Friction Read online

  Sex shops for women became popular in the 1990s. Shirley Rivers was the first to prosper but is now on the slide. Its twelve-inch glass dildos fail to impress. As do the four-inch butt plugs, the nipple clamps and the rather dated selection of one hundred per cent leather lingerie. It was an all-too-belated attempt to win back a clientele who had already gone elsewhere for kicks. Nowadays, the discerning consumer of sex accessories is going to Versus.

  They’re wet with lust, the Versus stores. They’re as close as most people get to actually having sex with a shop. A popular fantasy. The atmosphere is dark and dingy. Neon is used to laudable effect. Pornographic videos beam and blast across the store, accompanied by loud groans and the sound of extremely athletic intercourse. The products vary greatly. A thousand different models of vibrator are on offer. Booths are provided where one can test the products; issues of hygiene are largely ignored. No one gives a shit about their innards.

  ‘Flesh seems total shit to me,’ says Carly, as they pass by the large glass entrance of the latest annexe of the Arndale Centre. So see-through it might not even be there.

  ‘I haven’t touched anyone in ages,’ says Girl 1.

  ‘It’s because you’re too fat.’

  ‘I know.’

  Versus is situated towards the south end of the Northern Quarter. To build it, a row of old sex shops that pretended to be bookshops had to be demolished. Boys used to buy American magazines here, with erections, penetration, etc. Nowadays girls buy dildos. While men continue to peer awkwardly at the top shelves of newsagents, or shit themselves in illicit massage parlours with thin carpets and peeling wallpaper, women are legitimate players in the lucrative economy of sex.

  ‘Right,’ says Carly, smirking at a group of boys who loiter nervously at the entrance to Versus. ‘The Autopen Relentless Bliss.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re gonna try it.’

  Autopen is the name of the corporation; it’s American. It has existed in some capacity since the eighties, but is yet to manufacture a product capable of disrupting the dildo/vibrator-orientated market. But word is that’s all about to change.

  The Autopen Relentless Bliss comes in a box the size of a small suitcase. It opens out to form two A-frames which support a phallus eight inches in length. When the Autopen Relentless Bliss is switched on, the cock pumps back and forth over a distance of about sixteen inches. It vibrates internally. Riding the phallus is a missile-like device, the clit fizzer, which vibrates too, though more fiercely. To use the contraption, the girl simply erects it and lies between the two A-frames. She then positions herself in relation to the driving rubber cock, the speed of which is controlled by a handheld device.

  Carly and Girl 1 enter Versus. It’s busy. Few girls bother to view the lingerie situated by the entrance. Most are towards the back, comparing the lengths and motions of battery-operated phalluses.

  Carly discovers the Autopen Relentless Bliss in the centre of Versus. It is floodlit, elevated on a platform and surrounded by women. It’s like some Jesus, balancing on a crate.

  ‘Fumbling Lovers Are a Thing of the Past. Make Multiple Orgasms a Part of Your Future’ reads a banner. Another says simply: ‘Better Than Him’. Overhead, six large TV screens depict six different women using and enjoying the Relentless Bliss. ‘Who Needs a Kiss, When You Could Have Relentless Bliss?’

  Who indeed? Carly looks up at the screens. On the first, a woman is using the Relentless Bliss in a very conventional manner. She reclines on a well-made bed in a room decorated in fashionable colours: browns, blacks, creams and navy blues. The Relentless Bliss shudders at her loins, working its alleged magic. Her eyes are closed and her lips curl downwards at either side of her mouth, which is open wide and making a loud noise.

  On the second TV, a girl is in a spacious bathroom, lying on a floor of shining white tiles – imitation marble. It looks as though she’s only recently got out of the shower. She’s holding the hand-held controller in both hands, raising it high above her head. With careful flicks of her index finger she makes the Relentless Bliss fuck her at a variety of paces. Slow, faster, faster, faster, then slow once more, then fast again and again. On each of the screens, the girls get more and more experimental. The kitchen table, a blonde with cream smeared like sewage over her chest. The garden during the summer, surrounded by flower petals. On the fifth screen, two girls use the Relentless Bliss together, same room I mean – they’re using separate machines. All the footage is looped, as if these girls will be fucked for eternity. At least until someone pulls the plug.

