Listen to the author reading this story:
Every man I fuck, I take something from them.
With Todd, it was his beautiful blue eyes. Sammy, his pianist hands. Bryson, his luscious lips, the ones that kissed me pink with desire as the Hammersmith and City line made his flat tremble.
I’d wait until they were asleep, holding my breath in unfamiliar rooms, watching their faces slacken in the half-light. Then I’d take out the penknife that always clanked in my bag, grab my prize and leave before they even noticed, out into the night.
At first I started small: pieces that could fit in my duffle coat pocket, which I’d fondle as I skipped along streets bright with chicken-shop neon, hood up against the cold and rain, guided home by the red tip of Crystal Palace tower.
Soon, I needed to go bigger. Hands and feet, they could fit inside a bag for life no problem, but when I moved on to arms and legs I had to wrap them in blankets and cradle them like a baby on the top deck of the night bus. Noah’s torso was the worst. I broke my usual rules and resorted to an Uber, but I needed his chest, so beautiful and chiselled, tanned skin scattered with tattoos; a map of his life before me. That fare was the best £13.50 I ever spent.
The driver never gave me a second look. I was just another good-time girl. And I never gave the men a second thought. I didn’t miss them. I had their best bits, after all.
By the time I got home, though, the thrill had usually faded, and I just shoved the body parts under my bed, the smaller ones crammed in a shoebox with my other memories: old gig tickets, festival wristbands, birthday cards from friends I hadn’t seen for years, but still couldn’t bear to throw away.
Most of the time I forgot about my secret collection; it was enough just to know the parts were there. But every so often I’d get them out to relive the feeling of those arms around me, or those eyes looking deep into mine. Removed from their owners, they were so much more appealing than they had been as part of a living, breathing man.
Sometimes, though, the parts seemed to have a life of their own. In the middle of the night I’d jolt awake, sweating, to see a hand poking out from under the bed, its finger pointing up at me.
Those were the nights I thought I should stop collecting. The nights my room smelt of blood and rot and shame, and I promised myself no more.
But I couldn’t stop.
I’d be at the pub, having a drink with friends, and in would walk a man with something really stunning about him. He could be tall or short, fat or thin or muscular, black or white or any colour in between. All he needed was one beautiful part. And it had to be something I didn’t already own – because what was the point of having four pairs of eyes, if I didn’t have any toes?
My chest would get tight and it’d feel like I couldn’t breathe until I found a way to approach him. Then my friends would sigh and roll their eyes at each other, knowing they’d lost me for the night. They didn’t know about my collection, though. They wouldn’t understand, especially as they were coupling up, with men and women who always asked where they were and who they were with.
Eventually, I was the only one still single. My mum and aunties and colleagues started wondering why I didn’t have a boyfriend. They told me I should be less picky. If I kept waiting around for perfection, they said, I’d never find anyone.
I told myself that if I found a man whose parts were all perfect, I’d settle down. But everyone had some flaw. So I carried on. Soon, it wasn’t about the men at all, just what I could take. I didn’t even enjoy the sex all that much, most of the time. It was just a means to an end.
My collection grew and grew.
Early one morning, staggering away from Stockwell in a grey dawn, stroking Dan’s particularly wonderful nose, it hit me. I couldn’t find the perfect man, so I’d have to make him.
Once home, I dragged the parts out from under my bed, never mind the mess. There were bits of body everywhere, oozing fluids onto my regulation beige carpet, chiding me for leaving them there so long: an eyebrow raised accusingly; teeth that looked ready to bite.
I hesitated. What if one of my housemates burst in and saw what I was doing?
But I needed a man – at least that’s what everyone told me.
I took a deep breath and got to work. Cutting, splicing, stapling; holding the most delicate parts with tweezers, sticking out my tongue as I performed the trickiest operations. I laboured through the morning, into the afternoon, not even stopping for a cup of tea, driven by a quest for utter perfection. None of my housemates came to check on me. They probably didn’t even realise I was home.
