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Just wrote this tonight, had the idea on the bus home from a night out, started writing when I got in at midnight, for about 3 hours straight now. Blimey. I like it, see what you think. Not really directly related to me, but some of it is.
Warning: this story contains adult situations and uses of language you may not wish to read.
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As I step off the bus, I realise I’ve literally been here a thousand times before. The same streetlights light up the darkened road, the same houses static in the street, the same cars parked in the road. The same bus driver, saying the same old things. The same flickering TV sets lighting up the windows down the road. The same dustbins outside the houses. Even the same drunks loitering on the corner. I stand still for a few minutes, wondering what I’ll do when I get home. I’ll cook myself a microwave meal, watch television for four hours or so, jerk off to the flickery porn reception I get on my TV upstairs then go to sleep early, ready for work the next morning. A thousand times before. This is what my life has become, a broken record, images that flicker past my eyes that I have no control over, it’s like existence on autopilot. Like being strapped into a rollercoaster of mediocrity, with no chance of going off the rails, and no chance of an accident – endure the ride. Part of me wants to drink to excess, **** cheap women and develop a drug habit, but the part of my brain that controls reason is much stronger than I want it to be, and I think maybe it’s down to laziness that I live this button-down life, this vacuous existence. I am a culture vampire, incapable of forming my own opinions, living vicariously through celebrity magazines and reality television, a mere shell of a man, standing in a bus stop. Maybe it’s the fact that I got demoted at work today. Maybe it’s the fact that I can’t stand the idea of going home to my empty flat another night. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s my 26th birthday tomorrow. Maybe it’s a number of these things that make me do what I’m about to do, but the part of my brain that controls my reason turns off for a moment, and quick as a flash I throw my briefcase over a nearby fence, take off my jacket, roll it up and put it in a bin, and take out my house key, and drop it down the drain. Something’s going to happen tonight, where I’m about to go or what I’m about to do I don’t yet know, but I won’t come home until I’m satisfied with the night’s activities. I’m going to tread fresh ground, meet new people, try new things. I’m going to **** up my brain, make the part that controls my reason hurt and hurt until it switches off permanently and perhaps will allow me to make a little more of my life. With this in mind, I loosen my work tie, and begin walking into the town centre, where the night is just beginning.
The club I end up at is a neon-clad building in the centre of town called Hi-Lites. Standing in the queue, I cast my eyes down the line of people waiting behind me. None of them can be older than 21, each boy is wearing black trousers, a fashionably ruffled haircut and a colourless shirt, seemingly scared of being the only one bold enough to wear something considered out of the ordinary and against the grain, each girl tries to look much older than they are, but only succeed in looking their age. I can’t tell how many people there are waiting to get in, because once I start counting the bodies, I get confused because they all look the same, like dominoes, so I stop. The group of lads behind me are shouting loudly and are seemingly already drunk, and they keep pushing me in the back, and I keep facing the front, silent but gritting my teeth. A girl standing in front of me tells the lads to stop being such idiots, and apologies on behalf of them to me, whether or not she knows them I don’t know, but she looks at me and smiles, and I smile back. If she asks me why I’m here, I’ll say I haven’t got a clue. I could tell her about my day at work, and my empty day to day life, and how the reasonable part of my brain stops me from ****ing cheap women, developing a drug habit and drinking to excess, but I think she was just being kind, and she turns around and starts talking with her friends, and the lads behind me start shouting again and push me into the brick wall of the side of the club. Cold, red-faced and shivering, I turn around, look the man closest to me in the eye, grab him by his collar and say “**** Off” very slowly and very deliberately about 6 inches from his face, and I let his collar go, and I dust myself off, and turn round, and I don’t get pushed anymore. Something is going to happen tonight, I don’t know what, but I’m starting to get closer.
