Charlie Boy had it all. And here he was, enjoying the perfect wind-down after the grind of the day. Lights dimmed, beers within reach, a Gwyneth Paltrow film on the go, and a comfortable sofa to stretch out on with his cock in his hand.
As it happened, minus the sardine-run on the tube and the dark walk home, his day hadn't been too bad. Actually, it had been fairly satisfying. A morning of hard, fast IT wizardry - which included getting some praise from his boss - followed by a nice steady afternoon of catching up on his own projects. Most notably, tartversustotty.com, which was coming along quite nicely.
Charlie catered for an audience obsessed with the glitz and glamour of fame (however minor) but eager for another angle, an alternative view. Charlie liked to believe his website attempted to reveal the true nature of these pampered princesses (no males of course), removing them slightly from their rigid, tight-lipped artificial habitat beneath the spotlights. To do this, he first removed their clothes. Bring sex into the mix and you're laughing. Literally. Black humour and irony were the order of the day. Charlie had his routine. Every time the boss fucked off it was me time. Work stopped. Do not disturb. Creativity in progress. Charlie was proud of his achievements.
All those naked bodies with celebs' heads attached. Brit soap-tarts to major Hollywood superstars. Fantasy paparazzi shots. Storyboards. Star sacrilege. It was all in a days' graphics. Cockney frump Jade Goody with her big fat tits getting ordered to get down and perform on Sienna Miller, the anorexic little rich girl. Primrose Hill meets the shitholes of Bermondsey. Yeah! Mixed, criminal, docker's blood fucking with the sex-crazed, drug'n'orgy-addicted, fox-hunting landed gentry. He'd have to think of some toilet-wall witticisms for the bubble captions. Sienna: Get down there you fat, chav, half-black, lard-arsed peasant and suck my A-list top-notch pussy... NOW! But what would Jade say in return...? Maybe he'd stick boxing gloves on the pair of them. Get them in the ring. Battle it out old-working class style. And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, let's hear it for a naked bitch slappin' frenzy. He'd make sure Jade would win. Batter fuck out of the bitch...
Yeah. This was Charlie Boy's kind of evening. Legs stretched out, stroking his cock-a-doodle to Gwyneth's attempt at true-totty English. The film was set in London. Bollocks this and Wanker that. Nose-in-the-air Ken and Chelsea style.
Americans made Charlie laugh. Especially when they tried to posh it up. If it wasn't more Jane Austen drivel it was total wank like this. The svelte star taxi-ing across a mythic contemporary London: spotless, well-functioning, no cattle tubes, no crime, white as a Dickens novel (without the hunger). The actress was getting rat-arsed in a bar. Charlie smiled. He wanted to fuck this bitch. Loved her cool stride. Her confidence. Her nonchalance. Wanted her wrapping her body all over him.
He cracked open another can. Even considered heading back to the video shop, making it a double bill, grabbing Bridget Jones' Diary, more pseudo-Anglo made-for-US-market bullshit; for the crack picturing himself as a male version, here alone in his flat with his cock and his alcohol, wallowing in a singletons' lifestyle of one night stands and marathon wank sessions and lots of self-pity and self-loathing and self-fill-in-your-own-fucking-blanks...
But he had to laugh at himself over that (and besides, he wasn't going anywhere). The whole idea of "Bridget Jones" was bullshit. The notion of a woman with blonde hair and big buxom tits having trouble filling her hole was fucking absurd. All that crap about evenings alone. Someone like that could breeze through life without a problem in the world. Charlie was no Bridget Jones. No loner, unable to pull. For Charlie, life was good. So he didn't have a girlfriend? So what. Charlie loved his own company. This was the fucking life, mate, he told himself. And he wouldn't want it any other way. All these real-life Bridget Jones characters he'd read about in the Standard, all alone in the capital and crying over glasses of wine each evening, should get off their arses and get some cock. Charlie laughed, tugging away. There was no shortage of that here, boy...