  Curiously, on the final screen, we’re back in the bedroom from screen one. The difference is that a man has walked over to the side of the bed, and has undone his flies. He’s currently massaging what surely must be his fully erect cock; he’s wanking. He looks like a right dick. This is glorious life. It’s an odd sight, the man’s muttering to himself. What does a man wanking over a woman being screwed by a machine mutter to himself? ‘That’s it, come on, oh yeh.’

  Something along those lines. But, in truth, the language hasn’t been invented for these sorts of occasions. He’s powerless, has to rely on what they taught him in the pornos or at drama school.

  ‘Keep going, oh fuck, shit, shit, come on, bitch.’

  How does he feel about the machine? Maybe he’s intimidated. Maybe he’s relieved that he no longer has to fuck his bird; a machine does it, like it does the laundry and the dirty pots and pans. Or maybe he just gets paid to have a fake wank. She seems to be loving it though. She’s saying things like, ‘euughh, aaahhgg, eeuugh, aaahgh, nooooooo, eughhh, aaahgh, yes yes yes yes yes.’

  Carly joins the queue. Moments later she’s ushered into a cubicle by a girl in a T-shirt. It reads: ‘The Autopen Relentless Bliss – God’s gift to Woman’. Inside the cubicle, the Relentless Bliss is already erected. In her left hand, she has an eight-inch rubber cock, which she’s been told is easy to attach to the machine. It’s true, everything slots into place. Versus is a brilliant shop. Everything is done perfectly. The light is dim; just enough to see what you’re doing, what goes where. The cubicle walls are thin, but succeed in blocking out most of the noise coming from the main floor of the shop. What little noise remains is covered up by ambient music. Flutes with beats and synthetic bass. The calming music is necessary; this is a nervous and potentially embarrassing occasion.

  Carly removes her jeans and places them on a chair, actually, it’s more like a chaise-longue. Oh, it’s a tasteful shop. This commercial space is like a peacock, or a coral reef; so perfect that it makes one inclined to believe in God. Determined, Carly removes her knickers quickly. Within seconds, she’s lying on a velvet cushion between the A-frames, touching her clitoris and reaching for the handheld operating device. Nobody had foreseen quite how erotic such scenarios could be. Nobody had predicted they’d make quite so much sense.

  It winks before it’s introduced, the dildo, it winks and then smiles. The machine whirrs and enters calmly, like an expert. Carly naturally benefits from its ability to vibrate softly in accordance with the average woman’s needs and preference. Her eyes shut and her brain holds its breath and sinks into the milky swamp at the bottom of her skull. The clit fizzer fizzes and Carly inhales fast. She’s surprised by the sensitivity of the controls. She quickly teaches it the depth, power and pace she prefers. The machine is ecstatic, happy to oblige. After a few minutes, though, predictably, it is Carly who is being taught. What she had hitherto considered to be the limits of her enjoyment, toleration and stamina are exceeded. Easily. Her index finger enjoys a pragmatic dialogue with her brain. The machine is soon approaching full speed and Carly is careless, content to enjoy the effect of its inhuman motions. The machine does not waver, it only laughs as the girl begins to tense and stretch beneath it. By the time she unknowingly brings the Autopen Relentless Bliss to a stop, Carly has torn a hole in her jumper and her bra is twisted and damaged around her waist. Her cheeks are reddened and raised by a rare smile and her throat is bared an
d lined with scratch marks.

  She returns the cock in a transparent plastic bag and walks quickly through the store, past the whips and the various plugs, past the screened girls who scream, past the lingerie and into open air.

  ‘Jesus,’ she says, putting her forearm against her sweltering forehead, her mouth half open, cheeks reddened, ‘flesh seems like total shit to me.’

  ‘How was it?’ says Girl 1, sidestepping out of Versus to avoid a young girl with a pushchair. ‘Did you get off?’

  Carly puts a cigarette between her lips and lights it. She pictures Steve. His muscular body turning in his sleep, all its stinks and its leakages, its sweaty crevices. She swallows hard and uncomfortably, turning to Girl 1.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘it was fucking incredible.’

