Dumbass society and its rumors.
I heard people are scared of clowns because they can't see what's underneath. Seriously? You shove processed food in your face and you don't care what's inside. And trust me, it ain't good. There's nothing scary about me underneath this getup, or most clowns for that matter. Scaremongering? Yes, it happens.
Besides, the thoughts inside my head are the thing you should be worried about. Mrs. Porter…oh yes.
A half-smile stretches across my lips.
I sit down on a blowup sofa. Mrs. Porter is rounding up the sprogs and placing them on the manicured grass before me. I silently thank her, giving her a nod. She ignores me and goes back to her work as the party hostess.
Bitch.
So here I am, twenty-two…yep, just counted. Twenty-two kids. Five are playing on their tablets and don't look up, even as they walk and sit down. Their eyes are glued to the screens at all times. This irks me a little. "Right ladies and gentlemen. My name is Bobollocks."
Inside my mind's eye, I laugh aloud. I can swear at kids and get paid in the process. None of the fucktard parents bat an eyelid. I wonder if I should change my name to Cunt the Clown and see if it gets the same nonchalant reaction. Hmmmm.
Hands up: who wants my job? No one? Fuck you then.
Anyway, where was I?
"Right ladies and gentlemen. My name is Bobollocks."
The reaction is zero. I can hear crickets and tumbleweeds from three streets away. Let's face it; no one wants a clown anymore. It's so 80's. Several of the kids look at me, disinterested, bored. I let it slide, what do kids know?
"Can any of you guess what I am?"
Again, silence. Then "Crap!"
A small girl in the back, who's lowered her iPad for a second, heckles me. First, I think, congratulations for breaking away from your brain-dimming technology. She's staring at me with a sneer. A pulse of revulsion seeps through my veins.
Then I have an idea.
"You." I say, pointing at the girl.
The sneer is replaced by worry, guilt, as if she's been told off for missing the toilet or something. Her face reddens and I feel tears are imminent. "You. Come up here."
After a moment, she stands up. A few parents clap, their faces bored. I see one looking at his watch. Placing the tablet on her seat, she walks to the front all forlorn and innocent. Yeah, right. We know she's the one who picks on kids at school. A prime bitch, a cheerleader in the making.
She steps before me. I look down at her.
Looking into her eyes, I see a pretty, sunshine-haired teenager who takes shit from no one. But, she falls in with the wrong crowd, gets a reputation, fucks the jocks and eventually, retires from school aged seventeen with twins and a mortgage. Her previous resolve fizzles away from peer pressure and her screaming kids. The jock father? Nowhere to be seen. She grows old, despising the world that took her youth from her when, in fact, she did this to herself. Just another person who blames the world for their own bad decisions. Blame is easy when you throw it around. This brings on two more kids who do the same thing as their mother. A vicious circle that dictates part of society and carries on for generations. It sickens me.
But there's only one cause for this.
The parents.
This is their fault. I look around and they aren't here today, not here to support their daughter. Probably at home fucking or smoking weed. Too much money will do that to you. I instantly feel sorry for the girl.
Which makes her perfect for my star attraction.
I come back to reality and smile at the girl.
"My, aren't you a pretty little girl. I bet you're the prettiest at this party." It's not a lie; she's an adorable kid, certainly the cutest amongst the throng of sprogs before me.
Her face lights up at the prospect of becoming the center of attention. I steal a glance at the kids and suddenly, they become interested in the guy in the stupid outfit. There's a shift in mood amongst the parents too. I smile inside.
So easy. Every time.
Ego. In everyone. In kids, it exists too. It's what makes social media so popular.
Kids used to be seen and not heard. Now it's both. There's a reason it was that way to begin with. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything against kids personally, but that doesn’t mean I have to like them. Or their actions. They can't help it.
But their parents can. Discipline.
I hand the girl a pink balloon and ask her to sit at the front. She does so, glancing back at her fellow partygoers with a 'look at me' smugness on her face.
I now have their full attention.
"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I'm Bobollocks."
