Kerb Crawling With Rotting Heads

People get all dressed up like stalkers on a Saturday night hoping for a giggle and maybe meet someone they are attracted to and settle down. But a month later when the make up has been shovelled off and the chat up line withered like a slug, the attraction is dead and like the last choke on a cigarette, peoples lives begin to resemble cold ash.
Drink got me at an early age. Smoking caught me earlier and sex was my first addiction. Boy or girl, it didn't matter. Both were the same with closed eyes under a blanket. Nobody knew. An orgasm is an orgasm. (Although different faces do sometimes rile the fantasy).
I remember once receiving oral sex on a sand dune from a girl with a passion for slugs. I closed my eyes gently in that blissful way, tilted my head upward towards the moon and tried remembering the most popular girl in school. It didn't work, my brain was in a spiteful mood and I kept picturing boys.
In school I was the freak. The rat-tat-tat machine gun stutter of my lips could be heard on every corner of the playground. 'Here comes Tommy gun!' The sterile bully doomed for failure would spit.
Cursing both teachers and pupils, I would prowl the corridors in search of my next True Love(tm). The eternal handshake did not seem possible then.
Sex was rampant on everybody's lips. Every dream reeked of condoms and suspender belts, each holiday had a conquest. But Cupid could smell the rot, firing his most faithful shots into loins not hearts.
What was sex at that early age?
To me it was sinister, a monster. Friends would speak of sweaty fumblings at the back of the weekend cinema or cheeky fingerings on the school coach on summer trips.
It remained a cyst to me throughout those ridiculous but beloved years.
Not one kiss dressed my lips. The only consolation I had was knowing the fantasies inside my head were better then the lies and exaggerrations whistled by other, more insecure boys.
Pornography introduced me to sex. It was the knight which slayed the demon, and I was no longer afraid of sex. Instead I feared women. The first kiss, the first caress of drunken skin filled me with dread.
The first sexual conversation I had with the opposite sex was during a correspondence with a young woman four hundred miles away. The souvenir perfumed stocking she sent me now lays under a bed of dust in the attic.
Sex was a giant hurdle and alcohol became the springboard I used to get over it. I was always a cheat.
At sixteen I had the sort of qualities that I didn't like in other people. I dismissed habits that I often did myself. I hated the Pepsi and Adidas kids but drank and wore them both.
My years of vice were plenty. I cavorted with whores, splurged on drugs and had oceans of booze. Teenage boys tend to chase girls, I headed straight to the Co-op top shelf. It seemed all my desires were found on the highest shelf in those days. The unattainable, perverted itch.
The evening on the dunes with the slug girl pricked my sleeping penis, tuning it to stench and vulgar dribbling. I awoke with it and refused to listen to moderation. When you meet a tramp dressed like she was I always discard limits.
Neon lights were flashing red, blue, red, blue in my lusty mind like a multi coloured abbatoir on a first acid trip. A sucked dick doesn't have a conscience and this vegetarian girl blowing for gold was raw meat to me, sending horny ideas into the stratosphere.
What a fine introduction to oral sex! One minute im murdering slugs and swigging vodka, the next there is a strangers head sucking on my zip. I actually imagined birds flying overhead having smiles instead of yellow beaks and winking gormlessly at this perverted abandon.
It clouded the attraction to sex for me slightly. I had always believed in fairytales. Princesses locked away in castles by kings who were interested in incest.
The girl I encountered on the sand dunes is probably smoking someone elses flesh now. Someone with a hard on for frogs and wildlife.
I lost my virginity at eighteen and almost instantly regetted it. Consequently I have been searching for it ever since; in bottles, bins, drains, cemeteries. Even in the sex of other women. Quiet girls, modest girls, girls who enjoyed fucking while I was drugged and drunk.
Indeed I have known both depravity and Love since casting off the sober bowl haircut I wore to school. And depravity stings less.