2 comments/ 33793 views/ 3 favorites Getting Over It Ch. 01 By: L.Fortune West A Night In The Life Of A Jailbreaker Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Strap-on It's over. Its finished. We are an ex-couple. I am single again. I put the letter down on the coffee table, lean back into the comfiest sofa in the whole world and look up at the ceiling. Right now Angeline will be on her way to Waterloo station, where she will get on a fucking eorostar to fucking Paris and I’m not going to see her again. Not ever. I’m not going to see her again ever because it is over and she doesn’t want me anymore. I was out of my depth with Angeline. Angeline was a Cleopatra. A barbarella. She was Lauren Baccall in “the big sleep”. She was Cybil Shephard in “Taxi driver”. She was Lady Brett Ashley. Yes. That was exactly what she was. That’s hit the nail right on the head. Angeline, my ex-girlfriend, was an eighteen-foot long marlin, too big to fit in the old man’s boat. I dare say you know the type. I hope the Parisian sharks enjoy Angeline. I always knew I was sexy. My figure is fucking good. My tits are small but they point in the right direction. At the school discos I knew the boys were looking at my ass in those tight-patched jeans I used to wear. Back then I thought the reason I didn’t want to look at the boys was because they weren’t Eddie Vedder. Everyone is naïve and stupid when they are fifteen, what are you gonna to do? I wasn’t in Angeline's league though. If a pretentious documentary filmmaker asked Heidi Fleiss to mark her out of ten, Hollywood’s favourite madam would say “Seventeen”. Angeline had sex, intelligence, sophistication, courage, money, excitement and class oozing out of every pore on her beautiful body. I wish she wasn’t gone. I’ve got half a cigarettes worth of tobacco in a king size paper. Something tells me I’m going to be putting more weed into this one than I normally would. I just cut my nails last night and my fingertips are sore as I tear bits of the green stuff away from the bud. It’s two in the afternoon. The sun is bright today. You can never take the weather for granted in London. I should probably be out making the most of it but instead I’m sitting inside having a spliff, same as I would in January. Being with Angeline was like a jailbreak. It was exhilarating. Time moved obscenely fast, but I guess deep down I knew that when I was sixty five years old, Angeline wouldn’t be the one who would be there helping me remember where I had left my teeth. Angeline wasn’t long term. We’d be at parties full of twenty something’s who all seemed to work in the media or poets or some shit, and I knew everyone wanted her. The boys wanted her. The girls wanted her. “Who is that young lady who looks like Amelie?” She was spoken for. She was mine. I knew they wondered why we were together. I was Angeline`s jailbait fuck piece to them. I was her pet. “Is that girl even out of school?” I probably am a young nineteen and she probably did just want a toy for the bedroom while she was in London and I was probably not supposed to fall in love with her, but like I said, time moved obscenely fast and shit just happened. Bob Dylan is going to have to come off my turntable. I’m going to light my marijuana cigarette with a positive-stroke-bitchy reflection on my newly broken relationship. The sunshine will be boring the daylights out of Mick Jagger in a couple of minutes. Bill Wyman's bass is bouncing off the purple painted walls of my living room as I reach for my Zippo. Here goes then. Miss Angeline, you probably could paint the daytime black, but you would only do it if you thought “The Face” would send a journalist and a photographer to review the event. That was bitchy but not positive. I’ll dig deep and try again. Ok. Angeline, nobody has ever made me wetter, but you still aren’t as sexy as Jessica Rabbit. I might get her into bed one day Angeline, so don’t get too smug. That will have to do as the smoke goes into my lungs. This one is strong. There goes the afternoon……. I’m awake again. I’ve been sleeping on the comfiest sofa in the whole world. Angeline has still dumped me but I’ll be ok because I’m a soul survivor. Can’t believe I fell asleep with the music on. That spliff was mean. I’m going to “Vampyros” tonight. Angeline never took me. She said it was for people who definitely weren’t in relationships. She’d been there. Yes ma petite it is just as debauched as you have heard, but I will not go with you. I will not share my Hailey. I don’t belong to her anymore, so I’m going to “Club Vampyros”. I was at a party with Angeline in March. It was in a flat in Peckham (the only white people who live in Peckham are so rich and so apocalyptically hip that it hurts. It actually hurts, like all the pain in all the world). I knew that I was one millionth as chic as the rest of the party crowd, but I was holding all the cards. When Angeline took me upstairs so I could lick her cunt I felt like I was on the inside looking out, and all those trendy people who had worked with Bjork or whatever, were on the outside. I made her scream. I knew they could all hear. It felt so good that we were nearly equals, Angeline and I. It felt so good licking her cunt that THE BIG PROBLEM IN OUR RELATIONSHIP didn’t matter. I’m afraid it felt so good that remembering it now compels me to shout at the picture of Lee Marvin stuck to the wall above my television, “I LUUUURVE THE SMELL OF CUNT IN THE MORNING…. IT SMELLS LIKE…. VICTORY!” I would very much prefer it if the people downstairs hadn’t heard that. I’m in my bedroom now. Sophie should get back in about an hour. What am I going to wear to this dyke club? Seeing as our relationship is currently on route to gay Paris, THE BIG PROBLEM IN OUR RELATIONSHIP has gone with it. So what am I now free to wear? If a pretentious documentary film filmmaker asked Heidi Fleiss to give marks out of ten, I think Hollywood’s favourite madam would give me an eight on a good day. I’m five six, six and a half stone. If I was taller I could think about modelling. I`m good looking, I know I am. Angeline had impeccable taste. I dyed my dark brown hair deep, dark red on Wednesday and it has held out pretty well. Seeing as it’s Friday and I am single I will wear the low, low cut, skimpy silver top. Seventeen or eighteen times tonight I will look down, wonder if I’m going to pop out, and hitch it up a little. What are you gonna to do? The navy-blue combat-trousers. Yes. Tight enough around my ass to stop traffic that time in Camden, but baggy enough in the leg to be just a bit “hobo chic.” Angeline said I gave fantastic head. Maybe that was the secret, which her friends seemed to be trying to work out every time they saw me. A blowjob has never been a job for me. Not ever. I kiss pussies because I love them. It’s not effort, or a sacrifice. It’s an indulgence. When Angeline opened up those endless, golden brown legs, I kissed her pussy as intimately, as sensuously as I would kiss Norman Mailer if he had a sex change and swept me up in his (her?) arms. That’s why she screamed. That’s why she soaked me. That’s why it took her six months to send me the dear Joan letter and leave for Paris. It smelled like victory. You know what? I think I’m not going to wear any shoes. The tanning salon on the Walworth road has left me feet a rather delicious olive colour. I’m going to show them off. I might very well step on stones or broken glass or something. But what are you gonna do? Fuck. It’s six thirty. I was longer in the shower than I had planned. Sophie has just come through the door and I hear