Mason
To be young and free was the only thing that mattered in life.
To dance with girls, fight your way to the bar for pints, and yell along with the whole bar singing as a single crush of bodies was what life was all about. To leave with whoever you wanted, fuck whoever you wanted, and say goodbye in the morning to do whatever you wanted the next night was the most important thing to being happy.
No strings. No attachments. No tomorrows.
Just the night. The music. The alcohol. Hell, even the drugs every once in a while.
And the women. Oh God, the women.
I loved them and they loved me. The boys at Dublin Ink liked to say that I went “fishing” at night, that I got dressed up for the club to go “hunt”.
It was never as complicated as all that. I know fuck all about fishing (Dublin is wild enough for me, I don’t need the actual wild), but I do know you need a tackle box, string or whatever they call it, bait, maybe a little hat. That’s all before you’re even close to eating what you may or may not catch.
No, what I do is more like room service. I open the doors of the club like a menu. I pursue. I select. I enjoy my delicacy du jour in bed an hour later, give or take.
Also, hunting would mean hurting. And I don’t hurt.
Or at least, I never try to.
I always tell the women I go home with that all I’m offering is a fun time for one night and one night only. My cock is a carnival tent pole and I make it abundantly clear to the lovely ladies that the next morning it’s getting packed up and moving on. Same city. New attractions.
Sure, there have been some tears. Nobody likes to see the magic go, ye know? I get it. I do.
That night I was alone because Conor was working late with Aurnia. (Right, so I’m degraded with “fishing” and “hunting”, but Conor gets to call it “work”? The perils of being a playboy, I guess.) And Rian…well, who the fuck knew where Rian was. Physically. Mentally. Astroplain-ly. That night I was alone, but not for all that long.
Not long enough to realise that I knew all the songs. Recognised all the patrons. Had memorised the bar menu. Not long enough to get that uncomfortable sense of deja vu. Of time standing still. Of the four walls of the club I called freedom feeling a little bit…claustrophobic.
The girl was gorgeous, but weren’t they all? Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t complaining. Of course not. Pouty lips painted blood-red. Seductive cat eyes blinking beneath a razor-sharp line of inky black liner. A pair of holy fuck, hallelujah, “God, is it good to be alive” tits peaking up from the top of a skin-tight little sequined thing I could easily imagine on the floor of my bedroom or wrapped around her neck.
The music was loud enough that neither of us could really hear what the other was saying. What did that matter in the end? “Where you from?” “Dublin.” “Oh cool, cool. Me too.” “What do you do?” “Tattoo artist. Own a place actually.” “Oh I love tattoos. Want to see mine?” A cab ride. Falling up the stairs. Fucking.
Or “Where you from?” “Dublin.” “Best place on earth.” “Yeah, yeah. Want a smoke?” A cab ride. Falling up the stairs. Clothes on floor. Her on top. Bed post banging against the wall.
Or “Where you from?” “Limerick.” “Oh really?” “Just here for the weekend.” “I see… Can I show you the best sight in Dublin?” A cab ride. Falling up the stairs. Her bent over as I gave her a taste of Dublin for the scrapbook memories.
There was only one way the night would end. The details were lost in the bass.
We danced for a few songs. Sometimes that’s nice. Like foreplay. Sometimes that’s nice, too. Her ass against my cock. Trying not to get hard in public. Mostly succeeding. Her hands stretching back to curl around my neck. Her nails against my scalp as she ground herself against me mostly to the beat. Sometimes that’s nice as well. A little change from the direct approach: panties down, zipper down, deep and fast and hard and quick. Her nibbling at my jawline as the song ends and another begins. Spice of life and all that.
The girl then shouted up at me, “Want to see my tattoo?” Or maybe it was, “Want a smoke?” Or then again maybe it was, “You know I’m leaving Dublin tomorrow.”
Like I said, it didn’t really matter, because her hand on my cock (mostly not hard) was words enough for what she wanted. What we wanted. Getting back through the crowd to the stairs up was the hardest part. Girls got lost easily. Another man with another drink. Boys got lost easily. Another girl ready to take another drink. Maybe what I did was more like fishing than I realised. This was the reeling-in part. It was always a crap shoot what you ended up with when you popped up onto the sidewalk, fresh air hitting you like a semi truck.
“So, should we like call a cab or something?” my fish said as I blinked drunkenly at the night. Always too early. Always too late.
I whipped around and nearly fell over. The girl laughed and said something about which one of us was drunker.
“You’re American?” I asked. Accused, more like. She didn’t seem to pick up on it.
“What’s round on both sides and high in the middle?” She giggled.
“What?”
“What’s round on both sides—”
“I heard you, love, but come ‘ere, are you American?”