Romance
by Tony O'Neill
the first time was with a
skinny catholic school tramp
who wore her pleated grey skirt
higher than was allowed by the priests
and perverts who ran the place
and had her white shirt constantly
unbuttoned more than regulations allowed also:
exhaling supermarket brand vodka
angry purple yellow love bites from
joyriding older boyfriend
in school i shared one class with her
i found her to be dull, stupid, not very pretty
but at eleven o clock on a Friday night
drunk on fortified wine
in the bathroom of a trashy small town nightclub
she offered to fuck
in exchange for my bottle of 20/20
and I was 14 and I thought
jesus, why not?
smell of disinfectant and muted
thud-thud of awful chart-dance music
she slid her white panties off and
propped her ass up on the lip of the dirty sink
opening her legs
taking a good, long hit from the bottle
don’t say anything ‘cos my boyfriend is 20
and he’ll fucking batter you AND me
i stared at that open cunt
under fluorescent lights
which had already seen more action
from adolescent boy cock and fingers
probing in car parks strewn with glass
like sparkling winter frost
than many see in a lifetime
and it looked back at me
red and swollen and sullen
i awkwardly rolled the condom on and
thought So this is what
all of the fuss is about
i worked it in and she
kept hissing Come on, come on,
Faster! Faster!
so i hammered into her:
an ugly, brutal spectacle
drunken and over-lit
and when it was over she pulled
her underwear on and said
thanks for the bottle - see you later
and was gone leaving me with
a wet, full condom
and my thoughts…
more drinks and the night
shattered into surreal vignettes
interspersed with perfect periods
of anaesthetized nothingness…
i am in a darkened corner and
a fist comes out of nowhere and connects
staggering off and a large, strange face
looms, points at me
nose is bleeding mate
then in a concrete grey parking garage
i am swinging fists at a stranger
hammering bones and flesh
someone pins my arms back and in a
flash of white light i am on the ground
blood trickling down my cheek
like christ
cleaning up and dabbing more speed
in the shit-stinking toilet of a kebab shop
on the mirror in black ink
JACKIE IS A SLAG followed by a phone number
i look for meaning but find none
and so start the long walk back home
walking through the back of the town
past Clayton street where empty factories
provide cover for nighttime industry
from an alley way the yells and brays of
three drunken assholes in matching white shirts
waiting for their turn
on a beaten up looking prostitute
i can see on her haunches
blowing the fourth against a dumpster
this is what it is to be
14 in Blackburn, Lancashire
then out of the gloom another appears
You godda light?
i raise my palms
and look at her ravaged face
the salt and pepper hair tied back
the drunkenly smeared lips
false eyelashes like centipedes crawling
across a death mask
her voice is husky with Lambert and Butler
You looking for a ride?
but not even in my most degenerate, drunken
moments could i fuck this booze bloated monstrosity
walking on I hear the first whore
spit up cum with a loud hacking phhhttttuuuhhhhh!
then yell Whose next?
and I double over and vomit
against the wall of a deserted lumber yard
and think
I’m a man - what now?
look to the street for an answer
but all I see is vomit
empty cans of super-strength lager
orange cap from a syringe
used condom
and gum