Fiction: Dirtbag

By Rudy Civello

 

The room was getting darker, the lights brighter, the music louder or quieter. People were talking and I wasn't listening, saying nice things to me or themselves or each other. I was staring at this girl who was looking for something, getting annoyed that she couldn't find it. Someone said something to her and she smiled but never meant it. I thought she has really really really nice eyebrows.

I don't know how we became friends. Our eyes would just sometimes meet. One night everyone tried to fuck her and for some reason no one could quite understand, she came and sat on my knee. She told me she felt safe with me. I said maybe she shouldn't. I don't know why.

She showed me this video a guy sent her of him wanking, then pulled her phone away before I could see what she replied. She was acting like she hated it, but I knew she was lying.

Dirtbag, I called her. She said I like it when you call me that. Call me that again. She told me she needed my digits, then sent me a picture of her in red lingerie, told me about her love of swallowing and her ex with a giant cock that used to throw her on the bed, tell her what he was going to do and do it, rough as fuck. I told my friends about her. I said I can't tell if she likes me or not.

Fuck knows mate, they said.

I said I'm meeting her tomorrow. Should I tell her that thing about the eyebrows?

Naw, they said. She'll think yer a fuckin creep.

I checked my reflection in the window of a rain shelter at the train station. A guy was watching me. 

Hot date, he said.

He looked at Dirtbag as she got off the train and gave me a nod of approval. As the two of us walked to my house she was glued to her phone, texting Anthony, her boyfriend.

He's ragin about me bein wi you, she said.

Why, I said.

Fuck knows. Ah actual said to um, are you actual bein serious. It's Rudy for fuck's sake. He's like my gay best pal.

 

 

 

 

 

Rudy Civello is a writer from Glasgow.