guilty pleasure by shimmie shake rock.

Bobby came back from the crapper. He decided it was time. Phyllis was sitting at the table with a glass of red in her hand. They were celebrating their wedding anniversary. That was a laugh. For one thing they hadn’t had sex in almost six months; and for another…well Bobby wasn’t quite sure how to say it.

Bobby sat down. He crossed his arms and stared at the table.

            What happen to the rest of my desert? he asked. 

            I thought you were done with it, said Phyllis.

Bobby took a deep breath.

            You ate it, didn’t you?

            What?

            You heard me. I said you ate it!

            No the waiter…

            Christ!

            Bobby, what’s the matter?

Bobby wiped the sweat that was dripping from his lip. 

            Phyllis. There’s something we really need to talk about.

 Phyllis stared back, innocently.

            Ah shit! Forget it! said Bobby.

            Forget what? asked Phyllis.

            I SAID FORGET IT!

Bobby looked away, picked up his glass of Scotch and drained it.

Back at home, the baby sitter had been discharged and Phyllis was sat on the sofa, watching the TV, eating a tub of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. Bobby kissed his son goodnight and then went into his study and poured himself a glass of Scotch. Sitting at his desk, he began tinkering with his air-fix models. By the time he returned to the living room Phyllis had eaten the whole tub of ice cream and was snoring away in bed.

In the middle of the night Bobby was disturbed by a banging sound. He opened his eyes and looked about the bedroom. The covers were drawn back and Phyllis was gone. Bobby got up, put on his robe and bedroom sleepers and went down stairs.

           What the hell are you doing? asked Bobby.

            What the hell does it look like I’m doing? asked Phyllis.

Bobby rubbed his eyes, walked across the kitchen and put his face close to the oven door.

            My god you’re cooking a roast, he said.

            So what if I am? said Phyllis.

            It’s three am in the goddamn morning.

            I know what time it is.

            Well nobody cooks a goddamn roast at three in the morning.

            Well guess what?

            I’m going back to bed, said Bobby.

            Don’t I get a hug?

Bobby stared at his wife. He stared at the rolls of fatty flesh around her neck, her mammoth breasts, her swollen belly, her enormous buttocks, her hips, her thick thighs…and he was stunned. As terrible as it sounded, he couldn’t believe how disgustingly fat she’d become.

            I’ll see you in the morning, he mumbled. He poured himself a glass of water, kissed her on the cheek and left the room. 

Bobby worked for the government. In the office that he’d worked for seven years a good many of his co-workers were women. As far as he could tell, all they seemed to do was talk about diets and food all day.

It was eleven o’clock in the morning. Bobby was going over the annual report. Behind him he could hear a gang of girls engaged in animated conversation:

            I feel fat… How can ya say that?…Look at me!…But you’re so thin…I’ve just             started a new diet… Wow, me too…Lemme guess, Weight Watchers?…Naw,       Jenny Craig…Guess what, yesterday I only ate four hundred calories all             day…You’re kidding!

Christ, thought Bobby. To these girls it’s almost a religion.

Bobby keyed a sequence of numbers into his computer. He stood up and raised his hand.

            I’m going to the store. Anyone need anything? he asked.

            No thanks…No…No…No thanks.

Then the voices started up again.

            Can you believe it, only four hundred calories? If you weren’t on a diet we             could celebrate…What if I don’t eat for the rest of the day?

Bobby put on his jacket, took the orders and moved towards the door.         

Bobby came back from the bakers with a box of assorted pastries. He made himself a cup of coffee, sat down at his desk and stared out the window. He watched the people in the street below and began to feel depressed. There had to be more to my life than filling in spreadsheets, and listening to a bunch of women go on about the food from nine to five.

            Hmmm these are amazing! Oh they’re orgasmic!…And so fresh!

Bobby sighed. The day passed.

The next day at work for Bobby was pretty much the same. The girls talked about the diets they intended to try out, and after were done, Bobby took their orders and went to the bakery across the street.

At home things weren’t much better. Phyllis appeared to be getting heavier by the day. She was pretty, and had once had an attractive figure. While Bobby worked in the accounts department, Phyllis looked after their three-year old son, Junior. When she wasn’t tending home, or attempting to harness herself self-esteem with Dr Phil and Oprah, she ate to fill the boredom.

In the evenings Phyllis stood in the kitchen, preparing elaborate meals, which Bobby ate without comment. He’d tear into the meat, and shovelled potatoes and vegetables into his mouth. He ate in silence and without expression. It was almost as if he couldn’t taste the food. As if swallowing the food was just something he was programmed to do…much like breathing.

It was mid June and the heat in the office was unbearable. It was so hot in the office that Bobby felt faint. The sweat poured off of him. Every twenty minutes or so he would jump up from his seat and run off to the washroom to splash cold water over his face.

            Christ! I’m burning up over here, said Bobby. I could do with a nice cool drink.

            D’you think it’s legal? asked one of the girls.

            All I know is, we shouldn’t have to work in these atrocious conditions, said Bobby.

            You know what we should do, said the girl.

            Yeah, throw in the towel. Quit! said Bobby frowning.

            No silly, get a huge pack of ice cream, said the girl.

            Christ! I should have seen that coming, thought Bobby.

He took the office orders and left.

Bobby waited for the elevator doors to open. As he entered, a girl stepped in behind him. Bobby got a good look at her body as she move into the corner.

            Perfect, thought Bobby. She’s perfect.

They both faced straight ahead. Neither of them spoke. Suddenly there was a loud screeching noise. The elevator jolted to a stop and the lights flashed on and off.

            What the hell! Bobby mumbled under his breath.

He pushed the elevator buttons several times but nothing happened.

            Looks like its jammed again, he said.

He hit the emergency button and a crackly voice came through the intercom.

            Yeah buddy, what’s the problem? asked the voice.  

            Elevator’s jammed, said Bobby.

            Ok, hang in there. I’ll have one of the guys take a look. 

Ten minutes passed and they were still jammed between floors. By now the elevator was so hot it was like being trapped inside a tiny sauna. Bobby’s clothes were soaking wet but despite a hatred of confined spaces, he was trying to remain calm. The girl had crouched down and started unbuttoning her blouse. Bobby took of his jacket and tie, and undid his shirt buttons.

           What did you mean by again? asked the girl.

            What? asked Bobby.

            You said the elevator was jammed again.

            Oh yeah, happens all the time, said Bobby, balling his fists and blinking.

            They will come for us won’t they? asked the girl

Bobby grinned nervously and nodded his head.

 Bobby took off his shirt and the girl took of her blouse. There were tiny glistening bumbles of sweat over her lightly tanned neck and shoulders. They were both sitting on the floor. They actually seemed to be visibly melting.

            Hi I’m Michelle, said the girl. I work in Personnel.

            Hi I’m Bobby from Accounts, said Bobby, trembling.

They shook hands. Then they began talking. Talking was good. It seemed to take Bobby’s minds off the heat, his growing sense of claustrophobia and the fact that he was dangling nine floors above the ground.

It’s funny how we never met before, said Michelle. Maybe we could meet up for lunch, sometime

            I’d like that, said Bobby.

Suddenly the elevator shuddered and seemed to drop another foot. Michelle gasped and grabbed hold of Bobby’s hand. Bobby closed his eyes and prayed that they would make it.

          kill the artist, technologyartist

           I got a call back, said Bobby.

            Terrific what’s it for? said Kate.

Kate was Bobby’s fiancée. The two of them had arrived in Hollywood with a plan to make it big in the movies. So far Kate had done a dying scene in a horror flick, a Skittles ad, and three weeks in a small experimental production of Street Car Names Desire. Mostly she waited tables in a small cocktail bar along the strip.

            Just says, report to the studio, five fifteen Monday, said Bobby.

Bobby put the letter down and poured himself a Jack Daniels and coke. He’d been out of work for almost six months. Kate arrived in LA in June and Bobby joined her in September. He was twenty-four; a good-looking kid with a tight muscular body. He done some modelling, but lately the work had dried up. He wasn’t tall enough to be a model. He was only five feet ten and three quarters. So he’d decided to trade on his good look in another way. He’d taken some acting classes. There were no height requirements for Actors.

Robert Redford and Paul Newman. Two of the greatest actors of our time, Bobby explained to his mother on the phone.

            No mom. You work at your talent and the only size that matters is your audience…Huh huh…well that’s the way I feel about it.

And Bobby felt absolutely certain he was going to make it. Because for as long as he could remember, he’d always wanted to be an actor/ movie star.

Bobby turned up at the building mentioned in the letter he’d got. He pressed the buzzer and a pleasant female voice spoke to him through the intercom telling him to wait for the sound, push the door and come right up. He pushed open the door and walked up two flights of stairs. Then he opened a door and stepped into what appeared to be a small reception area. There was a large sign on the wall, just above the receptionist desk. The sign read: Super Cam Films Inc, in bold italic.

Behind the desk sat a middle age black woman dressed in a colourful blouse and a beige pencil skirt. In front of her were a computer and a speakerphone. Bobby couldn’t exactly see what was on the screen, but he imagined that it was something very important. The woman was holding a small mirror in her hand and was apply some sort of make up to her cheeks. She had nice cheeks too. And nice teeth. Perfectly straight and so white they were blinding.

Over by the wall there was a row of chairs. A black girl and four white girls were sitting in the chairs. All four of the girls were busily reading scripts. Bobby tried to ignore that fact that as they read, all four of their mouths moved as if they were in the process of learning the Japanese alphabet. But they all look keen as hell. Oh, and they all had one thing in common. They all had massive fake tits. Evidently the Directors favourite number was 40.

 Bobby walked up to the receptionist’s desk.

            Hello I’m here to see Mr Babinani, he said, reading out the name that was printed on the top of the letter he was holding 

            Mr Babinani. Yeah that’s me, said a gruff voice of an obvious cigar smoker.

A gentleman in his mid-fifties with white hair and a beard stepped through the doorway. He was wearing slacks, a blue shirt and a colour cravat around his name.

           Mr Babinani at your service, he offered. Bobby is it?

           Yes, said Bobby.

           Great. I’m the producer…Would you like to come this way please?

Bobby followed.

Bobby tried to contain his excitement. This gig with Super Cam films could be just what he’d been hoping for. It was the biggest thing that had happened to him since he’d arrived in Los Angles. At last all those acting lesson, and all those hours standing in front of this bathroom mirror pretending to be DeNiro, Paccino and Daniel Day Lewis were paying off. That was the thing about Hollywood. Bobby believed that when an opportunity came calling you grabbed it, and held on for dear life. Even if it didn’t seem like much at the time…‘Cause you never knew where it would take you. True the part he’d been offered wasn’t Dr Xvargo or The Matrix, but it was a start. Stepping-stones. You took one job and then another came along, and if you got lucky. And Bobby felt luck…you grew. People got to know your work. You made friends with the right people and bingo. Show time…And goddamit, the next thing you were delivering some tear-jerker of speech about your parents, the big guy upstairs, and your dying grandmother’s last wishes, at the Oscars. So yeah…you had to have faith…Crazy faith…But that was fine. Coz Bobby had plenty. Some of which he got from the crystals around his neck and the chanting he did every morning. Faith…

Bobby this is Mr Klein, said Mr Bambinani. Mr Klein the director of the movie we’re going to be shooting today.

Mr Bambinani extended his arm towards a fat bald-headed gentleman, who was standing beside him, holding a cigarette in a cigarette holder.

