good judges of character.
As I walk out of The Club I think:
The Boss means well. I love him but Esurio
knows
me. When the time is right I will stop the madness. That time is not now. I have so much more living to do.
As I walk towards The Office I know the day is going to be extraordinary. I know it because there’s a pattern. Here’s how it goes:
1. The feeling begins in my gut. A spinning, twisting anticipation.
2. Once the feeling starts, I know three things: I am going to get bollocksed. I am going to get fucked. Nothing and no one can stop me.
3. I start smiling and wiping my lips.
4. I see images in my head: Drink. Coke. Cunt. Drink. Coke. Cunt.
5. I look at my reflection in the windows as I walk past. Sometimes I adjust my handkerchief. Other times I clench my fist.
6. I talk to any Wrap I fancy on the street. I always touch them. Usually on the arm or wrist before I speak. I say:
I love sex and I’m fucking good at it
. Or:
Y
ou’re coming with me.
Most of them take it because they’ve fucked me before, know someone who has fucked me, know that I am Lincoln and I fuck a lot of Wraps, or because
they are fucking terrified.
7. If I’m not fucking a Wrap by the time I get to The Office, I order two bottles of wine, a vodka tonic and take a line.
8. By now I’m a rabid dog and someone should section me.
9. I call a Wrap or one of them calls me. We meet at my flat, in a toilet somewhere in Soho, or I book a hotel for a few hours.
10. I spend the night believing in my own immortality while expecting to die at any minute.
3 p.m.
I’m in the Sanderson Hotel, sitting in the open-air bar waiting for Sandra. The tinkling of water from the fountains is pissing me off. I go into the toilet and take a
line. When she arrives we go to the room. I rip her clothes off and tie her to the bed. I go into the bathroom. I stare in the mirror and begin twisting my face. My head is full of Wraps –
fucked harder than they have ever been fucked before. Esurio is standing in the corner drinking some fucking absinthe.
—Let’s eat, Lincoln!
I kick the door open, walk into the bedroom and kick a coffee table over. Some plastic flowers and a few glasses crash to the ground. I begin pounding her. I annihilate her. Women pretend they
want love and sometimes they do. But even when they’ve found it, when they’re knee-deep in nappies and anti-depressants, they also want to be fucked. Hard. So fucking hard they
can’t walk. Then they can go back to their husbands and love them.
Really
love them.
Most of the Wraps I fuck have ‘boyfriends’. The trouble is boyfriends become husbands and husbands lose their power in a basket of dirty socks. I’m encouraged by the fact that
evolution programmed women to want power and they know where to find it and when to take it. They have a nose for it. A sixth sense ripened over millennia. They know they’ll find it when they
go where other women go, and when I walk the streets in Soho I am always
armed
with women. The more women I’m seen with, the more women want to fuck me. Women say they dream about a
white wedding and a faithful husband. Honest women say they dream about a white wedding, a faithful husband and another cock to fuck them senseless when the dirty socks start bursting out of the
basket.
Esurio told me this once:
—The hunter who brings the carcass home is the one the ladies always go for, Lincoln. No one wants to go hungry, and men who kill are loved the most.
Sandra is screaming. The bed is bashing into the wall. Then it fucking breaks. The headboard cracks and one of the front legs snaps. She says:
—Don’t stop, just keep going! Just keep going!
She thinks I want sex. I don’t. I want to make a mark. I want her to remember me. Tell her friends. Think of me when she’s holding her grandchildren and mourning her lost youth. I
want to leave a cock-shaped footprint in her brain, deeper, more enduring, than any memory any man will ever leave
As I walk out of The Club I think:
The Boss means well. I love him but Esurio
knows
me. When the time is right I will stop the madness. That time is not now. I have so much more living to do.
As I walk towards The Office I know the day is going to be extraordinary. I know it because there’s a pattern. Here’s how it goes:
1. The feeling begins in my gut. A spinning, twisting anticipation.
2. Once the feeling starts, I know three things: I am going to get bollocksed. I am going to get fucked. Nothing and no one can stop me.
3. I start smiling and wiping my lips.
4. I see images in my head: Drink. Coke. Cunt. Drink. Coke. Cunt.
5. I look at my reflection in the windows as I walk past. Sometimes I adjust my handkerchief. Other times I clench my fist.
6. I talk to any Wrap I fancy on the street. I always touch them. Usually on the arm or wrist before I speak. I say:
I love sex and I’m fucking good at it
. Or:
Y
ou’re coming with me.
Most of them take it because they’ve fucked me before, know someone who has fucked me, know that I am Lincoln and I fuck a lot of Wraps, or because
they are fucking terrified.
7. If I’m not fucking a Wrap by the time I get to The Office, I order two bottles of wine, a vodka tonic and take a line.
8. By now I’m a rabid dog and someone should section me.
9. I call a Wrap or one of them calls me. We meet at my flat, in a toilet somewhere in Soho, or I book a hotel for a few hours.
10. I spend the night believing in my own immortality while expecting to die at any minute.
3 p.m.
I’m in the Sanderson Hotel, sitting in the open-air bar waiting for Sandra. The tinkling of water from the fountains is pissing me off. I go into the toilet and take a
line. When she arrives we go to the room. I rip her clothes off and tie her to the bed. I go into the bathroom. I stare in the mirror and begin twisting my face. My head is full of Wraps –
fucked harder than they have ever been fucked before. Esurio is standing in the corner drinking some fucking absinthe.
—Let’s eat, Lincoln!
I kick the door open, walk into the bedroom and kick a coffee table over. Some plastic flowers and a few glasses crash to the ground. I begin pounding her. I annihilate her. Women pretend they
want love and sometimes they do. But even when they’ve found it, when they’re knee-deep in nappies and anti-depressants, they also want to be fucked. Hard. So fucking hard they
can’t walk. Then they can go back to their husbands and love them.
Really
love them.
Most of the Wraps I fuck have ‘boyfriends’. The trouble is boyfriends become husbands and husbands lose their power in a basket of dirty socks. I’m encouraged by the fact that
evolution programmed women to want power and they know where to find it and when to take it. They have a nose for it. A sixth sense ripened over millennia. They know they’ll find it when they
go where other women go, and when I walk the streets in Soho I am always
armed
with women. The more women I’m seen with, the more women want to fuck me. Women say they dream about a
white wedding and a faithful husband. Honest women say they dream about a white wedding, a faithful husband and another cock to fuck them senseless when the dirty socks start bursting out of the
basket.
Esurio told me this once:
—The hunter who brings the carcass home is the one the ladies always go for, Lincoln. No one wants to go hungry, and men who kill are loved the most.
Sandra is screaming. The bed is bashing into the wall. Then it fucking breaks. The headboard cracks and one of the front legs snaps. She says:
—Don’t stop, just keep going! Just keep going!
She thinks I want sex. I don’t. I want to make a mark. I want her to remember me. Tell her friends. Think of me when she’s holding her grandchildren and mourning her lost youth. I
want to leave a cock-shaped footprint in her brain, deeper, more enduring, than any memory any man will ever leave
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