John Traynor is twenty four years of age. An Art’s graduate from University College Cork. He works in the Kilkenny greyhound track.
The love of lust is a tale of distant dreamy romance, ruined by actual romance. Ya want what ya can’t have.
The love of lust
By John Traynor
I’m best friends with a fit young women I badly wanna fuck. What foolish male isn’t? Do I love her? Do I fuck, I’m not sure if I even like the girl. Love wouldn’t be a word if lust didn’t move the world with stark naked magic.
Sarah perpetually pouted, coyly pleased by my elongated flagrant scrutiny over her lithe bare legs. She wore nothing but my clubs county final jersey. Intermittently she allowed my wandering gaze a glimpse at those purple panties which I so often sniffed whilst masturbating. She smelt of sweet delicate sweat.
A tender melancholy wave brushed and bruised my candid ego; I’ve known Sarah since fresher’s week down in U.C.C, and I’ve never had the gratification of banging her slender feline splendour. Deep down, I think teasing me gave her more satisfaction than fucking me.
Sarah stretched her long lavender legs onto the coffee table I made back in leaving cert construction. She allowed a long look. Her purple panties were deeply wedged up her tight arse crack, clinging onto its cute wriggling peachiness. She flippantly slipped from a yawn to a smile, and then sipped milky tea from her Mickey Mouse mug, our eyes meeting at the mugs huge rim, and before the moments mine in my mind, she groans “Fuckin work in the morning. Those little bastards are getting on me my tits.”
“Will ya go way.” I said “ Ya love all those sixth year eyes caressing your wet cunt.”
“I know that ya cheeky bollix, but their stupid little fuckers. I wouldn’t wipe me arse with any of their brains.” She swiped a lonely dangling strand of brunette hair behind her tiny ear, and narrowed those dimly lit eyes into subtle ghosts that would sweep through my eerie erect dreams. “Their literally wankers. One sad fuck, a pizza faced fella, he pulled the plumb off himself today.”
I nodded in sympathetic empathy.
I’d do the same meself Sarah.
She’s a strict little cunt in the classroom. My class is right next-door. Ya should hear her rantin n ravin, that’s surely a right turn on for those tragic achene riddle dopes, and the balls on em like watermelons. She usually wears a white silk shirt with two buttons boldly undone, the tip of her black lacy bra peering at leering impetuous pricks of seventeen year old boys. Her long navy skirt leads down to sheer navy stockings which sizzle in the red October sun, and creamy white high heels solified her strong, yet dainty calf muscles.
“I’m off ta bed” she crooned, her deft bare footsteps were little arching feathers meandering across the messy mahogany floorboards. I was fixated on the flex of her long slender legs. The toing n froing smile of her ponytail, told a deep tail of her knowing beauty. There’s a magic to her innocent arrogance. The sorta girl you imagine to be intelligent, yet only real geniuses look past the beauty into her ditsy stupidity.
I had the horn. The beautiful bitch. I had hit the friend stage hard and couldn’t have Sarah’s lushes body. We fear what we can’t have.
When I first laid virile eyes over Sarah’s effortless elegance, she was not the ostentatious flirt you see today. She was the earnest definition of innocence; a lovelorn virginal child, unsteadily lingering on new high shoes, alone, by the edge of the crazy rainbow strobbed dance floor. All her slutty friends had already pulled. I saw a girl that saw past life’s pleasures into dismal pain. Those lovely lonesome emerald eyes implored a romantic vigour that deftly danced into the dismal abyss of lost dreamy reality. Her vulnerable mind emitted fairy-tale ecstasies of unattainable adventures. Her heart was a Hollywood hologram.
That childish sadness was wildly infectious. I even felt remorse for the girl I had never met. A salty insular tear trickled down her dauby runny cheek like a forlorn trinket, once treasured by her mammy n daddy, now forgotten to the fiction of memory.
