Inside was a light switch, and I led her into a small antechamber.
Deeper into the building was a series of tunnels, all leading down to
a switched-off set of railway lines, which disappeared into pitch black
tunnels. I led Claire down through a set of platforms, where the old pre-war
posters still advertised outings to Hampstead Heath for 6d, and even the
ancient chocolate machines still contained bars of chocolate, although
I could only guess that it was no way edible any longer. The slots were
still suited to the old-style sixpences, that had also gone out of commission
ever since. It was like suddenly finding yourself back in time, walking
along these old platforms. I don’t know why it was suddenly so important
for me to try and impress this girl in such a juvenile display of how,
but it was. I found it curious at the time. I led her to where the platforms
gave way to a set of converted rooms, with beds in them.
‘Fuckin’ ‘ell mister,’ she panted, breathlessly
‘Oo are you that you can get in ‘ere wot when no-one else
even knows abaht it?’ I smiled to myself that sauve smile I had
used to such devastating effect on the fair sex whilst working on national
television. But why did I want to particularly impress this wench? Even
at the time I sensed a weird note being played in my script, but things
were beginning to happen at an increasing rate. It was even then like
being in a parked car but which had started rolling and for which the
brakes weren’t responding. If I couldn’t actually stop the
process, at least I could try and steer, and hopefully that way things
would still come out alright.
I brought her over to one of the beds, and sat down. Instinctively, she
sat cross legged in front of me, her little eyes peeing up at me submissively
through her eyelashes, which, I now noticed, were incredibly long. She
suddenly carried an incredible resemblance to Nelly Furtado - I was just
about to get blowjobbed by a Nelly Furtado look-alike! What a day! I allowed
this chick to loosen my trousers, and with a deft tug she had my boxers
lying around my ankles too. Then, very slowly, she moved her mouth close
to the end of my dick, and started running her tongue up and down the
sides. My cock was standing to attention, as if on parade and being inspected
by the General! Although we were in relative dark, I could still make
out the helmet of my dick as if it were glowing red with lust. Through
the crack in her legs I could see the thin strip of white panties she
had on, her legs looking like those of a much younger girl. For a second
I wondered exactly how old she was- had I been mistaken, and had unwittingly
taken aboard one of the much younger girls who also frequented round the
Cross?
‘Er……..how old are you?’ I asked, sounding even
to my own ears like a right plum.
She stopped doing what she was, and, for a second I thought I had broke
her concentration. Most of the girls working this routine would get really
into their role as porno star, so much so that when you came to slide
up inside them they were running like a flippin’ river they were
so wet.
‘Twenty five’ she answered, and, my bourgeois ethical framework
still intact, I relaxed back into my previous state of lust monkey and
allowed her to find her own way into my heart. Those that don’t
know say that the way to a man’s heart is by his stomach. It’s
not - its by his prick. By the same token, if a man can bring his woman
to orgasm, he automatically assumes great power over her- especially if
she can’t find anyone else who can. Most men can’t fulfil
their women- and vice versa- which is why we have an army of sex workers
out there at every level of society. When you mention prostitutes people
think of the waifs and strays of places like King’s Cross. There
are prostitutes at every level- in fact at many of the SM parties I have
been to I have seen top celebrities - men and women selling themselves
for grands, so they could buy their cocaine. I have even heard rumours
of royalty doing it but for massive sums, amounts which only extremely
wealthy businessmen and overseas dignitaries could afford.
Sex is such a powerful determinant in everything in our society. It overrules
everything else, ultimately. Cocaine, I was to come to realize, is such
a powerful aphrodisiac that it is a vital part of sex at each of these
levels. It is the equivalent of petrol to the industrial base - without
the latter we have a useless pile of inert machinery. Similarly without
cocaine you have an army of people who can’t fuck, don’t want
to fuck, and can’t be bothered to chase tail, on both sides of the
sex war. I mean, just think about how many industries are based upon men
and women getting together- fashions, travel, dating agencies, clubs,
magazines, fitness, so much is based upon men wanting women and women
keeping themselves attractive enough to warrant being chased.
