Eating His Way Through Loneliness

I suppose, Martin, with your culinary background, you do all the cooking at home?
No, I just do the bacon.
Oh, right. I see.

And that, was the end of that particular line of conversation and Martin was left to reflect.

Wife gone. Not told anyone. Eats nothing but bacon. Every day. Blunt knife. Straight out of the frying pan. Mountains of the fucking stuff. The truth of the matter was that he didn’t quite know what to do with all the pigs in the back garden. They were her pets. She left them when she left him. There was pork products all over the house. A pair of trotters had been fashioned into a toilet roll holder, brains encased in resin and used as doorstops, skin hanging from the walls like medieval tapestries. The house reeked of hot meat, like an over baked pie. He was still holding out that one day she might visit.

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Coming For Bruce

Alan McKenzie was at work but he couldn’t work. He was too busy arguing with himself again. He closed the file on the computer, bent another paperclip and popped a sherbet lemon into his mouth.
‘First sign of madness you know that Alan?’
‘What is?’
‘Talking to yourself.’
It was Linda, his line manager. She was wearing a yellow suit with a white blouse. He crunched on the boiled exterior of the sweet, felt the sharp tangy fizz escape and hit his taste buds. The sensation was symbiotic with the vision in front of him. She was feeding a pearl necklace from one hand to another, like the way zoo keepers handle snakes. She was smiling at him. She was all teeth with big golden hair like a lady lion.
‘Do you know what Alan, I think you are a very interesting man.’
‘Do you know what Linda, I think you are right.’
‘I know I am. I’m always right.’ Replied Linda
‘So am I.’ said Alan.
She licked the end of her finger and primed her eyebrow, it arched as her finger moved over it. She then bent down and whispered in his ear.
‘But y’know, it’s ok to be wrong sometimes Alan. I quite like the wrong men too. In fact I like them more.’ She ruffled his hair and laughed a deep dirty giggle as she moved off.
Damn it! She had tripped him up again, leading him down the fragrant avenue of compliments only to upend him and imply that he was an uptight righteous little cock.
He went over to the vending machine and bought a Kit Kat, unwrapped it with a controlled anger and then ceremoniously snapped each stick in half. It was a kind of therapy he had developed over the years. In moments of great tranquillity, he just sucked the chocolate off. Five minutes later, he had forgotten all about Linda and her teasing. He had other things on his mind. His best friend Bruce was coming to stay with him. Which was great news and made him feel sort of happy and sort of sad. You see, Bruce was dead and it was only his head that would be coming to stay. He took his phone out of his pocket began to text.
Hi Sally. Has Bruce arrived yet?
Moments later his phone buzzed. He swiped the screen.
Yes. Half an hour ago. Still in box, Don’t wanna open it on my own
It’s only Bruce
It’s not all of fucking Bruce though is it! I’m going out c u later
Alan was going to respond but decided not to bother. It must be said that Sally wasn’t too keen on having Bruce in the house. She said it was macabre and she was quite possibly right. He put the phone back in his pocket and noticed that it was time for lunch.
Egg mayonnaise, anchovies and blue cheese were his favourite sandwiches. Bruce, like a lot of things, had introduced him to the concoction. They were the stinkiest thing he had ever eaten but my god they tasted amazing. He found himself a quiet corner away from all the smokers and began to tuck in. Every mouthful brought back a memory of Bruce. Bruce, the witty conversationalist, the budget adventurer, the cavalier chef, the Intellectual bouncer, the glorious go-getter, the flirtatious beast. Oh yes, he was all of those things was Bruce but the main thing was that he was a friend. And Alan, not having that many friends in his life, knew the value of it. And then brutally, tragically, violently, hyperbolically even, he died while he was still alive.
The thought of that terrible day made the sandwich fall from his hand into his lap where the contents of fish, eggs and cheese tumbled onto his crotch, a mini mound of protein, dairy and grease oozing onto the soft cotton fabric of his grey trousers. Great civilisations had come and gone, huge breakthroughs in medicine and technology, life for many had become slick and sophisticated but here he was, Alan Mckenzie, 45 years old, suit from Argos, face like a parrot, perched on a bollard in the car park of a stationary outlet that didn’t even have the cache of being in town. What did it all mean?
He stood up; the food tumbled between his feet; now he had huge stain the shape of giraffe drinking on his suit. That is when all thoughts of Bruce disappeared from his mind. He was upset now; another pair of damn fine trousers ruined by a lack of co-ordination.
Alan wanted to go home now and see Bruce. Even though he was dead, he knew that talking to his head would be comforting. Besides, he had an apology to make to Bruce. He walked back to work, wondering if his Grandma was dead, he was sure that he went to her funeral a couple of months ago. If he did, that was that excuse out of the window. He pulled out his phone and texted Sally.
Can you ring work and pretend the house is on fire I really need to come home I hate my job and I have something all over the front of my trousers
He loitered around the entrance to the office, waiting for a reply from Sally.
I am actually having a really bad fucking day as well sort yrself out why don’t ya?
Yeah cheers bitch
He added a smiley face just to let her know he was joking. Y’know, he liked Sally but she was such a selfish fucking cow sometimes. Anyway, back in the office there was nothing for it but a pretend faint by the coffee machine. It was only two weeks since the last one but unlike Grandma’s funeral, it made sense to repeat it, he was obviously coming down with something.