The light was fading by the time I finished my masterpiece. Trembling with exhaustion I stepped back to admire my man. The best of all the body parts I’d ever seen – and I’d seen a few.
I gasped.
He was beautiful.
Todd’s eyes and Bryson’s lips, Dan’s nose and Cillian’s hair. On their own, the parts were perfect enough, but together they were sublime.
I smiled shyly at my man.
He was so flawless – what if he didn’t like me?
He blinked with long lashes. Those gorgeous lips twitched. I held my breath, fearing they were forming a sneer.
Then his face broke into a grin – Clyde’s white, even teeth – and he held out a faltering arm. He took a step forward and almost fell on legs that looked like Arnie’s, but were as wobbly as Bambi’s.
Of course: he had to get used to this new body. I ran to his side and held him upright as we took a clumsy waltz around my room.
For the next few days I called into work sick so I didn’t have to leave his side. My man was still getting to grips with walking and talking, while I took every opportunity to worship his body. I was glad then that I’d chosen Harry’s dick instead of some of the more monstrous ones I’d encountered. It meant we could do it again and again. And my man never seemed to get tired of me. I spent hours gazing into those dreamy blue eyes, stroking that inked torso, feeling those supple hands lifting me up to straddle him once again.
But one morning, my man went to the window and peered out from behind the curtain. I was more interested in looking at Carlton’s fantastic arse, but even I could see it was a wonderful day, sunlight spilling into the communal garden and reflecting off the metal bins.
My man raised his hand and pointed at the trees and grass and graffiti.
Irritation flashed through me. Wasn’t I enough for him? But slowly it turned to pride. This was my chance to show him off. The whole world could see what a perfect man I had.
I crept downstairs and took some man-sized clothes off the radiator; my housemate Ian’s baggy jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with a naff evolution cartoon. My man’s muscles strained against the fabric, but it’d have to be good enough, until I could find something more suitable.
I opened the front door and he took his first steps into the big wide world. He hesitated, blinking against the light. Then he set off down the path, still limping a little.
“What shall we do?” I asked.
He shrugged. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist.
“I could take you shopping? Get you some better clothes?”
He nodded, so we hobbled to the high street to scour the charity shops for something less Ian. My man looked dapper in a silky shirt and tailored trousers, although he did insist on a ridiculous hat. That must’ve been why we got so many looks as we strolled along, arm in arm, him constantly trying to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the shop windows.
“How about brunch?” I stopped to look into one of my favourite cafés, but my man had caught the scent of something and was yanking me towards a frankly unhygienic-looking greasy spoon. I humoured him. He’d learn soon enough.
But inside, he seemed delighted with the plastic tables and the huge heaps of steaming food. I sipped my disgusting instant coffee and watched him shovel eggs and bacon and beans into his gorgeous mouth, which seemed sullied by the banality of it all. The 80s chart music and ingrained stink of chip fat made me depressed.
“Let’s go.” I stood, but my man glared at me, his eyes icy under the brim of his hat. It came back to me then: Todd staring over my shoulder at another girl, his eyes running up and down her body, feasting, before they turned back to me with a bored expression.
My man gestured at his plate, showing me he hadn’t finished. I sat back down, crossed my arms over my chest, and waited.
We finally left half an hour and two big breakfasts later, the waitresses watching us, envy written all over them.
I ignored their stares. A walk in the park was what we needed to cleanse the palate. We sauntered down the hill, past the sports centre and the farm, to the lake where the stone dinosaurs lived. I showed him the freakish megalosaurus, but he was more interested in running along the dusty paths, testing out his legs, which seemed to be getting stronger by the minute. My mistake, for harvesting them from a footballer and a sprinter.
A little girl stopped and pointed at him, eyes agog, but her mum hurried her away.
“Come on,” I grabbed his hand and he gripped back hard, crushing my fingers. I remembered Sammy’s hands wrapped around my throat, choking me as he shuddered to a climax, leaving red marks that took ages to yellow and fade.
