The Persecution of Date Rape Dave
by Lee Carrick
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A shitload of strong ones.
Description: Meet Dave. He has herpes. But dinna tell anybody, likes.
_____________________________________________________________________
Genital herpes are a nightmare, a fucking nightmare, it’s not the symptoms that cause the trouble, the insatiably itchy burning sores on your bell end. It’s the complete randomness at which they strike. I remember the first time I had a flare up, thought I had some sort of allergic reaction. When I got to the clinic I was reasonably calm, STD’s are what happen to tramps and whores and I’m neither. My eyes nearly fell out of my head when the test results came back. It’s all high-tech now, you get a text from the clinic asking you to call when your test results are back, and then the news comes, good or bad; in my case very bad. I had the HSV-2 virus, the most common one, and to add insult to injury you can’t get rid of it. You’ve got to carry that shit round for life like the guilt unholy deeds.
You can’t set your watch by herpes; the outbreaks are random, unpredictable and decidedly inconvenient. I could meet a girl in a pub on a Friday night: you know the type, she’s young, naïve and if you’re really lucky has low self-esteem, my balls and nob completely scab free; go back to her place and take her back end off. Really abuse the bitch, fist up her arse and cum in her eyes. Wake up the next day and feel a tingle on my shaft. Now I’ve got to run out of the door before she tries for the repeat performance, I don’t want her to know that it was me that infected her, I’d never get fucked again. If I’m honest I feel no guilt about it, the stupid cunt should have insisted on using a condom. If she asked I would have used one, I always keep one in my wallet in case I pull a careful bitch.
Let’s face it we’re constantly hit with a barrage of information about the current STD epidemic in this country, fuck, history will look upon us as the STD generation, 1 in 4 18–24 year olds and all that shit. So if they don’t pay heed fuck them, they can deal with the consequences, I have to. The tragedy about the whole situation is that I know who gave me the scabby cock, the exact girl and the exact night. That night had two very strong lasting effects on me, firstly I realised that sex wasn’t all fun, and just like all of life’s great vices it has it’s comedowns and consequences; secondly I realised that no one really gave a fuck about anyone else. Amy must have known she was infected and she let me fuck her anyway.
The next morning Amy left my house never to return but she had left me with a present for life for which I’ve never thanked her, and I’m sure a lot of other girls in the world would like a word with her too. Too late now though, the fucker died a few years ago, she became a fucking coke whore and when she could no longer pay for the toot with cash she found other ways of paying. People told me she would suck dealers off for grams. Apparently she discovered her uncle on her mother’s side was a small time pusher and decided to play the ‘we’re family’ card to see if she could get the toot free, but the uncle cunt wasn’t that stupid, neither did he have any moral objections to incest. Claire died of a heart attack at twenty three with a nose full of coke and a fanny full of her uncle’s cum and if you ask me deservedly so.
I flared up a few days ago and it’s feeling really uncomfortable, I can’t even enjoy my buzz, can’t concentrate on chopping up these lines, it’s driving me fucking crazy. Herpes equals paranoid buzz kill, no sex, piss on fire and stress in my head. I even had to leave university because of it. I had sex with a girl in my class about a year ago; used a condom with her because I knew if she caught something from me and the rest of the university found out I’d be forced to leave through shame and embarrassment. Turns out condoms don’t stop people from transmitting herpes to one another, I probably would have found that out if I’d gone to the follow up appointment at the clinic but I was too embarrassed to show my face. Three days later she gets a flare up, goes crazy at me, and tells the entire class. I tried explaining that it wasn’t my fault, I wore a condom I told them but these unsympathetic arseholes wouldn’t let it go. So I dropped out, my mother and father still don’t know, they’re going to kill me when they find out. They were still pretty angry about the rape charge, even though it was thrown out.
