I’ve had a dead man under my bed for four days now. Yesterday, I started to feel hopeful that he might just quietly mummify and I could leave him there and forget about him, but I woke up this morning to a faint, but persistent, odour curling around my pillow, and a vague darkening of the carpet by the side of the bed which was damp and slightly sticky to the touch.
I didn’t murder him – he died in natural circumstances. As natural as those circumstances can be when you’re hogtied wearing nothing but a gimp mask, with clothes pegs on your nipples and testicles. It had taken a few minutes for me to start worrying about the strange noises he was making, which initially I’d found quite off-putting but put down to his mounting excitement, and by the time I took the mask off to check his breathing, he wasn’t breathing anymore.
Now, there’s nothing illegal about having a strange old man who you’ve met an hour ago on the internet come round to your flat for an evening of room odorisers and BDSM -even if he ends up dying. His profile had said 56 – his heart had said 70 plus. I hadn’t actually done anything WRONG – but what I had done was something very embarrassing, and I’d hoped that maybe if I just shoved him under the bed and thought about something else for a few days I might be able to avoid that embarrassment becoming public.
I’m not a gay chap. If I WAS one, I wouldn’t be embarrassed about being one, but as my gay moments of convenience had been an entirely private business, I felt I’d very much like to keep it that way. This wasn’t an optimal way for my family and few acquaintances to discover that, on occasion, when very drunk, I sometimes invited strange men back to my squalid flat for kinky sex because it took a lot less pre-planning and energy than convincing women to come over. There was no optimal way.
So I didn’t call the police. I managed to half drag, half kick him under the bed, then I deleted my profile on the cursed site which had enabled this unpleasant state of affairs, got more drunk and slept on the sofa. The sofa’s not good for my back, though – so I slept in the bed after that, though there was a noticeable hump in the middle of the mattress which I had to curl around to push the image of him lying there, staring at the carpet, still with clothes pegs attached, back out of my mind.
But he’s obviously not going to conveniently desiccate, and I imagine that once a corpse begins to break down, it’s strictly a one way process that can only end in flies, maggots and public health inspectors knocking the door down.
I have to get rid of him. Today.