bad behaviour

wednesday 19th february 2003 @ 23:40

The night is just beginning. The party doesn�t start until the boys come. All the women are all there in black, slinking up to the bar in hooker boots and with cleavage to fall into. The kind of women who eat make-up for breakfast. As sleek and vicious as panthers. They make cheek to cheek greetings with the competition and scan the crowd over shoulders.

Bass and guitar vibrate up through floorboards and stilettos until lyrics are mouthed and blonde hair sways. Glasses are filled with alcohol and the promise of sex. There are fantasies to be played out, the beginning and end of debauchery. They wait for the audience to arrive, poised like collectables on a shelf.

Laughter falls into the room with unruly abandon and shots are ordered. The girl with the green eyes pretends she doesn�t care and then pauses mid conversation for a glance. The guys with good hair roll cigarettes over wet tables and recount wild nights and sleepless days. Amid a rock crescendo the room spins with a reckless desire for touch between the beautiful ones. Girls tattoo each other with lipstick kisses and the dress code slips.

The music splits louder in shadowy recesses and flirtations are visible whispers and trailing fingers in the darkness. Her hand on his back. His breath on her neck. Until the words become lips and tongues together and the language barrier is broken down.

By 3am dresses are ravaged and heels scrape down dull pavements. Incestuous circles splinter into a familiar wreckage. Home for the night is more than a trashed hotel room and the claw marks last longer than expected.