“ID.” The bald prick at the door muttered. He looked like a bad mixture of cocaine and weightlifting. His choice in tattoos was questionable, with the cliche 90’s tribal tattoo running down his girthy neck below his black polo – I knew from a glance that he regretted having it scrawled into him permanently but I doubted that was his deepest disappointment.
I handed over the little pink rectangle with a government-approved example of my countenance in its worst possible state. Not that I was ugly or anything; ID photos just… always have a way of fucking up. Without so much as a glance to me, he muttered a monosyllabic expression of approval and nodded his head to the side to indicate my entry. It had been my go to bar since I found it, just off Queen Street nestled between a tea place unironically named ‘Boston tea party’ and an overpriced chain hairdressers. It was secret, out of the way - my own little hideout for like-minded individuals.
I pushed the door open slowly under its weight and felt the warmth and humidity from within juxtapositioned against the crisp cold of the outdoor air. The thumping music growing clearer the more the entry opened, clearing from ambiguous noise into something more tonal and discernible. After paying a fiver to get my hand stamped, I went down the old stairs underneath a winding set of stairs outdoors into the cavern proper and propped myself up against the bar waiting to be served. There was a band already playing, just starting their set. Black Foxxes they called themselves. It seems they’d just undergone some reformation with a new drummer and bassist.
The air down there was palpably moist. With so many sweaty bodies adding to the humidity it felt like I was swimming through their thick breath and stale beer that refused to move from the wooden floor where it had dried into a sticky substrate. Down beyond the rows of tables and reclaimed church pews I could see the band lit in unnatural red and purple hues next to the arched brick entryway into the other room.
The lady serving the bar was already a few people deep so I’d have to wait a little before getting my drink. I took the time to scan the surroundings for any familiar faces. It was largely white university kids here but a few middle aged folks too. There was a sweet irony behind this being the place I most wanted to blend in, and yet I still stood out on account of my skin. You can’t choose your family, they say. I wouldn’t change them, but I would be my own person no matter what they tried to decide for me. These were better days at least; and thank fuck this wasn’t America.
“What’ll you have, love?” the barmaid finally asked me. I turned my head and gave her an upward nod of greeting.
“Ah, give me a gin and tonic.” I answered, scanning the bottles on the back bar. “Tanqueray. Best make it a double.”
“Double Tanqueray.” She repeated. I slapped down a crumpled orange tenner on the bar to be greeted moments later with my drink. She smacked the till a few times and scooped up my change before immediately moving onto the next punter.
Now to get the night started. I took a deep sip and savoured the tang and fizzle subsiding into floral delight upon my tongue before pacing up closer to the stage past some of the tables to join the sea of bobbing heads under the hellish lights.
I sipped and bobbed to the music, taking in the sounds and sights laid before me. I listened to the words the band had to say. They were angry, disappointed at the world they’d been born into. Sad that things had come to this. Things were bad, sure. Things can always be better, but perfect is an unobtainable subjective ideal. Things being better was a proverbial carrot on a stick that at least led us to greener pastures even if the pursuit of perfection was moot.
I hadn’t noticed how close the crowd had gathered and found myself bumping into some girl who’d gotten too close. I looked over to see what the vague nudge was and she did the same. We locked eyes in that instant and a I got a good look at her face.
She was a typical grunge looking girl, plaid shirt, heavy mascara, black hair pouring out of her beanie. I’d seen plenty of girls like her before and they’d always been interesting. Far better than any basic bitch with her Uggs and Pumpkin spice starbucks drink. There was a twinkle in her eyes beneath that dark mascara like shooting stars on a clear night. Her skin was clear and visibly plush and her jaw swooped down to a softened point – she was beautiful.
“Sorry.” We both muttered in unison. She took a second and shot me a shy smile, just a small upward curling of her glossed lips. I returned the sentiment.
I’ve got to do something. I thought, counting down the seconds until the exchange became unbearably awkward.
It was too late. She’d already turned to face the band again, resuming her bobbing and assimilating back into the crowd. Fuck. Shit. Idiot.
Nothing for it. It was too loud to have a conversation there and then anyway, and the time between songs was too short. It would have to wait. I sipped and bobbed like a champion, the music coursing through me. Each hit on the drum reverberated through my body and every word spoke to my soul.
It wasn’t long until my drink was empty. I waited for the song to end and removed myself from the pulsing crowd, pushing my way back to the bar. She was already there.
Ok, be calm. What would Susie Dent do? I searched the recesses of my mind for a Susie dent quote for this particular situation. “I’ve been a worrier for as long as I can remember” was all that came to mind. Bugger. Thanks for nothing, Susie.
“Sorry about before.” I said, moving up to the bar behind her. “What’s your poison?”
She glanced over to me as she leaned against the sticky counter. “You know you don’t have to buy me a drink just because you bumped into me.”
“No, but I have to buy you a drink because I want to.” I answered.
“I can by my own drinks, you know?”
“But free ones always taste the best, no?”
She smirked again. Not a full blown smile, but it seemed that was her go-to. I could tell so much about her just from her actions, her words. Her smile.
“Alright. Fine. Vodka Cran.” She finally answered. The bar woman came and we received our drinks, but didn’t seek out the crowds this time, we just talked. We talked and talked about everything to the point that we’d forgotten there was even a band on. People came and left and there we stood chatting away. She was a student in the molecular biology course at the Streatham Campus, I explained I were studying history. There was a lot to learn about the world today from how it used to be.
