‘Suicidal’: Chapter 2

by Timothy Yam
(Issue #2)

… and the floor’s cold and wet, and I’m on my back, and the guy on top of me seems far more interested in trying to check out his reflection in the porcelain throne and my neck is twisted to one side and I can’t really even fucking be bothered to fake it anymore.

 

Why him though? I guess it was that whole nerd-chic thing. Buff body, nice tan, cute face, but with the black-framed glasses and the Batman t-shirt. I’m a sucker for that. These toilets are fucking horrible though. You’d think a club of this stature would have nicer bathrooms. Nice UV lighting though. Interestingly enough, nerd-man looks far less nerdy in this light and looks more like your typical alpha male douchebag. A sudden, fleeting thought comes to me, what if he is your typical alpha male douchebag, but is doing the whole nerd-chic thing to try to make people believe he has hidden depth? I bet those glasses don’t even have lenses in them. And I fell into it like a trap.

 

Ok, I’m now officially sick of this. Think sexy thoughts. Can this guy look any more disinterested? I blame the booze. I always blame the booze. I love this little game though, where we dance around each other, avoiding the obvious question, avoiding the obvious intent, till one of us gets sick of the merry-go-round and eventually pops the question. The proposal of the new millennium. No more marital bliss and happy ever after in a nice house in the suburbs or the country with our five kids and blissful lives. Nope, it’s now “Wanna have a quick fuck in the toilet?” Sad thing is, I might actually prefer it this way. Cuts the bullshit.

 

Is this pee or water? Best not to think about it. Someone rams hard on the door. “Come on, guys, get a room somewhere, I really got to take a piss!” I moan extra loudly for that one. I can see it in his eyes though, through the nerd-glasses, and I see what he’s thinking. Slut. Whore. Slag. I love this double standard, where the predatory male at the bar who buys you a drink is a player, and the girl who goes along with the whole thing is cheap.

 

Now he tries to take off my top. It’s pretty damn obvious he’s an expert at this, at the speed which it’s removed. I’m impressed, which doesn’t happen often. Eventually, he’s done, and his face actually contorts into a kind of snarl when it happens and it’s ridiculously funny when it happens and oh god I think I’m actually going to laugh. His teeth are bared, perfect even white teeth that are now purple from the light with his lips drawn back, thinner than Kate Moss on a diet, his eyes wide open, so big they look like saucers, those perfect cheekbones that you could slice tomatoes with stretched out and oh god I can’t take it anymore.

 

I let out a giggle. Only a tiny one, and true to form, he misses it, probably still checking out his own reflection in the toilet. I think I could just walk away right now and he’d probably still sit there admiring himself, his own warped reflection, snarling back at him through the ultra-violet lake. I give up, and let out an orgasm-moan, kick the door a bit, smack the walls, anything just to let this Nerdonis realise that I too, have come.

 

The snarl fades away, and it’s replaced by a self-satisfied smile. Which is then substituted by a puzzled frown, the quizzical single raised eyebrow, popping over those black-framed glasses like a horny 15 year old climbing the fence to check out the girls’ school next door. Ah. That explains it all. He’s seen them. I’m surprised he’s missed them till now, but that probably can be explained by the fact that he was too busy checking himself out to cast even the slightest eye on my body.

 

“What the fuck are those?”

 

“Well, what do they look like?”

 

“Scars.”

 

He stands up, tucking his (admittedly rather large) dick back into his boxers and zipping up so fast that he nearly dooms himself to a lifetime of singing soprano. The snarl is back again, this time interwoven with disgust.

 

“Why the hell do you have scars all over your body?”

 

“Woah, woah, handsome, not all over. Not on the legs.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“Is that your version of post-coital cuddling? Cause I’m not really feeling the love right now.”

 

“Are you some kind of weirdo or something?”

 

“Listen, I used to cut myself when I was younger (technically true, I was younger by 3 days the last time I did). Just some depression thing.”

 

“So what were you, suicidal or something?”

 

The right response to that would be ‘or something’ of course. But that would require me to talk about technicalities and intricacies and just spend so much time explaining that it’s really not worth the effort to go for just to tell some one-night (more like 15 minute) stand my little hobby. So I just go …

 

“Yeah, suicidal.”

 

“Ah. I saved some guy’s life today.”

 

“You what?”

 

“Nah, this guy at this concert I was at suddenly threatened to kill himself, and there was this big crowd that talked him out of it. Really cool moment. It’s like one of those, epicentric moments that everyone says they get when they save a life.”

 

“Epiphanic.”

 

“Yeah, whatever.”

 

“What did the guy look like?”

 

“Eh, I didn’t really notice. Kind of tall, dark hair, just a normal guy really.”

 

“And why did he want to kill himself?”

 

“Something about his parents abusing him or something like that. Was just fucking brilliant though, when he yelled out …”

 

“I want to live?”

 

“Yeah, how did you know that?”

 

Stupid, fucking, idiotic, fucking, retarded, fucking shitfaced bastard! I spring up to my feet, put my clothes back on and shove my way past him. He yells out something, but I open the door and his voice is lost in the maze of drum and bass. Get to the VIP area, get to the VIP area, find him, scream my lungs out, threaten to kill our mutual friend (for real this time), and get stopped by the bouncer. Wait. That’s not part of the plan.

 

“Sorry babe, VIP area only”

 

Babe. Wow. One small word from man, one fucking huge leap backwards for feminism. Then I catch him out of the corner of my eye, drinking some expensive whisky no doubt, flanked by two girls with more tit than brain.

 

“Look, I’m with that guy there.”

 

“Him?” He gives me the doorman scan. “Sorry, I don’t think so.”

 

“Just call him here, and he will tell you I’m with him”

 

The bouncer sighs and shuffles over to his table and whispers into his ear. Clay looks at me, sips his whisky, and gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod. I’m practically shown the red carpet to his table after that, copious apology upon apology from the bouncer as the red/blue/green/yellow/depending on the lights sea parts before me, creating my path to him. Clay gives me that look. It is frankly, the eighth wonder of the world how this man can tell you everything he wants just by subtly manipulating his facial expressions. This is the look of “tell me what you have to and then fuck off”. Slight tilt of the head, eyes narrowing slightly, zooming into your face, lips parted just a tad, corners of the mouth rising above the usual horizon of his lips.

 

“Our dear friend has done it again”

 

Clay gives me the nod this time, a sign that he will contact me sometime tomorrow. And that he will talk (as much as he needs to) with Holden. And that we will discuss how to deal with this latest scenario. And that we will figure something out. And that I should now turn around and fuck off from here

 

So I do. While swearing and cursing at the stupid, miserable bastard. God help me before I find a razor, cause I’m not in the mood for this anymore, so I step out into the biting night air, wind rushing all around me as …

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