Desultory Nights

It’s an old fashioned story.

I wanted to be a hero. But I’d got to earn my spurs, prove to you that there is more to me than meets the eye.

The moment I had stepped into the house, the party was in full swing. Snogging couples even hung from the light shades, and the music…well, it sounded like a lot of fat boys snorting.

I idled up to the bar where my girlfriend’s mother was rationing out the beer.

“Seen Cilla?”, I asked, not really expecting her to reply.
“She’s upstairs with another fella.”

I took the stairs at a run, missing the middle section altogether.

Bob stopped me on the landing : “How about gatecrashing this party again?”

I laughed off the joke and progressed towards the bedrooms, not knowing in which one Cilla was ensconced.

Leaning against one of the doors was my long lost pen pal, Peter, who had evidently dropped acid in the not too dim and distant past, boldly going beyond the frontiers of sanity… He pointed along the corridor – I forged on, anger gathering itself for a sudden impending release.

I stormed through the door he indicated.

Peering through the half-light, I saw my moral tutor sitting on the floor, guiltily unhanding himself.

I decided this was not the right time to broach the subject of my Degree course, especially as he retreated under the bed in some apparent confusion as to my intentions. I nearly dragged him out again, to piss into his mouth. That would be no more than he deserved.

I tried the door of the ensuite bathroom.
“Cilla! I know you’re in there.”

Inside my head, I knew all along that I was pursuing a rat around the universe.

The space lanes were too obvious free-for-alls where peak capped individuals saluted the bright disco-like lights that jockeyed between the commodity planets.

If she was here, she would no doubt be disguised as a refugee from Star Trek, still bemused by the particular peccadilloes of her own version of Captain Kirk.

No, I must digress – towards the Dark, where lurked those monsters who had failed the auditions. She smiled at their inability to count their own limbs.

Little did I know she was crouching within her own womb, desperate to shed the outer skin that did her no justice at all.

The bathroom was a right sauna. It was just as if I had come off the cold Norwegian forest lands into the near reaches of a Sun system that only need to grow slightly hotter to disappear up its own arse.

I handled her pert, finely nippled breasts as if they had been poured from my clapped out motor’s engine. I exploded the myth of her mouth with the legend of my tongue. And little bits that came off me explored further into her gullet.

There was also a man in the bath with her. And I bent down his head violently, so that he could feed off his own privates.

I sweated like a pig in an oven.

The party continued for another day and another night. Most gradually came off the medicine towards the end, but some never recovered.
Some are ever on call for dress rehearsal of an old-fashioned TV series, never knowing whether they are to be cast as hero or monster.

Cilla? She’ll probably go off with my moral tutor to form a pop group called ‘Insider Dealing’. Her mother will play all the instruments backstage, as they mime up front, during the desultory nights of the future…

The Sun has gone out on me. Somebody no doubt pulled out the light fittings – now there’s nothing of me to meet the eye. I’m writing this in the dark – so maybe I’ve got the ending wrong.