Bobby stepped forward and shook Mr Klein’s hand. Mr Klein grinned and looked Bobby up and down. Then he began to circle Bobby, which to tell the truth made him feel a little uncomfortable. Well he was in Hollywood. He’d heard it could get pretty crazy in this town.

            That’s great, said Bobby. But forgive me. I didn’t get a copy of the script, so I don’t know what you want me to do.

Mr Klein and Mr Bambinani were seated on a comfortable looking sofa. Bobby was seated in a chair directly in front of them..

            Don’t concern yourself with that right now, said Mr Klein.

For some reason he couldn’t take his eyes off Bobby. And it was fair to say that Bobby was a little nervous. No nervous wasn’t quite the right word. More like, uncomfortable. More like the way you feel when you’re a kid and some older woman looked. Some older drunk woman sitting on the bus, looked at you with lust in her eyes and you sat there shitting you’re pants because in all the fantasies you’d played out in your mind it was supposed to be the other way round. You were supposed to be the one doing all the seducing. And here she was turning you, a 14 year-old kid with braces into a SEX OBJECT.  

Yeah Bobby wanted to be an actor more than anything else in the world. But there were limits to how far he was prepare to go to make it happen. He’d heard about the casting couch. And he’d figured, or hoped that it no longer existed. So if Mr Klein expected him to perform any sexual favours. Maybe a tiny hand job or a little ball cupping just to get things rolling…then he guessed he’d reluctantly have to turn down the part.

            What we’d like to do is start by asking you some questions, said Mr Klein.

            Shoot, said Bobby anxious to divert attention away from his body.

Bobby placed his hands on his hips. Then he worried it made him look too gay, so he moved them down to his thighs. Then he became aware that his legs were two far apart and that Mr Klein was staring at his crotch, like a man looking for his lost lottery ticket; so he began to fidget and ended up laying his ankle across his other knee, which seemed to do the trick.

He felt good. He was wearing a pair of blue-denim jeans with cowboy boots, which he felt gave him the James Dean look he was going for.

            Where exactly are you from? said Mr Klein.

            From back east, said Bobby.

It was vague but he was deliberately trying not to be specific, in case he decided to change it later. [When he got famous he didn’t want people digging up his past. He’d done some dumb crazy things when he was in high school. Like the time he and his buddy Rich, kidnapped one of his school teachers and then demanded the answers to the SAT’s their ransom note. Of course he’d eventually had to let the teacher go when it was clear the school wouldn’t play ball. And the only reason he’d gotten away with it was because he and his buddy were wearing ski masks. And although the teacher recognised his voice, he couldn’t ID him with absolute certainty.] But Mr Klein didn’t seem to be overly concern about the details. He simply glanced over the sheet he was holding and went to the next question.

            Parents? said Mr Klein

            Dead, said Bobby.

            Brothers, sisters?

            Only child.

            I see. And you want to be in the movies?

            Oh yeah, very much.

            Donny.

A black man with a thick moustache, wearing cut off jeans, timberland boots and a white linen shirt, that Bobby hadn’t noticed before walked in to the room in carrying a camera.

            We’re gonna try for a few shots, said Mr Klein. Just as a sort of test.

Donny nodded and hefted the camera up onto his shoulder.

Suddenly the room was a hive of activity.

            Caitlin. Where the hell’s Caitlin? screamed Mr Klein.

                 She’s with Debbie the make-up girl. She’ll be out in a sec, said an attractive black teenage girl with shoulder length hair, who had suddenly swept into the room. Bobbie couldn’t figure out if she was an actress, the receptionist daughter or some body’s girlfriend.

Just then probably the sexiest girl Bobby had ever laid eyes on stumbled into the room. Bobby was stunned. She looked exactly like a Playboy centrefold.

Christ, thought Bobby as he felt his Adams apple do a little dance in his throat. I guess nowadays you’ve gotta look like Cindy Crawford just to do a low budget movie.

 Caitlin had long dark hair, Eurasian eyes, surgically enhanced breast and a generous arse. It was impossible to say which country she’d originally come from. She looked a mix of black, white, Spanish, Puerterican, Chinese, Russian and any other nationality you cared to throw in.  The only thing that bothered Bobby was the fact that Caitlin seemed to be half asleep. She was shepherded into the room by a big guy who looked like an ex hells angle, or possibly a moon lighting linebacker for the LA Raiders. 6 foot 6 and 280 lbs of mean hard flesh. The big guy led Caitlin to a chair, which had been positioned in the centre of the room. Then he pulled some rope from out of his pocket, walked around the chair and tied Caitlin’s hand behind her back.

                 ignite her by jeff harris

             Ok Bobby this is the script we like you to do a reading for. Mr Klein handed Bobby the script. Bobby turned it the right way up so he could read the title. Snuffy.

Catchy title, he thought.

            What is this a horror, romance, thriller, what? he asked

            Don’t worry about that? said Mr Klein

Bobby opened the script and flicked through the pages. There didn’t seem to be a lot of dialogue. Then again it was a movie and Bobby knew very well that movies were more about movement than dialogue. Though it was always great to have some nice dialogue to jazz up the scene.

            We’ll be using a lot of improv, said Mr Klein. You’re and actor I’m sure you know what improv is?

            Yeah you want me to make stuff up, said Bobby grinning.

            Exactly, said Mr Klien. You’re a natural.

            What’s my motivation? asked Bobby.

            Just read and it will all become evident, said Mr Klien.

             Can I do it over here, said Bobby still unsure why there had to be a naked girl in the middle of the room tied to a chair.

            No stand over there in the light, said Mr Klein. Ok  Donny roll.

Suddenly the black girl Bobby had seen earlier, raced across the room with a clapperboard in her hand.

            Take one, she yelled. And roll.

They began to read. As far as Bobby could tell the plot centred on a male prostitute (the part he was up for), who’s clients were on the whole rich women with strange sexual proclivities.

          Ok I leave home and I become a prostitute, thought Bobby.

He still wasn’t sure what sort of performance Mr Klein wanted from him. And he wanted to know why some kid would suddenly decide to leave home and become a male prostitute rather than say, work in construction or became a dentist.

Gee Mr Klein. It really would help my performance if I had a better idea about my motivation for the part, said Bobby.

            You want to know what you motivation is? said Mr Klein.

            Well I hate to be a pain in the butt, but yeah

            It’s to stay alive…hahaha, said Mr Klein

            Ha ha ha, said Bobby.

The director face appeared to flush.

The script called for Bobby to take off his clothes and then to begin undressing Caitlin, who was dressed in a red bra and panties. Bobby did what was expected of him, and Caitlin played along.

            Come on Bobby improv, the Director shouted.

           Mr Klein could I have a second please said Mr Klein. I think I lost my focus

            Cut! screamed Mr Klein. Debbie get Mr Klein something to drink. Bobby what do you drink? Something to help you relax. He grinned

           I’m sorry. I hope you don’t mind, said Bobby. It’s just that this is a little new to me. Not the acting…

           It’s ok. Really. Will someone get our friend Bobby here something to drink? Would you like an alcoholic beverage, just to loosen you up a little?

            Sure. That’s if you don’t mind Mr Klein

            Cause I don’t mind. If you’re happy then I’m happy. In fact why don’t we all have a drink? How’s that?

            Ok I’d love a JD and coke, said Bobby

            Debbie, get Bobby here a JD and coke. I’ll have my usual. Joseph.

            Nothing for me thank you said Mr Bambinani.

            What about Caitlin, said the clapperboard girl.

            Oh I think Caitlin’s had enough already.

The young clapperboard girl raced off and returned five minutes later with a JD and coke and a glass of what look suspiciously like water for Mr Klein.

           Thanks, said Bobby. That was quick

            Mr Klein has a mini bar, whispered Debbie.

Bobby took a sip of his drink. It was strong. Really strong.

            No No, said Mr Klein drink all of it. It’s like medicine. No?

     I guess you’re right, said Bobby shaking his head as he felt the bite in the back of his throat and felt his eyes begin to water.

            Ok ready Donny, said Mr Klein

            Ready, said Donny

            Ready Bobby?

            Ready.

            Ready Caitlin.

Caitlin mumbled something that could have been a yes, could have been no, or could have been the first line of the Lincoln’s inauguration speech.

           Ok let’s take it from the line, ‘This is my third day on the job. How am I doing so far?

            Take two, said the clappa girl.

Bobby was a bit slow at first but it didn’t take long for him to get the hang of things. Soon he was performing like a star. Well that’s what Mr Klein kept telling him. And Bobby suspected that maybe the JD and coke had helped somewhat, because he certainly felt loose…Maybe a bit too loose.

            Ok now spread her legs, said Mr Klein.

Bobby spread Caitlin’s legs.

The whole time Bobby kept telling himself that it wasn’t real. He was acting. And that his fiancée Kate, would surely understand…He was doing it for both of them. And when he made it, as he doubtless would, he could be more selective with the parts he went up for. He wouldn’t have to do movies like this. Which let’s face it was pretty close to soft-core porn. He lifted her legs and got her to sit on his thighs. Her hands were still tied behind her back and she looked dopey.

            Suck her breast, shouted Mr Klein.

Bobby leaned forward and slurped over Caitlin’s right breast.

           Ok start fucking, said Mr Klein.

Bobby start moving his hips simulating sex

           Come on Bobby you can do better than that. This isn’t high school sex 101.

Bobby made more effort

          Cut! shouted Mr Klein.

          I’m sorry Mr Klein, said Bobby

          That’s ok kid you’re doing fine. But listen there are people out there earning minimum wage. There are people out there with mortgages, college fees, going through divorces and unemployment. They’ve been toiling in the fields all day.  When these people pay their ten dollars at the movie theatre or head down to their local Block Buster video store to rent one of my movies, they don’t wanna see you dancing around like you got ants up your arse. They wanna see some fucking. Understand? Or at least they wanna see you doing something that looks like, and reminds them of fucking. Maybe they don’t have a boyfriend or a girlfriend. Maybe they’re wife’s an absolute bitch. Maybe their husband’s a fag. Maybe they just got divorced. Maybe they’re sitting in some godforsaken corner of the globe, fighting a pointless war because the government says it the right thing to do. Maybe they’re scared shitless and a little fucking is the only thing that’s gonna keep them going out of their mind. And ok, so what if there’s a difference between fucking and watching people fuck. But at the end of the day, it still amounts to the same thing. For five minutes, or half and hour, or an hour, those poor bastards are not thinking about death, or taxes, or where their last meals’ coming from, or whether their 16 year-old son is a psychopath or their 14 year daughters’ a whore. They’re thinking about something good. Something beautiful. Holy even. And this is where you come in. Get the picture… Now there are two ways of doing this. You can either fake it. In which case you’ve gotta be good. And I mean real good. Or you stick it in, wiggle it all about and we get to make a classy movie. Do I make myself clear?

            Yes Mr Klein, said Bobby.

           Take three, yelled the clapperboard girl.

raised fist, by brukerribs 

The white man was staring at the News of the World Sunday supplement. He had the magazine pressed flat-out on the coffee table and was leaning over it and grinning. Without taking his eye off the page, he began to question the kid about the unfortunate incident in the van.

            So what was you doing snooping around in my van? he asked.

            They were chasing me, said the kid.

           Who was chasing you?