Sex is a commodity- a product which has to be paid for, traded, and has
a market value. Perhaps that is due to the capitalist nature of our society
- but even in nature you have a reflection of this shortage of pussy,
in which the male members of an animal tribe vie for the attention of
the best females, and fight for it, even. In a sense, it is part of the
struggle of any species to keep itself at the highest possible level of
survivability - but as our society has evolved away from gatherings based
around packs and through tribes we now have our own versions of these
competitions. I remember seeing once a nature programme birds and other
animals in which it showed how the males would display their wings or
hoard up goodies in their nests in order to try and impress the females
they wished to impress.
And then I found myself having brought down a King’s Cross working
girl into this underground vault in order to do the same. I didn’t
know whether I was a man from my long distant ancestral past or some kind
of futuristic Blade Running descendant as I looked down and saw this bird
blowing my horn like a first rate porno star.
Then, strangely, she stopped, and holding my dick in one hand, pulled
out something else, straight from the inside of her fanny. I thought I
was seeing things at first, as she opened her legs, and slid her thin
bony free hand through her knicker line and, using her fingers, pulled
back her pussy lips. I was transfixed. I had seen some weird things in
my time, but this was certainly turning into one of the weirdest.
When I had brought her into this place I thought she was going to be the
one to get her mind blown- but it was turning out the other way round.
She was dragging out something that looked as if it were made of glass.
It was. It was a small a glass bottle, and seemed to glint in the light.
Aha, I realized that this was probably what they used for smoking crack.
I had heard about this practice of the working girls but had never actually
seen it. Still continuing to pull the outer skin of my dick back and forth,
she simultaneously pulled out a small piece of something wrapped in plastic.
Opening it, she pulled out a piece of what looked like white marble, and
snapped off a piece of it. Then, placing a piece of it on the stem of
her bottle - I could by now see it was a tiny Martell brandy bottle -
but with a highly compressed piece of gauze rammed tightly into the thin
end. The base had had its circular inner rim knocked out, and it was through
this that she now proposed to start smoking, whilst blowing me. Holding
the bottle - now her pipe - in her mouth, she now shifted her right hand
to pull out a lighter, and with this she lit the top of her pipe. Still
pulling the end of my old plonker, she lit up her Christmas Tree and I
could hear a crackle - ahh, this must be how this shit gets its name,
I realized. Like snap, crackle and pop. Her inhalation seemed to go on
for ages, and inside the glass pipe I could see the drug had been turned
into a thick black and extremely sinister-looking plume of smoke. It was
almost- if not in fact - jet black, and I was amazed at how she was able
to have the lung strength to keep inhaling the way she did. She must have
totally emptied her lungs prior to lighting up, then inhaled really slowly,
keeping the fire on the incinerating crack all the time, for the maximum
effect. After what seemed like an eternity the insides of the bottle seemed
to clear as the smoke thinned out and the quantity of crack she had placed
on top burned out.
But after that she put the bottle down and gave me the blow job of my
life. Phew, this stuff must make women as randy as hell.
As my dick was getting the royal treatment, for a second I wondered what
that shit must be like to take a long pull off. Dicey, though- apparently
it could hook you in as soon as look at you, and before you knew it you’d
be where this chick was right now, sucking on someone’s dick in
a deserted building somewhere. Not exactly a cheerful destiny, it occurred
to me. What was this drug, then, that it could take over so swiftly, so
powerfully, so completely? I could but wonder, as this chick brought me
up to orgasm so irresistibly, so erotically?
There was no effort on my part at all. My balls were being milked as udders
in the hands of an expert milkmaid. There was no way I could put off coming,
either. Sometimes, with a new girl I have just picked up, I might try
delaying orgasm so as to prolong the enjoyment. But even if I had tried,
there was no way I could have postponed the orgasm that this chick had
just taken me to.
With my pants and trousers still round my ankles, I tried to stay aware
of what was going on. In times past the girls, if they think they can
get away with it, will often try to ‘clip’ the punter, that
is, get their hands into his pockets where the wallet or money is and
slide out the bills. Whenever that has happened, as it has to me once
or twice in the past, it has always been a real fight to get the money
back off them. On one occasion the girl I had picked up had nicked about
£60 off me - I didn’t even realise till I had trousered up
and left, but when I did, I was back in a flash and kicked in her door.