But when our eyes met, a solace eclipsed her shy endless avenue. Her bashful small town smile maintained a soft soulful embrace of veiled future confidence. Love is a smile that owns no reason. She was the reason I went out that night, trudging through the cold rain without the price of a pint in me pocket.
We gravitated towards waning grief, smiling into a small warm enclave of conversations and little inner intensity’s. Her little voice, excited, sang into my ear drum, blending with the music, those subtle seductive whispers swaying along to the wayward melody, conjuring up old flame memory’s, only to be dispatched by the graze of her glossy lips slipping from ear, to cheek, to chin, coaxing my heart, never tipping the lap of my longing lips.
Sarah studied English lit too. Realizing our shared love of Shakespeare, Fitzgerald and Hemingway we became close friends. The kiss that never was, developed a great friendship. Naively, I introduced her to my roommate, Newman. That boy is a mashonist ta da back bone. A horny hound. He’d get up on a soppy mop just for the shits n giggles. Her inncsence waned at the tip of Newman’s cock.
Sarah placed her makeup mirror against the sitting room wall. She pranced about on petite blue painted tippy-toes, wearing only a black seamless bra and matching thong. Her dress flung over the armchair and makeup utensils scattered across the cluttered room and leather knee high boots boneless beneath my feet.
I ate a Chinese takeaway. I ordered chicken curry, egg fried rice and spring rolls, washing the succulent contents down with warm Dunne stores beer. Sarah turned up the iPod. She sang along, loudly, badly, to all the cheesy tunes of the 90’s.
The doorbell rang. I answered. I saw the red raw sizzle of a cigarette, followed by Danielle’s wry smile, melting the winter’s fresh frost. Danielle is Sarah’s best friend. Or at least she was, until I fumbled onto the scene. She hates my very being, no fuckin messing. A hate her too, only that she’s a right little ride. I spot her black stocking tops fall short of her skimpy dress. She coyly smiles ta say “I’m up for the hump, but not with you.”
“Nice ta see ya Danielle.”
Sarah was fully dressed when we walked into the sitting room. I polished off me 8 pack. The two of them talking the world of shite about fashion. A few of the boys were supposed ta be heading out, but they pussied out at the last minute. Nice one! Stuck with these to nob jockeys. I took a few shots of vodka ta let the drink do the talking. Then I rang a taxi.
I was pissed, wobbling to n fro. Danielle and Sarah surveyed the dance floor, for a nice fuck; why else would ya go out on town, its shite. They were on the prowl for an easy fuck n free drinks. Subliminal prostitutes. After two vodkas and black currents followed by four or five Sambuca’s I stumble ta da bogs for a well overdue slash.
Arriving back, I saw Danielle get finger fucked in a small booth by the side of the bar. The fella had a Gallic grace as he forced her to squirt. Sarah was nowhere ta be seen. Perpetual images drifted across my rampant mind: her little frame bent over the bog, some handsome lad banging her up the bum. My soul was sick of life.
I saw an old lover through the dance floor smog, both pairs of blue eyes say hello, accentuated by reminisce, yet our hearts sinking into that despairing solitude. We turned and walk in opposite directions, acknowledging our romance from a distant dream, a distant land were we walk, alone, illuminated by imaginary lovers. I remembered she was the type of delicate girl that prepared for kisses, and prepared for sex, no spontaneity whatsoever.
I left alone. The smell of chips in the fresh frost night of John Street dragged me into the blue door chipper. The place was empty. With the aid of phantasm beer hunger, I ordered a fish supper, two battered sausages, salad burger, and a snack box. I eat it on the cold ground outside. Unable ta eat sweet fuck all, half of the grub smeared across me pullin shirt, which by the way is no more use than a ball full of 50’s in a groty brothel. A slender rain began to soak my salty chips. Somehow the wetness embellishing the taste, making it overwhelmingly delicious.
