Cock muff bumhole

As I stumble into the house, through the drafty porch, making my way through the darkness, I remember that I share my place with at least five or six bikes. More bikes than there are people. I have no opportunity to find any light source, so I must guess, through blind navigation where my room is.

Pedal in groin. Coat snag handlebar. Feet fall foul.

And then I hobble upstairs, bruised, having unsuccessfully completed my mission.

I remember yesterday. Finding myself in town, aimlessly, accompanied by no guitar. I remembered someone mentioning that there was a new place called Culture Lab. Vague images of some North Eastern Nathan Barley set up were projected on my mind. Words like:

“Creative artistic laboratory; interdisciplinary digital research resources, collaborative hi tech methodologies. Free stuff.”

I definitely remember being told to ‘check it out.’

So as I was in the area (town), I thought I would. Situated tastefully in the building that used to be the university gym, I had to make a quick dash past all the loitering students, affecting some bored posh pose and handing out generic flyers for funky house nights.

Of course they got me. A gaudy, expensively printed chunk of card shouting to my eyes drinks offers at low low prices. Promising me something in the way of pussy, presumably. All shiny limbs and eyeliner.

Clutching this card in my hand, this nightmare of an evening out, I approached the Culture Lab building. A silvery grey polished steel entrance led me to an automatic double door. There was a polite but firm notice instructing me to press the buzzer and see what happens.

I pressed the buzzer. Nothing. I pressed again. I waited.

I could see, in the middle distance, expensive looking equipment being tinkered with by the cool kids. Big computer monitors. Things that I could probably grubby up nicely.

I pressed again. I was too far away from the kids to get their attention.

And then, as if by some godly magic, the double doors opened outwards from the middle, very precisely. A reliable mechanic courtesy. A woman appeared, power-dressed and purposefully holding a plate of baked beans. She seemed visibly disturbed by my presence. What an inconvenience.

“Hi there, I’ve been buzzing.”

Briskly, “Hi. What do you want?”

”Er, I was told about this place and it sounded really good so I thought I’d pop in and see what it’s like. That ok? Can I come in?”

”Do you have an appointment?”

“No, I was just hoping that I could –

At this point the double doors slowly closed. For a moment we stared each other in the eyes, through the silencing glass. The woman with the plate of beans visibly inhaled a double dose of air. She pressed the button to make it open again.

Swoosh! Damn these doors are like a virtual vulva, a valve to the expensive and the inconceivable. And clearly I hadn't done the groundwork to warrant my intrusion.

“Can I just have a look around?”

”Well, I’d need to buzz you in. And, obviously, I’m about to have my lunch.”

She nodded to her pitiful plate of sad and increasingly cold beans. This job just isn’t paying her rent is it.

“Obviously." Pause. "Er, can’t I just have a quick look around?”

“Well, what do you want to do here?”

”That depends on what this place has to offer. I just wanted to find out what the deal is. What are the possibilities. The creative avenues that could be pursued, the artistic vision that could be realised. I came to enquire about the support that I could receive and whether –

The double doors closed again.

Swoosh! Open again, with a tangible portion of hate.

“Listen, I’m gonna go eat my lunch. I suggest if you want to find out more about Culture Lab, the best thing to do is to check the website.”

Disbelieving pause. I can't believe I'm asking,

”What’s the...address?”

”Www dot something something something NCL dot culture fucking lab fuck off.”

“Er ok." Beseeching eyes. A weary dignity still intact. "Couldn’t I just come in? I don’t really want to actually do anything in this damn place. I just want to play with the cool kids. I can see them. Look! In the distance! See how they work! They look so carefree and healthy! Emanating importance, purpose, wealth and sex.”

“My beans are getting cold. Check the website. Good day sir!”

The doors closed again. Something about the way she swooshed them open again told me that this was the last time she was gonna do this. I probably muttered some lying notion of thanks and left the polished grey with that weirdo following behind me with her insistent, guilty plate of beans.

I muttered something to myself about the ludicrous nature of our virtual world, and then I went to a book shop and felt up real bits of paper and found myself in the travel section gazing misty eyed at all these inconsiderate books of adventure and love and far away lands.