Post by jh1980 on Oct 19, 2007 12:00:15 GMT -1
Title: Urban Degeneration (continued)
Theme: The Wild West
Genre: Drama, if anything. Dystopian.
Rating: 18
Feedback: Welcome, public.
Warnings: Scenes of a sexual nature…
Notes: Inspired by Sartre's "The Age of Reason", and to a VERY limited extent the film “Coyote Ugly” lol… Views expressed are not necessarily the author's own, and any similarity of characters to individuals whether living or dead is entirely co-incidental, although quite conceivable. Most interesting people I have known are potential character sources. Be afraid.
[Brief recap: Daniel has endured a miserable evening and night, and has woken in the street, with random strangers asking him questions. Previous episode ends:
“Why not tell me what’s wrong, son?” he declared, a strange and potent warmth in his voice. Daniel turned his head to stare at him. Somehow, without declaring it, he realised that the old man understood him. “Alright,” Daniel spoke, his voice feeling detached from the rest of his aching, exhausted body. “Alright. I’ll tell you then…”]
A couple of months previously, Daniel had visited his friend Albert, the shopkeeper, the one with the beautiful young wife that Daniel both longed for and consequently reviled, his withered conscience and base desires struggling against one another. Albert had told him over a few drinks about a new place that had opened on the east side of town, an area that was just becoming trendy, with wine bars and cocktail lounges opening up – but that was still dark and edgy enough to attract men like Daniel, men with a little disposable wealth, men who were bored, men who wanted a new attraction to liven up their tired existences, the ones filled with ennui that bubbled up through their eyes, through their nostrils, filling every pore as they struggled to find a meaning to their lives, a purpose for their striving, other than the dread subsistence logic, paying a rent, filling a belly, drowning another sorrow.
Daniel decided that next weekend to visit the area, a rambling quarter not far from the station at Liverpool Street, and within a moderate spitting distance of the sky-scraping towers of the city elite, their reflective-glazed offices and 28th storey penthouses sneering above those around them, bearing down upon the ordinary folk, reminding every man and woman that escape from an uncaring economy and society could only be found in death. Daniel trudged on to his destination, his great-coat dragging in the dust and dirt of the city, and looking up he saw the venue Albert had mentioned. Nestling snugly between the bosoms of decaying industry and even more decrepit shopping arcades, The Wild West Bar and Revue shone a welcoming neon glow across the street, and like the proverbial moth, Daniel cracked a weak smile inside, and approached the side door.
Entering the bar, Daniel stood, for a moment his gloom penetrated by childish glee. The decorators had done a good job of converting the room into a dreadful yet joyful pastiche of a 19th century saloon bar, in a random part of mid-Western America. The wooden floor was covered in a light mat of sawdust, perhaps also to cater for rowdier visitors, a huge selection of bottles lined the walls, and hurricane lamps adorned every small, round table. Behind the bar stood a man with an immaculately-trimmed and oiled moustache, in a white shirt and black waistcoat. Serving customers were two waitresses in gaudy taffeta dresses which reached to the floor, their hair tied up in vertiginous beehives, with more silken drapery to keep their coiffures in place. The ladies’ dresses dipped pleasingly at the front, affording a most welcome view of their powdered cleavages. Saddles, spurs, hats and other cowboy accessories adorned the walls and pillars, completing the look.
Daniel shuffled over to the bar, and ordered a whisky, then proceeded on down the room towards the stage at the far end. A sandwich-board promised a variety of burlesque and less genteel entertainments, and a man sat at the piano beside the stage door, mopping his sweaty brow between acts. Daniel took a seat at one of the tables to the other side of the stage from the pianist, avoiding the centre of the room religiously, and awaited the next performance. A prodigiously busty blonde with collagen lips and a maid’s outfit walked over, and demanded a contribution in the pint glass she was holding. Daniel wordlessly dropped a coin into the glass, thinking to himself that the woman’s accent seemed more Polish than American, but as she walked away he felt a stirring in his heart and in his groin, his eyes drinking deep as her hips swayed, and the sheer nylons shimmered against her flesh.