When he came back ‘around,’ Glenn, one of the ‘ok’ people at work handed him a glass of water and offered to give him a lift home.
Glenn was very tall but he had a very small car. It looked like a toaster on wheels. His knees were almost up to his chin, if he tried, he could probably steer it with his tongue. Alan wound down the window for some air and they set off.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Feel ok now, thanks Glenn.’ Alan began to hum, within the small confines of the car he suddenly felt rather deceitful. He coughed into his hand.
‘Y’know, I didn’t really faint Glenn.’
‘I know’ he replied, briefly glancing over to Alan.
‘How do you know?’
‘I have a gift for detecting wankers.’
‘Oh…oh ok….so you think I’m a wanker?’
‘Oh god yeah. The first time I saw you I thought, yep total wanker.’
‘Oh……that’s slightly disturbing. I must say I don’t normally lie, it’s just that I needed the afternoon off.’
‘So did I.’ replied Glenn.
They drove on in silence for a mile or two.
‘Well, I don’t think I’m a wanker’ said Alan.
Glenn sighed.
‘Well I’m afraid it’s not for you to judge. Before me and the wife got divorced, I told her that I would be needing sex at least three times a day because I had decided to formally use it as part of my training for a triathlon I was entering. That’s when she called me a wanker. Up to that point, I never knew…I never knew. Anyway…we never had sex again. Six months later we got divorced. She got the house and I got this fucking car.’
‘Blimey.’ Said Alan feeling rather uncomfortable with the openness of Glenn.
‘Did you say sorry then?’
‘For what?’ asked Glenn.
‘For the insensitive sex request thingy?’
‘Did I bollocks.…if it wasn’t for her, I think I probably would have won that triathlon. Number 62 you say?’
‘Yes, anywhere here is fine thanks Glenn.’
He eased the car to a standstill and Alan climbed out. Glenn beeped the car horn as he drove off. Alan waved with no great affection. He was glad Glenn was too far away to spot the jerky hand movement.
Alan put the key in the lock and turned it and entered the house. He closed the door behind him and quietly made his way down the hallway and into the kitchen. He could see a big cardboard box on the worktop, next to the Weetabix. He took the kettle over to the sink and filled it, all the while keeping his eye on the box. He popped a teabag in a mug, poured in the hot water and whilst abiding the 3 minute brew rule, he twirled a pair of scissors in his fingers as he moved around the box, as if the box was a bear and he was a cowboy and the scissors were a Colt 45.
Three minutes later the milk was in the tea and he was cutting open the box. He could feel sweat running down his back and into his underpants with excitement. All of the times that he had met Bruce for coffee or for a pint, he had never felt this excited, it was almost perverse, well actually, there was no almost about it, it was downright perverse. By the time he lifted Bruce out of the box, he was actually out of breath and panting, his mouth agape at the incredible job they had done. There was no sign of where the rolling pin had smashed into the side of his head. They had fixed that good and proper. But the most startling thing was the eyes. A pale intense blue. Bruce had brown eyes when he was alive. Of course they couldn’t keep the original eyes but the blue eyes slightly disturbed him, to the point where he got out his phone and texted the joker who’d done the taxidermy.
hi received the head of Bruce Corby today good job cept Bruce had brown eyes and now he has blue don’t make sense… what happened??? Hashtag## don’t it make my brown eyes # blue #Crystal Gayle song### or what ffs!# stupid incompetent twat
He put the phone on the worktop and carried Bruce into the living room and put his head on top of the telly. He sat down on the sofa and stared at Bruce. Bruce stared back. Those blue eyes, alien in his head made Alan get up and go and turn the head so it was facing the wall.
‘Sorry old chap, it’s just I want to tell you something and I can’t do it whilst you are looking at me.’ Alan slapped his head in frustration and got up and began pacing around the room.
He then walked over to his old friend and stood with hands on hips.
‘I can’t stop thinking about your wife. There I’ve said it. In fact I have done more than that; I have actually been around to see Julia. Lovely blonde Julia. I have always been a sucker for blondes Bruce, you know that. I originally went with the intention of offering my condolences and to see if there is anything at all I could do but good god dammit she so looked incredibly beautiful in the midst of her sorrow, she was like a butterfly crawling from the grief laden chrysalis that was you, wow, who knew such torture of the soul could render one so immaculate in divine beauty. And who knew that one’s loyalty to a friend could disappear so quickly; diminish, like a fly under the flame of a blow torch. I. Am. So. Sorry. Bruce.
She was on the couch, she had finished crying, the box of tissues empty on the coffee table, a Celine Dion cd and half a bottle of wine that she was helping herself from. I was stood there feeling helpless, looking down her top, sorry I just couldn’t help myself… It’s funny how you remember the details in those moments of lust. Then she asked me if I could go to the shop and buy her cigarettes, I said yes, of course. When I came back we shared a smoke at the back door and I told her that I wanted to kiss her. I told her it made me feel closer to you Bruce, she believed me and we kissed, I’d drunk four gin and tonics by this point, I asked if I could get inside her.
‘What, like fuck me?’
‘Yes. I will feel so close to Bruce please.’
‘No.’
‘That’s fair enough’ I said.
‘I mean that’s it really Bruce. Just wanted to let you know that I’m a bit of a wanker really.’
There was a silence in the room, a clock tick tocked on the wall

