One Night Stand
By joe89
- 786 reads
Neither of us is sleeping. I'm lying with a leg between hers. I can
feel her pubic hair against my thigh. Her head is up against my chest.
I'm holding her tight already but every so often I'll squeeze even
tighter, my erection pressing into her chest. She'll squeeze back. Or
stroke my back. Or both.
Smashing Pumpkins are playing quietly. They are on random repeat, which
I'm uncomfortable about, as I don't feel they have the right qualities
to be woken up by.
Light comes from a Habitat lamp in the corner. A radio alarm clock says
it's a quarter to two. Apparently the most common time for house fires
to start is between 1 and 2 on a Sunday morning. It could have been
between 12 midnight and 1. Whichever, it's on a Sunday morning when
people come home from the pub, club or party and fall asleep, dropping
a lit cigarette down the side of their sofa.
I fantasise about what I'd do now if a fire were discovered. Would I
stop to put some underwear or a pair of jeans on? I think I would. Mum
would already be distraught, standing in the garden as her house burnt
down, without having a naked, erect son look on.
I've forgotten to squeeze while I was having this fantasy so I do an
extra tight embrace and stroke her hair. She responds by gripping my
leg even stronger between her own.
Would my erection go during the flight?
Her name's Clare. She's sixteen and was drunk four hours ago.
I'd seen her before with friends. She's pretty but has small breasts. I
asked her if she wanted to come home with me and she said, 'if you
want'. From then until now we have only said about ten words to each
other.
We hold each other tight. When I squeeze she squeezes back. We kiss and
we cuddle.
If there was a fire or an intruder intent on murdering us, I'd try to
protect her. We're playing at lovers. She's my wife of 25 years and
while she's with me she won't come to any harm.
She's asleep now. When I squeeze she doesn't squeeze back.
I move to a more comfortable position. She stirs but doesn't
wake.
If I heard the intruder before he came to my room I'd wait behind the
door. He'd open it and see the sleeping Clare. I'd let him take three
steps inside the room and then hit him with a speaker. I've big wooden
speakers. Not small plastic ones, so he should go down.
I'd hit him several times, either killing or injuring him badly. You
don't want a murderer getting up when you've turned your back to
comfort your hysterical wife. You want him to stay down and be dead. Or
nearly dead.
The clock says it's ten past two. We should be safe from fire
now.
The speaker cable would have to be detached from the speaker before
hitting the murderer.
No cars pass outside. Inside the only sound is of breathing and Billy
Corgan.
When I was younger I was terrified of being attacked in my room at
night. We never locked our door. Although we live in a village,
surrounded by other houses, I'd imagine our house would be the obvious
choice for an unknown child abuser.
I can't remember my reasons for thinking someone would pick my house,
but they seemed real enough aged eight with an unlocked door. Cheers
for that Ian and Myra.
My parents never locked our front door.
Billy sings 'Today' and I listen. I like this song. But the more I
think about the lyrics the less I like it. I never really have greatest
days.
Maybe Billy didn't see anyone on his greatest day. Maybe he lay in his
bed, masturbating all day. He couldn't have watched TV or read a
magazine for obvious reasons.
He'd have wanked, smoked and ate honey coated cornflakes. But wouldn't
that lead to feelings of worthlessness? Wouldn't he spill milk on his
bed sheets? Then when he came to write the song, wouldn't he get
annoyed when he couldn't get the tune to fit the words?
Now I'm fucking smiling. The smile starts in my stomach and ends at the
two corners of my mouth.
I've spent the evening drinking, joking, smoking and having sex. I
spent the week working and that was terrible but I've spent the weekend
doing fun things. I'm smiling because an hour ago someone was sucking
my penis and now I'm feeling sorry for myself and getting annoyed at a
spinning disk of plastic.
I have a great time. I do what everyone says I should be doing and I
don't think I enjoy it but I do. And I will try to do it next weekend
and until I die.
But then surely a measure of enjoyment isn't just how much I want to do
something again. I don't want to continue with this thought so I don't.