Once I’m in, I bypass the dance floor, already busy and full of writhing teenagers dancing to random electronic beats, and head straight to the crowded bar at the opposite end of the club. Wet from the rain outside, I ruffle my hair, and I take out a cigarette and light it, and stand next to the bar. A girl, who at first glance must be 10 years younger than me, tells me to put it out, because there’s no smoking in the club, but half caring, I turn and look her in the eyes, blow smoke in her face and turn back towards the bar, thinking about which colour drink defines me as a person. I feel a hand on my arm, and I’m amazed to see it’s the same girl, and she’s got a smile on her face. “I said put it out because if you don’t, they’ll throw you out, and I just met you,” she purrs. She has bleached blonde hair, down past her shoulders, and is wearing a tight black dress that accentuates her large breasts and barely covers her thighs. She has an overly tanned face, and is wearing lots of make up, but still doesn’t look older than 16. Still touching my arm, and looking me up and down, she asks what my name is. “James Dean,” I lie. “Like the singer?” she says. “Yes,” I ruse, “James Dean, like the singer.” This is too easy. She has long, black eyelashes, that are probably fake. “I’m Sara, without a haitch”, she says. Ignoring her, I flirt with the barmaid and ask for a bottle of beer. “Ain’t you gonna buy me one then?” she says, interrupting, and I pause, and look her up and down, and back at her breasts again, and down at her tight little dress clinging onto her thighs, and her long bleached hair playfully resting on her teenage shoulders, and I dig out a £20 note from my pocket, and I say “Sure.” I figure maybe I’m heading in the right direction.
Sara leads me by the hand to a booth in a darkened corner of the club, and sits me down and sits opposite me over the table. The music is too loud for conversation, plus I don’t really feel very talkative tonight anyway, but she tries to make small talk, and all I can do is smile and nod and try to figure out if I’m displaying the right reactions to her words. I decide not to tell her about my fixation with pornography and the fact that I m@sturbate at work at least once a day, and instead continue to grunt and shake my head and open and shut my mouth at the right time. In this fairly unlit corner of the club, she looks fairly desirable, her firm breasts displayed proudly and when she licks her red lips, I start to wonder what I might do to this girl later. After a silence of about ten seconds occurs, I open my mouth. “I only want to **** you and use you and never speak to you again,” I say. “I’m only doing this because I’m trying to break my brain,” I say, leaning forward. “It’s probably not a good idea you sit here and talk with me, because if I get you home later, I’m going to **** you and not call you afterwards, and I’m not ashamed of that,” I say. Leaning even further forward, and sneaking another look at her fantastic breasts, I put my mouth a few inches from her ear and say “To tell you the truth, I think there’s something wrong with me.” Sara without a haitch looks at me, oblivious, and tells me Yes, she really likes this music too, and her brother is friends with the DJ. She has green eyes, and they’re cutting deep into mine, and I wonder if she heard what I said and just ignored it because she chose to, and is looking inside my brain trying to figure out what’s going inside my head, but I realise it’s just blind adoration and I realise the music really is quite loud, and yes, I really would quite like to take this girl home and have a lot of sex with her. Thoughts of sex make me stir downstairs, and I get up and start walking towards the men’s toilets. I don’t turn around, but I know she watches me until the door swings shut behind me.
I stare down at my c0ck, framed in the urinal, aiming at the yellow sliver of urinal cake left in the bottom of the bowl. I am drunk but not rowdy, and unlike half the people in this club I can handle my alcohol, although I’m still not quite sure how I ended up here or why, but the drink is taking the edge off my nerves and I zip up my flies and go to wash my hands. In the mirror, I see a man wearing a suit jacket over a white t-shirt slip another man dressed in a suit jacket over a black t-shirt a small white packet, and the man wearing the black t-shirt gives the man wearing the white t-shirt some money, and they shake hands, and the man in the black t-shirt leaves the room. Still with the water running over my hands in the sink, I keep looking at the man in the white t-shirt until his gaze meets mine. “Yes?” he enquires? I am silent. There’s a short pause, during which the hand drier which has been coughing hot air into the bathroom stops, and the room is deathly quiet, except for the dull thud of the music through the door and the faint sound of water running through the cisterns of the toilets. “You sell drugs,” I say, in a way that is unclear whether it’s a question or a statement. The man looks me up and down, checks the cubicles for people, then shepards me into the corner of the room, against the cold porcelain tiles on the wall. He is very drunk, and pushes his face a few inches from mine, breathes heavily and says “Well that depends on who wants to know, don’t it?” Gently pushing him a more comfortable distance from my person, I ask if he’s selling drugs, and what drugs he’s got, and if I can buy some of his drugs, all in the one sentence, because I’m both nervous and drunk, and the incandescent lights of the bathroom are making me giddy, and the smell of chlorine is making me hyperactive. “I weren’t planning on getting cornered in the toilets unaware,” he says in a low voice, “so I ain’t got my usual supply on me at the moment.” He looks to be at ease with me, and puts one arm against the wall above my right shoulder. “But I got some coke you can have if you want.” I consider this for a few moments. “I’m trying to hurt my brain,” I conclude. “Aren’t we all mate, aren’t we all,” he mutters, fumbling down his pockets for something. I may not have had a clue where tonight was going an hour ago, but it’s pretty clear where it’s heading now. Into a toilet, with another man. Didn’t see that one coming.
