SATURDAY NIGHT

by
Joseph Ridgwell

�This old towns filled with sin, it�ll swallow you in, if you�ve got some money to burn.�

It was another sweltering Saturday Down Under and it was hot in the city. When this story begins I was living in the notorious red-light district of Sydney, a place called Kings Cross, known affectionately by most Aussies as the Cross. I was sat in front of the El Alamein fountain, waiting for two of my fellow ex-pat�s Blondie and Sam to show, and go on a bender.

The El Alamein stands to the left of the famous Bourbon and Beef Steak and to the right of the police station at the West End of Darlinghurst road. Darlinghurst road contains the main drag of the Cross, the dirty half mile, and already it was buzzing. Crowds of people were flooding in from the outer suburbs of Sydney, all geared up for a big night out, Easties and Westies mingling with tourists from around the globe. The neon lights of the strip-shows, bars and takeaway outlets radiated energy and as I sat by the fountain observing the scene, it felt like the makings of a special night.

After around ten minutes of people watching I spotted Blondie and Sam amongst the crowds. Sam was swaying like he was pissed and Blondie was jumping around and gesticulating frantically. I reckoned they were both boozy and when Sam greeted me my suspicions were confirmed.

�Geezer schmeezer, ow�s it going?� he said with a trace of a slur in his thick Welsh accent.

�Sweet as,� I replied.

Lately, we always started our Saturday nights with a visit to one of the many strip joints dotted along the main drag, but although we always headed straight to one anyway, we still had to go through the motions of making a decision. It had become a tradition.

�Right, where we off to?�

�What about Showgirls?� Offered Blondie.

This was undoubtedly a good suggestion. Showgirls had the classiest strippers in the Cross, but it was expensive, and a couple of weeks before I�d been chucked out by security for not being able to stick $20 bills inside the dancers pants every five minutes. I remembered another Cross institution, �Fuck showgirls, it�s too expensive, let�s pop in the PPC, you can watch a show in there without aving to pay an entrance fee.�

Sam rubbed his hands together, �Okay PPC it is then, agreed?�

�Agreed!�

Once the location was sorted we weaved in and out of the bustling, colourful crowds, while the spruikers competed furiously to get punters inside the clubs. They made beelines for any large groups of men, especially Japanese and Korean tourists, because they were considered the biggest spenders and the most gullible. Once frog-marched inside the bemused slopes were then treated to desperate sex dances by junkie strippers, and had to purchase an outrageously expensive drink for the privilege. As we looked like we didn�t have three dollars to rub between us, the spruikers showed little interest in us, and operating at a hundred and fifty miles an hour, we were gone before they could even say hello.

The Pink Pussy Cat was a run down and dirty establishment, whose heyday was during the Vietnam War, but with its fabulously kitsch name and faded grandeur, it recalled a long gone era of Cross glamour and sleaze that will never come again. We waited on the other side of the drag until the spruikers became distracted by a bunch of gormless Jap tourists, and then slipped in unseen.

We found empty seats at the rear of the smoky theatre and caught a freebie of a voluptuous raven-haired girl stripping to the tinny sounds of �Self-Control� by Laura Branigan. Everything was hunky dory until an eagle-eyed waitress appeared from nowhere and asked what we would like to drink. Being no mugs we didn�t want to buy an over-priced beer, so to play for time we assumed blank expressions and replied that we hadn�t made up our minds. This tactic brought us a couple of minute�s breathing space, but left us on tenterhooks.

Halfway through the routine of a second stripper, who had just revealed a firm pair of medium sized breasts, the waitress returned.

�Have you made up your minds yet boys?�

Blondie had an aisle seat; he began mumbling and looked to us for a diversion. Sam didn�t take his gaze away from the stripper for one moment, �Tell her to go fuck herself,� he whispered unhelpfully.

I pretended I didn�t know either of them.

The waitress gave us all a dirty look and then signalled to two bouncers, which in turn was our signal to do the off.

�Let�s get the fuck out of ere,� I hissed, as we all stood up at the same time and tried to get out of the club before we were thrown out by a couple of gorillas in suits. In the rush I bumped into Blondie, �Take it easy geez,� he muttered as we stumbled in the darkness. �Burn rubber,� shouted Sam.

On that command we raced out of the Pink Pussy Cat at top speed and didn�t stop running until we reached Crazy Prices a good quarter of a mile away. At Crazy Prices we gave each other knowing looks because now we had had our first, �incident,� the night had officially begun.

�Right, where to next?� I asked breathing hard.

Blondie and Sam looked at each other and then at me. �Pub Crawl!�

With that decision quickly decided we embarked on a spontaneous pub crawl - O�Malley�s, Kings Cross Hotel, Mansions, Rhino bar, Goldfish Bowl, and Round Midnight, spending about half hour in each establishment before finally emerging back onto the main drag good and boozy.