I just don't smile. I still like the song.
'Tonight' isn't a big song. It's a little song with a little theme. Now
I think today was good. I didn't always think that at the time and I
might not think it later, but tonight today was ok. He's not saying
today was ok. He's saying now is ok.
He could also be saying, "I like honey coated cornflakes." How the fuck
should I know. I listen to these people and take what I want from their
songs because it's usually better than listening to nothing. You've got
to listen to something.
These thoughts quite please me. I'm back smiling again at my clever
dismissal of pop culture. You've got to listen to something. Then I
remember being sick on the school bus and it running up and down,
underneath the seats, so everyone could tell what I had for
dinner.
When I got home I cried. I didn't want to go to school ever again. But
I did. I went the next day. Someone had cleaned the bus but it still
smelt quite bad.
I like myself more now, reflecting on a past humiliation, than trying
to be clever.
Clare looks peaceful. She's better when she's sleeping. Less likely to
be party to an uncomfortable silence.
She looks even more pretty. She still probably has small breasts but I
can't see them for the duvet.
Her parents love her very much. They'd be pleased if I killed the
attacker who came into my room. They would be upset because I had
encouraged their baby to suck my penis, but they would be happy because
I kept her alive to suck more penises.
I don't think my speakers would even break. They're very big and very
wooden. I bought them out of the local paper from an elderly man who
was splashing out on a midi system. The sound isn't fantastic but they
look good and you can keep loose change and CD's on top.
I snuggle up to Clare. I smell her hair and it smells of smoke. Under
the duvet I can smell sex. Not unpleasant but not as nice as my
deodorant.
What's the theory on children watching the news? Should I have been
limited to Newsround until 16?
"The following news program has stories that some of our younger
viewers may find, terrify the fuck out of them. If your child has a
predisposition to staying awake at night, worrying about attack from
rippers, rapists and scout troop leaders you may wish to turn over
now."
But then if I didn't watch the news in my childhood, I might have grow
up with a dangerous trust of strangers. My parents may have had to
constantly drag me from the cars of strangers who said they had a puppy
farm at home.
Speakered to death. If this incident happened in a film I'd have some
music playing as I killed the attacker. Like Vivaldi or was it Bach
coming from the helicopter in Apocalypse Now. I'm trying to think of an
appropriate song from my CD collection. House of Pain's 'Jump Around'
might do the trick. The speaker cable would have to be reattached or
not taken off in the first place.
I could detach one speaker cable and leave the other to give a mono
accompaniment. Not ideal but improvisation is the name of the game when
it comes to battering heads in.
If I'd had more chance to talk to Clare would she still have come home
with me? If I'd had chance to give my opinions on fox hunting - kill
the little ginger haired, chicken eating fuckers - would she still have
been happy to spend the last few hours being touched all over by
me?
I get out of bed and sit downstairs smoking a cigarette in the dark.
I'm doing this for several reasons. Firstly and overridingly I need a
cigarette. Secondly it seems like the kind of thing you are supposed to
do. As per Nick Hornby's High Fidelity. As per Paul Newman in the The
Hustler.
I would like to sit in the dark thinking of the narcissism of it all.
But I don't. I sit looking through an Ikea catalogue. Is that the same
thing? Instead of just thinking am I acting out another example or am I
just looking at a colourful homeweares catalogue? Be an individual; buy
from a different shop to your neighbour's.
Futons look great. I've never sat or slept in one but if they're as
comfortable as they are simple, stylish and affordably priced then they
will be on my moving out shopping list just below the cream rugs for
?3.00.
I could never imagine a child molester shopping in Ikea. Even if they
did, they would be unlikely to buy the very reasonably priced
unfinished pine shelving that you can make fit any space. It's a shame
because it would be ideal to keep their porn, holiday brochures for the
Philippines and home video equipment on.
I feel a bit like a film star, sat in the dark chain smoking after
having uncomplicated sex. I probably look like a little boy who has
stolen his mum's Marlboro Lights but I feel like Paul Newman. Brooding
and lonely but great at pool and smoking.