Leon and I bundle into a cubicle, and he reveals a small wrap of coke from his inside jacket pocket. “Et voila,” he says, and cuts two lines of Charlie along the cistern with what seems to be a Blockbuster video card. “Oh,” he pipes up casually. “£15 please.” Pressed against the closed door of the toilet, I reach my arm down the side of my body, and pull out my wallet, awkwardly hand him a tenner and a fiver, drop some change on the floor and put my wallet back in my pocket. He bends over the cistern and snorts the coke in one go, so I do the same and sniff too hard and cough violently. Leon laughs loudly at this, too loudly, and I start to wonder if people outside won’t think it suspicious when two blokes bundle out of a toilet together, for whatever reason. At first I feel nothing, but then, watching Leon spark up a spliff back outside in the heavily lit bathroom again, my head starts to pound. The bright white lights illuminating the room seem to pulse on and off, and I start to talk to myself quietly. It’s certainly done something now, as I’m having a scintillating conversation with myself in the bathroom mirror, although the idiot washing his hands next to me thinks I’m talking to him. Leon sidles up to me, slips his business card into my palm, winks and then exits. The card is white, stark white with a black bold mobile phone number on it. I push the door of the bathroom open and the music envelopes me, what was nothing more than bleeping noises and shouting 40 minutes ago, ****, 40 minutes ago, has now become classical music, music that belongs to me and plays in accordance with my actions, every beat timed to my every step, every lyric coming straight from my mouth. I feel ten feet tall as I stride over to where I was sitting, and Sara with no haitch is still sitting there waiting for me, albeit with more makeup on, and a bigger cleavage. She’s been there for 40 minutes. “You were gone too long baby,” she says, half-angry, half-relieved I came back. “I want to dance.” Unable to resist due to the combination of alcohol and cocaine in my system, I am dragged to the dance floor, into a mass of flesh and designer shirts and gelled-down fringes.
I am the centre of this club, and everybody is watching me dance. I am the most attractive man on the dance floor, and never mind this blonde little tart rubbing her body up against me, I could have any women in this building if I wanted them. I am music, I am sex. I am dance. My moves are interrupted when I am pushed firmly in the back, and I turn around and am faced by what appears to be a shaved ape, a man with fire in his beady, black little eyes, looking directly into mine, shouting obscenities in my face, and pointing at Sara. He seems quite angry. “Oh ****,” says Sara, “That’s my ex-boyfriend.” The monkey man is still shouting at me, spitting saliva over my work shirt and he is still pushing me, and is now surrounded by several other people, all similarly dressed and looking angry. “He’s a ****ing loser anyway, I dumped his a55 this morning, tell him to **** off and die,” blondie shouts in my ear, standing behind me. As the monkey goes to push me again, I grab his wrists, push myself close to his body, open my eyes as wide as they’ll go and say “She says she finished with you because your little primate c0ck wouldn’t do the business.” The music seems to get quieter. I move to within an inch of his startled face and yell “NOW F##K OFF AND DIE”, and turn around to continue dancing with the highly amused girl with green eyes and long black eyelashes and tight black dress that clings to her thighs who spells her name without a haitch, when the back of my knees are kicked, and I fall very slowly. In one swift moment, I land on all fours, grab an empty beer bottle discarded on the sticky floor, and turning while I rise, I smash the beer bottle into the side of the monkey’s head, gashing my own wrist too, and then blood starts to spurt from his neck all over his white shirt with pale blue collar, and I laugh because now he’s the only one here tonight who’s dared to be a bit different with the colours on his clothes. Squaring up to one of the monkey’s cronies, I’m about to headbutt him when I’m yanked off the dancefloor by Sara, who is running towards the fire exit, and we crash through the door outside into the biting cold and spitting rain, and we run down the alley and can still hear the screeching of the monkeys mixed with the music of the club, and both the little teenage blonde girl and I are laughing. Tonight is no longer mine to control, I’m literally being led by the hand, and I think my brain has stopped working.
