He hated drunken teenage parties - even when he'd been a teenager himself he'd hated them. It always elicited a strange mixture of envy and disgust as he watched the adolescent boys perform their juvenile mating rituals and inevitably he would leave feeling wounded, misanthropic and well past his dead-by date. It wasn't so bad in class where he had some semblance of authority (on a good day) but he found the whole business of having to relate to pupils socially both demeaning and incredibly unnerving. When Jenny Russell had fixed him with that beguiling stare and asked him to her 16th birthday party, however, he'd simply been unable to say no.
Jenny's parents were on holiday so she'd told him to prepare for an uninhibited evening. Though he intensely disliked uninhibited adolescent boys - they were prone to violence and nausea - he wouldn't stay long. When the exam results came through, he was going to take her to the theatre by which time she'd no longer be his pupil. They could see what happened then.
He'd never really lusted after girls that young until he'd become a teacher. Of course, he didn't like them too young. Not like Mackay, the Deputy Head who thought they were past-it by the time they reached their teens. There'd been a stunned silence in the common room when Mackay, fou, had blurted that one out at the Xmas party last year, however, he imagined this was more through its nearness to the bone than any sense of moral indignation.
You just had to hang about the pool when Stevenson was there with his boys. They all slagged Stevenson off because he was still single at 40, had a handlebar moustache and was devoted to the 5th form swimming team, but at least he wasn't blatant about it. The boys all seemed to like him, probably because at that age they'd never guess a stalwart like him was queer. All the innuendo emanated from the younger, female staff who were worst of all. They were the ones who would rush in to watch Stevenson give swimming classes after school for what they called the "crotch watch" - women in their thirties almost wetting themselves as the fourteen year old they called Paul 'The Pole' Dalzeil came out the changing rooms. But these same women had forced Alan Spencer to hand in his notice after that bitch had made allegations against him. It was rubbish as well, all in the girl's head. She lived this fantasy that she was having a relationship with the guy but it was bullshit. Poor bastard! They caused such a hoo-hah about it he'd resigned out of embarrassment although everyone admitted it was bollocks when you got them on their own. It appeared to be fashionable amongst the female staff to accuse male teachers of lusting after jail-bait but the truth of the matter was they simply resented the competition.
He polished off a bottle of Claret with his dinner then rushed down several large whiskies in a pub near Jenny's house to brace himself. Suitably placated, he bought a half bottle from the local Pakis to see him through the next hour or so.
Entering her street, he checked the number on a postcard she'd scribbled the address on for him with the word "PLEASE" underlined in large letters underneath. Such was his excitement since receiving the note that he'd been unable to remember what she looked like until now, running a comb through his hair as he walked towards her house, he had a perfect vision of her. There was a light on in the front room but it was amazingly quiet as if the whole family were maybe in there watching television together. He contemplated just going home but in his boozy sense of goodwill didn't want to disappoint her so dutifully rung the bell.
She invited him in with a huge smile, looking stunning with a little eye make-up and scarlet lipstick accentuating her already full lips. Looking from her eyes into the hallway he edged past her.
"Sounds quiet. Many folk here yet?"
The room he followed her upstairs to he somehow expected to be full of pupils having a seance. It was, however, empty except for himself and Jenny. He smiled at her, not quite getting the joke.
"Am I too early?"
She looked slightly worried.
"Oh, don't be angry. I didn't actually invite anyone else."
He continued smiling, awaiting elaboration. Turning her back to him she began putting ice into glasses.
"Have a drink. I just want to talk to you...on your own."
Fumbling in his pocket for the half bottle he handed it to her.
"Here, don't drink your mum and dad's."
Pouring two huge tumblerfulls she ushered him over to a lumpy armchair opposite the sink.
"Are you sure this is OK?"
"They're not back till Sunday. David's been staying at his girlfriends."
David was her brother. He'd taught him four years before but he was the bad and ugly to his sister's good.
Sitting on the floor cross-legged in front of him she sipped her whisky as he glanced around the room. It was her bedroom. A word processor on a desk by the window sat next to a pile of papers that begged to be asked about. Posters advertising art exhibitions, fringe shows and music festivals covered the walls. The Sylvia Plath, Jack Keruoac and Nancy Friday brigade lay proudly displayed on the top shelf of the bookcase, art and academic books in the middle, degenerating into Jilly Cooper and astrology self-consciously obscured by a straw waste paper bin at the base. The large single bed was covered by an emerald green paisley print duvet that he had a brief vision of her lying naked, exploring herself on. He took a slug of whisky and smiled at her.
"Did you fall for any of the teachers when you were at school?"
He took another dram to recover from her forwardness.
"All the time."
"Really!"
"Oh, I still do. Doesn't everyone?"
"What, you still have things about them?"
"No, I mean it just happens when you spend a lot of time with people in places you'd rather not be..."
She looked puzzled.
."..y'know - work, school - both if you're unfortunate enough to teach. A survival mechanism if you like. A nice wee infatuation now and again gives you an incentive to put up with all the bullshit and carry on."
Uh oh. He was being too cynical. Or was he? She certainly looked very impressed.
"I sort of see what you mean. A bit depressing though is it not?"
"Not as depressing as just going through the motions. Anyway, they're just harmless delusions to inspire me to do my job properly."
Watching her sitting deep in thought, he realised what a lying bastard he was. He hadn't been able to do his job properly since he'd started teaching her. The rest of the class he treated like irritating obstacles in the course of his lust. Her work seemed standards above the rest of them but he wasn't sure how objective he was managing to be any more. Did it just seem that way because he read depth into any passage that translated in the direction of his ego?
"Don't you like teaching?"
"Not particularly. It's just something I ended up doing with my mediocre degree. Bear that in mind when you're faffing through college next year."
"What about the pupils?"
"What about them?"
"Don't you like them?"
"I dunno...it's nothing personal....they just aren't really my favourite branch of the species, y'know."
"That's some admission!"
"Ocht no, y'know...maybe the occasional one like yourself. Individually it's not so bad but large numbers of the buggers - nah - that's why I get paid for it. Anyway, I'm getting out of it soon. I might go back to Paris and work in a bar again - far less hassle!."