He watched the screen. Gwynnie was top-class totty, there was no doubt about that. But even better, she was top-class Jewish totty. Oh yes. In other words, that bit more untouchable by all us lowly, unblessed, uncircumcised ones. Being honest, every race and creed in the world looks down on other breeds like they're the lowest form of human shit. Except for the English, of course. We look up to other races as if we are the shit. They've got all the culture and tradition and cuisine and mystique, and we've got fuck all. England in submission, perhaps, wanting to be whipped back for all those Empire days. Forgive us, please, for we have sinned. Who knows. But Charlie would have Princess Gwynnie play the race card on him any day. Oh yeah. Her stiletto heel grinding his face down into the mud. As long as she was in suspenders. Ready for action. What was a good bout of sex without an element of hatred anyway?
One class, one race, fucking over the other. Getting the better of. He imagined the stark naked actress towering over him like an icon, pushing her dampened crotch towards him with force. NOW TAKE THIS YOU LITTLE UNCIRCUMCISED RUNT! and grabbing him by the hair and slamming him in, and in pure Ken and Chelsea saying NOW LICK SOME CHOSEN PUSSY YOU GENTILE WANKER OR I'LL CRUSH YOUR FUCKING BOLLOCKS!!!
Ha! That made him laugh, that did. Cheek of her. Blonde bitch. He was sure she had a sense of humour. Though of course a lot of these Americans didn't. But there was something different about Gwynnie. An un-American genuine classiness. A snobbishness. She had famously slagged London off as a grubby dump with bad restaurant service. You wouldn't hear Madonna say that. She'd be down the backstreet boozer with Guy Richie supping pints of ale and chirping cockney slang. Either that or playing at Enid Blyton down the country manor. Come to think of it, at a press conference for one of her kids books, she hadn't even heard of Enid Blyton. Never put to pen to paper in her life the slag. Full of shit, that Madge. Not alot upstairs. Good body on her though, he'd give her that. Well fit.
But Gwyneth... Hollywood royalty. Once, Charlie had watched a Michael Douglas interview where he'd praised her as having "good genes". Which presumably alluded to the trick of Gwyneth (like him) being naturally blonde and Jewish. Odd that. Jews going on about genes. A touchy subject you would think, almost taboo, considering it was one of old Hitler's favourites. The blonde and blue-eyed Superman and Superbitch. The Aryan blueprint stamping over and conqering the entire fucking world.
But Hitler had got it wrong. Blonde was good, but not for every day of the week, surely. Diversity was beautiful. The only way forward. Multiculturalism? Bring it on, man! A good Latino salsa shag never hurt no-one. Look at Asians. Now they knew about sex. And what about black girls. Best arses in the fucking business. And black girls were hungry for it as well, let me kid you not. Check out the rap videos. Fucking hell. Women being exploited? I don't think so. Strong assertive bitches expressing their sexuality more like. Even if they are gyrating round some gun-totin' pimp's cock.
This Greek guy at work reckoned he got off with this fit black girl from Tottenham. Had her down the car park of an estate. She was begging for more more more, this way, that way, every way going. Couldn't get enough of his white man's cock. Well, if you want to call Greek white. The way this bloke talked you'd think he was one of Hitler's Supermen. "They love it," he said. "Love a good white shag. Goes back to the slavery thing. And who can blame them? All the bruthas off chasing white trophies. Lots of lonely sistas."
The bloke never stopped. He reckoned the Turkish were all total arseholes, so he got one over on them by constantly fucking their women. He had some footage on his phone. He must have been giving it to this Turkish bird up the arse because she was fucking screaming for England. Either that or she was getting raped. One or the other. Of course, he said she'd loved it. Wanted more. Just like the black girl. Costas saw himself as a right romeo. An ego freak, more like. Anyway. Enough about him. The thought of his Greek arse going up and down was putting Charlie off.
