Love at First Sight

Her laugh stands out through the banging tunes bouncing off the walls: a piercing shrill, which at first sounds like a drunken hyena being held down and tickled. Jim, however, thinks it reflects a self-consciousness and innocence masked by at least one too many drinks. No pretence. No half-hearted effort to humour her admirers or act suave, sophisticated or sexy just to get herself a ride. People can take or leave her as they find her. She moves with half-cut confidence more than catwalk grace. Jim’s watched her dance through the crowds passing comment and laughing off advances from the steady stream of drunken males and now wonders why this lanky bleached babe wants to speak to him. He’s seated in the darkest corner of the club nursing another Jack from the Daniels clan and his friends are somewhere on the dance floor doing their thing. Fidgeting with his drink he tries to put her off as soon as she sits down next to him.

“Oh, you don’t want anything to do with me, hen.”

“Really? And why would that be?”

“Well, I’m just an old, fading rock star.”

“Ha ha ha! Is that right? So what’s the name of your band then?”

He’s taken aback by the volume of her laugh in close proximity but laughs back.

“You’re thinking of the wrong kind of rock, sweetheart.”

She furrows her brow, tilts her head and comes back with another effort.

“So what are you then… a geologist or something?”

He laughs a bit too hard; not quite matching her tone but almost spitting his drink on her, managing to just close his mouth in time so that only a dribble escapes trickling down his nose.

“Well, you could say that. I did see myself as a bit of a scientist at times.”

She thinks a while, smiling as she watches him wipe his nose, then her face sparkles as the strobe light reverberates off the glitter ball.

“Got it! Do you work in a jewellers? Do you cut diamonds? Not that I’m asking for a ring or anything. Ha ha ha!”

As she laughs at her own joke he doesn’t take his eyes off her and points to his clothes, showing her the George label.

“Unfortunately not. But I definitely like your line of thinking.”

She leans towards him and checks the label on the inside of his t-shirt. Her hand touches his back sending a shockwave through his spine the likes of which hasn’t been felt for a very long time. As she pulls herself closer he feels her breath on his neck and, though he tries not to, he can’t help but look down her low-cut top at the beauties that are within touching distance. His hormones, who’d taken early retirement some time ago, are thinking about a comeback. If he could get an erection now would be one of those times when he’d have to hide it. He kicks himself under the table for being such a smart ass and wants to rewind the conversation to the start. Would it have been better if he’d lied? If this was a race he’d be hoping for a false start. But for some reason thinking of a false start brings up images of Linford Christie. All he can see is a huge lunchbox. What’s wrong with him? There’s a beautiful girl squeezing up close and he’s thinking about Linford’s lunchbox. Bet she doesn’t even know who he is, never mind his lunchbox. Now he thinks he can feel something growing downstairs. Is it her scent, her touch, her laugh, her legs and breasts, or is it Linford Christie, who is now sprinting down the track towards the camera in slow motion? And even though the sound from the speakers is almost deafening he can hear the theme from Chariots of Fire. Nevertheless, all hopes of life in his pants prove somewhat premature and are shrinking faster than the Chancellor’s latest forecast for economic growth. And as if to rub salt on the wounds of that particular disappointment is the suspicion he can feel a bit of pre-cum sticking to his pants.

As confusion races around the tracks of his head in a figure of eight motion before looping the loop in his guts he searches for a plausible lie to his ‘rock star’ statement but nothing comes to mind. He’s dug a dark hole for himself and now wants to climb out. Climb out? He wants to drive out. He wants to get the boot down and get the hell out of here. As his heart accelerates away with The Stig in the driving seat he wants to believe it’s the mixture of MDMA and whiskey but knows it’s just old-fashioned nerves and an unhealthy dose of paranoia.

She moves closer, squeezing her body up beside him so close their thighs press hard against one another causing another stir in his groin.

“So, mystery man, what do you do then?”

The mixture of alcohol from her breath and perfume from her neck grab him so tightly he finds himself breathing her in like a first gasp of fresh air after a long submersion and wanting to taste her. Those bare tanned thighs barely covered by the short tartan mini-skirt; if only he could reach out and run his hand along the inside of them, just once. An urge to give himself a good squeeze runs through him but he immediately blushes at the thought of it. Here is someone young and beautiful showing an interest in him. Why him? Why tonight? Where are his friends? He’s out his depth here with nothing to offer but an early night and maybe a couple of pounds towards the taxi home. As much as he wants to take her and pleasure her all over till dawn, that won’t happen. It can’t happen. Maybe in the past there would’ve been a chance, when healthy and still relatively fit, but not now. Not in his present state of early rehabilitation. There can only be one ending to this fantasy so he decides to protect himself from the chance of further humiliation and attempts to put her off with the smokescreen-free truth.

“I’ve just given up the pipe.”

“Have you given up the slippers as well?”

“I don’t mean that kind of pipe.”

“You talking about the peace pipe, dude?”

“No, I’m talking about the crack pipe, dudette.”

She looks him in the eye and smiles. “And?”

“Well, it’s been a while, you know,” he says, nodding towards the lack of bulge in his trousers. “The wee man’s been unemployed longer than Yosser Hughes. Know what I’m talking about? ”

Jim watches her and tries not to squirm as she tries her best not to laugh at his naïve honesty.

