Juxtaposition By Alp Mortal
Categories: Fable | Gay
Word Count: 14,012 Heat Rating: 4 eBook Price: $1.20 / £0.99 Paperback Price: $3.99 / £3.20 Amazon link relinks.me/B00FQM2UOG  |
Juxtaposition, which carries the strapline ‘a safe sex fable for our times’, was written in the autumn of 2013 to highlight the alarming increase in the number of gay men living in London testing positive for HIV.
As of November 2015 (the last complete year’s data reported by NAM), although the number of gay men who have HIV without knowing it has declined in recent years, the United Kingdom’s HIV epidemic in gay men continues unabated. Incidence (the rate of new infections) remains high, new diagnoses are higher than ever before and prevalence (total number of people living with HIV) is also up. Across the UK, one in 20 gay men is living with HIV; in London, one in eleven. The story remains just as relevant now (December 2016) as it was back in 2013. In Juxtaposition, Emile tells his story, his encounter with Ben, who infects him with HIV. This story is simple and carries the obvious message. However, it was not written to demonise unsafe sexual practices; whether you play safe or not is your personal choice and responsibility. Please just think about the potential consequences. Be in no doubt, Juxtaposition does not have a happy ending, however, it is just as much about the relationship between Emile and his best friend Kristie - a story about the nature and value of friendship and compassion - and those themes are just as, if not more, important as any other message you will find in this story. Juxtaposition also gave rise to a video-based art project titled Juxtaposition - an abstraction, which was the output of a collaboration between myself, Roy Allen and Hal Sinden/Eulogy Media. The work was screened worldwide as part of the 2016 HIVideo event organised by Balaclava.Q in support of Art for World Aids Day. Juxtaposition - an abstraction can be viewed on YouTube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bpLlakD9qn0 I am always very happy to receive your feedback. If you wish to contact me directly, please email me at: [email protected]. Visit the website, www.alpmortal.weebly.com, for updates on my next project. Thank you, Alp Mortal UPDATE - You can listen to the soundtrack on Soundcloud.
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Excerpt:
“There’s no chance of an extension?”
“Sorry, Emile; it’s all over. Funding has dried up and all the rolling contracts are being terminated.”
“Fuck!”
“You’ve got the retention to come back to you.”
“Yeah … Thanks.”
“I’m really sorry.”
How many times has he said that today?
Like all of the others, I leave the desk and walk out with the cheque and … keep on walking … to the bar!
The bars are full of people like me, drowning their sorrows. We share a moment of camaraderie; “We’ll be okay!”
Will we?
This town is cruel to those without the means to feed its insatiable appetite … and we all did. I go home and throw everything onto the sofa and myself into bed. The morning will put a different complexion on things.
I get up at the usual time and shower; make coffee and light up before logging on to the laptop in order to send my CV to hundreds of agencies and prospective employers.
“I’m working to get another job!”
I go out and collect the dry cleaning, have coffee and pick up the groceries from Wild & Organic. When I return home, I find that the email inbox is becoming clogged up with gentle rejections; the phone hasn’t rung at all. I have noodles for dinner and catch a movie.
I repeat the process for days; getting up later, skipping the shower, spending more time on Gaydar than Manpower, busying myself wanking off to porn and calling chat lines.
Very soon, the place is a sty and I resemble the down and out I am very quickly going to become unless I get some benefits. Oh, Jesus! Claiming benefits; it’s the low point. Sign on to claim the Job Seeker’s Allowance and then apply for Housing Benefit. The last pay cheque and the bonus have paid the rent, the bills, and the credit card repayments for this month but there’s nothing left.
Those who were sensible, or just saw it coming, have decamped to Port Solent and the little harbourside apartment that they bought ten years ago when the egg was golden and the goose was laying. The goose got force-fed to produce more and more … and she did, and then her womb ruptured. I was not one of the foresighted or the sensible. I didn’t save the bonuses. I spent it all on having the lifestyle of the single, London gay man in his early twenties; obscene, conspicuous consumption. They’ll eventually classify it as a psychological disorder - OCCDS. I was the runaway train … though I didn’t realise it until now.
