by Irvine Welsh
— Git away, she goes.
— One wee kiss, goan, ah whisper.
One wee kiss, that’ll be right. After snoggin for aboot ten minutes, ah’ve goat that daft cardy then her toap n bra oaf n her wee tits are bouncin up n doon in the palms ay ma hands and she’s looking at them like she’s never seen them before.
Whae-hae ya cunt that ye are! Ah’m fuckin guaranteed here!
Ah settles her doon oan the couch giein her the stinky-pinky for a bit, slidin ma hand up that wee kilt and inside her pants, enjoyin her groans as she starts tae work herself oantae ma stiff little fingers. Ah’m thinkin aboot that band and wonderin if the dirty cunt that made the name up wis ivir thinkin aboot some bird eh wis friggin oaf. Here’s an Alternative Ulster fir ye hen! Spice ay life!
Time for action, ah pill doon the pants ower her knees and then her ankles, and pill her oantae me. She’s tremblin as ah gits ma ain breeks doon ower ma thighs n ma cock oot. Ah’ve goat her wee erse in one hand and her tits in another as her hands rest oan my shoodirs. Nae need fir her tae try n play the wee virgin, she’s been done before, by maist ay Topsy’s crew ah reckon. Nivir hud a pole like this in her but, that must be guaranteed. She’s dead wee, even mair so than Lucy n so ah start oaf fuckin her slowly until she’s gaggin for mair so ah step up a gear giein it tae her goodstyle. — Aye, Aye, ye fuckin well like that eh? Eh? ah goes, but she’s no sayin nowt until she gies oot a wee cry when she gits there. Ah start makin daft squeaky wee sounds like a dippit wee tart masel, but, well, that’s the heat ay passion n aw that.
She’d better no say nowt tae nae cunt aboot me makin they noises. A loat ay boys think thit lassies dinnae talk like that tae each other, thit it’s aw sugar n spice, bit that’s crap. Thir jist like us. Fuckin worse, if the truth be telt.
Ah hud her for a wee while, cause in ten minutes ah’ll be ready again, but it’s like she’s in a trance. Nae point wastin time. — Ah’d better go up n take a wee leak, ah tell her.
As ah stand up n pill oan ma shreddies, then ma jeans n T-shirt, she’s staring oaf intae space, then wrappin her clathes roond her.
Ah go upstairs, mountin the blue threadbare-carpeted steps two at a time. In the bog thir’s a shite thit husnae flushed away. It makes ays feel funny aboot peein in it, as if the shite’s gaunny fly up ma piss-tube, so ah pish in the sink then gie ma tackle a wee wash. When ah finish ah clocks this spider in the bath so ah blasts the cunt wi baith taps, flushin the fucker away, before gaun in tae the bedroom next door.
Gail’s lying oan the bed, face doon. She’s goat the headphones oan, thir coming ootae the music centre fae a long cord, trailin doon the back ay her toap, n across one ay they nice buttocks, so she cannae even hear me come intae the room. Her erse looks great in they white troosers, ye can see the pant line stretchin oot ower the buttocks n vanishin right intae that erse n fanny crack. She’s readin this book oan the pillay, her long dark hair hingin doon. She’s goat a good body awright, chunkier than Maggie’s, much mair fuckin womanish.
Thir’s a big poster ay Gary Glitter oan the waw above her. That cunt’s barry. Ah like that bit whin eh goes: ah’m the man thit pit the bang in gangs. He’s the fuckin boy. Ah mean, ah like The Jam n the Pistols now but him n Slade are the only cunts fae the auld days ah still go fir.
Ah stand and take in the view for a bit, giein Gary a wee wink. Ah’ll show the cunt how tae pit the bang in gangs awright. So that’s ays as stiff as a fuckin rock again. Ah move ower n turn the volume doon n watch her spin aroond n pill oaf the headphones. She’s no surprised at aw tae see me. Ah’m surprised tae see her, cause she’s wearin they gold-rimmed glesses. That should turn ye oaf, but it jist makes me hornier than ever. — Awright four-eyes, ah goes.
