Free short stories about Generation End

Posts Tagged ‘Instagram’

LICKING FOR FIFTY THOUSAND

licking for fifty thousand

We ended up hanging out with this woman who cut my hair in South Bank once. She was this loud ball of fire who loved to talk about sex and dildos a lot, and that night, in the back of an Uber, she described her dildo collection like a guy would describe his sword collection: she had this proud, dazed smile on her face as she described the length of each dildo, the girth of each dildo, the texture of each dildo, the functionality of each dildo, the occasions she purchased each dildo. I pictured confetti gently trickling down her face as she said this, sparkles of starlight flashing in and out of the background. She was drunk and Jude was drunk but I was sober and completely over everything in the entire universe.

“What is a dildo, really, if you think about it?” Jude asked the Uber.

“That’s deep,” she said, “that’s really fucking deep.”

“You know the dildo was invented by a Spanish bullfighter named Ronaldildo,” I said.

We went to Hot Gossip and for a good three minutes I pretended to act like I knew what I was doing on the dance floor. I ducked out and sat somewhere, scrolling up and down my phone, trying to appear as though there was a purpose to my scrolling.

“What’s wrong?” the woman ran over, taking my phone away from me. She was sweaty. “You’re so boring, Dean. Why don’t you grab a pussy?”

“What?”

“Just be a Trump and grab a fucking pussy!”

We stayed around before heading out to have some pancakes, and bla bla bla we ended up at her place.

“You know what’s wrong with people?” The woman asked.

“What?” Jude asked back.

“Like they should just leave celebrities alone. Justin Bieber works harder than you, has more money than you, is better looking than you. Why make fun of him for? I mean, you’d totally lick his hole for fifty thousand, right?”

“That’s deep,” Jude said, “that’s really fucking deep.”

Jude told her to take off her top, so in response she took all of her clothes off. She had freckles around her chest. She tried to suck her stomach in to hide her pear shape before giving up and cackling loudly. We all laughed with her and took turns slapping her stomach. Jude took off his pants and I watched them go at it for a while, taking photos at random times. Sometimes, on Instagram, I see good looking couples share photos of themselves in beaches, having fun, smiling, laughing, and as I looked at the scene in front of me I wondered: is this what’s in store for those of us without the looks, or the money, or the six packs? Are we doomed to this fucked up depravity?

The woman sat down next to me when it was all over. “I caught this Uber once, and I complained to this Uber driver about my day, and I asked him, ‘What do you do to feel better?’ He said, ‘My life is tough, so I sleep.’ I asked him, ‘Why is your life tough?’ And he told me his family is still in Afghanistan, and he’s worried that they can get bombed any day. I didn’t know what to say, but when I got home, I had some red and I cried, then I put Neighbors 2 on and rubbed myself dry for the entire movie. I’ll tell you what, I really wanted to suck a dick that night.”

“That’s deep,” I said, “that’s really fucking deep.”

 

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Book I’m reading: Mastery

INSTAGRAM

Instagram - short story

The sun wasn’t rising and it wasn’t setting, either – it was about three in the afternoon and time was what it was. Jude was smoking and Vail was typing something on her phone. “We’ve changed, but we really haven’t, if you think about it,” Jude said. “Want to go to Alfred & Constance?” Vail asked without looking up from her phone. I wondered what the both of them would be like thirty years from now. Uglier, obviously, but I wondered what kind of things they’d say. Would they both still be single? We drove, and we drove, and we drove, and we didn’t end up going to Alfred & Constance but instead went to this hipster-looking café in Newstead or New Farm or something, and I ordered something with salmon and Vail ordered something with a lot of prosciutto and Jude ordered something I don’t remember. Vail took a photo of everything we ordered and put it on Instagram and made us like the photo. Vail then took a selfie on Snapchat and sent it to her friends. Afterwards, she took a series of photos and uploaded them all to her Facebook. Jude picked up a piece of prosciutto and pegged it at Vail’s face. She swore at him and began to cry. Jude didn’t apologise, so she ran to the toilet. I walked after her and spent the next half hour listening to her complain about Jude and about her work and about the world in general. We walked back, and Jude looked bored and drunk. We drove, and we drove, and we drove, and we ended up in West End, at this dance hall, dancing slowly to strange music. When the novelty of it all evaporated we drove, and we drove, and we drove, and we ended up at Jude’s apartment. He played a track by Drake (Buried Alive Interlude) on his expensive looking sound system, and he brought out drinks and just like before, Vail Instragrammed, Facebooked and Snapchatted various photos and videos of the drinks. We drank, and at some point I walked out to the balcony. This whole scene, this whole experience, this moment: the drinking and the laughing and the gossip and the voicing of opinions and the photos – they were good things, but they were things that had happened before, and they would probably be things that would happen again, and again, and again. I was lucky, and I wouldn’t trade my life in to be in a war-torn country or anything like that, but I was still bored of it all. I looked out at the view. My eyes were taking it all in but my mind was elsewhere. Vail joined me, and I said something witty to her and she giggled. I missed looking at her naked. She mumbled something before checking her phone, and Jude yelled for us to see something inside, and she yelled, “Okay,” and she walked back inside. I stayed outside for a while longer.