April 15th 2005
Short work to slip out of the tub and find ourselves rolling around, sucking lips and palming skin, Didz nipping and kissing his way down, down, yes, my boy, that's the ticket, lips around me, just sucking lightly and
E tu, Welly?
At this point one might as well announce to the world in bright neon letters, Carl Barât, in addition to be deaf and probably crippled now with this bruise and a no-talent hack who bummed off Doherty's genius (no, I had nothing to do with all that Libertines business) is an early ejaculator.
Call up my manager and stick that on my resume.
No, I've got it sussed out.
It's a conspiracy.
I didn't believe in God so I'm being punished (and maybe for that time Peter sucked me off in the whispering gallery of Saint Paul's and were caught by a scandalized group of schoolchildren . . . as I explained to the chaplain, he started it . . . )
Or it's the government sensing the anarchical wotsit in my music and therefore sticking things in my brain, like an implant, or something, things in my food, airwaves.
Or the Yanks have finally gotten into our food supply and filled it with preservatives and chemicals that cause growths and impotence.
Or space aliens. Subliminal messages through airwaves, like Doctor Who, colorful glowy probes and the whole shebang . . . .
I didn't just babble most of that aloud.
'Carl, you really need to calm down. Sex is supposed to be fun, you know.'
Who does that once they've breached the unhealthy age of 11?
This is rubbish Evil Carl think.
Didz has wandered off for a drink of water. Left me curled in bed not listening to Evil Carl try to convince me that I am a complete failure as a human being who's crazy and pathetic and hung up on a vainglorious dead past, hung up on Peter who loves crack more than me or music. I refuse to believe this.
For one thing. I am also a raging drunk.
It doesn't really help when I agree with my evil alter ego, does it?
Where is Didz?
'Just a second Carl!'
I wonder if in Didz time a second = half hour?
Putter about and ignore Evil Carl.
So that's where the riding crop ran off too. It's been sulking under the bed.
Maybe Didz has been abducted by aliens and they're sticking probes up his arse or something.
I shouldn't be turned on by that idea.
This is skirt is not Anna's. A girlfriend's maybe?
Somewhere in Africa, a rhino is missing its' bloomers.
They have a nice little side part thing. Filmy, black.
Makes me feel flouncy. Air around my knees.
Even a might. Vulnerable?
Lipstick is harder to get on than Anna makes it look.
All this smudging and it's drying.
Throw on a scarf of Anna's, nice and shimmery blue.
Oh for fuck's sake, where is he???
I catch the culprit fiddling with my stereosystem.
'Didz, what –'
And hark, what is that playing?
My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard . . . damn right . . . it's better'n yours . . .
'Carl, I was just trying to sort this out so we could have some – ah!'
I flick the scarf and toss my head.
'Carla,' I correct him.
' . . . .'
'You get weirder every day you know,' Didz says, laughing and reaching out for me.
'I am a confirmed lunatic,' I let him kiss me.
But a real lady plays hard to get.
So I'll pull away and wiggle my ass at him and look coyly over my shoulder after.
. . . I can teach you but I have to charge . . .
Not strangely erotic, pretending to be a girl.
And having a tall, dark, handsome bloke give me the once over.
For the 5th time now.
After tossing me in the bed, Didz has me pinned, feeling me up, gasping between kisses what a dirty little whore I am, a dirty little French whore.
Not worringly erotic.
Even though I'm not French.
'Shut up and suck my cock.'
Oh daddy. Who's my daddy?
Warm veins and silk skin against my lips, my tongue, sliding in and out of my mouth, glorious, red-pink lipstick smearing everywhere, hearing Didz's moans and watching his face, feel the little hitch in his breath and hips when I
Is that the door banging open?
And who should come home but Anna. It's not like she lives here or anything.
'I'm bloody horny. I want cock.'
Didz groans at this.
'Get your B. U. R. M. A.* on, I'm coming in –'
And who left the bedroom door open? Honestly.
Anna walks right in on me in a skirt with a mouthful of Didz's cock. I pull back and it falls out with a pop.
Her beautiful little eyes widen and mouth forms an 'O'.
'Hi Anna!' Didz chirps.
' 'lo,' I manage as she backpedals slowly away.
Cue hysterical laughter.
My god – is she - whooping?
'Like a footie match,' Didz says, then looks at me. 'How long has it been?'
I'd slug him, but I am a lady.
'Oh Didz, you're a genius,' she purrs as she crawls into bed with us, shedding clothes and pinning up her hair. Always the sensible girl.
