(My latest release, Strange Days in High Wycombe tells the jaunty tale of our “hero” Guy as he drinks, moans, and generally makes a nuisance of himself around the titular town in search of a mysterious lady. This is the beginning of his second day… A divisive title, but one I quite like. Hope you enjoy – OJ)
Oh God, not again!
Not another damned dip into the oceans of post-inebriation agony. What did I do? Well I knew what I did… I drank, and drank copiously. But by all that is Man, did I deserve such horrors inflicted upon my skull? Never! Not now, not any time.
You see, while the first hangover – the primary one shall we say – is a treacherous demon indeed, the consecutive one – the secondary – is twice that. For you already know the horrors that await you, from each physical ailment such as the dry mouth, to the mental stress that weighs down heavy upon your person. No, the secondary hangover brings a new fresh Hell upon you. For now, your body is racked with alcohol. It stains the skin, the blood and the mind. The secondary hangover is when it settles upon your person. It becomes you, feeds on you, tries to break you down and lure you into its horrid web.
Your headache? Pulsating. Your need to vomit? Both exacerbated and constipated. And the general feeling of wellbeing that the primary hangover has already started to erode? The secondary has taken it aside and put a bullet in its head. Goodnight Vienna, I never loved you anyway.
I felt awful. Sweaty. Generally disgusting. Like a used washrag in an opium den. Smeared with foulness and left to rot. No amount of detoxing could solve this. There was no quick fix. The hangover was here to stay, and it wouldn’t even pay the rent.
This was a horrible way to start the day.
The cool side of the bed was to be my sanctuary, my lifeline to a better way. Where I was, at the moment, was a heated furnace that only compounded the fury that was erupting in my skull. Not only that, but each second of growing consciousness awakened my body. The muscles contracted angrily, the head roared like a ferocious beast. As for the bladder? Dear Christ. It had swelled to an ungodly level, ready to explode at the slightest hint of relief. Maintain. Not now. Not in the bed. It didn’t help that I felt like every orifice, both north and south, was ready to erupt at any given opportunity.
But when it came to my penis, something was amiss. One, it was out in the open, wild and free. There were no night garments protecting it from the matted cloth of the duvet. Well, not quite, because two, something was attached to it. Wrapped almost. Delicately balanced on the head of my genital area. And it was wet.
A quick roll would answer the question threatening my skull. A quick roll, to what I hoped was the cool side. There, the truth would be revealed to me. A harsh, yet sexy, truth.
“We must stop meeting like this,” she said.
I agreed, and promptly leapt out the bed.
“I need the lavatory,” I announced to her coy giggling. The rush of abdominal pain was too intense to ignore. That, and the fact I had, once again, sullied Charles’ absent other half.
Truly, I was a monster. The worst of Man.
I exited the room as fast as my soiled body would allow, crashing into no less that several walls and surfaces. I was naked, and felt the shame that came with that. The prophylactic hung from my cock like a dirty reminder of my own lechery. I had fallen, once again, to the carnal lust inherent within our psyche. Fuelled, no doubt, by my drink intake that evening and Hartley’s infernal seductive ways. In one respect, I was the victim here. Yes! That was it. The victim. It wasn’t my fault! She, like the nefarious spider-woman she was, tempted me away with breast and eroticism.
Then it struck me. Not any thoughts of the previous, but the feel of the cold. By God, it was cold. This was most likely due to the nudity. Perfect sense. To the bathroom, forthwith.
All other doors in the flat were closed, giving me a direct route to my second home in Kriste’s lodgings. The sanctuary where I could urinate, clean up and desperately try to retain some sort of dignity. Oh my… no! There was no use wailing pitying remarks upon myself. I had made my bed, or rather roughed it up with bedroom gymnastics. That aside, I had to be the full force of gentleman, and face the consequences head on.
Wait. That made no sense. Or did it? Dear God, I might still be drunk. Or asleep! What if this is a dream? Yes. That was the answer. A wonderful – albeit still vaguely nightmarish – dream. Of course, there was only one way to find out.
Argh! Pinching didn’t work. I was most definitely awake in some fresh layer of Hell, that was the Dante’s Inferno of High Wycombe. Unless the pain was part of the dream. As was the pinching.
I looked at my penis.
Well, if anything would work.
OH DEAR GOD!
Note to self: never pinch your penis.
“What are you doing?”
From the living room where he laid his head the night previous, was Kriste, looking dishevelled as ever. I reacted as anyone would when startled by someone behind them, especially when nude. I attacked, flailing my arms like a whirlwind of white pain.
But of course, Kriste was bigger than me. Soon he had hold of my arms and we were both performing a dance of struggle and violence. I muttered something like ‘you fat bastard’ and he responded in kind by bringing attention to my naked state. This only succeeded in upsetting me more, and after a brief bout of failed fisticuffs we both settled down.
“What have you done,” he drawled, obviously still in a state of inebriation. The vile individual.
“Nothing you need to know about.”
“You’re naked. That’s a need-to-know thing.”
I didn’t like that fact he pointed at my wilting member while saying that.
“You stay out of my willy!”
“I don’t want in your willy!”
“Well good. Because you never will!”
“How would I even get in your willy?”
This conversation was both going nowhere and completely bizarre, so I ran and shut myself away in the sanctuary of the bathroom. Its pure, white tiling was a haven to me, which would grant me the time I needed to consider my position.
That, and alleviate my swollen bladder.
With a snap, the condom came off and was promptly tied and hidden away in some lavatory paper. Now it was disposed, my member was free to unleash a torrent of pee into the awaiting porcelain.
Ahh… there is nothing more relaxing in this world that a good, long urination. The pleasure and relief it brings – even in times of stress such as this – is without parallel. It is not unlike releasing a valve. Which, I suppose, it is. Very apt description there, I feel. Is it a metaphor? A simile? Oh who cares, I’m peeing and damn well enjoying it. Because, not only am I unleashing all the poison that taints my bladder, but I also purge the darkness within my soul. Out you go, terrible memories, which strike me as I stand here peeing. Out! Into the bowl with you!
A flash? I thought these bastard things had ceased! What is it? Hartley? Upon me with her gyrations? Argh!
And when I say ‘argh’, I mean the shock, not anything else. She is a divine goddess within the realms of nudity, but that does not make the act itself any less heretic.
Another flash? Bastard Hell! This time I see the moments before, as we enter the flat and suddenly it was I, not her, who thrust my lips upon her mouth.
I was the instigator? Oh no! This a terrible deed indeed. The task of making amends was now upon me. Or, I could devise a cunning plan that would absolve me of all blame and consequence. I just had to think. Think! Take stock in the small sanctuary and…
Not now! Not while I am in a case of mild peril! I had thinking time to do. I could not allow entry to any old willy-come-lately.
“I need a shit,” Kriste said from beyond the door.
“Well you can wait, I’m thinking.”
“Dude, I’m shitting if you don’t let me in.”
He was a noble host, I had to confess, so naturally I would have to make way. That, and if he produced excrement upon the floor outside, it would be a foul situation for us all. Thinking could wait, when more clothes were upon my person.