Enormity

by Nick Milligan

  “Ready?” she asks, yelling in my ear so I can hear her over the throb of the music.

  “Sure,” I say, lifting the tube to my mouth before asking, “what is this?”

  “A night to remember,” smiles Natalie, and pours the elixir down her throat.

  I do the same. It burns slightly, but as it slides down my chest it feels extremely good. My skin feels as though it may rise in goosebumps. I feel charged and content, ready to do anything. Natalie is too tantalising and my layers of decency and self-control can no longer protect her.

  Still at the bar, I pull Natalie against me and put my mouth next to her ear. “I can’t wait,” I say. “Let’s do it now, or I’m going.”

  Natalie kisses me. “Are you sure? You’re ready to go?”

  “I was born ready,” I reply.

  “Ok,” shrugs Natalie, cheekily. She takes me by the hand and leads me to a corridor that feeds off the back of the dance area. People gyrate around us to the DJ’s selections. Even in the disorientating flash of the strobe I can see that people on the dance floor are having sex, grinding against each other.

  As we walk up the corridor, the music shifts from its relentless hum to a slow-building release. Halfway up the narrow path begins a series of red curtains, like a laneway of dressing rooms. Most are closed. As the music becomes more distant I hear muffled groans from behind the sheets of draped material.

  Halfway down the row, we arrive at an open curtain. It exposes an empty booth. Natalie leads me inside and closes the red velvet. The booth is only a few metres wide, with a bench seat running around its inner perimeter. On one corner of the bench are a bottle of lubricant and a box of tissues. The walls are slick and black, immaculately polished and our reflections stare back at us, as if etched in the surface of obsidian.

  Natalie takes off her white shirt. I pull the thin straps of her dress from her shoulders and it falls down, revealing her large, caramel breasts. I take each of them into my mouth, gorging on her flesh. Natalie runs her sharp, taloned fingers through my hair, pulling me against her.

  My jeans are unzipped and Natalie reaches in, taking a firm grip on my quickening erection. Pulling it out she leans down and takes me in her mouth. I savour the sensation of her lush, soft lips and her darting tongue. She strokes me with one of her thinly gloved hands as she moves her mouth on me.

  Natalie lifts her head and I lean down to kiss her, our tongues pushing against each other. She puts her hands on my cheeks and looks me square in the eyes. “I want you inside me,” she says. Reaching for the lubricant, Natalie screws off the lid and starts to squeeze the thick, clear contents over my fully hardened shaft. She then pulls off one of her gloves and uses her bare hand to spread the lubricant over the length and tip. Taking a tissue, she daintily wipes her hand and then turns away from me, lifting her skirt. Her smooth, perfect buttocks appear and my eyes descend down the muscular curves of her thighs and calves. Natalie’s naked rear is pointed at me, awaiting entry.

  “I want you to fuck my ass,” she says, looking back at me with unleashed intensity. “Use me...”

  Natalie relaxes her rear opening as I push against it, and I’m allowed inside. While at first I treat her gently, thinking that I may cause her discomfort, it is apparent that she wants me take her with a higher degree of animalistic savagery. Natalie forces herself back against me, pushing her hands against the wall in front of her for leverage. I watch the entire length of my erection disappear inside her firm backside.

  As we build into a consistent rhythm, Natalie starts to squeeze her rectal muscles around me. In response, I hold her firmly by the hips and begin to her fuck her as she requested. She throws her head back, resting it against my shoulder, grunting with abandon. I bite down on her neck, sinking in my teeth as far as I can without drawing blood.

  “Yes!” she howls. “Bite me. Bite me... fuck me harder. Don’t stop fucking my ass.”

  The semi-human traits Natalie and I had before entering this booth have surely left us. We rut like two fallen angels, tangled in a knotted ball of sweat and interlocked biology. Completely alone with our most carnal desires. With every thrust, I bury myself as deep in Natalie as our mechanics will allow, seemingly bringing her greater pleasure. She takes one of my hands, bringing it in front of her, and I find her pussy with my fingers. She grips my wrist tightly, forcing me to stimulate her.

