I live beneath a gym and all I can hear is the thumping of the treadmills above. Sometimes it develops into a constant hum as people rise and fall in unison. They’re forever running. Day after day. Running and running. Up and down and up and down. Sweating. Panting. Drooling. And yet they never go anywhere. They never move. Ever. But then neither do I. I haven’t left the flat for a couple of months now. It started when I lost my job. My manager caught me looking at pictures of Amber Heard naked and told me it wasn’t the right thing to do at work, but I couldn’t see what was wrong with it. She was perfect. Then he told me she was a lesbian and I lost my temper. The image of Amber on my cock was gone and if he was right, I’d never get it back. It would never be the same again. I got home that night and tried to find out whether it was true. I searched her up on the net and read about her in the news. It was true. She was a lesbian. So I started doing some research into how much it would cost to get a sex change but it was too expensive and I would have to go through therapy and try and live like a woman for a year or some shit like that. I didn’t really want to be a woman. I just wanted to fuck one.
Then I found out Johnny Depp had just bought her a horse. He’d split up with his wife and bought the Heard a horse. A fucking Horse. She’d stayed on his yacht and examined his fingers and now she was a lesbian with a horse and Johnny’s promise of better sex by penis. Maybe that’s what the horse was for. Fuck knows. They’re all crazy. But shit. Damn that Depp. First I lost my Biel to Trousersnake and now the Heard’s turned to Edward and his dildo hands. Just because he was rich and sexy and charismatic and funny and played Hunter S. Thompson in a couple of films that were okay. In fact, it was because of Thompson he got to feel her tits. The bloody Gonzo turned a gay. Shit.
I decided enough was enough and so I logged in and waited for someone else to do the same. My friends didn’t come over as much as they used, and I can’t blame them really. Things have changed. And so have I, whether they like it or not. I tried maintaining some sort of life that seemed to please everyone else around me, but it became too hard and I stopped understanding why I should bother. I couldn’t see the point. All I wanted, all I really cared about and sought to spend my time involved in, was porn. I thought about trying to get involved in it for real, but my dimensions weren’t desired. Ron Jeremy did okay for himself, but that was in a time when moustaches and hair and guts and grins were a better fit for speedos and tinted shades. But now, today, I’d missed the boat. I’d missed a lot of things. Sometimes I even missed my ex, but then I remembered her voice and that was enough to re-assure me some things were better now. Usually I honestly thought they were. I didn’t wake up hating that fact that there was no choice. I no longer had to wash and shave and dress and go to work and wait for the hours to pass and ignore the fact I hated every fucking minute. Then I’d come back and sleep and wake up to do the whole damn thing again the next bloody day. Again and again. Over and over. I suppose I did have the financial comfort of a salary, but I also realised my life became a constant count down from one pay day to the next, and everything that happened in the middle was some sort of blur that moulded and merged into things that needed my salary to survive. It was shit. Even my ex claimed portions of my pay. Dinners and clothes and presents and holidays and constant outlays for emotions which were meant to be free and inexpensive. It was bollocks. So I kept up the pretence that I enjoyed her company and wanted marriage and kids and a future stripped of all the things that really made me happy. But then she found my stash. I couldn’t quite figure out what she was doing looking in the loft between the insulation and once I got past the curses and damnations, I realised she was crazy. But so was I, or at least that’s what she told me. And so we decided two crazies weren’t good for the prospects of survival and the thought of crazy kids somehow made it critical. So we ended it. And now she’s married up in Newcastle with a guy named Mick and I’m at home still thinking about Heard and trying to picture the curvature of her fanny. I imagined Ruby Rose flicking her tongue and Amber shivering with delight. Her nipples getting harder as the sweat gathers on her perfect face. But then it happened. There he was. Johnny Fucking Depp. Standing in the doorway with his massive white granddad underpants and a glass of champagne in his hand and an erection just as handsome as he. Fuck.
