For the past six months I had been living with a buck-toothed lapdancer named Sandrine. She was a well-preserved 45, and preferred to be known as ‘Cutie.’ When I told her I was leaving she stood in the corner of her bedroom and rearranged her underwear. Her nails were painted the colour of cheap red wine, and her good panties were frayed from being wrenched off one-too-many times. She fixed me with her impenetrable black-eyed stare, and placed the ball-gag back in the drawer.
I retired to the Cavendish for a liquid lunch. Lorraine served me. Her nervous smile reminded me of the entrance to a condemned tower-block. Until then I hadn’t been in the Cavendish for almost a year. Every time I get undressed the scar reminds me of this place. It reminds me of the fat cop with the cheap suit and the pork-pie hat. Reminds me of his loud, slurred voice and his rusty flick-knife.
Sandrine used to tell me that I had the longest scar in Paignton. Sometimes I believed her. All I know is that it is longer than my dick and it throbs when it rains.