I tend to swagger when playing pool. Not seriously. Just a little. My
chest will stick out a bit further. If there's girls watching I'll
twirl my cue around with my fingers as if pool skills indicated to a
possible mate that I shouldn't be overlooked.
"James just potted three yellows in a row then missed a difficult
black. Perhaps he can give me an orgasm with his tongue and not mind
that I forgot to shave my legs today."
I'm not very good at pool.
You see a few cripples at train stations, some have alcohol problems
but they aren't often very beautiful.
I'm sometimes in shopping centers before work, soon after they've
opened. There are always numerous ugly women making a mad rush for WH
Smiths to get their copy of Women's Realm. They're hoping they have
arrived before too many people are around. People who will make
whispered, hurtful comments about the five, thick, black hairs coming
out of a mole on their cheek.
Both the ugly women and me both have to be careful not too walk into
the handicapped in wheelchairs or the elderly in electric
buggies.
Everybody is thinking, 'look at that boy in the cheap suit from Top
Man who's smoking his mothers Marlboro Lights and trying to
strut.'
Come 11am and the Shopping Center is full of pretty single mothers
with pushchairs and good looking, young couples buying their first
washing machine.
I go back upstairs and get into bed. Clare wakes up.
She asks me where I've been. I lie and tell her I went to the toilet.
I've no idea why.
She cuddles up to me, puts her head on my chest and sings along softly
to The Smashing Pumpkins version of Thin Lizzy's 'Dancing in the
Moonlight.'
This surprises me. I had her down as a 'Ministry of Sound' kind of
gal.
She takes a hand that was resting on my side and removes some of her
bobbed hair that had found its way into her mouth. She has dark, shiny
hair.
Describing sex as uncomplicated is probably wrong. It's far more
complicated than shopping. Even one off casual sex is complicated. I
would never describe sex as uncomplicated if I had not heard the two
words linked together before.
Clare is maybe having her own internal conversation. She maybe wonders
why she has ended up here with someone who is a bit skinny and not very
talkative.
I know why I picked Clare. Because she's pretty and I guessed she
would be prepared to come home and have sex. Like choosing a new pair
of jeans she was the right size, colour and price. 5 foot 6, tanned and
free, if you don't include the two vodka and cokes.
She doesn't smell bad. She wears nice clothes and coming home with her
is preferable to coming home with nobody.
If she'd have asked I'd have said, "because you are pretty and I think
I might like you."
Clare strokes my chest and brings her knee up to rub against my
groin.
On reflection I can't remember Paul Newman smoking a cigarette in a
similar situation but he did smoke a lot in general and he looked great
while doing it.
Clare has scars on her arm, some old and fully healed, some still red.
I hadn't noticed them before but I do now.
It gives me a strange desire to hold her tighter. To tell her she will
be OK. I could steal a line from Learnado Dicaprio in Titanic. You will
live to be an old, old lady who will have lots of children and get to
see many grandchildren grow up. You will die old and happy in your
bed.
But then I don't know this. Clare might die of lung cancer aged 53.
She'll have got married at 20. Her husband will take her for granted
and fuck around. Her children will be ungrateful and ill mannered. She
will die in pain having done little in her life other than give life to
others.
Unfulfilled, unloved, unhappy.
It's attention seeking but then so fucking what. 'Attention seeking'
is always spat out with contempt. When you say someone is attention
seeking you want people to look at you and listen to your opinions. You
want attention. You unconsciously parody but you are criticising, which
is worse.
Clare hurting herself is no different to wearing Adidas trainers or
telling a joke. Please could you look at me and my trainers. This is
what I think. I'm very unhappy. I'm funny and likeable. I wear the same
trainers as Damon Albarn and he seems quite nice.
Middle of the night, hobby psychology is good because there are few
awake to argue.
I follow her scars with my index finger. She flinches slightly but
doesn't move her arm away.
I stop and she squeezes me tight. I squeeze back and stroke her
hair.
