by Steven Loton
“I decorated this place myself,” she screamed over the loud music.
I had a look around, and the carpets were coming up at the edges, the curtains were ripped to shreds and there were giant holes in the walls. It looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the foundations. She was some interior designer, I thought, as I walked to the stereo and spun the knob, turning the volume down.
“DON’T TOUCH THAT!” she screamed, and I quickly turned the music back to full blast. A ginger cat danced up to my feet, and Dora looked down at it and screamed, “Scram, dog!” The cat froze, and then sprinted off in fear.
She was insane, but she promised me an interview, so I was going to help her find this fucking wolf, regardless. Or whatever it was she was calling a wolf.
When I looked over again, she was totally naked, with her hair tied up, finishing off the bottle of stale beer. Then she laced the bottle in my direction, and I ducked. The bottle flew past my ear, and I heard it shatter against the back wall.
“Sorry, I meant to get the bin,” she said.
I waved my hand in the air. “No problem, no problem. Maybe we should get going.” I edged toward the door.
“WAIT!” she screamed. “I need to use the bathroom.”
I heard the toilet flush then she came out, dressed totally in black, black veil covering her face, lit cigarette dangling from her lipstick-red lips, and her eyes were so orange that I could see right through them. She almost looked sane until she bounced the flaming cigarette against my head and walked out, leaving the door wide open. I grabbed my bag and followed, closing the door gently behind me.
“I think I know where the wolf is,” she said without looking around to face me.
And at this point, I was too scared to question her, so I just nodded, but when she suggested another quarter bottle of Jack Daniel’s I started to get scared for my safety. We hit the off licence on the corner. She ordered the feeble man behind the counter to get a bottle of Jameson. She paid with a fifty note and didn’t wait for the change. We left, and then she ran back into the shop and started screaming at the feeble shop owner for keeping her change. I stood there grinning like a moron while the poor man counted the change out.
I didn’t want to, but she kept taking tugs and handing me the bottle. I was quickly, totally hammered, but Dora was acting exactly the same, so I assumed she was permanently on the booze. And after another cab ride, this time the driver threw us out, and Dora ran off, barefooted, with her heels above her head, waving her arms, screaming at the stars. I apologised and slipped the cab driver a ten note. Then I ran after her, followed her up the path, through the green and to the top of Primrose Hill. When I reached the bench, she was sitting alone, with her black veil covering her eyes, and there was no one around. Not even the birds, just a sad full moon in the sky. There was some light behind the milky clouds, and we sat there in silence looking down at London, and I must admit it was beautiful.
And just then, in the distance, at the bottom of the hill, I saw a large beast, just the shadow, and I saw the red eyes glowing in the dark. The beast tilted its head back and howled at the moon. I turned to Dora, and beneath the veil her eyes glowed too, and she said to me, “See. I told you there was a wolf. You found him. Thank you…” she clicked her fingers rapidly.
“Clarke,” I reminded her.
“Thank you, Clarke.”
And we sat there passing the bottle, occasionally howling at the moon ourselves. The next thing I remember is waking up in Dora’s flat, both hippies still on the floor. The music had been turned off, and Dora was sat in a wooden rocking chair, staring at me. She looked beautiful and radiant. No hint of a hangover whatsoever.
“So,” she said, “let’s do this interview.”
I sat up in bed, folded the pillow into a ball, jammed it behind my neck and flipped my laptop. It was fully charged.
“So Dora, question one…”
Sex in a Whorehouse is Mundane
Was on a dry patch, couldn’t write shit. I had one LA editor publishing a book of my shorts, and he was hitting me up for more material, but that wasn’t the problem. No. With no theme, I could type a whole heap of horseshit, and they lapped it up, but it was this female editor over at TANK Magazine that was busting my chops. And squeezing them. Issue 12 of TANK was due, and the theme was SEX, but I hadn’t even laid pen to paper, and worse, I hadn’t even had any tail in nine months, so I was in no place to write about SEX. I felt like she was running me out of town for her article. And then the phone rang. It was her, the editor.
“How goes it?” she asked, calmly.
