Saturday, 17 October 2009

Subtlety in the Shower


Ok, so this is a bit of chapter two of a novel I started writing a few years back. I wrote two chapters...well one and a half...anyway. I had a short attention span! I spent ages planning the novel. It had 4 main characters and one semi-silent protagonist. It was Picaresque - I was reading a lot of Irvine Welsh at the time. I've omitted chunks because in retrospect it isn't great. I wouldn't mind rewriting one and two at some point and bringing the whole story to its conclusion of unrequited love, heroin showers and rape, but not any time soon.

I liked this one because I set myself the goal of portraying a guy wanking without being explicit with it. I think it worked out.

Also, its worth saying that the first four chapters began with a shower. I had recently read something about Psycho and the opening scene where you zoom through a window to find Janet Leigh in her bra. I liked the instant intimacy thing...anyway:


That’s where it started; a chemical attack on the senses. My motto has always been, “Anything for a climax” and that particular Friday it would become my mantra. I’ve always seen a house party as a night in the pursuit of climax after climax after mother fucking climax and all without even a seconds consideration for the consequences and I wouldn’t have it any other way. If I didn’t have to waste my week in a society that promotes sobriety and coherence, cobbling together the funds to maintain a passable lifestyle, I guarantee you that I would be out of my head every second of every day. Isn’t that everyone’s dream? Constantly warding off the hangover or the comedown and just maintaining a constant state of euphoria.

That night, I didn’t really need a wash but I had half an hour to myself and I never let valuable alone time go to miss. I had one hand secured on the clean white tiles with my index finger lodged in the groove for extra stability. Shower Gel. I started to think about Kate. She’s amazing. Out of my league. I remember when we hooked up. Mentally relive the night s if I’m watching a movie in my head. It’s an awkward hazy memory. A smokey lens. We kissed each others faces, groped any body part we could find and scratched at buttons and zips in a drunken frenzy and all the time I was trying to suppress the thought that I might any second be horribly sick from the cocktail of vodka, coke and terror that was racing through my body. I remember one of our arms flailing into a lamp and sending it crashing to floor. We had been descended into darkness. Minutes before, in the low-lit bedroom, I think it was someone’s younger brother’s, I’d been telling her about my mum in hospital and what started out as a sympathetic kiss on the cheek very quickly evolved into a raging frenzy of sweat, lips and teeth. All thoughts of the family had been abandoned and my mind was overcome by passion. Or at least that’s what I had expected. What actually came over me was an all encompassing fear, but I can’t think of that now. I need to stay focused. The way she smelt. The way she tasted. The way she grabbed my head and ran her nails down my scalp in a way that no one could have ever predicted of the sweet natured Katy that everyone else knew. That night Katy died. She’d become Kate. Kate the sexual monster. My sexual monster.

I slipped a bit, but found my footing again. Rewarding myself for past triumphs. The film in my head skipped a bit. Past our drunken attempt at foreplay and now all I could think about was the point of the night where she was on top of me, moving to the rhythm of whatever crap they were playing in the next room oblivious to the magic it was making between me and Kate the sexual monster. The movie starts to intensify. The shots cutting at pace. My face. Her Face. Her tits. Our hips. The point at which we were connected. Like one person, sharing in something amazing. Amazing. So fucking amazing!

And all of a sudden the film stopped and I was sent flying back to my shower. Drenched in water where there had been sweat, bubbles where there had been shower gel and the product of my memory could be seen swirling around the plug hole resisting gravity’s pull. I had been presented with the revolting reality of my situation. Nothing to be proud of here. I finished off washing, paying close attention to the underside of my foreskin, and turned it off. After clambering out, very ungracefully due to a weakness in my legs, I attempted to wash my face. The mirror was steamed up and no matter how hard I tried to wipe it with my still damp hand, all I produced was a ghostly image of a brown haired guy looking at me through a speckled window with an exhausted face. A combination of pity and solidarity lay deep in his eyes. If there’s anyone I can read, it’s myself.


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