It Shouldn't Happen to a Black Bob

I drift through Brighton, the fresh morning light clean and almost platinum in its glorious pale intensity. It's Sunday and I have been conscious -- often more than conscious, thanks to a cocktail of chemical enhancements I barely remember -- for at least twenty-four hours. My underneath is a lovely combination of partial numbness and tingling satisfaction.

I have been well-used, by many people, and have loved every second of it. It has been a fabulous night, and there is no reason I cannot continue in a similar vein throughout the day, until my body gives out, preferably in the arms of someone appreciative who will look after me, or at least not abuse me in ways I find unacceptable.

There is such a thing as spectacular calm, because that is what I feel now. I know I'm still coasting on drugs, champagne and sex, but when I catch my reflection in a shop window, I am delighted to see that despite all the fucking my gorgeous little black bob is still intact, still crowning me with its uncanny beauty. I know a closer look will reveal matting, and other evidence of exertion by me and by others. I know that it will smell more of me now than of the chemicals at the salon, as well as my sweat, and the sweat of other people.

And yet the thick blunt fringe is still firm and dauntingly straight, and that kink at the back hasn't returned. The little curtains either side of my face hang prettily, with their jaunty dagger tips that point towards my chin. I look at myself, and stroke my hair, and feel that wherever I go I will never feel so at home as I do now, here, in this moment, when all my selves are aligned, and my beauty is at its most luminous.

My makeup is still mostly on. Before my departure from Gary's extraordinary house I had the chance to touch it up, but there is no denying that I am on less of a walk of shame than a marathon. I don't mind. I think women walking home the morning after should have flowers and gifts offered to them for the joy and pleasure they bring. And I have brought so much joy, so much pleasure. I squint closer, realise I forgot my lipstick, and apply it in generous strokes.

I finish, lift my chin and inspect. Little black bob. Check. Smoky eyes. Check. Big red mouth. Check. Little blue bodycon dress. Check. Black stockings. Check. Black boots (bit scuffed now). Check.

My stomach growls and I sway. When did I last eat? It was... Actually, I don't know. There was talk of a kebab at some point, or sushi, but I might have hallucinated that. Ah well.

I have been drifting like a sexy wraith for some time now, and have no idea where I am, where I came from, or even where that amazing house is. This is Brighton, however, so there can and will be a café nearby.

Sure enough, down a side street that suggests it is one of those 'best kept secret in town' places, I find a café whose exact nature is hard to identify when I peer inside. Is it a truck drivers' café? Could be -- there are men who look like they drive trucks (large, with caps). Ditto builders -- there are tattooed lads with hi-viz tabards. Is it a middle-class poncy café? There is a selection of artisanal coffees with signs that say they come from Africa rather than South America, as if to prove a point only three people will understand. There are also enough student types to suggest the avante garde feel at home here, even though Brighton is full of people who look like artists, but aren't. The furniture is battered wood rather than plastic, but that's the case everywhere these days. There is -- and this impresses me -- a proper ventilation system with cassettes on the ceiling and an extract fan exuding delicious smells of bacon and toast through a vent half a metre above my head.

I have always been popular with truck drivers, builders, and people who look like artists even if they aren't, so I go in. Everyone is troughing breakfast, which is the one meal you don't interrupt with needless yapping. The place is large, and only half-full, so I find a table at the back and sit down.

I always feel slightly paranoid in restaurants and cafes. I worry I will be ignored, or asked to leave, even though it never happens. So I breathe breakfast smells, ignore the occasional stare, and wait. The calm is still there, still spectacular, and soon my anxiety eases.

A woman comes over, and I know at once she is in the wrong job. She has an odd, pinched expression that suggests everyone here is lucky she turned up. She is the type who mistakes panic for efficiency, and yet in me always evokes so much sympathy that I end up tolerating rudeness and then getting annoyed with myself later. Still, I am hungry, and that African coffee smells incredible.

"What can I get you?"

Her voice is lovely -- she sounds like a duchess forced into lowly work by the gambling debts of a worthless husband. It is at odds with the rest of her: stringy hair she keeps blowing out of her face, a similar physique to one of the truckers that is poorly served by ill-fitting jeans, a flowery top that seems to mock her, and face that appears to be made of shiny spheres.

