by Joe Stretch
‘Erm . . . how is your acting career going? Have you thought about film?’ he says.
The celebrity explodes once more, squirming about on the bed, laughing uncontrollably, messing up the sheets, clutching her stomach. ‘Hahahahahahahaha.’
‘The progression from TV to film can be made,’ continues Justin. ‘Look at Robin Williams, or George Clooney.’
‘Hahahahahahahaha.’
Justin sits down on the bed beside the celebrity. He places a hand on her shoulder, which rocks and vibrates along with her cackling mouth. ‘Please, celebrity,’ he says, his voice anxious and containing the untuned note of defeat.
‘Sorry,’ the celebrity replies, hands on each of its red cheeks, bracketing its gasping mouth.
‘What’s so funny?’ asks Justin, causing the celebrity to speak cautiously through her lingering laughter.
‘I didn’t like the way you took me to pieces. I have a past, you know?’
‘Yes, of course you do. Of course you have a past.’
‘You shouldn’t have done it. You made me look like a right tit.’
‘I agree. But all I wanted was to seduce and have sex with you. I wasn’t being political, I promise.’
‘I believe you. I feel sorry for us both.’
The celebrity pulls the duvet over its body. Justin discovers that his face has frozen into a hideously pulled and uncomfortable grimace. Like a smiling doll, fixed and nasty. He is trying to relax, jittering about on the spot, knees bending, bowels loosening. The poor, poor celebrity speaks.
‘Get undressed, Rudolf. Join me.’
‘Actually, my name is Justin.’
‘It’s all lies, of course, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it’s all lies.’
Justin gets undressed in a kind of crouching position, with a surprising sense of shame. As he slips under the duvet he’s confident that the celebrity would have been incapable of glimpsing his cock. Once in bed, Davine puts her arm around him and directs his head into her chest. Justin’s face finds comfort between her stone collarbone and the soft beginnings of her breasts.
‘Is that your . . .?’
‘Yeah, I’m afraid it is.’
‘Weird,’ says Davine, lifting up the bedsheets and peering down. ‘I didn’t think you’d be turned on.’
She can feel Justin’s erection tapping at her kneecap, although it doesn’t feel like a cock. It feels more like an object mislaid within the sheets, a mobile phone perhaps, or a vibrator.
‘The fact is, Davine, I can’t help but get hard. You’re naked and I’m such a boring boy.’
‘I understand. I’m famous, after all. And, of course, I have a vagina, or rather, but of course I have a vagina. And a childhood. I don’t know. I feel terrible.’
Justin places his fingers into the glued loins of Davine. There is a smell of sickly chemical, then the sound of a celebrity laughing uncontrollably, preparing to make love.
24
Rape Games
FRANK AND STEVE left Justin’s apartment about ten minutes ago. God knows why Steve came, the guy’s a wreck, he’s in no state to be conducting business. He is convinced that fashion is conspiring against him. That designers and retailers are creating and distributing clothes so fast that he’s drifting and drowning way out of fashion. He’s spending hundreds of pounds a day and his eyes are bloodshot. He can’t escape the feeling that he is faintly ridiculous, constantly behind the times, no matter how many new garments he buys.
He and Frank came round to Justin’s to collect the sex machine from Rebecca and to collect a ten-thousand-pound investment from Justin. After about an hour of deliberation, Steve chose to wear a trilby with red feathers in it and a T-shirt with the phrase ‘Rape Games’ written in geometric text across its front. The trilby is surely a classic piece of clothing and the fact that it has been relaunched by a leading male fashion house put his mind at ease. I’ll be in fashion all day with this hat, he reasoned. The T-shirt, he had hoped, would appear rather controversial. The words ‘Rape Games’ ought to suggest to the viewer that Steve is a hardcore and deeply brave young man. A man keen to buck social convention and reorganise the meanings of dangerous words. Steve left the house confident that he was in fashion.
But he can’t walk down a street nowadays without a giddy sense of unease. He’s scared to turn corners or cross roads, for fear that the act may trigger some hasty cycle of fashion. For fear he’ll find himself looking ridiculous. Frank had to reassure him at every step. ‘You look fine,’ he kept saying, as Steve dismantled the faces of passers-by, searching for signs of amusement.
