Everywhere in London, people are fucking booze-bags!

By Mr. E.

Having spent most of my teens and twenties (and quite possibly my 30’s) working in media and music; it’s safe to say that I am no stranger to the boozy session. I was a total fucking booze-bag. I would go so far as to say that I’m not alone; most of the established cultural, financial and political institutions here in London are run by and for functioning alcoholics. Everywhere in London, people are fucking booze-bags.

Having spent most of my youth working in media

All that changed one horrific day three years ago; I awoke with a monumental hangover to the grim realization that I had been seriously sexually assaulted by a particularly cunty stalker. Naturally, this has encouraged me to re-evaluate my drinking habits. Curtailing my alcohol consumption has had a number of effects that I previously had not envisaged. I have suddenly noticed the real extent to which the specter of debauchery phases into our collective identity and haunts every aspect of our cultural life. Think about it; so much of the content of contemporary art, fashion, music, literature, film, TV, and newspapers revolve around the elliptical cycle of bolshie, “I couldn’t give a fuck,” highs and crushingly melancholic, “I just need to be held,” lows.



I awoke with a monumental hangover

I no longer drink regularly or to excess and I certainly do not go anywhere near alcohol if I am planning a sexual encounter. Unfortunately, the fact that most of London’s networking opportunities gravitate around alcohol means that the  occasional boozy hook-up is unavoidable.

I no longer drink regularly or to excess

The other week I met a cute guy for a coffee in Soho. He was lovely and a little bit drunk. After we had had a fun chat, I agreed to go for a drink with him in the The Duke of Wellingtonwhich is a pretty relaxed pub.

In the time it had taken me to finish one pint of orange juice and lemonade (FYI – pubs in London still do not ‘do’ the whole concept of soft drinks yet), he had necked three large Vodka Tonics. He had also taken to flirting outrageously by rubbing the rapidly straining crotch in my jeans with his hands. At around 10pm he had a moment of clarity which resulted in him saying:
  • “I have an empty flat near the O2 and a tight hole that needs filling, d’you wanna come?”
I would love to be able to sit here and type into the ether that I am a cultured man, far removed from the more primitive aspects of my nature. The truth of the matter is that the only thing going through my mind at that particular moment was the quickest route to North Greenwich.

I have an empty flat and a tight hole

The guy was all over me on the tube. I have nothing necessarily against people being tactile with me, but he was ignoring my good humored protestations and he kept trying to stick his hands down my pants; needless to say I was really hard and found it difficult to disguise my erection. Fortunately, everyone else on the tube was drunk so nobody cared.

Back at his newly built condo, he fixed himself another large Vodka Tonic and racked up half a dozen lines of coke on a marble slab which he snorted. I poured a glass of water and settled in to listen to the, admittedly entertaining, monologue about his life. He told me about his family, his friends, his boss, his ex-boyfriends, his cars, his money, his property, his career in accounting; he didn’t stop talking. An hour, 3/4 of a bottle of Grey Goose and 2 grams of coke later, he had told me everything about himself and for me the prospect of sex had become obscured. While I flicked through photo albums of his family life back in Malaysia, he burst into tears and told me how proud he was to be British.

This probably sounds insensitive, but I just wanted to sleep. However, he offered to take me to bed and I was keen to stop him talking and (admittedly) have him touch my cock.


BETTER BUMMING TIPS:

Don’t fuck anyone if they have drunk a bottle of vodka and snorted a ton of shit London coke. 

It was really awkward. He had stripped naked and clung to me, trapping me in the missionary position by locking me between his thighs. Then, as I broke free and lay on my back, he straddled me and grabbed the base of my shaft, forcefully trying to ram my naked, swollen cock in the general direction of his dry, tight hole. It was painful.

“Don’t worry about a condom, just fuck me raw! Do it! Just fuck me raw,”…he demanded through grinding teeth. He buckled my rapidly deflating penis against his malleable rump and he bounded on my pelvis; it was a parody of a genuinely gratifying encounter. At this point it was clear that I was not turned on by this at all, so he looked right through the back of my eyes and slobbered: “I have some viagra if you like?”
"No, you’re okay," I replied and Iset about trying to comfort him as the rhythm of his heart surged through his body into mine. I could hear his chest pound a 4/4 beat that belonged to a dance floor. Even though we were entwined, the distance between us was immeasurable.


Hedonism creates the illusion of camaraderie

He lay next to me chewing the inside of his mouth and talking to me about traveling and falling in love and I knew I would never see him again. Later I dressed and stepped out, totally disheveled, into the gently illuminating day. I thought about the mania of his laughter and the sobs of his lonely heart. I thought about how inextricably linked the drink and the drugs are with the very substance of our alienation.

Hedonism creates the illusion of camaraderie while enforcing the boundaries of our solitude. Ten years ago that probably would have been me. I hope he finds whatever it is that he’s looking for.


Mr. E. leads a mysterious existence, to put it mildly. He's a regular contributor to LustSpiel.This piece appeared first on his site MagicalMr.E.Tour

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