Explicit Love/Implicit Lust
Hey guys. I was wondering if you could give me some comments or feedback on this short story/possible novella I'm writing.
My short story/novella is hopefully a more realistic take on the teen drama/young adult genre. I'm hoping to set up the first half in a fairly traditional sense, leaving the second half to break down the characters' psyche and add the depth I want to show.
I've chosen to write in a post modern stream of consciousness style. with its roots in psychoanalysis, I think this is the best fit for the story I want to tell. I realise that the characters' narratives sometimes contradict each other and this is, indeed, intentional. I'm also acutely aware that the characters are heavily unlikable, but I'm hoping that there is some cynical humour in there, enough so to make them bearable (I'm very interested to hear your feedback on this!). I'd really appreciate any criticism you can provide. Thank you very much!
(Please beware that this is quite explicit! Also, the chapter is incomplete.)
Explicit Love/Implicit Lust
Intro
Caesar- Entry #108- 04:00am, Tuesday, 15/01/2009
Mood: Excited Listening to: Kings of Leon – Sex on Fire
A word to the willing, the nonchalant, and the devoutly apathetic, as it is to you that I offer this work. Allow the ravings and ramblings of the cruel and unwise to flee your mind for this very time, the insipid moralists’ thought control to escape your plane of thought. Allow this work to be that final thrust releasing your mind from rationality and reasoning into a lucid and enlightening orgasm. From the stories of these rejected youths, and the youths that rejected the world I wish you all to be enthralled in a reality that allows you to free your mind. To become bedazzled by what most call dirty and scorn upon; become enchanted by the beauty of what is wrong in the eyes of the wrong; to become strong and be counted for what is different in you, because long past is the day where we strive to become one, now is the golden age of individuality. This is the very reason I open these heart-rending chronicles with the vigour and over-zealousness only known to poets and philosophers. Allow yourselves to experience this novel as it should be experienced, with an open mind and an open heart, only in this manner can you learn the moral in the amoral; extract the grace from sin, the pollen from the wilted rose, the milk from a whore’s nipple.
Now, to the Nihilists and Anarchists, mistake this not as an ode to you, because ode to you this is not. This is a work of libertinism, a guide to the pleasures seated deep within our vices. This is nothing as simple as anarchy, nothing as incorrect as Nihilism; this is to act without moral restraint. Allow me to demonstrate to you the joys of selfishness; how blissful it can be to live from your own moral code, a unique piece of evidence portraying your existence. So as a final thought to consider before beginning your advance into modern-day libertinage, look to my characters and find yourselves, shed the pretentious exterior that you present to the world...
People are animals, ‘Homo Sapiens Sapiens’. However, unlike most animals, we are cursed with sentience, and with it comes the innate need to believe in a higher power; a God. From that belief springs religion, and from religion comes moralists. From moralists, we learn of sins. Rules that we are forced to abide by, which we gradually accept. Well, I say the only sin would be to allow this liberticide. Lie, cheat and steal to get exactly what you want. It’s in your nature, readers.
Some people believe they have a calling in life; a vocation. To help society, further humanity, aid their fellow man. They do this in the name of selflessness. The delusion that altruism is the peak of existential experience is what feeds their Eros; allows the libidinal energy to gush. Should you encounter such a person, you’d be well advised to look upon them with great cynicism. Because, reader, it is this persona that is the most dangerous of all. These people are as base and selfish as any valiant enough to admit it, mere vampires feeding off of others weaknesses and failings to stimulate their grandiose ego.
Though what is a man if not an example? Readers, my philosophy isn’t just the subject of theory, it is scientifically verifiable. It’s time that someone, that I, proved how base the human condition actually is. I may be a cynical misanthropist, but that just puts me ahead of the curve. People only need a gentle shove in the right direction, then suddenly the Earth isn’t flat and a new world is on the horizon. So reader, let’s set sail…
“The question isn’t who is going to let me; it’s who is going to stop me” – Ayn Rand.
C
Tiffany- God... It’s only half past ten and already the valium is wearing off. I knew I shouldn’t have come in today. I swear if he- 1, 2, 3, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus- if he even mentions politics one more time I’m leaving, but not really. Caesar isn’t here yet. He’s always late.