Now Ronnie has turned up it’s just going to make things worse, he’s the only one who knows I’ve got herpes. I told him once after we’d been to a Streets concert in Newcastle. We were taking pills, good ones too, Green Goblins I think they were called. I got all open and honest in the car on the way home and told him about it. He just looked over at me in disgust and seemed to shuffle away from me in his chair. He hasn’t mentioned it since, and I know how devious he can be, he’s just holding it back for a time when he needs to use it, I’ll probably get a phone call from Thailand one day. “Alreet Date Rape, how’s it going mate? Listen, remember the time you told me you had a scabby cock, well I need a grand to pay off me debts owa here on Koh Samui so you better get that put in the Lloyds account asap mate.” I know it’s coming, I’m just waiting. He always says I’m a dirty bastard because I have slight deviant urges, and that incident with the dog, urges I can neither control or ignore; yet he’s the one away in Thailand getting ball deep in those lady boys. Even Craig gets less shit than me and he’s a loser. I don’t know why I still hang around with these uneducated over opinionated boring arseholes. Oh yeah, sniff. That’s what brings us all here. It’s illogical relationship glue. Relationships that should never work but are bound together by the consistent common ground that is cocaine; its glue so strong it made Kate Moss have a relationship with Pete Doherty.
“Alreet Dave,” Ronnie shouts over to me after he’s sat down. “Fucked any bairns recently, banged any schoolies, went doon on any Yorkshire terriers?” Everyone is laughing, JD the hardest. I’m a victimised man. “You’re a funny fucker, got the smell of shit on your cock from all the lady boys you’ve been up,” I retort. Less laughing from the room but I can’t go too far, he might reveal my secret. He better not get a line before me though, he knows the rules and he’s just got here, he hasn’t even had time to get that terrible shirt off. I bet he hasn’t even brought anything with him.
JD just had a massive line and now What’s The Story Morning Glory? is blasting out of the speakers in the dining room. All your dreams are made when you’re chained to the mirror and the razor blade. Same shit. different weekend. “JD, here JD, have you knocked the lifters up mate? In fact here mate give me a little dab for the gums.” I take the dab and carefully balance it on the end of my finger and sly off to the bathroom. Pulling my pants and boxers down carefully I dab the coke onto the herpes sores on the end of my shaft; cocaine is an anesthetic, makes sense it’d take some of the pain away. The fucker stung for a bit first then burning seemed to subside after that. Happy days, man, let’s get partying.
The black dog on my shoulder is barking in my ear; had a canny big session on the Becks last night followed by a bottle of cheap red wine when I got in the house, woke up this morning with a knife in my brain and this dirty black fucker attacking my soul. I hope this coke is good; I need it to sort my head out as soon as possible. Every time I have a big blow out on the drink I wake up with this nasty black dog on my shoulder whispering in my ear, putting doubt in my mind, making me question everything and anchoring me to my bed with an unyielding guilt. If I’m on the toot he’s on my shoulder after the first line.
Sometimes it just sits there, staring at me with judging disappointed eyes making me look at myself and wonder what the fuck I’m doing. “Well David what have you done now?” Shit what did I say to him or fuck what was I doing trying to chat her up, she’s the ex of a friend of a friend. Then it’s on to checking the phone to make sure I’ve not sent any embarrassing texts. No matter how normal the night has been the black dog can convince you you’ve made a right twat of yourself and now your mates are all pissed off with you. If you’ve got memory blanks from the night then the black dog will really fuck with you. “You were at that party with that lad from Newcastle, remember what you were saying to him? Well I can.”
It makes me never want to drink again, it’s not a hangover. This is mental torture on a massive scale. Suicide is on the cards when the black dog turns up, but then the fucker will guilt you out of doing it. “Think about how your family will feel Dave.” He’s got it all locked down. I try to sleep it off but he’s still there, “Come on Dave, you’re wasting your day, you’ve got a lot of apologising to do.” I try and eat, try to kill the hangover and he’s watching me from across the table. “Think it’s a good idea shoveling that shit into your mouth, all that fatty shit, after a night on the beer too; you know there’s heart problems in the family.”
- Come on David, you know why you’ve done this to yourself, accept who you are, tell them the truth, tell people, they’ll understand, we’ll forgive you just admit what you’ve done.
Swearwords: A shitload of strong ones.
Description: Meet Dave. He has herpes. But dinna tell anybody, likes.
