Brenton Booth

by Horror Sleaze Trash on February 25, 2014

citizens bio photo

Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry and fiction of his has been published in a variety of publications that can easily be found with a Google search.


James shaved off his pubic hairs because he thought it would make him a swifter fucker. He’d seen a guy in a porno with a hairless package and liked his style. He fucked like the heavyweight champion of the world, he thought while watching him.

The next day at work his balls were so itchy he couldn’t stop scratching.

His manager’s name is Vincent. Vincent is a thirty-two year old homosexual and has had a crush on James since the day he hired him to work as a sales assistant at Ralph Lauren George Street.

That bastard has been fucking so much his got crabs! Vincent thought to himself. He immediately lost interest in James: he’d never get to fuck him anyway, what was the point of hoping for something that would never happen.

Vincent fired James that afternoon.

That night James’s girlfriend dumped him. I always knew something was going on between you and Vincent. The way he would look at you all the time made me feel sick. I wasn’t sure though, but now I know. Why else would you get fired from a shit job like that? Who could believe all them nights you wanted to be alone and I couldn’t even call you that you were writing. You fucking fag! Why don’t you go make up with him, he can give you your job back and you can both live happily ever after, she said. James didn’t respond. He just left the apartment.

Now I am without a job or relationship, he thought. Everyone’s trying to occupy as much time as possible on careers, relationships, family, hobbies, consumerism, religions, so they don’t have to ask any real questions. I’ve lost the only two I had in that list. Also I have no one to test out my theory of increased aerodynamics with my newly shaved balls.

That night he went to an upmarket bar on Victoria Street. You go to cheap joints you get cheap women. Expensive places are where the real women hang out, he thought.

The night moved on and so did his luck. He sat beside a twenty-two year old model. She had on a mini skirt and he could see her panties from where he was sitting.

The bar was playing loud music. The beauty of loud music in bars is you don’t have to go through all that bullshit talk. And the talking you do doesn’t really matter, because neither of you can really understand what the other person is saying. All you have to do is smile and agree with everything and your fine.

James began scratching his balls continuously. She asked him what was wrong with them. She didn’t believe the answer and left him sitting alone at the bar.

The constant thump of the music reminded him of every beating he’d taken today. He sat alone and depressed for several hours, the strains of life wringing him raw. He couldn’t escape the voice within. The voice he normally did so well to avoid hearing. He was beaten. There was nothing left. He decided to go to the twenty-four hour newsagent and read the stories in the latest issue of Glimmer Train. They were always good for a laugh.



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