THE CLOSET.

I wrote this short story for a magazine but they never got back to me. 

‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, I want this room filled with your BLOOD, SWEAT AND CUM!!

‘LADIES, I want to see you sucking DICK!

‘FELLAS, I want you to fuck that fucking PUSSY!

Red velvet curtain suddenly breaks and reveals.

 A mid thirties brunette draped in a regal robe complete with bejeweled crown, sitting on a bronze painted chair complete, with a music stand and sheets and a microphone placed in between her legs akimbo. 

‘Some of you may have seen ‘The Kings Speech’ but I bet you’ve never heard the Queens butt cheek squeak…..

 Make some noise you cunts as I introduce you too……..’

                                                                                                                       ….. QUEEN LA QUEEFAAAAAA’

and the crowd, an overly generous dollop of wanker banker types with a light sprinkling of A to C list ‘celebs’ including that pale thin one, that was in those pirate movies a few years back and a few others, I’m embarrassed to know the names of, roar from the bottom of their gobs.

Queen Laqueefa suddenly erupts into the British National anthem and the crowd erupt with her into a fanfare of rapturous applause.

PARP …PARP….PAARP…. PARP…. PAAARRP ….PARP PARP…..PARP….PARP PAAARP PAARP PARP……. PARP

‘GOD SAVE OUR GRACIOUS QUEEF’ jeers the American on the overheads.

Red velvet curtains suddenly shut.

We’re now ten minutes into the debuting ‘risque’ cabaret act at The Closet, the sister club of the original in New York that everyone says ‘is completely out of date and no one goes too anymore’.

Before Queen Laqueefa’s flatus symphony, the crowd were treated to a ‘naughty’ twist of the fairy tale fable Pinocchio, the twist being that the said puppet sticks his erect elongated nose up the magical fairies pussy to become a real boy, the originality.

They could have ended it there, curtains close, everyone goes home drunk and a couple of thousand pounds lighter or goes back to someone else’s apartment with someone they don’t know or even like but will copulate with just to feel wanted or admired or both, but they didn’t, it went on.

Red velvet curtains suddenly break and reveals.

He stands on stage, penguin dinner suit with all the trimmings, and begins to gyrate his body coquettishly in time to the peaks and troughs of the seventies euro-disco music pumping at tinnitus inducing volume, from the new shiny club speakers. 

‘Your upmost attention please, allow me to introduce you to….THE SEXIEST FUCKING MAN IN THE WORLD….’

Penguin dinner suit gyrating wildly on stage, begins to lose bow-tie and un-pops all the buttons on his shirt to reveal his shimmering hair less chest, all in time to the music, of course.

At the bar at the back, the insipid flock are more than happy to fight for an inch of space to buy an extortionately overpriced drink. Bottles of vodka are well over a grand each delivered to you by big boobed waitresses in off the rail tacky looking PVC Agent Provocateur corsets. What FUCKING recession?

The circular tables on either side of the room are red belt affairs where the rich, spoiled and stupefied sit and shell out ludicrously sickening amounts of money to fill the gaping hole.

Penguin dinner suit still gyrating wildly on stage, unzips his zip and takes out his large uncircumcised cock and begins to spin his flaccid flesh around and around and around, otherwise known as ‘the wind mill’. The bankers guffaw, their women shriek and yap like fake eyelash clad raptors.

‘ISN’T HE SEXY LADIES??, LOOK AT HIM GO, GO GO GO, LADIES YES YOU!, OVER THERE I BET YOU’D LOVE TO GURGLE A TRUCK LOAD OF HIS SPUNK, I BET YOU WOULDN’T SPIT IT OUT YOU DIRTY STINKING BITCH!!’

Penguin dinner suit gyrating wildly on stage suddenly rips off penguin dinner suit, at once all is revealed, two prosthetic arms hang from each shoulder, swaying a few beats behind his body. Over the music, a drum roll rises into it’s crescendo he rips the prosthetic arms off of his body to reveal his deformed appendages.

‘LOOK AT HIM GO, AHA HAH AH AHA, LOOK AT HIM, LOOK AT HIS LITTLE CHICKEN WINGS’

And following him, glistening from the remnants rays of the stage lights are hundreds of dilated multicolored pupils fixated, each out stretched index finger pointing en masse and all in one direction, their bodies heaving jackals up and down following in-sync to the layer upon layer of hysterical canned laughter almost drowning out the seventies euro disco music pumping tinnitus inducing volumes from the new shiny club speakers. 

‘AHAHAHA BWARK, BWARK BWARK, YOU STILL WANT TO SUCK HIM OFF NOW DO YOU MISS? DO YOU? BWARK BWARK LIKE A LITTLE FUCKING CHICKEN, LIKE A LITTLE……FUCKING……CHICKEN!!’

A naked human being is pogoing on stage, sweating, his flapping cock slapping against his abdomen, prosthetic arms lie cold on thrust stage floor.

Chicken clucking becomes as common a sound as the laugher, I look to the left, a mid forties suit and bow-tie with a lit up ice bucket with a rehoboam begins spraying half sipped champagne all over his belly because he’s violently clucking along with others.

I begin to shove past sweaty bodies, I need to get out.

I push through the double doors into the lobby, I head for the stairs, Sebastian is leaning up against a wall with a leggy blonde haired girl.

‘Sebastian, We’ve got to go this place is fucking awful, did you see what they’re calling entertainment in there?’

‘It’s fucking weird man, I know, it’s just not right, oh yeah, by the way, this is Anna K, she’s from Sweden’

‘oh, hallo’ she leans in for a double kiss, but i’m not in the mood for doing all this tonight.

 ’I just can’t believe the way people are acting in there, Seb’

 ’Oh, you mean the chicken?’ answers Anna K foolishly ‘I thought he was quite…..’ and she hesitates to pluck the right word,  ‘….Hil-air-ious’

As I take a large grasp of air to hold my thoughts, I can smell the fake tan emitting from her every pore.