  I light a cigarette. The combination of tobacco and the chemicals my brain has released post-orgasm, trigger another high and the drugs in my system kick into another gear. I pull a pill from my wallet and chew it, my mouth filling with the dirty, medicine taste.

  “That was so fucking hot,” says Natalie, as she reclines on the bench across from me. Her eyes are closed and she drags on a cigarette of her own. “I wonder if they enjoyed it,” she adds, motioning towards the wall next to us.

  “They?” I ask, despite immediately comprehending her revelation. We’re in a booth. Not a private booth.

  “Our audience,” smiles Natalie, finally opening her eyes and gazing at me. Her pupils are wide and dark and she’s clearly peaking.

  I drag on my cigarette and the pills in my system cloud my emotions. My reaction to this voyeuristic twist is dulled. I don’t feel anything.

  “I’ve wanted to fuck you since the moment I first heard you sing,” coos Natalie, closing her eyes again, submitting to the pills. She rests her head against the black reflective wall. “I first saw you play at the Ellis Theatre. I knew one day I’d have you inside me.”

  “That’s very nice of you to say,” I say.

  “One night I met you at the Walkley Gallery,” she adds.

  “I remember,” I reply.

  Natalie smiles. “You want to keep partying with me?” she asks. “Now that you’ve had me?”

  “Why not?” I reply. “I may as well see where the train terminates.”

  “It doesn’t,” says Natalie. She opens her eyes and stares for a moment, exhaling a plume of smoke from her nostrils. Then she leans in and whispers. “Did you know that this club has a Narc den?”

  “The wonder drug?” I ask, with a hint of sarcasm.

  Natalie huffs and leans back again. “Don’t joke,” she says. “I tried it a month ago. It’s everything people say it is.”

  I don’t respond, my eyes wandering across the skin of Natalie’s legs. My mind is bouncing around a series of thoughts, like a fly navigating a glass room, looking for the exit.

  “Words can’t describe it,” says Natalie, closing her eyes. “It’s like walking with God.”

  “I don’t think I have a spare week,” I say.

  “Spare a week. Trust me. A week is just a period of time. Narc is bigger than time. It controls time.”

  Natalie finishes her cigarette and redresses. She then takes me by the hand, leading me from the booth. We descend deeper into the club. Passing the rest of the booths, many of them with their curtains closed, I squint in the darkness to get a bearing on my surroundings. The blackness is lit by strobing lights of red above us that blink rapidly, setting all movement in slow motion. The corridor opens up and we step into another dance floor area and I can see and feel bodies moving all around us. Swaying to the music. Natalie stops for a moment and turns to kiss me. She bites on my lower lip but I’m too drug-addled to feel any pain. The pulsing, electronic music wraps us in its cocoon.

  Natalie leads me across the rest of the dance floor to a dimly lit staircase. As we descend, we squeeze past a couple having sex against the wall. At the base of the stairs, a man performs fellatio on another man. We step into a foyer-like room with a low ceiling. The walls are dark concrete, like a bunker. Across the foyer stand two heavily-built security guards dressed in black uniforms, who are positioned either side of a reinforced steel door.

  Natalie approaches one of the guards and leans up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek.

  “Mind letting us in?” she asks, coquettishly.

  “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”
asks the guard.

  “Yes, I have,” she smiles. “But this time I’ve brought a friend.”

  The guards turn their eyes on me. Both of them nod in respectable greeting, recognising me. The silent guard pulls a small card from his pocket and swipes it across a panel to the right of the doors. The doors then make a muted, echoed growl, like a piece of metal retracting, and slowly swing open.

  “Thank you for visiting us,” says the first guard, and nods at me again. Natalie takes my hand and excitedly leads me through the door.

  More stairs. This time I can’t see the bottom. The narrow tunnel’s roof has lights sporadically placed every few metres, just enough to see the stairs directly below them.

  “You ready to go deeper with me?” asks Natalie, turning to kiss me again.