The old men in their electric buggies will tell themselves they've had
a good time. It would take a harsh fucker to admit, aged 70, that he
had had a shit life. That he had for the most part been a miserable,
unloved, unloving selfish cunt. You can do it when your 22 because you
have the future to make amends. You can't do it when you're soon going
to die.
Maybe this is why people go senile. They realise one day the only
thing they have ever set on fire is 20 Lambert and Butler a day. They
have been unhappy all their lives and now they are going to die.
The horror of this thought is so huge that their brain shuts down.
They shit themselves and then they die.
This is probably a Trainspotting inspired quote.
Not an original thought in my head. Copy, copy, copy. Give me someone
or something to follow. I want Loaded and FHM, pop stars, film and TV
characters, books, newspapers, Chris Evans and Zo? Ball. Don't let me
go on without guidance. Tell me how to live my life. Show me the way.
Give me some ideas.
No, I don't think reading an Ikea catalogue is an example of a
narcissistic act. That's just fucking stupid.
What should I listen to? What should I wear? Where should I go? Who
should I like? What should I think?
It's now 2.40am. I think I would like to go to sleep.
I'm lying on my back. Clare has moved. She is still facing me but we
aren't touching. She is almost in a fetal position with her legs pulled
up to her chest.
I wonder why Clare or anyone cuts themselves. I wonder but I have no
idea.
It simplifies things to say there are two kinds of people in the
world. People who look on life as an adventure, like a camping trip,
and those who look on it as something to be got through. Like a driving
test.
I don't think about it at all. I just do things. I might like to think
I do but I don't. I suppose few people have personal philosophies to
live by. They are too busy working, paying the phone bill and building
a conservatory.
My bedroom is stuck between two eras. My childhood, with the posters
of Newcastle United, the complete Narnia trilogy in the bookshelf and
the Subbuteo set under the bed and my adolescence, with a Reservoir
Dogs poster on the wall and three Nirvana CD's, Nevermind, In Utero and
Nirvana Unplugged, stacked up on the floor, near the hi-fi.
There are things that perhaps signal the end of adolescence and the
arrival of adulthood. A Paul Weller CD and the Habitat lamp are the
most likely candidates for this category.
The stranger knows if he creates the right image with marketing skills
learnt in the lecture theatre; gets to know his target market and works
on his brand recognition, we will buy his fucking product. We will feel
hollow without it. We will be drawn to it on the shelf like a fish
being pulled to the bank by a fisherman.
But then you've got to eat, drink, clean your clothes and wear
something on your feet. Complaining about advertising, marketing and
associated arts is useless. Don't bitch and moan of how your senses are
constantly shot at by soulless cunts with honour degrees in public
manipulation.
You don't have to buy the pear of jeans, the soft drink, the beer, the
CD. Go and live in a wood and eat squirrels and moss.
Here, as before, I think 'you and your' and I mean 'I and my.'
I want to talk to Clare. I turn from lying on my back to my side, to
my other side, purposefully but gently nudging Clare with each
movement. She wakes up. For a second she doesn't know where she is. Her
body becomes slightly rigid and I guess, because I can't see as I am
facing the other way, that her eyes are darting around the room,
looking for points of familiarity.
"Are you ok?"
I surprise myself with the magnitude of care projected within the
question. As if I was concerned the answer might be something like, 'No
I'm not, you fucking rapist. Take me to directly to the police station.
Don't pass the bathroom to remove any stains or hairs, which may be
used in evidence against you. Don't collect any cigarettes from any
24-hour garages we pass on the way. You fucking rapist.'
"Yeh, I'm fine."
"What time do you have to be back in the morning?"
"Nine. For work"
"Where do ya work?"
"My mums tea shop on Sundays. I'm at school during the week."
I knew she was still at school. I picture Clare clearing tables and
taking orders from anorak wearing walkers. The men, with their own
wives looking disheveled from the trail and haggard from age, guiltily
noticing Clare's bra through her thin, white blouse.