I find beauty in everyone, but understand how it feels to be unhappy in your own skin.

"Your biggest breakfast please, darling," I say.

"Vegetarian?"

"No thank you -- I am an enthusiastic carnivore."

She glares at me. Has my answer offended her?

"White bread or brown?" she prompts.

"I only ever have white bread in cafes," I say, as if she should know this.

"Coffee's not included."

"Your biggest mug then!"

"Which brand?"

"I don't know."

"Just pick one."

"You choose. But..." I lean forward and fix her with the eye of a woman whose consciousness has been chemically sustained for much too long, "... choose well." I lean back and give her my prettiest smile. "Thank you!"

She gives me a look of dead-eyed loathing, snatches the menu I have not even glanced at, and stalks to the till. No wonder the place is only half-full. I expect the food to take ages as punishment for my insolence, but she brings it over in less than five minutes.

A change comes over her when she does.

I expect her to slam the plate down, not as an affront to me personally but because 'she's like that with everyone'. Instead she lowers it with incredible care. Her anger seems to have disappeared as she regards the breakfast, as if checking to ensure it is perfect, which it is. It's the same with the coffee. The over-ornate coffee machine looks like a Victorian invention that travels in time, yet she manipulates it with ease. The mug she brings over is indeed the biggest one -- it's almost a pint. It descends with the grace of a lunar lander, alongside a small jug of milk that has condensation on the side. There's a souvenir spoon from Hastings of all places, and three cubes of demerara sugar. These delights are arrayed before me with the care of an artist putting together a still life, and I look up at her.

"Thank you," I say, my voice soft with appreciation.

She nods, her demons visibly quieted. I realise she is one of those caterers who loves food and hates people, which is my preferred option, especially when I start on the breakfast and...

Dear Lord, that is incredible.

Dining like this is a worthy conclusion to an extraordinary night. My only regret -- a common one with cooked breakfasts -- is that it's gone too soon. At least the coffee makes its presence known in my drained body, which surges with new energy. I consider ordering another, but the café is getting quieter and I sense we are approaching a short break before the lunchtime rush.

For a while I sit as the café empties and the woman bustles around, gathering plates. As she takes them through to the kitchen, I decide to walk along the beach and take in the pier because I haven't been for years.

The coffee goes through me as it always does, so I visit the loo. When I'm done, I do some more work on my makeup and carefully brush my bob.

I hear shouting from the café.

Shouldering my handbag, I return to the dining area. The woman is there, along with the biggest chef I've ever seen. A lot of them are big, but this one seems to be the original model on which all other chefs are based. He's got the lot: belly, goatee, too much body hair, and a little white hat that he never changes because no one has the guts to tell him it looks ridiculous.

Also, rage. Chefs are always angry. It's to do with time: time for prep, time for cooking, time to get the food to the table. The slightest delay will mean a diminution of the dining experience, and there are always delays. Serving staff, people going to the loo, people taking too long to order, people being people; all these elements are factored into the chef's calculations, and still perfection eludes him. Breakfasts are the trickiest of all, due to the delicacy of the components. The multiplying delays accumulate in the chef's mind, in his soul, until they create an unbearable tension between what could be, and what is. This chef is no exception, and I wonder if he uses the extreme heat of his own fury to cook with.

"Thought you'd done a runner," the woman says.

I stare at her.

"No, I'd never... I was on the loo."

They both regard me. The chef's eyes are already small and narrow still further until the top of his head becomes all brow, like a bushy cliff.

"Only, the windows in there don't open. We've got the ventilation, you see."

"Yes," I say, eager to prove I'm not a thieving slag. "I noticed the ventilation. It really does make all the difference to a dining experience."

To my surprise, the woman smiles.

"Sorry," she says. "We get quite a few runouts. Small business like this, you can understand."

"It was, without doubt, the greatest breakfast I've ever had."

The chef's eyes reappear. There is no other change in his expression, so I assume he is pleased.

"So," I say, now we're friends. "What do I owe you?"

"Fifteen. Service not... er... you know."

"We'll say twenty then."

"That's very kind."