           This group of boys. They were having an argument with one of my friends. Then one of them pulled a knife, so we all ran. I ran into the car park and hid behind a car

           What happened to your mates?

           They ran back into the club to get the bouncers.

           These boys, said the white man raising his eyebrows. Were they friends of yours?

           No I never met them before. The boy with the knife said he was going to cut someone. So we ran.

           So what’d you do when you got inside?

            I sat there and waited for them to go and then I must have fallen asleep.

The white man looked across at the black man.

 The black man shrugged his shoulders.

            Don’t look at me Alf, he said, folding his arms. I only unlocked the van once to put the rest of the stuff in. I don’t remember seeing anyone.

            Then what d’you do? asked the white man.

            I got a call from Sandra, said the black man.

            What my Sandra?

            Yeah. She wanted to know about later.

            You mean you were standing there chatting on your mobile with the bleedin’ doors wide open and all our gear in the back?

            I was only standing about a foot away from the door. He couldn’t have got past me.

           Well obviously he did, said the white man.

He looked across at the kid again.

            So you jumped in when he turned his back, did ya? he asked the kid.

            Yeah, said the kid. There was some stuff up near the front covered in bin liners. I hide behind them.

           And when the dogs got in they didn’t see you?

           I don’t know. I was pretty drunk. We’d been slamming tequilas all night. All I know is, when I woke up the dogs were standing over me growling.

            You happen to look inside the bin liners?

            Not really, said the kid.

           You sure?

           Well only for a second, said the kid. But I was pretty wasted. It looked like some paintings or something. But I honestly don’t remember.

The black man looked at the white man and the white man nodded his head. The two men got to their feet and left the room. The kid stood up, walked into the middle of the room and waited for a few seconds, ready to sprint back to his chair if he needed to. Then he took a few steps towards the door, opened it slowly and inclined his head. The hallway was empty. He thought about making a run for the door, but when he stepped out he could see right through to the kitchen and he figured that he wouldn’t make it to the front door without being seen. 

The kitchen door was now half open and he could hear the two men arguing. He quickly stepped back behind a wooden coat stand and eaves dropped on their conversation.

 The white man said:

         He’s only a kid.

The black man said:

         What about the Old Bill?

         You heard him, he was drunk, said the white man. I don’t think he saw nothing.

         Well I ain’t getting banged up ‘cause of some stupid kid, I’ll tell you that much. What if he talks to the cops?

        About what? He don’t know nothing.

        Ok, I hear what you say, but I still don’t think we should trust him, said the black man.

        But you trust me, don’t you? said the white man.

        Yeah…but that ain’t the point, is it?

         How about we offer him something to keep him stum? Those paintings ‘ll be gone by Tuesday at the latest.

        I dunno.

        Or we could take him down to the coast with us, he continued. Then once everything’s sorted, it won’t matter. He can do whatever the fuck he likes.

        You mean kidnap him?

        No I mean invite him along. We could rope him in to doing a little job for us.

        Ok but if he don’t go for it, what then?

        Don’t worry. Leave it to me. I know how to talk to him. He’s only a bleedin’ kid after all.

All of a sudden one of the pit bulls walked past the kitchen door, noticed the kid standing by the coat stand, and began growling. The kid turned and sprinted back to his chair in the living room. He sat on his hands and stared nervously up at the ceiling. 

When they came back into the room, the white man was smiling but the black man had a slightly wary look on his face. He walked across the room and stood by the wall looking at the kid, taking a sip from his drink, before glancing at the kid again.

 The white man sat back down on the sofa. 

Listen son, he said. Bearing in mind it weren’t entirely your fault. I’ve decided to let you off. But the thing is, you’re still gonna have to do something for me. You know, to make up for the aggravation.

The kid nodded.

            The thing is, said the white man. I’ve got a little proposition for you.

He began rubbing his hands together.

          Don’t worry, he said. You’ll even be able to earn a few bob out of it. That don’t sound too bad does it?

The kid still looked nervous.

            What do you mean by a proposition? he asked, rubbing his hands against the top of his thighs and hunching his shoulders.

The black man came across and gently placed his hand on top of the kid’s head.

            Why don’t you just let him finish? he said.

The white man said,

            Yeah. He’s right Danny. No more interruptions. That’s the problem with most     of the bleedin’ youngsters nowadays. Too much of that.

He opened his hand and snapped his fingers together.

 The kid started sweating. It began streaking down the sides of his face.

             You hot or something, son? said the white man.

The kid nervously wiped his hand across his forehead.

            A bit, he said, rocking forward and then backwards in his chair.

            I’ll open the window, said the white man. Just for a second mind.

The black man had a Nike shoebox set on his lap that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Or at least that’s how it had seemed to the kid. The kid stared at the shoebox.

            Can I say something? he said.

            Go on, said the white man. But don’t go on all day about it.

            Well just suppose, the kid said nervously. I’m not saying…

The kid rubbed his throat.

           But just suppose I don’t want to do what you’ve got in mind.

His eyes kept darting about the room. He looked across at the door and scratched his head.

          I mean, say I wanted to do some of it…But not all of it.

A creepy grin spread across the white man’s face. He made a horrible cracking noise with his knuckles.

         Now come on son, he said. Don’t be silly…Now look. This is the arrangement. I want you to move a few drugs for me. Nothing too big. I thought you and you mates could pop over to Amsterdam on the ferry. It’ll only be for a couple of days. Don’t worry about accommodation. I’ll put you up in a nice hotel. We’ve got this special coat see…

            I can’t go, said the kid.

He stared at the shoebox and nervously scratched the backs of his hand.

            It’s just that…well; I’ve got a job interview on Monday.

 The white man lowered his voice to a scary whisper.

            Listen, I ain’t fuckin’ about son, he said.

            I know you’re not. The thing is, I don’t want to let my mum down, said the kid crossing and uncrossing his arms and then looking at his palms.

The white man stretched his arm along the back of the leather sofa.

           Mummy’s boy, are ya? he said grinning at the kid. All right then son. How’s this sound? Forget Amsterdam. It’s a bit dodgy anyway. Always is when you’re dealing with bloody foreigners. Ain’t that right Den?

The black man raised his eyebrows, and drummed out a beat on the lid of the shoebox. The white man winked at the kid. He turned the cigar around in his mouth and tapped a finger against the side of his head.

           How about this then? It’ll be easy. Dennis and me are doing this little rave up near Brighton tonight. Well take you up there. All you gotta do is knock out a few Ecstasy tabs for me, and we’ll call it quits. I’ll even throw in something, so you can take your friends out.

            Alf, you sure he can handle it? said the black man slyly.

            Nah, he’s all right, said the white man. He knows the score. Don’t cha son? Yeah, take your bird up to one of them classy restaurants. He’d love it. Cause he would.

The kid started grinning.

            Don’t tell me the age of chivalries dead, said the white man.

His eyes were popping out of his head and he looked like somebody’s nutty grandfather making wacky faces.

            What’s it nowadays? he asked. Couple of disco biscuits, then round to hers for a quickie?

The black man got up and poured himself another brandy.  They were knocking back the brandies like nobodies business.

          What can I say? said the white man. I’ve always been a bit useful with me hands. Now thanks to the almighty things are finally paying off.

He raised his glass for a toast and grinned at the black man.

            Now you and me have got it covered, ain’t we brov?

The black man patted the white man on the shoulder but kept his eyes on the kid. Then both men refilled their glassed and made a big show of toasting each other.

           I’ll be able to retire in a big house in the Caribbean, in a couple of years and leave all this bollocks for you kids to worry about, said the white man.

The black man took a sip of his drink. Then smirking, he winked at the kid.

             Alf, he said grinning. Why don’t you tell him the story about the thumb?

             Oh that one, said the white man. All I will say Daniel, is some dirty Northern cunt tried to bite it off.

He opened his left hand and wiggled his fingers about. There was only a stump where the thumb should have been. The kid looked at the thick stump and felt his stomach turn.

            I suppose you’re wondering how I repaid the dirty bastard?

The kid didn’t answer. He kept his eyes fixed on the stump, wondering what it must feel like to have someone bite off part of your thumb.  

            Let’s just say Daniel. He ain’t from up North no more. He ain’t from nowhere             no more.

The kid was sickened by the thought of it. He turned away and stared at the television set. It looked like a brand new set. It was enormous with a flat screen and hardly had any buttons. Next to it there was a massive vase filled with tall yellow flowers.

            You all right son? said the white man.

            Yeah, said the kid. Can I phone someone?

           ‘Course you can. Just so long as it ain’t, Dixon of Dock Green.

The white man and the black man both pissed themselves laughing. The kid didn’t think it was that funny. He sat there, waiting for them to finish.

The black man scratched the stubble on his chin.

            But seriously, he said. Who was you thinking of phoning, your mum?

            Nah, said the kid.

            Your girlfriend?

            Nah, said the kid.

The white man winked at the black man.

            Ere…You ain’t a fruit? he said.

Then they both started howling. It was Sunday night at the Palladium with Jimmy Tarbuck…No No Mrs…Please stop!

 the danger23-dwight howard superman dunk 2008.

Then I sat there and waited nervously while she got up to lock the door.

            Take off your T- shirt, she said.

I took off my T-shirt. Then I felt her tug at my tracksuit bottoms. Then she took off her white see-through gown. We both stood on the bed. Stumbling backwards and forwards. She lifted up her hair.

            Danny. Unclip my bra.

 I unclipped her bra. Then she wriggled out of it. I was amazed. I could sense that something truly amazing was about to happen. She had a perfect backside, flawless skin, large breast with pert nipples, and long legs. Why had I been chosen?

            Is that for me? she asked with a coy smile.

Before I could answer, her hand slid down the front of my boxers and she grabbed my cock. Then she got on her knees and started giving me a blowjob. As she moved her mouth up and down the shaft of my cock a shudder ran through the whole of my body.

            You naughty boy, she barked, grinning. You disgust me. You cad! You bounder! Oooooh!

She lay down on the bed and hurriedly pulled off her knickers. She lifted her knees, and opened her legs. I leaned forwards and kissed her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, and moved down to her belly. She pushed my head down between her legs and gasped. I nervously ran my tongue along her thigh and to my surprise she reached down and stretched open her cunt lips. I glanced up and saw the look of expectation on her face. Well I figured, when in Rome…I lowered my head and began tonguing her clit in a mad frenzy of lust.

            Oh my god! she screeched.

She closed her legs, giggled and pulled me on top.

Then I was inside her. We were doing it. She dug her nails into my back. I was in heaven. It was a miracle…Danny the Magnificent rides and rides again!

            Daniel don’t come inside me.

            I won’t, I mumbled.

I jerked and went for broke. Globules of sweat rolled of my nose and down my chest. Claudia clutched, bucked and bounced against me.

            Don’t stop! Don’t stop!

I thrust harder. It was unbelievable. I was unbelievable. I slapped my right hand underneath her left buttock. She squeezed closer and wrapped her legs around my waist. I lowered my head and began sucking on her nipples, moving my tongue in a circular motion. She pulled my head up and kissed me on the mouth.

She rolled me over, got on top and began grinding me into the mattress. I reached up and started playing with her breasts. I pulled her towards me and ran my tongue over her large erect nibbles. She pinned my arms to the bed and sat up. We began moving faster. Her eyes looked wild. Then she arched her back and began screaming. She went completely nuts…I began moving faster. The muscles in my thighs went rigid. My stomach tightened. I felt myself about to come. I tried to hold off…I imaged the line-up of the Philharmonic Orchestra/ Saw 111, The Return of the Living Dead…It was no use. I pulled out and came on her belly. 

