The Blood Wank

by nat213

City of the restless dead… its glamour smells of goat
There’s no difference
between good and bad

(Dylan Thomas)

The table was a solid lump of wood that rested upon a low wall and oil barrel. It was lumpy like an elephant’s skin and, therefore, absolutely crap for doing coke off. So I carved 2 wonky lines across the plastic window of my driver’s license. Did one myself and passed the other to Jacob. The poor guy was trying to stay on the straight and narrow due to the influence of a new drug-fearing girlfriend. My better nature was drowning in alcohol – I passed him the line with a twinge of guilt which I ignored. We were drinking beers and talking shared experience on a warm August evening behind a warehouse complex in North London. The old commercial space had been converted into studios, flats and general living spaces and provided cheap rental space for the young and artistic. The sharp heat of the day radiated gently from the surrounding concrete and brick walls and lingered under the smog which made the distant high-rises appear as if through a tinted window. We smoked roll-ups in orange-glowing daisy chains, re-living memories and making them funny for each other. What we used to be like. The madness of it all. It was definitely misguided rebellion that led us to never clean up That and unchecked laziness. It wouldn’t have been so bad if our flat hadn’t been the bucket into which clubs and parties vomited their undesirables. Our parties went on for days, past ‘fun’ and well into the far side. The side where everyone is grimly continuing, curtains drawn like our pale faces using more drugs to avoid dealing with the consequences of doing the drugs we has already done. It was a curtain-less, smashed window apartment, more rats than wall. An air rifle propped by the door – a last line of defense against angry dealers after what they were owed. They never showed up and, in the end, we just shot holes in the doors with it, our rum-laced breath coursing over cold metal as we squinted down a blurry barrel.

Felix rode a bike and skidded to halt behind me. What’s up guys? He had a confident grin and the beginnings of what will become a fine beer belly. His arms and legs were inked with tattoos – occult and spiritual symbols mostly. Some of them matched mine. He was one of the rare people I saw myself in. An old counselor of mine once jokingly diagnosed me with ‘terminal uniqueness’ so finding what I considered to be a fellow spirit was an occasion to be appreciated. He joined us. I fed him cocaine and a fresh beer which he humbly accepted. With a new person in our midst, the evening felt as if it held new and sinister possibilities. The night was our S&M slave, stars twinkling like so many studs in a gimp mask. Felix was talking to a friend which he had left at the pub. Shouting, stopping and shouting again. No! Go somewhere quieter. No, QUIETER. There was no resolution to the conversation, Felix returned the phone to his pocket and sipped his beer. The conversation between me and Felix took on a cocaine-induced honesty and depth, a deep and sudden empathy. Jacob decided to call it a night and I promised to meet with him the next day. I found it easier to be honest with Felix, the stranger. There was less to loose if it goes horribly wrong. We spoke form hearts powered by cocaine jump leads and minds full of pleasure vibrations.

Felix’s companions turned up, an incredibly drunk Polish guy and a girl from Bulgaria. She was no looker but she has that Eastern European stoicism which I find really sexy. It has something to do with slumberous eyes and their simple economy of expression that has the power to disarm the most eloquent Englishman. And she wasn’t wearing a bra. And I was high. All of which combined to maker her the most desirable woman I had seen for a while. They were called Martin and Marta. They were not a couple, which is just as well given their first names. Martin started jabbering away at me and Jacob. He was one of those people who could speak with flashes of intellect despite the large amount of booze he had drunk. He was a real patron of the arts, reading poetry in 3 languages. He loved Henry Miller so much he insisted I take one of his books home with me as I had never read him. I left it there. I thought he might regret the decision to let a book go like that. I know I would.

As the night drew on the residual heat melted away and Martin made for the local off license to restock on beer and we all made our way back to the part of the warehouse where Felix, Martin and Marta lived. It was open plan with a 40 ft ceiling, one angled side of the roof was all glass. There was a flight of stairs leading to 3 separate bedrooms which, once upon a time, would have been full of dusty invoices and fat Jewish men arguing with suppliers. The place was well decorated purely out of junk and curiosity shops. The 3 large rugs, chairs and old lampshades made the place homely. It was even clean. Jacob’s place next door has the impression that the furniture had been dragged there kicking and screaming from a nearby skip, leaving trails in the sawdust. My cocaine was running out but our mouths showed little sign of slowing down. I had one gram left that I was saving for a party later in the week. We threw our meager artist wages together and bought the third gram from myself. It’s a sad tale that people like artists, musicians and writers often can’t afford the drugs they need. I mean, the people that can afford drugs really don’t get any more productive from them. Accountants and bankers don’t need to take drugs, it’s just a waste. Artists make much better use of them. So, I am now writing to the government, asking them to legalize drugs for artists… no I’m joking.

We scratched out long lines of crystalline powder and vacuumed them up our noses spilling deep secrets and opening up in all honesty with each other. An intellectual intimacy formed – entirely based on drugs and, after a few hours, the drugs and the intimacy they inspired ran out. To avoid the depression of facing the reality that we weren’t actually the best of friends, Marta produced a box of strong codeine pills. The opiate fiend in me looked hungrily at them and started spinning webs of words, procuring them and grinding them all down into dust leaving the blisters packet shells discarded on the kitchen surface. I mixed them with water and filtered the solution, extracting the codeine into a concoction which was cloudy with precipitate. Felix and I downed the mixture in one. It was so bitter my head felt as if it was about to split from the back of my tongue to my crown. Martin and Marta wanted to take theirs more slowly. I advised against it but they smiled politely and said they would rather do it that way. I shrugged in a ce-la-vie kind of way. After a little while, a nauseous opiate high hit me and I instantly regretted all the alcohol I had left in my stomach. Should have thrown that up before I started. The laptop was passed around as we shared our favorite poems or songs with each other. Martin spent a good half hour explaining why Henry Miller was the best writer ever. When he spoke, you got a sense of carefully placed passion – someone who had thought about their opinions. The codeine wasn’t doing much for me but Felix’s eyes were slowly crossing. In the end, he went to bed. Marta and Martin were locked in, waiting for the off license to reopen so they could keep drinking. I headed to bed in their spare room. Daylight streamed in through the curtain-less windows with all the subtlety of a tap dancer at a funeral. Under different circumstances, the bare floorboards and wire-meshed windows would have held a certain industrial beauty. My heartbeat was still strong from the cocaine and my muscles were perfectly tense. Unable to relax I took my shriveled penis between thumb and forefinger and tried to pinch-wank it into life. It took 45 minutes before it orgasmed, releasing seamen begrudgingly from a semi-erect state. I laid back to catch my breath and examined my hand which felt predictably sticky. There seemed to be a bit of dried blood on it. I hope that’s from a paper cut, I thought. I peeled back the cover-less duvet and looked down at my penis. It was an island in a small ocean of blood and cum which pooled in my lower abdomen. Small amounts were drying red blossoms in the duvet material. Disgust, fear and shame rapidly formed a bundle in my brain. I grabbed a towel. Luckily, it was a dark towel.

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