Stooped in the shadows of moon and stars I spotted a couple cavorting in the corner of my eye. They kissed into a silhouette of taxi rang neon. I had no money for a taxi. The city was silent, all except for the perpetual raindrops which splashed with a rampant rhythm of lonely revolt. I shambled up stretched side streets to avoid human contact. Too many inomoratas itched my ego. Nobody wants to be lonely, but if you are lonely, you wanna be immersed by the serene swell of solitude. You are a dreamy ghost, or shadow haunting the city limits. Fantasies have become our reality’s favourite pastime. Only in velvet dreams are we all great poets, philosophers, athletes and painters, and then we open our eyes and all is mundane, the magic disintegrates like a durty disease in an STD night.
A melodious massage of feminine moans woke me from a dreamless sleep. I forgot to pull the curtains. The stars sharp eerie sliver cut through the 3a.m darkness. A verve of visions played havoc on my heart, and I saw Sarah, stark naked, straddled in an uncharted hazy silhouette, an oiled up muscly bum penetrating her petite pelvis. Her bed squeaked. That cunt was jumpin the bitch’s bones alright. I wacked off to the rhythm of her low pitched screams. They were sporadic and violent, veering from her ironing board chest. I think of her itchy erect nipples, that black thong tucked up her skinny arse crack, and those cocky devilish eyes laughing into the star struck shadows.
I came all of a shot. The sperm spurted onto me chest. A sinking feeling of gloom clouded my soul, I’ve done nothing wrong, yet I can’t sink any further. Sarah’s screams gasped a fresh intensity. The boy was some lad ta go alright. And I on me lonesome, premature, jizzing all over the shop. They shagged until the stars last glimmerings self-destructed and dawn’s indignant creation moved like a high quality morphine dream. Fuck or be fucked. I badly need ta get that tart outta me system.
I nodded off at about 8. I woke up badly hunger. The silence was worse than her urgent screams. I dressed in last night cloths and took a stroll down the town. The deep breaths of frost freshened my bleak outlook on life. Not a sinner about the streets. All was profoundly sullen the morning after the night before.
I decided a fry n mug a tea would cheer me up. I’m never hornier than when I’m hungover. The waitress was dog rough. And the puss on her like rotten scrambled egg. But I’d give her a shot in the state I’m in. sure ya only feel the body, and that’s well tight. My stares are a little obvious as she drops down the sausages, eggs, rashers, tea n toast. She didn’t mind, lightly smiling. Any attention to a munter is always welcomed.
I spilled seven or so sashays of sugar into me milky tea. Nothing like it to quench the thirst. Two girls sat beside me, chatting in morning monologue only young girls can harness.
“Where did yee fuck?”
“Up me ass.”
“No, ya ejit, I mean where about’s.” They both laugh. I nearly spit me tea into her face.
“Down by the canal” she pulls her jacket collar above her embarrassed smile “I’m such a cluts.”
“And a slut!”
“No such thing as sluts” she snaps “only people who enjoy sex and people like you that don’t.”
After hours of dead end dreamy contemplation, I walked home, feeling my movements merge with the sky, the clouds stagnant amid the mess of twilight blood clot clouds. Dim voices enriched the sharp wind. From the pubs swinging doors I saw faces in old songs, strings of lyrical sentences swimming through a hangover phantasm.
Sarah is the stamp of her mother. The mother slaps on cakes of warpaint, only to hide the looming wrinkles which wreck her wonderfully sharp features. But ya’d certainly give her one. She possesses an erect posture and a firm frame for a lady the wrong side of fifty. She wore all black, a long tight skirt, little leather jacket, hair also black, tied high in a compact mass above her pallid face.
She struts round our house like she owns the gaff, inspecting for dust and debris through the endless mess of Sarah’s smalls.
“Sara” She a posh hoor “would you ever think of cleaning this hideous home?”
“Not really no.” She Sarah rolled her eyes as if to say “Auld cow.”
I sat silent at the kitchen table, childlike, licking a 99 cone, smiling like a little window licker.
“That poor boy” The mother exclaimed, she tuts “What’s your name?”
“Poor Joe, he doesn’t want to wake up to your filth Sarah.”