 

It was like waking up from a strange dream, that he didn’t quite remember. His hands and feet were bound with duct tape and he was sitting on a wooden chair in the middle of a strange room. Dark. Except for narrow strips of light coming through the gaps in the curtains. In another part of the house a man was singing loudly. Somewhere above his head he could hear a clock ticking. Raising his chin he tried to focus. His jaw still hurt and when he moved it, he could taste something sharp. Blood. Then he noticed the figure in the darkness across the room, watching him.

The man was sitting on a brown leather sofa. He was wearing a navy-blue shell suit, unzipped to the top of his potbelly, and smoking a fat cigar.

             You’re awake? the man said. You had me worried there for a second. Now what the bleedin’ hell was you up to?

The kid opened his mouth to speak. A good-looking kid…Tall, lanky, and still in his teens. He’d been leaving the club and had hidden in the van when the boy had threatened him. It was when he had woken up several hours later, that the thing with the dog’s had occurred.

The man seated in the chairs’ manner seemed to change as soon as they got to the part that involved his dogs.

The man in the chair said,

           Don’t give me that son. You must have done something to upset ‘em. They didn’t just come to fall out of a moving van all by themselves.

He scrunched his dark eyebrows together. Apart from the scrunching, his expression hardly seemed to change.

The kid lifted his hands and tried to scratch his ear. He was scared. For some time, neither the man nor the kid said a word to one another. Then at some point, the man got up. He switched on the overhead light, freed the kid’s hands and feet and sat back down again.

The man began picking his fingernails over an ashtray. He turned his palms over. His palms were massive. The kid stared at the man’s massive fingers and the man looked up and grinned.

            Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a pair of hands before…See them? said the man.

The kid slowly nodded his head. There were lots of thick pink scars across the man’s knuckles.

            That’s from years ago, said the man, staring at the blotchy looking flesh. Used to do a bit of bare-knuckle, didn’t I?

The kid edged further back in his seat and rubbed the back of his neck. Then all of a sudden he began to hear a desperate scratching sound coming from the other side of the living room door and the muscles in his stomach knotted.

The man lifted his head.

            Oi Dennis, he called.

There was no answer.

           Dennis…Dennis!

           I can hear you, shouted a deep baritone voice.

           Dennis mate. Make sure Satan and Killer don’t get out, will you?

The kid heard the sound of vicious barking, followed by the sound of pots and pans crashing to the floor. A cupboard doors slammed shut. A fridge door thumped. Then the living room door slowly swung open, and a blade of light spread across the plush white carpet. A tall well-built black man strolled in wearing an identical navy blue shell-suit to the one that the man seated on the leather sofa was wearing. The kid noted that the second man was so tall; he literally had to crouch to get under the doorframe. He placed two ice-filled glass tumblers on top of the coffee table and sat on the sofa beside the other man.

           I left ‘em in the kitchen, he said.

           You give ‘em something to eat? asked the man with large hands.

           Yeah they’re eating it now, said the tall black man, before turning to look at the kid.

The man with large hands said, By the way. This is…he looked at the kid, and raised both eyebrows expectantly.

           Danny, said the kid nervously.

           Well Danny. I’m Alfie, and the big chap next to me is my business partner Dennis. 

The kid looked at the black man but didn’t say anything.

           He don’t look much, now that I can see him properly, said the black man.

He began pouring brandy into the glasses. The brown liquid made a crackling sound as it hit the ice cubes.

           How old are you then son? asked the white man.

           Seventeen, said the kid.

            Yeah I thought so, said the black man. He’s just a kid Alf.

The white man coughed into his fist and smoothed back his dyed jet-black hair. Then he picked up his drink and swilled the brandy around in the glass.

            Yeah, you’re right, he said. He does look about fourteen, don’t he? Been bunking of school, have you mate?

He made a horrible coughing noise that was supposed to pass for a laugh. Then he wiped away some brandy that had accidentally dribbled onto his chin.

The black man took a sip of his drink, and winked at the other man.       

           I don’t think he likes us very much, he said. He doesn’t seem to be in a very good mood Alf.

The white man stared at the kid, and the kid immediately dropped his gaze and look down at the carpet.

           Listen son, said the white man. You should think yourself lucky Dennis hit you when he did. He did you a bleedin’ favour. If I’d ‘ave got hold of you, it would have been a lot, lot worse.

He frowned and took a puff of his cigar.

The kid started mumbling.

            But I never did nothing, he said.

The white man’s face seemed to take on a purple hue. He began yelling.

            Didn’t do nothing! Didn’t do nothing!

His face began to sweat.

            You nearly killed my bleedin’ dogs you little rascal. Ain’t that enough!

He took another swig of brandy.

            Yeah but it wasn’t my fault, said the kid.

Oi, don’t push your luck, said the white man. Dennis ‘ll tell ya. I’m not the sort to suffer fools gladly. If there’s one thing I really hate son, it’s cruelty to animals. I won’t have it. You hear me? I won’t have it!

The kid noted that the end of the white man’s nose had gone red. The nose itself looked like it had been smashed to pieces with a sledgehammer. There was hardly anything to it. The rest of the man was just thick: Thick shoulders, thick arms, thick neck and extra thick fingers. The man flicked cigar ash into the glass ashtray on the coffee table, and took two or three quick puffs to keep the cigar from going out.

            Those dogs went completely crazy, said the kid breaking the silence.

            You’re a lippy bleeder, ain’t cha? said the white man.

He grinned at the black man and shook his head. The kid turned away.

Suddenly he felt a large hand on his shoulder. It was the tall black man, Dennis. The black man winked at him and then turned round to face his buddy.

            S’all right Alf, he’s probably just tired, he said smiling.

The kid glanced up with a wounded/angry look on his face, and then went back to staring at the carpet.

The white man sat back on the sofa, holding the cigar, breathing smoke out of his mouth. He was looking at the other man, but he didn’t appear to be listening to what he was saying. Looking at the kid, he barked,

           Oi listen, if you gonna test my patient, I’ll bloody let the dogs out right now. See how you like that.

Then all at once he seemed to completely lose his cool. He put down his brandy, stood up and moved closer to where the kid was sitting. The black man stepped between them, and put his hand on the white man’s shoulders.

           Just give him a couple of minutes to get himself together Alf, he said. Let’s not get too hasty, eh?

 After that, no one spoke for quite some time. The whole time the kid could hear the sound of barking coming from the kitchen, just across the hall.

pic barlow’s18-dave berge

4 poster bed/faye knightingale

Anyway, I washed my hands and flicked them dry.

All of a sudden there was a knock on the toilet door.

            Just a minute, shouted Tom.

He flushed and went to open the door.

            Wait. I’m coming with you, I said.

Tom opened the door. I stood behind him.

            All right boys?

It was Claudia. She placed her arm across the doorway.

            Danny, Steve’s asked me to show you something, she said.

She’d changed again. This time she was wearing a long white see-through gown. And in the hallway light she practically looked naked. She was swilling a glass of champagne in her right hand and holding a cigarette in her left.

Tom left. We heard him whistling as he went down the stairs. Then the front door slammed shut. Claudia and I were alone.

4

              It’s over here, said Claudia.

I followed her into the bedroom. I wondered what it was she had to show me. Perhaps something from her acting days. (Apparently Claudia was a pretty fair actor, though more recently she traded in the boards for a stint behind the camera. Steve had informed us rather excitedly that she now had two short documentaries in production that would be air next year. One featuring the sexual exploits of (mostly nymphomaniac) first year Co-eds from an assortment of respected American universities, and the other concerning the little talked about subject of ‘Nuns.’ I.e. who they were, or as Steve had put it: What made an apparently ‘normal heterosexual young maiden’ decide to throw away her future and buddy-up with God.

Anyway, I was saying, I was wondering if Claudia might have something for me, a signed autograph from Sir John Gielgud. Olivier’s fountain pen. Or maybe just something from Steve’s controversial past that would in some positive way help me nailed the part. Anyway as I moved into the room, I decided to be polite but stay away from the bed. As long as I stayed away from the bed I knew I’d be fine. In other words, nothing could happen, if I observed one simple rule and stayed away from the bed.

Claudia closed the door behind me. The first thing I saw was a large Teakwood king size four-poster bed, with white net curtains tied to the bedposts. Claudia moved across the room, sat down on edge of the mattress and crossed her legs. As she did so, her white gown pulled tightly around her backside and for a moment everything seemed to stop.

           It’s OK Danny. Come and sit on the bed. I won’t bite you, she said.

I went over and sat on the edge of the bed beside her.

           Steve tells me you’re an up and coming actor, said Claudia.

            Well I’m trying to be, I said modestly. This is only my first movie.

           Danny love. Interrupted Claudia. There’s a bottle of champagne under the bed. Be a darling and pour me a glass.

I crouched down and found the champagne. I placed the bottle between my thighs and eased out the cork. There was a small plop. No froth. I managed to stop my hands from shaking long enough to poured two glasses.

            That’s brilliant Danny! Where did you learn to do that?      

            I used to work in a bar.

            Is that where you got those lovely muscles?

I looked away shyly.

              Light me!

Claudia swung round and held a long cigarette in front of her mouth. I pulled out my lighter, clicked the top and a flame leaped in the air. She took a few drags on her cigarette and smiled at me.

            So Danny. Were there many girls behind the bar you worked in?

            A few.

 I was actually still thinking about Steve. And what he’d do if he suddenly burst into the room. Probably kill me. Consequently as a precaution, I listened for footsteps and kept my eye on the door.

           I bet you used to push up against the girls with those big muscles. Didn’t you? said Claudia.

            No.

            Come on. I bet you did.

            No…It wasn’t like that.

            Don’t lie.

She nudged me.

           Come on. I bet someone would say, gin and tonic please. And you’d rub up against the girls to get to the gin.

She burst into a fit of giggles.

Suddenly I heard the stairs creak. There were voices. Then the voices went away. I got up from the bed. I could feel my legs shaking.

            Claudia I think I should go.

 I made a move towards the door.

            Relax…I’m only teasing you. 

She pressed her glass against her cheek. Then she stood up and brushed past me.

 She came back and signalled with her eyes for me to take my place on the bed. Then she pushed up close and I got an eyeful of that amazing body. I felt something tingle inside me, and my heart thumped against my chest.

.           Tom and Jan will be wondering where I’ve got to, I said.

             Hold on. This is what I was going to show you.

She placed a vanity case on her lap, snapped the catch and flipped open the lid. She took a sip of champagne and rested her chin on the edge of the glass. I noticed that her eyes had gone all fuzzy.

            Come closer.        

            Listen Claudia…

            For Christ sake, don’t be so uptight. Honestly you’re worse than my mother. Stop worrying.

She patted the bed, smiled and stubbed out her cigarette. 

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I moved an inch closer.

            Oh. And bring that bottle with you.

I picked up the bottle and tried to look casual.

            There you go, I said.

            Nice hands.

She gave me a dirty grin. Then she stuck her nose in the vanity case and rummaged around. She fished out a small mirror and placed it on the bed. She opened up an envelope and laid it on top of the mirror. Then she tipped the coke out onto the glass. She took out a credit card from the vanity case and began chopping the coke.