On the screen Gwyneth was talking about "going to the pub to get drunk". Who the fuck in London ever admitted that? And a double error - alcohol would never touch that woman's lips. Well, not in real life anyway. Charlie could picture her and that Coldplay prick. On the organic smoothies, the macrobiotic diets, the yoga and everything else. The big hippy-noveau lifestyle. Come the bedroom and it was probably a different story though. Under the sheets these poshies were known to be well adventurous. The whole Freudian thing coming into play. With the upper-class it wasn't a case of coming home exhausted, humping on top of the wife for a minute then you're out like a light. Not at all. That was peasant style. All those cliches about judges getting their bottoms whipped or married MPs with their rent boys was damn fucking right. Everyone knew about public schoolboys and the perversions they kept for the rest of their days. Couldn't forget all that dormitory arse-frollicking with the boys. Martin probably made her wear a big black strap-on to poke his puny rich-boy arse every fucking night, the public-schoolboy crying out HARDER! FASTER! YES!! YES!!! in those poncey tones of his. Charlie'd like to scalp the fucker. Give him a circumcision on his fucking head.
Charlie pressed STOP. He needed a slash. The TV flicked onto London Tonight, a report about the high obesity rate of the capital's kids following him into the bathroom. He shut the door. As he pissed he turned round to observe his bollock-naked figure in the full length mirror. What a stupid place for the landlord to put a bloody mirror, right across from the toilet. Every time he took a shit he had to stare at himself, grunting away. He made little thrusting motions with his arse, careful not to miss the bowl, imagined a sexy hot babe on the receiving end. It wasn't a pretty sight. He'd have to start working out. That arse was too flabby by half. All those burgers at lunchtime, doner kebab dinners, buscuits, cakes, evening beers in front of the screen. No exercise ever. I suppose it all added up. And the hair. Big ferocious patches over his back. Hair all over him. He looked like something from Planet of the fucking Apes. Mediterranean birds might go for it, (and thankfully, there was no shortage of them in North London) but who the fuck else would? Can't imagine some spick-and-span Paltrow lookalike wanting a load of that...
But he relaxed. For now the waxing and the gym membership could wait. There were other things in hand. Like his cock for instance. A fair bit of meat there, that's for sure. No problem there, girls. Why worry? One of these days he'd be back. Slim and rippling. Dick up and out like a fearsome truncheon. Female gazes of awe and wonder.
ATTENTION LADIES, CHARLIE BOY IS BACK IN BUSINESS. Hordes of them lining up in their hotpants, black, white and everything in between, Jewish princesses and Arab whores, equal opportunity for all (he was no racist - colour made the world go round), babes galore turning out in their droves for a Charlie Boy Special. A night in the sack they would never forget. Damn right.
God, he hadn't had a real physical bunk-up in years. Couldn't even remember the last time. Too tanked-up to register it no doubt. Probably shagging some equally pissed meat-market slag that was more out of shape than he was. Some big lump you wake up next to with a hangover and think, NO... I DIDN'T... SURELY. But that was all back in the day. Charlie hadn't been to a club in two years at least. And come to think of it, three, maybe even four stone ago.
Returning to the living room London Tonight was polluting his living space with some story about a gang rape in Finsbury Park. Apparently a foreign exchange student had befriended a gang of youths who dragged her to the roof of a towerblock and did their stuff. The reporter was standing by the estate, filling us in on the gory details, local kids in the background pulling faces. The rapists boasted of their deed and flashed the mobile footage around at school the next day. They ranged in age from twelve to fifteen. A girl had been involved, helping out, cheering them on. The judge waived her right to anonymity, and there she was on the screen. White, pretty, but spiteful looking. Probably abandoned at birth. Should have been strangulated. Charlie imagined the rest of these two-legged beasts. Dumb estate scum. Bigmouthed wannabe gangstas. Only ever born so their cock-humping mothers could jump the council waiting list. Pump out a few more for a bigger flat. On and on. People like Charlie footing the bill. Estates full of walking fucking abortions.
