Skylight

 


Skylight

 

Landlady stood stern with her crinkly arms crossed suspiciously, one impatient foot tap away from a raised eyebrow. She examined my swollen black eye, most likely thinking about what she was getting herself into.

It was a nice one-bedroom flat, small but with enough space for me on my own. I could hide on the top floor with everything I needed. The kitchen is the same room as the living. Sit on the sofa and reach the sink. There’s a lingering baked fish smell in the air and a yellow tinged smoke alarm. Landlady noticed my distraction, quickly saying:

 “It works.”

I trust her, although I’d be happier if it wasn’t functional. I told her how I liked the natural light coming in through the skylight. That it made the loft conversion, added a real something. There was a rickety old wooden single bed with a stained mattress. Landlady did her best to hide the soiled patch with her leg. I didn’t care, I just wanted to be free, out of that flat I shared with Jess. It was one punch too far. Even my gut churning love for her couldn’t save us this time. I can’t let her take my chance of escape away, not now. I’ve sacrificed too much already. I moved for her, ended up working in dead end temp jobs, with nothing to show for it but depression.

Thankfully, I can save my future. Landlady took pity on me; the place was mine. She even said how she enjoyed my sense of humour. She whispered; if she was 20 years younger, we’d have a lot of fun. Whatever that means. I knew exactly what it meant, but I won’t be honouring that fantasy. My god, she’s old enough to be my grandmother.

Of course, there were house rules, there always are. No smoking, I’ll ignore that, making use of the skylight for ventilation. The etiquette of bin day and whatnot. I was just happy to be free of Jess, all that behind me. A part of me wished she’d surprise me with tearful supplication, play our favourite song in the street on full blast or something. It's for the best that she doesn’t. Self-preservation and all that. 

As we left, Landlady kept reminding me how her son was a tenant on the 2nd floor. So, he’d be able to keep an eye out for any trouble.

“He hears everything.” She told me, “Ev-er-y-th-in-g.”

I assured her she had nothing to worry about. A firm, friendly handshake, which to me, went on for too long. Her palm was clammy. We sealed the deal. She admired my surfboard. That’s not a euphemism. She said how she could imagine my twenty-four-year-old body in that shorty wetsuit, bigger crotch bulge in her head, I’m sure.

Being single now and at the age I am, out of bitter resentment and with my freedom from Jess, now a reality. Living at the top of the world. I’d go out to all the local clubs and bars, most that we went to when we were a couple.

Every night, the same.

The Cavern for some alternative power chords, Pitcher and Piano for a bit of bloody culture and Hole In The Wall to play some pool. Things were falling into place. The female bartenders could sense my vulnerability, one called me ‘smooth’, spoken with razor sharp sarcasm and a sympathetic chuckle for spilling my pint on myself. Being single now and at the age I am, she wanted to fuck me. The pool table would be the only realistic place for inebriated intercourse. I still can’t get her to agree. Her loss.

Anyway, after being kicked out of the bar.

Every night, the same.

I’d sneak into Timepiece, steal strangers left over drinks, smuggle away used stubby squidged cigarettes from ash trays. I’d rest my drunken forehead against the tiled toilet wall, sway and stare down at those blue urinal trough tablets, trying to dissolve them with my de-hydrated yellow, mustard smelling piss.

Every night, the same.

When I met Fleur, the first thing I noticed was her stretched earlobes with those white plugs the size of pound coins. She was punky. She hated me using the word ‘punky’. She didn’t like labels, but settled for ‘emo’. I knew something had changed in me. After a time, she felt comfortable enough with me to take her plugs out and encourage me to sniff her saggy cat anus looking lobes. They smelt like dusty parmesan, mixed with a throaty warmth, so shocking. It didn’t stop me from wanting her. It made us closer. Our relationship, if you can call it that; was, I guess, built on friendship. She started as a temp, soon after me. Both of us, not good enough to be employed on permanent contracts. We refused to cut our hair.

Fleur was confusing. She’d ask if we could watch DVD porn together. We never said a word the whole time. We sat and watched close up hardcore penetration, come dripping off delicately tanned smooth female chins, that meandering white smudge trail of spoilt foundation. Noises we didn’t dare comment on. I turned the volume down, not sure which would be worse; having sex with Fleur in silence or Landlady’s son thinking I was watching porn on my own. He hears everything. Her words repeated in my head.