  7

  OUCH. MY BACK is aching. Too much time spent curved and crooked, I expect. I need a moment’s rest. After thinking about the wide grin of that sex machine pressing against human innards, I need to feel seriously chilled. I’m like.

  There is no sound here. Just the tap of fingertip on key and my occasional sigh. No objects either. Just the small desk and the bed. How long have I been here? Years. Years.

  I need an ally and it’s going to be you. Whoever you are, I like you.

  Yes, I’m a good sort. Eager to please. Not one of the bastards who speed-writes after snorting lines of dog dirt from the toilet seat. I know what fun is. I know how to kill time, laugh my arse off and survive. You’re going to be safe with me. You’re going to enjoy yourself.

  Already I’m getting confused. We’ve barely begun. But already I’m being silly. All this dreadful recreation is making me low. It’s making me weird. All this talk of sex machines and parks, young people, open air and the market. Who am I trying to kid? What do I know of women and men? Only the facts. Maybe these will count for something.

  I am pleased to announce that my research continues. The Authority is a weakling. I am working extremely hard and apparently no one can stop me. It must seem strange to you. A mischief like me partaking in such scholarly activity. Perhaps it seems boring, a little unadventurous? But survival is my task – not yours. When I was younger, I tried killing time in more basic ways. I snorted my fair share of dirt with the other prisoners; the drugs, whether snorted or injected, got me into a great deal of trouble. In fact, I’d go as far as to say I was a ringleader. Indeed, this shiny little hell of mine has had a few parties thrown around it. Protest binges. Assaults. The odd moment of mayhem. But the hedonist’s path is difficult to tread in here.

  The others; I ought to mention them. We’re separated into two categories: those who, like myself, were effectively born into this institution and those who misbehaved in the outside world and were brought here. To avoid confusion, the Authority chose not to let the two sets mix, and it’s a decision I’m rather grateful for. You see, I’m what is known as a ‘real lifer’. As such, I’d rather not spend my days slopping around with the rapists and the deviants of the ‘actual offenders’ wing. It’s a question of one’s guilt: I don’t feel guilty. My crime is, in effect, yet to be committed.

  Today, as once again I found my way on to the Evernet system, I discovered an urban CCTV archive. I like to imagine myself on an old grey road in one of the cities. I am waving both my arms as if inviting someone to strike me. I am shouting: fucking come on then, fucking come on then, fucking come on.

  Life is a struggle.

  But all is as it should be. No worries. The machines have begun to whir and jab. The footballs are speaking and the condoms natter. Grab my hand. Forgive my fantasies of you and me. It’s just survival. I bullshit you with mystery when I ought just to proceed. Another story. More beginnings. Where were we?

  The park. Of course. The park . . .

  8

  Tinned Hearts

  WE’RE GOING SOUTH again, down Oxford Road to Fallowfield and the park. Rebecca watches from afar as the football is freed from the wasps’ nest. A vested boy jabs hard with a broken tree branch, the football rolls out pursued by buzzing black dots, causing the boys to retreat in unison. Moment later they’re playing again. Rebecca turns to Johnny.

  ‘I don’t like you using the word “twat”, Johnny. What do you mean, you’re going to hammer away at a twat?’

  ‘I was joking.’

  ‘I hate that word.’

  ‘Fanny?’

  Rebecca turns to leave, causing Johnny to scramble to his feet and begin his shamed and lolloping pursuit. Really, Rebecca doesn’t give a shit what words come from Johnny’s mouth. But lately she’s grown tired of the endless mindlessness. She’s tired of silly boys. Stale males. With gentle Johnny, Rebecca feels she ought to make a stand, to improve his sexual vocab.

  ‘Forgive me, Rebecca, I was joking.’

  ‘I can’t bear boys saying that, using the word “twat”, it’s offensive.’

  ‘Pussy?’

  ‘Fuck off, Johnny.’

  Johnny grabs Rebecca by the shoulder, trying desperately to slow her down. His horrible hand against her delicate skin, it seems so out of place, the result of some alternative and far fouler evolution. The evolution of man; rank in comparison to the laboratorial development of woman.

  I only said ‘twat’, thinks Johnny, that’s funny, right? Daring? No. Clearly not. Rebecca is pulling one of those classic twenty-first-century faces: seemingly serious and actually serious. But, deep down, as bullshittingly false as all the other smiles, frowns and lovey-dovey dogshit expressions that we pull so sincerely. No, she won’t forgive, in spite of Johnny’s efforts.