Their wives might notice the admiring glances and make a point of
being rude when she comes to take the order.
As she moves between tables the men might fantasise about Clare and
themselves together in bed. As they looked down on her small breasts
they would set about their task with rediscovered enthusiasm. They are
spurred on by Clare's creamy, vinyl-sheen skin, which is an agreeable
contrast to the hammerite finish of their wife's.
I'm glad she's still at school. She hasn't found her self too soon in
the adult world. The world where on weekdays you work and on weekends
you don't. The two separate time spans seem to clash when they
meet.
"What are you go'nna to do when you finish school?"
I try to sound interested but not so interested like a career guidance
teacher or a relative. I really, really don't want her to say that she
doesn't know or that she isn't sure.
I want her to give me her five-minute, ten-year plan to success and
happiness. I want her to talk confidently and eloquently about her
hopes and fears for the future.
She doesn't. She says she doesn't know. She might like to work with
animals or be a nurse I think.
The rambler would probably not bother with much foreplay. He would
stick his fingers inside her for about two minutes, then his
cock.
Then again he might only notice her friendly and efficient manner. He
might be engrossed by the delicious Yorkshire cream tea. He has had a
nice walk in the countryside. He has discussed with his wife of 25
years coppicing, as a form of rural woodland management, he has seen a
Roe deer, he has talked about his son's new job and how he fancies
visiting the Middle East later on this year. He didn't see any foxes
but then it was mid morning. They are, for the most part, a nocturnal
animal.
In less sardonic moods I think God must be comforting like a giant
security camera, most parents are selflessly devoted and friends will
at the very least punch people on your behalf.
Although not quite one of those times, I still wonder what it would be
like to have someone looking out for me in the general terms God would
probably operate under. Giving directions, guidance and constructive
criticism.
If he were male he wouldn't need to look into my mind to see what a
nasty fucker he was directing. He'd know. He's also male so he would
know.
"Do you believe in God Clare?"
I don't know if I'm asking because I'm interested or because I'm
thinking this is the kind of conversation we should be having at this
time, in this situation.
Clare seems to be concentrating hard. She makes an 'umh' sound
indicating that this is the case and then says, with as much expressed
miscomprehension as she can manage, 'who?'
She laugh's at herself for while and then buries her head in the
pillow to try and suppress the laughter. I laugh a little at the time
but smile, when I think back, for a lot longer.
If she kept laughing I might offer to marry her after a week or so. It
might become annoying after a while but I don't think I would
mind.
I once got a BMX for Christmas that I wasn't expecting. That was a
similar feeling to this.
One of my grandfathers is dead. If I believed in Heaven I wouldn't
worry about him looking down on me when I thought I was alone. If one
of my Gran's were dead I would be very uncomfortable with the idea of
her looking down and into my thoughts.
What can you say to someone who's smiling? Not a superficial, social
smile but a genuine smile, using many facial muscles.
'You think I'm a cunt but I'm smiling mate. From ear to cunting ear
I'm smiling.
Think or say what you like mate, I'm smiling.
There is nothing you can tell me I need to know. I'm smiling. I'm
happy. Go fuck yourself.'
Granddad would know but it would be a nasty shock for my Gran.
My BMX gave me fun for five years. It saw me through the best years of
childhood. We did a lot of stuff together. I fell off it several times
but every time it was the rider's and not the bike's fault. Once the
front wheel came off when I pulled a wheelie. I hit my face on the
ground but again it was my fault for not tightening the wheel
nuts.
I had trick nuts that got used for carrying friends, never for
performing tricks.
Clare has stopped laughing. Her head is back resting on my
chest.
I ask her why she cuts herself.
I wonder if I would ask if I hadn't had sex with her? Maybe I would if
I hadn't but I thought I might get to. Would I have cared enough to
enquire if I hadn't got or didn't want something in return.
Clare says she has a few problems. She doesn't stop there, leaving me
to guess at what these might be. She tells me. She says she thinks
she's ugly; she doesn't like her body, her parents or her
friends.
