Porno

by Unknown

  As I get up to the ward, I note that the arguments between Rab and Terry haven’t stopped just because Terry’s laid up. I think Rab is secretly enjoying Terry’s predicament, although Terry himself seems in better spirits now. His bedside locker is piled up with fruit, which you can tell won’t be eaten, and all sorts of tinned foods and takeaway cartons. There’s a frame around his hips which bulges out under the bedclothes to protect his damaged penis. — This fascinates me. Is it in plaster? Or a splint? Or what? I ask him.

  — Naw, it’s just like a bandage.

  Simon breezes in looking around the hospital like it’s a piece of property he’s just purchased. It’s warm in here and his jersey is off, not tied to his waist in the conventional sense, but around his neck like a toff cricketer. He smiles at me, then turns to the patient, — So, how are they treating you, Terry?

  — Thir’s some barry nurses in here, tell ye that, but it’s fuckin killing ays. Whenever I get a stiffer it’s agony.

  — Ah thoat they gied ye some medicine tae stoap ye gitting hard, like, Rab speculates.

  — That kind ay stuff might work on the likes ay you, Birrell, but thir’s nae wey anything kin stoap me gittin hard. The doc’s worried n aw, eh says tae me, you’ve goat tae stoap gittin a fuckin root oan or it’s no gaunnae heal.

  Simon looks glumly at him, dispatching some bad news. — We can’t put back the shooting now, Terry. We’ll need to find a stand-in. Sorry, mate.

  — You’ll never find anybody tae replace me, Terry says to us in a matter-of-fact way, beyond arrogance, just what he saw as a wholly neutral appraisal.

  — Well, the shooting’s going great, Simon enthuses. — Ronnie and Ursula were brilliant yesterday, and Derek and his girlfriend were great in the lift.

  Terry contemplates Simon, obviously determined to deflate him. — By the way, Sicky, what huv ye goat that jumper roond yir shoodirs fir, like a poof?

  Responding with a tetchy, icy look, Simon rubs the lambswool between thumb and forefinger. — This is a Ronald Morteson sweater. If you knew anything at all about clothes, then you would understand what that means and why I choose to wear it in this manner. Anyway, he looks at me, then back to Terry. — I’m glad that you’re okay and that things are on the mend. Nikki, we have business to attend to.

  — We certainly do, I smile.

  And Rab looks daggers at Simon, dying to ask where we’re going but his chance is gone as we leave together and head downtown to the station and the Glasgow train.

  On the train Simon’s briefing me about our intended prey, and it all seems exciting but at the same time strangely worrying that we’re putting all this effort into tracking this guy. As he describes him, I can see our man. Simon, in his clipped delivery, done without irony, makes me feel that we’re MI5. — A nae-mates, stay-at-home-type, a model-railway enthusiast, who’s slightly overweight. There’s a breed whose parents try to keep them at home, either consciously or subconsciously, by making them unattractive to the opposite sex by forcing them to eat implausibly large and disgustingly frequent meals. In this case our subject also has some rather bad skin, caused by the kind of rampant seventies-style acne which modern diet and skin-care products have all but eradicated. You still see one or two East European footballers, on the telly and that, with that kind of pallor, but it’s very rare here in the West, even in Glasgow. Our boy must be a traditionalist. What we need from him is a list of customers; names, addresses and account numbers. Just one printout, or better still on disc.

  — What if he doesn’t fancy me? I ask him.

  — If he doesn’t fancy you he’s a fag, it’s that simple. And if that proves to be the case I’m on him, he says, his face breaking into a smile. — I can do queen if I have to, he grins wholesomely, — the flirty bit that is, his face twists in distaste, — not the sex.

  — What you say is rubbish though, not every straight man fancies me, I shake my head.

  — Of course they do, or they’re gay or in denial or . . .

  — Or what?

  His face creases in an even broader grin. I see the crow’s-feet spread. But he really does look Italian, there’s such character in that face. — Stop fishing.

  — Or what? I urge.