They arrived at Justin’s at half past four; the transaction was fairly swift. Frank had met with Justin and Rebecca two days earlier and handed over the sex machine. He’d also discovered that Justin had money and had outlined his business plan for the sex machine. Justin agreed to invest, pending Rebecca’s opinion on the machine.
Rebecca was meant to keep the machine for a week, so she could really get to grips with it and see how it fitted into her life and her daily routines. But within hours of having the machine confiscated, Carly became irritable and began to shake. She’d been using it constantly since being discharged from hospital. After a day without it, she wouldn’t leave her room and started to sweat profusely. Last night she was crying and screaming for hours, calling out for the machine until the sun rose and she passed out through exhaustion. She is addicted to its love and cold turkey was impossible. There was nothing Steve or Frank could do to reassure her. So they came round to get it back, to apologise, to get the money.
‘So, how about my hat?’ said Steve the moment Justin opened the front door. The guy’s a wreck, he’d never even met Justin before. Justin stood at the door confused, thinking that the hat looked kind of poncey. A little gay.
‘The hat, the trilby? What do you think about it?’ Steve said again, pointing to it with a tense hand.
‘My name is Justin.’
Still confused, Justin held out his hand expecting to have it shaken. But instead Steve quickly undid the buttons on his jacket then removed it completely to reveal his T-shirt.
‘Rape Games,’ Steve said, pointing this time at the words displayed across his T-shirt.
‘Sorry?’
‘I’ve got “Rape Games” written on my T-shirt. Look, “Rape Games”. Don’t be alarmed, I’m hardcore.’
Steve was staring down at the text on his T-shirt, his mouth slightly open, the tip of his tongue visible like a dying dog. At this stage Frank interrupted; he squeezed his body around Steve and grabbed Justin by the hand.
‘Let me apologise for my business partner here; he’s having a few relationship difficulties.’
So anyway, the transaction went fine. Steve kept quiet as Frank got the ten thousand quid off Justin and had a private discussion with Rebecca about the sex machine. They left ten minutes ago. Right now Justin is giving Rebecca a scalp massage. He’s sitting on the edge of the sofa, she’s sitting on the floor between his legs, describing the machine.
‘The word to describe it is “fierce”, or I guess you might call it a “white orgasm”, or a wall of orgasm, or like being set in orgasm cement.’
‘Frank is a sleazebag and his partner’s insane,’ says Justin, kneading half-heartedly at Rebecca’s scalp. Rebecca is experiencing one of her confident days. She secretes self-esteem from all orifices. Words process along the conveyor belt of her tongue.
‘The most appropriate analogy is pain, it’s a lot like pain. At least, in its consistency and intensity. Imagine every bone in your body being broken extremely slowly, but it’s somehow enjoyable, extremely enjoyable. A disorientating pleasure that you can’t find your way out of, but you don’t mind.’
‘My hands are tired. Is this helping?’
‘Yeh, it’s heaven, keep going.’
Rebecca used the sex machine three times in the twenty-four hours she had it. On one occasion, Justin had been present, watching but not wanking. It was as he watch
ed her squirm and scream around the bedroom that he became certain that he should invest in the product. But Rebecca is adamant that the machine does not mark the end of their sexual experiment. She maintains that it’s not the answer.
‘I’m not even sure I’d buy one,’ she says. ‘It’s too much insofar as it’s too much pleasure, and too little insofar as it seems to have nothing to do with happiness. Even when it’s on and you want to scream with pleasure.’
The sex machine sorted out the problems Justin and Rebecca had been experiencing since his night with the celebrity. It made them equal, brought them back together as experimenters in sex. It’s only now, after Rebecca’s affair with the machine, that calm has been restored. He had a celebrity and she had a machine. One all.
Justin described the sex with the celebrity in the only way he could. He spoke rather vaguely about how it was like shagging a void. Fucking a myth. Discovering the vulgar truth behind the constructed beauty. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t at all like shagging a void or fucking a myth. It didn’t matter that it had been quite nice in the end, if a little emotional. But the fact is celebrity-shagging isn’t an answer, so Justin felt he should reassure Rebecca by pretending the sex had been shallow.
