129. Razzle Dazzle

Ah, Mucky Claire!
I saw you in a cellar club in your Doc Martin boots and your mini-mini skirt, sipping gin and giggling with your mates.
I can’t remember how we got talking. I was doing a lot of drinking back then and I confess that things are quite hazy, although some things are a bit too clear, if you get my meaning.
I do remember your eyes. Blue, but then again a lot of girls had blue eyes, back in the day. Blue eyes and blonde hair. Perhaps it was fashion, I don’t know. Are your eyes blue now?
Cute was the word and cute is so patronising but cute it must be. I remember you were bold, much bolder than me, I might have glanced and smiled but I’m sure you spoke where I would not have had the guts to just walk over and talk, so you must have done that, you must have broken the ice and talked, although I’m fucked if I remember what you said and or what I said.
Was it a kiss or a snog? Do people still snog? Snogging. Something done down parks and in the corners of nightclubs, the sweet taste of fags and perfume and Smirnoff and Gordon’s, a rubbed aching crotch and a hand down the knickers, a squeeze of a tit and a grope of an arse. Happy days.
I want to say I remember that time we went for something to eat at the cafe on the corner or how we walked by the river but we did none of that. There were fucks and fumbles, encounters in pubs, shared cigarettes and car park quickies.
I remember leaning on your small frame, too drunk to walk by myself. Thanks for not leaving me to be buggered or mugged.
I remember arguing over nothing when I wanted to go drinking with a mate who felt jealous of the time we spent together, how the rumour went round that he and me were gay lovers, and it turned out you started it to spite our close friendship.
We made up in the only way we knew how at the time.
Then a new rumour reached me, a rumour that shocked me. And I asked you the next time we met.
You looked furtive, an animal unearthed, face flushed beneath expert make up and bobbed blonde hair.
You replied, ‘fifteen’.
I responded, ‘Oh, fucking hell.’
And that was the end of that, I suppose.
But it wasn’t.
It turns out you were fucking everyone. My guilt was a shared guilt.
It turns out your partners were counted in hundreds, the first one an uncle with deviant tastes who I wanted to hunt down and kick off his bollocks but I didn’t as those things just happen in films, and besides, who the fuck was I to judge?
My brother once told me he’d fucked you on all fours in a bedroom somewhere and I think you’d turned sixteen so it’s kind-of alright. He said he’d been at it but got cramp in his leg so he’d stumbled round the bedroom, crashing into lamps and rickety chairs, cursing and grabbing at the traitorous muscle of his lower leg, and as the pain subsided he looked at you, still on all fours with your cunt in the air, passive and waiting, blonde blue-eyed bovine, and he suddenly thought ‘what’s the point?’ but finished it anyway.
He described you as ‘a mucky little bitch’ which I thought was unfair because we were all mucky little bitches back then.
And then you were gone.
Or was it me?
Did I take my drinking to another city, to new haunts and new friends? I’m like that sometimes, flighty and shallow. A best friend, a worst friend, best mates with a bottle.
Well, either way, I never saw you again, Mucky Claire.
But that’s not quite true.
A petrol station purchase of top shelf smut on a Tuesday brought us together again. Stumbling home after afternoon drinking, I stopped off for snacks and a copy of Razzle.
Back in my room, the door safely locked, the self abuse began.
I’ve always been a wanker.
Page after page of straddle legged lasses, Sandra’s and Alison’s, Julie from Preston. And suddenly it’s you, Claire, your familiar eyes, your cunt in the air. And I started to laugh, the feeling bizarre, and the phone rang beside me and I nearly shat myself with shock, so I answer it carefully, and on the line I hear laughing which freaks me out big time.
“Hello? Hello?”
And the laughing’s my brother’s and he says I won’t believe it but he’d bought Razzle and I just won’t believe it but guess who’s on page twenty three, with her lovely blue eyes and her cunt in the air?
I said ‘Mucky Claire’ and he thought I was psychic till I told him the tale… but we both quickly realised we were on the phone to our brother with our dicks in our hands so we made our excuses and hung up with haste.
Now, what are the odds on that? A random purchase of a glossy wank mag, and there you are on page twenty three, a girl I used to see, and there on the phone my brother, wanking in tandem over the self same insignificant other? I mean, really, what are the fucking odds?
But I wondered how many lads from Leeds were spanking their monkey as they ogled you, a girl they’d fucked in car parks and nightclubs, in bus stops and lay bys, hundreds of young men all wanking in tandem over your naked body, over remembered encounters, over a poorly printed page in a shabby magazine.
Did you want that? Were we acting out your fantasy?
I threw you in the bin and tried to sleep instead.
And now I hear you live in London, have a job in media, live in a gleaming apartment, go to incredible parties. And I won’t be crass and wonder how you came by it all, the position the power the money the connections. No, I won’t be crass.
How old are you now? Something past thirty? Well, you look pretty pretty, like a girl in her twenties. But your eyes tell a story and I suppose I’m a chapter, all but a short one
in a magazine
on a top shelf
of a petrol station
in the North
in the nineties.

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2 Responses to 129. Razzle Dazzle

  1. Xythantiops says:

    Ah pornography, the opiate of the masturbators.

    My collection is currently locked away in a bin liner in the attic. M’wife-to-be thinks I threw it out when she moved in, but not on your life. I swear I can hear my ladies rustling late at night, waiting to be released when I need a release.

    By the way, I think at least 20% of my collection used to belong to you.

    Good luck with the award…

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