her put her bag down on the comfiest sofa in the world as I dry myself in a rush. I’m not going to bother with underwear because I want somebody to fuck me tonight, I pull on the combats and the top, splash of perfume and I’m ready. The pub that one visits before “Vampyros” is rather deliciously titled, “the three cocks.” I want to get there early enough to sit down and check people out. That means going now. There’s a red light beeping on the phone. “Soph honey, I’m in a rush and I have to go out. I taped Malcolm in the middle, its still in the video.” “You look sexy little Hailey. Is it Angeline's lucky night?” I make a face, tell her I’ll explain tomorrow, give her a peck on the cheek and I’m out the door. I hear, “have a good time” as I leap down the stairs, take a second to mind the people downstairs` bike, now I’m outside. Vampyros is the evil empire. Vampyros is a den of Iniquity where unheard of sins are played out. I can’t confirm any of the myriad rumours and titbits I’ve heard about the place for at least another two hours or so, but I’m a tiny bit excited. Angeline and I went to some of the other all girl places you see in “Time Out”, but they never really went close enough to ancient-Roman sexual anarchy for my taste. Angeline was only my second ever girlfriend. The first had been my geography teacher at school. Her clubbing days were behind her. Angeline refused to take me because she wasn’t prepared to share. When she said that I felt like I was her little princess. I could even see an image of a seventy three year old Angeline holding up a set of false teeth and shouting “Voila”. My ex-girlfriend could certainly make me feel special at times, despite THE BIG PROBLEM IN OUR RELATIONSHIP. What Angeline said that time makes me even more excited about tonight. I’ve changed from the Bakerloo line to the Northern line and the train is heading to the Angel, Islington (if the makers of Monopoly could only guess at what its worth now!). I don’t feel excited or tingly anymore. I don’t even feel good. This is because I have realised that the light on the phone was bleeping because Angeline rang when I was in the shower and left a message on the answering machine. I’m still going to Vampyros. If she’s changed her mind this night is compensation for the trauma of the letter. I hope she has changed her mind. I hope she still wants me. I hope she is still in London. I don’t want to split up. I don’t want to split up with Angeline because I love her and I idolise her, because her eyes can make me feel like a better person than I am, because the Marlboro smoke in her throat makes her voice feel like a twenty four carat gold vibrator caressing the nether-regions of my soul, because she’s better than me, because she needs her cunt licked on a regular basis by someone who knows she is better than them, because there is no point in that bloke sat over there trying to make eye contact. I hope she still wants me. I’m not going to be able to keep Angeline's message out of my mind tonight unless I get really fucking drunk. Really fucking stinking, filthy, fucking rat-ass piss-drunk. I’m walking just past the street that Vampyros is on. Its away down the other end on the left. It looks like a dark shop front. I’m lighting a spliff I’ve just made walking along. I've made better spliffs than this in my life. Vampyros is written in orange neon lights, as if it should say PORKY`S instead. The street is just like loads of others in London. Houses where the front door opens on to the pavement. The bricks are proper London style, tiny little bits of red black and brown mixed together. The cobblestones of the street make everything look quaint. I want to take this in as the rough smoke hits my throat. A lot of journeys are better than the eventual arrival. The more I notice now, the greater the anticipation will be. It’s just after seven; the neon sign is a contrast to the smoggy London dusk, which is starting to turn darker. The street lights are little coves of bright orange as my crappy day prepares to concede to a night of God knows what. The cobblestones mean the Luftwaffe missed this little part of London. Its quiet. I love quiet sometimes. In this city you have to find quiet the way you have to find Lou Reed or John Coltrane. It won’t come to you. The remains of the spliff are in the gutter and I'm heading for the Three Cocks. The double vodka I'm about to consume will hopefully provide me with a metaphorical stepladder with which to climb out of my stoned, Lou Reed and Coltrane loving ass. It’s a fine ass by the way. Angeline had impeccable taste. It’s a grotty pub but that means the landlord hasn’t sold out to a chain. There’s probably thirty women in here already and I have a strong feeling that when I’m drunk enough to forget about Angeline and her message, that quite a few of the healthy wenches now in my peripheral vision will become very pleasing to my eye. The night is young. I want a double vodka for acceleration and then a Jack Daniels with a dash of coke for more pleasurable cruise cruising speed. That’s what I want, its also what I think I deserve, but the bartender has fucked up. He has made a JD and coke instead of a JD with dash of coke like I asked for, because he is an imbecile. “No sorry I wanted a Jack Daniels with a dash of coke, not a Jack Daniels and coke.” He looks me in the eye because he is an imbecile and I stare back. He puts the JD and coke to one side and then pours the drink I actually asked for with a reluctant but half smiling ok you pushy little stuck up bitch expression on his face. He does this because he is an imbecile. I pay him, take my drinks and sit down at a still vacant table by a grimy window. I can see all the partygoers walking past in the road outside. All the young dudes. I should feel like a party girl too but even when the vodka has been banished to history I’m still thinking about Angeline. What the fuck did she say on the answer phone? The imbecile bartender is collecting glasses. He is scrawny and has that haircut where they’ve paid a lot of money at a salon to look like they just got out of bed. He doesn’t look even remotely like Eddie Vedder. What did Angeline say to the answer phone, imbecile bartender? She slept on it and realised that my delightful looks and personality package, not to mention my unparalleled skill at cunnilingus, just cannot be discarded. She’s sorry about the letter. She was drunk and emotional and had been too sensitive when I said that her poem about a tapeworm was rubbish. She knows that now. Forget about the letter little Hailey. I love you, lets just carry on as normal Its probably something like that. Vodka works fast nowadays. I want Angeline back. She’s fucking utterly gorgeous and she made me proud. That long black dress she made herself, with the slit up to her ass. She had the figure of a supermodel but with gorgeous tits as a bonus. She had the libido of a gutter whore. I could slip my hand into that dress when we were in a crowded pub, she could carry on her conversation with her friends about Dumas and black tulips while I brought her off. She’d shudder and her eyes would crinkle at the edges but her fellow beautiful people would be none the wiser and would just keep talking more shite. I loved it. I think Angeline may well have loved too, just a little bit. Only the answering machine knows. Make no mistake; there are some women in here that I want to fuck hard. I want them to fuck me hard. The clothes and skin on show are stark against the pub interior. The dark purple and blue triangular pattern on the carpet’s khaki