Sick's First Hit

I’m on a fucking cloud. Remnants of the good ‘ol skag floating in my brain in thick globules, gelatinous shite I imagine it, swimming through my blood like black eels… Simon’s warm, impossibly smooth fingers rubbing my dick through my pants. And I can’t quite believe it but I’m thrusting my hips into his hand and whining like a pitiful dog, the sensation bristling up and down my thighs and dick like an electrical fire.
Been so long since I’ve had a shag… been so long since I’ve even touched myself… god my beautiful mate is making me unwind…
I tilt my head back to kiss him, because that’s as eloquent a thought as I can put together right now. I just want to suck his tongue into my mouth and fuck his hand like a schoolboy or a virgin. Something gritty, something obscene.
But then, suddenly, it’s gone. He pulls away with a look of absolute disgust on his face.
The lad is staring at me with these wide, dilated eyes of his and he looks like a child all over again.
“Rents…” He stutters. He’s still stoned, the sweat sheen is still making his skin glow, and for a moment he looks like an angel. I brush the thought aside though, because I realize that the whole time, the bastard was just yanking my balls. “…you rilly are a queer, aren’t you?”
I tell him that I’m just overdue for a shagging, is all, and his expression goes a full 180, until he nods his head like he completely understands, giving me his patented Sick Boy wisdom: “Aw, we’ll find ye a bird, Mark! A nice tart who’ll suck yer dick off, eh?”
He slaps me on the back in his matey way, and I almost topple over at the force of it. I give a weak, desperate smile, the skin on the back of my neck burning and prickling with embarrassment.
He throws his coat on with a jovial, if not slightly handicapped spring to his step. “I’ve goat te git goin, likes. See ye at the pub, Marky, ya wee cunt!”
When the door slams, I sit there with my cock tenting up my haggard old jeans, and I realize, with the dull prickling of the heroin in my back, that I’ll be getting him back.
I know just fuckin’ how.

The pub already reeks of stale vomit and old peanut shells, and it’s only eight in the fucking evening. Not that that sort of thing’s unusual in the bar district of Edinburgh, what with the likes of schemies, hookers, pimps and pushers lurkin’ about. Which put all of my respectable mates in their proper order, really. Except Beggars. Beggars was just psycho.
“Any buftie cunt who screws one eyebaw in my direction, I’ll slit ‘is fuckin’ throat! It’s un-natural, that shite, blokes shagging other blokes. Should all be shot in the back of the fuckin’ ‘ead, they should!” Begbie was a judgemental, impulsive, violent bastard. But, he was a mate. So what can you do.
“Eh, don’t be so rash, likesay, catboy. It’s not your cup of tea, likes, yeh? But people are people…” Spud murmered from across the bar. Spud was a thoughtful bloke. Too thoughtful for his own good, if you ask me. He had big round eyes that’d pierce your fucking soul, like he was genuinely a good bloke. And he was. Spud was.
“Can we just quit it with the buftie chat? You wankers talk aboot it so much I’m starting to think you should aw just shag eachother and git it o’er wi, eh!” I hear Simon’s voice commandeering over the chatter of the drunken rambling of my comrades, and my eyes follow the sound. He’s seated at the booth closest to the back door, the two oriental chickies from the night before seated at either side of him.
They’ve both got their hair down, and the one with the purple smock draped over her considerably shapeless, narrow shoulders was smoking a cigarette and looked bored out of her box.
Simon isn’t kissing them. He isn’t groping either one of them. He isn’t even bloody looking at them.
“Oi, Sicks. Ladies.” I seat myself directly in front of Simon and the two burds.
“You remember the Rent-Boy, doncha, Camielle?” Simon turns to the chinkie burd at his left. He calls me rent-boy when he’s pissed. And, considering the sour-puss, sexless vibe I’m getting from the visual before me, he has every right to be.
It seems heroin has sent Sick Boy’s genitals into a junkie limbo.
Or maybe, just maybe…
… it was me.
“Are you the bloke we met yesterday? Mark Renton?” The slightly younger, bonny-faced one smiles at me, her accent mangling the common slang, and her eyes twinkle almost hopefully, as if to express her desire to be entertained, after being unforgivably bored by the disappointing state of Sick Boy, the lady-slayer, the john wayne, the shag-king.
We dive into the grandest of small talk for the next few hours, downing pints and discussing football, politics, plastic wire-hangers and European currency. The burds twirl their hair in their fingers, and Simon sits with his hands in his pockets, staring into the false wood texturing of the booth.
If I would’ve stuck around, I’d have learned that Camielle, the burd that Sick Boy had the most primary interest in just days before, had thrust her hand into his pants, only be to be brutally rejected by the confused and angry young male, who apparently ditched her in the street and drove home early and pale-faced.
Well, fuck me.