Rachels Fire 02

(CHESS)

Its a bit of a nuthouse this building really.

Theres old Billy The Hamster upstairs (you really DONT want to know). And that wee wanker Shawn next door to him with the skinhead and the tattoo all round his neck. Then of course theres WhatsErFace. From Dundee I think. WhatsErFace has crazy red hair and wears these obscene little skirts that I wouldnt have the nerve to show in public. (I think she might be a prozzie actually. I dont mean a sauna-girl like my pal Shona. I mean a proper five-quid-a-handjob/ignore-the-whisky-breath/Leith-police-dismisseth-us street-walker. Shes got a different man on her arm every time I see her. Always middle aged and profusely sweating. Never like to look you in the eye those guys.) My main bone of contention with WhatsErFace though is the scabby little ratdog effort she has thats always trying to shag a hole in your leg. I absolutely adore animals but that mutt should be shot. Thats the extent of the loathing I have for the beast.

The most persistent nutter of the lot though has to be McLay. Wee Graeme McLay from upstairs. He must think Ive got some kind of unnatural obsession with cleanliness or something. Every time he comes to the door Im either just about to have a bath or wash my hair/ ANYTHING just so I dont have to let him in the house. Its not that I dont like the old bugger (I actually feel quite sorry for him) but the man smells of furniture polish and Ive been told hes a bit of a tealeaf. Not the sort of character you want parked on your settee of an evening.

Most of the time you never see McLay. He locks himself away in his smelly wee flat doing fuck knows what (being a hermit I suppose) with no TV and no friends visiting cause hes not got any. But then about every three or four days he gets himself pissed up on Special Brew. Dutch courage. This gives him the boost he needs to go round everyones door with his yucky yellow teeth and his broken specks and that clarty old chessboard of his.

*Fancy a wee game hen eh?* Thats what he says when you open the door.

He seems to have this belief (quite fanatical in its intensity) that playing chess is going to solve everyones problems. Its pitiful really when you think about it. Not one bastardll give the man a game of chess. What sort of a life is it when you cant even find some bugger to play a stupid game with you? Its all he has to live for really. No job (hes a retired railway worker). No family (not that Ive heard of anyways). No pets. No wee woman to take care of him. Hes just one of these poor loveless old farts that you see rifling through the 50p mucky paperbacks in Rabs Books. Its enough to break your heart so it is.

If there was any decency left in the world wed all club together - this whole building - and pay for him to have a good time with old WhatsErFace. She might even give him a game of chess. Haha.

***

(CUT-UP no 7: DAMPNESS HOLLOW)

Twisting my dreams under the oily dark. Hear the lantern bubble: hard barking new shoulders. Soon the damp hollow springs grey in her thoughts

***

(LONGING)

*Have you ever been with a woman?* she asks.

*What do you mean?* You know exactly what she means.

*Together with another woman? Fucking her?*

*No.* You say this quietly/ your cheeks burning up. Feel your stomach tightening. You look at this woman/ a cocktail of terror and longing coursing through your blood.

Taking hold of your face with both hands Maria Marquez thrusts her mouth against yours. Her lips soft against your own. Her cheap perfume intoxicates you. She edges her wet tongue into your mouth and you feel the surge of electricity.

But you are confused. You shake your head/ pull away.

See the wicked little smile curling Marias lips. She nudges you so you fall back onto the sand. *Take off your clothes* she says.

*What?*

*Take them off!* She is serious. *Please Rachel.*

You could easily get to your feet/ shove her indignantly out the way and storm off back to your hotel but you dont do this. Instead you pull off your shoes and socks. The sand is hot against your heels. Your vagina is moist.

***

(DRESSING ROOM)

Jumping. Spinning. Squealing like a rat.

When Im up on stage I often wonder what all those people are thinking. Whats going through their minds as they watch this skinny anaemic-looking bitch with her Morticia hair/ paint-splattered Epiphone guitar and crimson lippy smudged halfway across her cheek/ chainsmoking ciggies and banging on about the New York Dolls/ Martian Belly-Dancers/ late periods or whatever else drifts into her head while the band struggle to tune up their instruments behind her and the lighting-guy goes postal with the dry-ice machine.