“I’m fine, yes, thanks for asking…”
“No, asshole, the piece, I need it today.”
“Ahh, yes, well… I have something down… it’s ahh… Good shit, but need another day or two?” I crossed my fingers.
“Okay, asshole, you have until the end of tonight. And don’t forget the theme of this edition is SEX.”
Then I heard her screaming at some intern in the background before the phone went dead. Then it rang again, and I pulled it to my ear, real tentatively. But it was only the East London hipster Billy.
”Clarke, there’s a party over at Vine and Jackson’s later. Come.”
I tilted my head back and said, “FUCK THAT. I’m a writer. I don’t have time to waste on parties and gatherings. Do you understand, Billy?”
“But the models from the fashion show will be there. The party will be off the hook, man.”
Sighing, I told him, “I don’t care for women, Billy. I have deadlines, I’m an artist, do you get that?”
“But there’s free booze,” he said. “Drugs too.”
“What’s the address?” I asked, grabbing a pencil.
I scribbled that down, dropped the phone, sat down, flipped the laptop and attempted to write something before the party. I typed the title down. SEX IN A WHOREHOUSE IS MUNDANE. There, I was actually doing it. I had never been blocked, and I wasn’t about to start now. I typed another word then paused. A spider ran across the desk, and a car screeched in the distance. The clock ticked loudly, and a bird chirped in the tree outside of my window. I think I heard a cat meow. Christ. Life was happening around me. The world was moving, and I couldn’t write shit. I looked at the clock. Forty-eight minutes had passed. Crap.
I hadn’t had any action in a long time. Nine months. Shit, my pipes were clogged up. How could I write about SEX when I haven’t even had a peep at tail in nine months? I had research to do.
And like that, I jumped in the whip, jacked up the engine, gunned off, ripping in and out of traffic. I screeched up outside the party, cut the engine, got out, slammed the door (damn near shattered the window) and whistled while I walked.
I approached the front door, and there were these real good-looking people feeling each other up on the porch. It was pretty steamy. I was disgusted (but maybe it was sheer jealousy), so I tapped the guy on the shoulder, said, “Hey buddy, buddy, your girlfriend is looking for you inside, she sent me out to find you.”
As I entered the house, I heard the slap across his face. It was a stinger. Walking in, Sid, a male model, slipped me a pill, and I backed it with a good swig of beer. The party was alive all right, but they were playing POP music, and my mind couldn’t take it, so I went out back, and some fool in a chef’s hat was grilling up meat on the BBQ. He was handing out burgers, and one got passed to me, but when I was about to take a bite, my good pal, Joey, and his woman (Sexy. Broad back. Large breast. Femme fatale type.) approached. Joey pushed her toward me, then vanished into the crowd. She was bawling, and her mascara was running down her cheeks. Her eyes were bloodshot red, and she came in close and spoke with gin on her breath, “Clarke, that bastard I hate him. How can you be his friend?”
“He’s okay, doll, you’re just upset.”
“Do you know what he’s doing, DO YOU? No, no, he’s in there chattin’ up women. I even saw him feeling Jane’s thigh. HOW DARE HE? HOW DARE HE? I HATE HIM. HOW WOULD
HE FEEL IF I DID THAT?”
Then she leaned in and kissed me a real good, wet one. My pecker grew, and I pushed my tongue into her mouth, reached around and copped a feel. Finally, I pulled away and belted her across the face. I shook her shoulders.
“LILLY, PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sorry,” she said wiping her mouth.
I made sure everyone saw me consoling her, gently. Then I walked her back into the party and whispered into her ear. “It’s fine, come now, let’s find Joey.”
And Joey was in the corner, leaning up against a speaker, with a beer in his hand, and his eyes were glazed, and he started waving his arms, “HEY, CLARKE, CLARKE, LOOK EVERYBODY, THIS IS MY GOOD PAL, CLARKE.”
He dragged a skinny broad over by the arm, and Lilly started sobbing again, and Joey shrugged, “WHAZZAMATTA BABY?”