background would have been hideous at first, but so much beer has found its way to the floor that the whole carpet is just now just different shades of murky grey-black apart from the odd flash of colour that has tenaciously held out against the grimy onslaught. The tables are solid oak but have been here a good while. The cigarette burns and scratches on them add to the general feel of a pub that is too old and has seen too much within its walls to be turned into a theme bar. The lighting is dim. You notice how smoky the air is. The bulbs need a clean that they probably won’t get. The dust on them makes for a seedy, subterranean, deviant sort of light that ricochets off the eggshell blue walls in a way that is just perfect. An immoral ambience for an immoral clientele. Oh dear, it would seem that, through a lack of concentration that Angeline would have found sadly disappointing, I’ve inadvertently become lodged up my ass again. Never mind, the bartender’s spellbinding ability to fix the drink I asked for offers me forty per cent proof salvation, with a dash of coke to boot. Its half past nine. The Three Cocks is packed to the rafters and I must put “Fantastic Mr. Fox” away as I’m just ever so slightly too drunk to read. Three girls are sat at my table but they haven’t disrupted my reading with their conversation about Limp Bizkit being shit because Fred Durst is a Neanderthal. Two of them have their hair cut like Fred Durst. I don’t really go for the butch thing but their companion is certainly eye catching. She’s really slim, almost flat chested, dark hair, a just small enough amount of freckles to be cute. The real feather in her cap is the raw sex you can see behind her pale blue eyes. She’s got that Friday feeling and we make fleeting eye contact. The bacardi she’s drinking hasn’t yet corroded her middle class sensibilities enough to take her from flirtatious to voracious, but the night is young. She looks away and the conversation continues. From nu-metal to “Troilus and Cressida”, in the blink of an eye. This young filly has a soupcon of culture but there is a slut in there bursting to get out. I push my way to the bar. The bartender must be on a roll, but imbecilic first impressions last. I’m just a tiny bit unsteady on my feet now and I can feel a good pair of tits against my arm as I negotiate a way through the melee back to my seat. I’m keeping my eyes to myself now though, until Vampyros. I’m back at the table again now and GI Jane No1 introduces herself. She’s called GI Jane No1. She kindly introduces me to GI Jane No2, and then I find that their young companion who I am actually interested in is called Becky. Becky and I make eye contact again for a moment. I want to bury my face between Becky’s svelte legs and kiss her cunt like Greer Garson kissed Olivier in “Pride and Prejudice”. I want to slide my tongue up and down her pussy lips like they were Belgian truffles that my taste buds just could not contain the pleasure of. I want to dart my tongue into Becky’s hole until she faints. I want to love your cunt Becky, because that’s the only way to do it. I want to ambush your clitoris Becky, so that you remember the shock and awe for the rest of your days. I’m arguing with GI Jane No2 that if MGM had balls, really had balls, like Jim Morrison or Aretha Franklin, Tom would catch Jerry, just once, the last cartoon they ever made. Tom would spit out the bones and go to find a toothpick. In the last scene Tom would be sitting around bored, then he would start crying. Fade to black. They’re laughing and I’m skinning up. GI Jane No1 has her leg rested against mine. I don’t move my leg away even though I’m not really attracted to her. My mind creeps back to that damned, black hearted answer phone message but I push it away as I imagine Becky’s surprise as I push my middle finger up her ass. I want her. I want to wrap my legs around her and kiss her violently so she knows exactly how much I want her, but it’ll have to wait because GI Jane No2 is kissing her and Becky’s obvious pleasure disappoints me. I look away. “The Specials” are on the jukebox. Angeline and I would have pogo’d to this if we were drunk enough. But Angeline is gone. My table buddies, presumably just like everyone else in the room, are going to Vampyros. Apparently everyone will decamp in about three quarters of an hour. There’s some excitement creeping into the atmosphere. A bit of momentum finding its way into The Three Cocks’ subversive gloom. The clientele have merged into a politely anarchic mob. The mob has a destination and the hour is nigh. Getting Over It Ch. 01 After softly, and chastely wishing you goodnight, I close the door and lean back against it, letting out an exaggerated sigh that tickles my dark bangs. For a moment, I just stand there, lost in thought, replaying the events of the evening in my mind. Wishing I had done this differently, or said that differently. I hope that my nervousness didn't come across as obvious to him like it was to me. Since our kiss earlier in the evening, I can't stop thinking about it, and wonder if he is affected, like me. Over and over, I watch in my mind's eye as our lips meet. Like seeing a movie, or a sports replay on slo-mo. I should have taken it farther. I should have been honest with myself and taken a chance. But the idea of you pushing me away absolutely terrifies me. I think back on recent years, how many times I have felt rejected, used, or just plain worthless. Having spent so much time trying to build up my confidence, like a wall, it only takes a night like tonight to really bring the truth home. That, oh-so-precious wall I built? It was made of sand. Of glass. If you look hard enough, you can see right through me anyway, and a glass castle can't stand indefinitely. It was a facade. Not the solution I imagined it to be. That's the heart of the matter really. Being so afraid that someone might realize how wounded I am underneath, that I would rather suffer alone than take a chance. I can't do that anymore. With new resolve, I make my way to my kitchen for a glass of water, kicking off my heels in the hallway. I stop to glance at myself in the hall mirror, critically trying to see what he might see. Short, posh haircut, dark brown hair, tinged with dark auburn. Also dark, golden eyes that tilt just slightly up at the corners, rimmed with long sooty eyelashes. High cheekbones, and a mischievous mouth. I wish my lips were poutier. A pretty face, I guess. I look down at the rest of me. A petite frame, with curves in the right places, accentuated by the short black dress I was wearing. Smallish breasts though. Or maybe I just think they aren't big enough. My little waist flares out to nice hips. Pulling a face at my reflection, having not come to any useful conclusions, I continue on my kitchen run. Grabbing a glass from the cupboard, I take it to the sink and idly hold my fingers under the faucet until the water runs cold, all the while deep in thought. I should call him. I should tell him what a great night I had, and that I would be disappointed if I didn't see him again soon. Be bold. Remember that kiss? You know the one where you would have rather torn his clothes off and had your wicked way with him rather than have it end? You could do that. Maybe he wants you too. You'll never know if you don't make a move... I smile wryly and roll my eyes at myself. My inner monologue is never silenced. Resolutely, I pull my cell phone out from its hiding place in my bra, and scroll the contacts until I find his number. I stare at it. Then sigh again. I need to at least be sitting