Do they think Im weird? Ugly? Sexy? Do I look stupid? I must look pretty fucking stupid. I dont care. It doesnt matter. If I spent all my time worrying how daft I look on stage Id never get out the dressing room.

Half the buzz of rock n roll is watching some idiot trying to act like a ROCK STAR and falling on their arse. If you want to get anywhere at all in this business youve got to be willing to risk looking like a complete tit in front of a lot of people. I mean do you really think Sting cries himself to sleep over his tantric sex manuals every night just cause you and I think hes a bit of a Ravi Shanker? Does he hell. Hes laughing all the way to the Ivor Novello awards.

***

(THIS MOST PRIVATE ACT)

The sand is hot against your heels. Your vagina is moist.

*Hurry!* The Brazilian claps her hands together impatiently.

You pull your t-shirt up over your head.

Maria studies your breasts. *And the rest* she says.

So you unzip the jeans and pull them down/ kicking them off over your feet. As you remove your g-string you see Marias hand moving up between her dark legs.

*Now touch yourself!* she commands.

*What?* The sand scratches against your body. Burning your calfs/ buttocks/ heels/ shoulders.

*I want you to fuck your hand.* Maria lifts her skirt just enough for you to see that her crotch is bare. No underwear. Buried in amongst the thick raven tufts of hair her labia glisten.

It surprises and excites you that your body has turned her on like this. See how she desires you Rachel?

Cool breeze tingling over your skin. Stomach tightening. You rub the thumb of your left hand over your nipple and allow your legs to fall open. It is so wild and strange to be watched like this/ to be watched performing this most private act.

The Brazilians dark eyes take in every detail as you slip a finger

***

(HUNGRY)

Through in the bathroom I lift the lid of the toilet/ pull my knickers down to my knees and sit down hard on the cold seat. The smell of pine-scented detergent is strong in my nose. As I piss into the frothy green water I feel a shiver run through me. I close my eyes and listen to the bubbling sound my urine makes as it sprays into the disinfected bowl. When Im finished I pat myself dry with a few sheets of cheap toilet paper/ pull the flush/ wash and dry my hands then vigorously scrub my teeth with some yucky mint toothpaste before heading back through to the bedroom.

Pulling the pink jumper off I stare at my shivering naked body. Its so hard to believe that this is really me. Sometimes you look in the mirror and its a stranger that stares back.

Face thin and pale with-out make-up. Black hair tumbling over white shoulders. Green eyes with flecks of orange swirling around in them like distant galaxies.

(Mum once told me that for a while after I was born she felt that I was still part of her. It was like the cord had never been cut. She couldnt separate us. Shed look at this small pink wriggling bundle in her arms and feel tears welling up in her eyes. My body was just an extension of hers. A projection of her own fragile self. I think it terrified her how much power I had over her emotions.)

I touch my shoulder. The white breasts. Thick dark buds popping out hard from the aureolas. My left nipple now pierced with a wee silvery ring.

(Nothing has changed. Here I am still trapped inside her body. I dont know where she ends and I begin. Im like a baby kangaroo stuck forever in its mothers pouch.)

Down below: the tufts of black hair. The movement of my ribs as I breathe in breathe out. Funny little birthmark just above my navel. Painted toenails. My feet small and pale against the blue swirl of the carpet.

Lying back on the bed I sink deep into the quilt with a pillow under my bum to raise my hips. I stroke my left hand up my leg. Barely touching my hip. Brushing up round my waist. Tiny goose-pimples rising up over my breasts. Aureolas shrivelled up tight. My nipples have grown thick and hard. Swollen deep red like ripe berries.

In the mirror I can clearly see this strange and frightening image of myself. Between my thighs my sex gapes and glistens like a hungry mouth.