The Sex Pistols

ArresTed and Jules were messing about on Trafalgar Square waiting for a night bus to get back to the bedsit that Jules had let and ArresTed was snuck into each night.

At 10:00, ArresTed and Jules could be found in the bedsit with a glass of egg white, twisting each other’s hair into loftier proportions, laughing a lot, saying the word “fuck” a lot.

At 11:00, ArresTed and Jules were on the Northern Line headed for Angel, Islington. Jules ripped ArresTed’s jean jacket a bit more, but accidentally pulled part of the t-shirt that had been sewn onto the back with more reckless abandon than skill. The t-shirt read The Damned” in deeply pissed off letters. Jules didn’t tell ArresTed about it. If he noticed, Jules would say it looked “Fucking Evil like that!”

At 12:00, ArresTed and Jules were outside of a club they had no money or powers of seduction to enter. They spit, smoked cigarettes, drank bottles of lager and then whipped them at walls for a satisfying crash. ArresTed jumped each time a bottle hit a wall and hoped that no one would see. Jules practiced his sneer, trying to get the lips to roll up onto his gums. He found that it was easier if he let the gums dry, but when would you have that kind of time? Two men in a unique holdover from the glam era walked by with their hands in each other’s back pockets.

ArresTed said: “Look at the fucking fairies!”

Glam man on the left said: “Fairies? We’re called arse and ankles boys now, wanker!”

ArresTed said: “Yeah, well at least when I touch a prick I know it’s me own!”

Glam man on the left said: “What a fascinating life you must lead,” and walked on.

ArresTed, with nothing to add, threw a bottle that wasn’t really empty at the glam men, purposely missing, then wishing he’d had more beer.

At 1:00, ArresTed and Jules were on Trafalgar Square, spitting and waiting for the night bus, when Jules had an idea. He found a group of sloanes who were much more fucked up than they were and had jauntily tied their corduroy blazers around their necks to impress anyone foolish enough to go home with them. He and ArresTed approached the sloanes furtively, exaggeratedly, on tiptoe and snatched the jackets away. ArresTed swung the brown one about in a helicopter motion, above the mohawk which looked to slice it in half. Jules put his on and paced up and down the square, arranging the sleeves and then, apparently on a whim, checking the pockets. Nothing. He shrugged his shoulders and walked into a large puddle of pigeons. The sloane, who’d looked annoyed and then quite amused up to that moment, turned his head in a threatening way. Jules sneered with enough time to get his gums dry and lifted his arms.

Pigeons swarmed onto him, shrieking and grabbing and leaving dripping black and white packets of birdshite on the shoulders and arms. Jules turned his head and tried to kiss one of them, but the bird would have none of it. The sloane, on the other hand, was running for Jules with mad passion of a different kind and made contact with Jules’ lips in no time at all, with his right fist. It took a surprising amount of time for the pigeons to be shaken off. Jules paid no mind to them, but fought the sloane with pure sneer joy.

It’s time to tell you more about ArresTed and Jules. When they left school, for it was true that it did end sometime, Teddy and Julian put their plan into action. They planned to live off of the state and their parents for as long as possible and drink as much possible and work as little as possible and maybe sometime get a flat where they could get laid as much as possible. It was an elegant plan, and one that worked quite well. Teddy and Julian would be in Julian’s room smoking stolen fags and screaming along to a record player, whose needle would often bounce when they jumped, until Julian’s mum would clamber up the stairs and gently beg them to stop. The volume on the record would then climb to max and then back down to the level, marked in red to the side of the dial, that Mum could just about tolerate. Teddy and Julian would then sit on the bed and flip through records again and again, pulling them out, examining them for dust and scratches, then putting them back in, the sleeves inside turned sideways so the records wouldn’t roll out. They would discuss in hushed tones, their shoulders together against the wall, what it would be like to be famous, how many girls they’d fuck, and what positions they would fuck them in.

Then, with an eye on the door, God saving The Queen again, they’d give each other a quick wank. Julian would bite his lip hard when he came, his head bashing into the wall. Teddy would end it with an “Oomp! Ahh” sound. Julian would hand him a paper handkerchief, take one for himself, and, the business for the night being over, Teddy would find a reason to bugger off.

One night Teddy went home only to return again an hour later, a fresh bruise where cheekbone met skin and Julian took all of the money from his mother’s purse and one of her bank cards. They set off on their own.

