Garbage #3

#3

Foggy's is a fight to get into on Friday night. Not for us. Both bouncers nod in our direction and a roar of “hey, that's not fair” goes up from the punters in the queue. Ignoring everyone of little or no importance, we head for the elevator. The inside is pasted with posters, leaflets and stickers for bands, club nights, tattoo parlours, hustlers. I spend the thirty second jolt to the basement seducing the mirror with intense eye work. Danny cracks his head to both shoulders.

Out we go.

The tunnels are crowded, glowing in red light just bright enough to make out faces, dilated pupils and inviting eye contact. Here and there, hosts are handing out stuff and standing around looking pretty. Well, fierce really. Marylin Manson is playing so loud out of the speakers that it soaks up any conversation. We are reduced to eyeing one another up, silent adoration for the tight leather, PVC and black denim almost everyone is dressed in. My eyes are all over them, drifting over outlined butt cheeks, surface piercings, smooth flawless skin. All the time, searching.

An “aren't you that guy from that band” comment gets thrown at me. “Uh, yeah that's me.” There he is. The girl/boy starts gushing at me about how much they love what I do, how he/she's so star struck to be talking to me. Doesn't seem to be stopping them from talking a load of complete bollocks. He's a head taller than almost everyone else at the bar. Boy/girl has got wrong band. He's coming closer. As he walks under a red strip light, the tattoo on the side of his head becomes plainly visible. My knees might just buckle. “What?” He/she just told me that they think of me when they jack off. Still don't know if it's a boy/girl. Everyone looks the same down here. “I don't know what you're on about.” One shove and they are out of the picture, regardless.

He's no where to be seen.

Danny appears at my side with a brimming pint of Fosters. “Dan, is there anyone else in here who's your height?” Pulling a quizzical look, he cups a hand round his ear. I yell it again; I hope he heard because I couldn't even make out my own voice. The crowd's going mental as Die So Fluid come on stage down through the railway arches, at the very back of the cavern. Danny shakes my shoulder and points over the sea of heads. Thumbs up.

There's all sorts of nooks and crannies in the basement of Foggy's. Corners and hollowed out coves where there's enough room for a few people to sit and talk away from the music and the mosh pits. Alternatively, most of them are just the right size for two to screw.

He's even more of a knock out up close. There's little left of the sultry school boy who was once the centre of my projected affections, perhaps the same glint of malice in his pale irises. I sit on his dick long enough to bring him to the edge; what a risk taker, page turner, cock teaser. “Mitch,” eyes wide open, “Let's go to yours.” Zip up, boys.

Our swift exit experiences turbulence. “Where are yous goin?” Danny mutters angrily.

“To get fucked.”

Blocking the door. Nothing to say, he's making eyes at me and looking hurt. “Come on then.” Out we stride, Mitch the sadistic cat killing stud, Danny half hearted, heart broken, and, me. Reckon with that, twilight streets of London town. Leather jackets and studded belts, zips begging to be teased down, up and down hips arching to be touched. Every inch of my skin is yearning to be inflicted with the strain of a long, slow intrusion, the pain of being bitten, broken, torn and shredded. Underneath my clothes, I am writhing.

In the stairwell my impatience gets the better of me. The bone grinding begins prematurely, lip syncing. Danny watches. He's still watching when we're inside the loft, ripping one another out of our clothes. The whole time Mitch is chewing on me, Danny's by the door glowering in my direction. Off putting.

Pushing off Mitch, I grab Dan from his lurking and pull off his shirt. Between our eyes are a hundred flickering emotions. He makes the first move, kissing me as if we're making up for lost time. Smirk. “Kiss him,” I order Mitch. “Everywhere.”

My eyes have glazed over. In the distance are a couple of blurred bodies, eating out. Somewhere in the haze is what I came here for. I reach a revelation. There's a dull thud when one of my fists comes into sharp contact with the back of Danny's head. He flops, which Mitch loves because he can get right inside him. On the desk is a laptop, whose mouse I rip out and bind Danny's wrists with. Kicking Mitch's head out of his arse, I yank him out of the way and sit him up facing everything worth seeing; us.

“Do your worst.” Snarl. And he does.

Every thrust jolts my skull into the wall. It's been twenty minutes since I could see; there's too much blood in my eyes, or severed nerves in my head, or something. All that is processing are the grunts and gasps of whoever is up my arse, whatever is up there. Maybe that's a voice too, crying, begging. Inside my mouth, the skin is raw and burning. I've bitten my tongue so many times it doesn't feel like a tongue any more. Legs shouldn't be bent this way, this far back, in strange directions. They can't be, without being snapped, joints cracked apart and muscles ripped. Clunk, clunk, clunk. Something will break my neck. Tense beneath cracked ribs and splintered hips, another agony surges and distorts. In torment, my body recognises another sensation for what feels like the first time. Each plunge inside me hits and relays ecstasy. Nothing makes my lips move or my lungs draw in air fast enough. I can't move anything. Clunk, clunk. The body on me is warm, slippery, driving what's still alive in my head crazy with moaning. But I can't breathe. As it's getting closer and closer, less oxygen reaches my brain. It feels as though my head is going to cave in. With every rasping attempt to suck in life, one by one it all, shuts, off. Clunk. I'm almost, there.