you know some fancy tricks. Or you did, before you forgot them, but that doesn’t really matter either. You’ve both got kids’ stickers to show you where the fingers go: doughnuts and boats and choo-choo trains. If you shudder the bow fast enough, you can trick yourself it’s in tune.

See also: distortion pedals. Cymbal solo. Shrieking.

You get fingerprint bruises on the inside of your thighs. But it’s been a while since he was here, hickeying the skin. You ponder them in your underwear, and it takes you until the next practice—the twinge—to understand.

When you get too excited, you clamp it tight. 

For the show, you bring the hairspray and the feathers and the lipstick; she brings the cables and the pedals and the snare drum. You book the shows with the queer kids and the anarchists; she, the ones with free drinks and neon lights and a cut of the door. When they hand you the envelope, you feel indestructible. You cycle round the city under a full moon, singing your own songs, loud.

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