I’m trapped. There’s no other way to describe it. And it’s my fault. The snoring in my right ear confirms this and the pressure on my right arm also. I can’t feel my hand, it’s numb. Dare I turn my head to see what I’ve slept with? What would I see? A camel? A horse? Some creature from a farm? An overbearing smell of sweat lingers and I know this isn’t good. I’ve got to get out of here before she wakes.
A poster depicts Kylie Minogue and Jason Donovan. Jason winks at me. ‘Good on yer mate!’ Cheeky bastard. I’d like to see that twat get out of this one.
But this wasn’t a unique situation was it? Since the days of dance halls and fifties swing, men had been lured to the beds of undesirables. Well undesirable to the sober man anyway, but the wondrous effects of alcohol were to blame here. I can’t remember this Madonna, or how I got here, or what we got up to. I can only assume the worst: raw and uninhibited sex, like dogs on heat.
It hits me there. My chest is thumping so hard it hurts. I’m naked and wet. The sheets are cold, sopping wet and there’s something else. Solid, yet soft with, I chance, a nutty sweetcorn texture. I’ve never shat the bed before. Can’t be me.
A saggy breast, its aureole the size of a CD flops over my arm like a giant water bomb. Fuck! Somebody bring me a hacksaw and I’ll saw my arm off. I swear if I had jaws I’d bite it off.
The floor here is covered in Rizla papers, clothing and a pizza box is wedged behind the bed. Did we have pizza last night? I don’t even like it. I can’t even picture her face. I don’t want to know. I’d rather be safe in my ignorance, pass her on the streets without a care.
The light of the morning brings with it flashes of reminisce. Lights, door sized speakers and many faces, kisses, fights and spilt beer. I’d gone out with two of my mates from work, they had sauntered across a dance floor earlier in the evening to engage with some loose women. They weren’t very loyal wingmen. I think the girls they’d trapped were half the size of mine. She’s half snoring and half whistling now. Bristles on her upper lip brushed my shoulder. Look the other way. I’m staring at Jason whose smile hangs on the wall, indifferent to the predicament I found myself. Hold on! The stubble on her chin?
The breast. The breast. Thank fuck for that. What if it were a transsexual? They were an in-your-face reality in Holland. Over here they tended to hide it. I have to get out of here. My clothes are slung in the corner in a heap. I can see my t-shirt has been ripped, chunks of dried vomit cling to it. I’ve got to get out of here. I wouldn’t be able to bear the embarrassment, the offer of eggs and bacon in the kitchen. The excuses to leave, the exchange of telephone numbers, the lies, ‘Yes I’ll call you later’ or (god forbid) ‘of course I love you’.
I pull the numb limb from under her weight – I must have been on top last night. I can hear her smacking her lips and murmur. The hand reaches over and I grab the first thing I see. It’s a draught excluder. Her hand I notice is covered in ink ‘tats’ like Egyptian hieroglyphics . The cuddly snake becomes her next bed partner. Her yellowing fingers stroke the excluder and she settles down.
The floor is cold. It has no carpet. My mind is working overtime, working through a conundrum. How could I have been on top. She couldn’t have been on top. I’d have been crushed. I think she slurred to me to do her from behind. There was a barrier of flesh barring my access to her. The face: I still couldn’t remember, was blowing the quilt up between each breath. Where did this shit come from? Whose was it? Certainly wasn’t me? Flecks of sweetcorn are on my knee and I’m trying not to bring up whatever I ate last night up.
My undies are somewhere here, I’d thrown them during fits of drunk manic passion. Underneath the bed? There’s a big puddle of piss, ammonium-nitrate by tomorrow no doubt. What would anyone think when looking in here? A drunk, naked man with shit on his leg, crawling on his hands and knees looking for his underpants. I’d be arrested for sure. How would Cassie take that? What excuse could I come out with for this one? I’ll have to get one of the lads to back my story up, say I stayed at their place.
Neanderthal sized feet from under the quilt twitch with each whistle and snore. They could easily have been a man’s. I must remember the breast – it was a woman. Don’t fat men have chesticles or moobs? Thank god I threw my undies. Here they are. In no time I’m pulling the ripped t-shirt over my head.
I’m tip toeing my way down the stairs. Each step I hit ‘eeks’ and creaks. Rizla papers strewn over the stairs. It’s like I’ve just had a blindfold taken off and been asked to leave. I haven’t a clue where I’m going here. I might find an entire family downstairs at the dinner table, sixteen kids running naked, all produced by different men, by-products of their mother’s drunken revelry. There are posters of eighties pop bands here. Bros with Matt, Luke and Craig in flat top haircuts. The Thompson twins and Tears for Fears. The living room has a lived-in smell and something else. Stale piss. The TV is still on with Open University spilling out shite.
‘Edith? Is that you?’ From the corner of my eye a figure camouflaged by the couch stirs. It’s a man. I’ve been rumbled. There’s something wrong, he looks like he’s going to die any moment. His face looks like it had been crushed but somehow mended – the shape is wrong. He’s grasping the mouthpiece of a mask and breathing into it. A cylindrical tank stands by the couch.
‘Get us a bacon buttie will yer!’
He’s looking right at me, but I don’t think he can see. There’s a milky egg white film covering his left eye. I sidestep and nearly trip over an orange space hopper. My shoe squeaks on damp carpet. Ammonia stings my eyes.
‘Edith!’ Then his expression changes and he’s smiling now. I think he knows. ‘Had a good time did you?’
He cackles a toothless grin, steel framed dentures fall from his mouth and he’s clamping them back in. He pumps his fist up and down, ‘Was she good? Eh!?’
Where’s the fucking door? Where the fuck is it? I can hear the thump of footsteps on stairs.
‘EDITH!’
‘Aye alreet!’ Something from above shrieks. ‘Me head ‘urts man!’ I can hear the voice. It reminds me of a thousand cigarettes, a thousand shots of free Vodka and shameless acts of sordid sex. With great relief the back door opens and freedom is a detritus filled vista.
What does she think of me? Another entry in her fuck diary, another notch on the bed. I’m hoping that’s as far as it goes. I’m no different from her. I make a jump for the fence and manage to roll over it landing on the pavement beyond, dog shit on my elbow. I head for home wondering just who the kill was in this game.
We’re both predators, we’re just as bad as each other.
© Craig Douglas 2008