Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [58]
— I’m well lubricated enough, she told him. This made Renton feel a bit numb, it seemed so cold and mechanistic. He even thought at one stage that his erection had started to subside, but no, she was lowering herself onto it, and it was, miracle of miracles, holding firm.
He groaned softly as she enclosed him. They started moving slowly together, penetrating deeper. He felt her tongue in his mouth and his hands were lightly feeling her arse. It seemed, it had been, so long; he thought that he was going to come straight away. Dianne sensed his extreme excitement. Not another useless prick, please no, she thought to herself.
Renton stopped feeling her and tried to imagine that he was shagging Margaret Thatcher, Paul Daniels, Wallace Mercer, Jimmy Savile and other turn-offs, in order to bring himself off the boil.
Dianne took the opportunity, and rode herself into a climax, Renton lying there like a dildo on a large skateboard. It was only the image of Dianne biting into her forefinger, in an attempt to stifle the strange squeaks she made as she came, her other hand on his chest, that caused Renton to get there himself. Even the thought of rimming Wallace Mercer’s arse couldn’t have stopped him by that time. When he started to come, he thought that he’d never stop. His cock spurted like a water pistol in the hands of a persistently mischievous child. Abstinence had made the sperm-count go through the roof.
It had been close enough to a simultaneous climax for him to have described it in such a way, had he been one to kiss-and-tell. He realised the reason he’d never do this was because you always get more stud credibility from the enigmatic shrug and smile, than from divulging graphic details for the entertainment of radges. That was something he’d learned from Sick Boy. Even his anti-sexism was therefore overlayed with sexist self-interest. Men are pathetic cunts, he thought to himself.
As Dianne dismounted him, Renton was drifting off into a blissful sleep, resolving to wake in the night and have more sex. He would be more relaxed, but also more active, and would show her what he could do, now that he had broken this bad run. He compared himself to a striker who had just come through a lean spell in front of goal, and now couldn’t wait for the next match.
He was therefore cut to the bone when Dianne said: — You have to go.
Before he could argue, she was out of the bed. She pulled on her pants to catch his thick spunk as it started to leave her and trickle down the insides of her thighs. For the first time he began to think about unprotected penetrative sex and the HIV risk. He’d taken the test, after he’d last shared, so he was clear. He worried about her, however; thinking that anyone who would sleep with him would sleep with anybody. Her intention to banish him had already shattered his fragile sexual ego, turning him from cool stud back into trembling inadequate in a depressingly short time. He thought that it would just be his luck to get HIV from one shag after sharing needles, although never the large communal syringes favoured in the galleries, over a period of years.
— But kin ah no stey here? He heard his voice sound puny and biscuit-ersed, in tones that Sick Boy would mock mercilessly, had he been present. Dianne looked straight at him and shook her head. — No. You can stay on the couch. If you’re quiet. If you see anybody, this never happened. Put something on.
Once again, self-conscious of his incongruously ginger pubic hair, he was happy to oblige.
Dianne led Renton through to the couch in the front room. She left him shivering in his underpants before she returned with a sleeping-bag and his clothes.
— Sorry about this, she whispered, kissing him. They necked for a bit and he started to get hard again. When he tried to put his hand inside her dressing gown she stopped him.