She doesn't think she is very clever. She claims to be very shy and
says she gets scared around a lot of people.
Actually she says nothing. She turns away from me, reverts to her
fetal position and cries softly.
Just because I get to fuck her doesn't mean I also get to know her.
She does well not to try and explain where it hurts. What would I do
with the information? Probably just pass it onto friends to help an
argument I was having.
We rubbed, cuddled, caressed, inserted, stroked, licked and sucked but
we still don't speak much. We've both had more rewarding conversations
with strangers.
I don't mention the scars again. I think about them occasionally over
the next week or so, but only briefly when something reminds me.
Entering her cunt doesn't allow me the same access to her mind.
In a film everything means something. Every shot and word of dialogue
is planned to fit the story.
A film has an editor that can cut away the unnecessary and
meaningless, leaving the finished feature seamless and watchable.
I take the material for my hopes and desires from films.
Disappointment can be huge.
It's now 3.16am. I can tell from the alarm clock but not from my watch
because it's under the duvet.
When I was younger my favourite film was Stand By Me with River
Phoenix. I wanted my childhood, even when I as in the middle of it, to
run along similar tracks.
Now I don't have just one favourite film but the longing to live like
a film character has never left.
It's subtler now. I won't take a whole film as a guide. Just a few
clips from each. I can probably list the most influential; Liv Tyler
having sex under a tree in Stealing Beauty, Winyona Rider and friends
on a roof in Reality Bites and Israli Otta towards the end of
Goodfellas when he's trying to deliver some guns, he's being followed
by police helicopters and he has to get home to make a pasta sauce for
his family.
I think, at 3.19am, it's more likely the film is summed-up by the one
scene and not that I try to emulate just this small part.
It works not by me thinking I would like to be these fictitious
people. I don't copy their actions, speech or personalities in any way,
not consciously at least.
All that happens is that occasionally I will think about their
fictitious lives and see them as a reality. Not my reality because I
work in an office and masturbate four times a week. A reality which is
somewhere waiting to be found.
Most of the time I know it's not there at all but sometimes I
forget.
I get up and change the CD. I put on a David Bowie greatest hits
collection. The first song is 'Spaceoddity.'
Do you search for this make believe, film reality, try to forget it or
stay as before, knowing it's unreal but occasionally hunting for it
anyway? I don't think I get to choose.
It's not what you say, its what you think. You don't say what you
think all the time. Even when you do its not always what you wished to
express that you manage to convey.
Then again it might not be what you think, because all that you think
is what you have been persuaded to think by your upbringing and society
and the interaction between these and the genetic information donated
by your parents.
Being good at something might never be more than luck. For example if
I was good at football I would be praised, yet I would have been born
with the skills needed to be good.
Even if I practiced every day, this would only be because I found
myself with the type of personality that would let me do this. A
personality that wouldn't allow me to be distracted by girls, computer
games and export strength larger.
Nothing is worthy of praise because everything I do is a result of my
past, before and after I was born.
This gives me a feeling of total fucking equality with everybody and
everything.
This also makes me all the more ashamed and ignorant when I catch
myself looking for the compliment or criticising someone.
I hope someone who has had the time and competence to do a proper job,
has played with this idea. It deserves to be more than just the
creation of a sales administrator who's although not scared of the
dark, still a little untrusting of its ability to hide things. Maybe a
psychologist or a philosopher.
I reach over and cup Clare's right breast. I rub gently for a while
then move my hand down and gently pull at her pubic hair. I place one
finger just inside her vagina. I don't move it about. I just leave it
there for a couple of minutes.
I've not read or watched a lot of porn, just a few magazines and a
couple of videos, but when I fantasise I find I can only do it in the
style of a Playboy short story. I have to reverse some of the
sentiments as they are usually written from the female perspective, but
still, the words and terms used tend to spring to mind at the vital
moment.
I don't know much. All thoughts are half-baked. Badly thought through.
At worst they are obviously wrong after consideration for a second
time.
