by Kerry Hudson
It travelled to my stomach via a child’s hand in Sierra Leone, a crooked pilot’s sodden sports sock, from a back alley in 6th Avenue and finally via my undulating gullet. Perfectly hewn, like glass it reflected Eddie’s meaty face and my blue eyes, still cold and startled from being found at 3.46, bruised and swollen, by the side of a Californian freeway. He put it in a Trojan, dipped it in strawberry milkshake and I swallowed the irony that it was the most classiest blowjob I had ever given. I am the mule, I have seen enough movies to know that is my name, sweet looking, wide eyed, dressed in Marc Jacobs yes, but a mule none the less. I walk like I’m pregnant, though my belly is as flat as the shiny airport floor and I feel its twinkle in a latex prison cutting my guts. Later, when I have passed the grey customs of Heathrow, I will ruin my manicure in the airport toilets, rooting through my laxative laced shit for Eddie’s diamond; then - I will run for my life, away from memories of 3.46 at the side of the road, Eddie's blowjobs, and his belief that I am nothing better than an animal.
Kerry Hudson writes short stories and is currently working on her first novel. She is 27 and lives in North London, in a pile of books and shoes called home, with her beautiful partner Susanna.