Flickering flesh. Fleur the effortless tease. She’d let me stroke her feet with the back of my fingernails. The second I got above her boney ankles or moved in close enough to see naked reflected porn flesh in the whites of her eyes. She’d move from the sofa to the floor, leaning against a kitchen cabinet. Her hands resting on her knees.

Every night, the same.

Fleur scrunched her shoulders into her neck and went into herself with silence. Not taking her eyes off the restricted eighteen spectacle. She could do anything she wanted. I’d still buy her drinks every night, even if she kept my balls in a jar. I’d shuffle my thighs and fan my knees like butterfly wings to air my fiery bollocks. She knew what she was doing to me, and it worked. I’d conceal my boner with the remote control and think of stabbing boredom in my mind.

She’d leave four minutes before midnight, down the stairs and say the same thing as she walked out:

“With all these CDs, you could open a shop.”

Every night, the same.

Fleur was beautifully odd. As much as I’d offer, imposing my chivalry upon her, she never let me walk her home. Maybe she thought I’d try it on, go in for a peck goodnight, or ram my fingers down her jeans and rummage with pent-up alienation. Those months of frustration brimming through my fingertips. If we don’t sleep together, we stay friends. I don’t mind ruining it. We’re not that close, anyway. I wish we were. I know she knows that. She plays with it.

The front door would slam shut downstairs as she left. That one night, I opened the front window, a perfect view of the narrow street below. Parked cars on both sides. The terraced houses mirrored each other too, with Edwardian bay windows. Most of the houses were turned into flats, student accommodation being as close to the Uni as we are. Rooms ended with letters, I’m '27C'.

 Fleur skipped down the pavement, oblivious that I was watching her leave. She got into an Audi, opening the front passenger door. A man behind the wheel, wearing a baseball cap with sprawling black tattoo ink poking from his t-shirt collar, up his neck to his ear. She leaned over the gear stick, slid her hand up his thigh to his crotch. They kissed with slow tongues; both sniggering, their foreheads touching. His flat peak lifting. I felt lost again. That explained why she never let me walk her home. The car screeched off down the road, red brake lights flashing on and off into the dark distance. As if I could compete with an Audi. I wish I was a bad boy.

I slumped, pathetic and alone on the narrow sofa, the TV still on mute, images flashing of surgically enhanced tits, ones with that scratch scar underneath the areola. I warmed Fleur up with my loyalty, made her laugh with idioms, took the piss out of the upper classes, the ones with the hope. She let me feel enough of her to gamble on the win of intimacy between us. She was the one who suggested we watched porn. I hoped she was becoming mine, all the time we spent together. She was my treasured gift after Jess, a means to forget. My very own pint-sized skater girl distraction. I only ever wanted to know her, to share myself.

 Every night, the same.

It left me with blue balls, pain panging deep up into my stomach. A little ankle tickle and she’d disappear. I wanted to catch her out, confront her. Understand what we were doing. Maybe she’d break down, give it up, and we’d make love fueled by her guilt. I wanted to hear her say she never meant to hurt me, that she was sorry. Have her call me ‘babe’ through breathy lips. I wouldn’t mind hearing us come together, clenching and dripping with passion filled sweat. I should have turned the porn off. It was making my brain soft.

It reminded me of Jess’ pink lacy thong nestled sweetly in my bottom drawer. I kept them as a souvenir. It’s funny how soon you choose to remember. From the sofa to the room with the single bed, where I sleep alone. I stripped off all my clothes en route, leaving the porn playing on mute, my jeans kicked off over my ankles, my pants peeled off like a snake shedding skin in the doorway, my t-shirt rolled off over my head, only a beer jacket to keep me warm. I dug out those pink undies and slid them on. The lace cutting into my silky shaved balls. Naked and wearing my ex-girlfriend's underwear, not even washed, not once. I stood precariously on a white plastic office stool with my horny balls flapping softly. I liked how the lace thong cut between my bum cheeks.