This makes it all OK. It's like a disclaimer. If I admit I am often
wrong I have the same kind of protection as the genuine smiler. Smiling
idiot. I'm wrong and I'm still smiling. I know I might be wrong but I'm
still smiling.
You might be right but if your not smiling then what does it matter.
You fucker.
I am already tired of David Bowie. I know even less what he's singing
about.
It's 3.45am. I get up and turn David Bowie off. I've not had the
stereo on very loud because my parents are asleep next door but
one.
I get back into bed. Clare has again pulled her knees up to her chest.
I get close to her and pull my legs up so the top of my thighs rest
against the underneath of her's.
I don't really mind what Clare says to her friends on Monday. She
might not say anything at first, but they will ask because we left
together. She might say I was a crap shag, a bit strange or very quiet.
She might say I had a small penis, a horrible duvet cover or bad taste
in music.
It's not what she says that counts though. It's what she thinks. It
might be the same. It might not.
She let me stick a part of my body as far as I could get it, into a
part of hers.
I'm grateful for that. I hope she doesn't look too embarrassed the
next time we meet.
I find it very comforting the contestants on University Challenge are
always so badly dressed.
You obviously know more than me. You'll probably reach a higher
standard of living than me and all that this involves, large house, two
foreign holidays a year and well stocked kitchen cupboards, but you
look like your mother chose your clothes and your father dressed
you.
But then you might have realised that appearances aren't important.
You understand that everyone looks the same under their skin. Clothes
are a uniform, allowing entrance into whichever tribe you feel most
comfortable with.
We've realised this too you clever fucker, but we also know there's a
strong link between your appearance and the amount of times you catch
yourself gripping and tugging at your own cock, with your own
hand.
I can picture a Sam from Queen's College - Oxford. He's wearing a
shirt buttoned right up to his neck with no tie, blue jeans, white
socks and shoes from Freeman, Hardy and Willis.
He can explain the latest theory on black holes, quote passages from
the bible, knows which composer is responsible for the tune played out
of the helicopter in Apocalypse Now and regularly tosses himself off to
women's tennis.
I suppose so do I, but then I'm not the future of the country. I can
use a fax machine. My desk is tidy and I have a polite telephone
manner.
Also if you wear any clothes at all, you are giving a nod towards some
faction or other. It may as well be the, 'pretty girls sometimes sleep
with me' gang as the 'very clever but pretty girls rarely sleep with
me' clan.
I now feel smug lying naked next to a pretty girl, even though we both
had to be drunk to get to where we are now. Whatever my problems are at
least I'm sexually active.
I might like to live in a world were appearances didn't matter but
then I don't have much else going for me, so most of the time I think
this would be a shit state of affairs.
I wonder how clever Clare is. Not just how clever she is, but how
strong she will become. Will she be successful at the things she does
in her life? It's hard to tell when she's so quiet. Like the local in
the your local who you never see talk. He just stands observing,
measuring-up like a private detective compiling a report on all the
other locals.
One day you find yourself talking to him in the toilet and you realise
he wasn't keeping quiet because he was in his own world of silent
wisdom. It was because he had nothing to say. He's a boring, ignorant
man with a boring life and a boring wife. She has never sucked his
penis and only once put her hand on it.
In the pub earlier I was drunk. I felt comfortable talking to people.
Thinking back I got over excited, I said stupid things I wouldn't say
when I was sober. I had an argument with a girl, taking a stance I
wouldn't normally take, because I suppose I liked the attention or
something.
I once sat in a restaurant at four in the morning and all the people
seemed to turn incredibly ugly, both with what they were saying and how
they looked. It wasn't a latent acid trip. I haven't copied this from
someone else, another book, film or whatever. I looked around and
everybody was swearing, had pale faces and closed eyes. After a while I
couldn't look at them. I ate my food and encouraged my friends to
leave.
Now I think they might have looked like the freaks in Total Recall who
had their air supply cut off. Then I just thought they were ugly. I
wish this similarity had struck me at the time. I might have got some
amusement out of the incident instead of just having it put me off my
Chicken Biriani.