Like the pricks that put a knife to his throat that time. Called him a Fat Pussy. Demanded cash and goods - NOW. You know the procedure, they'd said. If you wanna live. If you know what's best. You fat fuck. And before he knew it - whack! in the face. One of the little bastards broke his jaw. Walked away laughing. Cunts.
Two months' sick leave. Creeping out of the flat for food and videos or whatever and that was it. Living on take-aways most of the time. Not going anywhere. He'd almost wanked his dick away. Tugging at the thing night and day like his life depended on it. It was his only pleasure, the only respite available. It was around this time that he got sick of hard porno. It lacked personality. Who wanted to see a load of butchers' flesh anyway? Cheap cuts. Scrag ends. Heroin-addicted slags cut open like pigs, rotten intestines spilling out. Abused meat. Like you really want to get stuck into that. Forget it. Charlie developed taste. Class. Women were like fine wines - not that he was into fine wines, but it was a good comparison. The gift of connoisseurship was acquired by the very few. Charlie considered himself privileged. FHM, Loaded and Maxim - yeah, fair enough, he subscribed, he went along with the joke. Even some of the cheapo womens' ones with their HolbyCorrieOaks wannabes and trashy headlines: Posh Spice's dress size enters minus figures! But Hollwood... Hollywood was another league. Hollywood, in an unsubtle way, provided the world's real Royal Family (Fuck the Winsors). You despised them, yet you loved them; envy strong in the equation. They provided examples of the highest human perfection. You couldn't get any higher. And you couldn't help it, you worshipped them. The whole world did. Paltrow, Theron, Aniston, Knightley (Cor!!!)... the list was endless. Princesses of wealth, slendour, regal sex on high...
Charlie cracked open another beer, popped a tube of Cheese and Onion Pringles. Man, he was feeling pretty light-headed now. A bit drunk. He chuckled. On the screen a bearded expert was talking bombs and Al Quaida. Rounding off with his belief of more attacks being likely on the tube or in large offices, this time of an unprecedented scale, maximum fatalities, terrorists employing the use of gases, viruses, bacteria. A nuclear dirty bomb perhaps...
For fuck's sake!
Charlie didn't need this! The real world seeping in, infiltrating his set-up, beaming into his living room shouting the odds, plaguing his evening with doom. He flicked back to the movie with disgust. All the killjoys out there could fuck off and die. Bollocks to them. He wanted none of it.
The good life was available, but every day there were people trying their best to poison it out of you. Out to make you go running for the anti-depressants. Please Doctor, dope me up, I can't handle this. No way, not here you don't. Now Gwyneth, she knew a thing or two about the good life, that was for sure. All the Hollywood fucks did. A thing or two about not giving a fuck. There they were climbing out of their limos, parading the red carpets when on the other end of town it was a firearm flarin' muthafuckin' war zone. Poverty, deprivation. London had its similarities too. Except here apartheid was less the rule, less blatant. Hate less voiced. The no-gos were carefully diffused across the board. Dilution. In other words, the no gos were nowhere and everywhere. Anyone anywhere could be your attacker. Jump out and stab you in the eye. Push you down into the tracks. Come up to you in a pub when you're minding your own business and say,"What the fuck are you looking at?", butt you in the face and kick you into a coma. Nobody was safe. You lived in fear...
But it was best to stay indoors in the evenings anyway. Watch the telly. Socialise on the web. If the need arose. Charlie himself couldn't be arsed. In that department tartversustotty.com kept him quite happy, passed a lot of the slow hours at work, tickled him. As for webchatting with sad bods, why bother. Best to sit and watch the World of Gwyneth. He focused in on her snobby face. Once again got an erection going. Observed her tall, lean body. But he found himself waning. He'd lost his momentum. Maybe he'd drunk too much beer. He felt full, squeezed out a full-bodied fart and the obligatory aaahhh. Jesus, the smell of it. Those spicy zinger burgers at lunchtime, triple helping of onion rings, chilli sauce. That sneaky bag of onion bhajis at afternoon break. Just heading out for a Standard. Like fuck. Eating like a pig. Even now, Pringles getting wolfed in, without even thinking. Four beers gone already. Onto the fifth. There was no limit. Charlie ate and drank without even thinking about it. What was the matter with him? Strong accusations were filling his head, fingers pointing, taunting him, telling him he was some kind of slob.
