11 May 2012

1.Felix

An odd dichotomy exists in my life between love and happiness. While some people manage to bring the two together for that wonderful vow; “Til’ death do us part”, for me the two have forever been starkly opposed, permanently in a schizophrenic battle with each other. To be in love is to bring myself endless amounts of pain, suffering, jealousy, heartache and suspicion and to be happy is to lead a life without love; A hollow existence. This is why even when doing breast stroke in a pool of pussy it can still feel like I’m drowning in an ocean of shit.

This girl is perfect, too perfect really and the growing feeling I have that I’m going to sleep with her is combined with a more novel feeling, one of the guilt it might cause just for doing it. But far be it from me to prey on the young woman with Daddy issues if she spends all evening perched at the end of my bar telling me of how she was left all alone with only the luxury flat, the trust fund and the BMW V-8 to remember him by, who can blame me? She is beautiful though, one of those women that you can’t help but notice from the moment that they pass you by. As she stepped into the bar I saw her, long legs teamed with a flawless body and a face so calm and smooth that it would seem as though worries had never even entered her world. Her long brunette locks framing a face as unforgettable as Vermeer’s girl. Her stare as penetrating. A depth in her eyes which is already branded onto my memory like so many things I’d love to forget. The perfect line from her ebony eyebrow around to her cheek and finally down to her chin begs to be caressed. I can’t take my eyes off her. There she is sat by herself. Granted it’s a quiet night, but who comes to a London bar alone like this without a clear objective? Young, gorgeous and surely too sharp not to pick up on the raison d’être of our low brow conversation everything remains cool and casual. The other punters and my regulars slink off as sly couples or utter their slurred goodbyes in order to return to their happy lives of domestic bliss, from where behind the custom carpentered oak doors of their Hampstead Garden Suburb mansions they sit and judge the rest of the world through the medium of mass media and internet, too afraid to ever do something really meaningful. Still, there we sit at the end of the bar quietly sipping our drinks, the pleasantries are well out of the way and the drinks are all on me so it seems that neither of us has a word left to say to the other. I just sit and stare, like a child who’s discovered the first object of his lusting carnal attraction. As the last shitfaced CEO of some respectable London firm staggers out of the door I tap my barman, Caleb on the shoulder to get his attention. “May as well head on home, mate I can lock up. I’ll see you in the morning for the stock take though, yeah?” We are in no way mates but it’s probably best for me if he thinks we are and that I don’t run the risk of condescension, or getting too familiar, by calling him son. “No problem,” he replies giving me a knowing nod. This isn’t the first time he’s seen me in this position and it’s probably not going to be the last. One of my conditions with staff is loyalty and they don’t come much more so than Caleb. I know that whatever goes on inside The Bar remains a totally private affair. With the things he’s seen and heard he could no doubt write a book, which would both end my marriage and put me in prison so I’m glad that he’s batting for the right team. He slides out from behind the bar and heads out back to grab his things, as he passes us by on his way out I slip him a fifty so he can get himself a cab home and anything else he sees fit. London has its own particular brand of loyalty which is neither earned nor proven, simply bought. As the door closes there’s a whisper in my ear, lips so close that they brush against me, I don’t even hear what she says, all I know is that we’ll be leaving together and that’s the only thing that matters. I get off the stool and walk around her, careful to stroke a finger around the base of her spine on my way to the other side of the bar. She straightens up like cat being stroked against the grain of its fur and I feel her eyes following me gratifyingly as I step behind the bar. “How about one last drink and then I’ll take you home?” She looks up at me with the most nonchalant expression and shrugs. “Sounds good, I’ll have what you’re having.” I crush eight lime wedges in the bottom of two heavy based tumblers, throw in some sugar and crushed ice and top them up with Sagatiba, I think I’ve had about ten tonight but when I slide it to her and she takes a sip her reaction isn’t one of appreciation, “Jesus that’s sour!” I can’t help but laugh a little, “Yeah I know, sorry but you did ask for what I was having.” Here comes another look at me like I’m an immature kid, I get this one a lot. “Here pass it to me I’ll whack some more sugar in it.” She slides it across the bar and I fold another teaspoon of Demerara into the mixture and flick it back to her. Twenty minutes later and the drinks are all but gone, she sits there swilling the crushed ice around the bottom of her glass with a straw and slurping up the remnants of alcohol which mix with the water at the bottom. I’m resting on my elbows leaning so far across the bar I could literally poke my tongue out right into her mouth, in fact once I realise that it’s the only thing I can think about. I reach under the bar and flick out the main lights, it leaves only the dim bulbs overhead with their exposed filaments. “How about I get you home then?” It’s not so much a question as a cue to leave, but she already knows that. “I hope you don’t plan on sending me back in a taxi all alone,” she replies as she turns, stands up and takes two long paces to meet me as I duck out from the bar. She plants one on me, not on the lips but just a soft, lingering kiss on my cheek joined by a gentle scratch of her long fingernails down the opposite side of my face. I feel a chill run up my spine and am grateful for my shirt which hides the wave of goose-bumps sweeping my skin. “I’m not sure I could take the rejection you know.” I can feel her warm breath on my neck, I’d have her right here if it wasn’t for the cameras I’ve just had installed. “No I was thinking we could probably take my car,” I say. “How are we going to do that? You’ve been drinking all night.” “Years and years of practice, darling,” and simple as that we make our way out. The street is that odd mixture of grey and orange which is unique to London, there are no stars, no moon, just the glow of street lamps and the smell of the day’s exhaust fumes. It’s truly sublime.

