	Hung Over
        =========


Clare rolled to one side and her bare nipples brushed briefly 
and sensuously against the hair of a naked man's chest. At 
first she thought nothing of it and almost rolled back, to 
face away as she normally did, but then she wondered. 

Who was this man? And where was she?

She turned back with alarm and studied the figure sprawled 
next to her, one arm and one leg free of the sheet that 
covered him and a gently breathing mouth that faced 
towards her. His short hair was ruffled and he had a small 
ring through his nose.

Clare was still none the wiser.

She lay on her back and studied the ceiling and walls 
around her. This was definitely not her flat. No way would 
she have plastered it with so many pictures of semi-clad 
women featured on night club posters. Nor would she have 
dreamt of buying such a purely functional lampshade. And 
all those CDs cluttering up the surfaces of the utilitarian 
furniture! 

This could only be a man's bedroom.

Clare squeezed her eyes tight. She was definitely feeling 
ragged. She'd mixed too many drinks with too many drugs. 
Although she didn't have that horrible nauseous feeling that 
often accompanied the morning after, she wasn't feeling at 
her best.

She remembered going to the night club. But she couldn't 
remember the name of it. Even though she had queued up 
for ages outside with Joanne, Phillippa and Louise. But 
once inside, with the DJ caning the funky techno and hard 
dance, it became one disconnected blur of recollections. 
Most of her time, she was sure, was spent on the dance 
floor, gyrating, swivelling, stomping and sweating under the 
strobes, the E kicking in and the speed driving her faster 
and more delirious. And didn't they snort some charlie 
earlier in the evening? 

That was cool!

And between the dancing, the four girls sat together by the 
bar, swigging a few coolers and puffing at their ciggies. 
And giggling and chortling and shouting and measuring up 
the talent. Some good looking boys. But, be honest, after 
enough E, let alone the alcopops, a boy had to be fucking 
ugly not to look half-way decent.

And back on the floor, the four girls going their separate 
ways. Phillippa with the shaven-headed guy with the weird 
Maori tattoos. Louise and Joanne in a huddle with some 
guys who insisted they'd met them once at the Zap Club in 
Brighton. 

Which was possible. 

And Clare herself with the guy with the little goatee, the 
funny beret and the cool tee-shirt he'd got at Glastonbury 
that time. He was a fucking good dancer. And, as she soon 
established, not a bad kisser either, as they manoeuvred 
towards a pillar and got into some strenuous tongue-play.

So, was the bloke she was with the same guy?

She turned her head back to look at him.

No fucking way!

So how had she managed to hitch up with him?

And then it came back to her, fragments of memory 
coalescing bit by bit into a coherent picture.

It was when Clare was leaving. She had no idea what had 
happened to her three friends. They'd been with her and 
some boys and some other girls they'd met when they 
collected their coats from the cloakroom. But somehow 
outside, it was so confusing. Taxis everywhere. People 
sponging ciggies. Bouncers standing with their arms folded 
outside the club. 

"You want this taxi?" asked a guy, as one drew up to the 
kerb.

And Clare looked him up and down. Fuck! He was better 
than nothing, she must have thought. If she'd thought much 
about anything at all. And anyway she was still out of it.

"Yeah! Why not?"

"Where're you going?" he asked as they sat together on the 
back seat.

"Coffee on offer?" Clare slurred.

"Yeah, right!" he said, quite clearly as beyond clear thought 
as she was.

And then back, somehow, and here there was a total blank, 
to this flat somewhere in the city. Or not so complete a 
blank. She remembered his tongue in her mouth, his hands 
on her breasts and her hand on his trousers. Just making 
sure!

Then in his flat. No coffee, mind you. Just a frantic fumble 
as her clothes and his slid away and the two were on top of 
each other. There was sweat. There were some helpful 
poppers. There was a bit of tongue-play below as Clare 
toked on a joint he'd skinned up and he burrowed his head 
between her legs, his tongue twiddling on the little clit ring 
she'd bought in Ibiza.

And then, but thankfully not straight away, the inevitable 
fucking.

But was it good?

Probably.

And did she take precautions?

Well, the pill would handle the obvious worry, but she 
remembered guiltily, and cursed herself, nothing to guard 
herself the other concerns. Shit! After that Chlamydia and 
that bout of gonorrhoea hadn't she learnt anything?

Obviously not!

Shit! Another month probing around with a mirror. Perhaps 
another visit to the clinic. Another month when she'd have 
to confess to Paul that she'd done what she shouldn't have 
done.

Clare sighed deeply.

"Wassup?" asked the guy beside her.

Clare smiled. Should she ask him whether he had caught 
anything? As if he'd tell her if he had!

"Fine," she replied.

And then she noticed that despite his hangover, which 
bleared his eyes and left his mouth drooping in a moronic 
way, like most men he was blessed with a morning stiffy.

She placed a hand on his erect penis and gently squeezed it 
between her forefinger and thumb.

"Fine," she repeated. "Bit hung over. But nothing that this 
can't cure!"

Fuck it! If she was going to the clinic again, she might as 
well make sure it was for something she could remember.