The piano began to play, an upbeat number pinched straight from the catalogue of any number of spaghetti western movies that Daniel recalled. The curtains parted, and a cute young redhead sprang onto the stage, and began to sing a marginally-anachronistic ragtime number, warbling a little Daniel thought. He was relieved when towards the finale of her “act,” she gave some compensation for his earache and the money he had paid, when in mock passion, she tore her bodice away, and her pert, ivory breasts stood to the applause and cheers of the few other men sitting around the stage. Daniel grunted contentedly to himself. The sight of the girl’s bosoms bouncing in the footlights did not appease him per se, however he had to concede to himself that he was not unmoved by the appearance of this young woman in the glory of her youth. She was, in all truth, a joy to behold, unfettered and unconstrained by outmoded concepts of decency and yet more indecent concepts of modern liberal thought. Daniel vaguely considered asking whether the venue offered the opportunity of a private dance, but decided against, preferring to savour his whisky and wait to see what further titillations awaited his jaded eyes.
Several more passable acts passed by in the ensuing few hours, including an oriental girl who managed the reasonably-talented feat of rhythmically juggling maracas before flashing her pink-dyed bush at the audience, giggling and running off stage. By this time Daniel was tired, and longing for some hard-core filth to justify the money he had paid, and the whisky he had gradually been draining, its warm, woodworm mellowness spreading through his veins, a scourge to wipe clean the traces of his conscience, lowering his inhibitions and even introducing an element of aggression to the fiery mix of his persona. As he considered his position, the blinds at the far end of the bar were drawn lower, the lights dimmed, and a cold steel pole majestically rose from the centre of the stage. Daniel’s throat grew dry with the scent of anticipation.
The blonde maid whom Daniel had paid earlier now strode onto the stage, to the strains of a sleazy saxophone intro. Daniel sat up on his stool, and gazed as she grabbed the pole, and gently pressed her blow-job lips against it. Gazing defiantly into the darkness of the bar, she began to sway around the pole, shaking her body to the beat. Flicking her hair, she swung around, her legs caressing the cold metal, and she tipped back her neck, implying a passion in her performance. Then leaning back against the pole, she unhooked the halter-neck of her top, and with a dramatic flourish, hauled it downwards, unleashing her pneumatic breasts for the appreciative audience, a pair of glittering tassels swaying from her nipples. Coming forward on the stage, she winked at the nearest man, and jiggled her breasts, making the tassels rotate in a circle. Laughing as the man’s eyes followed them round, she strode back to the pole, and continued to gyrate, watching the man’s reactions. Before long she again stood in front of the pole, and now reached down her skirt, touching herself, before tearing away the flimsy material, to reveal a similarly glittering thong to the tassels. Several times more she swayed around the pole, affording fine views of her sinewy body and pendulous breasts from every angle. As the climax to her act, the pianist threw her a cowboy hat, which she donned, and gave an unconvincing “yee-hah!” as she slipped from her thong, and gyrated several more times, before covering her intimacy with the hat, and tripping lightly behind the curtains to rapturous applause.
Daniel was by now more excited by the activity onstage, and a slow flush spread across his face. The next girl on stage was however a stunning brunette. Daniel’s face quickly drained of all colour. He knew this girl. Mary had been at University with him, years before, the object of much of his desire and affection for over two years. She had been a talented actress, sportswoman, writer and correspondent, with a heart of gold, a kind word for everyone, and a smile on her face that could melt solid ice. Daniel had been convinced that he was in love with her, though he had only ever been a friend to her. The last he had heard, she was living in some small town to the west, and was intending to marry her boyfriend. What had brought her to be dancing in a seedy club in East London, he could not imagine. All he knew, as she saucily removed her brassiere, was that he could not sit and watch this. Tearing his gaze from her longed-for bosom, he fled, cowardly, with tears springing in his eyes. Running down the dark, rain-sodden street from the scene of this crime against his senses, he grew yet more agitated as he realised his hypocrisy. All the young women he had ogled that evening had some story to tell…
Daniel broke down at this point. The kindly gentleman suggested that they go to a café to continue the story, if Daniel felt like it. Since there was no better plan that he could think of, Daniel agreed, and accompanied the stranger to a nearby coffee shop, where the gentleman insisted that he would pick up the tab. Daniel ordered a double espresso, and continued his tale.
