How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Strap-on
It's over. Its finished. We are an ex-couple. I am single again. I put the letter down on the coffee table, lean back into the comfiest sofa in the whole world and look up at the ceiling.
Right now Angeline will be on her way to Waterloo station, where she will get on a fucking eorostar to fucking Paris and I’m not going to see her again. Not ever. I’m not going to see her again ever because it is over and she doesn’t want me anymore.
I was out of my depth with Angeline. Angeline was a Cleopatra. A barbarella. She was Lauren Baccall in “the big sleep”. She was Cybil Shephard in “Taxi driver”. She was Lady Brett Ashley. Yes. That was exactly what she was. That’s hit the nail right on the head. Angeline, my ex-girlfriend, was an eighteen-foot long marlin, too big to fit in the old man’s boat. I dare say you know the type. I hope the Parisian sharks enjoy Angeline.
I always knew I was sexy. My figure is fucking good. My tits are small but they point in the right direction. At the school discos I knew the boys were looking at my ass in those tight-patched jeans I used to wear. Back then I thought the reason I didn’t want to look at the boys was because they weren’t Eddie Vedder. Everyone is naïve and stupid when they are fifteen, what are you gonna to do?
I wasn’t in Angeline's league though. If a pretentious documentary filmmaker asked Heidi Fleiss to mark her out of ten, Hollywood’s favourite madam would say “Seventeen”. Angeline had sex, intelligence, sophistication, courage, money, excitement and class oozing out of every pore on her beautiful body. I wish she wasn’t gone.
I’ve got half a cigarettes worth of tobacco in a king size paper. Something tells me I’m going to be putting more weed into this one than I normally would. I just cut my nails last night and my fingertips are sore as I tear bits of the green stuff away from the bud. It’s two in the afternoon. The sun is bright today. You can never take the weather for granted in London. I should probably be out making the most of it but instead I’m sitting inside having a spliff, same as I would in January.
Being with Angeline was like a jailbreak. It was exhilarating. Time moved obscenely fast, but I guess deep down I knew that when I was sixty five years old, Angeline wouldn’t be the one who would be there helping me remember where I had left my teeth. Angeline wasn’t long term.
We’d be at parties full of twenty something’s who all seemed to work in the media or poets or some shit, and I knew everyone wanted her. The boys wanted her. The girls wanted her.
“Who is that young lady who looks like Amelie?”
She was spoken for. She was mine.
I knew they wondered why we were together. I was Angeline`s jailbait fuck piece to them. I was her pet.
“Is that girl even out of school?”
I probably am a young nineteen and she probably did just want a toy for the bedroom while she was in London and I was probably not supposed to fall in love with her, but like I said, time moved obscenely fast and shit just happened.
Bob Dylan is going to have to come off my turntable. I’m going to light my marijuana cigarette with a positive-stroke-bitchy reflection on my newly broken relationship. The sunshine will be boring the daylights out of Mick Jagger in a couple of minutes. Bill Wyman's bass is bouncing off the purple painted walls of my living room as I reach for my Zippo. Here goes then. Miss Angeline, you probably could paint the daytime black, but you would only do it if you thought “The Face” would send a journalist and a photographer to review the event.
That was bitchy but not positive. I’ll dig deep and try again.
Ok. Angeline, nobody has ever made me wetter, but you still aren’t as sexy as Jessica Rabbit. I might get her into bed one day Angeline, so don’t get too smug.
That will have to do as the smoke goes into my lungs. This one is strong. There goes the afternoon…….
I’m awake again. I’ve been sleeping on the comfiest sofa in the whole world. Angeline has still dumped me but I’ll be ok because I’m a soul survivor. Can’t believe I fell asleep with the music on. That spliff was mean.
I’m going to “Vampyros” tonight. Angeline never took me. She said it was for people who definitely weren’t in relationships. She’d been there. Yes ma petite it is just as debauched as you have heard, but I will not go with you. I will not share my Hailey.
I don’t belong to her anymore, so I’m going to “Club Vampyros”.
I was at a party with Angeline in March. It was in a flat in Peckham (the only white people who live in Peckham are so rich and so apocalyptically hip that it hurts. It actually hurts, like all the pain in all the world). I knew that I was one millionth as chic as the rest of the party crowd, but I was holding all the cards. When Angeline took me upstairs so I could lick her cunt I felt like I was on the inside looking out, and all those trendy people who had worked with Bjork or whatever, were on the outside. I made her scream. I knew they could all hear. It felt so good that we were nearly equals, Angeline and I. It felt so good licking her cunt that THE BIG PROBLEM IN OUR RELATIONSHIP didn’t matter. I’m afraid it felt so good that remembering it now compels me to shout at the picture of Lee Marvin stuck to the wall above my television,
“I LUUUURVE THE SMELL OF CUNT IN THE MORNING…. IT SMELLS LIKE…. VICTORY!” I would very much prefer it if the people downstairs hadn’t heard that.
I’m in my bedroom now. Sophie should get back in about an hour. What am I going to wear to this dyke club? Seeing as our relationship is currently on route to gay Paris, THE BIG PROBLEM IN OUR RELATIONSHIP has gone with it. So what am I now free to wear?
If a pretentious documentary film filmmaker asked Heidi Fleiss to give marks out of ten, I think Hollywood’s favourite madam would give me an eight on a good day. I’m five six, six and a half stone. If I was taller I could think about modelling. I`m good looking, I know I am. Angeline had impeccable taste. I dyed my dark brown hair deep, dark red on Wednesday and it has held out pretty well. Seeing as it’s Friday and I am single I will wear the low, low cut, skimpy silver top. Seventeen or eighteen times tonight I will look down, wonder if I’m going to pop out, and hitch it up a little. What are you gonna to do?
The navy-blue combat-trousers. Yes. Tight enough around my ass to stop traffic that time in Camden, but baggy enough in the leg to be just a bit “hobo chic.”
Angeline said I gave fantastic head. Maybe that was the secret, which her friends seemed to be trying to work out every time they saw me. A blowjob has never been a job for me. Not ever. I kiss pussies because I love them. It’s not effort, or a sacrifice. It’s an indulgence. When Angeline opened up those endless, golden brown legs, I kissed her pussy as intimately, as sensuously as I would kiss Norman Mailer if he had a sex change and swept me up in his (her?) arms. That’s why she screamed. That’s why she soaked me. That’s why it took her six months to send me the dear Joan letter and leave for Paris. It smelled like victory.
You know what? I think I’m not going to wear any shoes. The tanning salon on the Walworth road has left me feet a rather delicious olive colour. I’m going to show them off. I might very well step on stones or broken glass or something. But what are you gonna do?
Fuck. It’s six thirty. I was longer in the shower than I had planned. Sophie has just come through the door and I hear her put her bag down on the comfiest sofa in the world as I dry myself in a rush. I’m not going to bother with underwear because I want somebody to fuck me tonight, I pull on the combats and the top, splash of perfume and I’m ready. The pub that one visits before “Vampyros” is rather deliciously titled, “the three cocks.” I want to get there early enough to sit down and check people out. That means going now. There’s a red light beeping on the phone.
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