"HELLO BOBOLLOCKS." The kids welcome me in unison.
***
The name burns my brain.
"Bobollocks," I whisper on my breath. The name is synonymous with pain, agony.
I haven’t uttered the name in three hundred and sixty-five days.
I nearly bring my latte back up. I place a gloved hand on my mouth to prevent a scene. I've come so close. I can't let Mr. Porter see me now. The whiff of vomit stings my nostrils and sends a burning sensation down my throat as it subsides.
I miss Buffalo Trace. I can’t drink it anymore.
A wave of nausea hangs around. I close my eyes (hidden behind sunglasses) and breathe slowly. Anyone watching will see a man looking down at the floor. Sweat beads my forehead and I manage to calm myself.
This is harder than I thought.
Which will make it much more satisfying.
Mr. Porter finishes his phone call. A waitress brings him a takeaway cup of coffee. I must have phased out when he ordered. He winks at the brunette and stares at her ass as she leaves. He steps off the veranda and walks down Bond Street.
This is my cue. I need to ensure my plan will work.
I leave a ten pound note under my cup and stand up.
I step off the veranda and follow.
Sixteen Months Ago
"Ever been fucked by a clown before?"
"Never…but there's always a first time."
Mrs. Porter unzips my jeans and takes my throbbing cock into her mouth. Her lips are cool, slick. They tighten around me, making me gasp. Her warm mouth makes me flinch and I arch my back. My red wig nearly topples from my head and I fast clamp it down with my right hand. I look in the mirror and realize I look like a dickhead with the combination of my white face, clown wig and normal clothing.
Mrs. Porter wanted this. I brought them specifically at her request. I thought she wanted a souvenir – sometimes they do – and obliged. I look at her curvy ass and realize she could have asked me to kick God in the balls and I would have done it.
I look down and see her brunette head bobbing back and forth, sucking me, and bringing me close to orgasm. She's wearing the white top, the one from the party, the one that displays her assets so delightfully. Today, I notice she isn't wearing a bra. A glance down and I see a dark, erect nipple jutting against her shirt. Her black skirt is tight against her ass, her butt cheeks clench as she sucks me.
I wonder if she's wearing panties.
She stands up and wipes her lip. It's possibly the most seductive thing I've ever seen. She smiles and rolls her tongue along it, liking my taste. "Well?"
I narrow my eyes. "Yes?"
"Bend me over. I want you inside me. Now."
She arches over the dresser beside her. I notice the money there, my fee for the party. She asked me to come back and collect when her husband was away. I didn’t click as to why until I got here, sans the clown outfit, and saw her. She had a relaxed poise to her walk, totally and utterly different to the party. She looks…comfortable, confident, different without her husband ruling with his iron fist. I thought she was a bitch at first but maybe I was wrong.
No, I was right; she is a bitch. A hot, horny bitch.
She pulls her skirt up, revealing her tanned buttocks, her smooth thighs and her pierced slit. She bends over, spreads her le
gs wide and a finger slides over her wet clit, beckoning me. She moans in pleasure and looks back at me, over her shoulder. "I want you to ruin me."
My cock slides in effortlessly. Her tight cunt is wet and slick, she groans as she pushes back onto me, coating me in her sex. She thrusts several times and I feel my orgasm building.
After all, I wanted her at the party.
I never imagined this would happen.
I feel her tighten around me, reach back and grab my head. I lean in, kissing her neck, running my hands up her shirt. I cup her breasts and her nipples are rock hard, pushing against my palms. She grabs my left hand and slides it between her legs. I feel her smooth, downy hair, her piercing and her soft cunt. She gasps and shudders, her first orgasm taking her. She shoves back on me, swallowing me deep inside her. "Fuck me, FUCK ME. Oh God, I'm going to come…FUCK."
I remain silent, breathing heavily in her ear. I smell her scent. A trace of vodka on her breath would normally worry me. Her perfume is faint, as if she didn’t apply any today. I bend her over for a final thrust and she knocks the photo of her husband to the ground. It shatters. She doesn’t stop. I notice white smears on her neck from my face paint. I slide deep and she screams, biting her arm to restrain the noise.