down for this. Padding barefoot out of my kitchen, clutching my glass of water like a lifeline, I fling a blanket off the back of my couch with the hand that is still glued to my phone, and awkwardly wrap it around me before I sink onto the cushions. I take a few sips of water before I start to coach myself. Okay, you can do this. You've poodled around long enough, he's got to be home by now. Make the call, tell him it was great night, thank him for dinner, and say you would like to see him again, and that you would love to be laying on your kitchen table, thighs spread wide as he devours your pussy. Whoa. Maybe not so much on telling him that last part. My own thoughts cause me to blush, because I hadn't realized until that moment just how incredible my daydream sounded. Hmm... Perhaps I would be a little braver on the phone if I let myself consider it for a second... I glance over at my kitchen table from my seat on the sofa. Yep, that would work perfectly. I close my eyes and imagine the cool polished wood underneath my bare back, and his warm, strong hangs holding my thighs apart. He would be such a tease, I just know it. He would softly caress my open legs with his rough palms, moving up and down them, getting a little closer to my hot, dripping wet cunt with each pass. My hips would strain and lift, attempting to press my wetness to his fingertips. But he would only grin and stay just beyond my reach, until he knew I couldn't take it anymore. Then, oh-then, he would start using his mouth. Nibbling and kissing my inner thighs, drawing closer to where I wanted him most... And then he would move to the opposite thigh. I would let out a frustrated sound, something between a growl, and a moan, and my ire would only cause him to chuckle darkly. Without warning, he would take my pussy then; ravish me with his mouth and teeth and tongue. Tugging gently on my labia, followed by a swirl or ten of his tongue on my hard little clit. My hands would find their way to his head to press him harder to the apex of my thighs, the pleasure causing me to cry out. My blood would boil, and the heat would become overwhelming as he ate me, bringing me closer to the edge. He would make me beg, I think... And God, I want to beg... Abruptly, I do feel wetness in my lap and it's not the good kind. In my reverie, I spilled my glass of water. Must have been really into my fantasy, I suppose. I feel my cheeks with my hands, and they are warm and flushed. With annoyance, I crumple up the wet blanket and just toss it on the floor, and decide if I'm going to call, I'd better do it now, while irked, before I lost my nerve. Clicking my cell phone back on, his number still on the lit screen, I press "CALL", before I can think about it again. The phone rings twice, and then he picks it up with a low, and sleepy sounding, "Hello?" And what meant to pass my lips as "Hello", really only came out as something unintelligible and decidedly high pitched. Clearing my throat, I try again, my own thoughts developing a stutter, "Um, hi. I was just calling to tell you that I had a good time. Was I...? Er, what I meant to say is, did you...? Cuz it's OK if you didn't want, but I did, and I... Fuck." I panic, and hang up the phone, screaming at myself in frustration, grabbing the nearest pillow and shoving my face into it. Wow, that didn't go well at all. Now I'm sure he thinks I'm crazy and will never call me again. Feeling sorry for myself, but not knowing what to do, I lay back on my couch with a sigh. I consider the remote possibility that he may not remember me calling him when he wakes up in the morning. He sounded pretty tired. I hang on to this idea to ease my mortification. Sighing again, and mentally shrugging my shoulders, I decide to make the best of my situation and not let being aroused go to waste. Still in my date night clothes, which consist of very little in the first place, I am grateful for the easy access now, because I definitely mean business. My slinky little black dress is easily pushed up over my thighs to bunch up just above my hips as I spread my legs wide. One shapely calf drapes over the back of the couch, while the other leg is bent at the knee with my foot flat on the seat of the sofa. For posterity (because if you're going to do a job, do it right), as my hands drift down to that aching, sopping wet place, I tweak my nipples a few times and my muscles clench inside in response. Continuing their downward journey, my hands finally get to the place that is craving all of the attention. With one hand, I spread the lips of my pussy and with the other; I trail my fingertips down to the source of so much moisture. Pushing two fingers inside a few times, I slip out the now slick digits and circle my throbbing little nodule of pleasure softly. And this is all just preparation. I let my thoughts wander back to what he was doing to me on my kitchen table, except now the solid, smooth wood of the table is smashing my breasts as I lean over it. Roughly he is grasping the cheeks of my ass from behind, spreading them apart for a good view of his cock as it slides in and out of my cunt hole. His thick member, rubbing all the right places, causes my pussy to clench and unclench rhythmically with him. He is fucking me so hard that the table slides a little across the linoleum with every thrust. Out loud, a hiss escapes my lips as my fingers play and the pressure builds. Low and deep in my belly I can feel the heat pooling, like magma beneath a volcano. Pinching, pulling, rubbing and flicking my clit, rising much quicker to the place of no return than I had intended, I release a very loud moan on the heels of some incredibly explicit dirty talk to myself. Not quite there yet, I shove my fingers back inside me to coax that orgasm from my teasing and reluctant bitch of a cunt, while still systematically drawing them out again to massage my pulsing hot little nub. "Sooooo close... C'mon, you dirty hole of a pussy, let me fucking have it..." My pussy is starting to clench and I'm so very close to the edge. A sheen of sweat has broken out across my forehead and my entire body is flushed. I have never felt so ready to come in my entire life, I just need a little bit more... And that's when the doorbell rings. Getting Over It Ch. 01 As I go to the bar again I can feel eyes on my body. It is always fucking incredibly marvellous to be desired. There’s a blonde at the bar in a black Gucci dress. She’s a real life Amazon and the eyes she’s giving me are about as subtle as Russ Meyer, who would ejaculate at the sight of her. Her tits are as big as Angeline’s but they look real and I’m imagining a lazy afternoon spent sucking on them. She’ll have to wait for Vampyros now though because drinking time is short. The imbecile makes mine a double and the blonde is checking out my ass. It’s got really hot in here. The clock is ticking as another double goes down. There’s a tangible expectation in the air now and time may well be moving obscenely fast because I’m drunk and I want to fuck. There’s a bloke in our pub and I didn’t even notice him. He’s got a Manchester accent. He stands by our table and says, “Es, wiz, trips, draw” No takers so he moves on. He circles the pub reciting his litany for a secular society but I can’t hear him because a voice in my head with a mancunian accent is saying “vibros, dildos, fingers and tongues, vibros, dildos, FINGERS AND TONGUES!” I’m in a deliciously bad way and I don’t want another drink, I’ll leave it until I get to her satanic majesty’s citadel of sin down the road. I want Becky and her beautiful cunt now like