God, how long had he been kidding himself with that one - five, six years now. He hated Edinburgh - hated the way that before long everybody became a friend of a friend of a friend. It was so fucking incestuous, no wonder AIDS had spread so quickly. But the truth about teaching was that it seemed impossible to get out of it once you were in it. It took something drastic and even then there was only a temporary reprieve until he inevitably ended back in some shitty job in some shitty school or another - perhaps he'd become institutionalised. He finished his whisky. Taking the glass from him she poured another huge one.
"And what do you think of me...", she said with her back to him, ."..not as a pupil...as a person, or a woman, whatever?"
As she handed him the drink, he felt her eyes scrutinising him.
"Well, I don't know, I..."
"Do you find me attractive at all?"
"Well, yes...you're very beautiful. You're always being told that though, you don't have to ask me."
"Beautiful though......not sexy?"
He laughed to himself, pleased that she was trying to seduce rather than psychoanalyse him.
"Do you find me sexy?" she continued, impatient for a compliment.
"I'm beginning to think you're an egomaniac."
It was going to finally happen tonight. The air was awash with discarded caution. She seemed content to do all the running though which suited him as he didn't want it to seem like he'd taken advantage of her. Some chance, the pushy cow.
"So you don't find me sexy? I'm not exciting you at all?
"I'm absolutely underwhelmed!"
She stood up and smiled at him.
"Stop it. Stop being horrible."
"Are we having a tantrum?"
"No"
."..because I won't say you're sexy?"
She was embarrassed now. He was behaving like a teacher.
"Will I put some music on?"
"I don't know. Will you?"
"Stop it, I'm telling you!"
She put on some Aaron Copland. He listened to the first few bars before realising what it was. He remembered a conversation they'd had about that Copland piece at a bus stop last winter. As he finished his whisky his eyes scanned the room for the half bottle. It lay empty on her desk. She traced his gaze and stood up.
"It's all right if we drink a bottle of mum's. She's expecting it. She'll just be grateful I haven't wrecked the place."
He didn't argue but told her he'd replace anything they drunk the following day. Bringing an ice bucket and bottle of Grouse through from the kitchen, she filled his glass and sat down at his feet again.
"You're not married, are you?"
Had it never crossed her mind before?
"Divorced."
"Will you tell me about it?"
"Tell you what? It's the usual story. Boy meets girl, girl turns into complete ball-buster, boy loses girl."
"Do you still see her?"
"God, no.......well, only very occasionally."
"Do you still have sex with her?"
"And why would you want to know?"
"Just curious."
He chuckled.
"No, we don't. Happy now?"
They did of course. Didn't all divorced couples? When they were at a loose end or between lovers. Not through any desire any more, of course. Just for a familiar, no-strings fuck.
"You're not planning on doing an Alan Spencer on me are you?" he sneered.
"I'm not a child", she pouted.
He smiled and stroked her cheek because she was.
She replenished their glasses. He was feeling pleasantly pissed and in control. Just as long as he kept one step ahead of her.
"Any more excruciatingly personal questions you feel you must ask me?"
She looked into his eyes.
"Will you kiss me?"
"Do you want me to?"
"What do you think?"
"Are you going to accuse me of date rape in the morning?"
"Why, are you going to rape me?"
"Not if you don't want me to."
Laying her glass on the carpet she shuffled closer to him, relieving him of his drink and leaning against his legs. He kissed her lightly on the nose then sat back in the chair, laughing.
"Will that do?"
"I thought you were going to date rape me?"
"I'm still your teacher."
"I won't tell anyone."
"We'll take it slowly and see, will we?"
Her eyes flashed at him.
"Just one proper kiss and then we'll talk and take it slowly", she mimicked.
"Just one then. We're still just friends though."
He planted a few small kisses on her petulant bottom lip. She grabbed the back of his head, responding, trying to get her tongue in on the act. He pulled away and smiled.
"That wasn't very platonic now, was it?"
She blushed at him, her lipstick slightly smudged. Recovering his drink, he drained it and handed her the glass for replenishing. The whiskies she poured were huge. He liked women who poured sensible measures. They learned so young these days. She handed him the glass then brought over a tin from the dresser.
"I know how I'll loosen your inhibitions."
Prising open the lid she shook a large bag of grass in front of him.
."..since we're not telling anyone else about this anyway."
He leaned over to have a look.
"Whose is that?"
"David's. He doesn't mind me using it though."
"I'm sure he doesn't!"
"It helps with my painting. It inspires me....honestly....so he lets me use it."
He imagined her brother being part of a drugs cartel. A gang of Jamaicans high on crack chasing him down the street.
"No, seriously Jenny. I don't think you should use it if its David's."
She unravelled the knot at the top of the bag.
"I do it all the time. He doesn't mind. He grows his own."
He wasn't convinced.
"Won't your mother smell it when she gets back?"
"She's not back for two days. Anyway, she doesn't mind, she smokes it herself."
He watched her sticking Rizlas together as he guzzled his whisky.
"Do you like grass?" she asked.
"I tried cannabis, you know the resin stuff, years ago. It didn't really do anything though, just made me laugh. This is my major vice."
Gesturing to his whisky, he took a long drink and kissed the glass.
"I thought everyone smoked it."
"Apparently not."
"Apparently not," she mimicked, laughing. Was his speech becoming slurred? The grass would calm him down.
Crawling across the carpet, she rummaged in a bag by the door and cursed to herself.
"I forgot to get cigarettes."
"You don't need tobacco with grass, do you? Surely it's better without. It would ruin it."
"I thought you'd never smoked it"
"It's common knowledge Jenny, is it not?"
He hadn't meant to patronise her but if she was going to make him smoke the stuff anyway he wanted to make sure he felt something this time.
Standing up, she poured him another huge whisky then walked over to the CD player and changed the disc. The Doors.
"Is this OK?"
"I was a bit before their time I think."
"You're not that old."
He was hoping she'd say that. The music was vaguely familiar though he wasn't really a great fan of that kind of music. Weren't they the band whose lead singer used to wank on stage? It sounded like he was singing, "Show me the way to the next little girl."
As she rolled the joint she asked him if he'd watched "Some Like it Hot" on television the night before. It was her favourite film. When he told her he'd gone to see it when it first came out she looked aghast.
"When was that? It was years ago, wasn't it?"
"No, 1960, 1959, something like that."