‘What are you doing Alan? And why is Bruce wearing make-up and a blonde wig? ’
It was Sally. Stood in the doorway with bags of shopping.
Alan looked at Sally and then back at Bruce.
‘I don’t know why he is wearing a blonde wig and make up. He came out the box like that’ lied Alan.
Sally picked up the shopping bags.
‘It looks like you were about to kiss him.’
‘Ha, don’t be daft.’
‘Yeah, well he looks disgusting. He’s not stopping on top of the T.v is he?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Right, I’m going to put this shopping away, bloody gagging for a cup of tea.’ Alan nodded. He looked at Bruce.
‘This is actually all your fault, you know that don’t you?’


Oh Behold Low Frequency Hum

Someone who makes a shopping list with a blunt yellow crayon

Or expertly sharpens a pencil whilst thinking of Flamborough

Head
Possibly someone who signs everything twice
Or can never remember how to spell Eight, Intrepid or Cupcake.
Or just nice.

I don’t know. Maybe.

And are you a writer if you sit in the dark and the damp
Pen held aloft
A lightning rod
Or someone who just likes the idea of it.
Fuck knows.

Or is it the high drama of writers that sit naked sipping cold fizzy and eating fried sheep brains for breakfast and then belching out to an audience of no one, something profound;

Say!
I am also an animal
With smoke for blood
Three hearts like an octopus
Each a boiling cauldron
And two faces
That tell each other lies
About fucking and drinking and singing
And don’t just kill their darlings
But string them up from the nearest metaphor
Quarter them, disembowel them
Guts
Running into the gutter
Where we
Continue reading


Hanging Out With Brian

 I have been hanging out with Brian again even though I have been told not to.


