This is a bit of free writing I just did. It's based on an image I've had in my head today. It is also based on the plot of Sluts and Falcons (which is a project that I have put on the backburner for a short time whilst I redraft Return to Hollyworld.) Enjoy!
I hung onto your neck and it felt like we were the centre of the universe. I pulled myself closer to you because I was drunk and you were helping me to stay balanced but also because I wanted to be near you, I needed you. Your arms around my waist raised goose bumps along my arms like a static charge was flowing through my body. A confetti canon was shooting gold flecks of shiny paper down from the ceiling. Pieces had landed in your hair but you didn’t try to remove them. ‘Addicted to Love’ played in the background and we swayed in time to it. You smelt of sweat and of the subtle musky aftershave you wear. I probably smelt of gin and Chanel No.5. You don’t drink much. I do. You were in a t-shirt and jeans whilst I was in a metallic emerald dress with chunky glittery gold heels. I'm always overdressed.
When the song ended I kissed your mouth. You pulled me closer and stuck your tongue between my lips. Our tongues touched and I pulled away to disentangle our arms and to grab your hand. I led you through the cluster of people now dancing much more rowdily to an Arctic Monkey’s song that was playing. I kept an eye on the ground because my vision was blurred and my senses were dulled and walking in five inch heels is difficult. I ran up the staircase with you still in tow; our clammy hands clasped together. We reached my bedroom and I closed the door. Our mouths met again and I ran my hands up and down your back, underneath your t-shirt. You moved your hand beneath my dress. I looked at you in the eye and whispered, “You think you’re so wonderful.” You licked your lips, looked to the ground and sighed.
You moved away from me and reached for a packet of cigarettes from your back jean pocket. You leant against the wall and smoked. I didn’t bother to remind you that you couldn’t smoke in the house. My parents would smell it.
I walked over to my record collection and flicked through; choosing The Smiths’ self-titled album. Other than a private collection of love songs I secretly cried to, I wasn’t in possession of any really romantic records. I was not sure if there would be any need for anything romantic anyway. You were more interested in your cigarette than you were with me. I put on the record then sat on my bed and watched you.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want you to put your hand up my dress. I did. I just didn’t want to let your ego grow too big, you know? That’s the one thing that bugs me about you. You're so goddamn egotistical.
I thought about lighting some candles but that seemed somehow inappropriate. And if we were going to have sex then candles were entirely out of the question. Next you’d be expecting me to whip out some rose petals and tell you I loved you- although, the last part was true. Usually we would light some candles. We’d done that ever since we were young; back when we’d sit and drink and idle the afternoons away playing melancholic albums on vinyl and maintaining an intellectual façade that pissed off everyone else. Perhaps that is partially why we did it- to piss off everyone else. Plus, we liked poetry and pretentious foreign films and seeing each other was an outlet for those interests.
You caught my eye and smiled and then we both knew that I was yours. Or you were mine because it works either way and I’m fed up of all that sexist crap. You were as much of a pursuit for me as I was for you. I only worried that I cared more. I’d never wanted to be the one who cared more but, having been the one who cared less in the past, I had found that neither were particularly fulfilling.
You stubbed out your cigarette on my bedroom wall.
“Jesus Christ” I said.
“What? It’s Allen Ginsberg. He was a smoker” you said, “It adds character.”
That was a favourite of yours; adding ‘character.’ It gave you an excuse to ruin things. Well, I’ll tell you this for nothing, you weren’t going to add any character to me.
You sat next to me on my bed and we kissed as we had done downstairs. Your mouth tasted of tobacco but I didn’t mind. This time I pulled your t-shirt over your head. You unzipped the back of my dress and I didn’t stop you.
Afterwards, I rested my head on your chest.
“Well, that’s it then” you said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I replied.
“It means what it is. You know, the sex and the alcohol and the drugs. We’ve got it all. We may as well die now” you said, dead serious.
“Don’t be so fucking morbid” I protested.
“It’s true though. Besides, we’re killing ourselves at the end of the summer so it doesn’t matter” you sighed.
I sat up at this. “Do you really believe we’ll do it?”
“Well I don’t think anyone should do it if they don’t want to” you said nonchalantly.
“But you want to?” I asked, taken aback.
“Sure I do” you said, cool as ever. It was if I’d just asked you if you liked ice cream or something stupid like that.
I got up and started to get dressed.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“I’m going back downstairs to see how my part guests are.”
I’d put my dress back on at this point so I turned around to face you.
“What’s wrong is that I don’t want to die anymore. I’m finally happy and you know what? I don’t feel bad about it. But do you know why I’m happy? Because of you. Yes, it’s silly and naïve and probably very teenager-y of me but it’s the truth. And if you don’t feel the same way about me then I’m done here” I said.
Then I left the room and as I walked down the stairs I called out, “And don’t smoke in my bedroom.”
Tears streaked my cheeks but the darkness hid them as I drank some more. Maybe I did want to die after all.