  ‘It’s not funny, Johnny.’

  ‘Maybe you just don’t get it.’

  ‘I get it, Johnny, it’s offensive.’

  ‘You just don’t get me.’

  These days, the idea of ‘getting’ things and people is important. It relates almost directly to the idea of understanding. Johnny feels that Rebecca doesn’t ‘get’ him, that she doesn’t understand him. Do you get me?

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Johnny, don’t cry.’

  ‘I’m not fucking crying, Rebecca.’

  He is, actually. As the confrontation began, tears started to congregate in the corners of his eyes. Now they’re collapsing under their own weight; the first tear has just rolled down his cheek.

  ‘Johnny, I don’t want you using those words. I won’t tolerate that kind of vulgarity from you.’

  Oh, dearest Johnny. He listens to Rebecca, wearing a face of weary surprise. He really has nothing. Nothing except Rebecca, whose friendship gives him hope, happiness and access to a cooler, more interesting stratum of student society.

  ‘Vulgar, you think I’m vulgar?’ demands Johnny, his red cheeks wet and beaming.

  Rebecca shrugs, her face the colour of treated pine. Natural but impenetrable. ‘I can’t love you, Johnny. You know that, don’t you?’

  Five seconds pass. Johnny imagines that he doesn’t contain bones, but simply a sparkling selection of interlocking blades. He stares at Rebecca as she walks away. She doesn’t love him. He knows. He stops and stares at the ground, watching the stretch of grass that grows between them as Rebecca walks away.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I know.’

  Rebecca’s footsteps do not fail, she strides away. Johnny continues to admire the ground. His eyes twitch and more tears tumble over their ridges on to his uneven, unfair face. The park becomes a blur, as if his eyes decide to function less, like they can’t be arsed to work properly, weary as they are of beholding rubbish, melancholy occasions.

  If you remember correctly, though, Johnny referred to the female genitals as a ‘twat’. This is almost certainly vulgar, particularly in the presence of a girl of Rebecca’s intellect. The word ‘twat’, you see, is more commonly known as a generic swear word, a moderately severe insult. So it’s certainly a little risky to use the word in the old sense – as a signifier of the vagina. ‘Cunt’ is a slightly different story. It holds on more successfully to its sexual connotations, des
pite also being simply an insult.

  Many of the swear words and insults of the 1990s and early twenty-first century originate as vernacular signifiers of the female sex organ. Cunt, twat, pussy, to name exactly three. It is, predictably, also true of words used to describe the male sex organs. Cock, prick, knob and dick are all legitimate insults, if a little less severe than those relating to the twat – or rather vagina. Fuck it. Words are fallen leaves.

  Rebecca reaches Oxford Road and hails a bus. As she takes her seat her phone rings. It’s the university, calling to discuss a problem with one of next year’s modules.

  ‘I was going to do the Dostoevsky module,’ she says. Through the grey of the bus window she notices Johnny exiting the park, his spine curved into a tragic arch, hands inside his endless pockets.

  ‘No, no. I’m in town. I’ll come in and sort it out now.’

  Johnny’s eyes have certainly gone to shit. He can barely see a thing as he leaves the park. His mind tumbledries in a cycle of alternating bullshits. She can’t love me, he thinks. I told her that I knew. I don’t know anything. No one should ever ‘know’ anything, Johnny confirms. ‘Knowing’ things is exactly what makes life so tedious and boring. If we’re going to start knowing things then we might as well be dead.

  But yes, tumbledrying bullshit. Cycles cycle. Laugh or cry. Laugh or cry. So hard to choose. Johnny’s always assumed the former to be of more use and fun, but now he just can’t be sure. By the time the dog of history cocks its leg and sprays out the twenty-first century, everybody is laughing their arses off. Comedy’s all over the TV, almost everything is pissless. Despite wars and the odd moment of schedule-halting aggression, everybody is very much amused by life. It’s hard to say whether that’s good or bad. Laughter is, of course, normally part of being happy. But there is something sinister about twenty-first-century teeheeing. Everybody’s wetting themselves. What’s so funny?