_____________________________________________________________________
Genital herpes are a nightmare, a fucking nightmare, it’s not the symptoms that cause the trouble, the insatiably itchy burning sores on your bell end. It’s the complete randomness at which they strike. I remember the first time I had a flare up, thought I had some sort of allergic reaction. When I got to the clinic I was reasonably calm, STD’s are what happen to tramps and whores and I’m neither. My eyes nearly fell out of my head when the test results came back. It’s all high-tech now, you get a text from the clinic asking you to call when your test results are back, and then the news comes, good or bad; in my case very bad. I had the HSV-2 virus, the most common one, and to add insult to injury you can’t get rid of it. You’ve got to carry that shit round for life like the guilt unholy deeds.
You can’t set your watch by herpes; the outbreaks are random, unpredictable and decidedly inconvenient. I could meet a girl in a pub on a Friday night: you know the type, she’s young, naïve and if you’re really lucky has low self-esteem, my balls and nob completely scab free; go back to her place and take her back end off. Really abuse the bitch, fist up her arse and cum in her eyes. Wake up the next day and feel a tingle on my shaft. Now I’ve got to run out of the door before she tries for the repeat performance, I don’t want her to know that it was me that infected her, I’d never get fucked again. If I’m honest I feel no guilt about it, the stupid cunt should have insisted on using a condom. If she asked I would have used one, I always keep one in my wallet in case I pull a careful bitch.
Let’s face it we’re constantly hit with a barrage of information about the current STD epidemic in this country, fuck, history will look upon us as the STD generation, 1 in 4 18–24 year olds and all that shit. So if they don’t pay heed fuck them, they can deal with the consequences, I have to. The tragedy about the whole situation is that I know who gave me the scabby cock, the exact girl and the exact night. That night had two very strong lasting effects on me, firstly I realised that sex wasn’t all fun, and just like all of life’s great vices it has it’s comedowns and consequences; secondly I realised that no one really gave a fuck about anyone else. Amy must have known she was infected and she let me fuck her anyway.
The next morning Amy left my house never to return but she had left me with a present for life for which I’ve never thanked her, and I’m sure a lot of other girls in the world would like a word with her too. Too late now though, the fucker died a few years ago, she became a fucking coke whore and when she could no longer pay for the toot with cash she found other ways of paying. People told me she would suck dealers off for grams. Apparently she discovered her uncle on her mother’s side was a small time pusher and decided to play the ‘we’re family’ card to see if she could get the toot free, but the uncle cunt wasn’t that stupid, neither did he have any moral objections to incest. Claire died of a heart attack at twenty three with a nose full of coke and a fanny full of her uncle’s cum and if you ask me deservedly so.
I flared up a few days ago and it’s feeling really uncomfortable, I can’t even enjoy my buzz, can’t concentrate on chopping up these lines, it’s driving me fucking crazy. Herpes equals paranoid buzz kill, no sex, piss on fire and stress in my head. I even had to leave university because of it. I had sex with a girl in my class about a year ago; used a condom with her because I knew if she caught something from me and the rest of the university found out I’d be forced to leave through shame and embarrassment. Turns out condoms don’t stop people from transmitting herpes to one another, I probably would have found that out if I’d gone to the follow up appointment at the clinic but I was too embarrassed to show my face. Three days later she gets a flare up, goes crazy at me, and tells the entire class. I tried explaining that it wasn’t my fault, I wore a condom I told them but these unsympathetic arseholes wouldn’t let it go. So I dropped out, my mother and father still don’t know, they’re going to kill me when they find out. They were still pretty angry about the rape charge, even though it was thrown out.
