Navid Sinaki


My twin died a week ago. I went to clean his apartment, to empty out the waste baskets but ended up leaving it all there. My twin, who showed the promise of a novelist in youth. I open his laptop and see several drafts of a suicide letter – four blank documents with different titles. And also, a Craigslist ad he didn’t post.


I publish the ad, after reviewing a few spelling errors and adding his address.

The neighbors call me by his name:

“Hey Charley,” one says nonchalantly. Two more nod hello without saying anything else.

I arrange a cheese platter but forget to take it out the fridge, collect empty water bottles, and defrost several frozen beef pies. There’s anarchy in living alone, I think.

The doorbell rings. Alfred Gillespe, a neighbor, holds a bouquet of yellowed carnations. I thank him.

“You look just like him,” Gillespe says.

“That happens sometimes.”

He leaves.

Saint Sebastian arrives first. A massive tattoo on his back. He strips to his pink briefs, asks for a beer. “Sure.”

“You Egyptian?” He asks.


“Arabian?” He goes down his checklist of fetishes. “Nope.”


I try to envision his fantasies. A flying carpet. A dog collar. Fucking me like we were in Abu Ghraib.

“You aren’t a prude, are you?” I’ve been asked this before. A veteran from Iraq tied my arms back like an amputee he’d maimed overseas.

“Are you a prude?” he asked.


“I’m gonna fuck the turban off your head,” he said.

“I’m not wearing a turban,” I replied before he shoved his dick so far that my eyes began to tear.

Saint Sebastian points to the tattoo of his namesake: an arrow for each of his abs, none as long as his hung dick.

The doorbell rings again and 39/Daddytype comes in, has a cockring on already. I leave the door ajar. Saint Sebastian spits on his dick.

“Your asshole hairy, boy?” Daddytype asks.

“On a full moon,” I say.

A man rings from downstairs. “Charley, buzz me up. I’m locked out.”

Others arrive, single file. They circulate through the apartment and come in with less and less clothes.

“You like Rimbaud?” One man asks perusing the bookshelf.


Amberlynn, a neighbor, knocks in tears. I’m already on all fours.

“I’ll miss him,” she says dropping off his favorite casserole, though we’re both lactose intolerant.

“I love this record,” says a neighbor.

“Take it.”

“You sure, Charley?”


He leaves with it under his arm.

The landlord comes over.

“You’re rent is late, Charles.” I apologize and assure him I’ll pay tomorrow, while trying to suppress my gag reflex.

Three twinks arrive with matching flipflops and camera phones. Saint Sebastian is about to cum.

“Can I do it in your ear?” He asks. “I’ve always had a thing for earlobes.”


“I don’t want to make a mess.” 66 y.o. Sugar Daddy says.

“Flush it down the toilet.” I suggest.

“Hey, do you have any contact solution?” A man with poppers asks.

His friend starts eating the casserole. One of the twinks uses a toothbrush – maybe his own – and kicks a plastic bottle at the door.

People leave and return with new people. The door wide open. A dad and son walk by.

“My boy-slut wants to watch,” He says. “No problem.” “Can I cum down your neck?”


“Is this meat halal?” The landlord asks from the kitchen.


“I don’t like halal meat.”

27/Total Top starts to cum on my left nipple. 45 Father of Two asks if he can cum down my epiglottis.

“If you want,” I say and he does.

“On your skillet?” “Sure.”

“Can I take this laptop?”

Two people take the mattress without asking. I throw them the comforter from the fire escape.

“Sure,” I say to a neighbor. “Print out the documents first.”

“They’re blank.”


After, people start disappearing. Saint Sebastian has Amberlynn upside-down spread eagle.

“Under your eyelid?”

“I guess.”

“In your bellybutton?”


One of the men opens the closet and pulls out some ties, uses them to jack-off. A cub cums in the garbage disposal, then in my blender. He pours the remains in my nostrils which find a way to my throat.

“On your hair brush?” Cholo, 66 asks.

He dumps half a load there, half on my hair before he combs it through.

On a photobooth picture of Charley. One spurt for each of the four faces.
58/Daddytype comes a second time on the carpet next to me then gives me a dollar bill to snort it. After that people stop coming.

I leave the door open and fall asleep facedown glued to some of the stains.

I wake up to write a note on a post-it. Pay rent tomorrow. I fall asleep in the bathtub but forget to turn the water on.

Navid Sinaki was born in Tehran and currently resides in Los Angeles. He graduated from Berkeley with a B.A. in Art History and Film Studies, and is completing an M.F.A. in Film Directing at UCLA. His constantly daydreams about having a dinner party with Linda Williams, Joan Didion, and Agnes Varda.

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