While she chopped I looked around the bedroom at the pink walls. Pink with white bows. On the floor there were two tennis rackets cases and a pink Slazenger gym bag. The dressing table was crammed with different types of perfumes. L’oreal, Christian Dior, Chanel, Yves Saint Laurent. What the hell am I doing here, I thought?

            What are you thinking? asked Claudia.

            Nothing, I said fidgeting.

She raised her eyebrows, smiled and continued chopping away. Then she lowered her head to the mirror. Her hands shook. She pressed a fifty against her right nostril and snorted a line.

            You don’t have to worry about my husband, she said.

Suddenly my heart thumped against my ribcage. Her husband: The crazy dude with the perpetual grin and the never-ending vial of coke. I leaped off the bed trembling.

            Please don’t go Danny. You don’t know how lonely I am.

I sat down again and tried to relax. I concentrated on getting my breathing back to normal.

           How could anyone that beautiful ever be lonely? I thought.

.           My husband hates me, she said.

Her head slowly dropped forward and her shoulders began to shake. She wiped her eyes and sniffed a few times. I went and got a tissue from the dressing table, and came back to the bed.

            Claudia. I’m sure that Steve loves you, I said handing her the tissue.

            You don’t know him, said Claudia still trembling. He gets insane when he drinks. And there’s the coke, which doesn’t help. It makes him violent. I don’t know if your friend Tom told you, but three weeks ago he attacked a man in a restaurant in Cannes for absolutely no good reason. When I questioned him about it, he told me he did it because the man had kissed my hand. Can you believe that? A man kisses my hand and he wants to kill him.

           Why didn’t you go to the police? I asked innocently.

           Oh don’t misunderstand me, said Claudia. I would never do anything like that. It’s just that sometimes he gets so jealous.

When she said it, worryingly, an unconscious smile crossed her lips and her eyes seemed to light up considerably; as if the idea that her husband was willing to attack, maim or even kill another man to protect her honour, was something she found sexually arousing. Then she leaned over and snorted more coke.

            Just give me a few minutes…Just five minutes, she said holding onto my arm.

5

I took a deep breath and looked at the door. I had to admit that the story about the man in Cannes had made me a little nervous. Well actually more than a little nervous. I knew that if I had any sense I should get out of the room at once.

            OK five minutes, I said trying to keep my hands from shaking. 

 Claudia looked up. Her eyes were smudged with mascara.

            You know my sister’s married a black man.

            Yeah? I said looking anxiously towards the bedroom door.

            You don’t believe me do you?

            No, no, I believe you.

           My father’s the financial director of an oil company in the Middle East. My sister married a Doctor from Kuwait.

           Kuwait. I didn’t know that the Arabs were technically considered…

           I knew you wouldn’t believe me, she whined.

           No, no… I definitely believe you…rich I expect…I expect he was rich…So was he rich?

          Oh extremely wealthy. Yes, my parents separated when I thirteen and divorced when I was fifteen. My sister stayed with my father and I lived with my mother and my stepfather. They both drank. It was the first thing they did in the morning and the last thing they did at night. When my stepfather drunk, he beat my mother. I told him if he ever laid a hand on me, I’d kill him. My real father is a wonderful man. Unfortunately he doesn’t understand women very well. He’s been married four times. Every one of them an interfering old hag.

            What all of them?

            Are you making fun of me?

            Of course not. Forgive me. You were saying.

            You know you remind me of a boy I knew at drama school.

            That’s nice…

            We’d go for long walks quoting Shakespeare and Eliot to one another. And    sometimes when we went back to my flat and I’d let him do things to me.

            Do things?

           Yes, do things, she said grinning and flattering her eyelashes

            Hmmm, Claudia. I really should get back…

            You don’t like me very much do you?

           Of course I like you. It’s just that…what if someone comes? I whispered nervously.

            Oh Danny you’re so sweet. You know, I’d really like us to be friends.

She pushed back her hair, leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek.

            I know. Why don’t we both do a couple of lines each?

            I dunno,

            Danny, stop worrying. I’ll look after you.

I had never done coke before, and I had no idea what to expect. Well apart from sitting there saying things like, wow and hey man and heavy! Which was how I used to think you were supposed to act when you were high. Probably from watching all those 70’s movie as a kid, where one toke on a joint the size of a tooth pick would send a bunch of hippie kids to Venus and back.

            Actually I’d rather not, I said.

             Oh for heavens sake Danny, said Claudia cutting up a couple more lines. If you want to do well in this profession, you’ll have to lean to let go once in a while. Actors are the free spirits of the universe. They’re supposed to have a little fun. It’s good for the soul.

 So I did the first line. Nothing happened. I did the other one. After that I lost count. Claudia would set them up and I’d snort them. We were like the Tony Montanna meets Henry Fords of the Yajoo-snorting fraternity.

Then I got a severe head rush.

            Are you all right Danny?

I could barely see straight. Everything was whizzing by. There were white flashes of light. I was Danny the magnificent, fly fly….Super Fly!

 yes we scored!-terry.1953

I was in a Crystal Palace strip, flying down the right wing at Selhurts Park. We were one goal down going into injury time. No one believed we had a chance, least of all our own supporters. But Danny Martin, was going to do it alone.

I threaded my way between two defenders, then past another. I chipped the ball over the head of a fourth. There was only the goalie to beat…I slammed the ball home, passed the keeper’s fingers and into the left hand corner of the net. The crowd roared and cheered. I fell back onto the bed panting. My head was buzzing. I felt fantastic.

            I love you! I yelled.

            Shush Danny. Someone might hear you.

            I don’t care. I love you!

            I thought we were going to be friends.

            We are, but I still love you.

I leaped on top of her. I was a caged wild beast. I pinned her to the bed. We struggled.

            Daniel for Christ’s sake get off of me!

She slapped me across the face. I sat up, blinked and stared at her. I felt confused.

            Claudia I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.

            For heavens sake! What’s wrong with you?           

            I dunno. I’m sorry.

I rubbed my cheek. I felt embarrassed. Claudia took hold of my hand.

            Daniel. You’re so silly.

            I know. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry.

She looked into my eyes. Her eyes looked strange. It was probably the coke. I looked at the floor but I knew she was still watching me. I was scared. I sneaked a look. Her face had gone all serious…Her breathing got louder and faster. She leaned forward, lifted my chin, closed her eyes and to my utter surprise…she kissed me.

picture Dave Fancher-spooled up.

Prologue:

 According the interview he gave in, ‘The Hollywood Reporter, entitled: ‘So you really wanna try and make a another goddamn lousy movie’-he adored England. He loved its history. It’s architecture, and it’s weather…Ok, so he didn’t exactly love its weather. But he loved the country. However in the last two months he’d been plagued with problems. First and foremost ‘ money’, or more precisely his lack of it-And yes, the rumours were true, the first AD had quit, and the camera man had gone insane, and now with rewrites, actor’s fees, production cost, etc. Plus the fact that if anything could go wrong, ‘you can bet your ass it had’…the estimated budget had gone up by around 30%; and was still rising. 

1

It was the day after he returned from LA, that he delivered, ‘the thrilling news. He was happy to say that he had not only secured a further $4million, but we would be shooting again in a month.     

Meanwhile we were to attend a barbeque at his beautiful home in Sussex to talk the new changes in the script.

 The three of us were beaming smiles. Well couldn’t exactly help it. Tom had had the bright idea of taking ecstasy on the way down in the car. He argued that not only would it be immense fun, but would help pass the time. Anyway they’re all movie people, he added. They’ll be lots of drugs and shit at the party. It’s not as if anyone will notice. They’re creative types. They’ll bound to be high on something…so we took his advice and dropped our E’s…Rhubarb and Custards. And they were potent.

The grounds were huge. Tom parked the car and the three of us walked along the gravel driveway towards the house. Jan rung the doorbell and after some seconds the butler appeared. 

              We’re here for the barbecue, said Tom.

              Very good Sir. If you’d like to follow me.

So we followed the butler through a large room filled with impressive antiques, chandeliers and a high ceiling. Outside people were standing around chatting, laughing, sipping drinks and playing croquet. It was a hot summers day with a light breeze. And the garden, if you could call it that, seemed to stretch out for miles.

Then Tom spotted him. He was dressed in a garish Hawaiian shirt, and a pair of white linen trousers and had a pair of dark glass stuck to the top of his head. As we drew closer he suddenly bent forward and appeared to shove something up to his nose…First the right nostril and then the left. I figured it had to be coke. Well at least, we wouldn’t be the only ones blitzed out of our brains. 

 As soon as we’d got through the introductions, Steve launched into a story he’d recently heard about a ghost that apparently inhabited the neighbouring countryside. He claimed that someone had told him that a white lady walked the roads at night.

            So Tom, Danny, whaddya reckon. Is it really haunted?

            Nah, that’s bollocks, said Tom.

            Bollocks?

Steve repeated the word, slowly. That’s Scrotum, right?

            Balls, whispered Claudia.

           Right. Gotcha. Load of balls! Load of bollocks! Old English, am I right?

He was swaying.

Yeah right, as I was just saying, a white lady walks the roads at night. At least that’s what they tell me. What d’you reckon Danny…about The White Lady?

            The white lady?

            Absolutely. The White Lady.

            Oh right, you mean a lady dressed in white.

Steve grinned, lurched towards me, and feigned a left to my kidneys.

            Yeah well they make it up, don’t they? said Tom.

            Really! said Steve turning away from me for an instant.

          Yeah, they just wanna keep us city boys away from the country. Ain’t that right Dan?

 kate O’brien-Croquet?

I wasn’t listening. I had my eye on Steve’s gorgeous wife. Tom had told me that she was beautiful, but, Christ, I honestly hadn’t expected this. Claudia was wearing an extremely low cut stylish outfit. No bra. And every sneaked a peek, I half expected one of her perfectly formed breasts to tumble out.

Then all at once the Ecstasy tab I’d taken in the car really began to kick-in and my head began to spin. In my confusion I lost my footing, stumbled forward and accidentally spilt the rest of my Champagne down the front of Claudia’s dress. As the stain grew bigger, I watched her nipples surface, like miniature deep-sea divers coming up for air.

.            I suppose I should go and change, she said.

She lowered her eyes coquettishly, gave me a cheeky grin, and began walking towards the house.

            Yeah…I know what you guys mean, Steve suddenly yelled.

None of us had the faintest idea what the guy was talking about.

            What d’you say? asked Tom..

            Yeah. Apparently a White Lady walks the roads at night. So whaddya guys make of that?

            Yeah very interesting, said Tom trying to keep a straight face.

            Hmm. Very interesting, said Jan.

            Danny?

            Yes, very interesting Steve.

             Yeah that’s what I thought.

He rubbed his nose, and grinned at everyone. Ultra-bright-super-white-capped-teeth- and gave us his million dollar film director’s smile. Then he grabbed onto my arm, winked and drew me aside from the others.

             Danny if I could just have a quick word with you.

So Tom and Jan disappeared leaving Steve and myself to talk. Some talk. Steve may well have been a well-respected auteur genius, but as a human being…well the guy was nuttier than a fruitcake. The upshot was, Steve Plimpton, legendary movie mogul and controversial director…Arguable one of the biggest names in Hollywood in the last twenty years. A man responsible for a catalogue of cult/blockbusters movies…The man Larry Einstein had affectionately called ‘Mr Razzle Dazzle’, the man who had stood his ground and said No to Paramount. No to Warner Bros- I will not compromise. I will make my own kind of movie if it’s the last thing I do…Sadly for ten years it was the last thing he did. The man who called Bel Hibson, ‘the second coming’ and later ‘a talentless Aussi self-conceited prick (his words not mine) wanted me, a mere twenty year-old nobody, the soon-to be second lead in his latest extravaganza…to have wild unrestrained sex with his beautiful wife.

