Speed cruising around the body, functioning so slick, loose. The soft texture of my black trousers with silver zip up pockets so fucking comfortable against my skin. Big grin, nodding and winking at the people around. Stomping as the crushing polyrhythms roll around the darkness, jaw grinding and eyes rolling back in my head in sheer pleasure. Sweat pouring off my hot skin. I feel like Darth Vader at the top of the stairs with multi-coloured lights flashing in my face, a frantic strobe chopping up the mass of moving people below, an important Hardcore tune building up to a mad level. Something big is going to happen. I am your father, Luke.
The music is so futuristic, acid bleeps and tweaks, it’s like being in the future. The future is now. History, the past, all time has evaporated all that matters in right now. The tune seems to have been running forever. I don’t ever want this moment to end. Neon green clock faces and space invaders float around beautifully smoothly in the blackness when I close my eyes. Slipping together with a neat and definite precision.
An alarm is going off somewhere, and I’m not sure if it’s in the track or in my head. I float down the stairs feeling increasingly unreal as faces swim up towards me and zip past. My vision is tunnelled and twisted. I’m unfazed when a girl in tight silver hot-pants that I recognise as having starred in a children’s TV series smiles and gently squeezes my wrist, chewing hard on some gum.
“What you on?” she asks.
“E and a wrap.”
“Me too,” she grins. We stand around nodding to the tunes, hands lightly touching and stroking each others goose-bumped skin. This is pure hedonism. Total pleasure.
One of the lads bounces past with his shirt off, spots me a pulls me tight into a bear hug. “Alright, man! You’ve got to try this!” he shouts over the booming basslines. He hangs a vibrating back massager around my neck and rush after rush race down my spine, circling the top of my scalp and coursing down my neck.
I take it off and run it up the actress’s back and slip it over her long hair. “Fucking hell,” she gasps in ecstasy, her eyes rolling, breathing heavy and warm as she slumps into my arms and grinds her firm body into mine. My cock is hard as a brick.
“Thank you – that was amazing,” she whispers in my ear as we hold each other tightly. I don’t know where my body ends and hers begins anymore. It feels like we’ve melted together.
I break free and give her the thumbs up as I wander off. Places to go, things to do, cranked up on the manic energy of the speed. We are part of something special here. Worshipping the ancient thump of the drum. I want to get out there. Off my face. Cabbaged.
Stevie wandered into the chill-out room by mistake. Calm house tracks and people lounging around on luxurious, soft sofas. A big black guy was signing autographs and chatting to a group of girls.
‘Bloody Hell,’ thought Stevie, ‘it’s only Carl Cox, the three deck DJ maestro!’ He bounded over and pulled the only thing out of his wallet that he thought he could get signed by the legend. A Sunderland FC travel card.
“Can I get your autograph, mate?” he asked, standing face to face with the Hardcore hero, holding out his card.
“It’s a red pen, mate,” said Cox.
“Aye, can you sign it please?” said Stevie. “The pen’s red,” explained Cox, grinning. Stevie’s card was also red. It wouldn’t show. He shook his head, messed up, pulled at his receding dark hair and retreated back to the throb of the dancefloor.
Later that morning, coming down at Stevie’s house, there was a knock at the door.
“Who the hell’s that?” said Micky. “It’ll be the milkman,” I said with certainty. Five in the morning: who’s out and about apart from hardcore ravers– milkmen. Seemed pretty logical. No one thought anything more of it. Stevie went to the door and was stunned as two uniformed coppers faced him. It’s like stepping outside the bubble into a different reality.
“We’ve had reports from the neighbours that the house was being burgled,” one of the policemen tells Stevie, who’s standing there in his slippers.
“Can we see some ID?” says the big copper. Stevie reaches into his pocket and saves the day - producing the bloody red Sunderland travel card.
(c) J Tait 2010