I’m not afraid to say it: I enjoy sex. Lots and lots of sex. The rougher, the better. There’s a name for people like me; as I said to Jane last night:
“I want to have sex.”
The dialogue is, of course, abridged.
But you get the general idea. Jane certainly did.
Up the arse. Always up the arse.
Today though; today was valentines day. Got to make it that extra bit special. Go the extra mile. Come her fucking head off. They don’t call me Arnold J Fox for nothing.
That wasn’t always my name; I was christened Louis. Louis Botham-Carter, after my mother. You may have heard of her. As mothers went, she wasn’t bad. Not good, but not bad, as I gather most famous parents are. It passes onto the children. Even as a child I looked like I should be famous too.
My closest memories of my childhood are of my education. I hated the establishment I was sent to (as far as anyone can hate anything so impersonal as a building), but adored all those whose company I chose to spend my time in: Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, Woolf, Hardy, Williams and Wilde. Especially Wilde. Such wordplay; no wonder syphilis finally did him in. A man who could, and did, have anyone. A man after my own, similarily sophisticated, heart.
I was always interested in the fairer sex. Even when I was a toddler. That is why I changed my name. Arnold is strong and manly; Louis is a fop dabbing semen off his lower lip at cocktail parties. Not that my first forays into that dreaded taboo of boys and girls actually touching each other could be called successful. I had no problem getting any; I looked like a young Tom Cruise by the time I was fifteen. My problems were, I believe, more due to attitude. My first handjob was a ‘failure to launch’ moment. And my first crush, well; lets just say that legality wasn’t a factor in my decision, although it certainly bore on my school masters. She was too young, I was too big; I was too young, he was certainly too big. “Let that teach you a lesson, Carter” heavy breathing “now, back to class”. I gather school is nowhere near this exciting nowadays.
I stayed on through education, as one of my position usually does; school finished, then college, and then I took the step up to University. Oxford was my parents choice. My father wasted nearly seven years there, and was adamant his son have the same opportunity. I didn’t really care. When my brother flunked his course he was given a Ferrari as a consolation present, so there was little incentive to go anywhere. Except to meet girls. Eventually I went to Bath University. My father locked himself in his room for a week and wept.
Bath of yore was not what it is today. I went there recently. It’s a fine town, but the student population is as grotesque as anywhere else. On my first night I picked up a young girl in a bar, who sucked me off on the backseat of a bus, en route to my place. She said she was ‘thirsty’. Class is very important to me in a woman. Tiffany, aside from being named like a cat, had none. The blowjob was still great, of course; but I couldn’t help wanting to slap her face afterwards and call a spade a spade, if you’ll pardon the expression. She spent the night with me. The next morning I had scabies. See what I mean?
When I was there though, you actually had to talk to the women before getting some. A bit of a challenge. Exciting. Far more exciting, of course, was to cheat. Easily done. Too much to drink at a party, maybe a pill- “of course it’s safe”- then let her collapse in a bedroom somewhere, shut the door, and the rest writes itself. Only 5% of accusations in these cases ever lead to conviction. Any gambler will roll on those odds. And bet his testicles. And his children’s. University sex was the best sex of my life.
All girls want cock, anyway. Even the lesbians. This guy I knew always used to say that. They evidently didn’t want his though. No matter.
It is possible to get bored of sex. Very easily. As masturbation can easily lead to strange fantasies, just to keep attention, sex can become weird.
Ever see Blue Velvet?
Well, I never got that bad. But dogging. Gave it a look. I’m a man with an open mind. The curse of the intellectual elite. That, and ancestral slave owners. I have to say, standing around a car while people have sex in it makes you little more than cold. Being in the car is no better. The people become distracting.
I did see some interesting things though. That’s what life is all about, after all; what you see, your memories. One time; a woman gets out the car, clambers on the bonnet and all the men cream over her; five guys squirting on her face. Semen can bring you out in a rash, in high doses. Anyone who engages in this kind of thing always has plenty of Vaseline and facial cream handy. Or a good story. Allergies again (cough, cough). Wonderful people, all of them.
