Friction by Joe Stretch

your fellow young will ask. Who did you pull and were they absolutely as fit as fuck? Were they a lump of congealed sexiness with naked legs falling fit-as-fuckly from their arse? Did they have the muscles of a mutant and the smile of a magazine? Did they have shagging medals around their neck and was it happy screwing and was their bedroom brilliant in the morning? Did you pull? Did they fuck you stupid?
    Johnny passes Bar Revolution where the wealthy students learn to look down on those destined for little. Boys swingcar keys around their fingers, flip-flops on their feet and ace haircuts all over their scalps. Girls talk shit and so do boys. The fit get whistled at and giggle, giggle because they hear the tones of fate in the whistling, hear the great youth that their perfect bodies will bring. Johnny shuffles by.
    â€˜Not for me,’ he says to himself, not knowing quite what he’s referring to. ‘Not for me.’
    He turns into a supermarket, reminding himself of his talents, listing them out loud.
    â€˜Shitting, getting ill, breathing, eating.’
    He gets funny looks. But something is changing. Getting broken down.
    The entrance to the supermarket is dominated not by food but by magazines. Johnny feels like shit. He’s covered in sweat and everything’s a blur since his eyes ceased to see the point in seeing. Where is it? thinks Johnny. Where is my happy life?
    Through the blur, a pair of tits leap from the magazine rack and staple both his eyes to the back of his skull. Jesus, thinks Johnny, his bowels loosening as if he might have to instantly shit. Such incredible breasts. They must belong to Lucy Something or other, she’s got her hands all over them. Her fingers are surreptitiously placed over each nipple in accordance with certain laws passed in parliament. Chances are, if you were to buy the magazine, she’d put her arms down by her sides or in her mouth or on her hips. Either way you’d be able to see her nipples.
    â€˜I could buy you,’ says Johnny to the magazine. ‘Couldn’t I? I could buy you and then that would be me, happy.’
    Lads’ magazines have been popular from the 1990s onwards. Johnny has never bought one but is familiar withthe content: articles on reasonably inexpensive cars, special reports about African tribes who plant trees in their arses, stuff on watches with global positioning technology, photographs and interviews with beautiful girls.
    Right now Johnny can think of nothing else but returning home, throwing a large towel into a steaming hot shower, erecting his penis and slowly making love to the hot, wet fabric. He can’t though. He’s only got one towel and he hasn’t got the guts.
    He imagines what it would be like to get hold of the tits. Imagine if he found them in the street, without Lucy. Imagine if he just found them lying on their own, no blood, of course. He could take them home, be with them, touch them and have a really good time with each boob.
    â€˜I could buy you,’ he says again to the magazine, ‘that’s exactly how it works!’
    Johnny becomes aware of a figure behind him.
    â€˜Are you gonna buy that, mate? It’s the last copy.’
    Johnny turns to see nothing but perfectly hairy muscles. A topless young man with his T-shirt folded and hanging out of his baggy white football shorts. It’s not for me, thinks Johnny, none of this was intended for me.
    â€˜No,’ he says, putting the magazine into the young man’s hand, ‘you take it.’
    â€˜Cheers.’
    Johnny watches as Lucy enters the young guy’s grip, his thumb creasing her slightly, offering a strange perspective on her breasts. As if they’re disconnected from her, and simply stand in front like a couple of painfully inflated skins.
    Quite alone, Johnny walks the aisles of the supermarket. They shine, the products, each one shines with contentment.People choose them. Student boys with