SomeWhere On...

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...Frith Street

The air around the Bulge hasn’t changed that much. Sure, they installed some colour-changing LED lights and the music has better bass quality, but it’s still the Bulge.

Except I’m just not in the mood for any of it right now. Not really sure why I’m here right now. I just needed to get out of the flat for a while. With Steve gone for a conference in Paris, Adrian gone for his weekend to Wales, and Murph gone for his day-trip to Brighton, nothing really seems to stop me from thinking about last Sunday’s roast.

So because of it, I’m here.

Like, I know I’m in a shitty mood. Even Steve’s staying away from me, by being in another fucking country. Drinking doesn’t make me forget this thing as easily as I’d hoped. Not even sex is doing it for me.

I run my fingers over my palm, remembering Murph’s cool touch. Honestly, right now, it’d be a blessing. This bar’s hotter than my nuts in skinny jeans in the middle of June.

I hear something muffled, but I just shake my head and down another shot. I’m not sure of how many I’ve had at this point. Thing’s are getting foggy. “Mate?” I look at this guy with shaved, bleached-blonde hair on the sides, and a poorly-dyed rainbow mohawk running in the middle of his head. “You all right?”

I lean forward a little. “Wha?” And then I ask the bartender for another shot.

“You all right?” he asks.

I grumble a response, and down the shot. I ask for another. “There’s no cutoff, is there?”

“You get one more,” says the bartender. He pours me another drink and then walks away.

The guy sits down next to me. “Wha’s wrong, luv?”

I down the shot and this time, it stings. I swivel around on the barstool, wobbling, and take in a slow, deep breath. “Nothin’, mate.” Except so many things are bothering me and I don’t know where to start dealing with them.

He puts his hand on my arm. “Maybe I could help,” he suggests, leaning in to whisper how he thinks I’m hot.

This guy’s face is really round, ruined by a big pointy nose. His eyes are big. Like, big enough to emote like nobody’s business on their own. But his grin is crooked and there’s nothing really attractive about this guy at all.

“Whaddya say?” he murmurs in my ear. “Wanna go?”

Maybe this’ll be okay.


He’s kissing me hard when we get to the stalls in the bathroom. He tastes like the air smells outside – cigarettes and rubbish. He has my hair in his fists and all I want to do is go down on him. Normally this shit turns me off, but I just need something to get my mind off it tonight.

I grit my teeth while he slips in tongue. Stop thinking.

He spits into his hand and reaches around for my ass.

Stop fucking thinking.

Fuck,” he whispers into my neck. His fingers find what they’re looking for, and I shudder.

I bite his lip. “I’m no slag, cunt.”

He spits on me, and goes to unbutton my trousers.

I can’t breathe.

He shoves them down to my ankles.

“Wait.” I push back.

He uses both his hands to stretch me out. He shoves my back into the wall.

“I – ” My voice catches in my throat.. “I like this bar.”

“You’re gonna like it a little more in a second,” he whispers, picking up my legs and jamming my back into the wall. “Got any lube?”

I shake my head. My stomach’s turning.

“Damn,” he mutters, and uses both his hands to stretch me out.

It fucking hurts.

I lean forward and bite the shit out of his shoulder.

He drops me and hisses.

“We’re done here.”

He punches me.

So I tackle him into the door of the stall.

So he slams me back into the tile wall and pulls my arms up and around my back.

“Get off me!”

His zipper unzips.

I go to kick him, but he leans me back and wraps his arm around my neck.

“You said you wanted this,” he whispers.

I hear his belt hit the floor. I laugh when I see his dick. “You needed two hands for that?”

And he smashes my head into the wall.

My head hurts. My nose hurts.

Fuck.

At least I’m not thinking right now.

I don’t think we finished. I couldn’t say, though, because everything after my head getting bashed in’s like walking through a fog. Security comes and finds us at some point. The Bulge’s, apparently, too-well prepped for a couple gay guys wanting to have sex in their restroom stalls. So he gets taken out, but I don’t remember what happens after that.

I stand up and leave the toilet. I want to go home.

The lights over the bar’re too bright. I can’t see.

Everything hurts.

Someone slaps my arse.

I hear laughing, but not sure where it’s coming from.

People’re touching me all over.

I trip. My chin hits something. Probably a table, because then I’m covered in something sticky and pieces of glass.

Fuck.

I get back up.

Someone fondles my arse. I slap them away.

I want to go home.

Someone pulls up my trousers.

Someone calls out to me and chuckles.

And then I’m outside. The sun’s rising.

All I see is him. He takes a drag from a cigarette and smirks, offering me a hand. “Wanna finish this at my flat?” he asks.

So many voices. It’s so fucking loud. It hurts. “I...” I swallow, and for a second, I think I taste blood. “...got work.” I start walking. I don’t know where. Just somewhere else.

He grabs my wrist. “You didn’t say ‘no’.” He smiles.

“I’m saying ‘no’ now. Fuck off.”

He’s following me.

I don’t hear anything he’s saying. I can hear my heart in my ears. My head hurts. I walk into a lamp post. Everything’s spinning. I might be sick.

He just keeps grabbing me. Probably saying how much I led him on.

So I punch him. Or try to, the first time. I miss and slam my face into another lamp post, and he chuckles. Which just pisses me off even more.

“C’mon, mate. My flat’s not too far away – ”

And then I hit him. Square in the jaw.

He goes down like a ton of brick.

Then I vomit out at least three good meals and everything I’ve drunk in the last hour. Or however long I was drinking for. By the time I’m done, I’m just so fucking dizzy. I lean against a lamp post.

I want to go home.

Fuck. My head hurts.

Honestly, I think it’s more a miracle I didn’t get myself run over getting home.

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