I don’t know why I even suggested this. I didn’t sign up for this part.
“Get off me!” I buck my hips, kicking his shin hard enough that he loses his balance, and then he’s obviously coming and cursing me at the same time, a jumbled mess of words and moans as he’s furiously jacking himself off in front of me as I tug my jeans up and tuck myself away.
“Come on. Lick it up, taste it…” He tries to grab my hair, but I duck and back away, giving him the finger as I leave.
I hope he won’t follow me. I hope he won’t come back into the club, because that? That was a complete waste of time.
There are a few people lingering outside the club entrance, so I blag myself a cigarette and let my body lean back against the wall. I just need a few minutes to calm down. A moments peace to quell the disappointment. Whatever that was, it wasn’t good, and I’m such a fucking fool for even thinking it was a good idea in the first place. I didn’t fancy him. He made advances, and I kind of played along…. oh, fuck off, Andreas. I should know better and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. I’m not crying. Fuck no. Instead, my foot stamps the cigarette out on the ground as I blow into my frozen hands. I shouldn’t smoke and never usually do, but on a night like this, I tend to lose all sense and sanity and do stupid things—especially if Charlie isn’t there to rein in my insane spur of the moment ideas. I don’t even like the guy, and I still jump up and down with fake excitement at any suggestion of wild nights out at the dump of a gay bar we tend to frequent. The Eden bar touts overpriced drinks, loud music and desperate men—everything Charlie adores, and everything I have come to despise.
Yes. You heard me right. I can’t bear this whole foolish charade of grownup fun. Yet, I go out, almost every weekend, and get drunk and disorderly, then go home with some ridiculous man that I end up spending the rest of my life avoiding. It’s stupid and exhausting, yet I have no idea why I don’t put an end to it. Perhaps, it’s because it’s Christmas and I’m single and simply bored. Perhaps, it’s because my parents are spending the holidays in their holiday home in Spain, and my sister has gone off to some yoga retreat in India for the winter. Or maybe it’s just because I’m stuck in this godforsaken dump of a town with only Charlie for company.
Friends. I wish I had better ones, but I moved here a year ago for a glittering promotion and promises of large bonuses. I’ve still to see a bonus that I would describe as large, but I like the job. I like dealing with customers, and I like that my wage is decent enough to help with paying off my student loans. Yet, I still have no idea how to live like an adult and make good use of the rest of the money in my account because I mostly work, and when I don’t work? I sleep and go out with Charlie. Charlie. Fucking Charlie.
I head back inside the Eden Club, my mouth tasting of tar and misery, letting myself melt into the too-loud music and the sea of bodies on the dance floor. People are hopping around like idiots, apparently pretending to dance to the ridiculous beat blasting out of the loudspeakers. I used to love all this—the noise, the bodies, the feeling of total freedom—just letting myself be swept away in a haze of mind-numbing alcohol and the anticipation of... sex. Not with Charlie, though. He’s strangely cute, but no. Not for me. Although here he comes again, his hair sprinkled with confetti and a glazed-over look in his eyes.
“Your stalker is here,” Charlie shouts in my ear, the sweat dripping from his hair as he swirls past, only briefly stopping to tug at my shirt and wriggle his hips in front of me. Charlie, he’s a mate. He’s not my friend, not my bestie or anything like that. We hardly even text during the week, but he’s become someone I hang out with when I go out at the weekends, almost like a safety blanket or a weird kind of... bodyguard? Perhaps.
I blush even thinking the words in my head as I clumsily shake my hips, pretending that I am having a good time. I’m not... in case you are wondering. The bizarre thing is that I had been looking forward to tonight, all buzzing with excitement. Now? It’s like someone has pulled the plug on the party guy inside me and, instead, has left me with a gaping hole of fear and longing for something I don’t quite understand. I’ve done this a million times, got drunk and gotten off with some stranger, and lived to tell the tale. I look good, I’m dancing and I’m safe, and not too drunk yet. I should be having a fantastic time.
Safe. I am rarely safe. And I am certainly not having a good time. Not anymore. I am bored. Miserable. Lonely. Single and hating it. Not that I have ever had a relationship worth remembering. A few good men who I let use me, and sometimes even abuse me, until I got myself sorted out and moved on. Then I moved here and decided to stick to hookups and one-night stands. Looking back at the past year? I don’t have anything to show, apart from memories of unmemorable encounters and endless weeks of work. Hardly something to put on Facebook. What a year. Not!
Chistleworth, my current home, is a small quaint town on the outskirts of the glorious city of Manchester. I was born there, and now, I have become part of its posh commuter belt that Chistleworth prides itself on being called. It’s full of middle-class families and newly built gated communities. A few footballers and high earners adding to the celebrity status that the town tries to sell itself as. In reality? It’s a bit of a dump with a high street riddled with boarded-up shops, overpriced coffee shops, and hairdressers claiming to be some kind of celebrity haunts.
I’ve met a few of those local celebs because from Monday to Friday, I am a respectable car salesman, flogging cars to customers with more money than sense. That’s where the respectable comes from since I flog high-end cars, often with hefty price tags, and even heftier customisation bills. People with money want it to show, and if I whisper that there are things we can add to make their new car stand out in a crowd? People salivate with need and greed and hand me their money. Yet at the weekends? I become just as bad as the customers I ridicule behind their backs. I become a different person—someone I don’t think I like very much anymore. Charlie would slap me if he heard me talk like that. He’s all about sexual liberation and treating life as a smorgasbord of partners. He always thinks he’s found the one, every single weekend. Then he gets dumped by Wednesday, and on Thursday he’s planning our next night out. The fool.
So what? We’re both young, free and pretty. At least, that is what I try to tell myself. Young-ish, perhaps. I do realise that in a few years I will start to look my age, and I probably won’t be carded every time I try to buy a drink. I’m twenty-eight, but I look... well, young. I’m slim and pretty, and I look after my skin. I wax and prune and trim in all the right places, and the bleached-blond streaks in my now-floppy fringe are usually gelled to perfection during office hours, accompanied by a sleek suit and tie. I look good in a suit. I look even better in a ripped shirt, skinny jeans and boots. Charlie calls it my Fuck-me outfit. I call it showing off my assets, and a good pair of jeans is usually a sure thing to guarantee a happy ending to any night out.
You see, not only am I good at my job, but I kind of pride myself on being good at reading people too. I stay away from the creeps. No Leather-Daddies, no burly Bears, no weird kinky shit. No thanks. I just want someone to have sex with, and who, for a few hours, will make me feel good. On my terms. It’s not too much to ask, is it?