Once we stop running, we stop in a dark section of the alley behind someone’s house, and kiss passionately. I stick my tongue as far as I can down her throat, and she reciprocates, and guides my hand inside her dress, putting her own down my trousers. I’m still pretty sure this girl is no older than 17, but by now I’m far too drunk and high to care, or do anything about it, and besides, I’ve now got my hands firmly wrapped around her butt under her dress and she isn’t wearing any underwear. We stop short of full sex when we’re scared by the sounds of police sirens, so we run onto the main road away from the wailing noises, and for one terrible moment, we both realise we don’t know where we are, and there are people baying for our blood and the night could end prematurely. With the coke still pumping through my now almost certainly ****ed-up brain, it only takes a few seconds to notice the empty car with its engine running and the owner taking a steamy slash behind some council dustbins. I run towards the car and hop in the driver’s side, Sara jumps in the passenger seat and we drive off, not knowing if the owner even realises we’ve nicked his car. I drive out of town, down a pitch black country road, and Sara starts to pull my piece out of my trousers, and goes down on me while I drive someone’s Vauxhall Vectra towards who knows what, which is quite difficult considering you’ve got a girl going to work on the twin babies and a wrist that is still pumping out blood like there’s no tomorrow. After a while we stop in a bus stop and have fast, hard sex several times in the back seats, the dirty blonde girl with her legs sticking out of the window. After we’ve both come several times, I light a cigarette and sit back. This is the first time I’ve ever had sex without a condom. Without any street or car lights, the glowing embers of the cigarette light up her face, and it is only now that I realise she isn’t really that attractive after all, she has mascara running down her cheeks and blood from my wrist smeared all over her face. It is only now that I realise she is crying. “I don’t do this very often,” she croaks, and she really looks quite pathetic, with her dress hitched up around her waist and her hair stuck to her neck with dried clumps of sweat and my blood. I say nothing, finish off my cigarette, zip myself up and begin to get out of the car. “Will I… Can I see you again? James?” she gurgles. I sigh, pause, then take out Leon’s business card from my trouser pocket and toss it onto her half naked body through the window that a few minutes ago, her legs were sticking through. I wink at her and she forces a smile, then I begin the walk home. I don’t turn around, but I know she watches me until I walk over the horizon.
I must walk about ten or fifteen miles home, but I don’t really notice how far it is or how long it takes , or even what time it is, but I guess it’s getting late because it’s starting to get lighter. I walk directly up the middle of the roads all the way home without a single car passing me from either side, and just as my legs start to tire, I start to recognise my surroundings and begin to head for my flat. The drugs and booze are leaving my body, but I can feel a physical change already, something has turned inside my stomach, and maybe it’s the loss of blood or the sexual endorphins still floating through my bloodstream, but my brain feels much lighter, more streamlined. I finally get to my door before realising I threw away my door key, so I make myself comfortable on a rubbish bag on my doorstep, and nestling down under the stolen coat I took from the car in which I had sex which I stole after being chased across town after bottling someone in a club I’ve never been to, I fall asleep and I’m still smiling when I wake up the next morning. The postman arrives and drops some envelopes next to my face on the concrete, and I remember it’s my birthday. I think I’ll call in sick today.
Warning: this story contains adult situations and uses of language you may not wish to read.
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As I step off the bus, I realise I’ve literally been here a thousand times before. The same streetlights light up the darkened road, the same houses static in the street, the same cars parked in the road. The same bus driver, saying the same old things. The same flickering TV sets lighting up the windows down the road. The same dustbins outside the houses. Even the same drunks loitering on the corner. I stand still for a few minutes, wondering what I’ll do when I get home. I’ll cook myself a microwave meal, watch television for four hours or so, jerk off to the flickery porn reception I get on my TV upstairs then go to sleep early, ready for work the next morning. A thousand times before. This is what my life has become, a broken record, images that flicker past my eyes that I have no control over, it’s like existence on autopilot. Like being strapped into a rollercoaster of mediocrity, with no chance of going off the rails, and no chance of an accident – endure the ride. Part of me wants to drink to excess, **** cheap women and develop a drug habit, but the part of my brain that controls reason is much stronger than I want it to be, and I think maybe it’s down to laziness that I live this button-down life, this vacuous existence. I am a culture vampire, incapable of forming my own opinions, living vicariously through celebrity magazines and reality television, a mere shell of a man, standing in a bus stop. Maybe it’s the fact that I got demoted at work today. Maybe it’s the fact that I can’t stand the idea of going home to my empty flat another night. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s my 26th birthday tomorrow. Maybe it’s a number of these things that make me do what I’m about to do, but the part of my brain that controls my reason turns off for a moment, and quick as a flash I throw my briefcase over a nearby fence, take off my jacket, roll it up and put it in a bin, and take out my house key, and drop it down the drain. Something’s going to happen tonight, where I’m about to go or what I’m about to do I don’t yet know, but I won’t come home until I’m satisfied with the night’s activities. I’m going to tread fresh ground, meet new people, try new things. I’m going to **** up my brain, make the part that controls my reason hurt and hurt until it switches off permanently and perhaps will allow me to make a little more of my life. With this in mind, I loosen my work tie, and begin walking into the town centre, where the night is just beginning.
