Carnal Terror

Fuck is she hot. My hands all over her back but it’s her tits pushing into my chest that are making me gasp. She’s making sure I know how much she wants it – fuck, so do I! -but as we half-stumble into the toilets we can see that all the cubicles have ‘Out of Order’ signs on ’em. Fucking typical. She’s not giving up though, and drags me into one of the two disabled toilets. Somehow – don’t ask me why, I’m not thinking rationally at this point – this is even hotter.

I run my hands through her long, wavy, flaxen hair as I’m kissing her, deeply, eagerly, passionately, and she unbuttons her shirt and shorts in a couple of admirably fluid motions. I chuckle a little as I see she’s got a light green (lime maybe?) swim bikini on underneath, but she quickly silences me with another kiss and begins to tug my tracksuit bottoms down. Suddenly, we’re fucking, right through her underwear – I dunno why we do this, it makes no sense – but even though it’s awkward, it feels amazing.

Then the bathroom fills up. Shit…must be half-time.

There’s some inconsiderate cripple in the toilet to the left, and when some banging begins on the door, there’s no way I can finish. Muriel, amazingly enough, somehow manages to crawl under the divide, past the disabled guy – maybe he was blind, fuck knows – and, in the throng, escapes. I then give an ostentatious flush and exit.

And there – amongst others, of course – are Patrick Vieira and Emmanuel Petit. I shit you not.

*******************************************************************************

Dad ain’t particularly bothered by my absence when I get back to my seat. Says I didn’t miss much. We end up winning anyway, a brace from you-know-who and their lot are sent back up North with fuck-all to show for it. Lovely jubbly. Soon the old codger & I are back in his car and on our way home, in the usual post-match traffic jam anyway.

We get into this real deep conversation about how those with great jobs and flash cars are actually, like, really unhappy, and feel targetted an’ afraid an’ that. This goes on for a good while, it’s one of the best talks I’ve ever had with him. I say something bollocks like, “I wouldn’t even wanna be rich, you’d always wonder who’s around the corner waitin’ to nick it from ya”. As I say this, we turn onto a street where two cars have had all their windows smashed. We’re pretty much silent at that.

Then, as we continue on, we see this Tram, musta been one of the Croydon Metrolink ones, an’ it’s the same way – all blown-out and off its rails. Weird thing is, there’s not a fucking soul around. We were in a football supporters’ carnival not a few minutes ago – or so it seemed, but we got so lost in all that bullshit we were chatting about that somewhere along the line we ended up on our lonesome. Next we see a big red bus with it’s bottom floor in tatters – top still intact somehow though.

There’s just no time to take it all in. Suddenly we drive past this market/fair/thing where there’s loads more of these buses, all smoking and similarly shattered. Fuck knows what’s going on.

We pull up to a set of traffic lights, and the old man turns to me, an’ in this real earnest voice he says;

“Happy 15th Birthday son. Looks like you got one hell of a memorable day for it.”

Solidarity, brothers & sisters…

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About Seba Roux

Gooner, Socialist, Historian, Slacker. That's pretty much all you need to know.
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