  “Yes,” I say, when she pulls away. “I’ve no reason not to.”

  This makes Natalie smile. She takes my hand and we begin our descent. The heavy door is closed behind us and the throbbing music of the club is almost silenced. Its lingering echoes may only be in my ears. My hand runs along the ancient grey brick around us, as I attempt to balance on my shaky feet.

  The stairs arrive at a silver elevator door. Natalie pushes a small button and the door parts for us.

  “Someone told me that this place is an abandoned military facility,” says Natalie, as we step inside. I look at the elevator’s control panel. There’s no other option than a single button with an arrow on it. The arrow points down.

  “Hectic,” I say, more to myself than Natalie.

  Natalie wraps her arms around my neck in an embrace. “I’m so glad you’re here with me.” She rests her head on my shoulder and I take a moment to smell her hair. With a loud, locking sound, the elevator’s movement slows and we are again stationary.

  The elevator doors open and we step out. We’re in a giant room that’s as big as an airplane hangar. It’s so long I can barely see its end. Running throughout much of its length are beds. Hospital beds. Next to each of them stands a drip with a bag of clear liquid. There’s over a dozen rows and they stretch as far as the distant wall. On all of the beds around us are people, who lie in an assortment of outfits, many of them uniforms. Most have their eyes closed, others do not. They lie with their arms folded across their chest, as if arranged for an open coffin. In their mouths they have a piece of plastic, like a horse’s chomping bit. The air is filled with the sound of quiet moaning.

  Between the rows wander male and female attendants in hospital garb, who stop at each bed and make notes on a clipboard. To our immediate right is a small reception desk. Behind it sits a young, blonde girl. She has a computer in front of her, chews on gum and is twirling her long ponytail. She’s wearing a telecommunication headset. Her eyes fix on us as we approach and she smiles.

  “You’re back again, Natalie,” says the girl, grinning widely.

  “Yes,” says Natalie, nodding enthusiastically. “And I’ve brought a friend.”

  “I can see you have,” says the girl. “A very famous friend, by the looks of it.”

  “Pleasure,” I say.

  The phone on the girl’s desk rings. “Excuse me for a moment,” she says, and answers. “M and L Accounting, how may I be of service?” she asks into the mouthpiece of her headset and listens to the person on the line. “Mr McCarthy, how are you? ... Yes, we are close to capacity… I have some new clients about to check in, but I will call you straight back. Thank you.” She hangs up.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have an appointment,” says Natalie to the receptionist, “but you mentioned that sometimes it was worth coming down here anyway. Just to check.”

  “Yes, of course,” says the receptionist. “You happen to be in luck. We have some beds that just became available. Will you both be staying with us?”

  Natalie looks at me. I don’t say anything.

  “You’re staying, aren’t you Jack?” asks Natalie. She whispers, “I want you in the bed next to me.”

  “I don’t think I can,” I say.

  Disappointment crosses Natalie’s face. I put my hands on her waist as reassurance. “I have to do interviews tomorrow, plus a photo shoot. If I don’t turn up, it will arouse a lot of suspicion.”

  Natalie pushes my hands away. “Fine. You go on playing their little games.” She turns to the receptionist. “Just one bed.”

  “Excellent,” smiles the receptionist. Turning to me she says, “Of course, there is no pressure. But you will enjoy yourself here, Jack.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I say. “But this isn’t a good week for me.”

  I hear Natalie huff, petulantly. A young woman in a nurse’s uniform and nametag approaches us.

  “This is Anjelika,” says the receptionist. “She’ll show you to your bed, Natalie.”

  Natalie follows Anjelika into the maze of beds, never turning to say goodbye. She walks solemnly, her disappointment with me still evident.

  “So the drug lasts a week?” I ask the receptionist.

  “Approximately,” she replies.

  “And the reality starts instantaneously?”

  “Yes. Some people describe that they don’t even feel like they’ve gone to sleep. They lie on the bed, then stand up and leave here. Their dream starts in a way that’s entirely normal or believable to them. Something familiar. Then within a few hours they become more imaginative. That’s when the fun really starts.”

