Debbie had choices to make. Difficult life changing choices, for Debbie or Jill. Any action will have major ramifications. What to do? When to do it? And how may it flow from the turmoil of her twisted mind? Debbie was very twisted – troubled and completely unsure of her role in current events.
Debbie was a character Jill had thought of fleshing out. Giving her life, drama, love and life. But Jill was struggling and couldn’t be f*cked. Just another rambling exercise that promotes no response, no depth and certainly no closure. That word is really overused and completely banal. Why would we think there is such a thing. Maybe a conclusion to the story, but it ain’t and won’t be closed.
Jill just sat and looked at the screen. She was once again trying to write some itchy prose, some interesting, edgy tale of a fellow human, but couldn’t find a hook to hang it on or a path for the character to go down. Jill was frustrated and angry with herself for trying. Another day goes by and she’s back at the keyboard and off she goes.
Debbie reflected on her confusion, sadness and a sense of dread had swept over her like a wet coat salvaged from the gutter. Even a stink of anger started its way into her thinking. She was sitting alone in her dank room, washed with blinking lights from that shit hole abandoned house next door. Debbie wore her favourite track suit pyjama combo and didn’t care that she hand’nt bathed in a few days – she couldn’t even remember when the last wash served its purpose.
Her head was aching from the vodka she thought would help. It only laid her out flat, comatose on the floor, but it did allow her to sleep, while she pissed her pants. Even that personal disgrace failed to wake her.
Which one Debbie or Jill
An immediate change of circumstance and her deepest painful thoughts were on Jill’s mind right now. Writing that her character was wiping herself out and waking to the sticky mess and stink that was her piss, only made her feel worse.
“How of much of Jill was Debbie? How do I write something that isn’t telling an all about me?” … thought Jill.
No such open and frank sharing of personal thoughts in Jill’s world, she had no friends, only work colleagues and some very causal social chatting people she bumped into from time to time. Some folks she bumped into in a sexual way but there wasn’t any talking when the clothes came off. She came – he came and then they both went, their silent ways.
The swingers club “The Club” was a place of social niceties with an orgasm or three thrown in. Of course there was some great fucking, some ordinary fucking and some fucking moments she deeply regretted. But all in all (sometimes it was) she enjoyed the weekly fuck’athon.
The single guys were the best, as the guys with a partner were the ones who tried too hard and added a performance aspect that wasn’t to Jill’s liking. The single guys were there to fuck and be fucked as often as they could.
Of course the men where at a disadvantage, but with a few attending, the night proceeded very well. Jill left the club well satisfied and normally by about Wednesday she was horny as hell and squirming towards the next Saturday night. This and work was pretty well her life.
Jill had recently tried to start writing a short story or two, but today’s effort was about to die a slow death. Progress was slow and felt like some sort of messy and unintentional therapy. Off she went again … Was it Debbie or Jill?
What to do?
Young Debbie finally took a shower. The urine stain and smell forced her to do something. The change of clothes, some breakfast, even though it was 7 o’clock at night, was the trigger to think again. That’s all she seemed to do, not do – but think. Why the fuck can’t she sort it out. Someone had said “write out the issues and don’t forget the forest while focusing on the trees”… Well that’s what Debbie thought it was, maybe it was focus on the tree and forget the forest. Did it really matter ? One piece at a time she thought as she sat on the lounge.
The reassuring noise from the TV helped her to settle but it was distracting. Twice she lost herself in the latest episode of her favourite show, recorded for her viewing pleasure and blinking lovingly to attract her distraction. So what’s the most important or largest thing to change, one that will affect all the rest of the shit she was swimming in? Metaphorically of course.
Debbie started writing a list:
- perceived lack of money
- relationship with her Mother
- health
- depression
- lack of self esteem
- alcohol intake
- appearance
On getting to this last bit, she sighed … “That’s one big list of major fuck ups” .. Which are the trees and is the whole lot the forest”… Debbie went to the kitchen and made herself a drink while the TV did its thing and presented another distraction. Strong drink and good TV seemed to overtake any sensible decision making. Her flat looked like a hoarder’s treasure trove. Possessions gathered that stayed where they fell, had grown or been thrown. The housekeeping award she laughed, would be given to others today.
She would receive a condemned property award – just like that crap hole next door. Debbie got roaringly drunk yet again and passed out. She missed the door bell which was screaming out like an air raid siren.
Where to now?
Jill had got this far and pondered the next step. Who was attacking the door bell? What could Debbie do to start the much needed change? Would anyone give a fuck? Would any of the three people that read her short stories care? She went to work, thought of Saturday night and bumped into a single guy she’d fucked last week and they shared a smile. A knowing, horny smile that can only be shared with those enjoying the lifestyle. You really had to be careful how you raised the lifestyle issue with anyone you hadn’t met within such a sexual setting.
Often Jill thought she’d like to invite someone but she stumbled at the last step. Obtuse hints and clues but never – I’d like to fuck you at “The Club” on Saturday, would you like to come. Jill got back to her writing and sought to tease a conclusion out of her work with Debbie. It would be very difficult, because much of her dilemma was Jill’s life as well. So the question kept jumping out Debbie or Jill?
An increasingly grumpy old fart posting rants, observations and trying to write somewhat twisted short stories for adults. All rights reserved unless otherwise credited © Alan Crawford - 2024
