Things are better with a little bit of razzamatazz
The very first time George took his clothes off in public he left his half pint and threw up in the bushes outside the bingo hall. He’d come a long way since then, part of a trio of three young guys who were crouched hairless and horny inside an overlarge novelty birthday cake ready to launch themselves into dance in a shower of confetti and sparklers.
They had Lone Ranger style masks across their eyes, with matching black skimpy thongs, so to stand himself out he’d gone to the attic and filched a single sparkling fingerless glove from his Dad’s old trunk of magic kit. He had it on his left hand, ready to let it draw the eye and make him star of the show.
Anthony took the lead, hitting the button that popped the pyrotechnics, launching himself into that room dripping with anticipation. The thump of the music was nothing as the screaming began.
The trick was to find the raunchiest looking person in the place, park yourself front and centre and let her – or him – stroke the crowd into wild fury and let the tips show. There she was, blondie almost spilling out of a low cut top, flesh of her breasts rippling as she beat the air with delight. He set his dancing feet in her direction, twirling the sequinned glove and leading with his groin. He planted himself in front of this woman old enough to be his mother, set hips a whirling and a thrusting.
He died inside as the woman turned her lit up face to him and his own mother screamed lustful joy.
Right then is when he made the decision to join the army. Send me anywhere, any warzone, any danger. Any torture. Because there is nothing he could not handle after standing semi-naked with his eyes screwed tight shut as his own mother tucked a ten pound note in the front of his G-string.
He shuffled away in a daze, praying to God that the acid feel of the hand that copped one was from his mother’s bestie sat to her right.
Out in the quiet hallway he stood there in shock, slap of the double doors as they mated shut turning the raucous sounds down to merely thumping base, breeze from the doors fluttering all the ten pound notes in his G-string.
‘Tough crowd mate?’ one of the queuing waiters said.
George shuffled past the guy, this man with salt and pepper stubble and tanned shoulders showing above the top of his full length white apron. He was halfway down the line of them before he looked back and realised none of them had trays, and they all had hairy arses.
From the end of the line a face grinned at him.
‘Hey kid,’ he said, and raised both hands to show George a single sparkly sequinned fingerless glove on his right. ‘Razzamatazz!’