Matt Hutchison

by Ian on February 8, 2011

Matt Hutchison is one of those people who most people who know him would agree he’s a cunt of the highest order. He lives in England with a girl and a dog, dreaming of an easy life and dedicatedly cultivating a burgeoning alcohol problem. He has always been a writer, he just struggles to get it written down sometimes.

***

Charley

The first time I saw her she was all hips, eyes and sex. A golden band of toned midriff displayed above a pair of jeans she must have been poured into like wet cement. A diamanté belt buckle glinting in the disco lights as she swung her hips to the music. Oh, and what hips. I was leaning against the bar to keep from swaying and it’s possible I may have been looking cool by accident. Probably not though. She buzzed around me, acting disinterested, while I subtly gave her the once over. Well, probably not too subtly.

I knew it was my move. She was waiting but still I leaned flaccidly against the bar. I am always a useless cunt in these situations. Eventually she got bored of the game and swung her hip into me, as if part of an elaborate dance move, nearly spilling my beer.

“Oh, sorry,” she is standing so close we are touching, her eyes are clear and full of lust and need and life as she speaks, “don’t I know you?” My hand is sliding down her back of its own accord, coming to a rest on her hip. She moves so she is standing right in front of me, her legs either side of mine and my hand just moves onto her arse and pulls her closer against me. Her crotch is pressed hard against my leg and feels warm like sunshine through my jeans.

Facts; her name is Charley, she’s 18, she knows my brother, she’s heard all about me, she drinks WKD blue, I only have to buy her one of them before we are ready to get a taxi back to mine.

I live in a shithole in the worst bit of town but she seems unperturbed by this and giggles as I hustle her up the dingy stairs into the front room. She asks no questions about the padlocked door to the spare bedroom which conceals, what the police would describe as, ‘a commercial scale marijuana growing operation’ which is currently my main source of income.

We sit on the sofa. I light a joint that is waiting for me in the ashtray, the product of a rare piece of foresight, and offer her some. She takes a couple of drags before passing it back and I have one more and then we are kissing. She is a teethy kisser so I pull away and kiss down her neck towards her tits. I know I am so drunk I will either cum too quick or not at all, so I get her undressed and go down on her as a kind of ‘get out of jail free card’. Her pussy could do with a trim but smells ok. I think I make her cum, at least she makes all the right noises then pulls me away after five minutes or so. She turns, kneeling on the sofa and I fuck her from behind, standing, pulling back on those hips, watching her arse jiggle as I pound it. She has a Celtic style tattoo on the small of her back. I last less than a minute and cum hard inside her. She doesn’t seem to mind but I’m not that bothered anyway. I am asleep in bed before she is finished in the bathroom.

In the morning I drive her home in my Rover. It has a huge dent in the door and the electric windows don’t work. It doesn’t pay to look like you have any money around here. She seems impressed by the leather seats and walnut dash. She wants my number. She lives in the worst bit of the next town. Her mum is outside when I drop her off and I can hear her shouting as I drive away. I took her number but I probably won’t ring.

Over the next month we fuck several times. Usually when I am drunk and tired of wanking. She seems to think something significant is happening between us but I am unable to feel anything for her. She always seems to be held down by the weight of sadness inside. Depending on my mood and level of drunkenness, I am either a crap lover or I fuck her brutally, she seems to like it although I sometimes hear her crying when she thinks I am asleep. Whether that is caused by the crap, the brutal or something else? I don’t know.

Sometimes we drink together before fucking. She is not much of a conversationalist. Nor am I.

One night she rings me when I have some girl over. I tell her I am busy and she asks if I have another girl there and I can’t even be bothered to lie. The next few times I try and ring her she doesn’t answer so I carry on with my life. She’s a handy fuck but not much fun to be around.

I meet my brother for a pint and ask him about her.

“Charley, fucking hell, now that bird has lost the fucking plot.”

“Yeah? How do you mean?”

“She’s fucking fruit-loop, mate. She stabbed another girl in the eye with a compass at school, left her fucking blind in one eye.” I am impressed.

“Yeah? Fuck.”

“Her old man got four years for abusing her, didn’t last six fucking months, strung himself up one night.”

“Fuck. Fair enough.” There wasn’t much else to say. We all had shit to deal with.

A few weeks later she rings and wants to come over. I’m not sure I want to get into it all again but I am doing nothing else. Her eyes are full of fire and her body singing with life and we drink some beers and sniff some coke she has brought and have some fun before we fuck. She is laughing and enjoying herself and making me laugh too. For the first time since I met her I like her. When we go upstairs and fuck she is like a tigress; biting, clawing, scratching, spitting, snarling. She is possessed by an infectious passion and we end up cumming together in a furious frenzy of screams and violence. I think I might finally understand where she is coming from. When I turn the light out she gets out of bed and sits naked, looking out the window, hugging her knees like a rescued child. As she sits there the moonlight glints off tears, like diamonds, rolling down her cheeks. I want to comfort her but I can’t.

In the morning she was gone. She didn’t return my phone calls.

About a week later the discharge started from my knob. Then I understood where she was coming from.

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