When he finally let go, I shook out my hand, massaging the pain away. My man was just getting used to his own strength.
“Would you like a boat ride?” I asked, and he perked up.
The sun had gone into hiding behind some clouds, so there was hardly anyone on the boating lake when we arrived. I paid the guy in charge and he hooked us a squat piece of blue plastic with pedals. The boat guy did a double take when my man came closer, but he didn’t say anything. Instead he held the vessel steady as we wobbled towards our seats, then pushed the boat off onto the murky expanse of water.
We’d only been pedalling for a few minutes before I steered us right towards the bank. The boat slammed into the earth and lodged between some tree roots.
We tried to pedal backwards, but the boat was stuck.
My man’s lips pursed in disapproval. I thought of Bryson, whose mouth looked so delicate as it spat out barbs about my flabby thighs and body hair, while I burned with shame.
My creation let out a disgruntled cry and stood, sending the boat swaying. His movement must have dislodged us, because we started drifting backwards, away from the bank. As we rocked he threw out his arms, fighting to keep his balance.
I watched but did nothing to help. Memories flipped through my mind. Clyde’s teeth biting my shoulder, drawing blood – just a nip, stop crying. Dan’s nose wrinkling at my sweaty body after a night of dancing – you smell disgusting. Harry’s dick jabbing me, trying to find a way in while I was asleep; his annoyance when I woke up and told him to stop – you don’t need to do anything, just lie there.
The excitement that had coursed through my veins since I’d made my man went flat, like a can of Coke left out too long.
I shaded my eyes and looked at him more closely, scanning the sum of those perfect parts.
Up close his components were beautiful, but from the proper perspective he was a hideous montage. Not gorgeous at all, but shockingly ugly.
The monster moaned and flapped its hands, teetering as the boat pitched and rolled. Its fingers flexed, grabbing the air as if closing around my throat again. Its eyes glared poison at me.
I hesitated for a moment, then stretched out and gave the beast a push.
It staggered, stumbled over the side of the boat and into the lake with a plop. It thrashed, then went under, the murky water swallowing first Noah’s torso, then Bryson’s lips, Todd’s eyes and, finally, Cillian’s hair.
The boat kept drifting and I waited for the creature’s face to reappear, but there were just a few bubbles, then nothing.
There were no other boats nearby. Nobody walking their dogs on the path. No fuss, no commotion, no calls for an ambulance. It seemed that no one had even noticed.
I pedalled the boat back to the jetty, my legs shaking. The plastic hull scraped against the wood and the boat guy pulled me in. He didn’t ask where my man had gone. Didn’t even raise an eyebrow.
Once on dry land, I staggered back a few steps, realising what had just happened. Yes, my man had disappeared, but more importantly my whole collection had sunk with him. All those body parts I’d spent years gathering. My life’s work.
I’d probably never manage to find such loveliness again.
I stifled a sob as I remembered all those beautiful parts.
But I also remembered the things those parts had done to me. The pain and humiliation I’d suffered.
The sun broke through the clouds and I dried my eyes.
Perhaps beauty wasn’t what I needed. At least not beauty that thought it was better than me; that choked and bit and insulted me.
Maybe average was the way to go.
“Are you all right, love?” the boat guy asked.
I looked at him properly for the first time. He was...just fine. Medium build, brown hair, the hint of stubble across his jaw. He didn’t have one single distinguishing feature.
I gave him my best smile and moved towards him, my fingers brushing my bag, feeling the hard curve of my penknife through the fabric.
Madeleine Armstrong, a Pushcart Prize-nominated author, has won the Hammond House short story prize, and been published in mags including Bunker Squirrel, Frazzled Lit, Hooghly Review, Literary Garage, Micromance, Punk Noir, Trash Cat, Underbelly, Waffle Fried and WestWord. She’s a journalist and runner, and lives in London.
Find Madeleine on:
Twitter/X @Madeleine_write
Bluesky @madeleinewrite.bsky.social