Cheap Bourbon and a Hamlet miniature cigar. I must have been on my fourth. Standing on that stool, my head and naked shoulders poking up out of the roof skylight. I adjusted the thong cutting into my sack. I’ve got the best view from here. Twinkling township lights fade off into the hill covered darkness of the moors.

I thought of Fleur as her cinnamon shower gel smell passed through my nostrils, then just a woody cigar, washed down with a trickle of cheap metal tasting bourbon. I’m not even cold. One hand holding that cigar out the window, deliberately avoiding setting off the smoke alarm in my room. I rested my other hand on my naked fleshy hip and stroked my stomach. I was still hard, the lace cutting in. It made me exhale. God, was I horny. Jess at her drunk and wildest, glancing back over her oiled shoulder. Fleur with all her prick teasing. I need to feel something.

I dabbed my cigar in an empty soup can, filled almost to the brim with Marlboro light dog ends and a mound of smoldering cigar ash. I almost ducked back inside. So glad I didn’t. A yellow light snapped on in the house across the way from me. I couldn’t stop my intrigue like James Stewart. To my horny surprise, as if sent down by the dream warriors. A tanned, toned woman wearing black underwear, with her hair tied up in a ponytail, sauntered into the kitchen. I questioned myself, was I really seeing this? She filled a kettle from the tap and turned her shoulders, admiring her toned flat belly in the window's reflection, inserting her little finger into her bellybutton. She took an intake of breath, turned her back and lifted her rounded smooth bum up in both hands, examining herself in her reflection again. She ran her fingers along the material of her thong; it slid back into place in her edible bottom crack. I traced my finger, copying her movements along the thong I was wearing. She didn’t see me, thankfully. I had my eyes poking out of the roof like a periscope. I always make sure the lights are off in here when I smoke.

Every night, the same.

The mysterious woman didn’t know I was there. She stood with her arms crossed, foot tapping as she waited for the kettle to boil. I didn’t leave until that light turned to darkness. She didn‘t know I could see her, which I liked. If I wasn’t aroused enough before, I for damn sure was when I saw her standing there. Sometimes less is more. I didn’t need to see a nipple or her shaven pussy. I was throbbing; it was amazing. She filled a mug with boiling water; the steam fogging the window. She squeezed in some lemon and drizzled in a teardrop of honey from one of those squirt bottles.

 I leant out the window to follow her as she disappeared, out of sight, steadying my feet on the flimsy stool. Perfect olive skin arse. The light went out. That was that moment over. Why couldn’t she have needed to make Choux pastry, or lamb stew, anything more involved. It took the illumination of the kitchen light to grab my attention again. I was still leaning out of the skylight, trying to calm my nerves. One hand on my erection. There was only one way of achieving satisfaction and there was no one around but me. The girl came back; she grabbed for the honey bottle, looked up in my direction and winked.

The stool crumbled under my feet. I was on my back, looking up at the open skylight.

Did she really wink at me?

Maybe she knew I was there the whole time. She could have enjoyed being watched. If I looked as good as she did in a thong, I wouldn’t mind being ogled.

     I blame Fleur. She wanted to watch porn. I was on my hands and knees on the surface of my single bed; the duvet scrunched to one end. With thoughts of strangers naked through windows and the lace keeping me hard. I put my mouth on my pillow, pulled the thong to one side and took the only sex toy I shared with Jess, a mauve butt plug, and pushed it deep inside me.

Sometimes, it’s nice to be naughty. I think of her kisses on the common and the way we’d dance on the car roof. From sentimentalism to bending her over an Avebury stone. Perhaps it was sacrilege. We upset the Pagans or something. That could be why I felt cursed. Our lust turned to violence, but I needed to come.

Every night, the same.

I held my breath, so downstairs wouldn’t hear me pop. As I convulsed to finish, the top cover of the yellow stained smoke alarm dropped on a hinge. It wasn’t enough to interrupt my stroke. I could see the 9-volt battery, more wires than I expected. My hand got slower. Then I saw it, my naked reflection in a black domed camera lens, no bigger than a penny. I couldn’t stop myself from coming. A red light flashing on and off.

Landlady accepted my notice.

With immediate effect.

 

A Story by Neil Hall.


Until Next Time.....


Do Good Things.


#Tallbluemidget 

 

 

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