— Ah jist wear thum fir readin, she sais, takin thum oaf.
— Well ah think thir sexy as anythin, ah say, movin right ower tae the bed, thinkin that if ah grab her and she kicks up fuck, ah’ll jist let go n tell her ah wis only jokin. But thir’s nowt tae worry aboot here, cause ma tongue’s in her mooth n thir’s nae resistance, so ah’ve goat ma cock oot, n she’s goat her hand oan it, well fuckin game.
— No here . . . we cannae now . . . she goes, but she isnae in any big hurry tae lit go ay ma knob.
— Fuck it, c’moan, Maggie kens the score, ah tell her.
She looks at ays for a second but ah’m gittin ma gear oaf n she’s no far behind. We’re right under the covers. Ah’m feelin great n it’s barry thit ma cock’s still hard even though ah shot ah fair auld bit ay wad intae Maggie. The likes ay Carl or Wee Gally, they’d be up in the Royal in intensive care eftir a wank, nivir mind a bird. Disnae bother me, ah could fuck aw day.
Ah’m impressed by this Gail’s attitude; nae fuckin aboot, the keks n the bra are oaf straight away. Ah loat ay birds leave oan the keks as sortay insurance thit thi’ll git a bit ay foreplay, but it’s only a toss-bag whae’d jist try n stuff it straight between a lassie’s legs whin thir’s plenty other fun tae be had first.
So auld Gary Glitter’s lookin doon at us as ah’ve goat ma tongue between Gail’s legs. She’s tryin tae push ma heid away at first, but it becomes a rub oan ma scalp then a tug oan ma hair as ah starts lappin her up and she relaxes her grip and she’s right fuckin intae it. Ah’ve goat ma hands under her buttocks, gittin a good grope at her ersecheeks, then ah slide ma finger inside her and start giein her fanny a wee frig. Ah’m tryin tae twist roond, cause they big lips ay hers wir meant fir sookin oan ma knob but the covers’re slippin oaf us. The trick is tae keep her oan the boil, but tae make it soas she’s goat tae take ma cock in her mooth. She’s intae that though, she’s still runnin her hand the length ay it, pillin the foreskin back.
— That’s great Terry, this is mad, we’re mental . . . she gasps.
— Spice ay life, ah grunt back at her, — ah want ma tongue right up your holes, one eftir the other, ah tell her. That wis what this boy said in this dirty video that Donny Ness had. Ah eywis try tae mind ay aw they best lines, and the best moves.
So there’s me straddlin her sixty-nine-style, and she’s goat ma cock in her mooth n she’s suckin hard oan it, and by Christ, this lassie can gam. Ah’m pullin her wee flaps apart and giein it big postage stamp licks n fingerin her cunt first, then her ersehole which smells aw moist and earthy, then ah’m back oantae her clit which feels big and stiff enough tae be a mini-cock, and she pills ma knob oot her mooth n there wis me thinkin she wis gaspin fir air, but naw, it’s her comin in jagged, shocked spasms, ma finger jammed oantae that wee love-button ay hers like it wis stuck oan the dial ay a good radio station.
So she’s gaspin as her shudders run doon, but ah’m no finished wi her yit, n ah twist roond n pill ehr up and her face is in a wide, mental shock n ah’m oan the bed but ah’ve goat her heid doon oan ma cock, and she’s gammin ays like fuck, her big eyes lookin up n watchin ays, spillin wi gratitude cause she kens that wis jist the starter n she’s gittin well fucked in a second or two. Ah’ve goat her hair in ma hands, twistin they dark locks, n ah’m pillin her tae me, then away fae me, adjustin the pace n range so she gits it right n aye, she kens what she’s daein, cause her heid settles intae the right rhythm n ah dinnae even need tae thrust ma ain pelvis in time or nowt like that. She’s gaggin a bit and she pills away, which is a good thing cause ah wis decidin whether or no ah wanted tae blaw it intae her mooth n save fuckin her in the fanny till later oan, keep the wee hoor aw hoat n bothered. Bit ah think, naw, ah’ll gie her it fine style right now. Ah’m oan toap ay her n gittin in, n she’s sayin, — Aw Terry, wi shouldnae be daein this, no the now . . .