After some half hour had passed, Daniel had grown calmer, though less rational, and had concluded that the only solution to these thoughts was to continue drinking at another establishment. Spotting a suitably downtrodden club, he went and paid the doorman a few coins, and entered to the strains of cool jazz, tripping down the stairs in search of more alcohol. Instead of the Wild West, this club reminded him pleasingly of Paris in the 1930s, a place that he considered his spiritual home and time. Fetching a whisky, he sat at the bar, and looked over at the live band, feigning disinterest in the skilled work of the bass player, and the delicate touch of the sticksman on the drums. A striking brunette, very obviously French or of French extraction, drawled a tune of despair to this paired-down accompaniment, occasionally joined by a slight, languid horn player, whose staccato bursts on the trumpet lent punctuation to the piece.
After a few minutes, a sweet blonde girl approached Daniel, and sat on the bar-stool next to him. Ordering a glass of dry white wine, she glanced at him several times, sipping her drink and playing with her short, frizzy locks. Daniel noted her from the corner of his eye, her sturdy buttocks and laddered tights. She had gone overboard on her eye makeup, but there was something about this girl, she might present an opportunity, and the way she kept looking at him, he thought – or hoped – or certainly considered that she viewed him with intrigue, as opposed to pity, or contempt. As Daniel thought these things, she stood awkwardly, and put her hand on his shoulder. “My name is Ivy,” she stated simply and directly. “Would you care to engage in some joyless, perfunctory sex with me?!” Daniel choked, then guffawed. He smiled at her, looking deep into her sea-green, wondering eyes. He felt admiration for this girl, and a mild-to-moderate desire. Her approach was at once hilarious, frank and forthright, but also betrayed low self-esteem mixed with high awareness of modern life, and invoked a certain level of pathos, similar to that which he felt on an almost-daily basis.
“Okay Ivy!” Daniel smiled. “As long as you don’t mind me calling someone else’s name?!” Ivy giggled, and moved to kiss Daniel, but he placed a hand on her lips, and taking her hand, led her from the club. Within minutes, they found a patch of marginal land beneath a railway bridge, littered with other detritus, empty beer cans, discarded newspaper and chip wrappers. Daniel broke off at this point, thinking that the gentleman would not want to hear of every sigh, and embarrassed by the squalid romance of the situation. He remembered though. He remembered how she had arched her back against the wall, pulling up her skirt and rolling down her undergarments. He remembered how he reached to her, hoisting her buttocks in his calloused hands, and had thrust his hard length inside her. He remembered the way she kissed his neck, and how he had whimpered for Mary, closing his eyes and holding this other girl tightly. He remembered how she had wiped the tears from his eyes, looped her arms around his neck, and how she’d kissed him. How eventually he had opened his eyes and stared into her sympathetic pupils, now calling her own name, now feeling her warmth. He remembered how finally he had felt the tightening of his balls, and how he’d come with great passion, deep inside this Ivy, his face buried in her ample chest, and how she had held him, rocking gently until his tremors subsided. He remembered how they had shared a post-coital cigarette, and how they had parted at the bus-stop, both intending to call.
Several weeks passed, and Daniel did not call, waiting for her with a calculated disinterest, and with a general feeling that their encounter had in all probability been a one-off. When she did call, however, his world turned upside down. Ivy had fallen pregnant, was quite naturally upset, and unsurprisingly he had not one clue what to do about this sudden, improbable and not-exactly-desired outcome. The gentleman nodded, and motioned for Daniel to continue. Daniel ordered another coffee, and continued his tale…
TO BE CONTINUED?