a tourist in the Dominican Republic wants to stop shiting but it doesn’t look good because GI Jane No2’s tongue is a long way down her throat and there’s something going on under the table but it’s a secret so I look away. Were in the open air. I’m loosely tagging along with Becky and her manly suitors as we walk to Vampyros. I’m feeling a tad bit more sober which is a good thing because I have to get past the doorstaff. I’m having trouble deciding whether Becky’s arse or legs are the more criminally sexy and I want to own her. I want to own the deeds for Becky and lock them in a safe somewhere. Angeline told me that my femininity was beautiful, but my masculine carnal appetite was irresistible. I can see that blonde from the pub and no building-site full of Neanderthals could ever leer at her tits the way I feel myself leering. The queue for Vampyros is long and it’s moving slowly. Normally I’d get impatient but I need some time to clear my sodden brain. The bouncers are female, but only just. They’re checking people for drugs and I can see, even from here, that they are being thorough about it. This presents a problem because I have the best part of an eighth of an ounce of premium quality skunkweed in my bag. If they find it they won’t let me in. Two people have been turned away already and I’m shiting it. Angeline got this stuff for me and apart from its obvious and doomed sentimental value; its really fucking good gear and I can’t throw it away. Can’t and won’t. There’s a few more been turned away and a young lady with inviting thighs and a feisty look complains volubly and profanely. I’m impressed but she’s not getting in. If they find the weed I’ll just go home and listen to Angeline’s message. I think I can just about find it in myself to take her back, just this once. There’s four people between me and the doorwomen. I want to get in. I want to know whets on the answering machine but more of me wants to get in. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a an evil-marvellous night out just for me, not hanging on Angeline’s Prada coat tails all the time. Two people away from the bouncers. A thuggish looking bloke walks round the corner. He’s had a lot to drink. He sees two hundred women and no men queuing up for a club and the cogs turn. “Oi! How many women does it take to change a light bulb? Two! One to change the bulb, one to suck my cock!” He’s cracking up at his own joke and half staggers, half jogs, up the road. I like him. Most of the others don’t however; the air turns blue with the retorts. A couple of the more butch girls down the line move in his direction but he’s got enough sense to get the hell out of there. One of the bouncers runs her hands over my body and I like it almost as much as she does. As her eyes go to my bag I’m thinking that I don’t hate men, I just hate their genitalia. There was a boy at school who played guitar and had hair like Eddy Vedder. I was thinking about it for a while but then I got a B+ on that glaciation exam paper, and Miss Fendale fisted me. The rest is history. She hasn’t found the skunk. I’m going to have to wait to find out what Angeline said to the answer phone. The official Vampyros hostess is waiting as I go through the outer door. It’s peaches night tonight ladies, she pats a sticker on Becky’s ass and I’m jealous. There’s a picture of a peach on the sticker, with PEACHES NIGHT written around the peach. Neither of the GI Janes got a sticker. The hostess looks enough like Janet Jackson for me to want to eat her alive, she puts a sticker on my ass and gives it a squeeze. I smile and brush my tits against her arm as I go past, down the dingy stairs through a doorway into an even dingier corridor and I can hear the music really loud now. Elvis Costello is not impressed with a sulky girl as I go through another set of doors and here we go. Entering Vampyros is a sobering experience. To Be Continued Getting Over It Ch. 02 Dear Reader, I would strongly urge you to read the first part of this story before you read this current installment. The first part doesn't have any sex in it, but is not too long and I guarantee you will enjoy this part more having read the prequel. Thanks a lot, hope you enjoy! Jailbreak II I'm in a room; it looks almost square, probably a hundred yards deep and a hundred yards wide. Its dark, the floor and walls and ceiling are painted black but there are powerful little lights jutting out all over the place, like little car headlights in the darkness. These lights are few enough that they are punctuation marks in the darkness' sentence rather than the other way round. More light comes to reinforce however, from a strip of metal grating on the floor from the middle of the near wall to the middle of the back wall and there are strobes underneath the grating. No, I tell a lie, it's a lower level to the club, the grating ends at the near end and there is a fireman's pole there that someone has just slid down. Time must definitely be moving obscenely fast as I could swear that the strobing coming out of the floor is almost a blanket across the middle of the room that I could reach out and touch. My eyes are playing tricks on me as Club Vampyros wrestles with my senses. I'm trying to take it all in but the electric atmosphere has made something fuse in my brain. I'm telling myself to get it together as a girl with no top on passes me from right to left. I only have a tantalising view of her back as this blonde waitress strides toward the bar with her tray. The waitresses at Vampyros don't wear tops. The bar staff of Vampyros don't wear tops either. The staff of Vampyros, like the clientele of Vampyros, are all women. There are a shitload of lesbians in the same room as me and I'm going to have sex with at least one of them, you just see if I don't. The DJs put the specials on by some groovy coincidence but Terry Hall is definitely singing about some other nightclub because this place is starting to look like a place that Muslims should face towards seven times a day. For appearances sake I head toward the bar because in London one must never on any account look likea rabbit caught in headlights. The bar is lit by loads and loads and loads of tiny little red lights so that it looks like a cross section of a Hollywood nuclear submarine stretching out the length of the wall on my left. I have to go through loads and loads and loads of circular zinc tables fixed to bright floor to ceiling lap dance poles, and loads and loads and loads of women sat at said tables, and oh, upon my soul, its another topless waitress. This time I have a view of the young lady's mouth-watering front. This topless waitress has deep dark dyed red hair just like mine but hers is shorter, just down to the bottoms of her ears. Her face is just fucking divine with sharp Teutonic bone structure that some fucker has chiselled in heaven and I'm truly sorry but that face was just made for me to sit on but she doesn't agree, doesn't notice in fact as she keeps walking. She's of slim build and her body is just as sharp perfectly proportioned as the exquisite bone structure of her face and I just cannot come anywhere near explaining why none of the ladies around me have grabbed her, thrown her on the floor and taken her because her tits are uniformly flawless and if only one three-wheeler is to get a vorsprungdeuchtechnik orgasm off this girl tonight then let it be me because God knows my day didn't start this fucking good... I'm at the bar, I've got to wait a while to get served and I squeeze up against the back of the girl in front. She doesn't turn around