  — Or don’t want to mix business with pleasure.

  — Hasn’t stopped you, I smile.

  Simon pulls an exaggeratedly sad face. — That’s my point. I’m powerless to resist you and he will be too, mark my words. Then he says softly: — I believe in you, Nikki.

  I know what he intended with his words and they have the desired effect. I’m raring to go. And we get off the train and find the pub and I see him at the bar alone, the man of my sweaty little persecution nightmares. Simon nods, then vanishes, as I swallow my pride and make my move.

  45

  Easy Rider

  My heid’s, likesay, well fucked; basically cause ah got oot oan the Lou Reed n took a few jellies tae come doon, so ah wisnae thinkin right when Chizzie the Beast phoned ays. Never thought much ay the cat, a bad gadge really, but eh sort ay latched oantae ays in jail. Didnae ken eh wis oot. Thing wis ah wis desperate for company n Chizzie hud the name ay this hoarse which wis a tip thit came fae a mate called Marcel, whae never gies oot a loser. So Benny at Slateford takes the bet and we go back tae the cabin cruiser tae watch our boy, the 8–1 outsider, Snow Black, romp hame at Haydock in the 2.45.

  Ah couldnae believe it, man. Right fae the off our boy makes the runnin. By the halfway stage eh’s way oot oan ehs ain. A couple ay other gee-gees narrow it a bit ower the last furlong, but our boy’s cruisin, pure cruisin. In fact, it’s the maist one-sided race ah’ve ivir seen. No that we’re moanin or nowt like that, man, we are very far fae complainin. Wir gaun: — YEEAAAHHHSSSS!!! n wir in a big hug under the telly in the bar n ah suddenly freeze fir a second, thinkin aboot whae else’s been in they airms n how they must huv felt. Ah pulls away makin the excuse thit ah’m gaunnae hit the bar n git in mair drinks tae celebrate. In ma pocket, as ah’m diggin oot the notes, ah find some mair ah they jellies.

  When wi git back intae the cream cookies, Benny’s face is tripping him. — Hot tip, eh grumbles.

  — Too true, catboy, ah smile.

  — Goat tae keep yir eyes n ears open, eh, Chizzie grins. — Luck ay the draw, chavvy. Win some, lose some.

  N it’s the best feelin ever, man, cause ah’m oan four fuckin grand, man, and Chizzie’s on eight n a half. Four grand! Ah’m gaunnae take Ali n Andy oan hoaliday, Disneyland, Gay Paree! Nice one, Marcel, and aye, nice one, Chizzie, fir sharin it wi ays, it hus tae be said!

  Wi go back tae the boozer and down a few beers tae celebrate, then decide tae hit the toon. Ah want tae dump the Chisholm felly as soon as, but the gadge’s done awright by ays, n ah owe um, so it seems right tae tag along fir a bit. We’re waiting on a taxi, or a bus even, but nowt’s doin; Scottish man, just totally Scottish Fitba Association in the passenger-cairryin motorised road-vehicle stakes. Chizzie then disappears intae the car park ay S&N Breweries. Ah thoat eh wis jist gaun tae take a slash, but eftir a bit a blue Sierra pulls up and who should be at the wheel but the cat-beast known as Gary Chisholm.

  — You carriage awaits, chavvy, Chizzie says, gold tooth glintin like a tiger’s fang.

  — Eh aye . . . ah go, climbin in . . . N ah suppose, man, they politician cats say it’s a classless society, so it disnae really matter whose motor ye take. Everything fir everybody, ken?

  — Goat tae git intae toon n git a lash oan fir the witchin hour, ya cunt, eh goes, n eh breks intae this weird high laugh which could jist sortay tear strips ay flesh oaf ay ye.

  We leave the motor in Johnston Terrace and bounce round tae the Mile and hit upstairs at Deacon’s. Nod tae a few faces whae’ve jist come fae the Court. Eftir a bit the beer’s gaun for ays, ah jist cannot take it much now, ah wis eywis mair ay an other-drugs cat.

