Three bottles of wine and a pair of goths.

I figure, if I am going to be a handsome and sparkly son-of-a-bitch for eternity then I might as well look the part. London has an amazing selection of back street sex stores full of leather and bondage gear. I often take the time to visit such places during lunch hours or on Saturdays because I happen to have dated a lot of the employees. Some people go to clubs; I go to sex stores.

I buy a rather fetching pair of crimson wrist cuffs with sliver hoops and optional silver chain links from one of the stores and a simple black collar with small, blunt studs. What can I say? I’m a kinky guy. 

Apart from the essential sex items I also need to buy acceptable everyday wear, pay an expensive telephone bill (which is largely due to Martin calling up sex lines during the day) and withdraw money from my bank account. Everything after that I will play by ear.

It is easy to post the bill and fairly simple to withdraw all of my savings but shopping for clothes is another matter all together. I have to shop like a vampire.  Should I get the red shirt or the black shirt? Or both?  Even the underwear is confusing me. As I stand debating between small black briefs and medium black briefs in top man I notice two ‘goth’ kids standing by the socks. Both are dressed in dark colours; band t-shirts and large, steel toe boots. Their hair is raven black with streaks of blonde, blue and green and even their finger nails are black. One has rather enticing red contact lens, while the other seems to prefer excessive amounts of piercings. From what I can remember vampires like the gothic look; Right?

“Excuse me?” I ask.

They both stare at me with un-amused expressions and I feel rather intimidated.

“Yeah?” The taller of the two with the crimson irises answers.

“Er... I was just wondering, where did you get your clothing?”

“Are you taking the piss old man?”

“Old man?” I snap, “I’m only fucking twenty three you punk!”

“What ever.”

“Just fucking answer my question.”

“Different places. Its London, they aren’t hard to find.” The shorter answers.

“Or the internet.  Can you even work a computer?”

I roll my eyes, “I’m an accountant. Of course I can work a fucking computer.”

“Sure.”

They swiftly turn and walk away.

Talk about stereotypes. I have met tons of decent and charming ‘goths’ and ‘punks’ but the hair dye had obviously gone right through to their tiny brains. Pricks.

I leave the store, light a cigarette and continue down the crowded street. I have the rest of the day to find these specialised stores and I am in dire need of a cup of coffee.

I go to the first place I can find, order a large Mocha and sit in a stall near the back. It dawns on me, as I sip the frothy caffeine, that this all can’t be as easy as Sarah is making it seem. We have two suicidal shape shifters and by now we probably have a plan. But getting out of the country could be another thing. Surely they have some sort of system to determine whether their passengers are alive or not. And how do we get there without being seen? Somehow I have a notion that neither Sarah nor Martin has even given that a moment of their time.

In fact I doubt they are actually doing any planning at all. If you know what I mean.

“I’m home!”

 I throw my keys onto the stand in the hall, hang up my jacket and leave my shopping down by the stairs. I can hear them giggling in the kitchen and it occurs to me that they are having a little too much fun planning suicides. It’s scary.

“In here sweet pea!” I hear Sarah shout.

Ergh! That nickname is horrendous and it’s all I can do not to wring her neck for saying it. I stomp into the kitchen to find the table covered in various diagrams, notes and balled up pieces of paper. There are coffee stains all over the counter by the kettle and three empty glass bottles. All of which had been filled to the brim with red wine before I had left. I know to look at Sarah that she isn’tthe culprit. Martin, however, is leaning heavily against the edge of the table sporting a crooked grin and giggling.

“I’m sorry Sam,” Sarah smiles apologetically at me, “You know what he is like. I couldn’t get him to stop drinking.”

“Whatdamean-“Martin’s words come out in a long slur before he stops to stifle a hiccup. Or vomit. He then steadies himself, narrows his eyes and points an accusing finger at Sarah, “You! Areaslag!”

“Oh sit down Martin. Before you fall!” She snaps.

I chuckle as he shuffles past me and into the hallway. I proceed to take a seat across from my sober friend.

“It’s okay. I was expecting to find you both ass over tits in the living room to be honest.”

She rolls her eyes at me.

“Here,” She thrusts a piece of paper into my face, “This is our suicide pact.”

“Pact?” I take the sheet and glance over it, “You want to make it appear as a suicide pact? Why? Are you high?”

“I’ve always wanted to do one and this is the perfect opportunity. We make a pact and ‘go through with it’ without dying. It’s great!” She beams at me and quickly moves her hands around to empathise her point.

“So, we get to see the consequences of our actions?”

“Well technically no. We’ll be on our way to Amsterdam.” She rests her head on her hands, “Well that sucks.”

“You have it planned out, so let’s just do the damn pact.” I sigh, take out my packet of cigarettes and bum a light.

She continues to rustle through the pages while I smoke. I can hear the television in the living and the protests of a very drunk Martin as something ‘interesting’ happens in Hollyoaks. As the seconds tick by his shouts quiet down and I think nothing of it until I hear him laughing in the hallway.

“Omigod!” He dashs into the kitchen holding my newly bought wrists cuffs.

“Well, someone’s a kinky boy.” Sarah chuckles and winks at me. I blush.

“Give them here Martin!” I abruptly stand up.

He squeaks and retreats into the living room.

“Martin!” I scream and follow him.

He lying across the cough, the cuffs in his hands, his shirt on the floor and his legs spread wide. I know what he is like when he’s drunk and usually I welcome it but right now it’s the last thing I want.

“No Martin.” I move over beside him, “Just give me the cuffs.”

Without warning he pulls me into a deep kiss. Despite myself I let him work his magic. His lips hurryingly attach themselves to mine and his tongue is toying with my bottom lip begging for entrance. I open my mouth to allow him to explore as much as he sees fit. As the kiss draws steadily more intense his fingers entwine with my hair and his other hand reaches down to grope my crouch. His touch sends electricity shotting through my veins and rushes to a certain hardening member. 

Suddenly I remember about Sarah in the other room and pull away from his embrace. He moans in protest as I move his hand the front of my jeans.

“No Martin. Not now.” I whisper and sneakily slip the cuffs out of his grasp.

“Why?” He drags the ‘y’ out for a second or two and pouts.

“Sarahs in the other room.”

He folds his arms and rolls over onto his side. I stand to leave the room, only stopping to throw a blanket over my house mate. I sigh loudly once I’m in the hallway.

Fucking little demon got me hard.

I shuffle back into Sarah, whom is sitting in the exact same spot that I left her in.

“Looks like you got a problem there sweet pea.” She giggles and I blush.

“Cut it out. The fucker insisted on groping me.”

“You love it.”

“It would have been rude for me to fuck him with you in the other room.” I ignore her taunts.

She scoffs, “No it wouldn’t. I’d join in.”

I roll my eyes.