I wonder if we’re going to the Journeyman today. We probably are, I should leave just now and change my clothes. We always end up making out in the boys’ toilets after a few drinks. I always pretend to be drunk, I never am. We simply can’t make out if I’m wearing this bra, he doesn’t like it. Yeah, I’ll go home and change and rush back in time for lunch. Not that I actually eat lunch. I’m not fat.
Change of plan. Can’t leave just now, Caesar just walked in, no backpack, no pen, no paper. I watch from the corner of my eye, so he doesn’t notice me looking. He walks to his seat, which is two desks behind me and two to the right, behind a kid with short hair and a Lacoste tracksuit. I give in, turn my head. He’s far too preoccupied with the almost reflection from the window to even notice.
Oh, the lights are out, a film is being projected on to the whiteboard at the front, which is a perfect opportunity to reapply my lip gloss. My lips are so dry, I hope he doesn’t notice, but he’s sitting behind me and far too interested in his reflection to care. His hair looks good, not the usual pretty-boy blond spikes, more like the just-out-of-bed-but-actually-spent-at-least-an-hour-working-on-it look.
The weird old man at the front keeps looking at me, but whatever, it’s fine. Caesar likes my laced underwear and I like the way it feels when he slides them off. My bra is the same shade of red as my panties, but I was in a rush this morning, I can’t remember if I wore the flower patterned red panties or the lacy ones. The boy at the front with the squint teeth and noticeable necklines is looking at me as well, in fact the whole front row is. Oh, the old man’s talking to me, more gurgling at me actually. “Hello? The political system of France…?” He bulges his eyes while he speaks. What an unattractive quality. I’ll just look at the desk until he takes the hint.
I knew I should have taken more valium.
Ryan- The bus takes ages to get from my estate to college, but that suits me because I’m always really tired in the mornings. I had a late night last night with the lads. Jamie, Frankie, and our dealer Fitzy (he’s not a lad you mess with. This one time, when he was collecting, some lad refused to pay, so he got the guy on the ground and hammered into his head; broke almost all of his teeth). We got some sound weed and spent the entire night wasted. Not that I’m boasting about taking drugs, I know I shouldn’t, but weed helps me chill out. When I was young, about seven or eight, they told me I had ADHD, so I figure this **** just keeps me chilled. Hanging out with the lads is good, but sometimes it seems like all we have in common is the love we have for our pet dragon Puff.
I take my cap off and rest my head on my bag when I reach my seat; before I know it I’m asleep. I’ve been having the same dream a lot lately. It’s about someone in my class at college. A wank dream, really. The dreams are always the same, at first we’re just in class talking, then it’s all “oh, that shirt looks very becoming on you, then again, if I were on you, I’d be coming to”, you know how it goes. Thing is though, I hate that it’s this person my subconscious has become obsessed with. It’s not that I care about what people think or anything, it’s just… demeaning?
When I wake up I need to run to the front of the bus before I miss my stop, manage to bang into an old lady’s tits on the way, need to get it where you can, right? When I get to class Tony and Jessica are laughing about something and I say alright to Juliet but she’s too busy looking for something in her bag, so I take my seat behind her. She’s wearing lipstick, she never wears make up. No one else is in yet, as usual, which gives me a chance to text Jamie to ask Frankie to get weed off of Fitzy for tonight. Still not here, Mr. Monahan’s cool though, it’s like he doesn’t care about rules n’ ****, he’s sort of like a really old student.
I overhear Tony and Jessica *****ing about Juliet. They’re calling her fat- loudly. She isn’t even fat, it starts to piss me off, but I don’t want to embarrass Juliet so I don’t say anything, I’ll catch Tony after class. I put my head down on the desk, to sleep; otherwise I’ll just get angrier.
