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UNITED STATES, SAMPLE
The limp trickle of liquid against porcelain.
The filthy tap squeaking as it is turned off. The static cling of tights being pulled on. The hot smells of the flesh. The juicy odours The lubricated thrashings and tortured sighs. The scampering of footsteps on the uncarpeted staircase.
The slamming of the front door.
Oliver Connecticut scrambled over the hustle and bustle of these fragmentary echoes of R.E.M. to stumble into semi-consciousness in a damp patch in the tangled wreckage of his bed sheets.
As far as hangovers went, this fucker weren't too bad ... bit like having a hippopotamus sitting on your face blasting the Star Spangled Banner out of its amour-plated arse at an ear-piercing volume like a sick memory of Last Orders … in all honesty, he'd had maybe one that was worse.
Every sense was sort of exaggerated to the absurd. Every movement. Every twist and turn of escape from his sheetly entanglement. Matched. Bettered. By the churning and ducking and swaying compensations of the flat surfaces of his room. The billowing curtains were race horses crashing through bus-high hedges. The way the yawning wardrobe mocked his thrashing around in a sweating tangle; making the ceiling roar with raucous laughter at his feeble bid for freedom ... but such is the life of a bastard drunk.
Eventually, Oliver Connecticut escaped the tourniquet of his linen bedfellows' clammy embrace. He reached clumsily for his wristwatch on the bedside table; knocked it to the floor.
God, I am fucked, mate. he groaned to no-fucker in the house. Hung half off the bed. Head throbbing at being held at such a ludicrous angle. He rolled back onto the bed and let the room slowly churn about him, teasing him up to meet it, toying with his hold on reality, making his cock bulge and pulse in this semi-conscious, semi lucid state.
It stood to full attention, painfully hard; the skin still back, sleeves rolled up for action, so to speak. The whole length of it still shining, still slick with the sticky thick wetness; the nuggets of mustard-coloured cheese snuggled conspiratorially about the rim; the tingle, the electric buzz of pleasure in his balls. This was no bloke's waking wet-dream fantasy ... Nooooo! Oliver Connecticut was positive, I have just this minute shagged somebody.
The slamming of the front door.
A sudden palpitation grabbed him; shook him awake. He raced to the window but the street lay bare, chilly. He looked around the bedroom for whoever-the-fuck-she-might-have-been. No clues to the mysterious wench hung around. Not even a stale pair of old rabbit-nibbled knickers left as an accidental memento ... like the last two he'd brought back and fucked.
He'd had to lie his way out of that when his mam had found them on both occasions still damp at the foot of his bed under the covers where they'd been toed off in the heat of the moment, après pub. No such luck this time. No scent to bury his nose in, rekindle the memory; any memory. He fell back onto the bed in the gloom and the room didn't like it at all, made a disturbing seascape of all available surfaces upon which his doped up body floated, rising and falling, sea-sickness ahoy.
...
Chimericana Books.
Chimericana Books.
Chimericana Books.
Chimericana Books.
Chimericana Books.
Chimericana Books.
Hellbound Books, Spring 2006
Plus six other short novels (approx 40,000 words each) that I'm looking to publish in a special 6-pack.