Stroking my face.
'Hello darling,' she says into my good ear. I can see her individual eyelashes right before they brush my cheek.
' 'lo,' I manage, but this time, my heart gives a little sob.
And she's kissing me, long and languid, tongues and lips swaying into each other, just so.
Tits make me giggly.
Carla, get a hold of yourself man – er.
She's doing that torturous thing where she runs her nails just lightly over my sides, where she knows I'm sensitive.
'Heya, that's Jemma's skirt, that is. She's been missing it,' she says.
'Wooh - aaah?' I say while Didz is nipping lightly at my neck and shoulder and palming my nipples.
'You know, Jemma. I have sex with her sometimes.'
'Oh-aah,' I say when the both of them decide to reach under said skirt. 'I see – oh – what you mean when you say – uhm – our tastes are – dissomthing –'
Arch into that warm palm of hers while Didz has decided to hold me back with his arms and body.
'Disparate,' Didz breathes in my ear, rubbing his cock against the small of my back.
Didz starts giggling into my shoulder and mumbles the word 'fat'. Which doesn't make me chortle at all.
Even just a little.
That would be rude.
And I am a lady.
She slapped me! She actually slapped me! My ridiculously beautiful face!
Didz says you shouldn't hit girls, Anna, and yelps when she swats at him.
Yes, if you love a woman, you mustn't beat her, I say gravely.
'You two think you're so clever, don't you?'
And bites my lip as she kisses me.
Grab her and start having my sweet, nasty way with her cunt while she goes about deflowering all ears in range with her colorful version of Hail Mary.
Didz, laughing, recovers and begins to lap at my arsehole, no warning or ceremony. Git – ohah.
'YOU – SHOULD – TALK – YOU – CHUBBY- TRANSVESTITE – TART!' she shouts.
'Carla,' Didz corrects before swirling his tongue up my arse.
'ALL – THOSE – BIRDS – IN – LEEDS! AAHAAHAAH!'
'I was drunk,' I protest. 'Impaired - Didz, you disgusting man, keep doing that – impaired judgment doesn't count.'
'The girls in – in – at – oh Reading? And that time in France, with the – and oh, Carl that's nice – and uhm, Missy wossname in Norwich and – the fat bloke at Koko's that you carry on with shamelessly -'
'You theem to have a lot of those impaired thudgment momenths, Carl,' Didz says from my arse.
'DON'T STOP YOU PILLOCK!'
She doesn't beg much.
Which is why I will enjoy this.
Anna, sweating and mewling putty under me. Didz grinding his cock in the crack of my arse, moaning into my ear.
'God, I want to fuck you,' he gasps as he pushes his fingers, slick with sweat and spit, into me.
Anna giggles and undulates up a little, winking at Didz over my shoulder.
A sure sign of trouble.
Not wonderfully, worryingly erotic to have two pairs of hands stroking and touching and teasing me, two warm bodies pushing against mine, hers softer, fuller in the hips and thighs, his leaner, more solid in some ways, hands a bit rougher, two pairs of lips sucking and kissing, voices high and low murmuring what a naughty, filthy, dirty, beautiful girl I am.
Not worryingly more erotic than Tom Jones' voice . . .
. . . and I did not just think that while Didz is rimming his cock around my entrance and Anna is swirling her tongue around my head and stroking me.
How to make a hot Carla/Carlos sandwich:
1 Annalisa Astarita riding me, warm and wet all around me, her thighs squeezing me, grabbing my hair and telling me that I'm still getting a spanking for calling Jemma fat but it was
1 Didz Hammond, pounding my arse deliciously fast, hard, just the way I need it, thank God fuck yes, I do believe
1 Carla/Carlos Ashley Raphael Barât in between, the tasty filling who likes it up the arse more than Oscar Wilde did, has a voice like an angel, could drive the kids absolutely made at Filthy McNasties, even with a funny nose, merrily flushed and sticky and completely cross-eyed, moaning and cursing down the roof
Serve with tangled limbs and blistering heat and slick skin and spit and cum and writhing, panting, happy, fucking glee.
April 16th 2005
Oh, but they have finished me. Many times over . . .
Who is me?
I can wiggle them.
They are mine!
Spooned between the sleeping Anna and Didz in a bed manky from sex.
Hm. What is this?
Well, hello old chum, haven't seen you in awhile –
'Wot Carl, wot?' Didz mutters as I shake him.
'Blimey, what is he on about now – oh - good morning,' Anna says.