“Well, mystery man, at least I know you’re not just wanting in my pants like all the penis-driven weekend rock stars in here who think because they buy a gram at the weekend they’re on the road to rehab. I’m looking forward to spending some time with you and having a natter, if that’s cool with you. Who’s Yosser Hughes by the way? Is he a pal of yours?”

“Eh? No, no. Nothing like that. He was in Boys From The Black Stuff.”

“I’ve not seen that film. Don’t go to the cinema much these days.”

“No, it was on the telly ages ago.”

“Oh, right. Well, I don’t watch much telly either. Prefer to go to the pub or Zumba classes.” She looks around before leaning closer and whispering in his ear. “Don’t suppose you’ve any pills on you?”

“Eh?”

“You know what I’m talking about. Pill pills.”

“Sweeties? Ecstasy?”

“Of course. I’m not going to be looking for Valium or Paracetamol in here. Although some of the patter from guys in tonight would give you a right sore head so I might not say no if you do have any painkillers.”

“Eh, no. Afraid not,” he says, shaking his head and looking around him.

“That’s okay. Just thought I’d ask.”

He continues shaking his head thinking of the eight pills in his pocket, the generation gap in his head and the incessant tingling in his trousers. His friends warned him about undercover police looking for dealers, and not to give anyone anything in the club or he could face a long weekend in a cell. She shifts her legs to let someone sit on the other side of her and squeezes in closer to him, putting her arm around his neck and kissing him on the cheek.

“I’m Suzie, by the way.”

He presses his thighs together, thinks of Gordon Brown and hopes he’s not going to make a mess of his pants.

“I’m Jim. I would offer to buy you a drink but I need to keep the seats. You know how it is in here.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve a bottle of water in my bag.”

He watches as she unscrews the lid and puts her lips around the bottle. Cherry red lipstick clings to the plastic as she swallows and swallows.

Glug, glug, glug.

“Aah! You want a mouthful, Jim?”

“Eh, no thanks, hen. Sorry, I mean Suzie.”

Jim leans over and notices his hand is trembling as he attempts to lift his glass.

“So do you come here often?” he asks before cringing at his own cheesiness and withdrawing his hand from view before she sees it.

“Ha ha! Yes, I come here every week. That’s why I knew you were a stranger. I know just about everybody that comes here.”

“Like I said, I’ve not been out much the last few years.”

“Well, it’ll do you the world of good to start socialising again. It’s a good crowd in here. Never any trouble.”

“I’ve heard that from a couple of mates.”

“I’ll introduce you to a few people if you like. Although none of my regular guys are here tonight.”

“Regular guys? You got a few boyfriends then?”

“Ha ha! Oh yes! But it’s not what you think. I mean guys to get pills from.”

“Oh, right. Sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. You’re new, right?”

Jim reaches out once more for his drink but retracts his arm before lifting the glass. With his mouth now drying up faster than Charlie Sheen’s acting career he knows he has to think fast.

“I might have something for you after all,” he says, reaching deep into his trouser pocket and fumbling around.

“You’re not going to whip something out now, are you?”

“Eh? No, no, nothing like that. Put your hand out.”

“Ha ha! Do you want me to shut my eyes too?”

He drops a pill into her waiting hand and watches her face light up, noticing for the first time how even in the darkness of the club her glazed eyes scream.

“Mm, Supermen? I had some of those last week. Best I’ve had for ages. Cheers!”

As she reaches for her bottle of water Jim grabs his glass and washes down a Superman with the rest of his Jack. Mission accomplished he returns the empty to the table with a heavier hand than anticipated and slumps back into his seat, ensuring his legs are pressed against Susie’s, who now looks vulnerable if not virginal in her own throwaway fashion outfit which has seen one too many washes.

“What do you say we give these bad boys ten minutes and then hit the dance floor?” asks Susie, nodding her head to the heavy bass rebounding off the walls which vibrate in time with Jim’s pulse.

“That would be great. Hopefully my pals should be back by then. I’ll get you a drink when they come back, if you like.”

“Don’t worry about the drink. I rarely touch alcohol these days and I’ve had enough tonight. Much prefer getting off my face and dancing.”

“I can relate to the getting off my face part and…”

“Oh my God! Simon! Simon!”

Susie releases her hand from Jim’s thigh and jumps up almost knocking the table over in her haste.

“Oh my God. Excuse me just now, John. I’ve just noticed one of my best pals who I’ve not seen in absolute ages.”

Jim lets Susie squeeze past him, smelling her and taking in her beauty one last time before watching her disappear into the crowd without ever looking back. And though the early beats of Carl Cox’s classic Cocaine fill the room and bring a rapturous cheer from the regulars, Jim’s sure he can still hear her laugh in the distance.

“Alright bud,” says Davie, one of Jim’s pals returning from his latest walkabout. “Here, brought you down another Jack. Who was that bird I seen you talking with?”

“Eh, I think her name was Sara or something. Or it might’ve been Angie or Rosie. I’m not really sure.”

“Well, she was quite a looker though, eh? Move over and let me sit down.”

“Can you watch the seats for a minute? I think I need to go to the toilet.”