[2,236]
Theme: The Wild West
Genre: Drama, if anything. Dystopian.
Rating: 18
Feedback: Welcome, public.
Warnings: Scenes of a sexual nature…
Notes: Inspired by Sartre's "The Age of Reason", and to a VERY limited extent the film “Coyote Ugly” lol… Views expressed are not necessarily the author's own, and any similarity of characters to individuals whether living or dead is entirely co-incidental, although quite conceivable. Most interesting people I have known are potential character sources. Be afraid.
[Brief recap: Daniel has endured a miserable evening and night, and has woken in the street, with random strangers asking him questions. Previous episode ends:
“Why not tell me what’s wrong, son?” he declared, a strange and potent warmth in his voice. Daniel turned his head to stare at him. Somehow, without declaring it, he realised that the old man understood him. “Alright,” Daniel spoke, his voice feeling detached from the rest of his aching, exhausted body. “Alright. I’ll tell you then…”]
A couple of months previously, Daniel had visited his friend Albert, the shopkeeper, the one with the beautiful young wife that Daniel both longed for and consequently reviled, his withered conscience and base desires struggling against one another. Albert had told him over a few drinks about a new place that had opened on the east side of town, an area that was just becoming trendy, with wine bars and cocktail lounges opening up – but that was still dark and edgy enough to attract men like Daniel, men with a little disposable wealth, men who were bored, men who wanted a new attraction to liven up their tired existences, the ones filled with ennui that bubbled up through their eyes, through their nostrils, filling every pore as they struggled to find a meaning to their lives, a purpose for their striving, other than the dread subsistence logic, paying a rent, filling a belly, drowning another sorrow.
Daniel decided that next weekend to visit the area, a rambling quarter not far from the station at Liverpool Street, and within a moderate spitting distance of the sky-scraping towers of the city elite, their reflective-glazed offices and 28th storey penthouses sneering above those around them, bearing down upon the ordinary folk, reminding every man and woman that escape from an uncaring economy and society could only be found in death. Daniel trudged on to his destination, his great-coat dragging in the dust and dirt of the city, and looking up he saw the venue Albert had mentioned. Nestling snugly between the bosoms of decaying industry and even more decrepit shopping arcades, The Wild West Bar and Revue shone a welcoming neon glow across the street, and like the proverbial moth, Daniel cracked a weak smile inside, and approached the side door.
Entering the bar, Daniel stood, for a moment his gloom penetrated by childish glee. The decorators had done a good job of converting the room into a dreadful yet joyful pastiche of a 19th century saloon bar, in a random part of mid-Western America. The wooden floor was covered in a light mat of sawdust, perhaps also to cater for rowdier visitors, a huge selection of bottles lined the walls, and hurricane lamps adorned every small, round table. Behind the bar stood a man with an immaculately-trimmed and oiled moustache, in a white shirt and black waistcoat. Serving customers were two waitresses in gaudy taffeta dresses which reached to the floor, their hair tied up in vertiginous beehives, with more silken drapery to keep their coiffures in place. The ladies’ dresses dipped pleasingly at the front, affording a most welcome view of their powdered cleavages. Saddles, spurs, hats and other cowboy accessories adorned the walls and pillars, completing the look.
Daniel shuffled over to the bar, and ordered a whisky, then proceeded on down the room towards the stage at the far end. A sandwich-board promised a variety of burlesque and less genteel entertainments, and a man sat at the piano beside the stage door, mopping his sweaty brow between acts. Daniel took a seat at one of the tables to the other side of the stage from the pianist, avoiding the centre of the room religiously, and awaited the next performance. A prodigiously busty blonde with collagen lips and a maid’s outfit walked over, and demanded a contribution in the pint glass she was holding. Daniel wordlessly dropped a coin into the glass, thinking to himself that the woman’s accent seemed more Polish than American, but as she walked away he felt a stirring in his heart and in his groin, his eyes drinking deep as her hips swayed, and the sheer nylons shimmered against her flesh.