“Have ya met Joe, mummy?”
“Don’t be ridiculous darling. Now clean up the kitchen. I’ll be back later.”
I tried to watch her ass leave without Sarah noticing.
Five years past like a slow dream ending too soon. We still lived together. She still shags man after man.
The doorbell rang. It was Sarah’s mother. “Sarah’s gone shopping” I said.
“Oh hon, I know that. I’m here for you.” She brushed past into the kitchen.
“Do you want a cup of coffee?”
“If you like.” She fixed her breasts in the mirror, her even lips flirting with a frown-splinter-smile. She slowly undressed. I sat on a seat and dragged down me jeans. She sat on my erect cock, reverse cowgirl, her plump ass sensually revolving. I tweaked the tips of her two chunky nipples. She heightened the intensity, her bum bouncing on me lap made a lovely noise, slapping and squelching. I came twice. She never stopped, coz she never came, my vision blurred, and I eventually passed out. I woke up alone, pants down round me ankles, floppy cock stuck to me thigh.
At her sister’s wedding she asked “When are ya gonna man up n ask me out? I’m sure we’d make a cute couple.” Her eyes a harmony of diverse greens; like a glossy landscape lost to infinite tragic wisdom. She saw me differently, I knew this from the way our eyes unveiled our hearts.
“Where da ya wanna go for a date?”
“For beer of course.” She span round, swishing her satin dress. I watched those legs leave the bar, tiptoeing on velvet heels; I watched her mother on the dance floor, on heels dancing she looked old and clumsy. She appeared thirty years older, and her cum face echoed round my aching heart.
“Are you alright sir?” the barman asked. Sir! And he about ten years older than me.
“No, I’m not alright. Give me a pint of vodka.”
“I can’t give you that. Will you have another Jd and coke?”
“Go on sure.”
I knocked it back in one and thought “I drink to remember forgotten love.”
We took the long way home after our date. We both drank a little too much. The moon became lost, waywardly awkward behind bushes of purple clouds, and its elongated light softly filtered through like inherited ice. Shadows haloed, like silver sequences of lightly breezy leaves. Dull cobwebs wobble and glow, growing a steadiness from silent musical streets. They say something more about life losing its religion.
We stopped beneath a lonely tree above a placid lake. The moonlight shimmered, and the stars became lost in her drunken eyes. I was arrested by the imaginary imagery of her emitting mind, her hot breaths coldly breaking into dawn, a likeable love. Her brunette hair a rich russet of reverie wave’s resting on her elegantly slanted shoulders. Her extracted facial features reminded me of a half kissed cuddle that lasts longer than sober sex. The supposed flawlessness of first love. Untainted, untarnished love, that scary solace of young smiles, heartbeats eating the dense air. Initially our eyes kissed, then our expressions kissed the sky, and then moisture trembled our touching lips. She looked away from my kiss, her fading smile lashing little girlish sentences through the wind, the words known, yet never said, never spoken, always quivering the cobwebs, they wobble, collapsing like a kiss extinguishing the fire in my heart.
Sarah sat writing, furiously scribbling at her desk, lighted by an antique lamplight of yellowy reddish satin, casting her cuteness in hugeness across the beige wall. She created long wedding list into the notepad. I got a sinking feeling, that fleeting emotion from rampant sex, settling like suicide on the sensitive side of my heart.
She methodically picked a plump puss-yellow pimple on her dauby cheek. It wasn’t that she lost her looks, any man would bang her, but she was mine, and I’m a man, and that means I want yours instead. For the first time in five years I could take her heavenly fragility up on that desk. And for the first time I didn’t want her. If you handed a romantic man the world he would wish it away.
She produced a blue stick from the bottom press. “Some news” She tried to smile “I’m up the pole, and you’ll never guess what, so’s me mother.”
Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off.
“At her age” Sarah exclaimed “I didn’t think she could get pregnant.”
Neither did I, neither did I.
To dream is to love, to live is to realize there is no such thing as love.