To celebrate National Short Story Week, Standard Issue is running a selection of short and (not always) sweet fictions. In this little delight, Lou Conran’s plucky heroine Lucy has a night to almost-remember.
Clutching the rim, Lucy projectile-vomited yet again into the china vessel, simultaneously farting so hard that her arse cheeks clapped with every retch.
It wasn’t the way she’d particularly have wanted to be remembered, but then this ‘date’ was doomed from the moment she’d met ‘whateverhisnamewas’ in a lap-dancing club.
She’d been away. For two years. What had started out as a brilliant plan to shake up her life by moving to Brighton had led to two years of misery in a temp job she hated and a series of bad sexual encounters, where she’d inevitably find herself pissed, thoughtless and sitting on a cock by accident.
On realising she couldn’t continue in this vein, she’d packed up her life and moved back to Manchester to start again, again.
Cut to her first night back, out on the lash with her old mate ‘Lesbo Sue’. She had several mates called Sue so it was just easier for the purposes of identifying them in conversations by giving them the label of what they actually were. ‘Bastard Sue’ wasn’t that keen on her name but again, it was factually correct and Lucy didn’t have the imagination to change it.
Lesbo Sue was so overexcited about Lucy returning to the homestead that she’d arranged a typical night out, like it was in the old days before Lucy had left her.
Cocktails, shots, a night of dancing, and Christ knows what: Lesbo Sue was Lucy’s ‘danger mate’. You know, the one that, regardless of whether you want a quiet drink, something, anything will happen, and on your own head be it.
Several pints later and a trip to the Gay Village for cheap shots, both in drinks and insults, they end up in Lovely Legs, the lap-dancing club for the working-man-slash-pissed-up-lesbian-and-her-mate.
She’d always found it really interesting meeting the ‘ladies’ that worked there, and loved finding out why they did what they did (and mainly what they did when they had their periods. Walking around in the buff with your string hanging out could never be that appealing to anyone, unless it was a ‘thing’ but she’d never heard of that before. Mind you, she’d never heard of rimming but more about that later.).
“And then she remembered. His name was Graham. He was ginger. And he did something with marketing? She was farting audibly in front of a man called Graham.”
“Here you go. Double gin,” said Lesbo Sue, passing her mate an enormous glass.
“Where’s the tonic?”
“Don’t be a pussy. Now then, I’m off with Sky, or whatever her fucking name is. There’s some fitties over by the bar. There’s a ginger one, you like a ginger, I’m off to stare at her tits.”
“Her name’s Jane, and she’s training to be a lawyer. So don’t be all like, you know, gropey and that.”
Lucy, already well on her way, downed the double gin and before she knew it, she was over at the bar, talking to the Ginger about tits, marketing, the seaside and Lesbo Sue.
“She’s always in here. I think she secretly wants to do it herself. She has got great tits, so…”
“Oh right, she’s your girlfriend, is she?”
“Christ no. I like sausage not burger my love. What’s your name, what do you do, why’re you in here?”
“Graham. Marketing. Because this is what you do when you have to entertain clients and it’s only a matter of time before him over there in the braces passes out and I have to put him in a cab back to his wife, and I can go back to my hotel.”
“Oh. (awkward pause) You don’t look like a Graham.”
“No. You look like a Daniel, or a David. I’m going to call you Danvid.”
And that’s pretty much all she can remember.
Cut back to the bathroom and Lucy projectile vomiting into what was most definitely not her toilet, with her arse quacking, and the uncomfortable coughing and clearing of a throat that she definitely couldn’t identify coming from the room next door.
Where the fuck was she and what happened? Taking a breather from her own functions, she washed her face in the sink and stared at her grey face and bloodshot eyes in the mirror. There was a slow dawning on her face as she remembered demanding he kiss her, while trying to give him a lap-dance at a bus stop in front of a queue of people on their way to work at about five in the morning.
They’d clearly had sex. She couldn’t remember it but she could feel it. She could feel that slight soreness inside and she could smell him on her hands.
“Look at yourself. You’re disgusting.” (beat) *vomit*
“You OK in there?”
“Yep. Just… getting rid of …huck (*vomit, quack*) everything.”
Turning and sitting on the loo, Lucy tried to work out if she could hit the sink with her vomit, while letting her bowels do what they were definitely already doing.
“It’s just that I’ve got to get to the office for ten-thirty, and, um I need a shower.”
“Yep. Got ya (*vomit, quack, splatter*). With you in a minute.”
“She wanted so desperately to be this man’s private dancer that she clumsily tried to remove his shirt, by ripping it open and sending most of the buttons flying.”
And then she remembered. His name was Graham. He was ginger. And he did something with marketing? She was farting audibly in front of a man called Graham.
Why did she have marks on her wrists? What had he done to her?
What had she done to him?
And then she remembered…
“So you work in marketing? Do you have to put up posters or something?”
“Not exactly. I work with an advertising agency. We work together to put promos together for campaigns… Are you alright?”
“No. Just fucking kiss me.”
“Listen Danvid. We both know what’s happening here. Just do it yeah?”
