“Your stalker is here,” Charlie shouts in my ear, the sweat dripping from his hair as he swirls past, only briefly stopping to tug at my shirt and wriggle his hips in front of me. Charlie, he’s a mate. He’s not my friend, not my bestie or anything like that. We hardly even text during the week, but he’s become someone I hang out with when I go out at the weekends, almost like a safety blanket or a weird kind of... bodyguard? Perhaps.
I blush even thinking the words in my head as I clumsily shake my hips, pretending that I am having a good time. I’m not... in case you are wondering. The bizarre thing is that I had been looking forward to tonight, all buzzing with excitement. Now? It’s like someone has pulled the plug on the party guy inside me and, instead, has left me with a gaping hole of fear and longing for something I don’t quite understand. I’ve done this a million times, got drunk and gotten off with some stranger, and lived to tell the tale. I look good, I’m dancing and I’m safe, and not too drunk yet. I should be having a fantastic time.
Safe. I am rarely safe. And I am certainly not having a good time. Not anymore. I am bored. Miserable. Lonely. Single and hating it. Not that I have ever had a relationship worth remembering. A few good men who I let use me, and sometimes even abuse me, until I got myself sorted out and moved on. Then I moved here and decided to stick to hookups and one-night stands. Looking back at the past year? I don’t have anything to show, apart from memories of unmemorable encounters and endless weeks of work. Hardly something to put on Facebook. What a year. Not!
Chistleworth, my current home, is a small quaint town on the outskirts of the glorious city of Manchester. I was born there, and now, I have become part of its posh commuter belt that Chistleworth prides itself on being called. It’s full of middle-class families and newly built gated communities. A few footballers and high earners adding to the celebrity status that the town tries to sell itself as. In reality? It’s a bit of a dump with a high street riddled with boarded-up shops, overpriced coffee shops, and hairdressers claiming to be some kind of celebrity haunts.
I’ve met a few of those local celebs because from Monday to Friday, I am a respectable car salesman, flogging cars to customers with more money than sense. That’s where the respectable comes from since I flog high-end cars, often with hefty price tags, and even heftier customisation bills. People with money want it to show, and if I whisper that there are things we can add to make their new car stand out in a crowd? People salivate with need and greed and hand me their money. Yet at the weekends? I become just as bad as the customers I ridicule behind their backs. I become a different person—someone I don’t think I like very much anymore. Charlie would slap me if he heard me talk like that. He’s all about sexual liberation and treating life as a smorgasbord of partners. He always thinks he’s found the one, every single weekend. Then he gets dumped by Wednesday, and on Thursday he’s planning our next night out. The fool.
So what? We’re both young, free and pretty. At least, that is what I try to tell myself. Young-ish, perhaps. I do realise that in a few years I will start to look my age, and I probably won’t be carded every time I try to buy a drink. I’m twenty-eight, but I look... well, young. I’m slim and pretty, and I look after my skin. I wax and prune and trim in all the right places, and the bleached-blond streaks in my now-floppy fringe are usually gelled to perfection during office hours, accompanied by a sleek suit and tie. I look good in a suit. I look even better in a ripped shirt, skinny jeans and boots. Charlie calls it my Fuck-me outfit. I call it showing off my assets, and a good pair of jeans is usually a sure thing to guarantee a happy ending to any night out.
You see, not only am I good at my job, but I kind of pride myself on being good at reading people too. I stay away from the creeps. No Leather-Daddies, no burly Bears, no weird kinky shit. No thanks. I just want someone to have sex with, and who, for a few hours, will make me feel good. On my terms. It’s not too much to ask, is it?
Except... it’s December, and everyone is out for their Christmas parties, and the club Charlie and I are in is... well... the crowd is always the same. Chistleworth is a small town, and the Eden is the only club catering to the LGBTQ+ community. It’s also nearing midnight, and so far, my night has been a complete bore.
“Where?” I shout back, knowing full well where the guy Charlie is talking about is sat. He’s by the bar on a stool at the end, where he always sits. And yeah, there he is. Right where I expected him to be. Built like a brick house, full of muscles and veins, and his short-cropped brown hair, slick with gel. He obviously works out and doesn’t drink, which is again part of the theory Charlie and I have, that the guy only comes here to stare at me and drink water. Because that is what he does, every freaking weekend. Turns up around eleven, obviously straight from his work-out, wearing a vest top and joggers. The club has a strict dress code, but obviously, this guy gets away with wearing whatever he fancies with no trouble from the burly bouncers on the door. Instead, he sits at the stool at the end of the bar and chats to whoever is working, drinks several glasses of water, and is always staring at me whenever I look over towards where he is sitting.
That part is creepier than that kinky Daddy hookup from a few weeks back, the one that I would rather forget. And I can tell you now, I have had quite a few of those because that’s apparently the kind of guy I attract. Someone who will look after me and pamper me and treat me right and fuck me to kingdom come. Then after a while, the kinky stuff comes creeping out, and I end up grabbing my pants and running for the door.
I sometimes make mistakes. I sometimes pick creeps. Then Charlie has to drag me away before I shout something rude and insensitive to them and start a fight. Because I’m usually a little bit drunk, a little bit emotional, and very much stupid when I go out. Hence, I go out with Charlie to make sure I get through the night in one piece and hook up with someone who won’t beat me up, nor want me to pretend to be something I am not. Charlie doesn’t attract people like that, not with his freckled face, checked shirts and weird red hair. He’s stupidly cute with curves in the right places and his head screwed on right—well, most of the time.
Charlie is the eternal student, who can’t seem to settle on a job or a career, so he just floats around in life like a weird little boat without an anchor. I have no idea where he gets his money from, but he was quoting Plato earlier, something about the two of us being part of a crew of fools. All dancing to the same beat, but nobody actually doing something to further themselves in life. Ship of fools, I think he said. The whole crew trying to steer the boat, but nobody having the slightest idea of what they are doing. To be honest, Charlie and I are somewhat like that. Charlie spouts a load of rubbish that I don’t understand, then he just laughs at me and keeps dancing. Me? I go along with it because I have no idea what else I should do on a Friday night. So, we carry on drinking as he hands me another shot of something green and sticky. We clink our glasses, and he laughs before turning around and sticking his tongue down some guy’s throat. Someone I have never seen before, but hey, I’m going to get drunk. I’m out dancing. I will have a good time tonight. I down the shot, the alcohol burning through my body, a warm river of false comfort soothing my throat.
I’m a total fool, I know that.
That is why, an hour or so later, I find myself swaying across the dance floor and throwing myself, not elegantly, onto the stalker guy’s lap. Because it’s getting late. Because I’m drunk. And because he is there, staring at me again across the dance floor and I’ve figured?
“Wanna fuck?” I shout into his ear, over the thumping music.
I half expect the stalker guy to drag me off into a corner, and fuck me there and then, the way his breath hitches and his nostrils flare.
“No, thanks,” he says, lifting me off his lap, and putting me back down on the floor like I weigh nothing. “No. No. No, thanks, mate.”
“Blow job?” I pout, trying to look cute and disappointed. Somewhere on the inside, I feel a pang of shame. I shouldn’t do anything wi
th this guy. Here I go again. He’s not my type and the kind of guy who fits the mould of exactly what I should avoid in situations like this. He’s big. Burly. Scary and sober.
He doesn’t say anything back. Instead, he just looks at me with a face full of pity, and perhaps, a pinch of disgust, maybe sadness, what do I know?
It’s probably for the best anyway, I think to myself as I order another drink and let myself fade into a stupor.
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This Thing With Charlie Page 11