�Right, where to now?� I asked again. Sam and Blondie looked at each other and then at me, �Pokies!�

Not wanting to spoil the mood of spontaneity I nodded and we strolled into Las Vegas a small 24hr gaming room.

Inside Las Vegas we marched straight to the poker machines and began playing. You received a free drink every time you fed a twenty-dollar bill into the slot of your chosen machine, which only encouraged you to gamble more. I chose my personal favourite, the leopard machine. Three leopards in a row triggered the feature and a big leopard flashed on the screen and then you tried to get as many free spins as possible.

I lost, won, won, lost, won again, and finally ended up losing $150 despite getting three leopard features.

�Fuck these machines,� I said to Blondie, who had just let out a whoop of delight beside me.

Blondie looked at me like I was a loser, pointed smugly at the winning reels on his machine, and called the assistant over to collect his cash. His smugness and the fact I was losing irritated me.

�You�d better quit while you�re ahead,� I warned, as the girl handed him the cash.

Blondie smiled and waved the thin wad of dollars in the air triumphantly, �What�re ya on about geez? I�m on a roll!�

We continued playing the machines and continued drinking, and continued losing, and it wasn�t long before Sam was legless, Blondie was drunk, and I was well on the way. Then, as I stood by a pokie machine lamenting my losses, a nice sort showing a great deal of cleavage walked past.

The view of the woman�s breasts gave me the sudden urge to visit a brothel and get laid. The sight of all the naked flesh in the strip club must have triggered a little time bomb in my mind, which had waited until this moment to go off. Unfortunately there was a brothel directly opposite La Vegas and the temptation was too great for my alcohol and stripper affected will to resist, not that I wanted to resist.

I told Sam and Blondie my new idea straightaway.

�So who�s up for it?�

Surprisingly neither of them was interested, �Nah, fuck that shit man, let�s stay here for a while,� slurred Blondie.

�What about you Sam fancy a brass?�

�Whadda ya say geezer schmeezer, bar far mah.�

�No, do you want to go to a BROTHEL?�

Sam flinched and then looked at me out of a pair of crossed eyes, �Of course ya me brother Jude boy, even if youse are English, but wait ere a mo I need to piss.�

Unwilling to give up on my idea I turned to Blondie who was playing the pokie machine in zombie fashion, �C�mon geez, don�t ya fancy a poke?�

Blondie�s eyes remained glued to the machine as if he had been hypnotised, �In a minute geez, in a minute, the features gotta come up, it�s just gotta.�

Ten minutes later Blondie had lost all of what he had won and was drunkenly trying to stick another $50 bill into the accommodating slot of the poker machine, and Sam was sitting upright on a barstool with his head slumped on his chest, fast asleep. I quickly assessed the situation - At any moment Sam was going to get chucked out by the doormen and Blondie was about to lose all his money, and then the night would be over.

�Lightweights,� I thought as I swerved off without saying goodbye.

Outside the bar I crossed the road without looking and only narrowly avoided getting run over. The car tooted its horn angrily and made me jump. I arrived inside the brothel slightly shaken, but prepared to pay for sex. The house was jam-packed, with girls sitting on client�s laps, men drinking at the bar, and other girls loitering here and there. The place was dimly lit in soft red light and thick acrid cigarette smoke hung in the air, but funnily enough in the dim-light and with beer goggles on, the girls all looked like stunning princesses or Miss World contestants.

The Madame of the brothel, a fat middle-aged lady with masses of greying hair and a large hairy mole on one of her many chins, offered me a free drink. I averted my gaze from the repulsive mole and nodded. Then a succession of whores were ordered to line up in front of me. With the girls proudly displaying their wares and a cold beer in hand, I felt momentarily powerful like I was somebody important, maybe the President of America or a movie star, instead of a lowly hospital porter.

After giving the brasses a quick once over I picked one with long brown hair and large breasts. The girl was wearing a frilly nightdress through which I could see a pair of large cigar butt nipples. I sat there grinning away like an idiot.

�Hello?� I said.

The girl smiled, grabbed my hand, and led me upstairs. We entered a room that consisted of a large double bed draped in pink satin bed sheets, and an en-suite shower. As I undressed the girl told me the standard house price, $100 dollars for half an hour, and after I handed over two fifties, she went to work with reassuring enthusiasm.

When the half an hour was up I still wasn�t finished, but the girl stood up and began getting dressed, her large breasts swaying sexily from side to side. This left me in a difficult situation.

�Where�re ya going?� I grunted.

�The half hours up honey.�

�How much for another arf hour?�

�Same as before, a hundred.�

I took a �100 note from my wallet like a big shot, �I�ll ave another half hour and another beer.�

The girl took the money and disappeared, returning moments later with a small bottle of beer, and a bottle of oil. She massaged a generous amount of oil all over my body and then handed the bottle to me. It felt sensuous and slippery as I massaged the oil into her huge breasts, and her thick erect nipples fascinated me, so I played around with them and flicked them a few times. Then the girl got on top and I noticed the mirrored ceiling for the first time.