  Chizzie starts talking about old acquaintances: jail boys, wideos n the like. It’s no the kind ay conversation ah like,
man, cause it’s always, likesay, the damaged cats eh minds ay. Ah goes tae the lavvy n ah’m thinkin aboot this money in ma poakit, man, thit wi this money ah could pure git a lassie, n fir some reason ah buy a packet ay spunkbags fae the machine n poakit thum. Ah feel the jellies, burnin a hole in they troosers, man. They’re gittin necked soon.

  Whin ah gits back oot ah sees thit Chizzie’s thinkin along the same lines as me, n that makes ays nervous. — Gantin oan a fuckin shag, eh, eh tells ays. Then eh explains: — This is a good time fir the fanny, between four n six. Ye git they fucked-up slags thit’ve been oan the pish aw eftirnin n dinnae ken whaire they are. Well, Chizzie’s oan the prowl.

  And right now, ye dinnae huv tae look very far. Thir’s this lassie wi red hair in the bar. Her white leggings are aw stretched n baggy, like the elasticity’s gone and they seem tae have what looks like a lump of shite in them. She is just totally pished, man, like ye widnae go near her, but fuck, Chizzie’s straight ower. Eh buys her a drink, says something and she comes ower tae sit wi us. — Awright, pal? she asks ays. — Ah’m Cass, she sais. Fuckin hell, this lassie’s sortay a near-jakey. She’s laughing loudly, n she pills her face close up tae mine, n her hand rests briefly oan ma baws then settles intae a grip oan ma thigh. This big, rid face, aw bloated n flushed wi alcohol is right next tae mine, n ur teeth ur aw yellaw n rotten. Mind you, ma teeth ur shite, n, thinkin aboot it ma face is probably like hers wi the drink, cause Chizzie’s gittin that Belisha beacon wey n aw. Ah dinnae git a rid kip whin ah drink but, cause wi me it jist sortay drains oot aw the colour n ah pure go white. She’s made a bit ay an effort, cause she’s goat loads ay eyeliner n lippy oan, n she’s asking us what star signs we are and aw that kinday bird stuff.

  But she’s mingin, man; she really has shat herself.

  Well, ah’m pretty like bleary-eyed because naw, ah’m no much ay an alcohol cat these days. That heavy, sludgy beer, man. Chizzie’s takin control but, n ushering us oot ay the pub and we’re back up tae Johnston Terrace n intae the nicked car again. Chizzie nearly reverses back intae this parked motor but sorts it oot n wir drivin doon the cobblestones tae Holyrood Park as darkness starts tae faw.

  This lassie’s sortay well dodgy, likes. She’s been swearin fir the USSR n now she’s exposing ehr ginger pubes n climbin ower us fae the back intae the front seat, sortay sittin between us. Chizzie curses cause she’s oan the gearstick n eh cannae git it n wi make a racket fir a bit gaun doonhill. — Look at this then, ya cunts! Whae wants thir fuckin hole then? she roars at us. Ah mean, ah’ve no hud it offay Ali in yonks, but ye’d need tae be nutty tae go near this burd.

  Chizzie laughs and nearly crashes the motor intae the big black gates ay Holyrood Park, but eh swerves in time n wir in. Eh pills up n wi git oot intae the park. Ah looks around at the big hill ay Arthur’s Seat. Thirs load ay buildin work gaun oan behind us. Some sortay government gig, fir the votin n the Parliament n aw that, likesay. It’s goat a wee bit nippy wi the sun gaun doon.

  — Whaire we gaun, she slurs once in a while, as wi follay Chizzie roond tae the back ay the site. Wi git behind this big fence, away fae the road n facin the hill. Thir’s naebody roond, though ye kin hear ower the waw thit thir’s still builders workin overtime, but they cannae see us.

  — Findin somewhaire cool tae perty, eh, Chizzie winks. It’s gittin a bit dark now. Ah finds a jelly in ma poakit n neck it, pure through nerves, man, pure through nerves.

