Fahrenheit

Fahrenheit.

But not like that one movie. You know the one I mean, with Kim Basinger, I think. Though not the one where they fucked on the stairs. The other one. The one with temperature.

Remember Kim Basinger in the '90s, before she played Eminem's mum in 8 Mile? Not that I'm dismissing Kim Basinger now—for she's still got it.

She is still Kim Basinger.

But why am I thinking of Kim Basinger when I should be thinking of Kylie?

No. I mean I should be thinking of turning on a fan or opening a goddamn window before this fire burns out of control and the heated gaseous exchange fuels flames from my oesophagus.

Not even Daenerys...

The ice dissipates in the glass as soon as it hits the Irn-Bru, and I wonder why fucking idiots struggle with the name Irn-Bru, and it makes me hot with anger.

Iron Brew.

Eye-rn Broo.

Then I think about how the truncated form of borough stumbles fuckers from places like London and New York, where boroughs are familiar.

Burgh.

It's not "burg."

Not a Hamburg or hamburger thing.

Ed in burgh.

Ed. Some guy called Ed stood in the borough.

The Royal Borough of Edin...

Then I felt it in my arse.

No, not my arse.

The polar opposite, exactly to the top of my head anatomically. That bit where my balls hang down.

Raisins, they are.

Raisin hell.

As my boxers, that are supposed to breathe for my testicles, I adjust and enjoy the hang.

Why am I erect?

Oh. Wife in next to nothing.

But don't touch me. Or don't touch her.

Because skin is on fire, and not in a good fucking way.

A good fucking.

Damn.

Stop.

Corroborate and listen as I sigh.

Calm.

Time for no boxers, but shorts and no top.

Paunch displayed shamefully, but like I could give a fuck when the sun's bringing me the joy and the desperation for even that Jägermeister Ice. A shot or two plus a splash of tonic water.

Fancy.

Cooling down with some "Slow" or "All the Lovers" by Kylie.

Wait.

This isn't cooling me.

Stop husking, you dangerous Antipodean, you.

I'll put on Slayer instead.

Oh, that breeze as the distant drums rumble.

I wish that thunder was real.

Oh crap.

That riff.

"Raining Blood."

I'd be happy if it was ice cold, maybe.

What a disgusting image.

So I'm down to my last piece of clothing, like a night out when you're a kid gone right or wrong.

But isn't it funny that we can laugh about that when it's men, but for women in a town it might be frightening?

So I sit close to my wife and look into her eyes and try to experience all she has when her gender became a weapon to be used against her because she existed.

Then I try to place my hand on hers.

But fuck.

It's hot.

Stand in the freezer, which makes it work harder and produce more heat.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Why is there no ice cream or ice left?

Oh, that's right.

The Jäger, the lemonade, the squash...

And the idea of letting one dissolve over her décolletage feels heavenly...

...until my raisins are lifted and sucked in beneath the mounting centurion within my shorts.

But not boxers.

Because I definitely removed them.

Didn't I?

And didn't forget?

Nope.

North points towards me as I look in.

So no ice melting on her décolletage.

Oh well.

Maybe I'll fire up the TV.

And that's only a reference if they pay me.

The Towering Inferno.

Well, I would rather be here than there.

Barbecues look at me with evil grins as I think of the succulence.

Succulence, even though whoever commandeers the outdoor alfresco grill is charring everything, and you wonder why your burgers or peppers don't look like they did in that advert you saw before you bought them, and the £200 barbecue that you can't even bear to stand beside.

And "bare" is apt.

Because "bear" is right.

But "bare" is apt.

Wife's gone to bed to cool down.

But not for sex.

Don't you dare lie down beside me because this heat will boil your nutsack off.

Instantaneous amateur vasectomy.

Open the window a crack and close the curtains as she disrobes completely.

So I take myself away because I just need to cool down.

And there's some idiot still saying global warming isn't a thing.

This is Scotland.

This is fucking baking in fucking June.

But it's just normal.

Not because of mismanagement, overuse of oil and gas...

And overuse.

So we overheat.

And Ian still trying to find a draught or a breeze.

Drinking water until I bloat, and then I need to wait until I pass it.

Wait.

Why did I say "Ian"?

I meant "I am."

Then I can't move, but also don't want to stay still.

Where is that modicum of sense?

Where did it leave me?

And then I lie down and immediately regret it.

Then I remember that glorious thing.

Can it be?

Can it be true?

As I frantically dance into the kitchen and rummage.

Oh boy, do I rummage.

In the fridge, or the cupboard, past the beans and the random bit of root ginger, and find it.

One can of Sprite.

More money, please.

Other lemonades with lime are available.

If you have an orchard, or the lemon-and-lime equivalent, you could do it yourself if you didn't mind standing naked in your kitchen as you squeeze and pound those juicy rounds, draining and drenching the liquid over your hands.

Because that's not sexual.

Or that one can.

Oh, it has rivulets, or beads, of condensation because...

Here is the science bit.

(Come back when I can think straight to explain the science bit of condensation on a highly carbonated aluminium can, because there is a "u" in that word.)

Can of sweet liquid.

Oh, I could pull the ring-pull to heaven.

But then I remember.

Naked wife.

Bed.

Cooling down.

The oppressiveness of being a woman.

Ogled and manhandled without consent.

Then I offer her the can.

Because not all heroes wear capes.

She tells me she doesn't need to know which ones don't wear capes.

Because Thor, Batman, Superman, Supergirl, Batgirl, Wonder Woman and Robin all wear capes.

She's grateful.

And so am I.

And as most of it misses her mouth, drips down her décolletage to her breasts, and beads in her navel before rolling over her glorious mons pubis...

Mons pubis. Not Mons Olympussy.

Not the biggest mountain in the solar system.

I need to excuse myself.

And not think about...

That.

Mm.

What about peaches?

Or viaducts.

Or why that husky voice is still playing in my mind.

Fourteen.

Wait.

Why did I say four...teen?

Four teens.

And then the weather warning.

Really?

A weather fucking warning.

Weather warming.

Leather warming.

Sprite-hydrated skin, and I'm in here praising and cursing the gases in the sky.

Burning.

And I hear the steps of feet on carpet.

Oh, how I hate carpets this time of year.

And like a dandelion dancing in the breeze...

That breeze that right now doesn't exist...

I stumble to the doorway from the lounge to the hallway and watch as my naked, juicy, fragranced, fizzed-skin wife and her breasts sway.

"I think I'll have a cold shower."

And my mind races.

Or it did already.

"Alone."

And as I hear her gasp and groan under the water as it sprays everywhere, undoubtedly rolling down her décolletage like silent promises of gentle embraces, down her curves and over flesh...

I can't stand it.

Literally.

I stumble back to my chair and lie down.

But instantly regret it.

My raisins grind a little.

And everything feels a little blurry.

Then I imagine a meadow, long green tresses of grass, lying and cooling as a gentle breeze works its way through, gently pushing the grass forward. It yields momentarily, and then it hits the backs of our necks.

Calm.

Until a fucking dragon burns it all around us.

And we are stuck in a circle of fire.

It's dancing like weirdos.

I mean locals on the Isle of Wight around a May fucking pole.

No, fucking May.

She's celibate and might not be interested in you.

And we are being burned because small town pagans will kill you in the end.

Fahrenheit or Celsius.

Kim Basinger on the stairs.

No, not that.

That was 9½ Weeks.

Which doesn't sound inherently sexual.

But for the grace of Basinger on stairs...

It's too fucking hot.

And my raisins have achieved peak perfectification.

*

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