2

As soon as I smelt it I wanted to puke. We were standing in front of a trestle table covered with food. There were chicken legs, hamburgers, sausages, bread rolls, French sticks, cheese sticks, a bowel of salad, celery and dips and lamb steaks, ribs… Next to the table was an iron barbecue grill. Flames shot through the grid and licked the meat. A few people stood about with paper plates, nibbling the food and sipping drinks. Steve had sobered up slightly. But he was still hitting the coke like it was going out of fashion.

            Help yourself, he said.

I looked at the food and my stomach turned. I didn’t have an appetite. The Ecstasy had seen to that. Not only was eating the very last thing on my mind, but I was also starting to hallucinate mildly. As crazy as it seemed, the chicken actually looked alive. My God. It actually looked like it was breathing.

            I am not that hungry, I said.

            Me neither, said Jan.

            Just try a little, said Steve.

He grabbed a spoon and heaped on as much food as the flimsy paper plates could hold. Each plate was piled so high that bits of its contents would fall on to the ground. Steve simply gave out a laugh and kicked the stray pieces of chicken, ribs and sausage under the table. Then Claudia reappeared wearing a Laura Ashley summer dress. 

            By the way, said Steve proudly. Claudia marinated the chicken especially.

            Oh, I said. That’s nice.

     Then I stared at one of the drumsticks on my plate. It had a yellow and orange sheen to it. It looked as if some overfed mutt had puked up all over it. I opted for a chicken wing instead and raised it to my mouth. I bit down and moved it from side to side, slowly.

            How is it? Not too spicy? Try and guess what that taste is, said Steve.

            A Kleenex box, I thought, as I tried in vain to force the tasteless lump of meat down my throat.

I almost gagged. I couldn’t make the chicken go down, so I pretended to swallow and held it under my tongue. When they weren’t looking I spat it out onto my hand.

            Tommy, how was the drive down? asked Steve.

            Fantastic.

I threw the chewed up chicken wing under the table with the rest of the discarded pieces food. Underneath the table it was starting to look like a rats paradise.

            I’m on a diet, said Jan picking at a piece of celery.

             But you’re so thin, said Claudia. How do you do it?

            Speed crystal and ecstasy tabs, whispered Tom.

            Don’t tell me. A healthy balanced diet and plenty of exercise, said Claudia.

            Practically, said Jan going red.

I hiccupped and bought up some of the champagne. I put my hand over my mouth. I knew I was going to hurl if I didn’t get away from the food in the next thirty seconds.

            And what type of exercise do you do? asked Claudia.

            I dance, said Jan.

            You must take us dancing sometime.

            Yeah we love all that, said Steve making an exaggerated, ‘ooh’ sound and attempting to do the famous Michael Jackson moonwalk.

I looked at Steve and thought of the few places I’d willingly take him:

(1) A rest home for the criminally insane. (2) A shock therapy centre. (3) The Betty Ford Clinic.

I interrupted and excused myself.

            I need to go as well, said Tom putting down his paper plate.

     I thought only girls went to the lavatory in two’s, said Claudia. I’ll show you both the way.

                 Girls and cokeheads, said Steve chuckling away to himself.

We walked into the house, all three of us. As soon as I got away from the food I felt a whole lot better.

              I’ll just go and freshen up, said Claudia.

She sashayed away from us swinging her hips and we both watched her glorious backside disappear down the oak panelled hallway.

                     3

We walked into the bathroom. It had a massive pink circular porcelain bath, white titles, a brass handrail, thick pink towels, and a bidet. I lifted the toilet seat, and noticed that there was a fly sitting inside the toilet bowl. I waited. I didn’t want to drown the fly. Finally I aimed at the far side of the bowel and the damn fly shifted into my line of fire. I swung to the other side.

            What you doing? asked Tom.

            Nothing, I said.

I finished up and the fly settled back on the edge of the toilet bowel. I stood there for a moment, and then flushed. It was one of those almost silent flushes, but the fly bless he’s heart was astoundingly quick. He beat the flush, zigzagged around the room and settled on the ceiling.

I turned to Tom. He was sitting on the edge of the bath reading the back of a shampoo bottle.

            Tom, the guys some kind of nut!

            Yeah I know.

            I thought he was supposed to be the laid-back Gary Cooper type.

            He is …but not after a drink.

            He’s fuckin’ crazy. He’s been ranting and raving at me for the past ten minutes. He asked me to sleep with his wife.

            You lucky bastard!

            No really, he wants me to sleep with her.

            You probably miss-heard him.

Tom continued reading the Shampoo labels.

            No listen…

            Chill out Dan. He’s pissed.

I sat down next to Tom on the edge of the bath.

            Dan, he’s only winding you up. He does it to everyone. Nothings’ gonna        happen.

Tom picked up a bottle of Paca Robanne and grinned at me. I grinned back, though it was a grin completely absent of real humour. For one thing, I knew full well that Steve had earned himself quite a reputation over the years. Not first hand of course, but like everyone else I heard the stories.

And even though he he’d only been married to Claudia, his now second wife, for a mere six months tops, there were already rumours floating around the grapevine about their wild orgies, and A list celebrity swinging sessions, where everyone present would drop their Porsche car keys into the infamous coloured bowel, to see who was going home with Daddy.

 Bearing this in mind, I walked over to the sink and turned on the tap…Jesus Christ! The fly. The fucking fly was back. It skated on the shinny porcelain surface, and wondered aimlessly around the plughole.

Evidently, once again the fly’s fate was in my hands. I quickly turned off the tap, and shooed the thing away.

           Just give it an hour, said Tom, standing over the toilet bowl trying to piss.

            How about ten minutes?

            Dan. We only just got here.

Anyway we still need to go over that thing in the script.

Of course Tom was right, though I hated to admit it. The situation was this. There was weird scene in the script, in which Tom and I were supposed to make passionate love.

Steve had co-written the script with a close buddy (a well known, outrageously camp Dutch Director). The scene as written consisted of thirteen and a half minutes of straight up porn. Gay Porn. Of course no one could deny that Steve’s movies always had a reputation for pushing the envelop and being totally ‘out there’. And in fact, both Steve and his buddy had originally conceived the idea for the scene as homage to the 80’s French movie, Betty Blue, as a sort of moral foil to (as they put it), the misogynistic quality of Hollywood cinema.  

Anyway, neither Tom nor I wanted to be accused of being homophobic, but if there was any way to avoid doing the script as written, we’d certainly be grateful. Yeah ok, so you could perhaps argue that the movie was making a much needed and bold political statement concerning gender roles in modern film. But on the other hand, neither Tom nor myself were convinced, that anyone (with the exception of certain factions of the woman’s movement and possibly Germaine Greer) would have a clue, or give a pig’s arse, what Steve and the Dutch Director friend were attempting to say.

Saying that, I guess we couldn’t dispute that Jan had a point when she remarked that, at least now we would have a better idea of what women in cinema had probably been dealing with since the invention of celluloid. Jan was playing the nymphomaniac fifteen-year old kid with a burgeoning heroine addiction and was expected to show her tits at least seven times during the first ten minutes of the movie. Granted they were obscured shots and her actual nipples were only in focus for a few seconds at a time. But saying that, neither Tom nor myself were called upon to show our testicles till the movie was some way in. And even then, apart from the infamous gay sex scene( which we were hoping to get removed)-if we did get naked, the sight of our balls was usually over-shadowed by the presents of a tightly-trimmed pussy and a pair of 34 D tits.

 

They were drinking in the Hungry Pussy. Willie wiped away some foam from his top lip and looked along the counter in front of the stage, where five other guys were seated. None was talking. All the men were all staring into their drinks. Stirring them with the little plastic swizzle sticks or absentmindedly playing with their coasters.

                Excuse me, said Willie grinning and turning to the man beside him. But ain’t you the gentleman from the other night?

A middle-aged balding white man, dressed in a short-sleeve shirt and slacks, seated on a stool beside the stage, stared back at him.

The black man Willie, who was in his fifties leaned forward and offered his hand.

                Willie, he said pointing at his own chest…And this here’s my young nephew Nate.

                Excuse me, said the balding man. You say we met the other night?

                That’s right, said Willie. The AVN awards. I took you there.

The balding man, lowered his Scotch glass, looked up and squinted.

               You mean the limo driver. That was you?

                That’s right said Willie grinning and extending his outstretched hand. Willie Jackson. Sunset Limos. At your service.

The three men shook hands. Then Willie waved over a hot looking Latino waitress and order some drinks.

                Three beers, he said, winking and holding up three of his fingers.

The waitress smiled, scribbled the order on a pad and left.

                 Damn, said Nate, staring at her short leopard skin mini skirt as she move away. And she ain’t even one of the dancers.

                 So what exactly do you do? asked Willie. Don’t’ tell me you’re an actor.

                 Actually, said Lewis. I’m the CEO of a very successful design company.

                For real, said Nate. So what kind stuff does your company design?

                Believe it or not, said Lewis. We design sex toys for ladies.

                Yeah, said Nate, playing it cool. So tell me man, what’s it like working in the sex industry?

                You mean man-to-man, bullshit aside? asked Lewis twiddling his thumbs.

Nate pinched his nostrils and, flicked out the tip of his tongue.

                Yeah, he said. Exactly…Man to man.

                Well let’s just say. It is Nate, right? asked Lewis, teasing.

               Yeah Nate, said Nate pushing out his chest.

               What can I tell you? said Lewis …Sure as shit beats working for a living.

Nate sat back and glance across at his uncle who was leaning forward, holding onto his elbows, chuckling.

                I guess I asked for that, he said taking a sip of beer.

Willie began to laugh.

Just then the waitress arrived with their drinks. Willie paid for the drinks, dropped a tip on the tray and the waitress left.

                   Wanna know what I do for a living? asked Nate, picking at the label on his bottle and looking across at the empty stage.

                   Let me guess. You’re a rap star? said Lewis catching Willie’s eye and winking.

                   No? said Nate, licking his lips and tugging at the tops of his baggy jeans. Nah man, I’m an entrepreneur, but right now I drive a cab. 

                   So you do like it.

                   I guess it a’ight for now. But I ain’t planning to be a cab driver forever. Nah. I’ve got me a plan…Hah you like that? he said, leaning back and grabbing the bottom of his T-shirt. Says: ‘I got me a black beautiful woman. Now I’m ready to conquer the world. Got the same ones for white women too. In fact my plan is total world domination. You know. Got me a beautiful Chinese woman. Got me a beautiful Korean Women. Basically we give props to everyone…And see…the silhouette of a woman here…comes in different colours. Global baby, you feel me?

                    I’m impressed, said Lewis. You come up with the idea yourself?

                    He’s a good kid, said Willie proudly. My sister Angela’s boy.

The three men sat in silence.

                    So Lewis, said Willie. This sex company, you say you run. You ever get to try out any of the products?

                    You mean have I ever shoved one of 14inch dildo up my arse? Err…no, not really.

                  What about the girls?  asked Nate. You ever get to fool around with any of the chicks?

                  What girls? said Lewis.