I turned from the computer and looked about my room. I was hungry. I was always hungry. Hungry and horny. Although my friends and those that thought of me always hid their sympathy for me and my situation, I didn’t really see it that way. I felt sorry for them. I got to stay at home and wank while they went to work and pretended they didn’t want to stay at home and wank. I finally got to do the one thing that I really enjoyed. I got to look at porn and discover databases of nudity and search out the stars and their tendency to reveal their flesh and revel in perfection. I got the Oops and up-skirts and see-through and down-blouse and camel-toe and candids and beach and poolside bathing and deliberate topless and panty-less and fashion shoots of flesh and beauty. I hunted it down and critically assessed. It’s what they wanted. A viewer. An admirer. Me. But I wanted more. I wanted to touch it. Taste it. Feel it. Talk to it. Ask it questions. I tried writing letters, but they never replied. But I didn’t love them. I just wanted to see them naked. The beautiful. The sexy. The new society. Show me the nipples and subtle nuances of today. Reveal to me everything about a time and period populated by all the things that priests and prudes declare disgusting and wretched and wrong. But it’s not filth. It’s goddamn sexy. It’s naked revelation. I don’t listen to the words when Amber speaks. I look at her tits. I look at her mouth. I wonder whether it looks that good in the morning. I wonder whether she gets horny in undesirable situations or at awkward and unfortunate moments. Does her pussy quiver. Does it leak. And right now, I got the time to try and find out. I got fuck all else to do. Just the way I like it.
Ooh, Cassey137 has just logged in. ‘Hello Cassey’, I type. I wait a little bit before continuing to work on my letter to Amber. I’ve decided to let her know how disappointed I am that she’s a lesbo. I want to let her know how upset I am at having the fantasy ripped away. Come on Amber. Just a cuddle. A kiss. A little bump and grind. I can be your lesbian lover. Your lady with a cock and balls. Fuck the dildo. I’ve got the greeting sorted when Cassey replies.
‘I’m fine James, how are you?’
‘Horny.’ I write back. She knows I’m horny. I only write to her when I’m horny. She doesn’t give a shit, and I also assume the person I’ve seen on the webcam is actually her. But that’s the fantasy, so we play on. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m good. Can’t stay long because I have to go out in a minute.’
‘That’s a shame.’ I say. ‘Where you going?’
‘Gotta get ready.’
‘For what?’ I ask.
‘Taking you out.’
‘I want to meet you.’
No. What the fuck is this? This isn’t the fantasy. This isn’t the deal. I’m just supposed to watch her and wank. Tell her what to do. Where to put her finger or that purple dildo rabbit thing. What to wear and when to take it off. We been chatting for a while now, but we’re not supposed to meet. That’s not how it works. Fuck.
‘Hello…’ She’s still there. I panic. What the fuck. Me. Go out. Outside. With people. Out there. Between the runners. ‘Hello…’
‘Hi, sorry. Just in a bit of shock.’ I type.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Come on. It will be fun.’
‘Yeah.’ I receive an email and open it. There’s an attachment and I click on it. A photo of Cassey in her underwear appears on my screen. Fuck she’s fit. I met her on one of those adult chat sites and she was eager to get nasty. Before her I didn’t know women could be so much like me. She liked the nakedness and naughty shit and we spoke between the sessions. She was pretty cool. And I did like who she seemed to be. But that was just it. It wasn’t real. None of it was. But now she’s trying to mix it all up. Another email. I open it and click on the attachment. Another Photo. She’s dyed her hair. She’s blonde. ‘Do you like it?’ I’ve already got an erection.
‘So what do you say?’ She asks.
I pause. Going out. Out there. Outside. Out. OUT. O U T.
‘Well?’ She asks again.
‘I’m not sure.’ Outside inside. Inside out.
‘Come on. I’ll make it worth your while.’
I think back to some of what she’s done for me. Some of what she’s inserted for me. ‘Where you wanna go?’
‘Red Lion. Then back to mine.’
I think about how the hell I’m gonna make it. I can’t cope with this kinda shit. The thought of being in a pub surrounded by people makes me nervous. I quickly open up a file I’ve made of some of the webcam dates we’ve had and load the one from last week. She’s wearing a John Carpenter’s The Thing t-shirt and nothing else. I fast forward to the bit where she turns round and lifts it slowly. I stare at her arse. She’s got a tattoo of a bullet hole on her left buttocks. She leans over. I re-read our recent conversation. I look at her snatch. I think about her waiting. Wanting. I try to assess whether or not to move. Whether to seek the touch of flesh or return to the reality that is mine. My home. Inside. The only place I’m safe. I like it here. I make the rules. I make the distinction between fact and fiction. I have control. I have all the things that make me happy. I do. Really. I am happy. Honest. I don’t need anything or anyone else. I don’t. I look at her photo. I got everything I need right here. Everything. A message pops up. ‘You can call me Amber. X’ Maybe not.
A disciple of the down and out and dirty with an interest in survival and how each and all attempt to somehow cope and see life through. Currently working on a collection of short stories to be titled Soapsuds Island, the characters and events of which are based in his home town of Acton, West London. Particularly interested in the wounded and the lost and how the yearning for contentment forever lingers. Studying for an MA in Creative Writing at Kingston University, London.