The piano began to play, an upbeat number pinched straight from the catalogue of any number of spaghetti western movies that Daniel recalled. The curtains parted, and a cute young redhead sprang onto the stage, and began to sing a marginally-anachronistic ragtime number, warbling a little Daniel thought. He was relieved when towards the finale of her “act,” she gave some compensation for his earache and the money he had paid, when in mock passion, she tore her bodice away, and her pert, ivory breasts stood to the applause and cheers of the few other men sitting around the stage. Daniel grunted contentedly to himself. The sight of the girl’s bosoms bouncing in the footlights did not appease him per se, however he had to concede to himself that he was not unmoved by the appearance of this young woman in the glory of her youth. She was, in all truth, a joy to behold, unfettered and unconstrained by outmoded concepts of decency and yet more indecent concepts of modern liberal thought. Daniel vaguely considered asking whether the venue offered the opportunity of a private dance, but decided against, preferring to savour his whisky and wait to see what further titillations awaited his jaded eyes.
Several more passable acts passed by in the ensuing few hours, including an oriental girl who managed the reasonably-talented feat of rhythmically juggling maracas before flashing her pink-dyed bush at the audience, giggling and running off stage. By this time Daniel was tired, and longing for some hard-core filth to justify the money he had paid, and the whisky he had gradually been draining, its warm, woodworm mellowness spreading through his veins, a scourge to wipe clean the traces of his conscience, lowering his inhibitions and even introducing an element of aggression to the fiery mix of his persona. As he considered his position, the blinds at the far end of the bar were drawn lower, the lights dimmed, and a cold steel pole majestically rose from the centre of the stage. Daniel’s throat grew dry with the scent of anticipation.
The blonde maid whom Daniel had paid earlier now strode onto the stage, to the strains of a sleazy saxophone intro. Daniel sat up on his stool, and gazed as she grabbed the pole, and gently pressed her blow-job lips against it. Gazing defiantly into the darkness of the bar, she began to sway around the pole, shaking her body to the beat. Flicking her hair, she swung around, her legs caressing the cold metal, and she tipped back her neck, implying a passion in her performance. Then leaning back against the pole, she unhooked the halter-neck of her top, and with a dramatic flourish, hauled it downwards, unleashing her pneumatic breasts for the appreciative audience, a pair of glittering tassels swaying from her nipples. Coming forward on the stage, she winked at the nearest man, and jiggled her breasts, making the tassels rotate in a circle. Laughing as the man’s eyes followed them round, she strode back to the pole, and continued to gyrate, watching the man’s reactions. Before long she again stood in front of the pole, and now reached down her skirt, touching herself, before tearing away the flimsy material, to reveal a similarly glittering thong to the tassels. Several times more she swayed around the pole, affording fine views of her sinewy body and pendulous breasts from every angle. As the climax to her act, the pianist threw her a cowboy hat, which she donned, and gave an unconvincing “yee-hah!” as she slipped from her thong, and gyrated several more times, before covering her intimacy with the hat, and tripping lightly behind the curtains to rapturous applause.
Daniel was by now more excited by the activity onstage, and a slow flush spread across his face. The next girl on stage was however a stunning brunette. Daniel’s face quickly drained of all colour. He knew this girl. Mary had been at University with him, years before, the object of much of his desire and affection for over two years. She had been a talented actress, sportswoman, writer and correspondent, with a heart of gold, a kind word for everyone, and a smile on her face that could melt solid ice. Daniel had been convinced that he was in love with her, though he had only ever been a friend to her. The last he had heard, she was living in some small town to the west, and was intending to marry her boyfriend. What had brought her to be dancing in a seedy club in East London, he could not imagine. All he knew, as she saucily removed her brassiere, was that he could not sit and watch this. Tearing his gaze from her longed-for bosom, he fled, cowardly, with tears springing in his eyes. Running down the dark, rain-sodden street from the scene of this crime against his senses, he grew yet more agitated as he realised his hypocrisy. All the young women he had ogled that evening had some story to tell…
Daniel broke down at this point. The kindly gentleman suggested that they go to a café to continue the story, if Daniel felt like it. Since there was no better plan that he could think of, Daniel agreed, and accompanied the stranger to a nearby coffee shop, where the gentleman insisted that he would pick up the tab. Daniel ordered a double espresso, and continued his tale.
