Saturday, 9 March 2013
Not Everyone Is Cut Out for the Game
Hijacking the hamster, Francis Begbie style. Red dress, with sparkles, curves beautifully accentuated, Northern Irish, shortish black hair. Solid 7 in my book. She's in her late twenties or thereabouts, sitting on the bed. The phone in my pocket vibrates. Feck off ken. We've been making out the past ten minutes, but no entry as of yet. Some last minute resistance ken but that's ok. I kiss her neck gently, regurgitate Roissy's whole "I agree" bit, and briefly pull away, look into her eyes and say:
"Hey, look, in my experience, the best moments in life are when you just have to grab life, embrace it, and just go with the flow of things. Some of the best experiences, the best relationships I've seen in other people, always start off like this. This feels right. Otherwise, we just end up regretting everything"
"Are you going to fuck me?"
"Take off your dress, and lie down."
We have her won over. She wants it.
Somewhere along the way, something happened to the hamster that made it sick, maligno hamsteridoo. Half an hour prior to all of this, we're talking, drinking, and the red flags are just piling up on top of each other like de hangover from hell. It's the little things, the tumors that can only come from the alienation of modern life. The estranged relationship with the parents? Check. The career girl showing me dem credentials, the kind of occupation that makes one want to reenact the movie Falling Down, Irish sthyylle? Another mark against her there. Her tirades on wanting to go traveling and finding herself. The overweight dog, Chuzzles with the maimed leg who shares her bed. The drawer full of condoms. Saving up all the fucken moolah in order to construct a hot tub in the back, filling the void, one spray of wate at a time. Fuck, we're lying on the mattress, and there's black dog hair in my mouth. She laughs and I smile back. What is she thinking, how does she feel about all of this? Mechanical man. I prop her up, pulling down her panties and spank her across the back of her ass. She cries out, and I put my hands on her hips...
Girl gets told lies. Girl goes nuts in university. Girl is now a fading flower on the frail and is just that little bit loopity de loop as a result. Her ass is firm. Her cunt is tight. Her eyes, dead windows to the ends of the universe it me sees, small eyes, but widely spaced, the lassie aging from the face down, crows feet, easy to see, it always starts with dem crows feet dunnit? I told her I'm in my 30s, not de 22. We've only known each other a few hours...
She's asleep now. I'm trying to fuck off toos de land of nod as well, but I can't. What we had wasn't really much fun truth be told. I mean, it was pleasurable and all, but there was something off about the whole thing truth be told. Guys dat get a few lassies around their fingers, and then fucken boom it seems, they've got the confidence, the zing, the vivacity, the hunger. I feel nothing from any of this. Not a goddamn thing. No joy, no pleasure, no sadness, no depression, just nothin. No words/no thoughts. Fuck. There's a dull dead light in the room as a car light briefly illuminates the room. I see her eyes look into mine. She's got this lost kind of look. We're locked. Those crow's feet again. She buries her face in my chest and murmers something. I can only smile. Yet, we both know how this is going to end. We'll wake up tomorrow. She'll blather on about one of her friends being a bitch and we'll exchange numbers and go on our way and subsequently delete that shite and surprise surprise of the fucking millenium, she'll get some other lad to give it to her up the shitter in another club and I'll just keep on trucking and nothing is any the better. The more things change, the more they stay the same ken. She mumbles something and seems to be having a nightmare. She wakes up and does the same thing again.
I'm losing something here. Something intrinsic in myself. I don't know what. But something is definitely changing, going on in the old noggin here, and I don't have a goddamn idea what the fuck it is. I'm inexperienced, I'm a kid, I'll conceit, and if this be sounding emo and shit, I wholly apologize. But to the lads that have been in the business for a long while, do you know what I'm talking about here? Feels just raw, inchoate, fresh. Not bad, just weird. Distant. It's hard to put into words and action, language can only get a man so far after all. My personality seems to be changing. Franco fucken unchained. And I'm not sure if I'm particularly enjoying the process to be perfectly honest with yous.
I guess the best way of describing it is to use the whole idea of the internet as a form of vicarious enjoyment. Constructing your own Tyler Durden is not a particularly strange thing to do admittedly, that is what the internet is for many of us, as you create and tinker with the person you sort of want to be. You are not the office worker, or the pasty faced blob of fat, or the videogame nerd, yous are the fucking guy, the top dog with legions of sycophants, you are de legend and de key to de woirlde is in your hands. Francis Begbie is a sociopath, a crazy cunt, an irreverent twat, the kind of sick fuck who glasses wee lassies to get himself off on a Friday night, and treats his mates like pieces of shite, he is not, in any shape or form, an introverted, quiet university student who still hangs around with the fucken dummy cast of The Big Bang Theory from time to time. This is hard to express and I'm not sure if I'm articulating it very well. So I'll stop here.
At least this one didn't have wee bairns pulling at her apron.
Nae cunt is cut out for this without de change. Somethings going to give, sparkles in the lens and feelings en whatnot all burned up in a great conflagration. She's not fooling anybody and neither am I.