She lit the joint and inhaled deeply.
"Don't worry, I'm not going to ask how old you are."
"That's very decent of you."
"Methuselah", she whispered.
"You didn't seem too perturbed about my old age a few minutes ago."
Ignoring his statement, she stood up, replaced the Doors CD with 'Carmen' and took several large tokes on the joint until rich scented smog gushed from her nose and lips. This music sounded much better. Handing the joint to him she watched as he performed a ten-second session of staccato sucks then stared at her with a lockjaw grin as he held it in his lungs. Whooooooh! He felt it immediately. It felt wonderful, like a blanket of calm. Smiling normally now, he felt impressed with himself for not having had a coughing fit. A large gulp of whisky heightened his sense of machismo, then he repeated the process and handed the joint back to her. Taking a deep drag on it she fell into a daydream, jaw slightly ajar.
"That's the first time I've smoked in eight years", he said, consciously trying to keep his voice deep.
Her pupils fixed on him and she looked tantalisingly raddled but didn't seem to register that he'd spoken. He tried again.
"I used to smoke fifty fags a day, then I stopped. Just like that......"
Clicking his fingers to emphasise the point, they made no sound.
."......plus, I learned a very important lesson in self-control when I stopped smoking."
"And what was that?" she asked, seeming to pull herself together and edging across the carpet towards him, sleepily.
"What was what?"
"This important lesson in self-control?"
Oh yes, self-control. What had he being saying about self-control? He didn't have a clue so he listened to the music. It sounded even better now. Humming along, he tapped his glass in accompaniment. She looked up at him, bemused.
"I take it you like 'Carmen' then?"
It made him realised he'd been singing out loud but despite his embarrassment he managed to summon scorn from somewhere.
"Oh, you know. It's terribly hackneyed nowadays. It's almost too embarrassing to listen to."
"Shall I put it off?"
It really did sound good.
"No, don't worry about it."
Relaxing again she leaned her arm on his leg. He watched her take a few sips of water. Water?
"What happened to your drink?"
She pressed the glass down on his thigh and traced the rim with her finger until it began wailing.
"I don't drink that much. I prefer smoking. It makes me feel sexy."
His resistance to imminent seduction had greatly decreased. Why was he resisting anyway? He couldn't recall but it annoyed him that she thought she was taking advantage of him. What had they been talking about before? It was something safe he was sure. Oh yes!
"So what's your favourite bit in "Some Like it Hot" then?"
What an absolutely and utterly bloody boring question. No wonder she looked distant. She obliged him with an answer regardless and they began reciting their favourite lines from the film. She probably would have laughed at anything but he imagined she found him hilarious and was subsequently encouraged to go on and on and on....
."...and that bit where Jack Lemmon's in bed in the train and all the women climb up there for a party. You know, 'Watch that corkscrew!'"
He knew he sounded nothing like Jack Lemmon, in fact he was speaking in a glaikit West Coast accent for no apparent reason but it seemed absolutely hilarious. He couldn't stop. The inane comments started coming thick and fast, punctuated only by his uninhibited snorts of laughter.
"Haw haw...noiboidy toakes lak thet. Haw haw Tony Curtis doing Cary Grant, did you realise, haw haw haw..know the bit I mean....noiboidy toakes lak thet...haw haw haw."
Oh my God! What was happening? He was losing it. She laughed embarrassedly along with him at first but then began to look a bit bored. In an attempt to curb his bizarre outbursts he sucked extravagantly on the joint as she proceeded to roll another, then glugged down a mouthful of the whisky. It tasted fucking marvellous. The music whirled around his head as he watched her carefully cocoon more grass in a mosaic of cigarette papers. He kept going off on little gouches but another hit of Grouse soon perked him up. He stared at her until she looked back.
"What's this we're listening to now?"
She screwed-up her face in non-comprehension.
He elaborated. "This music. It's fantastic. What is it?"
Still she didn't quite comprehend.
"Carmen. Are you joking?"
"Naturally", he said, thinking he'd never heard the music before but it sounded wonderful. As she handed him the unlit joint she threw him another puzzled look.
"Here, I think you better spark this one up."
Lighting it, he sucked at it greedily, interspersed with little sips of whisky until his head was spinning. As he got lost in the familiarity of the music she re-filled his glass. Oh yes, here it was. This was a good bit.
"Big boy, remembah, you must re-meeem-beerr...," wey hey! "...stand up and fight until you hear the bell, stand toe to toe, trade blow for blow..." Off he went, more Terry Wogan's 'Floral Dance' than Paul Robeson.
."..keep punchin' till you make dem punches tell..."
Christ, he really could sing loud and his voice sounded brilliant. Really deep. Really powerful.
."..show that crowd what you know...", he serenaded, expecting her to look impressed, however, as soon as she sensed his glance she beckoned for the joint. Had he been hogging it? What the hell. She probably smoked it every day.
."..until you hear that bell..," he conducted himself, gesticulating wildly, trying to get her to join in, ."..that final bell...." Despite her look of displeasure, this was the best bit so he sang it, inexplicably, in a shrill falsetto voice, screaming the final word, ."..stand up and fight like heeeeellll!." The singer finished a second or two after him. The CD was in Spanish or Italian, however, he preferred the American version about the boxer.
Oh shite! The look of alarm on her face suggested to him that he may have gone beyond the beyond. Grass really wasn't his scene. It made him feel wonderfully relaxed but this was counteracted by the knowledge that his sense of coolness and control were way out the window. It wasn't the drink. A fair skinful had been consumed but he could handle that. He'd been handling that for past 25 years.
"You've never considered teaching music then?", she sniggered.
Reaching over impulsively, he took her hand and pulled her towards him.
"You're leading me astray, Jenny, I'm not used to this Bohemian lifestyle, you know."
Kneeling in front of him she stroked his hand as he let his gaze run over her eyes, her lips, her small, tight breasts, her eyes, her lips and back to her eyes, watching her warm to him again, remembering why she'd invited him in the first place. The same thing worked in class. Twenty-nine pupils with their noses in books and them in the midst of it, sitting across from each other, doing this - this visual intercourse.
Her fingers travelled, ever so gently, up and down his thigh. God, she worshipped him. It was so obvious.
"You should stop that, Jenny. I'll forget myself and do something unprofessional."