The club I end up at is a neon-clad building in the centre of town called Hi-Lites. Standing in the queue, I cast my eyes down the line of people waiting behind me. None of them can be older than 21, each boy is wearing black trousers, a fashionably ruffled haircut and a colourless shirt, seemingly scared of being the only one bold enough to wear something considered out of the ordinary and against the grain, each girl tries to look much older than they are, but only succeed in looking their age. I can’t tell how many people there are waiting to get in, because once I start counting the bodies, I get confused because they all look the same, like dominoes, so I stop. The group of lads behind me are shouting loudly and are seemingly already drunk, and they keep pushing me in the back, and I keep facing the front, silent but gritting my teeth. A girl standing in front of me tells the lads to stop being such idiots, and apologies on behalf of them to me, whether or not she knows them I don’t know, but she looks at me and smiles, and I smile back. If she asks me why I’m here, I’ll say I haven’t got a clue. I could tell her about my day at work, and my empty day to day life, and how the reasonable part of my brain stops me from ****ing cheap women, developing a drug habit and drinking to excess, but I think she was just being kind, and she turns around and starts talking with her friends, and the lads behind me start shouting again and push me into the brick wall of the side of the club. Cold, red-faced and shivering, I turn around, look the man closest to me in the eye, grab him by his collar and say “**** Off” very slowly and very deliberately about 6 inches from his face, and I let his collar go, and I dust myself off, and turn round, and I don’t get pushed anymore. Something is going to happen tonight, I don’t know what, but I’m starting to get closer.
Once I’m in, I bypass the dance floor, already busy and full of writhing teenagers dancing to random electronic beats, and head straight to the crowded bar at the opposite end of the club. Wet from the rain outside, I ruffle my hair, and I take out a cigarette and light it, and stand next to the bar. A girl, who at first glance must be 10 years younger than me, tells me to put it out, because there’s no smoking in the club, but half caring, I turn and look her in the eyes, blow smoke in her face and turn back towards the bar, thinking about which colour drink defines me as a person. I feel a hand on my arm, and I’m amazed to see it’s the same girl, and she’s got a smile on her face. “I said put it out because if you don’t, they’ll throw you out, and I just met you,” she purrs. She has bleached blonde hair, down past her shoulders, and is wearing a tight black dress that accentuates her large breasts and barely covers her thighs. She has an overly tanned face, and is wearing lots of make up, but still doesn’t look older than 16. Still touching my arm, and looking me up and down, she asks what my name is. “James Dean,” I lie. “Like the singer?” she says. “Yes,” I ruse, “James Dean, like the singer.” This is too easy. She has long, black eyelashes, that are probably fake. “I’m Sara, without a haitch”, she says. Ignoring her, I flirt with the barmaid and ask for a bottle of beer. “Ain’t you gonna buy me one then?” she says, interrupting, and I pause, and look her up and down, and back at her breasts again, and down at her tight little dress clinging onto her thighs, and her long bleached hair playfully resting on her teenage shoulders, and I dig out a £20 note from my pocket, and I say “Sure.” I figure maybe I’m heading in the right direction.
