there. Then I want to leave her. And I do. I always do. I can’t stop myself.
It’s nearly seven o’clock and she’s lying on the bed. I’ve untied her. I look into her eyes. I see it there: a mark. Permanent. I have nothing more to say to her. I need a
drink. I need a line. We smile at each other. I leave the room, pay the bill and by the time I’ve reached Oxford Street I’ve forgotten her. For a moment I know I’m a twat. I know
it with greater clarity than I’ve ever known it before. I am ridiculous. A
poseur
playing a part. Not even an emperor without clothes. Just a naked actor. Esurio reads my mind. He
walks alongside me:
—Ruminating again, Lincoln? Does you no good, you know, no good at all.
—What do you fucking suggest then?
—More, Lincoln, always more. It may be the only idea I have but I believe it to be a good one.
—How much more can I fucking take?
—Lincoln, you are in serious danger of disappointing me. There’s always more. You know that better than anyone.
—I don’t like admitting this but sometimes I get scared.
—Scared! What on earth is there to be scared of?
—Like when I don’t know how to stop, or when that pain comes in my chest like it’s going to explode.
—Trifles, Lincoln, mere trifles.
—You know what happened to my Dad.
—That’s ancient history, Lincoln.
—They do say that early deaths can run in families.
—They? Who on earth are they?
—You know, experts, doctors, people like that.
—They know nothing about you. Nothing. They can reel off statistics but about you they know nothing. You want it. You can take it. So get on and do it. Life is a cauldron of pleasure and
you bubble away happily in the heat. The more intense the better. Don’t you agree?
—Yes, but I’m scared. I—
I look across at Esurio. He’s gone. I look up and down Oxford Street. He’s nowhere to be seen but I can still hear him. He’s in my head. Going at me. He’s fucking
relentless. He never leaves me alone.
—More, Lincoln, more. Feed me, Lincoln, feed me . . . Hunger like you’ve never known Hunger before . . .
Then I see him outside the Archer Street Wine Bar. He smiles at me:
—Now, let’s see how hungry you are . . .
I want to carry on walking. Just this once. To keep walking and find somewhere, anywhere, where he can’t find me. I feel my stomach twisting, eating me from the inside out. I push open the
door of the wine bar. Esurio has already lined up three vodka tonics. I drink the first one. He yelps with triumph. After each drink another one appears. It’s an endless conveyor belt of
alcohol until a man standing next to me touches my drink. When I’m on it I hate anything I own being touched by some clammy fucker. I especially hate my drink being touched. In seconds I have
my hands around his throat. I can feel people pulling at my arms and jumping on my back. The man’s face is going blue. He is losing consciousness. I know I am going to kill him and I want him
to die. I want him to die and take me with him. Both of us. Together forever. Then I feel a thud on the side of my head and I collapse onto the floor. When I come round I’m lying outside on
the street. Esurio is sitting beside me. He says:
—Much better, Lincoln. I feel like you’re back to your old self. You see, it never pays to think too much. It’s always easy to lose yourself in this idea or that. What matters
is to live. Let me do the thinking for you.
I pick myself up off the floor and we walk into another Soho night.
Stairlift to Heaven
November 2009
Maynard and I are alone in The Office. He asks:
—What do you see in her?
—She’s juicy and naughty.
—But she’s in her mid-seventies.
—I like older women.
—But surely not
that
old.
I raise my eyebrows. The conversation is over. There is no reason I can ever give him to help him understand my love for older women. Especially
old
women. I tire of Wraps with their
ridiculous hopes and designer
It’s nearly seven o’clock and she’s lying on the bed. I’ve untied her. I look into her eyes. I see it there: a mark. Permanent. I have nothing more to say to her. I need a
drink. I need a line. We smile at each other. I leave the room, pay the bill and by the time I’ve reached Oxford Street I’ve forgotten her. For a moment I know I’m a twat. I know
it with greater clarity than I’ve ever known it before. I am ridiculous. A
poseur
playing a part. Not even an emperor without clothes. Just a naked actor. Esurio reads my mind. He
walks alongside me:
—Ruminating again, Lincoln? Does you no good, you know, no good at all.
—What do you fucking suggest then?
—More, Lincoln, always more. It may be the only idea I have but I believe it to be a good one.
—How much more can I fucking take?
—Lincoln, you are in serious danger of disappointing me. There’s always more. You know that better than anyone.
—I don’t like admitting this but sometimes I get scared.
—Scared! What on earth is there to be scared of?
—Like when I don’t know how to stop, or when that pain comes in my chest like it’s going to explode.
—Trifles, Lincoln, mere trifles.
—You know what happened to my Dad.
—That’s ancient history, Lincoln.
—They do say that early deaths can run in families.
—They? Who on earth are they?
—You know, experts, doctors, people like that.
—They know nothing about you. Nothing. They can reel off statistics but about you they know nothing. You want it. You can take it. So get on and do it. Life is a cauldron of pleasure and
you bubble away happily in the heat. The more intense the better. Don’t you agree?
—Yes, but I’m scared. I—
I look across at Esurio. He’s gone. I look up and down Oxford Street. He’s nowhere to be seen but I can still hear him. He’s in my head. Going at me. He’s fucking
relentless. He never leaves me alone.
—More, Lincoln, more. Feed me, Lincoln, feed me . . . Hunger like you’ve never known Hunger before . . .
Then I see him outside the Archer Street Wine Bar. He smiles at me:
—Now, let’s see how hungry you are . . .
I want to carry on walking. Just this once. To keep walking and find somewhere, anywhere, where he can’t find me. I feel my stomach twisting, eating me from the inside out. I push open the
door of the wine bar. Esurio has already lined up three vodka tonics. I drink the first one. He yelps with triumph. After each drink another one appears. It’s an endless conveyor belt of
alcohol until a man standing next to me touches my drink. When I’m on it I hate anything I own being touched by some clammy fucker. I especially hate my drink being touched. In seconds I have
my hands around his throat. I can feel people pulling at my arms and jumping on my back. The man’s face is going blue. He is losing consciousness. I know I am going to kill him and I want him
to die. I want him to die and take me with him. Both of us. Together forever. Then I feel a thud on the side of my head and I collapse onto the floor. When I come round I’m lying outside on
the street. Esurio is sitting beside me. He says:
—Much better, Lincoln. I feel like you’re back to your old self. You see, it never pays to think too much. It’s always easy to lose yourself in this idea or that. What matters
is to live. Let me do the thinking for you.
I pick myself up off the floor and we walk into another Soho night.
Stairlift to Heaven
November 2009
Maynard and I are alone in The Office. He asks:
—What do you see in her?
—She’s juicy and naughty.
—But she’s in her mid-seventies.
—I like older women.
—But surely not
that
old.
I raise my eyebrows. The conversation is over. There is no reason I can ever give him to help him understand my love for older women. Especially
old
women. I tire of Wraps with their
ridiculous hopes and designer
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