But she merely did same thing with his other thigh, gesturing to the floor with her eyes, luring him, inviting him.
Moving across the carpet she lay on her side with her head cupped in her hand. Adopting the same position he lay opposite, looking from her eyes to her lips to her eyes to her lips. As her mouth opened she let out a sharp, hot breath against his cheek. Pulling her head gently towards him, he watched her close her eyes and wait for his kiss, remaining like this, his face barely an inch from hers until she looked again to see the reason for the delay.
"What do you want me to do to you Jenny Russell?"
"Anything..." she gasped. "...everything!"
His fingers traced the outline of her thighs, hips, waist and down again. With each upwards motion he pushed the tight, little t-shirt she was wearing further up her body until her belly and the seam of her bra were exposed. Her lips were red and full and trembling, unlike his cock which, despite his arousal, didn't seem to be reacting at all. Listening to her breathing get heavier he watched her nipples strain through the white cotton, letting his fingers brush under them, feeling their fullness and heat as he continued his action up and down her body. She put her mouth to his neck and moaned her warm breath against his shoulder as his hand slowly circled her breast.
"Do you like that?"
"Yessss."
Lying back he pulled her on top of him. Coins spilt from his pocket and clattered onto the polished, timber floor. His cock was still not interested. Her tongue found his mouth and began examining his teeth and circling his tongue. As he rubbed his hands up and down her back more loose change spilt from his pocket Her tongue was out of control, pushing into his mouth. It felt as if he was kissing Medusa and as he combed his fingers through her hair he imagined serpents rising to his touch. Her tongue was almost choking him. No, no. In an attempt to stop her probing he shut his mouth. Still no activity downstairs. Her tongue tried to break the barricade of his tightly closed lips. No, no, no. More coins drummed onto the floor. Fuck! He pushed her off him and sat up, flustered.
"Sorry, I'm like a fucking fruit machine here. Hang on."
He emptied what was left in his trouser pockets into his jacket with the few coins he'd salvaged from the floor. A perfect vision of youth waiting to be defiled waited on the floor below. Lying on top of her with a worried determination about his soft prick, he kissed her smooth, baby-skinned belly, violently squeezing her firm, new, rounded breasts, muttering obscenities, trying to entice his prick to react, avoiding that off-puttingly inquisitive tongue. God, she was a terrible kisser. As he pushed her bra up her beautiful little, firm, new, rounded tits jumped out, begging to be sucked, fucked, fucking little bitch. Rubbing himself against her thigh - fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck what was wrong with him. Thinking of the ugly women and fat women and dirty women and old women he'd given the rides of their lives to in his time. Thinking of the red, varicose baby's arms they'd given him. He bit and sucked and kissed and nibbled and licked and imagined her sucking him off and imagined himself shooting all over her face and hair and sucked and bit and squeezed as she growled and squealed and pleaded for it. His mind grasped at favourite bits in porn films with women being taught how to suck cock and shagging two women as they lay on top of each other and their double pussies and fucking women's arses as they stabbed their cunts with dildoes. Jenny was grasping for his balls. He pushed her hand away. And women and men, women and women, women and lots of men, men and lots of women, men and girls, girls and girls, girls and horses, plump housewives in latex boots with spiky heels. Again she made a grab for his prick. Feeling a slight twitch, he ground against her hip bone to sustain momentum. Heavily made-up women with leaky mascara, women with mammaries the size of overladen shopping bags. Again, again, oh fuck, it was working. It was alright. Thank you God, oh yes, oh yes, he was going to hump the shit out of her. Dirty, filthy films with lurid names - imprisoned in silk panties and spanked to orgasm, all orifices filled, bend me over and choose your hole, strict aunties licking naughty nieces, girls sucking flashers, spank me harder and shag me. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck......
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
"Wha....?"
"Ignore it!" He continued thrusting against her but despite trying to respond her body had tightened up.
BZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZ
Pushing him away she held her head up, listening, as if the sound wasn't loud enough.
"Ignore it. They'll go away."
BZZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
Pulling herself free she sat up on the floor.
"Shouldn't I answer it? I don't know who it is."
"DON'T!", he yelled, trembling, annoyed and sounding exactly like a school teacher.
BZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZ BOAZZZZZZ, nipped his brain.
"It must be important. Maybe something's happened." She got up and stood by the door, desperate to answer it but scared of his reaction if she did.
"I don't believe this. I don't fucking believe this. I thought you hadn't invited anyone else."
"I didn't. Honest."
BZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZ BOAZZZZZZZZZ
As he held his head and shrieked, his cock shrivelled away again. She stood fidgeting at the room door like a pupil waiting for permission to go to the toilet. Though devoid of any wish to have to entertain anyone else the idea was slightly more appealing than having her fish around in his cords and discover his deflated piece of loose flesh. After all that fucking struggle.
BZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZ BOAZZZZZZZZZZ
They looked at each other, distanced, waiting for the inevitable next.....
BZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZ BOAZZZZZZZZZZ
"Answer it then! Go on!", he ordered, as if she'd been disobeying him by not doing so.
BZZZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZ BOAZZZZZZZZ
"...before I pull the fucking thing off the wall", he muttered but she was half-way down the stairs before he finished talking. Tidying himself up he leaned back against the bed feeling wretched and impotent again. The sound of the front door being unbolted was followed by a young, male voice, then two people coming upstairs.
"Honestly, Johah, I don't know where the key is. He'll have taken it with him."
Jenny re-entered the bedroom, part of her baby-skin belly still exposed with a half caste Asian youth he recognised from one of his earlier fourth year classes. Shit. As the recognition dawned on Jonah an idiot grin wriggled across his face, his eyes darting around in their sockets like James Galway's.
"Exams coming up, are they?"
Jenny looked na�vely impressed at his sudden concern.
"Yeah, just three weeks now. Bummer, eh?"
Jonah threw back his head, roaring in amusement, then squinted down at him.
"Aaaawe, that must be how I failed them all. I thought I was just stupid. Pity they had'nae had swimming exams, eh?" he winked.
While he was contemplating a response they both left the room again. There seemed little point in an elaborate denial as that little shit wouldn't believe anything he said. He merely sat, dazed, watching and listening to them out in the hall. Jonah was trying to get into the room opposite Jenny's.