She had just phoned her dealer, and I managed to get her to fish out the
three £20 bills - albeit from her arsehole - stinking of bum and
old come stains - just before her dealer boyfriend/ partner-in-crime came
along and tried to help mug me. When I pulled out a long bread knife he
decided it wasn’t worth the effort - as he could see that I was
both prepared and knew how to use it. But most white punters would just
write off an amount like that, and certainly avoid as much as possible
any ‘aggro’ connected with a Brass (whore).
This girl, too, was looking at me as a Tiger would a deer- sizing me up
for a possible attack. If I had come across as too out of it for sure
she would have tried a clip. Some of these girls, especially under the
influence of a strong blast of coke, can get very aggressive, and take
chances that they would never dream of taking under more sober circumstances.
Crack - and coke in general - can make people very courageous - conferring
- at least for a time - the feeling that they are invincible, unstoppable,
and incredibly intelligent. Needless to say, when the drug wears off,
they are usually left feeling the exact opposite of all these things,
but that is what is called in the trade The Comedown, and it is a bastard.
As I was later to discover, through my own personal misadventure, the
higher you go, the further down you are destined to fall when it wears
off. This can be so awful, compounded with feelings of physical, mental
and situational weakness is - by the time the comedown settles in - a
complete lack of energy, or even money. Yet it is here that the user feels
the strongest need to try and stay high, and will do anything to avoid
crashing to the ground.
These girls, I was also to discover, generally call themselves Clippers.
This title confers and suggests a less victim-centred basis and more of
a hunter slant. They are the ones who are out hunting- for punters, true,
and they strike when they can, using guile as their hunting weapon and
their ability to appear attractive, and, to the right kind of idiot, vulnerable.
The Clippers are often great actresses, and can cast themselves in the
role of being bullied, terrorised, fearful, and therefore will and can
appeal to the chivalric instincts in most men, and give vent to their
desires to nurture and protect such a helpless female.
There are many levels on which the Clip can happen. On its simplest and
most obvious it can be the slipping of a few notes from a wallet while
a man is getting blowjobbed, or getting his end away. The next level up
is setting the guy up to get robbed- such as luring him into a place where
he can be brought to meet a team of robbers, and where he can be beaten
to a pulp for his belongings, and his pin number. A further level involves
the girl getting the guy to take her back to his place, and from there
she can phone up her associates on a mobile and then a home visit can
be arranged. This can involve a one-off blag - but I eventually came to
hear stories of punters being tired up, tortured, and their bank accounts
emptied of money, usually up to the maximum withdrawal limit day after
day until totally empty. In particular I heard of one gay guy(white) who
had picked up some guy and taken him back to his place in south London.
The guy phoned his mates, and they turned up and tied the punter to his
bed, cleaning his bank account out and leaving him tied on his bed until
he just died of dehydration and starvation in the weeks that followed.
His body was discovered by neighbours eventually, who noticed a terrible
smell coming from his flat. I even heard stories of punters being made
to inject heroin, and given a killer dose, so that they croaked. Then
the entire flat as well as any bank accounts could be cleaned.
But there was still a further twist to this scenario that I was yet to
discover. That is when the girl pretends to be in love with the punter-
the illusion being played out this time is Pretty Woman, and the girl
plays the punter along until he is so in love with the girl he doesn’t
know what is happening. This was what I was heading for.
I wouldn’t say that I knew it at the time. In fact, I even had people
that knew me say to me that this was precisely what was happening. But
I wouldn’t listen. I didn’t want to hear this shit. I started
to block them out, those that dared criticize my choice of girlfriend
that this new girl Claire had so rapidly taken. I would drive right past
them, without any wave or friendly recognition.
Sitting there, in this former underground station with my trousers down
my ankles and my dick being blown by Nelly Furtado I had no idea then
that my Journey through the Underworld was going to take me into contact
with the very people who commit, day in, day out, crimes- crimes? Atrocities!-such
as these, and in a very real and personal way.
After she had finished, I found myself asking what she was going to do
now.