  — It’s time you goat the fuckin message now, hen, Chizzie laughs, n the radge jist unzips ehs flies n pills it oot, likesay ehs cock, a fat rubbery thing. Other gadges’ cocks look pure ugly, man. — Hi, you, c’moan, eh says tae this lassie, wi real menace in ehs voice, — git thum roond that.

  The radge lassie sort ay looks a bit puzzled; it’s like she’s realising for the first time what it’s aw aboot. But then she shrugs aw hard n gits oan her knees and starts sucking oan Chizzie’s dick. Chizzie just stands and looks bored. After a minute or so, he’s gaun: — Fuckin rubbish. Dinnae even ken how tae dae it, eh sais. Then eh looks ower at me wi a grin n goes: — Ah’m gaunnae have tae teach this daft slag how tae suck cock here, Spud.

  He stoaps n grabs her hair n pulls her ower tae they taped up piles ay bricks. — Awright . . . ah’m comin . . . ah’m fuckin comin, she screams, hittin ehs wrist.

  Eh’s right oot ay order here. — Chill oot, Chizzie! Fuck sakes, ah shout, but the jelly’s kickin in n ma voice jist sortay tails away.

  — Shut yir fuckihn mooth, Chizzie snaps at ehr, ignorin me, n she looks aw that petulant wey back at um. Eh forces hur back onto ehr knees by the side ay the bricks. — Stand up oan that, Spud, eh says. Ah’m pretty wasted now so ah jist climbs up ontae the bricks.

  — Right, Chizzie goes, — git yir fuckihn knob oot.

  — Aye, right! Git tae . . . fuu . . . ah slur as the Dynamic Earth Dome pure sortay shifts fae the side ay ma vision . . . then ah starts laughin ma heid oaf.

  — Aye, yuh fuckin crappin bastard, the radge lassie shouts at ays, n her face is aw nasty, man, like it wis me thit wis pillin hur hair n ah nivir did nowt.

  — Naw . . . it’s no likesay that, ah goes, — ah’m jist tryin tae be pals, likesay . . .

  Chizzie’s laughin n shoutin: — Goan, ya cunt! Ah’m jist tryin tae fuckin well prove a point tae this fuckin hing-oot here . . .

  The lassie’s sort ay loast it n ah’m losin it. — Raymond sais tae me, ye’ll be able tae git the bairn back, the lassie mumbles, drunk, in a world ay her ain, like me . . .

  — Moan, you, ya cunt, Chizzie goes as ah look at ehs weird face n start sniggerin like a daft wee laddie as eh sortay unzips ays n takes ma dick oot. Ah cannae feel a thing but Chizzie’s goat a hud ah ma knob. Chizzie! Eh looks doon at this lassie. — See, burds n blow jobs? eh says back at ays. — Nivir met one whae could dae it right. Then eh’s back tae hur. — You fuckin well pey attention here because this is the best fuckin education yill ivir git, eh goes, n turns tae me again. — That’s fuckin birds for ye. It’s like ye eywis think birds kin cook cause ay yir ma, bit while thir awright wi simple food, ye nivir lit thum near anything that needs imagination or . . . subtlety. How is it aw the best chefs are gadges, likes oan telly n that? Same wi blow jobs. Maist ay thum jist cram it intae thir mooths and suck, gaun up n doon oan it, like thir tryin tae make a fanny oot ay thir mooth. Whin ah wis oan the beasts’ wing a boy showed ays how it wis done . . . first ye run yir tongue the length ay the cock . . . n eh grabs ma cock n starts lickin it . . . disnae take ye long in Spud’s case . . . huh huh huh . . .

  Dynamic Earth . . . it’s supposed tae be barry in thaire.

  — Cheeky bastard, ah gasp as ehs cauld tongue traces lighly along ma pure sensitive penile skin . . . Chizzie’s soundin like a Blue Peter presenter or Fanny Craddock or something . . . the place is spinnin n it’s gittin dark . . .