Can I Get Out Now?

heaven

 

Can I Get Out Now?

The car pulled up and I got in because I was sick of walking. The car was black and sleek like a gloved raven’s claw.  It was full of dead people. The driver was dead too. We moved along the streets like treacle down the back of a spoon. It felt like one of those nights when you don’t get invited anywhere and no one talks to you.

I was bored.

I said to the driver can I get out now? Yes he replied, if you say please. I said can I get out now please? He stopped the car and I got out.  I watched it go on like a steel slug sucking up the road.

It’s still important to have manners, even around dead people.


Coming Up The Stairs

 

Coming Up The Stairs

 

        She was at the other end of the bar. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She wasn’t wearing much and what she was wearing hardly fitted her.  A purple and silver glittering dress, short at the knee, hips that could grind a man into a soulless pea shaped lump of shit, her large breasts almost busting the zipper of a tiny lemon leather jacket.  Her head like a mini Xmas tree, bows and tassels adorned and hung from her hair and ears, bright red lipstick and Kohl laden eyes. She was like a little plump toffee that someone had opened and then haphazardly wrapped back up again. He would like to unwrap her and nibble on what was underneath and indeed, accept all consequences.

   He moved a little further down along the bar, she was talking to the barmaid and he wanted to hear what she was talking about. It was no use entering a conversation with someone if he didn’t at least have an inkling of what they were like. He hoped she was talking about sex but she was probably talking last night’s TV or god forbid, car insurance. It sickened him when a girl he liked the look of turned out to have no personality. It was like when he was a kid with the lucky bags, there was never anything in there that was worth the anticipation.

   He would get within ten yards. Ten yards was the distance that he knew he could hear a conversation. He knew this from many hours of standing around old people in his job as a salesman in a Stannah stair-lift shop.  At ten yards he was noticeable, approachable yet not intruding. At ten yards he could hit the bulls-eye with a dart. Anything more than that, he was out of the picture. Anything less, he was committed to going ahead.  He would be in like a panther on a mouse, claws out and teeth clamped into the flesh. Well, he would at least introduce himself first. Of course, there was no point in him telling her anything of his real life. She wouldn’t be interested in that. He never had any kind of success when he told the truth. He had learnt the hard way. The truth was bland and unattractive, like a cold plate of pasta.  No one wants the truth; even he didn’t want the truth. His mother, like all mothers, had told him to always tell the truth and he had, until he realised he was going nowhere. He had learnt to become a convincing liar. All salesmen were liars. And most of them were cunts.  He was no different.

   He shuffled the bar along incrementally, not noticing until he was at the required threshold, that he had drawn the sleeve of his new jacket across a puddle of ale as he moved down the bar. He was a little annoyed; he had only bought the cream linen jacket that afternoon and the dark stain had probably now ruined it. He knew he should have gone for the black one. He cursed himself under his breath and shook his head, he turned and looked at the woman, there was a phone ringing and she was hunting through her little clutch bag that was sat on the bar. She dug out her phone and answered it, her voice, a sweet and inquiring, 

   ‘Hello?’

   ‘Oh, hello Derrick.’ She said, her voice suddenly becoming hard, plasticised and weary as she looked around the bar, her eyes briefly landing on him before turning away. She had seen him now. He wondered what kind of information her brain had subconsciously taken on in that moment. Had she noticed the side parting? The narrow blue eyes? The thin delicate nose that suggested he was sensitive?  He undid another button on his shirt and sucked a lump off the cherry that he twiddled between his fingers, nonchalantly dropping it back into his glass of John Collins. He looked over at her again with a wistful intense gaze; out the corner of his eye he could see the barmaid at the other end of the pub wiping tables. The hot lady was telling Derrick that he was wasting his time.