Clutching the pair of them, I cry: 'I HAVE MORNING WOOD!'
Post-coital canoodling over breakfast.
3 way kisses are messy and complicated but fun.
Didz managed to wean his way out of this orgy. Says he has some things to sort out, but he'll be back 'round tomorrow.
I begged very prettily, pouting and pet-eyed and everything. On my knees. And still he went.
I must be losing my touch.
But then, this is the same man who has memorized Devdas. And not the English subtitles.
He doesn't even speak Hindu.
Bruise feeling better, but still sore. Anna keeps pestering me about it. She laughed very loudly (cheeky!) when I told her the story of the Underground and the turnsdials.
I think she really just wants to keep getting in my trousers. Er skirt.
Not that I've been wearing either since last night.
Making industrious use of kitchen table and getting my promised spanking when Peter calls and leaves a message.
'Carl, you cunt, this is Peter –'
Peter Boy. Petey.
Curled in her arms, warm and safe, I am trying not to listen to the faint whispers of Evil Carl rattling around in the back of my head, like some Dickensian phantom.
As long as my doorknobs don't start morphing into faces.
Why does he have the voice of James Mason?
April 17th 2005
Anna off to Yorkshire to visit her grandmother. I met her grandmother once. She thought I was a yeti and threw her bedpan at me.
'Oh darling, don't be so long faced about it, this has been planned for awhile now.'
I tell her the only shagging she's getting up there is – sheep.
She cocks an eyebrow and says that Didz and I should give her some pointers then.
'Yes well. Yes.'
I keep repeating to the door.
'You. Snore. Loudly,' is my final retort.
Will try not to panic over the fact that she has left me alone with a maniac, namely myself.
I still have Didz whenever he shows up today.
Mmmm lunch. Egg sandwich.
Look, Evil Carl, encouraging me to choke to death on egg? How desperate are you? Who does that? Sad toothless men. I am not the former and I am trying not to be the latter anymore because. Because.
Oh, I'll be buggered if I know.
The best way to shut out a mental apparition is to drum.
Very very loudly.
Even if I am, to use a phrase Anthony would, 'spectacularly craptastic'.
Wonder how the old boy is doing? Should give him a ring sometime. Talk shop maybe if I get more writing done.
This could be a song.
Oh where oh where did my guitar go?
Visceral gut satisfaction at seeing the words strung out and hearing the chords come together.
Playing until the fingers are numb and red and raw.
Back from wandering adrift and I have phone messages.
Peter, who is going to be at the Boogaloo Bar tomorrow night and wants to talk.
Didz, who is very sorry Carl, but won't see me until later tomorrow, something with his car and exploding gears.
The universe is not out to get me. Shut up Evil Carl.
No, not even Margaret Thatcher or Tony Blair.
I will go find satisfaction in wanking and that I wrote today.
Rolled up in bed, listening to rain patter off the windowpanes, a dull tap, tap, tap, down the gutters and into the streets.
I think I feel a little less sad that he's not here anymore.
A sharp pain, intake of breath to realize this frightens me. But not so much. Not so much anymore.
April 18th 2005
Didn't get any sleep last night.
Who needs sleep anymore?
Spent most of today muttering to myself and running in circles and thinking about Peter around the flat hoping Didz would show up. Tried Anna but she was out somewhere.
She would tell me I have to do this. I have to go through with this.
Even if I really really don't want to in some ways.
Does Peter hate me for not calling? Hate me for everything?
What if we just end up shouting and breaking barstools over each other?
Do I hate him?
I might've for a moment or two. But that was a long time ago.
It seems so strange.
We haven't even spoken for almost a year.
I hope he doesn't bring the harpies and ghouls ** with him. I really couldn't stand that right now, I have enough with Evil Carl clinging to me.
Besides, I'm going alone. I'd feel pathetic if he showed up with The Horde.
What the fuck happened to Didz?
Hardly touched my drink at all. I want to be lucid for this, mostly.
Does he still love me?
Have to do this. I can't bolt.
It might as well happen now, because it's going to happen sometime at any rate, and besides, I can't take much more of this not closure business. I need a cleaner break, if breaks are clean.
No use thinking, if he still loves me.
Shut up Evil Carl.
Harpies might not be here, but the journalist vultures smell meat.
Fuckers. Nothing is sacred anymore. I should have known better. Word gets around with Peter.
He's like a ghost, hallucination, I can't quiet believe he's real and he's here, after all this, after everything. Tall with tousled hair and sleepy angel eyes.
