Two Novellas: Sex and Sin in the City and the Thai Massage

By Davidson Davidson

Sex And Sin In The City
This gritty tale is twenty four hours in the life of Stevie Mearns,an alcoholic social misfit and sexual deviant,as he explores Londons seamy underbelly.
Hes a man having more than a mid-life crisis as he tries to lose himself in drink,drugs and sexual gratification.As his life spirals out of control he reflects on his grim childhood in Aberdeen,his terrible time in the harsh Scottish Penal System and his travels to the fleshpots of Thailand and South America as a sex tourist.
Told with unflinching realism and graphic detail,Sin Filled City takes you to the places in London most people dont see,its strip bars,brothels and crack houses.The stories shockingly violent conclusion will stay in your mind long after youve finished reading it.

The Thai Massage
Paul Baldwin is a divorced,depressed and overweight middle aged man.Stuck in a menial job his life is in a rut.He believes himself invisible to women and so its something of a surprise when into his life walks Janni,a beautiful exotic Thai migr .
What begins as an awkward friendship soon develops into a tentative romance and then a full blown affair.She transforms him and turns his life around.He experiences the most passionate and erotic sex hes ever known.She takes him ,physically,mentally and emotionally to places hes never been in an ecstatic journey.He becomes besotted with her as they experiment with extreme sex and hardcore drugs.
However all is not as it seems in Pauls world and as he begins to look into Jannis mysterious past he is forced to confront demons of his own.Dealing with a shocking revealation that will change his life for ever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477223192

Davidson Davidson

Robie Davidson was born in Aberdeen in 1964. After travelling extensively in Europe,Asia and South America he now resides in London.This is his first published book.

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© 2012 by Robie Davidson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 09/12/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-2316-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-2318-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-2319-2 (e)

Although Sex And Sin In The City is a work of fiction, there is mention of several real life people, mainly in the Britannia pub, where the main character is drinking with British National Party members[an extreme right wing political party]. Both Diane Abbott MP and Sam Yeboah[a local government officer] are mentioned in the context of a conversation between the group. The conversation relates to the record settlement of damages Mr. Yeboah received in a high profile employment tribunal case in 1998 and the accusations of discrimination and positive discrimination that was being directed at Hackney Council. Mr. Yeboah was exonerated at the hearing and as mentioned awarded substantial damages and any accusations leveled against him were proved to be unfounded. He was a victim of racial discrimination and by all accounts seemed to have been an excellent employee with an impeccable character. The author also wants the reader to know that the extreme opinions voiced by some of the characters, especially regarding Ms Abbott and the Lawrence family are not endorsed by him. I am just reflecting the extreme opinions and dialogue of racists and bigoted people and trying to give my work a realistic portrait of some of the hardcore opinions out there.

Robie Davidson London 2012

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Sex and Sin

in

the City

Stevie Mearns eventually awoke at five thirty a.m. He’d drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep for a couple of hours and now the clock radio had cut into his troubled sleep and jolted him awake. He felt terrible. His throat was dry and his head and guts ached. He lay in a limbo state, too lethargic to go to the toilet and empty his bladder and bowels or raid the fridge for any cold drinks.

Johny Vaughn’s voice filled the room, inane drivel drivel, how could anybody be that cheerful at this time in the morning, no matter how much they got paid? Stevie was hung over. His throat was hot and as dry as a nun’s cunt, and he had that empty feeling inside, a mixture of guilt and amnesia. Not knowing fully his previous nights movements was unnerving for him. It never ceased to amaze him in nearly thirty years of heavy drinking, the initial memory loss followed by partial or full memory recovery.

The bedroom was still dark, the pre-dawn October morning mercifully blacking out the squalor within. What to do?His mind began to slowly clear and focus and calculated the time he had to spare before he needed to get out of bed and get ready for work. He’d drank more than he should have last night, and the thought of spending twelve hours in a noisy control room with boring, flatulent security guards seemed even less appealing than usual. So he lay on his bed, his head under the duvet, and with every minute that passed the likelyhood of him turning up for work dwindled. He eventually got out of bed at ten to six switched off the radio and made the short journey to the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet bowl with his head held in his hands he made the decision to ring in sick. He wouldn’t have made it to Grays Inn Road by seven anyway. The decision made, he now felt a bit better, and after splashing water on his face and drinking cold milk from the fridge he began to perk up. Now that he had made up his mind he gave a brief thought to what ‘illness’ he would ring up with. Up all night with sickness and an upset stomach was the favourite. The trouble was, he’d used it a few weeks ago. Domestic problem, it had to be a domestic problem. A pipe had burst and flooded his house and he was waiting for an emergency plumber. They’d believe that surely.

Thirty minutes later, after a brief but heated phone conversation with the site supervisor, he contemplated what to do with his unexpected day off. It would be over four hours before most bars started serving alcohol, and the empty hours stretched ahead. While he was feeling better than when he first awoke, he still had that hollow inner feeling. He was also dehydrated, as he padded through to the living room in his bare feet, crumbs and bits of fluff sticking to his soles. He really ought to hoover this place sometime.

Sitting on the sofa, nursing the remains of his hangover he surveyed his surroundings. It was a standard Lambeth Council one bedroom flat. The living room measured twelve foot by ten with an adjacent kitchen measuring ten by eight foot. The kitchen had had a sliding door on rollers which partitioned the two rooms, however, the door had come off its rollers a few years ago and now the kitchen was an extension of the living room. The hallway was just over nine foot long, with the bathroom on one side and the bedroom on the other. The bedroom looked directly onto Stockwell Road and if he had a pound for every time his sleep had been disturbed by wailing police sirens he’d be one very rich bastard indeed.

