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Previously on this page;
 

Mother of Three Who's afraid of a peaceful World?
My First Favourite Author
Sunny Days and Motorbikes
Heavenly Bodies
Democratic Propaganda - Berg, Pearl, Abu Ghraib, Lancashire & Rafah
Morrissey Live at Manchester Evening News Arena, 22.5.04
Reagan's Mantle
Statistic
The Eyes
Come to Norway! It will be Fun
Be Your Own Boss
Land War
Darfurians need UN protection and Agricultural Assistance not Inaction , Sanctions or Regime Change

Dreaming
Waiting

 

"Do you....what you think of me?"
"You're...yeah you're...nice"
"Thank you"
They were showing 'First Blood' on cable and I was more interested in that. I didn't want to be here. But at least she had cable.
"You like...I...Malcolm in Middle...I like"
"Yeah it's...funny"
"Funny! yes! oh yes! Malcolm funny!"

I didn't want to be here. I don't want to be here.
I stagger to the bathroom, reach for the toilet basin, and puke until I reach the bile.
I throw cold water on my dreary pallor. I study my hands, willing them to age, to get this over with.
"You have nice hands" she says, "Soft"
I say nothing. I have no idea how I got here.
I think back. I don't remember kissing her but I remember her calling me to her car and I tried to fit my bike on the back seat. Then I remember sitting in the front seat and, as she drove, she had her legs spread, inviting me to touch her. I rub my hand along her thigh. I am, after all, only human, only male. Only fallen, another sinner, but aren't we all?
When she sucks me off all I feel is pain. I look to the door, an escape, and I think of all the love I've lost, all the true, pure love, all the mistakes I've made, and I cannot cum and is it any wonder?
I want to hit her. I want to grab her scrawny neck and pummell my fist into her face until there is no face left at all. I want her to bleed, her, as a symbol of all the wrong I've done and it's not her fault, she just chose the wrong night, the wrong man, and as I'm fucking her I grab at her hair, slap her face and why are you here why are you here where is mum and fridays spending pocket money on cola cubes and trips to Arran and subbuteo on my birthday and Christmas squashed in living rooms and summers lost in green and pigs bladders and dad before the fall his pockets leaden with power station gold and where are you where are you where are you?
You're right here, right here, preventing me from cumming, your face at the window, broken, beyond mere disappointment- it was as if half of you had suddenly fell away, took a dive into the ocean and never came back, beyond the mental agony there was the physical deterioration right before my eyes and I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

I stop trying. Tell her I'm tired. She isn't upset. She asks me again what I think of her I I tell her she's ok. She's a good person, a good woman, and she can do much better than me and what I am, for I am nothing and she says I'm no nothing I'm beautiful and funny and kind and I say you don't even know me and if only you knew, if only you knew, and I say the Chinese word for 'bad' and I point to me, utter it over and over again, like a mantra.
"Chou chou chou"
"No you good...you say nice me"
Chou.
I tell her I have to leave. Lie that I have to work that night. She asks if I would like a ride to the station. I tell her I'm ok. I will find my way. She is a good person.
It takes 40 minutes on the local train to go from one side of Shanghai to the other. I looked around me. Sullen faces. Sullen, empty faces, devoid of anything but responsibility. I wonder if that, as we grow into a certain age, all life is like this, that we are all burdened with some form of responsibility or another. Be it for our families, our jobs, or for our actions.
A girl sits opposite me. An office girl. I catch her looking. She smiles.
I look the other way.

Tom Bickle

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