Ah’ve heard that song before. — Want ays tae stoap then, ah gasp.
Ye dinnae huv tae be that Bamber Gascoigne cunt oot ay that University Challenge tae ken the answer tae that. Aw ah git is another, — Aw Terry . . . in reply, n ah take that as ma fuckin starter fir ten awright.
So there’s me right up, n ah’m startin tae git intae ma stride now n this Gail looks away n tenses up briefly, then lets oo
t a low laugh n pills ma heid tae her, n thir’s a strange expression oan her face. Ah looks up n sees that Maggie’s come intae the room.
Maggie pills her airms in the shape ay a croass ower her chist. It’s like she’s jist been shot. She stands thaire fir a bit sayin nowt, her wee mooth aw twisted. — Yi’ll need tae go, ma Uncle Alec’s here, she finally whispers at us, lookin aw uptight n worried.
Gail turns away again, facin the waw, n goes, — Aw god, ah cannae fuckin stand this! She’s grippin the bed clathes, then clawin them like she’s a fuckin cat.
Ah’m still fuckin solid but and nae cunt’s gaun naewhaire till ah’ve blawn ma muck. — Shut up the now, ah goes tae Maggie, but still lookin at Gail as ah keep thrustin, — you go doon n see yir Uncle Alec . . . we’ll be . . .
Ah hears the door slam n then Gail starts gaun fir it again n within a few mair strokes she’s makin they noises, n ah wanted tae git her oan toap fir a bit, then mibbe even try n stick it in her other hole tae finish up, but that’ll have tae wait now cause ay that dopey wee Maggie cow, but fuck it, it’ll gie ays something else tae look forward tae later oan, so she’s screamin n moanin n ah’m makin they gaspin sounds n she’s comin like a trooper n ah am n aw, n thank fuck Maggie’s taken the hump n went oot the room as we explode cause yon Gail’s gaun oaf like a pint ay milk left oot in the Sahara Desert. — Aw Terry . . . you’re a fuckin animal . . . she screams.
Fuck-ahrrrrr . . .
Ah gasps n then jist huds her, giein her every droap ay it thit’s in ays. Then, lettin ma breathin settle, ah starts thinkin aboot her bein at Auggie’s n a pape n that, n ah’m hopin tae fuck she’s oan the bun. Ah gies her a slobbery kiss on they big lips, then ah arch masel up oan ma airms n look her in the eye. — We’ve goat fuckin chemistry doll. Ye dinnae turn yir back oan that. Ken whit ah’m sayin?
She nods.
That’s a great line, it came fae one ay they films ah saw at the Classic in Nicolson Street. Percy’s Progress, ah think it wis. The one aboot the white boy thit goat the darkie’s cock pit oan him.
Ah git oaf her n wi start gittin dressed.
Then Maggie’s back in, — Youse huv tae go, she nearly squeals at us, her eyes aw rid, twistin a lock ay her ain hair in her fingers.
Gail’s lookin for her knickers, but ah’d goat thaire first n done a sneaky yin n stuck thum in ma poakit. Souvenir. Like ah did wi that Philippa fae Huddersfield ah shagged in that guesthoose. A souvenir ay Blackpool. Why no? Each tae thir ain. Yir better ridin birds thin trams, better lickin fannies thin sticks ay rock. That’s what ah say anywey.
This Maggie’s well nippy but. — C’moan Maggie, what’s the problem? Yir Uncle’s no gaunny bother us up here, ah tell her. — Yir no jealous ay Gail ur ye?
— Fuck off, she spits oot. — Jist you git oot ay here son!
Ah shake ma heid as ah lace up me dessie boots. Ah cannae stand immaturity in a lassie whin it comes tae issues ay the cock n fanny. If ye want a shag, huv a shag. If ye dinnae, jist say naw. — Dinnae be gittin aw fuckin wide, Maggie, me n Gail here wir just huvin a wee bit ay fun, ah warns the dippit wee cow. Every cunt’s entitled tae some enjoyment. What’s the big fuckin problem? Ah should’ve sais that line fae Emmanuelle, ah think it wis, whaire the boy goes: don’t be so hung-up and repressed, baby.