The screeching of a chair against the linoleum flooring wakes me up, it’s Juliet. Her eyes look red; she’s standing up, I think she’s tired. She smiles at me, I wave back. I’ll text her later. By this point the class is already well under way, so I quietly pull my notepad out of my bag and open it, you know; make it look as if I’ve been paying attention. I’m not always like this, but it is Monday morning and Monday mornings are always proper tiring, or maybe it’s just the weed, either way…
Just as I put my head back on the desk, the classroom door opens and Caesar walks in. This guy’s a complete dick, he argues about everything with everyone and struts like he’s on a catwalk while he’s at it. Tony says hi, to which he responds “hey fag,” without even as much as nodding in Tony’s direction. Normally when people act like that it pisses me off, but Tony was acting like a **** earlier, so I’m alright about it. I stopped paying attention to the teacher a good twenty minutes ago, but the fact that Caesar is playing his iPod loudly, through his earphones, still loud enough that I can hear it, makes me want to tell him to turn it off, or do it for him, but I don’t. It would be alright if his taste in music wasn’t limited to “Love Game” by Lady Gaga. I think this is the fourth time it’s repeated. He keeps staring at the girl across the classroom too, he well pisses me off. I wonder why Tony said hi to Caesar. Caesar is never nice to anyone. Maybe Tony fancies him, not that it would matter. Caesar doesn’t swing that way. Well, I don’t think he does. Well, if he does, he wouldn’t be into a camp guy like Tony anyway.
Got a text, got weed for tonight!
Juliet- He’s late again. Mr. Monahan, our political science tutor. I can’t remember the last time I walked in and he was already here. These half-wits probably think it makes him just like them. When did apathy become a quality to be proud of? It’s not even like I show up particularly early, just earlier than most of these future shelf-stackers. I mean, it’s not like I’d mind if, like, he was a good teacher or whatever, but he’s not. He’s just another old man with a misspent life. Ten past nine and they start to arrive. I look in my bag, fidgeting with my papers, waiting for them to pass, but as usual, they can’t resist. An obnoxious, insignificant, partially retarded but not quite, sycophant mumbles to his equally moronic fag-hag, in his own cringe-inducing, screechy tone, just loud enough for me to hear. “OH-EM-GEE, she’s actually made an effort today, too bad about the face”, cue fag-hag’s splutter of laughter. They’re talking about my lipstick, but whatever, it’s not like I was trying to impress Paris and her new BFF anyway.
Twenty minutes later and Mr. Monahan arrives like he’s on time, just behind him is the girl that sits at the far side of the class, next to the window. She used to sit next to Caesar, but they kept getting separated by the tutors so they stayed apart after a while. She keeps her things in a Gucci handbag or whatever; so pretentious. I wonder where Caesar is; probably in the corridor rehearsing his strut. Why am I the only one that cares about our education in this whole class? I always get stuck with the retarded course group too, I shouldn’t have come in today, it’s not like I had to, I already know all of this stuff anyway.
The French Revolution, what a fascinating and relevant topic to teach us, especially in a class about the political history of the United Kingdom, Mr. Monahan. I’ve had enough, I’m leaving. I ask to be excused to the toilet, from which a laugh is elicited from wannabe Queen ***** behind me. Monahan nods, so I pick up my backpack and slide the notebook off of the table. As I’m turning to leave, I notice Ryan waves at me, I didn’t realise he was here; I smile back.
I’m walking down the corridor thinking about that ghoul. What right does he have to pass judgement on my looks? His hair is bleach-blond with an ‘endearing’ chlorine green shine. Whatever though, it’s not like I actually care, appearances don’t matter and his opinions even less so. Pretty people never amount to much in my experience. My mum is pretty, but she’s also a neurotic, borderline anorexic, selfish alcoholic. When people flutter through life with instant verification, instant acceptance it makes them weak. They become addicted to their ego; narcissism and vanity become steroids. Suddenly the important things in their lives are how cool their hair is, how in their clothes are.
A sickeningly sweet scent hits my nostrils like sarin gas. Caesar walks by, I don’t say hi so I at least have a chance of avoiding permanent damage from that nerve agent he’s using as aftershave.
Whatever.