Oh god. Why was she demanding he kiss her? She never did that. She was never that confident. But there was something about going out with Sue that gave her the permission she needed to just do what the fuck she liked and that, invariably was the problem. That poor man.
“You know, I have a philosophy about gingers,” she said, in between trying to seductively kiss his face. All of his face. And biting it.
“Oh right, what’s that then?”
“You lot, you gingers. Where God fucked up aesthetically, he made up for it down there.”
“What do you mean?”
And with that, she, with all of the sensuality of a lumbering hippo, tried to slut drop and bury her head in his groin. Unfortunately what she actually achieved was to slide down his torso, get her hair caught in his shirt buttons and be unable to get back up, due to a knee op she’d had the previous year that meant that yes, she could kneel down with ease, but getting back up was impossible.
She cuddled his trunk for two minutes, which felt more like 15, and was helped back up by Sue and a bouncer, who had decided it was time for her to be on her way and, grabbing her wrists, had practically dragged her out of the club.
Graham, being the gentleman he was, tried to hail her a cab, but no taxi driver would take her. So after she’d pinned him to the bench in a bus shelter and demanded he kiss her while trying to erotically dance for him in front of everyone waiting for the number 86, he scooped her up and took her back to his hotel.
He fed her glasses of water to sober her up. But she wasn’t interested in drinking much of it. She wanted him and was definitely going to have him if it was the last thing she did. And it nearly was. In her haste to get his shirt off she lunged at him across the bed, missed him completely and ended up arse up in the air on the floor, narrowly missing the corner of the dressing table. But this didn’t stop her. She wanted so desperately to be this man’s private dancer that she clumsily tried to remove his shirt, by ripping it open and sending most of the buttons flying.
“You’re very determined,” he said through hungry kisses, “that shirt cost a fortune. It’s Lacoste.”
“Oh sorry, well, look…” and with that, she ripped open her own top – “This cost me six quid. Primark,” – revealing her favourite 10-year-old, grey and threadbare bra from M&S.
Graham had been the perfect gent. He’d removed her jeans and mismatched pants and hadn’t even mentioned the fact that her ‘area’ was so wildly unkempt that it joined her leg hair.
“Lucy did the only thing she thought she could get away with. She licked her finger and tickled around the edge, grimacing, and wondered whether she was getting away with it.”
He kissed her thighs gently. “I’ve not washed it, don’t. It’ll be… oh now really, it’s… I’m all sweat… oh god… yep… oh god… doing it… just doing it… oh… oh… yep…”
He didn’t care. He buried his face straight in and was enjoying her wetness, enjoying her scent, enjoying her taste. Stopping only occasionally to remove the odd curly-wurly from his mouth, he had ploughed on, until her gentle groaning of pleasure had turned into the dull heavy breathing of an undeniable snore.
“(Snort.) What? Oh yeah… that’s it… what…?”
“I’m not doing anything. You’ve been snoring for ages. You could really hurt a man’s feelings, you know…”
“Oh god, sorry, it’s just, so tired… the move, you know, the move. Here, let me…” She had thought it was a truly genius idea to return the favour when she was already really nauseous but she decided the concentration was good for her and she took his big ginger cock in her mouth and hoped for the best.
Lucy didn’t mind giving head. It wasn’t that much of a problem for her and she knew what she was doing. She lovingly lashed him with the appropriate lengthy licks and flicks and he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. Eventually she felt him reaching the end point. The slight taste of salt made her start to retch, and with that, he pulled her head up. “What a gentleman,” she thought as he looked deep into her eyes.
“What?” Lucy had always thought rimming was something to do with DIY; like grouting.
*turning on all fours* “Lick my arsehole.”
And with that, she was presented with his hairy arsehole.
Why the fuck would she want to lick his arsehole?
Who does that?
Staring at it, while he, on all fours, began tugging himself off, Lucy did the only thing she thought she could get away with. She licked her finger and tickled around the edge, grimacing, and wondered whether she was getting away with it.
He responded favourably. So she spat up his bum and thumbed her way round. It was a bit like potting seeds. She hoped to god he didn’t have worms and promised herself she would never ever stick her tongue up it.
She wasn’t a dog. Dogs lick arseholes. Some people get paid to lick arseholes. But maybe this was what happened in marketing. You go to a board meeting to discuss the next campaign for Coca-Cola or the like, then everyone ends up on the desk with their tongues up each other’s arseholes and they all go home happy.
What she did know was that this was doing nothing for her and so with a careful prod up the hole with her thumb, she managed to get his attention, by unwittingly hitting his G-spot, made him cum and spent the next 15 minutes listening to him snore while she finished herself off.
Flushing the toilet, she took one last look in the mirror. She’d only been back in Manchester for 24 hours and she’d already been to a titty bar, copped off with a ginger and redecorated the bathroom of the Jurys Inn. In two hours, she had to be at a job interview with a temp agency.
Welcome back Lucy.
But where the hell was Lesbo Sue?4036 Views
Lou is a comedian, writer, actor, lover of curry and cheese, and is also a giant simple child.