— That’s aw it wis, Maggie, Gail says, still lookin fir her pants, — dinnae go aw funny aboot it. You’ve no even been gaun oot wi Terry.
Maggie grits her teeth at Gail, then turns tae me, — So does that mean yir gaun wi her now? she asks, aw hurt. Dinnae fight girls, dinnae fight, thir’s enough tae go roond fir everybody! Guaranteed! Dinnae be sae repressed and hung-up, baby!
Ah turns roond tae Gail n winks at her. — Naw . . . dinnae be daft, Maggie. Like ah wis sayin, it wis jist a daft bit ay fun. Eh, Gail? Ye goat tae huv a laugh, eh. C’mere n gies a wee cuddle, ah says tae Maggie, pattin the bed. — You me n Gail here, ah whispers. — Yir Uncle Alec’s no gaunny bother us.
She stands her groond, lookin aw hard at ays. Ah mind whin me n Carl Ewart wir monitors at the school dinners, servin up the grub tae oor table. Cause eh fancied her, the Milky Bars wir oan him awright, n Carl used tae make sure she goat a good load, seconds as well. Wi probably kept the scruffy wee cow alive Carl n me, n this is the fuckin thanks ah git.
Bet ye oor Mr Ewart wid huv liked tae huv served up the wee hingoot wi the portion thit ah jist did! Guaranteed!
— Terry, you seen ma pants? Gail asks. — Ah cannae find ma fuckin pants.
— Naw, thir no ma size, ah laughs. They’ll be right under ma pillay the night! Sniffity-sniff-sniff!
— Try fuckin well keepin them oan sometime, ye might no lose thum sae easy, Maggie hisses at her.
— Aye, jist like you did, Gail snaps back. — Dinnae git fuckin wide wi me, hen, jist cause yir in yir ain hoose!
Maggie’s eyes’ve gaun aw that watery wey again. Every cunt kens thit Gail wid batter fuck oot ay her in a square go. This is some wee show right enough. Ah’ve goat ma keks oan n ah’m ower tae Maggie n ah’ve goat ma airms roond her. She’s tryin tae push ays away but she’s no tryin that hard, if ye ken what ah mean. — Wi wir jist muckin aboot, ah tells ehr. — Now lit’s jist aw sit doon n relax.
— Ah cannae relax! How kin ah relax! Muh Ma n Dad’s doon in Blackpool n ma Uncle Alec’s here! Eh’s eywis drunk n eh’s awready set ehs ain hoose oan fire! Ah’ve goat tae watch him aw the time . . . it’s no fair, she greets, n she’s really blubberin away now.
Ah tries tae comfort ehr, while watchin Gail pull her breeks oan wi nae knickers. She might try tae steal a pair fae Maggie later, cause ah think that big black bush ay hers might jist show through they thin cotton troosers otherwise. Mind you, ah didnae think she’s that far tae git hame.
— Nivir mind yir Uncle Alec, Maggie. Gail shakes her heid. Aw she’s interested in is her pants. Mind you, that makes two ay us!
Maggie’s a bit feart ay her Uncle Alec. She’ll no go doon and face um, even tae make us a cup ay tea. — You dinnae ken um Gail, eh’s eywis drunk, she slobbers. Mibbe it’s an excuse, mibbe she kens that as soon as she goes oot the door ah’ll be right up yon Gail again.
— Awright, ah’ll go doon n say hiya, n make some tea, bring it up here. Wi a wee biscuit, ah goes, imitatin the wee Glesgay laddie oan that British Rail advert. Perr wee cunt thought it wis a big deal tae git a biscuit oan a train. Probably is through thaire though, thi’ll be like gold dust for they fuckin scruffs. Aye, Glesgay patter, ye cannae beat it, or so they keep tellin any cunt daft enough tae listen.