Now Ronnie has turned up it’s just going to make things worse, he’s the only one who knows I’ve got herpes. I told him once after we’d been to a Streets concert in Newcastle. We were taking pills, good ones too, Green Goblins I think they were called. I got all open and honest in the car on the way home and told him about it. He just looked over at me in disgust and seemed to shuffle away from me in his chair. He hasn’t mentioned it since, and I know how devious he can be, he’s just holding it back for a time when he needs to use it, I’ll probably get a phone call from Thailand one day. “Alreet Date Rape, how’s it going mate? Listen, remember the time you told me you had a scabby cock, well I need a grand to pay off me debts owa here on Koh Samui so you better get that put in the Lloyds account asap mate.” I know it’s coming, I’m just waiting. He always says I’m a dirty bastard because I have slight deviant urges, and that incident with the dog, urges I can neither control or ignore; yet he’s the one away in Thailand getting ball deep in those lady boys. Even Craig gets less shit than me and he’s a loser. I don’t know why I still hang around with these uneducated over opinionated boring arseholes. Oh yeah, sniff. That’s what brings us all here. It’s illogical relationship glue. Relationships that should never work but are bound together by the consistent common ground that is cocaine; its glue so strong it made Kate Moss have a relationship with Pete Doherty.
“Alreet Dave,” Ronnie shouts over to me after he’s sat down. “Fucked any bairns recently, banged any schoolies, went doon on any Yorkshire terriers?” Everyone is laughing, JD the hardest. I’m a victimised man. “You’re a funny fucker, got the smell of shit on your cock from all the lady boys you’ve been up,” I retort. Less laughing from the room but I can’t go too far, he might reveal my secret. He better not get a line before me though, he knows the rules and he’s just got here, he hasn’t even had time to get that terrible shirt off. I bet he hasn’t even brought anything with him.
JD just had a massive line and now What’s The Story Morning Glory? is blasting out of the speakers in the dining room. All your dreams are made when you’re chained to the mirror and the razor blade. Same shit. different weekend. “JD, here JD, have you knocked the lifters up mate? In fact here mate give me a little dab for the gums.” I take the dab and carefully balance it on the end of my finger and sly off to the bathroom. Pulling my pants and boxers down carefully I dab the coke onto the herpes sores on the end of my shaft; cocaine is an anesthetic, makes sense it’d take some of the pain away. The fucker stung for a bit first then burning seemed to subside after that. Happy days, man, let’s get partying.
The black dog on my shoulder is barking in my ear; had a canny big session on the Becks last night followed by a bottle of cheap red wine when I got in the house, woke up this morning with a knife in my brain and this dirty black fucker attacking my soul. I hope this coke is good; I need it to sort my head out as soon as possible. Every time I have a big blow out on the drink I wake up with this nasty black dog on my shoulder whispering in my ear, putting doubt in my mind, making me question everything and anchoring me to my bed with an unyielding guilt. If I’m on the toot he’s on my shoulder after the first line.
Sometimes it just sits there, staring at me with judging disappointed eyes making me look at myself and wonder what the fuck I’m doing. “Well David what have you done now?” Shit what did I say to him or fuck what was I doing trying to chat her up, she’s the ex of a friend of a friend. Then it’s on to checking the phone to make sure I’ve not sent any embarrassing texts. No matter how normal the night has been the black dog can convince you you’ve made a right twat of yourself and now your mates are all pissed off with you. If you’ve got memory blanks from the night then the black dog will really fuck with you. “You were at that party with that lad from Newcastle, remember what you were saying to him? Well I can.”
It makes me never want to drink again, it’s not a hangover. This is mental torture on a massive scale. Suicide is on the cards when the black dog turns up, but then the fucker will guilt you out of doing it. “Think about how your family will feel Dave.” He’s got it all locked down. I try to sleep it off but he’s still there, “Come on Dave, you’re wasting your day, you’ve got a lot of apologising to do.” I try and eat, try to kill the hangover and he’s watching me from across the table. “Think it’s a good idea shoveling that shit into your mouth, all that fatty shit, after a night on the beer too; you know there’s heart problems in the family.”
- Come on David, you know why you’ve done this to yourself, accept who you are, tell them the truth, tell people, they’ll understand, we’ll forgive you just admit what you’ve done.
About the Author
Lee Carrick is in his twenties. Originally from South Shields, he now lives in Edinburgh. His biggest passions in life are writing and travelling, and he likes to combine the two. He has been writing poetry since he was 15, but only recently began to write fiction. He was inspired to write by Ian Banks' The Wasp Factory and Neil Gaiman's Smoke and Mirrors. The Care Home, his first novella, is a McStorytellers publication.
Lee’s full profile can be read on McVoices.
Lee’s full profile can be read on McVoices.