Sara leads me by the hand to a booth in a darkened corner of the club, and sits me down and sits opposite me over the table. The music is too loud for conversation, plus I don’t really feel very talkative tonight anyway, but she tries to make small talk, and all I can do is smile and nod and try to figure out if I’m displaying the right reactions to her words. I decide not to tell her about my fixation with pornography and the fact that I m@sturbate at work at least once a day, and instead continue to grunt and shake my head and open and shut my mouth at the right time. In this fairly unlit corner of the club, she looks fairly desirable, her firm breasts displayed proudly and when she licks her red lips, I start to wonder what I might do to this girl later. After a silence of about ten seconds occurs, I open my mouth. “I only want to **** you and use you and never speak to you again,” I say. “I’m only doing this because I’m trying to break my brain,” I say, leaning forward. “It’s probably not a good idea you sit here and talk with me, because if I get you home later, I’m going to **** you and not call you afterwards, and I’m not ashamed of that,” I say. Leaning even further forward, and sneaking another look at her fantastic breasts, I put my mouth a few inches from her ear and say “To tell you the truth, I think there’s something wrong with me.” Sara without a haitch looks at me, oblivious, and tells me Yes, she really likes this music too, and her brother is friends with the DJ. She has green eyes, and they’re cutting deep into mine, and I wonder if she heard what I said and just ignored it because she chose to, and is looking inside my brain trying to figure out what’s going inside my head, but I realise it’s just blind adoration and I realise the music really is quite loud, and yes, I really would quite like to take this girl home and have a lot of sex with her. Thoughts of sex make me stir downstairs, and I get up and start walking towards the men’s toilets. I don’t turn around, but I know she watches me until the door swings shut behind me.
I stare down at my c0ck, framed in the urinal, aiming at the yellow sliver of urinal cake left in the bottom of the bowl. I am drunk but not rowdy, and unlike half the people in this club I can handle my alcohol, although I’m still not quite sure how I ended up here or why, but the drink is taking the edge off my nerves and I zip up my flies and go to wash my hands. In the mirror, I see a man wearing a suit jacket over a white t-shirt slip another man dressed in a suit jacket over a black t-shirt a small white packet, and the man wearing the black t-shirt gives the man wearing the white t-shirt some money, and they shake hands, and the man in the black t-shirt leaves the room. Still with the water running over my hands in the sink, I keep looking at the man in the white t-shirt until his gaze meets mine. “Yes?” he enquires? I am silent. There’s a short pause, during which the hand drier which has been coughing hot air into the bathroom stops, and the room is deathly quiet, except for the dull thud of the music through the door and the faint sound of water running through the cisterns of the toilets. “You sell drugs,” I say, in a way that is unclear whether it’s a question or a statement. The man looks me up and down, checks the cubicles for people, then shepards me into the corner of the room, against the cold porcelain tiles on the wall. He is very drunk, and pushes his face a few inches from mine, breathes heavily and says “Well that depends on who wants to know, don’t it?” Gently pushing him a more comfortable distance from my person, I ask if he’s selling drugs, and what drugs he’s got, and if I can buy some of his drugs, all in the one sentence, because I’m both nervous and drunk, and the incandescent lights of the bathroom are making me giddy, and the smell of chlorine is making me hyperactive. “I weren’t planning on getting cornered in the toilets unaware,” he says in a low voice, “so I ain’t got my usual supply on me at the moment.” He looks to be at ease with me, and puts one arm against the wall above my right shoulder. “But I got some coke you can have if you want.” I consider this for a few moments. “I’m trying to hurt my brain,” I conclude. “Aren’t we all mate, aren’t we all,” he mutters, fumbling down his pockets for something. I may not have had a clue where tonight was going an hour ago, but it’s pretty clear where it’s heading now. Into a toilet, with another man. Didn’t see that one coming.