And Lilly ran off, Joey stumbling after her, pushing his beer into my hand. I took a swig, and it was laced with Whiskey. The skinny babe looked depressed, starved, depraved, and one frail arm was hugging the other frail arm, and her eyes were only half open, but she managed to say, “Hi, I’m Holly. I’m a model. What do you do?”
“Clarke,” I said without smiling. “Type shit.” I motioned hitting keys with my fingers.
“Ah, like a secretary?”
“No no, novellas, shorts, shit like that.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked, glancing over my shoulder.
“Writin’ a piece for TANK magazine,” I told her taking a swig of beer.
“Oh, I LUUURVE THAT MAG,” she gushed. “Whatza piece about?”
“Sex,” I told her glancing down at her legs. They looked like twigs. Any heavy movement would snap them.
“So, whatchya doin’ here then?” she blushed.
“Research.” I belted my beer back and said, “Let’s go upstairs.”
But her dead eyes drifted left, and there was this hunk of a man, a surfer type, long hair, and even wearing SHORTS, believe it, the fucker was wearing board shorts to a party, and his feet were bare, and he had around fifty beaded necklaces around his neck. The chump. But he was also an upcoming actor. Suddenly, Holly was painting on a third coat of lipstick when surfer boy moseyed over, grinned, said, “Hey, mayn, I read your article the other day in TANK, and I gotta say, man, it was truly well written, you have a depth and style and man, it’s just, ah, the words, they just ah…”
“Yeah, yeah, look man, imabout to get some snatch,” I whispered in his ear. “You mind?”
And he rubbed his goatee laughing out loud, “Ah shit, man, they said you were CRAAAZEEEEE. Who’s this babe?” he pointed to Holly.
“Where?” I glanced over my shoulder. “Oh her, that’s Dolly,” I said, jerking my thumb at Holly.
“Holly,” said Holly. “My name’s Holly. I already told you that.”
Well, that was the end of that romance, so I walked off. But they had changed up the music to HOUSE, and someone had broken out the strobe lights. Shit. And I even saw Harry fire up the smoke machine. Class. And he started spraying the fog off, so I decided to rip up the dance floor. That’ll get ‘em, I thought. That’ll get ‘em.
There were only two girls dancing and at least twenty men watching, and I couldn’t stand for that, so I started going through my various routines. I started slow with a shuffle, then hit a bogle, and the crowd was forming around me. Yes, they had come to see the fool, but I didn’t give a crap, so I threw in a robot and I heard a whistle, and like that the dance floor became crowded, so I stood still and brushed the dirt off my shoulder and leaned back for around ten minutes until I felt a hand clasp around mine and then a hand covered my eyes, but they were close enough for me to hear the giggle. Christ, someone was actually buying my bullshit. When I saw her, I thought it must have been a mistake. She had dark hair, darker eyes, a wide smile, and she leaned in and whispered, “You dance so well, marry me?”
Jesus, it was working, my madness was working. In the movies it was the cool guys, the hunks that got the women, but the movies (and novels) were horseshit. It was always the fool that got the woman. At least that’s what I told myself. The fool had the biggest balls (not physically). So we stood there dancing real close, but still far enough apart for me to find out who she was. Cassie: Liberal. Bulimic. Crazed. Drove a Fiat. No licence. No insurance. Dabbled in modelling, acting, singing, burlesque, but worked retail. Baked cakes on the weekend and drank beer through a straw. She was also a vegetarian, but I’ll let that slide, we’re not all perfect.
“I have a criminal record,” she said loudly.
“It’s fine,” I told her. “The law makes mistakes. Look at O.J. Simpson.”
“No, I did it. I stabbed my ex with a pencil.” She made a stabbing motion in the air. “He pressed charges and everything.”
“I’m sure he deserved it,” I said hopefully.
“He was a nice guy; I just get bored.” She smirked.
“Cassie,” I said, “there’s a horror movie with your name as the title.”
“That’s Carrie.”
Oh dear, I could feel myself failing with another woman. I knew I had to wrap this up real quick.
“Hey, Cassie, gimme your number.” And I pulled out a felt pen.