‘Just keep smoking’ she said, and brought out another package-
this one wrapped in a few scraps of old paper. Laying this on the floor,
she revealed an old syringe, a small wrap of when opened proved to be
a brown sugar-looking lump. She also had on her one of the small metallic
caps which the health authorities give out for the junkies to ‘cook
up’ the heroin with a small dash of water for injecting. Into the
cap went the Brown - the heroin - followed with a squeeze from a very
old slice of lemon. From her pocket she brought out a phial of water,
the top of which snapped off in her fingers and, using the syringe to
draw it out, put it with the other contents into the cap.
Placing the flame from her lighter under the cap, she stirred the contents
slowly until the lump of Brown dissolved and became a liquid. It was a
very dark Brown, which signifies potency. There was a smell released into
the air, a sour odour, with a metallic or chemical undertone. All around
us was dead quiet. Nothing else moved. The light spluttered for a second,
as if threatening to go out, and Claire looked up and around as if someone
was playing a practical joke.
‘It’s just the loose connections down by the generator’
I told her. On one of our reconnoitres my Night Crawl team and I had inspected
the electrical leads running all around this place. In fact down here
we found - to our surprise, actually - not only the entire place still
linked to an electrical supply but many leads running off in directions
which seemed to lead nowhere. We speculated that they might be illegal
connections, because a shop or building up on the surface so connected
would effectively have a lifetime’s supply of electricity. Other
than that, there are still many government and military buildings to this
day which are stashed underground about which the public are not supposed
to know.
One such construct is the secret underground lines running from underneath
10 Downing Street and Buckingham Palace, especially for the safety of
such personages in time of national crisis. Another- slightly less renowned
is the Royal Mail tube line, running underneath Farringdon. There are
also several other tube stations which have been deserted, or converted
to some other use. On one occasion we had been down inside the tube station
off Aldgate, underneath Bush House. Another time, we ventured down the
long spiralling staircase up inside the disused bomb shelter Belsize Park
in north London.
Here a small clan of underground dwellers were living. This was a former
WW2 bomb shelter, then a nuclear one, but was now deserted, and a family
of squatters had come to live there, deep down below the surface, away
from the turmoil of the world we call reality. These we had come across
by chance, and were amazed to learn that they had survived down there
for years, only occasionally coming to the surface for food or other supplies.
They had also taken over a big old house up near the Spaniards inn pub
in nearby Hampstead, the famous pub which is mentioned in Bram Stoker’s
‘Dracula’ and in the legends of Dick Turpin, the highwayman.
On their faces they all wore tattoos - of massive spider’s webs
- even the children. Why, they wouldn’t say, but when I on this
occasion offered a handful of drugs as a bribe took the drugs, and gave
me some talk about something terrible that existed further down in the
levels below, further down in the half-light world in which they lived.
It struck me that people living in such conditions must have to have been
a bit crazy anyway - and that that kind of environment would only breed
the most awful delusions.
Nelly Furtado had by now succeeded in drawing up all of the liquid in
the cap into her syringe, via a small piece of cigarette filter which
acted as a sponge. Drawing abck her blood-spattered sleeve she revealed
an arm which was absolutely blitzed with hundreds - maybe even thousands
of pin-pricks. Some of them- many of them- had gone septic, and were evolving
into purple, green and black swellings. It was a kaleidoscope of interweaving
patterns, blotches and swirls. In a sickening and macabre way there was
even a beauty here- not as we of the real world might usually think but
in the same way in which wall murals, tattoos, and graffiti might be considered
a valid form of modern art, perhaps.
Next to emerge as part of this ritual was a thin cord to come into play,
and this coiled itself like a serpent around her upper arm, and with her
teeth she held the tail end of it. Her thin and bony fingers flexed and
then went still, as her free hand raised the syringe, and, like a priestess
from some barbarian mythology, held it upright. If this had been ten thousand
years ago, it occurred to me - then in her hand she would have been holding
some curved blade, under the baleful light of a full moon, ready to bring
it down upon the struggling body of a naked man, bound to an altar stone,
dedicated as sacrifice to terrible and ancient gods. But it wasn’t-
it was here, in King’s Cross, London, and the date was October 14th,
1999, and the only thing being sacrificed was her life, and by her own
hand. In every society we have always had those that were to be used as
sacrifices- the Aztecs would send out raiding parties for theirs, we in
Europe had our persecutions, martyrdoms, witchcraft hunts, pogroms, and
scapegoats. I wondered then and there that what I was seeing was some
kind of ritual of sacrifice being enacted before me. In some way, the
sufferings of this woman were atoning for the corruptions and sicknesses
and vice inherent in our society. All manner of men would use such a girl
- as indeed I had. But what would become of her? Didn’t she deserve
some kind of a chance, some opportunity for a better life?