Jules had finally convinced his sloane that fighting back anymore would be a very bad idea and pushed off of him. He spat on him, examined his bloody knuckles and walked over to see how ArresTed was making out. His sloane was angled above him, taking a step back and swinging forward with a kick to the kidney. Jules ran to them, kicked the back of the sloane’s legs and, holding the sloane’s shoulders, head butted him. Dreamy headache swirled around Jules’ brain for a moment, somehow intensifying the pain in his hands and shoulders, and he bent over ArresTed.

“Fucking bus has finally fucking arrived,” he said.

ArresTed rolled onto his back, the spines of his vertical hair crushed against the pavement and looking to break off, winced and stood up. Jules took off the sloane’s blazer, now enhanced with blood, swung it, aimed, and let it fly into the pigeons. ArresTed’s sloane began to sit up as well and ArresTed and Jules made a run for their night bus, wailing, air whistling in their piercings, the last few steps made with the two fingered salute. They ran up the stairs and sat in the rear seats, hunched down, mumbling orders to the driver that it was time to fucking move on, their eyes front. With a sprightly groan, the bus finally removed itself from where it had settled in so snugly and made a victory lap around the square before turning off.

ArresTed and Jules laughed loud, mouths open in blah yelps, their faces shiny with blood and sweat. “Fucking right!” ArresTed cackled and Jules turned ArresTed’s chin, the only part of him that seemed safe to touch, and mashed his mouth to him. ArresTed pushed at Jules’ shoulders, pulled at his clothing and finally bit Jules’ lip to make him stop.

“Fucking hell, Jules!” he said.

Jules risked another bit lip and went in for more, ArresTed pulling them both off of the seat trying to get away, Jules following with the determination of any man with a hardon like crisp iron would, he followed him to floor and then some. His hand went down the front of ArresTed’s body, knowing he must be causing him some pain and enjoying it, and found the answer to his question in his underpants, his knuckles leaving blood at the verge.

“I’d forgotten about this,” Jules said, and flipped the safety pin fastened to ArresTed’s cock in his fingers.

“You put it there.”

“How the fuck do you have sex with this bloody thing in?”

“What makes you think I’m having sex?”

“I’ll remove it then.”

ArresTed made a move to protest, but Jules covered his mouth in his palm. ArresTed punched Jules hard in the ribs. Jules groaned and considered vomiting for a moment, then righted himself. He pulled at the safety pin. “Christ, Jules.” But his cock throbbed tellingly. ArresTed’s torn trousers and knickers were down in the time that it takes a man to accept it and Jules’ tongue was fiddling with the pin, skirting the precome that had emerged. Jules sat up and gently removed the safety pin, made sure that ArresTed was watching, and plunged it into a virgin portion of his left ear. A small amount of blood showed that it had made it through. He gingerly snapped it shut, grinned and went back to ArresTed’s cock.

“Jesus, fucking Jules,” ArresTed said.

Jules opened his mouth as wide as he could and reached below to ArresTed’s arse cheeks. He held them tightly, meaning to bruise, and lifted ArresTed’s pelvis. ArresTed was being forced to fuck Jules’ mouth, smoothly, effortlessly, beautifully. ArresTed reached under his shirt and twisted his own nipple hard, like he was trying to snap it off. Jules’ nail scratched at ArresTed’s arsehole, biting in occasionally.

The bus slid to a stop and the bending of it over the street indicated that people were getting on. Dreaded treads came up the stairway, then the sharp yelp of a girl.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, realising she was making a scene.

“What does it bloody look like we’re doing?” ArresTed answered. It was enough for the girl and the treads went downwards now. Jules, who had not stopped for this exchange, guffawed a bit and gave ArresTed’s testicles a bit of a twist. ArresTed’s legs began to kick, his flat, unfed stomach tense.

“Fuck,” he said simply as he came down Jules’ throat.

Jules leapt up and straddled ArresTed’s chest. He undid his zip, pulled his cock out and held it over ArrestTed’s face.

“Go on.”

ArresTed, face truly black and blue now, swollen a bit here and there, made a few quick strokes on Jules’ cock and Jules imploded, come flying out across ArresTed’s face, making a screen in a safety pin in his eyebrow. Jules bent over and licked it like a mother cat, careful of the bruises, then he found the biggest bruise, kissed it gently and gave it a bite.

“You’re an arsehole is what you are, Jules.”

“Fairy arsehole.”