Vanity. Ares

I remember looking down from the stage to see a
man in a cream trench coat and another haggard
looking old lady, with bags underneath her eyes
eating a glazed chicken. I collected my pittance
and knew that the bar owner was stiffing me out of
a few Euro’s due to my lack of French, I tried to
argue but felt I could not be bothered. I took my
trombone and walked back towards Gerard’s.
Gerard and Martinq had a fiery relationship
— they would argue endlessly about any such
thing. I could hear most of their arguments,
usually about who would turn the light off at night.
That was their favourite argument. “...It's your
turn, I gave you two blow jobs,” Martinq would
say. “You do it with no real belief, lazy,” Gerard
said once, and on they would go for perhaps half
an hour when I assumed Gerard would get up and
turn off the light, as I would hear a man’s groan
and then the light switch turn off. They also had a
very frisky sex life; they were very loud when
having sex. “Pull my hair, twist me,” Martinq
would yell. Curiously they did not care about my
presence in that regards. They would sometimes
finish a session and come out of the room to chit
chat, sometimes about the weather, sometimes
about Boris Vian or Segre Gainsbourg. Gerard
loved Boris Vian just as much as myself.
In terms of my sex life, I had a few
rendezvouz’s, but just random one night stands, I
was not that un-satisfied in this sense. But, one
night after me and Gerard had finished watching
Paris Saint German on the television — It was a
Champions League match and they had beaten
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
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