Dogging finally put me off group sex. I didn’t bother with brothels, gang bangs, orgies or wife swaps. Too much pressure from everyone else. Too many worries. One on one is where it’s at, and if she can take it from behind in a not too dark alley, or you can make her take it from behind in said alley, then godspeed.
A true fact: most rapes cases occur between men and women who are known to each other, often friends, often old friends. Forget this dark pathway bit, you’re far more in danger with your husbands best friend, or the guy you used to flirt with at Uni. Scary thought, isn’t it? Statistics are amazing things.
You’ll run out of people you know though, or get bored. Keep striving, that next fantasy, some new way to get off without feeling fatigued. And you’re left thinking ‘where next?’ Well…
Personal ads are amazing things. Dominatrix wanted. Submissive wanted. Gay fuck buddy wanted. And all this in the local paper. Exhaust them and move onto the behind-the-counter stuff (although it’s never behind the counter anymore, is it?). Disabled fuck wanted. Cannibal with similar tastes needed, call M on TQ 789665. Parapalegic wants to feel alive again; shit fetishist needed for parties and conversation, old lady wants young man- the list goes on. And there’s the masturbation. Books have been written on it. Long, long books. You can jerk in public, with baked beans, over custard you’re about to serve at parties. If you’d read these books you’d never touch anything given to you by anyone else ever again. People are perverts.
Is there an event horizon, only so far you can go? A no return point, followed by a dead end, when the weirdness just runs out?
There’s always another outlet.
A brief interlude: Some point after Uni, before I settled down with the law firm I began my career with, I spent a while living in rented accommodation. As everyone does. Before you’re really ready to move on. Bumming around with university friends, not ready to accept reality yet. You spend your time taking a lot of drugs, doing a lot of drinking, and watching a lot of movies. A LOT of movies. We all had favourites. Back to the Future. Total Recall. Top Gun. Risky Business. We all loved the eighties. Ghostbusters. I loved Bill Murray; who doesn’t? He’s the new Wilde, only as actor rather than writer, but you get the idea. The wit, the wordplay, the expressions. Forget Woody Allen, Bill is where it’s at.
When we were kids, we all used to play Ghostbusters. I was Vekman. I HAD to be Vekman. As I played alone, my wish was always granted. Characters I knew and loved filled the other parts. Jay Gatsby was always Spengler. He was a repressed geek after all. Lenny, of Steinbeck fame, was Ray, the big, lovable lug. Stupid. Very stupid. Completely against character. But try telling that to an aspiring seven year old, reading out his league.
I blame my parents.
Even in Uni I retained my love of Ghostbusters. And 80s nostalgia flicks. I even modelled my name on them. Arnold, big and strong, who fought Predator. J Fox, who had to get Back to the Future.
And a public personality courtesy of Mr Murray. Grown up, my love of Wilde diminished a little. Or was updated.
And then I saw it. One day. Beyond the event horizon.
Celebrity fuck wanted. Reality TV will do. Contact PAM.
Looks of Tom Cruise, personality of Bill Murray, name like; well, you get the idea.
Not a bad idea.
Pam was more than happy. Especially when Tom rang the doorbell. You should’ve seen her face. And she was used to seeing celebrities every day. Well, their representatives. The bad ones. So perhaps her astonishment is understandable. She was a ‘creative associate producer’ or some such thing for ITV2. Worked on celebrity love island, in fact. She told me they might have a use for me. If I kept inviting her to dinner, that is.
I told you, people can be perverts.
And so valentines day went with a bang- to use the age old pun. On some island in the middle of nowhere. The surprise entrant; an is-he-isn’t-he Tom Cruise look alike. Arrives on Valentines Day. Bags Jordan that very evening.
Not bad at all.
My agent says there’s more to come. I can do books, tours, probably even release an LP, if I really want to. And the chicks love a celebrity.
A dead end where the weirdness ends? Beyond the event horizon?
It’s only just started.
The funny thing about all this is I’m a dog.
A short story by Mark Turnock
From an original idea by Mark Turnock & William Darkin.