  — Dae it, slaagg! Chizzie hisses, and ah think thit eh means me fir a bit, but it’s the bird, n she’s started followin his lead, takin the end ay ehs cock intae her mooth.

  — Better . . . better, eh goes, — then ye have a flick at the heid . . . gittin nice n firm here, chavvy . . .

  Ah wis n aw, but ah felt nowt. Jist nowt . . .

  N ah hear Chizzie n ah’m thinkin aboot that boy thit won the Oscar, when eh goes ‘ah’m the king ay the world’ aw cause eh’d made this film fir the pictures that wis sortay a bit long, ah thoat, cause ah saw it last summer n that, n ah think ay Sick Boy, n ah bet ye eh does that kind ay thing in ehs mirror, goes like ‘ah’m the king ay the world’ . . . n Chizzie’s gaun oan . . . — . . . then ye start takin it in yir mooth, gently . . . gently does it . . . it needs fuckin subtlety . . . it’s no a fuckin contest tae see how much ye kin cram intae yir mooth . . . keep the tongue workin . . . loll it roond the length ay the cock . . . better . . . beh-tur . . .

  — Aw fuck, Chizzie man, ah gasp, ma stomach feeling weak, looking at Chizzie’s nasty face around ma cock n if ever thir’s a face thit ye dinnae want roond yir cock, ever, it�
��s that yin n ah sortay realise fir the first time whit’s gaun oan here n ah pill oot . . .

  Ehs eyes glare n eh looks at ays, then doon at the jakey lassie whae’s still suckin oan ehs cock. — See that! he sais aw victoriously. — Hud the cunt gaun thaire . . . whoa . . .

  — It was jist thit ah wis fawin oaf the bricks . . . the bricks . . . ah telt um.

  But now ah’m lookin at everthin through a sortay thin watery porridge as Chizzie grabs her heid violently. — Now it’s time tae increase the pace, now it’s time tae suck . . . suck . . . SUCK, YA FUCKIN HOOR! N ehs fuckin violently at her mooth, fuckin her heid, forcin it right down into her throat n daein a ranting race commentary: — And it’s Chizzie on the final furlong, eh’s givin the fuckin slag a good seein tae and it’s Chizzie . . . WHOOAAAAHHHH!!!!!

  Eh hus her ginger mane in a vice-like grip, thrustin ehs groin intae ehr face, then eh withdraws, leaving hur gagging on his spunk and chokin, coughin n wiping ehr mouth. Eh nods ower tae her. — Congradulations, you’ve just graduated fae the Chizzie School of Sex.

  That wisnae right, man, naw, naw, naw, so ah sortay stagger forward n ah’m doon oan ma knees beside this lassie. — It’s okay, likes, ah say, comforting her, n it’s like wi baith sortay need that, man, the two ay us, ken. N she suddenly says: — The baith ay yis then, they baith ay yis ya bastards, n shi sortay starts mashin at ma groin n ah’m no gittin hard so ah start kissin her oan the mooth n ah’m gaun: — Awright . . . awright, n ah’ve goat her leggings and pants off. Ah pull at them tae shake loose that dry lump ay shite, sortay like a broon golfbaw, and then ah finger her fanny n ah’m gittin hard. Ah’m strugglin a bit tae git the flunky oot ay packet n oan ma cock but ah huv tae . . . huv tae . . . huv tae . . . thir’s sticky, vile-smelling globules ay sortay congealed fanny-goo dripping fae her, ken, n ma knob goes in easy. Ah kin hear um, the Chizzie cat; mockin and sneerin while aw this is gaun oan n she’s sortay growlin back at him n ah feel as if ah’m no really there. Ah’m sortay ridin her fir a bit, but it’s crap, it’s no like ah thought it would be n how am a such a mug tae even think it would be like what it is wi Ali n ah’m angry, man, angry at masel n she’s screamin, sortay mockin, gaun: — C’moan, you! Fuckin harder! Is that aw yuv fuckin well goat! N ah keep thrustin till ah blaw muh muck intae the bag ah’m wrapped roond . . .