Chapter 1
Tiffany- 1, 2, 3, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus -It’s lunchtime. My panties match my bra, which is a total relief because I’ve been worried about it for just about the past three hours. The ugly fag that sits in the middle of the class with tanning booth barbie keeps smiling at me. I try to avoid eye contact, but I just can’t seem to understand why that girl is SO orange. Cringe. Caesar is speaking with the chav over in the opposite end of the class. I pretend not to notice but my head instantly turns in their direction. Maybe I can pull off the ‘just staring at the wall out of boredom and no other reason’ look, or not. I think Caesar saw me. The chav is not my type at all. Sure, he’s thin and has a clear complexion, but kids from council estates always have terrible teeth, not to mention a complete lack of style. Oh God, are those TRAINERS? Trainers are so 2004, I bet he’s had them since then. I guess it’s not his fault...entirely. Who’s ever heard of a style literate chav?
I wonder what they’re talking about. Caesar is widening his eyes and scratching the back of his neck. He always does that when he wants something, which makes him look just a bit like a monkey.
“Hi-ii,” a camp screech and elaborate hand gesture from the right marks the beginning of a nightmare conversation. Where’s my valium when I desperately need it?
“Oh, yeah, hi,” I reply half-heartedly, hoping this flamboyant fag will leave.
“I just love your handbag; YSL, right?” Do all fags emphasize love when they’re talking about handbags?
“No, Armani,” I pick up my mobile as if to indicate that I’m sending a text, hoping he takes the hint.
“Do you want to go to lunch with us,” 1, 2, 3, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, “we’re going to the coffee shop on the fifth floor?” Guess the text and dash didn’t translate very well.
“I, yeah, coffee, yeah, well basically, like, I’m allergic to, you know, those plastic—.” A smooth and confident voice interrupts me, “Hey, fag. Tiffany, We’re skipping,” Caesar faces me, intentionally cutting whatever-his-name-is out of the conversation.
“Uh, don’t be telling her what to do, Caesar, ‘Cause honey, she can come with us if she wants,” orange Barbie nods in agreement from the background where she belongs.
“Let’s go, babes, we’ll get coffee,” he grabs my hand, in a way that only gay men feel comfortable doing. For a brief second I consider actually going with them, just to piss Caesar off, but that idea quickly fades; I haven’t had any valium in over an hour and don’t need the hassle.
I turn my back in silence to Barbie and Ken, motioning to Caesar to lead the way. As we walk, Caesar constructs his annoying ‘I want something’ pose.
“Man, I hate that ****ing queer, and did you see that *****? I wonder what colour she really is under all that foundation. Of all the foundations, she picks the most unnatural colour. Who even picks orange? It’s not even orange. It’s like...like...what’s that colour between orange and red again?” I ignore his question as he takes out a cigarette and lights it, still in the college corridor; brazen. He must have coke.
“Do you have coke?” I ask him, even though it’s obvious my question is more of a demand.
“There’s a vending machine over there, I’ll go get you some,” he gives me this half smile while tapping his belt. He’s wearing the belt I like, white leather with red speech bubbles that say ‘Too ****ing Sexy’ in a black comic book-esque font; only a little gay.
Tucked between his belt and his trousers I see the tip of a thin silver tin. Safest place to keep the family jewels I suppose. He prepares a line on the politics essay I was supposed to be handing in today. I feel myself getting nervous, anyone could walk by and catch us. He’s still cut...1, 2, 3, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus...still cutting the line. I try and concentrate on the tapping noises coming from the credit card sliding itself into the cocaine. I’d rather be checking to see if anyone is coming, but I refuse to wear my nerves on my sleeve in front of him.
“Here, it’s ready,” he says while he rubs his gums with his finger, “it’s good stuff, and stop being so nervous, like, chill out.”
“I’m not nervous.” I snort the line with a rolled up ten. I wonder if he’s watching me while I do it. He’s right, it is good stuff. My left nostril instantly goes numb. Only cocaine can make you feel like a celebrity just by taking it. Only cocaine can make you feel how you were born to feel.
“Okay, let’s go,” I say, picking up my bag.