"Awe, come on Jen. Gives the key. C'mon. Dave said I could. Don't let's play silly wee lassies, eh."
Jenny was gripping onto the doorknob, blocking him with her back.
"Come on. Stop fucking about. He's not harvested it yet. I know he's not. Gimme the key!"
They struggled with each other until the door eventually flew open.
Jenny crucifixed herself across the frame in weak obstruction but he merely pinched her hard between the legs, barging his way in when her body subsided in defence.
She came back through to the bedroom, shouting in a whisper.
"Tell him to stop. Get him out. He can't go in the attic. David'll go apeshit!"
Fussing and trembling and near to tears she stuffed the bag of grass down the front of her trousers, waiting for him to do something gallant.
"Look, its none of my business, Jenny. I can't get involved. I shouldn't even be here."
"Oh, thanks a lot", she whined, going back into the hall, casting a hopeless glance into David's room and running back down the stairs. Jonah was pulling books out of the bookshelf and looking behind them, letting out little moans like the kind women make when they see seal pups on TV each time his search proved unsuccessful.
Leaving him to his quest he escaped into the beckoning bathroom at the top of the hall. As he peed he heard her coming back upstairs and the argument resuming. Glowering at his flaccid prick, he hid it back in his trousers and considered just going home. He was on a high low from the grass and whisky and sexual struggles, however, there was also the now or never question to ponder. The thought of taking her out after the exams was rapidly losing its appeal. It would be too complicated, too much hassle. Of course he still wanted to fuck her, yes, but this preliminary crap took too much effort and made him feel ancient. Foreplay was bad enough but this - Jesus! And that grass had fucked him up too. He'd never have guessed that Jenny would be into all that, and whose to say it stopped there? She could be into anything. Fumbling in his shirt pocket he caressed the condom wrapper for reassurance. Sod it. Just brass it out for a little longer, fuck her and be done with it.
She was waiting, sheepishly for him in the bedroom when he got back through. Jonah was still rummaging around in David's room.
"I'm sorry I lost my temper a bit there. Its his fault. I had it all planned and he's spoiling everything."
Mmm, 'planned'? Planning to seduce your teacher surely involved masturbation. Is that what she meant, he wondered. He purred inwardly.
"Anyway, he's just after a smoke", she continued, shaking an envelope in front of him, "He'll stay for one joint and then go."
"You really think so?"
"Definitely, its all he's after. I'm really sorry about all this. I'll make it up to you when he's gone."
The enticing offer subdued his irritation somewhat but his nerves were still shot to bits. Jenny laid the envelope on top of her bookcase and went through to bring the glad tidings to the twitchy one. He came rushing back through behind her.
"Where? Where", he screamed, his eyes devouring the room. No sooner had she pointed it out to him than he had it opened and was taking a flamboyant sniff.
"Oh ya beauty, ya fucking wee beauty!" he screamed at Jenny, humbled and happy at last. The idea that a toaty wee pile of smelly twigs could bring such jubilation in these materialistic times was slightly heartening.
"Can I skin-up here, like. PURLEEEASE. I'm fucking gimping?"
His excited reaction was making her smile.
"Don't get too settled then. We're going soon."
"Anything you say sweetheart. Anything you say", however, he'd probably have agreed to anything since he was practically pishing himself with joy.
Jonah run his fingers and wobbly eyes across the spines of Jenny's Penguin Classics, pulled out 'Mrs Dalloway' and threw himself onto the bed, rolling a lethal-looking brute of a joint on it in the time it might take someone not travelling at cartoon speed to take the wrapper off a new packet of cigarettes and get one in their mouth. His joints were parsnips to Jenny's gentile runner beans. He found himself strangely captivated as Jonah gibbered on about Morocco trying to get into the EC and the European Commission telling them they had to clean up their act first, and his heinous tales of evil American drug enforcement people going over and spraying poison on all the cannabis crops. Tears welled in his eyes as this dreadful tale of man's inhumanity to man was emotionally recounted. What lives other people had to lead.
"Like its serious shit, I'm telling you. No more solids, man. Plastic and diesel, that'll be it. The coffee shops in Amsterdam are even closing down, like, a few of them, I tell you. With the kikes getting stuck into the Lebanon again, like..," he nodded his head in despair, "Its serious shit, I tell you."
Shaking the envelope in front of them his face returned to its reassuring idiot grin.
"Fucking gold dust this, I'm telling you."
He wondered if Jonah ended every sentence with the words, "I tell you."
Flamboyantly producing a zippo from the pocket of his denim shirt he lit the joint, taking in several lungfulls until his intense, jittery eyes shut and a sublime smile hatched on his mean little mouth. Reclining against Jenny's headboard he languished in it, savouring each draw like it was the final cigarette of a condemned man.
"Awe, that's beautiful, man. This is the longest I've gone without it for years."
"How long has it been", asked Jenny, enjoying the fact that she'd unwittingly brought light into someone's dark and dreary life.
"Three days, man. Three long fucking awful days. This famine's going to kill me, I tell you. I've fallen out with every cunt already."
Edging over to the end of the bed, Jonah offered the joint to him.
"No, no thanks. I don't touch the stuff. Good job really by the sounds of it."
Leaning over to get a better look at him, Jonah hissed through his teeth.
"Oh yeah! I'd see a doctor if I were you. Worst case of conjunctivitis I've seen in a long time."
Shit. What was wrong with his eyes? He hadn't noticed them in the toilet, but then he'd been too busy lamenting his lifeless cock. He spoke, if only to change the subject.
"So what are you doing with yourself these days? Scrap metal business still doing well?"
Jonah looked confused. "Eh?"
"Still liberating people's cars and crashing them I mean."
"Aye, good one mate", he smirked, rolling his eyes towards Jenny in a 'who-is-this-sad-fuck' way and handing her the joint.
"Not even the odd ram raid on bank holidays?", he continued, determined to undermine the little bastard.
Jonah shook his head and sat on the bed above him in an attempt to intimidate he supposed.
"Stealing motors is for neds, right. I'm a businessman now. Computer chip procurement consultant you might say. And I bet I make more than you do teaching, I tell you."
Desperate as he was to give the little shit a right verbal assault he recalled how easy to antagonise he'd been at school where he'd been expelled for belting a female teacher. Despite not wishing to find out if he still bore a grudge against the teaching profession, he couldn't resist a little dig.