I reach into my bag and root around for my debit card. I root around some more. Then I put the bag on the nearest table and look through it even though by now these actions are merely cosmetic because my fucking card is gone and it can't be a coincidence that my phone is gone too, as is my backup cash. I've got no idea which of the people I've been with would do this -- if indeed it was any of them.

"Fuck," I whisper.

"Problem?"

"I've been robbed."

"I knew it!" the woman shouts.

I stare at her, confused.

"How did you know!"

"You were doing a runner!"

"No --"

"Oh pull the other one, luv!" the woman shouts as her rage returns with the force of a tsunami. "We get prostitutes in here all the time, trying it on."

I go to deny being a prostitute, then remember I was paid for sex last night. Although it's more hobby than full-time career, I doubt this is the time to debate semantics.

The chef says nothing, but his emotions are visible across that vast frame like projections on a movie screen. He is even angrier than usual.

There is no way out. The huge chef and the hefty woman are between me and the door, which is closed and probably locked. Usually, I'm glad I am small and slim. Other times I am less glad, such as now.

Nervous, I lick my lips.

"Look," I reason, "who doesn't have a phone or a card?"

"You could have them stashed nearby," the woman says.

She has thought of everything.

"I'm not trying to steal from you!" I cry, upset and embarrassed now. "I can transfer the money when I get home."

"So you can nick our bank account details?"

"PayPal then. Come on, please."

They glare at me.

"Could I do the washing up?"

"Pot washer's done it."

"Wait tables for you later then."

"I wait tables," the woman yells, pointing at herself. "Me! Not some cute little tranny whore getting all my tips."

I suddenly remember the cab fares I've worked off, saving a fortune and getting my pussy filled. Lifting my chin, I smooth the front of my little blue dress, and toss my sweet bobbed hair.

"There must be something I can do," I pout.

The chef and the woman exchange a look. Some psychic exchange must take place, because her eyebrows go up.

"Not the...?" she begins.

His expression does not change. She looks at me, and smiles in a way I don't like, which is exciting. Then she gestures to the kitchen.

"This way, princess."

She goes through. I follow, but as I pass the chef, he puts those great ham hands on my shoulders and stops me. I stand, my back pressed against his belly. I can hear and feel him breathing, this massive, sensual beast. His light touch is almost a tickle despite the great force I can feel behind it.

He smells me.

He takes ages to do it, inhaling the scent of my hair, which he strokes and parts to get more of my aroma. He smells my neck, from the sweet spot where it meets my shoulder to my ear. He smells my arms, even underneath them. He smells my breasts, my belly, then gets on his knees to lift my dress and smell me there, front first, then back. He takes a long time smelling the back. He smells my legs, down one and then up the other. He eases off my boots and smells my feet, then eases the boots on again.

He gets up and takes my face in his hot, soft hands, then bends down and kisses me, gently at first and then with hunger, as if he is devouring me. He strokes my little black bob, and runs his hands down my back. My dress is still up so he strokes me between the legs, then grips my arse tight, pulling me against him. He grips me, kissing me and kissing me, and strokes the sides of my hair, the back of my neck, my fringe. He licks the edge of those two little curtains either side of my face, right the way to the tips, which gleam with his saliva. He smells my hair again, holds me, and a great sad sigh escapes him, as if he must get his enjoyment of me in before some calamity occurs.

"Bring her in here."

The woman's voice echoes from the kitchen. The chef stiffens, looks up, and a sense of sadness emanates from him with a gust of meaty sweat. I lick his neck, my big eyes defiant as I look up past my fringe at him His eyes roll up as if intoxicated, and he kisses me again, holding my head tight.

I slip the poppers from my bag, unscrew them and hold them under his nose. He takes a quick toke, and I take a bigger one. Noticing the contents of my bag, he takes a condom, squeezes lube onto his finger, and slips it into me.

Sometimes I am too tender after being heavily used to be fucked again. At other times, I can go on being penetrated and it delights me as much as the first giddy fuck of the day.

We sway in the bright lush morning as new power rushes through us.

"Now!"

What awaits me in there? Am I to be sacrificed? Is this what happened to the other prostitutes who couldn't pay?

Whatever it is requires lube, so I take some big popper hits. The Dark Shore is long enough ago not to overwhelm me again, thank God. I cap the bottle and drop it in my handbag.