We walk down the stairs and through the revolving door. Caesar stands in the same compartment as I do. He intentionally presses his stomach against my back. He feels cold and strong against me. Guess someone has been working out lately. While he is standing behind me, he runs his hand under my skirt, brushing my inner thigh.
He whispers in my ear, “Check out the blonde coming in the other side; ****able, right?”
My heart sinks a little. I look anyway. The girl he’s talking about is moderately pretty. She’s tanned (fake, obviously), tall and a little chubby. She’s wearing fake gold earrings and carrying a high-street handbag over her left shoulder. She looks as cheap as that handbag. Her jeans are way too tight for her porky thighs and her face is forgettable.
“God, what happened to your taste?” I ask him dismissively, “She’s at least a size 8.” He shrugs his shoulders and smiles that empty, poisonous smile.
I light two cigarettes and hand one to Caesar; no thanks. I ask him where we’re going, already knowing the answer.
“The Journeyman,” he replies, dragging on his cigarette.
The afternoon sun is harsh in winter, revealing. Even perfectly applied make up is no match against its truth seeking rays. I’ve always hated it, ever since I was a little girl. But for him, it just serves to illuminate his chronically perfect face. His pale and radiant features seem to just reflect the sun’s piercing rays. He has these incredible cheekbones that are so perfectly inclined and his nose is so indisputably straight that no matter how hard the sun’s light tries to catch a moment of imperfection it fails. His spell-binding, empty blue eyes share nothing but a freezing coldness that will only ever remind me of how superficial and soulless he really is. His beauty is so overpowering that should he look into my eyes just once, my unbearable attraction, my unrelenting lust for him, would be unquestionable.
Looking back I notice that the college is now as far behind us as the education we received. Caesar works his way through his sixth cigarette. He smokes almost as much as me. I should ask him how he keeps his teeth so white.
“Why were you late today?” I ask apathetically, putting on my Armani sunglasses as he replies.
“It’s fashionable to be late, baby. Don’t you think this city is, like, lifeless?” He asks, whilst we walk through a crowd of people in a crowded street.
“You’re going to fai....”
“I never fail.” He can’t even let me finish a sentence before he jumps to his own defence.
“Why were you talking to that chav in class?” He must pick up the genuine interest in my voice because all of a sudden he’s looking at me. I look back at him, sunglasses are barriers.
“You noticed? Cute.” He smiles and looks on, nonchalance dirtying his face...1, 2, 3- Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
“Must you deflect every ****ing question?” I ask maintaining some moderate anger in my tone.
“Jesus, pop a valium…”...1, 2, 3- Jesus, Jesus, Jesus...
“Oh, that’s, like, one of your trigger words or whatever, right? Jesus?”...1, 2, 3- Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
“Listen, I need to call somebody, so I’ll catch you at the Journeyman.” I turn to face him, holding his gaze from behind my sunglasses for a brief moment before he glides off back from the direction we came. Sunglasses are barriers…
Cocaine is like walking through town with that fabulous new Armani handbag, encrusted with the most precious onyx stones in all the right places, complete with matching sunglasses and the most pretentious yet understated red stilettos you own. As each passing member of the underclass harem stares with their hypnotised eyes you can’t help but be overwhelmed with amusement. Gliding through, you carefully hide that giveaway smile, coyly stroke your hair for accentuation, dip your sunglasses and let the world see your bright brown eyes, but only for a second. Then it hits you. They’re staring not at the Armani handbag, or the red stilettos or the £500 Chanel skirt or the perfectly straightened hair that took four ****ing hours, no, they’re staring at a lonely girl riddled with insecurities that has yet again been left by the boy she loves. And that is what cocaine is like, but it’s all okay, because that onyx encrusted handbag has valium.