Ah head doonstairs hopin that the boy’s no one ay they psycho cunts. Thing is, it’s nice tae be nice n ah find that maist cunts are usually awright by you if you’re awright by thaim.
Uncle Alec
It’s a mawkit fuckin hoose this, it hus tae be said. Muh Ma’s no goat much money, but even whin she wis oan her ain, before she took up wi that German cunt, she hud oor place a palace compared tae this. Maggie’s room is the best in the place, it’s like it belongs in a different hoose.
It’s funny, but when ah git doon the stairs intae the front room, ah find that ah recognise the boy. Alec Connolly. A right tea-leaf eh is n aw.
This Alec boy looks at ays wi what muh Ma calls a real drinker’s face, aw flushed n wi liver spoats crawlin up the neck. Still, ah’d rather huv somebody like that aroond thin that yon German cunt that she goes wi. Steys in aw the time, nivir drinks, n grumbles at me if ah come in steamin oot ay ma heid. The sooner me n Lucy git a place ay oor ain, the better. — Aye, aye, the Alec gadge goes, aw sort ay frosty.
Ah jist winks at the auld cunt. — Awright, mate. How’s it gaun? Jist up the stair wi Maggie n her pal thaire, playin some records.
— So that’s what ye call it now, is it, eh says, but it’s a sortay laugh. This cunt’s awright: he disnae gie a fuck really. Ah’m sure this room’s goat even mair boggin since ah wis last in it. Ma soles stick tae the cracked lino, n tae the fusty square ay cairpit in the middle ay it
.
Alec’s sittin in a battered ermchair tryin tae roll a fag wi shakin hands. Oan the coffee table in front ay him thir’s piles ay cans, a half-empty half-boatil ay whisky n a big gless ashtray. Eh’s wearin a worn blue suit n tie, it’s nearly the same colour as the cunt’s eyes, which stand oot in ehs ruddy coupon. Ah jist shrug. — You’re Alec, aye? Ah’m Terry.
— Ah ken who ye are, ah’ve seen ye oan the lorries. Are you Henry Lawson’s laddie?
Uh-aw. Eh kens the auld cunt. — Aye. Ye ken um?
— Ah ken ay um, bit eh’s goat a few years oan me. Drinks in Leith, eh. How’s eh daein?
Whae gies a fuck aboot that cunt. — Awright, ah mean . . . ah dinnae ken. Seems tae be fine. We dinnae really git oan, ah tell this Alec gadge, but ah think eh tippled that as soon as the auld bastard’s name was mentioned.
This Alec grunts somethin, it’s like eh’s clearin ehs throat. — Aye, eh sais eftir a bit, — families. That’s whaire aw the problems come fae. Bit what kin ye dae, eh? You tell me, eh goes, spreadin ehs hands oot, the rolled fag stuck in one mitt.
Thir’s nowt ye kin say tae that. So ah jist nods n goes, — Ah’m jist makin yir niece n her friend a wee cup ay tea. Ye want yin?
— Fuck the tea, eh lights the fag and points at the stack ay cans oan the table. — Huv a beer. Goan. Help yirsell.
— Ah will later oan, Alec, a wee beer n a blether likes, but ah dinnae want tae be rude tae ma company up the stairs, ah explains tae him.
Alec shrugs n looks away as if tae say, aw the mair for me. Thir’s somethin aboot this auld fucker, ah like the cunt, n ah will huv a bit ay a chinwag wi him later. Aye, keep um sweet soas ah kin keep oan gittin up Maggie n Gail roond here. N they aw say up the Busy that eh does a loat ay duckin n divin aroond. Useful cunts tae ken, they sort ay fellays: contacts n that.
Ah gits through intae the kitchen, nearly fawin n breakin ma neck oan a bit ay loose lino. Ah starts tae bile the kettle. It’s no a plug-in yin, so ye huv tae dae it oan the gas. Eftir a bit ah head back upstairs wi a pot ay tea, where these dirty wee cows are waitin for ays. Maggie’s sittin wi a cassette case, writin the tracks ontae the caird fae this album she’s been tapin. She’s makin a meal ay it; it’s an excuse no tae talk tae Gail.