Desolate, windswept East coast, seagulls, crashing of waves, wind.
Beth You good? I were asked.
I’m good. Came reply.
So him, he’s outside ain’t he? Lingering. Can’t says I fancy that in a bloke but
lingered he did. And that’s how we first met. Monitoring me like some sad
stain pants Perv. He liked us young and not particularly legal.
I mean we’re easy prey, aren’t we? Alone, vulnerable, excluded as the
system demands we should. The scraping of barrels long since discarded.
Them placed miles from home. Forgot. This particular barrel were once all
pine crisp. I, like many others, fall through safety net. A private net no longer
fit fer purpose. A net offering giddy premiums fer banked out, carefree,
careless, smugged up Baby Boomers. Recall a day when security came
paedo, interest free? I don’t. Security? A word rarely seeing light of day in
yer gloss Blonde Tory Front Page LieFest. An as red walls crumbled, an Food
Banks prospered, woke millions never awoke. No son or daughter ever ad a
I reckon a net should catch but like the unfortunate Alice I just fell. Only my
innsy weensy rabbit hole offered up no juicy jam tarts or wicked Queen of
Hearts. No croquet wi hedgehogs neither.
Did I want the trappings? He said. The trainers ? The cash? The gear? Of
course I wanted the trainers, the cash, the gear. My personal Holy Trinity.
It were a little dented an in no way bespoke. But off we set nonetheless. Me,
in a car wi a man much older. The road where he were to take us were flat.
Right flat. Through the fuckin flat flatness Fens we drove. It were well into
winter then, an heavyweight clouds crouched as low as to be touched wi a
solitary outstretched finger. An outstretched finger that were soon to enter
my young virgin cunt an outstretched soft youth legs. A cunt yet to be
furnished wi either skin or spunk. Until now. Blood came.
Snow fell, effecting a tender biscuit tin pretty dusting. Like mums we may
have had did of a Christmas past - sprinkling their subtle touches and
flourishes onto a cake so fresh warm baked. Currants, an raisins, an Such
Glad Tidings. A sixpence to be found as once were. Innocence. A Kodak shot.
Cuddle memories. Now a different kind of shot came. Barrister. Court. Video
relay. A single descending scale in a minor key.
The bedroom were tiny. Two crushed singles together. So he could. And did.
At 14. Plasma on a cheap shit self-assemble plays 57 channels of raw
sewage, an interspersed wi im inside, a parable of home furnishings are
offered at agreeable rates. This I note each individual thrust. Cosy, easy pay
installation. Those who Black Friday passed can park their precious arses on
interest free, made to measure sofas, finding the perfect mauve luxury fer
Netflix love. Final thrust. Done.
He pulls on his boxers and goes fer a piss. Our accommodation is not
ensuite. I peer out the flock curtain windows an see grey tiles sweating cold
cobs onto rusting gutters. A magpie drinks, or pecks, or whatever magpies
do. He returns. Has had his piss an me his load. Never imagined how so
much would leave.
We have breakfast. Uncomfortable, as I’m his ‘daughter’. Braindeadblognod
Brit landlady don’t twig. We have our toast. White. Eggs. Fried. Coffee
comes in chipped mugs. Flash. He places my hand on his crotch. Nice. It
After shag an toast, hand in hand we walk on beach. Fuck, were it ever cold?
Check ten unanswered calls. ‘Ever had a bloke in your mouth?’ He asks. He
kisses. An I him back. I stare out to sea and sky. We hold.
Beaches, as I remember, were warmer back then, the time when I last sat on
a beach. Sounds of sunlight, an mum, an sis, an hugging, an all through
tanned up before September again an school. Bleached hair from rays,
stomachs filled to brim wi hotdogs, pizza an slim yellow taverna fries. Steady
wi salt mum would implore.
Back in room. Stomach now replete wi summut less appealing. I’ll take care
of you, he said. I were entered again. Soft furnishings still on offer. But not
He kips. Go back to dunes. Wind’s up. Slightly brighter. Rain due. Imagine
goldness an dolphins. Them all squeaky such, wi happy smiley teeth, leaping
an jumping, all freedom, bouncing balls on their spouty noses. Brisk. Face
ripped slight by North Sea abruptness. I wonder.
Virgin cunt and mouth misplaced. At 14. Mixed up. Warmth given I never
had. Or did. But then. Not now, when most wanted.
Youth legs open, outstretched. To repeat. Light blue latex on a lady’s hand.
Rank stale semen record extracted.
June. A different year.
Elsewhere. A different town.
Aristo types in Mozart wigs parade manilla files wrapped tight, official, in
pressed red ribbon.
Gave us name. Said I loved him. Mad. Knew other. Scared like fuck.
So I paused and looked straight into focus.
An darkness fell about me head, collapsing, suffocating, drawn, dead, past
Fancy turning tricks? A man enquired.