It wasn’t long after that before we left, walking your way down Queen’s street laughing to each other and learning more about the other party. She’d claimed her favourite cereal was crunchy nut, but everybody knows that’s just Frosties for wankers.
We both took a quick swing into the local McDonalds, lining up behind the unwashed masses of students who stunk of beer and instant noodles. With burgers in hand it was time to head home.
“You know I have Paul Sinha on my phone? I can call him right now.” You boasted, whipping it out to show her the number.
“Why would you even have him on your phone?” she laughed. “You do have google, you know.”
“But he’s a biological google, he knows everything. He probably knows why people were still voting Trump.”
This one got her hard, she bent over backwards laughing heartily. Not like before, her mouth was fully open. It was infectious, and I couldn’t help but laugh along with her.
“I live just up here.” I said, pointing off into the murky auburn-hued distance. “I have some booze at home if you want to keep going.”
“Got any weed?” she asked. I didn’t. It was hard to find around here and you didn’t have a dealer after your last one got busted.
“Nah, my guy got locked up. We need to learn from Justin Trudeau and just legalise it already.”
“Good job I do.” She grinned, giving me a playful wink and pulling out a dime bag from inside her leather jacket.
I took her into my place, wishing you’d taken the time to clean up or at least spray some febreeze as you fiddled with the lock. There was a jacket tossed over the sofa and mugs and bowls piled up on the coffee table. An incessant dripping tap provided background ambience in harmony with the hushed sounds of passing cars. Student accommodation at its finest.
You threw your jacket onto the sofa so the other one wouldn’t be so lonely. You’d know where to find it when you needed it next. When you turned back to her she was already upon me throwing her arms around my shoulders and bringing her face close to mine. For just a second I caught a glimpse of the lust in her eyes before she pushed us both over onto the sofa.
Her lips were soft. Smooth. Delicate. They should make toilet paper like this. A prying hand reached behind her head, running through her hair and tossing away the beanie. It was so slick and gentle through your fingers. My tongue danced around hers, it was so much smaller. Rounder. I explored the inner cavity of her mouth, feeling the warmth and savouring the flavour of her. All of my senses were aroused, and she even smelled delicious; notes of vanilla and nutmeg with subtle lilac.
Without removing her lips from mine she pulled back slightly, working to remove her coat as she straddled me. A raging boner pushed through my jeans and there was no doubt that she felt it. Instinctively she began grinding back and forth as we made out and I raised my spare hand to wander from her rounded buttocks up past her curved waist and onto a breast, squeezing and moulding the soft tissue beneath. The damn bra was in the way.
I broke the kiss for but a second, whipping her t-shirt off to reveal a simple black bra beneath, covering two plump mounds that were perfectly matched. Not too big, not too small, they fit the rest of her perfectly.
Thankfully I didn’t need to remove the bra, she worked her magic in no time at all and tossed it onto the floor. She looked like something out of a masterpiece painting, a work of art. Stunned, I couldn’t stop my hand from moving up to touch her breast again. Her nipple grew hard and poked out into my hand for my fingers to toy with, tweaking it and twisting it until the drive for more became unendurable.
I took her breast into my mouth, sucking on her nipple and circling around it with my tongue while she writhed and moaned above me. She closed her eyes and remained grinding away against my turgid cock. Thrust, thrust, thrust. There were still too many layers of fabric between us.
I tried to unzip my jeans while still sucking on her tit, shuffling awkwardly beneath her. She did the same, unzipping her plaid skirt and rocking forward on her knees to try to remove it. A pair of black tights still clung to her and she attempted to wriggle out of them while I waddled the jeans from my legs, taking my boxer briefs with them.
She resumed her position and I rested my hands on the tapered part of her hips, gripping her pliable skin that ran like velvet beneath my fingertips. Warmth engulfed my cock, followed by distinct wetness. Again she grinded against me, running her labia against my dick with graceful ease. Her upper body barely moved but she leaned back as her hips rocked, pushing her breasts out into the air. The sensation was incredible. I needed more.
I grasped my penis and pointed it upwards, finding the entry to her body. She rocked up, and then back down onto it. Her mouth opened slightly and her eyes moved beneath closed lids, the feeling sounded out by a hushed moan.
Starting slowly at first she moved up and down the length of my shaft taking intermittent looks at my face below her with a heavy lust on her expression. The sounds of wet slapping echoed around the room coupled with deep moans and pants.
For a while everything was fine, but I felt myself getting close to cumming. I wasn’t ready for that yet – I wanted to enjoy myself a little longer. To enjoy her a little longer. I pulled myself out and rolled her over. She seemed a little startled, and a little confused as to what was going on. I took a position behind her and put myself back in, slamming my dick deep down inside her. I took one hand around her waist and another gripped her dark hair, wrapping it around the palm of my hand to take control of her. Her insides pulsed and seeped and beneath every slam she squealed now, gasping and gripping the fabric of the sofa.
Already half way there, it didn’t take long for me to finish up with a few final slams into her, my cock throbbing out wads of cum into her wet aching hole. We both panted heavily and she squeaked again at the sudden feeling of emptiness as I exited her.
“Holy shit.” She wheezed under her breath and I simply collapsed onto the armrest. Nice.