Justin stops massaging. He gets up from the sofa and walks to the window. It has been clear for a long time that Rebecca is falling in love with him. There is an unavoidable atmosphere when they’re together. It’s awkward. She’d attempted to make him jealous by flirting with the sex machine, but it hadn’t worked. Of course, he thinks Rebecca is beautiful and wonderful. In another world, he keeps thinking, we are lovers. If he stares hard at her living room walls, he can almost see beyond to where their doubles are making real life plans on the sofa. But the experiment is everything. The other worlds are just the other worlds.
‘I think we should go to the Antiporn rally on Saturday,’ says Rebecca, joining Justin by the window and trying to get him to give her a piggyback. ‘We should get that headmistress on her own and proposition her. If we could threesome with the leader of Antiporn, that’d be amazing.’
‘Would it?’ says Justin, refusing to grab her under her knees and bearing her weight with his shoulders instead.
‘Wouldn’t it?’ says Rebecca, sliding slowly down his back to the floor.
The two of them reconvene on the sofa where Rebecca demands that the massaging continues. Justin agrees, thumbing her neck with force. Rebecca’s sexual suggestions are increasingly unconvincing. They sound like ideas she’s had for the sake of it rather than for the sake of global joy. Justin has recognised this and is disappointed. He’d tried to hold her in place and protect her from love. But sadly, people love love. And Rebecca has wriggled free from Justin’s lovelessness. She wants a boyfriend. She is falling in love with him.
Justin turns his attention to Rebecca’s hair. This is love, he thinks. If love is anything, it’s running your fingers across chemical scalps.
‘We’re not going to try and fuck the headmistress, Rebecca. We’re going to go with Colin’s idea.’
‘Colin’s idea is ridiculous,’ says Rebecca, suddenly angry. She’s been arguing against Colin’s suggestion since it appeared on the site. Justin says nothing, just continues making small circles on her scalp with each of his fingers. ‘So, what?’ says Rebecca, her voice tinny with irritation. ‘You expect me to have a kid?’
‘I expect you to get pregnant and I expect you to have an abortion. I expect you to at least give it a try,’ says Justin softly, killing her with calmness. He feels the added blood pulsing through the veins of Rebecca’s head, it’s noticeably warmer. He stops massaging. Rebecca’s head drops back into his lap so he can stare right into the depths of her nostrils and at the extremities of her eyeballs, where they become red.
‘With you, Justin? Are you going to make me pregnant?’ she says, with the stretched and tortured eyes of a ghoul.
‘No, my love,’ he replies. ‘Colin is.’
25
Bleep Bleep Bleep
A DAY LATER, in the grim light of the Nude Factory, Johnny’s face is performing a foul grimace. The rolls of skin on his cheeks and forehead cast unfortunate shadows down his face. How did it come to this? For the third time in a minute, he demands confirmation that he lost his virginity to a prostitute. Rebecca adjusts the straps of her bra. Her breasts seem to titter within their satin cups. For the third time in a minute, she says: ‘All I’m saying, Johnny, is that you didn’t sleep with me that night. That me and Justin tricked you.’
‘Right, OK.’
‘Have you been using prostitutes, Johnny? Please say you haven’t.’
‘Well, how long have you been a stripper?’
‘A year. Have you been sleeping with prostitutes?’
‘I can’t say, Rebecca.’
It seemed perfectly normal to Johnny when he recognised the ring on the girl’s finger, as he handed her the Nude Token. It was a plastic emerald thing, exactly the same as the ring Rebecca often wears. His eyes scanned up her arm and over her shoulder. It came as no surprise when he found himself staring at Rebecca’s face. Oh, he thought, my friend.
He’d come into central Manchester for the afternoon. He’d woken up with this strange desire to buy a DVD and put his life back on track. He didn’t know what DVD he wanted; a film perhaps, or the complete series of a television comedy. But before he could even locate a shop he felt himself gravitating towards the Nude Factory. It felt like a ton weight was hanging from his cock. He got an erection. Had to put fists into his trouser pockets to hide it. He walked into the Nude Factory at about two o’clock, and it wasn’t long before he discovered that Rebecca worked there. But as I say, this seemed normal. Every attempt Johnny makes to enjoy an episode of illicit erotica seems to culminate in embarrassment. Usually when he encounters someone he knows.
