The Navy Diary - chapter 3 - First Edit

Chapter Three

The day after passing out is Saturday and it is yours to do as you wish, some people remain with family members whilst others engage in as much sex as possible with their partners. The statement “I will never cheat on you” keeping the pace of the passion high or at least the guys said they banged the ass off their birds.

My Saturday began as many previously. Contemplating if it is possible for your brain to dry out? I mean completely be void of all fluid having had such a barbaric volume of booze sluiced for more than twelve hours. Miniscule movements resulted in my brain being so dehydrated it felt like it was banging against the walls of my skull. The pain so vicious it prevented any part of the body moving or it would deliver pain with the precision and power of a baseball pitcher never showing mercy.

This type of hangover prevents you from toilet trips; luckily I had swamped myself the night before! There I was my first day as a qualified sailor lying in my wank chariot unable to move, fully dressed and covered in urine. Still I had not shit myself. Later investigation also showed an unidentifiable but sickening colour of something crusted on the black Ralph Lauren. Was I sick? Was it kebab? Was it blood? Fuck it; right now my head hurt so much I could not give a fuck if I was wanted for murder.

There was no point in looking at my watch, time was not a factor. I knew how long I would have to wait for the pain to pass. When it subsided, I could slide from my bed, wearily undress and make my way to the heads for a shower. In the shower I found the pain eased; out of the shower it returned. I therefore took my standard twenty five minute soak, where I would clean my teeth at least 5 times. The foul dank taste in my mouth the evidence of what I shoveled down in last night’s second wind. My hangover routine would have me sit on the edge of my bed after washing - which was number 12 in 32 man mess. Water brought assumptive the night before, to aid consumption of 4|X 500mg Paracetemol, 4X 400mg Ibuprophen, 3 Alka seltzers and a hearty slug of Gaviscon. This mixture turned my brain from booze confused, to drug confused but less able to think about the confusion, which in turn bought me a few hours relief. I would peace the previous day together later but now I needed my drugs, I needed to vomit and I needed some food.

Knowing what I needed, I took myself to a small bar; away from sailors and any potential witnesses from last night. I ordered myself a £10 glass of Baileys or however many shots I could get for that money. “Tall glass, plenty of ice” I would always demand from Tony the owner who would always give Ian what he wanted. The Baileys was my friend when my stomach and mind were awash. I lit my first cigarette of the day having completed the coughing ceremony earlier. At this point I thought of Bring Em, I had not seen him all day and at this point had no mobile number. That is as far as my concern went. Whilst still in need of real sustenance [good food and water], I was half way down my Baileys, smoking hard and looking in the back section of the local paper under the classifieds where escorts were listed. What a great system, no need to buy a dirty magazine or a paper like the Sport, you could by the local paper, take your time to slip through the pages until you reach the classifieds title Escorts.

What is it about a hang over that makes a man want sex? A man is at his least able yet that release is all that can be thought about. Sometimes you can take care of yourself; sometimes you have a girlfriend, sometimes you pay. It just is what it is; that is what I believed. Well believed it more than the descriptions of some of the prostitutes who put their bodies out to rent, to anyone who had the cash. I always treated sluts with respect to get me in the door, but when the cash had exchanged hands I would get aggressive, sometimes nasty if I was struggling to cum; I often thought about punching them. Why not? For another few quid I bet they would let me smack them in the face.

I finished my baileys, collected the numbers I needed so left the bar. My game now was to get set up with a slut, fuck, eat and get to bed with no one I new seeing me. Another bar by the docks with a small and uncomfortable but very private back booth allowed me to call the women for rent. I ordered triple baileys with a single shot of Whiskey in as I was starting to feel a dip. I called each of the numbers and there was no answer. What the fuck is going on in this world when a prostitute does not work on a Sunday? Still having not eaten and my hunger growing as the sex element dissolved I lit another smoke. I needed to think.

Think is a misleading statement. What was going to happen in the next few hours was going to happen and other than death nothing was going to stop the hangover train rolling into the next station. My intention was to get a taxi to a small café where they bragged over the largest breakfast in town. Next door to this café was a building named studio 3. Now if this were Thailand, the massage on offer would be delivered by a gracious well trained owner of healing hands that would twist and turn your joints for a small fee. The massage here however started at £15 for 15 minuets and doubled similarly for extra time. Usually the off watch ugly bird would greet you at the door. Whilst being a hooker there is still a sad look in the eye of split when you immediately ask “who else is working please?” Sometimes you get lucky and there is a half decent girl with age on her side but the standard operating procedure is for some rank old hag to slither out in panties that only accentuate the parts you want to dodge. You reluctantly hand over the cash - always pay for the first 15 minutes and decide if you want more, rather than pay for say an hour and get fucked off with your hired hand inside ten. The receptionist will come in your room with a portable cash point so you can pay with minimum disruption.

Many people go about the same task in many different ways. I used to get in the small room, which would have a permanent play of the Titanic soundtrack in the corner on a piss poor stereo and a table/bed that looked more like the Taliban where about to produce an internet production on some western infidel rather than a place I was going to pay hired help to rub me up. I simply entered the room and asked straight out, “how much for a wank?” Normally £20 covered it, though some wanted more which was remedied with a look of you are getting no money out of me but not too strong as there was security. Getting busted with ones pants down isn’t good.

It’s not the using girls for rent that cuts at you; it is the cost of them. I had to pour Baileys down my neck faster than a waterfall flows before the big push. I had to be drunk to go to Studio 3 as the birds were fucking guttersnipes. The type of whore you fuck represents the type of man you are, from the lowest paid man to the president of America. Nothing in my head told me what I was doing was immoral and I had any excuse needed to combat that thought. I am always correct, I always win.

I produced my credit card to gain cash back by ordering a stupefying round of booze. I was set, enough loud mouth soup down my neck, 12 fags left and a cheeky century in pocket. Time to flag a cab and spend some of the free money the world just wanted to hand out to people. Control the debt, control the people.