but she can feel my body up against her, she stiffens at first, then relaxes and I'm telling myself to settle down because the night is still young, or youngish. Whoever's managing this place has an eye for talent because the barmaid is even sexier, if that's possible, than the waitress I just saw. She's a bigger girl but her weight is exactly right for her frame and her chest is quite simply marvellous. I can only see her upper body but its got that healthy 3D succulence that you can only get by taking really good care of yourself, the body I'm looking at is a thing of beauty that you just want to snatch at and lose yourself in but the face is main attraction. She has a bob that has grown out a bit, her hair isn't quite blonde, isn't quite fair, nor peroxide, its golden. Her face is angelic, exquisite. I hope Florence Nightingale had a face like this because her looks could cure anything a Russian cannonball did to you. There's a curious vulnerability in her blue eyes, she's conscious of her nakedness and, it would seem, inexplicably insecure about it. A few awestruck home-truths somewhere quiet could turn this girl into all your dreams come true but she doesn't realise how spellbindingly desirable she is just yet. It takes me a second to concentrate and realise that the barmaid I've fallen in love with is asking for my order. I'm embarrassed for a moment and I can feel my face going red, but I'm asking for archers because its fifty pence a go on peaches night and a girl simply has to watch her pennies these days. There's a commotion behind me and I look round, about ten feet away there is yet another blonde Amazon, only this one is wearing a jet black SS uniform and she even looks German. She must be six two at least with fucking D-cups, I won't fall in love with her because she's a fucking machine made for one thing and there's no room for a heart in their with all the mechanics, but I'd love for Frau Auschwitz to use me for her own vile ends for the rest of the evening. She has a surgical glove on her left hand and she's stroking the hair of a young lady as she whispers into her ear. I think the SS maiden works for the club because this young girl has an eighteen today badge on her tight white shirt and the barmaid is forgotten because now I've been and gone and fallen in love with the birthday girl who cannot possibly be a day over fifteen years old. She's tiny and whippet thin and cute and embarrassed and innocent and her sex appeal just reaches out and hits you like fucking Bruce Lee or someone and she's a naughty little rich girl in her designer clothes and she could be Angelina's baby sister. I want to kneel down in front of her and put a ring on her finger but I can't because Eva Braun's taken her by the hand and is leading her away as her mates laugh and clap. As I gulp the last of my drink I watch my little countess' immaculate tiny little ass with the peaches night sticker on her tiny little black Gucci skirt as the Amazon SS women leads her to the fireman's pole. Down they go and I'm jealous but I'll get over it... Heidi Fleiss would give my barmaid fifteen out of ten but the jailbait countess has completely stolen my heart. Another shot of archers and I fear sobriety's perimeter is about to be overrun by an alcoholic armoured division in the very near future but I'm together enough to go to an empty zinc table and try to take in more of Vampyros' viciously sexual ambience. There are some fucking gorgeous women in this place. THE BIG PROBLEM IN MINE AND ANGELINE'S RELATIONSHIP has left in me right now in the approximate state of a twelve year old Beatles fan in the audience of the Ed Sullivan show. These are my favourite trousers and I'd rather not make a mess of them but I'm only human after all. Vampyros has little TV monitors mounted on the walls and ceiling. Some of them are playing are playing "Barbarella", some are playing "And God Created Women" and some of them seem to be playing footage of the moon landing, but instead of watching telly I think I'll watch the two real live women having real live sex over by the dance floor. Fucking hell they are shameless. The one girl has her back to me, she's sat on the chest high table, her delicious model's legs are spread wide open whilst her friend fingers her violently. The other girl is sucking her left nipple whilst she pumps her forearm in and out. The girl on the receiving end is wearing what remains of a school uniform, black woollen stockings to half way up her thighs, a little grey school skirt that's round her waste as she gets fucked, a white shirt that's open so I can see the erect nipple of her left breast as it goes in and out of her friend's hungry mouth. Her hair's dark and straight, shoulder length. It swings behind her head. Her face is turned back to her left, she's got those cold, unattainable sort of good looks, a brown haired vixen, born out of everyone's league, she's looking up at the ceiling with an "I've got my cake and I'm eating it" expression. She's rubbing her head against the pole because she's being fucked and she's loving every second of it. She's caressing her lucky friend's head as the forearm still pumps back and forth. Her friend's bigger but she's fit and she's having a lot of fun, her tan shows against her white boob tube and her eyes are closed as she munches on that nipple. Her right arm is punching that finger in and out of her St. Trinians delinquent and they're both moving rhythmically, faster and faster. Schoolgirl wraps her arms round her friend's shoulders and she's pulling hard, pulling her in and her hips are bucking against that finger. She's got her friends face buried in her chest and she tilts her head back and her mouth's open and she's screaming but Debby Harry is drowning her out so it's a Rod Steiger silent scream and this looks fucking marvellous as the orgasm stiffens her whole thoroughbred body and she closes her eyes as they wind down, back to planet earth. Her eyes open and they're sparkling as she leans down to kiss her obliging companion, then the eyes close again and it's a slow, tender kiss and there's emotion there and If I wasn't suddenly reminded of Angeline and what I lost today I might very well feel like I was intruding. Little miss naughty gets off the table, pushes the skirt back down to just above her stockings, does up her shirt. They're looking round sheepishly, realising they had a large audience, all the women stood round enjoyed the show, there's even some applause. A waitress strides past, giving them a knowing look. The schoolgirl is red faced now, but she had a good time by the look on her face. Her friend's flustered and a tiny bit sweaty but she's gorgeous like a healthy version of Victoria Beckham. She's licking her fingers and putting a proprietary arm around schoolgirl's waist as they hug. Her expression suggests that part of her wants to thank fucking Jesus she got the chance to fuck this sexy lady but she's restrained and I'm jealous as fuck but I'm happy for her as their cheeks brush together. I'm looking away because it's all made me think about Angeline and what the fuck she's put on my answering machine. I'm off to the bar again because voyeurism is fucking thirsty work. I'm back at my table and I'm starting to feel a little bit lonely all by myself. I'm scanning around women I want to be fucked by. Bridget Bardo is on the monitor screen; my God she was just fucking wonderful. Imagine being in bed with her and looking up into that face. Imagine licking her all over and hearing her purr. Fuck. I need to concentrate on now. I can see a girl about