Like the fatsos you saw on the street. Always eating. In supermarkets, stocking their trolleys up wholesale. Hobbling into Burger King, McDonalds, putting people off their food. Gall of these people. The other day for instance, in KFC. Some morbidly fat wreck blown up like an air bag, plonking his lardy arse right across from Charlie, the slob sweating over his grease, wheezing away, heart attack any minute, swallowing down his swill. Charlie felt dirty. Had to get the fuck out of there before he vomited.
God, so many people needed putting down. Get a machine to melt the cunts down to oil, power vehicles, machinery, with the fuckers. Cheap energy. How these fat overweight slobs could even show their faces, Charlie just didn't know. There were limits. Limits to everything. He cracked open another can. Felt pretty pissed now. Concentrated on the screen. That was the trick, concentrate on something else so your whole world doesn't just topple in before your eyes. Gwynnie was the diametric opposite to a slob. Gwynnie kept herself trim. Prim and proper.
But, loath to admit it, Charlie wasn't satisfied. In all honesty, her body wasn't really all that. Not much tit to speak of at all. Not really womanly. Being slim was one thing, but where were the tits and arse, man? This bitch was taking it to Kate Moss extremes. Kate Moss, hey? There was a girl that needed a good ten-inch dick up the arse, if ever there was one. Shaft the life out of the coke snorting slag. COCAINE KATE DIES IN ROUGH SEX RITUAL. Fucked, bound and gagged, and buried in a pile of Columbian snow. Enough there for you, Katie? Fucking dream headline. And hey... there goes another fart. Liquidy, that one. Phew!
When he'd finished inspecting the stink, Charlie sighed. He wasn't pleased with life. Discontent snaked through him like a bad drug. He felt a pang of regret. Maybe he should have braved the night, opted for a double bill, hired the Zellweger Bridget Jones after all. Zellweger in plumped-up mode looked like a Texas milkmaid. The earth mother with the milk. The milk of life. Tits to feed off. All this Sliding Doors bollocks was beginning to seem like, well... exactly that. Bollocks.
Charlie knew exactly what he needed. He checked through an old pile of wank for a copy of Heat magazine. OUR JADE'S AMAZING NEW BOOB JOB! boasted the cover. The Big Brother star had no style, no decorum, but a fine pair of lungs, that was for sure. Jade's position in the world of celebrtity was like that of a sore thumb. Jade was off the street. The real deal. The kind of bird you had up against the bus stop after ten pints and a kebab. No pretence, no bullshit. No illusions that she was anything else but a good shag once you'd licked your fingers clean of doner meat. Right now Charlie didn't need pretense, bullshit, insincerity. He focused in on the chav-idol's tits. They were massive. Could do some damage, they could. Suffocation at least. Real working class in-yer-face knockers. Sometimes in life all you needed was simplicity. No complications. No crap. He had issues he needed to purge forth, get off his person, before he could relax. His ball-bag felt like a dead weight. Once he ejaculated Charlie knew he'd feel a whole lot better.
Michael Keenaghan © 2006.
Michael Keenaghan grew up in Wood Green, North London, where he was [mis]educated at St Thomas More Secondary School. His patchy work history includes burger flipping, general labouring and being a van drivers' mate - none of which proved successful. He has also played in a variety of alternative bands which have railed against the mediocrity of indie and attempted to ressurrect the mythic values of punk. He currently writes furiously.