Pete washed her smell off his body, rubbing himself all over, cleansing himself. HIV/AIDS was a growing issue, especially in the music business. Good wash after sex was staple for him. Had she made it home, he’d forgot to ask her a favour, a delivery he needed making that evening to the producer, tv guy who could offer her work.
The water was instant and hot as she stepped into the shower. Used to it she didn’t flinch, enjoying the heat, her head and mind in far away places, far away from men, fucking machines to her, no loyalty, she was good at pretending when it came to men.
She’d loved once, many years ago, so far from it now, she could hardly remember, unless she felt cheap or easy, used and abused, as she had that day, not blaming anyone, no denial to comfort her, she liked raw life, unwrapped for what it was, yourself alone in a hopeless world. She’d never forgiven God for that day, the day his plane crashed and their dreams ended. Aid worker too, what god would forsake an aid worker she asked, no God would allow such a thing happen to one so good, so giving. She hadn’t read the story of Jesus closely, she just had God, the prayer maker, the one you confess your hopes and dreams to when the going is good and all life is star like. God did not exist in gloom, not in her heart anyway. But harry gave her a different feel, a sense of longing she was having difficulty with. Pete introduced them one night, introduced her to cocaine and others too. Politeness wasn’t something she was used to from men either. Usually it was a case of clean clothes, fresh smells, loose morals and little else, the holy grail being love and being loved in return. Men wanted her knickers and only treated her when she treated them to sex. Story of mankind she supposed until Jesus came along, so the story went. Rubbing her sex organ clean, she doused it in liquid soap, trying to erase the last testimony to it’s existence or worth. Pete who’d been with every pretty woman in
it seemed had been her latest regular fuck, a mutual respect based on lust and
coke and her lack of pride. So she took coke to boost her mental strength, so
claimed pete who was glad to furnish her with the shit anytime he needed a
Stir fry has to be mixed and turned so that it doesn’t burn. Bit like your skin in the sun. you keep moving around until it’s brown all over. Harry enjoyed cooking, healed his drug taking in that he couldn’t role joint and stir fry at the same time. Piri was added, a spice, salt and pepper, soy sauce too, the pan sizzled, harry kept turning the smell got better. The microwave went beep, meaning the rice was cooked. , he was ahead of schedule.
Pete was on the street, walking to his local. A caller wanted a half ounce, and it was a regular, another media head. A fashion house was having an after launch party for a few guests, no coke no party, no coke no impressionable young women who wanted to live on the money of the seemingly wealthy. Most of them would end up on the hire circuit, sex hire that is, but they were too young yet to notice what the real world had in mind for them. Oliver waited inside the door of the kings head bar, drinking just water, hand inside jacket clutching a £1,000 wedge. Come pete he urged to himself, he’d promised a pal he’d have a fix for them, pete was usually reliable.
“I knew I could rely on you” laughed ollie on seeing his pal enter the bar, the same time calling a gin and tonic for his pal.
“make it a water” interrupted pete, well aware of the amount of coke crystals in his head lungs chest and heart. Coke on it’s own was survivable, not so cute with alcohol he’d learned from a few dead friends, knowledge he didn’t share.
“visions of Erica, they’re a new name, you should see the young chicks” quipped ollie trying to make small talk, while pete fiddled with a package that had been stuffed down his underpants, between his balls and anus.
“hurry up” added ollie looking at his watch.
I’ll choke him swore pete to himself, swear I will, all the time fumbling with the plastic bag, careful not to give ollie the bag with the mixed stuff, but the bag with the good stuff. It was well known in the media and TV business that quality of coke was a sign of a company on the up. The poorer companies mixed their coke three to four times. Haute couture was 50% pure coke and twice the price of the badly mixed shit. A bit like beer and brandy to an alcoholic with poor liver function. But fashion houses made so much money from favoured clients, that the whole coke thing became normal. Same for TV and the mile a minute comic who can’t shut up, hilarious. More hilarious was the reality that those in the media industries were more likely to be around cocaine regularly than the average addict. You never hear of the drug testing of TV/media executives even though they sell propaganda daily. Hitler got away with it I suppose.