Since arriving at her apartment certain facts have become clear to me. Firstly from some photos and substantial tourist tack I’ve gathered that Daddy’s run away to South East Asia, probably to spend the rest of his days battling the onset of impotence with girls (hopefully anyway) far younger than his daughter. This does however make me feel slightly better about myself, given the current situation. And secondly that after screwing her all over this apartment I need to make a swift exit before the real drama starts pouring out. They say it takes one to know one but from the second I walk in here the self loathing of this girl is painfully obvious, I almost feel guilty. From the enormous corner unit leather sofa, to the giant plasma screen in the corner all tied together by lights with low wattage bulbs, old magazines strewn around and the general sense of vapid Ikea emptiness. Nothing detracts from the general sense of seclusion in here, it’s a fucking cave to put it bluntly. Walking in was like the descent into a seedy East London strip club, bad lighting, stale smell and questionable company. On the upside she is beautiful, even in this light I can see every perfect little curve of her body as she casts a seamless line from head to toe, an exceptional feat for a girl with legs as long as hers. She’s wearing tight, leg hugging jeans and a loose, golden top which is made from a fabric so fine that from certain angles it allows me to see right through to her underwear. We haven’t spoken more than three words to each other since we left my place. Which is fine by me, I don’t think either of us has hugely high or long term expectations for what’s about to happen. Maybe it’s just for the company, maybe the thrill of an older man for her, maybe just to feel so close to somebody for a split second that it makes the whole thing actually worthwhile to me. As we enter the lounge she bends down to pick up the remote from the sofa and clicks on the TV which pops and crackles as it comes to life. I take a step behind her and run my fingers softly-slowly up her side all the way to the back of her right ear. I feel her body quiver lightly under my touch, see the fine hairs on her arms standing on end in the pale light of the television set. The remote drops from her hand to the sofa and she joins a hand to mine, turning as she does in another beautiful fluid movement. In the soft blue light from the screen I can see she has the type of eyes that stop you dead in the street. That type of eye that’s so piercing that they seem blaze a trail into your innermost thoughts. Cutting right through all of my bullshit. But then she kisses me and I can forget about the lies which I’ve told her already and will no doubt tell her again before the night is out. Like about how I know how she feels, or how I’ll be there for her to talk to if she needs it, I don’t and I won’t. I’m not going to take her to breakfast in the morning, or be present for it. If everything goes to plan I’ll be out of here before sunrise and then never see her again.

She kisses me like she’s trying to take my head off, fingers through the back of my hair and nails clawing down the nape of my neck, somehow she must have known I like that, those eyes maybe. All seeing

chrispdhoweDaddy's Gone • Opuss № I