After some half hour had passed, Daniel had grown calmer, though less rational, and had concluded that the only solution to these thoughts was to continue drinking at another establishment. Spotting a suitably downtrodden club, he went and paid the doorman a few coins, and entered to the strains of cool jazz, tripping down the stairs in search of more alcohol. Instead of the Wild West, this club reminded him pleasingly of Paris in the 1930s, a place that he considered his spiritual home and time. Fetching a whisky, he sat at the bar, and looked over at the live band, feigning disinterest in the skilled work of the bass player, and the delicate touch of the sticksman on the drums. A striking brunette, very obviously French or of French extraction, drawled a tune of despair to this paired-down accompaniment, occasionally joined by a slight, languid horn player, whose staccato bursts on the trumpet lent punctuation to the piece.
After a few minutes, a sweet blonde girl approached Daniel, and sat on the bar-stool next to him. Ordering a glass of dry white wine, she glanced at him several times, sipping her drink and playing with her short, frizzy locks. Daniel noted her from the corner of his eye, her sturdy buttocks and laddered tights. She had gone overboard on her eye makeup, but there was something about this girl, she might present an opportunity, and the way she kept looking at him, he thought – or hoped – or certainly considered that she viewed him with intrigue, as opposed to pity, or contempt. As Daniel thought these things, she stood awkwardly, and put her hand on his shoulder. “My name is Ivy,” she stated simply and directly. “Would you care to engage in some joyless, perfunctory sex with me?!” Daniel choked, then guffawed. He smiled at her, looking deep into her sea-green, wondering eyes. He felt admiration for this girl, and a mild-to-moderate desire. Her approach was at once hilarious, frank and forthright, but also betrayed low self-esteem mixed with high awareness of modern life, and invoked a certain level of pathos, similar to that which he felt on an almost-daily basis.
“Okay Ivy!” Daniel smiled. “As long as you don’t mind me calling someone else’s name?!” Ivy giggled, and moved to kiss Daniel, but he placed a hand on her lips, and taking her hand, led her from the club. Within minutes, they found a patch of marginal land beneath a railway bridge, littered with other detritus, empty beer cans, discarded newspaper and chip wrappers. Daniel broke off at this point, thinking that the gentleman would not want to hear of every sigh, and embarrassed by the squalid romance of the situation. He remembered though. He remembered how she had arched her back against the wall, pulling up her skirt and rolling down her undergarments. He remembered how he reached to her, hoisting her buttocks in his calloused hands, and had thrust his hard length inside her. He remembered the way she kissed his neck, and how he had whimpered for Mary, closing his eyes and holding this other girl tightly. He remembered how she had wiped the tears from his eyes, looped her arms around his neck, and how she’d kissed him. How eventually he had opened his eyes and stared into her sympathetic pupils, now calling her own name, now feeling her warmth. He remembered how finally he had felt the tightening of his balls, and how he’d come with great passion, deep inside this Ivy, his face buried in her ample chest, and how she had held him, rocking gently until his tremors subsided. He remembered how they had shared a post-coital cigarette, and how they had parted at the bus-stop, both intending to call.
Several weeks passed, and Daniel did not call, waiting for her with a calculated disinterest, and with a general feeling that their encounter had in all probability been a one-off. When she did call, however, his world turned upside down. Ivy had fallen pregnant, was quite naturally upset, and unsurprisingly he had not one clue what to do about this sudden, improbable and not-exactly-desired outcome. The gentleman nodded, and motioned for Daniel to continue. Daniel ordered another coffee, and continued his tale…
TO BE CONTINUED?
[2,236]
Forever without exception. x