                  What d’you mean what girls? How you gonna work in the sex Industry and not get to mess with any of the chicks?

                  I designs sex toys, said Lewis. Hurts me to say it. But I don’t actually live in the Playboy mansion.

                  Yeah but don’t tell me you don’t get perks…Take those fine models into the boardroom. Stretch ‘em out on the table. Get out the baby oil. You feel me?

Willie gave Lewis an embarrassment grin.

                   Excuse my nephew, he said. He’s young.

                  It’s Ok, said Lewis. I only wish it were true.

                  So what exactly are you working on at this moment? asked Willie.

                  Well right now we’ve just perfected a life-size male manikin that ejaculates, said Lewis.

                   So how exactly does that work? asked Willie.

                  Well the dolls are fitted with a thermostat. Basically when the thermostat inside the penis reaches an optimum level. Whoosh. Show time.

                   

                   Shit, said Nate. How’s some old lady gonna make love to a rubber doll, when all she gotta do is holler dick and half the neighbourhoods’ ready to drop their shit and shoot out of the blocks like Usain Bolt…I mean, fair enough. I know how some dudes are into that kind of thing. But it ain’t like the rest of us think its normal, right? And I ain’t tryna disrespect your product. I’m sure it took a lot of hard work and what not to get to where you are right now. But what’s next? A pocket-size fully operational portable pussy…Nah man. If it ain’t skin, it ain’t in. You feel me?

                     Believe it or not, said Lewis. But a lot of women say that actually prefer our dolls.

                     Prefer them to what? exclaimed Nate in a high pitched voice.

                     To the real thing, said Lewis.

                     They tell you that? asked Willie. Or is that just some Marketing bullshit you use to hook the customers in with.

                     Hey, said Lewis making the sign of the cross in front of his chest. May God strike me…

                     Hey hey, said Willie shaking his head and suddenly looking serious. Ain’t no reason to go bringing the Lord’s name into this. You tell me that that’s what they say, then ok, I believe you. Ain’t no reason to go taking the Lords name in vain.

                   Sheet! said Nate. How the fuck’s making love with a rubber doll, supposed to be better than having sex with a real live person?

                   What can I say? That’s what the ladies they tell me.

                  Ok, said Nate. So what else you come up?

                  Well we’ve just completed the design for a horse cock, said Lewis.

                  Jesus, said Nate, spitting out a mouthful of beer. Say what?…Tell me you didn’t just say horse cock!                 

                 It’s an eighteen-inch long strap on rubber penis, designed to spurt Champagne jism, said Lewis.

                  Don’t tell me, said Willie arching an eyebrow. For the sophisticated customer no doubt?

                 It’s a group thing, said Lewis. You know? Sorority girls…That sort of thing.

                Bet it gives a whole new meaning to the phrase: pour me a stiff one, said Nate, speaking out of the corner of his mouth.

                Well Lewis, said Willie. Sounds to me like you’ve got this thing all worked out.

                Yeah we’re doing Ok. But that’s not to say we don’t have our fair share of negative reactions. And we certainly get our fair share of bad press.

                 I take it by bad press you’re referring to the Church, said Willie.

                Actually I was think more along the lines of one right wing religious group who call themselves the RSS, said Lewis.

                 What’s RSS? Stand for asked Wille.

                  The Real Sex Society, said Lewis.

Willie pushed out his bottom lips.

                  Can’t say I’ve ever heard of them, he said.

                  They’re a relatively new group. I’d say they formed about four years ago. They’re anti-sex toys or any type of artificial enhancement. You know, penile implants, breast augmentation that sort of thing…Lately they’ve even waged war on liposuction.

                   Yeah I can probably get with that, said Nate. You fat, you best get rid of that shit the same way you put it on in the first place…by natural means. I dunno.  Run it off or something. Try eating less. Getting the shit sucked out through a plastic tube…Well that’s just plain fuckin’ lazy. 

                   Well I don’t know about that, said Lewis. But the RSS argue that vibrators, dildos and other sex toys are amoral. They say if God had wanted woman to pleasure themselves with fake cocks, dildos and 14inch vibrators, he would have provided a compartment inside their husbands balls, to house the batteries.

                   You serious? said Willie. They actually say that?

                   Well of course they were preaching on an interview with Hannity on Fox. But I think you get the picture.

                    Yeah but since you’re the head guy of this sex company, how do you see it?

                     Honestly, said Lewis.

                     Damn straight, said Nate.

                     Well you ask me. I think they’ve all got tiny penises.

                     Yeah well I ain’t particularly religious myself, said Nate. I mean I do go to church now and then…I ain’t saying I’m a devil worshipper or nothing. But, maybe some of those people got a point. I mean, what’s wrong the shit we already got?

                    You sure about that? asked Willie grinning.

                     Don’t get me wrong, said Nate. I ain’t saying I don’t like big fat pair of fake titties once in a while. But sometimes you gotta ask yourself where all this artificial stuff is leading…Shit, the other day I read an article in some magazines talking about cloning people.  Then on the radio the other day they were debating the possibility of artificial intelligence in the next few years. I mean, one of these days you’re gonna roll over in bed and the person curled up beside you, ain’t even gonna be human.

                     It’s unavoidable, said Lewis. Perhaps you could say its progress.

                     How’s a woman making love to a fake dick progress? I mean let’s face it. It don’t matter how handsome or buff the dude is. He still got a fake Johnson. I mean motherfuckers can’t just be out there playing God with a scalpel and shit. That’s all I’m saying.

                     It’s just business, said Lewis.

                     Ain’t disputing that, said Nate. We all gotta get paid. I mean if two inch dicks are suddenly in demand, you can bet you’re ass that some due somewhere is gonna be selling two for one dicks at Wal-mart.

                     Probably on discount too, said Willie.

                     No doubt, said Nate. It’s the American way…but that don’t mean its right. I mean, what happens when these freaky ladies get so addicted to the sex toys, that the normal guys like you and me become totally obsolete?

                     I’m just trying to make a living and build a future for my family, said Lewis.

                      Excuse me for asking, said Willie. But your wife and kids, are they ok with what you do?

                      Well I’m divorced. But yeah, my ex wife and kids are one hundred and ten percent behind me.

                     Ok, said Nate. But how you gonna feel if some young lady invites you back to her apartment, and the two of you are rolling about on her water bed doing the nasty. And all of a sudden she reaches under her pillow and drags out a 14inch rubber schlong?

                     To be honest I don’t think it would bother me, said Lewis.

                      Well I ain’t saying that it would bother me neither, said Nate. Cause for one thing, the men in my family happened to be extremely blessed. Ain’t that right uncle Willie?

                      That’s right, said Willie, beaming from ear to ear.

                      But how the hell you supposed to compete with a 14 inch dick, that has10 different speeds, don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t cheat, and for all you know, doubles as a cell phone and fuckin’ digital video camera?

                      You don’t need to compete, said Lewis. The technology is there to be enjoyed by everyone. You don’t trash the microwave oven because it allows you to cook the same meal a hundred times faster than you could with a flint and some twigs. And what about people with disabilities? Or people who find it difficult to interact on a social level?

                       Ok, said Nate. I can see where you’re going with that. I dunno. I’m still in my early twenties but technology these days always seems to be moving so damn fast. And it ain’t like I’m a prude or nothing….Sure I can get with all that Victoria Secrets clothing…The Leather shit…Even crotch-less panties. But a fucking 18 inch rubber cock. Please, said Nate, shaking his head.

                          So I’m curious. What about your wife? Was she ever been tempted to try out any of your well endowed male dolls? asked Willie.

                          Well the truth is, said Lewis. My wife and I used to have others way of getting off.

                          Yeah, said Willie. Like what exactly?

                          Well for one…Sex and baseball, said Lewis.

                          Excuse me, said Willie.

                          My ex wife. She used to really enjoy sex and baseball.

                          You mean doing it in the front room with the game playing in the background. Shit that ain’t new. Any woman with a T V set can do that.

                          True, TV ain’t bad, said Lewis. But if you wanna do it right. Well, the real actions’ at the stadium.

                          The baseball stadium? asked Nate.

                          Absolutely, said Lewis. Especially if some guy steals second or third, or better still, hits a home run. The roar of the crowd…the collective excitement…People stamping their feet and cheering. I promise you. It’s really something.

                           You ever get caught? asked Willie, with a doubtful look in his eyes.

                           A few times…But to be honest, I’d say that that was part of the appeal.

                           You mean getting caught?

                           No, I mean the idea that it might happen…Absolutely( he said nodding). It’s a huge part of the turn on. My ex wife’s ultimate dream was that one day we’d get to do it during the World Series. Can you imagine what that would feel like? Can you imagine the sensation of coming while 100,000 hot screaming fans cheer you to climax. Christ I’m getting chills just thinking about it.

                             Shit, said Nate rubbing his left eye. And I thought driving a cab around the city at night was fuckin’ strange.

Suddenly the music started up again and the first girl sauntered out onto the stage.

The three men sipped their drinks while a topless girl named Candy with long jet black hair, impossibly huge fake-hooters, collegian lips, and a nose job, (wearing a green thong and see- through 4 inch stilettos), danced seductively in front of her audience, then span around the ten-foot pole, and lifted one of her legs so high, that somebody at the front of the stage dropped their cell phone into their beer glass. As Candy proceeded to gyrate her pelvis, rub her crotch and play with her bullet size nipples, Willie, Lewis and Nate, fell into an hypnotic trance, and moments later began slowly and unconsciously, began reaching for the money in their wallets.

pic scot ableman

What ever happened to the Jazz hoofer? That smartly dressed fellow you’d see wearing a classic tailored DB suite; that flaps, twists, wraps and rides about his crazy demeanour, like a cloak trailing the Cape Crusader. Saaaawish! Swish! This way and that with every sudden jerk, every daft pose that is part of his repertoire of cool jazz steps. And all beside the jacket itself is so wide. That’s the fit. The design accentuates the flow of motion. Besides, its’ a sharp cut, which wide lapels that make you look like some kind of Forties Chicago gangster…And the fat silk kipper tie, gaudily patterned, and those white-on-black spats. Or the stiff black shiny leather shoes, with the soles that enable you to slide from here to kingdom come, with a certain pazzas, glide and elegance! As if to give the illusion of running on ice. At some venues, its almost like the mob have turned out for their very own London fashion weekend. Like they’re all dressed to be heard. Sort of an eclectic statement on style…but with a Jazz orientation. You might even be fooled into thinking that is was the set for a new movie. Perhaps ‘Tap’, ‘Guy’s and Dolls,’ ‘The Cotton Club’, and ‘Duck Soup’ all rolled into one. To be more specific, a few of the girls have on those short black skirts, enabling you to see a lot more of what the legs are doing. Oh, and those black shoes with a small heel and buckle that fastens just above the ankle-the ones that look like tap shoes. Above the waist they seem to be wearing the top half of a leotard, only it has this extra piece of cloth that wraps around your body, and ties up at the back. The top itself is made of some cotton-stretch absorbent material-it has to be- it’s going to get hot! Then you’ve got hats, cravats, canes, garters, Argyle socks and britches, and even a monocle…Well what can I say…you don’t mellow to jazz! Dig.

