G: 9th November, 11:02. 19 now: that in-between age when boy becomes man, when the teenage beast finally ceases to taint, when testosterone tames, when the excitable cub grows into its mane and I’d be lion to claim that the hard chrysalis of my gut wasn’t now full of butterflies, fluttering in the same beer coursing through my veins like a freight train. Frightening excitement as school years and teenage strife are officially left behind to be replaced by an adult life.
Constantly at work at the moment so I shan’t shirk this opportunity to grow up and find someone to love; where better than a club?
G and Ch (as his friends) arrive at the door of a club where a bouncer is
Ch1: “Nah mate, the owner’s in, we’re not letting in anyone with trainers”
G: “But it’s my birthday”, I say swaying slightly but Billy Brute the Bouncer gives his loaf a shake so we take our trainers elsewhere – onwards and next clubwards!
I hear a geezer wheeze between drags of his fag that he’d…
Ch2: “Fucking shag that fucking slag!”
G: This night’s theme’s obscene even before we get to the Watershed, seven pounds a head, 14 for a round downed to reassure “it’s always better if you’re steaming”, lights gleaming, almost feeling like I’m dreaming.
Ch3: (As a doctor) How do you react to strobes Mr. Clark, because your eyeballs are going spastic…
G: I dunno Doc., probably “ look at those strobes, they’re fucking fantastic”! Strobing, probing deep into my skull, charming the beast and trying to annul all thoughts of my job, my boss, my boredom, philosophy, the economy, my future, my history, how much money I’ve spent and housework but I’m sent straight back down to earth when I sniff (Ch sniff) Eurgh! get a whiff of the room, which seems to scream out doom. It pongs of pinging limbs sweatily swinging to four to the floor beats, (Chorus all dancing ecstatically at this point) stinks of steaming piss and beer, of sex and furtive desperation.
Deep breaths fella, don’t be a snob, so I exchange five bob for two bombs downed to the sound of the latest chart entry. (A quickened remix of ‘Roar’ by Katy Perry starts playing) These hit me like a grenade to my synapses, inhibition collapses and, as I struggle not to stumble on a flat floor, I can barely remember what I came here for? (Thinks) (Taking the piss out of himself, very drunk) Oh (incredulous cackle) it was love! (laughs at stupidity) That’s fucking gay, man. I’m here to dance now.
Anarchic but fun dance routine, to which people shout in enjoyment thing like “tuuune!!”
Ch4: You’re an animal mate.
G: I know, it’s fucking brilliant
Ch4: (To G) There are some yatties here.
G: I agree, so I tell him: (To ch4) “I agree mate.”
Ch4: You’re shit at dancing though George.
G: I disagree!, so I tell him: (To Ch 4) “I disagree mate. In fact fella, I reckon when I get pissed, I get better at dancing” so I start lupinely advancing a filly with a silly haircut.
Ch5 breaks away and becomes the girl. G acts this out as a mating ritual to the targeted girl/animal, first as the Drosophilia fly, transitioning into the stag
I am my beast. I’m a Drosophilia, I’m fly, I dance, I prance. I’m a stag, I’m showing, I’m gloating, I strut, look tough, makes eyes enough but not too much. Friends guide but joyfully jibe, jokingly suggest (Ch sniggering) “You’ve found the love of your life.”
Bass, movement, sweat, noise, heat, take seat. I’m drunk. I’m drunk from drink and motion and the hunt for immediate love.
(G and the girl move close) We’re close. We kiss. We sway with our lips together. I feel tit. I feel arse. I use tongue. I bite. I breathe. But as the galleon in my groin groans and heaves in hormonic stimulation, the song moves by harmonic modulation from G major to E minor.
Everything changes. The song turns dissonant and everything slows, almost like slowmotion as G looks around, realising what he’s done/where he is. G walks away from the girl
Like my pulse the tempo slows. I have a sober second to think, let my surroundings sink in. The moment grows sexless and elderly. The bestial voice in my head still tries to bribe, nicking lines from Nike:
Ch slowly move in to surround G as they say this, the rest of the club dancers disintegrate. Ch grow louder in intensity as they deliver the lines, starting with a whisper, ending a bit too loud
Ch1: Just do it George, just do it.
Ch2: You’ll feel great.
Ch 1: Take her home.
G: It still lingers like cancer at the back of my mind
Ch3: Give that pussy a pounding.
Ch4: Give that arse a spanking.
Ch2: No need for wanking tonight
G: And try as it might
Ch1: Just do it.
Ch2: You’ll feel alive.
Ch 4: You’ll feel revived.
G: It just serves to make me feel sick inside. (Ch disintegrate, leaving G and the girl, who looks straight ahead gormlessly) What the fuck am I doing? Who the fuck even is she? This isn’t love. This isn’t what I want… (Clinging to hope, quickly pulls up a chair into centre stage) But maybe she can save this! Yeah, make my lapse worthwhile!
G assumes position as a ventriloquist, sits on chair and sits Girl on knee. G now controls girl, acting words with her accordingly
Maybe she can turn this around and say…
Girl: This is shit, isn’t it?
G: Maybe if she looks into my eyes and asks…
Girl: Can we go outside? Let’s talk and walk and learn about one another and connect and, perhaps, fall in love? A deep love, a love that gives us identity, our souls entwining like the fermented vine of the grape rouge: heady, intoxicating, blissful.
The girl stands up as she finishes her line, and she and G resume the close position they were in before
G: (Whispered sensually) Go on, save yourself and save me, say something like that.
Girl: (Completely pissed, giggling, horny) Do you want to come back to my flat and fuck my cunt?
G lets out an exasperated laugh/sigh
G: (Defeated, resigning) I’ve failed. I turn off, I turn on a dime, out the front door, sore feet walk the familiar streets home. and I end the night alone, confused, horny and standing up in my bedroom, hunched over like Quasimodo, my dick like the fetid tongue of a komodo, dragging my foreskin over my juicy, ripe, red bell end, a bloody apple, a granny smith, (larger Ch enter and form a bottomless square around g) whilst I feel like the eyes of my actual granny smith look dismayed, the heads of my aunty Jackie and uncle Francis and mum and dad and my teachers and church preachers simultaneously shook in sadness.
And they’re not disgusted in what I’ve become, but disappointed:
Chorus act as various family members, teachers and church preachers. As they talk, G gets distressed and deeply anguished although he continues to masturbate. This is his conscience.
Ch: I thought you said you were going to grow up?
Ch: Release that teenage beast from your brain?
Ch: I thought you were going to read this year?
Ch: You told me you were going to find yourself,
Ch: become great,
Ch: get a girlfriend.
Ch: You’re just a loveless, husk of a late teen, wasting away the achievement of his dreams by wanking to the memory of the love of an old girlfriend or the imagination of a new one.
Ch: A vapid, dross delinquent dancing to Iggy azaelia instead of reading Plato or Virginia Woolf or actually doing something with my time or finding a girlfriend.
G: (Stops masturbating) Cant you see, I’m busy!
Ch: Doing what?
G: (Not angry, trying to be reasonable, vulnerable) I’ve got to work, don’t I? (Silence)(Deeply helpless) It’s difficult. (George sighs, and resumes the soul destroying act) I resign for moment and put all of this to the back of my brain, become enveloped by the animal, (the chorus/family now move behind g), shut my lids tight and open my mind’s eye loose and fill my frontal lobes with a full-frontal view of some girls cunt full of my cum.
Maybe I’ll be forever tainted.