So in the grained atmosphere of the strip club a few revelations are revealed. Johnny hadn’t slept with Rebecca. Johnny had indeed lost his virginity to a prostitute and Rebecca works part time as a stripper. But, of course, we knew all this already.
Rebecca doesn’t even entertain the idea of lap dancing for Johnny. His unexpected arrival at the Nude Factory is yet more evidence of man’s cloudy and horrendous imagination. The mystery of sexuality and personality, she thinks, as she rests her thighs on the stale banquette beside Johnny. Jesus, men are melted tar.
‘Look, Johnny, if you want to talk you’ll have to pay me. I’ll get bollocked otherwise,’ she says, folding her arms to block his view of her breasts.
Johnny hands Rebecca a handful of change, about five quid. He turns his body towards her and wonders what life was like in the sixteenth century.
‘So you tricked me,’ he says. ‘We never slept together?’
Rebecca nods with irritation. The manager, Marcus, is gesturing to her from beyond Johnny’s left shoulder. He wants her to unfold her arms. She does so reluctantly, then watches as Johnny’s gaze journeys down from her face, over her collarbone to her breasts. She sighs. So does Johnny. The two young people sigh.
‘You know, I came into town to buy a DVD,’ says Johnny. ‘I wasn’t certain what I wanted, but I felt sure that I could stand in front of the displays, look at the different products on offer and make a decision. I even felt sure that I could go home and watch it, put it in the DVD player and sit in front of it for a while, until it ended, I suppose.’
Johnny runs his finger over the space on his face where he wishes sideburns grew. But they don’t. He can feel the uneven texture of a pointless rash and the presence of a few wiry and isolated hairs. Staring at Rebecca’s boobs is no fun either; they remind him of crying. Her skin looks like clothing, her breasts simply accessories.
‘But I haven’t bought anything,’ he continues. ‘Apart from you, I suppose. I was hoping for a lap dance, or maybe not, maybe I wasn’t. I was hoping to get this thick cement out of my mind.’
‘Cement?’
Johnny seems to fall uncontrollably towards Rebecca
, but then halts decisively inches from her smirking cleavage. His eyes trace the arched journey of her bra. To be a bra, he thinks, yes, what a divine fate. The concept of happiness flits quickly through his mind, causing him to laugh, speak and long to weep.
‘I feel that if I were to sneeze, I might disappear into thin air. I feel like I’ll never be happy, just crap and frustrated. And, of course, I love you.’
‘Don’t cry, Johnny,’ says Rebecca, trying desperately to relate to Johnny’s puddle-like destiny. She puts a hand to his cheek, but he spasms and her fingers return to her knees. Johnny speaks again, his voice a weak squeal.
‘I shouldn’t be here,’ he says. ‘Earth, I mean. I shouldn’t be here. I don’t matter, that’s the way it is . . . Look at my thin wrists, do you ever look at my thin wrists?’
‘You’ve got lovely wrists.’
Quite suddenly, Johnny is up like a shot. As if he didn’t really want to leave but suddenly found his body propelling him towards the door and up the stairs, like the dregs of a drink being sucked up a straw. Rebecca gets to her feet and calls after him, but he’s gone. She can hardly run after him in her underwear.
So yes, Johnny runs. He’s running. He exits the Nude Factory and heads east away from Castlefield in the direction of Market Street. As he flies past a large toyshop, a huge woman staggers out holding an enormous wooden doll’s house. She laughs, at him? Surely not. He passes a pub (there are always pubs). The sound of football. Beery cheers and groans. Johnny carries on running. The streets are packed. He changes direction with each skip, avoiding collision. In the back of his mind he hopes Rebecca might be following him, chasing at full speed in her knickers and her high heels, screaming his name. That’s impossible, though; run on.
He tears up King Street. A man dressed in leather seems to have oil for hair. A woman with large teeth and the thatched head of a scarecrow pauses as he runs by, tibia conspicuous inside her suede calf. On Cross Street a bus drives by, containing a pinch of people.