When I arrive at the Journeyman, Caesar’s pub of choice, I light a cigarette and decide to wait. This turns out to be a catastrophic mistake. I’m struck with disgust as the doors open and a horrendously old man, at least forty with garish stubble and unbelievable hair, hobbles over to me and asks for a cigarette. Shocked at his confidence I take a moment to process. Probably two, as he asks again. Determined to end this ordeal, I reach into my bag and take out the packet, Vogue, and grab a cigarette. As he reaches for it his ungodly nails come into view, the nicotine stained stumpy fingers. Lightly holding the cigarette between my thumb and index finger I place it into his hand. Then it happens. His claw grabs my hand. I stumble forward. His other hand swings around my back and he pulls me closer. It all happens so quickly, the demonic look in his eyes, the stench of whisky, the rumpling of his cheap beige jacket. His dry, cracked lips hit my cheek as he garbles “Thanks, darlin’,” and stumbles off. I shudder with repulsion.
Taking no more chances I step into the pub, faux smiling as some woman holds the door for me. Why Caesar likes this place is beyond my comprehension. I stand in the doorway, remove my sunglasses and examine the room. In the middle of the bar, the regular alcoholics are huddled, one woman hackling as a monstrous individual hugs her vigorously. To my left is a younger crowd, seated by the wall. God, they’re eating. This sight spurs me to walk past the huddled alcoholics, and to the far end of the bar, corner seating with a table. As I’m walking I notice my perfect hair in the mirror and a boy, seventeen perhaps, smiling at me. I smile back. He’s relatively attractive, the Lyle and Scott t-shirt he’s wearing is tight and unbuttoned enough to show that his tan extends past his neck. The interior design of the bar is bland, not quaint bland, just bland. Wooden tables and chairs, brown carpet, dark red wallpaper with the occasional photograph of a train for variety and dust speckled mirrors on each wall are among the décor de jour. Luckily the boy with the yellow Lyle and Scott t-shirt is worth looking at.
Bored of waiting, I call Caesar. Each unanswered ring frustrates me more; it cuts to voicemail and I hang up. This usual occurrence doesn’t concern me; sometimes I think he refuses to answer simply to annoy me. I’m certain he’ll call back. I notice the boy in yellow looking at me, I smile back. He doesn’t look away, which is unexpected. I maintain his stare, his confidence is cute. After a few smiles and two, or maybe three, strokes of my hair, he gets to his feet and strides over. Looks like I won’t need to buy a drink after all.
“Alright. Just saw you sitting here and thought I’d come over n’ say ‘ello. I’m Dan,” he begins.
“Oh, hi. I’m Tiffany,” I counter, whilst moving up, making space for him to sit.
This hint is enough, as he enthusiastically falls onto the seat, nudging up almost close enough to touch me. His jeans are low hanging, revealing his tight white boxers; his frame is thin, tres ****able. After a few mundane one liners and a tirade of tedious jokes he eventually offers to buy me a drink. I accept; double vodka and orange with two straws, as always. He accommodates and returns with my drink and a pint of whatever for himself. His friend, still sitting at the other table looks on, alone. Pathetic.
“So, what’s a fit girl like you doing sitting alone?” Cringe.
“My friend stood me up, but you’re here now so I’m not alone,” I rub his thigh.
“You’ve got proper nice eyes, do you come here often?” Oh God…
“Only sometimes, but not really, my friend really likes it here. What age are you?” I smile and rub his thigh yet again.
“Oh, right. I’m seventeen, what age are you?” Why isn’t he taking the hint?
“It’s my birthday today, I’m nineteen. Do you like older girls?” I smile and touch his chest flirtatiously,
He faux laughs, “I’d make an exception for you.” Yet another poor line, this boy is lucky he’s so ****ing hot.
With that, he stretches his arm out across the back of the seat letting it rest on my shoulders. I continue to rub his thigh while smiling at him. He sips his pint, leaving a foamy mustache around his lips. I notice his aesthetically challenged friend looking over and make sure he watches while I slowly wipe Darren's upper lip and lick my finger, leaving no room for misunderstanding. With a hand moving up my thigh and his breath hitting my face, he lets me know he's finally taken the hint. I run my hand over his, pushing it underneath my skirt. His lips touch mine, though they feel gentle; too gentle. Darren's kissing is nothing like Caesar's. It's as different as apple sours and tequila; one is soft and sweet, while the other leaves a bitter and strong taste lingering in your mouth.
“Okay… Okay, Stop,” I say, pushing him back. He seems to think I’m playing around as he smiles and tries to kiss me again. This time, I forcefully push him away.
