Bass boom boom boom, lights flash, spin, pulsate, explode in a volcano of beat rhythmic colour. We dance as hard and as fast as we can, getting with the flow, we’re one with sound with light with ourselves.
A moving, grinding, craving, living breathing multi-minded, electro-sexual entity all here for a single purpose, all here focused on the bass boom boom boom, sweat dripping, a hundred different flavours of B.O. bash and mood scent knitting together, the smell of the right now, the smell of this time, the smell of Rapture.
The smell I love more than life itself, the sweet sweet smell of Rapture and the delight it will bring me this night and tomorrow, as it has fifty times or more.
Liquid Rapture is known now, the Rapture you want, the one they know not is solidified and tubed for instant anxiety free dispersal, a thin layer to a household chap stick. Simple, yeah man, so simple and so now. Away we go.
“What’s that officer? Oh no, that’s just some balm for my poor dried lips that my dear old mummy gave unto me.”
Friday night has always been my favourite of the two, the night we celebrate freedom from the grind and spend our weekly wage as if we were the divine, which of course we are. For a quarter of my pay this week Tanaka-San breaths life into my empty soul with 0.5ml of the most glorious party chem to hit this dreary city since sapor Yorokobi stiffed a dozen twigs down at Stockholm’s in the Spring. Not that I ever touched that skitt; Yorokobi was strictly for twigs and their smooth-faced feelers.
Mine was Delirium and before that Frenesí; oh I loved them both dearly but now my heart belongs to Rapture.
I’ve lived a hundred lives and more, the gift of Rapture, and oh my mighty drummer what lives they have been, the backgrounds, the families, more dis than functional, every socio-economic fetch up, under class, working class, middle class, toff, every minute of every day. And their secrets, yeah man, all their secrets good, bad, dirty and when you get lucky lucky, pornographically illegal. Like that sweet girlie in June, should have reported her old man, but then he needs his kicks the same as me.
All these lives, in all their glorious memory altered Technicolor detail, condensed, compressed, erupting in my head for hour after hour. Like dying and having your life flash but in reverse and not your own but some fucked up nubes life instead. Pure pleasure, purest joy.
They call it ‘mind-rape,’ but then they would wouldn’t they.
It’s not rape, not when all I take is a single kiss. Smear on Rapture for glossy, moist kissable lips, move in for a smooch and BHAM! The memory tsunami hits and you fizzle with highs and lows that last until sun up.
You’ve never had it so good.
Yes, yes, yes - she does come down with a bit of a headache that would make you pray for a crack in your noggin’ from the bridge of your nose to the base of your skull. And I have heard on the never-to-be-trusted Tri-D news networks that those enRaptured develop some slight mental health issues which they reckon stems from a deep routed sense of violation.
This is total skitt of course or a massive exaggeration; I don’t care either way, it’s not like I’m leaving them with a dribble of death, just a kiss, safe as houses, yeah?
Besides, that's just the way it is.
Anyway anyway anyway, the night is till fresh and steaming and I’m looking chimeryczny; full of beats and skinny bottles. MMX-VIP just off Canal Street is radiating a serious amount and I’m slipping between all the hot hedonistique’s, ‘who to choose?’ is the only question on my mind.
She needs to be full of life, full of experience, no good wasting a lip full on a good little study hard with nothing but A’s and early nights to taste. No, she needs to look coarse around the edges, scarred inwardly something to cling onto as the Rapture fires me down her engram highway.
And then I see her. Standing with a group of giggles, they laugh she watches, not giving anything away this one, oh no. She drinks a skinny bottle and I give her my best smile and move in.
“Would you like to dance?”
“Sure, why not,”
And we hit the centre and we go at it, each movement like frames from a celluloid film roll, captured by euphonic pulsars. We close up, harmonising, becoming one, so close now, so close. The scar on her cheek, so slight, so barely visible makes me hard for it, I want it’s story, I want all her stories.
She looks into my eyes and I see my own desire reflected back on me, any minute now I think, any minute now.
Rapture on my lips starts to warm, it senses it too, it senses its time is almost here. The girl slides a hand up my chest, gently brushing the side of my face and taking hold behind my neck. So close now, so close. Her lips, glossy, moist kissable lips are just centimetres away. She pulls hard, reeling me in and we kiss.
Always starts with a bang, like touching a live wire, an explosion of life, the show that’s about to come in a nano-second, this is gonna be good I think and then I get a sense of fear. Not hers, my own.
The memories come, never in any order you can understand, rarely are memories catalogued by date but by intensity, the perfect high, big bold brass killer memories at the start, come down on the gentle half forgotten epiphanies that make us who we are, except these memories…
Cold dark memories, full of hate, spite, violence, uncaring, where’s the compassion? Where’s the love? So lonely, so cold, icy cold, just a single all pervading need for self gratification, selfishness². I’m descending deeper and deeper and each layer is aching with disappointed, dissatisfaction, depression, and at the bottom of it all a little blue eyed boy with a yellow T-Shirt and a beaming smile full of hope that will be so soon crushed. All these terrible things that have been done, all done for a single selfish drive to live a happy life. That’s all.
That’s the reason I do what I do.
These memories are mine, and they’re vicious like a barbed wire shower, the ultimate bad trip.
Rapture on Rapture not good, oh so not good.
Is she suffering with her own Rapture feedback? Probably, I hope so, all I know is I’m screaming out for help but no one can hear me. ‘Mental shutdown, mental shutdown,’ but no such relief will come, not yet at least,
I’m stripping my self out from the inside, scrapping at the walls, brain tissue under my finger nails and it’s only just started.