“My weapon of choice,” she said while scribbling her number across my arm.
“You wanna get out of here?”
“Sure.”
And we were in my car, slicing through the night air. I snapped on the radio: Bryan Adams, “Run to You.” The stars lit up the road, like we were in some corny Hollywood movie, and her hair was blowing wildly. From the corner of my eye, she leaned back, swigged Jack and howled loudly at the moon. She looked like a mental patient.
We made it back to my place, and I threw her on the bed. Just like the studs do. I tore off my T-shirt as she writhed around on the bed. Her legs tanned, glowing, waxed, with minimal stubble.
I moved in, and she batted me off with her feet, real playfully. I climbed on the bed, and her mouth was on mine. I pinned her hands onto the mattress and pulled away, she sprang up and gripped my lip with her teeth, dragging me back down. She had some moves. More than me, but that didn’t take much doing, so I carried on pretending like I knew how to pleasure a woman, and we kissed and fooled and laughed, and finally I climbed on top, and WE MADE IT.
The alarm clock rang. I opened my eyes and smiled. My hangover was awake before me. I looked left and the bed was empty. I rubbed my hand up and down the sheets just to make sure. Bathroom maybe? I checked. Nothing. For some reason, I opened the closet and looked in there. Empty.
The phone rang. Must be Cassie. I answered.
“Asshole, where’s the piece?”
“Tulisa, hi, about the piece… I’m just finishing up. Gimme an hour.”
“You got thirty minutes.”
She didn’t even say goodbye, just left the phone on the hook, while she abused someone in the background!
I opened the laptop and started typing. Then stopped. I looked at my arm. Cassie’s number had vanished. Was it a dream? My head throbbed. I needed an aspirin in water. I checked the other arm. It was there. The ink had smudged but the number was there. I picked up the mobile and dialled…
The End. (Till next time.)
The Gun
Harry had a gun. But he had no bullets. So he kept the gun in his top drawer. He only took it out when he got drunk. He would take it out, wave it in the air, point it, aim it, look in the mirror and scream all sorts of tough guy talk. Mostly it was nonsense, and soon that got boring, so he would just shove the gun down his pants and stand there looking in the mirror, pretending to actually be a tough guy. More nonsense, and that soon became tiresome too, so he would just go back to the bottle. Harry never got tired of that. The bottle was great.
After another ballbusting fight with Jessica, Harry thought, Goddamn this, I’m taking my gun, and I’m going to the bank.
“Darling,” said Jessica, “you are the dumbest sack of shit I
have ever come across. No bank is open at ten p.m.”
Harry checked his watch. She was right. It was ten p.m. But Harry couldn’t stand for that sort of lip. He had that all day long from the boss, and he didn’t want to come home and hear it too.
“What about bars, ha, are they open at ten p.m.?” Harry sarcastically enquired.
“Yes, Harry, they are,” Jessica politely replied. “But they are full of witnesses. Do you know what witnesses are?”
“Huh?” he asked, digging his fingers into his jeans and pulling out the pants from his rear end.
“Look, Harry, pass me that nail polish.” Jessica pointed to the corner.
Harry went to her makeup bag and emptied it. A whole bunch of crap fell out. He got the red nail polish and threw it over. It landed nowhere near her.
“How much do I pay for all this crap?” he asked, now rifling through her drawers. Then he pulled her panties out and sniffed them.
“These. Do you really need these? We could be rich if you didn’t spend so much of my money on useless clothing.”
Then he had Jessica’s work shoes in his hands.
“And these, what about these?” he asked holding them above his head.
Jessica sighed and carried on painting her nails. She was resting in bed, and the soft pillow propped her head up. She was wearing her fluffy nightgown, the white one. It was her favourite. Harry liked her to sleep naked or naked, but with stockings on. But Harry was usually drunk by the time he went to bed and forgot what she was wearing.
“Listen, baby, one day I’ll make it. I swear I’m the greatest driver in the company. Soon, I’ll be the boss. Then I’ll be on double what I make now. We’ll be rich, baby.”
Jessica’s nails were now painted bright red, and she was pretending to read Huxley.