Rock On Porn #05
[All characters described are over the age of 18]
#5
Though, strictly speaking, nothing to do with pornography, I believe the following may be instructional.
Sometime in the near past—perhaps a week or two ago, perhaps a few years; I'm no longer sure about anything these days—I was wandering through the deathly centre of my repellent hometown, pondering in my usual moribund way the strange meaning of a conjunction of litter-bins situated in a hexagonal arrangement at the entrance to our so-called shopping arcade, when out of said arcade, without the slightest warning, their suddenly appeared a rather impressive woman with whom I had once considered conducting relations—the reason I never progressed beyond the considering stage being a nasty piece of business involving a court order and a cage-fighting next of kin named Davy "Three-dogs" Malone. Knocked from my reveries by the merest sight of this petite little wonder, sashaying off, unheeding of my now fully gawking presence, off towards the pound-shop in some kind of alluring tabard, I decided that love was most definitely back in the air—along with a surprisingly animate squadron of wasps from the litter-bins—and immediately began running with an understated flapping action back to my flat to consider the options; which were, as I saw them, not unconnected to some kind of early morning impulse buy at the aforementioned emporium—perhaps some xmas cards, or a spanner; or maybe I'd just have a simple browse.
And, in consequence of my good fortune at having once again crossed the path of my undoubtedly true love—months having passed since her change of identity and expedient resignation from the post-office—I spent the rest of the afternoon, evening, and most of the night toasting the great stomach churning joy that had been reignited in my moronic guts.
This time, I was sure, things would work out for the good; no more nervous peeking at her name badge through smeared bulletproof glass; no more imagining chatting to her alone in my noxious domicile; no more insanity; just reciprocal jiggling's and possible marriage, and a blossoming shared interest in different combinations of rope burns and squirting. Yes, she was the girl for me, all right—a twenty-something goddess from the pound-shop; with raven hair; and marginal tits; and legs that went all the way from here to fully immersed consensual sodomy; I imagined her arse-hole to be as accepting of my lubricated dreams as my own gullibility was in accepting the notion that such wonderful things could ever really happen.
The only problem I could foresee—visa vis our imminent eternal union—seemed to revolve around the view that the last time we'd met had been in the grim-faced arena of the judiciary; a not wholly satisfactory courting ground. But then surely, by now, she'd forgotten all about those lewd digital postcards with close-ups of my pulsing member and cleverly worded inducements to come and have a go. Yes, the coast was most assuredly clear; and, besides which, I had recently heard that Mr. Three-dogs had suffered a slight amount of brain damage in a fight with one Herbert The Impaler and would be off the agenda for something like the rest of his allotmented life.
So, the very next day, girding my loins with many offhand, and well-practiced comments about having been grossly maligned by the media in our previous encounters, and sure in the knowledge that I could easily explain away my strange behaviour of the time—including the debacle involving the rubberized 'telescope'—I set off for town and a date with destiny; every step forward being a giant leap of, what I can clearly see now, was, in reality, complete idiocy...
Though, even now, I find it hard . . . Which reminds me: last night, whilst otherwise engaged in a prolonged bout of image scrutinization, I looked down at my throbbing pizzle and was alarmed to see that one of my delineating veins had shifted position and become more bulbous in aspect than I have ever previously known! Was my cock about to terminally explode?! I wondered in a panicked fury. Had some circulatory blockage occurred, occasioning the imminent demise of my only comfort in the world? Or, was it just middle age creeping ever further towards ear-hair and scrotal descent? . . . But regardless of my fears about orgasmic redundancy, I suppose I'd better cut to the chase . . .
Walking into the pound-shop—dressed to kill in leather trousers and a broken Ramones T-shirt; shoplifted Bond-like from Primark—looking like the mummified remains of a disarticulated stick man—first I crept about a bit, to get the lay of the land—emergency exit points, mop handles, knives, etc.,—incidentally sourcing some suitably cheap trinket that I might purchase from my quarry's till, before sinking to my knees and holding out to her the tacky piece of shit as a romantic offering in an effort to break the court ordered ice—assuming, of course, that she hadn't alerted security the moment I enjoined the queue; which was not unlikely.
Standing at the back of the excruciatingly serpentine line, racked with confusion and uncomprehending disgust, I waited, trying with all my insubstantial might not to drop the unconvincing plastic rose I was holding, or let it slip from my profusely sweating hand . . .
As the minutes passed, I shuffled forward, curiously intoxicated by the disorientating aroma of cabbage marinated in a variety of humanistic effluents emanating from the decaying patrician dressed in a neon tracksuit slouching in front of me . . .
And then suddenly, there I was, at the till; rose outstretched in one hand, pound in the other . . . But before I had time to utter word one of the devastating stream of ill-considered love talk that had been brewing for a lifetime in my crazy mixed-up heart, the bastards were on me . . .
The worse thing about the whole situation was, the moment I got to the till, I realized that I'd made a severe misjudgement; the woman sitting sweeping crumbs into her change drawer was not the sweet young beauty I'd imagined at all; in fact it wasn't even my love; it was some elderly look-a-like! And taking umbrage at my all too visible disappointment she lashed her flapping hands towards the panic button. 'I'm not paying for this!' I said, dramatically dropping the rose; and clumsily losing my pound in the process. At which point I would have left, tail between my rock and roll legs—rose-less, bitch-less, breathless, and entirely without the shag-infested future I'd moronically envisaged. But that was when security arrived and bamboozled me to the ground with a couple of patio umbrellas; from whence I espied my pound, stopped in its tracks by a sticky build-up of dust beneath a distant crisp rack.
Twenty minutes of tense negotiation later—ending when I made a desperate final lunge for my loose change—and I was out the door, hurled onto the street like a bucket of crap.
As for the whereabouts of the real object of my imagined and possibly impossible affections, who knows—she could be here, she could be there . . .
Forewarned is forearmed . . . Fellow romantics, if a face from the past heaves into view betwixt a disturbing confluence of wasp infused litter-bins, take note, it might not engender the future one imagines... Or, a bird in the virtual hand is worth two in the pound-shop . . . Either way, those are my musings for today—as useless as they are lacking in meaning . . . Think on!
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