She shudders again and I release inside her, filling her with my seed. She closes her legs, pinching my cock. We fall forward in a spent heap.
Then she laughs. I pull out, exhausted and fulfilled. For a second, I remember her husband and I smile in my mind's eye.
No more than he deserves.
Might be a bit harsh. But he treated me like shit.
She shuffles her skirt down her smooth thighs and smiles. She looks at me, her eyes appreciative. "Hmmm…that was a great fuck. My husband doesn’t fuck me like that anymore. Hasn’t done in years. Your cock is bigger too. I think you tore me."
I smile and buckle my jeans. "Tell you a secret?"
She nods. "Sure."
"I've wanted to do that since the party. I watched you, wanted you. I even imagined you fucking me with your husband tied to a chair as he watched me fuck you." I ruffled my shirt, making sure the creases were gone.
Mrs. Porter came over to me and pulled my chin up. Her glorious brown eyes mesmerized me. She licked her lip and I noticed her fingers are still slick. "You fuck me like that twice a week, and I'll make sure you get the best parties. I know the richest kids, the richest mothers. You do their parties and do me in return. Think of me as your business pimp. You fuck me, I make you rich."
I nodded. "So, I'm your whore?" She nods, running a finger over her exposed breasts. I must have torn the shirt without realising. "Sure. Why not." Mrs. Porter smiled and sat on the dresser. She raised her skirt again and starting sliding a finger inside her. She moaned. "Now, round two."
I realized buckling my jeans was a waste of time.
Who would have said no?
***
Mr. Porter heads to the local Premier Inn.
Unusual, but expected. You see, Mr. Porter is a serial adulterer. It's basic logic. He has a new hot wife at home, back in the states – I'll get to that soon enough. Marriage for him is an image, the family unit that makes his business thrive. However hot his new wife is, he doesn’t fuck her. Answer? He must be getting it somewhere else.
And I know where.
I've followed him here seven times in a row, seven days after work.
I don’t have anything to do. I don’t work anymore. I'm a former clown. Bobollocks – the name still makes me shudder – is no more. Mrs. Porter made me rich with her deal. The best sex I've ever had and I got paid good money for it. From my clients, of course. I managed to stash a little nest egg away until…that…
No, I'm not ready yet.
The timing is everything.
I don’t know his personal situation but I imagine it goes something like "Honey, I have a business trip, big business, two weeks in good ol' Blighty." His wife drinks herself into a stupor as he fucks his way around London. His son grows up without a father figure or his real mother, only keeping in touch via cellphone and social media.
How long until his dad appears on Facebook in a compromising position?
Now I know he deserved it. Treating his family like this.
He has to be stopped.
I walk into the lobby of the Premier Inn and bypass reception, heading to the lifts. I walk past Mr. Porter, who’s chatting on his phone once again. I scan the room and find out why. There's a hot blonde standing by the vending machines. She shoots him a glance and a nervous smile.
Does the phone trick work?
Seriously?
How low has society stooped to be impressed by a phone conversation? A fake one at that!
The lift doors close as the woman approaches Mr. Porter. I close my eyes, fighting my headache. In case you were wondering, Mr. Porter wouldn’t recognize me without the makeup. As mentioned, I'm wearing glasses and a scarf too. Just a normal guy, no hint of a clown remains.
Time for a lie down, me thinks.
I exit the lift and step to my door. Always get the room closest to the lift. Easy escape. I once heard the best room is furthest from the lift, in case someone wants to kill you. I think an assassin once said that.
I'm no assassin. However, Mr. Porter is going to die tonight.
One Year Ago
White-hot agony paralyses my body. The baseball bat crunches into my rib cage. I feel something pop, and I suddenly feel sick. Was it a rib snapping or an organ exploding from impact? I have no time to consider this as a large boot crashes into my face, dislodging my painted jaw and breaking four teeth. They patter on the concrete below me.