BUZZ
“Yeah …?”
“Emile?”
“Who’s that?” The fog of dull days is taking its time to clear.
“Kristie!”
“Oh my God! Come up …”
Shit! The place is a shit-hole and I’m a fucking mess.
Knock-knock.
“Hey, babe! Come in … excuse the mess.”
“Sweetheart, what the fuck!? I thought you’d died or just left … and … what is that smell?”
“I’ve not been well.”
“Outofworkitis! Get a shower; you stink!”
I head for the shower. I haven’t been ignoring Kristie on purpose. She’s special and I love her like a sister. And like a sister, I don’t have to be with her every minute of the day. We can go for a couple of weeks without much more than a few text messages.
Okay; I was trying to avoid Kristie because … let’s go there later. For now, I prefer to remember how we met; it was one of those moments you just dream about. I can recall it as if it was yesterday. How does time manage to pass so quickly?
“There’s no chance of an extension?”
“Sorry, Emile; it’s all over. Funding has dried up and all the rolling contracts are being terminated.”
“Fuck!”
“You’ve got the retention to come back to you.”
“Yeah … Thanks.”
“I’m really sorry.”
How many times has he said that today?
Like all of the others, I leave the desk and walk out with the cheque and … keep on walking … to the bar!
The bars are full of people like me, drowning their sorrows. We share a moment of camaraderie; “We’ll be okay!”
Will we?
This town is cruel to those without the means to feed its insatiable appetite … and we all did. I go home and throw everything onto the sofa and myself into bed. The morning will put a different complexion on things.
I get up at the usual time and shower; make coffee and light up before logging on to the laptop in order to send my CV to hundreds of agencies and prospective employers.
“I’m working to get another job!”
I go out and collect the dry cleaning, have coffee and pick up the groceries from Wild & Organic. When I return home, I find that the email inbox is becoming clogged up with gentle rejections; the phone hasn’t rung at all. I have noodles for dinner and catch a movie.
I repeat the process for days; getting up later, skipping the shower, spending more time on Gaydar than Manpower, busying myself wanking off to porn and calling chat lines.
Very soon, the place is a sty and I resemble the down and out I am very quickly going to become unless I get some benefits. Oh, Jesus! Claiming benefits; it’s the low point. Sign on to claim the Job Seeker’s Allowance and then apply for Housing Benefit. The last pay cheque and the bonus have paid the rent, the bills, and the credit card repayments for this month but there’s nothing left.
Those who were sensible, or just saw it coming, have decamped to Port Solent and the little harbourside apartment that they bought ten years ago when the egg was golden and the goose was laying. The goose got force-fed to produce more and more … and she did, and then her womb ruptured. I was not one of the foresighted or the sensible. I didn’t save the bonuses. I spent it all on having the lifestyle of the single, London gay man in his early twenties; obscene, conspicuous consumption. They’ll eventually classify it as a psychological disorder - OCCDS. I was the runaway train … though I didn’t realise it until now.
BUZZ
“Yeah …?”
“Emile?”
“Who’s that?” The fog of dull days is taking its time to clear.
“Kristie!”
“Oh my God! Come up …”
Shit! The place is a shit-hole and I’m a fucking mess.
Knock-knock.
“Hey, babe! Come in … excuse the mess.”
“Sweetheart, what the fuck!? I thought you’d died or just left … and … what is that smell?”
“I’ve not been well.”
“Outofworkitis! Get a shower; you stink!”
I head for the shower. I haven’t been ignoring Kristie on purpose. She’s special and I love her like a sister. And like a sister, I don’t have to be with her every minute of the day. We can go for a couple of weeks without much more than a few text messages.
Okay; I was trying to avoid Kristie because … let’s go there later. For now, I prefer to remember how we met; it was one of those moments you just dream about. I can recall it as if it was yesterday. How does time manage to pass so quickly?
