Tapping Morse Codes On Tan Lines

Saville and Tibor insisted I join them.

“I can't,” I yawned over the phone. “Ive got volunteer work tomorrow.”
Though I wasn't lying about the volunteer work bit, I was actually using it as a valid excuse to not go carousing Friday night.

“Mapplethorpe is already on his way” Tibor replied, ignoring what I just said. “Meet us at Some-Negligible-Watering-Hole-Frequented-By-Construction-Workers in an hour.”

“Did you hear what I just said? I cant.”

“Shaddap. Beer's on me. Happiness on Saville.”

Happiness being young giggly strippers blessed with racks that would make fruit stands proud.

Why in hell not.

After downing a couple of Red Horse with lemon wedges off we barged in a sleazy joint. The doorman met Mapplethorpe with a Cheshire grin that would make Garfield look grim.

Onstage a foxy chick's writhing like a caterpillar on speed. Or a crazed Olympic Gymnast discovering she's got hormones during a Floor Exercise routine in the competition. We settled in one booth, Mapplethorpe barking beer order to the deaf busboy. Four nymphets joined us.

“Lets get a private room!” Saville brightly declared.

Demented nods erupted all around.

The minute we plopped our semi-drunk carcasses on the ramshackled cushions of the dark private room conversations halted.

My hands automatically switched to Braille mode. Sultry Nymphet was game so we censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored.

Censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored censored .

About five o'clock in the morning we dragged our smashed selves out and hit the road home. I flicked my iPod on and The Rollingstones belched an apt tune. We sang along at the top of our lungs.

I can't get NO!
I can't get NO!
I can't get NO!
Satisfactioooooooooooooooon!

Reaching my flat I dived in bed, woozy, blissfully drunk. I drowsily realized I'm reeking of Marlboro Reds* and the girl's cheap perfume. Then everything faded into the gravity of much-needed sleep.


(* I'm a chronic second-hand smoker. Ugh)

~ ~ ~

Post scriptum:

I was conferencing with Datu and Q at YM when this popped:

Q the Conqueror: eeeeeeeeeeewww.. cheap female perfume. eeeeeeeeeeeeew--> just read loudcloud's blog
loud cloud: LOL
Q the Conqueror: hahahahahahahhaha. let me be with your friends saville and mapplethhorpe instead
Q the Conqueror: hahahaha