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Written on July 20, 2005, and categorized as Secret and Invisible.
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(please read “Do You Mind If I Smoke?” first)

I had been in one relationship after another throughout my twenties, and here I was approaching the end of them, finally single, and I was trying hard to enjoy the experience. M showed up in my life during my most debauched time. I wouldn’t say I was immoral, or amoral, in fact I was one of the few in my scene with any kind of moral compass, thanks to the far-flung efforts of parents and a large amount of hippy influence, but at that time, the majority of the men and women I knew were exercising variants on the “do unto others before they do unto you” philosophy. It was all smiles and conceits, flattery and back-stabbing, the backdrop was sex and drugs and rock and roll, and after 18 months it was starting to convert me to the Church of Selfish.

So I flattered M and I took the song that was her least worst and improved it without really listening to it that hard. It was a strange session, full of simple advice like, sing into the microphone, and tune the guitar, and we made a simple four track recording with which she was delighted. A few days later, I took a deep breath, crossed my fingers, and I took her into the studio and introduced her to JW one of the two owners. He had a few kind words for her, and sensing that my interest was not entirely musical, sniffed around her slender ankles like a lazy dog considering a leg-shag, glinting his old eye at me under a raised eyebrow on her blind side. She cooed and purred enjoying the attention. JW enjoyed her enjoyment, and fuelled it adroitly. I admired his expertise, but felt slightly nauseated.

This small success boosted her ego hugely, and as we travelled back by train from west to north London, she became surprisingly lary, boasting of her two lovers, one male, one female, and her superb martial arts prowess. Looking at her bone-thin arms and waxy face, I could see that she was not merely attempting to live up to a conception of herself as an artistic super-woman, but also that she was labouring under the illusion that she was in total control of the situation, and that I was like everyone around her in awe of her beauty and power. Shortly, my role in her inexorable climb to the top would be done, and I would be kindly thanking her for being allowed to assist. She seemed from what she was saying rather earthily to believe in the very special power of her own pussy, and that this gave her psychic protection.

This observation made, something very determined consolidated inside my cold heart. I decided that since she was clearly without major talent, I would get her into bed before that fact was widely known, immerse myself in the acrid liquid flavour of the woman, dine upon those tiny breasts as if they were larks tongues in aspic, and satisfy my lust.

“Would you like to go for a drink?” I asked in a rare pause in the endless chatter, not even looking directly at her.

“OK! Where shall we go?”

“Let’s nip back to mine first, and we’ll go to the Hope and Anchor,” I replied.

At the name of this pub, one of London’s most famous music venues, M’s eyes lit up. Good God, she really was naive. It was just a drinking hole with guitars and young people dressed badly, for fuck’s sake, no big deal, but she was acting as if we were off to Buckingham Palace. I wanted to go home first because that was where I had stashed my coke, and I knew I would need it if I was going to fuck her.

Gentle reader, please do not assume that a. this was my normal sexual modus operandi or b. by recounting this episode that I am condoning the use of illegal drugs. Neither is true. I never needed any drug to enable or enhance sex. As we all know, drugs are bad for you, especially cocaine. It is expensive both financially and physically. Do not take it. Stick to tea. Now on with the tale.

Of all mood altering substances which human beings ingest, cocaine is the double-edged sword. You chop it, then it chops you. At that time, before it was chopped out in every Friday night pub in Britain, before 99% of London banknotes tested positive for traces, Coke was currency. I would sometimes be paid in it, at the end of a session. Mostly I would exchange it for cash which was more useful. There was never any shortage of takers. I did not want to develop a taste for it – I had seen it make very nice people psychotic, and I knew I could not work on it, it completely froze the back of my throat and removed my capacity to pitch. But my own ego was telling me, just like M that I was in control, and there is no better drug to foster that illusion whilst removing inhibition, so for this purpose, I told myself, it would be a Good Idea.

I had no intention of sharing any of my stash with M who blathered on oblivious to my carnal intention, swigging a warm can of Special Brew which had appeared from her bag. She offered me the can, I accepted. Even the can smelled of her, or maybe, she smelled like the beer, I couldn’t tell. The warm overproof beer tasted like alcoholic treacle and did nothing to slake my thirst, it just promised headache.

I handed the can back, planning the evening.

(End part two)

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One Comment

  1. I.:.S.:.
    Posted 21 July, 2005 at 7:52 pm | Permalink

    gripping. i’ll be back for the next part.

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