Trouble

Monday 15 April 2002

"it's the same as before / or the other time / or the time before that./ here's a cock / and here's a cunt / and here's trouble."
(
Charles Bukowski: 'this, then')

i touched a tummy. i was fucked, as usual. been at a wedding and drunk exquisite wine and champers since 2pm till 2am. then found a club. dreadful music, but we were fucked and wanting more, and in we went. had scored five minutes later for five little quids. ate pills, drank beer. touched a tummy. a lovely tummy, too, and attached to this boy called ben, but i wasn't too bothered about him. ben is sophie's booty call boy. they went out once, and now they do stuffz every so often. he looks at her with that look i love, the look of men getting the horn despite their best intentions otherwise. well whoopydee, i'm pretty sure he had that look on his face at 4am sunday morning with my hand down his shirt. in fact i know he had. but i wasn't looking. i was looking at the skinny hips, the muscles, the happy trail down to the lowslung jeans. i was pressing the small of his back with my right hand and running my left over the muscles and planes, feeling the smoothness, the heat. boyfriend saw the look though. he called it 'smug'. it wasn't smug. it was the look of a man getting the horn against his best intentions. i don't know what my look was. the look of a girl engaged happily in the process of steadily and pointlessly fucking up her life, i suspect. and here's trouble.


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