"I always knew you'd make a success of your life."
"Aye, fuck you!" Jonah whispered.
Jenny gave him a look of disgust and a sharp kick in the leg as she passed the joint back to her friend apologetically.
"Like I said. We've got to go out soon for this tutorial.."
Tutorial? What fucking tutorial?
."..so make one more for the road then we'll have to make a move."
Jonah sucked at the joint from one hand, assembling cigarette papers and picking grass from the envelope with the other.
"So where's your 'tutorial' then?" he drawled, mocking her use of a word so obviously alien to him.
"Oh, that pub in Dalry. What's it called again? The one opposite the garage?"
"The Balmoral?" they both yelped in disbelieving unison.
What was she raving about. Obviously she'd never been in the dive in question.
"So is it just the lassies get this treatment or is it some new concept in education?", he addressed him over the side of the bed. "...naw, naw, wait, don't tell me, its the overcrowding?"
He resolved to just try and humour the guy. Even the sharpest wit couldn't get one over on a numptie like him. You just spoke over their heads.
"Its just my way of making sure I'm not the only one going into school with a hangover in the morning, you know?"
"Ooooooh! Isn't he with-it?", minced Jonah, thrusting the joint in front of him again, "..go on, surely a hip old thing like you can allow himself a couple of toaks."
Upon his refusal, Jonah took two last puffs and ground the roach into the ashtray.
"So what time is this so-called 'tutorial'?" he asked, lighting up the next joint before he'd finished exhaling the last one.
"About 10.30", he interjected, thinking, it must be nearly that time, although he couldn't see the face of the alarm clock from where he was sitting. Jenny apparently could, however, as he noticed her cringing before Jonah looked up from his watch and chirped, "Excellent. Plenty time to twist up a few more of these."
The strong urge to just go home was again toyed with until the promise of that tight, young fanny made him decide to grin and bear it. Jonah now tore cigarette papers out of their packet, licking them together like a man possessed.
"I'll take a bit home with me too if you don't mind. Dave said I could, oh, and a glass of that Grouse would go down a treat."
Jenny forced a tight smile, poured them all a drink and sat down in cross-legged resignation in from of them. Half an hour, two more whiskies and several joints were passed as they listened in virtual silence to Jonah giving a monologue about the evil of drink, the joys of drugs, security cameras, TV ads for football boots, the crime wave which would apparently follow the cannabis crisis, a girl he thought fancied him who sounded more like she was on the verge of having him done for stalking, how over-rated the X-Files was, the dogs dirt problem in Gorgie, what a slapper his father's new girlfriend was, Jimmy Corkhill in 'Brookside' giving honest drug dealers a bad name, a boy called Dode he'd been at school with who used to make the young boys pee in front of him..... My God he was a mine of useless information. With nothing but the whisky and the few puffs of a joint he'd had when Jonah was in the toilet to sustain him, he listened, fascinated, mute until finally, at 10.15 they left the house in a bid to finally be rid of this obnoxious, greedy paki.
The shock of the fresh night air after the stuffy claustrophobia of Jenny's room invigorated him briefly until the biting cold and space made him feel a bit weird. It had been foolish to take more of that grass but he'd needed something to see him through the bullshit he'd been forced to listen to for the past half hour.
Huddling his jacket round him for warmth and because it made him feel slightly safer he followed them down the street, consciously trying to walk as normally as possible, unable to remember what this entailed. As they reached the library the pungent smell of grass again invaded his nostrils and he realised to his horror that Jonah had lit another joint.
They stopped at the bus stop directly opposite a police caravan which had been set up as an incident room following the murder of a girl up the street the previous weekend. He kept a distance from them, happy in his assumption that Jonah seemed finally to be pissing-off but anxious about the possibility of surveillance from the police van.
Luckily, the only other person at the bus stop was a whisky-riddled old dodderer who, unable to negotiate which arm belonged in the sling around his neck seemed unlikely to notice the illegal aroma.
Pretending to be engrossed in the contents of the hairdressers window he watched them giggling round the joint in the glass. Surely if Prince Naseem buggered-off she wouldn't still expect them to go to that bloody awful pub? Jenny was dancing about on the pavement trying to keep warm, rambling on about the recent murder.
"Yeah, I'm sure I saw her on the bus the other week. She was English. It really looked like the girl in the paper. I don't think it was a serial killer or anything though. She was into drugs and that".
Huh, she could talk! This area was the pits. He wanted the security of being back at her house. Forcing a few yawns to block out their being there he studied the reflection of the police caravan in the shop window. Jonah suddenly spoke really loudly and made him jump.
"Aye, she probably had the last piece of tarry in Edinburgh. I'd have cut her throat myself if I'd known", he sniggered, presenting the joint to Jenny vertically to draw as much attention to himself as possible. It was as if he wanted to get caught. Maybe he did. Maybe that was the plan. What sort of a fucking wind-up was this? How long had they been standing there anyway? It felt like about half and hour had passed.
Searching in his pockets for nothing in particular, just for something to do other than take them on, Jonah's loud voice echoed again, "Fucking hell! This is a turn up for the books" as a big, beautiful, blood-red, shiny number 34 twinkled ethereally round the corner of the brewery. He felt like kissing it. Unable to stop smiling he waited, knowing the moment of liberation was upon them.
As the bus opened its doors to rid them of this scourge, Jonah handed him the joint before disappearing on board, whooping with laughter. Throwing the offending article sparking into the air in an instantaneous reflex action he cursed as the bus pulled away taking the bastard, fucking little bastard, sneering from the window, with it.
Jittering, he turned to the old drunk, who was still utterly engrossed in his sling then to Jenny who was now, gloriously alone and grimacing.
"He does go on a bit. Sorry about that".
Putting her arm in his she began leading him back along the street. He pulled away, teasing her.
"Hang on. Don't you want to go for that drink?"
Knowing he was joking she grabbed his hand and again pulled him towards the house, his cock giving an appreciative jolt as she did so. Staggering up the street together, hand-in-hand, they stopped to slobber over each other a few times before they reached the door.