ten metres away with Bardot like red hair, but it looks like a dye job. She's snorting coke off of the table. She's pretty. She's chubby, but light enough to be a curvy, buxom bundle of fun rather than a heifer. She's all in black pinstripes but her top is showing some serious cleavage and that is a pair of lungs to die for. She leans forward to powder her nose and the view just gets better. Someone walks between me and her, interrupting the view. Now, there we are again. Those tits are luscious. There's a girl, no sorry a women, pressed up against her from behind, squeezing her pelvis up against the redhead's arse. She's old enough to be her young companion's mother must she's in good nick, I'd fuck her, she's kept her figure really well, the princess Di haircut does her no harm. I hope I'm in that shape at her age. Maybe she's reliving her lost youth; it certainly looks like at as she slides her hands down from redhead's shoulders and into her top to fondle those fantastic tits. There's a flicker of distaste in redhead's eyes but I've got a strong feeling that mother paid for the Charlie because she lets the hands stay there. Mummy's eyes know who has the power in this budding relationship. I really hope that the redhead isn't a heterosexual cokehead because that would be just a tiny bit sad. I give her the benefit of the doubt and switch my gaze to Jane Fonda trying to fend off Anita Pallenburg's prying hands on one of the monitors. I down the rest of my drink and its time to hit the dance floor suddenly as "Search and Destroy" comes on. Every good girl has an obligation to go buck wild for music of this lofty quality. I'm bouncing up and down as the rock chicks take over the dance floor. The song's finished. My deodorant has, thankfully, stood up well against my exertions. I'm back at my table with yet another archers but I can't stay too long because I need a wee. Where the fuck are the toilets? There are three women at the next table to my right. They're deep in conversation, about football, but I'm not going to be judgemental because these three amigos are all rather easy on the eye. They're all probably twenty something; I'd say late twenties. The first one I noticed is slim, tall, built like a model but not anorexic looking. She's got class but there's a warmth in her eyes that says she doesn't blame people for not being as great looking as her. That warmth is rare in central London and I suspect she has some character and I'm interested. She's got a trendy little pair of specs on and I think her hair is probably natural red but she's reinforced it with a bit of Kurt Cobain dye. Her toned body is fine and dandy but her pert rear end is the top of the proverbial bill. I want to grab it but I'm not drunk enough yet. She flashes that warm smile again at a bit of jest and I've a suspicion that if you're lucky enough, this is one of those girls where the morning after is even better than the night before and it almost pains me to wrench my eyes away from her in order to scrutinise her friends. One of her mates is drinking a bottle of German lager. She looks Jewish, she's not saying much, but listening to the other two and smiling. Her skin is dark, she's either just this minute back from holiday or she's foreign. Her skin is a gorgeous colour that must make a lot of people green with envy. . She's got honey blond straight hair in a little ponytail and really, really blue eyes. Its hard to describe her figure, she's in really spiffing shape, she's too heavy to be a waif but she's fit. She looks powerful, strong, solid and wholesome but at the same time conclusively feminine. Maybe she's been on a kibbutz in Zion for a couple of years. I'm getting a kind of Angeline feeling, like I could hero-worship this girl. She's good looking and she's sure of herself, there's a hint of security and safety about her. Maybe she's the golden haired, Jewish, lesbian answer to Lee Marvin. There's a thought. Can I be your Angie Dickinson miss Marvin? Normally I'd expect someone with her looks to be stuck up and superior but she's got pensive, intelligent eyes. The third amigo is the best looking, which is saying something when you consider her comely companions, God knows the other two are really nice to look at but this one is something else. How the fuck do I describe that face. How can I adequately get across to you the magnificence I'm looking at? Her features are cut glass, if that's any help. She's got brown eyes, deep fucking brown eyes that you could just stare and stare at. Her features are sharp. I don't know if this is making any sense, but her features are just... freeze-dried perfection. God has sculptured that face with a diamond to tempt the rest of humanity. Her hair is straight, dark brown or black like Monica in the earlier episodes of "friends". Her figure, when taken in conjunction with her face, is sickeningly flawless. If I were straight I would despise this young lady. I would not allow Eddie Vedder (who I would be married to) to be in the same room as her. The third amigo is entirely mesmerising enough to sober me up fast. The last time I saw a girl beautiful enough to make me want to cry was when I met Angeline and that little thought has hit me like the right hand of "Smoking" Joe Frazier. All the way from Paris Angeline has managed to throw a spanner in the works. I feel like I've fallen down a manhole. One time, the Stone Roses were playing on "The late Show" and the power cut out. Ian Brown was stood on stage shouting "AMATEURS!". That's what it feels like... I have to look away as her eyes flick towards mine. Thinking about Angeline has knocked me off my stride. The toilets must be downstairs and I just feel compelled to be on the move Vampyros is a blur around me, I'm dancing like Ali circa Madison Square Garden 1971 to get through the crowds of three-wheeled revellers. I've got to slide down the fireman's pole to get down to the lower level, the pole seems like a bit of an irritating gimmick when actually have to use it, and the soles of my poor little feet bang on the floor. The strobing's mental down here, it's like a little acid house canal under the grating. There's women just stood looking up at the floor above, because there's more women upstairs stood on the grating intentionally giving gusset shots to those below. To my left at this end there's women looking into peepholes five feet up on the wall, God alone knows what's going on behind there, I keep moving because I want to be on my own for a little bit, to shake Angeline out of my head before the evening is ruined. Midway along on both sides are the toilet doors, ladies on the left, men on the right. I'm through the door of the ladies and there's plenty of people up to no good at all in here but I just want my own little cubicle to hide in so I keep my eyes on the floor. There's screaming and shouting and panting from all sides as I shut the door to my little sanctum in the bowels of Vampyros. Angeline's left me. I've lost her. Unless the message on my answering machine is her taking me back then I've lost her. I love her. Losing her isn't an option. I can't lose her because I'm not sure I can carry on without her because she was just fucking everything. She defied Mr Makepeace Thackeray and his "Vanity Fair" rules because when I got what I wanted I was happy and I was satisfied and it could have lasted forever and been perfect. I took on "Vanity Fair" and beat the house. You can't just lose that and survive the experience. I can't just go off thinking, oh well, what doesn't kill us makes us stronger and all that bollocks