   ‘Not only that, you are wasting mine’ she added, the phone clamped between her shoulder and ear as she fiddled with a ring on her finger, it was silver, in the shape of a rhino. He could see her bra strap, a black lacy thing, slight impressed into her skin, she pulled a little compact mirror out of her handbag and flipped it open, began examining her face. He liked a girl who could multi-task. She pouted her lips as she applied some lipstick then flipped it shut, her lips remaining in a pout and it was clear she was starting to get a little annoyed with Derrick. She began shaking her head, stirring her drink with the straw before taking a tiny little sip.

   ‘I don’t care whether you’re in hospital or not. In fact, nothing would please me more if you never came out.’ She shook her head and looked down at her fingers. This lady was tough. Upon striking up a conversation with her, he had intended to present himself as an actor, resting at the moment waiting for a production to start in Manchester. Now he knew that was a folly. Derrick was obviously a sensitive whining type and it was getting him nowhere. He thought perhaps he would lay on her the brutal world of boxing promoter shtick. A dangerous uncompromising world of men, real men who could put up a fight. ‘Blood sweat and shit, that’s my world honey’. He moved along the bar another couple of yards, picking some change out his pocket and counting it to disguise the subtle decreasing of distance between them. She didn’t notice, she was looking the other way. He was now at seven yards and according to his own conventions, he was at what he called the dropped lighter zone. Even though he didn’t smoke, he always carried a lighter specifically for that purpose. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to work this time.

   ‘Given up smoking? I don’t give up anything Derrick, I’ve stopped, and that’s all.’

She picked up her glass and took a long slurp through the lime green straw, drained it as she listened to Derrick. She rolled her eyes in a dramatic fashion.

   ‘I don’t care if you haven’t been jogging for a month, try walking faster you little shit.’  The barmaid was back behind the bar, the hot thing slid her glass over to her and mouthed the words, ‘same again.’  For him, It seemed too good an opportunity to miss, to get closer, his feet hardly leaving the ground, sort of moonwalking  as he moved in another four yards. He was now within distance of offering to pay for her drink. Three yards for him was the magic marker, he was now fully committed to making himself known to her. It didn’t go unnoticed. She took the phone away from her ear and looked him up and down, her face, it could have been marble, registered no change at all. She went back to the phone and her conversation. There was no doubt about it; this wasn’t going to be easy. Women always gave away something when he was this close, a flutter of lashes, a slight grin.  He turned to the barmaid and told her that he would be buying the ladies drink. He hooked a twenty out of his chinos and slid it across to her, told her to get herself one too. The barmaid smiled, she was quite cute and he thought that if he didn’t pull the girl on the phone, he wouldn’t mind having a go at her. He could feel the penis in his pants as he pocketed the change, it had woken up. It was as stiff as a baseball bat, albeit half the size. The Viagra had kicked in. He was going to give her a right seeing to.

   She was still talking to Derrick. He was sort of only half listening, lost in the thought of what he was going to be doing later with this woman.

   ‘Just because you’re ill Derrick don’t have a go at me. You know I don’t write anything down, you are the one who is supposed to write things down.  I do all my work in my head….. and…oh there you go again….interrupting.’

   She picked up her drink and lazily sucked through the straw, took another look at him. He shrugged and smiled, she raised her eyebrows, went back to the conversation.

   ‘I understand what you’re saying………… but I can’t forget what happened in Luxembourg, just like that. Anyway, I’m sorry Derrick, it’s over, and I’m through with all your shit and bollocks, leave me alone.’ Nothing like catching one on the re-bound, he thought as he edged in even closer.  She took the phone away from her ear and looked at it, clicked a button, opened her clutch bag and dropped it in. She picked up her drink, the straw in the corner of her lovely red lips and she smiled at him.

   ‘Thanks for the drink. What’s your name?’

He smiled. What was his name? His brain scrolled down the list of tough masculine names, Colin, his real name just wasn’t going to cut the mustard with this girl.

   ‘Brandon.’ He replied.

   ‘What’s that, American or something?’

   ‘Yeah, my mother was born in LA.’

    ‘LA, nice place. You been over?’

    ‘Oh yeah, loads of times. I still got family over there and I go over a lot on business. I practically live there.’