Leon and I bundle into a cubicle, and he reveals a small wrap of coke from his inside jacket pocket. “Et voila,” he says, and cuts two lines of Charlie along the cistern with what seems to be a Blockbuster video card. “Oh,” he pipes up casually. “£15 please.” Pressed against the closed door of the toilet, I reach my arm down the side of my body, and pull out my wallet, awkwardly hand him a tenner and a fiver, drop some change on the floor and put my wallet back in my pocket. He bends over the cistern and snorts the coke in one go, so I do the same and sniff too hard and cough violently. Leon laughs loudly at this, too loudly, and I start to wonder if people outside won’t think it suspicious when two blokes bundle out of a toilet together, for whatever reason. At first I feel nothing, but then, watching Leon spark up a spliff back outside in the heavily lit bathroom again, my head starts to pound. The bright white lights illuminating the room seem to pulse on and off, and I start to talk to myself quietly. It’s certainly done something now, as I’m having a scintillating conversation with myself in the bathroom mirror, although the idiot washing his hands next to me thinks I’m talking to him. Leon sidles up to me, slips his business card into my palm, winks and then exits. The card is white, stark white with a black bold mobile phone number on it. I push the door of the bathroom open and the music envelopes me, what was nothing more than bleeping noises and shouting 40 minutes ago, ****, 40 minutes ago, has now become classical music, music that belongs to me and plays in accordance with my actions, every beat timed to my every step, every lyric coming straight from my mouth. I feel ten feet tall as I stride over to where I was sitting, and Sara with no haitch is still sitting there waiting for me, albeit with more makeup on, and a bigger cleavage. She’s been there for 40 minutes. “You were gone too long baby,” she says, half-angry, half-relieved I came back. “I want to dance.” Unable to resist due to the combination of alcohol and cocaine in my system, I am dragged to the dance floor, into a mass of flesh and designer shirts and gelled-down fringes.
I am the centre of this club, and everybody is watching me dance. I am the most attractive man on the dance floor, and never mind this blonde little tart rubbing her body up against me, I could have any women in this building if I wanted them. I am music, I am sex. I am dance. My moves are interrupted when I am pushed firmly in the back, and I turn around and am faced by what appears to be a shaved ape, a man with fire in his beady, black little eyes, looking directly into mine, shouting obscenities in my face, and pointing at Sara. He seems quite angry. “Oh ****,” says Sara, “That’s my ex-boyfriend.” The monkey man is still shouting at me, spitting saliva over my work shirt and he is still pushing me, and is now surrounded by several other people, all similarly dressed and looking angry. “He’s a ****ing loser anyway, I dumped his a55 this morning, tell him to **** off and die,” blondie shouts in my ear, standing behind me. As the monkey goes to push me again, I grab his wrists, push myself close to his body, open my eyes as wide as they’ll go and say “She says she finished with you because your little primate c0ck wouldn’t do the business.” The music seems to get quieter. I move to within an inch of his startled face and yell “NOW F##K OFF AND DIE”, and turn around to continue dancing with the highly amused girl with green eyes and long black eyelashes and tight black dress that clings to her thighs who spells her name without a haitch, when the back of my knees are kicked, and I fall very slowly. In one swift moment, I land on all fours, grab an empty beer bottle discarded on the sticky floor, and turning while I rise, I smash the beer bottle into the side of the monkey’s head, gashing my own wrist too, and then blood starts to spurt from his neck all over his white shirt with pale blue collar, and I laugh because now he’s the only one here tonight who’s dared to be a bit different with the colours on his clothes. Squaring up to one of the monkey’s cronies, I’m about to headbutt him when I’m yanked off the dancefloor by Sara, who is running towards the fire exit, and we crash through the door outside into the biting cold and spitting rain, and we run down the alley and can still hear the screeching of the monkeys mixed with the music of the club, and both the little teenage blonde girl and I are laughing. Tonight is no longer mine to control, I’m literally being led by the hand, and I think my brain has stopped working.
Once we stop running, we stop in a dark section of the alley behind someone’s house, and kiss passionately. I stick my tongue as far as I can down her throat, and she reciprocates, and guides my hand inside her dress, putting her own down my trousers. I’m still pretty sure this girl is no older than 17, but by now I’m far too drunk and high to care, or do anything about it, and besides, I’ve now got my hands firmly wrapped around her butt under her dress and she isn’t wearing any underwear. We stop short of full sex when we’re scared by the sounds of police sirens, so we run onto the main road away from the wailing noises, and for one terrible moment, we both realise we don’t know where we are, and there are people baying for our blood and the night could end prematurely. With the coke still pumping through my now almost certainly ****ed-up brain, it only takes a few seconds to notice the empty car with its engine running and the owner taking a steamy slash behind some council dustbins. I run towards the car and hop in the driver’s side, Sara jumps in the passenger seat and we drive off, not knowing if the owner even realises we’ve nicked his car. I drive out of town, down a pitch black country road, and Sara starts to pull my piece out of my trousers, and goes down on me while I drive someone’s Vauxhall Vectra towards who knows what, which is quite difficult considering you’ve got a girl going to work on the twin babies and a wrist that is still pumping out blood like there’s no tomorrow. After a while we stop in a bus stop and have fast, hard sex several times in the back seats, the dirty blonde girl with her legs sticking out of the window. After we’ve both come several times, I light a cigarette and sit back. This is the first time I’ve ever had sex without a condom. Without any street or car lights, the glowing embers of the cigarette light up her face, and it is only now that I realise she isn’t really that attractive after all, she has mascara running down her cheeks and blood from my wrist smeared all over her face. It is only now that I realise she is crying. “I don’t do this very often,” she croaks, and she really looks quite pathetic, with her dress hitched up around her waist and her hair stuck to her neck with dried clumps of sweat and my blood. I say nothing, finish off my cigarette, zip myself up and begin to get out of the car. “Will I… Can I see you again? James?” she gurgles. I sigh, pause, then take out Leon’s business card from my trouser pocket and toss it onto her half naked body through the window that a few minutes ago, her legs were sticking through. I wink at her and she forces a smile, then I begin the walk home. I don’t turn around, but I know she watches me until I walk over the horizon.
