Fiction

The Disabled Loo

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 FICTION



  


The biggest difference between a disabled loo and a — no, I will not say normal — a nondisabled loo is that the former is so spacious. Of course there are all those handrails, but the most startling thing is there are just acres of room. I am writing this as though you have never been in a disabled loo. I hope this is not the case — they are a wicked luxury that everyone should know of. But even if you haven’t, I hope you can understand

promotion

that the assignation that Sasha and I were about to have, whilst losing some of its cramped, bang-your-head, sweaty, oops-excuse-me, no-you-go-first quality, was going to be an altogether much more languorous, better lit, sumptuous and yes, spacious experience because of the type of toilet facility mentioned above.
     I actually had to guide Sasha to it. She was all for just popping into the ladies and taking our chances, so I could tell that I was the veteran from the word go and therefore immediately took control. I locked the door and turned to look at her. For a moment there was silence. I loved this time. The lull before the storm. Just those few seconds when you could look way, way down inside someone and know you were going to have them.
     “You are a dirty bitch,” I said, without moving.
     She smiled, not quite sure what to do. I smiled back and walked over to her, pushed her up against the wall and kissed her. She had beautiful lips and her mouth tasted fresh and dewy. Our tongues explored each other’s mouths and my hand went down to her crotch, feeling her heat.
     “Do you want some coke?” I asked. Her eyes lit up. I knew the answer. “Do you want to take it a different way from usual?”

Sasha, it turns out, is another in that long line of girls who, contrary to popular opinion, love a bit of bum action. The coke was administered with my finger and then to make sure it had got where it was going I gave her an oral check. She was leaning face-front against the wall, her arse stuck out like a pervy Betty Boop, her little suede skirt flung to the far corner of the loo. I was on my knees behind her, one hand clasped around the ankle of her little black boot, the other around my cock. Then we tried some coke on her pussy, and that was a great success too. If you’ve ever partaken of the same, you’ll know the wondrous qualities that cocaine has on the mucous membranes of the vagina. My wishes came true and then some. When I came up to kiss her mouth my face was dripping. I was having such a good time.
     There was only a little bit of the coke left, so we put it on my cock so that Sasha could get some. Now I had the tingling everywhere. We were both sweating and various body parts were fairly numb so that meant we were a little more vociferous than we might have been. At one point she was on the floor, her head was against the door and I was kneeling astride her, my hands grabbing on to the door handle for support while I fucked her face.
     Good clean fun.
     Really.
     And then we were cleaning up afterwards. Have you heard of a pearl necklace? Well, this was more a pearl veil. After I came she spread it all over her face with her fingers. I had her juice all over my face and down my chest and on the crotch of my black jeans — it was drying now into one big, nice milky-white stain. Fabulous.
     “Let’s just stay here and chat for awhile,” I said. My teeth were grinding and I could feel the red splotches exploding across my face. I looked in the mirror — another nice disabled loo touch, your own hand basin ensuite — and I looked like an advertisement for not taking drugs. My eyes were saucers, I was pale, with only the aforementioned blotches breaking my otherwise alabaster complexion. My mouth was a constant whirr of grinding, and I was covered in a mixture of sweat, cum and vaginal juice. I felt great.
     “I think you are fucking sexy,” I said to Sasha.
     “Well, you know, Tommy, the feeling is really mutual,” she replied kindly, a damp paper towel at her temple. “You look like you’re all cookies and cream but you are a very dirty little boy, I’m glad to say.” She laughed and pulled another towel from the dispenser. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
     “No,” I snorted. “No, not for awhile.” I immediately thought back to India. I’d fallen BIG for a woman after three days and then she turned out to be not the person she told me she was, and I was left disillusioned, hurt and broke. That was India. I could feel a black mood coming on. Coke could do that if I let it. India could too.
     “Actually, at the moment the nearest I have is a boyfriend,” I said.
     “Oh really?” She was unfazed. “Is he that big guy you came in with who’s now chatting up that bald bloke?”
     “What, Bobby? Don’t be daft. No, he’s my flatmate, my best friend, well, my equal best friend. No, my sort-of boyfriend’s called Charlie, and he has a little boy called Finn.
     “Ooh, sounds complicated.” She had finished washing up now and turned toward me curiously, her little cheeks still red from our sex. She sat on the edge of the sink and looked at me. There was silence for a moment. One of those silences. “It sounds like you’re a little confused, Tommy.”
     I laughed. One of those laughs I mentioned earlier where you’re in the middle of laughing and you hear yourself and you think, Who is that desperate person?
     “Well, yes, I am confused, but not in the way you think,” I said, knowing that being obtuse was a stupid idea because she was only going to ask me to explain and if I really did I would . . . what, what would I do? . . . I would, you know, I might . . . cry.
     Yes, get this. In the disabled loo of the Almeida Theater, Islington, London, England, U.K., our little Tommy might burst into tears in front of a girl who he has only clapped eyes on less than an hour ago, a girl whose every orifice he has had his tongue down, a girl whose pussy juice is still wet on the neck of his T-shirt, whose sweet-smelling bum hole he can still conjure in a nanosecond; our Tommy could cry in front of this stranger, isn’t that weird? And for why? Because she had said he sounded confused and she, this stranger who had just gagged on his penis (and it wasn’t the Charlie type of polite gag), she was the first person who had said that to Tommy in many years, and even though he knew the kind of confusion she thought he was suffering from was far different from what was really going on — these tears would not be about whether he preferred boys to girls — the fact that she had cared enough to listen this far and mention the word confusion, and the look of genuine care and concern on her little moist face, and the fact that he had just gone to a place with her that made them so close at this moment, all this made Tommy start to cry. Yes, no, he really did. Big, blubby tears and heaving sobs formed years ago way, way down in the very pit of his stomach. Tommy lost it. Tommy lost it so bad he can’t even bear to talk of himself in the first person right now. The girl tried to help him, she cuddled him and kissed his forehead, but Tommy was inconsolable. He was shuddering. He was emitting noises that shocked even him, so it was no surprise, but no less depressing, when the girl made her excuses about having to get back to work and started to leave.
     But before she had gone, when she had managed to lever his eyes toward hers by lifting hard on his chin, she had said, “What is it? Can you tell me what it is?”
     “I want to have a baby,” whispered Tommy, and started to wail again, because he felt so ridiculous. He felt like the girl who after one bout of sex starts talking about marriage and children and then of course the boy thinks, Fuck me, panics and leaves, just as Sasha (the boy in this instance) was now leaving and I was left alone looking in the mirror (a bad idea if you want to stop crying, believe me) and wondering what the fuck was I going to do.
What.
The fuck.
Was I going.
To do.

Excerpted from the novel Tommy’s Tale, published by Regan Books, a division of HarperCollins. Copyright © Alan Cumming 2002.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Alan Cumming’s Tony Award-winning portrayal of the emcee in the Broadway musical Cabaret was one of the most celebrated performances of the last few years. Most recently, he coproduced, cowrote, codirected, and starred in the film The Anniversary Party with Jennifer Jason Leigh. He has also appeared in the films Spy Kids, Titus, Emma, Eyes Wide Shut, Goldeneye, and Circle of Friends. He lives in New York and London.