Read Online Love... And Sleepless Nights MAY 2012 by Nick Spalding - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nick Spalding
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get up and have a half-hearted go at dancing, but I can feel the baby kicking every time I do so much as a sideways shimmy, and my legs are as heavy as lead weights after five minutes.
My friends are way past the legal limit now and are having no such problems.
There they are: three otherwise sensible, professional ladies, whirling round on a sparkly dance floor like a trio of over-excited baboons with electrodes up their arses.
Consumption of alcohol also takes away your ability to dance, it would seem.
Mel is hopping around with her arms stuck out in front of her, resembling a confused Dalek.
Shelley is doing some kind of grinding thing that’s making me wish my eyes would spontaneously cease to function, and Rachel has found one of the dancing poles near the stage. I rather wish she hadn’t, as any minute now I’m likely to get a really good look at her vagina.
To her, I’m sure she looks like a professional stripper, sexually arousing every man in the night club with her sexy, energetic dance moves. To me (and anyone else not drinking) she looks like a mental patient trying to fuck a lamp post.
Her legs flail in every direction, her head whips round like a prize fighter about to go down in the tenth.
I’m thinking of going over to pull her away from the bloody thing before she hurts herself, when the inevitable happens.
Trying the old ‘legs clamped round the pole and back arched seductively’ pose, Rachel loses her footing and goes crashing to the dance floor with an audible screech.
We now discover yet more interesting aspects of the drunken state: The inability to feel either pain or embarrassment.
Rachel is up in seconds, laughing like a loon. She’s going to have an enormous bruise on her backside tomorrow, but for now she brushes off the accident as if it never happened.
Amazingly, many of the men on the dance floor are still regarding her with animal curiosity.
Great … so you can gyrate around a pole like a rutting hyena before falling on your arse in a heap - and still get more attention from the male species than if you’re just a tiny bit pregnant.
Fantastic .
I sigh and get up to go for my seventeenth wee of the evening.
Mother Kelly’s is just the place you want to be when your bladder is weaker than the British economy.
How truly delightful it is to repeatedly hold a graffiti-covered door closed with my hand while squatting over half a toilet seat to go about my business.
What really caps off the experience this time round is the two people having ugly sex in the stall next to me.
‘Give it to me!’ she growls. Given the state of the place, I can only assume she means dysentery, as the chances of achieving orgasm through the miasma of piss and cheap perfume are small to say the least.
I hope he gets her pregnant, I mutter under my breath.
It’s only when I look round to see there’s no toilet paper that I decide the evening is well and truly over .
‘I’m going,’ I shout at Melina, who is still bouncing around looking for the Doctor so she can exterminate him.
‘It’s only
midnight
!’ she wails back.
‘I’ve got a headache and the baby’s giving me hell!’
Mel looks understandably disappointed.
This is her first night out without her own child for a long time and I guess she wants to make the most of it.
I would feel guilty, but I already need another wee and if I drink any more lime and soda water I’m going to be sick in a very green manner.
Mel tells Shelley the bad news and we all troop off to find Rachel.
We eventually find her locked in a death struggle with an Arsenal fan. At least it looks like a death struggle initially. As we get closer it becomes apparent they are kissing.
…and touching.
Oh good God, there is so much touching .
If we don’t do something soon, touching is likely to move on to insertion and then we’re in real trouble.
I pull the two love-birds apart.
The Arsenal fan looks angry for a second, then utterly
My friends are way past the legal limit now and are having no such problems.
There they are: three otherwise sensible, professional ladies, whirling round on a sparkly dance floor like a trio of over-excited baboons with electrodes up their arses.
Consumption of alcohol also takes away your ability to dance, it would seem.
Mel is hopping around with her arms stuck out in front of her, resembling a confused Dalek.
Shelley is doing some kind of grinding thing that’s making me wish my eyes would spontaneously cease to function, and Rachel has found one of the dancing poles near the stage. I rather wish she hadn’t, as any minute now I’m likely to get a really good look at her vagina.
To her, I’m sure she looks like a professional stripper, sexually arousing every man in the night club with her sexy, energetic dance moves. To me (and anyone else not drinking) she looks like a mental patient trying to fuck a lamp post.
Her legs flail in every direction, her head whips round like a prize fighter about to go down in the tenth.
I’m thinking of going over to pull her away from the bloody thing before she hurts herself, when the inevitable happens.
Trying the old ‘legs clamped round the pole and back arched seductively’ pose, Rachel loses her footing and goes crashing to the dance floor with an audible screech.
We now discover yet more interesting aspects of the drunken state: The inability to feel either pain or embarrassment.
Rachel is up in seconds, laughing like a loon. She’s going to have an enormous bruise on her backside tomorrow, but for now she brushes off the accident as if it never happened.
Amazingly, many of the men on the dance floor are still regarding her with animal curiosity.
Great … so you can gyrate around a pole like a rutting hyena before falling on your arse in a heap - and still get more attention from the male species than if you’re just a tiny bit pregnant.
Fantastic .
I sigh and get up to go for my seventeenth wee of the evening.
Mother Kelly’s is just the place you want to be when your bladder is weaker than the British economy.
How truly delightful it is to repeatedly hold a graffiti-covered door closed with my hand while squatting over half a toilet seat to go about my business.
What really caps off the experience this time round is the two people having ugly sex in the stall next to me.
‘Give it to me!’ she growls. Given the state of the place, I can only assume she means dysentery, as the chances of achieving orgasm through the miasma of piss and cheap perfume are small to say the least.
I hope he gets her pregnant, I mutter under my breath.
It’s only when I look round to see there’s no toilet paper that I decide the evening is well and truly over .
‘I’m going,’ I shout at Melina, who is still bouncing around looking for the Doctor so she can exterminate him.
‘It’s only
midnight
!’ she wails back.
‘I’ve got a headache and the baby’s giving me hell!’
Mel looks understandably disappointed.
This is her first night out without her own child for a long time and I guess she wants to make the most of it.
I would feel guilty, but I already need another wee and if I drink any more lime and soda water I’m going to be sick in a very green manner.
Mel tells Shelley the bad news and we all troop off to find Rachel.
We eventually find her locked in a death struggle with an Arsenal fan. At least it looks like a death struggle initially. As we get closer it becomes apparent they are kissing.
…and touching.
Oh good God, there is so much touching .
If we don’t do something soon, touching is likely to move on to insertion and then we’re in real trouble.
I pull the two love-birds apart.
The Arsenal fan looks angry for a second, then utterly
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