The mirrored ceiling was a novelty so I spent the next ten minutes watching the reflection of our bodies as the girl went down on me, waving her arse from side to side as she went. Because I was almost too drunk to fuck it was taking forever to come, but with superb timing the girl stopped what she was doing just as I was finally about to.

�What�d ya stop for?� I gasped in frustration.

The girl pulled on her frilly nightie and winked at me, �Times up again honey.�

I couldn�t believe it, it only seemed like five minutes had passed. I looked at the girl and raised my eyebrows, �Any chance of finishing the job?�

The girl smiled at my cheekiness, but reacted like a true pro, �Sorry honey, but when your times up, your times up, house rules. D�ya want another half hour?�

I lowered my eyebrows and formed my eyes into slits, �Forget it.�

The prostitute left the room, taking her huge breasts and slippery nipples with her, and leaving me alone in the darkness. For a few seconds I contemplated buying another half hour, but that added up to three hundred dollars, which was taking the whole episode into the realms of the ridiculous. After a moments reflection I figured there was no other option, but to complete the job myself. Finishing off by hand didn�t take long and when I ejaculated the pent up sperm shot out like a rocket grenade with some hitting me on the right ear, and the main blobs splattering against the headboard of the bed.

�Wow,� I said to myself, impressed at the distance.

Once that was over I hurriedly re-dressed, finished the bottle of beer, and checked my appearance in the mirror. My thick brown hair was sticking up all over the place so I flattened it down with water before making my exit. Downstairs the place had begun to empty and I slipped out quietly, just another punter disappearing into the lonely void.

Out on the street the material of my clothes coming into contact with the oil on my skin made me feel grubby and uncomfortable. It was now about five-thirty and a warm grey light was just beginning to rise in the east. I badly needed another drink to forget about how much money I had wasted and after finding Las Vegas deserted, with no sign of either Blondie or Sam, I walked into another bar and lost track of time. When I came out again it was daylight and Saturday had long since vanished, but the brothel was still open.

�Fuck,� I thought intelligently, �I�ll go in again.�

There was only one brass still working, a petite Asian girl, and everything about the brothel seemed older, more seedy and decrepit. I paid the lady with the mole $100, ordered a beer, and went upstairs. Once inside the room I collapsed onto the bed and took a good look at the girl. Her heavy black mascara was smudged, her red lipstick was wearing off, and she looked like she was about to fall asleep. It was the same room as before, pink sheets and mirrored ceiling, although now I noticed a large cigarette burn in the bed sheet.

This time I went to work as the girl lay beneath me like a piece of dead wood. Immediately feelings of disgust and remorse began to overwhelm me. It had been a mistake to enter the brothel again and now the sexual act made me feel like a machine, an automaton, and I began sweating profusely.

The girl grimaced and groaned as I worked harder and harder, acutely aware of wanting to finish the job before the half hour was up. Suddenly it became the eternal fuck, the bane of man, but I couldn�t let the pussy defeat me, the job had to be completed. My heart was pounding, my brain urging me on to the finish line, my body pushing and straining every sinew, with every blood vessel feeling like it was about to burst.

Then, during a particularly frenetic sequence, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror. I was shocked; the veins on my temples writhed down the sides of my head like green snakes and I looked like a devil, a demon, a man who was totally insane and tormented, until, bang, a bombshell exploded and everything went black. I collapsed on top of the girl, exhausted, obliterated, vanquished and doomed.

When I rolled off, the girl looked visibly relieved and disappeared out of the room like a ghost. I lay on the bed panting and fighting for breath like I�d just gone ten rounds with Muhammad Ali, my head and senses in a whirl. Eventually I got it together and found the strength to sit upright.

I left the brothel just as a cleaner, a cheerful middle-aged woman, arrived. As we passed each other she gave me a knowing look and for one crazy moment I thought she was going to offer her services, and for one even crazier moment I thought I was going to accept. Madness!

Outside the grey Sunday morning light dazzled my eyes. I rubbed the back of my neck, spat on the ground, and scratched my balls. Then I observed the aftermath of another weekend. The pavement beneath the ATM machines was littered with hundreds of white bank receipts and there was a strange listlessness hanging in the air, like the remnants of energy from ten thousand long gone weekend revellers.

As I stood in the street pondering my next move I checked my pockets and brought out two handfuls of change. I counted the smash, five dollars, exactly the amount needed to buy a full English breakfast in the Piccolo Caf�, including toast and two cups of tea. I had blown a whole week�s wages in one night, Saturday night, the King of nights, a night where legends are made, so I didn�t care.

As I walked along a deluge of brilliant sunshine suddenly flooded the streets and for one exquisite moment the Cross became golden, like a giant pot of honey, and suddenly it felt great to be alive. I pulled a crumpled cigarette from my shirt pocket, lit it, sent up a cloud of grey smoke, and headed east.

� Joseph Ridgwell
Reproduced with permission