Everyone eats Kit-Kats

“Scott’s got loads of Kit-Kats in the fridge haven’t you Scott? What d’you do with ‘em Scott?” teased Paula, her legs drawn into the armchair.

Scott addressed the room, he was a S. London boy.

“You should come down to our place. Everyone eats Kit-Kats.”

Bemused silence.

“All down the street, everywhere there’s Kit-Kat wrappers. The kids,” he paused, “they use the foil – for crack y’know.”

Paula cackled like Sybil from Fawlty Towers. “Scott loves his Kit-Kats don’t you Scott?”

Paula was gorgeous.

Scott eyed the room.

“I don’t do crack.”

He turned, gave Paula an imminent head-butt look, as he might if someone had just called him a cunt in the pub in front of his mates. I immediately liked the guy, he had that way about him, a Rotweiler who might fly off the handle any minute but kept his cool exuding a tense self-control.

“Scott’s an Aquarian,” said Paula, “they’re supposed to be all watery and flowing…” She paused and chortled, “Scott’s not … are you Scott?” She twiddled his earlobe affectionately.

“I expect he’s got a dam built,” I said, looking him straight in the eye.

The room laughed.

We exchanged eye contact, he seemed amused.

Later, I wasn’t conscious of time passing, it could have been the next moment as if I’d just flickered back into consciousness from an opium lull, Scott was sitting on the sofa, Paula was next to him. He leant back and put his arm around her and said to the room:

“Y’know how every man waits for the one woman…?”

He left it at that, no more needed to be said, I was happy for the guy, what a great thing to say.

Later, it could have been just the next moment, he turned to me and reeled out a real cool rant straight off the top of his head, he leant in close like he didn’t want the room to hear but he didn’t lower his voice:

“Y’know when you smoke loads & loads of dope and you don’t get any more stoned and you drink gallons & gallons of beer and you don’t get any more pissed and you snort more and more lines of speed and they’re looking at you like matchstalks to keep your eyes open…?”

“Yeah…?”

“…I just thought that was a great way to save a lot of money.”

I laughed.

“Oh shut up Scott,” tugged a drowsy Paula.

“He laughed…” said Scott.

“You could be the new Lenny Bruce,” I said, glowing hash cinders dropping burning holes in my shirt until I can feel it.

When he and I were exchanging addresses, Paula blurted out:

“oooh they fancy each other look…”

Scott glared at her.

“oooh look at that look everyone so you’ll know it,” she said, her eyes sparkling, “that means I’m going to get beaten up later.”

She didn’t look too worried to me.

“I told you what I was like when you met me Scott.”

Scott nodded, reminded of his humility with her. He seemed to speak to her telepathically, solely through his look.

Paula looked at me and said:

“Scott’s everso jealous aren’t you Scott?”

“oooh you’re wicked you are…” I said, biting my lip in a smile. She certainly was stunning.

Scott wore a Crombie. He’d given up all drugs for New Year. We, the rest of the room, we were all on E. Scott had never taken E. Paula declined because quote: “after a 2-hour orgasm on it the first time I don’t want any more.”

I felt like chipping in: “What? Orgasms?” but I held my tongue, it was obviously a delicate moment.

Our host, the ebullient but on this occasion dirk-ish Chris, did so like for everyone to be on E when he was on it. He could get out his React CDs and Captain Hollywood. Turn it into a rave. He sat on the arm of the sofa next to Paula and undid her hair-clip letting it all avalanche down. They’d never met before.

She looked better with it up, sexy, glamorous.

“Now I look like a footballer,” she said. She was right.

Chris started running his hand through her hair. Scott’s flesh was creeping with agitation as he was writing his address down for me, continually eyeing what was going on with increased bristling restraint, like a sleek Doberman won’t attack unless he hears the attack word. His N skidded down the page as if we were on a train juddering to a halt.

“My Ns always do that,” he said.

The momentary distraction took his anger down as milk boiling up obeys when the gas is turned off. Then he burst out:

“Gimme a line of speed! I need a line of speed!”

It subsided, old habits die hard.

He made do with a pint jug gin&tonic.

Paula looked at Chris impishly: “Scott likes kicking heads in better when he’s pissed than when he’s speeding don’t you Scott?”

It was at that point I remember thinking this isn’t the best party I’ve been to but I do like the people. It sent me back to when I used to hang out with a girl called            , she had a powdered white face jetblack hair black eyeliner black lipstick a vampiric seductive vixen in black leather bodice ties dangling black leather miniskirt black laddered stockings and white slutty high heels I never could figure till the last time I saw her, three years ago, striding down Old Compton Street, Soho, a proper whore a grey fur coat wrapped around her white peepshow underwear underneath white stockings white slutty high heels.

Suddenly, sitting at the party, I became aware I was flitting into the past, it was becoming more real than usual, I found myself missing the dreamy inertia of           ’s company… a half-eaten Marmite sandwich on a plate, a lit gasfire hissing she’d plumbed it in herself in short-life housing New Cross Gate, her room right at the top up bare creaking floorboards mice scampering, black drapes hooked from the corners onto nails as curtains sagging in the middle, on the marble mantelpiece statues of the Egyptian cat goddess Bastet and the jackal Anubis in jade and onyx resting in a glittering carpet of dust in the candlelight, silver painted twigs rising from behind up to an oval mirror pouting a crimson lipstick kiss tempting you to adjust your height till its rests on your own lips’ reflection, her personal dark erotic poetry sprawled between us on the threadbare rug, she tells me she masturbated writing this one for me she hands it over her delicate hand trembling, old wrist slash scars evident. There are books everywhere, Robert Graves’ White Goddess, Aleister Crowley’s Magick, Nietzsche, William Blake, Kenneth Grant, Lionel Snell, Austin Osman Spare’s rare Book of Pleasure, William S. Burroughs, Kundalini Yoga, Lao Tzu, Chuang Tzu, the I Ching, A E Waite’s Book of Black Magic, the entire set of Carl Jung shoplifted over a year, Dostoyevsky, Baudelaire, Huysman’s La Bas (she must have seen my eyes light up – “You can borrow that, it’s the real thing, real Satanism”), the Egyptian and Tibetan Books of the Dead. Gazing into each other’s eyes listening to the Butthole Surfer’s “Smokey Joe” and “Satan!” we are just a couple of ornaments in some sleazy god’s dollshouse, a battered brass Zippo lighter, seen some service, lying next to my heel sooty Kit-Kat foil the cloying odour of heroin fills the room bringing it all to a long lingering focus.

Copyright © 2004 Biroco