    ‘Oh yeah, what kind of business you in?’

    ‘I’m a boxing promoter.’

    ‘Oh yeah?’

    ‘Yeah.’

    ‘So where’s home when you’re not in L.A?’

    ‘Manchester.’

    ‘What you doing in Sheffield then?’

     ‘I had a meeting this afternoon, thought I’d kill a few hours in the boozer before heading back. What’s your name?’

     ‘Molly.’

     ‘Nice name.’

     ‘Thanks.’

     ‘You have beautiful eyes.’ He told her leaning in, catching a scent of mint about her hair.

     ‘Yeah, I know.’

     ‘In fact, you’re downright fucking beautiful all over.’

     ‘Yeah, I know.’

      ‘I wanna fuck you.’

      ‘Yeah I know.’

She picked up her glass and drained it, pushed the glass over to him. He took it and pushed it over to the barmaid.

   ‘Same again,’ he said, not taking his eyes off Molly.

   ‘So, you fancy going somewhere, hotel or something?’ He asked, touching a small silver brooch on her jacket.

   ‘Yeah, why not, you look like you want a good fucking over.’

He took that as a compliment. It wasn’t. They finished off their drinks with more small talk before heading out into the street, hailing a black cab within minutes. Brandon/Colin knew a small hotel, ‘Maggie’s’ on the outskirts of town. He’d taken quite a few ladies back there. It was clean enough and the woman who ran it was stone cold deaf, perfect if you wanted to make plenty of noise.

   The cab twisted through the dark poorly lit streets, bumping over the pot holed streets. He was nuzzling at her neck, slightly salty, he could feel her hand going over his thigh and into his crotch, she whispered in his ear.

   ‘Are you any good with this thing?’

He whispered back, told her he was like a fruit machine, on every third pull she’d hit the jackpot. She laughed at that, collapsing back into the seat in a fit of giggles. He smiled, it was good to make a girl laugh.

   They arrived at the hotel, a small dishevelled place with a single lamp illuminating the entrance.

  ‘Are you sure it’s open?’ Asked Molly, as she adjusted her skirt.

  ‘It usually is,’ he replied.

  

   They scurried across the car park, rain had suddenly broken out, sheet lightening illuminated the sky and a clap of thunder smacked across the hills as they entered ‘Maggie’s.’ It was a dimly lit reception area. The carpet looked like the baize of an ancient snooker table. To the left of the desk was a dimly lit lounge/bar.  Molly hit the bell on the desk, she smiled and giggled. Brandon/Colin took a couple of steps over to some double doors where  he observed an elderly gentleman taking down the packets of peanuts that hung behind the bar and methodically wiping the packets with a dishcloth, before  putting them back. There was no one else in the bar. He walked back over to the desk and gave the bell another couple of dings, put his arm around Molly and kissed her on the neck, God he was desperate to fuck her, she smelt of warm summer meadows.  A few seconds later, Maggie appeared out of a side door, she was dressed from top to toe in tartan and walked with the aid of a silver cane, her hair like lumps of blue marshmallow piled up on her head. She was chewing something, swallowing as she reached them, dusting down a stray noodle from the lapel of her jacket. She nodded and took up her position behind the desk. She smiled, her eyebrows pencilled in, arching high into her forehead.

   ‘We’d like a room for the night please.’

She started scribbling on a pad of paper, pushed it over to them. Brandon/Colin turned it around. He nodded and took a wad of twenties out of his wallet, handed them over to Maggie, who didn’t even bother counting. She just rolled them up and pocketed them. She took the pad of paper back and scribbled a room number, passed it back and then handed them a key. She then made a tiny little fist, burped into it and disappeared back through the door she entered.

   Before heading up to the room, Brandon/Colin suggested that they got a bottle from the bar. Molly agreed and they went into the tiny bar, the man behind it was doing a crossword, he looked up suspiciously from behind his glasses, then rose to his feet and firmly planted his hands on the bar. He smiled but not with any great enthusiasm.

      ‘What can I get you? I haven’t got anything fancy.’