It flashed across my mind that perhaps this was why - call it God, the
gods, destiny, chance- had brought my path and this woman’s to cross
over, in this way. Then I remembered the ritual I had performed the night
before. To find my Soul Mate. Maybe this chance meeting was in fact ‘Meant
to Be’. What had started as a chance encounter outside a railway
station between two lost souls could- perhaps- yet become a story of our
joint salvation. Maybe we could both help each other. Me, OK - I had done
a fair bit of drugs but that had been years back, and I had enough experience
to handle anything. I could definitely help this girl get off the streets,
and away from the dangerous men who patrolled them. Maybe she would eventually
come to help me, too- although perhaps not necessarily in such immediately
observable ways. But maybe with things like getting in touch with my own
feelings, like finding - at long, long last- someone I could actually
be close to, and care about.
The needle hit blood and inside the syringe a thin branch of red kicked
back, under pressure, instantly mixing with the contents of the barrel,
churning up into a darkening red brown. Opening her mouth released the
cord, and with a twist she had the cord release its snake-like grip. Then
a quick squirt of the end of the syringe released the heroin into her
blood, and she gasped as it cut through and flooded her body, mind and
soul with its comforting and all-enveloping prescience.
We both sat there, me, like a one-man audience to the deliberations of
this barbarian female deity performing her sacrifice to the sun. She sat
there, for a second inert, her head bowed, her figure slumped, as if her
own life force or individuality had left the physical frame and gone on
a journey.
Anyway, it was time for us to go, and I wondered what was going to become
of this young woman. At that moment my heart went out to her, and I desperately
wanted to help her, to help her get away from all the squalor and awfulness
she was trapped in. I found myself asking her to come back to my place,
where - seeing of she wanted to smoke - she could do so. Back in my place
I had a small stash of various illicit substances - a wrap of weed, even
some small pieces of Brown - and of White(crack).
Yes, I was no angel. I had drugs back home, but I had the benefit of twenty
odd years’ experience in the filed of active service. I had had
more habits that these latter-day junkies had had nights out. I had run
out of veins before they were even born, most of them - in the 70s, whilst
travelling in Afghanistan, Thailand and India.
But at least I had it under control. That was the difference. It was
OK to do a bit of White - or ‘Dub’ as it was known in the
trade - short for double U(W- white) - as it was also for Bobbie (B-brown-heroin).
But you had to keep the rest of your life going - keeping it together.
And, OK I was a drug user - had had a habit several times around even
- but had always kept things together. As do the overwhelming majority
of users - say, 95%. It is hard to use exact statistics, of course, but
this is a personal experiential narrative. Most users - even addicts -
can keep their real lives going, mostly. It is only the tiny minority
- as with drink - who go nuts and make a public disgrace of themselves,
bringing the rest of us into notoriety.
When I mentioned this her eyes widened, and for a second I saw past the
pinpointed eyes of this young junky, and saw for a split second her eyes
widened and I saw the blood red veins in her eyes. She looked dubious
at me at first, and I could feel that she was sizing me up. Girls working
the Cross - or any red light area, actually, very quickly have to learn
the art of evaluation- of which car not to get into, of which punter not
‘to do’, even if you are clucking really badly at the time
withdrawing from heroin - something that can act as a pressure for any
addict to take chances in order to get the money together quickly, but
which can lead to disastrous consequences.
With one glance from her I could feel all her scanners run through me
as if she could see through all my defences. Had I found someone who could
see through to the real me, underneath everything? For a second I felt
naked, by now having come out of the disused tube station and standing
with her there on the street, on York Way, by the Backpacker Pub, with
all the trucks and police cars hurtling past. My car was parked just by,
and, though nothing was said, and nothing was done, poetry was all in
motion as we both moved towards it, and, silently - and together - drove
off.
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