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Come Together: Chapter 6.
Lad of the Night.
That day was more than six months back now. And I cast my memory back to that naive, bones of my arse self with no measure of contempt. Of course, now that my arse has been a bone yard filled by enough men to populate a European battlefield, you can realise there are worse things than poverty. After all, dignity is the fuel that makes money burn!
After I'd sobbed to Bobby and stripped away the last level of poverty's inferno. I ran back to my flat and threw myself in the smallest corner and shrank into the darkest recess of dread. Monsters leered at me as my horror forced my heart to thump at warp speed. It threw relentlessly, wildly, against the prison bars of the ribcage ... Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve, whined through my brain and trembling lips almost drove out the words. The once youthful optimism that made the heart light, frantically sought escape from the cloying oil that calcified in my chest. It thrashed in the inevitability that it too, would have to lay back and think of England, be submerged in the treacly bile of accepting the worst... the first time was worse still.
Hotel rooms are even worse than bedsits in a way. A faceless mould of comfort and opulence that is snatched away from you, the antithesis of prison. There is an assumed sterility in a hotel room, the ambiance cannot permit too much attachment. It retains professional distance, because otherwise they risk knowing and seeing too much. They reflect back, like this mirror, that first thought sticks with me even as I recall staring at myself, preparing to get undressed, in the mirror. I was burning up, a fever endowed through the noxious potion of nerves and Viagra. My face glowed red, a side effect, Bobby had cautioned as he shoved them in my throat. Shivering, I watched through the looking glass into another reality, it was the only way I'd survive this, by thinking that way, the cream walls, placid light wood decor and white duvet covered bed offered no solace in the subdued light, observing awkwardly. A true cold washed over me though, immersion in death, at the sight of the older man undoing his shirt, exposing a slightly swollen, sagging belly coated in a sheen of white hair. I shifted uncomfortably at the bulge in my trakkies, one forced, just like the man had forced me to do community service. His saggy round face and lumpy, bald features looked somehow more timid without the fake white wig that usually resided parasitically on his head, during his Magistrate day job. He glanced my way shyly, he probably never recognised me, maybe he does, perhaps this is a quirk of his, to humiliate those he passes judgement on in the most ultimate way? I stood, head spinning from the extra hit of poppers Bobby had forced up my nose. "Makes it a little more bearable," he'd said.
Aching downstairs as much as upstairs, my rigid groin pulsed with the eagerness to just get this over and done with. I dropped my bottoms and unzipped my jacket as he slid off his wedding ring...
... As I slid into his large, sweaty, pale and flabby backside, he groaned and inside I wailed. But as I thrust away inside him, my liquified brain clung to any assurance it could find on this sheer cliff face of horrified destitution. A snag that told me to slide anyway, drift into the mists of delusion. I had gone into this trying to picture the fittest bird I knew, my mind's eye searching through all my browser history for the dirtiest clips I could remember and planting myself as the stud in that scenario. Yet the reality of having a 60-something judge moaning in delight every time his cheeks slammed into your pelvis, proved quite different. Flab made a lethargic shudder against my disgust's inertia. Ripples fanned out across his arse, reaching his bloated lips like radio waves where he could transmit and broadcast the depraved pleasure his wife, his real face, could never allow itself to show. This is the place His Worship could let the wig slip, permit a swift debasement at the altar of his own secret yearnings that he too had decided to punish to the fullest extent of his own skewed law. He was an opposite to me, in a way. I guess society played cruel tricks on us all.
I got through it by imagining my knob was a knife and that I stabbed repeatedly away at him. Him being a crucible for the world and it's injustice, I lacerated him. It did wonders for his enjoyment too, as my thrusting got harder and faster... later on, I even managed to finish over his face like he wanted.
The dark, cold hovel of my bedsit was to the hotel room, what I was to the magistrate. He and it got away clean with the transgression and had a life to call their own, but we had to grin and bear the shame. The £500 I, the monkey had been given, burned like the mark of a brand on cattle, he would return for the bull he'd slaughtered again, that's for sure! I sat coldly on the bed. Eyes welling and feeling so empty that I believed I'd fade away, hoped for it actually. You can't cry every time, you can live now, some part of me murmured encouragingly. It was a lie, I'd exist only. But it was right that tears were a luxury even this new cash injection couldn't afford. So the anguish found an outlet... languishing upon the sharp jutting fang of the venomous razor blade, as it punctured a line down my skin. It had looked so virginal and pure before, but then so had I...
... Six months at this game makes you hard, pardon the pun. I can go without the little blue pill now, as the red pill of my reality has toughened me up to my fate.
© Brad James, 2014.