      ‘It’s okay,’ said Brandon/Colin, ‘We’ll just take a bottle of your finest Vodka, a bottle of tonic and a bucket of ice.’

      ‘And a sliced lemon, do you have lemon?’ asked Molly.

      ‘I do have lemon, I always have lemon.’

      ‘You like lemons do you?’ joked Brandon.

The bartender sighed as if he had been dealing with these kinds of fools all his life.

     ‘It’s not that I like lemons, it’s just that I like to go sailing, and every sailor knows the importance of a lemon, at least they should do.’

Molly and Brandon/Colin, quite drunk already, looked at each other and giggled. This outburst didn’t faze the bartender.

    ‘You’ve obviously never heard of James Lind?’

They shook their heads, trying to stifle their laughter.

    ‘Scottish, born 4th of October in Edinburgh, 1716 He was the first man to do any kind of systematic experiments on the causes of scurvy, of course, he wasn’t the first to suggest that a lack of fresh fruit and vegetables may be the cause but he was certainly the one who was pragmatic enough to get on with the experiments. An admirable man, saved many lives. Thus, in honour of Mr James Lind, I always have a lemon about myself. End of history lesson, will you be wanting straws?’   

   ‘Ooh yes please,’ said Molly. The bartender smiled and began putting the requested items on a small tray printed with a rose pattern. He began to whistle, nothing familiar just a sort of nervous tuneless melody, perhaps because of the way that Brandon/Colin was groping inside Molly’s jacket and rolling his tongue over her ear. They were suddenly quite engrossed with each other, it continued all the way up the stairs, Molly carrying the tray, giggling as Brandon/Colin, like a lamprey, sucked at any available flesh.

   The room was small and the bed was big, Molly kicked off  her shoes and unclamped her lover from her breast, she put the tray down on the small table and began to prepare a couple of strong drinks, she looked over at Brandon as she did so, he was stripping off, his clothes going off in all directions, his body was white and slightly flabby, his face red, with a large vein  prominent on his forehead, she made a mental note off all these details, she would certainly be able to use him. She watched him pull off his pants, sipping at her drink through the straw, amused at the way he was holding his cock with two hands, as if it might suddenly detach itself from his body. He was coming towards her with it. She picked the half slice of lemon from the glass and nibbled on the rind, sucked on a pip and swallowed it. She smiled as he took her drink and placed it on the side, lifted up her chin, her lips parting to accept the beast. He groaned and pulled her into him, she couldn’t take all of him that was impossible. He was groaning, telling himself to behave.  She laughed although it came out as stifled muffle; it felt like she was eating a pillow, there was just no air. She pushed him away; his eyes were wide, alert and bulging. She took off her jacket, blouse, bra, he helped with the shoes, skirt, tights, pants, and then he pushed her onto the bed, promptly flipped her over and took her from behind.

   ‘Jesus ‘she cried, she could really feel him now, he was driving hard into her, hands clamped to her hips. She could hear him shouting, between the gasping and grunting, it sounded like he telling himself off again. In a way, he was, for every time he fucked a woman, he went back to that day, to the day that the only girl he had ever loved humiliated him.  He had loved her but she never loved him back. And she had truly humiliated him but not before she had teased out of him every little secret, every tiny desire. That day in the farmer’s field.  He had led here there, a tiny little ring in a burgundy crushed velvet box that nestled deep in his trouser pocket. She had laughed when he gave it to her. She laughed so hard that the cows at the far end of the field turned around. Yes, he was kind of telling himself off, warning himself against any kind of emotional attachment. But to completely achieve this state of detachment, it was also necessary to enter another zone.

This zone was called sales patter and it was entrenched and deeply ingrained within him. It was delivered in a staccato whine

   ‘Over the years/we’ve developed/ a reputation/ for honesty, integrity and commitment/ quality/quality/pro–ducts. Our fucking fucking experience of the lift industry is virtually unsurpassed/quick-to-install and rate fucking easy-to-use stair lifts we sell more stair fucking lifts than any other company in the whole fucking world!!!!!!’ He was panting like a dog in a hot car.

