Sex sells: The club revisited – 2020

Posted: September 12, 2020 in depression, fiction, LIFE AND STUFF, Random stuff--read at your own risk!
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Village Girls – Kick it!

The night was awful, sitting there, in some club, outside of reality, but there in time, you could feel your skin pulsating against the music playing around you, happy people dancing around you.

You were on your seventh expensive cocktail when the drugs took hold, the world stopped spinning, creating an energy vortex, Jesus Christ was there, trying to find his phone he lost in 1983.

Jim came in, waved at me, life of the party, the room stopped for just a second, to turn and look and wave back.

The end was near, you could feel it, in the marrow of your bones, trying to consume you, trying to kill you, trying to eat you from the inside out, the drugs weren’t working, just a placebo, you knew it, but the doctors kept positive.

“David, we can’t tell you which group you’re in but your blood numbers are good…good….really good….”

They were lying sacks of shit, you knew it, you could feel the cancer, down below the skin, in your soul, moving slowly into your brain.

“Are you thinking or does your face always looks like that?” Jim was sitting near me, his after shave burning my eyes.

I smiled and nodded.

“Who shit in your Cheerios?”

I shrugged.

He knew, he knew everything, my go to friend, when I needed to cry, he understood, he was dying too, liver was going, too many Saturday nights on the dance floor, tripping, on whatever was the designer drug of the time, but his kidneys were fine, which always made him smile when he said it.

“Lets fuck this place!” he laughed and ordered a beer, some kind of brew that only he knew.

We drank, well, Jim was drinking, I sipped, trying to find my center of the universe.

Two women of the prostitute variety wandered over to us. The ugly one of the pair sat on my knee, smiling.

“You guys looking for fun time?”

Jim smiled, shrugged.

“We could be…”

They all laughed, a part of our nightly ritual, Sarah, the girl on my knee was my off and on girlfriend, Jim’s lady, Doris, but known through out the city as Angel, were okay, for a pair of fellows like us.

They ordered shots, something to clean their pallets of jock cum and such.

“Nightmares all around!” Jim yelled and the crowd yelled their approval.

Nightmares were moonshine for the lack of a better word laced on the rim with cocaine and some kind of Molly meth carted up from Alabama.

There was a strawberry for garnish, I always ate the rum soaked treat.

By the end of the night, everyone was dead or dying, but didn’t care as they hooked up for the ride home, to make love, to fuck, to masturbate to the Weather Channel for those who didn’t get nothing but a Nightmare, to go, cause their moms worried.

Three days later, I was in the hospital, exploration surgery, to remove something, my soul I believe.

Back in time, 1988, the first time I met Jim, we were both young and dumb, freshmen in college, our first time on our own, from home, I was drinking a beer, my dad’s brand, Budweiser.

Jim smiled and sat next to me.

“I’m not gay but I could fuck you!” he said to me.

We both laughed.

We tried sleeping together a few times but discovered we were better as neurotic club kids, worshiping the cheerleaders and fantasy girls and guys who wandered in and out of our lives.

We were both Indiana bred, different sections of the state but same parents.

Our fathers were racist corn farmers, mothers always smiling, high on something, but we could never prove it.

Back to the present, waking up in a recovery room, white walls, too white to be real, was this death?

A few days later, sitting in an office, talking to a doctor, “We have some news…”

6 months, tops, my life would end.

I didn’t even cry.

I made my way to the club.

Jim was there.

He already knew by the look on my face.

“Nightmares all around!” Jim yelled and the crowd yelled their approval.

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