I look up at the two men attacking me and notice a third in the background. He's standing there, observing. Like a movie cliché, he ignites a cigarette and the lighter catches the evil smirk on his face. I recognize him immediately.
Mr. Porter.
I moan, blood dribbling from my swollen, lipstick covered lips. I look at my bare right arm, the sleeve was ripped off during the initial scuffle, and notice the ulna has pierced my skin, shredding it into ragged mincemeat. Blood oozes from the wound, staining the rest of my clown outfit. I move the arm, pain seizes me, and I notice the skin is flapping around the exposed bone.
I gag and vomit spews from my mouth, burning my throat and the cuts on my lips. One of the unknown men stands on my broken arm, pinning me. I howl in agony.
Mr. Porter moves in close and bends down before me. His face is one of quiet rage and smugness. His long black coat lends him the image of a Mafia hood. His shoes look expensive, the shine from the dim streetlights bounce off them. I look beyond him and see the rain in the light. It's beautiful. I snap back to reality. The smug face smiles.
He looks just as I remember him.
"Bobollocks…I never did like that name."
I say nothing. How does he expect me to respond?
"You think you can come into my home and fuck my wife? Huh? You think I will let that happen. My wife is my property, my asset. If you fuck her, you need to pay rental fees, back payments. Shit, you need to start paying now. Since you don’t have a penny to your name, I will have to take it out on you. Personally."
I sigh a little. Mrs. Porter didn’t give me up. He doesn’t know about the arrangement. I instantly decide that, if I make it out of this alive, that Mr. Porter is going down. I will kill the smug, overzealous cunt with my bare hands.
If I survive.
I suddenly want to. It burns inside of me.
I've never wanted anything more.
Then my cranium smacks the concrete where Mr. Porter punches me straight in the head. My red nose bounces off my face and lands in the trash beside me. The nose is replaced by real red as blood seeps from my nostrils.
Mr. Porter circles me. I think he's been watching too many gangster movies. "Now, you know my wife was partial in this too. It takes two to tango, so to speak. I know what she's like. Dressing provocatively, acting like a bitch. I
t drives men wild. You don’t think I noticed at my son's party, did you?"
My eyes narrow. Son. Detached from his kid much? What happened to Jamie?
Mr. Porter is looking at me. "Well, I knew. Nothing gets past me. People think I made it rich by getting lucky. They're wrong. I made it rich by being smart."
I still say nothing. I don’t give him the satisfaction.
"You're quiet. Nothing to say? Hey, Bobollocks, I'm talking to you."
He slaps me. Blood spins away from my face. I look him in the eyes and remain silent. He smirks at me. "You know something? My wife claimed you raped her. That's right; she blamed it all on you. Now, I don’t judge but I knew that you, Bobollocks, are a weak fucking human. You don’t have the guts to rape someone. If she presented herself on a plate though…well, different story altogether."
I spit blood on the ground and smile. My wig is sodden with the light rain. I feel makeup and sweat running down my face. Mr. Porter becomes agitated by this. He turns to one of his men, the one with the baseball bat and whispers something. The man walks out of the alley. For the first time, I notice a limousine parked in an alcove. The red taillights illuminate the small space, casting a red glow over everything.
I hear a scream and Mrs. Porter comes into view. She's battered and beaten, wearing only a bra and panties. Her skin is slick with sweat. I notice a large amount of blood on her thighs. I feel my heart beat a bit faster but remain calm. I feel I should react in some way, to defend this woman who's practically been my lover for the past five months, but I don’t know this man. He seems psychopathic. He grabs his wife by the hair, which is scraggly and knotted, and throws her towards me.
The guy has lost it.
Mrs. Porter walks back towards her husband. "Don’t do this to me. He raped me, I told you this? Get him away from me."
This doesn’t offend me. The woman knows this man better than I do. She seems scared. I feel this should worry me somewhat, but all I care about is surviving.
Mr. Porter laughs. "Lies. All lies. You know you fucked him on your own accord. Why lie, you know I know the truth." Mr. Porter turns his back on his wife.
Whispers - Volume 1: A Collection Page 15
