could, as if any sudden move could make her explode again. He carried it in one hand; it hung down like thecarcass of an animal heâd found in the woods. He looked longingly at his guitar as he passed it in the hallway, but he didnât dare grab for it. He could feel Tinaâs eyes on him from the kitchen, and for the first time in the five years heâd known her, he felt afraid. Real fear. And real pity, and a blend of other emotions with a rank bouquet, a blend he decided then and there to try as hard as he could to forget.
He took his leather jacket and let himself out into the night, then slid into its sleeves and zipped it up. He stood on South Street and wondered what the fuck to do. He went to the pay phone across the street and rang up Johnny Parker.
He moved now through the crowd at the Booze Barn, a crowd that seemed to undulate with one mind, or, more properly, he thought, with one crotch. He held the beers aloft and looked for Johnny Parker in the fray. Finally he saw him, his friendâs six-foot-four frame towering above a group of â what else? â pretty girls. Johnnyâs blond curls were like a beacon in that room, and girls were floating his way, dashing themselves on his rocks. He leaned down conspiratorially and flirted with three girls who were probably in first year pharmacy, or maybe kinesiology. There was a sameness about girls like that, and on nights such as these, Henry thought, itâs a sameness that comforts to no end. He came up on the group and handed Johnny Parker the Keithâs he hadnât started to drink. They clinked bottles and Johnny Parker smiled a half smile at Henry, who raised his eyebrows back. The girls tossed their hair and Henry could feel them evaluating him. He did a mental inventory; did he feel air on his cock, meaning his zipper was down? Could he feel anything hanging out of his nose? When was the last time heâd actually seen his hair? And could they tell he really, really didnât care which one of them he went home with, as long as he went home with one of them? Did it matter if they could tell? Probably not. In fact, it would probably help. Oh, sure, theyâd make it difficult for him, thereâd be a hint of humiliation in it, but he realised he actually didnât give a fuck, as long as he could find himself, within a few hours, being led up the stairs to some two-bedroom flat, having to be quiet so as not to wake the roommate, snickering quietly and pushing his hands up some accommodating girlâs sweater, as long as he could peel her clothes off and shed his own like a skin heâd grownout of, as long as he could climb atop some living, breathing, laughing, fucking girl and just move. Thatâs all. Just move on her, move in her, move her, move the bed. As long as he could fuck and fuck until she cried out and then he did, until he could collapse, sweaty, spent, satisfied and fall into sleep and forget for a few miserable hours just who he was and how things had gone so very very wrong for him. Was it too much to ask one of these pretty young girls to take him home and let him disappear from himself for awhile?
Sometimes, Henry worried himself. Tonight, however, he was determined to ignore the nagging feeling that he was becoming deeply weird. He smiled at the brown-haired girl Johnny didnât have an arm around and said, âWanna dance?â
* * *
Charlotte leaned back, her elbows propping her up against the bar.
âCan I buy you a drink?â asked the guy in the chequered shirt whoâd been staring at her ever since her neat dismount from the mechanical bull. Sheâd landed on her feet in a cloud of straw on the floor, wiped her palms on her jeans, let out a lungful of breath and sauntered coolly across the room. The guy, however, had not been quite as cool. Now he was standing in front of her, nervous and red-faced. Charlotte looked him up and down. He wasnât exactly setting her on
He took his leather jacket and let himself out into the night, then slid into its sleeves and zipped it up. He stood on South Street and wondered what the fuck to do. He went to the pay phone across the street and rang up Johnny Parker.
He moved now through the crowd at the Booze Barn, a crowd that seemed to undulate with one mind, or, more properly, he thought, with one crotch. He held the beers aloft and looked for Johnny Parker in the fray. Finally he saw him, his friendâs six-foot-four frame towering above a group of â what else? â pretty girls. Johnnyâs blond curls were like a beacon in that room, and girls were floating his way, dashing themselves on his rocks. He leaned down conspiratorially and flirted with three girls who were probably in first year pharmacy, or maybe kinesiology. There was a sameness about girls like that, and on nights such as these, Henry thought, itâs a sameness that comforts to no end. He came up on the group and handed Johnny Parker the Keithâs he hadnât started to drink. They clinked bottles and Johnny Parker smiled a half smile at Henry, who raised his eyebrows back. The girls tossed their hair and Henry could feel them evaluating him. He did a mental inventory; did he feel air on his cock, meaning his zipper was down? Could he feel anything hanging out of his nose? When was the last time heâd actually seen his hair? And could they tell he really, really didnât care which one of them he went home with, as long as he went home with one of them? Did it matter if they could tell? Probably not. In fact, it would probably help. Oh, sure, theyâd make it difficult for him, thereâd be a hint of humiliation in it, but he realised he actually didnât give a fuck, as long as he could find himself, within a few hours, being led up the stairs to some two-bedroom flat, having to be quiet so as not to wake the roommate, snickering quietly and pushing his hands up some accommodating girlâs sweater, as long as he could peel her clothes off and shed his own like a skin heâd grownout of, as long as he could climb atop some living, breathing, laughing, fucking girl and just move. Thatâs all. Just move on her, move in her, move her, move the bed. As long as he could fuck and fuck until she cried out and then he did, until he could collapse, sweaty, spent, satisfied and fall into sleep and forget for a few miserable hours just who he was and how things had gone so very very wrong for him. Was it too much to ask one of these pretty young girls to take him home and let him disappear from himself for awhile?
Sometimes, Henry worried himself. Tonight, however, he was determined to ignore the nagging feeling that he was becoming deeply weird. He smiled at the brown-haired girl Johnny didnât have an arm around and said, âWanna dance?â
* * *
Charlotte leaned back, her elbows propping her up against the bar.
âCan I buy you a drink?â asked the guy in the chequered shirt whoâd been staring at her ever since her neat dismount from the mechanical bull. Sheâd landed on her feet in a cloud of straw on the floor, wiped her palms on her jeans, let out a lungful of breath and sauntered coolly across the room. The guy, however, had not been quite as cool. Now he was standing in front of her, nervous and red-faced. Charlotte looked him up and down. He wasnât exactly setting her on
Similar Books