Patrick

Picture the scene…A dark room, a wooden floor, an empty stage, set up in preparation for the performance of a young saxophonist by the name of Steve Williamson, or a very young pianist name Jason Rebello, or a skat singer named Cleveland Watkiss. At the other end of the room, directly opposite the stage is a raised platform on which stands a DJ box. The stage almost looks like a sort of modern art structure-a skeletal architecture in fact-just a lot of empty mike stands, some drums; and thick wires running back and forth along the ground. At the other side of the room, opposite the platform there’s a set of decks, behind which stand the ubiquitous Giles Peterson and Patrick Forge. Get the picture and you’ve got a dim recollection of Dingwalls 1988 or there abouts.

Gilles

Outside the sun could be shinning but at Dingwalls on a Sunday afternoon the joint is jumping, the crowd is hipper than thou and as I think Giles and Patrick would agree; its definitely a ‘we got the vibe situation”. Yeah, yeah, I was there!

But have you noticed how far some jazzuals memories will stretch when you talk about jazz-dance in Britain during the Eighties.

It’s like you get caught up in the romanticism, and you start to superimposed yourself on your favourite image of cool. Suddenly you’ve got an Afro-haired Chevy Chase playing hoops for the LA Lakers in Fletch, your girlfriend on the front cover of Vogue…and you in places that you never were. The Velcro tags’ in your head and everything sticks even the fluff.

Some of those goateed faces light right up, when you talk about the early days, and you know what’s coming next. Yeah, yeah, I was there-Electric Ballroom, 100 club, Dingwalls, Monday nights at the Wag (upstairs with Sylvester, heavy session….Whaat!) Breaking my knees and sweating so much, that no impressionable girl, or awe struck spectator in their right mind would stand within spraying distance…I must have washed the floor every week for a year. I lost weight in that room!

Truth is I’ve never even seen that dance floor at the Electric Ballroom. I’m not ashamed to say it…But in certain company truth just gets economised. Well know it is sometimes…everyone loves a legend. In which case I can lie with the same vague attention to detail as the rest of them.

That’s another thing…floors! Jazz dancers will take about floors the way newly-weds talk about bathroom suites. And it’s considered a real treat if you come across a wooden floor that’s been treated, sprung, or recently varnished-which means that there’s less stress on mileage on a slide. It all helps in the aesthetics and energy displacement. Dancing is hard work, and a little trick like the salt can help-but within reason. Nobody wants to spend a sunny afternoon countering gravitational pull. The steps are difficult enough as it is, without deliberately bring the stunt man factor into it.

Hey there’s Jerry from IDJ with that flat sole, sometimes tiptoe, almost boogaloo type shuffle. Done so fast that some of the kids got to thinking that all you had to do was shake in some kind of energetic fit, or throw yourself violently about the room out of time to the percolated snap! Crash! Pop!  Of indecipherable percussion that is Art Blakey’s ‘Messiah’-and in short you were doing jazz.

 Well I suppose you were in a rude and eager way.

 After all it’s up to you how you interpret your own self-expression in the dance. This isn’t Fame, you don’t need permission to rampantly stomp, grind and bump in every occupied direction. But don’t tell this to some of the die-hard, footage-watching, history-knowing, every-beat hearing, dare I say it, purists! Don’t tell the kid whose lungs are about to explode during the five second, thank-god almighty break of Michel Le Grand, that there’s no co-ordination to his/her stuff. What’s more, some of those guys and girls actually look like trained dancers. But would you believe it. They’ve never felt the urge to look in on Pineapple Dance Studios, let alone take a class…Sacrilege! Like this is a street jig. You’ve got to hustle, squeeze your sphincter, pain your groin and strain you’re a walk to get anywhere near really good. Have you ever seen Sandman Williams do one of those pretty and perfect pirouettes? Of course not! It just doesn’t look right. It’s just too Fred Astaire for a hoofer.

Jet Mag, 1955, by vieilles annonces

 You see, some dancers like to do a difficult move and make it look simple. That’s aesthetics. A hoofer does a difficult move and sweats for it. You know it was tough. He ain’t blowing for fun.

But before I run away with myself, don’t be conned into thinking that all the dancer are male. They’re not, but some of the moves are not exactly what a girl likes to find herself doing in public, unless she doesn’t mind sweating like a horse. For this reason serious dancers have been known to bring a change of garb. At the very least it a show of decency to fellow commuters if you happen to be going home by tube.

 But you still get the odd folk who are able to dance for hors to Tito Puente without so much as a wet shadow bleeding from under the armpits. Gosh!  The only thing I can think of is (and its highly speculative) sweat gland amputation! But that’s another story.

During a challenge, which is a bit like those old hip hop face offs, where some guy wearing a bandana came and stood two inches from your nose chewing gum, and expected you to respond in a non aggressive manner….Break dance in fact…(like really!) I’ll start again. During a challenge there are moments when the machismo element comes out…Like, for instance, when the crowd forms a circle and one or two egos start flying about-but it’s always friendly and good spirited. After all, jazz people are sensitive.

Hey there’s Eyvon, there’s Danielle. Danielle’s got this Latin style. It looks complicated-kind of film set jazz. Head held high, very precise, every elegant. Sometimes she’ll hold the hem of her skirt betraying a message of attitude. Jazz people often show attitude when they’re really getting into the dance. It’s what can make you stand out during a challenge-that and style.

And Eyvon, she dances like she’s possessed with the jazz spirit. Like the dances back in the Cotton club days, or somebody in one of those old black and white movies, where they Lindy Hop at 100 miles per hour. Everything looks so authentic, right down to her hand movements. She never misses a frantic bop beat. Pap-pap-pap-pap-pap-pap! With her fingers stretched out, just so, occasionally stroking the air as if demonstrating how one would delicately stroke the keys of a piano. And her head cocked to one side like she’s listening to something you can’t quite hear. Perfect!

So what is the jazz dancer trying to do? Imitate tap? Create a free-style form of dance that grows from, and is part of the music? Well of course…it’s the visual extension! Its’ what you might see if the notes had a tangible form. But in a way they do. Pap-pap-pap-pap-pap! You mean does the jazz dancer aim to do physically, what the artist does with his/her instrument? To improvise and reach his zenith. To be exciting, daring even. To be raw in his/her perfection!

Incidentally, don’t be ashamed if you are still confusing jazz dance with vigorous jogging on the spot, or a berserk form of hopscotch. It takes a little time to get used to the steps. It took me a while to understand what was going on at first. But it’s the fastest way to a head rush I know of- and it’s legal.

 

The thing is, during the dance you’re not exactly supposed to be off balance. But you never know when the rush of adrenaline, the pump in your heart, the imploring screams of ‘more more!’ from friends will prove to great; and two moves later you’re a shamble on the floor.

You see the jazz dancer thrives on the danger of the dance. You get caught up in the excitement of the thing. You’re a street dancer-untamed, a mustang if you will. You never truly know whether this is gonna be the day you don’t make the turn, the hand spring, the jump, the splits from that three foot drop….ouch! And after all, I did say you don’t mellow to jazz.

But to be honest the street thing isn’t entirely correct. I mean of the dancers do like to mix in a little ballet, (sorry, I meant to say contemporary) and it works. You get a sort of graceful movement. It’s not so kinetically desperate looking. It’s explosive, it’s fancy; and it provides the perfect excuse to show off in a crowd. What’s more no-one can steal your style right off, because in normal circumstances you need wings before you can fly. These guys to fly!

  Rocky

I couldn’t really talk about jazz dance in London without at least mentioning an all-time veteran of jazz rooms, the only man to hoof effectively in trainers. Nuff respect to the man called Rocky. Rocky has more stamina than a drum soloist, more staying power than a held note, more sheer vitality than an aerobic tutor on Prozac, and more quickness than a man shouting ‘cool wet grass,’ while stepping over hot coals. No doubt the footwork helped during his earlier pro-boxing days. Talk about and Ali Shuffle.

Oh yeah, I suppose I should mention the chap Johnston, Everton and I danced against at the UK Jazz dance championship in Camden (1992). Suddenly, from out of nowhere he ran like a maniac at the wall, he ran up the wall, and flipped over backwards landing solidly on his spats. Pure Nicholas Brothers. A hard act to follow, but as an American gentleman at Tower records once told me: ‘Kid, you don’t mellow to Jazz’.

 pic, damian rafferty

pic Patric Forge

pic Gilles Petersen

pic damian rafferty

(Original published Straight No Chaser.)

The Sales manager Harry Dash had just gotten out of the shower. His super model anorexic girlfriend Marie was sitting in the breakfast nook sipping her coffee. She had a fashion shoot in Prague and was leaving for the airport in forty-five minutes. Harry and the model had just started dating. Harry stood in the mirror drying his blond hair and admiring his good body. He admired his chiselled jaw, his straight nose and his prominent chin. In two hours he was going to have to fire a man. It wasn’t personal. It was just business. The guy simply couldn’t deliver. And in sales if you didn’t deliver, then you were dead weight.

Harry’s girlfriend came into the bedroom wearing a pair of panties and one of Harry’s work shirts.

            F’Christ sake Harry. What the hell’s that? she asked, staring at the huge bulge beneath Harry’s towel.

            How about a quickie? asked Harry, smiling.

He stepped forward and let the towel fall.

            Harry you’re insatiable, said Marie.

For the second time in an hour she got down on her knees. Harry grinned at his handsome reflection in the bedroom mirror. He was 26. He had an appointment to see a potentially huge account at two o’clock. They were one of the biggest retail outlets in the country. Harry stood to make a big fat commission if the deal went through. He didn’t give a shit about world peace, world hunger, child prostitution, the ozone layer or global warming. As far as he was concerned he was the supreme master of his own universe. Get what you can while you can. Make hay while he sun still shines, and other phrases to that effect were Harry’s personal mantra. Next week if the sale went through, as it should, he was planning to put down the first payment for a brand new Porsche. It was the car he’d always wanted, well besides a red Corvette, but off course that would come, in time…He just had to figure out more ways of making more money. Yeah and maybe next week he’d take Marie or Vanessa, or Stacey to Rome for the weekend.

Oh oh, thought Harry. It’s going to be another glorious day.

Harry was driving his Ford along the freeway when all of a sudden a huge shadow appear out of the sky and in an instant everything stopped.

Shit I think I just stepped on something, boomed a voice coming from somewhere the clouds. Or maybe the voice came from space. Anyway it was a long way up above Harry’s head. (Have you ever try engaging with and ant? Well now you have some idea what Harry had to deal with). If you can’t see it is it real? Well Harry couldn’t see it so I guess…

There were two giant men standing above Harry, though of course Harry couldn’t see them, since in his world and in his mind, these men didn’t exist. Or maybe there weren’t men. Maybe they were gods…that’s up to you…but something was out there…maybe they were Harry and his buddy Marcus in the future….Jesus, is this one of those awkward stories that goes round and round and doesn’t seem to have any point?

And the first man, or the first god, or the first something lifted his foot. Squashed against the sole of his Moccasins was a tiny piece of grit barely visible to the naked eye.

             What is it? asked the second man, or god or force or whatever he was…

            I’m not sure. It looks like a bug of some kind.

             Hold on, said the second man.

He took out a paper tissue from his pocket, and passed it to the first man. The first man began to wipe the sole of his shoe with the tissue. When he was done he screwed up the tissue, threw it into the nearest trashcan and continued on his way. There end-eth some kind of new age hippie lesson…well any way, it made me think about stepping on the ants, destroying the ozone layer, and generally exploiting somebody somewhere, if only for a minute. 

 

pic dia bustu, the great buddha-magall