This was a flat not a home. Four rooms and a hallway. It had never known a woman’s touch, certainly not since Stevie had moved in. The furnishings within the flat were spartan, the only quality goods being the Sony television and the DVD player he’d bought from shoplifters in a Coldharbour Lane pub. The kitchen contained a two ring baby belling cooker, a second hand fridge and a cheap microwave oven. The living room had a threadbare sofa, the aforementioned TV, and DVD and a bookcase he kept his DVD’S on. The bedroom fared no better, possessing a single and an ironing board that doubled as a coffee or dining table. That was it, besides the clock radio. Stevie couldn’t give a toss, he’d long ago given up hope of ever enticing a quality girl to move in, and since the only people who ever visited were dealers and whores, why should he spend good beer money on a hovel like this?

He began to recollect most of yesterday night’s pub crawl. He had started drinking in the White Horse on Grays Inn Road after work. Dressed in his security uniform with a black anorak on top, the official disguise, he hadn’t really fitted in with the upmarket clientele of lawyers and accountants. After a couple of pints he caught the 45 bus to Brixton. After scoffing a KFC Special he began to drink along the bars of Coldharbour Lane. He really should have gone home and got changed as drinking in Brixton dressed in black trousers, a white shirt and a black anorak on top was a bad, however, he’d gotten the taste of alcohol and was prepared to take the risk.

The Duke Of Wellington on Ferndale Road was where he’d eventually wound up. It was a large traditional bar with wooden beams and horse brasses on the walls. In spite of this, or maybe because of this, it attracted the young trendy professionals who were in the process of gentrifying the area. Thursday nights were always bus. Sean, the owner, was flexible regarding closing time. He’d serve as long as there were enough punters to justify staying open. He remembered the jukebox playing a lot of Doors tracks,’Hello I Love You’,’Riders On The Storm’ and ‘Light My Fire’. It was if the young pricks had just discovered Jim Morrison as the next best thing in rock. He’d been dead for nearly forty years for fuck sake. He couldn’t quite recall getting home from the pub, but guessed it must have been about two in the morning.

So here he was. It was six thirty and his hangover was receding. Last nights movements had been more or less recollected and now he wanted a drink; needed a drink. He knew where he could buy alcohol out of hours, just as a heroin addict will always know where to score his stuff. There was a paki grocer on Brixton Road who sold booze at this hour. He charged over the odds but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Half an hour later, having dressed from the clothes on the bedroom floor, the absentee sat in McDonalds with a black coffee and an Egg McMuffin in front of him along with six cans of Fosters in a carrier bag by his feet. He sat in the far corner at a window seat where Brixton Road met Acre Lane at a junction. The spot was ideal for observing the comings and goings of people at this early hour of the morning.

There were three main groups of people around, the majority being commuters on their way to the tube station. The second group was a trickle of council workers on route to the town hall or Olive Morris House, the housing benefit and council tax headquarters on Brixton Hill. The main stream would be coming about an hour later. The senior admin staff and council officers, predominanantly black with their Guardian or Voice newspapers tucked under their arms. Upwardly mobile coons he called them. It was the third group that interested him the most, got his attention; the junkies, dealers and prostitutes just finishing work.

The junkies loitered around the tube station, pathetic figures begging commuters for spare change. The prostitutes loitered around the corner of Coldharbour Lane, having just walked down from their patch on Brixton Hill. Dressed in puffa jackets and short skirts that showed goosepimpled flesh, these hookers were about as far away from the glamorous image of Julia Roberts’ portrait of a working girl in Pretty Woman as it was possible to be.

He had seen one this morning when he was buying his beer. The painted dolly had just finished her night shift and was purchasing her crack smoker’s kit of a bottle of mineral water, the bottle, ten Silk Cut, the ash and a large Kit Kat the foil. The dealers stood half way Coldharbour Lane or Brixton Station Road, pitiless men, exclusively black. These streets were their domain. Prostitutes and junkies approached them with caution, and even subservience. Any mug, especially a white mug, going down those streets in the wee hours was considered fair game to be ripped off; a fly walking into a spider’s web.

Stevie saw such a mug out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t quite have MUG tattoed on his forehead, but he had the unmistakeable look of a mug punter. He was middle aged and portly, dressed in dark chinos and a bottle green fleece, man at Marks and Sparks, smart but casual. The main reason he could tell he was a mug punter was because he walked behind one of the hookers like a lapdog. The whores name was Kim. Stevie had dealt with her before. She was a well known local mixed race prostitute who worked Streatham and Brixton Hill. The mug punter was obviously a pick up. Her last one of the night, who she’d have promised an unhurried sexual encounter in a warm flat if he could just front her twenty quid to score a rock as smoking it made her so horny. He would follow Kim, the rip-off artist, faithfully down Brixton Road and on to Brixton Station Road where she would meet her pimp and they’d walk away together laughing, leaving the fool twenty quid short and shouting in impotent rage. He didn’t need to follow them down the road to know this, he just knew, like only another mug could. After finishing his coffee and McMuffin he made his way home. It was still two and a half hours until opening time.

Walking along Stockwell Road towards his estate he began to feel sexually aroused. Seeing Kim in her short skirt, revealing her long brown legs had brought back erotic memories of their past liasons. When she wasn’t too stoned or trying to rip punters off she could be a bloody good whore. Her full mouth and lips were ideal for fellatio, and he remembered her massaging his balls while sucking his dick. By