“Sorry, I thought you wanted me to…” He meekly replies, pulling back. His confident façade shatters, what a disappointment.
I roll my eyes, sip my drink through the straw, and then check my phone for any missed calls or texts. Nothing.
“No, Darren, I do…”
“It’s Dan.”
“Yeah, Dan, totally. It’s just, this drink doesn’t have ice in it and, like, I really need ice otherwise I can’t drink it. So honey, could you maybe do something about it?”
“Oh, right. Sorry. I’ll go get ice,” he replies, confused.
“It would probably be better if you just got me another drink, baby,” Pause, “Another drink with ice.”
As Dan gets up and walks back to the bar, I take the opportunity to text Pauline, an ex-friend from a former college in a prior year, asking if she has any coke. We became close after Caesar ****ed her sister while they were still going out and I would lend her some valium to get through college. But then her dad died and she went totally off the rails; alcohol-free clubbing, drugless raves, McDonalds every other day. Those were very sans le love times, she ballooned to size 10. We met again last summer after an apparent amphetamine binge (she was back to size 0), and went clubbing in Elektronique. She’s ****ed half of the bouncers in this city, so VIP treatment was easier than usual to attain.
I got just a little too drunk that night and lost my diamond incrusted Gucci watch, while I was ejecting the alcohol induced calories in the toilet. It was at this point that the night went from teen drama to psychological horror. Pauline staggered back to the dance floor and left me reapplying my lip gloss. Next to me stood this thin, blonde girl who was very tanned, with a short but elegant Armani dress; white with black midline belt. As I was about to strike up a conversation with her, she pivoted little by little on the spot, falling head first into the mirror, breaking one of her heels in the process. Slowly, her face, well I say face, really it was more of a birth defect; acne riddled and literally crusting with foundation, became visible, lit by the not-so-flattering cabinet lights, shining on her face like a torch. The bags under her eyes thick, the eye shadow applied like she was painting a wall, she began to waddle towards me, muttering something indecipherable. The fright flung me back against the wall mounted hand dryer, which provided an almost demonic soundtrack. I learned that night never speak to anyone unless you’ve seen their face. It’s why I don’t listen to the radio.
The glass landing on the table brings me back to Dan. Dan, who’s looking more than just a little flushed.
“Did that ***** at the bar say anything about me?” I ask, paying him little attention.
“Who?” He asks, annoying me.
“Never mind. Let’s try this again. But this time… Make sure I know how badly you want me...”
I begin to rub his thigh, this time closer to his ****. I don’t care that there’s only a table between the rest of the bar and us. It just makes it more exciting, more worth it. His anonymous friend is still looking over; shy glances. Dan puts his hand on my thigh, this time on the inside. It tickles as his fingers massage my skin through my stalking. I feel his fingers glide smoothly around the top; his nails dig into my skin as he pulls the silk down a little. His fair blond hair catches the light; his full lips glisten when he wets them; his complexion is golden. I feel myself becoming wet as his fingers glide under my panties, as my fingers unbutton his jeans, unzip his fly. His dick pulses in my hand; thick and warm; heavy. Under my panties, he rubs my clitoris, pushing a finger in my pussy; I’m already so wet, only ****ing him would satisfy me right now. Two fingers scissor inside of me, as I pull his foreskin back expertly; fast but firm, rubbing my thumb lightly on the precum that’s seeping from his glans. As my orgasm starts to build, my head is pushed back as he kisses my neck, his slight stubble itching me. My eyes are closed and I can see Caesar; hear Caesar; feel Caesar inside of me.
“Like, are we interrupting?” That calculated tone; I grit my teeth, as my toes curl. My orgasm overwhelming; I clench my fists, as my mind returns to the bar, and my eyes catch sight of Caesar standing before me, with that grin. I immediately let go of David’s **** and push his face away from my neck with my other hand; breathless, trying to regain my composure. Under the table, I wipe the precum off of my hand on to his jeans and I can feel him fumble his erection back into his boxer shorts.
“So... Did the hot barmaid ask about me?”
