Memoir Mondays: Ft Ash Kenazi
Good Sex Tainted by Racism
Dear Reader,
It was Hallow’s Eve and I had caught the train from Paris to London and then decided at the last minute to jump on another train to see my friends at the Mac DeMarco show in Southhampton. As I walked in the backstage door this fabulousness strutted toward me in a orange-bobbed wig, wrapped in gaffa tape stomping, swaggering, lopsided and loud in black shiny platforms. Milla Jovovich in 5th Element. Ash Kenazi. Since then Ash has become a very special friend -MCing and performing drag opera at my debut in London and generally tearing roofs off places. So I am extremely pleased to introduce you with this KILLER memoir. We also did an extensive rambling interview you can listen to on The Pink Room and you can catch the act, the fabulousness of Ash Kenazi at The Moth Club in London on March 31st!!
Good Sex Tainted by Racism
by Ash Kenazi
Elevators are an ascent of self-reflection, a cubicle of self. It’s the most sterile places that bring out the truth. Airports and toilets, sterile yet demonstrative. I’ve lost my closest and understood the water closet, boundaries established beyond which a different life awaits; hence glory holes.
The perfumed elevator rose two floors and sealed my fate. 31. Green door. Silver knocker. Ok you didn’t tell me about that beard, oh ok that picture of you in the shower is doctored, oh ok don’t smile, your shorter than expected, keep the cap on please. I’ve come this far. May as well stay. No flooring, skirting board hanging, TV prize possession presented on plywood, shaved pussy, pizza box. Where’s the pink pound?
I didn’t get his name.
Option 1 but choose option 2. What’s my escape route? I could jump out the window. MAN ON GRINDR DATE COMMITS SUICIDE. FAMILY DISTRAUGHT. I take the couch. I find the background entertainment disconcerting, as though man on man should be masked by comedy or thriller.
“Do you smoke weed?”. Only to fuck you.
The blood rushes to the head while hands clasp. Every step a boundary crossed to a new limit. New limit. Stop. New limit. Stop. New limit. Stop. New limit. Stop. I’m still learning. I really went for it this time.
“You know, you’ve seen this area. Halal shop here, Halal shop there. Halal shop everywhere.” Oh, I’ve just fucked a racist? Do I have racist juice in me? Easier to let it sit, let the racism be accepted just one more time.
“Why are you circumcised?” “I’m Jewish”. Eyes widen, muscles flex, a stare into the middle distance that says: I just fucked a Jew. “I’ve never fucked a Jew before” with a furrow of the brow. Gentile does it. Don’t stir the pot this time.
I’m drinking his water. Is this water racist? That beard takes on new forms. The ginger curls carefully barbered. This is design. Manufactured racism. A racism built on aesthetics. My tutor would’ve been proud of that one.
Yet I’ve bared my whole soul, stared deep into my eyes, we were present, in a moment. Good sex tainted by racism.