The chef does not bother to pull down my dress as he pushes me gently towards the kitchen. Giddy and euphoric now, I move as I am directed, through the door and into a bright, clean space full of shiny pans, a range of gas hobs and a large washing-up sink. I look around for the pot washer, but there is no one else here.

The woman waits by the sink, which contains a huge steel pot, blackened from use and full of soapy water. As she regards at me, the woman's expression is the same as when she looked at the food: a quiet but frenzied adoration. A hunger.

"Did you smell her?"

The chef grunts.

"I know you like to smell them."

I feel him nod.

"Everywhere?"

He makes a noise that sounds affirmative.

"Her neck?" [grunt] "Her tits?" [sigh] "Her arse?" [snuffle] "Her legs?" [grunt again] "Whatever she's got between her legs?" [humph] "Feet?" [hmm] "Her beautiful fucking cunt hair?" [Huh!]

The woman's hands clench and unclench.

"Smell her hair once more."

He makes another sad sound as he does. I sway against him, and he holds me.

"I see from the state of her lipstick you've been kissing her. Kiss her again, why don't you?"

He does, and it's like being devoured by a starving bear.

"Now get her over here."

Gently, he guides me over, his hands adrift across my body. The woman grabs my arm and snatches me away from the chef. I stumble.

"Stand up! You'll be bending over soon enough."

I have a feeling that whatever is going happen will be driven by this woman's deep hatred of everyone who is better-looking than her. I straighten. We are about the same height, but she is much broader and more powerful. She shakes with the kind of emotion that is usually repressed.

"See this fucking pot? The pot washer can't get it clean. I can't get it clean. Whatever we do, it doesn't come up clean. So, I need some magic power, and what is more magic that a trans woman, especially one as sexy as you?"

I realise she is waiting for an answer, and clear my throat.

"Nothing?"

I feel slightly removed from this weird situation.

"Correct," she hisses.

I blink.

"Did you want me to cast a spell?"

"You are the spell," she says.

She grabs my perfect, beautiful, shiny little black bob at the back and looks down at the pot.

"Oh," I gasp, realising. "No --"

She rams my head under the water.

It's not boiling but it is hot. I keep my mouth shut, but can sense soap in my nose. The woman keeps the pressure on until my breasts are submerged and my head bumps the bottom of the pot. I can't tell how much baked-on residue there is -- not much because all I can feel is the smooth curved metal side.

The chef presses against me from behind. His arms lock around my waist and hold me in place.

The woman pulls me up. I gasp for breath, the taste and smell of soap much stronger now.

I can feel my hair wet against my head, ruffled at the back where she seized it, and slick at the front and sides. The little curtains are stuck to my cheeks, and my long fringe is in my eyes. It is low enough in its soaked state for me to be distantly proud of how straight it still is.

My sweet bob. It is still beautiful, because all wet hair is beautiful. One of the many reasons I love a shiny black bob is because it looks wet even when dry: the way it clings to my head, at once sculpting and celebrating it. It will not be the same now though, even if I manage to get it as slick and perfect as Dylan did a day and a life ago.

And yet one of most compelling things about beauty is how brief it is.

I reflect on that reality as the woman pours washing up liquid over my head, lacquering my slick bob into a version of its old self, this one under a gleaming green glaze. Such a violent end seems apt somehow, as if it is a brutal transformation into something else.

She slaps her hand against the back of my head again, and Big Clit twitches at the impact of a palm against my slick wet hair. I remember what happens to Louise Brooks's Lulu, and when the woman forces me under again I get a warm inner rush as I compare my own bizarre fate.

Now I feel the chef's hardness against my pussy, and tense at the strange angle, the peculiar circumstance. But as the woman uses my hair to scrub the submerged interior of the pot, I relax and open myself to him, so when he eases in it's less of a shock. It helps that I've been fucked so much over the last day and night, by bigger cocks than the chef's. His is a sweet penetration, and I'm glad I had the poppers when I did, because the last thing the woman cares about is my sexual pleasure.

The woman grips my neck and hauls me up, and my wet hair swings as the chef fucks me. I gasp and pant; unsure if I'm ready to be dunked again. I'm on the woman's timetable however, and she doesn't care how ready I am.