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They stuck photocopies in the urinals again and again we covered them in our names Sheets of paper advising what to do if you hook up with someone in the club: always use a condom, introduce your hook-up for the night to someone you know, tell people where you’re going to be But the thing is, we don’t listen, we really do just think with our asses, scrawling our email addresses and phone numbers all over the pieces of paper along with our names and specifications: ‘I’ll suck you off’, ‘Hung’, ‘Goes all night’, ‘For bondage and threesomes’ They’re killing us It’s no joke and the worst part is we enjoy falling as if we’re wounded little swallows with our tight trousers and our cold, shining eyes like disco balls in an empty nightclub Last week, for instance, there was another murder in the papers Someone hooked up with a guy, here in the Vaquero according to some people, though others say it was right in the Calle de Cuba, in front of the police car on patrol or the hotdog stand, and he was found stabbed to death a few blocks away near the Plaza Garibaldi Horrible Other people say it happened in the Marrakech Salón – the Marra – and that the victim was one of those art-school kids who think they’re so alternative because they drink guava-flavoured pulque in La Risa on Mesones and then head to the Marra or La Purisima or Bellas Hartas to dance electro-cumbias That he made art using PowerPoint That I’d slept with him It’s not true: he was a sculptor and he rented a tiny room in an old building on the Calle República de Brasil where there was barely enough space for his sculptures – all of which were of cocks – and a microwave and a mattress He was an artist on the mattress too I don’t remember his name but I remember he had really good weed Really good Apparently it was him in the papers last week His five minutes of fame A photo of what