Sunday Morning Long Weekend

I went out on Friday night to the Peel. Smoked meth, with Shane, before we went.

I've felt fucked up ever since. What day is it?

I wanted to shag all weekend, but, of course, a cold sore appeared Wednesday and took care of that. I wanted to misbehave. So pissed off; what karma was this? I'd been looking forward to the long weekend.

I obsessed over the middle eastern security guard. Shiny black eyes, olive skin, strip of beard on his jaw line, black hair. I kept eye contact up with him for half the night. When he did a circuit of the dance floor, when he was in the darkest section, he'd turn and maintain eye contact, whites glowing, pupils piercing, trace of a smile. He'd find me on the dance floor with his dark gaze, as he stood his post, at the top of the stairs. Eventually, I was standing on the step with him, perving down his front, imagining just how beautiful his penis was, when he turned and spoke.

He said, Do you want to go inside.

I asked him to repeat it, receiver down to 20%, which he did.

Do you want to go inside?

I couldn't understand what he meant. I tried to reply. Every thing was hazy. It became very apparent to me at that moment, I was too fucked up to speak.

Pity. What did he mean? What did it matter, I had a cold sore.

I was saturated by the time I came off the dance floor. I asked the big smiley blond guy, who'd been trying to gain my attention all night, the time. It was 5am.

I was glad I bought my jacket. It's good to be a friend of the DJ also, no cloak room to deal with. It was cold outside.

I turned off my bedside lamp just as the morning was seeping into my room. It seemed like another world laying there in that fractured light. Every thing silent and still, except for the ringing in my ears. Peace.