'Hello Carl,' voice slow and languid, echoes under water. Not real.
Staring at each other. Shell-shocked once comrades in arms. Brothers. Sometimes lovers. It's such a cheapening word, though. So little for all we were. People always ask about us and snicker behind our backs as if animal lust could explain the sum total of what it is like to warp your soul together with another human being, everything you both hate and love most passed between you without a barrier hardly. Everything dearest to you.
'Well come on now, you going to stand there gawking or hug me?' Pete says, flicking a lazy half smile.
Holding him tight and it feels good to be held tight.
Hurts too. I'm not used to him anymore and everything about him is strange. He smells funny, even – H and crack, faintly, even through the heavy aftershave – and it makes me want to vomit and run.
And for some stupid reason I tell him I love him.
'Carl, that is shockingly sentimental for you,' he notes as we shuffle off to a couch in the corner, away from prying eyes.
Halting words and whispers, awkward pauses. What do you say?
Evil Carl is muttering something about Castle Dracula and come Agatha, Bagatha, Tabitha, let us go, to the Castle Dracula . . .
He really is rubbish if he does an Eddie Izzard sketch.
'Wot're you laughing about?' Pete says.
'Oh. I have an Evil Alter Ego with a voice like James Mason.'
'Oh, well. Got several dozens of those myself.'
'With James Mason voices?'
He lights a fag and exhales, offers it to me. Like old times.
'No. Richard Kiley. And –' he leans forward 'that fucking David Cameron.'
'Shyte. I thought I had it bad. At least mine's mostly benign. 'Cept for the occasional suicide suggestions. But they're crap, really. Choke on your egg sandwich, mostly.'
April 19th 2005
Got one of the stupid journalists to fall for the Bismark joke. ***
I can't believe people still fall for it, Pete says. And hugs me again.
It shouldn't be this easy to talk and to laugh with him. But it is.
I'd say it was miraculous, but then, that's the way we've always been.
Still, it's like rubbing jagged edges of glass too.
Things have changed.
I knew that. But now it sinks in like a dead weight in the chest, watching him fidget and scratch, chain smoke, needing a hit already.
And how he fawns at anyone who seems to notice him. He used to fawn before, but this is ridiculous fawning.
Ignoring me fawning.
He will race after that girl in the purple top any minute now and forget what's going on right here in front of him.
It's the top of the world or the bottom of the canal, I once said.
Let's shoot this shit up, there is nothing worth living for, I once said.
No Carl, it'll be grand, keep on going with me, he once said.
So I did.
And after all of everything, I am beginning to wonder if there is much of a difference between the top of the world and the bottom of the canal sometimes.
'Getting late. I'm going to be off.'
'No, no, night's young, stay Carl, stay,' he says, putting an arm around my waist, whispering in my bad ear that he doesn't know is bad.
'I still love you too,' he says, loud enough I can hear.
'Just thought you should know that.'
And kisses me behind the ear, where my tumor used to the be, where my scar now is. And kissed me.
'See you around Carl?'
'Yeah. Maybe. You know how it goes.'
'Yeah,' his eyes stray to the girl with the purple top. I cock my chin to him as I leave.
'You go get 'er Pete,' I say. He grins at me, but sadly.
Rubbing my scar.
And I didn't bring an umbrella of course.
'Carl,' Didz uncoils from the shadows, tall, under an umbrella.
'Didz? What the fuck – how did you know –'
'Word gets around with Peter,' Didz says.
I blink at him furiously through the rain deciding if I want to slug him or snog him.
'Well, are you going to just stand there like an idiot and get wet? Get over here you lug.'
Walking huddled under the umbrella with Didz.
'So how'd it go? Or do you want to talk about it?'
'Alright,' I shrug, marveling at how easy that feels. 'Yeah, alright,' I laugh and toss my hair.
Didz smiles and takes my hand in his, warm and solid.
Didz starts humming 'I Melt with You' and I think to myself, good gravy, I've fallen in love with a cheese.
Still, there are worse fates for an ex Libertine, walking home in the rain.
* B. U. R. M. A.: Wartime code in WWII for 'Be Upstairs Ready My Angel'; also Dirty Pretty Things song. Oh yes, very clever of me . . .
** Harpies and Ghouls: Peter's usually drug-addled clingers-on and scrubbers (groupies)
*** For explanation of the Bismark joke, which always makes me go, WTF?, see this: http://youtube.com/watch?v=FcAog5zFL_U&search=libertines%20bismark