Shake up at the disco
And I think I’ve got a pull
I ask her lots of questions
And she hangs on to the wall
I kiss her for the first time
And then I take her home
I’m invited in for coffee
And I give the dog a bone
She likes to go to discos
But she’s never on her own
I said Ill see you later
And I give her some old chat
But it’s not like that on the TV
When its cool for cats
Its cool for cats
Squeeze, Cool For Cats
I washed away the taste of the smoke from my mouth with a swig of bitter, but my eye’s were still stinging from the DJ’s attempt at Halloween atmosphere. Difford and Tilbrook wafted out into the side street and beckoned me back in to risk rejection from the tight-jeaned leather-jacketted girl with the long permed hair who I’d noticed over an hour ago.
I reached into my jacket pocket for the soft packet of Gallois. I extracted a slightly bent cigarette and straightened it by gently stroking it’s length between three fingers, careful not to rip the paper as it was one of only three left in the packet. I placed it in my mouth and fished out a box of Swan matches. The bright flair and sulphurous bite of the ignition speared my retinas and nostrils moments before the nicotine and asphalt grade tar hit my mouth and rolled down the back of my throat.
The carefully trained receptors in my brain lit up like the warning lights at Three Mile Island and made me feel like a hero. They gave me the determination to seek her out when I went back inside and make a move on her. The cigarette crackled with each deep breath I inhaled through the shredded nicotiana leaves, the sickly smell of the smoke generator replaced by the smell of French bars and an all too brief visit to Paris.
After drawing my last lungful of deadly particulates I flicked the butt into the gutter where its glowing cherry fizzed into darkness and turned towards the fire door. I pulled it open to find her silhouetted in the red light from the dance floor.
“I wondered where you’d gone.” She said, “Got a light?”
I fumbled with the matches and offered her a flame in cupped hands. She drew on her menthol vine, illuminating her face with a golden glow. She exhaled, wreathing me in smoke. “What’s your name?” She asked.
“Alex … Alexander?” She giggled.
“Hmmm? What’s funny?” I asked.
“Nothing, a bit posh isn’t it?”
“Do I sound posh?” I enquired.
“No. I’m Jess.”
Small talk ensued. Music, clothes, TV, films, music again. At 19 your conversation can be a little limited. There was an attraction there that we both wanted to explore. I took a step closer to her, she didn’t back away. I slid my arm around her back, and she moved toward me. I bent down to kiss her and her face turned upward offering pouting lips.
They tasted of cherry lip balm.
Her ass felt soft through the denim of her jeans. She pressed into me, the fullness of her chest making itself known against me. Her tongue was at first hesitant when mine challenged it, then with growing enthusiasm contended with mine first in her own mouth then in mine.
Her hair smelled of patchouli oil and smoke, her mouth tasted of larger and black, and her lips where the softest, vivacious, yielding skin I’d ever felt against my own.
We parted mouths after several minutes.
“Want a dance?” I ventured.
“Not really …” The look in her eyes said she had something else in mind.
“How about a coffee at mine?” My voice was a little shaky, I didn’t want her to say no. “I live about half a mile away.”
“That would be nice.” Her smile was warm, the tone of her voice told me the invitation was what she’d been waiting for.
We held hands for the 800 yards back to my digs. I enjoyed the sensation of her hand in mine and the second-hand smoke that she exhaled.
The house I had was shared, four bedrooms, one bathroom, one living room, one kitchen. I had the upper rear bedroom, which was handy for the loo in the middle of the night. A lighter sleeper would have objected to my housemates late night bathroom antics, but especially after a few beers I have always slept the sleep of the dead.