Once back in the splendid safety of her house he pinned her against the anaglypta, crushing his lips against hers until she had to pull away for breath. He attacked her neck, biting, nuzzling, licking her ear-lobes, zip straining in a horny daze. No qualms now about her grabbing for his balls, he growled as she traced the outline of his stiff cock with her hand, gently biting her tongue as it again invaded his mouth.
Pushing her onto the stairs he chewed her nipples through the cotton t-shirt, yanking her jeans open with considerable, one-handed expertise. The remaining buzz from the stolen puffs of the joint took all the clumsiness out of their fondling. Intensified it. Made it all drift seamlessly into place like a fucking dream. Forcing his hand down her jeans he pushed his fingers under the flimsy wrapping of her knicker elastic, stroking her lusciously soft minge. Jesus, it was so soft. Did they just go wiry when they got into their twenties, he wondered?
"Not yet, not yet!" she gasped, wriggling under his touch.
Letting his middle finger press into the warm folds of her cunt he could feel her wetness, smell it. It seemed to swallow his finger in an envelope of moistness. She tried to pull his hand away, the epitome of 'stop-it-I-like-itness'. He continued ramming it in and out until he could hear her juices clicking.
"No, no, wait. Not yet. I want to make it better."
Better? What could possibly be better than the sound shagging he was about to give her? Waggling free of him she zipped up her trousers and gestured to the bedroom.
"Come on. I've got a special treat for us first. To get us in the mood."
In the mood? If he was any more in the mood his balls would explode. Dirty little bitch. Though aching to fuck her he let her draw it out to delay the inevitable disappointment when it was over.
The special treat was, unbelievably, a bottle of Moet her parents had given her for her birthday, which she messily cracked open over the rug. He'd for some reason been hoping that suspenders or handcuffs might be part of the special treat equation but pretended to be pleased none-the-less since he was now certain he was going to have her anyway.
The tin of grass made a reappearance and she sat at his feel showing him the flower-heads. Squeezing the oily, redolent herbs between his fingers he kissed the top of her head as she explained the difference between these and the leaves they'd been smoking earlier.
She rolled a joint as he sat in a dream, aware of something droning away in the background, imagining fucking her, what it would look like. Helping himself to more champagne he visualised his cock in her mouth, feeding his hard-on with filth, making sure it stayed where it was this time.
As she lit a much larger joint than her previous efforts, no doubt influenced by Jonah's monstrosities, he again checked his shirt pocket for the condom. There were more in his jacket if he needed them which, in his current state, seemed more than likely. He hated using the things but you really couldn't trust women nowadays. You didn't know where they'd been and now that single-parenthood was the fastest growing profession you had to be extra careful if you were a genetically-appealing specimen like himself.
Jenny put on some modern music of the all-beat and no melody variety, the kind that sounded like the noise blood made as it pumped round your body. Taking a few puffs on the joint and handing it to him she began dancing in front of him, thrusting her arms and hips in his face to the throb of the CD. Leaning his head back on the bed he watched her grinding away, Salome-like through half-closed eyes and exhaled smoke. Gyrating over with the bottle she filled his glass, made him swallow it all down and topped it up again, twisting her lithe, tight young body as she did so.
The CD thumped on. It felt as if the sounds were emanating from within his rib cage. As a rule he despised this kind of modern crap but at the moment he could almost understand its appeal - its meditative, brain-clearing qualities. It was like when he went fishing and his thought and memory reduced to himself and the fish. Delighted with the analogy he wanted to tell her about it but found that he simply couldn't be bothered.
Standing with her feet between his legs she twisted, dreamily down until she was kneeling in front of him. With heavy eye-lids she took the joint from him, put the lit end in her mouth and blew smoke, through the roach, into his head. Wow, hey, he felt like he was floating, anaesthetized. Repeating the process she leaned back, laughing at his expression, whatever it might be, taking a slug from the bottle.
He squinted at her, drowsy, no longer feeling that he was really there but that he was an observer, looking in. Fumbling around with a numb arm on the carpet at his side he found his glass, swallowing some champagne to liven himself up. The bubbles set off a series of tiny explosions at the back of his throat. Gulping back more of the grass to counteract this he again tried to explain what he'd been thinking about the music.
"You know these lamps you used to get in the seventies? Bowel-movement lamps?"
Jenny shook her head, clueless.
"Oh, you know, these hideous bright orange things with kidneys floating up and down, passing each other, bits breaking off?"
"Are you tripping?" she asked "..it sometimes happens with this stuff."
"No, no, no, no, no," he whined, determined to make her understand, taking another puff to steady him.
"....no, no, its like I was just thinking, this music, you know, sometimes when I'm out in the boat and its just, like, me and the fish, me and that fish for hours. Everything else just goes..."
Oh shit. His facility for coherence was away.
Seemingly frustrated by her own lack of understanding she blew more smoke into his mouth.
Oh dear, oh dear. Trying to deal with the ensuing weakness, powerlessness, he tried to focus on the room, the sink, the bottle and glass at his side, Jenny sitting between his legs, puzzled, out-of-it, waiting for him to act. It was alright. It would be alright. He was safe here. He could stay here.
Jenny ruffled his hair, staring into his eye sockets, looking for him.
"Are you still in there?"
It was important to try and communicate with her, not to keep drifting off onto this strange parallel universe. Important to let himself know he really was still there and not just looking in.
"Erm, I think I'm starting to feel something....er.....how are you?.....how do you feel?....am I talking shit?.....do you feel funny?..... I feel a bit funny."
She reminded him that the grass they were now smoking was different from the stuff she'd given Jonah. David charged more for the flower heads because they were a lot stronger. She didn't know why but he'd said they were well worth it. Worth it? The implications of her words made him panic. Perhaps it was mixed with something else. He hadn't felt like this when he'd smoked it earlier, that's for sure.
A creeping feeling of unease rubbed itself all over him, his stomach began rolling and he felt the blood draining from his head, then from the whole of his upper body to finally congeal in his legs. His legs! All sensation below the waist had gone. What if he needed the toilet? He'd better go for a piss now just in case.
On trying to stand up, the floor started moving, rocking from side to side like the inside of a galley on stormy seas. Holding onto the arm of the chair to stop himself from falling overboard, a voice echoed somewhere far off.
"What are you doing? Are you OK?"