   Molly had been with lots of men but she never quite encountered this kind of sex talk before. Which was good for her, it meant she would have something to write about. She lifted her head and shouted out to him.

   ‘Sell it to me you dirty bastard!!!’ Then she buried her head in the pillows trying hard to stifle the giggles,

   ‘You want it! You can have it’ he groaned, gripping her hips tighter.

   ‘Personally I would go for the SAXON!!!!!! Easy on the eye and quiet as an owl, fully fitted by our very own engineers, 12months guaranteeeeeeee’ he barked out.

    ‘It’s perfect for a narrow straight staircase, velour seat, brushed aluminium, one of our best sellers Madam’ he groaned and spluttered wildly, slapping Molly’s arse.

   ‘I fucking want one’ she screamed.

   ‘Yes yes yes!!!!!!, of course, what colour do you want, we have a choice of fabric, blue red or black, height adjustable seat, manually powered swivel feature turns the seat to face the landing for easy access, from only nine hundred and ninety five pounds fully fitted!!!!!!!!!!!!’He was now screaming as he hit her with all the financial details.

‘Just give me that fucking stair-lift you dirty fucking shit!!!!!.’ 

   ‘It’s coming, it’s fucking coming!!!!!’

   ‘Fucking Hell!!!!’ screamed Molly, as she felt an orgasm erupt, rippling throughout her body and momentarily robbing her of the feeling of legs.

   ‘Here it is!!!!!!’ he groaned, shovelling his thing into her.

   ‘Free delivery, just  nine hundred and ninety five pounds over three years minimum cash deposit of 10 per cent, 36 monthly repayments at 35 pounds a month, typical APR at 22 per cent, agreement subject to status, we are regulated by the financial services, terms and conditions apply!!! Terms and conditions apply!!!!!!’ He groaned and shuddered, as he yanked his huge penis out of Molly and shot his load all over her back, collapsing into a heap beside her.  

   They lay there recovering, the smell of sex and sweat rising off their bodies like a thin farmyard mist. Outside there was the sound of an owl hooting. Minutes passed as they stared up into the ceiling. 

   ‘You are not really a boxing promoter are you?’

   ‘No, I’m not.’

   ‘And your name isn’t Brandon is it?

   ‘No, it isn’t.’

    ‘What is your real name?’

    ‘Colin.’

    ‘And for a living, you sell chairlifts, is that right?’

    ‘That’s right. You know,  you should come over to mine sometime, I had special chairlift, it’s more like a Chaise Longue, with a tiny cocktail bar that pops up out from under the seat. It goes up the stairs real slow.’

    ‘You’re a dark horse aren’t you?’ said Molly, as she slid under the sheets.

    Colin laughed, pushed himself up and walked off into the bathroom; she could hear him pissing into the toilet. He shouted from the bathroom. 

     ‘I have to admit it, I am a lying fuck.’

     ‘It doesn’t bother me.’ She said. He was drying his hands on a towel as he came back into the room.

     ‘I thought that you would be angry?  After hearing the way that you trashed your boyfriend on the phone, I can tell you don’t suffer fools.’

    ‘Boyfriend? That wasn’t my boyfriend. That was my agent.’

     ‘Agent? What do you do for a living?’

     ‘I’m a stand- up comedian.’

     ‘I thought you were funny’

     ‘Oh yeah, I’m hilarious.’

She smiled at him. He touched her on the knee as he poured a couple of vodkas.

   ‘You’re not so tough after all are you? You’re like a little lamb.’

She smiled. Oh yes, she was like a little lamb. Except, it wouldn’t be her getting slaughtered next week.  She was looking forward to working tonight’s events into her show. She reckoned she had at least two sketches, possibly even three, out of this fruitcake. 


Sex Man

Sex Man

 

Sex man lives next door with sex woman. Sex man doesn’t say very much when you meet him in the passageway between the houses. Sex woman doesn’t say very much either. I don’t even know their names. But every night I hear them at it, lust splintering from all cylinders. Night after night after fucking night through these rented skeletal walls. It’s like living next door to a battle scene from Braveheart.