People in city center markets look this way all the time. Even the
film freaks didn't wear Kappa tracksuits. Can I read your future
mister? Golden Delicious.... 15p each. Five for 50p. Superior
twat.
Sit on my finger.
I push my way through the aged forty something women with wrinkled
cleavage, very noticeable with the temporary Majorca tan set between
the straps of a low cut, tight white t-shirt.
I've been married for 20 years to that man over there. We've had three
kids together. You are the same age as my youngest, would you like a
look at my breasts. Your a fucking pervert staring at my chest, you
give me the creeps, look at my face when your talking to me. Anyway if
you want a look, here they are.
Their husbands have tits as big as those of their wives. They arrive
together, they leave together but they don't talk when they're
here.
The toilet is empty but as I take my position against the porcelain
the door opens and a local who is either called Paul or Pete comes in.
He stands next to me. He's close but the toilet is small so I realise
he hasn't chosen this place for any other motive than necessity.
I've drunk pints of larger and held it for a while so my piss is
golden and elongated.
As it continues to flow I feel slightly uncomfortable with the
silence. I wouldn't if he was a complete stranger, but because I have
seen him around he is almost an acquaintance. I tell him, 'I needed
that'. He chuckles and then asks if I'm 'getting much'. I reply with
'fuck all'. This is the end of the conversation. I shake, zip-up and
leave. I don't wash my hands.
I go back to thinking what Clare will tell her friends at school on
Monday. I don't think I've got to see her at her best. I'm suddenly
jealous. This will be a one off. We probably won't even talk again. Her
friends will get to see her on Monday in a short school skirt with bare
legs. She will be relaxed and funny, laughing and flirting with boys in
her form group.
In years to come another male will reap the benefits of the groundwork
I have put in tonight. This seems unfair. I've given her experience. In
the future she'll be playful and loving. She might be adventurous. They
might both stay awake until the early hours, talking and laughing with
their faces only inches apart.
In a couple of years she'll be stunning. She might be confident. Her
body will have filled out. She will look like a woman. I will be the
same but she will have moved on. And up. We will bump into each other
in a pub. She will think something along the lines of, 'that's James, I
slept with him. I didn't enjoy it much. I hope the fucker doesn't try
to talk to me'.
I might be drunk and will think something like, 'there's Clare. I once
slept with her. She might still be interested. I'll go and talk to her
when I've had a few more beers'.
She's in the sixth form and so won't be wearing a school skirt but it
will probably still be short.
I'm 62. On the radio is a program charting the history of rock music
from the Sixties to present. They play Bon Jovi's 'Living on a Prayer.'
I sing along and then half way through I start to cry. I cry like a
baby for minutes. I'm probably driving and so have to continuously wipe
away the tears so I can see the road.
I'm now in my late thirties. We're in a pub, my wife and I. She's
talking to a mutual friend of ours at one side of the pub. I am taking
to the mutual friend's husband at the other. A girl who must be around
seventeen walks past and I notice her. She's beautiful. Her face is
untarnished, her complexion is that of a child's yet she clearly has
breasts and hips and a vagina that I will never enter.
Clare, it's my job to protect you, to treat you well, to make amends
for the others, those that weren't so nice. Whatever happens, whatever
I think I will treat you well. When I say those that weren't so 'nice,'
I don't just mean past boyfriends - if there's been any. I mean all of
us. Those that pushed our wives down wells. Those that hacked our
neighbour's children to death. Those that raped. Those that abused.
Those that took advantage and were rude and didn't respect. I mean men.
Men with their testosterone levels and things to prove. Men with their
bags to be emptied no matter what.
Yeah boy you're a shallow, obtuse little fucker. You write with
rhetoric and you talk without clarity. You're young. You think you know
so much.
I don't. I know nothing but then neither do you.
Is three o'clock the middle of the night or the beginning of the
morning? I suppose it depends if you get up at six or ten.
To me now, it's the middle of the night because I'm not going to get
up before ten.
- Log in to post comments