His heartbeat began thumping in his ears. It was going far too fast. Was he going to have a heart attack? This must be what it felt like. Where was he? He was going to have a fucking heart attack and he'd no idea where he was. Wanting to cry out he knew there was a reason that he couldn't though he'd no idea what it might be. Looking down in front of him he could see a road with lights on each side. There was a modern looking building with no windows and different coloured columns on top at the end of the street. The road reminded him of the Champs Elysees although he didn't recognise the building at the bottom. What the fuck was that building? Had they built a new Pompidou Centre at the bottom of the Champs Elysees? Why hadn't he heard about it? He'd had a strange dream that he was teaching in Edinburgh but he was still in fucking Paris.
The voice was echoing again. It sounded like someone was talking through a tube. "Do you want any more of this? What are you doing?" It sounded like his mother but she was dead. He imagined his mother, naked, covered in ulcers with a great hairy fanny. Was it true? Did people come back to help you into the afterlife like all these psychic old women with names like Doris and Beryl had been saying for years? His heartbeat ticked through his head like some monstrous clock. He had to get to that building at the bottom of the street. He didn't know why, he just knew he had to get there. On trying to stand up he realised he was completely numb below the waist. Was it a brain tumour? Some kind of aneurysm? He had to get to that building. Now he was crying. He was still in Paris and he was crying and dying. Placing his hands on the support at his side, he pulled himself up with all his strength. The effort of the move made him fart loudly. He hoped there was no-one else in the street. He had a brief vision of someone lying on a bed at his feet, masturbating and laughing hysterically. Making his way towards the building, it felt like he was walking up the side of a mountain although the road ahead looked flat. Taking one step at a time, pausing between each to catch his breath, tears burnt his face. The voice was calling him again. "Laissez moi seule, laissez moi seule", he shouted. He sensed someone stomping away and heard a door slamming. Although the building had looked like it was at least a mile away he made it there in six steps. Falling against it, his hands shot to each side of the roof to steady himself. The columns on top were painted to look like tins and bottles of brand-name toiletries. Fucking modern architecture. The roof itself had an empty swimming pool on it with two enormous carved taps at the side. Looking down as a fountain of sick sprayed from his trembling mouth, he tried stemming the flow with his hand but the vomit merely spurted through his fingers, down his chin and shirt. Four such ejaculations and the pool was half full. It reeked of whisky and garlic. Spaghetti floated about in the pottage like sea snakes.
He sensed that there was someone with him. Trying to remember where he was or what he'd been doing before he'd taken ill, he heaved again. There was an appalling pain in his stomach and he could feel his windpipe burning where the vomit had scorched it, but somehow throwing up made him feel slightly better, slightly calmer despite his conviction that he was dying. By now he was only bringing up acidy bile. The swimming pool looked like a swamp. He negotiated the taps at the side. Were they merely ornamental? He twisted one until a gentle piddle of water ran into the vomit sending off shock waves of yellow, greasy film on the surface of the plum-coloured broth.
Someone or something was touching him, trying to drag him away. Unable to form a sentence he merely groaned. The pool was now overflowing, his watery vomit running down the sides of the building. He was being led back the way he'd come. The lights on the side of the road had gone out and there were now swirling patterns surrounded by a dimly lit tunnel. He let the arms guide him, staggering and steady him each time he stumbled. Since he was dying anyway it no longer mattered if this was friend or foe. He felt himself being turned around and thumped in the chest. This was it. Like falling backwards in a dream then waking just before you made impact, but he made impact and didn't wake up. Now he felt strangely comfortable. Was it over? Was he dead? Closing his eyes, he basked in the silence, blowing out breath, blowing out life. He was slipping away now. He was probably lying in a hospital somewhere. The machine that monitored his heartbeat was about to go
"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee." His pulse was about to stop. A casualty nurse was about to sigh and say, "The pupils have fixed. That's it." He waited behind the darkened silence. Had someone been with him? Hadn't Jenny Russell had been with him but then he remembered it had all been a dream. He was still in Paris. There was no Jenny Russell. As he listened to his breath getting shorter and shorter, weaker and weaker, he blacked-out.
-o-
He came to on the armchair with a blanket over his head, delirious from the toxic fumes he'd been breathing in and out all night. A piercing throb ran from one temple to the other and he felt like he'd been pushed down a flight of stairs. His bladder was painfully full and an erection strained to be liberated from its corduroy captivity. Jenny was lying asleep on top of the bed by his side. Her knees were bent and her legs had fallen apart like a woman in stirrups waiting for a smear. Had he fucked her? The blanket over his head suggested not.
Finding the bathroom he gulped water from the tap then left it running while he masturbated unenthusiastically onto a few sheets of toilet paper, staring at his ravaged, bloodshot face and the large, purple love bite on his neck as the tension arched out of his cock. He threw the tissue into the pan and pissed onto it then washed the debris from the night before from his face and unblocked his caked eyelids. Breathing into the towel he squirmed with recollection then walked quietly back through to the bedroom.
The sink had been washed out but the carpet was still damp and the rank stench of his flamboyant failure hung in the air to taunt him. Jenny was snoring gently. Sunlight beamed through a chink in the curtains and spot-lit her soft pubic down and the glistening, wet indentation of her cunt. She'd slept that way deliberately he imagined.
He knew he should probably wake her - apologise profusely, blame it all on a bizarre medical condition, fuck her into forgiveness then refuse to leave until he was convinced she'd keep quiet about the whole thing but the truth was he just couldn't face facing her. Couldn't bear the idea that this horribly confident little shit had seen him with his pants down in a sadly less than biblical sense. Again his mind was turned to Paris. That safe haven just the other side of revision periods and examinations, perhaps sooner. He cast a final glance upon her dignified indignity splayed on the bed, left a �20 note on the bedside table for the whisky, picked up his jacket and tiptoed downstairs.
As he opened the front door to let himself out he noticed Jonah sitting in his boxer shorts in the living room smoking a joint. The vision cruelly reaffirming that it had not all been a bad dream gave him a painful lump in the pit of his stomach. The sinewy Asian, noticing him, held up the joint and opened his mouth to speak but he ran out the house, slamming the door behind him before he had a chance to. He kept running until he got to the end of her street then walked the rest of the way home in the blinding sunlight, despising her and her sort.
� Laura Hird
Reproduced with permission