I must walk about ten or fifteen miles home, but I don’t really notice how far it is or how long it takes , or even what time it is, but I guess it’s getting late because it’s starting to get lighter. I walk directly up the middle of the roads all the way home without a single car passing me from either side, and just as my legs start to tire, I start to recognise my surroundings and begin to head for my flat. The drugs and booze are leaving my body, but I can feel a physical change already, something has turned inside my stomach, and maybe it’s the loss of blood or the sexual endorphins still floating through my bloodstream, but my brain feels much lighter, more streamlined. I finally get to my door before realising I threw away my door key, so I make myself comfortable on a rubbish bag on my doorstep, and nestling down under the stolen coat I took from the car in which I had sex which I stole after being chased across town after bottling someone in a club I’ve never been to, I fall asleep and I’m still smiling when I wake up the next morning. The postman arrives and drops some envelopes next to my face on the concrete, and I remember it’s my birthday. I think I’ll call in sick today.
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Snuggly, that was inspired. This needs to be made into a series like IB's Half Life. I have never ever ever read such a long post on the forums before, but I was entirely seduced by that and read every single word. I salute you....Sir. ;)
Just another Friday night out, eh? You crazy kids.
Very captivating. I read this while at work, just happened to be listening to Foo Fighters as well, all seemed to go well together!
Just shows the staff should post more stuff like this. Great one, Snuggly.
Just shows the staff should post more stuff like this. Great one, Snuggly.
That was f#####g amazing.
Blank wrote:
> I read this a while ago, but I don't think I posted a reply. I don't
> know why.
>
> Anyway, you just left that 16 year old girl in a stolen car in the
> middle of nowhere smelling of blood, sweat and semen? Shame on you.
Sounds kinky...
j/k
> I read this a while ago, but I don't think I posted a reply. I don't
> know why.
>
> Anyway, you just left that 16 year old girl in a stolen car in the
> middle of nowhere smelling of blood, sweat and semen? Shame on you.
Sounds kinky...
j/k
I read this a while ago, but I don't think I posted a reply. I don't know why.
Anyway, you just left that 16 year old girl in a stolen car in the middle of nowhere smelling of blood, sweat and semen? Shame on you.
Anyway, you just left that 16 year old girl in a stolen car in the middle of nowhere smelling of blood, sweat and semen? Shame on you.
That was highly enjoyable.
One question though.
When you got to this bit, did you have to stop and think?
"a haitch"
And do you say it with an haitch or without.
Did you stop at this point and wonder, or just keep going, not wanting to stop the flow...
I can't stand it when I'm writing, and something like that stops me, as it would have stopped me, just wondering if it did you at all...?
One question though.
When you got to this bit, did you have to stop and think?
"a haitch"
And do you say it with an haitch or without.
Did you stop at this point and wonder, or just keep going, not wanting to stop the flow...
I can't stand it when I'm writing, and something like that stops me, as it would have stopped me, just wondering if it did you at all...?
very impressed. I now have new respect for Mr Snuggly =P
Although not too sure I'd wanna meet you on a cold dark night if you can think up that kinda stuff....I'm scared of you now
Although not too sure I'd wanna meet you on a cold dark night if you can think up that kinda stuff....I'm scared of you now
Very good.
This wins todays cake of approval!
NO HIGHER HONOUR CAN BE BESTOWED
NO HIGHER HONOUR CAN BE BESTOWED
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