  “Why are they all moaning?” I ask.

  “Well,” says the receptionist, “it’s a completely realistic sensory experience and you’re in total control. It doesn’t take men very long to figure out that in their Narc sleep, they can have anything they want.”

  “You’re one of the last women that these men see before they go under,” I say, smiling. “So you’ll be fresh in their mind.”

  She shrugs. “They’re not hurting anyone.”

  “What makes the women moan?”

  “Although we can’t know for sure, my guess would be that their inner desires aren’t all that different from the men.”

  “Is it addictive?” I ask.

  “The drug’s not. But the sensation of having no boundaries is.”

  I stand on the footpath outside Membrané and glance back for a brief moment before calling a taxi. I don’t remember much of the ride home. Just streaks of neon reflected in the vehicle’s windows. I pull Natalie’s g-string from my inner jacket pocket, smelling it for a moment before returning it to its resting place.

  When I wake up, I’m ablaze with sunlight. My bedroom curtains are drawn back and I’m lying naked on my bed. My head throbs. Lying against my ribs is an empty bottle of Vodkai, which I don’t remember drinking.

  I roll on to my stomach and drag myself to the top draw of my bedside dresser. I find a bottle of painkillers. Taking an unopened beer that I’ve left next to the bed, I wash down four tablets.

  I lie on my back and wait for the imminent calm to lift me. I close my eyes and watch shifting shapes of colour dance and then devour each other. I try to focus my thoughts and stop myself from drifting off into darkness, but I can hear voices pushing me. Whispers of paranoia. Pixels of light scattering across the universe. Somewhere in the expanse there’s a flash of orange and two voices scream. Two screams I never heard.

  I really hate bad comedowns.

  Chapter Four

  “I just consider myself a songwriter. I’m not a rock writer or a punk writer or a pop writer. A good song transcends genres. You should be able to convert it to any style and still have it retain its emotional impact.”

  I’m generous with my time when it comes to the media. We share a relationship. I find that the more I give them, the less they want to make up or invent about me. It also takes the novelty away from unauthorized images of me. I have nothing to protect or to lose.

  The interviewer, a young punk chick with a sleeve of tattoos on her right arm and black, thick-rimmed glasses smiles and glances down at the questions on her notepad. Our chat will be turned i
nto a cover story for a national magazine called Distortion.

  “Do you ever feel at odds with your fame?” she asks.

  I pause, before finally answering, “Yes, I suppose. I sometimes wonder whether I deserve attention. Am I diverting coverage away from people that really matter? But then I remind myself that I love sharing my music. It’s like giving a mixtape to a new girlfriend. It’s a unifying experience.”

  “What can you tell me about your next record?” she asks.

  “It’s just another collection of songs,” I shrug. “There’s no over-arching aim beyond releasing another bunch of music. We’re really happy with it. It’s a diverse record, but it’s also consistent and cohesive. I think that’s been the key to our success. We’re able to try new things without alienating our fans.”

  We’re in the Evelyn, a hotel only five blocks from my apartment. It sets a high benchmark for decadence. Endurance Records often books rooms here to conduct media days with its artists.

  I’m feeling particularly lucid, which is unusual considering the pills I’ve dropped, so I take a long sip from my rum and cola. I feel a deep, comforting burn slide down my throat and into my stomach. It’s strong. The dash of cola I added was only a token gesture.

  “Will it be a happy album?” asks the girl.

  “I think so,” I reply. “It won’t be an unhappy album. We’re very aware of our live shows and what feels good on stage, so I think we’ve focused on writing songs that really move an audience. Like, ‘Black Dog’ is a real party-starter. We’ve got another new song that’s coming together called ‘Seven Nation Army’. I’m looking forward to getting that one out there for people to hear.”

  “Any slow songs?” she asks.

  “Yeah, there’s a couple. There’s one called ‘Winter Coat’ which is this wistful tune about a guy who owns this old coat that one of his ex-girlfriends bought for him. They’re long broken up, but every time he wears it he remembers her,” I say.