because I never even liked Gloria Gaynor anyway and the memories will fucking eat me up like fucking cancer. I felt like I'd won. I felt like the rest of my life was just going to be the credits rolling as we both walked off into the sunset, when you've had your cake and eaten it you can't let it go like an old pair of jeans and I won't let go of it. I won't let go of Angeline. Angeline is mine. She's my property and we're together for life. You can get what you want and what you need, the footloose man can fuck off, and Mr. Jimmy can stick his soda right up his fucking arse. You can have Cleopatra without the asp, I know because that's what I had, no sorry, what I have, and its not getting on the fucking Euro star to fucking Paris and leaving me because no matter how many times some fucking pragmatic scumbag tells you that life isn't fair, deep down you know that life really is fair. Cinderella will go to the ball. I'm not always this upset so you'll have to give me some leeway on the italics. I'm banging my hands on the wall but I'm not going to cry. You can try to defy Mr Makepeace Thackeray all you want, but running mascara wouldn't have looked at all becoming on Becky Sharp, and it won't do for me either. Getting Over It Ch. 02 I don't need to cry because this is all academic anyway. Angeline's answer phone message is going to allay my fears and take the pain away. I'm going to have casual, guilt free sex tonight and Angeline and I will be back on tomorrow because undoubtedly I am her Cleopatra just as much as she is mine... Two ladies in the cubicle next to mine are having the sort of fun I intend to partake in at some stage tonight. One of them has something inside her big enough to make her unsure of whether she can cope with it, but she's loving it all the same. She's making the sort of hollow, cavernous characteristic of heinously immense penetration, its rhythmic and intense, as a whimper tells you she's fighting the pain to get to the pleasure. Her compadre is whispering sweet nothings now, the satisfaction of conquest is mixed with compassion and gratitude in this winning blend of latex romance. The recipient's moans are louder and higher pitched now and I'm getting wet as they speed up. She's coming, she's coming hard and screaming her lungs out, her throats opened as wide as whatever orifice is being drilled and I'm rubbing my thighs together as hard as I can because it sounds like love and I want it and I need it and someone in here is going to get so lucky tonight they won't know what day it is, what their name is, what country they're from or what's fucking hit them. I'm out the toilet door and the strobing offends me Victorian prudish eyeballs. I was half tempted to stay in the toilets and watch that blonde having her tits sucked by tow two greedy suitors but I feel suddenly thirsty. One of those peepholes is vacant though so my liver gets a short reprieve. I wonder what's in Pandora's box, lets take a look... It's a darkened room, but with the tiny little "Red October" submarine lights from the bar. It's the enclave of the blonde Amazon in the SS uniform from upstairs, except now she's naked but for the surgical glove on her left hand. The tiny little underage blonde who I fell in love is in there as well, and would you believe it, she's naked too. I'm in love with her again because she is fucking utterly delicious, plain and simple. Frau Goebbels sits on a stool facing the peepholes, her legs slightly apart. She has the birthday girl come sit on her lap facing us. Fraulein pulls her legs wide apart with some force and her cunt is open wide for us all to see. I want to get down on my knees and lap at that pussy until she loves me too. Fraulein's glove is shiny lube and I can guess what's coming and I'm getting wet again as her hand loops under birthday girls delicious left thigh and rubs against her labia, I briefly think that it doesn't get much better than this as she rubs gently up and down and birthday girl giggles like a coy debutante. Someone's hands are on my hips and I stiffen, but I'm not prepared to forsake the view I'm getting as those hands slide up and cup my tits and she's pressing against my back and squeezing her cunt against my arse and she's starting to rub herself up and down against me and I'm still not going to look away from the peephole into the Nazi bunker because two Aryan fingers are going in and out of birthday girl and she's biting her lower lip and she's starting to enjoy this and I'm starting to enjoy it too by proxy. My companion outside is kissing the back of my head as she rubs herself harder and harder against my arse and I'm bending outwards into her and this is fucking dirty as fuck but its that sort of night and as the third finger goes into birthday girls now sopping cunt and her cute little face says she knows there are a whole squad of people watching and though she's a tiny bit mortified about this fact, the feeling from below is cancelling out her hurt pride. Fraulein is kissing the nape of her indecently young charge's neck. Her right arm is tight round birthday girl's stomach, making her gasp from the pressure. Four fingers briefly, then the whole Teutonic hand is in birthday girl's sopping wet cunt and it looks wonderful and it looks like Christmas and my mystery lover is grinding against my arse and back hard enough that its painful and I might come myself if this keeps up and birthday girl is omitting high pitched moans and her whole body heaves to cope with that fist grinding Into her tight young cunt, slow and hard. She's going to come despite the pain that is crinkling her eyes, mixing with the pain of knowing that countless eyes are watching her being abused, the climax isn't here yet but its in the post and its going to take her pretty little head off if I'm not very much mistaken. My new friends hands have moved from my tits to grip my shoulders like I'm her chin-up bar and she's dry humping me for all she's worth but my eyes are still up against the peephole and I'm hypnotised by that little girl's painful but toe-curlingly wonderful humiliation as she's fisted by a total stranger in front of however many pairs of eyes. There's tears in her eyes but she's still smiling despite the pain, and the exertion is showing on Frau Himmler's face now, but birthday girl is not resisting, she's taking her punishment and she's going to come, and my new friend's right hand goes down between my legs and she's cupping me as she grinds up against me and birthday girl is going to come hard, right now, its taking her over and she's screaming and crying as the freulein holds her tight and the climax is convulsing her over and she's loving it because its so fucking good, she's shuddering, she's shaking like she's going to implode and I'm holding myself back from the brink as mystery lover is whimpering in my ear because she's coming too, and rubbing my soaking wet cunt at the same time, she's bucking her hips against me and holding onto me for dear life. Birthday girl and the masterace Amazon are kissing slowly and gently, their lips like two butterflies hovering against each other on a beautiful sunny day when life is like it is in the films, and my friend's grip goes weak and she gently sucks on my earlobe, then lets go. She's lost to me now, but what the fuck, like I said; it's that kind of night. I know I'm a dirty little bitch, and I know that this club is the best thing in the whole wide world, and tonight is going to be the best night ever ever as I turn away from the peephole. I need another drink and I'm heading for upstairs and the bar...